Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER FIVE. THE VISITORS.

Hermione stood outside Greenhouse Four, casting her eyes around for any sign of Draco. The light was fading fast, and with the gathering darkness came the wind, whistling over the mountaintops, chilling her to the very bone. She hugged herself tightly, and stomped her feet to keep warm. It may only still have been early September, but this far north, winter was already on the way.

She checked her watch. She had definitely been here longer than fifteen minutes now. Still, Draco seemed to be resolutely not putting in any kind of appearance whatsoever ... she was beginning to worry about him. She already knew the Slytherins had been using him as a human punch bag. What if they had gone too far?

She reflected as she leant against the door of the greenhouse on the unusual circumstances that had so far lead to her becoming, in the space of a few short days, Draco Malfoy's friend and confidante. If you had gone up to her on the Hogwarts Express the previous Friday, and told her that this would be how her term panned out, she probably would have smiled, or laughed it off, or maybe even have become angry. Up until now, she had hated Draco Malfoy with every fibre of her existence. He had done his utmost, over the last four years, to get her, Harry and Ron in deep trouble at every opportunity. She could still remember that time in the First Year, when he had tricked Harry and Ron into meeting him for a duel in the Trophy Room. He had tipped off Filch, and the three of them had very nearly been caught by him. Then there was that glorious day ... night rather, when Draco himself had been caught wandering around out of bed at night, intent on catching Harry and herself, who were aiding and abetting the smuggling of a baby Norwegian Ridgeback out of the country. He had got a detention for his pains. Their jubilation had been swiftly followed by their downfall, and the subsequent loss of no less than a hundred and fifty points from Gryffindor still stuck in her memory. She smiled at the recollection. Harry had literally been shaking in his slippers.

Somewhere in the twilit sky, an owl hooted, and something flew across the rising moon, silhouetted against the brilliant white light it cast over the grounds. It could have been someone on a broomstick. It could have been a bat. Hell, around Hogwarts, it could have been anything. Nothing ever happens here that could be termed as mundane, thought Hermione. She could hear footsteps crunching along the gravel path ... but the footfall was too heavy for it to be Draco. Sure enough, Professor Sprout walked past, evidently buried deep in thought, and didn't pay Hermione a second glance before heading off in the direction of the rose garden.

Hermione took another glance at the luminous dial of her wristwatch. She had been waiting out in the cold and the dark for nearly twenty five minutes. She was just about to give up, assume Draco had got lost, or attacked or something, and go inside, when she heard him approaching. At first by the sounds of his running footfall, and then by the sounds of his frantic coughing.

She stepped out into the path. Draco, who was wrapped tightly in his Winter cloak, fastened across the chest with a silver buckle in the shape of a tiny sword, nearly ran straight into her. He looked up ... Hermione could see tears were trickling down his face.

"What happened?" she gasped in genuine concern.

Draco blushed, even through his tears, and tried in vain to wipe himself dry. He ran his sleeve across his nose, and sniffed loudly. Now Hermione could see a new bruise on his chin, and blood trickling once more from his aquiline nose.

"He tricked me," sniffed Draco. "He tricked me ... he must have known you were going to be there. That must have been why he followed me."

"Steady, steady," said Hermione ... uncertain of what to do, she put her arm around Draco's shoulders. "Go back from there, Draco. Who knew I was going to be where?"

"Crabbe," gasped Draco. "Must have heard us talking during Potions. He must have known."

"Was that who was with you in the Library?" asked Hermione. "I didn't get a good look."

Draco nodded.

Hermione guided him over to the steps up into the greenhouse, and helped him to sit down. She crouched down next to his miserable form. "So what did he do?" she asked.

Draco was shaking his head. "You'll just laugh," he sobbed. Hermione handed him a tissue.

"I promise on Harry's life I will not laugh at you," said Hermione, her voice forceful and resolute.

"He dragged me out of the Library ... he was always a lot stronger than me ... an' ... and Pansy and Goyle an' some fourth year kid I don't know were waiting round the corner," he choked again, blinking back tears. Hermione felt inside all her many pockets, but couldn't seem to find any more tissues anywhere. "I don't want to tell," Draco was saying.

"You must."

"My Father ... always told me to ... fight my own battles," sniffed Draco, looking into Hermione's eyes with a look of such pain, anger and fear on his face as Hermione didn't believe she had ever seen before. "He never wanted anybody to see me like this."

"Your Father seems to be stuck in the Nineteenth Century," said Hermione. "There's nothing wrong with anything you've done ... anything at all."

"Nothing?"

"No," said Hermione. "You aren't at fault here."

"That's not it," sniffed Draco, waving his hands in despair. "He always told me I shouldn't show them I was hurt. But I can't do that. I never got bullied before ... I don't know how the hell I avoided it. Being in with Crabbe and Goyle must have had something to do with that ... I just, nobody ever hit me or anything, and my Father thought that meant I was being the strong one," he stopped, gulped and continued talking. "He never wanted me to show them anything. I'm not allowed to cry at home."

"Don't be silly," said Hermione. "You must do ... sometimes."

"I haven't cried in front of my Parents since I was six," said Draco.

"What happened when you were six?" asked Hermione.

"I had an ice cream," said Draco. "A really big one too. My Father had some business associate round, and we were in the garden ... an' ... and Mother went for ice cream ... we had some in the house. Anyway, she comes out with ice cream in little bowls for them, and a cone for me. Right? I'm sitting on the grass, and she gives me mine, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Hermione. "Carry on."

Draco shook his head. "I don't ... anyway, I think ... he was, this guy, he was an American ... and he said something like, 'Why we have ice creams ten times the size of that one in the States, give the kid another scoop.' So Mother looked at Father, and he nodded ... I suppose they had to flatter this guy, some sort of deal. And she gave me another scoop of ice cream. So I was sitting there with my ice cream and my toy broomsticks, and this bloody great cone melts," he appeared to be smiling through his tears. "It's a silly thing really, but it was melting. Then the extra scoop fell off."

"You started crying, right?" asked Hermione. Draco nodded, but he nodded sheepishly, as though he was ashamed, as though he didn't think he should be telling her what he was telling her. Hermione could do little else but prompt him to tell her more.

"I started crying, got it in one. But my Father's giving me this look, this disgusted look, and I'm thinking, uh-oh, I know what's coming next. And he excuses himself to this Yank, and takes me indoors to his study, he's hauling me along by my arm, and I'm wailing harder than ever. And he sits me down in his swivel chair ... and then he starts yelling at me."

"What was he yelling?"

Draco shrugged. "Hard to remember," he snivelled. "It was something like, you arrogant, spiteful little toad! He told me I was letting the side down ... he's into Quidditch analogies is my Father. He told me we don't cry."

"Who?"

"Me, him, people in general. You're British, Draco ... he said, and you must always remember that your people built an Empire ... and they didn't cry because their ice cream melted. And I didn't understand him, so I carried on. I was only six, I didn't have a clue what he was on about. And he said he was going to teach me a lesson ... that he'd make sure I learned not to cry ever again."

"What did he do?"

She didn't hear Draco's reply, but it sounded like. "He started beating me." Tears were once more trickling down his face. Hermione felt goose pimples rising on her arms. Draco's story had affected her gravely ... so much so that she actually felt slightly sick inside. She knew now why he had always acted the way he did. She also knew that to have a Father like that, and to let him affect you like that, and then to cry the way he was because his friends had turned on him must require a titanic effort. Whatever Draco was going through now must be really bad. Thoughts of what she would like to do to Lucius Malfoy for abusing his own son were whirling through her head ... to be replaced with thoughts of Draco, whose shoulders were heaving. He was breathing quickly, in short, ragged gasps, and moaning tragically. Right now, what he needed were people around him who cared for him ... who could hug him, and whisper to him, and tell him it was all okay. There was nobody around to do that. The onus was on her.

