playing the game, living the lie

chapter 15: so cruel.

[date: 10 March - 20 April.]

"You can't be taking this seriously!" Remus told him, and looked fit to hit something. Everything about his body language screamed of a man pushed to the limits he'd set for himself. Remus Lupin always attempted to keep himself tightly controlled, as if any loss of control would hint at the wolf who hungered deep inside his soul, but now that control was fraying, and he knew it, which only made him even more bad-tempered.

"I am afraid I have to," Albus responded, and leaned back in his chair. "Sirius' obvious innocence aside-"

"Oh, you're actually willing to believe that this time around?"

Remus visibly flushed under Dumbledore's steady gaze. Embarrassed, he sat down in a chair like a scolded child. Lupin had been summoned to Dumbledore's office after dinner that evening, and had been informed of certain breaking developments in America. He was not, to whit, a happy werewolf.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued. Remus rarely showed the more petulant side of his personality, but when he did it was never especially pleasant. His courage had served him well for over twenty years, but there had to be limits sometimes. "Sirius' obvious innocence aside, there are some within our own Ministry who didn't want him released. Whatever the reason for these charges, the U.S. administration believes it to have an open and shut case. Did he ever mention Rachel Makhanyezi to you?"

Remus sighed, and ran his left hand down his face, resting his chin upon it. "A couple of times. Just in connection to the people he was seeing in Boston. Last time I spoke with him was the end of January, and he was in Chicago. He had no reason to see her again."

"And yet her body was fished from Lake Michigan. It is a curious puzzle."

"This is not some kind of puzzle!" Remus exploded, his movements taut and jerky. "They've virtually found him guilty already, no matter what kind of trial he gets. America is one of the few countries in the wizarding world that still has the death penalty. If he gets convicted, they'll shove him in a room with a cup of hemlock and expect him to drink."

"It will not come to that," Dumbledore assured him, pressing his palms face down on his desk. There was just the briefest glimpse of power in that voice, and in his watery blue eyes. Remus quietened immediately, and remembered that sitting opposite him was perhaps the only wizard who could go up against Voldemort and win. "However, there is little we can do. Our own Minister assures me that it's out of his hands."

"Fudge would say that. The man's about as useful as a lumos charm at midday." There was bitterness in his tone, and Dumbledore expected no less. Remus had been treated abominably by the Ministry following Sirius' arrest and conviction more than fifteen years previously, and the memory of that humiliation still rankled.

"I think he is doing all he can."

"I should go to the States. I can speak on Sirius' behalf; I can do something."

"You would leave Harry behind?" Dumbledore's tone was deceptively light. "The Death Eaters recently struck even here, who knows if they might strike again? The students here need your tutelage, Remus."

"They don't need me at all, Albus, and you know it," Remus snapped back. "Oh, I can teach them. I can teach them all I know, and everything there is to know in defending themselves against the Dark Arts. Imperius and Cruciatus can be resisted with sufficient strength of will, and we know Harry at least has that. I can think of another half dozen students in his year who probably could in addition to him. But in the end," he sighed, and looked down at the floor, folding in hands into his lap, "it doesn't matter. There's no countercurse to Avada Kadavra and you know that as well as I."

"The situation has never been different," the older man responded simply. "The only difference is your unwillingness to combat it."

"The War's already begun, even if they don't know it. People are dying again, and every class I look at my students and wonder which of them will end up serving Voldemort, or dead, or in Azkaban by the end of it all. And I realise there's not a thing I can do about it."

"Except keep trying," Dumbledore suggested gently. "Show them that there are alternatives to servitude and death. If you give up hope, Remus, what hope do they have?"

"I don't know what hope I have left," Remus confided in him, and his voice sounded close to breaking. "I told Sirius not to go, and he went because he had to, and now I face losing him all over again. I don't know what hope I have left."

"Then pretend." Remus raised his eyes to meet those of his Headmaster, and looked somewhat bewildered. "None of us will know the difference," Dumbledore rumbled, and there was perhaps the hint of a grin in his eyes.

Remus smiled, wryly. It wasn't much, but it was something, and he stood out of the chair, stretching his tired limbs. "You're right of course, Headmaster. You must get awfully tired of always being right."

"I make more mistakes than you realise, Remus."

There was a brief pause. "When will the Daily Prophet get their grubby little hands on this? I'd like to tell Harry before, if at all possible."

"I've been informed that the Prophet will hold off on publication for two days. Out of respect for the Boy Who Lived."

Remus snorted softly, showing just what he thought of that. "Thank you. I'll talk to Harry tomorrow."

"Of course." Dumbledore turned back to his papers, and Remus left the room. Once Remus was gone, Dumbledore sat back in his chair, considering. This didn't seem like one of Tom's tactics, but then, it was possible if unlikely. Voldemort usually liked to make short work of his opposition directly; leaving such things to the vagaries of the legal system was distinctly out of character. A new player in the game could upset everything in an instant. And beyond that, it looked as if one of his rooks was about to be captured.

* * *

"He's been what?" If Remus had looked apoplectic, Harry was about to erupt.

"Indicted for a double homicide. Two of the security people for a company he did some business with in Boston."

"That doesn't make sense. He was talking to these people, trying to get them on our side. Why would he want to kill them?"

Remus sat in his chair, side on from the desk so he could watch the younger man pace. He thought of Harry like a stepson or nephew, and it always pained him when he didn't know what to say to make Harry feel any better. He was, after all, part of the only family Harry had now, and that had to mean something. "I agree with you, Harry. It doesn't make sense."

"Why would they even be in Chicago if they worked in Boston? What kind of evidence do they have against him?"

"They have security footage of the woman entering his hotel; he was seemingly the last person to see her alive. In addition, they were both shot by the same make of gun, and one of the businessmen Sirius met with in Boston - a Cameron Matheson - claims that the woman, his security chief, gave Sirius a gun and trained him in its use. He has papers that Sirius signed, confirming his ownership of the weapon." Remus shrugged. "There's no motive, but he is their only suspect." His lips curled slightly. "I believe the authorities want to eliminate him from their suspicions before they go after anyone else."

