playing the game, living the lie

chapter 13: all around the world.

[date: 5 January - 14 February, 1997.]

Three days later, and Harry wanted to stab them in their beds. That was probably a rather harsh indictment, but really, he was fed up with the lot of them. Hermione and Ron not talking to one another, and Seamus and Dean little better. He'd finally forced Dean to tell him what had happened after two days of rather persistent questions and although that might have explained the how, it didn't explain the why, and after yelling in Harry's face that Seamus had kissed him, Dean had reverted to his usual taciturn self and refused to tell anyone anything.

What's more, he could barely enter a room without Ginny making up some feeble excuse and running away. How could he apologise to her for being a git if she wouldn't even talk to him? Keeping the peace had left him tired and irritable, and because of it all he had to tell Draco he wasn't free right now, but he'd let him know when he was. Harry never asked to be anyone's hero; he certainly didn't want to be the neutral fucking party anyone could turn to in a time of trial.

In addition, he'd spent two days feeling something missing from his life that made him all the more twitchy, when he finally realised what it was. The Gang of Three had left an absence, even if he thought that they were all a bit strange and obsessive. But then had been strange and obsessive about him, and Draco and him-and-Draco, and he had gotten used to hearing giggle and mutter every time he walked by, or turning around at lunchtime to find trailing them and attempting (unsuccessfully) to look nonchalant about it. He missed it, and every time he missed it, he remembered what had happened to them.

He finally managed to corner Seamus in a corridor one evening almost a week after the recommencement of term, and Seamus stammered and denied everything that Dean had told Harry (without saying it was an outright lie) and then when Harry had pressed his case, he'd looked over Harry's shoulder and said "Good evening, Mr. Filch, I expect you'll be wanting to know why I'm in the corridors after curfew?" Harry, of course, had turned, his mind racing to think up an explanation - he had reasons, he was um, saving the world or something - before he realised it wasn't curfew yet, and then when he turned back, Seamus had already ducked into a side corridor and out of sight. Harry had pretty much given up on him after that.

Harry was over playing message boy. Indeed, he'd only found out that they broken up - well, that Hermione had dumped Ron - in passing the night after it happened, as neither of them had been exactly forthcoming. Apparently she'd done the dirty deed the day they came back after winter break, which explained the long faces and lack of contact at the dinner that night. In the past three days he'd had increasingly desperate conversations with Ron, with Ron beseeching Harry to tell Hermione he hadn't meant "whatever it was that got her knickers in a twist and that he was sorry!" Hermione had told him in response (increasingly implacable) that she knew he meant well, but some things just couldn't be saved - "not even by you, Harry, I don't mean that in a bad way and would you please tell Ron to let me alone."

He did tell Ron this. This usually led to Ron muttering "bloody Hermione bloody Granger," and storming off in a snit. Most of the time, the both of them let him alone, as if he brought up memories of a happier time when they were actually talking to one another, and as if they could banish those memories by avoiding him. They sat apart in class, at meals and generally politely ignored one another.

Except of course, when one of them wanted to bitch about the other. This meant that they cornered Harry and invoked his sympathetic ear and 'neutral fucking party' membership card. It was during this period that Harry began gathering his own conclusions as to why they broke up. No matter whether it was Ron or Hermione, they tended to say the same things: "he/she just doesn't understand me", "I don't understand how he/she could say that about me. Doesn't he/she know me at all?" and the classic "we're clearly not communicating well" (or as Ron put it "we wouldn't know what to say to each other if you locked us in a room together.") Harry nodded at the appropriate moments, but generally let the wave of words wash over him. The first couple of times he attempted to say something meaningful, but he was ignored and/or overridden completely, so he ended up not speaking at all. What Harry learnt was that above they didn't want him to challenge their own perspectives on the matter: their primary intent was not finding a resolution, but support for their side of the story, and both seemed to feel he was best supporting them by smiling apologetically and saying nothing of any substance.

Hermione seemed to feel that it was (largely) Ron's fault: that his own insecurities about her academic success had caused him to degrade it, her way of doing things, and her in the process. "I'm not blaming him, Harry," she said five days after Harry's murderous thoughts, when they were curled up in a private study cubicle in the library, "it's just that he obviously feels threatened, and I don't know how to reassure him any more than I did."

Ron had said similar things the previous afternoon, when they were walking back from the Pitch after practice. "I'm not blaming her, Harry, you have to understand that. It's just that Hermione's always done things her way. Telling everyone to join S.P.E.W. and read Hogwarts: A History. And she didn't know how to cope with me coming in and trying different approaches. I guess she felt that the way I did things threatened, you know, the way she'd lived her life." Harry remembered the small shrugs of Ron's shoulders that accompanied that statement. "And I wasn't, Harry. Well. Not exactly. I just wanted her to try something different. There's only so much you can try from books. Some things you just have to experience."

At that point in the conversation, Harry turned to Ron and stated flatly, "You got irritated with Hermione cause she wouldn't sleep with you."

"Well!" Ron exclaimed in his defence. "That wasn't the entire reason, Harry, not at all!"

"Just the large part of it," suggested Harry, dryly.

"We had been going out for six months, Harry, or more! I'm a young man; I have needs. I'm sure you and Malfoy have- actually don't tell me cause I might be violently ill if you do." That pretty much ended the conversation.

The following night - when Hermione gave her side of the story - it seemed that Ron took that opportunity to finally catch up with his sister and wring the truth out of her as to why she kept avoiding Harry. This explained why Ron was in a furious rage when he came across Harry and Hermione coming out of the library. He yelled something fraternizing with the enemy - this earned a sharp look and sniff from Hermione, which he ignored - yelled something else about staying a way from my sister and lashed out with a roundhouse punch, catching Harry on the right side of his face.

Gryffindor lost fifty points, and Ron got detention from McGonagall. Harry got a black eye, and decided that he was bloody sick of being the sympathetic ear. Stabbing, he thought, as he sat in the Hospital Wing, would be far too quick and painless for the lot of them. Burning at the stake sounded good right about then.

The following night, Harry told Draco he would be free for them to study again.

* * *

"Ow." Harry winced and tried to pull back when Draco's fingers gently prodded at the puffy, purpled skin around his eye. Draco, however, wouldn't let him, and continued to warily explore, although he took note of when too much was too much. It was as if he'd never seen a bruise before, Harry thought. Or maybe he'd just never imagined the Boy Who Lived could bruise. He dismissed that idea immediately: Draco was too canny and too jaded to buy into the hero worship. It was one of the reasons Harry loved him for. "Ow!" Harry went again, and tried to pull away, more firmly, but Draco's left hand was curled around his right arm just below the elbow, and he held firm. As a concession, his fingers lid up into Harry's hair, and he leaned forward to brush his lips across Harry's scar.

Harry still shivered when he did that, amazed all over again that someone wanted him, and not to have him play martyr, saviour, sacrificial lamb or political pawn. Ostensibly they were supposed to be studying, books waiting for them on the table, but Draco seemed much more interested in his black eye from the beginning, and Harry had come to realise that nothing short of a divine intervention could stop Draco Malfoy from doing something he had his mind set on.

Draco pulled back, a gentle smirk tugging at his lips and he cocked his head to one side. "Do you want me to have him killed?"

"Who?" Harry asked, astounded. "Ron!?"

Draco nodded, and looked seemingly unconcerned.

"You can't do that!"

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Of course I can. I do have quite a lot of money. I'm sure there's someone I can find who'd be willing to off the Weasel for an appropriate fee. Nothing too exorbitant, mind. I wouldn't waste the money on the likes of him."

"That's not what I meant. Some things," Harry said firmly, "are just wrong." Draco rolled his eyes again. Harry had the rather upsetting suspicion that Malfoy Manor probably had a rather quick turn over in house elves. "Besides, I don't want to think of you like that."

"Whyever not? I told I wasn't going to be your pet project."

"Because I prefer to associate that sort of skill with your father."

Draco's face tightened quickly, and Harry could see him smooth it over as if that brief flash of pain had never happened. Seeing it brought him back to himself. "I'm sorry," he said, and Draco let out a short peal of laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"You," Draco murmured. "You're so horribly good, Harry Potter. You even see the best in me." Harry was about to reply that it wasn't like that at all, but Draco kissed him before he could utter a word.

