When The Stars Come Out To Play

when the stars come out to play

- farewell to summer -

The interior of the carriage was dark, the thick velvet drapes drawn over the windows and shutting off the world outside. Only the soft clopping of the horses' hooves intruded on the measured silence.

"Son," the voice murmured, a slow and confident drawl, "we expect great things of you this year. You must not let us down."

Head bowed, tawny locks stained dark in the shadows, the boy returned softly, "Yes, Father." His frame was still gangly, the look of an adolescent yet to grow fully into his body. However, the patrician set of his nose, the mellow calmness of his voice: all indicated great things. Or at least that was what the mirror told him, when he peered at the acne that freckled his chin. And that was what his father told him, whenever they spoke.

"Last year, your Dark Arts marks were found wanting. And the Rosier boy-"

"I know, Father." His clipped tones were just barely deferential, bordering on annoyance. "You've worn the point to exhaustion already. I'm aware of what's expected of me."

"As well you should be." Julian Malfoy steepled his fingers, pursing his lips. "I'm very proud of you, I hope you know. Achieving the status of Head Boy is no simple feat, and I've letters from many of your professors all praising your conduct as a prefect. Your grades are excellent, your ability even more so. You have yet to let us down, Lucius."

His son glanced up quickly, and knew from his father's frown that the compliment served also as a warning. Do so, it said to him, and your disgrace will be irreparable.

"I do my best," he said, leaning back against the seat.

"Yes," Julian agreed, though disapproval stirred in his eyes. He was never satisfied, but that was the way of things. "You will be taking control of the Malfoy property when you come of age," he added; the same instructions had been told to Lucius each year. "Between your graduation and the time of your eighteenth birthday, I expect you to familiarize yourself with the Ministry. Managing a fortune is no child's play. I expect you to be prepared."

Lucius glanced out the window, cool indifference in his gaze. "As you say."

"You are excited about your seventh year," said the elder man, what might have been an indulgent smile barely quirking his lips. "I can see it in your eyes. You expect great things of this year, don't you?"

"I - it's seventh year," Lucius stammered, as if that could explain it all. "It-"

"Holds promise, yes. The very crux of youth, that powerful drug singing in your veins. It makes you wish - and perhaps even believe - you could seize the world."

"'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying,'" came the soft quotation.

Julian smiled wryly. "I did not take the time from my schedule and conduct you to Hogwarts so I could hear you recite childish poetry, Lucius. Come now." Holding up his watch, he inspected the magically glowing numbers. "We're almost to school. Mind you, if I hear any reports similar to that of last spring, if I hear tell that you are keeping excessive company with Evan Rosier-" He let the sentence remain unfinished. "I expect to receive a letter from you soon."

Lucius' eyes flared at mention of Rosier, but he did not speak. As if he did not trust his voice, he did but nod.

"Look at me, son." Julian reached out and gently touched the boy beneath his chin, raising his head so their gazes touched. "I know how it is, Lucius. I was there. You have made it this far, and I know you will continue to make me proud."

"Thank you, Father," Lucius whispered, but smiled bravely at his father's words. "Th-thank you for not sending me to Durmstrang."

"If I felt your education could be furthered at that institution, I would have. As it stands, Durmstrang's name is deeply disgraced in connection with Grindelwald, and Hogwarts remains the same trusted establishment."

"Father." Lucius took a breath, eyes seeking out the form of his father in the shadows. "Why - why did you not join Grindelwald? Everyone says-"

His father's lips tightened noticeably, even in the darkness; his breath hissed as he inhaled. "Never question me, Lucius. Never. And know what you ask when you ask it. Never ask someone for something you do not want to hear."

Lucius bowed his head as the carriage rattled to a halt; he could feel his heart and the contents of his stomach lurch forward as the horses stopped. He put his hand on the handle of the door.

"What everyone says does not affect me, nor should it affect you. I did not support Grindelwald because he was a fool: a mad, deranged fool. You do not place undue power in the hands of a lunatic, Lucius. You must know that." Quietly, "Years ago, dark lords were men to be feared and respected. Not only because of their power, either: they were great, Lucius. Their control, that was it. The control. And now the world belongs to Muggles and madmen."

"I will do my best for you, Father," Lucius murmured, and slipped out into the momentarily blinding sunlight.

Familiar stone greeted him; the lush green of Hogwarts' grounds spread all about, the peaks towering around him. To his right lay the Quidditch pitch, and beyond that the Forbidden Forest. The simple view of the castle left him breathless with excitement. He was seized with an inexplicable urge to twirl in exultation.

"I'm home!" He wanted to shout it; here, among the sun-warmed stone and the lofty towers, racing on the breeze with the scent of freshly cut grass, with the glimmering sight of the lake, this was what made his blood stir.

"Here you are," the driver said cautiously, voice catching Lucius' attention. His things had been piled beside him: his trunk and his Potions ingredients, his new robes and his books, but most importantly his Head Boy badge.

Lucius nodded once, and the man clambered back to his station. A curtain had been brushed back within the carriage and a thin ray of light bit through the darkness to illuminate a patch of velvet cushion; one worn hand was visible against the window, a farewell.

Raising his hand in return, Lucius could not help but smile. The last he would see of his father for months!

