playing the game, living the lie

chapter 14: love is blindness.

[date: 15 February - 3 March.]

That morning after breakfast, Dumbledore had reported the sad fact of Professor Trelawney's murder to the school, and ordered everyone back to their dorms under the supervision of the Prefects. No-one would be allowed out until further notice, and the house elves would bring all meals to them. The entire student body was on edge: this was serious. Someone in the school was a killer. It meant, too, that Quidditch practice was cancelled, and Ginny caught sight of Harry looking grumpy as he stalked back to the dorms in line with everyone else. When she started to hear screaming from a distant part of the castle, Ginny crawled under her bed and hid, crying to herself. She was nothing but a scared little girl still, and no amount of bravado or black mascara could change that.

* * *

The Great Hall was a shambles. Banners had been torn, or burnt, and there were staff members milling everywhere, mixing with Ministry officials and the familiar uniforms of Aurors dotted the Hall as well, Harry recognising them from last year. He'd seen damage like it all through the corridors on the way to the Hall, and it threw him. Harry always thought that Hogwarts was safe and as solid as the stone it was made from. Such things just weren't supposed to happen, not here. Even during second year, you could trust in Dumbledore, trust in the secure illusion that bad things only happened in the dark when you weren't looking, and to other people. Other people being Muggle-borns, and later, Cedric. There was a twisted and guilty pleasure in surviving.

Students were straggling into the Hall in small groups, and Prefects would step in after them, looking probably more scared than the students. He had caught glimpses of Hermione, Ron, Seamus, Dean, and even Draco in the hallways, and they looked about as confident as he felt. He saw Dumbledore surrounded by a group of Aurors and officials, and headed for him immediately, and was just as immediately brought up short by Professor McGonagall grabbing him by the collar.

"Harry Potter. And where do you think you're going?"

"To see Professor Dumbledore?"

"Oh, no." She let him go, and pushed him gently in the direction of a large clump of Gryffindor students. "Professor Dumbledore is busy; he will be addressing the students shortly, however, and you'll find out everything you need to know then."

How does Dumbledore know what I need to know? Harry wanted to ask, but instead he shuffled back towards familiar (though not always friendly) faces. Ron and Hermione were standing next to each other, but not together: their body language made sure anyone with eyes could see that. Ginny was standing next to her brother, and all three watched him as he came slowly towards them.

"I'm glad you're alright, Harry," Ginny said, and Harry knew it was the closest either of them would come to actually apologising.

"I'm glad I'm alright, too," he replied with a soft smile, and stepped into the gap Ron and Hermione had left for him turning to face the front of the Hall, and slipped his hands into each of theirs. "It's good you weren't hurt, Harry," Hermione whispered in his ear, and Ron, not to be outdone, chorused something similar in his other ear. Harry could hear Seamus' voice from somewhere over his shoulder, and Dean's answering chuckle, so it looked like they were communicating with each other again as well.

He flicked his eyes over the mass of students, and caught a brief glimpse of Draco, who was standing next to Pansy. Pansy seemed to be standing very close to Draco, and Harry's gaze narrowed at that. Draco caught sight of his displeasure and smirked in return, which left Harry none the wiser.

Dumbledore stepped onto the raised platform at the front of the Hall, and raised his hands for silence. The conversation fell quiet, and everyone in the room looked at Dumbledore, expectant.

"My friends, while the students were confined to their dormitories this morning, another tragedy befell the school. A small group of Death Eaters, numbering no more than ten or fifteen, entered the castle grounds on foot. They pillaged and burned, as many of you have seen, setting fire to both the library and the greenhouses. Then they left, apparently having committed the crime they intended to. I am sorry to inform you that while defending the school from this attack, both Professor Sprout, our Herbology teacher and Rubeus Hagrid, the groundskeeper, were killed."

A murmur ran through the crowd. The Hufflepuffs looked completely devastated. Harry felt both Hermione and Ron squeeze his hands, but it was difficult to concentrate. Hagrid was dead. He hadn't seen Hagrid for a while, as he was off negotiating with the giants most of the time and barely taught one class every few weeks, but even so, the loss hit Harry badly. And he'd been in his dorm, unable to do a bloody thing.

Dumbledore was speaking again. "Obviously, I have informed the Ministry and they have sent a contingent of Aurors to the school." He gestured to the line of men and women in uniforms standing 'at ease' in front of the raised platform. The Aurors all had their hands clasped behind their backs, and a similar set cast to the mouths and eyes. "The Aurors will patrol the school grounds, and the corridors at night. During the day, forms will be escorted to their classes by the supervising teacher. Students will not be allowed out of their dorms for any other reason than class until further notice. Quidditch has been cancelled, as have all practice sessions."

There was a loud groan at that. Dumbledore waited until it had died down before continuing. "I will personally to every one of your parents or guardians' regarding recent events. If they wish to take you out of Hogwarts, we will understand. However, Hogwarts will not close. I am not about to turn tail, nor do I expect any of you to."