"He was hitting me," Draco whispered in between his sobs, in a voice so faint Hermione could barely hear it.

"Did this happen often?" asked Hermione, holding Draco tightly.

"Yes," said Draco. "And I can remember them all. He used to tell me Dumbledore would cane me if I put a foot out of line ... I was terrified of coming to Hogwarts. Usually he'd lock me in my room, or stop me from having any food."

"I don't know what to say to you," said Hermione. She pulled Draco closer to her, until he was leaning up against her, his head on her shoulder, his sleek blond hair touching hers. "What can I say to make it better?"

Draco didn't reply.

"I never knew any of this," Hermione was saying. "I never knew it at all," she rubbed Draco's back with her free hand.

"I don't know what you can do," Draco said. "I don't know at all. I shouldn't even have told you ... just ... just be here now."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Hermione, continuing to rub his back. Draco was hugging his knees to his chest. "I'm here as long as you want."

Draco couldn't help but feel calmed by those words. He had forgotten ... indeed, he was genuinely beginning to suspect he had never known the meaning, or the value of having somebody around you who would say kind things and mean them. All his life, for the most minor things, his Father had punished him ... as he had said, mostly by locking him up or sanctioning him in other ways, but occasionally with a slap across the face, more often with a stick, a cane or a slipper, and sometimes he had been beaten until he was black and blue. His Mother had never said anything to that ... she had never tried to stop him ... she had never intervened, or bathed his cuts and bruises afterwards. That had always been left to him. The solace he had found during the darker days of his childhood had always been with the House Elves ... and when his Father had found out about that the Elves had been beaten too, and Draco had been kicked so hard he had to be taken to hospital. His Father had bribed him not to tell the Doctors with a new racing broom. He had been ten at the time ... that had only been a few months before he first came to Hogwarts.

But now he remembered how his Father had always made it appear less of a big deal than Hermione evidently thought it was. He had bribed Draco with toys and favours. Perhaps he had been afraid Draco would tell somebody.

He could still remember his first day, walking so nervously along that platform, crowded with other children, of whose company his Parents had done their best to deprive him, preferring the miniature adult they had cultivated, dressing him in foppish suits with lacy cuffs and curls, and dragging him to boring dinner parties where other boring wizards made boring speeches and they were served boring food by boring waiters. That platform ... so crowded. Other kids were an unknown entity to Draco, apart from Crabbe and Goyle. Was that why I never fitted in? Was that why I had to be so nasty to everybody? Was that why everybody hates me?

His thoughts drifted back to his Mother. If she had never stopped him ... surely that meant she couldn't have cared for him either. Potter must have got more attention than he ever did from his parents. Was he an unwanted child? He knew already he was five weeks premature ... he had weighed less than a bag of sugar, and for a few days it had been touch and go whether he would live or not. Had they actually cared whether he lived or died? He had always pictured them standing round his cot on the Children's Ward at St Mungo's, praying silently. What if they hadn't been? It didn't bear thinking about.

Now Hermione was holding him so tightly, and so close to her, in a gesture of such apparent tenderness as Draco thought he had never experienced before in his life. What must she think of him now? She must really hate me even more, he thought. She's only doing it out of pity, out of one-upmanship. So that she could have something to laugh about with Harry and Ron the next day. However, part of his brain ... the part that the vile treatment meted out by the Parents he was now coming to realise he loathed every sinew of, was telling him otherwise. Hermione is a compassionate girl. You've always known that to be so. You always wanted to be her friend. You always wanted that. She's doing what any other true friend would do. As if in answer to his thoughts, Hermione was running her hand through his hair, dabbing at his damp face with the sleeves of her woollen robes. Whispering in his ear.

"You're going to be all right, Draco. Please listen to me. All right. We won't let them get you. You'll be okay."

"Nil illegitimi carborandum," he found himself whispering.

"What was that?" asked Hermione, stroking his hair, amazed at how soft and fine it seemed.

"Pig Latin," said Draco. "It means 'don't let the bastards grind you down.'"

"You sound just like your Father," said Hermione.

Draco smiled, despite himself. "But I have."

"Have what, Draco?"

"I have let them grind me down," said Draco. He wiped his eyes dry with the now sodden tissue Hermione had given him. "It's too late to do anything about that. They've seen me for what I am. I'm a coward, I've got a yellow streak longer than a stampede of wildebeest with diarrhoea. Now they've seen what they can do to me ... what they've done to me, whatever is to stop them doing it all over again?"

"Me, for a start," said Hermione. "We should really go and see Dumbledore ... there's lots we can do to help. We could get you help ... we could try and get you moved to another dormitory."

"What good would that do?" asked Draco. "Everyone hates me ... none of the Slytherins will have me. I can't move Houses. I'm stuck where I am."

"Please say you'll come and talk to Dumbledore with me," said Hermione. "Please?"

But Draco was shaking his head. "We're not telling on them," he said. "Sometimes you have to be sporting."

"That's your Father speaking through you again," said Hermione, still cradling him. "Sod being sporting, sod being so bloody fair about everything, and for once, sod being so effing British about it all!" there was venom in her voice. "Draco, you cry as much as you damn well like. People only get bullied in this world because they don't tell people about it. Well I'm not going to let that happen to a friend of mine."

Draco looked up, hardly daring to believe it. "Since when have I been your friend?"

"Oh come along, Draco," said Hermione. "You don't expect me to go through that with you and not come out knowing you as a friend?"

"But you're a Gryffindor ... I'm a Slytherin."

"Blow the sodding Houses to buggeration!" spat Hermione. "They're what are causing all the trouble in the first place. Anyway ... why can't enemies kiss and make up? It'll be like the Montagues and the Capulets," she saw that Draco didn't have a clue what she was on about. "You've never even heard of Shakespeare, have you?" she said.

"I don't think he's got as far as Chipping Sodbury yet," said Draco.

"You'll have a bloody long wait if you think he's coming," said Hermione. "He's been dead nearly four hundred years. Come on you. Get up ... we've got people to speak to. It's not very warm out here either."

Indeed it was not. Complete darkness had now fallen across the Hogwarts grounds, and with it had come the icy grip of another freezing night. Slowly, the two of them got to their feet, Draco still leaning on Hermione ... and together, they set off back to the Castle, their feet crunching on the footpath.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"And rook to king four," said Ron, looking very pleased with himself. "I think you'll find that's checkmate again, Harry."

"How much do I owe you?" asked Harry, delving into his pockets as the tiny chess pieces finished each other off.

Ron checked his notepad. "I think, five sickles," he said. "I'll take a cheque if you want."

Harry glowered at him, and pulled out the tiny brown leather bag he habitually carried his loose change around in. He counted out five sickles, and handed them to Ron.

"Thanks," said Ron, slipping the little silver coins into his trouser pocket.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you who's buying the drinks next time we get to go to Hogsmeade," said Harry. He stopped himself. He had quite forgotten with all the activity of the past two days, that Sirius Black, a.k.a. Xavier Wilmot, tricorn breeder extraordinaire, had forbidden him to leave the grounds. His disappointment must have showed, for Ron asked him what was the matter.

"Nothing," said Harry, disconsolately.

"I know what'll cheer you up," said Ron, grinning. "Chess!"

Harry scowled. "Not again," he groaned. "Can't you think of something else?"

"Exploding snap?"

"You always win at that too," said Harry.

"We could play for matchsticks if you're feeling skint," said Ron.

"Have you got any matchsticks?"

"Actually, no," said Ron. "We tend not to need them ... on account of being wizards, yeah?"

