Blind Faith

Blind Faith

Chapter 3

Falling from Eden

***

You're falling from Eden
Passing the stars by,
Confined by a coffin,
And knowing what it is to die

The Reaper has your hand;
Skin like backwards velvet,
Words that pull like quicksand,
And a smile made of rot and soot

He'll lead you to a land
Where light is forfeit,
And asphodels grow in black sand
By an ocean made of granite

Everyone crosses the Reaper's wasteland
When life has reached its limit;
And every soul makes its stand
To see paradise and keep it

You're soaring to heaven
On a star that does not fly,
And using the moon to brighten
Death's midnight sky

Untitled, by Abby

***

"Don't say a thing."

"But--"

"No, I'm serious. Not a word."

The Great Hall was buzzing and Draco could feel the hundreds of gazes boring into the back of his neck. He grinned. "Blaise, the whole school is staring at us."

"And no wonder," sniffed Pansy. It went unsaid that her outburst from last night was never ever to be mentioned again (ever) under pain of death. Or at least public humiliation. "The stories I've heard about you two..."

Draco closed his eyes and casually slung an arm around Blaise's shoulders, almost writhing with glee as the breakfast room's volume reached fever pitch. "This is excellent."

And it was.

So initially he had been horrified when Daphne Greengrass had burst into his dorm at an entirely inopportune moment. Lord only knew what the girl had been barging in for in the first place, but Draco had to hold some ounce of admiration for her. Hogwarts' grapevine would never be quite so efficient when she left.

But then, when he had first walked into the Great Hall, every single eye had been riveted on him. It was glorious. He was the focus of attention of the whole school and so what if he had to sacrifice his not-as-yet-established reputation as a womaniser? He thrived under the attention and it was wonderful and he wanted it to last forever. Hence the harmless flirtations with Blaise that he had deemed only last night as disgusting.

He was a bundle of contradictions, really.

Blaise didn't seem to notice the fact that everyone now knew his name. He had been a bit of a loner until last winter. Draco had been talking at him when Blaise idly performed a wandless Transmorgrifian Torture on a passing spider. He wasn't someone you'd want to dismiss as easily as most of the school had managed, Draco decided.

Pansy was still looking at him expectantly and so he leaned over and whispered in her ear (although not without noting with no small amount of delight that the Hall had grown silent): "He jumped me."

"And that was it?"

"That was it."

She smirked. "I think 'I told you so' is a little redundant here." Her brow furrowed. "I don't know whether to be insulted. Did you decide that you were gay right after sleeping with me?"

Draco coughed into his mug of coffee and set it down carefully, grateful that Potter had just walked in and therefore held the attention of the student body. And he was painfully aware of the irony, thank you very much. "I'm not gay."

Blaise looked up from the shredded croissant he had been arranging around his plate.

"He," continued Draco, dropping his arm from around the other boy's neck and thumping him in the side with it, "pinned me down on my bed and wouldn't let go."

"Blaise!" gasped Pansy. "That's awful!" Draco nodded ardently, pacified somewhat.

Blaise picked up a piece of croissant, licked it, and set it back down again. "He reacted."

Draco felt himself flush. "I did not."

"You did. I could feel you right up against my--"

"Thank you, Blaise," snapped Draco, wondering whether it would be wise to Avada Kedavra him right under Dumbledore's nose.

Pansy rubbed his back consolingly. "You're a teenage boy, Draco. You'd react to one of Finnegan's crude jokes."

Draco glared at his plate. "I suppose," he muttered mulishly.

In truth the kiss had turned Draco on about as much as seeing the old bat McGonagall wearing nothing but suspenders would. He couldn't help reacting -- it was the close contact and he was a teenage boy and it wasn't his fault. Afterwards Draco had surmised that it was a lot less comfortable than kissing a girl -- Blaise had been too toned and not very squidgy and too heavy and not -- well -- female enough.

But he was going to make the most of the attention while it lasted. He turned to Blaise. "Fancy a stroll around the lake?"

***

Pansy thought it quite an achievement that they had been talking about the apple for nearly half an hour and had managed to avoid mentioning her fit of hysterics. It was an awkward subject and they both despised awkwardness.

"I knew you'd want something else in exchange for the kiss," she said, trying not to sound too motherly. "Like a proper Slytherin."

"Yes," sniffed Draco, eyeing the new first years by the dead fire. "Not like this new batch. They wouldn't be able to barter with a delivery owl. Or know how to seize opportunities," he added.

"You mean like how you seized the opportunity to squeeze as much out of the rumours as you possibly could? Like how you then made such a scene at dinner 'breaking up' with Blaise that Snape had to escort you out of the Hall?"

"Precisely," he said, without a hint of shame. "And I could have stretched it out for longer." Pansy raised an eyebrow as he drew out a pristinely folded piece of parchment with just five words printed in a glistening Icelandic blue.

Stop this nonsense right now.

