Dracaena Draco

CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE RITES OF PASSAGE.

Narcissa Malfoy fastened Draco's cloak around his neck, and Draco stepped back to survey himself in the mirror. It was rather fine. His Mother ran a final comb through his hair.

Ever since he had woken up, back in his room, with no recollection of having been carried there or anything, he had been feeling increasingly as though, somehow, he was in two minds. One mind wanted to go to his party, to have fun, to please his Father. The other mind wanted to hang around in the bedroom and hope that something horrible would happen to the old goat. But after what had happened just a few hours earlier ... how could he participate knowing what he did? Adultery ... bigamy? All these things had come out now ... he knew about them. The very thought sickened him.

"You look magnificent, Draco," Draco came back to his senses with a jolt.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His Mother had done a good job on his black eye with her make up, and from a distance, you honestly couldn't tell. She had also had the decency not to ask him where he got it, though he suspected she knew.

"I'd rather be dead," he groaned.

"Now, I know you're just saying that," said Narcissa Malfoy, dusting off his robes. "Now come along ... the guests are arriving, and there is to be a banquet, and dancing! You like dancing."

"I don't want a banquet," snapped Draco. "And I am not in the mood for dancing," he added, sounding as imperious as he knew how ... which was very.

"Come now, Draco. The reception is very important to your Father. You are to be presented to some of the foremost Death Eaters in the world. Some of them have flown all the way from America."

"Oh God," moaned Draco. "Yanks."

"Draco," his Mother scolded. "That is no way to speak of our honoured guests. Now ... did you clean your teeth?"

"Mother!"

"Draco, this is important."

"Yes, Mother."

"Did you wash your face?"

"Mother, I'm not a little kid anymore," he caught the look on her face. "Yes ... I did ... twice."

"Did you put on clean underwear?"

"Mother! Since when have the state of my pants been any concern of yours?"

"Draco ... I do not want to have to tell your Father how stubborn you seem to be today. Perhaps you are running a fever."

"I feel fine," said Draco, very firmly. "I do not need a doctor."

"Well, then come along," said his Mother. "We cannot keep our guests waiting."

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

The ballroom was lit by flickering candlelight. The orchestra had struck up a waltz, but nobody was dancing yet. Everybody was standing round the outside of the room, talking formally and stiffly to one another. Outside the French windows the sky glowed a brilliant, evocative red in the fading light.

Lucius Malfoy's crack team of waiters was circulating about the crowd, bearing expansive dishes with canapés, little cocktail sausages, sandwiches and glasses of pink champagne. Draco surveyed the scene with a certain measure of disgust. How many people were there? It must have been close on to two hundred. But how many did he know? Probably one or two, if he was lucky. His birthday parties always got like this. His parents always invited who they wanted to invite, and ignored his wishes completely. He looked vaguely around the room for Tatiana, but she didn't seem to be there. There were balloons floating around near the frescoed ceiling ... a concession to frivolity that seemed most out of character for his Father.

Draco tried not to look too sulky as his Mother led him into the room. Despite himself, he was kind of enjoying the attention. Maybe Old Draco wasn't quite dead yet, he thought, as he was presented to two Russian dignitaries he had never heard of, and would probably never meet again.

"Draco," snapped his Mother, jerking him back to his senses. "I do wish you would behave ... speak up, and look up. Remember they have come to see you. Your Father doesn't want you mumbling."

"Mr. and Mrs. Jack and Maureen Silvermann," the servant went on. "From Connecticut."

Draco shook hands, and was kissed on the cheek by Maureen, who smelled very strongly of lavender oil. Her skin was like cracked parchment, evidently she had spent most of her life sunbathing in hot places ... her tan seemed to be baked on.

"Say, you don't remember me, do you, kid?" Silvermann boomed ... he had a very strong Texan accent, and Draco was frankly surprised he wasn't wearing a Stetson and carrying a six shooter ... his abiding impression of the American nation having been gleaned from a chance viewing of a John Wayne movie at the age of seven.

"No, sir," he admitted, itching to ask the man if he'd ever held up a stagecoach.

"Jesus, Maureen, will you listen to the boy's accent? Couldn't you just eat it?"

Draco huffed.

"He's so charming!" agreed Maureen, ruffling his hair in a gesture she intended to be friendly. Draco snorted, and hurriedly smoothed his hair back into place. "How do you raise him so well?"

Narcissa simpered. "A little love and affection goes a long way with children."

Draco scowled.

"I came round to your house in England once," Jack went on, he pronounced it 'Ing-her-land,' with emphasis on the 'her.' "You must have been about six or seven, and I remember you dropped your ice cream cone. You were mighty upset about that!"

This only made Draco scowl even more. Narcissa, sensing discord, swiftly moved him on to the next couple before he damaged Anglo-American relations permanently.

"Mr. and Mrs. Malvolio and Patricia Donahue, of Dublin, Eire."

"Honoured, Master Draco, honoured to be here," the Donahues shook him very firmly by the hand. Once again, Draco's impression of the Irish did not extend much beyond potatoes, leprechauns and Guinness. Despite the fact he was physically repulsed ... not only by the nature of his upcoming task, but also by Patricia Donahue's face, he thanked them, before being moved on.

"Lord and Lady Melchett, of Castle Donnington, Cambridgeshire."

Narcissa curtseyed at this point, but Draco was alarmed to see the Melchetts bowing to him.

"It is truly an honour," said Lord Melchett, through his moustache. He was holding a glass of some clear liquid in one hand, with a slice of lemon floating in it. Whatever it was ... Draco suspected vodka ... he had clearly had one too many already. His face looked like a partially unripe beetroot.

"Mr. and Mrs. Simon and Delia Branford, of Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire."

"A great honour, Master Draco," Draco found himself being shaken around and kissed again. He managed a wan smile, and felt slightly guilty that he had chosen the other outfit. Simon, however, did not appear to have noticed.

"Good to meet you," he said. "Can I have some of those sausages now?" he asked his Mother.

"He wants his money's worth," cooed Mrs. Branford, making as though to ruffle his hair. Draco hastily withdrew.

"Good on you, Draco," said Simon, cuffing him on the shoulder.

"I'm a huge fan of your dresses," simpered Narcissa, batting her eyelashes at Simon. "I was so pleased to see your name on the guest list."

Delia was scowling at her ... the look on her face could have melted ice at fifty paces.

"I'll catch up with you later," said Narcissa. "I must introduce Draco to some people."

His Mother steered him in the direction of the buffet, where there was a queue that parted to allow them access.

"Let the boy through," a gruff voice said.

One of the waiters offered him a plate with little cheesy biscuits on it. Draco, who wanted sausages, scowled, and took a biscuit anyway.

"Would you care for champagne, Master Draco?" somebody else asked. Draco shook his head.

"Thanks," he said. "It makes me light headed."

"That's the whole bloody point!" someone else roared, and everybody laughed. Draco felt even more of an arse. He was starting to wish he could have been allowed to invite the people he had wanted to. It was his birthday, after all ... I wonder where all my presents are ... he thought.

The speaker was a very large, fat man in a red military jacket, plastered with campaign medals that looked to have stepped straight out of the Eighteenth Century. Next to him was standing a shorter man, also quite squat, wearing a simple brown cloak, like a monk. He looked quite out of place amongst all the severity and finery. He had a pointed, almost rat like face, and his nose seemed to be quivering slightly. One of his hands, and this Draco could not take his eyes off, appeared to be made out of solid silver.

The man, sensing Draco was looking at him, stuck out his hand. "Broomstick crash," he explained. "The name's Pettigrew. Peter Pettigrew. Personal equerry to Lord Voldemort himself."

Narcissa smiled. "Is his Lordship not joining us for the reception?" she asked.

Pettigrew shook his head. "He likes to remain anonymous," he said. "Who can tell who might be about to infiltrate this particular party. There are many who would seek to assassinate him, and I must be constantly on the alert."

"That precludes a nice glass of champers, what?" boomed the man in the military jacket. His upper crust accent seemed so absurdly over the top that Draco felt sure it was a parody.

"I'm off duty," said Pettigrew, coldly.

"I think you'll find we are all Dark Wizards here," said Narcissa. She clouted Draco round the back of the head. "Eat with your mouth closed, for heaven's sake, Draco!"

"My head hurts," moaned Draco, as she led him away from the little grouping. "I want to go to bed."

"Be quiet and eat your biscuits. Really ... I do not understand what has got into you. You used to be such a compliant boy."

"It must be hormones," said Draco, putting on his most annoyed sounding voice, in the hope it would make her go away. It didn't. He found himself being tugged over to another group standing near the orchestra, which appeared to be composed entirely of teenage witches, all of who were clutching fluted wine glasses.

"Hello," said Draco, weakly. The girls giggled.

"Hello, Draco," they chorused.

His Mother made the introductions, pointing to each of them in turn. "We have ... let me see, Cassandra ... I remember you, I used to know your Father quite well. Dora, and Elizabeth. Well ... I should leave you to get to know one another."

"Thank you," squeaked Draco.

Cassandra had taken his arm. "My Father insisted we come to watch," she said. "You do know our parents have been seeking a union between our families for some time."

"Bosoms," squeaked Draco. "I mean ... have they really?"

"Yes, Draco," said Cassandra. "And sixteen today ... what a stroke of luck."

The others giggled and bounced up and down in excitement. "I love what you've done to your hair, Draco," said Dora.

Here Draco was on firmer ground. "Yes," he said. "I have a ... um, barber."

"I gathered," said Dora. "He does a good job ... you look very dashing today."

"Thank you. You look nice, too," he said. His etiquette teacher had told him to always complement a woman on her appearance ... and never to talk about yourself unless they did. He noticed that the conductor of the orchestra appeared to be regarding them with a look of deep suspicion.

"Do you go to Hogwarts then, Draco?" asked Cassandra, running a hand through her hair.

Draco nodded. "Yes ... it's very pretty ... nice," he said. Cassandra appeared to be blushing to the roots of her hair. "Where ... um ... where do you, as it were?"

Cassandra turned away meekly. "Salem Institute of Witchcraft," she said, almost in a whisper.

"That must be nice," said Draco. "You don't have much of an accent."

She shook her head. "I know."

"Tell me, Draco," interrupted Dora. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Draco nearly choked on his scrambled egg. "Well," he said. "I kind of, do ... not that you aren't ... very nice."

"I'm unattached myself," said Dora, elbowing Cassandra slightly in her haste. "I did once have a boyfriend, but my Father disapproved."

Draco nodded. "Mine ... um, can be like that too. What about you?"

"I'm single!" Cassandra blurted, before any of the others could stop her.

"Did you fly out specially then?" asked Draco. "I mean ... you didn't have to ..."

"My parents are kind of into this Dark Magic stuff," said Cassandra, blushing slightly. "They want to introduce me to European society. They think it's more refined."