"It's just one of those things," said Harry. "So what can we play for?"

"Money?" asked Ron, hopefully. Crookshanks, Hermione's overlarge tabby cat, was lying on the chair next to him, purring contentedly.

"Not on your life," said Harry. "Anyway, we should stop ... I still have that essay to do for McGonagall," she, like every other teacher at Hogwarts, appeared to be consistently adding to their already strained workload. "Wonder where Hermione is."

"Probably, she went to the Library," said Ron, stroking Crookshanks behind his ears ... now that Ron no longer had Scabbers, his pet rat and secret animagus to take care of, he had become much more tolerant around Hermione's pet, which had spent most of their Third Year trying to eat the rat. Ron never had much luck with pets ... after Scabbers had come Pig, a gift from Sirius. Pig was a small grey owl, and so outstandingly useless you might just have well have used him as a sponge. He would probably be better at it than delivering the post.

As if in answer to Ron's thoughts, there came a small, fervent tapping on one of the Common Room's leaded windows. George opened it, and Pig flew in. He landed on Ron's unkempt red hair, and dug his claws firmly into the boy's scalp.

"Get off!" yelped Ron, seizing the owl, which was small enough to sit in the palm of his hand. Not unsurprisingly, Pig was carrying a small note. Ron opened it.

"What's it say?" asked Harry, craning over to get a better look. Ron moved to block his view.

"Private," he said ... though Harry could see that it was written in day glow orange marker pen, and someone had very conscientiously drawn little hearts all the way around it. Ron finished reading the note, folded it up very small, and slipped it into his pocket. "Very private," he said for emphasis, fixing Harry with a steely gaze.

George slouched over ... he looked bored. He was bored ... less than a week into his final year at Hogwarts, it would seem that his workload was not yet taxing enough ... not that either Fred or George ever bothered to spend much time doing their homework.

"What's going down?" he asked, perching on the arm of Ron's chair. "Can I read your letter?"

"I said, no!" said Ron, angrily. "It isn't the kind of thing you share."

"Is it from Mum?"

Ron shook his head.

"Is it from any Weasley at all?" asked George. "Is Percy plotting to overthrow the Ministry? I bet it's Charlie isn't it? Killed by a rampaging dragon in the suburbs of Bucharest? Or has Bill become the new member of Aerosmith?"

"It is from nobody you know," said Ron. "That's my final word."

"So why don't you let me read it?" asked George, his bottom lip starting to quiver, although this was blatantly an act.

"It isn't the kind of letter you share," said Ron. "If you'd got it, you wouldn't show me."

George was grinning maliciously. "So Ronald is being sent things he shouldn't be. Illicit materials? Porn by post?"

"Nothing like that," said Ron, blushing fiercely. George turned to Harry.

"Are you in on this too Harry?" he asked. "Going into business are we? Don't worry," he added, catching the look on Harry's face. "I won't tell a soul. I'm sure a business like yours can do without prying eyes. If you ever need a consultant though," he added, glancing furtively around the room, as though he was trying to sell them something that 'fell off the back of a lorry.' "I'd be more than happy to read your stock for you," he clapped Harry on the back, and walked away to annoy Neville Longbottom.

"Malicious git," snarled Ron. Harry declined to comment.

"When's Hermione coming back?" Harry asked, just making conversation. Ron looked up, he had been picking the dirt out from behind his fingernails with obvious relish at the results.

"Didn't she say she had a lot of studying to do?" asked Ron.

Harry shook his head. "Unless she's doing any extra-curricular activities. I know for a fact she's finished that essay already ... she was doing it during lunch break today."

"Perhaps she's gone off on some sort of a mission," speculated Ron.

"You mean, like defeating the source of all evil in the world? Or do you mean just reading something?"

"Oh, just reading something," said Ron. "Hermione would read a felly-tone directory if she thought it looked interesting."

Harry nodded his agreement. "Perhaps she's snuck off for a secret rendezvous with her new beau," he said.

"Draco Malfoy? That snide little sod?"

Harry nodded. "They're probably meeting in some deserted classroom right as we speak."

"I'm getting a very nasty mental picture forming in my head here," said Ron. "And frankly, Harry, I'm disgusted at your sordid mentality."

"You said yourself Draco had a massive crush on her," said Harry, defensively. Ron shrugged.

"Yeah, maybe," he said. "But I don't see Hermione acting on it. She's got better taste than that. She wants someone dashing, handsome ... well dressed ... with a flair for charming the ladies."

"Hey, you just listed all my best qualities," said Harry, grinning.

"I was thinking of me actually," said Ron, absent-mindedly running a hand through his hair. "Anyway. Hermione isn't stupid. She knows where getting in with Draco Malfoy must inevitably lead."

"Draco leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to the Dark Side," said Harry, putting on a squeaky voice.

"You what?"

"Forget it," said Harry. "It's nothing important. Let's get off the subject. Let's talk about how much we all hate him!"

Ron leaned forwards. "I'll drink to that," he said. "Pompous arse ... wandering around in his swanky designer cloaks. Bet he has to spend ages picking out what he wants to wear in the mornings. Probably has designer socks too."

Harry smiled again. "So bloody superior too. Tries to talk to us, then when we don't react with immediate enthusiasm ... and frankly, who can blame us after the last four years, he starts getting all hoity-toity and going on about being mortally offended. Well, what did he expect? Does he want us to throw a party in his honour?"

"Very probably," said Ron. "Just ignore him, Harry ... he's not worth bothering with. If he tries to talk to you again, just give him the cold shoulder. Remember my maxim for dealing with him ... I find it helps. Want to hear it?"

"Go on."

"Unhappy Malfoy equals happy Ron," said Ron. "Unhappy Malfoy squared is even better than that."

"I think you two might have a bit more respect," said Hermione, who had crept up on them unannounced. Harry stopped in mid guffaw, and turned to look at her.

"What's up with you?" asked Harry. "Where have you been?"

Hermione didn't answer the question. Instead she sat down in a vacant armchair next to them, and said. "You really are being very insensitive."

"What came over you?" asked Ron, who was staring at her with a look of confusion on his features. "There's nothing wrong with taking the mickey out of Draco Malfoy. Everybody does it. Everybody hates him."

"You never actually stopped to think about how he was feeling did you?" asked Hermione, her voice sounding angry with the both of them. Inside, she knew she had to give them a chance ... of course they couldn't know what was happening ... what had happened to Draco that evening, but she was also telling herself to really go to town on them both. How could they behave like that? "You never even bothered to consider how Draco might see himself."

"Stop calling him Draco," said Harry. "It's Malfoy to us ... Draco sounds like, like you like him."

"I'll call people what I damn well want, Potter!" snapped Hermione, rounding on Harry, who cowered in his chair. "For your information. Draco has spent the last two hours crying his eyes out!"

"Good," said Ron, with feeling.

"Will you shut up for one second?" asked Hermione. "He's too scared to go back to his dormitory. You don't know what they've been doing to him ... and I'm not going to dignify either of you savages by telling you! I respect other people's privacy, unlike some of you..."

"I never..."

"Shut up! You know where I just came from? I just spent half an hour with him in Dumbledore's office, trying to sort this mess out. Now you can think what you like about Draco ... but just leave off him, okay? He's been through more than you could reasonably expect him too."

Harry was just about to say that he had too, but thought better of it, and kept his mouth shut. This was probably not the time to put speech to his thoughts.

"He's not horrible at all," Hermione was saying. "He's just very confused and lonely. He needs people who care for him. Besides that he's gentle and kind and he has more civility in his little finger than either of you do in your lousy bodies!"

With that, she got up, shot them both a very angry glare indeed, begrudged them a 'good night' and disappeared up the spiral staircase to the girl's dormitories.

