An Unlikely Coven

*

Something wasn't right.

Even the blanket of blissful unconsciousness couldn't keep that dreadful, cold feeling from Harry Potter.

Too bad, he thought, as he drifted up from the blackness of sleep. I really need that rest these days. It figures, every time I manage to push everything out of my brain to catch a few winks, one- or both- of two things wake me up.

It's either Hermione, or Linda. The only two things that are so important, so dear to me, that I can't sleep without knowing that they're okay.

Harry opened his eyes, and looked next to him. Sure enough, Hermione was awake, and obviously distressed. She never was able to fall asleep at times when she was worried, and this was one of those times. She was staring at him, her eyes full of.....what? They were wide open, deep brown pools of worry, despair, and a certain kind of wonderment.

"Hey....." he said quietly, blinking sleep from his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Harry, I'd think that by now it would be obvious what's wrong," she returned snappishly. She was grumpy, and tired. "It's just that, I don't know, my fifteen year old daughter is supposed to go off and save the world, defeating Lord Nilock, without knowing a lick of sorcery, that's all! I'd think that you, as her father, would be just a little bit more concerned! For God's sake, this is out daughter, not just some random kid that happens to be all-powerful! And you're able to sleep, not thinking a thing about it! Do you even know what it's like to worry about this?" She was bordering on hysterical by now.

"Hermione. I am concerned. More than you imagine. Don't you think that I, of all people, understand what she's going through?" Harry was wide awake by now. "Do you know how hard it is to make yourself sleep? To force yourself to drift off, because you know you'll need all the strength you can get to help your daughter through this? Linda might be a great witch, but she won't get anywhere without our help. And two sleep-deprived adults are going to be of no use to her. Hermione, I'm not sleeping out of selfishness. I'm sleeping because I have to help Linda."

"Oh, God....." Hermione whispered softly. Tears began to roll down her face. "I can't believe this is happening again....."

"Shhh. We're all going to be fine, I promise." He took her in his arms and held her tightly, feeling her hot tears go through the thin cotton of his shirt, soaking his shoulder. "Everything will work out in the end."

"Harry, that's what you said to me almost twenty years ago, and it didn't all work out nice and neat," Hermione shuddered as a fresh wave of tears came over her. "We merely prolonged it, and now look where we are. We're putting our own flesh and blood in danger." She buried her face in his shoulder once again.

"It's all different now. We were kids back then," he said, smoothing her hair. "We're thirty-six years old now, not seventeen. And even if we haven't been in contact with our own kind for some time, it's all going to be different. Better," he added, as he noticed that her crying was starting to subside. "We can handle this. I promise, no one will get hurt. Least of all, Linda. Or you, or me, or anyone."

"I love you," she said, drying her eyes.

"I love you, too," he replied, tilting her face up to his and kissing her.

"I was thinking," Hermione said quietly, after the kiss had been broken. "I was thinking about, you know, when this whole this started." She settled back against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "And how naïve we were. Believing that Voldemort really had given up."

"Believing that the Dark Side really had gone away," Harry responded thoughtfully. "God, how wrong were we?" he asked rhetorically, planting kisses along her jawline.

"Dead wrong." She caught one on the lips. "At least we're alive."

"I know." He wrapped his arms around her protectively. "Go to sleep. I'm serious. Let me do all the worrying for now. Just try to rest." He squeezed her to him.

"Yeah, maybe I'll try....." Hermione, now sharing some of the weight of the burden with Harry, was finally growing drowsier. "It's almost one o' clock in the morning, I've got to....." she trailed off, finally falling asleep.

Thank God, Harry thought, she'll finally be able to rest. I didn't know she was that overwhelmed by all this.

It's unbelievable, all the pressure she puts on herself. She always has- she must be genetically predisposed to perfectionism. Back at school, all those marks over a hundred percent. Studying, studying, studying. She almost didn't have time for an actual life. It was hell trying to get her to leave the common room to go out and have fun once in a while. And that whole episode with Voldemort and Creevey in our seventh year.....the girl actually thought that it was her fault. Not being strong enough to help me defeat the Dark Wizards. Talk about a nervous breakdown.

