Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER TWO. PREPARATIONS

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Mrs Weasley was angry. Harry could hear her shouts floating up the stairs to Ron's attic bedroom. By the sounds of things, Fred and George were both in for a rude awakening.

Harry stretched, rolled over onto his back, and stared out of the window. The weather looked reliably set for the day. He checked his watch. Nine o'clock. Normally by this time he would have been up for at least two hours. It was nice to be able to have a lie in.

He looked over to where Ron was sleeping, only to find that he had disappeared. Evidently the Weasleys had taken to rising early. Harry, however snuggled back down under his quilt. There were birds singing outside.

"Harry, are you awake yet?" Mrs Weasley rapped on the door. "You'll miss breakfast."

It dawned on Harry that he was famished. "I'll be down in a minute," he called. He climbed out of bed ... he had just had his best night's sleep for ages, his bed back at Privet Drive was lumpy and had springs in awkward places, so the Weasleys' bouncy mattresses were a great relief. He pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas, and went downstairs.

There were voices coming from the kitchen. One of them Ron's, one Mrs Weasley's. Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, and poked his head round the door.

"Morning, dear," Mrs Weasley said, as he slipped into the room. She was cracking eggs over a very large frying pan. "I thought you could do with a fry up."

Harry licked his lips. "That would be lovely," he said. "Thanks."

"You need fattening up," said Mrs Weasley. "What do your Aunt and Uncle feed you?"

"Not much," said Harry, taking a seat next to Ron, who was sipping from a very large mug of tea.

Mrs Weasley went on. "You missed Arthur ... he went off to work about an hour ago, Fred and George aren't up yet, though goodness knows I've been shouting up those stairs for twenty minutes."

"I know, I heard," glowered Ron.

"Where's Ginny?" asked Harry. Ron gave him a funny look.

"She's staying over with a friend," said Mrs Weasley. "Do you want a fried tomato too?"

"Please," said Harry.

"Why are you so interested in Ginny all of a sudden?" asked Ron, suspiciously.

"No particular reason," said Harry.

Ron shrugged. "Whatever ... just remember she's my sister, Harry."

Harry was somewhat taken aback. He had, after all, only been asking after her. It wasn't as if he'd just stood up on the table and proposed. Ron, however, seemed reluctant to say anything further on the matter.

"What have I missed?" asked Harry, changing the subject hurriedly.

"It's been very quiet really," said Mrs Weasley. "Black pudding?"

"No thanks," said Harry. "How d'you mean, very quiet?"

"Not a lot's been happening," said Ron. "The Prophet has gone very quiet just lately."

"Can't imagine why that would be," said Harry, smirking.

"Yes," said Mrs Weasley. "They're beginning to say that that Skeeter woman has vanished ... off the face of the earth. Nobody's heard hide nor hair of her since after the Tournament," she stopped herself. Harry, fortunately, didn't seem to have noticed, or if he had done, wasn't showing it. Mrs Weasley was still uncertain just how much the events of the last few weeks of term had affected Harry, and how much he was still suffering the effects of his latest encounter with Voldemort. She had spent a long time the other day instructing her family on how to behave around him.

Harry, however, was smiling. "Vanished, you say?"

"Completely!" said Ron, also smiling. "Can't imagine where she's got to! A real mystery eh, Mum?"

Mrs Weasley nodded uncertainly. "Yes," she said, with genuine feeling "a real mystery. I wonder where she is."

"Might have to ask Hermione that," said Harry, under his breath. Ron stifled a giggle. Mrs Weasley didn't seem to have noticed. She was scraping their fried eggs off the bottom of the pan.

"Anyway," said Mrs Weasley, setting down two plates groaning with greasy, fried food in front of both of them. "Like I said. Not much has been going on ... it's all gone ominously quiet. They say Snape has disappeared too."

Harry and Ron looked at each other, and grinned even more.

"And Hagrid won't be back for the start of the year," Mrs Weasley went on. Harry nearly choked on his sausage.

"What?"

"He's somewhere in the Carpathians," said Mrs Weasley. "Dumbledore sent him there after school finished. Of course he won't tell us what he's up to."

"You've heard from Dumbledore?"

"He's been in contact with Arthur practically every day," said Mrs Weasley.

"What about Sirius?"

Mrs Weasley shrugged. "I don't know where he went," she said. "Dumbledore is keeping his cards very close to his chest at the minute, it's hard to know who to trust. Sirius is safe ... you'd be the first to know if something had happened to him."

"That explains why he didn't get in touch with me," said Harry, glumly.

"I'm sorry everyone's been ignoring you Harry," said Mrs Weasley. "It's just, as things are getting so difficult at the minute ... or at least, they're about to. We're all running around like headless chickens ... and as long as you're at the Dursleys', well, nothing can touch you there, as you know."

"Why is that?" asked Harry. "Nobody ever explained it to me."

"I'm not entirely sure myself," said Mrs Weasley. "Some sort of magic, I expect."

Ron gave a snort of derision. He turned to Harry. "Fancy a spot of Quidditch practice?"

"All right," said Harry, pouring more ketchup onto his plate.

"After breakfast, Mum? Is it okay if we go down to the meadow?" asked Ron.

Mrs Weasley glanced out of the window, as if expecting to see Lord Voldemort and the massed Armies of the Night encamped in her back garden. "It looks safe enough," she said. "But take sun block, and come straight home if anything unusual happens. I want Harry where I can keep an eye on him."

Ron sighed. "We can take Fred and George," he said to Harry.

"Fred and George are staying in to de-gnome the garden," said Mrs Weasley, waving her wand at a pile of dirty dishes. "Somebody got themselves into trouble last night."

Harry felt slightly guilty. "That was my fault really," he said. "Perhaps I should..."

Both Ron and Mrs Weasley were shaking their heads at him, though for different reasons. "You don't need to worry Harry," said Mrs Weasley, bluntly. "They get themselves in trouble, they can get themselves out of it," she didn't seem at all fazed by the fact that Fred and George were now both well over six feet tall, and she barely came up to their shoulders.