Harry and Ron both looked at each other. Harry, aghast at how Hermione seemed suddenly to have turned on everything she held dear. They were her friends! They always had been ... almost always. He had always thought they would remain friends ... until the previous night, he had thought there might be a possibility they could be more than friends. He shook his head in disgust. How could he ever have thought that? Was Hermione really prepared to throw away everything for Draco Malfoy, whom Harry knew to be a hateful, nasty little worm? He also knew that Hermione had thought the same way. Whatever could have induced her to change her mind so quickly? It was less than a week since their return to Hogwarts, and on the train she had been saying how much she would hate to end up falling in with Malfoy. How she knew she could never not hate him. Harry was confused. He wanted to sit down, with Hermione now, and talk about it, rationally and sensibly ... without shouting, threats and recriminations. But somehow such a scenario seemed as unlikely as him getting his Parents back.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As if in protest against their attitude, Hermione declined to sit next to them at breakfast on Wednesday morning. This was no great wrench to either Harry or Ron under the circumstances ... they had both been planning to ignore her completely. It came as something of a surprise to find that she had had exactly the same idea.

Harry, curious as to the reason for her alarmingly pro-Draco outburst that previous evening, kept sneaking glances at the Slytherin table, where, as he had been doing for some days now, Draco was sitting alone, separate from all the others. Even the new, First Year Slytherins were declining to talk to him. Harry wondered what the reason for this sudden exclusion could be. After all, it had to be acknowledged that Draco Malfoy was, in any situation, the life and soul of the Slytherin party, which was on the whole a quiet party, with bad music, little cubes of cheese and pineapple on sticks, and people standing round the edge of the room with glasses of punch, trying to avoid looking at one another ... surveying them now, Harry thought ... they weren't half an ugly bunch.

Draco was looking over in Hermione's direction ... but Hermione didn't seem to have noticed, she was deep in conversation with Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. He was wondering vaguely why Harry kept turning round. He so hoped she hadn't gone and told them. The previous evening he had poured his heart out to her. He had never told anybody about his Father and the beatings before, and it had come as a shock to him that he had actually been able to. She had seemed sincere. All the same, people are good at throwing the sincerity act, he thought. I've done it often enough myself. One thing was now for certain, there was no way he could go through with his 'task,' not now, not having shared the moments he had with Hermione ... not even if she did still hate his guts. He would have to destroy the plants. Maybe Chaldean and his Father would forget.

He was soon to realise that under no circumstances would Chaldean simply forget about him. As the teachers filed into the Great Hall, each of them still bleary eyed and tousle haired, Professor Flitwick still in his blue stripy pyjamas and dressing gown, Draco was shocked to see two very familiar figures. One of them was the man he was now coming to believe that he hated ... his Father. The other was none other than Artemis Chaldean. Both of them seemed to be scanning the House tables for any sign of Draco. Draco moved a cornflakes box in front of him, partially obscuring their view. He felt like he was about to vomit.

Lucius Malfoy was deep in conversation with Dumbledore, who looked monumentally unimpressed, and with whom Draco had had a long talk last night in the company of Hermione. He had been shocked that the man had been prepared to show him such kindness, although realistically, as he had said, there was very little he could do. Thankfully, he had had a large box of tissues, which Draco had gratefully used to clean himself up.

Chaldean, on the other hand, was looking around the Hall still. Draco watched as his eyes flitted to, first the Ravenclaw table, then to Hufflepuff, then Slytherin, then Gryffindor, and then finally back to Slytherin. Draco crouched down behind his cornflakes box, but was conscious of how conspicuous his hair was, and also that he hadn't had it cut before coming back to school. He continued with his breakfast.

He was just leaving the Hall, believing that he had actually managed to get away from them without them spotting him, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and that same ice cold chill running through his whole body as he had felt that day he first met Chaldean.

"We really should have a word, Draco," said Chaldean. "It seems your circumstances are not conducive to the work we want you to carry out."

"H ... how do you know?" asked Draco.

"Your Father and I are very powerful wizards, Draco," said Chaldean, steering him in the direction of an empty classroom. "It is not hard for us to check up on your activities. Your Father has been away on business for some days, in Naxcivan, there has been trouble with the workers on your estate there ... he has not seen what has been happening. I however, have ... and I have told him all ... it was a long train ride up here after all, we had to find some way to pass the time."

"I'm not afraid of him," said Draco, gritted his teeth as Chaldean pushed him roughly through the door of the classroom. He gestured to one of the desks.

"Sit down."

Draco did as he was told. He folded his arms, there was a scowl on his face. "I wouldn't care if I never saw him again. I hate him for what he did to me ... I hate you too."

Chaldean turned up his nose, and snarled at Draco in the manner of an angry Alsatian. "Silence," he hissed. Draco sank back into the hard wooden seat.

His Father swept into the room ... wearing, as was his custom, hand made dragon hide boots with buckles of pure eighteen carat gold, and a cashmere travelling cloak, much like the one Draco had. He closed the door behind him.

"I have obtained permission from Dumbledore for us to use this classroom," said Lucius, sitting down at the teacher's desk. "It was not hard to convince the doddery old fool I was merely here to comfort you in your hour of need."

"How, what do you know?" asked Draco.

"Dumbledore owled me last night. At first I could barely believe what I saw written before me on the parchment. It appears my Son is having trouble with bullies. It appears he spent upwards of twenty minutes with the headmaster last night. It appears he was bawling his eyes out. Draco, what have always told you about crying?"

"You said, don't," said Draco, looking down at the woodblock floor. Be submissive, his brain was telling him ... show humility ... maybe he won't hit you too hard.

"I said don't, Draco. I am pleased to see that you remember the incident. You may recall I lost the deal ... a million Galleons, it was worth. Gone. I have always held you personally responsible for that."

Draco wanted so badly to storm up to that desk, to slap his Father hard ... to pay him back for all the hurt he had caused Draco during his childhood. But he knew he could not. He wasn't strong enough. He was a weakling, just as he had always known and his Father had always suspected.

"It would at the very least have kept you comfortably in tuck for a few years. Now you must scrape by on your trust fund. However I am in half a mind not to give it to you. Chaldean has told me everything and you have in my eyes, proven yourself unworthy to be my son."

Draco slumped in his chair.

"However, very few Malfoys have ever suffered the dishonour of being disowned by their family," Lucius went on. "I am not going to do this to you. I am here only to ask you some question, to which you will provide the answers forthwith."

Draco nodded. "Yes, Father," he found himself saying. Even though he so desperately wanted to, he was somehow unable to disobey him. Thinking about it ... hadn't that always been the way? However much he wanted to go against his Father's word, he never ever had done. It was only now that this struck him as odd.

Lucius Malfoy had stood up, and was pacing back and forth across the room in front of the blackboard, his boots thudding on the floor. As he did so he held his hands behind his back. Chaldean was standing purposefully between Draco's chair and the classroom door.

"Why have you not yet mixed the Dragon's Blood potion?" asked his Father. "Did we receive our correspondence on schedule? Did we take notice of it?"

"The letter came," said Draco. "Mixing the potion takes time. I have to break into places, steal things. I'm not a born thief ... it isn't as easy as it looks."

"You seemed a fair enough thief when you took food from the kitchens at home," said his Father. Catching Draco's facial expression, he added. "Yes, Draco ... I know all about that. The House Elves are easily bribed ... and are more stupid than even you would care to give them credit for."

The sun came out from behind a cloud at that point, and for a moment a shaft of light falling through the high windows illuminated Lucius Malfoy from behind, giving him the look of an angel descending from heaven.

"I was hungry," retorted Draco.

