The Pearl

"Poor little rich boy, all the couples have gone
You wish that they hadn't, you don't wanna be alone
But they wanna kiss and they got homes of their own
Poor little rich boy all the couples have gone, they've gone, they've gone"

"Poor little rich boy, all the couples have gone
You wish that they hadn't, you don't wanna be alone
But they wanna kiss and they got homes of their own
Poor little rich boy all the couples have gone, they've gone, they've gone"
"Poor little rich boy, all the world is okay
The water runs off your skin and down into the drain
You're reading Fitzgerald, you're reading Hemmingway
They're both super smart and drinking in the cafés..."

"Poor Little Rich Boy" - Regina Spektor

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

Draco sat in his room. It was cool out, the September air fogging the windows as a fire warmed his room. He sat solemnly in the armchair near the tall glass window, drawing shapes on the square panes, moving his finger to make shapes in the mist with an odd concentration. There was something different in each pane. A broken heart, his name, a sword, a snake. He traced out an eye, admiring the vortex lines that pointed towards the pupil. Wings, a rose and a music note, and in the last one, he drew an open book. They were the things most important to him, he thought. Draco was not artistic but the depictions were accurate enough to please him, and he sat at his armchair in his room, staring at the drawings but refusing to ponder on their meaning in his life, the fire and book case reflecting the gloriously furnished room behind him.

Footsteps clapped down the hall, the beat constant and echoing. It made his heart pound instantly, as if a burglar were coming. Although he doubted it; most likely, it was a visitor, but even that wasn't very likely. They paused, turning near his door. Slowly, it opened. He thought he could almost imagine a suspenseful creak, but everything in the Manor was oiled like a perfect machine; it was so timeless, he thought, that it never wore.
The knob turned slowly, clicking open. His father walked in, dressed in his fur-lined cloak, pinned tightly around his neck. Draco never saw it worn indoors, unless he was going out, and even then he'd have just sent a servant up to his room. Draco's eyes scanned his father; his bearing was beautiful in a distilled way; evenly white, incredibly complicated in its points, making the symmetry all the more lovely. Draco stared at his face with calculating eyes, expecting a change in his eyes; his was a grey, still as water, those genetics passed on to his son. Lucius gripped his ebony cane, black leather gloves making his fingers look thicker than they really were. Long, platinum hair was braided behind him, his chin raised and eyes concentrated.

"Draco," he said, the name sounding common when it came from his father. "Get on your cloak. We're leaving." It was a command with a hint of a threat. Draco was silent for a moment, practically having to tear his eyes away from his father, walking over to the claw-footed wardrobe and pulling out his black safari coat, buttoning it up quickly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father move past him, to the window without explanation. His father stared out the window and then on it. Then he raised his hand, and wiped out each drawing with the heel of his fist, until nothing remained.

How very like his father to destroy the things he loved. Draco set his jaw, buttoning and tying his coat around his waist, briefly looking into the mirror to check his hair. It was slightly mussed, and he unconsciously ran his fingers through it. He held his chin and looked at it from each side, as if checking for stubble. Draco had come to accept the fact that he would never have to shave his face. Veela blood seemed to prohibit any massive amounts of hair that might be considered unattractive. He had also come to terms with the fact that he could never be a Beater, despite his great arm for it, never anything too muscular or needing weight such as that, anything that might inflict his 'beauty'. Mother had never complained of it, but then again she was female, and her passions relied on her charm, which she had always had plenty of. Draco wrapped a thick, black wool scarf around his neck, completing the ensemble.

"Are you finished?" his father said. He was staring at Draco tiredly, waiting for him to go, laying both of his hands atop the cane.

"Yes, father," Draco replied.

The same steps he had heard in the hall, with the hollow clap of a wooden heel, filled the room as his father moved towards him. Gently, he held Draco's face in one gloved hand, looking as though he might say something important. The leather was damp and cool from the window pane. Carefully, his father lowered his face to his own, studying his son. Draco held his breath, a frisson of anticipation running in his veins. He stared into his father's face; such cold eyes. Were his own eyes that cold? His lips were angular; straight lines moving towards a dip, thin like an animal's lips. Lucius spoke and it was nothing Draco wanted to hear.

"Apparate."

**************************************************************
There was a vacuuming sensation that lasted for several seconds, sucking all the air from his lungs. Grey blurs, like ocean waves, swirled all around him.

Then they stopped.

Draco could finally breathe again. His breath dragged; it was the result of restricting one's own lungs, of trying not to gasp or pant. He hated Side-Along Apparating with a passion, even more so when his father seemed so collected, staring at Draco with a look of suppression. Vaguely aware of the fact that his father had dropped his hand, Draco swung around, noting his location. Several Death Eaters sat, in their hooded black cloaks, faces shaded except for their wicked, clown smiles. The sky above them was opaque with rain clouds, but little rain touched him, or at least less that he expected. Dense pine branches acted as a bulwark against the drops. Draco noted the crescent formation of the Death Eaters, looking to the centre of it. Slim, red eyes looked back at him from a triangular face, covered in white scales, foggy breath rising from thin nostrils. A black cloak billowed about him, but there was no wind. His hands were like a bird's with black talons on white scales.

A raspy whisper came from him, forked tongue lolling in and out at each syllable.

"Draco..."

He clenched his fist, drawing all his muscles tight, as if he could bolt instantly if he had to. Not that he could; he knew who this was. Draco had sense to know that this man (if he could even be called a man) was stronger than he'd ever be, and that if he tried to run, he would surely die. The scientific part of his mind was in awe and the instinctive part was cautious. Jagged terror ran through his veins, watching the face, searching for the humanity in it and finding none. He noticed the disarray of the scales; they seemed mottled and plucked, grey where the neat, cell-like white scales had once been.