"It's no fun with two," moaned Ron.

"Then you can always stay home and help me clean up," said Mrs Weasley. "God knows, the place needs some elbow grease."

"We'll go play Quidditch then," said Ron. "Where's your broom?"

"'allaling 'ase," said Harry. He swallowed. "Sorry ... upstairs, in its travelling case," he had not had much of an opportunity to play over the past year, and was hoping the Firebolt wouldn't need servicing.

"You'll be a bit rusty, won't you?" said Ron, looking hopeful.

"Haven't played for ages," said Harry.

"Good ... I might be able to beat you," said Ron. "Might *even* try out for the team this year. There're two places begging now Angelina and Oliver have left."

* * *

The next few days at the Weasleys' passed in somewhat of a blur for Harry. Most of the days were spent playing Quidditch in the meadow with Ron, Fred, George, and, when she could be bothered, Ginny too. Then there were long, hot afternoons when nobody felt like doing much, water fights in the garden (Fred and George seemed to excel at this), and long, whispered conversations under the bedclothes when everybody else had gone to sleep. Harry found himself happier than he had been in a long time. Mr Weasley even found time to take a couple of days off work, and they went down to Torbay to spend the afternoon on the beach, which was a novel experience for Harry.

Harry's last beach holiday had been when he was nine, when the Dursleys had reluctantly taken Harry with them for a day at Bournemouth ... it had not been a pleasant experience. He had got sunburned, there had been sand in the picnic, his ice cream had melted, and Dudley had shoved a live crab down his swimming trunks.

This time, very little untoward happened ... there was sand in the picnic, his ice cream melted, Ginny cut her foot on a razor shell, Fred and George tried to put crabs in funny places, Muggles kept staring at Mr and Mrs Weasley, who insisted on wearing robes to go paddling in, and both Harry and Ron got sunburned all down their backs. However, this time the Dursleys weren't there, so Harry came back very happy indeed, if unable to lie down because of the pain.

On August 29th, the day they were to go to Diagon Alley to stock up for school, the heat wave finally broke, and the heavens opened. Mr Weasley, who had managed to wrangle another day off work to take them, stood at the kitchen window, regarding the downpour with something approaching pleasure.

"This is the kind of weather I remember from when I was a lad," he reminisced as they pulled on their shoes and coats. "There was none of this baking sunshine. It was rain, rain, and more rain. Then suddenly, the day after we went back to school, it got sunny again."

Ron showed Harry his list, as his hadn't arrived at Privet Drive. Harry was rather alarmed to notice that the fifth year book list ran to nearly two sheets of paper, and included some very dull titles. He suspected that Hermione had probably read all of them already. Some of the Defence Against the Dark Arts books looked particularly gruesome. Harry wondered who the new teacher might be.

* * *

It had been raining hard in London too, and little streams of water were flowing down the gutters of Diagon Alley, bearing with them innumerable bits of litter. They paid a visit to Gringott's, and then to Madame Malkin's. Ron had had new (second hand) robes the previous Autumn, but had grown so much in the interim that more were necessary. While he waited, looking embarrassed and out of place amongst all the First Years, Harry slipped off to get their books.

Flourish and Blott's was crowded with people, most of them adults, who seemed to be using the place as a private reading room. Harry duly presented Ron's list to the witch behind the counter.

"You'll find it all upstairs, I'd help you, but I'm rushed off my feet today," she said. "Hogwarts is it?"

Harry nodded.

"Don't know what they teach you at these schools," she grumbled. Harry murmured his thanks, and left quietly.

Harry had never been up to the first floor of the book shop before. It was reached up a flight of dusty steps, tucked away at the back of the shop, and so steep it might have been a ladder. The room that he found up there was lined with bookshelves, and crammed with every tome imaginable. The bare floorboards creaked under Harry's trainers. A flickering candle chandelier provided the only light. There was one other person up there ... a tall boy who looked about Harry's age, wearing expensive looking robes and flicking through one of the books with an air of great interest on his face. He turned round at the sound of Harry's footsteps.

"Oh, hello, Potter," said Draco, scowling at him.

"What do you want?" snarled Harry.

Draco replaced the book on its shelf. "Same thing as you ... I'd imagine," he said.

Harry eyed him suspiciously.

"Books?" said Draco. "Paper things with covers, your little Mudblood friend likes them. Can't see the attraction myself."

Harry picked up a copy of 'The Grimoire of Instant & Painful Death,' then hurriedly put it down again.

"That one's on our list," said Draco. Harry picked up the book again ... it seemed to radiate an aura of raw menace.

"You sure?" asked Harry, who was now, by nature very wary of magical objects. This particular book looked vicious.

Draco nodded. "Did you actually read your list, Potter? Or were you just hoping some kind hearted soul ... like little old me, would help you out?"

"Never got a list," mumbled Harry. "Ron only showed it to me this morning."

"Oh, is Muggle loving Weasel boy here too?" asked Draco. "Grown much this summer has he? They'd need to take the ceiling down if he wanted to come up here."

"Shut up, Malfoy," said Harry. "I see you've hit the bleach hard again this summer," he retorted. Draco looked very offended.

"This is ... I'm a natural blond, thank you very much," hissed Draco. "My hair is a part of me."

"That's what they all say," said Harry.

"Who?" snapped Draco.

"The ones who spend ages in front of mirrors, preening themselves," taunted Harry.

"What are you insinuating? You looked in a mirror lately?"

He could hear footsteps on the staircase, but he ignored them, and scowled at Draco all the more.

"You can't out ad lib me," said Draco, snidely. "I'm a professional."

"Professional what?" asked Harry.

Draco looked slightly stumped. "Professional ... just a professional, thank you. I don't have to take this from you. I'm a law abiding citizen!"

"What's going on up here?" someone asked. Harry turned to see Ron's head poking up through the hole in the floor. "Who else is up here?"

"Welcome to our party," drawled Draco. "Potter here was just insinuating I do not prefer the company of the fairer sex."

"You what?" said Ron, looking confused.

"Whereas you boys, I imagine, have a perfectly wholesome platonic relationship," Draco went on.

