playing the game, living the lie

chapter 12: pride (in the name of love).

[date: 22 December - 3 January.]

They hadn't much time for goodbyes. Harry and Draco looked at each other, a little stand offish, a little ashamed, and it was likely that neither would have actually done anything had Ron not coughed rather loudly and told Harry they had to get on the bloody train.

Draco's parents would be arriving to collect him personally soon and cart him off for Christmas, and Harry didn't think Lucius Malfoy was so stupid he'd be willing to countenance his son making any sort of physical contact with the Boy who Lived - besides, perhaps, a kick in the ribs. He'd been tempted to ask Draco about his mother, but it seemed a sort of taboo subject.

Forced by time to do something, they hugged briefly, too embarrassed to snog out on the platform - especially with the Gang of Three looking askance at them a few yards away - and Draco patted Harry's back before stepping away. Harry swallowed, and forced a smile, moving aside himself to get his trunk aboard. Ron helped Hermione with hers, and she muttered thanks, smiling before that faded into awkwardness. Things were better between them, if only because Ron and Hermione understood how fragile their peace was, and how easily either of them could break it.

Still, both hoped the holidays might get them a chance to work things out; it was not that their love had faded, but liking had momentarily gone, and understanding with it. As they settled next to each other in a compartment, Ron nervously gnawed on his lower lip, and slid his fingers down Hermione's arm to entwine their hands together.

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and they both blushed. The holiday would be good for them. They might be staying at the Burrow, and surrounded by Ron's family, but fortunately Percy and Oliver were getting married, so Ron's mother would be far too busy having hourly episodes over preparations for that to worry about them. Between making sure the wedding went ahead to plan, and Ginny bringing her girlfriend home, and the whole family being together for the first time in years, Ron and Hermione were sure to have some time to themselves.

Ron nodded at the look in Hermione's eyes, caught between shyness and reassurance, and was startled as the train pulled out of the station, almost as if he'd forgotten where they were.

Still blinking, he looked over at the other occupant of the compartment. Harry leaned against the wall, his eyes idly fixed to a point on the platform. Ron leaned forward to tap Harry on the shoulder, which brought him out of his reverie.

"You right, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry said softly, and forced a grin. He stopped looking at the solitary figure on the platform - Draco had after all already turned his back on the departing train, and was but a speck in the distance - but Harry had felt the need to watch, and memorise, as if during the short Christmas holidays he would forget some crucial detail.

Instead, he sat, back flat against the seat, and looked at Ron and Hermione, secure in their hope and stability and love, despite whatever problems they might have.

And he kept the grin plastered to his face as they chattered to him and each other, and gave basic responses, and missed Draco more than he thought possible.

* * *

Draco sat on the stairs on the Entrance Hall, huddled into himself. A trunk containing some things he needed to take back to the Manor lay at the foot of the stairs. He didn't know exactly when the train had left, except it did seem like hours ago. Or maybe because that was simply because he missed Potter. It was damaging, this weakness, and dangerous to boot. But to put it simply, Draco didn't know how to get rid of it, and even if he did, he wasn't entirely sure he would.

Footsteps approached and stopped right in front of him, and Draco looked up at the figure of Professor Dumbledore. "Your father is here to collect you, Draco. We had better not keep him waiting, had we?"

* * *

"Chocolate frog, Harry?" There was a poke at his side. "Hey, Harry, wake up!"

Harry blinked, and shifted himself to look over at Ron, and the small pile of confectionery Ron and Hermione were sharing between them. He uncurled himself, and stretched slightly, resisting the temptation to yawn, and pushed his hair back off of his forehead.

"Sorry. Must have fallen asleep."

Ron looked disappointed. "Yeah. Sure you won't have something to eat?"

Harry pressed his lips together. "Not hungry. Sorry." He stood and brushed down his trousers. "I'm going to go to the loo." With that, he yanked the door to the compartment open, not heeding Hermione's "Harry!" as he stormed out.

Once he was gone, Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Ron. Ron in turn looked at her arms, realised he was in fact staring at her breasts and jerked his eyes up to her face, blushing.

"Ron," she over-enunciated. "You have to treat him better."

"What do you mean?!" Ron almost yelped. "He's the one shutting us out because we don't look like ferrets!"

"Harry needs our support right now. He's estranged from someone very important to him, now that he's finally got used to having someone in his life. You can't sound upset when he doesn't do everything you say."

"Someone in his life? What were we, then?" Ron couldn't believe it. It was bad enough having Harry believe whatever shit Malfoy was pulling, but for Hermione to take Malfoy's side... True, Hermione wasn't taking Malfoy's side exactly - she was taking Harry's, but in doing do she questioned Ron's own ability to know what was best for Harry, and besides, Malfoy benefited. Which was just Not On.

It was definitely not good girlfriendly behaviour, in Ron's book. Admittedly, he'd never had a girlfriend before but he was sure that in the rulebook it should say 'Thou shalt not support Ferret-boy', and even if it didn't, specifically, Ron hoped it would come under 'Thou shalt not tell me when I look like a right prat, no matter how much of a prat I am actually being.'

"We were, and are, his friends, Ron," Hermione sighed, sounding exasperated. "But that's something quite different to what he and Draco are."

"Since when was he Draco? And why the fuck are you lecturing me?"

"He's Draco because we don't have a bloody choice in the matter, Ron," Hermione snapped back, her teeth gritted. "Now I might not like him and you might detest him but attempting to make Harry feel guilty over his choice of boyfriend is only exacerbating the situation and pushing him further into Draco's arms."

A series of appropriate expletives presented themselves to Ron's mind, and he dismissed them all, trying to calm himself down. "All I see is someone who's doing Draco Malfoy's dirty work for him, and not giving a toss about the friend she claimed to have."

Hermione snorted at that. "Yes, right. Of course. How stupid of me. You've known Harry a lot longer than I have; you know him a lot better than I do. All of us obviously have to bow to your wisdom in this matter, Ron, because Merlin knows, you've always handled Harry so perfectly."

Ron felt a blush rising in his cheeks, and opened his mouth to continue, but Hermione wouldn't let him. "Remember fourth year, Ron? He told you the truth about the Goblet and you didn't even believe him."

Ron changed the subject. "Do you even know what you're saying? Telling me we should support Draco Malfoy? The boy who a few months ago told me he would take great pleasure in fucking you?"

Shock. "He did what?"

"Told me. He was going to enjoy fucking you."

Hermione put her hand over her mouth and started giggling. "And you believed him?"

"Well. I-" Ron's jaw dropped, and he blinked twice. This wasn't supposed to be the way things were going.

Hermione was leaning back against her seat, her body almost shaking with the force of her laughter, as Ron watched on. Was she mad?, he wondered. Maybe this was all some kind of Malfoy plot.

Her giggles finally abated, and she pressed one hand to her chest as she breathed deeply, relaxing, and Ron tried not to blush further. "Draco Malfoy - possibly the most obviously homosexual boy in the entire school - said he was going to fuck me. Me. A female 'Mudblood', as he'd put it. And you believed him." Hermione shook her head sadly. "He was trying to get under your skin, Ron, and you let him." A pause. "You always let him."

The situation was getting completely out of hand. "Yeah. I guess I do. And hey, we're going to let him get away with being a manipulative little sod cause he's better for Harry than we are." Ron turned away and looked out the window, not really noticing the scenery that passed by. A few moments later he could feel Hermione's hand gently squeezing his left shoulder.

"We can't turn the clock back, Ron," she said, softly. "We can't try to pretend things are the way they were back in first, or second year." The hand slipped from his shoulder to hook under his arm and around his side. "We've changed, all three of us, and there's no changing that."

Ron still didn't speak.

"We found each other, Ron. We found each other, and Harry felt lonely and how can we blame him for that? I can't."

"I had to watch him, in fifth year," Ron muttered, and he turned back to face her. "I had to watch him crumple into himself and not tell me anything. And I tried, you know? I really tried. But he wouldn't let me in, and no matter what I did, I wasn't helping. His best mate, and I couldn't do anything."

"Ron, I understand, but-"

"No, you don't. You never did. He deserted me first!" That was almost a yell, and the train conductor knocked on the sliding door of the compartment, and stuck his head to ask them to please be quiet.

Hermione murmured out an apology, barely recognising the words she was using, and Ron slumped in his seat, not raising his eyes, his arms crossed defensively over his chest.

Once the conductor was gone, Ron repeated himself. "He deserted me first."

"I notice you didn't say us."

"Hermione!"

But she waved his protests away. "No, I'm sure it was a relief to find someone who still wanted you. I'm not Harry, but I suppose that doesn't matter, as you've spent most of the conversation staring at my breasts."

Ron flushed red and didn't respond.

When Harry came back from the toilet, he found Hermione and Ron very pointedly not talking to one another, and decided wisely not to get involved, reaching forward to grab a chocolate frog from the pile that lay between them.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence.

* * *

When they arrived at Kings Cross Station, Mr Weasley was there with open arms and his beaming smile to welcome them all. He embraced Hermione, and shook Ron and Harry's hands most vigorously, and enveloped both Ginny and her girlfriend in a massive bear hug when they stepped off the train a few moments later.

Catherine was then officially introduced to Arthur, who hugged her again. The thing that stopped the typically Weasley welcome was Percy, who trundled out from a nearby archway with a large trolley in front of him.

Harry had heard many things about the changes to 'Perfect Prefect Percy' from Ron and Hermione, and however much he'd heard, nothing could prepare him for the reality. Percy's hair was grown now, almost to shoulder length, but it wasn't shaggy. Percy's compulsive neatness still stood, no matter how relaxed he'd gotten. There was a subtle change in his stance as well, no longer as formal or stiff as Harry remembered him. The air of anxiety that always used to surround him had muted itself into a more reassuring worry, as if he was more concerned for the people involved than cold notions of propriety.

Harry stepped forward awkwardly and shook his hand. "Congratulations, Percy. On the wedding."

Percy shook back, and beamed, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Thank you, Harry. I'm rather looking forward to it myself," he quipped, and they shared a brief chuckle. Harry could barely believe it. Percy Weasley. Beaming. And laughing! He watched as Percy shook hands with Ron, nodding to him as well, and greeted the three girls, favouring both Ginny and Hermione with kisses to the cheek. They managed to get all their trunks loaded onto the trolley in little time, and walked at a leisurely pace towards the Diagon Alley exit of the station, Arthur leading the way, Percy and the trolley next with Ginny and Catherine flanking him on either side, chatting about school and such. Behind them walked Ron and Hermione, neither one quite looking at the other. Trailing along at the end was Harry, hands stuck in his pockets.

As they walked down Diagon Alley, looking for a public floo point, Ron looked back at Harry, and pointed in a rather unsubtle manner towards his brother. "Eh, Harry! Percy's finally got that stick out of his arse."