There was a desperation in Draco's kiss and embrace. A longing for something, and Harry could almost feel himself drown in it. Draco's hands clutched at his hair, and Harry let out a little gasp in response, which led to Draco sliding his tongue into Harry's mouth, and trailing it along the roof of his palate. Harry moaned slightly, and couldn't stop his knees from going weak, toppling somewhat awkwardly against Draco's body. Draco chuckled into his mouth, and rubbed his hands down Harry's back, still kissing him. A few moments later, they stopped, skin flushed and Draco brushed his knuckles down Harry's cheek. Harry turned his face to kiss them, and was rewarded with a throaty sigh torn from Draco's throat.

"I want to go down on you," Draco whispered and Harry caught himself agreeing before he even had a chance to think about it. Draco quickly helped Harry into a chair, turning it away from the rich mahogany of the study table, and he knelt before him, fingers fumbling slightly at the buttons of Harry's trousers. Harry firmly caught them, and Draco looked up at him, eyes shining in the lamplight.

"Let me," said Harry. Draco nodded and took his hands away. It was a pretty easy affair for Harry to remove his tie and unbutton his shirt, standing to slip it down over his shoulders. Draco carefully took the garments and folded them, laying them flat on the table. Harry was slightly surprised at this care: he'd presumed that Draco had let the house elves do all the folding where he was concerned, but it seemed that his personal fastidiousness did give him some skills. Harry pushed off his shoes, and crammed his socks into them, nervously undoing his trousers and pushing them down so that they bunched around his ankles. There were only his briefs left: navy blue and a little threadbare as the Dursleys had rarely bothered to buy him clothing that would last. For the first time in his life, Harry regretted not being more of an active shopper: he usually purchased new clothing when Remus and Sirius urged him to do so, and then only after he'd had to throw something out. Draco nodded reassuringly, and Harry swallowed and stepped out of both, already quite aroused, and clearly so. He cleared his throat, standing there naked, and initially made to cover his groin with his hands, and then realised how pointless and rather self-defeating that was, so he tucked his hands under his arms and shifted from foot to foot.

"You're beautiful, Harry," Draco breathed, and moved forward to grasp Harry's head in both hands, and tip it down to kiss his forehead, as if giving a blessing.

"I am?" Harry squeaked out.

"You are," Draco confirmed, with a wicked smile, and pushed him backwards and down just a tad, so that Harry got the hint and sat back down. Draco cleared the garments off the floor and grabbed a cushion from one of the armchairs' near the fireplace, settling it at Harry's feet. Satisfied, he knelt, smoothing his hands over Harry's knees and looking up.

Harry was pale - although not as pale as Draco, of course, and flushed a faint pink. There was a sparse dusting of hair down the centre of his chest and along his legs, but he was mostly hairless. His body was small still, and lean - his childhood of near starvation had left him growth retarded, but he was compact, and tightly muscled, and Draco thought him very fine indeed.

Draco moved in to press his lips against Harry's neck, and Harry gave a little shudder and started to relax in the chair. This gentle kissing continued for some while, and then Draco reached up to toy with Harry's left nipple with his fingers. His technique was mostly learnt through self-experimentation, and privately Draco found it somewhat ironic that he was trying out things on Harry that he had used on himself whilst thinking about Harry. The nipple play caused a sudden gasp and Draco's eyes twinkled, his grip getting firmer and his movements more assured. His kisses turned to bites, running down his neck, and soon enough his teeth were latched onto a hard nub of skin, pulling at the nipple, and Harry was breathing harshly, almost writhing in the chair. His gasps had grown into broken moans, and a hand tickled at Draco's neck, stroking the skin just under the collar at the back.

"God, Draco," Harry choked out, and his green eyes fluttered open. "Please..." Draco didn't exactly know what Harry was asking for, but when he closed his hand and squeezed he got himself the loudest moan yet, he thought he might be heading in the right direction. Harry's taste was bittersweet, and from the way Harry arched up towards him, hand clutching at his hair, one leg curling up off the floor to rest his foot on the edge of the seat, things were clearly going in Draco's favour.

Harry tasted of sweat but saltier and both less and more intense at the same time. Draco trailed the tip of his tongue up and down a few times, pulling away from Harry's flesh and leaving a slender chain of saliva connecting his lower lip and Harry's body. Breaking it by smacking his lips together, he leaned back in again, swirling his tongue around Harry and finally taking him between his lips, sucking gently.

For his first time giving head, Draco thought it was quite good.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Neville asked when Harry finally shambled through the portrait hole a few hours later, books under his arm and a crazy grin on his face.

"Uh. Studying."

"With Malfoy?"

"Yes," Harry replied, still grinning madly. "We were studying anatomy." Harry couldn't help but lick his lips. He'd wanted to return the favour of course, and Draco was more than happy to let him; although he later said that Harry needed to take more care with his teeth.

The small contingent that was lying about the common room went suddenly quiet at that, and Harry managed to make his way up to the dorms without further question. He reckoned he could still taste Draco on his tongue. Once Harry passed out of sight up the stairs, conversation burst into the absence, louder than before.

"And people," Neville announced to himself, "ask me why I prefer to spend my time with plants. At least you'll never find a begonia emotionally scarring me like that. Ugh. Malfoy."

* * *

A few days later Ron and Ginny were curled up in some of the chairs in the library, Ginny ostensibly studying for Muggle Studies and Ron supposedly helping. Although he didn't take Muggle Studies, as Madam Pince knew; that alone probably explained why she kept giving him furtive glances over her spectacles from the Loans Desk, although the fact he was Ronald Weasley and willingly in the library might have had something to do with it. If you had told Ron this, he would have protested very loudly that he wasn't completely ignorant and he did use the library for academic purposes. If Seamus was nearby he would have chipped in that the only academic purpose Ron ever used the library for would be trying to check out the Wizarding Kama Sutra without anyone noticing; at which Ron would have turned bright red and muttered something about killing the Irishman in his sleep. Fortunately, Ron was not told, and so threats against Seamus' life were not made.

Seamus was however sitting a few tables away with Hermione, in a completely non-hypothetical capacity. Following his recent awkwardness with Dean, and Hermione's own estrangement from Ron, the two had made unlikely bedfellows (on a purely metaphorical level, you understand) when Seamus had asked Hermione for some help with Charms, and she, keen for the company, had agreed. Ron spent most of his time throwing them dirty looks and folding Ginny's parchment into paper monsters. Ginny spent most of her time unfolding her paper and glaring at her older brother with gritted teeth. Her own mood (never entirely subdued at the best of times) had been exacerbated by her inability to talk to Harry and the fact that the fifth year Gryffindors had had double Herbology with Hufflepuff that afternoon, and so she had to stand there and watch half the class fawn all over her definitely ex-girlfriend.

Following a peal of laughter from Hermione (which was quickly extinguished by Madam Pince, as she didn't approve of anyone having any sort of fun - this was a library after all - and once Hermione herself recovered she looked so guilty at laughing in the library that she might flagellate for days if she was so inclined) Ron breathed in deeply through his nose while glaring all the while at Seamus' back (one of his quips had caused the laughter) and his hands moved like a blur. Soon he produced a lovely paper troll and sat it down on the table.

"You've got nothing to worry about, you know," Ginny told him, and picked up the troll, examining it.

"What?" Ron asked, only half listening.

"Seamus and Hermione. You've nothing to worry about."

"They're being all friendly," Ron grumped, and Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Probably because they are friends, you berk."

"I bet they're studying." Ron set his jaw, and there was no denying what he meant.

"That's what you usually do in a library, you know."

"Laughing like that. I never made her laugh like that."

"Yes, you did. Of course, Hermione was generally laughing at you, and not with you, but the principle's the same."

"You're not helping."

"Look. Nothing will happen. Seamus is gay. Big old faggot, remember? He likes to take it up the arse. It's not as if he can turn in his membership card." She paused, and grinned. "Well, he can. But he has to give up the toaster."

Her brother looked at her if she'd gone mad. "What?"

"Never mind." Ginny sighed. "The chances of Hermione turning Seamus are about as much as....Harry turning you, I'd bet."

Ron started spluttering uncontrollably. She tried to pat him on the back to get him to stop, but they were (he was) making a disturbance, and Madam Pinch asked them to leave. Holding her head high, Ginny gathered her books, quill and parchment under her right arm, and once Ron had staggered out of his chair, still coughing and spluttering, Ginny rubbed up and down his back, and gently prodded him towards the exit, wondering exactly what method of killing he deserved for punishing her so much.