There was a muted cheer at that, and it was clear the address was over. Harry's mind was brimming over with questions. Why had the Death Eaters struck here, and not tried to kill him? What had they been after? Before he could even open his mouth, the Gryffindor Prefects (Hermione amongst them) were being summoned by McGonagall, and Hermione quickly let go of Harry's hand and made her way through the milling crowd towards the familiar image of McGonagall's pointy black hat.

She stood there for a few moments, nodding with the other Prefects at whatever McGonagall was telling them, and soon came back to the group of Gryffindors, mostly sixth and fifth years from what Harry could see. "We have to get back to the dorms," she told Harry and Ron in advance, and stepped back to speak to the whole group.

"Right, everybody! Professor McGonagall wants us to return to the dorms in a neat and orderly fashion without anyone getting left behind or going astray, so I want everyone to pair themselves up with someone. Once that's done, I want two straight lines..."

Harry paired himself up with Ron, and Seamus and Dean stood behind them. Ginny was a few pairs up, next to someone Harry didn't recognise. "She's a bloody good Prefect," Ron muttered in Harry's ear. "She can really organise people."

"Didn't know you were into that sort of thing, Ron," Seamus chipped in from over his shoulder.

"Shut it, Finnigan."

"You'd probably prefer it more if I shut you up. You seem to enjoy getting ordered about. Kinky."

Ron thrust his elbow back as they started walking off, catching Seamus hard in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him.

"Didja see that? He did that deliberately, he did."

"You did tease him, Shame," Dean said, finally joining in the conversation.

"So what? He hit me!"

"Next you'll be telling us you're being oppressed by the unfairness inherent in the system."

Only Harry got the reference.

* * *

Professor McGonagall knocked at Albus' door as a courtesy, and he opened it soon enough. She quickly crossed through the small passageway to his desk, and politely refused the offered cup of tea or suggestion to sit down with a small shake of her head.

"Everyone's been settled in their dorms. The Aurors have drawn up a schedule, and are patrolling the grounds accordingly."

"Good, good." He looked up at her over his glasses. "These precautions are necessary for public morale, even if I know the Death Eaters won't strike here again."

"Albus, how can you be sure?" Situations like this made her twitchy, and Minerva never liked being twitchy.

"The Death Eaters stormed the school. Even though it was a small group, but they didn't go after Harry or any other student. They wanted to get in, take what they were told to, and get out as soon as possible. What they came for was too valuable to risk any prolonged engagement, or any personal vendetta."

Minerva sank into a chair without quite realising, a hand to her chest as if that could stop the way her heart seemed to be trying to leap into her throat. "It's gone, then."

The eyes that regarded her were kindly, but sad. Albus Dumbledore carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he seemed to be gambling on some kind of inherent humanity in the people he used to see his purpose through. "The Mirror of Erised was taken. Just as I planned. That's how I know they won't be back. At least not until the war begins in earnest."

When he offered her a cup of tea for the second time, she couldn't help but accept.

* * *

It was five days before the students were allowed to wander the corridors and Harry could see Draco unsupervised. He was standing in the study room (Harry already thought of it as their room), hair softly shining in the firelight, and his smirk got even bigger once Harry hugged him tightly.

"You're creasing my robes, Harry."

Harry let him go, grinning. "So? You don't do your own laundry."

"It's the principle of the thing."

"Oh, is it now?" Clasping Draco's face in his hands, Harry couldn't help but kiss him, all too briefly. "I've missed you."

"Of course you have."

Draco was clearly having one of his 'play hard to get and boost my ego' days. "I just," Harry began, playing with Draco's collar and trailed off, words failing him. He wanted to show Draco how much he cared. He wanted this to be a new beginning for them; a better one than the one Harry had given them. He didn't want to feel guilty anymore.

"I have to tell you something, Draco."

Draco's hands smoothed up to his collar and started playing with his tie. Harry had no idea why; Draco saw himself as some kind of fashion expert, and he liked to interfere. "Do tell. I'm all ears."

"When we started this, I was using your feelings for me."

"What?" His hands rested flat against Harry's shoulders; his eyes were wide with shock and Harry knew he'd blundered. So he attempted to make up for it by babbling.

"It's just that want anyone else to die, you see, not the way Cedric did or any other way and with how things were going, I thought you were probably going to end up on the other side, and when the War came, I didn't want to the one who might end up having to kill you."

Draco stepped back. One foot, then the other. He crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at Harry with anger clear in his eyes. "How very noble of you, Potter."

"Look, I'm sorry! It doesn't matter though." Harry advanced on him, arms outstretched, but Draco grabbed his wrists and held them tight, stopping Harry from getting any further. Harry thrashed impotently, but to no avail. "I spent time with you. I got to know you. I love you."

Draco's face went completely blank at that and he clumsily pushed Harry back, not offering any assistance when Harry fell against the side of the table and went over onto his hands and knees. "Don't ever say that to me," he hissed, towering over the other young man. "You clearly have no conception of what that word means, or you never would have assented to this ludicrous charade in the first place."