"What's he on about?" Ron turned to Harry. "Have you found the books?"

"I was just going to," said Harry. "Malfoy here was in my way."

"Well excuse me," said Draco, stepping sideways to let him past. "Didn't realise you had business up here ... thought you were just insulting random customers!" he gathered up a handful of books, and shoved past Ron. "I wouldn't bother asking for credit, Weasel boy," he hissed. "A smack in the gob often offends," he turned back to Harry. "Has anyone ever told you your nose is peeling?"

"Silly arse," said Ron, as Draco disappeared from view, still clutching his books. Harry noticed he was carrying a large paper bag.

"Did you get your new robes?" he asked.

"First ever," Ron beamed, opening the bag to show him. "Think I might finally be getting them to spend some money on me."

* * *

Draco stormed out of the shop in a huff, holding his books in a paper bag. It was raining even harder now, and the servant he had left outside with his brolly had disappeared. Draco pulled the hood on his cloak over his head, and headed off in the direction of Gringott's. Fred and George Weasley were just coming out of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they had just spent twenty minutes staring at the new Mark 2 Firebolt. Draco almost sent them flying.

"What do you suppose that was?" asked Fred, as Draco headed away.

"Never disturb a Malfoy in a hurry. They have a tendency to go off. Much like land mines," said George.

Lucius Malfoy had reserved a table in Zucchabar’s, Diagon Alley's most exclusive restaurant, and he was sitting there now, staring out of the rain lashed windows, looking for Draco. He considered it beneath him to scrabble around with the common crowd in some ghastly little book shop, which was why he usually sent Draco off to do his shopping on his own. He folded his copy of the Daily Prophet when he saw Draco heading along the street towards him, head bowed, weighed down with large packages.

"I'll take a bottle of the house red," he said to the waiter, who was standing over him. "Is it good today?"

"Castello Rosso 1988. It is particularly fine. Shall I bring one glass?"

"Bring two," said Lucius. "Also a bottle of mineral water ... still, and you'd better let me see the lunch menu."

"Right away, Monsieur," the waiter hurried off into the distance.

"Hello, Father," said Draco, sitting down.

"Draco. Have we passed a pleasant morning?"

"Not bad," said Draco. "Father, I met someone in..."

Lucius wasn't listening. "I thought we might start with the asparagus in mushroom sauce, followed by the truites jurassienne, which look especially piquant today. What say you, Draco?"

"Fine, whatever," said Draco, slightly flustered. "You'll never guess who I just met."

The waiter brought over the wine, and two elegant crystal glasses. "Will the young man be drinking too?" he asked, surveying Draco. Lucius nodded. The waiter poured a little of the wine into his glass, and he sipped it.

"It's excellent," he said. "Draco, you should learn to appreciate a fine vintage."

"I'd rather not," said Draco. "It makes me feel sick."

Lucius narrowed his eyes at his son. "I said, you should learn to appreciate a fine vintage," he said, firmly. He turned to the waiter, who was hesitating. "Yes, yes, fill it up," he said, impatiently. The waiter did so.

"Father, I just bumped into Potter, in Flourish and Blott's."

Lucius raised his eyebrows slightly. "Did we, now?"

"He had the most awful sunburn," said Draco.

"Ah, sunburn ... the mark of the low and vulgar," chuckled Lucius. "I would expect little else from one so wretched. You amuse me, Draco. Continue."

"Anyway, he tried to have a go at me," said Draco.

"And did we fight back? Did we acquit ourselves well?"

Draco tried sipping his wine, but it tasted bitter and horrible. He screwed up his face. "We ... I did, I think."

The waiter handed them both menus.

"Thank you," said Draco. Lucius scowled at him.

"One never thanks the waiter for one's menu, Draco," he said.

"I'll remember that," said Draco. People were hurrying past on the pavement outside. One elderly witch was carrying a large pot plant. Draco suddenly remembered what he had been intending to ask his Father. "By the way," he went on. "Those little plants you showed me at the start of the holidays."

"The dragon trees? What about them?"

"I was just wondering how they were getting on," said Draco.

"Osgoode has tended them beyond even his meagre horticultural abilities. They are ready for harvesting now," said Lucius. "Soon they shall be delivered to our master."

"Your master," said Draco, trying the wine again.

"Soon he will be our master," said Lucius. "I have a little surprise planned for you, Draco."

"A nice surprise?" Draco asked, with trepidation.

"The very best," said Lucius. The waiter had appeared at their table again. "Ah, yes," Lucius consulted the menu. "I'll have my usual, the asparagus, followed by truites jurassienne."

"I'm afraid the asparagus is out of season, Monsieur," said the waiter. "We have some very good feta salad if you'd care to?"

"Very bad form," tutted Lucius. "I thought you imported it from New Zealand."

"We do, this month's delivery is a bit late. I'm very sorry about that, Monsieur."

"Very well. I'll try the salad."

"It comes with roquette lettuce, Parma ham and watermelon. You said the rainbow trout for your main course?"

Lucius nodded. "Indeed I did."

"And for young Monsieur here?"

Draco picked something random. "Consommé," he said, "and steak to follow ... medium rare."

"Would you like chipped, mashed or boiled potato with that?"

"Chips," said Draco. "Thanks," he added, much to Lucius' disappointment. The waiter disappeared again. Draco went on. "You were saying, Father? About a surprise?"

"I have great plans for you, Draco," said Lucius, smiling mysteriously. "I would be most pleased to be able to exploit your talents."

"Go on," said Draco, who was interested. Very few people ever bothered to tell him he had any talent, except for Snape ... and even Draco knew that was only out of favouritism. How else could he have got forty six per cent in his potions exam, and still be graded an A? "I'm ready," he said.

"I haven't told you what you have to do yet, stupid boy," said Lucius.

"I mean I'm ready for whatever it is you want me to do."

Lucius coughed, then scanned the restaurant. "It should be safe to talk freely," he said. "You are aware, of course, that Lord Voldemort planted a mole at Hogwarts last year?"

Draco shook his head. "Who was he?" he asked. Lucius appeared surprised that Draco didn't already know.