Harry grinned. "Yeah. Oliver probably showed him something a lot more fun to stick up there."

Ron blushed hotly and muttered something to himself, while Hermione couldn't help but giggle loudly, reaching over to stroke the back of Ron's neck, and when he tried to pull away, she didn't let him, throwing a look back at Harry, rolling her eyes, and Harry shrugged in turn, a wry little smile on his face, pulling his hands out his pockets palms up as if to say 'what can you do?'

They finally managed to find the public floo port, an upright little building that looked like a bus shelter, except instead of a back wall it had a huge fireplace. Arthur gathered everyone round and delivered instructions in an enthusiastic tone, and Harry noticed that Arthur, Percy and Ginny all checked to make Catherine understood that they were going to 'The Burrow'. He wondered briefly how she'd cope with the madness, and then she was gone in a burst of green smoke, Ginny following quickly suit. Next was Ron, and Hermione stepped up next to Percy as her boyfriend flooed away, taking the time to ask Percy "Why were you sent to collect us?"

"The twins are working in their shop," Percy replied dryly, "and besides, I thought Oliver should learn to cope with Mother by himself."

Hermione grabbed some floo powder from the brazier and giggled. "You're evil, Percival Weasley."

"Please don't tell anyone, Hermione. I'd rather it be our little secret." Percy mused, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

Hermione giggled again, and tossed the powder into the fireplace, enunciating 'The Burrow' and then she too was gone.

Harry stepped up, and glanced over at young man standing there. "You look happy, Percy."

"I am, Harry," Percy replied. "Missing Draco?"

"Yeah." Harry blinked. "Yeah, I am." Smiling a little sadly, he took a handful of the powder, murmured 'The Burrow!' and his world disappeared in a haze of green.

Harry blinked when he arrived, and quickly stepped off the fireplace, making room as the flames flashed green again and Percy appeared, about half of their baggage clumped around him. Ron and Harry quickly stepped forward to grab them as Percy moved aside, and another red-head popped up in Harry's viewpoint to grab a trunk and haul it out of the fireplace. "Fred!"

"Hello, Harry!" Fred winked back, nodding to the others, and soon enough Arthur was standing there with the remaining luggage, and there was more carting to do.

"I thought you were working at the shop," Harry said, hauling Hermione's suitcase out of the way.

"Oh, George and Lee are taking care of it," Fred assured him, straightening up. "Besides, Mum needed an extra pair of hands to get everything ready."

"Indeed I did!" came a booming voice, and the familiar whirlwind of Mrs Weasley bustled into the Burrow's living room, having at least five conversations at once. "Catherine, how nice to finally meet you!" was the first cry, and Molly Weasley enveloped the young Hufflepuff in yet another hug, while turning to deliver bedding arrangements to all. "Harry, you'll be staying with Ron of course, Catherine with Ginny, the twins will be together as usual, and Percy dear you already know that Oliver's staying in the study, as it isn't good luck for you two to sleep together the week of the wedding, so Hermione will be sleeping in your room. Right?" She let go of Catherine and nodded to Fred and Arthur, who began picking up some of the baggage and moving it to the appropriate rooms, before moving onto the others. "Hermione, you look as if you've done something with your hair! Oh. You haven't? Well, you probably should, and if Ronald gives you any trouble, mind, feel free to give him a good whack over the head."

"Hey!"

"Ron dear, you know I only say such things for your own good. Percy, Oliver's out in the garden going over vows and pacing so much I think he's going to wear a hole in the lawn."

"Right," Percy answered, and kissed his mother briefly on the cheek before heading towards the kitchen and the exterior door there.

"Ginny, you might want to show Catherine around the house seeing as she's never been here before." Ginny nodded and led Catherine out, who already seemed to have eyes that were too wide as a result of her exposure to the Weasley way of things. Harry idly watched her go, and thought she'd be gibbering before suppertime.

"Now, Harry," Mrs Weasley said, and Harry tensed slightly at her attention being placed upon him now. "If you wanted to send any owls off to Malfoy Manor over the holidays, we will completely understand."

There was a gentle 'harrumph' at that, and Harry realised that Mr. Weasley was back in the room. Mrs. Weasley's eyes didn't leave Harry, nor did her smile drop, but the room seemed to get suddenly colder nonetheless. "We know you have problems with Lucius Malfoy, Arthur, and quite frankly, the man is a menace but that's no reason to tarnish his son. Why, I can remember how nice Lucille Pettigrew was, and look at how her brood turned out. She made the most delicious lemon slice too - I really must try to find that recipe - so of course Harry we don't blame you at all for your choice of boyfriend but if it goes without saying that if he does murder you in your bed I will of course be the first person to say 'I told you so' and if you take another piece of the cake I just baked Frederick Weasley I will personally ensure that your Christmas lunch is poisoned!"

Harry caught a glimpse of Fred scampering from the kitchen and up the stairs, looking as if he was brushing cake crumbs from around his mouth. Mr. Weasley cleared his throat. Harry blinked. Mrs. Weasley smiled again and clasped her hands together. "Now, Harry love, is there anything you need?"

"Uh. No," Harry decided, and thought it would probably be best if he went outside for a bit.

* * *

The Weasleys lived some distance away from the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. Ottery St. Catchpole was itself located somewhat in the middle of Cornwall, suitably located away from most distractions. The surrounding countryside was the familiar patchwork of fields that dotted all over the United Kingdom, hedges marking the boundaries between fields and properties, and there was sufficient distance between the household and the village so that none of the Muggles might be alarmed by the sight of people zooming around on broomsticks, a definite necessity considering some of the children's love of Quidditch.

In general, the Weasley family lived how many wizarding families did: quiet, content, and safe. Harry stepped out from the kitchen door into the rural expanse outside, and took a deep breath of the fresh air, closing his eyes. It felt good to be here; it was almost like centring himself, returning to a state of tranquillity and calm. This place was more of a home for him than Privet Drive ever had been, or could be.

Harry heard laughter, and he opened his eyes to watch Percy and Oliver chasing each other round the nearby elm tree. From what Harry could tell, Oliver seemed to want to get the slip of white paper from Percy's hand - something about vows, Harry wondered - and Percy was doing his best to evade him, although not completely seriously. Finally, Oliver managed to catch him, although both seemed weak from the laughter and the chase, and Percy willingly fell into Oliver's arms. They looked at one another for a few moments, Oliver stroking Percy's hair, and then Percy's lips sought out Oliver's and they kissed.

Harry looked away after a bit, reaching up with a hand to mess his own hair. He didn't want to spoil their moment, but they looked so happy together. He ached for that kind of happiness himself, and wished he knew where to find it. From out of the corner of his eye, he could see them breaking the kiss, and hugging, and Oliver's eyes widened as he saw Harry over Percy's shoulder.

"Harry!"

Harry waved politely back, smiling as Oliver planted one final kiss on Percy's cheek and strode through the long grass to meet him. Harry extended a hand, but Oliver grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a hug, before stepping back.

Harry saw the smile in Oliver's eyes, and the flush in his face, and was somewhat taken aback. Oliver had been supportive as Quidditch Captain, but never particularly tactile. He'd seemed standoffish even, physically, and Harry realised at that moment that Percy wasn't the only one who'd learned something from the relationship: these things went both ways. Percy was more changed perhaps because there was so much to change: retentive, repressed perfect prefect Percy never would have managed with a stable relationship, at least not with someone like Oliver, or so Harry thought.

"Oliver. It's been a while."

Oliver wrinkled his nose. "Well, yeah. Sorry I haven't owled or anything - I've been kind of...busy." He flushed when he said that, and looked down at his boots. Harry had to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?"

"You. You're just so couple-y." There was a broad grin at that.

Oliver reached over and ruffled Harry's hair. "Well, we are engaged. You'd kind of expect it."

Muttering something under his breath, Harry pulled away and began the hopeless task of trying to flatten his already unruly hair with his hand and some spit.

"Since when did you bother about your looks, Harry?" Oliver joked.

"Since I started dating Draco Malfoy," Harry snapped back, annoyed with himself.

Oliver's face grew serious for a moment, and he put his hands into his pockets. "Walk with me, Harry," he murmured, and made his way around the corner of the house.

Harry followed him, already dreading the lecture that would come. From over his shoulder he could see Percy watching them, alert, before Ginny and Catherine emerged from the kitchen exit into the winter sunshine. They crossed over to the young man standing under the elm tree, and engaged him in conversation. Harry lost sight as his view was obscured by the Burrow, and he refocused upon Oliver, who was leaning against the wall. Harry joined him, shoving his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans, and attempted to look cool.

They stood there in silence, while Harry became increasingly anxious. Finally, he turned his head to face Oliver and asked. "Uh. Can we just get it over with?"

"What?"

Harry fidgeted, looking down at his shoes. They needed a clean - something for another time, certainly. "The lecture. You're going to lecture me about Draco."

"Why should I?"

"Everyone else does?" Alright. Harry knew he clearly didn't have a point, but since when had that ever stopped anyone?

Oliver shrugged. "'s not a reason, really. Do you think you deserve to be lectured?"

Yes, Harry thought. I'm doing something terribly wrong, using him the way I am. Rather than admit it to Oliver, he changed the subject. "Oliver?"

"Hrm?"

"How did you and Percy get together?"

There was a pause while Oliver collected his thoughts. "Well, we were living together for a while. And one day I was training for Puddlemere, and he was working, and I missed him." He tapped his gut. "It hit me right here, his absence. I kept worrying after the attacks on the Ministry - if he was going to die, if I'd never see him again, how I'd cope living without Perce. And I realised, I wasn't prepared to."

Harry had been nodding absently, pouring over Oliver's words in his mind. I can understand that, I guess. I felt like someone had gutted me this morning when I said goodbye to Draco. And I spent most of the train ride thinking about how things might go wrong, about how I might not ever see him again...

Something cold clutched at Harry's heart. "And this is love?" he asked, suddenly terrified by his convictions.

Oliver chuckled. "I'd like to think so. If not, my marriage isn't going to last long."

"Fuck," Harry spat, and turned to walk away. Oliver reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

"Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry shrugged him off and kept on walking out into the surrounding field. "I just need some time alone." He heard Oliver sigh, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice.

I'm in love with Draco Malfoy, Harry thought. I'm head over heels. He could almost hear Draco's mocking voice in his mind. Welcome to the club, Potter. Now you know what it feels like. This revelation didn't give him any comfort at all - indeed, it only made him feel more worthy of contempt. He didn't deserve Draco - not after what he'd done, and his feelings, no matter what they were, wouldn't rid him of his guilt. Tom had been right, when he spoke in Harry's dream. Nothing could save him from his folly, nor he warrant being saved.

