Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER EIGHT. INTO DARKNESS.

Dumbledore sat down at his desk ... it was a place at which he had been spending rather a lot of time of late. Professor McGonagall took a seat before him, her face was grim, her eyes slits. She was angry. "I still say we should tell him," she said. "It will be for the best. We have all noticed the changes in him these last couple of days. He has become surly and aggressive; he will keep talking back in class. I think he's pining, Albus ... I think he needs help."

Dumbledore shook his head. "I maintain my position Minerva ... however much you might try to dissuade me, I maintain that for these exact reasons, we should not tell what has happened."

Professor McGonagall looked at her feet. "Well," she said. "I suppose you may be right."

Dumbledore fixed the errant Professor with a steely gaze. "I agree with you in principle, Minerva. I just feel that such information might just tip him over the edge."

Professor McGonagall was nodding gravely. Dumbledore continued to speak.

"Tell me, Minerva. Does the boy have access to newspapers?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "I honestly could not say," she said.

"I may have seen him with one once or twice."

"See that he does not get hold of any more."

"He is worrying me," said Professor McGonagall. "I fear we are having some kind of role reversal here. It's probably nothing ... but, well ... no, it's silly actually."

"Tell me anyway."

"I think he's turning into Draco Malfoy."

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

"Harry."

"Bugger off!"

"I was just going to ask you ..."

"Colin, take the hint and bugger off. Now please!"

Colin, however, sat down on the arm of Harry's chair, much to his annoyance.

"But we need to prac..."

"How can we?" interrupted Harry. "We need Fred and George. We can't play without Beaters."

"We can get some substitutes," suggested Colin, brightly.

"Look ... I don't know how much clearer I can make this to you, Colin," said Harry. "I am not in the mood to talk Quidditch right now. Okay?"

Colin shrugged. "Be it on your head if we lose to Slytherin when we play them."

This had been bothering Harry too. But he said nothing. Colin slipped off the arm of his chair, and disappeared up the stairs to bed. Harry supposed he should have done the same thing, but he did not. Instead he rose, stuffed his feet into his slippers, and ambled over to the portrait hole.

Since Sirius had requisitioned his Invisibility Cloak, his nocturnal wanderings had been somewhat curtailed. However, tonight he was in the kind of mood where sensibilities and logic are tossed casually to one side.

Ignoring the tutting of the Fat Lady as he stepped through the door, he headed off to the one place where he could still think straight.

Quite often in the past, Harry's night time adventures had taken him past the very tallest of Hogwarts' towers. Students were not allowed up there in any circumstances ... yet for some time, whenever he had felt down, or in some way disturbed, he had slipped away quietly to sit on the rooftops, and looked out over the wide and beautiful vistas. It was to the top of this tower he went now, climbing carefully up the spiral staircase, which was missing steps in places, crumbling and rotting through woodworm.

Finally, a little out of breath, he reached the top, and pushed open the tiny wooden door. He pulled his dressing gown tight around him as he stepped out onto the cold roof. The sky was clear, the air crisp and clean, and out here, in the middle of nowhere, his view of the constellations was undisturbed by the lights of towns and cities. A fat, full moon was rising slowly over the Hog's Head, the nearest mountain. The fir trees covering the slopes were silhouetted against the pure white orb. Harry could make out the seas and craters on its surface. When he had been little, he had dreamed of going there one day. He looked down over the roofs of Hogwarts. Two hundred feet or more below him was the top of Gryffindor tower, itself one of the tallest present.

There was the courtyard ... there the battlements, there the Astronomy tower with its tiny observatory on top, there the slate grey roof of the Great Hall, with its vast chimneys. Harry looked beyond the walls. There was the winding road, stretching down to the lake, which it crossed on an old stone bridge. There was Hagrid's little hut. In the distance was Hogsmeade.

Harry sat down on the parapet, and dangled his feet over the edge. He felt a rush of exhilaration, almost comparable to flying a broomstick, sweeping over his entire body. Up here, it didn't matter what people thought or who his friends were. Up here he was free to do as he pleased, it was a private, special place. He had never even shown it to Ron. And now Ron was gone. It had been only a day since his departure, but Harry had at least been expecting him to try and communicate. An owl wouldn't have hurt. Apart from Ron, he had nobody else, now that Hermione had gone. Sure he was friends with the other Gryffindors ... Dean, Seamus, Neville ... Lee Jordan, Alicia and Katie ... even Colin Creevey wasn't so bad these days ... but there was never anybody quite the same as Ron and Hermione.

"I want Ron," he whispered to himself.

It dawned on him that he was not alone atop the rickety tower.

Footsteps behind him ... the sound of someone breathing. Then a hand on his shoulder.

"What's up, Harry?" asked Sirius.

"Just thinking," said Harry.

"Just thinking ... in your pyjamas, on top of the tallest tower at the dead of night?" asked Sirius, sitting down on the parapet next to him.

"Just thinking," repeated Harry.

Sirius removed his cloak, and draped it around Harry's shivering shoulders. He was wearing a very large and colourful jumper underneath. He looked almost like a Muggle.

"What are you doing up here?" asked Harry, turning to look into his Godfather's eyes.

"I quite often come up here," said Sirius, defensively. "It used to be one of my favourite haunts. We would sit for hours up here, passing the night, watching the view. Sometimes we stayed until dawn, to watch the sun come up."

"Who?" asked Harry.

"Sometimes I came with Gwyneth," said Sirius. "Sometimes with your Dad ... sometimes with Remus and Peter ... sometimes we all came up here to camp out, even Lily."

Harry looked down at the ground far, far below.

"Did my Dad like it up here?" he asked.

"He thought it was the best," said Sirius. "Hours he'd spend, looking at the stars ... working out which ones he wanted to visit and in what order. He was quite the dreamer, your old man."

"What was he really like?" asked Harry.

"He was ... he was a good man, Harry. He never failed to make me smile, once, in all those years. Always there, always happy ... God he used to bloody infuriate me."

Harry smiled.

"I can't remember much else," said Sirius. "It all seems so long ago now. So much happened to all of us. It seems like I was living another life."

Harry could understand what Sirius meant.

"But we aren't here to talk about my stuffy old memories," said Sirius. "At least, I hope we aren't. What brings you here, Harry?"

"I was, I like it up here," said Harry. "It clears my head sometimes. I need to do that tonight."

"You remember what I told you about wandering around the school?" asked Sirius.

Harry nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll go back to bed."

"Sod it," said Sirius. "I'm here ... there's nothing going to happen. Besides, I need the company."

"Thanks," said Harry.

Sirius put his arm around the boy. "I remember the last time I saw you with your parents." To his surprise, Harry did not say anything to this. "You okay?"

Harry nodded. "You know ... I actually quite like it ... it's kind of interesting."

"What is?"

"You telling me about how it used to be," said Harry.

Sirius appeared to be gazing at the Dog Star, which was glowing brightly in the north, suspended above the summit of the distant Cheviot. "Sorry," he said. "Was miles away for a minute or two. Well ... it was ... um, a couple of days before the attack. I'd been up helping them sort out their stuff. There was a mortgage to rearrange, and furniture to shift. They were just about to start redecorating your nursery. You were going to get Quidditch wallpaper ... they'd bought rolls specially. I think your Dad was rather keen for you to support the Wasps."

"Sorry?"

"The Wimbourne Wasps. Between you and me, he'd be turning in his grave if he knew his own son was a Cannons supporter. Anyway... they had Gwyneth and I stripping all the old decorations down. Your Mum was down in the kitchen ... you were crawling about and putting your hands in the paste."

Harry grinned. "I remember that because you tried to grab me round the legs," said Sirius. "Ruined my best pair of trousers you did. I might hold you to a new pair one of these days." Sirius smiled. "Good times," he said. "Good times. Want to know what your first word was?"

Harry nodded.

"Prongs," said Sirius. "James was ever so proud about that. Course, it was Moony next, then Wormtail, except you said 'wurtel.' You never ever got the hang of Padfoot, much to my chagrin. Anyway, I think your Mum disapproved of that a bit."

"Of what?"

"Of the whole Marauding thing," said Sirius. "Between you and me, she was a bit like Hermione."

"What ... a busybody?" asked Harry.

"No, not like that," said Sirius. "Very proper. Course, once she'd had a few drinks she'd muck in with the rest of us. Gwyneth used to be able to put them away too. Four gin and tonics, followed by three vodkas ... neat, and then a Jack Daniels and Coke. She was still standing afterwards, too. That was on your Mum's hen night."

"Bet Mum never ran off with a Slytherin though," said Harry, stubbornly.

"I can't say that ever happened," said Sirius. "How do you feel about that?"

"Hermione? That's over," said Harry. "She's turned into Draco's patsy, that's what it is."

"Draco seems an amenable enough lad," said Sirius. "For a Slytherin anyway."

