playing the game, living the lie

chapter 17: a room at the heartbreak hotel.

[date: 20 May - 2 June.]

[20 May]

The Owlery was full of the soft flutter of wings. Lavender Brown padded quietly into the huge expanse, an envelope in one hand. She waited for a few moments a school owl, nondescript brown flecked with grey, swooped down to rest on an outstretched arm. She patted the feathers trailing down to its beak, calming the owl, and attached the envelope to its collar. Murmuring instructions, she moved over to one of the windows that lined the Owlery wall, opened it, and gave the owl a little push, watching silently as it flapped its wings and took off for a destination unknown. She closed the window, removed her hand from the wrought iron handle, dusted it off with her handkerchief, and left the Owlery.

This took all of about two minutes.

* * *

[24 May]

"He's been released on a technicality. Thank Merlin for the American justice system."

Remus was anxiously stuffing clothes into a large suitcase while Harry watched on.

"Does that mean he's coming home?"

Remus' face fell, and he turned from the bag to look wildly about the room, fingers running through his hair. "Ah!" he murmured, grabbing a small carry bag from a nearby chair and made room for it inside the suitcase. "No, it doesn't, Harry," he continued, picking up the thread of conversation as he rummaged through his drawers to pile even more items of clothing and things to pack on the bed. "I talked with him, and the stubborn bastard insists on continue through as planned. Once he gets an idea in his head it's virtually impossible to dislodge."

Harry stood there, feeling everything slip away from him. "Won't Professor Dumbledore-"

"Dumbledore sits and says we must all be free to make our own choice," Remus grumbled. "Which is his way of saying he won't do bugger all." He began sorting out the clothing into separate piles, arranging things into some order that Harry couldn't quite understand.

"You're going after him, aren't you?"

With a sigh Remus sank down on the bed, turning to face Harry, and he patted the empty space besides him. Harry obediently trotted over and sat down next to Remus, leaning into the man's body as Remus' arm loosely rested against his shoulders. "I have to, Harry. I promised myself that I wouldn't lose him again, and he's got no-one to look after him. Except me."

There was a long pause before Harry asked, quite softly, "Why does everyone always leave me?"

Remus hugged him closer and kissed his hair. "It's not a question of leaving, Harry. Trust me, it's not."

"Then why do you have to go?" Harry asked, knowing he was being petulant.

"To bring Sirius back."

"And he had to go on this mission and look what happened to him!" Harry burst out, wriggling from under Remus' grasp and staggered a few steps away, to turn on the older man. "When does it stop, Professor? When does someone actually put me first for once? I thought Draco did, but-" He stopped himself with a snort. "The whole school knows how that turned out."

"If you don't want me to, I'll stay here. I talked to Dumbledore and he's alright with it. Minerva and Severus can share my classes, and I owled the Weasleys. You can stay there for summer if Sirius hasn't finished his task yet. But I will stay. If you need me."

Harry shook his head slowly. "I do need you, but...Sirius needs you more, right? I'll be fine, I'm sure. There haven't been any more attacks on the school, and Snape's told us there won't be, as far as he knows. So. I'll be alright. I should probably let you pack."

"Harry!" But before Remus could really say anything, Harry was out the door. Remus sighed, and sank onto the bed for a moment's reflection before busily continuing to pack.

* * *

[26 May]

If Remus had the time to reflect, it probably would have awed him. The sheer scale of Muggledom was always somewhat disturbing, and no matter how many times he got used to it, some new sight would always astound him. The flight over the Atlantic had been surprisingly comfortable, and then he'd gotten out of the plane at J.F.K airport, and was currently making his way through corridors of steel and plastic to the transfer lounge. The announcement before landing told him to wait there, and so once he reached the lounge, Remus eased himself into a padded seat, settling his small duffel bag defensively over his knees. Unlike Sirius, he'd insisted on no ceremony upon leaving Hogwarts and had basically departed as soon as he could, saying no goodbyes.

A waitress approached him, and told him that there would be a brief delay and would he like a drink in the meantime? Remus took a quick look around him. Everyone else around him certainly seemed perfectly fine with settling back and relaxing, so Remus ordered a scotch, and picked up a copy of a Muggle paper from the nearby coffee table.

"I think you'll find page fourteen interesting," murmured the man beside him from behind his own copy of the New York Times. Remus shrugged, giving him a vaguely amused look before turning to page fourteen.

He blinked. Up in the left hand corner was a small photograph of Sirius looking surly (as if he ever looked like anything else, Remus thought fondly), and there was accompanying text explaining his release thanks to a technicality. The police chief carefully explained that this did not mean Mr. Black was innocent, but merely that the burden of proof could not be sustained under the legal system. Remus felt like crumpling the paper into a shredded little ball. He could feel his rage rising. Thankfully he'd gone through the transformation the previous weekend, and hopefully finishing off Sirius' little jaunt would not take too long.

