playing the game, living the lie

chapter 16: all I want is you.

[date: 20 April - 15 May.]

Draco wished that someone would put out all the lights in the world and leave him in darkness. He honestly didn't think he had drunk that much the previous night, but Blaise had been so happy with Harry's constant depression that he had plied drinks upon both of them continually and neither Draco nor Pansy could have been bothered to refuse him. After all, he had been toasting them for their brilliance, and that fact was true - even if Blaise had thought the specifics of their brilliance was something that didn't actually exist. Draco hadn't meant to drink much, and it seemed the sheer volume of alcohol he'd consumed had blurred his memory. He remembered Blaise leaving them in Draco's room, staggering off to find someone to fuck - Blaise hadn't told them who he had in mind, and Draco certainly didn't want to know.

Things went distinctly hazy after that, but he did remember that Blaise had left the bottle of brandy behind, and so Draco and Pansy had helped themselves, clinking glasses and glad that they'd saved their skins. He'd clearly imbibed more than he'd meant to, and ended up collapsing into bed. He looked over the side of the bed. His clothes were strewn all over the floor. Draco wrinkled his nose. He'd have to get them laundered and pressed before he could wear them again. Fortunately, that was what house-elves were there for. There wasn't any vomit, either. That was a good sign.

He felt like a sleep in, in the vain hope of dispelling the hangover. If nothing else, getting up would mean possibly encountering Blaise (who was never a morning person, and would probably still be crowing over their victory against the Boy Who Got Dumped) or worse yet, having to see Harry at breakfast.

It had been so enthralling at first, and gave him such vicious joy at seeing Harry's broken expression, his glares, his scowls and his absolute inability to cope with Draco's own behaviour at the breakfast table - or anywhere else in public that Pansy was, for that matter. For a second, he'd almost been tempted to think that Harry was being honest, that Harry did love him, which was why he was now so upset. But no. Draco had already worked out that fate would never be so kind. Harry was upset just because Draco had shown him up so brazenly. And yet the bloody Gryffindor - who'd not only treated him like shit but broken his heart - still managed to beat him, by bringing something out in Draco that he didn't want to have.

Despite everything, his heartstrings still tugged towards Harry bloody Potter, and he even felt a tiny bit compassionate towards that sulking, depressed, lying bastard. After everything Harry had done to him, he was still winning. Draco snarled silently to himself, and rolled onto his back, wondering if it would ever end.

His elbow brushed against something soft onto the pillow, and Draco turned his head to look. Pansy Parkinson was lying next to him in bed, her mouth open, gently drooling on the pillow.

It was later said that Draco's scream could be heard all the way to the Slytherin common room.

* * *

A few minutes later, and there was the sound of fumbling from Draco Malfoy's bedroom. Pansy was attempting to hide herself with the sheet as she stood on one foot and poked tentatively at the heap of clothes on the floor, trying to untangle her clothes from Draco, lifting things by hooking them with a toe and sorting them into two separate piles.

Draco, meanwhile, was barely dressed in little more than his boxers and trousers when the banging on the door began. Clearly some of their housemates had heard the scream and wondered what the fuck was going on. He strode to the door, yanking it open quickly, ignoring Pansy's yowl of protest.

Outside his dormitory were two third years: Malcolm Baddock and Graham Pritchard, who obviously had more curiosity and pride than actual sense. They looked at Draco, naked from the waist up, belt undone, trousers only half buttoned. Blinking, mouths wide and gaping, their eyes flicked over to Pansy, who was holding a white sheet from the shoulders down to cover her presumably naked body. She glared at them. They looked at Pansy. They looked at Draco. Draco and Pansy looked back.

"Oh, fuck off," muttered Draco, and swung the door shut in their faces.

"What do we do?" Pansy nearly screamed at him.

"Well, we are supposed to be a couple," Draco reminded her, grimacing at the sheer pain induced by her loudness. He needed to mix himself a Restorative Potion just as soon as he could get to one of the potions laboratories: hangovers were simply not his thing. "Besides, why do you even persist with the sheet? It seems as though there's nothing there I haven't seen before."

Pansy ground her teeth together and dropped the sheet at her feet, bending to pick up her underwear. It was a frilly, lacy white thing, and Draco watched calmly as she slid up along the smooth lines of her legs. He never had much interest in women; he still didn't. But if he had fucked one - as it seemed he had - he wanted to at least know if it was any good. And if there would be a repeat.

Grabbing his shirt, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and clumsily worked it on both arms, mind still slightly hazy. Oh, the adrenaline was certainly helping, and the bitter anger working at the back of his head, but Draco could recognise he wasn't quite at his peak in this specific moment. He started doing up his buttons, and didn't look away from Pansy the way his mother had taught him. "Was it any good, Pansy?"

Pansy snorted, and tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind her ear. "How do I know?" she asked, caustically, flicking her eyes over at him briefly, as she stepped into her full length dress and hoisted it up. "I've never been fucked before."

"Ah." There was a pause, and Draco got up off the bed to cross to the wardrobe, and critically examined what he might wear. Saturdays and Sundays students were allowed to wear robes other than school ones, as long as they fell within the dress code. "Neither have I," he murmured, fingers brushing a dark green robe. Letting his hand fall from the clothes he turned to her, still insistent. "Pansy, do you think it was any good?"

Pansy was now fully dressed, in the rather nice burgundy dress she'd put on last night just for the celebration. Staring into his mirror, she sorted through his various beauty products on the dresser shelf, and riffled through the drawers before she finally found a good stiff wire hairbrush, and started combing out the tangles in her long honey blonde hair. Her free hand played over the state of her skin, briefly touching the circles under her eyes. She needed a good concealing charm, and a decent exfoliant as well, and started searching again, changing the brush from hand to hand.