"He will be released though, if they arrest him? I mean, he is innocent." Harry wasn't sure if he sounded as sure as he wanted to, but he wanted to believe it.

"He was innocent the last time, Harry," Remus said softly, and that was all he needed to say.

Harry bit his lip at that, and stopped pacing. Remus looked at him, and decided a change of subject might be in order. Neither of them could do a single thing about Sirius, but there were problems Harry could tackle here at school.

"Is there anything you wanted to talk about, Harry? I know it must have been a rough month for you, from what you've been telling me." Since the revelation of his father and Lucius Malfoy's relationship, Harry would stop by Remus' rooms after dinner every now and then to slowly, haltingly, begin to unburden himself and let Lupin in on some of the more confusing interpersonal dynamics of Gryffindor Tower. Remus listened, and only offered advice when Harry directly asked him; he thought that what Harry really needed was just to be able to verbalise what he was feeling, and therefore sort it all out in his own head. He also found it rather fascinating taking into account what Harry didn't tell him; the areas in his personal life he seemed almost scared to bring out into the open, lest what he felt and thought disturb him.

"No." Harry shrugged, and scuffed one foot on the stone floor. "Ron and Hermione are talking again - well, if you push them, they will. And Seamus and Dean are hanging together, and everyone's falling all over themselves to tell me just how everything's fine again. I don't think they want me to worry." He gave a tight little laugh, that sounded more bitter than amused. "Probably think I've got enough to worry about, what with everyone getting killed."

"No-one expects you to come up with miracles, Harry."

"Of course they do! My whole life is a fucking miracle. I'm the Boy who Lived, Remus, I survived what no-one else has. I defeated Voldemort in first and second year, and survived him in fourth. People expect me to lead them into battle, and make it all go away with a wave of my wand and I can't. And every time someone else dies they lose a bit of faith in me, and you know how that makes me feel?"

Remus didn't respond, just gave a sad shrug of his shoulders.

"It makes me feel glad, just a little, before the guilt hits. Because if they keep losing faith in me, then maybe one day soon I'll just be some bloke and people will stop looking to me for answers I haven't got."

"I think that's a perfectly understandable human reaction, Harry-"

"Except I'm not allowed to be human, am I? Mum and Dad died. I didn't. That makes me special."

"Your mother and your father," Remus told him firmly, as Harry's self-pity was going beyond the pale, "did sacrifice themselves to ensure you would live, but so did a lot of parents. You got lucky, yes. We don't know why. What matters is that you turn their sacrifice into something constructive, rather than playing the martyr and beating yourself over the head with it."

"Don't you think I'm trying? But what can I do? I want to kill him, Remus, I want to tear him apart with my bloody hands, him and Wormtail. I dream about it and it scares me. I've got a bit of him in my head, Remus, that's what Dumbledore told me. But what frightens me the most is that the part that wants to kill him, that hungers for it, is me, and nothing more. That might be all I'm capable of. Killing. I can't fight him any other way, can I? It's my destiny."

"Harry-" But Harry cut him off again.

"And when the war comes, and I mean for real, not the skirmishes we've been having. Armies of werewolves and giants and nags and jinns and dwarves and the Dementors freed from Azkaban, and who knows what else. So many of them you can't even see the ground beneath their feet. People I've never met and people I've gone to school with fighting on both sides, and they'll all die in their hundreds, if not thousands, because I couldn't get it over with and just kill Voldemort." Harry sniffed, choking back tears, and let out one long drawn out sob. "I'm scared, Remus. No matter what I do, people are going to die. And I don't know what to do, although everyone seems to think I should. I tried to save Draco without having to kill anyone, and look how that turned out. I keep dreaming now of facing Voldemort, and defeating him, but I have to kill his lieutenants to get to him in the first place." He sniffled again, and the tears ran freely down his cheeks from behind his glasses. "And each time I dream of Draco's body, broken and lifeless on the battlefield, and I know I'm the one who did it." Remus gathered Harry up in his arms, and Harry sobbed against his shoulder. "I don't want that to happen, Remus, I don't want to kill him, Merlin, God, I love him, but I don't know how I'm going to avoid it now."

* * *

Draco Malfoy dreamed. In his dream he walks the sepia hallways of his mind and knew them for what they were, now. For a moment, the surrounds would look like a corridor in Malfoy Manor, and the outlines would blur, changing into black and white or colour, the colours running together, losing distinctiveness, fading back into sepia. Sometimes it resembled one of the passageways that riddled Hogwarts, but all the while it would carry an aura of familiarity, in part derived from the diary and in part from what lay inside the portal he had seen in Voldemort's mind.

Nothing ever stayed fixed if he looked at it for long. The paintings seem to shimmer on the walls, eyes following him everywhere, always following, always being watched. The cold wind whipped at his clothes, and then just as suddenly he would feel no breeze. The braziers on the walls erupt into flame, and a split second later they would be cold and barren as if they'd never been set alight. The only thing that remained the same was its mutability.

Out of the corners of his eyes, colours dance, impossible shades that no person was meant to see. And in the blur that was created, more colours danced, and within them more colours still, a cycle repeated ad infinitum, and disappeared the moment he tried to look at it.

Something brushes against the back of Draco's neck, and he stands still immediately, the corridor wavering around him like a mirage.

You're touched by the colours, and the colours stick...

It might have been a stray thought, or a voice, Draco couldn't tell, not in this place where thought and form were one.

It was there again. A distinct touch, now, like fingers against his skin, curling down his shoulder. Something shimmers into existence next to him. A young man, roughly his own age, with black hair that shone in the coruscating light, deep green eyes, almost black, and the trace of a smirk on full lips. Tom Riddle, as Draco had first met him.

"You're no longer fighting me," Tom tells him, and curls his fingers in Draco's hair, pulling harshly. "I like that."