* * *

Ron found her just where he expected, quietly unpacking her trunk in Percy's room. He stood in the doorway, just watching her for a few moments, the assured diligence of her movements, the sheer care which she put into everything, and fell in love with her all over again. Taking a deep breath, he rapped on the door with a knuckle.

Hermione didn't look up as he knocked, but continued pulling out folded T-shirts and blouses from the trunk, sliding open one of Percy's drawers - empty from what Ron could see - and placing them inside. "Come in, Ron," she murmured, sounding tired, and Ron shuffled into the room, closing the door behind him.

He sat down awkwardly on the side of the bed, and Hermione sat down on the end, looking away. Ron reached out and gently covered her hand with his, entwining their fingers together. "'m sorry," he muttered, and she squeezed his hand in response.

"It's all right," she sighed. "I shouldn't have said what I said. It was petty of me, and crude beyond belief. It's just that since first year, I guess I've been jealous of your and Harry's friendship. You didn't even like me to begin with, but you two were always together. How could I ever compare? How could I ever come between you? I don't - I'm not good with people, Ron, and I don't understand boys, and I was always worried you'd choose him over me if you had to, because what you two had was special. All I did is nearly get myself killed by a bloody troll. But even so. What I said, about you liking Harry. Of course I don't actually think..."

"You were right," Ron murmured softly, barely a whisper, and Hermione stopped mid ramble.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What you said. About Harry. I'm not, you know, but Harry's just Harry, yeah? He's different." Ron cleared his throat, clearly nervous, and licked his lips. She was Hermione Granger, and she was his girlfriend, and if anyone understood how difficult swallowing your stubborn streak and apologising could be it would be him, because they were the only two people as stubborn as one another. And therefore, she deserved this. "It was fourth year, when we weren't talking, and I realised I really missed him. More than anything. And I thought it would be stupid not to show him that, if I ever got the chance."

"Ron-"

"Just listen, 'Mione. I didn't get the chance, and I'm glad. Next year, he was like a different person and I couldn't do anything to help him. It turned out I wasn't nearly as important to him as he was to me. And then, that year - you were so strong, and so...you shone, Hermione. You always have. I didn't see it, because I was so intent of making Harry into a hero - and he's not. Well, he is, but he's not a hero like some kind of story who gets everything right and wins the day. He makes mistakes, and he's lonely and he's fucking dating Malfoy which shows he's completely barmy." He raised his head and found that Hermione was looking back at him, eyes wide. "I love you, Hermione. The only thing I could have done for Harry was attempt to make him happy, and I couldn't do that. But you make me happy, just by being here. I'm not smart enough, or sophisticated enough, but I do what I can. You're not some kind of consolation prize. Harry can keep Malfoy. All I want is you."

Hermione smiled, blinking back her tears, and Ron smiled back, and she reached up to cup his cheek, and lean her forehead against his. When Ginny came into Percy's room to fetch them for dinner, she found them like that, still smiling.

* * *

Dinner was madness, but the kind of organised madness that the Weasleys did best. Everyone chatted, talked or rambled on loudly, each trying to virtually shout over the other in order to get heard. At least four of them played footsie under the table, and no-one was entirely sure if they were touching the right people. Percy and Oliver joked, sitting next to one another, and always let their hands rest on each other's shoulder just that little bit too long, and brushed against one another when they moved. Ron and Hermione kept shooting coy glances across the table at one another, and imagined no-one could see their shy, secret smile. Molly Weasley insisted that Fred and George taste test everything, in case they'd decided to play yet another prank. And throughout it all Catherine Henshaw ate quietly, giggled nervously and watched everything with large, round eyes, so it wasn't surprising when Ginny woke the following morning with a note on her bed and Catherine's suitcase gone.

Ginny came down to breakfast that morning all poise, and gracefully sat down in her chair. When Molly asked her where Catherine was, Ginny informed everyone that she'd received an owl late last night, and gone home early. She scraped her butter over her piece of toast, and bit into as if she was daring someone to question the lie, but no-one did.

Harry found her crying her eyes out round the back wall an hour later.

"Fuck off, Harry," she said when he approached her.

"I just wanted to say-"

"Fuck off. You wouldn't get it anyway."

"Try me!" Harry yelled back, frustrated.

"Why? You're so perfect, Harry. Everyone loves you, everyone accepts you, and you don't even have to pay them." Her tone was vicious, bitter, biting. Harry could suddenly believe this was the same girl who poured her whole soul into a diary when she hadn't gotten what she wanted.

Harry stood, shocked, as Percy brushed past him and quickly brought Ginny into a hug. Running slender fingers through her hair, he turned to the bystander and murmured, "I think you should go, Harry."

"I- I- I was just-" Harry stammered out.

"I know," Percy said sadly in reply, and hugged Ginny tighter as she sobbed against his shirt. Harry jumped slightly when a hand came down to rest on his own shoulder, and he looked up. It was Oliver.

"We should leave them be, Harry," Oliver told him, and Harry nodded, walking back around the house to the tree, and they settled down under its branches.

"Perce'll take care of it," Oliver said assuringly, and grinned. "He's good at taking care of people. He even took care of me, and I'm a mess!"

Harry had to laugh at the very idea of Oliver needing someone to protect him.

Smiling at Harry's laughter, Oliver changed the subject to something far more comfortable: Quidditch, and the two chatted out the afternoon with talk of broomsticks, Quaffles and things far more concrete than love.

That night before dinner, Arthur gathered the family around him in the living room - Ginny was a noticeable absence, Harry noted, even if Mrs Weasley said she was 'down with a bit of a bad tummy.' Ron and Hermione held hands, Fred and George stood together, and Percy rested a hand on Oliver's shoulder as they all peered over at the strange device Arthur held in his hands.

It was a small crystalline cube, with facets showing in the crystal, planes that suggested it was made of out pieces that locked together to form the cube.

"What is it?" Harry asked, and then everyone looked at Hermione.

"I don't know," she replied, seemingly aghast, and Ron squeezed her hand.

"It's dimensionally transcendental," Arthur told them all very seriously.

"Oh, I haven't seen one of those for years," Molly cooed, taking it out of his hands and shaking it. Everyone looked at her in horror. "It's not dangerous. Well. It is, but it's perfectly safe without the incantation."

Hermione managed to summon colour back into her face. "What does it do?"

"It plays with dimensions, Hermione," Arthur said, taking it gingerly back from his wife. "Bill and Charlie are arriving tonight, and our lot, and Oliver's family and friends as well. Clearly, we haven't got enough room for everyone. What this does," and he tapped the cube, "is extend the dimensions of the house temporarily."

"It adds new rooms on demand?" Ron asked, somewhat astounded. Hermione elbowed him, and he remembered to close his mouth, gaping in astonishment.

Arthur nodded, and turned it in his hands. "We place one of these in the doorway of a bedroom, and it replaces the room, creating a second off to one side. It does make the house a bit shaky as a result, but the forecast is good and there shouldn't be any storms. It only lasts for forty-eight hours, at any rate." Perhaps recognising the latent fear he'd just instilled in them all, Arthur opened up a small bag revealing crystalline pieces, and he assured them all it was indeed, very safe.

When their collective offspring still didn't seem convinced, Molly sighed, and took some of the pieces out, heaping her arms with them, and marched off into the house. "Right," she called over her shoulder, "we're doing it now."

They followed in a group, shuffling, looking somewhat anxious as she easily pieced the cubes together, and set one down in front of the first bedroom door she found - the twins. Muttering an incantation under her breath, there was a rather brilliant flash of light, and everyone shielded their eyes - too late of course, which left the party blinking for a few minutes. Once they'd recovered, Molly was already off, having remembered to protect her eyes in time, tramping down the corridor to do another room. But the party gathered behind her was too curious about the black rectangle the door had become, and finally Hermione poked her head in.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "there are two doors inside the original door!"

"That doesn't make sense," Ron muttered, so Hermione stepped back and smiled oh so sweetly at him.

"See for yourself," she told Ron, gesturing into the blackness.

Ron stepped forward into the blackness, and his eyes quickly adjusted to the lack of illumination. The cube seemed to create a not-place, a small triangle of darkness beyond the original doorway. On either side, at forty five degree angles to the doorway stood the door that actually led into the twins' room, replicated and set in a frame of utter blankness. The mirrored doors met, forming the apex of the small triangular space that Ron found himself in. He pushed open one, waiting for something to go horribly wrong, and...

The door thudded against the inside wall of the twins' room. He pushed the other one, and it opened the opposite way, thudding against the inside wall of the twins' room as well. There were now two bedrooms, mirrored images of each other in everything from the posters on the walls to the dirty clothes strewn across the floor.

"Bloody hell," muttered Ron, and rubbed his eyes. The rooms stayed exactly where they were.

"What are you all doing?" asked Ginny, and the small crowd turned as one to look at her.

"Er," began Harry.

"Well," chipped in Fred and George as one.

"You see, Ginny," began Percy, and stopped, not entirely sure what to say.

Ron stepped out of the blackness and those in front of the door parted before him. He sharply marched around Ginny, placing his hands on his sister's shoulders and propelled her forward through the group of people and into the blackness, stopping before he joined her, as there was really only room for one person in that small triangle.

They could see Ginny's back dimly, as pictured through a haze, although sound clearly carried through whatever dimensional miasma the cube created.

"Why the fucking hell are there two rooms?" she shouted out, staggering back into the house proper, and soon enough there was a shout in response.

"Virginia Weasley! You will kindly mind your language while we have guests!"

Harry wondered sometimes how Mrs. Weasley didn't go hoarse. Maybe she took a potion or something to protect her throat, he thought. He turned towards the voice to see Mrs. Weasley coming back up the corridor, her arms empty.

"All done," she beamed, and gestured for everyone to gather around her. They did so, almost in a huddle, and Molly gave out her orders. "Fred, George? Lee can stay in your room. The other room of yours can be used for your Aunt Velma and her daughter." The twins blanched. Obviously they didn't have a great opinion of Aunt Velma or her offspring, but Molly had already moved on.

"Harry, Ron, you'll take cousin Stephen and three brothers - we'll make a cot up for them on the floor."

Harry looked at Ron, who wrinkled his nose and make a pig like noise. Harry chuckled. "Right, Mum," Ron agreed, rolling his eyes at Harry.

"Ginny, you'll get Great Aunt Bertha and her sisters."

"I get the lilac brigade?" Ginny whined.

"Lilac brigade?" Harry asked Ron out of the corner of his mouth.

"They're all batty old witches who charm their hair purple," Ron shot back.

"Don't be silly, Ronald," his mother told him. "They are quite sensible for their age. And really, lilac is a fetching colour. Now. Percy and Hermione, you get Oliver's old Quidditch friends, and we'll put Oliver's family in Bill and Charlie's other room." Nodding to herself, she looked at the faces gathered around her, and they nodded back, more out of fear of displeasing than actual confidence. Suddenly, she clapped her hands together, and everyone was startled. "Right. I want all rooms cleaned before the guests start arriving, and that means now."