"What are you doing?" Draco enquired, padding over to her.

"Looking for a decent exfoliant. Perhaps some moisturiser. I know you have some."

She yanked open the bottom left drawer before he could stop her, and paused at what she found there. Clippings. From Witch Weekly, the Daily Prophet, and Teen Coven. Pansy worked her way through them, Draco silent by her side, resting his chin on her shoulder.

Finally, she closed the drawer, and continued combing her hair. "They're all about Potter, dear."

"I know, Pansy. There lies the sad remnants of my former obsession."

"Why don't you get rid of them then, dear?" Pansy asked, her tone increasingly waspish. "And if this obsession is so former, why is there one dated three weeks ago?"

She tugged out the offending article, a rehash of past gossip and rumours that Teen Coven had done surrounding the love life of the Boy Who Lived, and scanned it quickly. "'Students are tightlipped over reports that Harry Potter has recently suffered a heartbreak in his life, after being dumped by his first ever known significant other, although sources will not confirm or deny whether that partner was actually a male student or not.'"

Draco took it gently out of her fingers and placed it back in the drawer, hand pressing the drawer shut. "I merely wanted to see what they said about me," he joked, tone light, but she wasn't fooled for one second. Slamming the brush down on the table, Pansy winced slightly as she bruised her knuckles, and immediately Draco was there as any solicitous boyfriend should be, rubbing her hand between his two. Once the ache faded, he brought her hand and brushed his lips across the knuckles, eyes cold as they looked up into hers.

Pansy had never been so repulsed in her life, but stood her ground. "You still love him, don't you? Even after the way he treated you, you still yearn for him."

There was a tight, cold smile in return. Draco was never as good at hiding his emotions as he thought he was. "I don't love him, Pansy," Draco replied smoothly. "Occasionally, I will find myself wishing that what he said was true, but that is a mere fantasy." His left hand slid down her back to rest on her hip, fingers splayed. Pansy had never been more repulsed in her life.

Well, she thought, two can play at this game. Pansy leaned forward, draping her arms around his shoulders, and her eyes gleamed when she stopped, almost resting their foreheads together. Her fingers started to play with the hair just above his collar, knowing full well it would irritate him, and she assumed a waspish, somewhat idiotic tone. "Draco, seeing as you do have a well proportioned girlfriend who you spend last night fucking senseless-" he had, as the ache in her hips demonstrated, and her other hand brushed against the curve of his neck "-I think it best you put Potter to one side, don't you?"

He looked at her for a moment, unresponsive, and she continued. "Or perhaps you're a little unwilling to let go of your security blanket." Draco pulled her to him roughly at that, and his hands began to unfasten the back of her dress, before his impatience led him to simply grab at the fabric and yank, the sound of buttons popping and falling to the floor.

Pansy tried to open her mouth to protest, but his mouth was already there, crushed to her in a hard, violent kiss, all lips and teeth. She winced at that sudden taste of blood in her mouth - coppery, almost bitter, her own blood thanks to the bite marks in her lower lip, and she could feel his hardness pressing into her thigh. Drunk on power this time round, Draco seemed more than ready to pursue his new found heterosexuality whether she wanted him to or not.

* * *

Ginny stood a way off the from the castle exit closest to Gryffindor Tower, protected from the bitter winds by the jutting out of a wall on one side. She was smoking, of course, although if any teacher came along she could quickly drop it to the grass and stamp it out with a foot. Or one of the Aurors that made rounds every hour or so now. Fortunately, as she'd discovered, a few of them liked smoking as well.

Quidditch practice had been cancelled a short while after Trelawney's untimely death, and although players were allowed to practice their skills on the Pitch, they had to do so under the supervision of both Madam Hooch and an Auror. The practice session had to be booked a week in advance, and from what Ginny had heard, most of the school's players could simply not be bothered.

Pansy Parkinson stepped out from behind the wall, loose strands of hair being whipped by the wind, and she visibly relaxed when she found the refuge of the windbreak, pushing down the hood of her powder blue cloak. "Weasley. Can I have a cigarette?"

Shrugging, Ginny passed it over to her and lit it once Pansy had it in her mouth. "Didn't know Muggle things would be your style, Parkinson."

Pansy puffed for a few moments before taking the cigarette out between two fingers. "It helps me keep thin, Ginny," she said, and stood there, beginning to bite her nails.

Ginny smoked on her own cigarette, almost feeling the nicotine rush through her body before she allowed herself to reply. She and Pansy Parkinson hadn't really talked since before Christmas, and even then it had been a strange, cryptic thing which Ginny hadn't completely understood. "So. I hear you slept with him then?"

Pansy looked her over with dull blue eyes, before slipping her wand - it looked like elm, but Ginny couldn't be sure - out from under her cloak, and muttered a charm before replacing her wand and returning to bite her fingernails. Her appearance was altered drastically, and Ginny soon cottoned on that the incantation was in fact one that removed a concealing charm. Now revealed for what it truly was, Pansy's skin was quite pale, and palid, her hair limp and frayed. There was what looked like abrasions across her knuckles and under Ginny's gaze, Pansy undid the fastenings of her cloak, and unbuttoned the collar of her blouse to reveal nasty bruises and bite marks along her neck, already turning purple.

The younger girl looked Pansy over, her cigarette drooping from between her lips as she puffed away, and shrugged while Pansy redid her blouse and cloak back up. Removing the cigarette from her lips, Ginny exhaled slowly. "I take it he isn't the most considerate of boyfriends then?"