Draco nodded. "Yes," he said. "You'll find we all have our heads stuck up our bottoms twenty four seven around here. Gets bloody tiresome after a while. Will you ... um, be coming to the ceremony?"

She shook her head. "Women aren't allowed in," she said. "But my Father will be there ... he's the one in the black cloak."

Draco looked around the room. All of the men seemed to be wearing black cloaks. "That one ... over there," she hissed. "By the window. Talking to your Mum."

Dora was starting to look very annoyed indeed.

"What exactly is the ceremony all about?" asked Cassandra. "My Dad won't tell me. Not that I wasn't pestering him about it ..."

"He's talking to me!" Dora snapped, grabbing him by the arm.

Narcissa bore down on them at that moment, and made as if to whisk Draco away somewhere else. "There are some people whom I am dying for you to meet," she said. "Come along ... I'm afraid I shall have to tear your beau away from you, ladies," she went on.

Draco allowed himself to be led away.

"I'm going to introduce you to polite society if it kills me," glowered his Mother. "You waltz so well, too, and we spent a fortune on those bloody lessons ... God knows, a bloody fortune. And yet you still persist in this bizarre stubbornness."

"Who could ever think why?" asked Draco, looking up to the ceiling resignedly. One of the servants had gone the whole hog and put up a revolving mirror ball, except it didn't seem to be working just then.

"This," said his Mother, pulling his attention back to Earth with a loud thud, "is the Honourable Charles Montmorency."

"Ever so pleased to meet you, Draco old chap," said Charles, shaking his hand ... he seemed to be speaking from somewhere at the back of his nose, and actually sounded very much like some kind of horse, if such a thing was possible.

"Enchanted," said Draco, quite forgetting that this was the wrong thing to say to a man. Narcissa rolled her eyes, and silently bemoaned the amounts of money they had spent on etiquette lessons.

Charles, however, did not notice, or if he did, kept quiet about it, and brayed like a donkey ... fluttering his eyelashes at Draco.. "So, Draco," he said, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels, and nearly spilling champagne all down the front of his immaculately pressed tuxedo. "Sixteen today, eh? Becoming a man at last, are we?"

"Um ... yes, actually," said Draco.

Charles winked at him conspiratorially. "Tell me, Draco. I used to go to Hogwarts. Has the old place changed very much?"

"I ... wouldn't know," said Draco. "When ... um, when did you go."

"Bloody ages ago," snorted Charles. "Does Snape still teach potions?"

Draco nodded.

"What about old Duxbury Mountbatten?" asked Charles. "Charms ... divine chap, buggered me senseless, of course."

Draco shrugged. "He doesn't teach any more," he said, a little uneasy in the presence of this man. He looked around for any sign of his Mother, but she was flirting with Simon Branford, and hadn't noticed.

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

Harry sat on the floor of his cell ... hugging his knees to his chest. Still nobody was coming to fix up his arm, and he was out of his mind with pain. He would have had a go himself, he was fairly sure that he could work the spell if he put his mind to it ... however his wand was still back at Hogwarts. The only magic he would be able to do here would be the kind he had done as a kid, without realising it ... like when he had ended up on the school roof.

"So," he said out loud, as though challenging the walls. "I'm stressed and angry and scared now ... so why isn't anything happening?"

Somewhere else in the dungeons, somebody screamed very loudly. Harry hoped it wasn't Hermione.

"Silence!" a voice roared. "I will hit you again!"

Harry did not hear a reply, though a brief second later he did hear another cry of pain, so he assumed the speaker had carried out his threat.

Now he heard footsteps, getting louder, coming closer. Someone was rapping something against the iron bars of every cell they passed, and humming a low, mournful tune.

Whoever it was arrived in front of Harry's cell. He was holding a Muggle battery powered torch, which he shone in Harry's eyes, so that he could not see him. Harry turned away, and shielded his face against the beam.

"What have we here?" whoever it was asked.

"This, Mr. Koschenko, is Harry Potter," said another voice. Harry had not seen two people, so was a little surprised. However, he did not look up. He realised he was shivering ... the cold, foul smelling water seeping up through the floor was soaking his trousers and underwear, but he was beyond caring.

"Potter," said the one called Koschenko. "I had imagined more, Avery."

"In what way, sir?"

"Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort ... did he not?"

Harry opened one eye furtively. He could see them standing just beyond the barred door. Avery, whose voice he recognised to be that of the man who had attacked him at Hogwarts, was glancing hurriedly around, almost as if he expected to be killed any second. "We do not talk of such things in such terms," he said.

"Why not?" asked Koschenko.

"Harry Potter caused the temporary ... ah, hiatus in Lord Voldemort's glittering career. However, tomorrow he is to be removed from the equation."

Harry could see Koschenko's eyes shining in the half-light of the darkened dungeon. "Am I to be allowed to play with him?" he asked, enunciating every syllable delicately, making Harry shiver even more. He was fairly sure he did not want to be played with by anybody, let alone this hideously deformed man. Harry had never seen anyone quite as ugly. He wondered how Koschenko had gotten that way.

"No," said Avery. "Malfoy has demanded that he be kept in reasonable condition until the hour of sacrifice is at hand. Nevertheless, Harry here has been displaying a certain penchant for breaking the rules that we have laid down for his safety, and therefore has wound up living his last hours in this hovel."

Koschenko licked his lips. "I expected so much more," he replied. "I expected to see before me a fine, upstanding boy, one who would not hesitate to lay down his life for his cause. Instead I see a rather pathetic one, crouching on the floor."

"Malfoy has ordered him fed," said Avery, turning away so that he didn't have to look at Harry any longer. "Bread, water ... whatever you can spare."

"I can barely feed the prisoners I already have," said Koschenko. "However, I was hired because of my skill at keeping people alive. I will do my best," he turned to Harry, who looked up.

"You're going to die quite soon," hissed Koschenko.

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

The party had moved into the dining room, where great, long tables bedecked with cloths of fine white linen had been set out for them. There were place settings, several sets of knives and forks and different wine glasses for each course, something Cassandra had been very taken by indeed, getting through at least half a carafe before they had finished the starter. Draco found this, if anything, faintly worrying.

The dining room itself was probably the biggest single room in the castle ... and looked out over the gorge and mountains, a stunning view which Draco thought he could probably never tire of.

"Won't you take a little more wine, Draco?"

Dinner had been served as the sun set beyond the distant, shadowy bulk of Devil's Spine ... a light asparagus starter, a side of roast beef with all the trimmings, and pudding still to come. If there was only one thing Draco could find to like about his birthday party ... the food would be it ... and maybe the company as well. After all ... they were having a good laugh. Weren't they? He shook his head. "I won't take any, thank you," he said. "I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow."

Cassandra shrugged, and made to pour more wine from the carafe to her glass, which was already half full. "Your loss," she said. "All the more for me. You know we can't drink in the States until we're twenty one," she added, grinning inanely. Draco was beginning to get the feeling that she was, actually, very drunk indeed.

"Evidently," said Elizabeth, with great sarcasm in her voice, holding her head in her hands.

"So this is quite a novel experience!" Cassandra burbled, happily. Draco could do very little but smile at her ... that and try to think about Hermione instead. Why did I say I was 'kind of' unattached?

He noticed Cassandra taking a very large swig from the glass. "Don't you think you've had enough?" asked Draco. The main course had only just been taken away. Dessert was still to come, and rumour had it that it was going to be tiramisu.

Cassandra gave him a reproachful look. Her face was illuminated gently from below by the candles that decorated the table top. "I'm not as think as you drunk I am," she said, indignantly.

"To make that joke ... oh, yes you are," said Draco, sliding her glass surreptitiously away from her.

Somebody up at the other end of the table had evidently cracked a slightly better joke, for most of the adults present appeared to be in stitches of uncontrollable mirth. Draco sulked inwardly. It was his birthday, and he was relegated to the children's end of the table, whilst his parents entertained all these magical hotshots. Vile, nasty, calculating magical hotshots of course, but all the same, it was very annoying, especially because the waiters had passed them by when it came to drinks. Not that I wanted to drink anyway, thought Draco. The taste of alcohol always made him want to puke his guts out.

"Something wrong, Draco?" asked Elizabeth.

Draco looked up and shook his head. "I just feel a bit under the weather," he said. "I had a long day today," Tatiana still had not turned up, and he was still wondering vaguely just where she was.

"I had jet lag for a day!" Cassandra exclaimed. "And we didn't even come by plane!"

"You are pissed," said Dora. "Give me your glass."

Cassandra shook her head. "Draco can have it ... if he wants," she said. "We came by Floo Powder," she pushed her glass slightly nearer Draco, who pretended to ignore it. "Have you ever done that, Draco?"

"Many times," said Draco, who was still trying desperately to ignore the wine glass. "I think I prefer broomsticks though."

"Oh yes ... I hear you're an excellent flier! Do you play Quidditch at all? Tell me about the changing rooms ..."

Draco blushed. "I'm not very good," he said, remembering with a twinge of embarrassment that his Father had had to buy his position on the Slytherin house team, of which he was now Captain ... which made him feel doubly guilty. "There are other people at school who can fly a whole lot better than me."

Cassandra seemed to clock the reference. "Of course," she said. "Harry Potter goes to your school, doesn't he?"

Draco sighed. "Yes," he said. Why does everyone want to talk about Harry? I'm important ... I'm Draco, and it's my birthday too.

"Do you know him? I bet you know him really well," said Cassandra, answering her own question. Draco was slightly perturbed by the fact that she appeared to have abandoned all pretence of fancying him, much to his annoyance, as he was beginning to enjoy himself.

"I know him ... vaguely," said Draco. "We're not very good friend ..."

Cassandra, however, was blatantly not listening to him, and continued to speak. "I wrote him a letter as soon as I heard he was at school ... and I've seen his picture ... actually, I've got it on my wall ... Teen Witch Weekly did a pull out special ... and all the books too."

"There are books?" asked Draco, secretly thinking; why has nobody ever written a book about me?

She was nodding. "Of course," she said. "Four of them ... with pictures! A friend of mine wrote to ask him if he'd like to do a calendar ... but he never replied. He never replies to any of our fan mail. I can't work out why."

Draco's mind, however, was still mulling over her previous remark. "A calendar?" he asked, his eyes boggling slightly at the thought.

"You know the kind of thing, muscle bound young wizards in swimming trunks," said Cassandra, grinning, and batting her eyelashes in a gesture Draco found very worrying indeed. "Very appealing. Does Harry go for shorts or Speedos?"

"I don't think Harry counts as a muscle bound hunk," said Draco, trying to imagine Harry posing on a beach, surrounding by a bevy of lithe, adoring lovelies. "Though I've never seen him in swimming trunks ... so I couldn't possibly comment."