"You were being punished," said Lucius, sitting down again. He began to drum his fingers impatiently on the old mahogany desk. "Why, Draco, is it so difficult to break into somebody's office at night for someone who has always been so adept with his fingers?"

"Doctor Jones suspects somebody," said Draco. "I ... I just thought it would be safer to leave off for a couple of days."

"Safer for whom?" asked Chaldean. "I want results, Malfoys, and you both seem to be being very awkward about giving them to me," he raised his fist, and banged it down on one of the desks, making the others rattle in response. "I want the Potter boy on my side. One would assume Draco would want the same. You did school him in the Dark Arts, as I made clear when first he was born?"

"Indeed I did, Master," said Lucius, almost grovelling. "It ... may have proved difficult at times ... but I have always believed I did my duty by our agreement."

"I will say no more," said Chaldean. "I will leave it to you to discipline the boy. I will meet you in Hogsmeade, in the Three Broomsticks, no later than eleven of the ante meridian clock," he turned to Draco. "I trust you will listen to your Father's words wisely boy," he said. "Or you might find yourself in a situation more dire than your current one. Voldemort is still gaining in power. Soon he will be able to challenge the order of things again. This must be stopped ... for my sake, as well as for yours. I bid you good day, Gentlemen," he gathered his long, red cloak around him, and swept from the room, letting the door bang shut behind him.

For a moment, Lucius looked a bit stunned. Then he said. "You see what you are putting us through, Draco? This tomfoolery ... this unnatural perversion must be stopped instantly. Chaldean is a powerful wizard ... maybe more powerful than Voldemort, maybe even more powerful than Dumbledore. It would not be wise to cross him, Draco, especially not in your current situation. You are in danger of landing yourself in very hot water."

"I will do better," said Draco, bowing his head. He was still shaking all over.

"The Dragon's Blood potion must be brewed and administered before next week is out, lest you desire another visit from us, Draco," said Lucius. "There is, one more thing I wish to talk to you about."

He stood up again, and stalked over to the desk where Draco was sitting. He cast a terrifying shadow across the floor. Draco looked up into his face, looking for something ... some semblance of a human heart ... some kind of pity. What he saw were the same cold eyes he had always seen.

"Father?"

"We cannot have you crying, Draco. It simply isn't cricket. You do remember what I always told you?"

Draco nodded. He raised his arm to shield himself from the blow he thought was coming ... but it didn't. Instead, Lucius leant closer to the terrified boy.

"Do I scare you, Draco?"

Draco shook his head hurriedly.

"Good. Perhaps I should tell you the story again. Your ancestor, my great-grandfather, Salazar Malfoy, served under Cecil Rhodes. You do know what Cecil Rhodes did?"

"No Father?"

"It is less than prudent to appear fond of such a man in these ... ah, enlightened post-colonial days," Lucius went on. "He was the man who conquered Zimbabwe, Malawi and South Africa for the Queen. For all his faults, he was a brave and great man. Salazar Malfoy was likewise a brave man. On the eve of the Relief of Mafeking, in 1901, he staggered into the British camp, gravely wounded. A patrol of Boer commandos had shot him through the chest. The bullet had hit a rib near the heart and glanced off. He was in deep, incapacitating shock, and he died later that evening with the best regimental doctors at his side. Not a tear touched his cheek. He died with a photograph of his sweetheart in his hand, but he did not weep for her."

"Things are different now," began Draco. "Welcome to the Nineties, Father. You get used to it after a while."

"I always thought you were strong, Draco. I always thought I had toughened you up. Alas it seems I have bred nothing less than a coward. Perhaps I should have administered heavier punishment than I did."

"No, Father," began Draco. His Father grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

"Do not speak, Draco, until I have finished speaking!" he hissed. "I thought I had taught you politeness as well."

He released Draco, who sunk back into the chair, and clutched his neck with both hands. There were livid red marks where Lucius had grabbed him.

"Stand up Draco. I cannot find words to express my disappointment in you. I thought I had made a man of you ... and evidently you are still a little boy. I now know I should have been harsher."

"Please..."

Lucius struck him across the face. Draco winced, but clenched his jaw and stared resolutely ahead. He knew what his Father wanted ... he wanted to make him cry ... well, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of that. Lucius raised his hand to strike again. Draco shut his eyes ...next thing he knew he was thrust rudely to the floor, taking two desks with him ... clattering, he fell face down on the floor, and lay there. He could feel intense pain in his left leg. He could hear his Father's breathing as he knelt down next to him. He shut his eyes tighter.

"This is for your own good, Draco," Lucius Malfoy made a point of always carrying either a whip or a riding crop, ostensibly to scatter minions who got in his way, although it was more often used on Draco. Draco heard a harsh cracking sound as he was hit across the back. He screamed.

"Silence, Draco!" Lucius hissed. "Is it too much for me to expect you to take this without reaction?" he hit Draco with the riding crop. Draco screamed again.

"Be quiet!"

Draco was shaking uncontrollably ... he bit his lip to prevent himself from crying, so hard that he drew blood, but he could not help himself. His Father struck him repeatedly, and each time Draco's howls of protest grew louder. He prayed for something to happen, for someone to come ... and then he knew no more.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When he opened his eyes again, something green was covering his body, and he could feel himself being held very tightly in somebody's arms. That somebody was stroking his hair and saying, over and over. "Hush, hush, Draco. You're all right."

"What happened to him?" someone else asked. It was a Welsh accent, Doctor Jones. Now his Father spoke.

"He became upset, I think he fell, or fainted," said his Father. He continued to hug Draco tightly, and repeated those words. "You're all right, Draco, you'll be okay."

"Help me," breathed Draco.

Doctor Jones bent down next to them. They were back in the Slytherin boys' dormitory, with its fine tapestries, sitting on Draco's bed. "How are you feeling, Draco?" she asked.

"Not good," said Draco. His Father was sitting at his side. He released him, and Draco sank gratefully back onto his pillows. His father continued to bathe his forehead with a flannel.

"I take a very dim view of this sort of thing happening in my House, Mr Malfoy," Doctor Jones spoke, turning to his Father. "I must admit I had absolutely no idea anything like this was happening."

"Evidently not," said his Father. His voice could have frozen time.

"I will be having extremely harsh words with Crabbe and Goyle about this," said Doctor Jones. "I think their parents should also be informed. As for this, regrettable incident. I can only offer you my sincerest apologies."

"It will suffice," said his Father. "The main thing his he has told us he was in trouble. That takes a great deal of courage."

Draco closed his eyes again. His whole body ached.

"You should be very proud of him," said Doctor Jones. "There aren't many boys who would go through that."

"Indeed I am," said his Father. He virtually spat these last words, and Draco could tell he was lying. "If you will excuse me, Doctor Jones. I would like to stay by my son's side a while longer ... ah, unfortunately I am meeting a colleague for drinks in Hogsmeade within the hour, and I should really be going."

"Do you want us to get you a room in Hogsmeade?" asked Doctor Jones. "I think Draco would appreciate it if you stayed with him for a day or two."

Draco wouldn't have appreciated it, but he didn't say anything.

"Alas I cannot," said his Father. Draco's heart leapt. "I have several vital meetings to attend in the next few days. As a matter of fact, I cancelled one to be here today."

"I understand," said Doctor Jones. "Of course your business cannot be put on hold. Shall I show you out?"

"I can find my own way," said his Father. "Thank you all the same. Goodbye, Draco. Keep your chin up."

There was a creaking sound as he opened the squeaky door, then slammed it shut. Draco could hear his footsteps receding down the corridor outside.

Doctor Jones came back over to his bedside. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked. Her voice now seemed full of compassion and understanding. Was it possible he had underestimated her?

"A little," lied Draco.