There was a considerable pause. "I stop telling him no after it was clear it wasn't having any effect," Pansy stated in a voice that was too flat and too dull to be anything less than painful. "The first time we did it we were too drunk to worry about consent."

"You're not going to tell the teachers?"

"And say what? It's his word against mine. Besides, I am his girlfriend."

Ginny felt hopeless, even more than usual. For a moment she got a glimmer of what it must be like to be Harry, with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Then she realised Harry never had to cope with the wonderfully supportive situation that women were placed in on a daily basis. "They might use veristaserum."

"They might," Pansy agreed, shrugging. "Snape does like to think of himself as just. But then, if they use veritaserum, all sorts of things could come out, and Draco could end up suffering from a small case of being smothered to death with his pillow at night."

Ginny didn't think this was just another case of Slytherin pride gone wrong. "Care telling me what those things might be?"

"No."

"Alright."

"Since he broke up with Potter," Pansy said, teeth tearing at a nail, "it's like he's another person. He's either completely apathetic or the exact opposite. He'll snap at the smallest things, be vicious and mean and completely unpredictable-"

"Isn't that how Malfoy is normally?"

"Well, yes, but he usually then take several days telling us all how witty he is and we get some respite. It's even worse than it was when he and Potter were having their temporary snit. He's like a fucking cornered animal now; he doesn't care who he hurts or how badly because at least then he's not the only one hurting."

"Sounds like fun."

"At least the payback is worth it."

"Oh?" Ginny enquired, and smoked again.

"There's a rather complex Dark Arts charm that was used in the renaissance period to punish rapists and other sexual offenders. Once cast upon a person, everything seems normal." Pansy removed her fingers from her mouth long enough to speak and smirk, but that seemed the extent of her tolerance. "Until he or she begins to feel the pangs of sexual desire again. And then all they can think about is the sudden pain flowing through their body like ice. The sensations are most intense around the genitalia."

"You sound quite satisfied." Ginny's tone held the faint presence of condemnation. Typical Gryffindor, thought Pansy, always thinking of morality.

"I have every reason to be satisfied. It's a very complicated charm. Besides, your brothers' reputation as pranksters is legendary. Didn't you ever get revenge for a trick they played on you?"

"Well, yes." There was that time she ruined that cake that had been resting on the sideboard for dinner, and blamed the twins. Mum had been foaming at the mouth. "But that's different."

"How so? It's all revenge. Your sole point seems to be that you will refuse to condemn your own misbehaviours, but you're quite happy to condemn the misbehaviour of others."

"It's a question of extent, alright? Of scope. What I do generally doesn't physically hurt people."

"It just hurts them emotionally, is that it?"

This was not the way Ginny had ever expected the conversation to go. "No. Yes. Shut up!"

Pansy smirked.

"You look just like Malfoy when you do that," Ginny retorted, smiling far too nicely. The smirk was soon replaced with a scowl.

"And you Gryffindors are supposed to have consciences."

This time it was Ginny's turn to grimace. "I should really be going," said Pansy after a while. "I need to go back to my room and practice."

"Good luck with that," Ginny murmured after a pause of her own.

"Thank you." Pansy curled the cloak around her as tightly as she could, and put the hood back up.

"Pansy?" Pansy was a few steps away now, just about to step out into the wind again, and she stopped to angle her head to look back at the younger girl.

"You're not still in love with him, are you?"

There was a slight chuckle. "No. I stopped being in love with Draco Malfoy the moment I saw him with Harry. I knew I would never be able to make him that happy, you see. Goodbye, Ginny."

Ginny nodded in response, and Pansy slipped around the wall. A few minutes later, Ginny dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the heel of her shoe, before setting her shoulders against the wind and venturing out into it. She had a story to tell.

* * *

They were sitting in the common room, just as she thought they might. Harry somewhat awkwardly wedged between Hermione and Ron on the couch, with Seamus sitting on the couch arm next to Hermione and Dean standing upright next to him. Seamus and Dean seemed to be going out now, except of course they weren't. Ginny had asked them about it, after catching Dean squeeze Seamus' hand too many times, or Seamus run his fingers down Dean's spine while curled up in one of the common room's armchairs. They both denied it, but flickering glances at each other made Ginny realise something was going on, and so she pressed until Seamus finally stammered out that it was complicated. Complicated it certainly was, and incomprehensible, but it was also one of those things that Gryffindors didn't talk about much. A taboo subject that no-one would dare touch, lest it compel a similar examination of their own personal lives.

The five of them were engaged in what looked like a heated discussion, Harry at the centre. He was gesticulating very firmly, or as firmly as he could, what with his two best friends in the way. Ginny managed to catch a snatch of it as she came closer, and her heart sank.

"I'm telling you, its impossible!" Harry was saying, all elbows and open palms slashing through the air. "He's gay. Gayer than gay. One hundred percent homosexual."

Hermione gently reached out and placed her hand on his wrist. "Harry, normally I'd agree with you. But Baddock and Pritchard caught Pansy, naked in his room this morning. Pritchard told Cauldwell who told McDonald and that's how we know about it." After a few moments, Harry wrenched his wrist free and settled both hands in his lap. Hermione leaned back against the couch with a sigh.

"Look," Harry grumbled, "he makes me look completely straight. There's no chance this could be real."

"It is, Harry," Ginny said softly, and they all turned to look at her. She didn't want to be the one to tell him, but he had to be told. Making her way around Dean, she crouched down in front of Harry, the fabric of her skirt bunching up on the carpeted floor. "I'm sorry. I just talked to Pansy."