"My lord." He dropped down on one knee, bowing his head down. Were it not for his scarf, his neck would have felt dangerously vulnerable, the same feeling he'd had before bowing to Buckbeak--and what good had that done him? He held the hem of the robe to his lips; it was rough and scratchy canvas. It hung loosely around the man's body; he couldn't help but think that Voldemort has the fashion sense of a potato sack. He thought, rather insanely, that perhaps the Dark Lord would look nice with a good pair of jeans and a black jumper with a little bit of cream for those dry scales. Fluidly, he moved stood back up, moving backwards to open the distance. The air around Voldemort was colder even than the rain; he was quite happy to get away.

"Draco," he said, his voice softer than a whisper. No one Draco had ever met had immediately called him by his first name. Just 'Malfoy', or 'young Malfoy', and anything else was too... intimate. Somehow, he knew the Death Eaters could not hear them. "Why do you draw back from me?" He raised his hand in welcome, as if to pull Draco in. A gust of wind rushed by them both, chilling Draco, tossing his coat about his legs.

Puffs of air rose in front of him; his nose and hands were cold, a shiver running through his chest and lungs, as he gulped icy air. Draco suspected ice-crystals were forming around his nose hairs. He replied to the Dark Lord, feeling like an actor with a memorized script. "Because you are so powerful, my lord. And because I am so weak." He bowed his head, daring himself to look up.

A smile slithered over the white face. It crumpled the hard scales, revealed thin white fangs that dripped poison down his chin. He could not tell if this was the right or wrong thing to say; the Dark Lord might smile at either thing. Funny sense of humour, those evil overlords. Draco gazed back as levelly as possible, concentrating on the dimples of his smile rather than in his eyes.

"Then, if you are so weak, you must prove your worth to me," he replied, in perfect harmony with the script. Draco realized that he was not whispering; his voice was a low hiss that he could not control.

"You will give me the Potter boy," he sissed. "Seize him and bring him to me, so that he will be under my mercy. Lucius will instruct you on how; do not kill him, not that you could... that is my calling. I look forward to the satisfaction." The blood-red eyes closed, as if the thought gave him great joy.

Draco just stared. He wondered how he had gotten into this situation. He didn't even really want to be a Death Eater anyway. Had he at one point hinted it out? And to who? The thought had appealed to him slightly, but he thought he might be better off playing Quidditch or perhaps getting by on his good looks, maybe start a book shop. Nobody had asked him this. He could feel a sort of desperation filling him like dirty, lukewarm water, as the words sunk in, making him slightly frantic. He looked away from Voldemort, his eyes moving magnetically to his father who had brought him here, gazing hard at the face. His father looked almost bored, staring at the Dark Lord until he noticed his son's gaze. A smile; a very proud smile directed at Draco.

He stood there, feeling immense shock numb and charge him. In that moment, he was sure, that if his father wanted him to do anything, he would most likely do it. If he asked him any question, he would find him the answer, no matter how impossible. If he fell, he would catch him, and if he bled, Draco would soak up the blood. If he asked to be killed, he would kill him; and after, if he somehow asked to live again, he would raise him from the grave. And he would certainly, certainly become a Death Eater if that was his wish too.

He turned his head away from Draco, small, loose strands near his ears blown back by the wind, face hidden by his hood.

Draco dropped down on both knees, holding the canvas delicately in his hands and murmuring into the fabric, face hidden in cloth.

"Master, master I will do anything for you."
'Father, father I will do anything for you.'

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

They came back without a problem. The house-elves hardly noticed they had been gone. Draco looked around the dim hall, a torch flaring on the wall, fluttering as it ate up the thin air. His father was already walking ahead, the platinum braid a gently swinging pendulum on his arched back. Draco followed behind him, stripping his coat and scarf and tossing them in the hall, following after his father. Sudden frustration filled him, as he followed Lucius down the hall. The grey walls were as much a blur as the Apparating in his rage; often he would look about the Manor and wonder at the beauty of the place, the sharpness and age of it, but now he could have cared less. Quickening his pace down the hall, he noticed the turns they were taking; they were going to his father's office.

He followed until they reached the statue. The Manor was built similarly to Hogwarts; not unusual, seeing as they were just as old. The statue was of a knight holding his sword proudly before him, a large broadsword. He held his helmet at his side, face clear and defined, hair neatly arranged for a warrior. Often Draco had puzzled on how to open up his father's office; he had tried several passwords, none of them had worked. Once he had even tried spells; he was very surprised when the spells did not set off any alarms, but merely did not work. He gazed over his father's shoulder, wondering what he might do, if he heard a password. He did not.

Lucius did not look behind himself as he spoke; he never did. "Draco. Stand back."

Draco raised his head, as if he might see something up above his father but did not. He moved backwards, carefully, until he was a sure distance away. Then he watched.
Carefully, his father wrapped his hand around the heavy sword and pulled it out of the soldier's grasp. It came out easily, as if the statue had relaxed its hold. Draco was surprised by how easily his father handled the heavy, stone sword; he himself was more used to sleek dueling swords, not such medieval ones. But his father lifted it, as if it were made of air. He clutched it, and in one fluid moment, stabbed it into the statue.

Immediately it coloured, its skin turning a human shade, uniform and armour colouring liquid silver, as did the sword. Red blood poured out, running down his metal uniform, clutching at his bleeding side with iron encased fingers, doubled over in pain. It pooled at his feet, dribbling down sickeningly like extra shower water. The warrior fell onto the floor mutely, heavy armour not making a single noise. His face, which Draco realized was rather handsome and rather Malfoy-like, was twisted with pain.