"Your father?" she asked.

Draco bit his lip. "Of course. He doesn't understand my way of thinking."

"Yes. And the upcoming wedding has nothing to do with it, I suppose."

"Lord, I'd forgotten about that," said Draco, scowling, and Pansy didn't bother to stop the warm feeling of delight spread from her stomach, making her lips twitch upwards. Such an easy dismissal of the new fiancée.

Sensing that this change of subject was not for the best, Pansy said, "So tell me again about the apple."

Draco's scowl was replaced with an extravagantly exasperated look. "Weren't you listening the first time?" He sighed. "The runes weren't for protection, they were emotive enhancements. The spell senses the dominant emotion within a set boundary and enhances it times three. Hence you--" He gestured vaguely, looking flustered.

Pansy felt the heat rise in her face. "And Blaise taught you this?" she offered hastily.

"Yes." Draco latched onto the question almost gratefully. "Like I said before--" He sent her a glare "--I know the runes, the incantation with which to create one, the detection spell, and the spell with which to destroy it. Spent all night practising on apples we stole from the kitchens. Quite fascinating, actually -- it's a modern rendition of an old folk superstition. You know--"

"Enough, Draco," interrupted Pansy, feeling her interest waver. "How did Blaise learn it?"

"Said that he created the new interpretation," he said, rolling his eyes.

"And you don't believe him?"

Draco looked at her scornfully. "Of course not. It's far too complex for a sixth-year to invent. Even I barely managed to master it."

Pansy smiled. "Even you?"

She didn't know Blaise very well, but surely that kind of spell was powerful magic. Surely--

"It's not Dark, if that's what you're thinking," Draco said impatiently. He was getting fidgety now that the first-years had lit the common room fire. "Just awfully powerful."

"Blaise must have been taught it by someone, if he didn't invent it, and it certainly wouldn't have been his Gryffindor grandparents."

Draco eyed the first-years and dropped his wand from out of his sleeve. "Whatever," he said uninterestedly, clearly losing interest in the topic. "Finite Incantatem!"

The fire across the room went out with a hiss and a few overzealous sparks. The girls gathered around it squealed and looked around the room frantically; Draco trained an engaging smile on Pansy, twirling his wand around long, pale fingers like a baton.

"They'll learn," he said, and laughed.

***

The Prefects meeting was something Harry had been incessantly curious -- and not just a little resentful -- about. He wanted to know what made Dumbledore choose these students, what made them so special. And he wanted to know why he, for yet another year, hadn't been included and why people like Draco Malfoy had.

So his father's old Invisibility Cloak was making another appearance and he was following Hermione and Ron into the dungeons. They were too busy bickering to notice his invisible presence anyway. At least they weren't snogging.

The pair eventually stopped in front of a suit of armour sporting the Hogwarts crest. Hermione snapped something at Ron and directed a furious "Collywobble!" at the armour, which stepped aside to let her storm through a low archway. Ron gave an exasperated sigh and ducked through, Harry following.

The short, dark passageway ended rather abruptly at a heavy oak door stamped, once again, with the Hogwarts crest. Hermione was nowhere to be seen, but Ron pressed his fingers to the Gryffindor lion and it flared briefly, as if lit by an internal fire; the door swung open.

A room was revealed, a small one at that -- it barely managed to accommodate the large round table around which the Prefects were sitting and talking in varying degrees of volume. And the table was the thing that drew Harry's attention. It was perfectly circular, decorated with alternating strips of stained and sanded pine. A familiar sword had been driven into the centre of the table, but when Harry ducked down to look underneath, there was no protruding blade, just clusters of swishing robes and impatient shoes.

Magic, Harry had to remind himself, anything is possible with magic.

The familiarity of the cross-hilt should have unnerved him, the red pommel stone and black bound handle. Proficient, plain and simple. But the blade, double-edged shining steel, that Harry remembered as having a point like an ice needle, should have been pride of place. Rustic reds and imperial golds seemed lost without the blazing metal. Lost and useless and helpless.

Shaking his head, Harry followed Ron when he seated himself next to Hermione. She pointedly turned her back on him to talk to a small mousy-haired girl. Harry manoeuvred carefully around the room and settled himself on a window seat, leaning back against the filled in window arch.

"Right." An impossibly thin girl coughed, waving her arms in an attempt to draw everyone's attention. "Right," she said again, and when that didn't garner the reaction she wanted: "Shut up!"

Harry jumped, along with half the other students. The girl glared around the room and her eyes settled on Draco Malfoy, who was still holding a whispered conversation with Pansy Parkinson.

"Malfoy." The boy lifted his head with a slow insolence. "I expect you to listen to me."

"Oh," said Draco. "I was listening."

"Then shut up, like I said, and wipe that sneer off your face," she growled. "If I don't get the respect I deserve then I shall be forced to have a word with Professor Snape."