"I will be having words with Crabbe and Goyle," she said. "I cannot let physical violence go unpunished in this school. Draco ... is there anything else you want to tell me?"

Draco thought of all the things he needed to tell someone ... that he had been enlisted to fight Voldemort, that he was planning to drug Harry Potter and use him as a dupe, his feelings for Hermione, the beatings. But he merely shook his head. "No," he said. "There's nothing at all."

"Very well," said Doctor Jones. "I have obtained permission for you to rest here if you want. I have informed Professor McGonagall why you are not attending Transfiguration. Rest here, Draco. I'll be back to check on you."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hermione's display of solidarity with Draco at the breakfast table was obviously set to become a permanent feature of her relationship with Harry and Ron. Their first class of the day was Divination, with the incomprehensible Professor Trelawney, so they didn't see her again until morning break. Usually, she would have asked Harry how many times Professor Trelawney had predicted his, usually violent death, which was a favourite habit of hers, and one Harry had learned to live with. Then they would have had a good laugh about it. This time however, when they arrived in the Gryffindor Common Room, pockets bulging with sweets bought from the Tuck Shop, and tried to sit with her, she turned up her nose and went away somewhere else.

"She must still be smarting about the Malfoy thing," said Ron, as she disappeared up the stairs to the girl's dormitory. "Pretend to ignore her."

"I never, ever would have suspected it of Hermione," said Harry, shaking his head almost sorrowfully. "Not in a million years," he opened a packet of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, and put a stick of it into his mouth.

Ron shook his head mournfully. "I don't get it either," he said. "It's like ... you know, one minute, everything's fine and dandy, and the next she's flouncing around telling everybody how nice and misunderstood Malfoy is."

Harry agreed with this ... something was rotten as far as Hermione was concerned, and things didn't improve as the day wore on. Draco reappeared around lunchtime, now limping slightly, as if affecting some old, imagined injury. Once again he sat alone at the Slytherin table, and once again was bombarded with insults, catcalls, and peas. Hermione took great care to sit at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table with Fred and George. However Ron had already told them about what seemed to have come over her, and so as soon as she sat down, they stood up, and went to sit with Harry and Ron. Thus Gryffindor's internal politics were played out in the Hall for all to see.

By late afternoon, virtually the whole House knew about Hermione's sudden change of heart, and one and all agreed that for Hermione to have seemingly switched sides was bad enough ... everyone ... everyone knew that Gryffindors and Slytherins had always hated each other ... they always would hate each other ... it was one of those things that you just didn't question. Hermione had questioned it, and for that, there was no doubt in any of their minds that she was thus declared unworthy to be representative of the House. An uneasy air hung over the Common Room that evening ... indeed, it was so quiet that Professor McGonagall stuck her head through the portrait hole to see why they weren't making their customary noise. She was astonished by what she saw. Most of the Gryffindors were gathered around the huge open fireplace, some with mugs of cocoa or hot chocolate in their hands, watching the flames flickering. Hermione Granger, whom Professor McGonagall had always had down as one of the more popular students, was sitting on her own on the other side of the room, reading a book and apparently unaffected by the fact that everyone was resolutely avoiding her. Professor McGonagall shook her head in bemusement, before heading off to see Dumbledore. None of the Gryffindors noticed her.

Professor McGonagall had been meaning to go and see Dumbledore anyway ... there seemed to be a problem with the leaky pipes in the Gryffindor girl's bathroom, and she wanted to get Xavier Wilmot ... sorry, Sirius Black, onto it as soon as possible. The fact that Sirius had had no formal training in the fine art of plumbing, in fact had never even picked up a spanner unless it was to tinker with his motorbike, didn't bother her in the slightest. In fact, she found it quite amusing. She reached the statue that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office, whispered the password, and proceeded up the stairs. To her surprise, the heavy oak door at the top was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.

The office was bathed in flickering candlelight, and of Dumbledore, there was no sign. Fawkes the phoenix was roosting on his customary perch, and the large antique clock boomed a sonorous tick that echoed off the fine panelled walls. Professor McGonagall stepped gingerly into the room. To her surprise, there was someone sitting in one of the large leather armchairs ... someone she had not noticed before.

"Professor McGonagall," came a voice she knew well of old. "What brings you here on such a night?"

She spun round. The man sitting in the armchair stood up, and as he stepped into the firelight, revealed himself to be none other than Severus Snape ... but a Severus Snape unlike the one she had known before. His long lanky hair was gone ... shaved off completely. He was as bald as a coot. Gone too was the sinister goatee, and without it, he looked ten years younger. However, this was not all ... as she looked closer she could see a more hollow, sunken look to his eyes. His face was gaunter and without colour.

"I was ... a few things I want to talk to Dumbledore about," said Professor McGonagall. "I wasn't expecting you to be here."

"Me neither," said Snape. "Though it is good to be back at last."

"We all thought you were staying in Europe until Christmas," said Professor McGonagall. "The students have been told you are on sabbatical."

Snape smiled. "Believe me, Minerva, I have no desire to teach any students whatsoever at this time. My replacement. Gwyneth Jones isn't it? She is welcome to them."

"How did ... what? I mean, are you all right?"

"A little peckish, Minerva, but otherwise unharmed," said Snape, shivering inwardly as he remembered the horrors of the past few months. "They shaved my head as a punishment ... to show the others that I collaborated ... but what matters is that I got into the Circle ..."

"Dumbledore is?"

"Rustling up a little kedgeree, I believe," said Snape.

"Kedgeree, at this hour?"

"What better time is there?" asked Snape. "And it has been so long since I last had any. So, Minerva, you must tell me everything that has been happening. I see Hogwarts still exists, but what has been happening within the walls?" he gestured Professor McGonagall to one of the large armchairs, and she sank into its all consuming bulk. Snape sat down as well.

"Some very strange things indeed," said Professor McGonagall. "The Gryffindors are behaving very oddly."

"No more than usual?"

"Likewise are the Slytherins," said Professor McGonagall. Snape paled. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no," said Snape. "In what way, oddly?"

"I'm worried about Hermione Granger."

"You've finally caught on? We've all been worried for years."

"Severus, if you're going to answer every one of my observations with snide comments, I might as well say nothing further."

"I'm remiss. I apologise," said Snape.

"None of them are talking to her. You should see the Common Room ... it's like a ghost town in there. Most of them are toasting crumpets, Ronald Weasley was actually reading a textbook ... of his own volition."

"This is worse than them trashing the place?"

"I suppose you're right," said Professor McGonagall. "They're just not acting normally. Normally whenever I go in there a dozen paper aeroplanes hit me within the first few seconds, and I sometimes need an air horn to get them to shut up."

"What about the Slytherins?"

"They seem to have turned," said Professor McGonagall. "Draco Malfoy seems to be leading some sort of one man crusade against them. He keeps sitting on his own and he doesn't seem to want to have anything to do with them."

"Unusual for Malfoy," said Snape. "Usually he is the life and soul of the party."

"Exactly," said Professor McGonagall. "I've told you often enough the trouble he gives me in Transfiguration ... except today, he turned up five minutes late, and even then none of the Slytherins would have anything to do with him. They made him sit with the Hufflepuffs. He didn't say anything all lesson, even when I asked him a question. He's picked up one whopper of a black eye from somewhere."

Snape looked up, an expression of interest on his face. "Carry on," he said.

"There's a rumour going round ... I heard it from some Sixth Form Ravenclaws earlier ... that he was beaten up by Crabbe and Goyle. I know for a fact that Doctor Jones hauled them into her ... your office this afternoon and gave them a bloody good ticking off for something. They came out looking utterly shaken. What I do know is that Draco spent nearly half an hour up here with the Headmaster last night ... and Hermione was with them."