Draco hid his horror behind a distant face. The man shuffled around on the ground, shivering with pain, metal grinding against the stone. Lucius stepped over him, as if he were a mouldering log in the woods rather than a dying man on the ground. Draco was half caught between helping the man and following his father. It was not the first time he had seen blood seep into the stone on the Mansion; it was just the first time he had seen a man's blood on the floor. Subtly he noticed that the man was a boy, at least Draco's age. His father beckoned to Draco with one stiff hand, who didn't know at that point if he could do anything else. Taking one last look at the man on the floor, he walked around him to the passageway that had opened to the office.

He began to appreciate the cosiness of Dumbledore's office then. It was strung with odd, beautiful magical instruments, the wood warmly coloured and the air light and musty. Lucius's office desk was made of expensive ebony, the corner walls dim, making it look vaster than it was. The floor was stone, and on each side of his desk lay a grey filing cabinet. In various places lay his clutter of dark items; a mirror that dripped water down the top, a skull holding a candle, and many other gothic looking items. He looked at his father, allowing only curiosity onto his face; that and nothing more. His father seemed to notice this, looking up to him as he sat down. His father pursed his lips, speaking.

"Draco," he said, drawling, face in his palm, waiting. "It was the wish of the King of Siam that his subjects always be below or level with him. And so it is my wish that you sit down." He glanced at the seat in front of the desk, turning and opening a cabinet in a businesslike manner. The metal glided silently, papers shuffling.

Draco sat down carefully on the seat, facing the desk. He watched his father pull out a small magical safe, placing it heavily on the desk. Murmuring a soft spell, it popped open and putting his hands inside, drew out two small bottles.

There were two stoppered vials, side by side, glass chinking together as they were set. One was white and the other was black. Ying and yang, thought Draco.

"Father," he said calmly. "What is that?" He looked up, wondering what he was supposed to do.

Lucius smiled delicately, fingertips touching each potion gently. "They are the Puer and the Puella. The Elixirs of Gender."

Draco stared at him unevenly, feeling like a deer caught wounded under the hunter's arrow, or a butterfly under the pin. He had hit his mark. "Pray continue," he said, insanely calm despite the pounding blood in his ears.

"You will drink this one," his father said, placing his hand flat on the silky black liquid, "to turn you into a girl."

Turn him in to... in to a what? "Why turn me into a girl? Why not Polyjuice me?" Draco said, voice cutting.

His father sighed, as if explaining something to a small child. Draco thought he may as well be, for all the choice he had in the matter. "We used the Polyjuice with Barty Junior; they'd find some way to detect it if you used it. Besides that, it's a lot of work kidnapping someone."

"They could do the same thing with this potion, though," Draco said, eyeing it as if it were explosive.

He was all business again, tone low and even, sure. "No, they couldn't. This is a new potion, we invented it ourselves. Dumbledore and all his Order know naught of it. They can't detect it. It's untraceable."

"But do I have to take it every hour on the hour? They could find me out that way," Draco said, voice denying the outrage he felt. He wasn't just questioning it; he was trying to find a reasonable way out of taking the potion.

Lucius made a soft clucking with his tongue. "No. This is very different. It causes a complete molecular change; you only have to take it once. The potion runs a course through your blood and when it's done, it dispels like any other liquid. But you still stay female."

"Is it permanent?" Draco asked, staring at the white. Ying and yang, fire and ice, salt and pepper. He had forgotten. Was ying the male or female power? Did it even matter?

Lucius smiled. "No. When you are finished with your task, you may change back into a man."

Draco stared back, unaware that he had not blinked once during their entire conversation. "With the white potion?"

His father nodded, calm and seemingly unworried that his son was about to become a woman.

"What if I get pregnant?" Draco asked, damning himself for even asking.

Lucius frowned, somehow only doing that with one part of his face. "A simple Birth Control charm is all it takes. Then you can have as much sex as you want."

Draco smirked, struggling to keep it from blooming into a troubled grin. Like with all families, it was awkward and strangely funny to hear his father say that, although given the circumstances, painful as well. He shook his hand as if it were sore, continuing his questioning.

"How, I will ask," he said, lacing his hands over the table, "am I supposed to lure the Potter out of school? We're not on very good terms." His fingers were cold and hard, the joints bumping against each other. He felt his good mood dissipate as quickly as fog on a window.

Lucius smiled, speaking with an air of commemoration. "Ah, yes. I remember when you were a child, how jealous you were of him. So glad I am that time has passed."

How ashamed he was at that. An internal flush spread over his body; he was glad though, staring at the inside of his arm, that he did not turn red. He watched the harsh pulse of his wrist beat for a half-second, noting the lines of scars from when he was caught in a thorn bush, thin as strands of hair, almost white over his tendons. He lowered his head to Lucius, gratefully meeting his eyes. They were as cold and grey as winter sky.

"Never mind that," Draco said wearily. "How am I supposed to lure him out? I expected some sort of game plan, perhaps something pitifully drawn out in X's and O's, from what I've seen in the past," he said, adding a touch of bored disgust in his voice. Just another plan. It had come to pass, the idea that Potter would ever die. And Draco found it oddly comforting; it was just one on those things in life you could count on, like the floor being cold in the morning and the gold lining of clouds, Harry Potter making it to next Christmas.

Lucius leaned back against his tall, leather office chair, palms flat on the desk, stretching his arms, so that they made a muffled crack. His eyes, half-closed as he stretched, opened fully, staring at Draco impatiently. "The same way Barty did. He gained his trust."