"Well," Harry murmured, and they could all see the adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat, the effort in his face as he staved off his tears. "It's good to know he's happy. I mean, it wasn't just an accident, was it?" His voice trailed up on the question, querulous and shaky.

Ginny closed her eyes, took a deep breath and reopened them, looking up at the first person she'd ever fallen for. The boy whose heart she was now breaking, very deliberately. She knew it was to save him from future heartbreak, but that didn't make it any better. "It happened twice, Harry. Last night and this morning far as I can make out."

"Oh." Hermione grabbed Harry's hand, lacing fingers together and squeezed gently in a show of support. The forced smile he gave her didn't fool anyone, and quickly let go and stood up from the couch. "I think I might go up to the dorm now."

"You're sure you don't want to stay down here with us?" Ron asked. "We miss you, Harry."

"Can't I be alone for once?" Harry wondered aloud, stepping over Ginny to stand apart from them all. "Can't I be allowed to feel sad for myself just this once?"

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Ron glared at her, and she subsided. "Sure you can, Harry," he said, and reached up to gently pat Harry's lower back. "Sure you can." Everyone muttered their agreement, and so Harry trooped on up to the dorms, shoulders slumped.

* * *

From Azkaban to Miami, cells were largely the same. As long as they kept one inside and provided you with absolutely no distraction from boredom or apprehension they were quite functional. In Azkaban the cells were painted a dusty brown-beige that Sirius had grown to loathe. In Miami, the bars were metallic black and the walls a dark grey-blue. It was hardly a happy colour scheme, but then Sirius had never been one for pastels. At least he received three meals a day, and there weren't any Dementors. Despite the occasional roughing up on the way to interrogation, and the emotional tricks they employed in order to get him to confess, Sirius preferred Miami hands down.

Currently, he was being held on remand while a trial date was set. A member of the British consulate had stopped by merely to tell Sirius that they could do nothing under the current circumstances, and aided him in getting a lawyer from the Legal Aid service, a small, seemingly terrified young woman who seemed perpetually out of her depth, and fumbled her way through the bail hearing. Apparently the prosecution's case was water tight, thanks to the presence of a number of documents that Sirius knew couldn't have existed before. One was supposed to be a receipt for the gun that had killed both Mandich and Rachel, and made out in his name. Another was the sworn statement of Cameron Matheson to Sirius' ownership of the said weapon, and how Rachel had trained Sirius in its use. Sirius had no idea why Matheson was lying, and framing him, but he had other matters to worry about. Such as the death penalty. Even that however, failed to distract him from his apathy.

But for the moment, life was bland, and tolerable. The consulate official was able to relay messages between himself and Remus, and once he'd even been allowed to phone him under strict supervision. Remus had ended up crying on the phone after hearing Sirius' dull tone in answer one too many times. The guards removed all sharp objects after they'd discovered him cutting himself, and he couldn't take his frustrations on anyone else. He grew steadily withdrawn and more and more detached from reality, preferring to retreat into the abyss of his own mind. He'd stopped keeping track of what day it was some time ago and if asked, he wouldn't have been able to guess with any reliability. It looked as if Sirius had completely given up hope, and was merely marking time waiting for death.

A small part of him still clung to the prospect of freedom, just as he had in Azkaban, and in the meantime he did what he could to survive without going any more insane than he figured he already was.

On the cement floor of the cell by his bunk was the tray containing the leftovers from his lunch, now gone cold. He could still smelt the spiciness of the chicken in the air, somewhat surprised that the food was more than merely edible. The bunk wasn't too bad either, and the light blue-striped linen was changed every few days. It was like being in a hotel, Sirius mused, except you never got to check out. He was surprised that they hadn't taken the lunch tray away, but then they might have realised that his tendencies towards self-harm were never life threatening, but rather about inflicting pain upon himself. Maybe they didn't care anymore. Maybe they'd given up. A mediwizard had visited in the first few days of his remand, and discussed all sorts of charms and potions that could be used to stabilise his fraught emotions, but Sirius had politely refused treatment, and the mediwizard had left.

Now, though, Sirius could hear approaching footsteps echoing on down the narrow corridor, and he turned onto his side, before sitting up completely, now curious. There were two sets of footsteps, not the usual one that came to collect his lunch. Hands curled over the edge of the bunk, Sirius raised his eyes off the floor to see who now stood in front of his cell, watching him like some kind of freak exhibit. One was one of the guards on duty here, but the other was certainly unexpected. Sirius couldn't help but growl deep in his throat at the sight.

"Think you'll be alright?" asked the guard. "He doesn't seem to like you."

"I can't think why," Peter Pettigrew mused. "We did go to school together. Leave us, won't you? I'd like to speak to him in private."

The guard shrugged and checked that the cell was locked before walking away. The moment he was out of sight, Sirius launched himself off the bed at the bars of the cell, hitting them with a grunt, arm outstretched to angle through and throttle Wormtail where he stood. Peter stepped nimbly back in time, leaving empty air between Sirius' fingers.

"Come now, Black," he spat out. "You try killing a visitor, they'll shoot you where you stand."

"And what makes me think that wouldn't make you very happy?"

"Nothing. I'd be delighted to see you get what you deserve. But the timing isn't right. Far more demoralising to the people back home if you die a legally sanctioned death, condemned as a murderer."

"Was this your doing?" Sirius snarled, rattling at the bars.

"No, not at all. I was going to have you killed, but this turn of events means I don't have to get my hands dirty."