"Where to, sir?" The disfigured form of a house-elf stood beside him, measuring at best to his knee.

"Seventh year Slytherin dormitories." He glanced down once at the disgusting creature, which was attempting to levitate Lucius' things. He knew of the house elves' magic through the demonstrations that he had seen at home, although his father kept his servants on a strict rein. With hardly a backward glance, trusting imperiously for his things to be sent to the proper place, he set off towards the lake.

It was a habit of his family - and many other Pureblood families - to accompany their children to school in a private means of transportation. The train, some liked to point out, was tainted with Muggles and run by Squibs. None of the Slytherin boys objected, as it gained them extra time before the Sorting. Lucius could already see several figures collecting by the lake.

If I hear tell that you are keeping excessive company with Evan Rosier…

Lucius smiled wryly. Ever since the truculent boy had sneaked to Hogsmeade - with the other Slytherin sixth year boys in tow - and maneuvered his way into obtaining alcohol, the parents of all concerned had been alarmed. You liked Rosier well enough when you wanted to marry me to his sister, Lucius thought. And I'm sure you've had your share of illegal drinking to begin with.

Of course, Rosier seemed to seek out trouble the way Bludgers found players; nevertheless, he was a friend.

"'What crowd is this? What have we here!'" Lucius cupped his hands around his mouth, lanky legs carrying him down the slope towards his companions. "'We must not pass it by; a telescope upon its frame and pointed to the sky!'"

The crowd of boys jostled him as he joined them. The trees were silhouetted against the skyline, tracing proud shadows into the trembling, smokescreen sky. Turning leaves, gold tipped and laced with crimson, now fluttered on the breeze.

"Lucius!" came the overall shout, as they crowded around him. "Did you just arrive? How was your summer? Why didn't you owl me?"

"Here we are," Lucius declared in an evasive response and spread his arms, a wide grin slipping across his lips. "Seventh year. Our last."

"And that warrants your spouting of poetry at us?" the youth beside him retorted, elbowing him. Lucius chuckled.

"Rosier, when will you learn? The finer things in life deserve proper enjoyment. Shall I recite more?" The most teasing flicker of amusement promised to quirk his lips. "'Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat. Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.'"

The smallest of the group, Francis Clemente, was sitting with his back against the towering tree. He merely smiled as the others laughed, fingers restlessly braiding a few slips of grass from the lakeside. The wind fluttered the edges of his robes.

"As I was saying-"

"Shut up, Lucius, you talk too much." Grinning widely, sleeves rolled to his elbows, Walden leaned casually against their tree. "I hereby announce the onset of seventh year, which as we all know is destined to be the best year of our lives." He quirked an eyebrow slyly. "So far, as it happens. To the beginning of the rest of life, gentlemen." Walden Macnair raised his hand with an imaginary glass, and the others clinked and sipped wryly.

"You're out of your head, Wally. Hey, I heard Parris came back. Is that true?"

"Ol' Parris? Back?" Rosier's eyes lit up. "If you're lying, Lawrence, you're a dirty bastard."

"I don't know!" Lawrence protested. "I heard, that's all."

Lucius proffered a hand to Francis, who allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. "Let's check," he said practically, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Come on, we've got to be back for the Sorting anyway."

Wally shook his head, grinning. "Says who? Forget the Sorting. We've got bigger things to do."

"Enough for you to say. Dippet likes you."

"Senile old man likes anyone who'll smile at him."

Francis spoke up at last, scratching the back of his neck. "Didn't you hear? Dippet's gone; the Deputy's Headmaster now. Professor Dumbledore. Think they'll make Parris the new Deputy?" He trotted to keep up with their restless striding. "Lucius?"

"I reckon," he said slowly, "it'll be McGonagall. She's practical and talks to Dumbledore all the time. He doesn't like Parris."

"Five galleons on that," Wally called, jingling the contents of his pockets. "Eh? You scared?"

Lucius chuckled. "Of a bet with you? Scared of Arthur Weasley is more likely. You've got the worst luck this side of the world." The sky was a hazy indigo and cream, lines etched with graphite into the horizon. "Here, we'll go straight to dinner and see if Parris is there. I want to hear Dumbledore's speech, anyway."

"I'm after those galleons," Wally yelled as he jogged after Lucius; they sped laughing up the hillside towards their school, and the windows were just beginning to glow against early evening. The backdrop of the sky was expansive and everlasting, the sounds of their voices but whispers against the canvas of the world.

= = = = =

"All right!"

Lucius was laughing, legs slung over the side of the chair, leather bound book nestled in his lap. Wally strode toward him threateningly. "Pay up!"

The tall blonde blinked innocently, affecting a worried tone. "You wouldn't take the last coins in this poor soul's possession?"

A snort. "Now if you were red-haired and freckled and your robes were threadbare, I might believe you. As it is, you're no Weasley, you're the single heir to a fucking fortune, and I demand you give me my share."

Lucius reached lazily into his pocket and withdrew a jingling stack of gold. "Here you are, Wal, and I'm only paying because Parris is back, and that's enough reward for me."