Like a flock of startled rabbits, the throng parted, people treading quickly down stairs and over carpet, and Fred stopped on the threshold to his newly duplicated room, turning back. "Er. Mum. Which room is the one we stay in? I mean, the original."

Molly Weasley sighed and rubbed her forehead. "It doesn't matter, Fred. They're exactly the same." She gave him a pointed look, and Fred got the message, and scarpered inside to tidy up.

Shortly before dinner, the guests who were staying overnight started arriving. First was Oliver's family, who flooed in. Oliver and Percy greeted them immediately, Oliver giving both his parents a brief hug, and Percy shaking their hands. From the looks of things - Harry was standing with the rest of the Weasleys and Hermione off to one side - they'd met before, and Percy, although not exactly the son they never had, certainly wasn't hated.

Oliver's father, Gerald, was a tall, somewhat portly man with a handlebar moustache and Oliver's warm brown eyes. Harry shook his hand as he passed down the line, and got the impression his attention was always somewhere else. He didn't know whether to feel glad or not that the man hadn't made a huge fuss over the fact that he was the Boy Who Lived. Harry had gotten so used to the attention that now the lack of it irked him.

Oliver's mother, Isobel, was a slightly shorter, rather delicate woman who radiated strength despite her physical awkwardness. She shook Harry's hand politely, and her eyes seemed to contain a smile beyond the one on her face, and Oliver's cheekbones and facial structure was mirrored in her beauty. Harry couldn't help but smile back. Apparently Oliver had one sister, but she wasn't coming, preferring to look after her own family in Glasgow. The subject was quickly changed, so Harry assumed there was some sort of history there.

Mr. Weasley opened up a few bottles of wine as some of the more far-flung members of the Weasley clan arrived, tired by their long journey by the floo network. By the time dinner was ready the wine flowed freely, and the house was inundated with chatter and small talk, occasional laughter echoing from every corner. Most of the people had red hair, and it would only get worse tomorrow.

It's like drowning in Weasleys, Harry thought with a laugh. Draco would rather die than be here.

That set his heart off with a pang, and he wondered briefly how Draco was doing right now.

* * *

I'd almost rather be living at the Weasel's, Draco thought to himself glowering, and turned the page. At least that way I'd get to see Harry.

Draco was lying stomach down on his bed, with the curtains tied back to the bed posts, and a leather bound book splayed out against his right hand. He turned each page, eyes reading the words, but not entirely focussed on the content or their meaning. Since he had arrived yesterday morning back at the Manor he had been instructed to go to his bedroom and stay there. He did as he was told, of course - despite the fact he no longer worshipped his father, Draco was no fool, and only a fool would not fear Lucius Malfoy.

He was allowed to leave his room for meals, and spent an hour flying across the grounds in the morning, followed by some time with his mother in the parlour. Both activities were supervised by the house elves, and Draco had no doubt that everything he did or said in their presence was being reported back to his father. Something was definitely going on, and Draco tried to pretend he wasn't aware. Perhaps Father knows about Harry? Draco wondered, ignoring the shiver of dread that thought sent through him. No, he can't, he realised. If he had I would have been thrown out of the Manor by now. Or worse...

Trying to refocus his attention on the book - or at least distract his mind from that disturbing line of enquiry, Draco pondered Harry's current situation. I wonder where the Weasel lives? It must be a hovel, and about to fall down most likely, too. Pathetic. Probably possesses no decent amenities whatsoever, and is crawling with termites or some such. Knowing them, it's possible they can't even afford running hot water. Such sanctimonious Gryffindors as well.

They probably pray at every meal, and he snickered at the idea. How boring.

* * *

Percy awoke the following morning with a groan. The sun was far too bright, and everything was just loud. Even the silence seemed loud. All too quickly the door banged open and his mother barged in, carrying a steaming mug of something that made Percy's stomach want to do somersaults. He groaned again.

"Good morning, Percy," his mother beamed implacably. "I let you sleep in, dear, but Hermione was already up. You probably slept through everyone else waking, seeing as you were dead to the world."

Percy tried to cover his head with the pillow. "I haven't had a hangover this bad, since...ever."

"That's right, dear," Molly continued in that achingly upbeat tone. "You downed at least a bottle of wine all by yourself."

"I can't remember much at all," Percy whimpered, and tried to block out the world. Oh, he remembered both his father and Oliver's father pressing him to drink - Percy was a social drinker at best but it was a family occasion, and besides, Oliver had been drinking as well.

"Probably a good thing." There was a dull thud and Percy lifted the pillow from his head to see the steaming mug on the bedside table. His stomach twitched again.

"What is that?" he demanded. "And what did I do?"

"That's a special restorative brew, Percy dear. Bill and Charlie are quite familiar with it from their adolescence, but you were never quite as...boisterous as them." There was a pause. "As for what you did last night, well, let's just say that Oliver's family now knows Oliver makes this breathy whimpering sound when he comes."

"Oh my," Percy breathed, sitting upright and immediately reeled from the sudden movement, clutching his head. "Oh my oh my oh my oh my." He grabbed the mug from the table and drank it down in a few harsh gulps, wiping his face with the back of his hand and trying to ignore the way his lips pursed together as if he'd just sucked a lemon. Reaching blindly, he managed to find his glasses and slip them on. "I didn't, did I?"

"No, dear, you didn't. But you could have, very easily. Something to keep in mind next time."

Percy breathed a sigh of relief, and watched as Molly picked up the mug and moved towards the door, the thick liquid in his stomach settling his queasy body. "Mother. Just a minute."

She stopped in the doorway and turned to face him. "Yes, Percy?"

"How did you know about Oliver?"

Her face was blank. "You had to drunkenly babble to someone. Would you have preferred it to be Gerald and Isobel?"

"Oh, Merlin!" Percy moaned, and flung himself back down on the bed.

"Don't be silly, Percy dear. I'm your mother. I don't care what Oliver sounds like when he comes or how much you enjoy sucking his cock." Percy's eyes went wide at that, and she continued. "Besides, you have a wedding to attend."

There was a pause. "Yes, Mother."

"Good. Now get showered and dressed, and down to the kitchen for a late breakfast. Everyone's going to be arriving in a few hours." And she shut the door, leaving a rather mortified young man behind her.

"Oh, fuck," Percy cursed, and tossed the bed sheets off him, getting up. There was something extraordinarily precise in the way he pronounced the word: even in swearing, Percy refused to roughen his speech patterns.

There was a shout from the other side of the door. "I heard that young man!"

* * *

A few hours later everyone was gathered on a nearby hillside about twenty minutes walk from the Burrow. People had flown and flooed and portkeyed in from all over England and it almost had the atmosphere of a carnival or fair. From what Harry could work out, there were about sixty people waiting for the ceremony to begin, clustered together in two groups. One was all those associated with Percy - a sea of people whose red hair glinted from the afternoon sun - and the other group was Oliver's which mainly consisted of his immediately family and seemingly everyone who'd ever played Quidditch with him. Harry and Ron boggled at the names of the players from the National League who were standing just a short distance away from them.

Harry wondered if it was impolite to ask for autographs during a wedding, and toyed at the collar of his dress robes. The damn thing was itchy, and tight. Maybe I'm getting fat, he thought, and shuddered. That way lay Dudley.

At the head of the crowd stood a middle aged woman with dark brown closely cropped hair, and gold earrings in the shape of large hoops. She was the celebrant, Harry had been told, as wizards didn't have church and priests the way Muggles did. Certainly the wedding would have a spiritual element, but there didn't seem to be the same fanaticism about belief that marked Muggle culture. When the wedding ceremony had been explained over breakfast that morning, Hermione had asked a lot of questions, her eyes gleaming, and muttered something about her seventh year paper for Muggle Studies.

Harry had been introduced to the celebrant before the ceremony: she was one of those people who had an infectious good mood, and her lips curled upwards as if the whole world was a joke no-one else quite got. Her name was Benny Summerfield, and now she raised her hands for attention. The crowd fell silent.

"Friends and family," Benny said, her voice carrying thanks to the amplification charm that rested against her throat, "we are gathered here today to join in marriage Oliver Wood and Percival Weasley. As part of the formalities of the ceremony, I must therefore ask if anyone has a reason for these two to be refused marriage, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace."

The crowd stilled. Parents put their hands over their young children's mouths in case someone wanted to play a prank. A few moments' silence reigned.

"I have an objection, if you don't mind."

The crowd turned as one to look at the young man who stood behind them, his wand gripped in his left hand. He seemed quite boyish, with straight sandy coloured hair, and many in the crowd recognised him immediately.

"Terence fucking Higgs," Oliver muttered, and grabbed Percy's hand, striding down the hill to meet Terence.

The celebrant followed them, looking somewhat stunned.

"What do you want?" Oliver growled, Percy squeezing his hand, and Higgs grinned in response.

"You really shouldn't have posted a notice in the Daily Prophet, Wood, anyone could just turn up."

Benny stepped in front of the engaged couple and gave Higgs the once-over. "Exactly what is the meaning of this?"

"I've got an objection to the wedding. Shouldn't go ahead."

"Why the fuck not?" Benny demanded.

"Personally, I'd like to kill the fuckers. But instead I'll just settle for them being unhappy."

There was a gasp from the crowd, and Terence stepped forward. "How long's it been since Marcus died? How long was it before you jumped into bed with him?" Suddenly, his wand was at Percy's throat.

"You hurt him," Oliver said softly, "and I'll break your neck." His wand, too, was now out and at the ready.

"Such devotion. Sure Marc'd be pleased."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, shut the fuck up about Marcus Flint," Percy spat, at the end of his tether. "Seeing as you know all about Marcus Flint, Terence, I'm sure you'll know that he loved Oliver so much he even wanted to see him safe when he was gone. He asked me to take care of Oliver before he died."

Both Terence and Oliver seemed quite astounded at that. Oliver fell silent; while both Terence's wand and voice shook as he spoke. "You're lying."

"I assure you, I am not," Percy responded, quite soft and calm. "I'll even take Veritaserum to prove it."

Terence snarled, and gripped Percy's collar, shoving him sideways into Oliver and stepped back, his wand at the ready, almost twitching to kill any spectator who dared challenge his retreat. "Well, I hope you're going to be fucking happy together. Enjoy it while you can, Wood, Weasley. In a little while," he paused for a cruel grin, "it'll all be gone." He pulled his arm in , letting his wand rest in front of his face in a traditional salute, and apparated away, fading into nothing.

The gathered crowd blinked, and soon a loud murmur arose with everyone putting in their two knuts worth. Many of Oliver's old friends from school were asked for their opinion on the young man, and Angelina Johnson could be heard to loudly declaim that Higgs always was "a Beater short of a full team, if you know what I mean."