Dora and Elizabeth were giving them both very disapproving looks. They could have stared for England, especially Dora, whose eyes were almost popping out of her head.

"You were saying earlier you wanted to schnoogle Draco, now you've come over all gooey about Harry Potter ... of all people," said Elizabeth, glaring angrily at her. "May I remind you you're meant to be a Dark Witch?"

"So I can't fancy other men too? Is that what you're saying? And just look at who we have to work with here. You-Know-Who is not sexy," she was slurring her speech, Draco noticed, but said nothing. He blushed again.

"Ah ... I'm not sure schnoogle is actually a word, although I'd be more than happy to try ..." No! Silly arse. Hermione ... keep thinking of Hermione! She looks a bit like Hermione! No! Quit that! Whose side are you on? Bloody conscience!

"Are you okay, Draco?" asked Elizabeth, leaning over the table, an expression of sincere concern filling her eyes. "I can get her to shut up if you'd like."

"I don't mind at all," said Draco, dimly aware that someone was stroking his leg. Think of something else, damn it! Dumbledore squatting naked on a glass coffee table! Yuck ... disgusting, however, not bad enough. Voldemort squatting naked on a glass coffee table! Still not bad enough. Him and Hermione squatting na ... no! Bad image! Bad image! Who else can squat on a glass table ... Richard Nixon? Margaret Thatcher? Now we're getting somewhere. Draco was able to relax a bit.

"You aren't okay ..." Elizabeth was saying.

Draco, silently willing whoever was stroking his leg, and getting closer to another area that moved things into whole new categories Draco wasn't entirely familiar with yet, to stop, grinned slightly. "I'll be fine," he said. "I just came over all funny."

"He probably had too much wine," said Dora, putting on a concerned face. "Teenage boys go all to pieces after one drink," she added, giving Elizabeth a knowing glance. Cassandra was giggling again.

"I've not touched a drop," said Draco. "I hate wine. I'm just ... tired. That's all," this was true ... darkness had now fallen outside ... the windows had been opened and the orchestra was serenading them as they ate. Outside, the whirring of crickets and cicadas could be heard, and a gibbous moon was just rising over the mountains. Draco found it hard to believe that this was the same day. Just this afternoon I was flying dragons, he thought.

"Perhaps you and I could dance afterwards," Cassandra suggested. Draco wasn't really listening. His Father had just stood up, and looked as though he was about to bang his spoon on his wine glass.

"Ladies and Gentlemen ... honoured guests, friends, compatriots and colleagues," he began. "May I have your attention please? Before we proceed to the dessert, I have a few words to say."

Cassandra hurriedly tried to withdraw her hand, but Draco seized it, and clamped it back into place on his thigh. There was a broad grin on his face. All thoughts of Hermione had vanished from his mind.

"I bid you a most warm welcome to my fortress home. I know most of you have come vast distances across the world to be with us on this special occasion. Tomorrow, my son and heir comes of age," his Father pointed extravagantly. Heads swivelled in Draco's direction. Draco, who was slumped in his chair giggling slightly, sat up straight and pretended to look very serious. His Father glared at him.

"Tomorrow will be a great day for Draco. The preparations have been long and arduous, but it is my belief that he is now ready to assume the burden of responsibility ... to take it on his shoulders, and move finally from the estate of boyhood, which I think we all agree is a most admirable state," Cassandra was nodding, "to the estate of manhood, which is even more so," Cassandra nodded slightly harder. Charles Montmorency was looking at him with an expression of intense admiration on his equine features.

"What is she doing to you?" asked Dora, staring at Draco, whose jaw had gone slack.

"Nothing of any conseque ... ouch!" squeaked Draco. "No consequence," he added, his voice, which had been broken for some time, seemed to reassemble itself briefly.

"Is there something wrong, Draco?" his Father asked. Draco became aware that everybody in the hall was watching them. "You appear distracted."

"Nothing at all, Father," squeaked Draco. Cassandra waved at the other guests. "Everything is hunky dory."

"Quite," his Father went on. "As you can see, Draco has always been a runaway little scamp. I regard it as one of his charming qualities."

Draco blushed, but not for that reason. "Will you move away from that whole area?" he hissed. "I'm meant to be saving myself." Dora and Elizabeth both chose that moment to kick Cassandra and Draco under the table, making them both jump.

"It is also a time of great sadness for me ... for I am losing my son, whom I have loved and cherished all his life ..."

If the audience had thought it appropriate to go, 'Ah,' they would have done. Thankfully they didn't know what was happening to Draco under the table.

"... and I feel a great sadness inside me, for Draco is now to be set on the path to living his life as a man of independent means ... with a little help from me, of course."

The initiated Death Eaters around the table exchanged knowing glances. Their wives, who, for the most part remained blissfully of their husbands' more exotic activities, did not catch the reference, or took it to mean a plum position on the Malfoy International board of directors.

"So on the day before his birthday, as my son cherishes his last few hours as a carefree child. I raise my goblet to him, and toast him. Will you please join me?"

The other guests had stood up.

"Charge your glasses," hissed Elizabeth, forcing a little wine into Draco's empty goblet. Draco scowled.

"Should I be toasting myself?" asked Draco.

"I'll toast you, if you like," said Cassandra. "My room, third floor, after the dances."

"To Draco!"

"To Draco," the company repeated. All drank.

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

"Your breakfast, Mr. Black," the servant set down a small tray on Sirius' lap, and then withdrew from the room.

Sirius lifted the lid off the tray. There was a grapefruit half ... a small box of bran, semi-skimmed milk, and three vicious looking pieces of toast. There was also a jug of coffee and a small cup.

"What are they trying to do?" he asked himself. "Do they want me to fart to death or something?"

Nevertheless, he was hungry, and the food was very welcome, even though he didn't like grapefruit, and normally refused to eat toast unless somebody cut the crusts off for him. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat up in bed to drink it.

"All I need now are the morning papers, and I'm right set for my day," he said to himself.

At length, having finished his breakfast, he showered, and changed into the robes that had been left for him. They were very long, hanging down to the feet, and appeared to be made of pure white muslin. Sirius scowled at them for a good few minutes, and then pulled them on.

"Least if I have to die," he said, as he took up his comb. "I'll die looking like a complete arse, in the fine tradition of generations of Blacks."

"I don't know," replied the mirror. "I think the colour is very good on you. You have toast crumbs in your hair, by the way."

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

Harry looked up at the sound of footsteps echoing on the cold, stone floor of the dungeons. Someone in the distance was rattling keys, and whistling a tune. He heard an iron door being pushed open, and then saw the man's shadow on the wall, coming towards his cell.

"I trust we slept badly, Potter," said Koschenko, stopping in front of the cell. "You would have been having a last meal right about now ... anything you desired would have been gifted you ... but as you have decided to break our rules, you get nothing. Now get up ... the ceremony is about to start."

Harry got to his feet, still wincing from the beating he had taken at the hands of the Death Eaters. His smashed arm was hanging uselessly at his side, and to any casual observer, he would have appeared broken. He had not slept all night, and there were heavy bags under his eyes. His hair was dirty, matted and caked with blood, his legs bruised, and his face a mess. One of the lenses of his glasses was smashed. However, Harry was made of sterner stuff.

"I will not die today," he told himself, over and over again. "I do not plan on dying for a very long time."

Koschenko opened the cell door, reached in, and pulled him roughly out by the front of his robes.

"You're an absolute mess, Potter! Can't you even keep yourself clean?"

"Piss off," snarled Harry.

"I suggest we keep our lip under control, boy," hissed the gaoler. "Else you might find I decide to play with you a bit before the ceremony. We'd better clean you up a bit, hadn't we?"

Harry glowered at him. Koschenko grabbed him by the back of his robes, and frogmarched him down the corridor to another room, Harry kicking and struggling as he went. Eventually, they reached another room, which Harry was thrust rudely inside. The door clanged shut behind him.

"I'll be back with clean robes in five minutes. Get yourself looking halfway normal."

Harry found himself in a tiny room, with a small drain set into the middle of the floor. Hanging on a peg on the back of the door was a small, thin strip of material that was clearly supposed to be a towel. It was filthy. On the wall was a tap, and underneath the tap was a cast iron bucket. Harry sighed, and began to peel off his robes.

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

Gwyneth sat down at the dining room table, and sighed deeply. She had been busy in the kitchen all morning, preparing, chopping, cooking, and all Sirius had done was lounge about, listening to the Quidditch on WWN. Now she relaxed, and surveyed her handiwork ... there were plates set out for five ... fine glasses, and silver cutlery, and a little plastic bowl with golden snitches decorating the rim, little bread rolls and a bottle of the best wine Sirius had been able to track down at such short notice, which had meant a five minute walk down to the Off Licence on the corner of Palmeira Drive and Melbourne Avenue, in the pouring rain. It was early October, and winter seemed to be coming early that year.

She heard the sound of a car drawing up outside.

"Do you think that's them?" asked Sirius, getting to his feet and folding his Daily Prophet neatly in two.

Gwyneth went over to the window, and parted the nets. Sure enough, the familiar red Ford Cortina was parked outside, next to Sirius' beloved Harley. The front doors opened, and two people stepped out, holding their jackets over their heads to keep the rain off. Gwyneth watched as Lily opened the back door to take Harry out.

"I'll get the door," said Sirius, skipping happily out of the room.

"I'll get the pasta," said Gwyneth. She went into the kitchen, and opened the oven ... a well-thumbed copy of Easy Italian Recipes For Busy Witches lay open on the counter top. The lasagne was done ... a little burnt around the top, maybe, but nothing a little magic couldn't cure. She took her wand out of the pocket of her 'I Got Laid In Blackpool' apron, that Sirius had bought her, and fixed it quickly, before anyone noticed.

She heard the front door slam, and then a familiar South London accent ... "You wouldn't believe the bloody traffic on the A66 at Blackburn, mate," James was saying. "We thought we'd avoid the M6 round Manchester way and come over the top, via Burnley. You can't move for people up there today."

"Blackburn are playing at home to Sunderland," said Sirius.

"You what?"

"Muggle football, soccer ... that'll be why there's all the people about ... off to the game," Sirius went on. "I think Gwyneth is in the kitchen."

Gwyneth heard a muffled, "Oof!" as Harry attached himself to Sirius' legs.

"Ducks!" she heard him shout. "Ello, Padfoot!"

"Indeed," said Sirius.

"Duck off!" Harry shouted.

"He means something else," Gwyneth heard Lily say. "Somebody in a white van cut up James on the M6 at Lancaster, so he had a bit of a go at them ... and, well, you know how kids are with copying things they hear. I remember last time we had the Longbottoms over," her voice trailed off into the ether.

"How are they now?" asked Sirius. Gwyneth set down the lasagne dish on the counter top, and went out into the hallway to join them. James smiled at her.