"What's that you say? Walden Macnair actually won a bet?" Both boys looked up to the skeptical face of Professor Ernest Parris as he entered and moved towards them, his easy smile lighting up the common room. "Who would have thought? I go away for a year and the rules of the universe turn upside down."

Wally grinned. "Betting on you, Professor. I had faith in you all along. Don't blame me if he switches allegiances to McGonagall."

Parris chuckled. "Never doubted you either, Wally. Good to see you boys."

"Professor!" Lawrence trampled down the stairs into the common room and nearly skipped towards the cluster. "You're back!" He proffered a hand, which was shaken with a good-natured grin.

"Lawrence Lestrange. Well, well. Indeed I am, and glad to be." Parris leaned on the back of Lucius' chair as the seventh year boys clustered around him. "Now, where's the rest of you?"

"Oy, Francis!" Wally took a step towards the stairs leading to the seventh year dorms, hands cupped about his mouth. "Parris is here!" Wryly turning back to them, he added, "Rosier's off romancing already. Can you believe it?"

"What's hard to believe is the fact the girls'll tolerate him," Lawrence laughed, as Francis descended and joined his friends. "So tell us, Professor, where were you while we were lamenting your absence? There were rumors you were in Spain and France and Russia and even the States. Someone said you took a trip down to Antarctica."

Parris laughed. "Nothing so exotic. I was in London for the most part, actually."

"London!"

"Whatever for?"

"Why weren't you teaching?"

"Why'd you come back?"

The Slytherin Head of House held up a hand, shaking his head amusedly. "You boys are insatiable. I was with an old friend, to be honest. But I'm back now." Mock sternly, "And tolerating no pranks this time, you understand?"

"'Course we understand," Wally grinned. He swooped over Lucius' shoulder and grabbed the book. "Will you stop reading? Professor Parris is here."

Parris smiled. "Nothing's changed, has it? I'm glad, boys. You know where my office is, should you ever need anything."

"We know where your alcohol stores are, too." Wally grinned ebulliently, jostling Lucius so he could sit on the arm of the chair. He twisted to wink at their professor, and the others laughed. "You know. Just in case we 'ever need anything.'"

"Right. You behave yourselves, now." Parris shouldered his jacket and strode off with a jaunty wave, disappearing out the door and into the shadows. After a short moment, he popped his head back in. "By the way? I don't want to be Deputy. Talked to Professor Dumbledore after dinner, and he's going to appoint Professor McGonagall."

He left Wally and Lucius tussling over the coins as he stepped, grinning, into the hall.

"Bet he came back just for us." Lawrence grinned, settling down on the couch and resting his feet on the table. "Don't you think, Francis? Oh, leave them alone, someone'll get a black eye and they'll feel ridiculous. Come on - Wally, will you let go of his ear?"

Francis seized the money and Lucius' tie in the process. "He appointed Parris first, so Wally can have three, and Lucius gets two since now it's McGonagall. All right?"

"Ever the diplomat, Francis." Lucius tousled his hair fondly, and sat up. "So wha-" He dropped off as the door slammed open, admitting a furious Evan Rosier. "Ros? You all right there?"

"You know how much we hate Weasley?"

"We don't actually-" Francis began, but Lawrence shushed him with a hand over his mouth and a muffled, "Not the time," whisper. The group nodded collectively.

"Raise that to the power of ten and that, my dear friends, is how much I want to rip off that dirty weasel's head. He-" Crossing the room to them, he stood before them with arms akimbo. "The bastard stole my girl, can you believe that? That ratty, good for nothing, poor as dirt, red-haired-"

"Rosier!" Lawrence raised an eyebrow. "How could Arthur Weasley-"

"Who are you talking about, anyway?" Wally crossed his arms, sitting up and leaning against Lucius' knee. "What girl?"

Rosier mumbled. "…lly…went to…'gsmeade…"

"You want to speak up there, or do we need a Sonorus charm?"

"Molly Mayhew, okay?" He glanced away. "The-" Ducking his head. "She's a-"

"Sixth year Gryffindor?" Lucius made a face, finishing for him. "She's a prefect. No wonder we never hear about her. Come on, what's the big deal? You can beat Arthur any day. Tell us what happened."

"Nothing happened. We went to Hogsmeade last year. She said she'd owl me. I come back to school and she's getting cozy with Arthur in the back of the library. Says they spent the summer together." His eyes darkened. "I am going to kill him. It's not about the girl, it's about him being better than me!"

"Hey now, Ros. Calm down. It's Arthur Weasley, for Christ's sake."

"Yeah, Parris is back, you missed seeing him."

"Cheer up, we'll go to-"

Rosier kicked the table wrathfully, sending Lawrence's feet flying. "Will you shut up? It's the bloody principle! I'm not letting Weasley steal anything that is or was mine. God knows he's good at it, as impoverished as they are."

"'You call it, 'Love lies bleeding,' - so you may," Lucius murmured softly. When Rosier sent him an irritable glare, he only offered in a conciliatory tone, "Come on, fancy a game of chess before bed?"

"A galleon says Lucius wins," Wally offered boisterously, as the others laughed.

= = = = =

The sun was brimming over the horizon when Parris raised his head, lines pressed into his face from the spines of the books he'd slept on, his vision bleary and unfocused. He groaned, muscles protesting sorely at every motion.