"Well how am I supposed to gain his trust?" Draco snapped, equally as impatient. Did Lucius even care what he had put Draco up to? Did he?

His father smiled with cruel, cruel humour. "That is for you to decide. However you do it does not matter, so long as you get him. You are doing this to prove yourself to the Dark Lord." He spoke so resolutely, it was as if he thought Draco had forgotten he wanted to do this.

Well, what if I bloody well don't want to, Draco thought. But he could never say that. If his housemates did not absolutely kill him for turning down the chance, if the Death Eaters did not, then Lucius would, or at least never speak to him again. And a small part of him still didn't want that. Draco changed the subject.

"That statue," he said, voice soft but not murmuring. "Why is it like that?"

Lucius tilted his head, so slightly you would have to have been very close to see it. He sounded extremely bored, not caring at all for the situation. "He is a blood-traitor to the Malfoy family, his name; Amadeus. He married Hailey, a Mudblood of sorts, betraying his family. A few months into their marriage the family found out. Hailey, mercifully, was killed. Amadeus went on to live a thousand deaths as punishment. He became a living statue at the whim of the Malfoys. Now you see him today," he drawled, as if it were merely history. "Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Yes," answered Draco. His mind was numb with the information; it would have made a perfect Greek myth.

Lucius stared at him expectantly.

Draco closed his eyes, rubbing his temples furiously in his helplessness. And then he snatched the black potion from the desk, so innocent looking in its corked, pear-shaped bottle.

"Where's the bathroom?" he asked. He could feel his own reserve cracking like ice.

"It's to the left," his father drawled, pointing to a small passageway next to him.

Draco walked into it in a controlled way, locking the door behind him. It was a surprisingly normal bathroom, compared to the office next to him. He looked in the mirror, then at the bottle and then in the mirror again. His hand shook as he lifted it; he felt as if his blood were made of water.

Draco tugged open the wood cork, and a stale, grapey smell exuded from it. It was like lilac bushes and cough syrup and autumn leaves mixed together, and when he drank it, it tasted strangely of dry flesh and went down smoothly as cream.

It didn't hurt like Polyjuice; it was as if he were a balloon and being inflated and deflated at the same time, invisible hands moulding him like clay, pulling down his hair gently. He kept his eyes closed tight, not wanting to see the change. He could feel it bubbling through his body like champagne. It fizzed and fizzed and then, slowly, went flat. Then it stopped.

And he opened his eyes.

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

Draco Malfoy was a girl. Or at least he was now.

The potion he drank was meant to be a disguise. And it was. Somehow, this girl, with his pale skin, eyes and hair and sharp face was completely different from his boy self.

He had stripped his clothes, except his robe, which was the only item that hadn't become awkward and too baggy as soon as he had taken it. He looked in the mirror. He had shrunk, lost about a head's worth of his height. His hair had grown so that it brushed softly against his shoulders. Where his body had been coated in muscle, it was now coated in a softer layer of fat that made him feel strangely helpless. He tossed the robe aside and pinched his arms, displeased at the stretch of skin. Still, he had always shuddered at the thought of an overly toned girl, so the smoothness of his arm should have been expected. Something jiggled on his chest. It took him a moment to realize they were breasts.

This fascinated him to an endless degree, breasts always being a popular topic amongst teenage boys. He turned left and right, studying the gentle mounds. He had always thought if he were a girl, he'd have been a tall blonde, generously endowed and with miles of legs. It turned out he was a petite girl with small tits. Still, he had the various curves needed to be attractive and at least he hadn't potion-splinched himself into some sort of hermaphrodite. At least.

The tips of his fingers grazed his stomach; his tummy was as flat as always, but with a sort of smoothness to it he could not identify. Perhaps it was simply the idea of a womb being there that made it look so vulnerable. Draco lightly touched it, as if it might shatter. He certainly felt he might. He then understood why every girl he'd ever touched had melted in his arms; it was that feeling of safety that relaxed them. Because men were made simply to protect them, to provide for them. It seemed so stupid and obvious now.

Finally, he studied his face. Everything was, well, fuller, from his once-hollow cheeks to his eyelashes and lips. It all very, very strange, but the thing that struck him the most about his new face was his eyes. They hadn't changed at all. They were the same blank grey as always. He hadn't known what to expect, but that wasn't it. Tightening his robe around him uncomfortably, and with an air of finality, he stepped out.

Lucius sat patiently at his desk, idly watching black snow fall in a snow globe. He set it down carefully, looking up and turning to Draco with mechanical movements. His face was blank, but Draco knew him enough to guess the emotion. Contempt. The voice drawled to him in an unpleasant tone.

"How sad is it," he pondered, holding his chin, "that my son, my only heir, should make a better woman than a man?" It was insult and compliment. Mostly insult, though, he knew. At the mention of his 'only heir' he thought of asking of all the illegitimate little heirs he'd probably made with the house-elves and commoners.

"Father," he intoned, thinking that his higher voice certainly didn't sound thin, just not... correct. "I can't wear the same clothes to school. I'll need money for new clothes."

"Of course. I'll send you to Diagon Alley straight away," said Lucius. Draco wasn't sure if it was sarcasm.

"And as for now?" Draco said, gesturing expansively at his own robes.

His father waved his wand. Draco soon found himself wearing a green sweater and jeans. A tightness around his chest spoke of a bra. Knickers; it was a thong. He was suddenly suspicious of his father, giving him a narrowed glance, but said nothing.

He nodded. "Father, may I leave now? With the money?"