"You don't know him then," said Harry. "Sirius ... you know ... about the other day."

"Which day is in question?" asked Sirius.

"When you ... had a chat with me," Harry went on.

"That ... sorry, forget about it," said Sirius. "It was rather stupid of me. I was never any good at sex. Talking about it, that is."

Harry preferred not to think about that. "Yeah, anyway," he said. "I, kind of, well, lied a bit."

"You have been ..."

"No, no, shut up a minute. Listen. I ... I do think I fancy Hermione."

"You do?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, that's ... yeah, I guess that's okay," said Sirius.

"Only, I made a bit of an arse of myself," said Harry. "Now we're not speaking and she's seeing Draco and it's all gone horribly wrong."

"I fail to see how I can help."

Harry turned to look at Sirius. He knew he shouldn't really be saying this ... all things considered ... this man was a teacher, but also the closest thing, the closest link he had to the life he could have lead ... a normal life, with normal, well, magical things. He didn't think he had ever felt closer to his parents than when Sirius was around. He had to say.

"Well ... help me out here," said Harry. "Godfather me already."

"You saw what an idiot I made of myself when I tried to do the birds and bees thing," said Sirius, dangling his feet over the parapet and kicking the stones with the heels of his shoes. "I'm not sure if anything I've got to say would be any help."

"I've got nobody left," moped Harry. "Ron's gone ... Hermione's gone ... going. She hit me across the face for Christ's sake!"

"That I do know," said Sirius. "When a woman does that, that's a very bad sign."

"Did anyone ever do it to you?" asked Harry.

"Only once," said Sirius. "I was nineteen. It was during one of our frequent break ups ... Gwyneth and I, that is."

"You broke up?"

"Oh, around fifty times," said Sirius. "Usually I'd just say the wrong thing at the wrong time. We always got back together again," he stared up into the sky. High overhead a plane was flying, on its way to warmer climes ... lights winking through the night. "She was a good girl, my Gwyneth."

"So what about Hermione?"

"You want to get with her? Well, you could try getting in with her friends," said Sirius. "Corny advice, yeah?"

"Yeah. Rule out making friends with Draco ... he's ... well, the name says it all, doesn't it?"

Sirius nodded. "You could try talking to Hermione again," he caught the look on Harry's face. "You don't want to do that, do you?"

Harry shook his head.

"Well, that's the only way to go about doing it. I'm going to give you some advice that my Dad once gave to me. You can't sit around on your bum all day waiting for the world to come to you. Because it doesn't work like that, and it never has done, and it never ever will do. The only people that get what they want in this stupid world are the ones that get up and go out and do stuff ... and they talk to people, whatever the consequences might be, because they've learned that if they don't do that ... some day they might miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime. The point is you will not know whether or not you are missing out until after the event has passed ... and even then it won't be obvious, because it will have happened to somebody else, one of the people who wasn't sitting around moping about how miserable they were. So go and talk to them ... one day you might be naming your kids after Draco, or asking him to be your best man. Your Dad came up to me on the train our first day at Hogwarts. If he hadn't have done... God knows ... your existence might depend on that one moment," he noticed Harry was staring at him. "Anyway ... that's what I think."

"Thanks," said Harry. "That was very deep."

"Very deep indeed," said Sirius, staring off into space again. "I feel duty bound to apologise."

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

"I feel moved to tears," said Hermione.

Draco glanced around them. "This is wrong," he said. "I don't think we should be listening to them like this. We should go."

"He's right, though," said Hermione, craning slightly to get a better view.

"What ... you think we'll be best buddies one of these days?" asked Draco. "I know I said I'd like for us to get on, but I have limits."

"Don't be silly," chided Hermione. "Anyway, your Father said your mission was to get ..."

"Stuff the mission," said Draco. "That was then ... this is now. I've blown the whistle on it. No more of that stuff for me."

"But you were meant to get close to Harry," said Hermione. "You ended up with me. Did you misread your 'Evil Instructional Handbook' or something?"

Draco grinned. "If I did, I'm bloody glad I did," he said. "Imagine what people would have said if I'd wound up in a full blown relationship with Harry."

"I think you might look cute together," said Hermione. "I can just imagine it."

"Got a thing for gay men, have we?" asked Draco. "You're going to be sorely disappointed in that regard," he added. "Though I won't deny I'm a handsome son of a bitch."

"Shut up," said Hermione.

"Anyway, he's nearly a foot shorter than me ... for Harry, puberty is something that happens to everyone else," said Draco.

In spite of herself, Hermione laughed. Harry and Sirius, who were still sitting on the parapet, stargazing, did not notice. "He could use a stool," she said. "Or a copy of the Yellow Pages."

"What?"

"If he wanted to kiss you," said Hermione.

"That's a horrible thing to say," said Draco. "Of course I'd lift him up, the poor little bugger."

Sirius was pointing to one of the stars in the night sky ... tracing the pinpricks of light that were Orion's belt with his finger.

"Just our luck, though," said Hermione.

"What?"

"We come up here for a bit of rest and relaxation, and we find ourselves in the middle of a bloody male bonding session," said Hermione.

"I bet you'd like to see me male bonding," said Draco. "Perhaps you should take your mind off things a bit."

"How?"

"Kiss me again?"

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

When Ron came round, he was quite alone, and in complete darkness. And the noise ... such a noise he had never heard. It seemed to be coming from right next to him. It sounded like ... like a diesel engine, running at full tilt very close by. He tried to shift his weight, but his hands were bound behind his back with what felt like duct tape. Something sharp was digging into the small of his back. He tried shouting ... but of course, with the noise there was no chance of anybody hearing him.

After what seemed like hours, the engine noise died away. Ron lay quite still, curled up in whatever little space he had been squeezed into. He could hear doors slamming outside, and the crunching of feet on stony ground. Orders being shouted hurriedly in a language that was not English. Then the noises died away ... and all that he could hear was the ticking of the engine cooling.

"Hello!" he shouted.

And then. "Is anybody there?"

Silence ... utter and complete. He tried to lie back in his tiny space, but there was a massive bruise on his head and try as he might, he was unable to get comfortable.

Again he waited. After a few moments he heard the footsteps coming back, and more talking ... this time an English voice.

"How many of them?"

Ron did not hear the reply.

"And the train?"

Again, the reply was unintelligible.

"Excellent. Well ... open the box then."

There was the sound of keys rattling, and then somebody opened the box ... light flooded in to Ron's tiny space. He felt hands grasping his sore body, and the next thing he knew, he had been hauled out of the space and set to his feet. He took stock of his surroundings. He was in some sort of courtyard ... much like the one at Hogwarts. There were tall, leaded windows on the walls, and back the way they had come, an enormous gatehouse with a portcullis that was even now being lowered. The surface of the courtyard was cobbled, and looking around, Ron could see exactly what his transport had been ... a very large, ex-army truck. There were two Land Rovers parked nearby ... one of them had a machine gun mounted on the back, and bore Cyrillic writing on the sides.

"Well, well, Romulus. We have done well."

Ron found himself surrounded by men ... leastways he assumed they were men, each wearing a heavy black cloak, and each one masked. Death Eaters.

"What is your name, boy?" asked Romulus, taking a step closer to Ron.

Ron spat on the ground at the man's feet, which was probably not the most sensible thing he could have done.

"We have a tough one," said Romulus, turning to the others. "He will take longer to break. Vladimir is going to enjoy this," he leant down so close to Ron that his breath, which stank of raw onions, fish and garlic, could be felt on the boy's face. "I suggest you talk sooner rather than later," he said. "Vladimir is, of course, expertly skilled in keeping people alive as long as possible. He needs to be, of course. He served in Afghanistan."

Some of the other Death Eaters were chortling.

"Take him inside," said Romulus. "We may as well get moving on him straight away."

Something hard and cold jabbed itself into Ron's back, and he looked round to find somebody was poking a fearsome looking gun into his back.

"I warn you, I'm armed too," said Ron, sounding braver than he felt.

"Oh, we knew that," said Romulus ... he reached into the folds of his cloak, and withdrew Ron's old wand. "That's why we took the liberty of removing this from your possession," with that, he snapped it clean in half. Little purple stars shot everywhere, fizzing as they went. "Now march ... at the double."

Ron was led inside what he presumed was the castle ... across a great hall lined with suits of armour, unrecognisable military standards, many of which bore dragon insignia and portraits of moustachioed noblemen. Then he was lead down a narrow, dank flight of stairs to another room. He could hear the dripping of water from the ceiling, and hanging from the walls were braziers burning with bright green flames. There was a single chair in the centre of the room.

"Sit," said Romulus, "and wait."

Ron sat down on the chair. Not daring to look round, he could hear the sound of receding footsteps. He stared straight ahead. There was a large iron door set into the wall. It opened very slowly, and a rush of intense heat caught Ron and made him gasp.