Benny was caught between bemusement and confusion as she leant over towards Oliver and asked, "Who exactly was that?"

"Oh, the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend," Oliver replied, somewhat absently, and ran his fingers over his short hair. "Marcus always told me he was a lousy fuck."

"Yeah. He does seem a bit tense, doesn't he?" Benny observed, and made her way back through the crowd to her previous place of prominence. She raised her hands for silence, and people kept talking, so in the end Benny pulled up her blouse and flashed the gathering.

That certainly got their attention.

"If you don't mind," she said, grinning, "we do have a wedding to finish."

That afternoon, on Christmas Eve, Oliver and Percy clasped hands and vowed to share bodies and thoughts as pleasure and trust prompted, to live for and with one another and any children that might result, to love while life lasted though liking may come and go, and to do right by each other, and be honest in all things. It ended with a kiss that Oliver had the decency to stop for it went on far too long, and the crowd broke from its lines and mixed around one another, taking the time to chat.

Gradually, Arthur and Molly pulled themselves away from the throng, and with a loud cry for everyone to follow, sauntered back down the hill, the guests trailing out behind them, still chatting as they went all the way back to the Burrow for the reception.

A few hours later, and Harry was helping to clean up the mess the reception had caused. There seemed to be more dishes to wash than he'd cleaned in his entire servitude with the Dursleys, not to mention food scraps, bits of party decorations, and stains from food and dirt tracked in from the garden on the bottom of shoes and boots. Molly had decided that magic was not to be used when physical labour was just as good, and besides, it would give Percy and Oliver 'alone time'. Now that all guests had left, the cube things (that Harry had still not learnt the names of) had been put away, and everyone's rooms were one again. Hermione's things had been quickly moved out of Percy's room and into the study before the wedding took place, and Oliver's things placed in Percy's room - or as Molly insisted on calling it, "the bridal suite."

Harry picked up a tattered bit of what looked like streamer from the floor, and added it to the garbage bag he was dragging across the carpet behind him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. "Come on now Harry dear," Molly beamed. "There's a lot of work to be done." With that she walked on up the steps towards the staircase proper, and called up on her way. "Ginny love, I do hope you're giving that carpet a scrub. Your Aunt Esmeralda was a bit queasy."

"You mean she got plastered and upchucked dinner!" Ginny hollered back, out of sight, and Molly's face darkened as she stomped up the stairs like the wrath of God.

Draco, Harry thought, probably would have massacred the entire family rather than do some cleaning. And Merlin knows sometimes that doesn't seem too bad an attitude to have.

* * *

Draco sipped his soup and tried not to make a scene. Dinner was painfully regimented, as it always was. He'd been summoned to the dining table after being told to wear formal dress, as if something special was going to happen.

Which as far as Draco knew was a complete fallacy. Certainly, it was the Muggles' Christmas Eve, but no respectable wizarding family would celebrate such a Muggle occasion. Wizards might exchange gifts on Christmas Day itself - the Malfoy family did not, to his personal displeasure - but surely it couldn't hurt after all, for him to get a little present? But there he was, seated at the dinner table in his best robes, and the only sounds the ones he was trying to avoid making in eating his soup.

At the other end of the long table sat his father, and in the middle between them on Draco's left side sat Narcissa, all pale in a rather diaphanous gown of some vaguely translucent material that seemed grey, until she shifted, when it seemed almost midnight blue. There silver bands around her wrists to which her sleeves were attached, and her pale blonde hair almost seemed to shimmer in the reduced lighting of the dining hall. Conversely, Lucius was dressed in black robes as he always was, with silver filigree on the collar and cuffs. Idly Draco wondered if his father had an entire wardrobe of the damnable things, and then the obedient house elves cleared away the soup bowls and brought in dessert. Draco was so used to their presence he barely registered the movement, and he was so caught up in considering the reasons for his finery - and at the same time trying not to think about it - he wouldn't have been able to name whatever it was he was eating.

Following the clearing of dessert, Lucius slowly finished off the final dregs of his claret, and murmured that the family should retire to the parlour. A few minutes later, and Lucius was spread out on the couch, reading a book - Archaic Goblin Rituals of the 17^th century, according to the spine. Narcissa sat in the leather couch opposite, a tight bundle of nerves with a cognac wrapped in her hands, and Draco sat in the armchair, his chin propped up on one hand and looked between them. After an interminable while (and Narcissa on her third cognac) Lucius finally snapped the book shut, and moved to a sitting position.

"So, I understand you've been consorting with the Potter boy?"

Narcissa downed her drink in one gulp and poured another, her fingers tightening white around the glass.

Draco took a deep breath. "I haven't-"

Lucius stepped in before he could finish, one eyebrow arched. "Is that because he's been...you?" He made a rude demonstrative gesture.

"Father, neither of us-"

"So you admit there's an us?"

"I'm trying to get into his confidences," Draco lied, without any shame.

"Bulldust," Lucius spat out in return. "Our Lord has many servants in Hogwarts, and they all agree you've been following Potter around like a puppy."

Draco sat there and tried not to sweat. "How do you know that's not part of my plan?" he asked one eyebrow raised.

Lucius' nostrils flared in anger. "Don't try to play one of your games on me, boy. I taught you every trick you know."

"There's a few I've learnt on my own," Draco confided with a thin smile.

Lucius slammed the book down on the table in front of him. "I am not having my sole heir falling for Harold James Potter!"

"Why are you so certain he's falling for the Potter boy, Lucius?" Narcissa asked with spite in her voice, and when Lucius faltered, somewhat surprised by his wife's reaction, she stood, putting her glass down on the table, and shoved her face in his, resting her hands flat against the table. "Might it be because we're still stuck in the past, dear? You automatically assume Draco is going to fool about with Harry Potter because that's exactly what you did for his father!"

As Lucius spluttered apoplectically, Draco almost reeled, standing out of the armchair and looking as if he would fall back into it at any moment.

"Didn't you know?" Narcissa asked, angling her face towards her son, twisting the knife in deeper. "Love for the Potters runs in the family, Draco. Your father's one true love was James Potter, and he sold him to Voldemort all the same."

There was a loud, sharp smacking sound as Lucius slapped Narcissa hard across the face. Everyone went quiet. Narcissa exhaled a rather drawn out breath and gingerly stretched her jaw, testing out how badly it hurt. Her eyes met those of her husband's, and they both knew they were thinking about the same thing: Lucius had never used violence against her before.

Lucius' voice was a quiet murmur, devoid of anger or any passion. He seemed weary, and that was it. "Go to your room, Draco."

Draco stepped forward. "But-"

The anger flared again. "Go to your room!"

Draco nodded, and almost ran out of the parlour. Narcissa watched him go. Lucius cupped her jaw with one hand, thumb smoothing over the skin still red from the slap as if he could heal it, and his other hand threaded through the spun gold of hair upon her brow.

"How could we know," she whispered softly, "that for the first time in history, the fascists would win?"

"It is most absurd," he smiled back, and pressed his lips to her forehead, hands smoothing down her back. "I'm sorry."

"Apologies are too late," Narcissa told him, beginning to cry. "Everything is too late." Her fingers clutched at his robes. "For Merlin's sake, Lucius, we were supposed to lose!"

He held her until she cried herself out, and then he gently helped her to her bed, and retired himself. Tomorrow would be a full day.

* * *

Early on Christmas morning, Harry and Ron stared at the door to Percy's room for several minutes before Harry cleared his throat. Ron's eyes flickered over to him anxiously, and Harry nudged him in the stomach.

"You go," Harry whispered.

"No, you," Ron hissed back, and rubbed his stomach.

"Why me?"

"You're the bloody Heir of Gryffindor! You've faced You Know Who and lived!"

"Cedric didn't," muttered Harry, gritting his teeth.

"Sorry, Harry, but you know what I mean. One former Head Boy can't be too much trouble."

"One former Head Boy and one ex-Quidditch Captain," Harry corrected, looking at Ron. "But it's not them I'm worried about."

"No," Ron echoed. "It's what they might be doing."

Both boys glanced at the closed door, and shuddered.

* * *

Inside, Oliver woke slowly, and tried to turn on his side, still half asleep. Something tugged on his wrists.

That startled him into alertness, and he angled his head, his eyes fluttering open. Right. Not blindfolded, he thought. And my neck's free as well. The sight that greeted him was a familiar one; Percy looking down on him, wand held in his right hand. He murmured a charm and Oliver craned his neck to see tendrils grow out of the bed and curl around his lower waist, holding him firmly in position. It wasn't especially noticeable, unless he tried to move.

"What's this, then?" Oliver asked, unable to keep the wicked grin from his face as Percy grabbed a pillow and managed to wriggle it under his hips.

"This would be me about to fuck you senseless," Percy told him calmly, and pushed his glasses up his nose.

Oliver swallowed rather audibly, and tried to ignore the fact his body was still sensitive from last night. He had made love to Percy so slowly until they'd finally collapsed in a tangled, sated, sweaty heap amongst the sheets.

"Why the bondage, then, Perce? Not that I mind, it's just. You don't need it."

Percy placed his wand down on the bedside table, and picked up the small bottle of lube there, pulling it open with his teeth, and smeared some onto the fingers of his left hand, languidly preparing him. To the first finger was added a second, and a third, and a fourth, and finally Percy pulled out completely, wiping his hand on a towel he'd left by the bed the previous night.

Hoisting Oliver's legs against his shoulders, he positioned himself, and briefly examined the marks from the restraints, already beginning to rub red raw against Oliver's skin.

"You still haven't explained yourself," Oliver pointed out. "Not about this. Or about what you said about Marcus. You're not just doing this cause of him are you?"

"Fucking you because of Marcus Flint?"

"Being with me because he asked you to!"

"No. I love you. I always have. But if you put yourself in danger like you did at our wedding, I will have to punish you."

As Percy started fucking him, Oliver couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

"He's your brother," Harry argued, and tried pushing Ron towards the door. Ron however, had locked his knees, and was refusing to be shifted. The only thing Harry could do was push him over - which he did - and they fell over one another in a heap. Managing to stagger back upright, and brushing their robes off, the two of them spared one final glance at the door.

"Maybe we should get them after breakfast," suggested Harry.

"Uh-huh. We can tell Mum they were busy, or something."

Harry nodded several times in quick succession, and the two fled.

* * *

Draco had taken quite a while to get to sleep the previous night. As such, when the house elf finally opened the curtains to let the sunlight spill in, it almost seemed too bright for the wan light of the Yorkshire morning. Blinking the sleep from out of his eyes he shuffled across to the windows still in his robe and the sun was clearly above the house.