Malfoy's sneer didn't subside (Harry felt a strong stab of dislike for him), but he slouched lower into his high-backed chair. The girl -- who Harry assumed to be Head Girl -- transferred her glare to the pile of parchments in front of her. "And I have another bone to pick with you."

There was a communal sigh and a wave of disjointed mumblings, which gave Harry the impression that this wasn't the first time Malfoy had held up a meeting. They soon receded under the angry gaze of the Head Girl and she continued, "This...fiasco with Zabini."

All of the heads around the table turned towards Draco so fast that Harry wondered that no one got whiplash. He himself had fortunately missed the scene in the Great Hall at lunch, but Ron had filled him in on the details, with no small amount of derogatory comments.

"What about it?" he asked.

"That is not the behaviour I expect from my Prefects--"

"Your--"

"And," the girl interrupted, raising her voice, "the example that you set to the new students was unacceptable. First-years look up to us," she said, gazing around the table, "and we have to act responsibly around them." Harry saw Hermione nodding in agreement.

"How--"

"Malfoy!" barked the girl, and Draco jumped slightly. "Detention!" Harry grinned and glanced over to Hermione and Ron, who were both shooting delighted looks at each other, argument apparently forgotten. "And if you speak out of turn one more time I shall make sure that your Prefect status is removed in the most humiliating way possible. You do not conduct private matters in public, do I make myself clear?"

Malfoy scowled and muttered something under his breath.

"Ten points from Slytherin! Do I make myself clear?"

"Inescapably," snapped Malfoy. Pansy Parkinson put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off irritably.

Ha, thought Harry, take that Malfoy.

"Besides," the girl continued, her eyes darkening, "we have far more important things to discuss." There was a collective holding of breath. "Professor Dumbledore has given us a list of new rules that have been set down due to recent...developments."

Harry felt a cold, hard shiver run down his spine. No, no, no. Hogwarts was his only escape. How could he consider this his retreat if there was tension, crying, killing. What if Dumbledore suspected that Hogwarts wasn't safe? The Chamber incident in his second year was enough to prove that the Headmaster didn't have complete control over his school. What if people had to be sent home? He didn't think he could bear that. And it was all because of Voldemort. All because of the fear he had injected into the heart of the wizarding world. He had ruined Harry's haven, Harry's home and now Dumbledore was going to set down rules and regulations and it was all Voldemort's fault. God, he hated that bastard. Why couldn't he just die?

The Head Girl was rattling out a list of rules that Harry acknowledged with a barely comprehending kind of horror.

No wandering the halls after dark. No Invisibility Cloaks. All Quidditch practices must be supervised by a teacher. Prefects must report to Dumbledore weekly. Hogsmeade weekends are cancelled.

Professor Hagrid will be absent for another year.

Harry ran.

***

Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, but obviously someone had forgotten to remind Snape of that.

"Up! Get up!"

Draco burrowed deeper under his covers and moaned in a protesting sort of way.

"Where is Mr Malfoy?"

"On his bed, Sir," rumbled Crabbe.

"He is not."

"On the canopy," corrected a ridiculously awake-sounding Blaise.

Draco moaned again and pried his eyes open. "Why?" he croaked. "Whastime?"

"Quarter past nine, Mr Malfoy. You're all late for your Sorting and if you are not down to the Great Hall within five minutes I shall be issuing you detention with Filch." A pause. "And this room is revolting. Make sure that it is spotless by this evening." A swish of robes and he was gone.

"Bloody hell," mumbled Draco, fumbling for his wand. "Sorting? What the hell needs to be Sorted now?"

Five minutes later and he and Blaise were skidding to a stop in front of the double doors leading to the Great Hall. Draco ran a hand through his hair, straightened his robes and tried to even out his breathing. They had lost Crabbe and Goyle somewhere in the dungeons and Draco felt no inclination to go back and find them. He threw a look at Blaise, who looked utterly dishevelled, and rolled his eyes before pushing his way into the Hall. Rising sunlight cast soft strips of multicoloured light from the stained glass windows on to the smooth worn floor.

No one noticed their entrance save for Snape, who shot them a disparaging look. They made their way to the far end of the Slytherin table, around which all the occupants were clustered. There weren't many -- only sixth- and seventh-years -- but the racket they were making more than made up for lack of numbers.

Pansy glanced up as he approached and patted the seat she had saved next to her. Draco slid into his space and waved distractedly to Blaise, who went to sit a couple of seats down the table.

"Sorting?" he asked, peering around at the table. "Ah," he said, catching sight of the pile of parchments at the top of the table. "Sorting of the Subjects. What have you chosen, then?"

She licked the nib of her quill and frowned. "It's difficult. I want to do more than four subjects."

"You can," Draco said. "I'm taking five."

Pansy glared at him. "I know you are, but some of us aren't intellectual masterminds. I don't think I'd cope with the workload."