Standing in the now open portal was what looked like a man ... robed like the others, but there the resemblance ended, for a figure less like a man Ron could not recall ever having seen. In the flickering candlelight, he could see quite clearly ... the skin on his left hand was gnarled, twisted, a fearsome red, horrifically burned. His hair had once been thick and blond, but now grew in clumps. His face ... half his face had been blown clean off. There was a gaping hole where his nose should have been, and one eye was gone ... leaving just the bony socket.

Sensing Ron's disgust, the man stepped forwards. He walked with a terrible limp ... almost dragging his left leg along behind him.

"Not a pretty sight," he rasped, in broken, heavily accented English. "Once, boy, I was the pride of my parents and my country. Now look at me. I am reduced to working as a torturer for wizards. Nobody else would take me in after the war. Even then, they shut me away in my dungeon."

Ron could barely speak, nor could he take his eyes off the man's face.

"My name is Vladimir Koschenko," said the man. "I shall tell you my tale before we begin work. The year was 1979 ... and in this year the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. I was a humble truck driver in the Leningrad regiment. For four years I worked as a driver ... ferrying supplies to our brave troops. However, the Afghanis were stronger than we had ever anticipated ... they were being armed and aided by the Americans. One day, as I drove through a high mountain pass near Kabul ... my truck laden with ammunition, I was hit with an American Stinger missile, fired by some Afghan fanatic. That was what did this to me. Western imperialism."

"It wasn't my fault," said Ron.

"I know it wasn't," said Koschenko. "But I do not care for such niceties. Come with me, boy ... I want to show you something."

Ron rose from the seat, and followed the man into the next room. An array of instruments was hanging from the walls. On one side of the room, a giant open fireplace, blazing away, smoke pouring up the chimney, with what looked like some sort of spit, of the kind used for roasting meat. There was some type of iron coffin standing against the wall, and right in the centre of the room was a large wooden table, with manacles and shackles attached to it with links of iron chain. Koschenko bade Ron sit down on the table. He walked slowly around him, sizing him up, observing him with a critical eye, all the while humming a mournful Russian peasant song, mouthing under his breath the words, which Ron could not understand. Finally he stopped his pacing, and called something out in Russian.

All was silence. Then, he paced over to the other side of the room, and took what looked like a long iron poker off the wall. He came back over to Ron.

"They tell me I am to torture you," said Koschenko, waving his poker in front of Ron's face. "This is no great wrench for me ... I performed many such acts in Afghanistan. Often on those even younger than yourself."

He raised the poker high up, and smashed it hard into Ron's face. He heard a crack as his nose broke, and a fearsome crunching as his front teeth were knocked out. Ron screamed, but Koschenko slapped his hand over Ron's mouth.

He could taste blood. He swallowed hard, and looked up, eyes wide with primal fear, into Koschenko's single eye.

"What do you want me to tell you?" he gasped.

"Me ... nothing," said Koschenko. "I was told merely to ensure you suffered pain of a magnitude beyond comprehension."

He slammed the poker hard down on Ron's kneecaps. There was a sickening, horrifying crack. Ron clutched violently at his broken legs, keeled over, and fell to the floor. He retched; he could taste bile, and vomited over the floor.

Koschenko bent down next to his prone form. "Disgusting boy," he whispered.

"What is it to be?" he asked, delivering a sharp kick in the ribs.

"Electrical flex ... whips and chains. Maybe even the Iron Maiden ... she can be most vicious."

"I can't move," breathed Ron.

"That was the point ... stupid boy," hissed Koschenko. "How do you like your new look?" he asked, kneeling down, and rolling up the legs of Ron's jeans. The sight that met his eyes ... his knees were twisted beyond recognition, black with bruising, and blood trickled down his shins from where the left ankle bone had broken through the surface of the skin.

Ron screamed, and fainted dead away.

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

The headline read 'Express Train Destroyed In Attack: Dark Mark Seen.'

Hermione opened the paper. There was a photo of the burnt out wreckage, with Ministry wizards, looking strange wearing hard hats and luminous vests over their work robes, crawling all over the scene.

'The Edinburgh to London Express was attacked last night by Death Eaters with the loss of twenty lives. Only one survivor, a pupil of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has so far been found, and is currently being cared for at St Mungo's by her family. The girl is not yet in a position to reveal details of this appalling tragedy. It appears she was travelling home with her three brothers, whose bodies have not yet been found. The rest of the passengers were killed when the train was blown up. Details at this time remain sketchy, although it appears that the masked gang put a tree trunk across the line to stop the train, and then set about butchering the passengers and crew. The Dark Mark was shot into the sky shortly afterwards ...'

Hermione closed the paper in disgust. "Oh, Christ," she said. She looked around. Harry was sitting at the other end of the table ... looking quite alone without his usual red headed guard of honour, and only, by the looks of things, barely tolerating Colin Creevey, who was trying to talk to him about Quidditch. Hermione didn't know whether she should try and tell him or not. She had no way of knowing if he was already aware that his friends were dead. She had no idea how he would react. But she knew, however, that she needed to talk to him.

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

Draco was wandering casually down to Herbology when he heard it. He was passing by the rhododendron garden, and to his surprise, he could hear the sound of someone weeping. At first thinking it was merely a figment of his imagination, he walked on, but then stopped. What if it wasn't? He wasn't much of a soft touch for tears, but all the same. He pushed open the gate, and stepped inside.

The garden appeared deserted. Draco looked around. Perhaps he had been hearing things. Must be going slightly nuts, he thought. Then, to his shock, he saw where the noise had been coming from.

It was Harry, sitting on a bench at the other end of the garden, his head covered by his robes, a torn copy of the Prophet lying on the gravel path at his feet. Draco was in something of a dilemma. It would be cruel of him to walk off without Harry knowing he had seen, but it would be nasty to let him know that he had been seen.

Slowly, he approached the bench.

Harry looked up at the sound of his approach, and if his face could have fallen any lower, it no doubt would have done. "What the hell do you want?" he asked.

"Shouldn't you be in Divination?" asked Draco.

Harry nodded. "How do you know my timetable?"

"I don't, I just know Hermione has Arithmancy now," said Draco.

"What's up ... mind if I sit down?"

"Get lost," snarled Harry.

Draco sat down anyway. Harry looked up. "I'm sorry ... which part of that didn't you understand?"

"Tell me what's up?" asked Draco.

"You'll just laugh at me ... then you'll go running off to that whore, Hermione, and tell her how stupid and pathetic I am ... then you can both have a good laugh. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Not especially," said Draco. "Harry ... Hermione and I ... well, yeah, we are an item, but I don't want her to lose her friends over it. Perhaps I might even gain some new ones."

"What do you need friends for? All you do is take advantage of them."

"That hurts," said Draco. "That really hurts. You know, Harry ... I'm a lot like you."

Harry snorted in indignation, but there was something about what Draco was saying that made him want to stay sitting there. Otherwise he would have stormed off somewhere else ... but he just could not do that.

"Go on?" he asked.

"We both, neither of us fit in," said Draco. "You're the saviour of the Light Side, famous ... trust me, in a few years you'll be mobbed by groupies wherever you go. I'm ... well, I'm, completely socially inept."

"You seemed to be doing all right for yourself," said Harry.

"Sure, I can dance, and go to dinners and stuff ... but that isn't what I want to be doing. I realised that just a few days ago. That's how I'm socially inept."

"What do you want to do then? Hang about outside the chippy, smoking and drinking Tizer like Muggle kids?" asked Harry.

"If that's what it takes," said Draco. "I want to be normal ... I don't want to be starched up in nasty dinner suits and dragged around boring functions. I want to be normal."

"Better hope your Dad isn't listening," said Harry.

"I don't give a toss what he thinks," said Draco.

Harry was slightly astonished. "How come?"

Draco turned to Harry. "Do you promise you won't tell anybody this? Not even Ron ... not anybody?"

"Promise," said Harry.

"He used to punish me," said Draco.

Harry shrugged. "That's nothing," he said. "So did my Uncle Vernon ... and he's horrible."

"No, I mean like ... really punish me," said Draco. Harry could feel goose bumps rising all over his body. "Harry ... I don't know if you'll want to know this, but he used to beat me ... badly."

He turned to look at Harry, who was staring at him open-mouthed. "Is something wrong?"

"Me too," said Harry

"Your Uncle?"

Harry nodded. "Not often ... just when he was really angry ... usually he'd just," both boys spoke at once, Draco echoing Harry's words. "Usually he'd just lock me up or not feed me for a day or something."

They stared at each other.

"I'm sorry," said Harry.

"No, me too," said Draco.

An awkward silence descended between the two of them. Finally, Draco spoke again. "What's it like, living with Muggles?"

"Like ... it depends on the Muggles," said Harry. "My family disapproved of it ... I mean, magic terribly. They never spoke to my parents when they were alive, unless they could absolutely not avoid it."