"Oh, and Merlin forbid you do that. It's funny, I seem to remember you getting your hands very dirty in betraying James and Lily."

Peter's face went completely blank. "Shut up, Black."

"I never quite worked out why you did it, Wormtail. Maybe Lily rejected you one time, or James. Maybe you hated them simply because you couldn't get any."

"They took me for granted," Peter hissed back, stepping forward. "You all took me for granted. Poor Peter who couldn't get a date and needed to be helped in all his studies. That somehow I should be happy or grateful that you golden people had taken me under your wing. Well, it doesn't work like that. I loathed you because none of you realised what it was like to not be you."

Sirius grunted, and shook his head from side to side, long back hair brushing over his shoulders. "You sad, pathetic little rat." He stepped as close as he could to the bars, and spat in Peter's face. Peter shook with fury, raising a hand to wipe it off and flick it onto the cement floor before stepping even closer. Which gave Sirius ample opportunity to flash out with an arm and grab Peter's tie, yanking him towards the bars of the cell and once he got a hold on Peter's neck, he started squeezing, throttling the other man. Peter was already shouting for the guards, and they quickly ran down the corridor like a flood, trying to haul Peter back. When that was unsuccessful they opened up the cell and assaulted Sirius as one, lashing out with batons and fists and feet, anything that would make him give up his hold. Finally they managed to pry his fingers away, and Sirius slumped to the ground under the force of the beating before having his hands cuffed behind his back.

Peter was taken off amongst a swathe of guards for medical attention, screaming at the top of his voice as he left. "You're going to be dead, Black! Dead! And next up is your little family."

Bruised and battered, and now under the watchful eye of two guards, Sirius allowed himself to break down and weep.

* * *

"Stalking me is getting so tedious, Weasley."

Ron stopped breathing for the next few seconds, flat against the wall. He'd seen Malfoy turning left into the adjoining corridor, and had been following him for a while after the final class for the day, determined to get some kind of revenge for Harry. There was no more noise, so Ron inched slowly up to the junction and peered around the wall - only to come face to face with Draco Malfoy.

"Bugger." The word was out of his lips before he knew it, and Draco smirked in return. Realising there was nothing left to hide, Ron stepped away from the wall and faced him.

"You'll have to look somewhere else for that sort of action, Weasley. Maybe Potter? He's into boys if you want to play."

"There's only one boy Harry's ever been interested in, you turd, and that's you," Ron almost shouted, eyes flashing and he regretted it the moment he said it.

"Jealous? That makes sense. The way you worship him I'd expect you to have your mouth around his cock by now, but I guess his standards are higher. Such a shame."

Ron's entire body trembled with anger. The way Malfoy was going he'd end up a pancake against the wall at this rate. Of course, Harry wouldn't like that, and so Ron regretfully shunted his rage to one side. "He's worth ten of you, Malfoy."

Draco went all cold and blazing at that, stepping forward to get in Ron's face, lips curled into an expression of disgust. "Really, Weasley?" he asked, so very quiet. "Is that what you think? Do you know what he did to me? He used me."

Ron didn't see what the bloody problem was. "He was trying to save your life, you fucking idiot!" he yelled back, arms waving wildly, his face beginning to turn as red as his hair. At Draco's continuing grimace, his control broke and he lashed out, slamming Draco back against the wall. "I don't know why, but he thought you were worth the effort. Doesn't that tell you anything, or are you too stupid to realise? Despite the fact you make his life hell, he wanted to keep you safe. I dunno, maybe the gang of three was right. Maybe he's been in love with you for years and not realised it. After all, you hate everything he stands for and you had the hugest crush I've ever seen." He was of course, lying through his teeth. He'd never recognised Malfoy's feelings for Harry, and still didn't completely believe in them, but everyone else claimed they were obvious, and besides, Harry was hurting as a result of the break up, and if there was even a chance that Malfoy had fancied Harry, Ron had to take it. If only to make Harry happy again. Ron certainly hadn't managed to get Harry to see sense, so he supposed Harry's delusions had to be indulged.

"He's a Gryffindor, Weasley. He's Harry Potter. He doesn't do that sort of thing."

Ron laughed right in his face. "Merlin, Malfoy, you are stupid. Harry's just as capable of making the same fucking mistakes you are, so if you'll admit you hated and loved him at the same time, why won't you give him the same benefit of the doubt?"

Draco shoved him off, huffing and smoothed down his robes. "Because I can't," he stated stiffly, and blanched slightly when Ron glared in response.

"Listen," Ron murmured, changing tack, and attempted to be something resembling sympathetic to someone he couldn't stand. "Harry hardly talks to anyone now. He's depressed and lonely and he misses you. I had the one thing I always wanted and I fucked it up. You had the one thing you always wanted, and you fucked it up. But he'll take you back. If you let him." Having said his piece, Ron turned and began walking down the corridor.

"Weasley," Draco called out softly, and Ron turned, watching as the Slytherin's face course with all kinds of emotions. "I don't- I can't be that weak. Not for anyone. Especially not him."

"Whatever," Ron told him tiredly, and walked away. He was sick of excuses and explanations and the whole drama. Draco Malfoy could go hang for all he cared.

* * *

"You wanted me, Professor?"

Dumbledore looked up from the scroll he was reading. "Yes, Harry. Please, sit down."

Harry sat and tried not to fidget. Dumbledore's office always seemed somewhat alien to him, somewhat cold. Just a little too imposing. Despite all the books and the objects and desk and Fawkes and Dumbledore himself it was imperceptibly, unalterably other. "What did you want to see me about?"