Harry looked up at him, beginning to realise what he'd done. "I'm sorry, Draco."

"Too little, too late. Was this all your idea or did the Weasel and the Mudblood have in on it too? I suppose you all must have laughed so very hard at the way I acted around you." His voice was breaking, and he was trying not to cry.

"Ron and Hermione had nothing to do with it," retorted Harry, angry and frustrated. "I was only trying to save your bloody life!"

"And in order to do that, you used me? Used the way I felt about you?" Draco roared, before he visibly restrained himself, seething. "The ends justify the means. How very Slytherin." He made his way to the table and picked up his books, slinging them under an arm and crossed back to the door.

"Please don't go, Draco," Harry begged, raising himself to a kneeling position. "Please, please, don't. I'll do anything, just don't leave me."

"I don't believe we have anything else to say to one another, Potter," Draco told him, in a clipped, cold voice. "Nor do I believe there would ever be a situation in which we would." He pulled open the door, sharply, and launched himself through it, slamming it shut with a loud bang.

Harry stayed there until he calmed himself. Then he climbed to his feet, pulled out a dirty handkerchief, blew his nose and shoved it back in his pocket. Now hopefully something resembling presentable, he picked up his books and made his way back to Gryffindor Tower.

Draco thundered back to the Slytherin dungeons, the black expression on his face enough to scare off any interested parties from disturbing him; even Pansy, who took one look at him and fled into her room. Draco had a horrible temper as she knew quite well, and was childish to boot. No, she wanted to be well out of the way when the storm hit. As for Draco, he locked himself in his room and applied a silencing charm. That being done, he raged, screaming, yelling and breaking things left, right and centre. The tantrum lasted an hour or two, and once it was done, Draco collapsed onto his bed and drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. As in first year, he just wasn't good enough for Harry Potter.

* * *

Sirius walked the streets of Chicago, hands in his pockets. The city was a dull grey, from the sidewalks to the sky, but it didn't seem to reflect on the people, who one of the more energetic unwashed masses he'd ever seen. Even if that energy seemed to be largely spent on yelling at one another. It had been ten days since Rachel had told him to go to ground, and he'd done the best he could. He reduced his baggage to one large suitcase, which made things far more manageable, and he'd dyed his hair an auburn shade, applying that and another dozen tricks he'd learnt while on the run, in order to evade the watchful gaze of whoever wanted him dead.

He'd bought a pair of cheap sunglasses to cover his distinctive coal black eyes, and only stayed in one place for no more than two nights, shifting between hotels and hostels in both the wizarding and Muggle world each time. So far, it seemed to have worked. He wasn't dead yet.

He picked up a copy of the Chicago Charm, glad that the U.S. wizarding authorities didn't have a differing currency to that of the U.S. Muggle world. It made things so much easier even if he still had to learn nickels, dimes and cents. Sirius took one look at the front page and almost stopped in his shock, barely managing to recover in time. Keep moving, he told himself. Keep moving and look normal. People always remember the distinctive.

Rachel's photo was on the front page, as was his. They were both fairly recent: his own from some function Matheson had invited him to, and Rachel's was probably a work one as well. She was looking away from the camera, dressed in neat casual clothes. Sirius missed her with a sudden pang, and scanned the text quickly, trying to find out what had happened. The headline screamed 'Killer on loose', so it probably wasn't anything good. There was a smaller picture that Sirius recognised as the man who attempted to kill him down the page. Lee Mandich or something. This wasn't good at all.

From what he could read, both Mandich's and Rachel's bodies had been finished out of Lake Michigan last night. Bullet wounds had been found on both victims, and that was the supposed cause of death, although a post mortem would determine that for sure. That in itself was hardly uncommon. Guns were used in a lot of wizarding crime in the States, as magic could be triangulated, identified, tracked down. Sirius already knew who shot Mandich, but who the fuck had killed Rachel? How had she even gotten killed? She hadn't told him anything, just left. And now she was dead.

He soon found out why his picture was on the front as well. 'Sirius Black, recently pardoned for murder in the U.K., was on business in the United States for reasons of his own. He was last seen in the company of Ms. Makhanyezi, and due to his period of incarceration in Azkaban, is considered mentally unstable, and to be treated as armed and dangerous.'

"Fuck." Sirius scrunched up the newspaper, ripping it with his fingers, and hurled it into a garbage bin. He needed to get out of Chicago.

* * *

"He's been holed up in his dorm for how many days now?"

Hermione sighed heavily, and ran her fingers through her hair. "About three days now, Seamus."

"Jesus. I knew he'd been avoiding people, but I assumed he was just, well, getting busy with Malfoy or something."

"I haven't seen him do anything with Harry for a while now," Hermione considered, her face screwed up in thought.

"We should be thankful for that, at least," Ron grumped from where he was sitting, flopped in an armchair a little way away, arms folded tightly across his chest.

