Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER SEVEN. THE LOST BOYS.

He was in some sort of room ... circular, with high, rough hewn stone walls stretching upwards to a ceiling so distant it was invisible. Looking around, there was a single candle, almost completely gutted, burning feebly in a brazier attached to the wall. The floor was patterned with alternating dark and pale stones, swirling around him in a spiral pattern. There was also a single door, heavy looking, thick, knotted, ancient oak, with a single iron handle. It was bitterly cold, and Draco hugged his arms to his body in an attempt to eke some warmth back into his frozen bones.

Draco looked around, wondering what on Earth could have brought him to this bizarre, and frankly frightening place. He walked slowly over to the door, and tried the handle ... but it seemed to be locked ... either that or shut fast.

Then a voice spoke. It appeared to have no source ... there was no other visible person in the room. At least, Draco could not see them if they were there. Nevertheless a voice spoke to him. It said, "You're not happy, Draco."

"What?"

"I can tell you're not happy. I can tell there is something bothering you."

Draco looked around again, "Is that you, Father?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Does that bother you at all?"

"Maybe."

"I know the answer is yes, Draco. I can be whoever I want to be. Look."

"You're me?"

"Yes ... handsome sod aren't I?"

"Rather! So, um, what do you want from me?"

"Nothing ... I'm not really here ... I'm inside of you."

"In my head?" asked Draco.

"Bingo!"

"My brain?"

"Ah, in a biological sense, yes. But not in any others ... if you cut your head open, you wouldn't find me there."

"I'd rather not try," said Draco, weighing up the options.

"That's good, I wouldn't recommend it."

"How come you never spoke to me before?"

"I am insulted, Draco. I am always speaking to you. I am your thoughts made flesh."

"How is that possible?"

"Dreams, hallucinations. Really, I am here to give you guidance."

"Is this a dream now? You're here to help me?"

"More a hallucination actually. A dream sounds ... too fluffy for your liking. There should really be clouds made of candy floss and little, pink, flying ponies. How do you like it in your subconscious, Draco? It is a bit bare, isn't it? We really need to get some carpet down on this floor ... possibly some nice hangings. But yes, that is why I am here "

"So help me?"

"Often, Draco, the information you seek is already known to you. It merely takes another person to confirm what you had suspected all along. Your brain is conscious of more than you usually are. It is a very complex machine, and the demands the average human makes upon it are ... ah, insufficient. Therefore it is constantly monitoring ... taking in everything, overhearing other people's conversations even if you yourself do not. This is one of those moments."

"So I already know all of whatever it is you're here to tell me?"

"Yes, I can confirm your suspicions for you ... I cannot however tell you anything you don't already know."

"So do I really love Hermione?"

"Your feelings are genuine. You believe she is kind and considerate, warm, friendly, and she stood by you when nobody else would. You value such qualities and you are a man of discerning taste. You know you have chosen well."

"That's a relief. What about my Father? Do I really hate him?" asked Draco.

"You believe you do. But you are still his son, and there are more powerful bonds connecting you than mere hate can transcend."

"That's bad, right?"

"Depends on how you look at it. It could be bad if events go one way, and it could be good if they go the other."

"Which way do I want them to go?"

"Your heart says you want them to go the first way."

"That's bad?"

"Again, it depends ... you are ruled by your heart and you always have been. You suspect it is this path that you will take. Both will have benefits for you, both will have pitfalls."

"What about this moral dilemma thingy?"

"I cannot offer solutions, Draco. Besides, it is a moral dilemma ... what kind of a dilemma is it that one's own conscience can solve at the drop of a hat? I do not know the answer to that, because you do not know it either."

"So the one thing I want to know ... you can't tell me. That's bloody useless!"

"I know ... bit of a bugger really. One of those paradoxes, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway ... you're about to wake up ... I'd better skedaddle."

Draco opened his eyes, and looked once more upon the bizarre room. So this was his subconscious mind? Spooky. He walked slowly over to one of the walls, and prodded it with his finger. To his surprise, he went straight through what appeared to be solid stone. He withdrew his finger ... it appeared to be unharmed. He stuck his arm through ... this time something grabbed it ... something solid, another arm was tugging him, tugging so strongly ... there was no way he could fight it ... and then he felt himself being pulled through the very fabric of the wall, and then nothing, save for the eerie sensation of falling. But falling to where? How far away was the ground? Draco spread his arms out wide, and next thing he knew, he could feel the soft bulk of his mattress underneath him.

He gasped, and gripped the edges of the bed with both hands, as though scared of something more happening. He looked up at the ceiling ... but all that was there was the green velvet of his four poster. He could hear Crabbe's snores, and the sound of a fierce wind outside. He sighed with relief.

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

'Nobody does it better,

Makes me feel sad for the rest,

Nobody does it, half as good as you,

Baby you're the best.

I wasn't looking,

But somehow you found me,

I tried to hide from your loving,

But like Heaven above me,

The spy who loved me,

Is keeping all my secrets safe tonight.'

Hermione lay on her bed, letting those well-remembered lines run over and over in her head ...

'And nobody does it better,

Though sometimes I wish someone would,

Nobody does it, quite the way you do,

Why d'you have to be so good?

The way that you hold me,

Whenever you hold me,

There's some kind of magic inside you,

That keeps me from running,

But just keep it coming,

How d'you learn to do the things you do?

And nobody does it better,

Makes me feel sad for the rest,

Nobody does it, half as good as you,

Baby, baby, darling, you're the best,

Baby you're the best,

Baby you're the best.'

Hermione smiled at the aptness of the words. It had been the first song that had popped into her head when she woke up on Sunday morning, and for several minutes, she just lay there, letting the words spool over and over in her mind. She couldn't even remember where she remembered hearing it before ... just some trashy pop song after all. Still .

She ran the events of the previous day over and over in her head, like she was reviewing a videotape. Draco had looked so pleased when she told him that she had done it ... that she had made her peace with Harry and Ron. She was getting her friends back, and nothing on Earth could have made her much happier than that. Except for one thing. He had invaded her dreams again that night, smiling through the fog of sleep. He made her dreams a pleasure, to be looked forward to, to be revelled in ... and then, cruelly, as was so often the way with lovely things, to fade from her memory the second she opened her eyes ... like a child's etch-a-sketch.

She hoped he was dreaming about her.

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

Ron came down to breakfast that morning, looking rather flustered and slightly distressed, if distressed was the right word for it. He took a seat next to Harry and opposite Hermione, and instead of helping himself to his usual fry up, poured a meagre bowl of cornflakes, and drenched them in milk. Harry, who was halfway through his boiled egg, watched him do it.

"Is something the matter?" asked Hermione.

Ron shrugged. "It isn't the kind of thing you really want to share," he said. "I had a nightmare last night."

"So did I," said Harry, and he was just about to tell Ron and Hermione what it had been about, when he remembered what it had been about ... who had been in it, and exactly what they had been doing. The dream had started to recur, which, he gathered from reading up on dreams for Divination classes, was a very bad sign indeed.

"What was it about?" asked Hermione.

"I was in a room," said Ron. "A really nice one, you know, all leather furniture and posh carpets and stuff like that, and I could hear people, and so I went in, and there was this bed in the room ... there were people in the bed."

Hermione nodded, gravely, noticing as she did so that Harry appeared to have gone as white as a sheet.

"I'd rather not go on," said Ron. He started spooning the cornflakes into his mouth.

Thoughts were running through Harry's mind nineteen to the dozen ... and they were scaring him. How could Ron have possibly had the same dream as he had? It wasn't possible ... it could never happen ... not in a million years. Perhaps he should ask Professor Trelawney what she thought it meant.

His train of thought derailed itself and went plunging down an embankment, killing two people, as the morning post arrived. Hundreds of owls, all shapes and sizes were swooping into the Hall. Harry kept his eyes open for any sign of Hedwig, whom he had sent off with a letter to Hagrid a few days ago, but she did not come. Pig was there however, balancing happily on the rim of Ron's cereal bowl, and dancing a little jig. Ron unfolded the little note that was strapped to his leg, and read it.

"Anything interesting?" asked Hermione, craning to get a better view. Ron hastily hid the letter, but not before Hermione and Harry had noticed that it was written in day glow pen, and decorated.

"Just an ... old friend," said Ron. "We like to keep in touch."