Draco winces slightly, his head jerking back. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No." Tom's lips twitch; he might be about to smile or frown, but does neither. "No, you don't." He leans close to Draco, so close Draco thinks he should be able to feel Tom's breath hot against his skin, but nothing comes from between Tom's lips and so Draco remembers that Tom is just a dream, a thing of ink and parchment and memories. Tom can read his mind, though, and so pulls tighter on Draco's hair. "Not so frail as all that," he warns the young Malfoy, and chuckles. "I am a part of you, after all. I always have been. I always will. You know that now, don't you?"

Draco gasps slightly, because all of a sudden his collar is undone and they are standing in a washed out version of the study room he and Harry used to come to. Tom pulls his collar open more, his fingers leaving Draco's hair, and his lips smooth over Draco's shoulder the way Harry's did once. "Yes," he tells the other young man, sounding anxious and trapped. "I'm nothing but you." The tears are beginning to run down his cheeks, but Draco hardly notices.

Good boy, Draco, Tom murmurs in his mind and the room suddenly telescopes around them in a haze of streaked light like a shooting star, so that Draco and Tom are standing in the doorway, looking into the room, and Draco can see himself in the far corner, leaning out of his chair to kiss Harry. He lets out a little whimper at the sight, and chokes back the sob that forces its way up from his chest. There is such love in his eyes, such dedication and gentleness in his touch, smoothing his hand over Harry's shoulder and down his back. He remembers this moment in his memory but now Tom is making it live before him like a photograph. There is love in Harry's face as well, and Draco knows that is nothing more than an act. Harry, whose eyes are closed so he doesn't have to watch the effects of his betrayal, leading Draco into weakening himself even more.

As he watches the two young men kiss in the corner, replaying what seems like another lifetime, he becomes dimly aware that he's naked now, and Tom's fingers slide down his chest to grasp his cock, beginning to stroke it gently as he continues to kiss Draco's neck and shoulder, his other hand trailing his knuckles down Draco's back. Draco feels himself begin to get aroused and it seems rude to be aroused by Tom while he's watching himself with Harry. Almost sacrilege perhaps, but then he shakes that revulsion off, stirred into anger by the hold Harry still had over him.

He was just using you, wasn't he? Tom asks him, and Draco nods, watching them, unable to speak. He lied to you to save you. Draco just keeps staring ahead, crying and snivelling, his cock growing hard at Tom's touch. But can you be saved, Draco?

That manages to provoke a reaction, a choked out "No." A small distance away the scene is playing itself out just as Draco remembered it. The two undress themselves gradually, slowed down by kisses and caresses, and Harry settles his robe near to the fireplace and they lay down together, a gentle tangle of limbs and skin. Draco lets his hand slowly run down Harry's chest, and watching, Draco can't make himself look any further, but when he tries to turn away, Tom's hand runs up his back to cup the back of his head and forces him to look.

You wanted to be saved from me, and all he ever did was lie. You were his charity case, just as Weasley predicted. Draco whimpers again, and tries to break free from that awful sight, but Tom's grip is too strong. I won't lie to you like he did, Draco. You're going to be mine. No-one can save you from that. Tom's hand speeds up further on Draco's erection, and Draco can feel his climax nearing. You know that now, don't you?

"Yes, yes," Draco tells him, his sobs beginning to fade, his body bucking into Tom's touch. "I'm yours. I want to be yours. I have nothing else."

He comes with a soft moan, spilling himself all over Tom's hand, and just as he does, Tom bites into his shoulder deep enough to break the skin and taste blood, but Draco is too far gone in his own misery to feel the pain. Tom laps at the welling blood with his tongue for a few moments, and lets go of Draco's softening cock, stepping back into nothingness.

Draco watches the two by the fire for a few moments before he falls back into normal sleep.

When he woke later that morning, he performed his usual ablutions: went to the toilet, showered, washed his hair, and cleaned his teeth. While drying off in front of one of the mirrors in the Slytherin bathrooms, Draco noticed a patch of pink new skin on his left shoulder, in the shape of bite marks already healed. He looked back in the mirror and wondered absently who was looking back at him; not that that made any difference.

You're touched...

...by the colours...

...and the colours stick...

* * *

Lucius sipped the cup of tea he was offered, although it proved if nothing else that Terence Higgs had certainly never learned the finer skills of housekeeping. The living room of the Watford flat was about as dour as he remembered it; which was to say it was dark, somewhat dank and thoroughly uninviting. Against one wall stood a large object, swathed in fabric. Lucius presumed it was the Mirror of Erised, but in this situation any question would be the wrong question, and Lucius did not want to test Voldemort's tolerance of such things, already knowing it to be quite small.

The only lighting in the room (as the blinds were permanently shut) was the flickering illumination of the Muggle device casting a ghostly pall over them all. The voices emanating from it drone on interminably just on the border of being audible, and Lucius suspected that its chief purpose in being on with to throw Lucius off his game, which of course it did.

"I have been told," Voldemort murmured, drinking from his own cup, "of your recent interest in library books, Lucius." Lucius could see that his form had decayed severely

Lucius placed his tea carefully on the saucer, hand shaking gently, and placed the rattling saucer in turn back on the small table in front of him. He could not lie his way out of this one. "It was nothing but a passing fancy, my Lord."

Voldemort held one finger up to quiet him, and Lucius obeyed. "A passing fancy. Severus Snape approaches one of his students in order to loan Muggle library books. Books which include two on the belief system of the Aztecs."

Sweat began to break out on Lucius' forehead. "I was merely curious-"

"Of course you were. Don't try and fool me, Lucius. You've been trying to undermine the bargain we made ever since it was agreed upon. And who else to help you than an ex-lover? The one you didn't have killed, that is." Voldemort held out his cup, now empty, and Terence stood silently by his chair, teapot at the ready, and refilled the cup.

I did that for you, Lucius wanted to say. And: you lied to me. Instead he raised his own teacup back to his mouth, trembling so much he had to be careful of slopping some over the sides. Wetting his palate, dry from nerves, he cast about for any opportunity for evasion, but the game was not what it once was. "One wonders, my Lord, why you do not have me killed right now."

"I could, I suppose." Voldemort leaned back in the snug armchair, and tapped his fingers against the fabric. "If I have learnt one thing, however, it is that even death cannot stop me, much less your prevarication and Severus' treachery."