Draco shrugged. His father had insisted on him taking a minimum of five subjects and so he would, but the effort it would require was not something he was looking forward to. He looked down at Pansy's parchment. She had printed her name in flowery writing at the top along with hopes for future employment.

Beauty artist, hairdresser, journalist, medi-witch.

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Pansy, these are hideous jobs."

"You would think so," she hissed, narrowing her eyes, and Draco wondered why he had struck a nerve. "What are you going to put -- Death Eater?"

"Only if I want to be chucked into Azkaban," he growled, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Pansy looked very much as though she had a cutting remark for that, but he interrupted her. "I don't know what I want to be."

Instead, he snatched up a spare questionnaire and scribbled: ridiculously famous and filthy rich.

Pansy looked torn between amusement and admonishment as he leaned back to admire his handiwork. "You can't put that," she giggled. "It's meant to be in terms of employment."

"Does it specifically state that?"

"Well, no..."

"Ministry idiots should be more precise, then."

She laughed again. "What about subjects?"

Draco scanned her parchment. She had marked each subject preference with a lurid pink tick. Astronomy, Magical Medicine, Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology.

"Pansy, that's awful."

"I happen to like those subjects."

"Care of Magical Creatures? With the oaf?"

She rolled her eyes. "If you had been listening at the Prefects meeting instead of sulking you would have known that Hagrid is not teaching this year. Professor Grubbly-Plank is back."

Draco grinned and felt his mood brighten considerably. "At last, Dumbledore has seen the light! Father will love this."

"But he will most decidedly not love it if you give in your Sorting Sheet blank. Come on, Draco."

He shot her a glare and quickly ticked all of his chosen subjects. "Done," he said, satisfied, and signed his name across the top with a flourish.

"Draco!" scolded Pansy. "You're supposed to think about these things! It took me nearly twenty minutes to decide mine."

"That's because you're a girl," he said scornfully.

She scowled. "Sexist pig. What did you choose, then?"

"Astronomy, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Magical Lit and Potions."

"Defence Against the Dark Arts?"

"Know thine enemy, right Draco?"

"Precisely, Blaise. Anyway, " he continued as the other boy settled himself, cross-legged, on the tabletop, "I like Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Pansy sneered at him. "A nervous wreck, a bottle-blond, a werewolf, a paranoid Auror and a Ministry idiot? Oh, now I see why you liked it so much."

"Your regard for the lovely Lockhart has certainly taken a battering," snapped Draco. "You weren't calling him bottle-blond a few years back."

"I was twelve, you idiot. And don't even mention Umbridge."

Draco scowled. "Umbridge," he said, childishly. "You had high hopes for her."

"Don't be so fucking immature, Draco. So what if I had expectations of her? We all did. And what did she give us? Illusions of power that had us trailing around after her like little Ministry minions, that's what." She glared at him. "I'm not a minion, Draco, you know that."

Draco knew, but as he looked at Pansy like this -- lip caught between perfect teeth, untameable hair wrestled back with silver clips, a sharp defiance in eyes that were darker than the rich liqueur his mother favoured so much -- he had to wonder whether they were talking about the same thing.

And that tension was back. It was a comforting tension, though, because if there hadn't been this vital tension something would have been wrong. If they had made friends and not argued, not glared and snapped and snarled at each other there would have been a vital part of their relationship missing. This arguing was as much a part of their friendship as was trust.

"Divination," announced Blaise triumphantly, and Draco looked up at him. He was grinning wolfishly. "Divination and Ancient Runes."

The mutual frustration splintered and Pansy looked at Blaise, a frown already creasing her forehead, argument cast aside. "Only two?"

"Only two," Blaise confirmed.

"What -- did you fail your OWLs?"

"Only six of them."

Draco coughed. "Blaise, you're mildly intelligent. How could you fail six exams? Crabbe and Goyle probably got less D's than that."

"Yup," he said happily, running his tongue up the side of his forefinger. "They only failed five." Another too-wide grin.

Draco considered this strange. Granted, he considered most things about Blaise strange and even mildly unnerving, but this -- this was strange. He could never quite work out why Blaise failed every single academic test he was entered into. He was intelligent, more so than Draco gave him credit for. He was probably cleverer than Pansy, who had scored one D, five E's and one O in her OWLs.

Yet he still failed most of his OWLs.

"You do it deliberately?"

Blaise shot another of those blinding grins at him and hopped off the table, narrowly missing Millicent, who was draped across the opposite bench, moaning. Draco took no notice of her -- she was always in such a permanent bad mood it seemed as if she was allergic to life.

"God," said Pansy, looking disgusted. "He's such an idiot."

"Hmm," said Draco thoughtfully. "Perhaps."

"Darling? Try not to think too much -- I know how painful it is for you."

He sent an insincere smile in her direction before announcing, rather instinctively, "We're going to Hogsmeade. I mean all of us." He -- very impressively in his opinion -- encompassed the whole of the Slytherin table in a sweeping gesture that almost took Malcolm Baddock's eye out. "And maybe some Ravenclaws too."