"Alastor Moody," he said. "Or rather, a Death Eater disguised as Moody ... using Polyjuice Potion, of course."

"But Moody was horrible," said Draco. "How could he have be..."

Lucius silenced him with a wave of his hand. "For heaven's sake boy ... use the meagre brains God gave you. He was undercover ... he had to give the appearance of being on Potter's side, so as to avoid arousing suspicion."

"But he turned me into..."

"Quiet, Draco. All I have to say on that matter is that you were lucky to get away with a reprimand. If I had been there you would have been punished severely. Malfoys fight with civility, not with sneakiness. If I wanted my son to be remembered as a nasty little snake, I'd have put him in glasses and called him Harry Potter."

"Quite," said Draco, looking slightly defeated, which of course he was.

"I digress, Draco, such events are in the past. This fake Moody was found out ... and is no longer with us."

"What happened?" asked Draco.

"Fudge allowed the Dementors to perform the kiss on him," said Lucius. "He was the last surviving heir of a very influential Pureblood family."

Draco paled slightly. "You wouldn't put me to that risk?" he whispered ... though he saw from the expression on his Father's face that whether or not Draco got kissed was the least of his worries.

"If such an event were to transpire," said Lucius, toying with his napkin. "It would signal to me merely that you were unfit to carry out the task. However ... this will not happen ... Malfoys do not know the meaning of the word failure."

"Yes we do," said Draco. "It means; lack of success."

Lucius scowled at him. "Don't cheek me, Draco," he warned. "I am growing tired of your childish ways. I suggest you act your age if you are to stand any chance of success."

"I am acting my age, Father," said Draco, returning the scowl with equal ferocity. "I'm fifteen ... this is how I act."

"I am rapidly becoming vexed with you, Draco. Much more of your insolence and I shall see to it that you are punished when we return home. Understood?"

"Yes," said Draco, sulkily.

Lucius smiled. "Very good. Now we can talk like the civilised men we are. Lord Voldemort was, naturally very disappointed when his great plan did not come to fruition ... after so much effort too. Potter escaped, as we all know, and Voldemort was forced to flee the country once more."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "What does he want with me though?"

"Voldemort wants nothing with you, for the moment. I however ... well, I would have thought that was elementary, my dear Draco ... I want another mole ... and I want it to be somebody that no one would ever suspect. That is to say ... you."

"Why do you want him?"

"For the same reason I want the dragon trees, Draco. Control ... influence. All these are things any ambitious man must seek if he is to succeed. Thus my influence over Lord Voldemort will be increased a thousand-fold," the faintest grin was playing around Lucius' features. "You are to bring Potter to me ... I imagine it will be easy. From what I hear the boy has an insatiable curiosity and will trust anybody. You are to gain his trust, Draco."

"But."

"I repeat; you are to gain his trust," said Lucius, through gritted teeth. "Which part of that don't you understand?"

"But I hate him. He hates me. He barely even talks to me."

"Then you must rectify the situation, Draco. Exactly how you go about this is, of course, up to you."

"I'm no tactician, Father," protested Draco.

"Then you must learn," said Lucius. "I believe there are some excellent books on the subject in circulation. Books on how to win people over ... to draw them into your sphere of influence ... to make them think they are your friends. You must read them, Draco."

"Tell me where to find them."

Lucius shrugged. "That is something you must discover for yourself," he said. "I ... unlike yourself, am possessed of a charm so immense the words have not been coined to describe it. I have no need of such volumes."

* * *

Ron and Harry met up with Hermione for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. She had taken a small table in the corner, and was sipping a glass of lemonade when they came in. They were both wet and bedraggled, their hair plastered to their heads. She waved to them across the crowded pub, and they picked their way over.

"You not here with your Dad?" asked Hermione.

Ron nodded. "He had to go and get a new broomstick," he explained. "He said he'd be some time."

Hermione shrugged. "Fair enough," she said. "You look wet," she added.

"Yeah, well spotted," said Ron. He pulled off his dripping coat, and slung it over the back of his chair. Harry did the same.

"You have a burned nose, by the way," said Hermione, as Harry sat down.

"Thanks," said Harry, huffily. "Not, did you have a good holiday, Harry? Yeah, thanks, not bad, Hermione, how was yours? Oh, I had a lovely time. Just, oh, Harry, you've got sunburn."

Hermione turned to Ron. "What's got into him?" she asked.

"He met Malfoy in the book shop," explained Ron. "I think he's a bit angry about it."

"It explains a lot," said Hermione. "How was your holiday then, Harry?"

"It was rubbish," said Harry. "Up until about two weeks ago," he added, catching the expression on Ron's face.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Hermione the diplomat. "Was it that bad?"

"I spent my holiday re-painting an entire house, putting tiles up, changing light bulbs in very small, dark places, hammering things, and cutting Dudley's nails," said Harry. "Yes, it was that bad."

Hermione was just beginning to think that maybe Harry had gone off her or something. "You had a good time at Ron's, didn't you?" she asked, trying to jumpstart the conversation. She had never known either of them to be so awkward ... it wasn't as though it was very long since she'd seen them. She decided it probably had something to do with hormones ... she had recently noticed that sex education was not on the syllabus at Hogwarts, so had done some reading behind the subject, and was planning on petitioning Dumbledore.

"It was okay," said Harry. Ron leaned over to Hermione.

"He's a bit pissed off that you didn't send him a postcard," he said.

"I did," whispered Hermione. "Did you not get my postcard, Harry?" she asked, turning to her other friend.

Harry shook his head. "You did send one ... you're not just trying to make me feel better?" he said, brightening visibly.

Hermione nodded. "Course I did," she said. "It was a picture of the sun setting over the Acropolis."

"Who's Thea Cropolis?" asked Ron.

"It's an Ancient Greek temple in Ath..." began Hermione, before noticing that Ron looked completely nonplussed. She decided to go for simplicity. "It's a famous ruin," she said.

"Like Professor Trelawney?" asked Ron.

Hermione gave him a funny look. "Yeah," she said. "That's ... right."