"Twenty years ago, my Lord, you would have had both of us killed rather than tolerate such things."

"I am not what I was, Lucius. Having one's spirit ripped from one's body does that to you. Death is easy. Death is simple. If I had you killed, I couldn't watch you suffer. And I rather think you will suffer, especially once your son and I become one. He does have such young flesh, Lucius. Such vigour. What fun I will have, clothed in his skin." He sighed, and lifted his head to look at Lucius. "I shall remember to call you 'Daddy'."

It took all of Lucius' not inconsiderable strength of will to not bolt at that particular horror. "If I may, my Lord," he breathed, and fought the impulse to retch, "may I be excused?"

"Yes, Lucius, you may go," intoned Voldemort wearily. "But remember, my patience can still be tested. Any word to Snape, and he will die. Any further attempt to extricate your son - which I'm sure you know to be quite, quite futile - and your wife will suffer horribly before I let her die. Bring him to me at the end of term, Lucius. The mental union will have had long enough to establish itself then, and all will be in readiness for the final ritual."

"Yes, my Lord," Lucius murmured, keeping his eyes downcast to the floor.

"Besides, your son longs for the completion of his own purpose. He has such an interesting mind, Lucius. You moulded him well, did you not? I walk his dreams. I can see how he hungers for acceptance, consumed by the need to be useful, to be deserving. You never found him worthy of praise, but I have. In many ways, you made my task all the easier."

Lucius rose from his chair, unable to hear any more, bowed stiffly, and left the room.

Voldemort waited a few moments and then he raised a hand, beckoning Higgs closer to him with a finger. "What did you glean from that?"

"That you should never go for the kill, my Lord, when you can go for the pain."

A leathery hand patted Terence's cheek, and as it slid back to the chair, dry flakes of skin drifted to the carpet floor. "You learn wisely, my child."

* * *

Ronald Weasley was in a foul mood. Operation: Ferret Payback was not going as successfully as he had hoped; indeed, all he seemed to be doing was losing points for Gryffindor rather than causing any sort of long-term damage to the Slimy One. He'd hoped to slip something suitably nasty into Malfoy's cauldron during Potions that morning, but Harry (who he'd been partnered with) had grabbed him by the sleeve and glared at him the moment Ron had even begun to look as though he might do something.

Admittedly, the first week of Operation: Ferret Payback had gone rather disasterously. Ron had got two detentions, and lost sixty points for the House. It was then that the other sixth year Gryffindors seemed to form an unofficial committee preventing Ron from Undertaking His Solemn and Resolute Duty (or as they would have said, stopping Ron from Looking Like a Complete Arse.) The only one who didn't actively look out for him was Lavender Brown, who seemed to find the whole affair extremely amusing, and indeed, seemed to help and support Ron in his Time of Trial. In the four weeks since, Ron didn't seem to be able to take a shit without someone watching him, and the vast majority of his Fiendish and Cunning Plans had been stymied. One or two had succeeded, however, and this had left to lots of long suffering Looks from teachers whenever they had the sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins in one class, coupled with another detention and the loss of twenty more points.

Malfoy, however, was seemingly not greatly inconvenienced by Ron's schemes, even when they'd worked. His hair had been turned purple in Potions once, and Ron had managed to insert a copy of Playwizard into Malfoy's History of Magic workbook (and much to his annoyance, Professor Binns' had used it to launch into a lecture on the history of sex and sexuality in the wizarding world, and it had been uniformly declared the most successful lesson ever) but largely Draco Malfoy hadn't quite burst into tears or a tantrum the way Ron might have hoped. He had noticed Ron's attempts, however, and declaimed very loudly on a semi-regular basis now that Draco Malfoy was so special he didn't just have one stalker from Gryffindor (that being the Boy Who Lived) but two, and the fact it was Ron just proved his own long held theory that Ronald Weasley couldn't do a bloody thing without Harry Potter's say-so.

Draco seemed to be far too busy crowing about such co-dependencies (and when he wasn't crowing, he was being pawed at by Pansy Parkinson or pawing at her in return, a fact that even Ron could see was both irritating Harry beyond belief and reducing that anger to a kind of weary apathy the moment it came close to exploding) to actually care about any damage to his person, and even when his hair had gone purple, he'd merely brushed it off as being stylish. Most other Hogwarts students had dismissed Draco's ego as finally growing to a point where it blotted out any vestiges of sense he possessed, but Ron who knew Malfoy with the kind of deep tenacity that only unbound hatred can produce could tell that Malfoy was off his game. He was only half there, it seemed, uncaring, apathetic. Going through the motions. Ron knew it was time to strike.

That morning Ron had the chance to finally bury the hatchet once and for all (for which end he had hoped, prayed and made various invocations to all sorts of banned deities), and finally give Malfoy what for. However, Harry had got in the way. The resultant minor tussle had caused Ron's elbow to knock into their cauldron and spill it upended all over the floor.

The net result was that both of them had got detention, Gryffindor had lost another twenty points, and coming out of the lesson to go to lunch, Harry had very firmly told him that "you really need to get a fucking life, Ron. Or a hobby," and refused to speak with him any further. Ron had thought that now Harry had seen just what a miserable brat Draco Malfoy really was, things could return to the good old days, back when it was everyone against Malfoy, or something equally sensible. Besides, if Harry and Ron were together again, then Hermione would have to being friends with him again. Simply put, she'd have no choice (or so Ron thought) because really, even Hermione's pride (large though it clearly was) was no match for the clear appeal of the friendship and conversation that Harry and Ron offered. Better than Seamus bloody Finnigan and his bloody ha-ha jokes, at any rate.

Sadly, Harry had not seen the Ultimate and True Repellent Nature of Ferret-Boy, and mostly kept to himself, when he wasn't keeping Ron out of trouble. The others were little better. It wasn't his fault they were all blind, or just unwilling. Ron supposed he could understand it, to some extent. With everything that had been going on (and Ron had felt wounded by it all, too, but that had only increased his determination to Make Things Right Again) there had been a willingness to let old feuds fade, to slide into hopeless apathy. What did it all matter, when Voldemort would probably turn up and kill them in their beds in a few days? Conversely to Ron, what that did was make it matter all the more, as now that the enemy had shown itself, those who supported it (which meant every stinking Slytherin around) deserved to be given a taste of the kind of mercy they deserved (this being none.)