"This old friend, decorates his letters with little purple hearts does he?" asked Harry.

Ron blushed furiously. "It's a she, if you must know," he said. "That's my last word."

"And how is your secret correspondent?"

"Very well, considering," said Ron, who had tucked the letter in the breast pocket of his shirt. "Actually, she's French ... Beauxbatons."

"Have you ever met this pen friend?" asked Harry.

Ron shook his head. "It was some sort of International Fellowship Programme my Mum made me join when Dad was still working with the European Magical Affairs Department. I was about nine. But anyway, I ended up with Marie ... and we still write every now and again."

"Is she a witch?" asked Harry.

"Actually, she's a dryad," said Ron. "The descendant of tree spirits ... but she goes to Beauxbatons. Look, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell anybody ... especially not Fred and George. I'd probably die if they found out."

"My lips are sealed," said Hermione, she glared at Harry, who nodded his agreement.

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

The room was in semi-darkness ... the only light cast by a small reading light ... all else was shadow. The room's sole occupant was a man, head bowed, deeply engrossed in writing in a very thick ledger. The only sounds were those of the rain outside, and the ticking of an antique carriage clock, standing upon the mantelpiece.

Painfully slowly, the man turned over a page in the ledger, dipped his quill in the inkpot, and continued to write.

His reverie was disturbed by a sharp tap on the door. Slowly, he looked up.

"Come."

The door opened, and a second man stepped into the room. In the light from outside, it was easier to make out his features ... a pointed, rat like face atop a squat body, mousy hair, and an ugly turned up nose. This man would not have won any beauty contests.

"What is it?" asked the first man, clearly annoyed by the unwarranted intrusion.

"There is a Gentleman in the hall downstairs who insists upon seeing you, Master," said the first man. "He claims his name is Lucius Malfoy."

"Malfoy. Whatever could he want?" asked the first man, laying down his quill on the desk in front of him. "Do send him up."

"Immediately Master. Oh ... and Boris and Sacha are newly returned from the plantations ... shall I deposit the money in the safe?"

"How much is there?" asked the first man, his voice unnaturally high.

"It has not been counted Master," said the second man. "Boris estimates the barons have supplied him with something in the region of five point two million dollars."

"Count it ... then put it in the safe. But first, show Malfoy up here."

"Yes, Master," the second man slipped from the room.

A couple of minutes passed slowly by. Then came another knock, and the door creaked slowly open.

"Malfoy?"

"I am here, Master," said Lucius Malfoy, stepping into the room, he wore a very long, very fine pure silk cloak, kid gloves and high dragon hide boots. In his hand he carried his customary riding crop. "I trust all is well?"

The first man nodded. "Business is booming," he said. "The money is rolling in from the plantations, from the diamond consortium, and from the Russians ... who still desire to keep the Ossetians sweet ... clearly fear of my name is growing in Moscow. But tell me, what news of our world?"

Lucius Malfoy sat down at his behest, coughed, and began to speak. "The leaks to the Daily Prophet are working wonders," he said. "Wizards and witches all over Britain are turning in droves ... they believe Dumbledore is mad, deluded, and as for the Potter boy. Rumour has it he is dangerous and deranged. Soon he will have no friends remaining ... and then he shall be ripe for the picking."

"How goes your courting of Chaldean?"

"Chaldean still believes he is on side," said Malfoy. "He flies to Naxcivan tonight to take care of our operations in the field. It will be ready within a week."

"It is better he is out of the way," said the first man. "Soon he will deliver the boy to us. What about the Americans?"

"They are ... not a problem," said Malfoy. "I have spoken with our friends in New York ... they say the matter is well under control. The deal will go through as per our agreement. Zabini has already drawn up the plans."

"Everything West of the Mississippi?"

Malfoy nodded.

"As I commanded. You are doing well, Malfoy ... I shall not kill you today."

Malfoy let out a falsetto laugh. "Master will have his little joke," he said.

"I wasn't joking."

Malfoy stopped in mid laugh. The other man rose to his feet, and took to pacing the room. "Four years ago I was returned to power ... four months ago I was once again given flesh ... a body to stand up in, and since then what I want I have taken. Nobody has been able to stand in my way ... oil, diamonds, drugs ... I now control it. The next step is nations ... our nation, Malfoy ... our nation must be united under the same banner. The notion of wizards remaining subservient, constituent parts of Muggle states is no longer valid. Britain, America, France, China ... all are outmoded concepts," he turned to Malfoy. "I cannot do that if I am not absolutely convinced of your complete loyalty. If I even sense doubt within you I will have you destroyed, and I will have your family destroyed as well."

"I appreciate, Master, that all of our kind must march under your name."

"For the greater good," said the man, grimacing at Malfoy.

"For the greater good."

"If I even suspected you were being disloyal to me."

"Not at all, Master."

"I don't trust double agents ... I never have done. They have a tendency to want more than they can afford to take ... to try and get their fingers in every metaphorical pie. Watch your step Lucius Malfoy. Word has already reached my ear of the activities of your son."

Malfoy paled visibly. "You leave Draco out of this. He's still a boy."

"You were willing to bring me Potter, were you not? Draco, it appears, has been dilly dallying, he has shunned his true work and taken up with a Mudblood, no less."

"This was news to me."

"You forget I have eyes and ears inside Hogwarts ... they reveal all to me," said the man.

"I shall speak with him as soon as I can," said Malfoy.

"He must be punished."

"Of course."

"Severely."

"Master, nobody appreciates more than I the com..."

"You do remember the teachings of our forefathers? The writings of Frazier and Beauchamp? The bloodlines must remain unsullied. Only those who show purity of race may be allowed to exist under the New Order. Half bloods, those who marry Muggles, must be destroyed. Squibs must be destroyed. The old families, the old races will be the ones who will rule when I am triumphant. All else shall be as nothing, for mighty shall be my vengeance on those who seek to pollute the Wizard Race. Malfoy ... your son is in danger of flouting the very basic rules of our ideology. If he so much as touches that Mudblood, he will have polluted himself, and deemed himself unworthy to be representative of our race. If I asked you, would you kill him?"

"Master, I cannot tell..."

"If I asked you ... would you kill your son? Would you kill Draco?"

Malfoy looked at the floor ... clearly the question was affording him much agony. After a deathly pause, he replied. "Yes ... I would."

"Malfoy ... I suggest you correct this discrepancy post haste," he went on. "Otherwise you too might find yourself in danger of decapitation. Go now."

"You are benevolent beyond necessity, Master," said Malfoy, bowing so low that his nose almost touched the floor. "I return to London tonight."

"We know," said the man. "Now go ... that all might hear the name of Voldemort."

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

"Harry ... can I have a word?"

It was Sunday afternoon ... about two o'clock. and as soon as lunch was finished, Harry had taken his books and quills and disappeared to the Library to try and finish his homework. He had trusted that nobody would disturb him ... though this was clearly not to be the case.

"Can it wait? This is a very important essay."

Hermione sat down on the desk, which creaked and wobbled alarmingly, sending Harry's newly sharpened pencil to the floor. "It can't really," she said.

Harry set down his quill, and looked up at her. "What's it about?" he asked.

"Draco?"

Harry turned away in annoyance. "I thought you said you put all that behind you," he said, a tone of anger creeping into his voice. "He was down, you helped him out ... wham, bam, end of story."

"Harry ... it isn't like that," said Hermione, Harry noticed for the first time that she was wringing her hands.

"How is it?" asked Harry.

"You remember when I ... when you came up to me in the Library."

"I'd sooner forget," said Harry, icily. "But do go on."

"I helped you out too ... and though I told you things you didn't want to hear. But now I need some help. Draco's, well, he's put me in a very odd situation ... I guess you could call it a moral dilemma."

"Bully for Draco," said Harry. "Exactly what does this have to do with me?"

Hermione wanted to say. 'Harry, it has everything to do with you,' and just spill the entire can of worms, there and then. However something was telling her that, given the rather exceptional and unusual circumstances, this was a bad idea. "I was just, thinking you might be able to help," she said.

"Shoot ... I'm no counsellor, but I'm listening," said Harry.

"Well, Draco and me ... Draco and I. I think we're, well, we're beyond the friends stage."

Harry stared at her in surprise. "Well, talk about going in off the rebound," he said. "Don't you think you're moving too fast?"