Lucius smiled, as if Draco had made a joke. "No, just buy everything on credit. I'm afraid the dozens of sacks of galleons might be a bit heavy for you."

Draco smiled his own father's sinister smile, the corners of his mouth curling up cattishly. "That's never stopped me before," he said but took the slip of paper dutifully.

"My daughter. Always loves to show off our wealth. Now," Lucius said, voice turning sharply down an octave, "your name, like most things in life, is something you do not get to choose. Normally, it might be a name within the Malfoy family but that would be too obvious. So your name is Pearl Cavalier. Remember that."

Lucius swiveled the chair around and walked to the door so fluidly it seemed to be one motion. How did he do that? It was like oil coated his joints and muscles and his coat hardly made a swish when he walked. He'd never been able to perfect that sort of grace; he'd come close, but never quite so fully. It was something Draco himself had once hoped to achieve. Once.

Lucius spoke without turning around, over his shoulder, as he walked out the door. "I've already arranged a carriage for you right away. You will stay at the Zabinis'; they know nothing of what we are doing and will not know, the less the better. They think you, Ms. Cavalier, need a decently protected place to stay while your parents are away on holiday. Your mad uncle is after your inheritance and is out to kill you and your parents. You would have gone with them, but Jamaica is dreadfully hot, and better that you split up. Do I make myself clear?"

Draco nodded, following him meekly out the door. That was a pretty stupid premise; father must have stolen that from a Harlequin or something. His father walked ahead of him, down the hallway towards the main entrance. Draco stopped to look at the statue. The floor was clean of blood, and the statue of the boy sat there, his brave stance seeming more defiant now, his courage more meaningful. Soft, dark hair fell over his eyes, and his lips were pursed, jaw set. Draco softly touched the stone cheek; it was hard, but felt warm and alive under his hand. His got up on tip toe, leaning and whispering into its ear.

"Someday, I'll get you out of here. I promise."

Then he patted the statue's cheek, as if to reassure him and fled down the hall, to the stairs.

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

He got his sizes down on paper and went shopping.

The girls section was about three times the guys section; well, perhaps not three times as large but three times fuller. The first thing he did was pick out some lingerie, feeling graciously embarrassed, as he did not know what he was doing. He bought some white lacy things, some black lacy things, some red silky things and a neon yellow push-up bra just because he felt like it. No thongs; just the thought of them made him cringe. Measured, he found his bra size to be 30 C. He was somewhat disappointed, expecting DD or F or G or something along the lines of that. But not very.

The next thing he tackled was regular clothes. There was much, much more variety amongst the girl's section, and he found it exquisite. He bought everything from sashes to belts, jeans to skirts, t-shirts to dress shirts and sweaters to tank-tops. The bags were too large to fit in the back seat, so he bought a small trailer to help tow them all in, and another horse in case that was too heavy for the one. Besides, having only one horse made him seem cheap.

Make-up. There had to be at least a hundred different shades of lipstick and fifty different kinds of make-up. So far, he had discovered eye shadow, eyeliner, lip liner, powder, lipstick, mascara and then a thousand odd inventions he wasn't even sure were really useful. He did not choose selectively but simply shoved handfuls into a cart regardless of color or quantity. The cashier rang him up, giving him a strange but dispassionate look.

He wasn't sure what else to get, so he wandered his way into the book store and purchased a large book of witch's glamour spells, and a few paperbacks he rather liked, seeing as he could not take his small, personal library with him. Then he went to buy shoes, dozens of pairs of high-heels he was sure would look conspicuous in a dorm full of snotty little rich girls. That was the only reason he bought them, Draco assured himself, because he did not like the sleek 54 galleon pair of silver Camal Gori heels or the lovely 47 galleon Kenneth Cole side-saddles that made his legs seem thinner. There were just for cover, that was all, they were girl's shoes. In an attempt to distract himself, he turned his attention on the pet shop.

He already had an owl; a beautiful black eagle owl, to be precise. Then again, he never sent out letters and he was so loyal to his own he didn't dare think of getting a new one. Instead, he looked at the pet section. There were small, three headed dogs that needed a Silencing charm for their constant barking. Colourful Fwoopers, with brightly coloured feathers, sat in gilded cages. Fluffy, custard yellow Puffskeins bounced inside their tanks. Then there were the magical cats. Cats, common in the wizarding world, came in all colours and sizes. There were red, orange and purple, and grey-striped and pure white and ones that mocked big cats, leopards and lions, tiger stripes.

Draco eyeballed the cats, one by one. Father had taught him what to look for in a soldier; an animal wasn't much far off. Draco played the words over in his head until he came to the end of the line and stopped. A lean, black cat sat quietly down in the corner of the cage. Its back arched superbly, its head held high with perfectly pointed black ears. Looking it straight in the eyes, Draco noticed they were the same flecked grey as his own, the cat returning his gaze respectfully. He called over the shop keeper to bring him out. The keeper informed him happily that it was an Apparitional cat, and that it brought bad luck to whomever purchased it. It had killed several of its past owners and brought small catastrophes to people who crossed it on the street. The shop owner, smiling sardonically, informed him that he should only buy it if he had a death wish.

Draco just smiled, reaching his hands through the bars, brushing his knuckles over the little head. It nuzzled him, rising instantly to rub against the cage, its fur coming out between the bars and a rubbery purr rising above the other animal sounds. That's okay, Draco told the shop keeper; I'm bad luck too. The older man smiled and told him what the cat could really do. It used magic similar to a house-elf's; it could Apparate throughout Hogwarts, it having a different kind of magic from wizards not usually recognized by them, and was once used during wizarding wars to relay messages, as no one wanted to contend with a black cat. It really wasn't unlucky, depending on how one treated it. It went for forty galleons, if Draco liked it.