Ron was left to fight his little crusade all by himself now, and he didn't even have Quidditch to distract him from his loneliness. Instead, he spent many an evening before curfew as he was now, pacing up and down the corridors, lost in a haze of his own delusions.

"Ron?"

"Ah!" Ron jumped and moved sideways instantly, completely taken off guard by the person who suddenly seemed to appear right next to him. Blinking, and trying to calm himself down, Ron took long, deep breaths and pretended to ignore the fact that Susan Bones would fit to burst into giggles at any moment.

"Sorry," she said, still choking back laughter. "I really shouldn't have done that, what with everything that's been going on. I did call out to you though, but you mustn't have heard me." Susan snorted, unable to keep it in any longer, and one hand reached out to support herself on Ron's shoulder. "But you should have seen your face."

Ron was somewhat ruffled by Susan's easy familiarity, but Hufflepuffs tended to act as if everyone was old, old friends until it was clearly shown that they were not. It did not mean, however, that he had to like it. Susan made amends by fiddling with his collar, and smoothing it down before Ron could wave his arms and brush her away, stepping back and coming up against the cold stone surface of the wall. "What do you think you were doing, anyway?" he asks, totally bewildered. "Coming up to a bloke in a deserted corridor and yelling in his face."

"I didn't yell," Susan tells him, and crosses her arms over her chest. "And I already apologised. I was actually going to ask you out to the next Hogsmeade weekend, Ron, but if you're not interested..." She turned on her heel and started striding away, leaving Ron gaping behind her.

Ron closed his mouth, and watched Susan stalk away. She was going to ask him out? No-one asked him out, not even Hermione. Ron made the first move in that little drama, mostly because he knew full well that nothing would have happened without him. Well. Perhaps Hermione had suggested they go out first, before he'd officially asked her, but only because she could see the signals he'd been sending out, so it was all his doing. Really.

He scrambled into action, almost tripping over himself, and managed to be at the junction of this corridor with another one before Susan got there. Ron leant against the wall on one arm wheezing so badly that Susan began to crack up with laughter again.

"You need help with anything there?" she asked impishly, eyes twinkling. "Glass of water? Anti-asthma potion? Breathing charm?"

"Just give me," Ron said, panting for air, "a few seconds," another gasp, "and I'll be fine."

Susan waited, and when Ron finally settled down enough to say more than three words in one breath, he blurted it all out. "If you were being serious I wanted to say yes."

Hazel eyes narrowed, and a wide grin spread across her face. She reminded him vaguely of what Fred and George looked like when they were plotting something, and bent to brush her lips over Ron's cheek. "Good," she murmured. "I'll talk to you closer to the actual weekend, right?" She took a few steps back, and inclined her head.

Ron stood there, still somewhere between comatose and stunned, and hesitantly raised a hand to wave at her, wiggling his fingers. Susan choked back a laugh, waved in return and disappeared round the junction. Ron stared after her for a while, dumbstruck, and was quite pleased by the look of her arse as she walked away.

Someone cleared their throat right next to him. Ron whirled again, clutching his chest. There was far too many inconsiderate people in this school, he thought, and then he recognised the young woman standing there.

"Uh. Hermione. What are you doing here?"

Hermione's arms were tightly wrapped around some books, clutching them to her chest. "On my way to the prefect's room, Ron. I should ask you what you're doing," she retorted sharply, and turned to look down the corridor after Susan, "but it's abominably clear. Honestly, I should chase after Susan and get you to apologise for ogling at her like that, Ron!"

Ron was tired. No-one was listening to him, Harry was still intent on being all solitary and broody, and now his ex-girlfriend was giving him a lecture. Something, as has been said, had to break. He gripped Hermione's arm somewhat harshly just under the elbow and pulled her close, not caring as her eyes widened with shock, or the small gasp of pain that fell from her mouth.

"Ron, what are you-"

"Look," Ron hissed, his voice tight and desperate. "Susan asked me out. Susan fucking asked me out and I said yes and you are not going to ruin it for me, Hermione, just let me be happy for once, alright?"

Hermione wrenched her arm free, and when she spoke it was just taut and low as his was, but calm. She always good mask her emotions better than he could. "I'm sure I won't ruin it for you, Ron," and a rather unpleasant smile graced her face, "mostly because I'm confident you'll be able to fuck it up perfectly all by yourself."

Ron set his jaw. "Fine. We'll see then."

"Yes," Hermione shot back, still clutching her books. "I guess we will."

They glared at each other for a few moments more, and then Hermione stalked off, sniffing loudly.

* * *

"You should have seen him, Harry. He was completely ogling her with no regard for her at all, and honestly, considering the way she'd just behaved to him the little strumpet she might as well walk around the halls naked just so he could get a better view!"

Hermione was technically eating her breakfast. Her spoon hadn't left her bowl however, and the cereal was growing far too mushy in the milk. Harry noted all of this, because after nearly six years, he knew that Hermione didn't like mushy cereal. He felt drained, even though he'd just woken up. He really had no idea how to deal with any of this, and didn't trust himself to do much more than collapse. Hermione wanted support; he couldn't give her any. Every last bit of strength Harry had he needed for himself. He bit down on a piece of toast, savouring the sweetness of the jam on his tongue, and crunched, giving himself some delaying time. He knew it wouldn't last long, and he probably wouldn't come up with anything amazing in the meantime, but it was something, at least.

Right now, Harry was willing to clutch any straw he could find, no matter how slender. In addition, as much as he might have wanted to listen to Hermione bitch (which admittedly wasn't a huge amount, but he wasn't entirely non-sympathetic), he had other problems.