Hermione gave him a withering look. "I won't tell you if you're just going to be nasty."

Harry shook his head. "I'll shut up ... I'll be good," he said.

"Thank you. We, well, we went through quite a lot together, you understand. I know he has feelings for me, and I'm fairly sure I feel the same way ... I just don't know whether I'm doing the right thing by loving him."

Harry gave her a sincere look. "I think," he said. "That you should do what you want. I'm not giving you my blessing ... there's no way I could do that ... but, well, I think you've made your decision, and I don't think you can back away from that. It won't make you any more popular, Hermione. You do understand that?"

Hermione nodded. Tears of joy were welling up in her eyes. She flung her arms around Harry, and hugged him.

"Hey now, that's just a bit too fast for me," said Harry in a muffled and surprised voice.

"Don't be silly," said Hermione. "Harry ... God, I feel so guilty now. You really know how to make a girl feel guilty don't you?"

"I wouldn't know, I've never tried to," said Harry.

"There's one other thing," Hermione went on, releasing Harry.

"What might that be?"

"I'd ... I'd really like for us to stay friends," said Hermione. "I'm sure you must realise that it can never be like how it was before. It can't ever be like not, not like, not like how it was on the train, at the start of term, before ... well, before I got in with Draco. But, I'd like it if you could try and accept him."

Harry looked up at her, clearly somewhat surprised. "I think that might be a bit of a tall order," he said.

"Harry ... please, it would mean so much to me, and you already told me that you think I should do what I want," began Hermione.

"But I just don't like him," said Harry in despair. "I'm sorry, but I completely fail to see how I am supposed to change that attitude overnight."

"Friendship takes time, Harry," said Hermione. She leant closer to him, the light pouring in through the high Library windows giving her sleek hair a brilliant sheen, her face partially in shadow. She continued to speak. "Look at you and Ron, you've had your tiffs ... and blimey you haven't half had some big ones. But there's nobody on Earth who wouldn't say that it's a thing that has to be worked on. But I'd like you to try, and at least not ... not be so nasty to him."

"Everyone is saying stop being nasty to Draco," said Harry, glowering slightly. "Nobody is actually bothering to tell me why."

Hermione glanced around conspiratorially, and then lowered her voice to a harsh stage whisper, almost as though she wanted passers by to overhear. "I'm not entirely sure I should be telling you this," she began. "You must first understand that this goes no further?"

Harry nodded. "Is it bad?"

Hermione glanced around again, but as usual, the Library seemed fairly deserted. "Well ... yes, it is," she said. "Draco tried to speak to us for a reason ... he tried to make friends with us because ... well, because his Father was trying to use him to get close to you."

Harry slammed his book shut. What Sirius had warned him about was true, no less! How could Hermione do this to him? He felt betrayed ... utterly alone. All that bull about wanting to still be friends? Had she been lying to him?

Sensing his rising anger with her, Hermione put a calming hand on his shoulder, pushed him back down into his seat, which he had been about to get out of.

"Hermione," said Harry, his voice harsh, gritty, and brooding with menacing overtones. "Let go of me."

"Just hear me out," said Hermione. "That's all I ask. Then you can make whatever decision you like ... I pray you make the right one."

"The one you'd like me to make!" snarled Harry, making a move to get out of his chair again. "You're conspiring with him ... he's used the Imperius Curse ... or something. No wonder you're flouncing around trying to get me to like him. You're nothing more than a cheap tart! How long have you been a Death Eater Hermione?"

Hermione's blood boiled. She saw red, and before she knew fully what she was doing, she had lashed out, slapping Harry across the face, sending his glasses flying to the floor. She clapped her hand to her mouth.

"Harry ... I ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"Get away from me!" snapped Harry. "You've turned, Hermione! You've turned, and I want nothing to do with you! Who you choose to follow ... that's your choice, but the way you're going, you're going to have picked the wrong side!"

He forced himself out of his seat, retrieved his glasses from the floor, and before Hermione could stop him, had stormed out of the Library, leaving his essay on the desk.

Hermione held her head in her hands, and began to weep ... the last vestiges of friendship that had still stood between them had just dissolved. She would have to accept there was little she could do about it.

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

Ron, who had been mooching about the Gryffindor Common Room for most of the day, occasionally trying to interest George in a game of chess, was considerably surprised when the portrait hole burst open, and Harry ran in, his face red, glasses askew, and dashed straight up the stairs to the dormitory. He tactfully waited a few minutes before following him to see what was the matter.

He found Harry sitting on his bed, with his covers wrapped around his body like a shawl. He looked up at the sound of Ron's approach.

"'Lo," he said, in the faintest of faint voices.

"Can I ... sit down?" asked Ron.

"Knock yourself out."

Ron sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress bending under their combined weight. He turned to look at Harry, whose face was tear streaked and blotchy.

"Knut for your thoughts?"

Harry shook his head.

"Seriously, talk to me," said Ron.

"It's Hermione," said Harry. "She tried to talk to me in the Library ... she was about to tell me why we should all be nice to Draco. I ... I was prepared to give her a chance. It looked like it might all be okay, that we'd be able to be friends again, that everything could go back to being the way it was. But what she told me, about Draco."

He sniffed mightily. Ron did the only thing he could think of to do, and put his arm around Harry's shoulders. "Don't stop talking," he whispered.

"Ron, it was horrible ... she said, she said Draco was only trying to talk to us because his Father wanted to use me, wanted him to get close to me."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't let her finish. I snapped, I called her, I called her things I know I regret," said Harry. "I accused her of going over to the Dark Side ... being a Death Eater," he rested his head on Ron's shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Harry ... it's, it's okay," said Ron. He could not recall Harry being like this before, and it spooked him to see that his friend, the strong one who he had always respected and admired for his past ... was also possessed of a more vulnerable nature than he had ever believed possible. It changed everything.

"It isn't," said Harry, sitting up straight again. "I'm, I'm sorry ... what you must think of me."

"I think no worse of you," said Ron. "Even Mum says it's okay to have emotions."

"Not for me," said Harry. "I can't afford them."

"What do you mean?" asked Ron.

"What are they going to say outside?" asked Harry. "If they see me like this, I'm not famous, or great, or good, I'm just some daft kid."

"You're not a daft kid," said Ron. "I don't see why you're worried about being famous."

"You're not though, are you?" said Harry. "That first day I ever went to Diagon Alley ... I was with Hagrid, and it was my eleventh birthday ... God I wish Hagrid was here ... but you couldn't have known what it was like. You were brought up a wizard ... I've just found out, remember, and now suddenly there's all these people, and I mean like, really strange people trying to shake my hand. It was a relief to get out of there."

"Who says anybody from ... well, from outside is going to see you?" asked Ron.

"Hermione will have released that foul Skeeter woman by now," moped Harry.

Ron shook his head. "She hasn't," he said. "She still lives in that jam jar. I've seen it. Look, forget Hermione for one minute."

"I can't," sniffed Harry.

"Why not?" asked Ron.

"Can I trust you not to tell anybody about this?" asked Harry, looking up and fixing Ron.

Ron nodded. "You know you can," he said.

"I went, I, well. God this is hard," Harry turned away for a second to regain his composure, then began to speak again. "The other, well, after, no. Um. I've been realising for some time, you see, that I'm, well, not in, yes, I suppose I am, with Hermione?"

"I understand," said Ron.

"The other day ... well, a few days ago now, I went to her in the Library, to ask her, and see what she thought of me," said Harry. "She said no. She said she didn't think that was what I really wanted. I know why she said that now."

"Why?"

Harry gave Ron a withering look.

"Oh right, I get it," he said. "The Draco Malfoy thing."

Harry nodded. "It isn't fair," he said.

Ron didn't have the first idea what to say to him, so he made noncommittal noises.

"I'm just so miserable."

Ron, sensing wisely that Harry did not want to talk further, made the decision to tactfully withdraw, leaving Harry sitting alone on his bed, still shrouded in the covers.

I poured out my heart to Hermione ... he was thinking ... and she told me no. She's probably sitting with Draco right now, laughing at my stupidity. There was no denying it ... Draco was a handsome young man, and he, Harry, had little to recommend about him. He had never been in awe of his own appearance, he had always been the little scrappy kid crouching at the front of school photographs, hair a mess, tie skew-whiff, mud stains on trouser legs ... the one whose name nobody could ever remember. 'Who was that one then? What was his name? Henry Porter wasn't it? Harold Pointer? Dunno ... began with an H though. German maybe? Herman Pfalzer?'