"She must be really big, this Thea Cropolis ... if you can get a photo of the sun setting over her," mused Ron. "Is she related to Hagrid?"

They both glared at Ron. Harry turned back to Hermione. "What did you write on it?" he asked.

"Hell, I can't remember," said Hermione. "A load of stuff about how nice it was, and I put 'wish you were here' too."

"I never got it," said Harry.

"He didn't get our birthday presents either," said Ron. Hermione looked slightly shocked.

"Not even the thingie?"

Harry shook his head. "I nearly got a cake," he said. "The Dursleys got to it before me."

"But I sent a ... oh," said Hermione. "That's five Galleons I won't see again in a hurry."

This made Harry feel quite guilty. "I'll pay you back," he said. "As I didn't get it ... it's only fair."

Hermione, however, wouldn't hear of it. "I don't want you to pay me back, Harry," she said. "You would have liked it though."

Harry smiled, despite his mood. "I expect I would have done," he said.

"You'll soon be back at school though," said Hermione. "Look at it that way. It's a whole year before you have to go through the summer holidays again."

Ron looked scandalised. "Am I the only one here who doesn't want to go back to school?" he asked. He looked up ... Hermione and Harry were both nodding at him.

"We both had a ghastly time," said Hermione.

"I thought you had fun in Greece," said Ron.

Hermione shook her head. "That was just to get my parents off my back," she said. "It was very, very boring ... they dragged me round monuments like there was no tomorrow. We didn't even go to the beach."

Harry, surprised at this, as he thought Hermione looked very tanned, said. "So you weren't enjoying yourself?"

Hermione shook her head. "It was dull beyond belief," she said. "I mean, give a girl a break ... I get quite enough education at Hogwarts without having it crammed down my throat in between times."

"You said, 'wish you were here,'" said Harry.

"I did," said Hermione, with feeling. "It might have been slightly less boring if they'd let me take a friend. Anyway ... what do you two want for lunch?"

* * *

They arrived back at the Burrow quite late in the evening. Mrs Weasley had evidently spent the entire day cleaning the house, for it was spotless. Harry and Ron took their packages straight up to Ron's bedroom, whilst Fred and George disappeared down the garden.

"Hermione looked well, didn't she," said Harry, as he packed his new books into his school trunk. Ron was trying, without success, to fold his new robes.

"What's got into her, though?" asked Ron. "She seemed really out of sorts."

"It's not like her to find anything boring," agreed Harry. "Perhaps it's something to do with hormones."

"What are..."

"Never mind," said Harry, firmly.

"She's grown though," said Ron.

Harry nodded. "I'm the shortest in our year now," he said.

"You always were," said Ron. "I wouldn't worry about it, mate. It means you can get into small spaces."

"Comes to something when Colin Creevey gets taller than me," said Harry, miserably. He was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to start growing. "It's probably down to diet."

"How d'you mean?" asked Ron.

"Well, Colin's Dad's a milkman, right?"

"I think so," said Ron.

"So he gets lots of milk ... right?"

Ron nodded. "Sure, I guess so."

"There you go then," Ron looked puzzled, but Harry didn't pick up on that. "My family are a bunch of mean old gits whose definition of feeding me is to throw me a lettuce leaf round about dinnertime," said Harry.

"I see what you mean," lied Ron. He picked up one of his books. "Did you get this one?" he asked, holding up a copy of 'Advanced Transfiguration. Processes and Practices.'

Harry nodded. "Looks dull," he said.

"Yup," said Ron, flicking through it. "Dull as dishwater. Page thirty-five ... listen ... 'although the reader might view this as a digression, I believe it would be irresponsible of this author not to draw the reader's attention to the indisputable fact that the work of Helmut Freidrickssen-Wolfe, the noted Norwegian wizard has indubitably contributed to the growing interest within the magical community, surrounding the concentration of magical particles around the object in the event of transfiguration. Such particles, which Wolfe has dubbed,'" Ron paused for breath. "Really grabs at your attention span, don't it."

"I don't have an attention span," said Harry. "I think I lost it somewhere," he flopped down on his bed, and listened to the drumming of the rain on the roof above.

Ron followed his gaze. "It might start leaking," he said, correctly anticipating Harry's next question. "It once gave way when I was asleep, but that wasn't during a storm."

"What happened?" asked Harry, sitting up.

"Two words ... Fred ... George," said Ron.

"That was four words," said Fred. Ron whirled round ... neither of them had noticed that Fred and George had just appeared in the door, both looking very wet.

"What are you doing up here?" asked Ron.

"We came to say hello to our ickle brother," said Fred.

"I remember it well," said George, stepping into the room. "How we laughed!" He prodded the ceiling.

"That looks dangerous, Ronnie," said Fred. "One sharp push, and the whole lot would give way."

"And you'd kill both of us, and then Mum would kill you," said Ron smugly. "You see? Sleeping with Harry Potter has its advantages."

All three of them stared, horrified, at Ron, who had gone bright red.

"Harry, you never told us," said George. "When's the wedding? Can I be a page boy?"

"Is he any good in bed?" asked Fred. A pillow hit him on the side of the head.

"Shove off!" yelled Ron.

George, meanwhile, had sat down on the edge of Harry's bed. "But we don't feel like leaving yet," he said. "We need to arrange blackmailing terms."

Fred closed the door. "Seems to me like ickle Ronnie-kins can't keep his tongue under control ... in more ways than one," he added.

"Seems to me like ickle Ronnie-kins wouldn't like his slip of the tongue broadcast around Hogwarts for all to hear."

Ron turned to Harry, and gave him a pleading look. Harry was unsure whose position to adopt, so he said nothing.

"What do you want?" asked Ron, with great reluctance.

"You will be our guinea pig," said Fred.

"What do you mean, guinea pig?" asked Ron.

George explained. "We've been very busy in our little shed this summer ... right, Fred?"

Fred nodded.