Pansy sniffed. "Not Cho Chang's slut brigade, I hope."

"God, no. Terry Boot, Mandy Brocklehurst, the Turnip girl and thingy...you know...Tap?"

"Fawcett," corrected Pansy with a hint of a smile. "And not Turnip -- Turpin. How do you plan on getting this message round to everyone?"

"You can do it." Draco smiled winningly at her. "I know how many friends you have around school..."

"Of course," she sighed, making Draco's smile widen into a grin. "And don't think this is down to your Malfoy charm, which is dubious at best. I need to talk to Lisa."

Draco stuck his tongue out at Pansy's departing back and turned towards the breakfast table. Malcolm Baddock was now sitting next to him and the younger boy (Draco didn't want to contemplate how he had blagged his way into the Hall during the Sorting) flashed a quick, eager grin at him, revealing a set of stained teeth. Draco winced.

"Did I hear the word 'alcohol' being uttered, Draco?"

"No," he sneered, desperately seeking out someone to rescue him. Crabbe, Goyle, anyone... "Going senile in your old age, Baddock?"

"I don't think so," chirped the other boy, unfazed. "But you mentioned Hogsmeade."

"So?" Oh, what had he done to deserve this?

"Hogsmeade equates alcohol, yes?"

"I doubt you even know what 'equates' means, Baddock."

What an idiot. A fool who had attached himself to Draco the moment he had stepped upon the Hogwarts Express. At first he had taken it as given -- the boy was obviously starstruck by the power of the Malfoy name, right? But now, after five years, he was an irritant who had no apparent use. Pansy even thought he was sweet. Ugh! The boy still looked like a bloody first-year. He was overly exuberant and never stopped bouncing. Slytherins weren't supposed to bounce -- they glided. Elegantly.

"I do," the other boy said, nodding fervently.

"For God's sake, stay still, Baddock."

The boy made a concerted effort; his gaze was still hopefully pinned on Draco.

"Yes," sighed Draco, "you can come if you must." He heaved another long-suffering sigh. "And if anyone asks -- Millicent invited you. I'm not going down because of your underage drinking."

"But Draco -- you're still underage."

Draco gracefully ignored him, but made sure to elbow him hard in the ribs as he stepped over the hardwood bench of the Slytherin table. Baddock let out a pained yelp and Draco smirked.

Stupid wanker.

***

"Fail?"

Hermione's head shot up. "What?"

Harry blinked and dragged his eyes over the piece of parchment again. "Fail. E. I failed Potions."

"No!" she exclaimed, snatching the document out of his hands. He wrenched it back just as quickly, making her glare at him. He glared right back.

"I failed!"

"Are you sure?" she asked. Harry was distinctly aware of her fingers and the way in which they were twitching towards his OWL results.

"Of course I'm bloody sure!"

"Harry! Don't swear, let me--"

But Harry had stopped listening. God, it was coming again That hate. He thought he had got past it, thought he had made peace with it so that it could crawl away under a convenient rock and die. He wished that Voldemort would do that, too. He wished all his problems would -- Voldemort, the Dursleys, Snape, Malfoy, maybe even...

God. If Hermione knew what he was thinking right now she would be what -- angry? Scared? Worried that Harry had finally cracked under the pressure? It was certainly a possibility. He could still vividly remember her voice from third year: "Harry doesn't want to kill anyone, do you Harry?" And he hadn't answered and she had cried. What about Ron? What would he say? Would he care? Neither of them had asked why he hadn't slept in his own bed last night. The truth was that he had fallen asleep in some empty classroom he had found to escape. It seemed a bit of a trend, escaping, which was probably what Hagrid was doing. Did they even care enough to notice his absence? He noted absently that Hermione had managed to swipe his results out of his lax hands.

She looked...relieved.

"What?" snapped Harry, frowning. "It's not as though you were going to have any competition from me for top marks."

A hurt look flickered across Hermione's features like a turbulent flame and he felt a dull thud of satisfaction sound somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. I am a horrible, horrible person, Harry told himself experimentally. It didn't stir any dormant guilt within him.

She frowned, but evidently decided to let it pass. "You got some E's, Harry. That's not a fail."

He blinked. "But an E is a fail, Hermione. What other ways are there of looking at that?"

She smiled brilliantly. Harry blinked again, feeling sure he had missed something. "You could look at it in the wizarding way, Harry," she said.

"But -- oh."

"Oh, indeed," she said, still smiling. Harry wondered if he would be smiling at Hermione if she had talked to him the way he had to her. I am a horrible person. Again, no prickling conscience. "E is exceeds expectations, remember?"

Well now he remembered. Harry allowed himself a relieved smile, not entirely sure where the joyous celebration he had been expecting was gone. He had passed everything -- even Snape's Potions! -- not necessarily with flying colours, but it meant he wouldn't have to retake.