"Not good," said Lily. "We went round yesterday. They're still busy sorting out their wards ... and they're going to need a Secret Keeper too. They've sent Neville to stay with his Grandmother in Lewes while they sort it out. Harry doesn't seem to have noticed he's gone."

"It's an absolute bloody outrage," said Sirius. "Sorry, Harry ... you didn't hear that!"

"Buddy!" shouted Harry, giggling and grabbing Sirius round the ankles again.

"Indeed I am," said Sirius. "Do you like pasta, Harry?"

Harry looked faintly shocked, and shook his head.

"Yes you do," said James.

"We took him to a lovely new place, just opened, over in Carlisle," said Lily. "Of course, he was having none of it ... threw his spaghetti on the floor."

"Gapspetti!"

"Quite," said Gwyneth. "Come on, Harry ... let's find you a bib," she took the little boy by the hand, and led him into the kitchen.

"How are you holding up?" asked Sirius.

"We're taking each day as it comes," said Lily, sighing. "God knows there's enough stuff on our plates at the minute without all this blooming rubbish."

"How's Albus?"

"He's getting more and more uppity each day that passes," said James. "I keep telling him ... when I'm good and ready ... when I get worried about Harry ... then we'll think about it."

"I reckon it makes sense," said Sirius. "You'd be better protected there. Imagine how I feel, with Gwyneth trekking down to Wales every week? And us living amongst Muggles too. Plays havoc with my sex life ... oh ... is there any more news on the you-know-what front?"

Gwyneth poked her head round the door, having just tied a bib round Harry's neck. It had a picture of Bagpuss on it. Lily was beaming. "Yes," she said. "They just came back from the doctors the other day ... it's positive ... we're having another."

Gwyneth flung her arms around Lily. "Oh ... I'm so happy for you!" she said.

"You old sex bomb you!" smiled Sirius, clapping James on the shoulder. "What are you going to call it?"

"Sex bum!" shouted Harry, dissolving into a fit of giggles. Lily scooped him up. "At the minute, it's called Baby. If it's a boy, I rather like the sound of Jack ... or George ..."

"I still like Ringo."

"You would."

"And if it's a girl ... I should like to call her Rosemary. It goes quite well with Potter."

Gwyneth flustered a bit. "If you'd all like to come through to the dining room ... it's on the table."

Gwyneth woke up with a start. She had not intended to fall asleep, at least not for long, but the half light of the early morning, pouring in through the car window told her she had spent longer napping than she had meant to. She was sweating all over. Every night since she had caught Sirius in her office, she had been dreaming about them. But she couldn't tell if the dreams were real or not. Had they actually happened? She had a feeling that they had. She definitely remembered the day they came over for lunch. It was beginning to scare her. Of course, she had had nightmares during the Troubles ... and for weeks, years afterwards she would wake up with James and Lily's death scrolling through her mind like a movie. But of late, things had been calming down. Now, however, the dreams were back with a vengeance. Perhaps it was just a symptom of these troubled times, she thought. Then she checked her watch.

Swearing loudly, she sat up, and levered the driver's seat back into its upright position. So doing, she unscrewed the top off her flask of coffee, and drank deeply from the contents, which were now stone cold.

The landscape around her was becoming increasingly mountainous, and she had a feeling she must surely now be nearing her goal. This looked like the kind of terrain you would expect to find dragons in. In fact, looking around now, she felt certain she was close by. Ahead of her, the road stretched away up the hillside, winding and twisting through bizarre rock formations, small, treacherous tunnels and narrow, treacherous hairpin bends. It did not look a well-travelled road.

Gwyneth winced as cramp shot up her left leg ... she had been sleeping with it jammed into the car's steering column. She waited for the pain to subside, before getting out of the car to stretch her legs. Outside, it was already quite warm, but utterly, completely silent.

She walked over to the edge of the cliff, and peered over the steel grey crash barrier. The land dropped away sharply into an impressive gorge, with a river winding serenely along the bottom of it. Looking down, it was hard to imagine that such an insignificant seeming river could have carved out such a spectacular feature. The gorge was wide enough to have forests down at the bottom, and as she looked closer, she thought she saw movement at the water's edge. She grabbed her omnioculars from her handbag, and held them up to her eyes.

Tricorns

! She had never seen a wild one before, but there was a whole herd, down at the water's edge, drinking. There must have been about fifty or sixty of them, all with shimmering white coats. She could quite happily have stayed there, spying on the magnificent beasts from on high, for hours on end.

But their very presence proved to her that she must surely be nearing wherever they had been taken. For such creatures to roam freely, in broad daylight, so near a Muggle road, there had to be an abnormally high concentration of magic in the air. Feeling slightly buoyed by this discovery, Gwyneth returned to her car, started the engine, and was just about to drive on, when a large green truck rattled round the bend, narrowly missed her, and disappeared down the mountainside in a cloud of dust.

"That was a lucky escape," she mused to herself. Then she started the engine, and pulled back onto the road. The journey continued.

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

Harry dressed reluctantly in the new robes that Koschenko had brought him. They were made of the same white material that Ron had been wearing.

"You look wonderful ... brilliant," said Koschenko. Harry scowled again.

"What do I have to wear this crap for?" he asked. "I look like an angel in a Nativity play."

Koschenko sighed deeply, then shook his head. "For the purposes of today's events," he said. "It would be most appropriate for you to wear white ... it does show off the bloodstains to great advantage."

"Bloodstains?" Harry faltered.

Koschenko grinned, exposing his hideous teeth. His bony eye socket seemed to be boring into Harry's soul. "Yes, Harry," he said. "Bloodstains. You do know what a bloodstain is?"

Harry swallowed. I am not going to give him the satisfaction. I am not going to scream. He nodded his head.

"Good ... I am so glad," said Koschenko. "We wouldn't like you to be at all unprepared for the experience you are about to endure. I believe your Godfather is to perform the deed itself. But don't worry, Harry ... it will be quick and painless ... and you won't feel a thing. That is ... until Mr. Black redeems himself to us by plunging a dagger into your still beating heart."

The colour drained from Harry's face ... but he did not waver, nor falter. Koschenko almost looked disappointed. "I had expected pitiful screams," he said. "Maybe even a call for your Mother. You'll be dropping in on her soon ... I dare say they'll be pleased to see you. Even Hell has its dull days."

Red hot, boiling rage was welling up inside Harry's body. He scowled, then spat on Koschenko's boots.

"Most unhygienic ... don't these Muggles teach you even basic standards of cleanliness ... or are you just as filthy as your Mother's blood?"

Harry closed his eyes. I am not going to do anything. I am not going to say anything. He is not going to have the satisfaction.

"I see you are stronger than your feeble frame belies, Harry Potter," Koschenko said. "It really makes very little difference to me whether we break you or not, psychologically or physically, since your death is now only a matter of minutes away. All the same ... it would be nice if we could make your last breaths on this pathetic planet a living torment. You are a Half-Blood, are you not? Half-Bloods do not fit into my Master's scheme ... my Master would kill even the wizards who married Muggles for polluting themselves."

Harry kept his eyes tight shut, and did not reply.

"Answer me!"

"Yes," said Harry. "I am Half-Blood."

"What are Half-Bloods, Harry? Filthy, scum, the sty of all pestilential filth that has infected this Earth."

"No," said Harry, setting his jaw. He did not dare open his eyes ... Koschenko would surely see the tears that were brimming in them.

"To me, you carry the vilest stench," said Koschenko. "Your Father was a traitor to his race ... your Mother no less than a common tart."

Harry said nothing.

"Repeat what I said!"

Harry still said nothing. Don't give him the satisfaction. You are not going to be broken. You are not going to die today. You are not going gently into that good night. You are not going to give in without a fight. You are going to live on. You are going to survive.

"Repeat it!"

Harry shook his head.

"Repeat it lest I end your life here and now. Believe me ... I have the power, and I would unhesitatingly use it against you. Now speak!"

"No."

"There is fire within you, Harry. I admire your courage, if not your intelligence," hissed Koschenko. "Now repeat ... your parents were filthy, low, polluted ... they deserved what they got."

"They did not," snapped Harry, he opened his eyes. Koschenko's face was mere inches from his own. Harry was staring right into his vacant eye. He could see the traces of stitching where the surgeons had done their best to sew his face back together again. "You deserve what you got. It's a pity they didn't kill you."

Koschenko snarled. "Muggles did this to me, Harry ... I was just a humble soldier, fighting for my country ... alongside my comrades. My parents disapproved of me fighting for Muggles ... but I was young, and idealistic, and I wanted to do what I believed was right. Until the day when I was blown up. Since that day, Harry ... I have vowed vengeance on all those who seek to destroy or pollute my race."

"But I don't!" protested Harry. "I don't seek to destroy anything, and as for your precious wizard race ... it barely exists ... just a few scattered remnants of inbred morons, like the Malfoys, and like you."

Koschenko turned his nose up at Harry ... but he did not do anything. "You really should learn to hold your tongue, Harry. If we had more time, I would show you how. Unfortunately, the ceremony is about to begin. Follow me, if you please."

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

The morning sun had not quite risen above the mountaintops as the Animation Chamber, deep below the fortress, began to fill up. The male guests filed into their seats, making no noise in the vast, echo filled room. There were no more than thirty of them, each wearing the white mask and black cloak of an initiated Death Eater.

At precisely two minutes past seven, a gong sounded, and the braziers along the walls burst spontaneously into flame, casting their light across the chamber, and revealing a single, black cloaked figure standing before the enormous stone serpent, concealing the entrance to the tomb.

Somewhere a trumpet sounded, and a low, booming voice echoed around the chamber.

"Please be upstanding for our Lord and Master."

A hush even greater than the one that had prevailed before seemed to descend across the audience. Footsteps could be heard descending the steps to the Chamber from the Library. Two cloaked, masked men entered the room, bearing in their arms what looked like two, sleeping children, clothed in robes of purest white. The gong sounded again.

The two Death Eaters walked to the front of the room, and as they mounted the steps up to the dais, two stone coffin shaped objects rose out of the floor, stone grinding on stone. The figure already standing on the dais turned away to face the serpent as the two children were laid gently down in the coffins. An unearthly green light filled the room, and then just as quickly had faded. The coffins sank back into the floor.

The Death Eaters turned to face the audience. "They give their bones and blood that ours might grow stronger," they said, raising their faces up to the ceiling above. Two green banners were hanging from some sort of gantry structure, and both of them bore the image of a silver serpent.

The audience bowed their heads. Draco, standing on the dais, facing away from them, as his Father had told them to do, could hear a horrifying sound coming from within the Tomb that lay beyond the statue. It sounded like low, monotonous chanting, and it chilled him.

"Let the boy turn!" the Death Eaters shouted. That was his cue ... Draco turned around to face the company, and removed the hood of his cloak. A chill rushed down his spine.