Or so Remus hoped. The man next to him used a finger to push back the corner of the paper, and looked across at Remus out of the corner of his eyes. Remus looked back. "How did you know?"

"You are Remus Lupin, aren't you?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

The man smiled and put down his paper. Remus could see thin ginger hair, and a receding hairline belied his otherwise youthful appearance. "The how and the why isn't important. What is important is that you're currently on your way to Los Angeles, where two old friends await."

"Two?!" Remus turned in his chair, startled beyond belief at the sheer gall of the man.

"Your husband. Sirius Black. And an old schoolmate. Peter Pettigrew."

The change in Remus' demeanour was shocking. His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring and he snarled. "Peter is there?"

"He's planning on killing your husband, I'd say, as the police let Black go. But I can tell you where he's staying. And you can do what you want with him."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I can." There was a pause in the conversation as the waitress arrived back with the Scotch and Remus took it, sipping and barely noticing the drink.

"Forgive me if I don't find that too convincing." There was a strong vein of sarcasm in Remus' tone and he sipped at his drink again.

"Oh, not at all. But it can't hurt to check things out, surely?" The man slid a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. Remus absently noted that the suit looked immaculate before he took the paper. There was what resembled a hotel name and room number. "This is where he's staying then?"

"Oh, yes," the man replied. "The rat has gone to ground in that cage."

Remus bit down on his lower lip, musing. He supposed it couldn't hurt to find out for himself - and slipped the paper into his own pocket. "Can you give me anything more to prove the honesty of your information?"

"Well," the man murmured, leaning forward to whisper in Remus' ear. The paper rustled on his lap. "If we keep this as quiet as possible, I could tell you my name."

"Please do." There were times, Remus reflected, that he felt his life had fallen down a rabbit hole. Which wasn't so bad, until he discovered just how deep the rabbit hole was.

"Matheson. Cameron Matheson. Your husband knows me."

The name was familiar, but couldn't quite place it. Suddenly, the waitress was in front of him, telling him that the plane to L.A. was now boarding. Irritated by the interruption, he told her he'd be along in a moment, and eased himself out of the chair. Stepping off in the direction of the correct gate, Remus turned to find Matheson idly folding his paper.

"You aren't coming on the flight?"

"Goodness me no, Mr. Lupin. All I came here to do was let you know." He laid the folded paper down on the seat, placed the fedora hat that had been resting on the seat next to him on his head, giving it a little tug in respect to Remus and went on his way.

What a peculiar man, Remus thought to himself, and shuffled off towards the gate, duffel bag in his hand.

* * *

[26 May]

Pansy sighed. For all the potential danger and adrenaline this particular task could have enthused in her, the reality of it was rather boring. It was all so simple. Get Blaise alone in her room: hardly a big ask. Get him drunk. Again, hardly a large ask. Distract him with her bosom that personally she would have preferred to be fuller and less resembling a wall, but Blaise would generally grope anything that was breathing.

It was possible he would grope things that were not, but Pansy had no wish to explore his necrophiliac tendencies. It was bad enough that he had one hand down her blouse and the other running along the inside of her leg.

"More champagne?" she asked, forcing a bubbleheaded giggle and refilled his glass before he say anything. In response he ran his hand further under her skirt.

"Ooooh, Blaise," she moaned, arching her head back and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. It was all so surprisingly easy to fake arousal for men. Presumably because they had no idea what female sexuality would actually be like. In some ways what she was now doing revolted her both more and less than the incident with Draco (she refused to think of it as a rape). More because she undertook she acts willingly; any taint upon her by Blaise's particular brand of revulsion were her own fault. And less, for the same reasons. At least this time she was in control, and could be faulted.

"So," she murmured, and writhed appropriately as he kissed along her neck, lounging back further against the pillows on her bed. "Tell me how you planned all this out. About Draco."

"Well, it wasn't hard, really. We just wanted to threaten him a bit."

There was an astonished gasp at that. "You mean you didn't actually want to kill him?"

Blaise paused; thinking never suited him at the best of times, in Pansy's opinion. "Only if he turned out to be truly on Potter's side. We can't have someone like that in Slytherin. Next thing he'd be reaching out to the Mudbloods."

Pansy giggled. "Pureblood, Mudblood. I never quite understood it, Blaise. Will you explain it to me?"

"I thought you had a better grip on things, Pansy," Blaise murmured, while still kissing her, and started to more openly fondle her breasts. Pansy stopped herself from grabbing something large and heavy off the bedside table and bludgeoning him over the head with it repeatedly.