"Try to look a little more happy," Hermione said with an exasperated smile. Harry tried.

"What about you? What did you get?"

She flushed. "Straight O's."

Harry smiled. "I wouldn't have expected anything less." He glanced down at the Sorting Sheet. "What subjects are you taking?" he asked, feeling he was getting rather good at this small-talk lark. Nothing too serious; nothing too depressing in talking about subjects.

"Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Magical Medicine."

"Mad," said Ron, planting a kiss on top of Hermione's bushy hair. "Six subjects", he continued, now kissing her ear, "is pure madness--" he dusted another kiss on her cheek "--if you ask me."

Hermione looked ready to dissolve with delight as Ron kissed her yet again, this time lingering on her lips. Harry shuffled along the bench very grudgingly, letting him settle between the two of them. Since when did Ron get publicly affectionate? Last year he was all long limbs and awkwardness, but this year he'd obviously decided to let go of any inhibitions about the opposite sex he may have had.

Harry looked down at his sheet, stealing Hermione's quill while she was distracted. The subjects to choose were so glaringly obvious that they might as well have been highlighted.

Professional Quidditch, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms.

His quill hovered over the parchment as he wondered briefly what people would say if he went for Potions. It would certainly shock them, but Harry doubted that he could put up with one more year of Snape bearing down on him like a soul-sucking Dementor.

He sighed. So predictable. So Harry Potter.

The subjects were ticked before he could change his mind. He thrust the parchment into the middle of the table and stood up. Hermione unlatched herself from Ron's mouth long enough to ask where he was going.

"Away," he snapped, and ran out of the Hall to collect his Firebolt.

***

It was dark, but Draco still found time to appreciate the curves Pansy had developed over the summer. Her hood was pulled up, allowing him to shoot her a few sideways glances. Completely subtly, of course.

"Draco, stop it."

He snapped his head forward. "Stop what?"

Pansy pushed her hood back; he could see her raised eyebrow, even in the wandlight. He tugged the hood back up, covering her look of amusement.

"We're trying to be inconspicuous, Pansy," he hissed. "There was a reason for me ordering black cloaks to be worn."

She laughed softly. "You could never be inconspicuous, darling. Besides, we'd probably be less suspicious wearing orange spandex."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Stop speaking Muggle at me."

A sigh. "What I'm trying to say is that we look like a bunch of Death Eaters. We'd probably get mobbed the moment we stepped into Hogsmeade."

Looking behind him he decided that Pansy was right. Maybe insisting all-black attire with hoods was a bit much for sneaking out of Hogwarts. He turned back. "At least Dumbledore won't see us."

"No." Her teeth flashed in a sparkling grin. "Anyway, it's his own fault we're breaking the rules. We wouldn't be doing this if he hadn't banned us."

"Precisely. And rules are made for breaking."

The village loomed up in front of them and Draco threw back his hood, instructing everyone else to do the same. For the first time since, well, ever, Hogsmeade looked threatening. Shadows shifted, the moon was whole and the Shrieking Shack sat on the hillside looking as though it would topple off at any moment.

"Cool," he breathed, eyeing the sickly, picturesque town in a new light. "Look! There's a dark alley! Let's go there!"

Pansy grabbed onto a fistful of robes at his sleeve and he scowled at her. Everyone was dispersing, although he was sure he could feel the vile presence of Baddock lingering somewhere near his left elbow. "No, Draco," she said sternly, as if talking to her familiar. He glared. "You're such a boy sometimes," she continued, dragging him towards the Hog's Head. "And I know the prefect cure." She licked her lips. "Alcohol."

***

Harry hovered over the line of black cloaks with an icy fear squeezing his heart. He couldn't remember how to breathe. Death Eaters. Death Eaters were entering Hogsmeade. Not moving for fear of being seen (it had absolutely nothing to do with his muscles conveniently seizing up), he watched as the leader regally swept back his hood. Silver hair. Lucius Malfoy.

No longer caring about being spotted, he jerked his Firebolt towards Hogwarts' huge bulk, almost dislocating his shoulder in the process, and raced back as though an Acromantula was on his heels.

***

Draco, Pansy knew, was a bitchy drunk.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that. Dumbledore is a fool. Hogwarts is a dump. Narcissa is a bitch. So is Fleur Delacour. In fact, so are all the Delacours. McDonald deserves a slow and humiliating death. Father just doesn't understand.

She heaved a weary sigh and stared morosely into her drink. It was red and vibrant and hurt her eyes. She didn't even know what it was.

Pansy was a moody drunk.

She reached up and tugged on Draco's sleeve to keep him from socking the grouchy barman in the eye with one of his expansive gestures. He scowled at her and wrenched his hand back, holding it protectively to his chest.

"You know what?"

Pansy eyed him as he downed the rest of her drink. "What?"

"I've had enough. I'm off."