The chanting was growing louder. Now three more cloaked men, whom he knew from his instruction were Voldemort, his Father and Achmed Al Tamimi, the estate manager, had entered the Chamber, and were walking slowly down towards the dais, much as a bride progressing towards the altar. They stopped before mounting the steps, and removed their cloaks. Draco could hear Voldemort's laboured breathing. His Father and Al Tamimi remained behind as Voldemort slowly climbed up, onto the dais. The congregation gasped collectively.

Voldemort turned, and beckoned Draco forwards to stand next to him. Then he spoke.

"I stand before you a changed man. I am no longer the fine specimen of humanity that I once was ... I am weakened, and for this reason, we gather upon Draco's birthday to pass the torch on to a new generation ... that the flame of Dark Magic might not die out."

Draco closed his eyes, and bit his lip.

"Draco ... your arm please."

Draco rolled up his sleeve, and offered out his left arm.

Voldemort took the arm, and Draco immediately felt the flesh burning. Voldemort's grip was tight, about midway between his elbow and his shoulder. He looked down, and could see Voldemort scraping a long, yellowing fingernail across his arm. Draco could smell burning meat, and he knew it was his own flesh. The pain was unbearable, but his Father had told him if he showed emotion, the pain would be revisited upon him a thousand fold. He could not cry this time.

"It is done," said Voldemort, releasing his arm, and holding it up for the audience to see. There was a collective glance as they saw the black, glowing mark that now disfigured Draco's arm, just below the shoulder.

The pride on his Father's face was evident. Draco bit his lip again. The deed was done ... they were bonded. He could not quite believe it had happened.

Now Voldemort spoke again. "Draco is sixteen today," he said. "Today, he progresses from the state of boyhood to the state of manhood. Thus is he deemed worthy to enter into our organisation? I believe the answer is yes. I am assured by Lucius Malfoy that the boy's education and upbringing have been suitably severe, that he has been schooled in the Dark Arts, and that he is worthy to be considered a Death Eater."

The congregation cooed their appreciation. Voldemort was still holding Draco's hand up for all to see, and Draco could feel it aching as the blood drained from it.

"Thus, I give you Draco Malfoy. As I look upon this young man now, starting upon his life's work, that someday will lead, I am sure, to greatness in his time, I am reminded not only of myself, on the day I joined the Silver Serpent, all those years ago, but of Draco's Father, who stands before us. I initiated him as well, and so this is the second generation of Malfoys that I have set on their way to greatness in my name. Draco ... I honour you."

He released Draco's arm, and before the boy had fully grasped what was going on, what was happening, he had fallen to the floor in front of him, and was bowing. Lord Voldemort, bowing to his feet!

Now his Father stepped up onto the stage. "My esteemed guests, friends, countrymen. It is my great pleasure to be able to welcome our Lord and Master here today, that my son might at last be baptised into our sect, a day for which I know he has been waiting. Draco, will you please step forward and read your oath."

Draco found himself being shoved to the front of the stage, and only now he became aware of how everybody was staring at him.

His Father produced his wand, and muttering the words of a spell Draco could not hear, shot words into the air. They hung before Draco's eyes.

"Well ... read it," hissed his Father.

"I hereby swear on my life," Draco began to read, feeling as he did so Voldemort's icy breath on his cheek. He crossed his fingers behind his back, where nobody could see. "That I will uphold the sacred laws of the Silver Serpent. That I will rain fire upon all who seek to pollute our noble blood, that I will be merciless in my hounding of those who seek to ... to destroy me. I shall remain true to the code set out by the Lord of the Dark Side ... insert name here," his Father scowled. "Oh, Voldemort, sorry ... by Voldemort. Moreover, I shall dedicate my life, and all that is mine to him, laying down my life in the defence of his own. I shall emulate him in every way. I shall remain true to the great cult of the Silver Serpent, and revere our founder, Salazar Slytherin as I revere my Father. This oath I sign in my ... my own blood, offering up what gives me life as a token of my everlasting bond."

His Father had grabbed him by the arm, and before Draco could stop him, had produced a knife from within his robe, and cut Draco across the palm of his left hand. Warm, crimson blood oozed forth from the wound. Once again, his arm was held up for all to see. The blood trickled down Draco's freezing cold arm. It felt hot against his skin.

"Proceed," hissed Voldemort. "Bring on the offerings."

Malfoy clapped his hands. Draco looked up into his eyes, and could have sworn the man was on the verge of crying. He looked down at his feet. The gong sounded once again.

"All rise for the offering!" commanded Voldemort. The congregation got to their feet, their heads were still bowed.

Voldemort began to speak. "Oh, Father of our kind ..."

"Oh, Father of our kind," the chant rose up from the company.

"Thy name be revered. We beseech thee to be benevolent towards us ... your slaves."

The words were repeated.

"We beseech thee to accept the offering of human blood which we provide. May the knowledge, wisdom, and guidance that you give us be with us now, and for evermore."

"We beseech thee to accept the offering of human blood which we provide. May the knowledge, wisdom, and guidance that you give us be with us now, and for evermore."

"We salute your flag."

One of the green banners had descended from the ceiling of the chamber. Now Draco could see everyone was standing stiffly to attention, each and every single one of them had their right arm raised into the air, palm facing forwards. His Father and Voldemort were doing the same. Draco thought it would probably be best if he saluted too, so he did.

"We stand before the symbol you have given us. All deeds that we perform are performed in your name. We seek only that you may guide us in our task, that we might keep our race sacred and pure, and free of pollution from those who daily spit upon us. Oh, almighty Slytherin, we stand before you, and offer up our undying loyalty to your cause."

The gong sounded again, and the congregation lowered their hands. Voldemort, Draco, and his Father all turned to face them again. Another group of people was entering the chamber. There were four masked Death Eaters, each of them carrying a staff tipped with a glowing green light, flanking as they walked six people, who were manacled together, dressed in flimsy white robes, heads bowed as they came. With a start of horror, Draco spotted Hermione.

The 'offerings' were led slowly down the aisle separating the two halves of the congregation, who turned their heads to watch them go. Now Draco could see them clearly. Harry was there, too ... Ron, Fred and George, and Sirius.

The group halted at the foot of the steps leading up to the dais. Now Voldemort waved his hands, and exclaimed something in a language alien to Draco's ears. As if by magic ... which presumably was just what it was, a section of the stone floor at Draco's feet seemed to turn to liquid, and then vanished before his very eyes. Rising out of the floor to take its place was a stone pedestal, itself carved expertly into the shape of a coiled snake, resting on its head a flat table like surface, upon which were a set of daggers, two silver goblets, and an exquisite jug, shaped to resemble the open mouth of a dragon. There was some unidentifiable green liquid inside it, steaming gently in the cold surroundings of the chamber.

His Father waved him forwards. "Take your pick, Draco," he breathed.

Draco hesitated for a brief moment, before choosing the smallest dagger. He picked it up, and gasped at how heavy it was. His Father looked on, with a faint grin playing around his face.

"Release Black," he boomed.

The two Death Eaters standing either side of Sirius stepped up to him, and undid the manacles that were chaining him to Harry. Sirius looked up, rubbing his wrists. He was staring at Draco and Lucius with an emotion that went beyond pure, unadulterated hatred spread across his features.

Voldemort picked up the jug, and poured a little out into one of the goblets, he then stepped forwards, and handed the goblet to Sirius.

"You will drink," he commanded.

"First, I know what this is," said Sirius.

Voldemort sneered, a look of cold command on his face. "It is a little something to ensure you do as we wish you to," he said.

"I will not touch it."

"You will, I think," said Malfoy, stepping forwards. "If you wish to see another sunrise."

"Don't touch it!" bellowed Harry. The Death Eaters hissed in anger, turned around, and struck him hard on the head with their staffs. Harry sunk to the floor, and collapsed in a heap.

Voldemort was angry. "Must everything I do be reduced to the level of a complete farce?" he demanded of Malfoy. "Can you not just get one thing right? I wanted Potter to be awake to be able to face the terror of imminent death! These were my wishes. You are in danger of displeasing me, Malfoy."

"I humble myself before you," said Malfoy, staring down at the ground. Draco almost smirked. Hermione was staring at him, mouth wide open. For a second, he thought he saw her mouth, 'Draco ... why?' He ached to tell her, but knew he could not.

"Potter must be awakened before the ceremony can proceed," said Voldemort. "I suggest your Death Eaters be punished."

"Quite," sneered Malfoy.

"But first, bring round the boy," hissed Voldemort. "I want him woken."

Malfoy stepped off the dais, and waving his wand at Ron, who was trying to get to Harry, knelt down beside the boy's prone form.

"It is not serious," he said. "He breathes."

"Awaken him!"

"Ennervate," breathed Malfoy.

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

Harry twitched slightly, and then opened his eyes. His head was pounding as though someone had set off a nuclear bomb inside his skull. A wavy, undefined shape that could have been a human face was swimming before his eyes.

"Harry," someone said. "Harry ... are you okay?"

"Mum?" he burbled, not fully aware of what he was saying.

"No, Harry Potter. Open your eyes, and see the terror that stands before you."

The face swam into focus. It was Lucius Malfoy. He hadn't been dreaming ... he wasn't in bed at Hogwarts, worrying about his homework.

"To your feet, boy," said Malfoy. "Your final destiny awaits you."

Harry sat up ... he was lying on the stone floor of the chamber he had been led into. All eyes in the hall were upon him, and there was a dull ache in his scar. Slowly, he looked up ... the pain seemed to worsen, momentarily. Standing on the dais at the front of the room were Draco and another man ... Voldemort.

Ron helped him to his feet. Harry was sweating, he felt ill, he could tell he was crying, even though he could not feel any tears on his face.

"See how he weeps!" scowled Malfoy. "See how he wishes his accursed parents had joined our side. They might well have lived. You do know that, don't you Harry?"

Harry did not dignify him with a reply.

"I see we are going to get no further," said Malfoy. "Now ... Black ... lest we kill Harry prematurely, drink."

Sirius scowled again, and without saying anything, put the goblet to his lips, and downed the contents in one gulp. Then he looked to Harry, and the expression on his face said it all.

"We're completely screwed," whispered Harry, shuddering as another jolt of pain hit him. He could see Ron looking fearfully at him, and hear Hermione's sobs behind him. What was happening? Was, he hardly dared believe it ... was what Koschenko had said true?

"Bring the three Weasley boys to the portal," commanded Voldemort. The Death Eaters grabbed Ron, Fred and George, and hauled them onto the dais. The boys were lined up before the statue of the snake, and as Harry and Hermione looked on, aghast, were pushed to their knees before it.