No, the only thing Harry had ever liked about his appearance was the long, lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Before he knew how he had got it ... back in the days when he had been living in Little Whinging with the Dursleys, he had romanticized about how exactly it had come about, choosing to negate Aunt Petunia's firm assertion that it was the result of a car crash ... which had usually been followed by a sharp clout around the back of the head for asking too many questions.

The scar had made him famous, no doubt about that. But it had been only in the last year that he had come to notice that fame. People had pointed at him since he had arrived at Hogwarts ... but by his Third Year he had become a fixture ... much like one of the castle ghosts ... just a part of the furniture, something to be remarked upon only by people who had never seen him before. Then had come that bloody tournament. And now there were people, people like Fudge, who four years earlier would have shaken his hand and told all their friends they had met Harry Potter, who thought he was barking mad. He wasn't stupid, he had been reading the papers. He knew what people were writing about him.

At times like these, he was often wont to take out his photo album. The one Hagrid had given him, with the pictures of his parents, first as children, then teens ... some holiday snaps, wedding photos. His Christening photos, other photos of him with his parents, usually no more than a bundle of white fluffy blankets being held proudly in his Mother's arms.

The photos were all he had left ... save for that awful memory, the flash of green light and the high pitched laughter ... snatches of that terrible night often haunted his dreams, sometimes very vividly. The photos offered him solace when he was down, a lift if he was upset. Harry leant down, and pulled open the second drawer from the top in his bedside cabinet. This was his most secret drawer ... the place he could hide things that he wanted nobody else to see, except of course, being a wizard, the things Harry kept in his drawer were different from the things you would expect to find ... there were no illicit bottles of Hooch, for instance. Instead there was a folded piece of tissue paper, which covered two leather bound books. One of them was his photo album, the other a smaller volume, bound in black, with the single word 'Notes' embossed in gold upon the cover. Harry had never shown this second book to another soul.

He opened the photo album. On every page, Potters were waving to him, ducking in and out of the photos, grimacing and alternately grinning inanely, sometimes shuffling their feet nervously.

Harry pulled one of the pictures out of its mount. It had been taken on his parents' wedding day. Scrawled on the back in a hand unrecognisable to him was 'me, James and Lily.' The photo showed what was unmistakably a younger Doctor Jones, and one far more radiantly beautiful than the current model. She had evidently been the one to donate this particular photo. Harry put the picture back into the album, and turned over the page. There was his Dad ... standing proudly next to a brand new, bright red Ford Cortina. There was his Mum, holding what appeared at first glance to be a bundle of blankets, beaming with undisguised delight, and fluttering her eyelids at the camera. The baby Harry revealed himself by waving a tiny hand in the air.

Harry had always been struck by this particular photo, especially as when the wind was blowing the right way, the blankets ruffled so as to show his forehead, which looked somehow naked without his scar. He did something he had never done before ... he took it out of the album, and again was surprised to see that someone had written on it.

'Our darling baby. 4 days old. Richmond Park.'

He turned the picture over again ... the background showed a vista of green ... trees in full leaf ... tall grasses waving in the breeze ... and in the far distance, the tower blocks of London.

Harry turned over the page. Here were photos of his parents in front of a cottage covered in dense ivy ... here with another couple ... whom Harry recognised as none other than Sirius and Doctor Jones. There were two other men in the photo. One of them was Remus Lupin, whom Harry knew personally, through having been taught by him in his Third Year. The other was unknown to Harry. He looked kind of like a younger version of Albus Dumbledore ... which of course, he may very well have been.

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

Dumbledore was drafting a letter to an old friend in India when the knock came. Four times in quick succession ... a harsh tapping on his fine old oak door.

"Come," he said. He signed his name at the bottom of the parchment, underlined it with a flourish, and then rolled up the parchment.

The knocking came again.

"I said come in!" called Dumbledore, in a voice that betrayed the increasing annoyance in his voice. It was late Sunday evening, and he really wanted to get to bed. He melted one end of a stick of red sealing wax in the flickering candle flame, and pressed it to the parchment. So doing, he took up the Hogwarts seal, and pressed it firmly into the wax. The door creaked open, and the figure who stepped into the room was one Dumbledore had been privately hoping would not return to the school for some time.

"Lucius," he said. "What a surprise," the tone of his voice betrayed no evidence to back up those words.

Malfoy removed his cloak, and handed it to one of the pegs on the wall. "I shall waste little time, Headmaster," he said. "Further disturbing intelligence has reached me concerning my son. I would like to see him directly."

Dumbledore glanced at the clock ... it was getting on for a quarter to midnight. "I expect Draco will be safely in bed now," he said. "I see little point in disturbing ..."

Malfoy leant on the desk, and put his face close to Dumbledore's. "I'm not entirely certain," he went on, "that you fully understood what I just said. I would like to see my son."

"Quite impossible," said Dumbledore. "He will be asleep, and even if he was not, I have grave doubts as to whether seeing you would be the best thing for him."

"Did I not make myself clear, you doddery old fool?" hissed Malfoy. "I want to see my son, and there is no way that a mad old fart is going to stop me. Have we been reading the Prophet lately?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed I have, Lucius. It contains disturbing reports, does it not?"

"I might add that the movement to oust you as Headmaster is gaining pace," said Malfoy, with more than a slight hint of malice in his voice. "The populace are becoming more and more discontent with what they see, and what they see is a meddlesome old man trying to tell the Ministry what is best for it. As you can see, Voldemort has made no further attacks since that ... ah, night. People are starting to say that Potter is mad, that he is making up stories for his own benefit ... to further his name a bit more. He has lost all credibility, and with it you have lost yours."

"Nevertheless, Lucius," said Dumbledore firmly. "I remain confident that Voldemort is indeed amongst us even now. Moreover I know Harry, and I have complete confidence in him as well."

"Favouritism, that is what it is," said Malfoy. "This whole enterprise reeks of favouritism. What did Potter do, bribe you?"

"I would not allow a bribe to cross my palm," said Dumbledore. "I am insulted by your insinuation. Now, sir, please remove yourself from my study lest I have you removed by force."

But Malfoy wasn't moving. "Is that why you allowed my boy to be bullied?" he asked. "Harry Potter has had it in for my son since the day he first arrived at this benighted school. You have allowed him quite excessive liberty. If I had been Headmaster, he would have been expelled merely on suspicion of being a Parselmouth."

"Nevertheless, he was not," said Dumbledore. "And as we all know, Harry did not turn out to be the Heir of Slytherin. I fail to see your point. The Chamber of Secrets fiasco is behind us."

"And Draco remains miserable at school and miserable at home," said Malfoy. "He used to be such a happy child. This place has ruined him because he has been consistently downtrodden by those born as Muggles and Mudbloods. Your so called liberalist approach is ruining the best men in this country."

"I would not go so far as to say that you were one of the best men in the country, and in my experience Conservatism counts for very little," said Dumbledore. "Now was there anything else you wanted? I happen to be very tired."

Malfoy hissed. "I believe you presume to insult me, Dumbledore. Do you know who you are talking to?"

"A relic of a bygone age," said Dumbledore. "A relic, sir, a relic of an outmoded belief system, skulking in a dusty mansion, that I need hardly say is no fit environment to bring up a child. It is people like you that are holding our kind back. There are some of us who do not want to live in a time warp, who can see the advantages that moving forward into broad sunlit uplands can hold. Now kindly leave. This audience is over."

Malfoy folded his arms. "I demand," he said, "to see my son, immediately."

"Draco is sleeping," said Dumbledore. "I will not wake him. Whatever you want to speak with him about will wait until the morning. I emphasise the will for a reason, Malfoy. Perhaps you would like us to arrange rooms in Hogsmeade for the night?"

Malfoy shook his head. "This attitude to your charges surely explains your current image crisis," he said. "I believed you helped those who were being victimised."

"I am helping your son," said Dumbledore. "I am helping him by keeping you from him ... I do not believe your influence to be conducive to his happiness."

Malfoy's face was twisted into a paroxysm of rage. "How dare you, sir!"