The Headmaster sighed and set his glasses down, rubbing his eyes briefly before putting them back on. Harry tried not to stare. He'd never really seen Dumbledore tired; no matter his age, he always appeared energetic. "What did you want to see me for?" he asked, after a pause.

"The Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore told him, his eyes twinkling sadly. "Our numbers dwindled after the battles of last year, and we are so very few. I had hopes of inducting some of your fellows - including one Draco Malfoy, Harry - into our ranks, but events have led me to believe that such an expansion would be risky. I am no longer certain of who to trust, beyond those I have already trusted. With Sirius in America, his mission unsuccessful, it appears that we are limited to what we currently are."

"But the Ministry's accepted that Voldemort is back, haven't they? The moment they proclaim it publicly, we have the Aurors on our side." Harry responded, confused, and not entirely sure he wanted an answer.

"We do, Harry, but the Aurors have grown somewhat indolent over the past decade and a half of peace, and they may contain double agents, reducing their usefulness. When the War comes, we may have to stand alone."

Harry felt and sounded very small. "What does that have to do with me?"

"In my mind," Dumbledore told him, hands clasped on the desk, "I have records of every Order member, and how to contact them. In addition, I also know where supplies and artefacts have been hidden across the United Kingdom specifically for our use. If anything should happen to me, this information would be lost, and the Order would lose part of its edge."

"But nothing's going to happen to you, Professor." Harry said it slowly, as if he wanted to force himself to believe it, and Dumbledore smiled softly in return.

"I thank you for your confidence, Harry, but with the deaths of Hagrid, and Professors Trelawney and Sprout we can safe that Hogwarts is no longer entirely safe. As a result, I must look out for the future of the Order. If I fall, who is to guard its secrets so they can be used wisely?"

Harry realised exactly why he'd been summoned. "You mean me, don't you? You want me to learn everything about the Order so I can be its new leader." He felt like arguing in return, but knew it was futile. He didn't want the weight of the world upon his shoulders, but it seemed as if the world had decided long ago that Harry Potter would never get what he wanted.

There was a faint nod, and Dumbledore pulled open his top drawer and took out his wand. "There is a charm that will allow me to transfer the knowledge directly from my mind to yours, Harry, but you must trust me for it to work. Do you trust me, Harry?"

"Of course I do, Professor Dumbledore!" That earned him another sad smile. Reaching across the desk, Dumbledore gently pressed his fingers to Harry's temple, and muttered something under his breath.

Immediately, Harry went upright in his seat. An eon might have passed, or a second, as his brain flooded with new knowledge, almost too much to cope with. It settled into his mind as if it had always been there, and Harry gave another start when Dumbledore broke the contact.

"Please review it when you have time," he rumbled softly, and put his wand back inside the drawer. "In addition, I have taught you the theory behind the charm that allows knowledge transference. Can you find it in your mind?"

Harry briefly scanned over the new information that didn't feel as if it was new, and blinked when he found the charm. Hermione might have known what it was derived from or related to, but he wasn't Hermione. "Yes," he mused, lost in thought and bit his lip. "But it doesn't seem like any other charm I've learnt."

"That's because it's in Old Welsh," Dumbledore informed him kindly, "and not the Latinate school of magic we learn at Hogwarts. With it you can transfer anything you know to anyone else, but be careful. Trust your confidants wisely."

Harry nodded. It was almost too much to think about. "I will, Professor."

"And now you have demonstrated your trust, it is no longer needed. Finally I can give my confession." He paused for a sigh, and leant back in his chair. "Harry, forgive me, for I have sinned."

As the night wore on and the torches burnt low, Dumbledore told Harry how he introduced his father to Lucius Malfoy, how he had known of Peter's links to the Death Eaters and failed to warn anyone, how he had let Peter be appointed the Potter's Secret Keeper, and condemned Lily and James to death and Sirius to Azkaban, how he had known of the attack on the school, and not warned anyone, and many other things.

It was a long confession.

* * *

It always grated, just a bit. Wizards generally used paintbrushes that you merely had to tell them which colour to paint and they would change to that colour, or paper that would erase any mistakes, or easels that would give you lessons in art history as you worked. It was all very easy. No wonder art wasn't part of the Hogwarts' curriculum. It was a hobby at best, and a self indulgent one at that. Most of the other witches and wizards at school who had any skill would scoff when his drawings didn't animate themselves at command, or reinterpret themselves in a cubist or pre-Raphaelite style.

But Dean persevered, because he liked doing things the Muggle way. Because art was the only thing he could do the Muggle way now, really, and it reminded him of home, and family, and the fact he was probably going back there when all this was over. However, Muggle artist supplies were available from a very exclusive (and expensive) store off Diagon Alley, for those wizard artists who liked to present work completed in 'the Muggle style'. Dean had seen it, the time he'd visited the National Gallery of Magical Art. Lots of distended figures and swirls of colour, and lots of art critics applauding the courage of the artists in attempting to duplicate the 'primitive courage' of Muggle art. Dean had felt quietly sick and left the exhibition.

Sadly, Dean wasn't exactly allowed to go on shopping trips to Diagon Alley, and besides, he couldn't pay for it if he was. He couldn't look to his family to keep him in art supplies either, as his mother spent most of her time extolling the virtues of studying Medicine or Architecture in her letters. They had apparently sorted it out with the Ministry; Dean was tutored during the summer break at home in what he would have learnt had he gone to a comprehensive, and as Hogwarts finished in the year he turned seventeen, he could go back to the Muggle world and do his A-levels. Of course, that left the question of what to do with Seamus...