"Enjoy your nap, Professor?" The boy grinned when Parris' head shot up.

"Lawrence! Bloody hell, are you trying to kill me?" The Professor sat up groggily, a yawn escaping. He blinked at the student opposite him with a frown. "What are you doing? How long have you been here?"

Lawrence shrugged; his hands were folded neatly atop the creamy parchment of his book. Despite the fact that it could be no later than six thirty, he looked as if he'd been awake for hours. Parris rather feared that he had. "Not very long," Lawrence responded, tone dismissive. His eyes focused on the titles of the books. "Why are you reading about blood rituals and sacrificial practices and," brow furrowed comically, "sex magic?"

Parris quickly seized his former pillow of books. "Research," he muttered.

"Research? On-"

"That's quite enough," Parris interrupted him briskly, color staining his cheeks. "The friend whom I met with last year, in London? I'm researching several things here on his behalf, due to Hogwarts' superlative library."

"Oh." A speculative pause. "Well, can I see that book on-"

Parris chuckled. "Afraid not, Lawrence. Restricted Section."

"You would think," Lawrence wheedled, "that the point of having a Restricted Section in a library would be so that certain people could access it. As far as I can tell, a large majority of that section is going to waste."

"Au contraire, Monsieur Lestrange. I am making very good use of it."

Lawrence laughed. "I yield. I suppose the benefit of being a professor is having an unlimited pass to the section?"

Parris smiled wryly, trying to smooth down the flattened state of his hair. "Something like that, I'm sure. What have you been doing all this time, watching me sleep?"

"Oh!" Lawrence reddened. "I was waiting for you to wake up; I've just remembered, I had something to ask you. I'm deeply interested in your class, and I was going to ask if I could do a special study with you in my free period - I could help you research, couldn't I?"

"Is this a ploy to get this book?" Parris waved the nondescript leather-bound tome, which nevertheless beckoned curious eyes. Amusement tightened the corners of his mouth.

"No, I - I wanted to last year, but none of us knew where you'd gone. You said you were doing research. I could help; anything you needed, I could-"

"You're truly interested?"

"Yes! Dumbledore was too busy to work with me, he said. I think he favors Gryffindors anyhow."

Parris smiled. "Is that a crime? It's said I favor you Slytherin boys, you know."

"So you do." Lawrence frowned slightly, cocking his head. "Who is this friend of yours, anyhow? You spent all of last year with him?" Even more curious, "What sort of research are you doing?"

"I lied," Paris admitted. "We weren't in London for the entirety of the year. We visited Africa. Those still observing African traditions have a tremendous amount to teach us, did you know? Their rituals are fascinating, especially their uses of divination. One of them's the son of Adisa, the last Dark Lord to rise before Grindelwald; he let us see the works depicting a theory that linked magic with gods. Some say he was trying to become a god. The old Egyptian mythology seems in accord with this."

"See? That is interesting. If that's what you're researching, I want to help."

Parris narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure? You may learn of things which you would be better off not knowing."

"I want to learn anyway," Lawrence said stubbornly. "Knowledge can't hurt."

"Can't it?" Parris gave a bark of laughter in the silent library. Even Madam Pince was not about at this time. "Ah, how naïve you are. But I'm not one to deny help; I could certainly use it. A research assistant, you propose?" At the emphatic nod, "I'll speak to Dumbledore."

"Really? Professor! Thank you, I-"

"Just one question, Lawrence."

"Yes?"

Parris' pale eyes fixed solidly with Lawrence's, deadly calm. He waited until all traces of excitement and conviviality faded from the boy's expression, leaving him waiting curiously. "Could you kill someone, Lawrence?" His gaze bored into Lawrence's thoughts. "If you had to, if you needed to, could you commit murder?"

"I-" The boy, taken aback, was at a loss.

"Don't worry." Parris heaved to his feet wearily, clapping Lawrence on the shoulder. "Don't worry; you needn't answer yet. It just may be your final exam."

The door swung shut, leaving Lawrence feeling surprisingly empty.

= = = = =

"That's my bloody girlfriend!"

An oomph, followed by a groan.

Lawrence's footsteps quickened.

It was exactly as he had expected, from the acne-riddled boy cradling his nose and whimpering to the weeping fifth year blonde. She was hardly even worth a second glance. "Ros," he began, slowly, but could already see the muscles taunt beneath the boy's robes. Rosier was turned away, hands cupped together at the base of his throat as if they were something precious.

"Here," Lawrence sighed, offering the wounded boy his handkerchief. His initials were embroidered in silk on the corner. "Go up to the infirmary and get that fixed - oh go on, I don't care about the bloodstains." To the girl, "He can make it himself, I'm sure. Run off to the kitchens. Tell the elves to send breakfast for two to the Slytherin dormitories. Ice, too, if you will."

"I-"

"Go."

She scampered off, eyes wide and frightened, and Lawrence went to Rosier.

"Why do you do this?" he asked softly, stepping around to face the other. He reached a hesitant hand upward towards the swelling eye, but Rosier flinched away. "She wasn't pretty at all. That could hardly be it. What are you trying to prove?"

"Nothing," Rosier hissed.