"Draco has told us a considerable amount," said Dumbledore. Malfoy's face dropped like a stone. "I believe it was very hard for him to speak out ... I believe he displayed great courage and bravery, more perhaps than he has ever had to show before. *That* is the reason I will not let you see him without his permission."

Malfoy was glaring at Dumbledore with something approaching murder glinting in his eyes. "Draco lies," he said, at last, in a very quiet, more subdued voice. "Draco has been lying to you."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I fail to see why any boy would make up such accusations. He has told us everything Malfoy ... and as we are in loco parentis at this time ... I cannot let you see him."

"What has he been saying?" asked Malfoy.

"He has made claims, quite startling claims, but ones that given the nature and past record of your family should really have come as no surprise to me. But indeed, they chilled me to the very bone," said Dumbledore. "He claims you have beaten him, many times in the past, often severely, often using a cane or a whip ... which I believe is illegal in this country, and carries a hefty sentence."

"I may have smacked him once or twice for disobedience," said Malfoy. "What Father would not have done?"

"A good one," said Dumbledore. "Malfoy ... I am this close to getting the Social Services involved, they would unhesitatingly remove Draco from your care. Now, I am requesting once more that you leave me now. You may, if you wish return in the morning, at which time we shall see if Draco desires to speak with you. Then you may. Otherwise, under no circumstances."

Malfoy spat on the floor. "I shall return in the morning," he said. "We shall see who has been lying then."

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

Aeroflot Flight BK362 from London Gatwick touched down on the runway at Baku airport with a squealing of tyres. The sun was rising over the distant mountaintops, and shimmering on the oil streaked surface of the Caspian Sea, whose polluted waters lap gently at the old and once mighty city. Across the rooftops echoed the lilting cry of the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer. In the distance the gas flares from the myriad oil rigs blazed.

Chaldean rose from his seat and retrieved the leather case he had brought with him from the overhead locker. He had never had cause to fly as a Muggle before, and it was not an experience he wished to repeat, having been sick five times. Now he had to transfer to a helicopter for the two hour flight to Naxcivan. He had always known that it was sometimes pertinent for Malfoy to act as though he were a respectable Muggle businessman, but he would much have preferred a broomstick.

He had been told to meet Malfoy's representative at the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet on the Arrivals level, but there was nobody there who looked remotely like the description he had been given. He ordered a black coffee, and sat down to wait.

As it happened, he did not have to wait very long, for the man turned out to have just arrived. He looked just as he had been told ... tall, well over six foot, with jet black hair and an extravagant moustache. He was wearing a cheap blue suit over a shirt that looked to have stepped straight out of the 1970's. He was carrying a very large canvas portmanteau. On his left wrist was a fake gold Rolex. He had the look of a local entrepreneur ... a bit of a dodgy dealer ... the sort of person who would steal your car, re-spray it and then sell it back to you for twice the price.

"Artemis Chaldean?" he asked, sitting down at the tiny table.

Chaldean sipped his vile coffee, and nodded.

"My name is Achmed Al Tamimi. I am the head of Mr Malfoy's Middle-Eastern operations. I believe you have something for me?"

Chaldean nodded. He set down the briefcase on the table, and snapped it open. Inside were stacks of green dollar bills, all tightly bound together with elastic bands.

"One point six million," said Chaldean. "Unused notes."

"It will come in very handy," said Al Tamimi, picking up one of the bundles and tossing it casually from hand to hand. "The ... how you say ... Muggles? They are becoming restless. The bribe will keep their silence. Now, Mr Chaldean, did you have a pleasant flight?"

"It was dire," said Chaldean.

Al Tamimi nodded his head sympathetically. "I quite understand," he said. "I flew up from Kabul yesterday. I would have come by carpet ... but there are disturbing reports coming out of the area."

"What sort of reports?"

"They say wizards are vanishing all over the Middle-East," said Al Tamimi. "Five in the last week alone, two of them in Iraq, another in Syria, one in the Lebanon, and one more disappeared on the streets of Jerusalem. Some of them were important figures. One was a Ministry wizard, from London."

"Do they know his name?" asked Chaldean.

"Oh yes," said Al Tamimi. "His name is Bill Weasley. There is a photo of him in the newspaper," he unfolded it to show Chaldean. It was a copy of the Jerusalem Wizarding Post ... the picture was of a young looking man with red hair tied back in a ponytail, with a large earring dangling from one ear.

"Looks like a ruffian to me," Chaldean finished his coffee. "Come," he said. "We should get going. There is much to prepare."

"Indeed. Have you ever flown in a helicopter before?" asked Al Tamimi, getting to his feet and taking hold of both Chaldean's leather case and the portmanteau he had been carrying.

"Never," said Chaldean.

"You will find it an interesting experience after broomsticks," said Al Tamimi.

Chaldean did not say he had never actually flown a broom since leaving Hogwarts, all those years ago. During all his years there, he had never been able to amount to much. There had always been others there to steal his limelight. He became aware of Al Tamimi speaking again.

"... did you bring any other bags, Mr Chaldean?"

"No, just the case," said Chaldean ... he rose to follow Al Tamimi.

"Very well," said Al Tamimi. "The helicopter is waiting to take us to Naxcivan. I suggest we take advantage of the fine weather, say not, my friend?"

The helicopter ride was everything Chaldean had feared it would be. As they flew inland, the terrain became more rugged and desolate, and through the plexi-glass windows he was presented with a stark vista of grey mountains towering over valleys in which nestled tiny villages ... villages where life had probably not changed much in a hundred years. They were leaving the oil rich coast behind ... up in the Caucasus Mountains life was wilder, harsher. Dragons lived up here, and down on the ground, in the more inaccessible valleys, roamed the precious tricorns. If they crashed up here, they would be done for. They flew through canyons so narrow and so rocky Chaldean was certain they must be the first humans to ever set eyes upon them.

After what seemed like hours of flying, Al Tamimi pointed straight ahead, over the pilot's shoulder. Chaldean followed his gaze. Standing high on an isolated ridge, with no apparent approach save from from the air was a dark, brooding castle, turrets soaring high into the early morning sky. They hovered over the largest turret, from which flew two flags, one the Azerbaijani flag, and the other the British Union flag, before dropping to the ground. Men in voluminous black cloaks raced across the pad to open the doors for him. Ducking to avoid the spinning rotors Chaldean followed Al Tamimi, still holding both the briefcase and the portmanteau sprinted across the rooftop to safety.

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

The weather in the north of England that morning was in stark contrast to the bright Russian sunshine. It was raining again. Ron awoke slightly later than everyone else, and stumbled into the Hall at twenty five past eight, just as Harry was finishing his porridge. Hermione had returned to the other end of the table. The previous evening she had tried once more to approach him ... to try and explain what he had not given her a chance to before. Harry, however, would have none of it, and had rebuked her more strongly than ever before ... an argument had ensued in which they had both said some things they were now, secretly, regretting, though Harry was too proud to admit it, and Hermione too scared of what he might say to her if she approached him.

Ron took a seat next to Harry, who looked up as he sat down, and gave a start. "I wasn't ... um, I wasn't expecting to see you," he said. Ron noticed he was sliding something under the table as he spoke.

"What are you hiding?" asked Ron suspiciously, helping himself to bacon.

"Nothing," said Harry. "Not hiding anything."

Ron held out his hand ... he noticed Harry had gone pale, a deadly white, all the colour drained from his face.

"Has something happened?" he asked.

Harry, resignedly, withdrew a copy of that morning's Daily Prophet. "Front page," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "I'm sorry."

Ron seized the paper, and unfolded it. What he saw made a rush of cold, deathlike fear sweep across his body. He pushed his breakfast away. There, underneath a large colour photo of Bill was the headline 'Gringott's Wizard Missing in Israel: Foul Play Suspected.'