As she exited the library, Ron next to her, Draco Malfoy was coming down the corridor towards them.

"Ah. Ginny Weasley. Just the person I was hoping to see." He ignored Ron completely, but that was hardly surprising.

Ron (now mostly recovered) stepped directly in his path. "What do you want with her?"

Draco regarded him with a cool glance, as if he was beneath a response. "My business is my own." He smirked. "Now run along, Weasel. I wouldn't want to tell Harry you were being uncooperative. He does so trust my opinion after all, and I'm sure you'd hate to lose any more friends, now that Granger can barely stand to be seen in the same room with you."

Ron clenched his fists and snarled, Draco having targeted two of his weak spots: Hermione, and his fear of losing Harry to Malfoy. He seemed to be on the verge of lashing out when Ginny placed a hand on his shoulder, and Ron stopped.

"I can take care of myself," she said, moving in front of him to confront Malfoy.

"That's right, Weasley, she's a big girl. Bugger off and find someone else to play with."

Looking between his sister and Malfoy, and realising he was beat, Ron muttered something under his breath, and started off down the corridor towards Gryffindor Tower.

"I don't really appreciate your tone, Malfoy," Ginny said, clutching her books closer to her chest. Draco and she had never had the best of relations; from the Valentine incident to last year, when Ginny had come out. Back then, Draco had sneered and suggested she get herself some leather and shave her hair short. She had wondered briefly if she should return the favour by suggesting he pander to stereotype and get himself a thong and a full body wax.

"I don't really care," responded Malfoy, smoothly.

"You know what I think? I think if anyone's whipped, it's you, not Harry. And Harry's not going to be very pleased with you when I tell him how you just treated me and my brother." With that she walked away, smartly, and a part of her hoped that Malfoy would call her bluff.

"Please." It was almost a whisper, and Ginny turned back to see Malfoy stand there, shoulders slumped.

She strode back, coolly, and tried to contain her own excitement, and the feeling of power she had over him. Whatever he wanted, he needed her very badly, and Ginny couldn't help but enjoy that feeling. "What do you want?"

Draco straightened his back, and smiled, and Ginny couldn't help but feel her power lessen somewhat. It was not a nice smile, and Draco could be cruel and cowardly with the best of them. "I wanted to talk to you about second year, actually. Your first year."

Ginny's heart leapt into her throat and she back-pedalled immediately. She knew that virtually everyone had soon found out about the goings on with the diary, but fortunately she'd been spared any inquisition from her fellow students. You Know Who in any form was a taboo subject, and Ginny had gained a certain mystique from it.

All of this flashed through her mind in an instant, and she regretted every second of cultivating that mystique, of playing up to her image. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, sounding rushed and tried to step past him.

He quickly stepped in front of her again, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, I do. It seems we have something in common, Weasley."

"Yes?" asked Ginny, trying to sound defiant. "Something besides the fact we both chased after Harry?"

Draco gave a dry little chuckle at that, and moved closer. "How very droll of you, Ginny. But no. I was referring to Tom."

Ginny let out a small gasp, and her eyes looked wild. "Please," she asked him, "don't make me..."

But Draco was implacable, leaning forward so that his breath hit the curve of her ear. "You don't think you were that diary's first victim, now do you? After all, how did my father find out what the diary could do before he slipped it to you?"

She felt like crumpling to the floor then and there. The burden of memory was too strong. And his father. How could anyone do that to their child? "Please, no," she whimpered, beginning to tear up, and tried to get around him again, but Draco was quick (like a Seeker should be) and a hand reached out to grab her wrist and spin her round to face him. She nearly dropped her books on the floor.

"I just want to know how you got free," he asked, and she could see the desperation in his eyes. "That's all."

Ginny felt a sudden pang of empathy for this scared little boy trying to convince everyone - including himself - that he was a grown up, or good enough. Disentangling his fingers from around her wrist, she stepped back, and told him as bluntly as she could. "You can never get free of Tom. You can just tell yourself that you've forgotten, it's over, you've grown, it doesn't matter anymore. No matter how much you dream of him."

He gave a start at that, and Ginny broke free completely, walking away from him. She stopped a few paces away, not looking behind her. "And trust in Harry. He's the only one who can save you."

The next day she saw him at breakfast, all pointed and peaked and pale as usual. She briefly considered telling Harry what Draco had told her, but it seemed too precious and too damaging a secret to divulge. Besides, he was Harry's boyfriend. He would have told Harry, and if he hadn't, well, that gave her a bit of Draco Malfoy that even Harry Potter didn't possess, and she wasn't about to give that up.

* * *

They were walking side by side, amongst the crisp winter air. This wasn't in itself usual, as Ron and Hermione were unbearable separately, no matter what Harry did Harry, and Harry himself, constantly plagued by the bewildering reality that was Him-and-Draco, needed someone to talk to. And Dean was a good listener.

Besides, no-one else was talking to him. The Quidditch season was about to recommence and one might think that would stir Ron into necessary contact, but oh no. It was a little tricky when your main Quidditch adviser was barely speaking to you. They seemed to have devised a system where Harry suggested game plans and tactics, and Ron grunted if he liked them, and just glared if he didn't.

So Dean and Harry walked side by side, and Harry babbled slightly, and Dean nodded at all the right places, and finally came up with a few words that were quite reassuring. Although Harry had known them himself, he'd really just needed to hear them confirmed from someone else, so was quite pleased when he did.

In the aura of this new found, open friendship, Harry found the strength to ask Dean something that had puzzled him for a while. In that clean winter air, with the grass crunching underfoot, he'd stolen a glance at Dean, and said "Um."

It wasn't the best of beginnings, but Harry had never claimed a great amount of eloquence.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Um?"

"Well, I was going to ask you something, but I kind of - I mean, I don't want to be rude."

Dean knew very well what topic people tended to avoid around him, mainly cause he'd made it very clear they had to. Looking straight ahead, he kept walking. "We're just friends, y'know. Best friends, but that's all."

Harry ran slightly to catch up with him, slightly startled into passivity. "Yes, but he did kiss you..."

"He was drunk," Dean explained it away, all too comfortable. "And I didn't kiss him back."

Harry stopped this time of his own accord, frustrated. "You can't tell me you didn't want to! I remember the drawing!" he hurled at the other Gryffindor's back, watching as the shoulders stiffened, and Dean's entire form straightened, and stopped. But he didn't turn to face Harry for a few moment, then whirled, eyes blazing, and stalked back towards the shorter boy, his mouth enunciating very clearly what he had to say.

"I don't know how you see the world, Harry, but not everyone can have a Grand Passion like you and Draco, okay? Not everyone gets to decide they like someone, and they love someone, and they'll give up everything in the world for this one person, however short that time may be." Dean was so close to him now, Harry almost leaned back, away from that smouldering anger. "I can't see the world like that. I can't. And I'm not going to do something stupid for the sake of One True Love, because I know that doesn't exist. My Mum is my Dad's second wife, Harry. Second." He paused, suddenly quiet, as if the soap box rhetoric had drained him. "So he's not my boyfriend." With that, he turned again without a word, and clomped off in the direction of the castle.

Harry was left standing as the snow began to fall, fingers tightly wrapped into fists, shouting impotently at the departing figure. "That doesn't mean he shouldn't be!"

It was the only thing he could say, but it wasn't enough.

* * *

Roughly a week following his return to school, Draco received an owl from his mother. It contained the usual care packages she always sent him, and a small note hoping to find him in good spirits and wished him well for the rest of the term. After a few moments of being astonished by her sheer and unmitigated gall, he reached inside his desk to find a fresh piece of parchment, and wetted his quill.

Mother, it began, it is rather amusing to find you claiming any interest in my wellbeing. As you did but sell to Voldemort before I was even born, forgive me for finding this attitude more than a little trite. I thank you for your concern and your gifts, but they will not be needed any longer. Crawl back to your bottle, and pretend.

Your son (not that you especially give a damn),

Draco Malfoy.

A day later he received a reply. It was merely one line on a thin strip of parchment: I'm sorry. N.

As a result, it set Draco's mind ticking upon all the injustices perceived and real that his parents had done to him, and so he decided to let one of their secrets slip the next time he saw Harry, which was the following week.