"And we've created some rather splendiferous new gags," George went on. "Problem is ... we can't find anybody to test them on. Ginny is holding out for twenty Galleons, instead of the five we offered, Bill and Charlie are both away still, Mum and Dad would kill us, we wouldn't dream of hurting Harry, and Percy would probably chuck us in Azkaban if we did anything to him. So you see Ron ... you are the proverbial ... it."

Ron looked very downcast. "What kind of gags?" he asked.

"Remember canary creams?" asked Fred. Both Harry and Ron nodded ... neither of them had accepted any food from either of the twins since.

"Hamster n' raisin cookies," said George. "The same ... only different. You will test them for us."

"No way," said Ron.

"In the Great Hall ... during breakfast, on the first day back," Fred went on. "That's all we ask."

"That's all," repeated George.

"And if I don't?"

"Then we reveal what you said ... to Draco Malfoy. It'd give him material for weeks," said George. "Well ... our work here is done, eh, Fred?"

"Right you are, George," Fred stood up, and putting his hand on Harry's shoulder, whispered. "You want to watch yourself, Harry ... he probably won't try anything, but you never know."

"If you want to sleep in our room tonight, Harry, we'll understand," said George. "Though it'll probably break Ron's heart."

"Goodnight children ... play nicely now," they slipped out of the door. A moment later, both of them heard their footsteps thumping on the stairs, and great peals of laughter.

"Sorry," said Harry, who as trying hard not to smirk.

Ron shrugged. "You wouldn't have been able to stop them," he said. "When they get like that, you're safer keeping your gob shut."

"I'm sorry anyway," said Harry.

Ron coughed. "Don't be," he said. He picked up his robes again. "Any idea how you're meant to get these folded?" he asked.

"You don't know how to fold?" asked Harry, incredulously. He was somewhat of an expert, having been forced to do the Dursleys ironing since he was old enough to hold an iron without burning himself. "What do you usually do?"

"Usually I just throw everything in and jump on the lid until it closes," said Ron, gloomily. He threw the robes to Harry. "You have a go."

"Thanks," said Harry, without feeling.

* * *

The stormy weather did not cease overnight, and come the next morning, it was as if there never had been a summer. Draco awoke to find water pouring down his bedroom windows, and the sound of thunder overhead. He dressed hurriedly, and went downstairs for breakfast.

To his surprise, he found his Father was already seated at the breakfast table, wearing his finest dress robes, and reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. He looked up at the sound of Draco's footsteps.

"For heaven's sake ... make yourself presentable, boy," he snarled.

Draco looked down at himself. He wasn't wearing especially smart robes, but they were by no means his scruffiest. "Why, what's the problem?" he asked.

"We have a guest," said Lucius. "He will be arriving at ten this morning. I want you to look your best for him."

Draco helped himself to toast. "Who is it?" he asked.

"That would spoil your surprise. He is most interested to meet you though, Draco," said Lucius, returning to his paper. "You will return to your bedroom forthwith, and change into something more presentable."

"After breakfast," said Draco. "I'm hungry."

Lucius glowered at him, but allowed Draco's insolence to pass.

"Good morning dear. Good morning, Draco," Narcissa Malfoy swept into the room. "Don't forget, my hairdresser is coming at eleven," she said to Lucius, kissing him on the cheek.

"I hadn't forgotten," said Lucius. "Draco and I are also expecting a visitor this morning."

"Anybody important?" asked Narcissa.

"I suppose you could term him as important," said Lucius. "He wields a great deal of influence, and I would like him to meet Draco, with, perhaps a view to future employment."

"That'll be nice," said Narcissa. "You'd like a job, wouldn't you, Draco?"

Draco nodded, and said, in between mouthfuls of toast. "Probably some day."

"Anyway," said Lucius. "Your presence will not be required at this meeting. You will remain upstairs."

"Of course," said Narcissa. "Am I to tell Simpkins to send the hairdresser up?"

"Granted," said Lucius. He took another piece of toast, and spread it liberally with butter. For a while, all was silence, save for the sound of chewing.

"The weather doesn't look like improving," said Draco, staring out of the dining room window, after a few minutes had passed.

"I dare say it will," said Narcissa, in a vain attempt to make conversation. "These things generally do."

Draco nodded his agreement. Father didn't seem to be listening. "Where am I to be presented to this guest?" he asked, after a further silence.

"The meeting will take place in my study," said Lucius. "If you have quite finished with your breakfast, you may be excused to change. Mind you wear your best dress robes."

"They're packed for school," protested Draco. "Simpkins packed for me last night."

"Then Simpkins can bloody well unpack for you, can't he?" hissed Lucius. "That is what servants are for, after all."

Draco nodded glumly, and excused himself from the table.

* * *

Ten o'clock found Draco standing stiffly to attention in his Father's study. A roaring fire had been laid, and his Father was nowhere to be seen. Draco, who wanted to go upstairs and finish the homework he had only just started, was contemplating leaving. This guest, whoever it was, plainly was not going to show up.

However, he was mistaken. At two minutes past the hour, the huge double doors to the study swung open, and two men, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky, entered, lead by his Father.

"I trust you had a pleasant journey," Father was saying.

"It was barely tolerable," the visitor replied.

"Will you take a seat?"

"I will," said the visitor. "Andrews will stand."

Andrews ... Draco wondered where he'd heard the name before. The taller of the two men was lead over to one of the chairs. Father took his seat behind the desk.

"Is this Draco?" asked the visitor, his voice high pitched, cold, almost lifeless.

Draco stepped forwards. "I am honoured, sir," he said.

"Indeed you are, boy," said the visitor. He removed his hood. A glimmer of recognition flashed across Draco's face. "Do you know who I am?"

Draco shook his head. He looked familiar ... yet and at the same he was not. He had close cropped black hair, a handlebar moustache. His eyes were brown, his lips thin, his cheekbones well defined. Draco somehow knew he was staring into the eyes of a merciless, cold blooded killer. This was the moment he had been groomed for all his life. He felt a surge of excitement rush through his body.

"Draco. This is the man I have told you about," said Lucius. "He is here to claim you."

"I am honoured," breathed Draco.

"Indeed you are," said the man. "Do you know my name, Draco?"