And Draco did. He bought it. It trotted alongside him as he left, their steps matched, each foot placed with careful balance on the floor. He smirked, offering the sleek cat his arm. It climbed up his limb like a branch, lying across his shoulders. It wasn't a very affectionate animal; rather courteous, business-like. Draco walked towards the carriage wearing his new pet, pondering. He could not call it 'cat' or 'it' for very long. He did not even know its gender and hadn't the time or inclination to check. What a pair they were, beyond the boundary of sex and very possibly androgynous. "Well, cat. I think I should name you," Draco said, almost suggesting it in case it did not want a name.

Its tail flicked over his arm. He chanced on in a whisper only someone with beastly senses could hear. "See, I'm in a bit of trouble. You can probably sniff out that I'm not an... ordinary girl. It's a disgusting disguise, really. Forced," he said, smiling. The coach driver couldn't hear over the rattling of wheels on the cobblestone, making the cart jump every so often. "My name is Draco, heir of the Malfoy family. But to the rest of the world, I am now Ms Pearl Cavalier. I'd tell you the rest of the story but it's very long. The point is that misery loves company. I was thinking of giving you two names, like my own. Would you mind?"

It did not reply, just listened quietly, studying his ear. Draco drawled on, remembering a poem he had memorized as a child, and grinning, reciting it perfectly.

"The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES."

By the time he had finished he was in the carriage, on his way home. The cat's eyes were narrowed with pleasure, taking in the cool, autumn-smelling air from the window and the rhythm of the poem that was perfectly in tune with the horse's hoof-beats.

Draco allowed himself to touch its velvety ears, stretching out over the seats of the carriage, hair falling out the open window. "Your first name shall be Hecate. Your second; Nosferatu. A boy's and a girl's name," he said, squinting back at it in the same sleepy way. "And now we are equal."

The carriage trembled over rocks, comforting and pleasant. The vibrations went through the seat to his spine, lulling him with the metronome of horse hooves. Curling up protectively, he submerged into the ocean of oblivion.

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

"Ms Cavalier, please wake up!"

Draco wished he had some covers to pull up over his face, to hide from the driver, but sadly he did not. He waved a hand at him violently and contracted his body into a tight ball, holding a lump of something warm in his arms. Dizzy and curious, he looked down and saw the cat sitting on his chest, eyes slit as if by a knife. A purr, rough with phlegm, rose in its throat, as it blinked slowly and looked around with foggy eyes curiously, as if it could not believe its predicament. It had that sort of night-after look. Feeling somewhat the same, Draco sat up carefully and shrugged off the cat. He had not expected to ever have a cat as a bed-mate, but he thought he could get used to it. Hecate, he remembered naming it, with the formal name of Nosferatu. They were not so close, thought Draco, strangers to each other. He'd call him Nosferatu until then, Hecate if they ever became close.

Nosferatu stood up with much the same grace as he, gliding through his legs and jumping out lightly. He stretched the luxurious stretch of all animals, only with a more flaunting air than pleasured one. A chip off the old block, he thought, smirking and sliding off the edge of the seat, and my only friend in the world, so far. The man, tall and lean, looked down at Draco impatiently, slamming closed the door. Draco shot the man a disgusted sneer. What was his problem? He looked closer, noting the silver, walrus-like moustache and then the small cut on his chin. Now how had that gotten there? He looked down at his boots, noting a few small, grey hairs on the toe. Hmm.

The coal-black cat sat on the ground, waiting for him, tail thrashing. Draco walked around the coach and onwards to the castle, Nosferatu following him. With a distinct bang from behind him, he could tell the man was off to stable the horses. The claps of horse shoes on the ground confirmed this. Ahead of them, men, dressed in green robes, hauled large shopping bags. All the things he bought for school. Taking smaller strides to match the cat's pace, Draco explained the place to him.

"This," he said, gesturing grandly to the estate on which their path lay, "is the House of Zabini. A rather distasteful Victorian dwelling established in the 19th century, a new house at the time." His tone mocked Granger's, studious and even, as if he were reading from a textbook. Draco grinned suggestively. "Of course, that is only to anyone besides myself and anyone else interested in the history of Zabini Mansion. From what I hear, it used to be hotel and brothel. Lots of sodomy and sex-magic going on, but that can only lead to some very amusing history. The Zabinis only recently bought it last year."

The route of cement led to the grand front entrance. The house looked like a wooden castle, large and with arabesque woodwork trimming the angles of the house, two trees with black-violet leaves on each side of it. The house itself was more lilac, but the toning was nice. It did look like a comfortable place to live; there was a large porch up front and large, warmly lit windows.

Each glass pane on the front door had an angel wing etched into the glass. The house structure overall reminded him of a child's jungle gym. It was built so that he could have jumped down from the window onto the roof of the veranda, or perhaps climbed down with a rope from the balcony. Draco looked down, almost forgetting his company. The black cat made a disapproving meow at him, mouth wide to show his distaste. Draco smoothed back his ears as if that would make up for it.

He walked up the steps quietly, not making a sound. Nosferatu did the same, taking the steps two paws at a time. Looking at the cat, he noticed the colour of his whiskers; whitish, his nose and paw pads dark black. He had a cut face, like a Siamese but with the body of a lean alley cat. He sat back on his haunches, posture perfect with his head raised, as if he might be able to look down upon man that way. Slightly amused with his musings, Draco turned to the door.