This time they were actually studying as Snape had set a Potions test for the morning. Pouring over his Potions text, the letters almost blurring together in his mind after reading the same passage far too many times, Harry didn't quite hear what Draco said. He raised his head, blinking, a querulous expression on his face. "Did you just say something about my father?"

"My father and yours were lovers, apparently," Draco murmured, not looking up from his notes. His quill broke with a loud snap and he sighed, placing it down on the table. "Do you have one I could borrow?"

"My father and yours were what!?" Harry yelled.

"Lovers. Bonking. Fucking like Cornish pixies."

Harry sat back in his chair, and closed his Potions text. "I'm going to kill him," he said, got up without another word, and left the room.

"Kill who?" Draco asked as Harry left, but Harry didn't respond. "No-one ever tells me anything," he grumped, and helped himself to one of Harry's spare quills.

It was only a short walk to Professor Lupin's rooms, and Harry's banging on the door was likely to waken the dead. Professor Lupin opened it and stood in the doorway, dressed in a robe that had clearly seen better days. "What is it, Harry? I told you I'd let you know the moment there's any new word from Sirius."

"My father and Lucius Malfoy were fucking?!"

"Ah." Lupin poked his head out and looked down the corridor both ways to make sure it was deserted and then ushered Harry in, closing the door behind him.

Harry started pacing immediately, before stopping himself. Professor Lupin took some books off a chair and offered him a seat, but Harry refused. His anger was far too inflamed to let him sit. "My father and that, that, Death Eater?"

"I don't believe Lucius' political affiliations were known at the time, or even if they were concrete. You might say it's somewhat like Draco and you-"

"It's nothing like Draco and I," Harry snapped back, breathing deeply through the nose. "Draco's not capable of half the evil his father is."

Privately Remus thought that was a little optimistic, but he held his tongue.

"I can't believe Dad would do something like that," Harry said, pacing again. "I mean, what was he thinking? Lucius Malfoy was nothing more than a stooge for Voldemort. It's almost as bad as being a Death Eater himself."

This was going too far, and Remus decided to put a stop to things there and then.

"Your father loved Lucius Malfoy, Harry, and as best as I could tell, Lucius loved him in return. I will not have you second guessing James' judgment, especially when it made him so happy. Lily had to watch them, and it pained her deeply. It pained her more when she realised she would never quite be able to heal James' heart; but even she accepted Lucius' place in your father's heart, and so can you." He paused. "Now. I want you to go back to Draco, kiss him goodnight, and go to bed."

Harry nodded, appropriately chastened and he moved towards the door, pausing upon the threshold. "How could Draco's father let my father die if he loved him?"

For that Remus had no real answer. "Perhaps he hadn't been informed what Voldemort and Wormtail were planning. Perhaps he did and...I don't know, Harry."

Harry closed the door behind him, and Remus sank back into his chair.

He missed Sirius.

* * *

Washington, D.C., was a cold, dry city from what Wormtail could see. He hadn't actually had much experience with it, seeing as this nice government car had picked him up from Reagan Airport, but it certainly didn't look like the kind of place he'd want to be walking around in. The buildings were generally of a light sandstone or granite, as was the paving on the sidewalks, and they all seemed to lack a certain substance or character. The entire city looked like a washed out watercolour, and the people walking on the streets had a determined nonchalance to them, as if they were all determined to get somewhere, just as long as it wasn't here.

It was mid January now. Peter had waited several weeks to receive the carefully forged documents that would allow him to travel to America via Muggle modes of transportation. This would lessen chances of detection; after all, with floor powder and apparating, what sensible wizard would be scanning the arrivals at airports for suspects?

He had also had to educate his replacement in the ways of Our Lord; Voldemort special requirements and needs, and navigating the Muggle housing estate in which Voldemort stayed safe and secure. There were many confusing things about the Muggle world, and Peter had started small, with the difference in currencies. After three days of training and supervision, Peter had reckoned young Higgs was ready, and so he left without any guilt. Terence had apparently proved himself over the holiday period by sending a message to Dumbledore and his allies. This message had been delivered by making sure that three Hogwarts students arrived home in body bags. It was good to see dedication to the cause in one so young, and certainly boded well for his future.

The car's driver had informed him they would be taking the scenic route to the Hart building, and so it seemed, as the car leisurely drove around Washington's parks and memorials, covered in a blanket of snow. Peter considered thanking him once the car pulled up in an underground car park, but he was a Muggle and therefore inconsequential. A black-suited aide greeted him once he exited the car, and guided him through a dizzying array of corridors towards the Senator's office. They even went into this small room that the aide called a 'lift' and when the doors opened again, they were on a different floor. Peter was very curious to see what magic had caused this (except everyone knew Muggles didn't use magic) but rather than display his ignorance, he kept his silence.

Finally, Peter was ushered into a rather nicely appointed office, with an expensive looking desk and leather chairs. A man in his mid-forties and dressed in a light grey suit and aqua tie stood up from behind the desk, one hand outstretched, the other smoothing down his tie and buttoned up jacket. This, from the files Wormtail had glimpsed, was his contact. Peter politely refused the handshake - he found that people tended to be unnerved by his silver hand.

"Mr Evans." That was his pseudonym, and a private conceit of his.

"Senator."

The aide stood there, awkward. "The Senator's the senior member for North Dakota, and the Chair of the Senate Committee on Magical Affairs." She seemed to take an awkward pleasure in stating the obvious; fortunately at a nod from the Senator, she left and shut the door behind her. The Senator gestured to a seat; Peter took it and the Senator returned to his chair.

This, then, was a man who had power. Every country in the world had them: those who sat on secret government organisations regulating the interaction between Muggle and Magical communities. The vast majority, like the man who sat before him now, were wizards who voluntarily lived partly in the Muggle world, making sure that no-one there ever found out too much. They acted as buffers, helping the governments of both worlds communicate better. In theory, at least.

"The man you're interesting in finding is currently staying in Pittsburgh," the Senator told him, and got straight to business. He pulled out a manilla file from a drawer and opened it, tossing it towards Peter's side of the desk. It fell, spilling slightly. There were photos in it; presumably surveillance photos. Peter was still slightly spooked by the fact Muggle photos didn't move. Barbarians, he thought and scowled, clearly recognising Sirius Black in every one of the photos.

"That's him. What's he been doing?"

"Meeting with certain business leaders." There were more photos. "He seems to be sounding them out regarding financial support. I don't need to tell you who he's asking them to support."

Peter hissed. "Dumbledore."

"Exactly. I'm amazed you hadn't had one of your people in the U.K. Ministry slap Dumbledore in prison for sedition or something."

"Sadly, we don't quite allow that sort of thing. There's something called free speech. Besides, the Ministry is so incompetent it would probably completely bungle the operation and make him look like a hero."

"Hrm. Can't you just have him killed?"

"He's a wily old bugger. It'd make him a martyr if nothing else."

"True. What do you want me to do with this one?" The Senator tapped the photos of Black with his finger.

"Keep your eye on him. He's trouble. When the time comes, we might need to make sure he has a little accident."

"I'll make sure my people stay so close to him, they can count how many times a day he takes a shit."

Peter stood, holding his right arm close to his chest inside his jacket. "I think that completes our business for the time being, but I do need to speak with some of our other associates."

"I've arranged accommodation for you," the Senator assured him. He paused for a moment, and wetted his lips. "I have done well, haven't I?"

"Our Lord will be most pleased in your work."

"I can remember when I first heard his message, almost twenty years ago. I knew it would be my duty to serve one day, and for that I needed power."

"You have certainly succeeded in that."

"Is there any word? We hear rumours of a gathering, but nothing concrete. I hoped that you might be able to tell me something, something I could pass on."

Peter smiled thinly. "The time of judgement is at hand."

The Senator broke out into a grin. "Fantastic." He stood up, and shifted to the liquor cabinet. "I think this calls for a drink. Do you want one?"

A tiny shake of his head. "I don't drink."

The Senator poured a brandy for himself. "We're really going to cleanse the world, aren't we?"

"Only the faithful will be left. Only the pure."

"Thank the Lord." He downed half the glass. "It's almost nauseating having to surround myself in Muggles every day. I swear I can almost pick up their stink. They don't smell like real people, you know."

"You'll be free of them soon. And there will be a reward waiting for your service."

"Oh?" The Senator raised a bushy eyebrow.

"He will need people to rule over his new territory. People he trusts. Who have demonstrated their faith in him."