"You think there's something between them?" asked Snape.

"Heavens no," said Professor McGonagall. "Usually it's all any of us can do to stop all six of them massacring each other. Potter, Weasley and Granger versus Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. The clash of the titans."

"I didn't think you could have meant Draco and Hermione were seeing each other," said Snape. "They hate each other. She's a Gryffindor, he's a Slytherin. That's how it's always been. You should see them in Potions classes. Sometimes it gets like the Somme ten minutes before the battle in there. Give them a Gatling gun and Lord alone knows what would happen."

"Perhaps I should have a word with Hermione," Professor McGonagall mused.

"And I with Draco. Something must be up ... he always seemed such a confident boy, although with that God awful Father of his, I fail to see how he could be anything but."

"What's the problem with his Father? I mean, we all know he's not a particularly nice chap ..."

"Minerva, the man is horrible," said Snape. "He's an absolute cretin of a man. God knows how he got his money. I always had him down as a sinister character."

"Of course he's sinister," said Professor McGonagall, nodding. "Remember that report in the Prophet when Arthur Weasley's lot raided his mansion?"

"No, I mean very sinister," said Snape. "I don't know what kind of life Draco has at home, but my guess would be it makes for an unpleasant time."

"What are you getting at?"

"It's probably nothing," said Snape. "It was a long time ago, back when Draco was a First Year. I was checking the dormitories one evening, quite late, as the children were going to bed. It must have been about three days into the term. Anyway, I walked into his dormitory just as he was getting ready for bed. Well ... there were horrid red marks all over his back ... the boy was black and blue. Dreadful bruising, such as I have never seen. It was like someone had taken a whip to him."

"You think he's been being beaten?"

"I was sure of it," said Snape. "I backed out pretty sharpish. I never mentioned it before."

"You're chilling me," said Professor McGonagall. "I think you should have words with him ... definitely."

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea," said Dumbledore, entering the office through another door. He had evidently been in the process of going to bed when Snape arrived, for he was wearing a fine camel hair dressing gown and a nightcap. He was pushing a small metal trolley, on which stood a covered platter, steam issuing forth from around the bottom. Both of them were quite embarrassed, for neither of them had any idea how long he'd been outside, or how long he'd been listening. "Your kedgeree, Severus."

He seemed unsurprised to see Professor McGonagall. Indeed, he sat down behind his vast desk, and beamed at both of them. "So," he said. "The gang is all here. We just need Professors Sprout and Flitwick and we could have a midnight feast!"

"Professor, I wanted to talk to you," started Professor McGonagall.

"And I you, Minerva," said Dumbledore. "There is much we have to discuss."

"We were talking about Draco Malfoy," said Snape. "Minerva believes he is behaving oddly," he removed the lid from the plate, and inhaled deeply as the aroma of smoked haddock hit his nostrils. He took up a fork, and began to eat.

"He is an odd boy," said Dumbledore, looking hungrily at Snape's dinner. "He came to see me last night ... in the company of one Hermione Granger. They were both in quite a state. Draco had been crying. He looked pale and spent."

"Draco never cries," said Snape. "I think his Father sees it as a point of honour."

"Bloody stupid man then," said Dumbledore. "I gave him a handkerchief to wipe himself up, and then we had quite a long chat. He told me a lot of things, including how the Slytherins appear to have turned against him. He's being bullied quite badly. Doctor Jones is already on the case. But he omitted to mention that he was being abused by his Father. Interesting take of yours Severus. It puts a new complexion on the events of this morning."

"What happened this morning?" asked Snape.

"I owled his Father as soon as he left my study last night," said Dumbledore. "He caught the first train up from London, and arrived very early this morning, with some colleague, a very shady looking character, I didn't catch his name, but I think it might have been Chaldean."

"That would be Artemis Chaldean," said Snape. "He was a Death Eater back in the olden days ... but he left after he fell out with You-Know-Who. He was cleared of all involvement too, because he got out before You-Know-Who was at his most powerful. Odd, though, that Lucius Malfoy would be seen with him. Sorry, Headmaster, do go on."

"They arrived this morning, and breakfasted with me in the Hall. Afterwards, they asked if they wouldn't mind Lucius having a talk with Draco, to smooth things over, reassure the lad. I offered them my office but Malfoy said any old room would do, so I let them use the History of Magic room. Chaldean stormed out a few minutes later, evidently very vexed by something. A few minutes after that, Malfoy came out holding Draco in his arms. Apparently the boy had fainted with the strain of it all. They put him to bed and comforted him and so forth. The odd thing is, I would have expected Malfoy to have remained by his Son's bedside, however he made off with talk of pressing business elsewhere."

"Most un-fatherly," said Snape. "So you believe Draco didn't faint?"

"If what you say you saw is true," said Dumbledore. "I suspect Lucius Malfoy had more than just quiet words with Draco."

"It is something that needs looking into," said Snape. "Should we inform the Department of Magical Social Security?"

"We ought really," said McGonagall. "The evidence is incontrovertible."

"I believe we should be absolutely certain before we drag the officials into this," said Dumbledore. "We are in loco parentis anyway ... it would be foolish to act with anything less than complete authority and from a position of responsibility."

"I will speak to Draco in the morning," said Snape.

Dumbledore turned to McGonagall. "Now, Minerva," he said. "I believe you had something to tell me about Miss Granger."

Professor McGonagall looked up ... as ever, she was shocked by Dumbledore's apparent ability to read whatever was on the minds of his staff. "I, yes," she began. "It seems she is under some sort of strain too."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"It's the other Gryffindors ... they seem to have isolated her. You should see the Common Room ... it's like a prison on the eve of an execution," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm worried about her. Even Harry and Ron don't seem to want to talk to her."

"Not even her closest friends?" asked Dumbledore. "Well Minerva, if events weren't so twisted these days, I would tell you to look into this and to speak with all three of them. However I think it is fairly clear what is going on here."

"Headmaster?"

"Hermione is a most dutiful young lady," said Dumbledore. "She is wise, witty, and blessed with a temperament that enables her to go above and beyond the call of duty. By this I mean to say she is the proverbial Good Samaritan. Hermione accompanied Draco up here last night. Now, I do not believe Draco would have had the courage to come here on his own, I think he is rather scared of me for some reason. It is my belief, Minerva, that Hermione found Draco in whatever state he was in, and tried to help him. She has performed a noble and selfless act by coming to the aid of an enemy."

"Forgive me, but I don't see what this has to do ..."

"I haven't finished yet," said Dumbledore, raising his hand. "Somehow, the Gryffindors have found out that she helped an enemy. Now I know and appreciate how the Gryffindors and the Slytherins have always been at each other's throats. Imagine, if you will, how you would feel if a great friend of yours suddenly, went over to Voldemort, for want of a better example. I believe you would react as all humans do. You would feel betrayed, you would not want that person as a friend. Remember Minerva that they are still children, and however much you would like them to act towards one another, they will continue to behave as children do for the remainder of the time they have left in that state. Harry and Ron are merely reacting how they believe they should, based on their misinformed positions. It is no real fault of their own. Sadly, the selfless people of the world are so often turned upon by their friends."

"Harry Potter has more sense than that," said Professor McGonagall.

"Harry is a sensible boy ... and yes, he is blessed with admirable qualities. But he is a child still, with all the wants and fears and actions that that entails."

"What should I do with Hermione then?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"Try and get them to talk," said Dumbledore. "I am not going to say that it will solve anything. But it may at least help."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Draco looked nervously at the floor. He was standing in the dank, dark corridor outside Snape's office. It was a little before half past ten in the morning, and he had no idea why Jones had summoned him. He took a deep breath, and rapped three times on the door.