Draco nodded. "Lord Voldemort," he said. "You look shorter than your picture …"

Lucius had gone pale.

The other man looked angry.

"I thought he knew, Malfoy," the man said. A suspicion was dawning in Draco’s mind that this man probably wasn’t Voldemort, after all.

"This man is Artemis Chaldean," Lucius hissed. "And see you don’t forget it. Five laps of the grounds …"

"But Father!"

"Ten laps of the grounds," Lucius said. "Running all the way. I will monitor your pace."

Draco, hanging his head, looked up.

"It isn’t fair."

"Twenty laps of the grounds."

"Yes, father."

Chaldean smiled. "Your father has taught you well. I am pleased by this."

"Thank you, Sir," Lucius said. He almost appeared to bow. Draco had of course, heard of Chaldean ... he had been one of Voldemort's greatest supporters. However he had never seen his Father display respect or reverence for another before.

"Tell me, Malfoy," Chaldean turned to Lucius. "What does the boy know of us?"

"He knows nothing," said Lucius. "I have told him nothing of our plans."

Chaldean appeared to be rubbing his hands together in delight. Draco noticed his fingers ... very long, thin, and dainty ... they might have been those of a girl. These were hands that had never known hardship or work.

"Excellent. It would have been impertinent of you, Lucius, to tell the child all."

Draco fumed ... he was loathe to be referred to as a child. However he said nothing. His Father had taught him that Chaldean was one to be greatly feared ... a Pureblood sorcerer, descended, as legend had it, from very ancient, very powerful wizards, as well as being the most notorious Death Eater to have escaped Azkaban.

Chaldean turned to Draco. "Do you like stories, Draco?" he asked.

Lucius was nodding. Draco took the hint. "Very much, Sir," he said.

Chaldean clapped his hands. "Excellent, Malfoy. You have raised him well. He will do for my purposes. Come closer, Draco, let me tell you my tale."

Draco stepped closer.

"Give me your hand, boy."

Draco held out his right hand. Chaldean took it, and examined it closely, running his fingers along the lines of Draco's palm. His grip felt like ice ... it was like being touched by Winter.

"I see you have a great potential," said Chaldean. "Yet also a great sadness. What troubles you, Draco?"

Draco didn't say anything. He was troubled ... very much so, but to have revealed what was bothering him would be ... in his Father's eyes, the very worst display of cowardice. He could see his Father scowling at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Nothing," Draco said.

Chaldean did not pursue the matter. "I can tell when another is lying, Draco," he said. "However, I have always believed that a man's innermost thoughts are his own private business. You have no need to tell me anything."

Draco relaxed a little. Chaldean released his hand, then continued talking. "Once, Draco ... I was a great man. In my ... heyday, I suppose you could call it that ... there were none to touch me, none who could get close. None who could harm me. Can you picture me as a young man, Draco?"

Draco tried to visualise Chaldean as a twenty-something ... however no image materialised ... his features gave the impression he had been old forever, that he had never known youth.

"It is difficult, I know," said Chaldean, giving Draco the sudden impression that he was reading his thoughts. "I find it hard to believe that I was once a child, let alone a young man. Still, I was. When I was at Hogwarts, I was somewhat of an oddball ... the runt of the litter. I was the boy at the back, not paying attention ... the boy who had his head in a book when everyone else was off playing Quidditch. I spent most of my time in the library. I was miserable at Hogwarts, Draco ... truly miserable. One thing sustained me. Do you know what that was?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't," he said. "Please go on."

Chaldean nodded slowly. "My admiration for the Dark Arts. My desire to practice them, my desire to be the greatest wizard that the world has yet known. My idol was Salazar Slytherin ... and yet I was a Hufflepuff. Can you imagine the shame of that? I alone knew what house would make me great ... and I was in a different one. I longed to be in Slytherin, Draco ... with all my heart. If I had had my way, I would have cursed the Sorting Hat into oblivion. You are lucky, Draco. The Dark Arts flow through your veins as they do through mine ... yet you are in a position to fully exploit your gifts."

Draco didn't know what to say. He whispered. "Thank you."

Chaldean went on. "After Hogwarts," he said. "I worked for the Ministry for some years. Then, word reached my ear of another boy. Halfblooded, yet still destined for greatness. His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was an unhappy child ... shunted around Muggle orphanages, all the while becoming more and more angry with the world that had shunned him ... and the world in which he could not find acceptance. It was I who offered him a way out. I taught him to control the elemental forces within himself, and to use them to bend others to his will. Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort."

Chaldean had paused. Draco looked up. "How come I never knew any of this?" he asked.

"Nobody told you," said Lucius, scornfully. "Don't interrupt our guest again, Draco."

Chaldean, meanwhile, was smiling. "Come now, Lucius," he said. "Curiosity and initiative are, after all, great virtues. I seem to recall you saying that yourself."

"I stand corrected, Sir," said Lucius, bowing his head in a display of humility that Draco found almost unnerving.

"It is right that your son should be curious," said Chaldean. "This information was kept from you for a very good reason, Draco. We ... both your Father and I, thought it best for you not to know how the story really went until you were old enough to understand fully."

"I'm old enough now," said Draco. "Aren't I?"

Chaldean nodded. "Together, Draco, Lord Voldemort and I were at the height of our powers. We had power unimaginable to you. We could have controlled the fates of nations, even of worlds. Voldemort, on the other hand, became somewhat, deluded with his power. So the old saying goes ... all power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. Voldemort wanted nothing more than absolute power ... absolute power over the entire world. I, however, saw the futility of his plan. Whilst there were still good wizards in the world, there would always be somebody who would stand up and fight him. I tried to tell him this. I confronted him, but he would not hear me out, so drunk was he on his fantasies. Our ways parted at this time ... I think it must have been twenty or so years ago now."

Lucius Malfoy was nodding. "You are right, Sir. It was twenty years, almost to the month."