She's loosened up over the years. If anything good- well, besides Linda, of course- has come out of all this, it's been that. She's able to release herself from all the pressures of the world- Muggle and Wizard- and just relax. It's amazing, the difference between her past and present self. She's a much more pleasant person when she isn't worrying about everything. She's happy, staying at home, writing down whatever indiscrepant idea comes into her mind, not pushing herself to excel.

That's the main reason why I love my job. Sure, there's a certain appeal in computers- the way they work is almost magic, really- but, it's reassuring to know that she isn't tearing her hair out in some cubicle in the city. I can almost guarantee that if Hermione ever got a job at some corporation, she'd be working eighteen-hour days, trying to get herself to the top of the heap. The stress would be positively terrible. She'd destroy herself, almost like she did during our third year, with that damn Time-Turner. I can't let that happen to her. It would kill her, and in turn, kill me, too. Whatever hurts her hurts me, too. I know, it's a corny sentiment, but that's how much I love her.

Stress has never been a problem for me, particularly. I worked so hard for so many years- the eighteen-hour days, putting every single penny we had into that company- in order to settle her mind. She doesn't have to worry about how much money we have, whether or not we can afford certain things. We're definitely in one of the more desirable tax brackets. And she can just be happy. She can write for hours on end. Sit and talk with Linda for almost an entire day, about anything. Wear crazy clothes, float around Carlton Boulevard looking like some sort of gypsy. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters to me, except the happiness of my wife and daughter.

Well, maybe the future of the world. I guess that matters, too.

This, however, is going to screw it all up. I saw it tonight- Linda fainted dead away when it all hit her, what she and Joey and Bobby are going to have to do. She's always been like Herm when it comes to responsibilities- constantly driving herself to succeed, to do better.

Ten years of straight A's.

Music camps, making the state music festival four years in a row, each time with a different instrument.

Putting on her goaltending equipment at seven o'clock at night- "Daddy, please, just until nine! I need to practice! How else do you expect me to get better?"; getting herself up at five in the morning to go to the skating rink for practice; running miles and miles, never slowing down.

The only seventh-grader to play three varsity sports. Probably the only student whose parents spent every field hockey game, ice hockey game, and track meet praying to God that their daughter didn't get trampled. Even though she'll be a sophomore next year, Herm and I always keep our wands ready- she's still only about five feet tall.

Fortunately, she's got enough of my irresponsibility and- ah, disregard for rules, as Dumbledore put it- to keep herself sane. To keep a good sense of humor about it all.

It's amazing, how Linda embodies the best qualities of myself and Hermione. She's this little ball of energy, never slowing down. And God knows she has brains.

Hermione shifted closer to him in her sleep. We know where her brains come from, at least, Harry thought, smiling to himself.

"Stay asleep a little longer. Please. You need it, Herm," he whispered, looking down at her. If this is anything like last time, she's going to need it.....

"Potter."

Harry Potter turned around. Who would dare interrupt Professor Binns' lecture on recent major developments in the wizarding world?

Maybe it was someone that wanted to make fun of him. Harry grimaced as this thought occurred to him. As the students at Hogwarts progressed through the years, their History of Magic studies became more and more recent. Unfortunately, as seventh years, the students learned about the latest wave of the Dark Arts- its rise and fall. Subsequently, Harry Potter had to learn about himself. As did the rest of his class, a double block of Slytherins and Gryffindors. How he, at the age of one, had broken the Dark Lord's power, and caused the downfall of the Dark Arts.

Of course, it was the general opinion of all that the textbooks would soon be replaced. Bathilda Bagshot was already said to be hard at work on A History of Magic, Volume 2: After You-Know-Who.

It had been a week since Voldemort had committed suicide. One glorious week of celebration throughout the wizarding world. Finally, the chains that had bound all witches and warlocks to the Dark period of the 1970s, the chains that forced everyone to say 'You-Know-Who', even years after his downfall, had finally rusted away.

Ah, but the links of the chain are still there, aren't they, Harry?