It must be about midday, Draco thought, knowing something was amiss. Why was I allowed to sleep so late? That was a question he couldn't answer. The Malfoy Manor was built on control and order, and everything was always set to a schedule. He should have been having lunch by now, but instead he was waiting in his room, watching the moors from his window.

Another house elf - or maybe the same one, Draco could only tell them apart when he could be bothered - opened his bedroom door and Draco turned to see it bow in the doorway. "Master Draco, Master Lucius wishes you to dress and attend his guest in the parlour."

"Who is this guest?" Draco demanded.

"I cannot say, Master Draco," the elf apologised and backed out.

So Draco had little choice but to shower in the en suite, get dressed, and make his way through the Manor to the parlour. The house seemed deserted, even more than normal, no elves scurrying anywhere trying to satisfy the occasionally impossible demands of his father or mother. There was no sign of them, either. Draco stepped over the threshold of the parlour, and stopped at what he saw there.

A somewhat shrivelled frame sunk into the armchair he had been sitting in the previous night. Skin, tight like parchment, and a similarly sour yellow colour, hair that was grey or black, and only seemed to exist in clumps against parts of the skull. A face that seemed distorted, almost as if someone had melted the underlying bone structure. It seemed to almost decay further as Draco watched. Between his legs rested a cane, as an old man would have to help him walk.

"Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly," murmured Voldemort, and grinned. He gestured to one of the couches. "Close the door behind you, my boy."

Draco stepped inside, sliding the door shut behind him, and sat tentatively down on one of the couches. He didn't understand why the Dark Lord was playing the grandfatherly routine on him, but he certainly didn't trust it. This is weird, he thought, and then corrected himself. No. We reached weird when Harry asked me to kiss him. We're quite beyond weird by now.

"I thought we should have a little talk," Voldemort leaned forward, almost sounding as if was confiding something. "After all, your father has proved to be a most loyal follower, with the right...impetus."

Draco's eyes flashed at that, but he kept his calm. "Am I being called to follow in my father's footsteps?"

One of Voldemort's arms lashed out: he grabbed Draco's left arm and pushed the sleeve of his robe up, exposing the pale skin of his wrist, smoothing over it with his palm. "No, no. There's no need to mar this pretty flesh of yours, Draco. You have other purposes."

"Like what?" Draco fought the urge to retch.

That withered dry skin slid over his own again, caressing it. "Have you ever wondered why you were an only child?"

"No," Draco retorted, angrily. He had, but he wasn't about to admit it.

"Take the Parkinsons, for example-"

"Pansy has an older sister and two younger brothers, I know."

"Most pureblood families - especially those of breeding and heritage - try to have more than one heir, in order to promulgate their own opportunities for marriage, and have sure the lineage is protected in case of accident."

Draco smiled thinly. As if he hadn't gone through the same things himself fifty times. "Your point?"

If Voldemort was taken aback by Draco's brusqueness, he didn't show it. "Why do you think then that you are the only child of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Morgan?"

"Because after me, how could any other child be anything but a disappointment?"

Voldemort laughed uproariously at that, and let go of Draco's arm. His laughter sounded like nails on a blackboard, and Draco's nausea rose. "No, my boy." He paused and leaned back in his seat, about to begin the story. "Your mother had fertility problems. Both your parents wished for an heir. I offered them a way of providing them with one."

Draco raised an eyebrow at that. Voldemort had never seemed like the generous type.

"I created a ritual, cobbled together from bits and pieces from the Latinate, Aztec and Celtic schools of magic. Under the sight of a ring of Death Eaters, your father took your mother in a fertility ceremony similar to those performed hundreds of years ago, when the land and its king were one."

"This wasn't the standard fertility ceremony," Draco surmised. "In the ancient Celtic rituals, the mating was designed to provide for the health of the land and the kingship, not a child. Besides, there were all those other bits and pieces."

"Indeed," Voldemort nodded slowly. "But it provided them with the child they wanted, and they did not to consider exactly how high the price was."

Draco's blood ran cold. "Me."

"You."

Draco gathered his hands in his lap and looked straight ahead. "What was I made for?"

A long sigh. "I was once mortal, Draco, like you. Before my humanity was burnt away from me. But that, too, came with a price. I am unwanted in this world, an outcast against the order of things. There is power in difference, do not mistake me."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

"I never said I would answer your question, now did I?"

Draco opened his mouth, and closed it again, allowing Voldemort the point.

Voldemort's hands smoothed down his cane and back up, resting on the plain silver handle. "I cannot die, Draco, and I will not hand Time an easy victory. Not while my work is still undone. So, I needed new flesh to clothe myself in - mortal flesh, free from the unnaturalness of my current frame, yet burning with the mind and soul and power I currently possess."

Draco's mouth attempted to form words after that, taking a while to succeed. "That's why you made me."

"Exactly. You were a convenience, nothing more. A piece of meat, to be melded and used by me. I'm amazed you even developed a personality of your own; you weren't supposed to be anything except an empty vessel, waiting for me to be poured into you."

Something built in Draco, and he thought it was fury. "And my parents allowed this?"

"Well, yes. But then, they were so desperate for a child. Narcissa thinking it would tie Lucius to her, and your father in order to get back into my good books, after his regrettable affair with James Potter. Although, I must admit, I didn't tell them everything."

Draco wished he had his wand that very moment, just so he could Avada Kedavra the Dark Lord and see if it worked. As he didn't, he considered smacking Voldemort across the face with the silver service.

Voldemort's lips quirked slightly as if he could read Draco's thoughts, and Draco was struck by the possibility he could. There must be some connection between them, if what Voldemort was saying was true, and the dream...

"I assure you, its all true," Voldemort said smoothly, and Draco blinked. "I merely told your parents that when the moment came, it would be my knowledge pouring into your body; yours would still be the dominant personality. I suppose they also thought I might be defeated and they wouldn't have to worry about it."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Draco asked him simply. "I could go tell Dumbledore, or Harry."

Voldemort tapped the floor softly with his cane. "Yes, the Boy Who Lived. I know all about your feelings for him, Draco." He reached across and pressed his fingers to Draco's temple. "I've been walking around in here since that dream you had of me. That was the first stage of the ritual's completion, by the way. It has three stages."

The contact was electric. Draco had a sudden flash of images in his mind: a dead deer lying on a rock, a great underground cavern, snow, and finally a dark cave opening, surrounded by runes. Draco shifted slightly, and pulled away, drawing Voldemort's soft chuckle in response. But Voldemort's fingers traced his skin again, and Draco closed his eyes, letting the images flow over him. Voldemort's voice seemed to be coming from very far away. "This is the second stage. Physical contact. It consolidates the mental union."

Draco fell into Voldemort's mind, or perhaps Voldemort fell into his; Draco wasn't sure. Either way, he could feel the almost physical presence stomping through his mind without any grace or consideration, scattering the carefully ordered illusions he'd built up around himself, and sniggering at everything he saw.

Draco felt bile rise in his throat, and tried to move away, but Voldemort's fingers dug into his upper arm and his body didn't seem to be responding to his own thoughts.

Don't struggle, Voldemort whispered in his mind. There's no point, anyway. You were born for this.

He could feel Voldemort's mind coming up against a blackness in his mind, and wondered at it, Voldemort's muttering flowing through his head. A memory charm. Interesting. What am I not supposed to see in my own creation? In a voice like dry leaves, Voldemort murmured a charm under his breath, and Draco felt suddenly dizzy, having heard the charm both in his mind and through his ears. He could feel pressure building against the wall, and he tried to shake the sensations off, but Voldemort smiled and simply stopped the thoughts before they reached his body, and Draco went limp in his arms. Of course, the thing about memory charms is they don't destroy memories, that's impossible. Voldemort examined each moment in turn, and set it back in its place, so easily. Draco couldn't even struggle. All they do is hide them so well even you don't know you have them.

He rested there, still able to take in everything around him, but disconnected as the pressure became a pronounced buzzing, as if Draco's head was full of bees, and angry ones at that. Draco's own thoughts began to lose coherency under the strain, trapped in a madness of rambling voices and memories.

Finally, the blackness broke inwards, and Draco whimpered in his mind at the shards of magic that flew through his mind from the destroyed charm.

The diary. He was barely twelve, and Father had given him the diary. His father had given him the diary as a sort of test, and in it was Tom.

"Hello, little boy."

And so Draco had run terrified to the one person he still trusted, and all his father had done was perform a memory charm on him. Voldemort chuckled in and out of his mind. "So much for family loyalty. I suppose he only did it so the nightmares wouldn't make you wet the bed."

Draco would have shivered, if he could. Everything he'd ever used to prop his ego, every half-lie and revised memory, Voldemort could see just how fake it all was. Just how fake he was. And now that the memory charm had been broken, there wasn't any part of him that could escape.

Indeed not, Voldemort told him. You were born and bred for my purposes, boy - you were even touched by my diary, my written self. Images again tugged at Draco's mind; visions of places he'd never seen, people he'd never met and yet knew. Voldemort's memories, and this time he couldn't stop them, trapped inside a body that wasn't his any more. The images that came with such frequency, flashes of time so fast that Draco couldn't figure them out, but once image was repeated. A cave opening in a mountain, and the hint of something inside. Draco stretched towards it, and suddenly, he was there.

Inside a cave with braziers burning on the raw stone face of the walls, and a frame of white gold set upon a dais. Draco climbed up the small flight of stairs, and raised a hand to brush his fingers against the blackness within the frame. The blackness caught on his fingers like molasses, stretching as he pulled his hand away, and then he felt the blackness suddenly pull at him with a forceful tug, and he staggered, and fell into the frame.

He was falling, falling into darkness and shadow, colours playing in the corners of his eyes and just as quickly gone when he tried to look at them. Eventually Draco stopped, but didn't know whether he'd actually reached the bottom. Impossible shadows loomed up at him from the darkness, colours that didn't exist, flashes of light in all kinds of hues, and their negatives at the same time. Lines and patterns danced at the corner of his eyes, and when he tried to focus they were gone. A figure stepped out of the darkness, all muted tones and sepia, and Draco's eyes widened in shock and recognition.

Tom. But it wasn't quite Tom; at least, not the Tom he remembered from the diary. This one was older by a few years, and something glittered in his eyes. Draco tried to scramble back, but it was like treading water. The blackness surrounding him had no substance, nothing for him to hold onto and use and propel himself with.

"Where am I?" Draco asked, feeling his mouth go dry from fear.

"The Portal of Bifrost," Tom intoned, before smiling. "Or so some have called this place. Really, there have been so many names through the years I am amazed we haven't lost count."

"We?" Draco's voice trembled a bit.

Tom gestured, and other phantasms jumped out of the darkness, hollowed out representations of people in stark white outline. What Draco assumed were people at any rate, although they were horribly distorted in form and size.

"What are you? How did I get here?"