The other problems being twofold, and both of them sitting across the Hall at the Slytherin table. Both of them were eating breakfast, and seemingly quite happy to do so, laughing and giggling in the process. Pansy had one arm draped over Draco's left shoulder, and he was turning mostly side on to face her. As Harry watched, Pansy fed Draco a spoon of cereal like he was some sort of infant. Harry scowled. Even when he had been with Draco, he hadn't treated him as an invalid. Hell, if he'd so much as offered to carry Draco's books for him, half the time Draco would explode about how he could do it himself, thank you very much. (Admittedly, half the time Draco would let Harry carry his books, and murmur something about how Potter was finally put in his proper place, but Harry purposefully chose to ignore that side of him right now.)

"Harry, are you even listening to me?"

Harry took another bite of his toast and glared across the Hall. "Yes, Hermione. You're getting rabidly jealous over the fact that Ron's going out with someone else."

"I am not jealous," Hermione hissed, leaning close to Harry's ear.

"Right, right," Harry murmured, his attention somewhere else. "You're just bad tempered for no reason. Perhaps it's your time of the month, Hermione?"

"If I had a knife, Harry," she told him, quite cold, "I'd be stabbing you with it right now."

"I haven't got time to deal with this," Harry told her, his own voice harsh even to his own ears. "Both you and Ron expect me to take sides or play favours or something and I can't deal with the fact that the person I love is with someone else, let alone that my two best friends are still in love with each other, yet somehow can't maintain a relationship."

Hermione stared at him for a few moments, open mouthed, and the anger faded from her eyes. She seemed more weary than anything, but then, they all were.

"Don't try to deny it," Harry said, sighing. "I was there in fourth year, remember? You were so glad that someone could finally see you were a woman because he never could." He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers briefly, before pulling back. "You love him, and he loves you, but most of the time when you're together all you do is confuse one another, and loving isn't liking, or accepting." He glanced across at the Slytherin table, where Pansy was virtually heaping huge gobs of marmalade on a piece of toast and fed it to Draco, just as she had before. "Believe me, I know all about being in love with someone who confuses you." Harry considered scowling again, but that would accomplish nothing. Draco wasn't even looking at him.

I really want to kill Pansy, he thought to himself. Or maybe just slap her about a bit. The sheer bitterness of his thoughts didn't surprise him. What did surprise him was the warm touch of Hermione's hand covering his, and the feel of her cheek pressed against his, as they both looked over at the Slytherins.

"We'll show her, Harry, you'll see," Hermione said. Harry wasn't entirely sure whether she was talking about Susan or Pansy, but this was only a minor detail. "And if we don't, we can always kill her." There was an obvious chuckle in her voice, and Harry couldn't help but laugh, and laugh loudly. He and Hermione had known each other for so long that they were beginning to think alike.

His laughter startled the other Gryffindors at the table somewhat, and Harry even caught a glimpse of Draco turning to glare at him, surly, as if Harry's good mood had ruined his. Harry tried smiling at him, but that smile soon faded when Draco turned away to gaze at Pansy.

Sighing, he finished off his now cold toast, and listened as Hermione's spoon clattered back onto the bowl. "My cereal's gone all soggy," she whined. It looked as if it was going to be one of those days.

* * *

Harry quietly slid from beneath his covers, all too alert in the darkness, and felt around with his feet, toes stretching for the carpeted surface. He landed with a soft whump, stretching himself upright and paused, stiff and still for a few moments to see whether he'd woken anyone up.

There were only the sounds of soft breathing coming from around him, so Harry let himself relax, and reached up to grab his glasses from the nightstand, slipping them onto his face. That was better. He could at least see beyond a blur, even if it was a very dark blur. He didn't dare risk a lumos charm, so instead he waited, blinking, until his eyes adjusted to the moonlight spilling in the window. Then it was a quick change into his warm robes, and he slung a few things into a satchel at the end of his bed. His Gringotts key, all the money he had on him, a few changes of clothes, and he grabbed his broomstick from where it leant against the wall. He considered taking Hedwig's cage and collecting her from the Owlery, but that would probably be too much trouble. Besides, Harry thought she'd be far better off staying here than going with him.

He slung the satchel, now bulky, over his right arm, and winced slightly as the sharp edge of something inside pressed against his back. Ron muttered something in the bed next to him, and turned on his side. Extra careful now, Harry slowly draped himself in the cloak, making sure to let it drape over his satchel and down his back and legs, and gripped the shaft of his broomstick tightly in his left hand, holding it close to his body.

Beginning to feel as though he might actually be able to get away with this, Harry padded cautiously towards the exit from the dorms, then tip-toed quickly down the stairs and through the common room, already warm from the fireplace. A floorboard squeaked loudly underfoot, but by then Harry was out the portrait hole and away, scampering down the corridor.

It was a relatively easy matter then to find his way through corridors and down staircases and around corners to finally step out into the sharp night air, and Harry shivered slightly, even in his warmest robes. A crescent moon hung overhead, the sky dark and streaked with clouds. It looked like it might rain; Harry didn't exactly have wet weather gear, but he knew he'd cope. Somehow. He strode forward, barely breaking his stride, and made his way along the pathway to the castle gates.

Planted firmly in front of them was Remus Lupin. He appeared to be quite tired, head drooping down towards his chest, almost asleep on his feet. He sighed softly, and that quickly turned into a yawn, bringing his head up and rolling his shoulders back, hands planted in his pockets.

Harry considered running for the open gates behind Remus, but he couldn't quite stomach the idea. It was like lying, and he'd told far too many of those already. Still, he came closer, biting his lip and stopped a few yards off, wondering what the fuck he could do now.

Remus sniffed. His eyes opened, hazel gleaming gently in the moonlight, and it seemed to restore adrenaline to his body, stretching with a somewhat wicked smile, and he stood upright to face Harry, even though he couldn't see him. "Harry," he said quite loudly. "I know you're there."

Harry's heart sank. He couldn't make a break for it now, even if he'd wanted to, and he couldn't just return to his dorms and pretended it hadn't happened. Remus was far better at getting the truth out of Harry than his godfather was - something Harry exploited mercilessly on occasion. Sighing, he whipped the cloak off and revealed himself, crumpling the material up in his arms.