"Well, I do, I know that the Mudbloods are horrible, stupid disgraces to wizarding society, but what exactly can we do, Blaise?"

Blaise finally removed his hand from her blouse, although his other hand was far too busy under her skirt for her liking. With his free hand he cupped her cheek, and gazed into her eyes, his own slightly bloodshot and glazed from the drinking. "We can kill them," he slurred triumphantly. "Or at least drive them off. Voldemort's coming back Pansy, we've all heard that from our parents. And I plan on being on the winning side. We can work here, under Dumbledore's very nose, and the old coot won't having a fucking idea what hit him."

"Is that what you planned to do to Draco?" Pansy asked, her gaze suddenly very narrow and brought the champagne bottle up to his mouth. He drank willingly, the alcohol slipping down his face to stain his robes.

"Draco? I mean, he's always acted as if he's in fucking control. He just doesn't get how many people hate him."

He kissed her then, clumsily and hard, and Pansy's fingers slipped under her pillow to terminate the recording charm. Some things didn't need to be saved for posterity.

* * *

[27 May]

"Are you sure this is the place?" Remus hissed, and attempted to look nonchalantly through a pair of Omniculars they had hired at the hotel, as if they could somehow glimpse the rat in question through the shuttered windows. They had reunited a few hours after Remus' arrival in Los Angeles: Sirius had gone to the airport to meet him, and Remus had already left to locate Sirius' hotel. There had been some confusion, and a bit of virtually unbearable delay, but they had managed to find one another in the end, and promptly spent half the night making very good use of the hotel suite's double bed.

Sirius looked at the bit of paper and up again at the hotel. "According to your information. I still don't know why Matheson would tell you about it, but then I don't know why he had me framed."

"There's only one way we'll know," Remus figured, zipping open his bag and placing the Omniculars inside. It wouldn't do for them to get damaged - at least not with the deposit they'd paid. He stood up off the bench that dotted the sidewalk like many other benches, and turned to Sirius. "I have no idea how we'd get inside."

Sirius grinned, and pulled out his wand. "Nothing that two ex-Marauders and their magic can't handle, I'm sure. It's only a Muggle hotel, Remus love."

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, Remus checked for traffic, and jogged across the street, trying to keep up with him.

* * *

Grumbling to himself, Peter Pettigrew opened up the door of his hotel suite with his key. The Senator had, in the end, been less than helpful. Sirius Black had been released thanks to a legal technicality, due to the search which turned out to be illegal. The Senator's much vaunted influence with the F.B.I. had come to nothing, as they'd lost track of Black the moment he'd gotten to L.A. There was little more to do than sit and wait, and Wormtail didn't particularly fancy returning to Britain without having completed Voldemort's orders. He chucked his keys on the bed, and swung the door open, turning automatically to get a drink from the bar fridge.

There was something behind the door that there should not be. Peter automatically reached out with his silver hand, and grabbed Remus Lupin around the neck.

Remus screamed. Silver was always a bane of werewolves, and whether in human or wolf form it was the one thing guaranteed to kill them. He thrashed about impotently and tried to disentangle that grip, but that only brought his hands into contact with the flexible metallic substitute, and he pulled his hands away sharply, the skin blistered and red. His scream shuddered, changing into a muted howl, and yellow flashed in his eyes. The touch of silver was bringing the beast out into the light, burning it, forcing it to fight back.

Then two strong hands came from behind to grasp Peter's head and turn it sharply sideways, breaking his neck with a loud crack. Peter slumped immediately, letting go of Remus, who fell to the floor on his knees, drawing in heaving, tortured breaths through skin that was now red and raw with burns.

"Are you alright?" Sirius asked, and gripped Remus' shoulders gently.

Remus nodded, unable to speak, and Sirius quickly helped him up and bundled him out of the suite, stepping over the corpse and shutting the door behind as they left. It seemed so pointless, the waste, the hurt, the needless pain. Peter had been their friend; he had betrayed them and now he was dead.

And Remus didn't even know why.

* * *

[28 May]

School settled into a vaguely familiar pattern, seemingly free from threats of attack or death. Harry, Ron, and Hermione talked, and chatted and studied together, and if Harry noticed a certain thaw in relationships between the other two, a certain wistful regret, he certainly didn't mention it. Harry knew far better than to get entangled in his friends' emotions. His own were far too complicated to deal with.

"Ron, have you seen my robe?" he asked absently one Wednesday afternoon before dinner.

"Why would I have seen your robe?" Ron asked him, valiantly attempting to make up his bed, and failing horribly.

"I dunno. It's just one of my spare robes is gone. And some of my casual gear."

"House-elves are probably cleaning it," Ron muttered. "You know them, they'll launder anything that isn't nailed down."