Where did that come from? he thought frantically. It wasn't Parseltongue; he now knew what that sounded like. It hadn't even been a noise; it was a thought, a flash across his brain. A temporary distraction from the musty classroom where he'd been sitting for the last hour, the lecture he'd been listening to for just as long.

It's been a long hour. It's been an embarrassing lecture. I didn't get much sleep last night.

I must be hallucinating. Yes, that's it.

"Potter!" The voice he'd heard earlier was calling him again, more insistent this time.

Harry, with an exasperated sigh, turned around. "What?" he said to no one in particular, earning him a poke from Hermione's quill.

"Harry, if Binns hears you, he's going to kill you," she whispered incredibly quietly.

"I know," he said, "but hang on....."

Suddenly, a piece of parchment sailed over his shoulder, and almost landed in Hermione's inkpot.

Harry picked it up, and uncrumpled it.

Potter: Wait outside the classroom when Binns's lecture is over. I have to talk to you. No smart-ass remarks, either. It's very important. Trust me. -D.M.

Hermione leaned over the desk in order to get a better view of the note. She scribbled on a piece of extra parchment:

What does Malfoy want with you?

She pressed a finger to her lips, indicating that they stay quiet.

I don't know, but I'm guessing that I'll find out.

Harry looked over his shoulder at Draco Malfoy- he was sitting in his seat, with the same glazed-over expression on his face that was present on everyone else. Was it really he that wrote the note?

It has to be, Harry thought. That's Malfoy's handwriting, down to the uneven letters.

I wonder what he wants.....

*

"What does he want with us? Why us, why now?"

Draco Malfoy stared out the window of 29 Carlton Boulevard, at the backyard of number 27. Bobby Weasley had long since fallen asleep on the grass; Linda Potter was wearily staring up at the stars, being too tired to do much else.

But his own son, there was a different story.

Joey Malfoy was wide awake (no doubt in thanks to his favorite beverage- coffee, which went with him everywhere), and still going strong with the light show. It had dwindled somewhat, as Bobby and Linda had stopped putting their energy into it, but it was still there. Joey had progressed from simple collisions and obscene writings, and was now inscribing the lyrics to Pink Floyd's "Brain Damage" in electric purple across the sky.

Draco had to smile at his son's choice of philosophy. Even as a boy at Hogwarts, even with the standard Malfoy hatred of Muggles instilled in him, he'd always held an admiration for Muggle music, Pink Floyd in particular.

Joey's first CD had been Dark Side of the Moon. Father and son could spend hours on end, debating whether or not Roger Waters had intentionally set up the album to be in total sync with The Wizard of Oz. Joey would deny it to his last breath; Draco, being more enlightened in terms of the supernatural, argued that it had to be. How else to explain the Munchkins dancing in perfect synchronicity with "Us and Them"?

And if the dam breaks open many years too soon

And if there is no room upon the hill

That's the way it always had been, with Draco. Raised by Lucius and Damina Malfoy, he'd always had to be mature beyond his years, exhibit a certain carelessness when it came to emotions. And yet, there was no room in the lives of either of his parents for him. Damina, always off at society parties; Lucius, too busy dealing in Knockturn Alley and lending himself to Voldemort to even notice Draco was there. There was no room on the theoretical Malfoy hill for Draco.

And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

Except, of course, when Lucius needed his little protégé of the Dark Arts to show off at League of Darkness meetings. Draco was considered, among his father's group of friends, to be the perfect vessel for the implementation of the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. A son of Lucius Malfoy, in the same year as Harry Potter? The situation couldn't have been more perfect if they'd planned it, which Draco often suspected they had. His parents had been married for ten years before his birth, and he was a few months younger than Harry. He didn't doubt that Lucius and Damina had planned the birth of their son to coincide with the birth of the Potters' son.

Draco hated being taken to those meetings. He hated knowing what horrible things Voldemort and his cronies were up to. He hated knowing what the fate of certain Light witches and wizards were. He hated being a Dark Wizarding apprentice.