"Nosferatu," he said, asking for his attention.

The cat's eyes turned in his sockets; a bit almond-shaped, like his own. What? he seemed to say.

Draco smiled, his mouth curling into a mega bracket. "This is how you make your presence noticed." He lovingly curled his fingers around the door knocker.

BANGKNOCKSLAMKNOCKKNOCKSLAMBANG.

Then he pummeled it into the door. The following slams echoed around him and should have awoken everyone in the Mansion and for seven miles surrounding. Though the cat, it seemed, did not mind.

Draco could hear some scrambling and swearing, and somebody running to the door. A butler answered the door, hair disheveled, running a hand down his suit and half-glaring. Draco looked at him innocently, parting his lips. The butler's eyes melted. Being part-Veela, he'd always had always had that sort of effect on people. He smiled seductively, just for good measure, expecting a formal greeting.

The man stammered one out, smoothing back his greased black hair self-consciously. "Th-the Master of Nott welcomes you, Ms..." He faltered, as if unsure Draco was married. A simple nod was all it took. "Cavalier. Mr. Zabini will guide you to the room."

As if on cue, a tall black man walked down the stairs, dressed in black silk robes with a golden Z sewn into the breast pocket. Draco proceeded to step inside, picking up the cat, holding him in a way he hoped the animal found comfortable. Nosferatu did not mind being held, just simply looked carefully around in case he was dropped.

Mr. Zabini was especially dark as far as black men went, skin the colour of semi-sweet chocolate. When he smiled, his teeth were white and sharp looking, like a dog's. Probably Jamaican, which explained Blaise. A thick black moustache topped his upper lip, the hair on his head short and fuzzy. The man took Draco's hand with a disinterested air. Draco thought first that he was going to shake it, but instead he kissed it, moustache scratching across Draco's knuckles. Slightly appalled, he let it lay there limply, making sure his disgust did not show in his eyes.

His accent was French, and would have sounded pleasant if he had seemed a more kindly man. "Welcome! We are quite 'appy to receive you from Mr. Cavalier, your father is quite a great man. 'e offered us a very generous amount to care for you, and, well as you can see we 'ave quite enough room!" He said it with a beaming quality that did not meet his eyes.

Play along, Draco. Setting down the cat, he gave a cackle-like laugh and tossed his hair. "Oh, you know..." Vomit climbed up his throat, as he said the next word; he would never say the word to his own father. "Daddy is always worrying about me. He said your estate was the best and had the greatest wards. He also said you weren't too pricey either," he drawled, smiling as if it was funny.

The man's dark eyes flashed venomously. But before he could respond, a tall, slim woman entered the room. Her eyes were snake-like, her cheeks high and face narrow. Where Mr. Zabini was the colour of ebony, she was a glowing caramel colour. Her dark hair was braided into a complicated weave, a pattern of thin S shapes and lines atop her head, the rest of it falling in shoe-lace sized locks down the back. Her robes were a carefully selected magenta, silk with a pattern of light pink roses up the front. Very pretty, thought Draco, they did say she was a supermodel. The robes were tied tight around her waist, showing off her perfect shape.

"Pearl," she said, smiling. She seemed considerably kinder that her husband. "We're glad to have you here." Her eyes gave him a quick once over. Draco felt himself mentally smirk. "I'm sure my son Blaise would love to meet you. You're both in the same year, hmm? Sixth?"

"Yes. Oh, but I've never met him before!" said Draco, furrowing his brows as he lied.

She smiled. "Well, he's gorgeous, and I'm not saying that just because I'm his mum," she said and indeed, there was a hint of pride in her voice. "You can call me Jasmine, my husband's name is Dante. Now, you're quite pretty, have you ever considered modeling?"

Yes. When he was fifteen. "No, never," he said, fluttering his lashes as if he were shy.

Jasmine snapped her fingers as if she had a revelation. "Well, you should. As you can see, this is a very large mansion and it would take a very long time to show you around, perhaps later one of our butlers can help take you on the general tour. Now, you may simply walk around for now and pick out a bedroom. Bell ropes will alarm the maids and butlers if you need anything, anything at all, as they are most inclined to fetch it for you. We will bring you your bags later, when you have chosen your corridors."

"Thank you," Draco said, nodding his head down a little. Then he ran up the stairs with the speed and vigour of an animal, leaving them behind to explore the large mansion.

The tassels, he knew, were leftovers from the old whorehouse. They were meant to warn the others of when a prostitute was in danger. Silencing charms were still on the doors; butlers and maids exited each room silently, despite how loud they might be cleaning, or talking to other servants. The quiet and the sunlight that poured into each room and hall gave the house a sort of still-life feeling. Each room was beautiful and spacious, with a different theme or colour set, as if they had all been individually decorated. It had a luxurious sort of feel, the sort of luxury people liked to associate with sex. There were many rich hues and oriental carpets, traditional Victorian furnishings. Draco explored the rooms, finding a pair of handcuffs under the mattress in one, and atop the dresser, near the powder jars, he found a jar of lube. In several closets he found strange costumes, for both men and women. Many times he found ropes and whips hanging in there; it made him wonder exactly what kind of brothel they had run here. The rest of the rooms were relatively normal, despite the occasional costume or lubricant. He found one that he particularly liked.

It was in the furthermost corner of the house, second floor. It had a large bay window, the turret hollowed out above it, angels in togas painted on the panels. A large, wispy canopy hung from the top, acting as curtains. Everything in the room was broidered blue silk and rosewood, from the bedspread, to the vanity-stool, to the chaise. The silk and wood gleam In the corner, a portrait of the sky clung to the wall, with silver, marble-like clouds reflecting the outside weather. Right now, it looked like rain. He found the effect relatively stunning.