Harry asked Dobby after dinner, but the elf swore blind that he nor any of his fellows had taken any of Harry's clothes to clean them. Harry could do nothing more than write them off.

* * *

[29 May]

"You wanted to see me, Headmaster?" Blaise entered the headmaster's office with the right amount of trepidation and aplomb. He'd never been here before, but then he didn't exactly respect the man, so it hardly mattered.

"Please, Mr. Zabini, sit."

Blaise sat.

Dumbledore pulled open one of his drawers, and set a small object on the desk. "Can you identify this, Mr. Zabini?"

"It's a recording charm, sir," Blaise offered pleasantly, folding his hands in his lap.

"Would you be able to demonstrate activating such a charm for me?" Dumbledore asked.

Blaise shrugged and flicked through his memory for the right incantation. It was relatively minor, and didn't require a wand as the magic was already contained in the artefact itself. He murmured the Latin phrase, and wasn't surprised when the charm started to repeat whatever had been recorded. Recording charms were like cut price cheap and nasty versions of pensieves, ones that were limited to a simple auditory record of an event, without any of the other sensory information that went into a pensieve. However, he was surprised at the voice that trickled out of the charm.

"We can kill them. Or at least drive them off. Voldemort's coming back Pansy, we've all heard that from our parents. And I plan on being on the winning side. We can work here, under Dumbledore's very nose, and the old coot won't having a fucking idea what hit him."

"I think, Mr Zabini," Dumbledore told him quietly, "that you have some explaining to do."

* * *

[30 May]

It was after dinner, and the end of term was but two weeks away. The students were finishing off their meal, engaged in chatting and the usual social discourse, fully expecting Dumbledore to say a few words and dismiss them as usual.

However, this would not prove to be the usual dinner. Dumbledore rose, scraping his chair against the slate floor, and the student body turned to look up at him.

"I have an announcement to make," he began, calmly, and looked blandly over at Blaise briefly, who stiffened in his chair. "As a result of the misconduct of one of it's students, Slytherin has lost five hundred points." There was a loud gasp around the room. Snape looked as if he was fit to hit someone, but he didn't protest. "In addition, Mr Zabini will be transferring to Durmstrang come the end of semester. We wish him all the best in his new school."

There was another scraping sound as Blaise pushed his own chair back, and stood upright, proud and glaring. Millicent placed her hand on his wrist, but he threw it off, not wanting to be restrained in any way. "Do you want to know why Slytherin lost the points?" he asked the assembly, who were all startled into passivity.

"Mr Zabini! Sit down!" Professor McGonagall said it before Snape could.

"No, Professor. What are you going to do, anyway? Dock more points?" Blaise snorted, derision loud in his voice.

"Let him speak, Minvera," Dumbledore murmured, and McGonagall grudgingly sat down. "What do you want to tell us, Blaise?"

Blaise stood back from the Slytherin table, standing in the middle of the hall. "I was entrapped. She-" he stabbed into the air with a finger, pointing directly at Pansy, who blanched slightly and fiddled with her neckline. "She illicitly recorded a conversation I had with her. Presumably for the sole purpose of handing it over to Dumbledore."

"And what did this conversation detail?" the Headmaster asked, as if he didn't know. Blaise's face twisted in fury.

"You know, the only explanation I can imagine for this whole charade was if Pansy and Draco's loyalties were not what we thought them to be." He grinned, wickedly, as the vast majority of Slytherins surrounding the two edged away slightly. He turned, and smirked in the general direction of the Gryffindors. "You hear that, Potter? We thought that Draco was losing his touch because of you. We thought he needed a lesson. But if his loyalties weren't to Voldemort at all; if he and Pansy needed to have their opposition restrained in this manner, then I guess his loyalties were always to you." Blaise snickered. "Probably still in love with you. Must be a real bitch, Potter, not being able to order him around. Tell me: did you get off when he called you Master?"

There was a loud roar from the direction of the Gryffindor table, and Harry was out of his seat, leaping up onto the table itself and using it as a ramp almost to launch himself at the young man at the centre of the room, both of them falling over in a heap. Harry hit him in the face with his fist again and again before he was finally hauled off by Draco, struggling in his grasp. "For Christ's sake, Draco, let me go! I can take care of my own fucking problems!"

"This isn't yours to deal with," Draco spat and wrenched himself around to let go of Harry so the momentum caused him to stagger off in the opposite direction from Blaise.

Blaise raised himself onto a knee, spitting out blood from where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. "You think I'm the only one?" he snarled, and Millicent moved forward to help him stand. "You honestly think I'm the only one, old man? That getting rid of me would get rid of your problem?"

Dumbledore did not say a word, merely watching.