"I would be honoured..."

"Of course you would." Their eyes met, and both men smiled. The Senator pressed a button on a box on his desk, and spoke into it.

"Margaret, will you please have a car take Mr Evans to his hotel? Thankyou."

A few moments later the aide came back into the room, and nodded at the Senator before turning to Wormtail. "Mr Evans, if you'd come with me?"

Peter exited, still hiding the artificial arm, and left the Senator alone with his half-finished brandy, and his dreams.

* * *

Severus was pouring over a book when Lucius found him.

"I do hope this journey will be worthwhile. There are some who might find our mere association suspicious." Lucius Malfoy made sure that the door to Snape's office was closed before he spoke. "If not my very presence at Hogwarts."

Severus raised his eyes to look at Lucius, and took some time before responding. "Have you ever known me to waste time on frivolities?"

"No. What do you have?"

Severus turned the book to face him, and sat down on his chair. Lucius leaned forward, startled, and poured over the book. He grasped a page between thumb and forefinger, rubbing slightly. "This is not parchment. It's a Muggle book. You can tell from the glossiness of the paper, the neatness and shape of the text." Placing his hands on either side of the book, he looked up. "Why have you been looking at a Muggle book?"

"I tried everywhere else, you know. The Ministry Library of Arcane Texts in Cardiff. The Private Collection of the Morgan Family. I was even desperate enough to consider storming the Library of St. John the Beheaded."

"That would have gotten you killed," remarked Lucius absently, still turning the pages.

"I suppose it is lucky I did not try it then. But desperation drives one to do strange things. Hence this."

"How did you get in?"

"One of our third years, Graham Pritchard. His father was a Muggle-born. Therefore Pritchard has all the right Muggle documentation in order to apply for a library card from the Dumfries' Public Library."

"He borrowed the book?"

"I had him lend books on a variety of subjects. No-one will be able to discern my specific interest in Aztecs."

Lucius was still looking at the book. "I can't believe Muggles have such things."

"They have to," Snape replied easily. "After all, they do not believe in magic, so how can the relics of a dead civilisation hold any meaning for them? It probably explains why we are always taught to keep ourselves separate from the Muggles. So as not to realise what treasures they have lying on library shelves."

There was a faint sigh. "Think of the knowledge being wasted."

"Your wife would be livid at the thought."

"My wife frequently is." He began to turn the pages at a quicker pace. "What exactly am I looking for?"

With an irritated rasp, Snape took the book from his hands, found the page and placed it back in front of Lucius, tapping a particular section of text with his finger.

"'Ixiptla. Pronounced ee-sheep-tla,'" Lucius read. "'The physical representation of a god. Ixpitlas were everywhere in Aztec religion, from the little statues of the gods' kept in the peasants' houses, to the human god-representations who were pampered and slaughtered by the priests.'" That caused a dour glance at Snape, who shook his head slightly and Lucius kept reading. "'As a physical manifestation of a hidden force, the ixpitla made it possible for the common people to see and understand their gods.'"

Lucius felt a sudden lurch in his chest, a clutching. Without knowing it, he was sitting heavily in the chair in front of the desk, and Snape was thrusting a cool glass of water into his hand.

The physical representation of a god...

"Drink. You've probably gone into shock."

...pampered and slaughtered by the priests...

Lucius drank, his hand shaking slightly.

...made it possible...to see and understand their gods...

There was a sadness in Severus' tone as he explained what Lucius already knew. A gentle sadness; the kind of diligence and consideration in his words that none of his students probably ever received. "Although I can't be certain as the ritual was a composite one, formed of many traditions, it seems likely that when the ritual is complete, it will not produce a melding of Draco's personality and Voldemort's knowledge, as was promised. Rather, Draco will subsumed completely and his body will be the Dark Lord's new vessel in this world."

"It was only a small consolation," Lucius murmured, almost absently. "Narcissa and I had already come to the conclusion that Draco would not be the same boy we had raised and loved, but having him as the next Dark Lord was a consolation, however minor." He raised his left arm slightly and smacked the palm of his hand down upon the arm of the chair, fingers clawing at the detail carved into the wood.

"Are you alright, Lucius?"

"He lied to me," whispered Lucius, his eyes unfocussed, his right hand tightening around the glass. "He lied to me." There was a hoarse quality to his voice, almost a grunt, and his fingers tightened so that the glass shattered, shards falling onto his lap and the floor. Red cuts appeared across the inside of his hand, bits of glass embedded, but Lucius seemed to be too far removed to feel the pain.

"I gave him James; I broke my wife; I sold my son." His mouth contorted in a silent, racking sob, and the fingers of his right hand flexed, blood beginning to drip down onto his trouser leg, staining the fabric. "All because I thought I had a higher calling. And he lied to me." Lucius sat in the chair, slumped, a defeated old man, and starting sobbing. "I could have been happy, Severus, I could have..."

"I know," Snape told him simply, his own face looking drawn and old. He stepped forward and took his wand from the desk, grasping Lucius' wrist with his free hand and turning it so that the palm lay outstretched, and murmured an incantation under his breath that drew the glass shards out from the skin and sinew to the wand like a magnet. Lucius hissed slightly, wincing at the pain, his tears already beginning to abate.

Once every shard was removed, Severus walked over to a rubbish bin and murmured the countercharm that let the glass fall from the wand, harmless, into the bin. The house elves could take care of the disposal tomorrow on their daily runs. He quickly mixed up an antiseptic from his own private store of potions ingredients, and coated a bandage liberally with it from his first aid supplies. After all, one could never be too careful when mixing potions, and Madam Pomfrey did have to go on leave sometimes. He wrapped Lucius' hand in the medicated gauze, and stood, smiling as much as he ever did (which admittedly wasn't much) once his ad hoc medical attention was given.

"Thank you," Lucius murmured, withdrawn back into himself as always. "I am always surrounded by people who offer me kindness that I am undeserving of."

Snape could tell by now when Lucius was thinking of James. "Don't be stupid. I am hardly in the habit of wasting my services, so therefore you are worth the attention."

That managed to get a thin smile out of him. "Slytherin pride strikes again, it seems."

"Indeed." There was a pause while Snape fumbled for words. "You could always stay the night." Lucius looked at him, offering neither interest nor refusal, so Snape ploughed on regardless. "You can hardly return to the Manor in that condition. Narcissa will have a great deal of questions to ask, and you know what she's like when it comes to getting answers."

"Once a Ravenclaw, always a Ravenclaw."

"Exactly."

Lucius inclined his head slightly in a nod. "Very well then."

Snape opened the inner door to his quarters, and Lucius shuffled himself inside, immediately commenting on Snape's lack of anything resembling alcohol, especially the fine wines that Lucius liked to partake of. Once he rolled his eyes at Lucius' old suggestions that there was more than a little of the Puritan around him, Snape went back to his office, closed the connecting door, summoned a house elf, and informed it that he would be taking dinner in his quarters, with a guest. The elf nodded and went on its way, and Snape re-entered his quarters and found Lucius already seated in his chair by the bookshelves, attempting to thumb through an edition of Merlin's Vita Britannia with only one hand.

"I see you still have your fondness for the classics."

"My wife corrupted me. I honestly didn't think history was your thing."

"It shows you don't know me that well."

"I never really bothered," said Lucius, and Severus was amazed by how little that stung. He watched Lucius for a few minutes, folding his arms over his chest, before the other man spoke again.

"Have you read the Muggle adaptation of the Vita?"

"I didn't even know there was one."

"Historia Regum Britanniae, by one Geoffrey of Monmouth. It's a travesty that misses the point of the original text completely, but then what do you expect from Muggles?"

They spent the evening like that, in polite conversation and intellectual banter, with dinner barely measuring as a blip on proceedings. When it came time to retire, Lucius undressed, and Severus placed his robes on hangers in his own wardrobe, soon following with his own. He slipped into bed with Lucius, and wrapped his arms around the other man from behind, both settling into a light sleep.

When Lucius awoke a few hours later in the middle of the night, he found that the bed was empty apart from him. Severus walked back into his rooms a short while later, dressed in his familiar black robes from top to toe, reading a piece of parchment outstretched between his hands.

"You left."

Snape started slightly, startled by the fact Lucius was awake. "I couldn't sleep."

"I can see that." Lucius rolled onto his side, propping his head up on a hand, elbow resting on the pillow. "What is that owl, that it demands such attention at this time of night?"