And with that he stood up and walked out the door, with only a minimal amount of swaying. Quite admirable, actually, considering that the moment Pansy stood up all she felt like doing was falling back to the ground and clutching on for dear life while the world spun out of control.

As it was, she preferred to retain her dignity, and she merely stumbled out of the bar. This would have been a nicely undramatic exit had Draco, the fool, not decided that the doorway was a perfect place to collapse in. She tripped over his prone form and found herself sprawled lengthways across him and not having nearly enough energy to extricate herself.

"Oomph," said Draco, a minute later.

"Oomph?" asked Pansy, resting her cheek against the cool of the cobblestone.

"Yes. Oomph. The ground's too hard and you're crushing my legs."

"Oh. Get up, then."

Draco seemed to contemplate this. "I don't think I can," he said, sniggering. "I'm stuck."

"Stuck where?"

"To the ground." He sighed. "And the stars are falling on us."

"Really?"

"Really."

This was a very momentous conversation to have. It seemed like a thing they should remember, the stars falling like sequins from the velvet sky. She rolled over so that she was now pressed across his stomach, staring at the tiny balls of flame above her. They weren't falling any more and she was quite disappointed at having missed them. Instead, they were swirling round and round and round, leaving trails of white fire in their wake.

"Can you see them falling?" asked Draco.

"No," sighed Pansy. She thought that maybe the stars presented themselves to different people in different ways. She squinted harder and wondered what the significance of her vision was, but no whispering voice deigned to enlighten her.

They stayed like this and didn't move, even when there was screaming and running all around them, not even when a boot almost crushed Pansy's fingers to stardust.

"I think there's a bit of a kerfuffle somewhere," said Draco observantly.

"Kerfuffle," said Pansy dreamily. "Kerfufflekerfufflekerfuffle. I like that word."

"I know you do."

"How?"

"I know everything." Draco had so much conviction in his voice that all she could do was say "Oh" and stare at the sky, remembering a song from a very long time ago.

You're falling from Eden

Passing the stars by,

Confined by a coffin,

And knowing what it is to die.

You're soaring to heaven

On a star that does not fly,

And using the moon to brighten

Death's midnight sky.

There was more, she knew, but it was like grasping at time, always slipping through her fingers. Maybe, she thought, if she had webbed fingers like the Merpeople then she could stop time and stay where she was, never moving forward, never moving backwards. She'd like that. Then there would be no future, no decisions and no pressure.

"Draco? Sometimes, would you like time to just stop?"

"Yes," he said, very quietly.

And as simple as his answer was, and as drunk as he was, she had no doubt that he understood completely.

***

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, sparkling at Harry over the top of his wire spectacles. "We only need Professor McGonagall to take a look, Harry. If Hogsmeade was in danger I would know about it."

Harry scowled. "Voldemort can break wards."

"Not these wards, Harry, not these."

The headmaster didn't seem inclined to elaborate and Harry shot him a look of irritation. "People could be killed," he said. "There were so many of them."

Dumbledore said nothing, only carried on smiling. Harry hated the man when he did this. Wasn't he old enough to be told what was going on? Did he deserve to be sheltered all his life? He didn't need shelter.

When he told Dumbledore so the man's smile creased into a solemn expression that did nothing to dampen the twinkling of his eyes. Harry hated him. But then he said, "I have my own reasons to believe that they are not, in fact, Death Eaters."

Harry frowned. "They wore black cloaks and were led by Lucius Malfoy. What more evidence do you need?"

Seemingly unfazed by Harry's blunt answer Dumbledore commented, "Professor Snape has told me that a group of Slytherin students went missing this evening, including one Draco Malfoy."

"There! He's joining his father in an attack on Hogsmeade!" Dumbledore blinked serenely at him, prompting Harry to mutter rebelliously, "We all know they're all future Death Eaters, anyway--"

"Harry. I shall not discuss this with you. We will wait."

The headmaster's tone was so severe that Harry blinked, struck into silence. There were Death Eaters destroying Hogsmeade, killing, murdering, torturing innocent people and the all-powerful Dumbledore was going to do nothing. He closed his eyes, thoughts running circles around his mind, growing more and more panicked as the silence stretched between them. What would the Daily Prophet say? Would they blame him for not killing Voldemort earlier? Maybe the Ministry would chuck him out of Hogwarts because of the danger that he infected those around him with.

He was violently torn from the tangled web of guilt when Professor McGonagall swept into the room, herding two very familiar students in front of her.

Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson.

Both were clad in black cloaks, although Pansy's was on back-to-front, her arms swallowed by the heavy material. She squinted hard at Dumbledore and then elbowed Malfoy in the ribs. "Draco," she hissed in a theatrical whisper. "Draco, that's Dumbledore."

"So it is," conceded Draco with an air of great surprise. He was leaning heavily against the table behind him, staring at one of the portraits on the walls. Pansy scowled and sat down rather abruptly on the thick rug.

Harry stared, open-mouthed at the two Slytherins. "Professor?" he asked, not entirely sure which one he was addressing. "Are they...drunk?"