"They're not partnered together in Potions anymore." That was Hermione.

"And they don't study either. Well. Not if he hasn't been leaving the dorms." Seamus shrugged.

"He leaves the dorm for class, and holes himself back up in there the moment it's over. Ron?" Hermione turned to look at her ex-boyfriend, hand running up to massage the back of her neck. Ron had a brief vivid memory of giving that same neck a massage one night, and suppressed it. It's over. Over. They were still doing barely more than being horribly polite to one another, but it was something at least. Besides, Harry needed them (even if he hadn't actually said so.)

"Don't ask me," Ron shot back, trying not to sound too tight, or glare too much. "He doesn't talk to me. I tried last night and it's like conversing with a fucking brick wall."

Hermione cleared her throat, and he could see her roll her eyes at Seamus, and mouth something that caused the Irishman to choke back a laugh. Probably something about how I was just the same, Ron thought to himself, and considered storming out of the Gryffindor dorms in a huff.

The wound to his pride was put off by a new arrival: Ginny staggering into the commons through the portrait hole, clearly dishevelled and more than a little scared. Ron immediately crossed to her, and grasped her wrists in his hands. "Gin? What is it?"

"Malfoy." She paused, and was obviously trying not to cry. "He caught me in the corridors and threatened me."

"He what?" Hermione was standing now, and Seamus. Most of the Gryffindors in the commons were staring at Ginny now.

"I always knew he was a prick, but I never knew he could be so vicious. The things he said..." Ginny choked back a sob, and Ron hugged her instantly, patting her back, and hoped he was doing the right thing. "He gave me a message for Harry. Tell Potter to leave him alone, he said."

"Right. That's it. I'm going to kill him." Ron wasn't entirely sure whether he meant Harry or Malfoy, but either one would do.

"What's going on?"

The entire room whirled to see Harry standing on the top of the stairs, looking down on them all. "I heard someone yell, and the room went silent. What's going on?"

Ron grabbed Ginny and moved her towards the foot of the stair to meet Harry as he came down. "Your boyfriend just threatened my sister."

"What?!" Harry reached out, dumbfounded, and brushed his hand across Ginny's cheek. "He wouldn't have..."

Ginny flinched from Harry's touch. "He did," she told him, her voice quite cold now. "He told me I was lucky he didn't throw me down the stairs. But he'd do whatever it'd take for you to get the message and leave him alone."

Hermione shouldered her way to the front, her eyes pleading. "What's going on, Harry?"

Harry tried to form words, and settled for sitting down on the bottom step. He looked very lost, and very young. "Draco broke up with me," he breathed, and everyone looked at one another in shock. "I've tried owling him to explain, to apologise, to say I want him back, but he hasn't responded."

"He did, Harry," Hermione told him. "What he did to Ginny usually counts as a response."

Harry's green eyes flashed in anger at the reminder, and he set his teeth together. "I can't believe he did that," he ground out.

"Believe it. No matter what he was like with you, Malfoy's clearly the same greasy ferret he's always been." Ron stepped forward as well, and his eyes met Hermione's, and they nodded at one another. Whatever difficulties they might have had, they were there for Harry, and what Harry needed was someone to tell him just what a fool he'd been.

Harry looked up at them, and his hand reached up to grasp the banister and haul himself into a standing position. "You're right."

"I'm going to fucking murder him," Ron promised.

"No, don't," Harry shot back, his own voice cold and tight. "This is my problem. I'll deal with it."

Hermione caught him by the shoulder as he turned to go up the stairs again. "What are you going to do, Harry?"

"Invite my ex-boyfriend to a little reunion." Harry clomped back up the stairs to the Gryffindor dorms, quickly finding parchment and quill and scrawling a note. He opened his bedside window, shivering slightly at the bracing night air, and whistled. Hedwig soon appeared, a great mass of fluttering white wings, and Harry attached the note, whispered a destination and sent her on her way. He only had to wait about ten minutes or so, and quickly leaped up from his bed when he heard the familiar tapping on his window. He bundled Hedwig inside, thanked her, took the note, and told her to settle back into the Owlery for the night. With a hoot that sounded vaguely affronted, she fluttered back out the window again. Harry made a mental note to buy her some treats, and opened the folded slip of parchment.

I think you can figure out where I'll meet you. It wasn't signed. Harry rolled off onto the other side of his bed, and pulled his trunk out from under it, opening it up and frantically sorting through clothes and all sorts of junk to find his invisibility cloak. It wasn't quite curfew, not yet, but Draco would be exempt at any rate as a result of his prefect status. And now that they weren't studying together, his special pass from Snape wouldn't apply anymore. So he took the cloak as security if he happened to run into Filch on the way.

Storming back down the stairs, he brushed off all the questions of his friends with a quick "I said I'd take care of it," and ran out the portrait hole.

* * *

Draco was waiting for him when he arrived, back to the door, apparently going through some of the books on one of the shelves that lined the wall. Harry pushed open the door gently, trying to be quiet, but one squeaking floorboard was enough to alert Draco to his presence.