He knew that all Malfoys had been evil, twisted even; far be it from him to break with tradition. But.....there was always something in him that prevented him from soaking up the spells they taught him, from converting himself to their ways. For deep inside Draco Malfoy, there was a tiny seed of Light magic. He'd always attributed this to the fact that his mother's third cousin had been a Gryffindor while at Hogwarts- there must have been something good on her side of the family, at least.

He'd felt like he was going insane. Like his head was exploding. But, he persevered. He'd gone to the meetings, but ultimately turned his knowledge to his advantage, even if it did mean making nice with Potter.

"Malfoy, what do you want?"

Draco Malfoy tossed his silver-blond hair out of his face. God, he needed a haircut. "I need to talk to you."

"I gathered that, from that note." Harry Potter eyed him suspiciously. "What is it that you want to do to me this time?"

Draco let out an exasperated sigh. "Believe me, it's nothing I want to do to you. Rather, it's a matter of what someone else wants to do to you."

"And by someone else, you mean, who? Crabbe? Goyle? Professor Snape?" Harry snapped.

"Potter. Would you please stop assuming that I want you dead for about five minutes while I say what I have to say?" Draco rolled his eyes. "For the love of God, why do you and your little friends always think that I'm the bad guy behind everything?"

"Malfoy, you usually are," Harry pointed out. "Let's see, where would you like me to begin? You were the one that tattled on us to Filch in our first year instead of actually fighting me, you were the one that desperately wanted the Chamber of Secrets opened in our second year, and I'm not even going to go into the hippogriff fiasco....."

"All right, all right, I get the point," Draco replied, somewhat sheepishly. "True, I've done those things. But you have to believe me when I tell you this, I'm not trying to get you killed this time."

"What is it, Malfoy? What is it that you have to act so damn secretive about it? I only have a few minutes, you know- I promised Hermione that I'd meet up with her in the Common Room-"

"Okay, okay, spare me the details," Draco said quickly. "You're going to think that I'm crazy, but I'm not. Voldemort isn't dead, Harry."

The lunatic is in the hall, the lunatics are in my hall.....

"Funny, Malfoy. Really, I'm amused," Harry said impatiently.

"Really, Potter, I'm serious. Well, his body is dead, but, well, his powers aren't."

The lunatic is in my head, the lunatic is in my head.....

"Draco, what are you talking about?" Harry was looking at Malfoy like he'd finally gone 'round the bend.

"Listen to me," Draco pleaded desperately. "Voldemort's body is dead. That's a fact. But his powers are still alive and well. Thriving, even. There's a spell, or a potion, I think- it transmits the powers of a dead wizard to a living one. Voldemort had it done to him before he committed suicide. Same with some of his followers. Soon, we'll be hearing about a sudden rash of suicides among Dark Arts followers. That's them. Voldemort's powers are still alive, in another body."

You lock the door/ and throw away the key.....

Harry took a deep breath. "Okay, Malfoy. How do you know about all of this? And who is this person that now has all this Dark power?"

"Are you forgetting who my father is?" Draco's eyes were wide, pleading with Harry to believe what he was saying. "I know all about this. Listen, you're not going to believe me, but this person? It's Creevey. Colin Creevey."

There's someone in my head but it's not me.....

Harry snorted. "Impossible. Creevey doesn't have enough brains to be a Dark Wizard."

Draco shushed him. "Do you realize that he could hear you? Creevey was so put off by the fact that he was, well, not you, that he sought refuge in the Dark Arts. Do you have any idea how pleased Voldemort and his flunkies were to have such a willing disciple in their hands? And in such close proximity to you? They were going to make me do it, but I.....can't. I can't do anything like that. I'm not evil.

"I may not like you much, Potter, but you don't deserve to die."

Harry was almost speechless. "But....but....."

"I'm not kidding. Do you think I'm sick enough to joke about this? Right now, that scrawny little sixth year has all the strength, the powers, the intelligence of Voldemort, and some of his followers, that he could squash the school flat. Of course, he won't do that just yet."

"Malfoy, what are we supposed to do about this?" Harry, no longer disbelieving, threw his hands up in the air.

"I don't know, Potter. I really don't know," Draco said quietly.

And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes

I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

*