"Yeah, but what's it like?"

"I don't know," said Harry. "It's, very normal, I guess."

"Normal like this is normal for me?"

"I suppose. I mean, we had TV and stuff."

"I've never seen TV," said Draco. "Well, once actually. I had a friend at Primary School who was half-blood. I went over to his house once, and we watched cartoons."

"Which ones?"

Draco shrugged. "Can't remember," he said. "Anyway, my Father found out he wasn't a pure blood wizard, so he stopped me from seeing him anymore, and then he had a right go at me."

"That's horrid," said Harry.

"Huh, tell me about it."

"Draco?"

"What?"

"Thanks," said Harry. "You helped."

Draco shook his head. "I don't want you and Hermione to fight just because of me," he said. "I never wanted anything like that to happen."

Harry smiled. "I've been sitting here most of the morning," he said.

"Did you read the papers?"

Draco shook his head. "Has something awful happened?"

Harry nodded. "You know Ron, Fred, George and Ginny went home yesterday?"

Draco nodded.

"Well ... they ... the train was attacked. I think they might be dead," said Harry. "And nobody's doing anything. Fudge says it can't possibly be Voldemort ... and everyone has to toe Fudge's nice little line ..." he trailed off.

Draco felt an overwhelming urge to touch him and comfort him ... but he was not sure how Harry would react. They had only been talking a few minutes. Sure, ground had been covered, but not nearly enough to mean they could consider themselves friends. He was aware that this only really counted as a preliminary peace talk. "Harry?"

"I think my friends are dead," he repeated, slowly.

Draco put his hand on Harry's shoulder. To his surprise, Harry didn't react.

"I'm sorry," breathed Draco. "I had ... I had no idea."

Harry looked as though he was trying to choke back another flood of tears.

"Harry," whispered Draco. "Don't ever be ashamed of crying. I thought I had to be ... and look where I ended up."

"It isn't that," said Harry. "It's just ... you aren't my friend ... I don't know why I'm even talking to you."

"Well, we have a lot in common," said Draco quietly.

"What ... both abused kids?" asked Harry. "Yeah, I guess. But, I've been so horrid."

"Horrid?"

"You're really helping me out here. I think you're even being genuine. But you're making me feel really guilty ... I've been so horrid to you, and I never knew anything about you. I was judging you on what I saw ... I wasn't giving you a chance."

"Harry, I don't care," said Draco. Tears were trickling down Harry's face. "I was hateful too. I understand that now."

Harry was holding his head in his hands. The tears were coming thick and fast now. "I'm sorry," he gasped, in between sobs.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Draco.

Harry looked up. "Yes," he said. "I think ... I think I ought really to speak with Hermione now."

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

Chaldean was feeling very ill. For a start, the spicy foreign food did not agree with him, and he was certain he was coming down with some sort of stomach bug. Cursing the name of Lucius Malfoy, he rose from his bed, and walked over to the window. The truck, which had disappeared at some point during the night, had now returned, and parked in the courtyard. Looking down, he could see two brown jute sacks in the bed of the truck. He wondered vaguely what they were.

He dressed quickly, pulling on the lightest robe he could find in the wardrobe ... even though it was mid-September, the heat was as bad as the hottest English summer.

Once again, the castle seemed to be deserted. He wandered downstairs to the refectory to see if he couldn't find anything to eat. A few of the estate workers were sitting at the long trestle tables, drinking small, lethally strong cups of coffee and occasionally nibbling at the corners of little pastries. Chaldean, who did not know any of them by name, or even by sight, sat down on his own. He didn't speak Russian either, so of course he had no idea what any of them were saying.

"Mr Chaldean!" a voice called. He turned round in his chair to see Al Tamimi striding across the room towards him.

Chaldean got to his feet. "What news from England?" he asked.

Al Tamimi removed his hat, and placed it reverentially on the table, as though it were some priceless religious relic. Chaldean noticed he was frowning. "We have not heard from Mr Malfoy for some days," he said. "He was meant to arrive here this morning, to supervise the Animation Process, but something seems to have come up."

"The Animation Process? I don't understand?" said Chaldean. "I assumed we were here to inspect the crop?"

"The crop is fine," said Al Tamimi, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. "It is being harvested as we speak. As soon as these lazy curs have finished with breakfast of course."

"A hard day's work in the fields with their scythes ought to straighten them out," said Chaldean.

Al Tamimi gave him a quizzical look. "They will not be harvesting it with scythes. I do not know how such things are done in England, but here we use only the latest Muggle technology."

"I assumed ... I assumed Malfoy's hatred of all things non-magical would extend to equipment."

Al Tamimi shook his head. "Malfoy is indeed a Magical Supremacist, as I believe such men are known nowadays ... however he is not so stupid that he does not recognise the value of Muggle farming methods. All such methods are used here. You saw the hydroponics lab yesterday, did you not?"

Chaldean nodded.

"That is where the seeds are germinated," said Al Tamimi. "Before planting, you understand ... they must be cared for well if they are to flourish outdoors."

Chaldean realised Al Tamimi was successfully managing to throw several very large red herrings into the conversation. He held up his hands indignantly. "Just a minute ... you said we were here to supervise the Animation Process."

"Indeed I did."

"Malfoy is moving into movie making?"

Al Tamimi glared at him. "The Animation Process," he said. "It is long and arduous and one should never make light of it. Only this morning the subjects arrived..."

"Subjects?"

"Three young men ... taken in their prime ... who are to give their essence ... their very being to the process. They are superb specimens. Would you like to see them?"

"First, tell me what the Animation Process is."

"Very well."

Chaldean found himself being led along corridors and down flights of steps. The drop in temperature told him they were getting further and further underground. There was water dripping from the ceilings, and the candles were burning with a green flame ... the fumes smelled horrible.

"You must excuse the smell," said Al Tamimi, as he unhooked another set of heavy, jangling keys from his belt, and opened yet another door. "There is rather a lot of raw magic in the air down here. It could be very dangerous if somebody were to set it off. That is why we insist all wands are left in this ante room."

He pushed open the door, revealing a very small, dimly lit room, with another door directly opposite, and a large and ornately carved cupboard standing against the wall. Al Tamimi opened the cupboard. Inside were wands of every shape, size and description, each glowing with a faint aura of magic. The atmosphere felt charged with energy. Slowly, Chaldean withdrew his wand from the folds of his cloak, and deposited it in the cupboard with the others. Al Tamimi closed the door.

"Did you not bring a wand?" asked Chaldean.

"I have no need of one," was the reply. He unlocked the other door, which swung open without a squeak.

"Won't you step into our parlour?"

Chaldean gasped as he stepped into the room. They were standing in what looked like a giant reading room, of the kind found at universities, on some sort of metal gantry. The walls were lined with shelves of books, more books than he had ever seen in one place before. They stretched up to a ceiling so far up it was almost invisible ... but through which a shaft of golden sunlight was falling, illuminated a circle of floor down below. Chaldean could hear footsteps echoing on the metal floors, and in the dim light, could make out people climbing the flights of stairs that connected them. Then he looked down at the floor.

There were two very large stone slabs, much like operating tables, raised off the ground. Two human figures had been clamped to these slabs ... though whether or not they were dead was very hard to tell. They were certainly not moving.

"Come," said Al Tamimi. "I want you to meet some people."

Chaldean followed him down the flight of steps to the bottom of the room, where the slabs were. Now he had a better view of the bodies ... they were both dirty, bloodied and battered, wearing only ragged shorts, but they appeared to be breathing ... their chests were rising and falling. But ... surely ...

"Surely those are children," hissed Chaldean.

"But of course. The blood of an adult is useless to us."

"You're planning to kill them?"

"They are as good as dead already," said Al Tamimi, as though he was tired of telling people this. "In any case they will be no loss. They were street children from Yerevan ... it was not hard for us to lure them here. We have about fifty in the dungeon downstairs, taken from various places around the world, and as I said, three more arrived this morning ... English, I do believe. The blood will be used for our purposes ..."

Chaldean tried not to look horrified. "I am still mystified as to why Malfoy wanted me to see this."

"It is simple," said Al Tamimi. "Buried under this castle are many thousands of Malfoy ancestors, most of them rotted away to nothing, just bones, and in some cases, not even bones. However they are there ... and legend has it there is more."

"More meaning?"

"The most powerful Dark Wizard this world, or any other has ever known," said Al Tamimi. "He was the stuff of legends ...a deity to my people. His name in Russian was Salzarov Ivanisovich, in Arabic Salasash Al Sharmina. You know him better as Salazar Slytherin."

"Impossible ... Slytherin is buried in Transylvania!"

Al Tamimi shook his head. "Sadly," he said, "sorely mistaken. He is buried here. We have seen the chamber ... but we cannot yet open it. There is something missing."

"What is missing?"