"You can't stop, Ros," Lawrence accused, although his voice was gentle. "You keep trying to destroy yourself, destroy everything that you have. Why?"

"You don't understand." With a bitter undercurrent, "That's right, Mr. Scholar. You couldn't possibly know. You have no idea. Does that rankle you? You can't understand."

"I see what you're doing to yourself!" snapped Lawrence. "That's proof enough!" And then, more quietly, wrapping an arm about his companion's shoulders, Lawrence sighed. "All right, come on."

"Lawrence-"

"He was rather pathetic, wasn't he," the boy admitted, steering Rosier back towards their common room.

"You admit it, then."

Lawrence chuckled. "Oh, come on, Ros. You gave him the boost he needed to be accepted among the rest of his pimpled, prepubescent friends. Can't you just hear him among them, boasting how he defended his equally mousy girlfriend against a fearsome Slytherin?"

"The fearsome Slytherin," Rosier interjected, a smile loosening the corners of his lips.

Affecting a simpering squeak, Lawrence teased, "Then he tried to punch me, but I ducked, and I got him right in the eye! He was so surprised that he could only stare at me, and I leapt on him and pummeled him until-"

"I couldn't stand." There was a glimmer of amusement. "Oh yes, the defeat of the famed Evan Rosier. A tale for Hogwarts, A History, is it not?"

Lawrence was too busy wondering why he could make Ros laugh but could never make him talk.

"Look." They rounded the corner and Rosier crossed his arms while he waited for Lawrence to open the door. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. Honest. But it's not working, and it won't."

"You couldn't have wanted to kiss her that badly."

"Ha!" Rosier couldn't help it, and laughter spilled from his lips. "She's a gargoyle wearing lipstick. To be truthful, I wanted to see the look on their faces."

Dryly, "Anything for a good surprise."

"Anything for some excitement. We certainly don't get any."

"Well, next time, set off some Filibuster's Fireworks or something, won't you?" Lawrence threw himself on the couch, limbs splayed. "It's the beginning of school, Rosier. Can't you - can't you wait? Keep on like this, and you'll be expelled by Christmas."

"My father's on the board. They wouldn't dare. Besides, our family fortune is the only thing supporting this ratty old castle."

"They would dare, with your father's consent," Lawrence hissed. "Are you mad? I was there when he heard of you drinking! I saw him break all the glass figurines your mother took years to collect with one sweep of his wand! I saw him yell so loud that the pictures disappeared for a fortnight! If you misbehave badly enough, he won't come to your aid."

"Misbehave?" Rosier echoed. "What'd I do, kiss a girl? Oh, someone call the Prophet! Late breaking news!"

"Can't you see that I'm worried about you? We all are!"

For the barest instant, he flinched. "I don't need that, Lawrence. So sod off, will you?" When Lawrence did not speak, he glanced behind him into the pink-laced sky. "Besides, it wasn't when he heard of me drinking. It was we, if you remember. Plural. Us."

"If only because I can't leave you alone," Lawrence murmured, under his breath, but the door slid open to admit a pair of house elves and their conversation was no more.

= = = = =

It was two weeks later when Lawrence slid into his seat beside the others at breakfast, having spent the early morning hours poring over books. The others had already commenced eating and barely spared him a curious glance before returning to the mumble of talk mixed with chewing and last minute studying.

"Where were you?" Rosier hissed to him beneath the undertone of mundane conversation and clattering silverware. "You disappeared."

"The library." Lawrence frowned slightly, the tines of his fork scraping against the china, digging gouges in the dark surface of his toast, baring the paleness of the bread beneath. "I'm working with Parris, remember?"

Rosier frowned back. "You look tired."

"I'm not," Lawrence replied. He was.

"We all are," proclaimed Wally, gulping down a glass of orange juice as he spoke. "Pour, will you, Francis?"

Francis complied, and the others all held out their emptied glasses as well. "Remember," began Wally, shoving a bite of toast in his mouth and noisily chewing, "'ast year?" He swallowed.

"No, we all have convenient amnesia. What's your point, Wal?"

"Our lake," he said enigmatically, and took another bite.

"I know what he means," Francis put in helpfully, as the others gratefully turned their attention towards him. "We always hang about down there, by the old tree, and we wanted to build a little dock. Remember?" This was seconded by Wally's nod. "I think it'd be nice."

"What would?" Professor Parris leaned into their conversation. "Or shall I purposely not inquire, and feign ignorance when the Headmaster comes calling and demanding at whose feet I should lay some new prank?"

"We would never make mischief here, Professor." Wally grinned. "What're you about for? You never come to breakfast."

"Busy," he said offhandedly. "Lawrence, I'll see you in my office after lunch today. I've a new book that Beauxbatons sent us. Oh yes, and will you quit the early morning researching? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Not really, Professor," Lawrence chuckled. "I think it's interesting."

"If you say so. You have a good day, boys."

"See you after lunch," Ros yelled as their Head of House moved off down the table. "Merlin, am I glad he's back. Couldn't have taken seventh year without him. Last year was torture enough."

Lucius shrugged, his breakfast near untouched. "It's going to be the best year, anyway," he said. "I mean, it is. Being. We're seventh years now. This school is ours, and after this year, we've got the whole world." He stared down at the blotch of jam on his toast, as if seeing it anew, and echoed, "The whole world."