"There's more of us than you think," Blaise continued, looking about the room. He picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet that had been left upon a seat after breakfast, holding the headline up to the watching crowd. "'He's coming'. Even the Ministry finally admitted it today, although far too late to do anything. Coming to bathe the world in fire and blood. If you're lucky, he'll kill you quickly. If you're not...he might give you to us to play with. And I think all of us have tired of this little charade."

He let the paper drop to the floor, and turned, brushing past both Harry and Draco. "Let him go," Dumbledore murmured, when one of the Aurors on guard pulled out his wand. Soon there were the sounds of more chairs scraping as other students left: mostly Slytherins and Ravenclaws, but more than a few Hufflepuffs and even a Gryffindor here and there. "Let them all go." The room was deathly quiet otherwise.

After ten minutes, it seemed everyone who was going to leave had left. The student gathering was devastated, and at first glance it looked as if the hall had been emptied by at least a quarter. Quietly, Dumbledore told everyone to return to their dorms under the care of prefects and Aurors, and what remained of Hogwarts drifted out of the Great Hall.

* * *

[2 June]

The students were leaving for home early. With more than a quarter of the school's population gone (it turned out they had just up and left, walking out beyond the castle grounds where portkeys or parents were waiting for them) McGonagall had worried about the potential effects that would have on the fairness of the marking system and besides, no-one felt much like taking final exams. As a result, school had been brought to a close early, and the remaining parents and guardians notified over the weekend. Sirius and Remus were in London still being debriefed by the Ministry, so Harry had no contact with them since their return other than an owl, and that had been cryptic at best.

He was supposed going to stay with them in London for a few weeks, before going back to their house in Hogsmeade, and then he'd spend a few weeks at the Weasley's as well. But for now, there was a wait at the station before the Hogwarts Express pulled up. Ron and Hermione and Harry sat on a provided bench, absently looking around them. It wasn't so much that they were avoiding conversation, it was just that none of them were entirely sure what should (or could) be said. Some way away Draco and Pansy waited, small suitcases clasped in hands, trunks by their sides. None of the nearby Slytherins would move from their bench to give them a seat, despite the fact they were Second Years and lower in seniority. For a brief moment Harry's eyes caught Draco's, and then Draco looked away.

Harry slumped back against the hard wooden slats of the bench and waited for the train.

* * *

"I notice a distinct lack of your son, Lucius."

Lucius moped his brow with a scented handkerchief, and wondered if he would have enough time to even attempt his plan before Voldemort killed him. Assuming a terrified, craven demeanour was hardly a difficult problem: he really was terrified, and having the young Higgs psychopath stand there, his wand trained on Lucius' every nervous twitch did not help. "It the last day of term still, my Lord," he breathed, bowing. "I thought it would be better if I brought him to you in person in a few days. But I have brought the ingredients for the first part of the ritual." In a trembling hand he held up a small envelope, containing a lock of Draco's hair. Voldemort tipped it out onto his palm, and glared. "Get into the kitchen, cretin. We can at least go part of the way."

Lucius kept bowing, spouting out thanks and adulation while stumbling into the kitchen of the Watford council flat. Behind him, Voldemort drew closer to his young servant.

"I have a task for you, Mr. Higgs."

"I shouldn't leave you, my Lord. I don't trust him."

Voldemort laughed. "You have no reason to. Lucius Malfoy would have sold his own mother if he thought it could help his situation. But trust that I will be secure in this, and obey my word."

Terence inclined his head, and Voldemort reached up a leathery hand to pat his hair. Dry flakes of skin drifted to the floor. "The Watford Mobile Library stops outside our door in ten minutes. I wish you to wait for it." He reached inside his robes and pulled out a brightly coloured slip of paper, what Muggles called a 'Post-It Note.' "You will borrow all books pertaining to these subjects, and see about having more sent in next time the library visits here."

"You're sure I can't kill Malfoy first?"

"Your enthusiasm is to be respected, but not indulged." Voldemort's voice grew steely. "You are my henchman, Higgs. Go off and do some henching, as I tell you."

Higgs finally submitted, and shuffled off, closing the door behind him. Voldemort walked into the kitchen, as proud and upright as his increasingly gnarled frame would allow, finding Lucius examining the beaker of bubbling liquid that rested on the Formica tabletop. From the information he had gleaned, Lucius was able to understand the bare bones of the ritual that had been cobbled together. First, there was the initial contact, in which some of Voldemort's essence was used to shape the Ixpitla. Draco's conception. Then, that would be consolidated by a series of contacts: Voldemort blessed him at his birth, and walked his dreams for the past few months. The physical contact at Christmas had been just another intensification of the approaching union. The final stage of the ritual had two phases. In the first, Voldemort would partake of a potion containing some physical substance from the Ixpitla; Draco's hair in this case. This would transfer him into the physical form of the subject. It was similar to polyjuice, but far more intense and longer-lasting. In the second stage, he would kill Draco by draining him, subsuming Draco's energy and personality within his own body, leaving him with nothing.