"The blood of his heir," said Al Tamimi. "Engraved upon the door to his tomb are words in an ancient runic alphabet which our archaeologists have only this week succeeded in decoding. To open the chamber, the blood of Slytherin's one true heir must be placed in the mouth of the dragon gargoyle."

"Slytherin's heir?"

"Alas, the bloodlines are so polluted," said Al Tamimi. "It is impossible to tell who it is. It could be anybody. The Slytherin family were very fecund. It is quite by chance that the Malfoys happen to be related to him."

"Malfoy is the heir?"

"Malfoy is," said Al Tamimi. "As far as we can make out ... the heir, or rather, one of many. His boy, Draco, when he arrives here in the very near future, shall provide the blood we need ..."

"I see ... then what?"

"After the chamber has been opened, we shall retrieve what earthly remains Slytherin has seen fit to bequeath us, and we shall use them."

"What for?"

"The Animation Process ... the reincarnation ... if you will, of every ancestor that has ever lived. There are hundreds of thousands of them ... each a descendant of Slytherin. An army of the dead. Imagine the spectacle ... an army of the dead ... that cannot be killed. And because Slytherin was the man he was, it will be an army that is possessed of one will, one overwhelming will - triumph, destruction, and the acquisition of power."

Chaldean's eyes were alive with excitement. "How can such a thing be possible?" he breathed. "Magic cannot bring people back from the dead? Can it?"

"You would believe so, would you not ... and doubtless," chuckled Al Tamimi. "Doubtless the vast majority of our kind would believe such a thing impossible. However Lucius Malfoy has always had a penchant for proving the impossible possible. We have been working on the process for ten long years ... and we have finally perfected it. We call it the Lazarus Potion. When reanimated, and under our control with the use of the Dragon's Blood, the Dracaena, they will be unstoppable ... invincible ... the Dark Side shall return from the shadows to take the due that has been owed to it for so long. After all ... a dead man cannot be killed again!"

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

When Ron next awoke, his situation appeared to have changed yet again. He was lying on what appeared to be a sheepskin rug, covering a bed so soft he felt he could have stayed there forever. He sat up, hauling himself up by his elbows, astonished at how little pain he was still feeling. Even his legs had stopped hurting. His clothes had been taken away and somebody had clothed him instead in a white muslin nightshirt. His watch had gone too, so he had no idea how long he'd been there. He looked around the room. In size and shape it was much like his dormitory at Hogwarts. But there the resemblance ended. Covering the walls were luxurious furs and animal skins, zebra, tigers, leopards, bears and foxes. There were two tribal hunting shields and a spear, and in the centre of the room, a table that looked to have been made out of an elephant's foot. Over by one of the windows, there were two very large, overstuffed leather armchairs. Whoever owned the place certainly wasn't into animal rights. There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Ron.

The door swung open, revealing a young-looking man, probably in his mid twenties, wearing a smart, blue jacket and crisp, pressed trousers. He was bearing a tray.

"We thought you might be hungry, Ronald," said the man, stepping into the room. He set the tray down on the table. There was a silver tureen, a covered plate, two crystal goblets and a very large, ornate jug filled with what looked like wine.

"Thank you," said Ron, quietly.

"It was nothing," said the man. "My name is Leonid. If there is anything you should desire whilst you are with us. You have only to operate the bell pull beside your bed."

"Wait," said Ron. "Can you tell me what happened? To the other man?"

"The other man?"

"Koschenko."

"There is nobody with that name here. You must be thinking of someone else. I must leave you now. There are other guests to be attended to," he bowed smartly, and withdrew from the room.

Ron sat up, put his feet down on the floor, and tried to stand up. To his surprise, he did not collapse to the floor in indescribable agony... indeed, his legs seemed as solid as they usually did. He looked down at his feet, which were hidden by the long gown, and lifted it up slowly. The bruising was all gone ... his legs were not broken. It was as though nothing had happened. Gingerly, he put his hand to his mouth. The two teeth that had been knocked out were still there. Was he dreaming? He didn't think so. It certainly felt real.

He took a couple of steps over to the tray, and sat down on one of the cushions scattered around the table. Slowly, he lifted the lid of the plate, and was amazed to discover it was merely breakfast ... fried. Egg, bacon, sausage, black pudding, beans, a grilled tomato and a fried slice ... just as he always had it. Somewhat pleased by this discovery, he reached out and lifted the lid from the tureen. It was not a tureen ... it was a fruit bowl. There were apples, bananas, pears, peaches, oranges, and some strange red fruit he could not identify. He picked up the jug, poured a little of the liquid into one of the goblets, and tasted it. It was not wine. Indeed ... it seemed oddly tasteless. He set the goblet down hurriedly. It might very well be drugged or something. Should he even touch the rest of the food? His stomach was saying 'yes' ... but his head was telling him to approach it with caution. He heard footsteps outside, and then somebody knocked at his door again.

"Who is it?" called Ron.

Someone outside gave a whoop of joy, and the door burst open, revealing Fred and George. Like Ron, they were both clothed in bizarre white gowns. Ron nearly fainted again.

"You okay?" asked George.

"I think I am ... now," said Ron, standing up. Fred enveloped him in a bear hug.

"We were so worried about you."

"Relax, I'm fine," said Ron, wriggling free. "They gave you these robes too, did they?"

"The colour's good on you" said Fred. "It's very sexy actually."

"Be quiet."

George was pointing to the table. "They brought him food!" he exclaimed.

"How come we didn't get any?"

"We're probably not important enough," said Fred. "Do you mind if we filch a spot of your nosh?"

"Go ahead," said Ron. "I haven't touched a crumb."

George bent down, and picked up one of the bananas. He peeled it, and stuffed it almost whole into his mouth, making little noises of ecstatic pleasure as he did so. "Haven't eaten since that stick of gum on the train," he said, bits of banana cascading from his mouth as he spoke.

"Don't go overboard," said Ron. "Might be poison."

George spat the rest of the banana out. "Jesus, Ron ... how long were you going to let me eat this thing?"

"He could be right," said Fred. "We'd better not take anything unless we're sure it's safe."

"You sound just like Percy."

"I shall bear a mighty penance," said Fred mournfully.

Ron padded over to the window, and peered out of it. They appeared to be high up in some sort of tower. Down below he could see the courtyard, the truck that had brought them in still parked there, now flanked by several men in cloaks, standing motionless, guarding it.

The castle complex itself seemed vast. There were towers galore, some towering up to the heavens ... some, like theirs, quite small. There were several tall minarets. Surrounding the castle on what seemed like every side was a deep gorge, rocky, treacherous. There was a single bridge spanning it ... but it looked in need of desperate repair ... it had once been a thing of beauty, but now there were quite obviously massive chunks of stone missing from it, and the whole edifice must have been held up by magic. The road that crossed the bridge wound up the far side of the nearest mountain, then vanished into a tunnel near the summit.

"Any idea where we are?" asked George, joining him at the window. "Whoa!" he gasped, as he took in the view. "That is something else!"

"Picturesque as our surroundings are," said Fred. "It does somewhat pale into insignificance when faced with our situation ... which is that we are prisoners, and we appear to be dressed up as virgin sacrifices. I do hope we all qualify in that respect?"

"We should find something to have sex with," said George. "They can't sacrifice us if we don't meet the specifications."

"An excellent idea, dear brother of mine," exclaimed Fred. "You hold Ron down then ... I'll go first."

Ron was still standing at the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a flurry of movement. Somebody was watching him from the nearest tower.

"Ssh, hold it a minute," he said.

"Hold what exactly?"

"There was somebody watching us," Ron pointed to the other tower.

Whoever it was had disappeared.

"Ooh, an audience," said Fred.

"Shut up about the damn sex for just one minute can't you?" snapped Ron. "Besides," he added. " ... I'm underage."

Fred joined him at the window. "I don't see anybody," he said. "Was it our saviour?"

"How do you mean?"

"Someone to come and rescue us, silly," said George. "Preferably some lovely blonde lady in leather boots who will give us chocolates."

"Yeah, let us know if you spot Hermione and Harry flying past," said Fred.

"Hey," he gave a start. "What's that?"

There was something flying towards the castle.

"It doesn't look much like a broom," said Ron.

"Whoever said it was? Listen, it has an engine ... must be a helicopter or something," said Fred.

It was a helicopter. It flew close up to the tower, the sound of its rotors deafening in the still air, and hovered over the largest turret, before setting gently down. The rotors ceased whirling, and the door at the side slid open. Four men got out, each of them clad in identical black cloaks.

They appeared to have been in the middle of a discussion, although from such a distance, neither boy had any idea what they were talking about. They disappeared inside. A couple of mechanics were busying themselves around the aircraft.

"Well, very interesting," said Fred, sarcastically. "Someone just landed in a helicopter."