"But what if the world doesn't want you?" Francis inquired softly, as his buttery fingerprints were left behind on the orange juice pitcher.

"Don't be pessimistic," said Lucius, turning sharply to look at him as if an unwanted reminder had jerked his mind. "We're Slytherins, Francis. We see the world, we-"

"Conquer?"

Both boys transferred their gazes to Rosier, whose arms were folded as he listened in. He shrugged as he caught Francis' startled glance. "Well? It's true, isn't it? That's what we're made for. Making a place for us. When the world won't." Lucius frowned. "Look, maybe it's not pretty, but I give you the facts. We're not always welcome."

"Who's we?" Lucius retorted sullenly. "The world likes me just fine."

"'Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate, while health, power, glory, from their height decline. Depressed, and then extinguished; and our state, in this, how different, lost Star, from thine.'" Rosier smiled enigmatically. "I never cease to surprise, do I?"

"That's Wordsworth! I was reading that last night!"

Rosier shrugged. "You think you own words? Just like you own the world. You think that fate's dropped all these joyous bundles in your lap." He laughed. "You're such a fool sometimes."

"Both of you," Francis interrupted timidly. "One of you thinks we were born to be superior, the other that we rightfully fight for our superiority. Don't you ever consider that we-"

"-might be equal?" Ros snorted derisively. "That's you, Francis, ever the pacifist. Or the pessimist, if you like."

The boys subsided, staring balefully into their orange juice glasses. "I'm not-" Francis began, but Lucius laid a cautionary hand on his shoulder and he too quieted. Above them, clouds slipped lazily across the ensorcelled sky, their edges tinted with fire. Down the table a hushed argument had broken out over when they would tell Parris they'd already broken the bathroom mirror. Across the hall, Arthur Weasley had his arm about a comely freckled girl.

"Don't do anything rash," Lucius said suddenly, unprovoked, in a low voice. "Ros - don't fight him. Please. Not for this."

"A fight?" Rosier's lips curled slightly, instantly realizing to what Lucius referred. "I wouldn't dream of that, Lucius. Not fighting." A beat, and he smiled further. "You have my word."

= = = = =

Lawrence pushed open the door to his dormitory, a wide grin plastered on his face. He was so tired that he feared it might be permanently glued there, but that was all right: he had an open pass to the Restricted Section, and that was the important thing.

And then his grin did fade away, as he stopped still in the doorway. "Lucius?" Staring at the boy sitting on Lawrence's bed, riffling through papers, "Lucius? What do you think you're doing?"

"Ah, looking for your Arithmancy homework. I didn't do it."

Lawrence moved closer. "No, you're not. You're looking at all my notes that I'm working on with Parris. Why are you going through my things?"

Awkwardly, "They were sitting out?"

"They were in my trunk."

Lucius stared up at him, holding a stack of papers filled with scribbled numbers and messy scrawl that said things like, "Blood!" and "Check alchemy book for equations?" He swallowed. "Look," he said, "I was interested, all right? You're always sneaking around-"

"I do not sneak around," Lawrence interrupted hotly.

"Well, you and Parris are always researching, and chattering about this find or how this relates to that, and I was just interested in what you were doing. I'm every bit as smart as you are, Lawrence."

"You could have asked."

At this, Lucius did look rueful. "You have a point there."

"Lucius-"

"I'm sorry, all right?" Something in his voice was less than contrite, that distinct Malfoy whine that even Lucius could not quite shake off at all times. "I won't go through your things again. I was just curious, and - why the hell are you reading about sex magic?"

Lawrence laughed. He sat down next to Lucius and took the papers from him, leaning back against the pillows. "I don't think I've ever been this tired. Bloody hell, and I haven't even done my Arithmancy homework yet. Think he'll collect it?"

"Prob'ly. You're avoiding the question. What does Professor Parris have to do with sex magic? Or don't I want to ask?"

"Even I don't ask how the research is going to be applied. It's for a friend of his in London. Anyway, we're sort of working on the direct connections of magic to the body: how it relates, how it can be changed. If you're tired, is your ability weaker simply because you put less effort into the spell, or is your magic directly weakened? If your, ah, if your senses are more aroused, does that make a difference? And what he really wants to know is how blood affects things."

"Blood?" Lucius pointed to the top paper. "You have some scribble here about transmuting and transferring and how - I can't make sense of that."

"Does our so-called 'pure' blood affect our magical ability? What is it in Mudbloods that gives them the magical ability? Why are there Squibs?" At Lucius' look, Lawrence shrugged. "I think it's interesting, so I don't mind. Parris' friend seems awfully centered on it, though. Overheard a Howler that Parris got from him once. It was awful. And no," at another inquiring look, "I don't know who he is. Parris won't say."

Lucius frowned deeply. "Isn't there some sort of theory, or wasn't there, that our power was derived directly from ancient gods? A sort of blessing, or something, on their favored ones?"

"Peter the Prolific," Lawrence assented. "Parris and I can't decide whether he had a lot of children or whether he wrote a lot. There's also a few old books Parris sent for from the library in Alexandria, detailing some old Egyptian rituals and the pharaohs and stuff like that. Ancient. We're still working on a spell to decipher the hieroglyphics on this one scroll."