He read on, 'Ministry of Magic sources today confirmed that Gringotts staff member William Weasley (23), who works as a Curse Breaker for the Bank's Cairo Division disappeared on Saturday afternoon whilst on a holiday with friends in Israel. Weasley, former Head Boy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was last seen by his friends Renee Gudgeon (23) and Valentino D'Abruzzo (25), who both work for Gringotts' Israeli office in Tel Aviv, on the west coast of the country. Gudgeon reports that 'Bill left early in the morning to buy food from the souk. He did not return.' The Ministry's Ambassador in Tel Aviv, Brian Keating has issued the following statement, 'This incident comes at a time when relations between British and Israeli Magical Agencies are at an all time high. I regard this as an isolated incident and maintain that it is safe for British citizens to travel in Israel. My hope is that Mr Weasley will be found alive and well.' Weasley's family are currently being cared for by friends at home in Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, and have declined to comment at this time. Senior investigators for the International Magical Criminal Investigation Bureau, based in Geneva, who have been called in as a matter of course, say that that the possibility of kidnap cannot be ruled out at this stage. It is known that powerful magical sects do still exist in the Middle East, who would, according to a spokesman, 'have much to gain through high profile acts of terrorism.' One of these sects, known as the 'Silver Serpent' is known to have had links in the past to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and is possibly active in the area. The Daily Prophet wishes to add its commiserations to the Weasley family at their time of trial, and we pray for the safe return of their son.'

"I didn't mean for you to see that," said Harry. "Seamus showed me the paper."

Ron folded the paper gravely in half, and set it down on the table ... so doing he pulled his breakfast plate back towards him, and took up his fork. "Perhaps it was better I found out," he said, quietly. Harry noticed that his face had gone pale ... almost the same shade as it did whenever he saw a spider.

"Ron?"

But he did not reply.

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

Draco stopped suddenly at the sight that confronted him. He had been on his way to the Slytherin Common Room for a quick shower before everyone else got back from breakfast and would have an opportunity to steal his towel again. He was just walking down the steps towards the dungeons when his Father stepped out of one of the shadows.

"Good morning, Draco," he said. "How fair you this day?"

Draco gave him a very funny look. "I'm fine, I suppose," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"A Father cannot come and speak with his own son?" asked his Father.

"I told Dumbledore I didn't wan..."

"I do not need Dumbledore's permission to come and speak with my own son," scoffed his Father. "Besides, I know you do not mean it."

"I do mean it," snapped Draco ... looking up, his Father was much taller than him, and cut an intimidating figure. "I told him I didn't want to see you. I told him everything."

He became aware that his Father was looking at him with something approaching pity in his eyes. "What has become of you, Draco?" he asked, in a voice low and full of great sadness. Draco could not tell whether he was putting it on or not. "You used to be such a happy child."

Draco sneered. "However did I give you that impression," he asked ... he felt as though his feet were rooted to the very spot upon which he was standing ... he was incapable of movement.

"I remember when you used to play in my study when I was working," said his Father. He bent down close to Draco. "You had all your little broomsticks ... you used to think you were so grown up, that you could come and work with me."

"Then you smacked me when I got too noisy," snapped Draco. "That hurt ... why did you do that?"

His Father put his hands on both Draco's shoulders, and looked deep into his eyes. "Every boy must be rebuked by his parents if he misbehaves," he said.

"Not beaten with a strap then?" asked Draco.

His Father looked hurriedly away. "Every parent does it," he said. "Do not think yourself in any way special because I have punished you in the past," he said. "I always made it up to you ... I never enjoyed it."

"You bribed me, is what you mean," said Draco. "Toys are all very well ... but I've ..."

His father silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Draco. I never meant to hurt you ... I never thought I was hurting you."

Draco could feel tears welling up in his eyes again. He stared down at the floor, and tried not to show it.

"Draco?"

Draco bit his lip, and looked up again. "You beat me so hard I was black and blue for weeks ... because I dropped my ice cream cone! And you think you weren't hurting me?"

"Draco ... please. We have a lot to live up to."

"Screw the ancestors!" Draco spat.

His Father snarled, and before Draco was fully aware of what was happening, he had been smacked hard across the face.

"Never. Never insult the memory of your ancestors!" roared his Father. He grabbed Draco again. "Has this Mudblood been poisoning you then? Has she?"

"Mudblood, Father?" Draco tried to effect innocence.

"Don't pretend you do not know what I am talking about Draco. Hermione Granger. She has poisoned you against me! Against your own flesh and blood! Do you know how that feels for me ... how sad that makes me?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't care anymore," he said quietly. "Hermione has not poisoned me against you. She's good and she's kind and she knows how ... she knows how to make me feel wanted, and that's something you could never do."

"Yet she is a Mudblood, Draco."

"What does that matter?" asked Draco. "We would have died out centuries ago if we hadn't married into Muggle families."

His Father's face went red with impotent rage. "Sacrilege," he snarled, his voice filled with such anger as Draco could never remember having had to face before in his life. "After all I had taught you ... after I raised you, fed you and clothed you, all your life. You turn on me?"

"I suppose I do," said Draco. He tried to step backwards, but his Father grabbed him by the arm and yanked it sharply. Draco yelped in pain.

"All your life I cared for you ... this is how you repay me," he grabbed Draco by the front of his robes, and pulled him sharply upwards, pinning him against the hard stone wall of the corridor.

"Father, please!" squealed Draco.

"In your heart you know you must be punished for such thoughts, Draco," growled his Father.

Draco closed his eyes, opened his mouth and screamed, screamed like he never had done before. His only chance ... if someone heard him.

Someone did ... he heard running footsteps, shouts, and then the heavy footfall of someone descending stairs at speed. His Father let go of him in a hurry, and he fell the rest of the way to the floor.

Doctor Jones stopped dead at the end of the corridor, and took in the scene before her. Draco was sitting on the floor, looking slightly dazed, as he had cracked his head. Standing over him was Lucius Malfoy, his harsh face contorted into a look of pure, unadulterated rage.

"Mr Malfoy! Whatever do you think you are doing?"

Malfoy turned on her. "Is there no way a man can conduct business in a fair and civilized manner these days? Must I be continually interrupted by interfering busybodies?"

Doctor Jones, though a whole foot shorter than Mr Malfoy, appeared to show no fear of the apparently reformed Death Eater. She stormed down the corridor to where Draco was sitting, leaning against the wall, rubbing his head.

"Might I remind you, Mr Malfoy?" she growled. "That you are currently not the most favoured person on these premises."

"How insightful," snarled Malfoy, in a voice laden with lashings of sarcasm.

"Dumbledore has told me of your conversation last night. I believe he told you that you would not be permitted to see your son unless he expressly wished it to be so?"

"He may have said something along those lines," said Malfoy. "Personally, ma'am, I have always taken the words of Albus Dumbledore with a pinch of salt. The man is a crackpot after all."

If looks could have killed, Doctor Jones would have been facing genocide charges. "Never insult Albus Dumbledore in my presence. He is a great man ... and he has done more to preserve our liberties and rights than any man living."

Malfoy chuckled. "The man is a lunatic," he said. "His ramblings grow more and more unbelievable every time I am forced to listen to them ... he feeds off the lies and tales of a boy whose claim to fame is a mere scar."

Doctor Jones was not listening. She had bent down next to Draco, and was helping him to his feet.

"Do you hear me, ma'am? Or do you presume to ignore me?"

"I presume to ignore you," said Doctor Jones. "I am going to take Draco up to Dumbledore's office now. You will leave this school forthwith. Rest assured we will be investigating the charges Draco has laid against you with the full powers available to us."

Malfoy grabbed her by the arm ... his face pale. Draco looked up at him. He was scared. He had never seen his own Father scared by anything before. "Madam ... I assure you Draco is merely embellishing as any adolescent would. He is undergoing traumatic biological changes," Draco resented this comment, "and it is only natural for a child to rebel against those nearest and dearest to him."

"I doubt Draco has ever had the chance to get near you," hissed Doctor Jones. "From what Dumbledore has told me ... what boy would fabricate charges of child abuse?"

Malfoy appeared to be opening and shutting his mouth like a fish caught out of water. For the first time in his life, he was lost for words.

Doctor Jones turned to Draco. "We'd better get you upstairs, my boy. Come along."

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

Dumbledore was waiting for them in his vast study ... it was almost, Draco thought, as though he had been waiting for them all along.

"Take a seat, Draco," he said in a small, quiet voice. Once again his manner astounded Draco, who had never thought Dumbledore had had ... indeed, had never given him, much reason to like him at all. He was a Slytherin after all. Of course, thinking about it, nobody had ever bothered to tell him what house Dumbledore had been in ... assuming he had even gone to Hogwarts.