"You had to threaten me to get here, Potter," Draco told him archly, still facing away from him. "I don't take kindly to threats."

"Neither do I," spat Harry. "What you did to Ginny-"

"What I did to the Weaselette," was the murmured response, and Draco did turn to look at him now, expression calm and composed and even a faint bit amused, "was something I should have done a long time ago. She needs to learn her place, that one."

"For Merlin's sake, Draco, she's the one who first helped me twig to what you felt for me!"

"And you think I should be grateful? That I owe her something because she in her benevolent wisdom led me to worship at the altar of Saint Potter? You must be joking." Draco spat on the floor. "If I'd know this earlier, she would have gone tumbling down the stairs."

Harry moved forward a few steps, incensed and confused. "What happened to you, Draco?"

"I came to my senses, Potter." Draco brushed at some dust on his robes; knowing Draco Harry thought that the dust probably wasn't there. "I bought into your routine for a while, you know. I believed that there was actually one human being capable of being good." He smiled. It wasn't nice. "Thank you for showing me I was wrong."

"You want to hate me?" Harry yelled at him. "Fine. Go ahead. But don't hurt my friends."

"As much as I'm flattered by your poor man's stalker act, if you leave me alone, I'll have no reason to play with your friends."

"Stay away from them," Harry ground out, and stalked forward, shoving his face into Draco's, "or I'll hurt you."

"You wouldn't dare. You haven't got it in you." Draco poked him in the chest at every word. Harry grabbed the offending finger, and used it to pull Draco close, so close he could feel Draco's breath hit his skin.

"I suppose you have. I suppose you think it makes you better."

"I already knew I was better, Potter." Draco pulled free, but there wasn't much room between Harry and the table.

"You're nothing but a spoilt little brat," Harry told him. "A try hard Death Eater trying to please Daddy."

"At least I have one."

"At least mine never get off on kneeling before Voldemort."

Draco's face twisted at that. "Perhaps he did. You don't know. I suppose I could ask my father. You Potters are all the same. You claim such morality, such nobility. I guess that makes you feel better when you screw my family over and tear our hearts out." He paused. "I wonder if your father was as easy to get off as you are."

Harry lashed out with a hand and grabbed Draco's hair. "I'm sure he's just as easy as you, Malfoy," Harry snarled, and kissed him hard.

Draco almost seemed to respond for a second before he came to his senses, and pushed Harry off so fiercely that Harry staggered. Immediately, his hand shot out, slapping Harry across the face, and he followed that up by grabbing Harry by the robes and headbutted him. They went down in a tangle of bodies and flailing limbs, hitting, kicking, elbowing. Draco even bit him once or twice. Draco managed to throw him off and stand shakily, hand grasping his wand and got the boot into Harry's stomach before Harry could get up.

There was a loud pained gasp at that, and Harry attempted to curl up into a ball. Draco's foot pressed against his shoulder, and tipped him over onto his back. Draco looked down at him, his face curled into an expression of disgust.

Both of them were a wreck, clothes completely messed up, hair everywhere, and skin marked, already beginning to bruise. Draco kept his wand trained on Harry as he crossed to the door, and opened it.

"Don't contact me. I'd prefer this little aberration in my life to be completely forgotten, if that's possible."

"That makes two of us," Harry grunted.

"Good." Draco left, closing the door behind him. Harry took a few moments to assess any damage, and soon came to realise that although he was bruised, he wasn't broken, and there didn't seem to be any internal bleeding either. He just ached. A lot. Staggering to his feet, he made his way up to the Hospital Wing, and told Madam Pomfrey he'd fallen down a flight of stairs.

* * *

There was a loud banging on her door. Pansy sighed and put away her nail polish. She could charm her nails of course, but there were some things she preferred to do herself. When she wasn't being interrupted, that was. She'd already had to fend off Blaise once that night. He'd wanted to join in and give Draco and Pansy a nice little threesome, but she had to regretfully excuse herself. Draco was so possessive, after all. There was no telling what he might do at the mere suggestion. Brushing that unpleasant episode from her mind, she grabbed her wand from under her pillow.

"Blaise, if that's you, bugger off. Go find Warrington or someone."

"It's me, you stupid cow." She recognised the voice instantly. "Now open up!"

Pansy sighed again, and undid the locking charms, pulling open the door. Considering the way Draco Malfoy treated his friends, she was constantly surprised he had any left. Or that she countered herself amongst them. "You look a mess."

"I got into a fight with our resident saint." He told her, and brushed by her without another word.

"Come in, Draco," she murmured to herself, closing the door. "Please sit down, Draco." Brushing her hands down her robe, she turned to face him. "Potter? Whatever for?"