Voldemort was almost smiling. "These boys," he said. "Are the sons of Arthur Weasley ... the Weasleys have always had respect, honour amongst wizards ... but they have one flaw. They would seek to pollute us by consorting with Muggles ... by honouring their achievements."

The congregation, still hidden under their hoods, murmured in disapproval. Ron yelled. "It isn't true!"

One of the Death Eaters cuffed him round the back of the head, and he cried out in pain.

"Shut up Ron," Harry was whispering. "Don't make them any more angry than they are. There might just be a chance."

"It is true," said Voldemort, again turning to look at Harry, who could feel goose pimples rising all over his body. A surge of pain swept across him again, and he almost blacked out. Voldemort continued to speak. "The Weasleys are the worst kind of traitors. But in the last few days, we have cut a swathe through this family. The youngest daughter, Ginny, currently in hospital, fights for her life ... the other sons are here, trembling with fear before my mightiness, and such is another family who would seek to challenge my power torn asunder."

The congregation murmured its approval.

"What say we spill their blood to open the portal?" snarled Voldemort.

Harry watched as Malfoy seized Draco by the arm, and marched him over to where Ron, Fred and George were kneeling on the floor.

"Their throats must be slit ... cleanly," hissed Malfoy. Harry covered his eyes. He could not bear to watch. The entire chamber seemed to have fallen practically silent. He could hear nothing, save for Ron, who was crying.

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

Draco stood before them. He looked into Ron's eyes, and such a look of pleading, he had never seen before. Could he do it? What would happen to him if he did? He did not want murder on his conscience.

"What keeps you, Draco? This is a task all Death Eaters must face. It will prove to me you are truly worthy," said his Father.

Draco looked at Ron again. Tears were pouring down the other boy's face. Slowly, he moved his lips. "Please," he gasped.

"You will be punished, Draco," snarled his Father. "If you do not spill their blood upon the floor."

Draco shook his head. "I can't," he said.

"Draco ... I am warning you ... do not embarrass me in front of our guests."

"Please," squealed Draco. "Father ... don't make me kill anyone!"

His Father grabbed him by the hand again. "If you do not obey me, Draco, I will make sure you experience pain of a kind so violent you will never recover from it. As it is you will be beaten severely for such stubbornness."

"Father ... I won't do it."

"Must you be such a pathetic little weed?" he roared. "I have done everything for you ... I have arranged for this ceremony to take place ... I have given you my unconditional love,"

"Well, maybe I don't want it!" sobbed Draco, tears now pouring down his face. Voldemort was shaking his head in sheer disgust. "Maybe I never wanted it ..."

Malfoy sneered at his son. The congregation was murmuring amongst themselves.

Draco looked back into Ron's eyes ... he could see Fred and George looking on, he could feel Voldemort's eyes boring into his back.

"Please," whispered Ron, his voice sounding a million times louder in the oppressive silence that had descended over the Chamber. "I'm begging you ..."

"Kill the boy, Draco."

Draco glowered at his Father. He had never felt such hatred for a man as he did now ... and then he saw his chance. The dagger was clasped tightly in his sweating, bloody palm. Now he knew what he must do ... end this charade now. Slowly, he stood up.

"I command you to perform the sacrifice," snarled his Father.

Draco shook his head. "No," he said. "No ... I will not do it. I will not give my life to you creeps. I had my fingers crossed the whole time I said that crappy oath. I hate this ... I hate it here, and I hate you! I want to go home."

"Blasphemer!" roared his Father. "Do you seek to die too, Draco? Or are you just exceptionally stupid?"

"I seek to live my own damn life!" yelled Draco. "I seek to live it the way I want to ... with the people I want to, with the friends I want to! You mean nothing to me. I'd renounce my own name. I'd renounce the ancestors ... the whole sodding pack of them. What good have the buggers ever done for me? Eh?"

His Father was staring at him with a look of, not disgust, but sorrow spreading across his face. "I do not understand, Draco. What have I done that you turn against me so violently?"

"You really want to know?" asked Draco, only dimly aware that the entire congregation were on the edge of their seats.

His Father nodded. "Yes, Draco. I do."

"Every time you laid a finger on me ... every time, you were just getting one step closer, one more footstep down the line towards making me despise every sinew of your body. I could never love a man as a Father who would beat up his children. I remember when I was seven, and you hit Mother, and I cried all night because I was so worried about her, except you didn't know that? Did you? I kept that from you well. Everybody cries, Father. Live with it!"

"Kill the boy," hissed Voldemort.

His Father turned. "Master?"

"You said to me, when last we met in England ... you would kill Draco if you had to. Now I want you to do it. He has proven himself unworthy to be considered a Death Eater. Perhaps his blood will be of some use to us."

"Master ... I," his Father turned back to look at Draco.

Draco sneered. "Go on then, Father. Do it. End it now. End my life."

"I cannot," his Father dropped the dagger he was holding, it fell to the floor with a harsh clatter that echoed through the still air. "Master ... I cannot kill my own son. I believed that I could, but I know I never can."

"If you do not," said Voldemort. "Then I will."

"Master ... no!"

Voldemort turned to the congregation. "If you would follow Lord Voldemort?" he asked, his eyes roving along every row. "You will stand, now."

Draco turned to see. Everyone was standing up. He looked from Voldemort, to his Father, and then to the door. It seemed so distant. If he ran ... he could make it. He tensed ... he could feel a surge of adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream ... his heart, pumping fit to bust.

"Seize him," hissed Voldemort.

Draco felt the hands of the Death Eaters on his shoulders. He tried to kick out, but his foot only made contact with thin air. He let out a yell. The Death Eaters forced him down to the floor, so that he was kneeling next to Ron and the other Weasleys.

Ron turned to look him in the eye. Draco gritted his teeth as his hands were bound tightly together behind his back.

Voldemort was standing over him. "How can we make your humiliation complete, Draco?" he asked.

"Just kill me now," snarled Draco. "At least then I don't have to listen to you anymore."

"You will die," said Voldemort. "But right now ... I feel like I should have a little fun."

"Master!" his Father was sobbing. "Don't kill him ... don't kill my boy."

"You will remain silent, Malfoy ... lest I decide to kill you as well. We had intended to use merely a small phial of Draco's blood ... but as it is I have decided that more of a sacrifice is needed ... Draco, therefore, will be the sacrifice that opens the Tomb."

He leant forwards, and put his hand on Draco's throat. Draco could feel the skin blistering and peeling as Voldemort's grip tightened.

"You're not enjoying this very much, are you, Draco?" he asked.

Draco resolved to say nothing. The pain in his throat was rising. He felt like he was going to gag. Finally, Voldemort released him.

"An old magical torture device," said Voldemort. "The Throat Constrictor. It is, of course, only possible to perform it given years and years of practice and training. Thankfully, for me at least, I am well versed in the ancient methods. Your Father, Draco, prefers more modern techniques. They are less influenced by the arts magical, yet they are no less effective."

Draco sneered. "What is your point, exactly?" he asked.

"Do not try and be brave before me, Draco," said Voldemort. "It is not at all fitting for the circumstances. Tragic heroism has always left me cold, to be quite frank. Do you know, Draco, that I have the power to inflict upon your body pain and suffering beyond the capabilities of your worst nightmares?"

Draco rubbed his throat, which was still smarting from where Voldemort had touched him. "No you don't," he said.

"I warn you not to defy me," said Voldemort. "Since you seem unremorseful in my sight, I think perhaps we should try another curse," he levelled his wand at Draco's chest, and breathed,"... Enfarctus Cardiacii."

For a couple of seconds, Draco could not feel anything, and he looked up at Voldemort with an expression of extreme puzzlement on his face. Then he felt a dull ache in his chest ... it felt like it did whenever he swallowed something too hot too quickly. But very quickly, the pain had gone beyond that stage. It seemed to be getting worse.

"What have you done?" asked Draco.

Voldemort smiled, mysteriously. "You will see," he said.

The pain was still worsening. And now it seemed to be spreading, down his arms, down his left side. He couldn't breathe ... it felt like everything in his body was shutting down. And such pain in his chest as he had never felt. Is this what dying is like?

Draco screamed as his chest seemed to explode, he could feel the muscles of his heart contracting out of control ... and then it peaked, and then faded, and everything returned to normal. Draco was breathing heavily, and only now was aware of enough sweat pouring off him to irrigate the Sahara Desert.

"A mild heart attack," said Voldemort. "Effective, say not, Draco?"

"You bastard!" swore Draco.

"Indeed," said Voldemort, smiling even more.

"Please, Master," now his Father was on his knees. "I beg of you not to hurt my boy!"

"Silence," hissed Voldemort. "I will hurt whomsoever I desire, Malfoy. If your son happens to be in the way ... well, then that is his problem, say not?"

Draco was still kneeling on the floor, convulsing violently, it looked almost as though he was having some sort of a fit. Ron stared at him in alarm.

Voldemort stepped over to the table with the daggers on it, and selected the largest, pointiest one there. The handle was ornate, gilt, inlaid with sparkling red jewels that might have been rubies, but were probably bits of cut glass. The blade was a thing of beauty. It shimmered in the half-light, tapering to a point so thin, and so sharp, that it hurt just to look at it.

Ron watched as Voldemort walked round to stand between Draco and the statue.

"I choose this instrument of lethality," he whispered. "Because it seems to me the most fitting thing that it should be your demise, Draco. This belonged to your Great-Grandfather, who gave it to me at the moment of his execution. I was a young man then, foolish and naïve, but I could see even then its huge potentiality. And now, its moment of glory is to come to pass."

Draco swallowed. "If you are going to kill me," he said. "Let me die standing upright."

"You are brave and honourable," said Voldemort. "And were I likewise, as you, Draco. I would let you stand before me. However, I have been fooled by such tricks in the past."

Before Draco could do anything, Voldemort's arm had flashed forwards, and the blade plunged straight into Draco's chest, up to the hilt. Warm, thick, crimson blood poured out and down his robes. Voldemort let go of the handle.

"Almighty Slytherin, accept this offering of human blood and flesh that the Tomb might be opened," he muttered, under his breath.

Draco spluttered. He gasped for breath. Breathing seemed to be getting harder. Slowly, he looked up. Voldemort's eyes were inches from his own.

"You killed me," he gasped. "In cold blood."

Voldemort shook his head. "No," he said. "My blood's never cold."

Draco felt no pain. It was pleasantly dreamlike, almost as though he was drifting through space. Almost peaceful. He could barely hear the anguished sobbing of his Father ... he hardly noticed the blood collecting in a pool around his knees, and as a wave of darkness swept over him, he failed to hear the rumbling, grinding sound as the statue opened. And then nothing more.

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

Hermione screamed, and tried to run forwards, but the Death Eaters were on their feet, holding her back, holding her down. And she watched as the statue of the serpent retracted into the ground, and as she looked into the next room, her mouth dropped open.