He took the papers back from Lucius and stood up, yawning. "Anyway, it keeps me busy. So now that you don't have to go through my things, will you give me your Arithmancy homework?"

"I'm only half done, but all right. It's in the common room." Lucius hopped off the bed, watching Lawrence replace his notes in his trunk. "Interesting that stuff may be to you, but I'll stick to my poetry and actually get more than four hours of sleep a night."

Lawrence quirked an eyebrow. "I sleep."

"Yeah, in the library."

They laughed. "All right, fine. Now explain how Wagner's Principle relates to twenty-five problems assigned? I didn't even look over the chapter."

Lawrence shut his trunk and, before descending after Lucius to the common room, locked it tightly.

= = = = =

Wally lay on his stomach, poking at the dirt with a twig stripped of its bark. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt, eyes disinterestedly slipping into a pre-slumber haze. "'S stupid idea, anyway," he mumbled. "Don' need a. A thing. Water thing."

"A dock?" Lawrence supplied, laughter in his eyes. He yawned. "It was your idea, Wal."

"Not today." Wally's head dropped into his arms, the sun tracing warm lines across his back. Lawrence watched his eyelids droop. It was one of the last heated days of summer, infused with the lazy joy of relaxation, comforting warm breezes tickling their skin from across the lake. The grass stirred around him.

"'-breeze sweeps down the winding lane, with gold and crimson leaves before it flying; its gusty laughter has no sound of pain, but in the lulls it sinks to-'" Lucius, whose words were just beginning to intrude on Lawrence's content summer stupor, suddenly halted.

"Sighing," Francis prompted, leaning over his shoulder and frowning.

"No, hold on. Where'd Rosier go?"

Lawrence looked up, leaning his head back against the tree. "He left a bit ago, said he had Advanced Transfiguration to do." He shrugged, robes hitching against the bark. "Why?"

"Nothing." Lucius looked, distracted, over the calm surface of the lake. Collected planks and a few logs were strewn across the ground just before the lapping water, among them Wally's discarded robes and several pairs of shoes. "I - nothing."

"Keep reading," Francis said shyly. "I like listening to you read."

The towheaded youth sighed. "Where was I? 'But in the lulls it sinks to gentle sighing, and mourns the Summer's early broken spell - Farewell, sweet Summer, rosy blooming Summer…' Damn it all. I can't do this."

Francis pulled the leather book from him, cradling it in his own lap. "Do what?" he asked, curiously, worry tinting his words with haste.

"Sometimes I worry." Lucius stretched out his legs, shutting his eyes for a brief moment and blocking out the tawny sunlight. When he opened them, he gazed at the lake rather than his companions. "I worry about the future; I mean, about - us, and - all of us-"

"You don't need all the answers," Lawrence said. "We're still in school, you know."

"For how long, eight, nine more months? Then I'm off to be my father. Don't roll your eyes, Lawrence; it's the same for you! Both of you!"

"I thought your dream was to become an Auror," Francis put in. "You used to talk about it all the time. Isn't that what you want?"

"What I want." Lucius glanced at him agitatedly, poetry and summer afternoons and piers on the lake forgotten. "This is what I want. Now. Forever. I mean, lazy afternoons and contentment and - all of this."

"But we-"

"And Rosier," Lucius cut in, before either of the others could respond. "Where is he? Running around with girls? Beating up Arthur Weasley? Getting drunk in Hogsmeade - don't give me that look, Lawrence, you know what happened last spring, and you know what will happen again."

"I'd hoped - because Parris came back, and-" Lawrence looked away. "Leave Ros alone. What's his business is his business."

"You can take care of him when he's passed out on the dorm floor, then!" Lucius tipped his head back, gazing up at the leaves still green with summer's kisses. Soon they would shift into deep russets and browns and golden oranges, like the trees closer to the Forbidden Forest. He sighed. "I - I don't know, Lawrence, I -" Helplessly, "Seventh year is supposed to be the best."

"It is," Francis reassured him, his quiet voice determined to be true. "It will be."

Lucius glanced at him, the shy boy with dark eyes and quiet movements who had a faintly hopeful smile tingeing his lips. "I'm a fool, aren't I?" he grimaced, amused at his own outbursts. "Just restless, I suppose."

"Wh'zat?" Wally blinked, head lolling sideways as he glanced sleepily in their direction.

"Go back to sleep," Lawrence laughed at him. "We were just about to leave you as a sacrifice to the giant squid, too."

"Mm - what?"

Lawrence shook his head. "I'm going to go back," he said, brushing the grass from his hair. "Got to check out a book at the library, and-"

"I think you just like Madam Pince," Wally put in, voice still slurred with remnants of slumber. "You're there every day."

"I am not! I mean, I do not!" Lawrence pushed his shoulder playfully as he stood up. "I'll check up on Ros too. See you lot at dinner?"

Wally, having shifted to his back, had thrown an arm over his eyes and was already halfway back to slumber. Francis waved, as the lake water reflected sunlight into the sky. A stray leaf, its edges tinted with orange, fluttered into his lap. He slid it between the worn pages of Lucius' book, its points delicately indicating words on the page.