"Ever since we broke up..." His voice stumbled over the words. Pansy had never seen Draco affected by anyone so much, but then Harry Potter could never be described as just 'anyone.' Privately she thought that was part of the problem. Draco took a deep breath and repeated himself. "Ever since we broke up, he's been owling me, apologising, trying to get me back. I may have fallen for that ruse the first time, but he can't think I'm so stupid as to fall for it again." He looked up at her, and seemed suddenly full of doubts. "Can he?"

Pansy crossed to sit next to him on the end of the bed, and held his hand in hers, palm up, running the fingers of her left hand over the skin. "The ways of Gryffindors are strange and incomprehensible, my dear."

"I know!" Draco burst out and stood up, walking to the corner of the room, and reaching around to thread his fingers up through the hair on the back of his head. "I know," he said again with less force, and faced her. "I want to make him pay, Pansy. I want to show him and everyone else how much I don't need him."

Pansy lowered herself to lie on her side, and propped her head up on a carefully manicured hand. She used to think that her nails were even better cared for than Draco's, but she'd never dare test it, lest she be wrong. "And how do you plan on doing that?"

He came and crouched next to the bed, looking directly in her eyes, and took her free hand in his. "I want you to pose as my girlfriend. Not just for Blaise in the Slytherin dorms. But for everyone in the whole school."

It was an intriguing idea. She certainly didn't feel the same angst ridden passion for Draco that she had (something she was most grateful for), but she enjoyed his company at times, even though she knew she could never trust him. She certainly didn't enjoy it when he was playing mind games with her; Draco got a kind of twisted pleasure from seeing the power he had to inflict pain upon others, and he could turn against an ally just as easily as someone he considered an enemy. Besides, this could kill two birds with one stone. His breakup with Potter had pretty much killed the plan she'd worked out with Narcissa, and Pansy had been spending the past few days trying to scrape together a replacement and coming up with nothing. If she couldn't protect him by allying him so closely to the Gryffindors that they would save him, the only other thing she could do was to reduce the threat from the Slytherin camp. She'd made a start with the lie to Blaise, but for this she'd need to fool the entire House, including any rogue psychotics that it occasionally produced. Turning Draco Malfoy into the most Slytherin of all Slytherins would do it, and what would be more Slytherin than forming alliances within the House?

"I'll do it," Pansy told him, and Draco bent forward to kiss her hand.

The following morning, she sat next to him at breakfast, and fed him his toast, not giving at damn at the fact that the entirety of Gryffindor House was shooting daggers across the Hall at the both of them. Draco merely smiled in response, his eyes dark, and when he caught Harry's gaze, he gave him a little wave.

* * *

One of his shoelaces was undone. Dean muttered to himself, and bent over to tie it back up. It was only a little thing, but even the little things were getting to him now. It had been a week since that morning at breakfast when Pansy had acted like the little strumpet she probably was, and Draco had just sat there and smiled. Since that morning, Harry had been on a knife edge, snapping at almost everyone, retreating to his dorm most of the time and leafing through Quidditch magazines, which certainly didn't seem to help his mood. Dean had still gone for walks with Harry; he'd figured Harry needed the outlet to blow off some steam, at least those days they were allowed to walk the grounds. But Harry had barely talked, or if he had, it had been about commonplace, everyday things, like the upcoming test in Potions, or the stuff they'd just gone over in Charms, or History of Magic. Dean had kept going out for the walks because he didn't really have anything better to do. Oh, he and Seamus were talking to one another again, but they could barely string two sentences between them without things becoming awkward and uncomfortable.

Someone's feet stopped just in front of his, and Dean peered up to see Lavender Brown looking down at him.

"Hey, Lavender." He managed to tie off the shoelace and stood up properly, jamming his hands in his pockets. "How're you?"

"Oh, good, good. And you?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

They stood there for a few moments, nodding at one another before Lavender spoke again. "Look, Dean, we are supposed to be getting a Hogsmeade weekend in a few weeks, even if it is supervised by all the Aurors, and I thought maybe you'd like to come with?"

Dean's face brightened immediately. "Oh, that's a great idea! What with everything that's been going on, it'd be terrific to get everyone together and make a day of it, get us all talking again and have some fun."

Lavender's fingers moved up to his elbow, and curled in his sleeve. "No. I meant...just you and me."

"Oh. Oh." You could have hit Dean over the head with a brick, and he would have made about the same level of response. He never realised that Lavender quite saw him that way, and although she was a very pretty girl, she wasn't really his type. He was used to thinking more about Padma from Ravenclaw in that way, or Susan Bones, or Seamus, and he stopped that line of thought quick smart. Besides, everyone knew about what had happened between him and Seamus, and it seemed a little too soon, if not a little rude to be coming up and asking him on a date. Her fingers had reached his shoulder by now, and were steadily moving towards his neck. Dean back-pedalled and almost tripped over himself, catching the faint flash of surprise and anger in her eyes as he moved away.

"Look, Lavender, I'm really flattered - honestly - but with everything that happened with me and Shame..." He bit his lip and started scratching his neck, trying to rid himself of the urge to go and wash where she'd touched him. "Just I'm still trying to figure stuff out, and I don't really want to be starting anything, and look, I'm sorry. Friends, though?"