Snape passed it to him without a word, and Lucius quickly scanned it. There was no signature, nothing to indicate any authorship, but it was plain from who it had been sent. He had received a similar one a few days ago, telling him to keep a low profile in a few weeks time, and not interfere. Not that he had any intention of interfering, but Voldemort did like to keep a tight rein on his troops. It was in code, of course, anyone else reading would see it merely as an innocuous message. He looked up at the other man, his own face carefully schooled not to betray any emotion. "What are you going to do?"

"What I am ordered to do," Snape replied, and started unbuttoning his collar.

"And any casualties?"

"Will be abhorrent, but I cannot stop them. My hands are tied in this. Dumbledore wants this to succeed. It's all part of his game."

His outer robe was off now, and his white shirt underneath unbuttoned as well. "My. And I thought he had a conscience."

"He plays to win," Severus told him, and started hanging up his clothes, before bending to pull off his boots. "He thinks that will save lives in the long run, and therefore all his actions are justified in the short term."

"Are there any complications in the way?"

Snape shrugged, and pushed his trousers down, stepping out of them and folding them away. "I believe it is being taken care of by one of our fellow loyalists at the school."

"Have you heard anything about Wormtail's great expedition to 'the new world'?" Lucius murmured, with a bitter tone to his voice. It was always somewhat ironic that someone he had managed to turn to Voldemort's allegiance was perhaps the person whose naked greed and contempt for the rest of humanity turned Lucius' stomach.

"No. He must have been there for a week, now, though."

"Five days, perhaps. It troubles me. I once sat high in all the councils and knew all the plans. Now details are being kept from me."

"Voldemort's even more paranoid than he used to be," Snape suggested, peeling back the covers to lie next to him.

"Or he mistrusts our loyalty."

"If he mistrusted us, he would have had us killed by now."

"Unless he has some other purpose."

"You worry too much," Severus told him, and when they kissed it was like it was the first time.

* * *

Harry had absolutely no idea that it was possible to feel this good. He was half dressed; that was, naked apart from his shirt, which was unbuttoned and hanging off his chest anyway. Draco's lips were pressing against his neck in a series of light, gentle kisses, and Draco's hands were stroking him. Harry had lolled his head back in response, his eyes half lidded, knees and legs weak. He rested against the side of the table, the edge just about cutting into his hip, but he barely noticed the discomfort. His entire world was reduced to three things: his groin, his neck, and the feel of Draco's hair as it ran through the fingers of his right hand. Draco had a warm, slightly musky smell, or at least his hair did, but that was probably sweat, as the Slytherins had been practicing on the pitch that afternoon.

Draco changed his grip, and Harry's eyes widened, and his lips parted to release a whimper as his entire body shuddered, and Draco licked up the curve of his neck to flicker against the earlobe. He certainly couldn't think of Quidditch at a time like this. "Enjoying yourself?" Draco asked, voice deliberately husky.

"Yes. Oh, yes," was all Harry could manage to reply.

"Good. I've been practicing."

This made Harry wonder how Draco could practice such amazing use of his hands, and then he realised that Draco had been practicing on himself, and the idea of Draco masturbating made him visualise Draco masturbating, school trousers down around his ankles, sitting on one of the boys' toilets, and his right hand stroking himself slowly, just as he was stroking Harry now and oh my God, Harry could feel his orgasm building, and getting closer. The Draco in his fantasy raised his head as if knowing Harry was watching him, and stroked himself faster, licking his red lips, his eyes hazy, and it was almost too much, Harry's breathing beginning to rasp in his throat and then-

There was a knock at the door of the study room. Harry immediately lost all and any sexual desire, yelped, grabbed his clothes off the back of a chair, and dived under the table, hiding behind Draco's legs while he put his underwear back on. He couldn't see from behind Draco, but that was probably a good thing, as whoever was now opening the door therefore couldn't see him.

"What do you want?" There was a mixture of shock and disgust in Draco's tone. Harry wondered who had provoked such a reaction.

"Sent have I been, to collect Harry Potter," squeaked Dobby, and Harry was so surprised he immediately attempted to stand, and banged his head on the table. "Ow!"

"As you can see," Draco commented dryly, "Harry is currently occupied. Probably recovering from self-induced concussion."

Harry lashed out with his foot at that, catching Draco in the back of the shin. "Ow!" he said, and Harry could see Draco's robe swishing as he turned to glare in Harry's direction as if his eye could bore through the table.

"Dobby is aware that you are trying to make each other explode, Master Malfoy, but Dumbledore did send Dobby to collect Harry Potter, and so Dobby will do so."

Harry had managed to wriggle into his trousers, and was buttoning them up as he emerged from under the table, looping his tie back under his collar. "Dumbledore wants to see me?"

"Oh yes, Master Potter. He sent me here to find you."

"Dumbledore knew we were here?" asked Harry, his voice breaking at the implications of that. If Dumbledore knew they were here, he might know what they were doing...

Harry wanted to avoid that revelation if at all possible. He quickly redid his tie, and Draco immediately attempted to straighten it and every other item of clothing he swore, which led to Harry slapping his hands away. They glared at each other for a while before Harry softened, and leaned in to kiss Draco's cheek.

"Right," he said, "lead on." Dobby had made it most of the way to the door when Draco's voice rung out.

"What did you mean, about us trying to make each other explode?"

"Hogwarts is full of passageways that the house elves use in order to complete that which we do. It is easy to hear echoes from all the rooms, including this one and so Dobby has heard the two of you, Master Malfoy. Master Malfoy going 'Harry, Harry, oh Merlin, Harry,' and Harry Potter going 'Draco, oh, oh, ohhhhh' before you explode. Sometimes you do this with yourselves when you in are private. Dobby does not understand this, but he assumes it makes you both very happy."

Harry and Draco avoided looking at each other, and there was a long pause before Harry spoke again. "I'm going to see Dumbledore now."

"Fine. I'll give you your books tomorrow at breakfast," said Draco, who'd suddenly become immensely interested in tracing the grain of the table with a finger.

Harry nodded in reply (although Draco didn't see it) and left, letting the door swing closed behind him.

He followed Dobby down at endless array of corridors and twists and turns, until they came to a seemingly blank section of wall, which Dobby stood in front of. "Back entrance," he whispered to Harry, before addressing the door. "I am the walrus," and the wall slid aside to reveal a narrow doorway, and behind that bookshelves were clearly visible.

Harry cleared his throat, adjusted himself, and stepped into Dumbledore's office. He soon realised that the back entrance was more like a side entrance, as he had to turn to face the desk a little way away, and greeted the two men who were there with a nod.

"Professor." He blinked slightly. "Minister."

Cornelius Fudge had shifted round in his chair to look at him, peering over the top of his half moon glasses and he reached out and patted the arm of the chair next to him. "Harry, my boy," he breezed, "come and sit down."

With a smile from Dumbledore, Harry sat. He'd never especially liked the Minister, or rather he never saw what anyone else saw in the officious git.

"Did you get much study done?" Dumbledore asked, eyes twinkling, and Harry almost died on the spot.

"Uh, yes, we did," he managed to blurt out, and Dumbledore shifted his attention to Fudge. "Harry's been studying with Draco Malfoy for a while now. It's quite a joy to see such inter-house co-operation."

"Oh, yes, that must be Lucius Malfoy's son. Capital man, even if his loyalities are a bit...yes." He trailed away, clearly not wanting to finish or even know where he was going, and faced Harry, hands emphatically gesturing with every word. "Now, Harry, this is of course the most regretful duty I have as Minister, but I thought it would be best for you to hear from me tonight, and not from the Prophet's front page tomorrow."

Whatever it was, it would be bad. The Gang's deaths had been suppressed by the Ministry until all the families had been contacted, but once that was done, the Prophet had given them a front page and an inside spread on this proved You Know Who was back.

"What is it?"

"Your family. They moved to Spain, a few years ago, I believe."

"That's right." The Dursley's had been paid compensation by the Ministry once they'd been informed that they'd sheltered Harry from the Death Eaters for fifteen years; they then promptly told him he could stay with his godfather and Uncle Vernon had taken early retirement, and the Dursley family moved lock, stock and barrel to the Costa Del Sol.

"They've been discovered by the local Muggle police. Murdered in their house. It looks like the usual Death Eater ritual technique; I won't go into details."