Ron wasn't so sure. He was convinced one of them had looked in his direction, and although he had not been able to see his face, he had felt a shiver running down his spine. He turned away hurriedly.

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

"Come on Harry ... if mine and Alicia's unique brand of scatological humour can't cheer you up, then we might as well give up." Katie was at least trying to cheer Harry up. Shame it isn't working, though, she thought.

"So give up," said Harry, pointedly.

Alicia patted him on the shoulder. "She'll turn up," she said. "I've never known Hermione to be late for anything."

"She's not coming," said Harry. "We may as well go back to the Common Room ... it'll be a damn sight warmer there."

"I dunno," said Katie, trying to sound enthusiastic for the fact that they were down by the lake in the fading light, with the temperature set to drop below freezing point very shortly. "I think it's quite romantic," she went on. "A meeting below the angry skies, next to a frozen, desolate lake. It would make a great plot for a film."

"It needs to be summer," said Alicia, annoyed. "You need butterflies and little birds and that very proper kind of Englishwoman that only exists on celluloid ... you also need Hugh Grant rowing a boat."

Katie shook her head. "I'm aiming for the bleak, pointless romance here," she said. "You're just trying to be fluffy."

"I like being fluffy," huffed Alicia. "So sue me."

"Can you two be quiet for one minute?" fumed Harry. "I think I hear voices."

"Sorry, Captain," said Katie. "We'll be good."

Two people were walking arm in arm across the bridge ... one of them carrying a lantern, which as they drew closer, revealed them not to be Hermione and Draco, but Sirius and Doctor Jones.

"They seem to be rather struck with each other, don't they," remarked Alicia.

"Probably making up for lost time," Harry muttered.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," said Harry.

Sirius had spotted them, and waved. "Shouldn't you three be indoors?" he called. "It's nearly dinnertime."

"We're ... um, discussing tactics sir!" called Katie.

"Tactics?"

"For Quidditch ... with Harry!"

Harry waved feebly.

"Ah ... well, carry on then," Sirius and Doctor Jones continued on their way, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"She's a bloody Slytherin," said Katie. "What's a nice hunk like Mr. Wilmot doing with her?"

Harry was somewhat shocked. "You like Mr. Wilmot?"

"He's wonderful," said Katie. "I think I might have a crush on him ... which is annoying, as I thought I'd got over the Gilderoy Lockhart thing. Anyway, Doctor Jones is an absolute bitch."

Harry nodded his agreement, even though he did not agree at all.

Alicia was stamping her feet on the ground. "Where the bloody hell have they got to?" she asked, impatiently.

They did not have long to wait. Harry heard a shout, and looked up. Hermione was coming down the path towards them, dragging behind her a hooded figure who was stumbling slightly as he walked. Harry turned.

"We're here if you need moral support," said Katie.

"Or if you just need to flatten Draco Malfoy," said Alicia. "We can be very good with our hands. In ... out, five seconds flat ... children for Draco out of the question."

"That won't be necessary," said Harry. "Just chaperone me ... okay?"

Draco had removed the hood of his cloak ... his hair was blowing in the gathering breeze. He said something to Hermione that none of them heard, and then pushed her forwards. Hermione threw a glance back at him ... he nodded, and she continued walking down the path towards Harry.

"Step backwards," said Harry. Alicia and Katie shrugged, and took a few steps back away from him.

Hermione, who appeared to be concentrating very hard on the ground, looked up ... her eyes looked mournful, even tearful. She managed a weak smile.

Harry smiled too.

"Hello," he said.

Hermione shuffled her feet awkwardly. "Perhaps we should start again?" she said.

Harry nodded. "I think that might be a good idea."

"Apparently, Draco says he came to talk to you earlier?"

Harry nodded again. "He found me," he said.

"I'm sorry," smiled Hermione. "It can't have been pleasant."

"We made our peace," said Harry. "I think I have something to say to you as well."

"No ... I don't want tearful apologies," said Hermione. "I just want to speak to you again. I was ... I was being genuine in the Library ... I was trying to tell you the truth about Draco and I. And about ... how he'd stopped all that. How I helped him stop all that. He genuinely wants to make it up to you. You could say he's been de-programmed."

Harry gave her a funny look. "We ... we have some things in common which we never knew about," he said. "I guess that helped a bit ... a lot."

Hermione nodded. "Draco told me what you said," she said. "It makes me feel sick, knowing that."

"I'm sorry," said Harry.

"Don't be," said Hermione. "More people should speak up about that sort of thing. People like Lucius Malfoy, and your Uncle ... they deserve to be behind bars for doing that."

Harry looked at the ground, he felt tearful, as though he was about to start crying again.

"Was that the catalyst?" asked Hermione. Harry looked up in a hurry.

"I suppose it was," he said. "Finding out we were both ... you know."

Hermione nodded. "I know," she said.

"Can we?"

"I was going to ask the same," said Hermione. "Only if you'd like to. If you can't find it in your heart to forgive me ... I'd be disappointed... but I'd understand. I've been shitty towards you."

"I've been a bit of a bastard too," said Harry. Hermione, however, was shaking her head.

"No, it was me," she said. "How I could ever have thought the way I did ... that you wouldn't react the way you did. Blimey, I just never stopped to think how it must look. Draco just ... swept me off my feet."

"Don't dump him on my account," said Harry. "Just, be friends with me too."

"I will," said Hermione. "Draco, too?"

"If he'd like," said Harry. "I guess ... we could compare bruises."

"Harry ... I'm truly, truly sorry for what I did to you."

Harry found he didn't need, or didn't want, to hear that. "Stop there," he said. "I don't want apologies either. You just make me feel guilty."

Hermione looked up. "I guess that makes us quits then," she said.

Harry held out his hand for her to shake, but she did not take it ... instead, she flung her arms around him, and the next thing, was weeping over his shoulder. Harry couldn't help himself. He tried to blink to stop himself, but could not. He put his head on Hermione's shoulder, she had just washed her hair ... he could smell it. For a moment, he held her tight, listening to her sobs.

Draco looked to Alicia and Katie.

"Barking," he said to himself. The Gryffindor girls were shaking their heads, and the next thing he knew, were hugging each other and crying as well. Draco turned away, unable to cope with so much emotional distress, and sat down on the ground, not caring that the saturated earth was soaking his robes. He watched them in the fading light ... and was pleased.

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

Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, was not pleased. He had arrived at the estate to find everything seemingly in disarray ... the date of the sacrifice had been put back ... Al Tamimi had told him ... new blood had arrived that very day, and Tatiana had gone all adolescent and hormonal on him and was refusing to cooperate. Then he had found out that Romulus and his cronies had been out in the community again, and had not only blown up a train, but brought home three more children ... something he had expressly forbidden them to do. He called Romulus up to his study straight away, and had spent hours berating him for his stupidity.

"What were you thinking ... going back to England? You could have been caught ... anybody could have seen you!"

Romulus' reply had been pathetic in the extreme, and so he had been sent downstairs to pay a visit to Vladimir Koschenko and his incredible vibrating buzz saw. Doubtless, thought Malfoy, as he put his signature to the papers evicting yet another Muggle family from his expanding property, he was even now being tended for in the medical wing. Malfoy did not like to see his henchmen walking wounded ... it gave out a bad impression ... and so he employed a team of the very best magical doctors to fix up the victims afterwards.

To top it all, Chaldean seemed to have vanished ... and Voldemort would certainly not be pleased to learn of this. He had left earlier in the day on a tour of the plantations, evidently shaken up by something ... Malfoy presumed he had been shown the Animation Chamber, a suspicion Al Tamimi had been happy to confirm.

"That is to be kept secret until the day of the sacrifice!" he had ranted. "I want it to be perfect for Draco's birthday!"

Sighing, he picked up the next load of papers. Business in Naxcivan seemed to mount faster than he could deal with it. This one was a letter from a village priest. He screwed it up and threw it away without reading it. Underneath that was a pile of correspondence from a Texan oil baron who seemed anxious to buy a share of the company's oil exploration business. Malfoy read it through twice, before adding it to the 'things to burn' pile. Then there was a letter from the government.

'Dear Mr Malfoy,

It has been brought to our attention that your business interests in Azerbaijan have expanded by more than 500% in the last two fiscal years. Thus you are now considered eligible for entry into our Capital Protection Scheme. Under the terms of the Scheme your company, Malfoy Incorporated Industries, will be considered for generous tax breaks, and of course, further business opportunities in the Trans-Caucasus region, including Armenia, Georgia, Russia and the Ukraine. The Scheme has already brought generous returns for many companies in the region, and we are delighted to be able extend this offer to you. Should you have any queries, you may contact me at the above address. I hope you will give this matter your full consideration.

Yours, with respect.

Dimitri Poliakoff.

Department of Industry.'

Malfoy smiled ... finally.

A knock on the door disturbed him. "Come!" he barked ... the angry tone of his voice making it clear he had no wish to be disturbed.