Her smile was brilliant in response, but it didn't quite touch her eyes. "Sure, Dean. Friends."

He watched her make her way out of the Gryffindor commons, and heaved a sigh of relief. Ron came up to him, and poked him in the ribs with an elbow. "What was that about?"

"I have no idea."

* * *

Lucius wandered through the halls of Malfoy Manor, paper in hand, a little stiff and stodgy in his robe. Middle age seemed to be getting to him in ways he'd rather forget. Shuffling into the kitchen, he stretched, and blinked, still adjusting to the sunlight coming in from the windows. There were sounds coming from the sink. Not quite compos mentis, he turned round one of the many pantries, and saw his wife at the sink, the water running.

Narcissa was already dressed for the day, her hair tied back rather than flowing down over her shoulders. Resting on the sink were a whole stack of bottles, all alcohol from what Lucius could see. Whiskey and brandy, cognac and port, and every possible type of wine imaginable. It seemed as if Narcissa had cleaned out her entire collection. He moved further forward, seeing that her sleeves were bunched up around her shoulders, and watched as she took another bottle and upended it, pouring the alcohol down the drain. When it was empty, she placed it with a smaller group of empty bottles to her left, and wiped her forehead with the back of her left wrist, brushing strands of pale golden hair away from her forehead. Lucius reached around her waist, and she offered him a brief smile before taking another bottle (a red wine that Lucius remembered her being quite partial to) and emptying that out. They had certain gotten more comfortable with one another of late, as if joined by their impotence, both realising that there was no point in fighting anymore.

"What are you doing?"

"Something I should have done years ago," she told him smartly, and added the empty wine bottle to the others.

"You're giving it up completely?"

When she turned to face him, her gaze was steady. "Completely." He hadn't seen such conviction in her eyes for years.

"Aren't you worried about the medical consequences?"

"If you're referring to alcohol withdrawal, I've studied the matter and there are several charms and potions I can use to help buffer my body in the weeks to come." There was an element of amusement, if chiding amusement, in her voice. "You forget, Lucius, I was a Ravenclaw for a reason. The process won't be without its complications, but I can manage the charms and I'll visit London this week to have some of the potions mixed specially."

"Why?"

Narcissa picked up the cloth she'd been using to push some of the dregs towards the drain, and squeezed it under the faucet, watching as the remnants of alcohol came out from the cloth. "I'm tired of pissing away my life, Lucius. I've done it for over ten years and it hasn't helped any. Oh, it enabled me to abrogate my responsibility, to wallow in excuses, but that was all. It was an escape, when I should have been fighting."

"Fighting me?"

She snorted, and threw the cloth back in the sink, turning to face him. "You wish. You always did like a challenge, Lucius."

"I suppose that must have been why I married you."

"No. You married me because I made a good brood mare, and I was pretty enough to put on the shelf for display." Years ago the accusation might have made him flinch, or get angry. Now he just felt a great sadness, and reached up to stroke her temple with his fingers.

"Do you hate me for what I did?"

"I used to. I didn't think I had anything else but hate."

"And now?"

"Now I've come to see that I have nothing left except myself. And there's no point in fucking myself over anymore."

Lucius nodded, and chose his next words carefully. "The night I stayed at Hogwarts."

"What of it?"

"I slept with Severus."

Narcissa's eyes displayed no condemnation at that, no thought of betrayal. "Does he make you happy?"

He thought about it for a moment. "I think he could. If I let him."

Narcissa took Lucius' face in her hands, shrugging away from his own touch, and she kissed his forehead, before raising his eyes to meet hers. "Then you probably should." She turned back to her sink, and her work, and Lucius reflected at how he didn't really know her, not at all. He still had to tell her, though. Narcissa had the right to know.

"Voldemort lied to us. About Draco."

There was perhaps a sudden hunch to her shoulders, and she didn't turn to face him. "Some of us never trusted him in the first place."

"A wise decision," Lucius murmured and exited, the only response being the sound of running water, and bottles being emptied.

* * *

Terence Higgs stood outside the doorway to the small flat, and waved the large white truck as it pulled into the parking space at the front. He was supposed to be guiding it into the parking space, but whoever was driving it (and trust Muggles to come up with a mode of transport that was cumbersome, unwieldy and stank of exhaust fumes) but he was more properly keeping an eye on his neighbours. This was a very carefully planned delivery, and it had to seem as normal as possible, so as to attract the smallest amount of attention and comment. That was why they were doing it in the daylight. One of his neighbours stepped up next to him as the truck beeped its way past.

"Moving out?" the man asked, tall and lanky and balding, with faint wisps of black hair combed over his head. Terence considered killing him just for the question, but couldn't be bothered.

"Nah," Terence told him, eyes fixed on the truck. "Getting in new furniture."

"Want any help shifting it in?"