It was for this reason that Lucius had not summoned Draco home early from school. The first phase had to be completed within a set amount of time with regards to the previous contact, but seemingly once that had been done Voldemort could bide his time in killing Draco.

"Go and wash your hands, would you?" Voldemort told him, pointing to the sink. "We don't want any of your germs getting in the way of the ceremony." While Lucius obeyed, Voldemort surreptitiously dropped the hair down the back of the gas stove, removing another envelope from the work bench. He took out a lock of hair - jet black unlike Draco's - and let it drop into the liquid, which bubbled nastily, releasing a vaguely tart odour.

Lucius wiped his hands off on the towel and turned, seeing that everything was apparently going to plan. "What now?" he asked, eyes searching across the workbench for anything he could use as a weapon. Sadly, it seemed that all the knives had been put away, and ransacking the drawers would surely be far too obvious for Voldemort not to notice. The only thing resting on the sideboard apart from the beaker was a brown-paper wrapped parcel, tied up with string. It bulged at the middle, looking like clothes or some such.

Voldemort merely raised an eyebrow, and wandered out into the darkened living room, beaker in hand. Setting the beaker down on the mantelpiece, he ripped the cloth off the Mirror of Erised, quickly wrapping it around his arm and hit the Mirror square in the centre before Lucius could say or do a thing. The Mirror shattered with an audible scream, and slithers of glass dropped out of the frame and onto the floor.

"My Lord-"

Voldemort shushed him with a finger, and Lucius stood his ground as Voldemort collected some of the fragments and dropped them into the murky, multi-coloured liquid, watching them dissolve. Giving Lucius a grin more like the rictus of a corpse, he drank deeply, swallowing the entire contents of the glass, which he set down on the mantelpiece with a shaky hand. He staggered, looking as if he might be sick, and leant heavily against the mantelpiece, fingers scrabbling across the old cream paint.

As Lucius watched, his entire body shuddered, grey hair falling to the floor before black, rich and glossy, grew out of a scalp that was flaking off, revealing smooth young skin underneath. Voldemort gave out a harsh cry as his bones visibly rearranged and changed themselves under the skin, becoming smaller, dragging skin and sinew with them. His voice changed half-way through the cry, his voice losing its raspy huskiness, the sound now of smooth, strong tones. His fingernails all fell out and were replaced, as did his teeth. Emerald green swamped his eyes before they fluttered shut and reopened, now looking normal, and the transformation was complete.

But in place of Draco Malfoy stood another and very different young man. Voldemort's new form was Harry Potter.

* * *

They were still waiting for the train. Harry swung his legs idly over the bench, to and fro, to and fro, anything to distract him. He saw Draco get up and cross pass him, presumably intent on going to the station's small toilets. After some initial hesitation, Harry got up and followed him.

He waited a short way off from the male toilet's entrance, leaning against the cold brick wall of the small corridor. He didn't have to wait long before hearing the familiar sound of a toilet flushing and Draco strode out, brushing past him quickly.

"Draco!" Draco didn't stop either, so Harry had to run, move round him and get in his way so he did.

"Get out of my way, Potter."

"I won't. Not until we've talked."

Draco's glare could have bored a hole in one of the castle walls. "What is there to say? More lies? Because really, I can't be bothered."

"That makes two of us who can't be bothered playing this stupid little game."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I love you."

Draco opened his mouth to retort, but before he could everything suddenly slowed, and Harry could see a second sun burst in front of his eyes. His entire body screamed with pain, and he sank to his knees, watching but unable to respond as Draco bend down to shake him and get a response, saying things Harry couldn't seem to hear anymore. Redness dripped into his right eye, and Draco seemed to be speaking more insistently, shaking him harder, but all Harry could do was sink further into himself in an attempt to escape the waves of pain coursing through his body, worse than any Crucio. Images flashed in front of eyes that couldn't see, joined by sensory hallucinations that threatened to drive him mad.

And then as if it had never happened, the final wave of agony washed over him, and Harry was lying, weak against the cold stone floor. Every muscled in his body still screamed, but it was a scream of remembered pain, of being pushed to the limit. He managed to turn onto his side, not caring if the rough surface underneath scraped his cheek or his clothes, and probably beyond being able to tell if it did. He saw movement out of the corner of his eyes, and slowly tilted his head up as his senses returned to him.

Draco was lying on the floor, straddled by Ron, who had his hands bunched in Draco's robes and was seemingly doing his best to shake him up. "What did you do to Harry?" Ron roared, red in the face and leaning forward.