Tom refused to answer his first question. "You are connected to Voldemort, who is in turn connected to us."

"What are you?" Draco almost screamed, and tried not to be overwhelmed by his fear.

Tom smiled, slightly. "We have many names. We had many names, at any rate. It might be better if I explained what we do."

"...What do you do then?"

Tom stepped forward, and leaned closer to Draco. "My dear boy, when the time comes, we're going to eat your soul."

Draco screamed, and the world fell away. When he awoke, he was on the couch, back in the parlour. Voldemort was reclining in the armchair again, chin propped up on a leathery arm. There was the feeling of pins and needles all throughout his body, as if he'd fallen asleep. He shook his head, and winced at the throbbing in his temples, everything slowly sorting itself out in his head.

"...You know about Harry and I? Why don't...?"

"Why don't I kill you now?" Voldemort shrugged. "Or punish you? I could, but I might damage my new home - a definite no-no. Besides, everything you learn about him, every weakness, will be mine once the ritual is complete and I am you."

"When will the ritual be complete?" Draco asked, leaning forward as he licked his lips, curious and thrilled and appalled all at the same time.

"The second part was done today, and the third will be at the end of the school year." He smiled. "We don't want you missing out on class, now, do we?"

Draco found Voldemort's attempts to placate him - or humour him - all the more terrifying. "You still haven't answered my question."

"Your question?" Voldemort cast his mind back. "Ah, yes. Why I don't fear you telling Dumbledore or Harry? Firstly, you don't trust Dumbledore's motives - nor should you."

"There's still Harry, then," Draco responded quickly.

"Yes. Still Harry. And what will you tell him? Oh, sorry, I was born out of the Dark Lord's spiritual essence to be a vessel for his soul?" Voldemort smiled, and the skin tightened across his face. "If you tell him that, you'll lose him for good. And I know you wouldn't be able to bear that."

Draco stayed silent, and Voldemort chuckled again.

"My dear boy, it's hardly a surprise the two of you have found a certain consolation in one another. After all, he bears my mark, and a bit of me resides in him still. You were made for me, and of me; you have nothing of your own. You ache for him because he has that part of me in him; that part of your purpose. And he loves you because that part of him which is me recognises this purpose, and yearns for its completion." He waved a hand and returned it to his cane. "Everything that you are, everything you will be, is just an echo of who I was. Nothing more."

* * *

Later that evening, the Weasleys exchanged their presents, and there were some fond farewells. Percy and Oliver apparated off for a week's holiday in the Azores, and Bill and Charlie had to go back to their respective work places. Harry was sad to see them all go, but relieved as well. Bill and Charlie had always been vaguely shadowy presences in Harry's life, and he was still slightly embarrassed from the crush he'd had on Bill in fourth year. The twins had to depart as well to get back to the joke shop, and Harry thought that both seemed a bit keen to relieve Lee Jordan of his responsibilities as fill-in during the wedding. There was much hugging, much shaking of hands, Mrs. Weasley wailed appropriately, and then they were gone, leaving Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley standing on the Burrow's lawn in the English twilight. Mrs. Weasley quickly shooed them back into the house, nattering on about catching a chill.

Harry sighed and trudged into the room he was sharing with Ron, going through the presents he'd gotten earlier in the day. There was a quill from Percy, charmed to be able to locate any notes it had ever written, and parchment from Hermione that would colour code itself depending on which subject he used it in for easy reference. He'd had a headache from the mid morning, and his head still ached as if he was hung-over. Which wasn't possible of course; he hadn't drunk anything in months. His scar had stung briefly in time with the headache, but that had faded. Still, he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, and looked up at the knock on the door.

There was Ginny standing in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her stomach, and Harry's irritation peaked. He'd had a hard, busy day, and his two best friends were far too busy shooting longing glances at each other to spend any time with him, and he missed Draco, and his head hurt, and there was the try hard Goth herself attempting to look demure.

"What do you want?" Harry snapped out before he could restrain his frustration.

Ginny shuffled into the room a tad cautiously, aware that Harry wasn't in the best of moods, but determined to say her piece. "I wanted to apologise. For yesterday."

Harry's mind harked back to that lovely little conversation. "Right. No, no need to apologise, Ginny."

She smiled, surprised. "Really?"

Harry nodded, the smile plastered onto his face. "Yeah. You were right. I have the perfect life. Perhaps someone should kill your parents to see how fun it is."

Ginny stepped back, completely shocked. "I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did." Harry didn't move, but his words press onto her. "What did you say, Ginny? 'You're so perfect, Harry. Everyone loves you, everyone accepts you, and you don't even have to pay them.'" He parroted her tone, knowing he was being cruel, but he was beyond caring. "Yeah, I guess everyone does love me. That explains why half the wizarding world probably wants me dead, and why my family shoved me in a cupboard to rot."

"Harry-" Her eyes were tearing up.

But he cuts her off still, and pushes further. "Maybe I do pay them, Ginny. I have enough money, after all. Maybe I survive by paying off everyone in my life."

There was mascara was running down her cheeks, and she choked back, turning from the room. Harry called after her. "Don't love me, Gin? How strange. Maybe I'll need to pay you, too."

All he got in response was her door being slammed from up the passage. Harry sighed and leaned over onto his side, curling up in a ball. "We're all the same underneath," he murmured, and tried to go to sleep.

* * *

"Hello, everyone! Merry Christmas."

Dean looked up from Lavender to see Seamus at the top of the stairs, arms open wide in benediction. He was grinning as well, a bit lopsided, and his cheeks were flushed. There was something a bit off about him, but Dean couldn't quite pick it. Seamus tentatively placed his foot out - and nearly fell down the entire flight of stairs, righting himself with a wobble.

There was a slightly embarrassed chuckle from the gathered Gryffindors, and Dean could see that Lavender was watching with a keen, almost expectant gleam in her eye. Was Seamus drunk? Probably. But he was making a spectacle of himself, more than usual, and as usual, Dean had to do something.

He made his way up the stairs towards the Irish student, and easily swung out an arm, catching Seamus as he swayed, trying to take another step. Dean quickly turned Seamus around, and he could smell the potency of the breath on his cheek, as he pushed Seamus back up the stairs on legs that seemed more inclined to fold than stay upright.

"You're drunk, Shame. Let's get you into bed."

"Why, so I am, and thanks for noticing."

"I try to recognise these small details," Dean commented wryly.

"Of course you do. You noticed when I came out, didn't you?"

"You didn't exactly make it a private thing." Seamus had spent a few weeks looking absolutely devastated, not talking to anyone, and then finally told Dean what he was dealing with. Then once he'd accepted it, he'd told everyone in sight.

"Ah, but you didn't notice the reasons, did you Dean?"

Dean hefted him over to his bed and lowered him slowly upon it, trying to ignore Seamus' voice, and the accent which only got thicker when drunk. "You told me you developed feelings for a few guys." It was fairly simple. Lift Seamus' feet to his bed, untie his shoes. Don't listen; don't comment. It wasn't his place.

"There was one in particular."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"Ah well, never seemed the right time. Besides, I kind of hoped the feelings would go away."

Dean forced a laugh. "What, was he a Slytherin?" He had Seamus' boots neatly stacked next to his bed, and he'd just pulled off Seamus' socks as well, stuffing them into each boot.

Seamus' voice was quiet. "We're not supposed to have these kind of feelings for friends." Dean stilled for a moment, pulling one arm out from the blazer, and then the other, lifting Seamus' back gently to pull it out from under him. He attempted to be innocent, ignoring the quaver in his voice, and changed the subject. "I thought you would have stopped drinking after last time."

Seamus slurred. "'S just me Guinness. It's strong and black, not that makes me think of anything else." Seamus' fingers were absently dusting fluff off his left shoulder - fluff that Dean knew wasn't there, but he allowed it.

"I don't know what you're talking about. You've gone too far even I can't understand you." Dean had meant it to sound teasing, in a completely friendly way. A restatement of their traditional roles as friends, and nothing more. But Seamus' eyes were filled with an obvious emotion, and it certainly wasn't friendship.

"Well, let's just say I had the impulse to tie said friend to the bed, cover said friend's body in honey and lick it all off. Or alternatively, have said friend tie me to the bed, cover me in honey and start licking it off. Said friend being you of course." Dean closed his eyes and started working on Seamus' tie. "Either way it involves mild bondage, honey and you, so I'm pretty happy."

Dean decided not to comment, pulling off Seamus' tie and unbuttoning his collar. It was then that Seamus reached up a hand to run it though his short hair, and Dean shrugged it off. Not to be dissuaded, the hand returned again, cupping his head. He was about to tell Seamus to drop it when Seamus leaned up, and kissed him.

It wasn't a brilliant kiss, admittedly. He could smell the alcohol on Seamus' breath, and almost wanted to pull away simply because of that. But Seamus' lips were soft and gentle against his, and it was comfortable, and erotic, and far too many things to name. Even if he'd had a year and a dozen palettes, he never could had painted anything with as many hues and tones as this kiss, and yet it was the most simple thing in the world: two people who liked one another, trying to find a way to show it. Dean closed his eyes for a few moments, and didn't give in. He didn't retreat, but he didn't kiss back, and soon enough, Seamus pulled away. When Dean opened his eyes to look at his best friend, Seamus looked even worse than he had before. The mild euphoria of the alcohol had suddenly dissipated, and there was a wide eyed expression of disbelief on his face.

He actually believed I might kiss him back, Dean realised. But then, he'd believed it too. He'd known better though, and frozen himself in place. They were just supposed to be friends, and Dean had precious few friends that he could throw one away attempting to be in a relationship. Besides, what would his parents say? What would Seamus' family say? No, this was the sensible way, and even if he'd gotten as hard as a rock the moment Seamus had kissed him, even if he'd been tempted to push Seamus back down on the bed and kiss him until they both died of oxygen deprivation, it was not the way. Besides, Seamus was drunk. It was the booze talking, after all. And finally, Dean knew where he belonged, and it was not here. There was no place for him in the wizarding world, and Dean would finish up at Hogwarts, and go back to the Muggle world, bound never to use his wand again. He'd probably go into University and do something basic, like an Arts degree, and live in the real world, where magic didn't exist, and there was no place for fairytale endings, let alone Prince Charming.

Dean slowly clambered back off the bed, watching as Seamus' disbelief gave way to sudden pain, and then just as quickly covered over. He really didn't like seeing that, but he knew there was nothing he could do without making it worse in the long run. "You can get the rest of your clothes off and hop into bed, I guess."

Seamus' voice was desolate. "Yeah."

"I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast, Shame. People get drunk - it happens all the time." He could see Seamus fighting back the impulse to scream that no, this was different, this wasn't just the drink, this was how he really felt, but the pain of further embarrassment kept that at bay, and there was a slow nod.