Standing right in the centre of the room was a huge, stone, sarcophagus. The lid was off, and an unreal red light seemed to be emanating from it. She felt one of the Death Eaters push his staff into the small of her back, and she stumbled forwards, still chained to Harry. They were forced onto the dais. Ron looked up at them; he was shaking uncontrollably. Fred and George were clinging fearfully to each other.

"On your feet," hissed Voldemort. "Stand before the Tomb."

Ron, Fred and George climbed slowly and awkwardly to their feet. Their bare knees and ankles were soaked with blood ... mostly Draco's.

"Master," began Lucius Malfoy, looking up. There were tears pouring down his face. "Please help me."

Voldemort, if he had had the kind of face to display emotion, would have looked very bored indeed, for he sighed mightily. "Your son was not worthy," he said, in a monotone. "It is a pity, but there you go."

Malfoy dropped to his knees next to Draco's corpse. He leant down over the body, and planted the tiniest of kisses on his forehead.

"I always loved you," he said, his voice sounding as though it might crack at any moment. "Whatever may have passed between us. I was always proud."

Hermione would have said something, but didn't think it especially appropriate ... besides, he had that look on his face, pallid, inconsolable. Perhaps he really was telling the truth. Perhaps he really had loved his child, albeit in a twisted, horrible way. Perhaps I had him wrong.

"You are wasting time, Malfoy," said Voldemort, sounding evermore impatient. "The first rays of the sun will strike the altar in two minutes time. For all our sakes, the ceremony must proceed."

"You would take my son away from me?" asked Malfoy, looking up. Voldemort looked stunned, although that probably was not the correct word to describe it.

"Why, yes," said Voldemort. "Human life means nothing to me. I would take the lives of all here if it would further my aims."

"Then perhaps you are not the great man I assumed you to be," said Malfoy, looking up into Voldemort's vile red eyes. "Is there not a shred of humanity remaining in that breast? See what you have reduced me to? See what you have taken away from me?"

Voldemort stepped closer; snarled at Malfoy. "You are wasting my time," he said. "Greater will be my wrath if we delay any longer."

Malfoy wasn't listening. He was cradling Draco's now limp form in his arms, the boy's hair brushing against his chin. He looked tranquil, almost as though he was asleep, but then there was the slashed robe, and the gaping stab wound across his chest.

"Please," he repeated. "Please, Draco. Forgive me."

"Up, Malfoy," Voldemort said again. "You are wasting time," he gestured to the opened Tomb. Sure enough, from some unseen source, a beam of intense light was falling across the floor, illuminating the inscriptions carved into the slabs. Hermione craned closer to see them. They were dates ... dates and names ...

Vladimir Dracula Malfoy - 1468-1545.

Antonius Cassiopeia Malfoy - 1526-1600.

It seemed to be scrolling through a list of names, like a computer screen ...

Temperance Malfoy - 1615-1644

George Arthur Malfoy - 1761-1781

She stared, transfixed as the names were somehow projected onto the back wall. The sunlight was nearing the sarcophagus.

Axminster Malfoy - 1872-1916

"Malfoy! Make haste. It is nearly time!"

The beam of light was slowing ...

Eustace Malfoy - 1925-1988

Draco Malfoy - 1979-1995

It stopped. Draco's name flickered, and then faded. Then a moaning, a low, horrible moaning, seemed to echo around the Tomb. They stood in silence at the doorway, not daring to move.

"Who invokes my power?" a voice asked, an ancient voice, enunciating the words with difficulty, a gritty voice, a voice that had not spoken for generations, a voice which did not belong in the Twentieth Century.

Voldemort straightened up. "It is Lord Voldemort," he said. "I bring sacrifices. I bring resurrection. I bring redemption."

"Say your name," came the voice again.

"Lord Voldemort," he repeated.

"The prophecy cannot be wrong," growled the voice. "The prophecy said: Tom Riddle."

Voldemort scowled, and then spat on the floor. "I do not speak of that name," he said.

"Nevertheless. You are Riddle? I know what you come seeking, Riddle. I have waited a very long time for you. But first, I must be appeased. Bring me the one known as Harry Potter."

"Unchain him," growled Voldemort. The two Death Eaters standing behind Harry and Hermione stepped forwards, and unlocked the manacles binding the children together. Then, seizing Harry by the scruff of his neck, causing him to yelp, they frogmarched the boy into the Tomb, and flung him to the stone floor. Harry landed on all fours.

"Step closer, Harry Potter," the voice growled.

Harry stood up, and brushed dust and dirt off his knees. Hermione put her hand over her mouth. "Harry?"

He turned round, spread his arms wide, and shrugged, a particularly impressive, Gallic shrug that Fleur Delacour would have been proud of. He appeared to be smiling.

"Harry?"

"I have to do it," he said. "I don't know why, I just, I think this is something I've always known I'd have to do."

"Step closer," the voice growled in increasing vexation with the recalcitrant boy.

Harry seemed to be standing there, rooted to the spot. He was not moving a muscle.

"I said, step closer!"

A beam of red light shot across the Tomb, narrowly missing Harry's shoulder. The boy ducked ... Hermione gasped.

"Step closer, or next time, it might be your head."

Harry stepped forwards.

"Keep coming ... towards the sarcophagus."

Harry kept on walking, closer to the stone sarcophagus. It was still casting a red glow around the Tomb, and as he turned around to look back at those still standing by the door, his face was illuminated by the light.

"What force holds you back, Harry Potter? This is your destiny. This is the reason you survived. This is your big exit."

Harry was standing right before the sarcophagus now ... and Hermione was shocked how small he looked, how childlike. He turned round again.

"Climb into the sarcophagus, Harry Potter," said the voice.

Harry stood there for a second, and then clambered, slowly, into the box. Immediately, the red light went out. For a moment all was pitch black, save for the shaft of sunlight which was still falling from the ceiling and nobody could see anything. Then, as suddenly as it had gone, the light was back.

Hermione watched, aghast. Harry seemed to be floating in mid air, suspended a couple of feet above the sarcophagus.

But it didn't seem to be Harry. It was ... yet it looked different. As she peered closer, she could see the faintest threads of light, shooting from the walls at different angles, seemed to be holding his limp form aloft.

Voldemort was looking on with an expression of unmatched joy on his face; he too, appeared to be glowing with light, although whether or not that was just a reflection of what was happening in the Tomb, she could not be sure. Hermione looked to the others. Ron, Fred and George were staring, open mouthed at Harry ... Sirius still had that glazed look in his eyes. Whatever had been in that goblet he had drunk, it was certainly having some kind of effect upon him.

Harry's whole form seemed to glow a bright gold colour, and then he fell back down into the sarcophagus.

"Sirius Black, Hermione Granger," the voice now spoke. "You will draw your daggers, and approach."

One of the Death Eaters pressed a dagger into Hermione's outstretched hand, whilst the other unchained her from the Weasleys ... and almost unconsciously, as if she wasn't actually doing it, she felt her fingers close around the handle.

"Step up to the sarcophagus," said the voice.

Hermione shot a glance at Sirius, who was still staring blankly ahead. She noticed he too was clasping one of the daggers.

Slowly, they stepped into the Tomb, and walked over to the sarcophagus, their bare feet making no noise on the marble floor.

Harry was lying in the sarcophagus, his eyes shut, his hands at his side. He looked as though he were only dreaming.

"Draw your daggers," said the voice. Hermione kept her hand at her side. So did Sirius.

"I repeat."

A light seemed to have flickered on inside Sirius' skull. Gone was the blank look. Hermione's heart leapt.

"Remove the robes," said the voice.

Sirius leant forwards, and put his hand on Harry's shoulder, then he gathered the material in his other hand, and tore it. The material ripped easily, exposing the flesh beneath. Still, Harry seemed to be asleep. Hermione had never seen him like this before. How handsome he looks, she thought, then caught herself.

"Who is to make the primary incision?" the voice said. "I think ... Granger. You will cut the flesh of the boy you love."

Hermione stared upwards. The voice sounded as though it was coming from somewhere up in the ceiling, but the ceiling was so distant, and the Tomb so vast, she could not see anything. She almost wanted to shout out that she did not love him. But now she came to think about it. Perhaps she did ... after all.

Harry's body was bathed in red light once again. He looked like a statue ... the brownish tones of summer's fading tan seemed white and neutral, and his features were ashen.

A pinprick of red light, almost like a laser beam, appeared, illuminating a spot just above Harry's navel. She could sense Sirius' eyes on her.

"Follow the light, Hermione," said the voice.

She looked up at Sirius. His eyes seemed to be saying, 'No,' but his lips formed the words, "Proceed."

She raised the dagger, and placed her hand so that the tip of the blade was resting on Harry's stomach. She watched in fascination as the boy's skin turned white where the pressure was cutting off his capillaries.

Another hand reached out, and touched hers. She took her eyes off Harry's form, and stared upwards. Sirius was leaning over the body. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he winked at her.

"When I give the word," he said. "Fling that dagger across the room ... hard as you can."

"Cut," the voice hissed.

"Now," whispered Sirius.

Hermione jerked her hand upwards, and threw the dagger away. She heard it clatter to the floor in a dark corner somewhere.

A deathly silence had descended across the Tomb. The watchers standing at the door, the congregation, outside in the Chamber ... not a sound could be heard emanating from either.

"What is this blasphemy within my Tomb?" the voice asked. "Riddle? Explain yourself."

Voldemort stepped into the Tomb, and it was only now Hermione could see that he was shaking, almost convulsing ... not through excitement, not through joy, but through cold, mind blowing fear.

"I do not know, Lord Slytherin."

Sirius leant down over the sarcophagus, and gently put his hands underneath Harry's back, lifting him clear of the cold stone, as effortlessly as though the child had been a sack of potatoes. Harry's head flopped backwards. He was still unconscious. Whatever the sarcophagus had done to him, it had knocked him out with it.

"So, Sirius Black," said Voldemort, stopping a few paces away from the three of them, and slowly withdrawing his wand from within the folds of his cloak. "You do seem determined to upset the course of the Ceremony, do you not?"

Sirius scowled. He was still holding Harry in his arms. To Hermione, they looked like some kind of perfume commercial. Tension for Wizards, maybe.

"Your fun and games are over, Voldemort. Why don't you leave the playground, before I make you?"

Voldemort cocked his head to one side. "Such niceties are all very well," he snarled. "But I have always considered them childish. Perhaps it is you who belongs in the playground. At any rate, you should have been dead many years ago. It is only a miracle, ordained by Heaven, that you have lived as long as you have. It is only a miracle that has brought your precious child fifteen years of extra time. Well, now extra time is up, Black. Nobody has won. I believe, that means we go to penalties?"

"Who said anything about Quidditch?" growled Sirius. "You and me, Voldemort. You and me. If I am to die today, then I shall die knowing I did not let you take my Godson from me," he turned to Hermione. "Go!" he hissed.