"Nothing, you sodding Weasel," Draco spluttered, unable to free himself. "He just collapsed."

"Ron!" Harry whispered, throat raw and hoarse, hoping to stop his friend before he could do any further damage. Ron must have heard him, for he quickly slung a leg over Draco and scrambled to Harry's side.

"You alright? I hope you're alright. I went to see where you'd gone because the train's arriving soon and you were just lying there convulsing and Malfoy was standing over you so I decked him one."

"It wasn't his fault, Ron," Harry told him carefully, licking his lips. "I don't know what happened. I just hurt. All over."

Draco was looking cautiously at him as well, having shifted to Harry's other side, and helped Harry raise himself to a sitting position. "Your scar's broken open. Things got a little bit too tough?"

Ignoring the sarcasm, Harry raised fingers to his forehead, and found they came away wet. "I don't know," Harry murmured.

"It's all right now, though," Ron over-enthused. "The bleeding seems to have stopped."

"Don't have another fit like that again, Potter." Draco informed him coolly, his voice shaking just a bit. "No-one particularly enjoys tying you down so you don't swallow your tongue." Harry's eyes flicked up to meet Draco's; he could see the tremulous emotion that was written there, even if Ron couldn't.

"I'll make sure I take better care of myself," Harry told him, leaning on Ron as the other young man helped him stand.

"See that you do." Draco murmured, brushing by them.

"Prick," Ron muttered under his breath once Draco was gone. "Do you want to go back to Hogwarts, Harry? We could talk to Dumbledore about your scar-"

"No," Harry said, sounding both firmer and colder than he'd intended. The sound of a whistle coming from the platform startled them both. "I'll owl the Headmaster when I get to London. For the moment - I just want to go home."

* * *

"What, don't you like it?" Voldemort teased him, and quickly shrugged off his old, now oversized robes to stand quite naked in front of Lucius. "I admit, it wasn't the model I had in mind, but I think this one will be far more popular." He smoothed his new hands down his sides to rest flat against his slim hips. "It'll get me into all the right parties for one thing."

Lucius stepped back, gingerly, mind racing, and turned, diving towards the kitchen and a knife. He could hear his own breathing loud through his ears, and suddenly there was a weight on his back, dragging him down. He almost stumbled over himself, but managed to stay upright, all too aware of the arms now draped over his shoulders, the legs curling round his waist.

He was giving Voldemort a piggy back, and resisted the temptation to giggle hysterically. One of Voldemort's hands curled in his hair, jerking it back, and he felt something sharp press into his neck - presumably a shard of the broken mirror, but he couldn't tell. He backed up, banging Voldemort against one of the pantry doors but that didn't dislodge him either, and the shard bit into his neck, pricking him. Lucius took the hint, and lay back against the wall, so that Voldemort could rest caught between the wall and the man.

"Now, now, don't get testy," Voldemort said, and Lucius marvelled at the reproduction of Harry's voice, so incredibly accurate. "I thought you might be glad to see this new form of mine. After all, Harry does so resemble James, and you did love to be fucked senseless by James, didn't you? Your son seems to feel the same way about his son. I wonder if he'd notice the difference if I tried it on with him, hmm?"

Lucius realised then that he was going to die, no ifs, buts or maybes. Voldemort very rarely offered the raving egomaniac speech to anyone he wasn't going to kill. So he stayed silent, refusing to give Voldemort the satisfaction.

"Not talking, Lucius, that's very disheartening. Although I certainly wouldn't expect any less, considering your usual attitude to my orders. Always trying to play both ends against the other, to wriggle out of your promises. You sold James to me because you couldn't stand the idea he pitied you. You sold Draco to me in the hope you could win him back." Fingers caressed his cheek, and lips pressed against his long, blond hair. "Do you want to know how James died, Lucius? Do you want me to tell you about how he begged for Lily's life? How the last thoughts in his mind were of her?"

"Fuck you," Lucius spat, and moved forward, yelped at Voldemort wrenched his hair.

"No, I don't think I will. Any last words, Lucius?"

There was only one thing he wanted to say. "I'm sorry, Draco."

Voldemort sneered. "The sentiment suits you."

There was a cold line of wetness drawn against his neck, and he felt Voldemort slither off his back. It became hard to breathe, and Lucius sank to his knees, the room fading into black.

* * *

Terence Higgs arrived forty minutes later, his arms laden with books of all size and description, the only commonality being their shared topic. When he saw the young man sipping tea in the armchair, dressed in what appeared to be casual Muggle clothes, he immediately dropped the books and took out his wand.

"Oh, don't be an idiot," the young man told him, with a snap to his voice that Terence simply couldn't imagine from Harry Potter. "It's me, you fool. Your Lord and Master."