It was Chaldean. Malfoy got to his feet, and shook the man's hand.

"I was wondering when you'd be coming back Master," said Malfoy. "Was your tour of the plantations satisfactory?"

"The plantations were a beauty to behold," said Chaldean. "How much is there?"

"Enough to keep all Europe stoned for a month," said Malfoy. "It should have a street value of approximately, eight and a half million Galleons."

"You please me, Malfoy," said Chaldean. "May I sit down?"

"I understand you were shown the Animation Chamber," said Malfoy. "You should not have been."

"My respectful apologies," said Chaldean. "It is, however, an enterprise of which I believe you should be proud. You truly believe you can raise the dead?"

"I know I can," said Malfoy. "Imagine it Master ... wouldn't it be an incredible sight?"

"Incredible indeed," said Chaldean. "When do we begin?"

"I must first inspect the children," said Malfoy. "Their blood must be fresh and untainted. Then we must decide which ones we are to use, so that they might be separated and cleansed. Then I must get my hands on Draco."

"He is not here?"

"He is being stubborn," said Malfoy. "I will not tolerate this. I have sent men to collect the boy tonight. Dumbledore, the decrepit fool, will not allow Draco to leave his sight. The boy is protected day and night. He will come round once he sees what glories exist in his name ... what has been done to further him. He will be initiated on his birthday, which falls in three days time."

"What about Potter? The plan is dependent on Potter."

Malfoy looked at the floor. "The scheme has failed," he said. "We take both boys by force. Already my men are arriving in Hogsmeade."

"And what of Voldemort?"

"I have already contacted Voldemort," said Malfoy. "I spoke with him only yesterday. He believes me ... he is more stupid than he appears. He will arrive tomorrow. Then we shall have him, and then the Dark Side shall be united once more."

Chaldean looked satisfied. "As long as we have Potter," he said. "Our victory is assured."

"Let us drink then ... to victory ... to your triumph," Malfoy unscrewed the top off a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, and poured them two generous measures.

"To my triumph," said Chaldean, holding his glass on high.

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

Leonid, if that was his name, did not seem to show a flicker of emotion on finding Fred and George in Ron's room ... indeed, it was almost as though he expected it. Nor did he seem surprised that they had not touched the food. Instead, he smiled indulgently at them, and returned shortly, bearing an even more impressive spread, before bidding them a good night.

Ron, who by this time was so hungry he would have eaten anything that moved, made a grab for the food, but was stopped by George.

"Like we agreed," he said. "It might be poison."

"I couldn't give a damn one way or the other," said Ron. "I'm hungry. Now let go of me."

George did, and both boys watched him as he lifted the lids from the plates.

"Well, they're making an effort," he said.

"What is it?" asked Fred.

"Looks like roast beef, with Yorkshire pudding," said Ron. "There are potatoes and carrots and such. And would you look at that gravy. It looks like Mum's."

It did smell good ... and they were very hungry.

"You don't think we could ... just a little?" asked Fred.

"Why not more?" asked George.

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

Harry sat next to Hermione at dinner for the first time in days. The other Gryffindors, apart, of course, from Katie and Alicia, looked at them both in stunned silence.

"They will keep staring," said Harry. "But hey, at least you know what it's like to be famous."

"I didn't ever intend on being famous," said Hermione, scooping chips onto her plate.

Harry drenched his cod in lemon juice. "I bet you did, once."

"Once," said Hermione. "I saw a Duran Duran video when I was little ... and I wanted to be in their group."

Harry smiled. "See ... told you so," he said, then continued, in a slightly more subdued voice. "I used to dream of being famous. But now ... now it's actually happened, I kind of get to thinking how much better it would have been if I wasn't."

"You'd rather be living with the Dursleys?" asked Hermione. "The kind of people who think it's reasonable to lock children up for days for doing nothing?"

"Well, be reasonable ... I did do something," said Harry. "I set a boa constrictor on Dudley."

"Without realising you were doing it," said Hermione, spearing a limp chip with her fork, and dipping it in ketchup. "That's what matters ... at the end of the day."

Harry shrugged. "Okay," he said. "So I take it back about wanting to go back to the Dursleys. One day though ... one day I'll get them. Sirius says he'll help me," he clapped his hand over his mouth. "Sorry, you didn't hear that," he said.

"How is Sirius these days?" asked Hermione, a wicked grin spreading across her face that Harry had not noticed.

"I wouldn't know," said Harry, looking the other way.

"Harry ... I would," said Hermione. "He, I spoke to him. I know who he is."

Harry turned back to her. "You're serious?"

Hermione looked puzzled. "No ... I'm Hermione."

"Hermione ..." Harry was staring at her over the top of his glasses in that very annoying way of his.

Hermione nodded. "He caught me sneaking around after lights out," she omitted to say she had lost Harry his Invisibility Cloak.

"I was wondering if anybody else knew," said Harry, grinning. "Xavier Wilmot was his Grandfather."

"I didn't know that," said Hermione. "The Wilmots are in 'Magical Events of the 20th Century,' He ... You-Know-Who picked a lot of them off during the Seventies."

Silence descended between them for a few moments as they tucked into their dinners. Finally, Hermione spoke again.

"What about Ron?"

"I think ... I don't know what I should think," said Harry. "The paper says Ginny is the only survivor. So I guess that means they're dead."

"You seem to be taking it rather well," said Hermione.

Harry shook his head. "Give it time to sink in," he said. "I expect, I expect I'll ... well, I had, Draco must have told you how he found me."

Hermione shook her head.

"I skipped Divination this morning," said Harry. "I just couldn't face it ... not after reading that newspaper. Draco found me in one of the gardens. I just wanted to be alone ... to let it, to let it out, if you catch my meaning?"

"I do," said Hermione. "So you had a good cry? That helps. I remember when my Grandmother died. It, well, this won't be much help to you ... but it gets better."

"I expect it probably does," said Harry, stoically. "But I don't see that happening for a while."

"At least you aren't beating the floor and wailing," said Hermione.

"I feel I should be," said Harry. "I feel guilty because I'm not crying for them. I feel like I should be transported with fits of Mediterranean passion. But I'm not, I'm too bloody British for that."

"Sod us," said Hermione. "We're basically pathetic, aren't we?"

Harry nodded. "How do you feel about it?" he said.

"I don't know," said Hermione. "I can't say I was friends with Ron when he left ... and that's what hurts me more. I know I didn't make my peace with him ... before he, before he died."

"That's not good," said Harry.

"Tell me about it," said Hermione. "It feels horrible. It makes me feel so guilty, too. We knew each other ... we knew each other well, damn it, we were friends, even though we hadn't been speaking to one another lately. And we parted, not as friends. That shouldn't have happened."

"It wasn't your fault," said Harry.

"Yes, it was," said Hermione. "If I hadn't run off with Draco ..."

"Then if anybody is to blame, it's Draco," said Harry. "I don't blame him either. You ... you both filled me in pretty much. I didn't understand how hard it must have been for him. I feel pretty cut up about that as well, you know?"

Hermione nodded. "You weren't to know," she said. "The whole point of the scheme was so that you didn't know what was happening."

"Thanks," said Harry. "That's helpful. But ... Ron was my first proper friend. I feel, kind of lost without him being around."

"You will feel that way," said Hermione, she could see the look on Harry's face again ... whatever he had been saying about Mediterranean grief was probably about to be completely refuted. He had that look to his eyes, that set to his jaw ... the one that Draco got ... the exact same one. In fact, looking at Harry now, struggling to control his emotions ... he looked so much like Draco that it was scary. She was suddenly repulsed. She did not want to be there ... to have to do it yet again. But she couldn't just up and leave.

Next thing she knew ... Harry had dissolved, he slumped forwards over the table, his floppy fringe brushing against his food. Tears pouring down his face. It seemed, to Hermione, as though he had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders ... and that all the events of the past week had just overflowed. She couldn't help herself either. She coughed ... felt that warm, prickly feeling at the back of the throat.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed. She put her arms around Harry. "I'm so, so sorry."

She closed her eyes against the flood.

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

Later that evening, after Harry had spent several hours lying on his bed with Hermione and Sirius in attendance, crying until there was nothing left inside him, Hermione sneaked out to try and find Draco. They had made plans to meet up at the top of the tower, as they had done the previous evening, but with the turn that events had taken that day, she was by no means certain that Draco would even think to turn up. She waited until as late as was decent, until after Harry had been put to bed, Sirius remaining by his bedside, comforting him, and then slipped away without a word to anybody.

She wasn't expecting to find anybody there, but to her surprise, Draco was standing at the parapet, looking at the sky, the wind whipping his heavy robes and blowing his hair in all directions at once.

He turned round at the sound of her approach. She gave him a wan smile.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said. "I was going to give you a couple more minutes, then I was going to go to bed."