If the man stepped inside the flat, he would have to be killed, and even if they disposed of the body, his disappearance could raise questions Terence didn't want answered. "No, thanks," he told the man, and walked towards the truck as it stopped.

Isaiah Flint clambered out of the passenger side seat, and nodded to Terence by way of greeting. Isaiah was burly, and taciturn by nature. In setting this thing up, he'd barely done more than grunt to Terence, and he seemed to prefer it that way. Still, he had the contacts they needed, and he was a true believer in the Dark Lord. Terence had considered talking to him about Marcus, but there didn't seem anything he could say, or wanted to.

Now that the Ministry had tightened customs controls since the previous year's fiasco, one of the ways in which Isaiah helped the Death Eaters move supplies was via Muggle roads, and every one of his staff were trained in driving (that was the word) a variety of Muggle automobiles. He could drive as well, but seemed to prefer getting others to do the work for him when he could avoid it. He'd assured Terence that once they got back to London, he'd kill the driver and ditch the body so that he could never reveal Voldemort's location, but they'd have to use him for brute strength in offloading the cargo at any rate. When Terence had seemed a little shocked at this blasé attitude towards those who worked for him, Isaiah had spread his hands and replied that he did have a lot of drivers.

In addition to being a paranoid, lazy, self-righteous procrastinator, Isaiah Flint was also more miserly and tight-fisted than any Gringotts' goblin, at least according to rumour. Moving to the back of the truck, Terence watched as the driver opened it up and climbed inside. The other two men got in position and caught the end of the large rectangular bundle, wrapped in cloth, as it was slowly lowered towards them. They moved back just as slowly, and the driver hopped out, holding onto one perpendicular side, and then moving to the side parallel to the one Terence and Isaiah were holding. It wavered a bit, and one corner dipped dangerously towards the asphalt of the car park, but they managed to get it over to the open door of the ground level flat, and inside, standing it up on one end, careful not to remove the cloth. Isaiah instructed the driver to close up the truck and wait for him there, and the man exited, closing the front door behind him.

Once they were alone, Voldemort moved out of the small passageway and into the living room where they were. Isaiah immediately lowered himself on one knee, his head bowed, and Terence had to add 'canny survivor' to his mental estimation of the man.

"My Lord."

Voldemort placed a scrawny, claw like hand on Isaiah's head, as if giving him a benediction. "You have served me well, Isaiah Flint. What reward do you wish for your service?"

"No reward, my Lord, except to serve you again."

"Very wise." Voldemort removed his hand. "You may go."

Isaiah stood without a word, and brushed past Terence on the way out.

Voldemort stepped forward, and pressed his hands against the sheet that covered the Mirror. "I have waited long for this, Higgs. Far too long."

"The raid went without a hitch, my Lord," Terence replied automatically, already searching for an excuse. "But we had to lie low until things settled down, and the Ministry returned to its usual passive incompetent self. That took many days, and then it could not be hurried in its journey down from Scotland. That too had to be staggered, so that no-one became suspicious."

Voldemort waved him away. "It is here now, I suppose, and that is something. Leave me. I wish to be alone."

Terence bowed, and moved towards the passageway, and the relative sanctuary of his room.

"Higgs?"

He paused, and stepped back into the room. "Yes, my Lord?"

"You are not to look at the Mirror, you understand? You will avert your gaze from it at all times."

"Yes, my Lord." Terence privately wondered exactly why this was so, but Voldemort's orders were not to be questioned, and besides he knew what curiosity did to the cat.

Voldemort waited until he heard the faint sound of Terence's door closing shut behind him, and then he closed his eyes, resting his head against the filthy fabric that covered the Mirror. He could feel the power trembling just under the surface, aching to be released. It had been so long; even the five years since he last saw it seemed like an eternity, and then he'd been reduced to living like a parasite, divided amongst himself, barely able to do much more than keep himself alive. The Mirror then had been bound by strong enchantments of Dumbledore's or surely it would have helped him. But he had been too busy going after the greater prize of the philosopher's stone, and the boy had ruined those plans.

With a jerk of a hand, he pulled the cover off, and the sheet tumbled to bunch around the base on the carpet floor. As always, his eyes scanned the surface of the Mirror, searching for any sign, but this time it refused to show him anything beyond himself. Quite unlike that year fifty years ago and more, when he'd found the room it was being stored in as a Second Year, and the Mirror had granted him a vision of everything he wanted.

Lesser men might have been driven mad by such a vision. Lesser men might have claimed he'd been driven mad by such a vision, but even then, Tom had known that he was no madman. Instead, it had focussed his ambition, and so Tom pursued ways of making what he'd seen come true, studying in secret. Now he was everything he ever wanted to be, and he and the Mirror were reunited. No longer Tom, but something different, something unique, even as Time tore at him. The Mirror was the closest thing he'd had to a friend. He stretched out his wiry, decaying arms as if he could embrace the frame, and pressed his cheek to the cool surface of the Mirror, and let it babble to him as it always had, of power and glory and world without end.