At these words, the grinding sound started up again, and slowly, the light entering the Tomb from the Chamber outside began fading. The statue was closing up again.

"GO!" roared Sirius.

Hermione did not need telling twice ... she turned on her heels, and ran from the Tomb, enveloping Ron in a hug that nearly knocked him off his feet. The portal slammed shut, and for a second everything was pitch black. Then Voldemort hissed, "Lumos."

The tip of his wand aglow with ethereal light, casting his face in shadow and making him look like some kind of a phantom, Voldemort stepped closer.

Voldemort turned back to Sirius. "How chivalrous. Women and children first. However, you still hold the boy I want. Return him to the sarcophagus, Black, and then continue with the sacrifice."

Sirius shook his head. "I will not," he said.

"Even if you can wake him," said Voldemort. "Which you cannot, he will not know you. The sarcophagus is an energy trap. It drains the body, completely, of everything ... mind, matter and soul. Harry's very being is so depleted, he is as an empty husk. Why don't you put him back in there, and end it for him. He will have no life left if you do not."

"He is stronger than that," said Sirius. "He is not going to be defeated that easily. Neither am I, come to think about it."

"Admirable sentiments," said Voldemort. He stepped closer, his hand outstretched, long bony fingers. He touched Harry lightly on the chest. The skin seemed to crinkle underneath his touch.

"What are you doing?" asked Sirius.

"He is as good as dead, Black," said Voldemort. "I really do suggest you do what is best for him. End his days here, now."

Voldemort's hand moved slowly up Harry's chest, across the breastbone, to the bottom of his neck, leaving a trail of darkened skin. Sirius did nothing.

Voldemort took his hand off Harry, and looked up into Sirius' eyes. "You were drugged," he said. "Why are you resisting it?"

Sirius grinned. "That drug ... that was Dragon's Blood potion, wasn't it?"

Voldemort nodded. "How could you have known?"

Sirius grinned even more broadly. "Dracaena Draco ... the Dragon Tree. Of course. You know, Voldemort, I would have thought your imagination could have stretched to better things. I took so much of that stuff back in the Seventies ... you need more than a thimbleful to get me high. Now, will you let me wake Harry?"

Voldemort seemed to be considering the question. Then, to Sirius' great surprise, he nodded. "Wake him," he said. "You will see I am right."

Sirius knelt down on the floor, and placed Harry on the cold stones. His body seemed to react against the chill sensation. Sirius looked up. Voldemort was standing over them both, his wand clasped so tightly in his hand that his knucklebones were clearly visible.

"You have my word I will not strike a man on the floor," said Voldemort, softly, his red eyes aglow with internal fire.

Sirius placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, and gently nudged him. "Harry," he whispered. "Harry ... wake up."

"That won't work," snarled Voldemort, the contempt in his voice painfully evident. "Wake him."

Sirius bent closer over Harry's prone form, brushed his thick hair out of his eyes, exposing the scar. Lightly, he touched the scar. Harry's breathing seemed to be getting stronger. His chest was rising and falling again.

His eyes flickered open. But Sirius saw immediately that they were not Harry's eyes. The boy looking up at him was confused, scared, and not a glimmer of recognition flashed across his face. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but not a sound came out.

"What have you done to him?" asked Sirius, restraining Harry as the boy tried to sit up.

"It is not what I have done," said Voldemort, "but what the sarcophagus has done. If you and the Mudblood Hermione had sacrificed him as I had asked, this would not have happened. The energy transfer would have been complete."

Sirius dropped to the floor, next to Harry, who was struggling to break free of his Godfather's grip. He felt like crying, and he could see tears pouring down Harry's face.

"Please, keep still," he whispered. Then he looked up at Voldemort. "Energy transfer. What is that?"

Voldemort smiled. "Do not make the mistake of thinking, Black, that I am strong enough to survive on my own. I still need to drink Nagini's poison every day, and I need the energy of living men to sustain me. That is how I have lived these last few years since my resurrection. Every new victim a source of sustaining energy for me, until such time as I am strong enough to survive without them. Do you have any idea what it is like not to have eaten anything for fourteen years?"

Sirius shook his head.

"If you could know, if you had any idea how hungry I am, you would sympathise with me," said Voldemort. "I crave food, Black. I have not eaten since 1981. I could even tell you what my last meal was."

Sirius scowled. "A pity it didn't kill you," he said.

"Well, admittedly, until recently, when I was in my spirit form, I did not need to eat. But I still felt hunger. It was as if someone was punishing me."

"Perhaps they were."

Voldemort shook his head. "If they were, it hasn't worked," he said. "And so I have lived off the energy of the men who have died ... Bryce, the Muggle gardener, Bertha Jorkins, Cedric Diggory. Even Harry here ... I was halfway through the transfer. It only needed his death to complete the link. A link you have now succeeded in breaking. It is nothing, you understand, I will not need feeding again for at least a week."

"You disgust me," Sirius scowled.

"I'm so glad," said Voldemort. "You know, Black. This sarcophagus was built by Slytherin himself, a thousand years ago, for just this purpose, for the energy transfer. It was all prophesised, you see? Everything was written down."

"Everything?" asked Sirius.

Voldemort nodded. "The sarcophagus uses the very ancient magic present in the earth in this region. It creates a link between my body and the body within it, and the energy of the victim is transferred into me, along," he added, looking scornfully at Harry, "with some of his memories, thoughts, wants and desires."

"Magic, in the earth?" said Sirius. "You mean Ley Lines, right?"

Voldemort nodded. "Naxcivan is the epicentre of all the Leys in the world," he said. "They radiate out from a point some five miles distant, at the top of Devil's Spine. We are standing on one of the most powerful Leys. It runs northwest from here, connecting the two most powerful magical sites in the world. The magical source that lies underneath Devil's Spine, and the identical source that lies underneath Hog's Head Mountain, in England. The two most powerful magical sites on this world, and portals to many others, and we are standing on the line that connects them. Imagine it, Sirius Black. Imagine the raw magic arcing through the earth."

"The mother lode," said Sirius. "Of course. I had heard tale it existed, but I never believed it."

"Believe it, Black. You stand upon it now. The Diagonal Ley. All magic is connected, Black. You have only to seek the source, as Slytherin himself did. The source revealed tremendous things to him, even though none of us can ever know just what it is. And he had this built, all for us, all for what was to come to pass today."

"You knew this was going to happen?" asked Sirius.

"Not until recently," replied Voldemort. "Divination is an imprecise science. However, with the translation of the runes upon the doorway to Slytherin's last resting place, and Malfoy's excellent detective work in the region, the puzzle all fell into place, and I saw that it was my destiny. It had all been written ... the attack on Harry's parents ... your escape from Azkaban ... our meeting in the graveyard last Summer. It was all foretold. Now, one thing still puzzles me. Beyond this day, nothing more is forecast. Slytherin's writings become vague."

"Perhaps it means you lose, Voldemort," hissed Sirius. Harry was staring frantically around the Tomb. He had stopped struggling, but he still maintained the air of a startled fawn.

"I think not," said Voldemort. "I believe the information is contained within Harry's head. This is why I seek him now. After all, he is the one remaining heir of Slytherin, apart from myself."

"What about the Malfoys?" asked Sirius, casting his eyes over to the exit. I would give a lot of money to know what is happening out there, he thought.

"The Malfoys? Distantly related," said Voldemort. "The Potters, closely related. Malfoy serves a purpose, but really, he is a sideline."

"How do you mean, closely related?" asked Sirius. "Malfoy said he would use Draco's blood ... that Draco was the Heir ...."

"That might have worked," said Voldemort. "Certainly the death of Draco provided enough blood for the Tomb to open. Perhaps it would have worked. However, it would have been more effective with Harry's blood. That was going to be the next stage of the plan. We would have collected his blood, after you had killed him, and offered it up to the dragon gargoyle, and then ... who knows? As it is, you have rather ruined everything."

"So Harry is related to Slytherin? To you?"

Voldemort grinned. "It is what makes Harry and I the most powerful wizards this world has, or will ever know. The bloodlines become confused in the mists of time, but what is for certain, is that the Gryffindors and the Slytherins intermarried, at some point in medieval times. Harry and I are the two remaining male heirs of this union. The Malfoys are merely a branch of the family, for all their preaching about purity of blood, they are Potters, at the end of the day. Of course, technically it makes Harry and Draco very distant cousins. Very distant indeed."

"It also makes you ..."

"Oh, do come on, Black," said Voldemort. "You mean to tell me you had not worked it out for yourself?"

"Worked out what?" asked Sirius.

"I, too, am one of his cousins," said Voldemort. "But we are the last ones left. There are no more. When I have the information I seek, Harry will die, and then there will be only me. And I will know the secrets that will permit me to consolidate my long overdue power."

"You're mad," snapped Sirius.

"Regrettably," nodded Voldemort. "Now, do you return Harry to the sarcophagus? I assure you, it would be better for him ..."

He stopped, short.

"Listen."

There was a long, low rumbling. Voldemort stared up at the ceiling. The whole room seemed to be shaking.

"Earthquake?" asked Sirius. Harry whimpered in fear, and wrapped his arms around his Godfather.

Voldemort shook his head. "Sunrise," he hissed. "Black ... I have underestimated you. You have kept me talking all this time, and now we have missed the crucial hour."

Sure enough, the beam of light falling from the ceiling had hit the dragon gargoyle, and now it seemed to be getting bigger. Both men looked up ... the ceiling above them seemed to retract, again with that same grinding noise of stone upon stone, of ancient machinery working centuries old joists and wheels. A piercing beam of light flooded into the Tomb. All three of them blinked in the sudden rush of brightness. Now, looking up, Sirius could see the red, fiery sun rising into the crystal clear morning sky. The altar began to tremble, and the sarcophagus to shake. Voldemort grabbed onto Sirius' robe in panic.

"It cannot be allowed to happen this way!" Voldemort yelled at the top of his voice. Masonry and bits of stonework were coming crashing down, splintering the beautifully laid marble flooring into thousands of tiny pieces. "This cannot be how it was forecast."

The rumbling ceased, as suddenly as it had begun. The dust began to settle. Harry was crying, burying his face in Sirius' arms. From the other side of the portal could be heard screams, shouts, and running footsteps.

Voldemort turned to Sirius. "Now," he said. "Give me Harry. I can still make this work. There must still be time ... the Lazarus Potion. The Army of the Dead!"

Sirius scowled. "We already went over this," he sighed. "The answer is no."

And then another voice spoke. Loud, booming, it echoed around the Tomb like gunshot, and both of them realised it was the voice they had heard earlier.

"That will not be necessary. As you can see, I am back," smirked Salazar Slytherin.

END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER TWELVE ... GAME OVER ...