"Yeah. See ya." With that Seamus reached up and drew the curtains around his bed, shutting Dean out.

Dean shucked off his own clothes as methodically as he'd undressed Seamus, and slunk into bed, willing his irrational guilt and dissatisfaction to leave. And to combat his unwanted erection, he thought of Moaning Myrtle, and shuddered, turning over on his side to sleep.

Seamus dreamed. It was a hazy dream, full of thoughts and images just out of focus. He dreamed of the time he'd licked Dean's hand, in play, because he couldn't do anything else. He'd dreamed of the time he'd caught a glimpse of Dean in the showers after flying practice with Hooch, and wondered what it would be like to make a path down that smooth dark skin with his tongue. And then he dreamed of kissing Dean, which seemed wrong somehow.

Then he woke up. The first thing that flooded through his head was a dull ache, coupled with the stabbing pain in his left eye. He might have called one a distraction from the other, except that would mean working out which he preferred, and he wasn't up to thinking, not quite yet. Awareness came to him, if slowly. The slightly slimy feeling of his skin, the slight rawness of his throat, the feeling something from one of Hagrid's classes had shat in his mouth.

And the memory he'd kissed Dean, and Dean hadn't kissed him back.

In the end he decided to pretend it hadn't happened, and maybe he'd be lucky enough to believe it.

* * *

The next few days passed in a blur, and Harry was grateful. He wanted to fade into the background, and ignore the domestic bliss that surrounded him, or the fact that Ginny always left the table at lunch and dinner as quickly as she could. In the mornings he flew around the countryside, and in the afternoons he might spend a bit of time with Hermione or Ron before the two of them decided their time would be better spent with one another. He didn't dare send off owls to Malfoy Manor, no matter how much he wanted to, because it would probably get Draco in trouble.

And then, suddenly, the domestic bliss shattered.

One evening after dinner Ron and Hermione were chatting up in the study. This was shorthand for Ron slumped in a chair reading a Quidditch magazine while Hermione went through some of her textbooks on the couch. Hermione's history of magic text was already opened on the desk, and a parchment with some half-completed notes lay next to it. Apparently Ron leaned back with his elbow and knocked over the nearby ink well, soaking the parchment and text in ink before Hermione noticed and screeched.

Harry wasn't entirely sure, as he only managed to reconstruct events a long while later. By the time he or anyone else in the household managed to get there, they were screaming at each other.

"Look, it was just an accident, alright?" Ron was saying, and wiped his brow, having already said this a few minutes before.

"That's no excuse!" Hermione yelled back, arms taut with emotion, slightly outstretched from her sides. "Nor was the fact you're clearly completely lacking in anything resembling co-ordination! It's a book, Ron," she hissed, striding past him to pick up the heavy tome, ink dripping from the pages. "You take care of books."

"Yeah, and you can buy another one, okay?" Ron gritted his teeth.

"Oh, can I?" Hermione gestured with the book in a wide circle. "Really? How kind of you, Ron, to inform me exactly what my financial situation is."

"I didn't mean it like that!" Ron shouted back, and tucked his hands under his arms as if he didn't know what else to do with them.

"Then tell me what mean!" Hermione screamed, "Or better yet, actually do what you mean for once, and keep stuffing up our lives by making us second guess you all the fucking time!"

"It's just a fucking book," Ron exploded. "If you ask Harry, he can buy you a new one!"

"That's not the point!"

"What is it then? The fact you place more stock in books than people? The fact you're perfectly happy to spend more time in a book than with me? The fact that sometimes I think that if I died tomorrow you'd be too busy studying to care?"

The small group of people gathered outside the door were shocked, but managed to part to allow Hermione to run out crying. As quickly as she had gone, they closed ranks and stared at Ron, who was gaping back at them.

"I didn't - I wouldn't - I-"

The look on Mrs. Weasley's face said it all. "RONALD ARTHUR WEASLEY."

"....oh, bloody hell."

* * *

The next two days Hermione was allowed to take meals in the study, and Ron was quietly informed by his mother that she 'needed some time to herself.' Ron and Harry spent the days lazing, too uncomfortable with one another to talk about anything that happened, and when Harry suggested they read some of Ron's old Quidditch magazines, Ron looked as if he would spit on him.

He shuffled back into his room two nights after the fight, hands in his pockets, and shut the door quietly, leaning back on it. Harry took the time to quickly stuff the Canons magazine he was reading under Ron's pillow, and fumbled about trying to look nonchalant. Fortunately Ron was too busy angsting to notice.

"I talked to Hermione," he said softly.

"Oh?" Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. I think we're kind of okay. I mean, she said she needs some time still, but she doesn't hate me."

"That's good." Harry responded, and Ron leaned forward onto the balls of his feet, a wide smile on his face. "Yeah. It really is." He paused. "Got that Canons magazine you were reading?"

Harry laughed and pulled it out, handing it to him. All of a sudden, they were back to the old bouncing around off the walls kind of familiarity, and he couldn't get enough of it.

* * *

The Gang was camping. It was an old ritual - well, they told themselves it was, even though this was only the second year they'd done it. Taken some tents and their wands and gone up to the Lake District after Christmas, to show themselves and their families they were big girls. It was a widely known fact, of course. They made no attempt to hide it, and squealed about the trip with each other and everyone else who was willing to squeal.

Erica had been collecting some water from a nearby tap, and casting a quick purifying spell over it as she made her way back to the campsite. She called out that she was coming back, and expected to here welcoming chatter in return a little way along the path, but there was no sound apart from the crackle of the campfire that Tara had lit a few hours previously. Seeing the reassuring tents close by, she called out again. No answer. Coming round the tent towards the centre of the campsite, her mouth widened in horror, and she dropped the water container, heedless of the water that spilled over her legs and shoes.

Tara was lying out next to the fire, and a short distance away Anna lay in a similar heap of tangled limbs, their eyes staring unseeing up at the winter skin. Both of their throats had been cut. Erica stumbled forward a few steps and was noisily sick near the edge of the Day-Glo orange tent. Her thoughts were moving far too fast to keep a track of. Someone had killed them. Killed. Tara and Anna...She couldn't stop herself from being sick again.

Anyone at the school would have known where they were going; they hardly kept it a secret, and now...Erica fought the impulse to laugh hysterically. It was too late for secrets, now. There was the sound of a twig snapping behind her, and Erica fumbled for her wand tucked up a sleeve. It fell to the ground, and rattled along the dirt. She moved forward, fingers reaching for it, and then a hand grabbed her hair and pulled back, jerking her head up.

There was a sudden pain across her throat, and wetness, and Erica sank to her knees, her breath rattling in her lungs. She felt forward, unable to keep herself upright, and twitched, spasming as her body tried to co-ordinate itself and failed. Someone stood over her blocking out the sun, and snickered.

"Let this be a lesson," the person said, clearly male. "The Boy Who Lived doesn't deserve groupies."

It was the last thing she heard before she died.

* * *

Rachel found him leaning against the corporation bar on New Year's Eve, nursing what looked like an awfully sour expression and cradling a whiskey and tonic in his hands.

"What crawled up your arse and died?" she asked, leaning back against the bar next to him.

Sirius finished off his drink and glowered at her. Rachel merely inclined an eyebrow in response. Men were all the same, she thought. Probably thinks I'll feel sorry for him cause he acts like a reject from a Bronte novel. "Your boss hasn't had time to see me yet."

"I thought you met him a few days ago."

Sirius ordered another drink. "I did," he said, grimacing. "But that was basically 'restate your position and I'll ask you stupid questions' quality time. Which we've done once already. Doesn't he get it?" he asked, turning to Rachel. "There's a war coming. Hell, the war's already started. We need help, or Voldemort's just going to walk all over us!"

Rachel leaned closer to him and hissed a 'shhhh!' in his ear, noticing that some of the bar's other patrons - all company staff in their off shifts, of course - were staring at him. "You might want to be a little quieter in your self-righteous indignation," she murmured, somewhat amused. "Most of these people are trying to pretend Voldemort ain't coming back."

Sirius just grumbled something and turned back to his newly arrived drink. Rachel shot out a hand and covered the drink, shaking her head slightly at the bartender, who took it back, and her other hand gripped Sirius' upper arm, tugging slightly.

"What d'you do that for?" he asked, turning to face her.

"You've had enough." She tugged harder on the arm, and he came off the stool with a slight grunt of surprise, falling against her as he settled himself on his feet.

With practiced ease, Rachel caught him easily enough, her left arm automatically curling round his waist. She could tell that he was hard, and tried to bite back laughter. Although it was kind of impressive, being able to get that up after how many drinks?

He looked at her for a few moments, and then he kissed her, hard. Rachel closed her eyes, and slid the right hand up to cup his jaw, pushing him away. "I know all about your husband."

Almost coal black eyes blinked, and attempted to focus. "You know about my husband? Remus?" There was a definite slur to his voice.

"Yes," Rachel told him. "Just so we have that clear." Then she grabbed Sirius by the front of his shirt and pulled him back in. He didn't try to stop her.

A few minutes later, she came back up for air. "Oh, and by the way, Happy New Year."

* * *

After Christmas, Draco had spent most of his time in his room, unable to face either parent. He presumed Voldemort had slinked off to do whatever it was dark wizards did when they weren't taking over the world, and cried into his pillow until he couldn't cry anymore.

He took his meals in his room, and even stopped flying practice. When his parents summoned him, he refused to see them, and they didn't press the issue. Too ashamed, Draco thought to himself, and they should be. They fucking sold me. Except I was already his, anyway.

Even once he was back in his room at Hogwarts, his things unpacked, the thought still haunted him. Everything that I am, and everything that I could be, he mused to himself, is Lord Voldemort. I don't even have a right to Harry.

Draco still strode through the corridors with his old swagger, and most of the things that came out of his mouth were thoughtless and nasty, but something deep inside him had changed. He probably wouldn't have been able to pin it down himself, but Draco had no need for Harry, not any more. That flesh and blood imperfection had lost its appeal. Now what Draco needed was a hero, a saviour, who was incapable of flaw or mistake, and could save even the undeserving like him from a fate worse than death.

What Draco longed for was the Boy Who Lived.

* * *

The welcome back dinner was a seemingly jolly affair, if one didn't look too hard at the faces. Seamus and Dean were sitting apart, as were Ron and Hermione, and rumours as to the reasons behind both had run like wildfire throughout Gryffindor.

At the Slytherin table, Draco kept looking over towards the Gryffindors to catch a glimpse of Harry, and both Pansy and Blaise looked at him, displeased.

Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet and held his hands up. After a few moments, silence fell across the Great Hall. He sighed deeply, and wondered how many more times he would have to do this before it was all over.

"Before I formally welcome you back to Hogwarts, I must inform you that we have had some very sad news regarding three of our Hufflepuff students...."