"Come," a voice barked. It wasn't Jones. Draco pushed open the door.

To his surprise, he found Professor Snape sitting at his desk, relaxing in his chair, with a small pot of coffee standing nearby.

"You're back, sir?" asked Draco.

"Indeed," said Snape. "Doctor Jones has very kindly lent me her office for a little while. I must say, she was redecorated in interesting taste. You can definitely tell this is now the domain of a lady. Do sit down, Draco. I wanted a word with you, because of a conversation I had with Dumbledore."

Draco's heart sank. Not this again. Crabbe and Goyle had been given a month's worth of detentions, and the previous evening, he had been able to go to sleep without fear of nocturnal reprisal for the first time in several days. Surely that was enough. He had secret potions to brew.

"I thought we'd sorted that out," said Draco, sitting wearily down before Snape's ... Jones' desk.

"We were comparing notes," Snape went on. "I remembered an incident from your First Year, which lead Dumbledore, myself and Professor McGonagall to draw alarming conclusions. I want to ask you some questions, which I would like you to answer as honestly as you feel able to. You do not have to tell me anything you do not want to. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," said Draco.

"I would like to start with your domestic life, Draco," said Snape, toying with a pencil. "Do you consider yourself happy at home?"

Draco didn't know where to start. No ... of course he didn't. Usually the only place he could feel happy was back at Hogwarts, and now it seemed as though even that pleasure was to be denied him. "No, sir, not really," he said.

"I suspected as much," said Snape, offering what was clearly his definition of a supportive smile, although in practice it somehow turned out to be more of a grimace. "Would you like to tell me why?"

"I guess it's my parents," said Draco, timidly, unsure as to whether it was really right to discuss such personal things with his teachers. "They try, but they're not very good at it."

"In what way?"

"I don't think they wanted me," said Draco. "I think I was an accident. My Mother is, well, she just doesn't know how stuff works."

"What sort of stuff?"

"Kids ... me," answered Draco. "She ignores me a lot, pretends I'm not there."

"She neglects you? So, what about your Father?" asked Snape. Draco hadn't noticed that he was obscuring a Quick-Quotes Quill behind a pile of unmarked exercise books. The expression on his face was grave. To Snape, Draco seemed to be cowering, as though he was still mortally afraid. Clearly he was not a happy boy, and maybe never had been. Neglect was a serious offence after all.

"My Father?" said Draco. "He wants the best for me."

"Does he say that?"

Draco nodded. It was the truth after all. "He always says everything he does is for my own good. He says he wouldn't do it if it wasn't."

"He wouldn't do what?"

Draco shook his head. "That doesn't matter," he began.

"I'd rather you told me," said Snape.

"He shouts a lot. Sometimes he upsets me."

"Have you ever cried because of something he said?"

"Yes," nodded Draco. "But he doesn't like me doing that. Not even when I'm cutting onions ... not that I've ever done that, of course."

"Why should that be?" asked Snape, leaning closer.

"He doesn't think we should, that's all. He thinks it makes me weak or something. He always wanted me to be the strong one. I think he thinks I'm a disappointment."

"You said he shouts at you a lot," said Snape. "Does he ever go further than just shouting?" he looked Draco in the eye for the first time, and was startled to see he looked tearful.

"I don't want to..."

"Did you tell Hermione Granger whatever it is that you don't want to tell me?" asked Snape.

At first, Draco was enraged that what he thought he had told Dumbledore about in confidence had been told in turn to others. But then he looked up, and he saw the look in Snape's eyes, and he could somehow tell that the only thing they wanted was for him not to be downcast. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Won't you tell me, Draco? You have my word that your confidence will be respected," said Snape.

Draco closed his eyes, grimaced, and then spoke. "Sometimes he hits me," he said.

"Is that all?"

"No," choked Draco.

"Has he ever assaulted you physically?" asked Snape.

Draco felt horrible inside ... all twisted, ill, ashamed of himself. Ashamed of himself for never having the courage to stand up to his Father. Ashamed of himself for allowing himself to be beaten and bullied into submission. Ashamed of himself for the fact that Snape knew ... that Snape knew everything, or had, at least, somehow found out about it. Ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated. He tried to tell himself not to cry, which would compound his humiliation, make it complete. But now that no longer mattered to him. All the shocks of the past week ... the revelations of Chaldean and his Father, the onus of such awesome responsibility resting on his shoulders alone, the failed attempts to be friendly, the bullying, the angry creatures hiding in between his bedclothes, the icy showers and apple pie beds, their grinning faces, leering, jeering at him. All the pain and anguish and hatred he had ever felt or experienced seemed to be building up inside him ... building up to an earth shattering crescendo. He could no longer help himself. He no longer cared what Snape thought or said or did. Nothing really matters to me, he thought ... not anymore. I am undone.

"Yes," he said. Yes ... such a simple word, so easy, so apt ... no effort at all required to say it.

"Often?"

Draco nodded. He blinked, bit his lip, and hung his head.

"How?"

Draco shook his head. "Usually he'd, he'd just hit me round the head ... sometimes on my back, all over. He used whips, or riding crops sometimes," his voice was quiet, small and still.

Snape felt physically sick.

"I think we should stop," he said. "I think you've told me quite enough to be going on with. I want to thank you for such rare honesty, Draco."

"It hurts," breathed Draco. "It still hurts."

"What does?"

"Everything," said Draco, he gestured to himself, pointing to his heart.

"We all hurt sometimes," said Snape. "Even I do, and I've not been nearly as brave or as courageous as you have. You're a nice guy, Draco ... nice guys don't always come last. I promise you that."

"I'm horrible," said Draco. "Why else would everybody hate me? I can see that now."

"Why would everybody hate you, Draco? Not everybody does," said Snape. "I don't ... I have tremendous respect for you. I suspect Miss Granger doesn't hate you either."

"I just need some proper friends," sniffed Draco. "I want to be liked ... but I've been too horrible for that to happen here."

"Even the most hardened criminals have redeemed themselves before now," said Snape. "Look at the examples set to you by others, Draco. That will give you strength."

"They'll never trust me," said Draco. "Look what happened when I tried to talk to Potter and Weasley. They told me where to get off, and then the other Slytherins did the same for talking to them."

He sat, slumped in his chair. The wall clock behind Snape was ticking slowly ... it was coming up to eleven o'clock ... it would soon be time for morning break. That was another class he'd missed. He looked up. To his surprise, Snape was smiling at him. Then he did something that Draco could never remember having seen him do before. He stood up, walked round the desk to where Draco was seated. He put his hand on his left shoulder, leant down close. Draco could feel his breath on his cheek.

"I don't think you should try to get through this on your strength alone," said Snape. "I think you still have a lot of thinking to get done. I don't want you to be ashamed to feel that too. None of us do."

"Thank you," whispered Draco. "Might I have a tissue, sir?"

"I don't know where Doctor Jones keeps hers," said Snape. He felt in the pockets of his robes, and drew out his finest, powder blue silk, monogrammed handkerchief. He handed it to Draco, who blew his nose loudly.

"Sorry," said Draco. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," said Snape. "On the contrary ... I almost feel as if it is I who should be apologising to you. Draco ... I'm going to leave you for a while. I ought to talk to Dumbledore."

"Please don't tell him."

"Draco, I have to ... but believe me, he will respect your wishes and your thoughts, and will not use them lightly or unwisely," said Snape. "He is probably more trustworthy even than me."

He took his hand off Draco's shoulder. Stood up, turned, and said. "You may stay here as long as you wish ... I think, under the circumstances. I will be back shortly."

END OF CHAPTER FIVE.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER SIX ... OLD FOES, NEW LOVES.