"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I was with Harry. I think it all just finally ... hit home, you know?"

Draco nodded. "I don't understand it," he said. "But I think I know what you mean."

"That's good."

Draco smiled, then said. "How is Harry now? He looked pretty cut up from where I was sitting."

Hermione sighed, sat down next to him on the parapet. Once again the moon was riding high, only tonight it was partially obscured by the clouds that went skimming across the darkened sky like pebbles, skimming across a stream.

"It was awful," said Hermione. "It sounded like he'd never cried before, never properly anyway. It sounded like he'd been keeping everything bad that's ever happened to him bottled up for the last fifteen years."

"Not good," said Draco. "I'm no shrink, but not good at all."

Hermione shook her head. "He scared me," she said. "Siri ... Mr Wilmot had to lock the others out of the dormitory so that we could try and calm him down. Just when we thought we'd got him settled, off he goes again. He seems to be in mourning for the world, not just himself."

"Don't think of it as odd," said Draco. "He's got a lot of mourning to do. I mean, what can a baby do when its parents die? It doesn't know, does it? I bet he wasn't even aware anything was happening."

Hermione had never really thought of Harry as having much of a childhood beyond that he had passed at Hogwarts. She had never considered that there had been people who had genuinely loved him, and would have cared for him. He should have been a proper little wizard ... learning to fly brooms as a five year old, casting basic spells at six ... but nothing had worked out the way anybody had planned it to. Harry, of course, had not planned it at all.

"That's what scares me," said Draco.

Hermione came back to her senses with a jolt. "Sorry ... I was miles away."

"You could have fooled me," said Draco. "No ... I was saying, it's that fact that scares me ... that he couldn't have known what was happening to him. I bet he was really happy too. Then suddenly ... it's all so horribly unfair."

"I would have liked to have met his parents," said Hermione. "They sound like they were nice people."

"Father always said they got what was coming to them," said Draco. "I don't think they ever really got on."

"Were they at Hogwarts together?" asked Hermione.

"No ... my parents are eight years older ... they would have just left," he said.

"What House were they in?" asked Hermione.

"Need you really ask?" said Draco. "Father was a Slytherin ... Mother ... Mother wasn't. She was a Ravenclaw. Funny that. I only found out when I was looking at old photos. She was a Prefect, too."

"How did they fall in love?" asked Hermione.

"I don't know," said Draco. "Why would I know that?"

"All kids ... well, it's just something most parents tell their kids," said

Hermione. "My Mum and Dad met at their Graduation Ball."

"My parents never told me how they met," said Draco. "Father is a very ... closed in man ... he doesn't like to talk if it doesn't suit him."

"I can imagine."

"Stupid sod has his head rammed so far up his own arse, it's a miracle he hasn't turned himself inside out," said Draco.

Hermione snuggled against him, revelling in the warmth of his body.

Draco put his arm around her to steady her.

"Tell me about your childhood," said Draco, after a couple of minutes had passed.

"I'm sorry?"

"I just kind of realised ... you know most of my intimate little secrets now," said Draco. "You know all about me ... and in relative terms, I barely know you at all."

"Well," said Hermione. "I can tell you whatever it is you want to hear ... my birthday is September 19th 1979."

"That's six days time."

Hermione smiled. "I was born in Reading ... and I've lived in Marlow all my life."

"Where's Marlow?" asked Draco.

"Little town, next to the Thames," said Hermione. "Not far from Windsor."

"I know Windsor," said Draco. "My Father once took me to the castle ... I must have been about four."

"I've never been," said Hermione. "Anyway ... I went to school in Marlow, and then I was down to go to an all girl's school in Surrey, when I got my letter."

"What's it like?" asked Draco. "Being a witch, and not knowing it."

"Well ... I never realised all the weird stuff I could do was magic," said Hermione. "But I guess, well, things just kept happening to me when I was a kid. I once fell in the Thames ... we were out walking along the towpath, and it must have been, oh, Boxing Day or something ... just after Christmas ... anyway, there had been a lot of rain, and the river was in full spate ... almost up to the top of the banks. It was pouring over the weir near my house. I was walking ahead of my parents and their friends who were staying over for the holidays. I got too close to the edge, tripped over a tree root, and fell in the river."

"What happened?"

"It was ... as if some hand grabbed me," said Hermione. "Next thing I know, I'm about to go over the weir to a messy and exciting death... then I'm standing back on dry land, dripping wet of course, but not hurt at all. Nobody ever worked out what had happened to me."

Draco grinned. "Sweet story," he said.

"Now your turn."

"What?"

"I've told you a sweet story ... now you tell me one about you. I bet you were ever so sweet as a little boy, really."

Draco was smiling. "There was one time," he said. "I had a nanny when I was little, and she quite often took me out when Mother and Father were away, or up in London or something. Once she took me into Chipping Sodbury ... the Muggle town near where I live, and we went into an old second-hand bookshop there. I remember it as being very dark and musty, and you know what old books smell like?"

Hermione nodded.

"It smelled like that ... it's a nice smell ... I like it. She's off at the counter buying up all these old books. I don't know, I suppose she was some sort of collector, and she left me alone in one of the aisles. Remember I was about five, and I was really short as a kid. So these shelves are just towering either side of me. Then I spotted a picture book."

"What book was it?" asked Hermione.

Draco shrugged. "It had a picture of a teddy bear on the spine," he said.

"It was obviously some Muggle kid's book that they'd tired of. So I tried to get it. It was about double my height, but I worked out I could use the other shelves as steps."

"I think I can see what's coming," said Hermione.

"Yeah ... too right, the whole thing collapsed, and I got buried under a heap of books," said Draco.

"Then what happened?"

"Well, I got dragged out of that place by my ears ... and I never did get my book. Thing was," said Draco. "I cried so much she didn't dare tell my parents. She was afraid they'd sack her for taking me out amongst Muggles.

They never did find out. She had to buy me a giant ice cream in a café too."

Hermione was giggling. "You see," she said. "You were happy sometimes."

Draco smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I suppose I was."

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

Sirius sat beside Harry's bed until the boy fell asleep, occasionally wiping perspiration from his forehead with tissue paper. Finally, he nodded off, and his breathing became shallower.

"Perhaps I'm getting too fatherly," said Sirius to himself, quietly, because Neville, Dean and Seamus were also in the room sleeping. The hangings had been drawn around Ron's bed as a mark of respect.

"This shouldn't be happening to me," he went on. "I don't know why you're putting me through this, Harry," he brushed a stray lock of hair out of the boy's eyes. Harry barely stirred. "It really isn't fair," he added.

Harry moaned something, which sounded like, "Padfoot," but probably wasn't.

Sirius grinned anyway.

"We could have done this whenever I came over to visit," said Sirius, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "I would have liked to have come and visited. I reckon you'd have liked it too. I could have taught you to play Quidditch. You probably wouldn't have turned out as good as you are though."

With a start, he realized that he still had moments aplenty to spend with Harry. Just because he'd managed to miss the first fourteen years ... didn't mean they couldn't still have these moments. There was plenty of time left ... neither of them was going to die anytime soon. Once he'd got his name cleared ... as of course he would ... after all, what else could this be but a hiccup of justice? He could spend as much time as he liked with his Godson, as he knew James would have wanted him to do.

What scared him was how easily the moment he was enjoying now could have been taken from any point in Harry's life ... the child sleeping peacefully, with him, Sirius, watching over ... perhaps after a night's babysitting whilst James and Lily went out to rediscover their love life. Perhaps there would have been other, smaller Potters to contend with. Perhaps there would have been little Blacks for them to play with. He tried, without success, to imagine that Harry was ten, or eight, or even six, and that they were in the house in Godric's Hollow. That he had just got Harry off to sleep, and that any second now he would be hearing the sound of the key in the lock downstairs, and slightly tipsy laughter ... and then he would get on his motorbike and fly away home, and there would be birthdays and Christmases and long, hot summer evenings when the patio was decked with fairy lights ... real, magical ones of course, and the smoke from the barbecue and the kids running around, allowed to stay up late just this once. Maybe they would even have holidayed together.

"You'd have been a proper little wizard," said Sirius. "It would have been great ... I promise you that, Harry."

He looked at his watch; it was coming up to midnight. He leant down, and planted a soft kiss on Harry's forehead. Then he straightened up.

"Goodnight kid," he whispered. "Pleasant dreams."

So doing, he got up, and walked over to the dormitory door. As he stood, poised to open it, he thought he sensed another presence in the room, and he turned back. He could see Harry's face, illuminated by the moonlight pouring in through the windows. The presence vanished as quickly as it had come, but Sirius knew who it had been ... and he suspected who it was often came up here to see Harry. He was suddenly overcome with a terrible, overwhelming sadness. He looked up to the ceiling.

"Christ, Prongs ... you know I'm not up to this. Why did you have to bloody die on me?"