"Voldemort went somewhat astray after that. I watched my friend as he made mistake, after mistake, after mistake. True, he was gaining in power and influence over the wizarding world, but as he added card after card to his pile, the structure became unstable ... inherently so ... he began taking his power to extremes I could never have dreamt of. He strengthened himself with his Death Eaters ... masked terror, Draco. You could not possibly have known the fear. Even I was afraid ... and I wanted the same as Voldemort did. You can see how mixed up everything had become."

Draco was staring at Chaldean with his mouth wide open. Chaldean regarded him with a look of vague amusement on his face. Finally, he spoke again. "You probably know how the story ends. Allow me to paint the scene for you. It is October 31st, 1981. Voldemort has received information that will allow him to take out one of the Light Side's most vaunted wizarding families. At a stroke, he can eliminate a figurehead, cripple an enemy. Unfortunately, James and Lily Potter prove rather too clever, even for one of supreme intellect, such as Voldemort. Ancient, powerful magic is invoked. Voldemort's curse rebounds off their baby son, and he is broken. It would seem that the story ends there, does it not?"

Draco assumed it probably didn't. "It doesn't though, does it?" he asked.

Chaldean shook his head. "By no means does it end there," he said, mysteriously. "It is now a year later, October 1982 ... the Death Eaters are broken ... a semblance of calm is restored, and everyone largely assumes Voldemort is no more. Then I was visited one night by two Death Eaters. One of them is now dead ... his name need not concern us. The other, as you will no doubt have guessed, was your Father, Draco. In the calamity that followed Voldemort's final collapse, he alone had seen the damage that had been done, and had resolved not to allow it to happen again. Your Father provided me with considerable information."

Draco could scarcely believe what was being said to him. In the space of a couple of minutes, this Chaldean person had blown apart everything his Father had ever told him to believe in. His Father was a turncoat. He had always told Draco that honesty and honour were a million times more important than changing your colours simply because you were on the losing side. He had told Draco, in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if he turned traitor ... but now here he was, being told that his *Father* was just such a man. Draco almost felt disgusted. He turned to his Father ... who seemed to sense what was going through the boy's mind.

"Believe me, Draco," he said. "I would not have done it had I never realised how unspeakably horrible the acts of Lord Voldemort had been. You have to understand ... things were very different in those days. My whole life had just been turned upside down. I feared for my safety. I feared for your safety, and your Mother's. I couldn't go to Azkaban."

"You always told me Voldemort was your Master," said Draco. "You always told me he'd come for me some day. How could you have done that to me?"

"I had to do it, Draco," said Lucius. "Voldemort has ways of finding out who remains loyal to him, and who has turned. If he even suspected. Just by telling you this, I am risking death."

Draco looked up into his Father's eyes. "You're a spy?"

Lucius nodded. "I came to Chaldean with information ... how Voldemort had met his downfall ... how we could regain the power we had had ... but without him. I had it all worked out. I could see that Voldemort's ways were the wrong ways. I understood that, and so did Chaldean. Believe me, Draco, my beliefs never changed."

Chaldean was nodding his head, slowly. "Your Father was able to tell me much ... he told me that, amongst other things, Voldemort was not dead, as I had believed ... that he was biding his time, re-gathering his vast strength ... ready to seek his revenge on the boy who proved his downfall."

"Potter," breathed Draco.

"Indeed. I understand he is in your year?"

"That's correct," said Draco. "He's a Gryffindor."

Chaldean chuckled. "How ironic," he said. "He is a good Quidditch player too? They say he has a great future ahead of him. They are probably right, though it will doubtless be a short one."

Lucius Malfoy smiled.

"Potter is still a boy at heart," Chaldean went on. "His loyalties are not fully formed ... I suspect even he doesn't know where they might land. He was, after all, raised far away from the world of his true people. He has only been aware that he is a wizard for the last four years. This is not nearly long enough to become acquainted with a world and its ways. Harry Potter is still ripe for the picking ... and this is where my plan comes in."

"Your plan?" asked Draco. "You told me it was Voldemort's," he rounded on his Father, who merely sat there, and shook his head.

"You still don't seem to understand, Draco," his Father said. "I could have said little else in that restaurant. Who knows who could have overheard us?"

"I need Harry Potter," said Chaldean. "I need him for our scheme to work. Voldemort is returned to power ... even as we speak, he is consolidating it. Now, he is as powerful as he was before he became crazed ... and it is a matter of time before he becomes crazed again. He must be stopped, before he destroys the Dark side ... for he will surely take us all with him if he is destroyed by the Light. We must stop him, and we must stop him soon. To stop Voldemort, we need Harry Potter. We need him on our side, and we need him by Christmas. Even that may be too late."

"Why don't you just kidnap him?" asked Draco.

"We had considered that," said Chaldean. "However we would not get near him. As long as he remains with his Muggle relatives, he is protected from harm ... and at Hogwarts, the increasingly deluded Albus Dumbledore has his eye constantly on the boy. As such, we need someone who can get close to Harry ... exploit his weaknesses and his foolishness. We immediately thought of you, Draco."

"I understand," said Draco. He had always thought his loyalties would always lie with Voldemort ... but in the light of what he had been told, he would have to reconsider. His Father would, no doubt, have severe words with him if he refused ... and the whole situation was made doubly difficult by the fact that unlike Potter, Draco had always known he was a wizard. It would be very hard to try and change now.

He looked up, his Father and Chaldean were staring at him, inquisitive looks on their faces.

"Well, Draco?" his Father asked. "Will you help us."

Draco nodded. "I'll do my best," he said. What else could he have said. There was ice in his Father's eyes. They said; renege now, and I'll flay you to within an inch of your pathetic life.

Chaldean motioned to Andrews, who disappeared from the room. "Do not think you will have no help from us. We look after our own," Andrews returned, bearing a small tray on which sat several pot plants. Dragon trees.

"This plant," Chaldean said, picking one of them off the tray as Andrew proffered it. "This plant will be your ally. With it, you will be able to bend others to your will. They will be powerless to resist. Use it wisely, Draco."

He handed Draco the plant. Draco held it at arms length, remembering what his Father had told him.

"These were for me?" he asked. "All along?"

Lucius nodded. "Use them well. They are a great weapon."