"'Farewell, sweet summer: rosy, blooming summer,'" Lucius murmured under his breath. "'Sweet, farewell.'"

"Hmm?"

Lucius took the book back and wrapped his fingers around the edges, the one solid thing in this drifting summer afternoon. "Nothing."

= = = = =

It was an abandoned place, once perhaps a center of worship or a miniature music hall. Chairs, once lined in elegant steps down to the front of the room, were stacked in the back, and the red carpet of the floor was frayed and faded.

Evan Rosier prodded a rip in the fabric with the toe of his shoe, toying with his wand. A whisper, and the torches set in the walls flooded the room with light. He admired the way the shadows pirouetted across the walls.

"Evan?"

He turned, lips flitting into something of a smile. "Oh, Molly. Hullo." With a quick glance at his watch, he added absently, "You're early."

"So're you."

"I'm always early." He took a step forward to the shyly fidgeting girl, watching her curl her auburn hair behind her ears. "What have you been up to, Molly? I hardly see you anymore. I'd hate to think those Gryffindors are taking up all of your time."

She frowned. "I am Gryffindor. And-" Hesitating, "You do know I'm with Arthur now, don't you?"

"As if the sight of you two in the library wasn't any indication." He laughed, quietly. "What, were you afraid for me to find out? I can't imagine why. Though I do hate to think of anything that might signify Arthur Weasley is better than I am."

"It's not like that!" She put her hands on her hips, frowning at him. The firelight glimmered, reflecting off of her eyes. "Must you two fight? I'm with Arthur, Evan. Can't you accept that?"

"I'm accepting it perfectly fine," he said pleasantly, and crossed the short space between them to abruptly kiss her. When they finally parted, her cheeks flushed and her breath gasping, he added casually, "Are you?"

"Excuse me?" Molly's voice was a bit shriller than necessary. Rosier shrugged.

"It's only that, if you weren't hoping I'd take you back, would you be here to begin with?"

"It was the polite thing to do," she said stubbornly.

"Oh yes, and you Gryffindors are ever so courteous." Rosier gripped her elbow tightly. "Look, Molly. Arthur's the sort you don't want to get mixed up with. He's poor. He can promise you nothing but hideous children."

She tensed, immediately defensive. "Don't say that. Arthur's a wonderful person. You don't know him."

"Let me remind you how badly I don't want to."

She sighed. "Don't be cruel, Evan. Money means nothing."

"Oh?" He raised a curious eyebrow. "I'm happy for you, then. Even if he can't fulfill your dreams of seeing America, which I know you want. Even if he can't buy you pretty robes and take you out for romantic dinners; if long nights at the office away from you are what's required to keep food in your mouths. Even if you have to watch your children go hungry when he's away trying to scrape together a few Galleons-"

"Is that what you think?" Her eyebrows drew together. "You've never been poor, Evan. You don't know that you can be happy, despite everything."

"Arthur Weasley is the youngest of five sons," Rosier said practically. "What meager inheritance he'll receive won't mean much at all. He isn't a brilliant wizard; if he chooses the Ministry like his father, it's not as if he'll rise quickly. Besides, he has that perverse fancy for Muggle things."

"How do you know that?" Molly demanded, tone sharp.

"I know a lot of things."

"Well, you don't know Arthur," she shot at him. "And you don't know me if you think one kiss and a few insults are going to make me come running to you."

"I," he returned calmly, "could give you the world. Everything you ever dreamt of having."

"That is, if you don't tire of me within the week." Her gaze scrutinized him through the darkened air between them, the shadows on the walls leaping higher and higher. "Well? Are you about to deny it? If I gave in and said I would reject Arthur, next week I'd be crying and broken hearted in the Great Hall."

Rosier smiled.

"Anyway," Molly added, "it serves you right."

His grip on her arm tightened painfully. "As if I care a whit about you and the Weasley redhead. Don't flatter yourself, dear. It's your loss." The shadows painted his features into an eerie leer when he smirked. "In any case, Weasley's got it coming."

"Don't-" Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't hurt him, Evan?"

"Hurt him?" His voice was disinterested, mocking, much as he'd laughed at Lucius a few days ago. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Evan-"

"Do you know what the problem is with you? I can see that you don't. You believe in child's things. Playthings, words like true love and forever and mercy." He laughed at her, releasing her elbow suddenly and watching her stumble. "You look at me and see only a handsome boy and you think I must be princely and courteous and dreamy, because all pretty things are, aren't they?"

"I-"

"You want me to come to you and save you from the mundane things Weasley offers, but at the same time you want the solid comfort of his attraction to you. You want the best of both worlds, and all that will get you is the worst."

"I was wrong about you," Molly spat stubbornly, "but I am not wrong about this."

Evan Rosier laughed. "Remember that, then. After all," mockingly, "you 'can be happy despite everything.' Can't you?"

He muttered a counterspell beneath his breath; all of the torches flickered out. Slipping to the door, nothing but a shadow among other shadows, he left her to stumble out alone. As he fumbled in his pocket, he found not his wand, but instead another smoothly comforting object. Metal warmed in the grip of his hand.

He smiled, and his footsteps hurried towards the dungeons.