"But I thought-"

"Yes, you did. So did everyone else. I decided to go with something a little more appropriate in terms of my new body. After all, Harry Potter stole my life - why shouldn't I steal his?"

Voldemort settled the cup of tea in his saucer and laid it down by the chair leg. "Now, pick up those books, put them on the dining table and tidy up the filth in the kitchen. And do it quietly - I'm watching Coronation Street."

Terence nodded and bowed out. "Yes, my Lord Voldemort."

One finger was raised in the air. "Oh, Terence?"

Terence was busy sizing up exactly how to dispose of Lucius Malfoy's body, not to mention the large pool of blood on the white kitchen tiles. "Yes, my Lord?"

"I think Voldemort would be rather inappropriate now. It was a title for a different me, in many ways." The voice grew wistful, and Terence turned to watch the emotions play across what looked like Harry Potter and yet he knew was not. "I am back to the beginning now. Mortal, and little else. Why don't you call me Tom?" he purred, smiling Potter's smile.

* * *

Once the last student had left, Albus Dumbledore had quickly made his way to London, immersing himself in the back lanes and the alleyways until he came to the Library of St. John the Beheaded. Walking sharply through the doorway that led into the Library proper, he ignored the light that coruscated around him, or the welcoming voice of the Librarian.

It didn't take him too long to find the Black Book of Caer Fyrddin, even if the Library seemed to wilfully change the location of items between each visit. Resting it upon one of the deserted study tables, he quickly thumbed through the loose pages of the manuscript. There where the prophecy had been written down, a new verse dotted the parchment with ink, as old and as faded as if it had been there underneath the original verse for all the centuries to see.

Dumbledore leaned forward to read it, eager to translate the Old Welsh, and the page spontaneously caught fire. Dumbledore squawked and pulled back, trying to beat at the flames with his hoisted outer robe, but to no avail. The fire burned itself out in time, leaving the Black Book resembling its name: charred, a heap of ashes and fragments that were virtually unreadable.

He felt a gentle breeze by his shoulder, and turned, knowing that the enclosed space of the Library would allow no such breeze to enter. He could feel the Librarian nearby, even if he could not see her, and true enough her crystalline tones soon rang out between the stacks and shelves.

"What was written will be rewritten. The Black Book has no destiny now, Albus Dumbledore. And neither do you."

His heart heavy with the burden of things left undone, Albus turned, and exited the library as quickly as he could.

* * *

Hogwarts was deserted. Minerva was attending to meetings with the Ministry in London in his place, most of the staff had gone to visit relatives or had business elsewhere, and the Aurors that patrolled its grounds could not fill up the empty corridors.

Dumbledore walked slowly, his mind still turning over what the Librarian had just told him. His one guide towards the future he wished was gone. Now all he had was faith. Faith in people he knew were broken; faith in people he allowed to be broken.

Someone stepped out of the adjoining passageway to stand in front of him.

"Hello, Albus. It's been a long time."

"It has," Albus breathed. "Forty years or more."

The thing that looked like Harry Potter made a face. "Oh, and I was hoping to surprise you. You can see through my new skin, is that it?"

"Harry has no place to be here," Albus responded softly, trying not to show his anxiety. "But then, neither do you, do you Tom?"

Tom laughed, and spread his arms wide. "Surely you wouldn't forbid me a return to my alma mater? After all, Hogwarts was where I learnt my true potential."

"I'm surprised the wards didn't stop you," Dumbledore mused thinly. "I shall have to get them checked."

"Oh, I know Hogwarts far better than you. This place sings to me. I can feel it. It knows I am the Heir of Slytherin." He reached into his jacket pocket, and brought out his wand. "But I doubt you'll ever get a chance to check those wards."

"Ah. The death threat. I wondered when we would come to that."

"I'm so sorry to be so predictable."

"If you kill me, Tom, you will regret it."

Tom cocked his head from side to side. "Is that a promise?" he said, flatly.

Dumbledore grimaced. "Sadly, no. I did think it sounded good. Didn't you?"

"It did, really." Tom moved closer, his wand pointing at Albus. "You see what the difference is between you and I, old man? When you die, you stay dead. Avada Kedavra." There was a flash of green light, and Dumbledore slumped to the ground. Tom turned him onto his back with a foot, and kicked him in the side viciously for good measure. The corpse did not respond, so Tom kicked him again, and smiled when he heard ribs break.

Tom tucked his wand away, and walked off down the corridor, whistling a tune that Harry would have recognised as something Petunia used to sing to Dudley as a young child.

* * *

And beyond time and space as they are known to most, within the Portal of Bifrost, the Dark Powers waited, fuelled by the promise of their revenge, and the war yet to come.