In the meantime he was left checking out the more shady businesses in Hogsmeade. There was a thriving black market in Muggle products and Muggle knowledge that the Ministry didn't seem to know about, or care to know about, and on store in particular carried all the paintbrushes and watercolours and chalks that Dean could ever want - even if they were a bit battered. His Dad would have said they looked as if they fell off the back of a lorry, but Dean's father was far away in West Ham.

Dean loaded himself up with everything he could possibly need until the end of the year, made his way up to the counter and paid, wincing slightly at the lightness of his money purse once he returned it to his pocket. He made his way out into the afternoon light, carefully stepping down the stairs so that the packages he was laden with didn't cause him to stumble or fall.

"Dean?"

Starting at the voice behind him, Dean turned around to see Lavender Brown looking at him a few steps away. "Oh, hello, Lavender."

She moved closer, smiling coquettishly, her hands clasped behind her back. "Want some help with your shopping, Dean?"

Dean cleared his throat, growing uncomfortable and wondered if it was strictly good etiquette to dump his parcels, scream and run in the opposite direction. He decided not. "Uh, no. You'd have to follow me round for the rest of the day, Lav, and that's hardly fair."

"Oh, I don't know," Lavender murmured, and trailed a finger down his upper right arm. "I was hoping I might bump into you. We could spend the rest of the day together, like I said."

"Ah, well," Dean stammered, and screaming like a girly boy was looking ever so appealing right now, "you see, I'm not exactly, well, free, although that is to say I'm not free at all, you see, I'm actually seeing someone, and I care for him, very deeply, so."

Lavender's mouth compressed into a hard line, and her hand fell to rest by her side as she took a moment to inhale and exhale deeply. "He?"

"Seamus," Dean said, quite glad she hadn't thwacked him. Of course, he knew very well they weren't actually boyfriends, even if they did fancy the pants off each other, and they got on well, and they did make a good couple apart from the small fact of not being a couple because things were complicated. Telling Lavender though had probably made them actual boyfriends (as opposed to not boyfriends) which implied responsibility and consideration and lots of other things beyond affection or desire. It certainly meant that if Dean went back to the Muggle world at the end of Seventh Year and they were still together, he'd break Seamus' heart. He filed it away as something to think about later. Right now there was Lavender to deal with.

"Of course," she said, barely disguising the contempt in her voice. "Seamus. I should have known. Everyone seems to pair up around me, Dean. In nice predictable little groupings. You noticed that? Harry and Malfoy, Ron and Hermione, you and Seamus. But then, we should look at how Harry and Malfoy worked out. Or Ron and Hermione." She took a few steps further to pat him on the shoulder, hand moving to allow her fingers to brush gently against his neck as she walked off. "Hope you don't become another statistic."

* * *

Later that evening, Ron trooped into the Gryffindor common room and cursing softly to himself, he attempted to scuff his muddy shoes on the mat in front of the portrait hole. In the flickering light from the fire, he became aware of another person sitting on an armchair, watching him with an even, calm expression.

It was her, of course. Book folded in her lap, chin propped up on a hand as she looked him over, elbow resting on an arm of the chair. What probably got to Ron the most was the lack of emotion in her face. Even managing to inspire her contempt or her anger would have been preferable to this blankness because at least that meant he was important enough to her for her to feel something.

His shoes didn't seem to be getting any cleaner, so he snarled to himself silently and pushed them off one by one. "If you want to gloat, you don't need to. Today was bad enough."

"I haven't come to gloat, Ron," Hermione said softly. "I hadn't actually heard about your date; I was hoping you could tell me it had gone well."

"It didn't," Ron shot back. He breathed deeply, and turned, leaning back against the wall. "It just didn't."

"Why?"

Ron rubbed his forehead with a cuff and sighed. "Well, I thought it was you know, supposed to be something special. A date. Except she was waiting with all her friends. Including Catherine Henshaw, and that was fucking awkward. They spent most of the afternoon shopping and giggling; I could barely get a word in edgeways. And Susan kept me at the front, arm in arm. I felt like some kind of display."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Ron told her with a grumpy half-grin, and stood upright off the wall, turning to walk towards the boys' dorms.

"Maybe it is," Hermione whispered, and Ron's shoulders flinched as he turned to face her.

"What did you say?"

"Maybe it is my fault. I mean, Ron, I love you. I love you, even if sometimes I can't stand to be in the same room as you, and I'm just sorry that we couldn't work things out. I've had a stupid crush on you since third year and I just imagined everything would be perfect and it wasn't and I didn't know how to deal with that."

"You didn't?" Ron asked, repeating, as if in some kind of daze.

"No, I didn't. And now it's too late, you know? We both know it'll never work, no matter what we feel."

"Oh." Ron looked down at his feet, and felt very small. "I love you too," he said after a long pause.

Hermione got up off her chair, leaving the book splayed across the arm, and stood behind him, reaching over to gently rest her hand on his shoulder. He flinched, slightly, and his eyes were wide when she turned him round. "I can't give you forever, Ron, I can't even give you a week. But the way things are going we could die tomorrow, so I want to give you tonight."

"You want to give me...tonight?"

Hermione brushed her lips across his cheek. "I want make love to you, Ron."

"Oh." Ron seemed completely stunned, before realisation hit. "Oh!" He bit his lower lip, leaning in, and their lips met in an awkward kiss. One of his hands tangled in her hair, fingers pressing against the scalp a bit roughly, and she moved closer, leaning into Ron's gawky body.

A few moments later they parted, and Hermione let her fingers trail down to curl around his wrist, and gently pulled him forward as she walked back, leading him towards the dorms.