Harry didn't know what to say. They'd treated him like shit, made him feel completely worthless and lived desperately unhappy, narrow little lives, but they deserved better than to have their throats cut.

"Obviously," Fudge continued, "in light of recent events, the Ministry has no option but to publicly declare that You Know Who has returned, as you told us at the end of the Triwizarding Tournament. It's been influencing our policy for many months now, but we feared making the knowledge public."

Cedric. Had he been the first to die? Harry didn't know, and didn't want to find out. "Well," he managed, not looking at Fudge, because the man was nothing than a petty incompetent, "I am glad that the Ministry is finally taking this seriously. After the events of last year I had some hope you might get your head out of your arse, but it seems that even more people had to die before you would do anything." Harry stood, scraping the chair on the floor as he pushed it back, and nodded at Dumbledore. "I should be getting to bed."

"You have my sympathies, Harry." Dumbledore told him, and Harry left without a word to Fudge, who was still stammering out a reply.

The following morning when Harry entered the Great Hall for breakfast, he found all eyes on him. It seemed that some of the students had already read their Daily Prophets, and word had clearly spread. When he got to the Gryffindor table, he blinked. Sitting besides his usual place was Draco Malfoy, already chomping on a bit of toast. Everyone else at the table was glaring at Draco with barely disguised loathing, but Draco seemed to revel in it. He didn't bat an eyelid when Harry sat down next to him, and he soon slipped his right hand into Harry's left, and squeezed. As he leant towards Harry (supposedly to get some of the jam) he murmured in Harry's ear, "If you tell anyone how nice I am to you, I'll have the Weasel killed."

It was weird, and disturbing, and petulant at best, but Harry figured that was par for the course when one was dating Draco Malfoy, and he only let go of Draco's hand when he had to.

* * *

The moment Draco entered the Slytherin dungeons after breakfast, Pansy fastened herself to him like a leech. He felt vaguely uncomfortable at the way she coiled her arm around his, and leaned against him as they walked down the corridor together, but he knew better than to question her, not now. Pansy often had motives which were hard to fathom, but of late her acts had been primarily designed to help him, and so he let her cozen up to him, and didn't grimace.

"Why all the contact, Pansy?" he murmured, the distaste of his tone at odds with the broad smirk on his face.

Pansy took the time to smile at some first year, who squeaked and went on her way, and leaned into whisper in his ear as they walked. "I would have told you my reasons, but you've spent so much time with Potter. Just play along, dear."

"And you've been spending just as much with Blaise," he responded softly in return. "Been plotting, have we?"

"Blaise is a sweet boy," she told him, and he didn't believe a word of it. "Besides, I did manage to convince him that your dalliance with Potter was part of some great plan and not justification for you to befall an untimely accident. He thinks you're actually interested in me."

"You didn't dissuade him of that error, of course."

"Why bother? The more it makes sense to him, the more he believes it. I just had to offer him some meaningful words and flash him a few smiles, and he was certain."

"One wonders what else you had to flash him," Draco remarked darkly, still smiling widely, and patted her hand on his arm.

"What, jealous?" Pansy sounded as if she might stab him with a knife, but she certainly didn't look it. "I didn't think I was your type. Lacking a penis and all. But you know how Blaise is. He's all too happy to please anyone who shows the slightest bit of interest in him. And he wanted to believe me; I expect they all would. No one really wants to think that Draco Malfoy has gone soft, and for a Gryffindor no less."

His arm unwrapped from hers and she felt a gentle prick against her hip, and she let out a little gasp. "Just keep smiling, Pansy," Draco told her, and she did. She had given Draco a small dagger for his twelfth birthday, largely ceremonial, but he told her later he took it out sometimes, and secreted it up his sleeve just in case. This seemed to be one of those times. His right hand held it to her hip, and his left curled up her neck, knuckles brushing against her skin, and he whispered gently in her ear. "I have not gone soft, Pansy." His tone was even, cold. That was what convinced her. "I do love him, but if need be I will kill him just as easily as I could you right now."

"I am sure you could," Pansy told him, with a tinkling little laugh, "but then you'd never be able to live with yourself afterwards." She could see Blaise approaching them from the other end of the corridor, and Draco's lips brushed against her neck. Draco quickly palmed the dagger and secreted it, his left hand sliding down her back and curled round her hip, bringing her in against him hard as they stood side by side and faced Blaise, stopping in the corridor to meet him.

Blaise Zabini was all smiles and congratulations from what Draco could see. His eyes were perhaps a bit too hungry as they looked both him and Pansy over, but then Blaise had always seemed very needy. "You've got him completely convinced, haven't you?"

"Oh yes," Draco replied airly, far too busy running his fingers in Pansy's hair and kissing her neck to really pay Blaise much attention. "He eats out of the palm of my hand. And other parts of my anatomy as well."

"You haven't!"

That did get Draco's attention, and he turned from Pansy to face the other man. Pansy made sure she didn't sigh in relief. "Oh, I have. What else do you think makes the charade bearable? He's hardly anyone I'd turn to for decent conversation. Although he has got a very talented mouth."

Blaise good naturedly punched Draco in the right arm, and Draco smiled and restrained himself from decking him. "I'd like to see that," he said. "Perhaps I might join in one time?"

It was very hard for Draco not to deck him at that suggestion. "Perhaps," he responded, still smiling. "It might be interesting to see what Potter would do for my love."

"Well, if you think about, let me know," Blaise replied, kissing Pansy's cheek and he was on his way down the corridor behind them. Once he was out of view, Pansy immediately stood a little way away from Draco and rubbed her hip. "You gripped me so hard, I'll bruise," she accused.

"All's fair in love and war," Draco quipped, still staring after Blaise. "If he dies in his sleep, I'll be a happy man."

"I think its sublimated jealousy to some extent," Pansy said, tucking her arms around his again, and they kept on walking, careful to keep up the public façade. &ldqu;In part he's annoyed that someone managed to bag the Boy Who Lived, and it wasn't him. And that someone managed to bag Draco Malfoy, and it wasn't him. He's almost as vain as you."

"And he'd fuck anything that moves," Draco scowled. "I caught him sneaking out of Millicent's room one night."

"Lucky he survived," Pansy shuddered. "From what Millicent told me one time, about her interest in toys, I always she might be the type to kill any mate once it was all over. She enjoys seeing people suffer."

"Perhaps that's why I haven't seen him around her since. He wouldn't bear anything making his skin."

"Like I said, he's almost as vain as you."

Draco chose to ignore that. "So, Blaise thinks I'm playing a game with Harry's heart?"

"Yes. Your ultimate plan is to string Potter along, and once he's completely yours, to dump him, leaving him devastated and alone."

"When does he expect me to do this?"

"Oh, soon. Hopefully we'll come up with something before then, so he doesn't get suspicious and actually try to have you killed."

"Yes, that would be a shame. I really don't think I'd look good in a coffin."

"I'd probably be too busy to attend the funeral, sadly."

"Pansy," Draco declared, "you're coming to my funeral even if my disembodied spirit has track you down and drag you there."

* * *

Sirius sat on his hotel bed and waded through cable. Television itself was a relatively new experience for him, and cable held a kind of curious fascination. There didn't seem to be an end to the sheer number of channels, and yet the vast majority of them seemed to be showing complete and utter crap. He persisted in his flicking simply in order to prove himself wrong; after all, if there was a decent channel, then this whole exercise wasn't a complete waste of time, and perhaps there was some hope for humanity after all.

There wasn't much else he could do, anyway. He'd already emptied the mini bar today, and he couldn't be bothered asking them to restock it before tomorrow. He didn't have any appointments today, but that hardly mattered. It wasn't as if anyone was actually listening. He'd been in Chicago a week, and it was like Pittsburgh before it, and New York and Boston before that. Every day he met with a member of the wizarding mercantile class. He was invited to every major function, and could list a whole ream of bankers, financiers, C.E.O's, and C.F.O's, whose hands he'd shaken in the past month, as well as their significant others. They had heard Dumbledore's proposal, been awfully polite, and then ever so politely made excuses. The vast majority of them seemed too hesitant to actually do anything until one of them did. Besides, Voldemort's last campaign (they had no qualms saying his name, not in the land of the brave and the free) only extended to continental Europe. Oh, there were a few attacks in Canada and the U.S. in the final months, but nothing of any significant, and they were most likely isolated incidents. Voldemort largely left them alone; he was a European problem, and Europe could deal with him.