"Well," Dumbledore went on. "I must say I was rather expecting something like this to happen. Have we any idea how he got back into the school, Doctor?"

Doctor Jones shook her head. "I thought you had put a charm on the front gate."

"Evidently no obstacle to him," said Dumbledore. "I take it he is on his way," he turned to Draco. "I must make my apologies to you, young man. I confess myself to have been foolish enough to believe that your Father would not flout my word."

"You spoke to him?" asked Draco.

Dumbledore nodded. "He came to see me last night," he said. "I told him ... well, I told him it would be impossible to see you without your permission."

"Too right," said Draco, whose head was still hurting where he had hit it on the stones. "I hate him."

"I think hate is too strong a word, Draco," said Dumbledore. "Whatever he may have done to you in the past ... he does remain your Father. There are some barriers even hate cannot destroy."

Draco gave him a very funny look, but Dumbledore did not notice it. "No," he said. "I really do think I hate him."

Dumbledore removed his reading glasses from his long, crooked nose, and peered blindly at Draco. He polished the glasses on the hem of his robes, and then slipped them back on again before speaking. "Dear me, Draco. I do believe he has greatly affected you."

Draco nodded.

"The funny thing is, how you never showed it in the past. This interests me, Draco. Is it the influence of Hermione Granger, who I must admit is a worthy ally to have on your side? Or is there something else. Something I remain unaware of perhaps?"

Draco, unnerved by the way Dumbledore appeared to be staring right through him, looked down at his shoes, and mumbled a reply.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said," said Draco. "There is something ... but I don't want to tell."

"I think it might help you very much if you did," said Dumbledore. "Are you sure you do not wish to tell me, Draco?" he asked.

If Draco told ... he could end this now. It would be over. Dumbledore was a wise man ... a benevolent man, and a powerful wizard too. Surely he would afford the protection he would need. But could he say? His Father had told him that Chaldean was likewise a wizard and sorcerer of great power. Surely he would be able to track him down. He took a deep breath ... realising as he did so that he held all the cards, and he held them very close to his chest indeed. He alone held the key ... he alone could blow the whistle.

"Draco?" asked Dumbledore, leaning closer to the boy, who seemed to be shrinking further and further into himself. Gone was the smug, supremely confident Draco Malfoy he had known, and the replacement was a child so fundamentally altered it seemed barely possible they could be the same person.

"If I tell you," said Draco. "Will you help me?"

"In what way do you want me to help you, Draco?"

"Sir ... this," Draco faltered briefly. "This is ... I mean to say, big."

"How big exactly?" asked Dumbledore.

"It could ... it could cost lives. I can't handle that knowledge. You know ... you know my Father was a Death Eater?"

Dumbledore nodded. "He would have been the Ministry's prize catch," he mused. "It would have been the icing on the cake. Do continue."

"After Vo ... You-Know-Who disappeared, he turned."

"How do you mean, turned?"

"He said ... he said he had realised the evils that You-Know-Who had done, and he, he said he bound himself over not to allow them to happen again. He fell in with a man called Chaldean."

"Artemis Chaldean," said Dumbledore. "Everybody thought him dead for a long time. Professor Snape mentioned him to me just the other night."

"Chaldean is, is still a very powerful man ... and he is a man who wants to stop You-Know-Who from regaining power."

"He was a Death Eater. Tell me why he would wish to do that?"

"He said ... he also had seen that what You-Know-Who did was wrong. He took the same vow as my Father. They fell in together. My Father turned spy for him. You-Know-Who believes his most faithful Death Eater is once again in his orbit, when in reality quite the opposite is true," Draco paused, stared down at the floor.

"You will have to forgive me, Draco," said Dumbledore. "I ... perhaps I am being slow. But I fail to see exactly what this has to do with the fact that you hate your Father."

"All my life," said Draco quietly. "All my life he trained and groomed me for my future life. I was to serve You-Know-Who ... that was to be my destiny. But that was a lie ... that was never true. All the time he wanted me for Chaldean. He ... I hate him for that ... and I hate him for the other things."

"I see," said Dumbledore. "You believe your loyalties lie with Lord Voldemort?"

Draco shook his head. "I did," he said. "I was ... I was to have become a Death Eater in a few days, on my sixteenth birthday. I doubt that will happen now."

"You do not wish to?"

"Not anymore, sir ... I did ... but now I don't," said Draco, looking into Dumbledore's eyes. Dumbledore felt something deep within himself give way and collapse. The boy's gaze seemed to penetrate his skull, to be almost within him. And he truly believed he had never seen anything so sorrowful in all his days on this Earth. And he knew too, that Draco was telling the gospel truth.

"I believe you," he whispered.

Draco somehow felt bound to elaborate. "Hermione showed me that," he said. "Before I would have rather died than be seen with, well, with a Muggle born."

"I understand," said Dumbledore. "Draco ... I understand the last weeks have been hard for you..."

"There is more," said Draco.

"Then do go on."

"Chaldean, and my Father. They had plans for me too," said Draco. "They wanted me to bring them Harry ... Harry Potter ... so that they could use him as a pawn to fight and defeat Voldemort."

"Draco ... why did you not say before?"

"I'm saying now," said Draco. "That is why I tried to talk to him, to make friends. It's why the Slytherins..."

"Draco..."

"They gave me drugs to do it with," said Draco. "Dragon trees ... Dracaena."

"How apt," said Dumbledore. "You still have these plants?"

Draco nodded. "They're downstairs, hidden under my bed. P ... please say you won't expel me."

"I have no intention of expelling you, Draco," said Dumbledore. "If you can give me your word that the plants have not been used to prepare any solutions of potions, of any kind?"

"They haven't," said Draco. "I couldn't touch them once."

"Thank you, Draco. I think you ought really to return to your classes. But there is one last thing?"

"Sir?"

"We have been put in something of an awkward situation, Draco," said Dumbledore. "The accusations you have placed against your Father, we three of us have discussed them, that is, myself, Professor Snape and Dcotor Jones, and we have come to a decision that it would be in your best interests to call in the Department of Magical Social Services ... sort this out once and for all. We would, ah ... however, need your consent to do this."

"I don't know what I want," breathed Draco. "May I think about that, sir?"

"Take as long as you like. My office door is almost always open," said Dumbledore. "Now be about your business. We can't have you missing lessons on my account."

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

Ron tried not to show it, but the news about his brother had cut him up severely, and he spent most of Monday trailing Harry around the school, snapping at people when they tried to come forward and offer their sympathies. Even Hermione tried to approach him later that morning, but Ron had already been primed against her by Harry, following the events of the previous day, and he very nearly bit her head clean off. It was during Care of Magical Creatures, however, that the worst incident occurred.

It being such a miserable day, Sirius had once again moved the class indoors to one of the empty classrooms, which meant they would be continuing their theory work on tricorn anatomy, which wasn't very fascinating.

As was fast becoming her custom, Hermione sat down next to Draco, to jeers and boos from the Slytherins, and glares from the Gryffindors. Unfortunately for the Slytherins, Sirius chose that moment to enter the classroom, looking flustered and angry about something, and took the opportunity to have a good go at the Slytherins. This lasted several minutes, and was so severe that even the Gryffindors, who weren't in trouble, were staring at the floor and wishing themselves desperately to be anywhere but here.

The class then proceeded smoothly for about half an hour, at which point Sirius, who hadn't read the papers, made some inopportune comment about tricorn habitats in the Middle-East, which caused Ron to flee from the room, his face red with sadness, his bottom lip quivering slightly and his fists clenched tight.

Sirius shot a glare at the class. "If I hear one word out of you, I'll nail every last one of you to Charing Cross Station," he glared once more, and disappeared through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

To Sirius' great relief, Ron had not gone far ... he was sitting in a disconsolate heap on the flagstone floor a little way down the corridor, his face buried in his hands.

"Would you care to tell me what that was all about?" asked Sirius, kneeling down beside the boy.

Ron shook his head.

"Then would you please come back to my class and stop wasting everybody's time?" said Sirius ... as far as he was concerned nothing untoward at all had happened ... Ron was simply trying to create a spectacle of himself. Ron, however, declined to move.

"Please get up, Ron?" said Sirius. "I can't have students leaving my lessons as and when it suits them."