McGonagall sniffed. "Disgraceful. I would Sobrietus them, Albus, but my wand was lost in the panic that the Order caused. I shall have to go back to retrieve it."

"Panic? The Order went?" asked Harry, turning on Dumbledore. "Why didn't you tell me?" But once again, frustratingly, he was ignored.

"That could do more harm than good, I fear," he sighed. "Minerva, I would be much obliged if you could please take Mr Malfoy and Miss Parkinson to Poppy. I am sure she has a few suitable potions in stock. Meanwhile I shall contact Severus about the return of his erstwhile students."

Harry had turned his attention back to Malfoy, who was now scowling across the room at him. "I hate you, Potter," he announced, and Harry wondered if he was really that drunk at all. "I really fucking hate you."

He bristled, but Dumbledore intervened before Harry could snap back an insult. "Now, Mr Malfoy, I will have none of that in my office. Please go with Professor McGonagall and try not to wake any more students in the castle."

Draco glared and swayed slightly as he pushed himself off the wall. He offered a hand to Pansy, which she pulled herself up with, very nearly pulling Malfoy down on top of her. As he flounced out of the room Pansy eyed Harry disdainfully and followed, leaving Professor McGonagall to sweep after them.

"There was no Death Eater attack, Harry," said Dumbledore before he could even begin to make sense of what had just happened. "A group of Slytherins decided to visit Hogsmeade this evening and get rather sloshed. Of course they shall be duly punished, as they put themselves in considerable danger."

Harry could think of a number of derogatory comments to say to that, but he swallowed all of them and settled on asking, rather faintly, "The Order?"

"Better to be safe than sorry, Harry. Fifty points from Gryffindor and a week's detention with Professor Snape."

"What?"

"The Slytherins weren't the only ones breaking the rules tonight. You shall join Mr Malfoy and Miss Parkinson in detention every evening this week at seven o' clock. And one more thing -- take this." Harry dragged his eyes up to meet Dumbledore's. "It is a Portkey that will activate only for you, taking you directly to the Hospital Wing. It may come in handy in the future."

But Harry was too angry to listen. He bit his lip, not trusting himself not to yell in anger, snatched the object up without even glancing at it and stormed out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind him.

***

"Narcissa," said Voldemort, sliding the bottle towards her. "Have something to drink."

A delightful shudder ran through her and she tapped her champagne flute against the rim of the Kir Royale, smiling as it filled with misty roseate liquid. No house elves were permitted to serve at the dinner table when the Dark Lord was present.

"Thank you, my Lord," she murmured, taking a sip that blazed its way down her throat.

"The Ministry is falling, Lucius," said the Dark Lord, still looking at Narcissa. She felt her heart flutter frantically in her chest, but did not dare to meet his dark eyes.

"Yes," said Lucius, sounding uneasy. "A little too easily."

Narcissa felt the burning gaze leave her and discreetly sucked in a deep, calming breath through her teeth as the Dark Lord uttered one danger-laced word: "Elaborate."

"It is a little suspicious, my Lord," said Lucius quickly, "that so many members of the Ministry are succumbing to Richard Parkinson's persuasions. He is not the most...charming of personas."

"Indeed," the Dark Lord said silkily. He raised his glass and peered at his reflection contemplatively. "Of course, I would have simply used your much finer manipulations, Lucius, but there is the minor detail of dear Narcissa having relieved you of your influence within the Ministry."

Narcissa looked up in alarm, tucking her hair behind her ear nervously. She didn't dare speak, could hardly breathe, her fingers clenched around her tapering glass--

But the Dark Lord merely laughed, raking his eyes over her. "Do not look so distressed, my dear." The endearment did nothing to reassure her; his mouth was set in a mocking smile. "No Death Eater is worth that much," he continued, now looking deadly serious. Her hand trembled; her mouth was bone dry. "You have lost me connections and power." He heaved a sigh. "Malfoys are forever taking things to the extreme."

She hoped he would stop, but he didn't.

"My dear Narcissa, didn't you trust that I would get my loyal Death Eaters out of Azkaban?"

A rush of anger seethed through her veins, melting the icy fear that had settled on her. "Lucius is loyal to you," she snarled. "He has sacrificed--"

"Thank you, Narcissa," interrupted Lucius loudly, glaring furiously at her. He turned his gaze on the Dark Lord. "I am sorry, my Lord. My wife has been through much during the last month."

Narcissa stared at the glass in the Dark Lord's hand, hardly daring to believe her own nerve, her own stupidity. Death Eaters had been killed for lesser things than that. She watched his warped image and barely managed to contain a shiver at the comfrey eyes framed by hair as dark as the velvet sky.

The resurrected monster was gone and her charismatic, achingly beautiful Dark Lord was back. And he wanted revenge.

A slow smile lit his shadowed features. "Tell me about Hogsmeade."