"Harry." Remus smiled gently at him, his voice soft. "Did you really think this would do any good?"

The kindness and understanding was too much. Harry began sniffling almost immediately, and seeing the beginnings of tears in the boy's eyes, Remus strode forward and quickly enveloped Harry in a hug. "I just thought if I went away, there wouldn't be any more reason for all this shit to happen," he murmured into Remus' robes, and tried not to sob.

"Oh, Harry," Remus let out the breath he'd been holding, and petted Harry's hair back. "It wasn't just that, though, was it? You were going off to find Voldemort."

Harry was stunned that Remus knew him so well. Was he really that transparent to everybody? Merlin, he hoped not. If nothing else, it made him look like a bit of a wanker. He didn't say anything in response, not trusting himself to, and Remus continued. "What could you ever hope to achieve? These are dangerous times, Harry!"

"I know!" Harry spat out, and pulled out of Remus' embrace. His satchel slid off his arm with a thud onto the ground, but neither noticed it. Harry was too busy pulling his glasses off to wipe his eyes. "And they're not getting any less dangerous with me doing fuck all."

"If you had been found by Death Eaters, what makes you think they would have killed you?"

"I'm too good a prize," Harry replied, and didn't sound at all cocky in saying so. "Besides, Voldemort loves to have a good gloat." His jaw tightened. "Trust me, I know. So they'd take me to see him, and then I could at least attempt whatever it is I'm supposed to. If I succeed, then that's it. I don't have to be a hero anymore. I don't have to worry about people dying." He faltered for a moment, but recovered his voice, looking away from Remus. "And if I don't succeed..."

Remus' voice was gentle, but firm as he took over for Harry. "If you don't succeed, then you're dead. And you don't have to be a hero anymore."

Harry's voice was shaky. "It's a bit of a win-win situation, really."

"It is not," Remus chided him, and took Harry's glasses from his hand, cleaning them with a murmured spell and placed them gently on Harry's face again, pushing them up his nose with an index finger. He turned Harry round, and gave him a little push in the small of his back, stooping to pick up the satchel off the gravel.

Nodding at each other, they set back towards the castle.

* * *

There was a note waiting for Hermione when she sat down to breakfast that morning. She opened it, read it, folded it and put it back under her plate. Everyone at the table was looking expectantly at her, as Harry had been missing from his bed when they woke. "Harry's going to be with Professor Lupin in his study all day," she told them primly, and started buttering her toast.

"It figures," Dean said finally, after they had all taken a moment to pause. "What with what happened with his Godfather and all." It had been splashed on the pages of the Daily Prophet not two weeks ago, and they'd all stepped just that little bit quieter around Harry, waiting for him to explode. He hadn't though, and so the illusion of normalcy at returned. Which made it all the more annoying it had happened right now, now that they thought the danger was past.

"Lupin went to school with Black and his father, didn't he?" Neville asked, reaching across the table for the salt and tipped some onto his egg.

"Yeah," Seamus replied, through a mouthful of toast. Dean rolled his eyes at his friend's lack of manners, but didn't comment. He didn't want to shatter the fragile peace that lay between them. Too many things were going wrong as it was.

"How do we know his Godfather isn't guilty?" Lavender murmured, and daintily chewed on a rasher of bacon.

Hermione's eyes widened, and her knife clattered onto her plate. Everyone stopped to look at Lavender Brown.

"What's going on?" murmured Ron sleepily, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, his hair a mess, and he sat down next to Hermione.

"Lavender just suggested that Sirius might actually be guilty," Hermione told him, not realising just how comfortable they were around each other once they had far more important things to worry about than their own bitterness.

That certainly managed to wake Ron up. He blinked, and shifted in his seat, leaning over to stare into Lavender's face. "Are you completely bonkers?"

Lavender just laughed in his face as the table erupted in chatter.

"Look, she has a point," said Seamus, and was immediately hissed at. "She does! We don't know what happened!"

"Sirius," Hermione told him quite calmly, and Ron could recognise that cool measured tone far too well for his own liking, "does not kill people. That's that."

Seamus opened his mouth to speak, but Lavender spoke first, her own tones just as quiet and controlled as Hermione, her eyes narrowed slightly in concentration. "We all heard about Pettigrew, Hermione, and what he did to Harry's parents. You don't think Black would kill him if he got the chance? Or if Harry would?"

"That's different," Hermione insisted.

"Is it? Far as I can tell, killing is killing. Just depends on who's explaining it to whether it gets justified or not. Maybe he found Pettigrew, or a Death Eater tried to kill him." She smiled, and chewed on another piece of bacon, knowing full well she had the whole table's attention and could take her time. "Maybe Azkaban drove him insane, and this is the result. Maybe he just likes to kill."

"Shut your bloody trap or I'll shut it for you!" Ron cried, and gripped his knife.

"Ronald Weasley!"

The entire table went quiet. Seamus saw the approaching form of Professor McGonagall from the staff table, and wished he could slide off the seat and under the table.

Ron muttered something under his breath. Something that clearly ended in 'uck.' But if nothing else, he wasn't much of a coward, and straightened his back. "She started it, Professor. She claimed that Sirius Black did kill those people in America." He scowled. "Or that he's insane. Really, that's not the kind of thing Harry needs to hear right now."

"While your loyalty to your friends is to be applauded, Mister Weasley, the manner in which you conduct yourself is not. Twenty points is to be deducted from Gryffindor, and if I hear one more word, you will receive detention." Her eyes swept the table, settling on Lavender, who didn't flinch from the steel in McGonagall's gaze. "Miss Brown. While there is always room at Hogwarts for intellectual inquiry, it is possible that your arguments may offend. Keep that in mind, please."

Lavender's voice was quiet. "Yes, Professor."

Satisfied she had restored some measure of calm to breakfast, Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and walked sharply back to the staff table, and they could see her wave away a comment from Snape. The sound of clinking cutlery and clattering dishes soon returned to the Gryffindor table, and Seamus breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the prying eyes of other Houses return to their own meals, certain the opportunity to point and laugh was over.