"It has nothing to do with your lesson," Ron began, in between gulps ... he was mercifully cut short by Professor McGonagall, who turned the corner into the corridor at that moment.

"Si ... " she began. "Mr Wilmot. I was meaning to have a word with some of your pupils. Could you spare Mr Weasley for a few minutes?"

"I dare say," said Sirius. He gestured to Ron. "This one seems a little out of sorts," he whispered.

"I think I know why. Come along, Ronald," Professor McGonagall was saying.

"I am afraid I have some very bad news for you," said Professor McGonagall. "If you would like to accompany me up to my office?"

Ron trailed along in her wake, like a cygnet following a parent swan, stumbling up staircases and along corridors. Finally, they reached Professor McGonagall's office. She turned to him, and said. "Ron, come in."

Ron followed her into the office, and allowed himself to be shown to one of the seats. He had been there several times before, though almost always in unhappy circumstances.

"Ron ... are you aware of the recent events that have transpired?"

"If you mean my brother, Professor, then yes, Harry showed me a paper this morning."

"I see," said Professor McGonagall. "I am afraid Ron, that your family has written to me here, asking that you be sent home for a few days."

"But why?"

Professor McGonagall glared at him. "One would have thought you would be grateful for the time off," she said. "To be amongst your loved ones at this time. I have spoken to your brothers and your sister, and they will be leaving tonight on the London train. I think you should accompany them."

"What about Harry?"

"What about him?"

"I'm worried about him," said Ron, hanging his head.

Professor McGonagall sighed deeply ... she seemed to be dealing with more than her fair share of troubled students just lately. Surely Harry wasn't having problems too?

"In what way?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"He seems down," said Ron. "I think it has something to do with Hermione."

"Be that as it may, your family's request was for you to return home for a few days, just to help out and be supportive. I am certain Harry remains quite capable of taking care of himself."

"I understand," though he wasn't quite so sure.

"Thank you Ron. Pack some things and be in the courtyard at five o'clock this afternoon. You'd better get back to Siri ... Mr Wilmot's lesson now. You might miss something important."

Ron rose thankfully from his chair, and left the room.

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

The room was filled with darkness so complete, so all enveloping that it was impossible even to make out movement. Lucius Malfoy stood stock still beside what he knew to be the wall, and shivered slightly ... for being dark, it was also freezing cold.

Somewhere else in the house a gong sounded. Malfoy heard footsteps in the distance ... marching footsteps, feet tramping upon stones. Then just as suddenly, they stopped. Then the gong sounded again.

Instantly, the room was flooded with light. Malfoy saw that he was standing not in a room, but in a large hall. At one end was a fireplace elaborately and artfully carved. There were logs in the fireplace ... new ones, but nobody had set light to them. Hanging from the walls were ornate tapestries, finely woven depictions of ancient scenes, magical rites and religious practices. Running around the top of the hall was what appeared to be a gallery.

Malfoy took another step into the room, and when nothing happened, walked slowly across it towards the fireplace. As he stood before it, the logs suddenly burst into flames, and he could feel their life giving heat warming his frozen presence.

The gong sounded again, startling him momentarily. He turned round, and looked up to the gallery. There were six or seven masked men standing there. Death Eaters.

"Malfoy. Do you understand why you have been brought here?" a voice, loud, echoing and booming around the hall.

Malfoy shook his head.

"You have allowed one of our number to slip away from us. We are not pleased with you."

"I don't understand," began Malfoy, but even he knew this was a lie ... of course he understood.

"We refer to your child. We are gravely disappointed with his progress. The initiation draws near, and instead of preparing for the role we have predestined for him, he is intriguing with Mudbloods and those who would seek to destroy us."

"I tried to speak to him this morning," protested Malfoy.

"Silence," hissed the man who was speaking. "We are aware of what you tried to do. However, the fact remains that you did not do it."

"It was difficult," said Malfoy. "The staff are watching the boy like hawks."

"That is of no interest to us," said the speaker. "Be thankful, Lucius Malfoy, that our Master is not here to punish your failure. Be thankful he has delegated such odious tasks to us, his loyal servants."

"My friend. There is no need for ..."

"Silence, Malfoy! Speak not again! We are aware of your history, and your upbringing of Draco has been stern and fair so far. For this reason we have decided to not to punish you both too harshly."

"You don't understand," began Malfoy. But before he could finish, he had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse, and had fallen to the floor in agony.

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

Darkness was falling as the train rattled relentlessly southward. Ron sat glumly in a compartment with Fred, George and Ginny. Nobody was saying much ... indeed, even Fred and George seemed to be resisting the opportunity to make some crass joke ... though under the circumstances, this was probably not altogether surprising. Each of them was secretly wondering what would be going on at home ... how their Mother would have taken the news, probably badly. Each of them was dreading arriving at King's Cross.

Hour after hour they journeyed southwards. The harsh, bare, Northumbrian mountains gave way to the more serene and picturesque moors ... they passed through cities alive with cars and people. Newcastle, Durham, York, Leeds. The moors gave way in turn to gentler, more pastoral countryside, dotted with farms and churches. Ron fell asleep.

And awoke again. The train had stopped, and the lights in their compartment had gone out. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Ron could make out Ginny lying on one of the bench seats, covered by a blanket, fast asleep. Of Fred and George, there was no sign. He stood up, and went over to the window. Outside all was dark. In the distance a faint orange glow lit up the sky, and a few hundred yards away, he could see the headlights of cars and lorries, racing at speed along a motorway. Ron wondered what had awoken him.

There was a woomph of imploding air, and the carriage rocked violently as a Muggle Intercity train flashed past on the next track. Through the lighted windows, Ron could make out people in the restaurant car dining expensively and well. Then just as suddenly as it had come, it was gone again.

He slid open the compartment door, and stepped out into the corridor. The lights were on out here. Ron began to walk down the carriage ... the next compartment to his held two elderly witches who had done nothing but sit and knit since leaving Hogsmeade. Then came two empty compartments, then a young mother nursing a sleeping baby. Ron reached the end of the carriage, contemplated turning back, but saw the sign on the door into the next coach. It was the buffet car. Ron opened the door ... but instead of the scene he expected to find, the carriage was deserted. The shutters at the counter were down, and a small apologetic note had been tacked to it. Ron proceeded down the full length of the carriage, passing the ornate wooden tables.

He passed into the next carriage, which turned out to be First Class. There was only one other passenger here ... a fat, middle aged wizard who was dozing with a copy of the Daily Prophet ... the one bearing Bill's picture, over his face. The compartments here were on the verge of luxurious. The seats were leather, and there were little cut glass lampshades of the type his Grandparents seemed so fond of. Ron pressed on. But this was the last carriage ... the door at the far end opened onto the back of the tender, still piled high with coal.

"Fred, George!"

There was no reply. It was freezing cold, and Ron hugged himself tightly. Should he get off and see what was the matter, find out why they had stopped? What if Fred and George were injured?

Slowly, praying that the train would not suddenly start without him, he clambered down to the ground. The stones clattered under his feet. The only other sound was the distant rush of speeding traffic.

"Fred? George? Is this some kind of joke?"

All of a sudden, Ron felt the sharp touch of cold steel at his neck, and two gloved hands had seized him around the chest. He let out a yell, and kicked viciously, but the grip of his assailant was too strong to be broken.

"Make no noise, boy, and you might live," said a soft, menacing voice.

Ron obediently kept quiet as he was frogmarched round to the front of the train. Several hooded figures were standing over something on the track. As the man who had captured Ron lead him through, the others parted to afford him a glimpse of what was lying on the ground.

There were five bodies, laid out side by side, stretched across the track. Three of them wore railwayman's uniforms ... the other two. The other two were Fred and George, beaten and mangled beyond recognition ... their forms bloodied and bruised.

"Another one becomes too curious for his own good," said the man who had seized Ron, thrusting him into the centre of the circle. He stumbled, tripped and fell, landing on the motionless corpse of the driver, and twisting his ankle. He roared in pain.

"What say you, Romulus?" asked the man.

"I say kill him, like the others," said the man who had been called Romulus.

"I say not," said another man. "I say take him with us. We shall need a bargaining chip."

"I say beat him, then take him with us."

"Please ... no!"

Romulus stepped forwards, and before Ron knew what was happening, he had been struck hard on the head with a cosh. He saw stars, and fainted, dead to the ground.