It was a bloody disaster, and Sirius wondered if Dumbledore had any idea that the brave new world would completely abandon them when it came down to it. They needed another Pearl Harbour before they would do anything, and if Voldemort was as intelligent as he seemed, it would be unlikely they would get it. Still, Sirius had to keep going, in the hope that someone, somewhere would listen. During the day, he would walk the streets if he wasn't in a meeting, acquainting himself with the city, and perhaps punch a wall or two until his hands bled, or find something nice to cut himself with. During the nights he would heal himself up, and get completely smashed, if there wasn't a soiree or candlelit supper he should attend.

He'd gotten very good at giving himself first aid during that stay in the tropics, and now that he was away from Remus, the pain and alcohol were the only things staving away the darkness in his soul. There was a knock at the door. Sirius blinked, and turned to face the door, a little clumsy in his movements due to the fact that the mini bar had been thoroughly consumed. He slid off the bed, and called out.

"Who is it?"

"Room Service."

Sirius frowned, and went to open the door. He was certain that he hadn't ordered anything, but then he might of last night while drunk and forgotten about it. He stood for a few minutes, trying to get his brain and body back into some semblance of co-ordination, and opened the door.

A gun was pointed straight at him. Sirius didn't know much about Muggle weaponry, but he knew that it was definitely pointing the right way, and that the man's hand was on the trigger. He barely had time to notice anything more when there was a distinct muted 'thwump' sound in the air, and the man fell forward onto him. Somewhere between shock and drunkenness, Sirius stepped back, and the man fell onto the floor in the doorway. He was still staring at him, a little shaken, when a familiar voice spoke.

"We should get him inside. People tend to get suspicious at bodies in the corridor."

The adrenaline was beginning to sober him up, but not by much. "Rachel?" Sirius asked, thoroughly confused. She holstered her own gun, and pushed past him to drag the body inside, before standing up to face him.

"You're lucky I got here in time," she told him, before narrowing her eyes. "Have you been drinking?"

"Yes," Sirius replied automatically, and then he caught himself.

"Great. Just what I need," Rachel muttered, clearly her usual cheery self.

"What's going on?" He hadn't seen her in weeks. A month or more. Not since New Year's Day, when they'd woken up in her bed with disturbingly clear memories of what had happened the previous night, and it was a good thing he was heading back to New York that day.

"I heard through my contacts that someone was trying to kill you. So I took some leave off from work and decided to keep an eye on you. I was just back from getting some cigarettes when I saw our friend here," she nodded at the corpse, "in your doorway, and trying to change your life for the worse."

"Thanks," Sirius muttered, and sank back down on the bed.

"You're welcome," Rachel replied, and went to grab a hold of the body's shoulders. "Now let's have a look at you..." She turned the corpse onto his back, and stared at it in what looked like shock.

From what Sirius could see, the man was relatively nondescript. Short, stocky with a receeding, thin hairline and the hint of pudginess to his face. He was dressed in black Muggle clothes, but Sirius had no idea what was affecting Rachel so much. "Do you know him?"

"He's my second in charge," Rachel replied. "Lee Mandich." Immediately she hauled his suitcase out from under the bed, and opened his drawers, starting to fling his things into the suitcase. "You have to go."

"What?"

"You have to go."

"But I have appointments."

"I don't care. People are trying to kill you, and if Lee was involved, they have access to your itinerary. Go to ground somewhere for the next few days. Sober up. Keep moving. I'll contact you in a day or two, and we'll get you the hell out of Chicago. Trust no-one." Rachel was already making for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to see someone about an assassination attempt."

And then she was gone, leaving Sirius with a half packed suitcase and a dead body lying on the floor.

* * *

It took her two days to drive back to Boston. She took the back roads and stayed off the highways as much as possible. Rachel had no fucking clue who these people were or what they wanted, but she didn't want them to catch her. Which meant taking dirt tracks and winding streets and stopping only to sleep or eat. Diner food had never tasted so good.

She finally parked in her reserved space at the company lot, and was out of the car, storming through the building like the very wrath of God. She looked dirty and unkempt, as if she'd slept in the clothes she was wearing (which she had) but every single one of the company's employees knew who she was, and tales of her temper were legend around the water cooler.

Rachel strode past her boss' secretary without a word, ignoring Katie's attempts to stop her, and opened up the door to the inner sanctum.

At the other end of the relatively small office, with whitewashed walls and a huge view from the window sat Cameron Matheson, her direct superior, and chief executive officer of the company.

"Rachel. Why don't you come in?"

He was younger than her, perhaps even younger than Sirius. Light ginger hair, with perhaps a touch of brown in it, but then Rachel had never been one to really care about such things. He had a pleasant long face, not too thin, and a high forehead. She trusted him, had worked for him for twenty years, but she didn't know him. Privately she'd always thought he was too soft. Perhaps that's why people like Mandich had managed to infiltrate the company. Except she hadn't seen it either.

"We have a problem."

Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I just caught Lee Mandich trying to kill Sirius Black."

"My. What did you do?"

"Shot him. He certainly can't do any damage now."

"What were you doing in Chicago anyway?"

"One of my informants told me there were rumours that someone was gearing up to kill Black. I decided to take some time off, and put Black under my watchful eye, in case anything did happen."

Cameron looked down at his desk, absently shuffling papers around with his left hand. His right was out of view. "Lee told me he'd seen you. That's why he couldn't kill Black immediately like I told him."

"What?"

"This is war, Rachel. And your friend is in my way. As are you, now. You've been of such great service to me here, helping to recruit and train my little army. It's such a shame."

He brought his right hand up. In it was the gun she knew he kept in his top drawer. The one she had trained him to use. "I'll be sure to give you a wonderful eulogy."

He shot her in the chest at point blank range, and she crumpled to the floor. Putting the gun away with a sigh, Cameron steepled his hands together briefly and considered the situation, before pressing the toggle down on the intercom. "Katie?"

"Yes, Mr. Matheson?"

"Get Tony in waste disposal on the line. There's a bit of cleaning I need him to do."

"Right away, Mr. Matheson."

He picked up a pen and crossed off something on the 'to do' list on his calendar. Everything was running according to schedule.

* * *

It was Valentine's Day, and perhaps the most of innocuous of all holidays. Professor Trelawney rested comfortably in her chair and sipped her tea. Her Inner Eye had certainly not seen a single thing that would discomfort her of late, and even Harry Potter seemed to be defying her predictions. But then, she supposed, he would, being the Boy Who Lived and having survived a curse that no-one else had survived.

She briefly cast her mind over the lessons for next week, and considered reading her tea leaves once the cup was finished in order to foresee if there were any problems. A sound like a footfall echoed throughout her loft, and she raised her eyes from the teacup immediately, attempting to peer though the smoky incense that filled the room.

"Who's there?"

There was a chuckle in response. "Oh, just one of your grateful students."

Sibyl recognised the voice immediately, and started to calm herself. It was certainly someone she could trust, and no-one to be scared of at all. "Come now, my child. Would you like a cup of tea?"

She could hear footsteps, pacing, and made out the general outline of her student through the smoke. "Do you know exactly when I realised you were a complete hack? Last year. After the Triwizarding Tournament, and the attack on the Ministry, and so many other things you hadn't predicted."

"The ways of the fates are mysterious and not easily read," Sibyl responded, her voice tightening. "Sometimes they keep things from us."

There was that chuckle again, and the outline stopped pacing. "You would say that. But then, what does it matter? I worshipped you and you turned out to be just like all the rest. There are no easy answers, are there? Except you do have power, after a fashion. How else could Dumbledore know the things he does? I bet you must hate that; the fact you can't even control it."

"My child, I simply don't know what you're taking about."

"No. I suppose you don't. I guess you might be safe, because you can't see anything for certain; but then again, because you can't control it, there's no way we can guarantee you won't see anything you're not supposed to."

Sibyl could hear a silencing charm being cast in the hazy air of the loft. It suddenly seemed claustrophobic, the acrid smoke making her nauseous. She set her teacup down by her feet and placed her glasses on her nose, determined to find her wand amongst the sheaf of papers and notes on her small table.

Her student came out of the smoke to stand directly in front of her, wand already outstretched. "I bet you never predicted this, Professor Trelawney."

"No!" The word still hung in the air when death took her.