Seamus munched on his toast, still glowering. He'd only wanted to sound vaguely reasonable, and he'd gotten hissed at for his troubles.

Lavender set her cutlery down on her plate, and all eyes turned to her again. "I was just attempting to-"

"Don't, alright?" Dean said firmly. "Just don't."

"Oh, Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph, Dean! Give her the chance to actually finish a sentence will you?" Seamus burst out, and everyone knew that he wasn't entirely doing this just for Lavender's sake. "I mean, that might be a little difficult, seeing as you're so busy putting words in people's mouths-"

"Shame," Dean growled, eyes darkening, but Seamus just continued.

"Not of course that you're putting anything else in people's mouths, God forbid, seeing as you're so fucking good, and may I say that your model of sanctity is proving just a bit hard to live up to?"

"Shame."

"We can't all be saints, Dean, and forgive me for wondering if you told Lavender to shut up because you can't tell me to."

"Gryffindor dorms. Now."

Seamus' mouth fell closed. "No," he said stubbornly.

Dean stood up from the bench he was sitting on, and slid his leg over, striding towards the exit to the Great Hall. "Now, Seamus!" Seamus considered retorting, but thought the best of it, and quickly followed after.

By the time they managed to step into the Gryffindor common room, both of their tempers had gotten worse. Seamus let out the beginning of a word barely formed and Dean turned on him. "I told you the dorms," he said, and thundered up the stairs.

Seamus gripped the banister and sighed, following after him to find Dean pacing so furiously he looked as if he might wear a hole in the carpet. "I don't hate you, you idiot," Dean mumbled at him, still looking down at the floor as he paced. "I could never hate you."

He stopped, and turned his head to look straight at Seamus. Seamus swallowed nervously, and wished he still had his flask with him. But no, he'd sent it back to his father, and resolved not to be so damn cliché in the future. "Then why d'you...?"

"Why do I seem hesitant when I talk to you half the time? Cause I just don't know how to deal with what happened."

"So I kissed you. It didn't mean anything."

"Yeah, right," Dean told him wryly. "You just snog everyone on sight."

"Nah. But I do have to start somewhere."

Dean flopped back onto his bed. "This is so fucked up, Shame," hesaid quietly.

Seamus quietly clambered onto the bed, and sat next to him. "I really didn't think it was that bad-"

"Do you honestly think I hate you or something?"

"Honestly, I think I dunno where we stand anymore. I mean, you're my best friend, but half the time you seem worried I might jump you or something. And we've already that me jumping you doesn't exactly lead to what I hoped it would."

Dean bit his lip, and looked up at Seamus. "And what did you hope it would lead to?"

"You kissing me back, if nothing else," Seamus murmured, a bitter smile on his face.

"It's not that simple," Dean told him.

"Then what's stopping you? Am I really that horrible?"

"No. You're not." Dean whispered, and placed his hands flat on Seamus' chest, sliding black fingers into Seamus' hair. If Dean wanted to, he could have thought about his family, his responsibilities, his practicality, the future. But he preferred to dwell on the now, and the fact he was breaking his best friend's heart, and he didn't have to. He pulled Seamus down towards him slowly, watching as those hazel grey eyes went wide, and when he slipped his tongue between Seamus' lips, he could feel the moan in response.

* * *

Sirius listened to the music float in from the window. Horns, from the sounds of things, and what sounded like some form of tuned percussion. But then, Miami was never quiet. At least not the area he seemed to be staying in. He was holed up in a reasonably nice single room the Clay Hotel, a short distance from Miami Beach itself. His hair was still bleached auburn, and he'd grown a beard in the meanwhile. He'd gotten out of Chicago by using one of the many fake identities he and Dumbledore had set up for the trip in case of any complication, and fled to L.A, staying there for a few weeks, and then moving again to Miami, and here.

There was no way he could get an owl out, and he didn't risk making a telephone call to Remus, as he knew Muggle technology could be 'bugged' and his whereabouts traced. Mostly, he lay low, trying to behave like any random tourist. He got to know the streets and back alleys quite well; he would dine out every now and then, sampling the restaurants and local cuisine. And when it was warm enough, as it often was, he would take a walk along the beach. The days passed quickly, and uneventfully, and the memory of Chicago faded into the distance, and the story started getting less and less news coverage.

Sirius began to feel safe. Miami Beach seemed a little enclave all to itself. He had money; he could wait this out, and at the very least come up with some way of contacting Hogwarts, and letting them know he was free, and innocent.

He reached lazily over to the nightstand, and grabbed his wallet, checking through the I.D. Bugger. He must have left the one he was currently using to withdraw money from the local Gringotts' branch somewhere, but he certainly had no idea where.

Sighing, he opened up the drawer and thumbed through the remaining I.D. cards. He could access money from one of the other dummy accounts, as long as he went to a different branch where they wouldn't recognise him as having a different name and identity. The only problem was the small, winking picture of him in the corner. He certainly didn't match what he looked like now, with auburn hair and beard. Taking a small risk - but a necessary one - Sirius bent down and pulled his wand out from where he'd taped it to the underside of the bed. A quick whispered incantation, and a tap of the wand, and the picture on the I.D now resembled his current look, thanks to a basic glamour he'd learnt in third year.

That done, he placed the I.D. back into his wallet, and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans as he got up off the bed. It was a longer walk to the bank, than normal of course, but he was munching on a nice sandwich he'd picked up from a deli on the way back. When he swung open the door to his hotel room, Sirius instantly noticed something strange. There was someone in the room with him. Holding a gun.

The door slammed shut behind him, and there was someone else there too, almost with a gun. Belatedly, Sirius recognised the uniform as that of the police in America, the same uniform worn by both Muggle and wizarding law enforcers.

"Get down on the bed!" one screamed from beneath their helmet, and Sirius could tell at least one of them was a she. He complied, leaning face down on the bed. "Heads behind your head!" was the next shout, and Sirius did so, feeling his wrists being grabbed and cuffed together. He got yanked up onto his feet by the cuffs, wincing.

"Sirius Black, you are under arrest for the murders of Rachel Makhanyezi and Lee Mandich. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to speak to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you..."