* * *

Amongst the darkness, colours bloomed. A crazy kaleidoscope of shades and pigments, colouring into one another in an uncontrollable fashion, swamping the darkness until there was only colour. In that haze, patterns walked. They seemed to mutate and change at a moment's notice, swirling and expanding and diminishing all at once. One particular conglomeration of colours assumed a static form, shimmering until it stabilised, now resembling someone who had once called himself Tom Riddle.

It was not his name, or his form to appropriate, but it suited what might be called his vanity, if it could be said that he still possessed human emotions. Even the gender designation 'he' was technically inaccurate, but he kept the affectation.

"We are being betrayed," he said, and the colours shook around him. "We are being betrayed," he repeated, softly, and the colours surged with anger. "Voldemort is not turning to out to be the hope we planned. He has his own motivations, his own game to play. He is no son of Chaos. But we are a part of him, and we know him better than he knows himself. He won't be able to resist the trap, not at all."

In a flash, the colours quivered and dispersed, leaving darkness behind. The Power walked on through a sea of black, before fading from view.

* * *

"Are you busy, my dear?"

Narcissa set her quill down and turned to look at her husband. "Just going through some accounts. Do you need me for anything?"

"Always," Lucius purred, and Narcissa narrowed her eyes.

"Forgive me for finding your affection somewhat suspicious."

"Not at all. But considering recent events, there seems to be no need for our typical hostility. Besides, I can hardly make fun of your sobriety."

"What do you want, Lucius?"

Lucius leaned in and whispered it into her ear. Her eyes widened in shock.

"You can't be serious!"

"I assure you, I am," Lucius murmured, and picked some lint from his robes.

"Are you mad?"

"Quite. It's actually an advantage in this particular situation."

* * *

The Higgs boy was collecting the groceries, so Voldemort had little to do except skulk about the small apartment, and flick through the channel on the television. Currently, he was fussing over a cup of tea. He could remember exactly the way it used to taste and smell, the way the hot liquid surged through his body. Now, beyond mortal ken, his sense didn't quite work in the same way, if at all, and so the actuality of what he remembered as tea was lost to him. But he could remember the way he used to make it, and he made it that way still, being a perfectionist. In part, he supposed he was yearning for the memory of that taste to become real again, if only he could get the tea perfect. But he never did. Godhood had its price.

There was a murmur, and Voldemort whirled, half expecting some curious Muggle to be standing in the kitchen doorway. There was no-one there. Muttering, he turned back to his tea, stirring the spoon slowly, scraping against the bottom of the ceramic mug. The murmur sounded again, like a furious whisper in the silent room.

Voldemort very calmly put down the spoon and decided to kill whoever was causing it. It certainly wasn't the Malfoy boy, that was for sure. Draco's stray feelings and thoughts might creep across his mind from time to time as the day came closer, but he could recognise that particular mental voice in a flash. He ventured out into the darkened living room, and it spoke again.

He suddenly realised. It was the Mirror. Speaking to him in tongues long forgotten, or ones which had never existed. He surged forward, adrenaline filling his ancient frame, bones old beyond their time, and ripped the fabric from the mirror, letting the reflective surface glimmer in the half light, and watched as it showed him his deepest desire.

Some time later, Higgs arrived, laden with parcels, and Voldemort was still rapt in the vision.

"Don't just stand there, fool," he shouted when he finally noticed the young man looking at him oddly. "We have work to do. I have orders that must be obeyed."

* * *

No matter what your game is, Malfoy, you're still going to end up dead.

Draco crumpled up the piece of parchment that had been slipped under his door, and went in search of Blaise. Really, these rather badly phrased threats were getting monotonous if not altogether boring, and after what he'd gone through to have them stopped, Draco certainly would have appreciated a quicker response time to his little charade. He hadn't been in a brilliant mood since Pansy had attempted that charm on him - admittedly, it was a rather successful attempt, and he hadn't left his dorm the next day, Sunday, due to the occasional burst of agony. Pansy had taken it off after bringing him dinner, and Draco hadn't touched her since.

He found Blaise soon enough, chatting up some seventh year as if he ever had a chance, and stepped between him and the older girl. "Excuse us."

She quickly took the hint and left; besides, she didn't seem much interested in Blaise apart from the sheer amusement factor. "Oh, I nearly scored with her!" Blaise began, but whatever else he was going to say was quickly knocked out of him what with Draco grabbed his robes and shoving him hard up against the wall.

"I got another death threat today, Blaise, I thought you were in control of these people."

"I am," Blaise squeaked. "But you know, some of them still don't like you Draco, no matter what you or I or Pansy say, and I can't stop them from thinking!"

Draco let the breath he was holding rasp out in a soft growl, and dropped Blaise back to the floor, stepping back and brushing his hands together, as Blaise was a stain he could easily be rid of. "You're useless, Zabini. Give me names. Who were in charge of these to begin with?"

"Millicent. I asked Millicent to do the death threats. She said she'd know just what would rattle you."

"Right," murmured Draco and stormed off.

After her absence was noted at dinner, Pansy Parkinson finally found Millicent Bulstrode huddled, crying inside the second floor girls' lavatories. Her entire body had been hexed so that her school robes were covered in incandescent glow in the dark splotches, large and irregularly shaped. Her hair was spiked up, with streaks of rabid lime green and purple and her skin was a strange pasty olive tint.

Madam Pomfrey assured her that the hexes would wear off after a few days; it was after all, nothing more than a childish prank, but Millicent refused to tell any of the staff - or her friends - who the perpetrator was.