Draco fell back on the bed, stretching. His back, hands, arms, legs and ankles cracked with no problem at all. He studied the bell tassel that fell next to the night stand. His bags, he'd need his bags. Gently turning on his side, he tugged on the rope. A pleasant chiming told him it worked. He closed his eyes, taking in the vibrations.

Soon, a boy, several years his senior, entered the room, pushing a cart with a pyramid of luggage. Atop it sat Nosferatu, licking his paws busily. He looked up, jumping lightly from a black case to the bed, curling up between Draco's legs. He stroked the cat, feeling the shoulder-blades, sharp as an arrowhead through the skin. It occurred to him that the cat might need food. Shooing away the servant, he nudged the cat around to face him. Eyes coloured sharp silver stared up at him, questioning.

"You look quite tired. Been roaming around the manor?"

The cat lowered its head in response, paws curling imperceptibly inward. Draco touched the pads; not as a display of love, but of curiosity. He'd never had a docile pet before. They were as soft as the palms of his hands, with black fur in between the toes. Pinching and pressing the main pad between his thumb and pointer, he saw how the claws popped out, translucent and white against the inky fur.

When he spoke, his tone was recitative, drawling. "You realized this manor has 97 separate rooms, three stories and several sets of stairs? Plus, anti-pest charms. It's silly to hunt around here, unless you're looking for anal lube and lederhosen." He arched a brow. "You weren't, were you?"

Nosferatu's ears flattened against his head, curling his head inwards and stretching his legs as if to roll over. He seemed bashful.

Draco grinned. "Well, I suppose it's my fault for telling you it was a whore house. I should have known you were that sort of cat. Why else would I like you?" He rubbed the tips of the ears, deciding he might try to evoke a purr. The ears were pressure points, right? Instead though, the cat turned around promptly and bit him. Hard. With needle-like teeth that stung. Draco was about to pull his hand away before it could strike again, but then it wrapped its paws around his arm, nibbled the web of his fingers and began licking him. He was confused as ever; it wasn't like the cat was so person he could figure out, but he understood licking was good, so he just sat there until the cat seemed to have had his fill.

He tilted his head in an observatory manner. "You know what?"

No, Nosferatu clearly stated with a vellication of his tail, I don't know what.

"You're missing something around the neck," Draco said, drawing out his wand from his pocket. He tapped it to the leathery Y of the cat's nose and an argent ribbon appeared out of thin air, wrapping loosely around Nosferatu's neck. A silver bell the size of a golf ball sat on the end, making a light plinking noise as the cat sat up. He narrowed his grey eyes, peering levelly at Draco, suspicious.

"It looks nice. Besides that, it lets me know when you're coming," he said. Audit Unum. With another tap, he had charmed it for his ears only. "And there. Now it's silent to anyone but me. You can hunt without worry, now."

Draco plucked at his green sweater, slightly too warm in it. He looked at his luggage, unzipping one black case and tearing through one of the bags for his clothes. He changed quickly, pulled on a pair of boots and was out the door, beckoning Nosferatu to follow. But not before looking at himself in the mirror. He pointed his middle finger at his reflection in the mirror. Looking good, Draco.

The cat stepped silently toward him. He held out his arm and clawed up it quickly. Draco could hear the bell, as the cat wrapped itself around his neck, a soft tinkling in his ear. Supporting it with his right arm, his wand in his left, he meandered down the hall. He wandered through dusty clouds of light, stopping once to take in the pleasant warmth of it. Draco examined a room just atop the porch roof, tempted to jump out the window and climb down the pillars.

Draco, a hedonist in his own terms, always gave in to temptation. A childish sort of delight and daring filled him as he stepped inside.

The room was deep red with oriental designs all over it, black character cards on the desk, and a large china vase sat in the corner, depicting a woman with a parasol. The Chinese room, he'd call it, quite sure if he bothered to check the closet, he'd find a kimono or two. Opening the window slowly, he straddled himself out of it, closing it behind him with a pressured, shifting noise. Draco stared at the platform. It was a flat roof, with a slanting edge to keep out the sun. Everything was surprisingly clean, probably since people could look out on it. He walked towards the edge and looked down, still holding the cat, who did nothing but dig his claws into the jacket shoulders as if to hang on tight. Taking this as a sign of trust, Draco fell to his knees, placing each one over the railing, on the slanted edge and clinging to the rail. Then he crossed his ankles around the pillar and slid down, quickly grabbing the pillar before he slid down any further. Nosferato's bell jingling as he moved. Awkwardly, he shimmied down the railing, stopping until he sat backwards on the bars of the lower porch. It was the thing that cheap comedy was made of, Draco thought airily. He turned to face the front lawn, jumping down from the veranda and landing gracefully.

Take that, you purple whore house, he thought rebelliously. He petted the cat on his shoulders and walked around the house, under the darkle trees and through the cool shadows of the house, shuffling brittle autumn leaves around his feet. It was surrounded by a small stretch of wood, standing very close to the town of Portersville, so that if you walked a little down the roads, or flew, you might get there quickly. Out back, as he turned the corner of the house, lay a composition of cement and hedges. The hedges were the same black-berry colour as the trees; violet seemed to be the theme here. There was a small set of steps leading down. He followed the path lazily; it was built like a small maze, only with short hedges you could look overtop. It led towards the centre, where a large stone fountain trickled water pleasantly. After a few turns and dead-ends, he found the centre. Patio furniture sat around it, so one could eat lunch out there in the summer. It was all very calming and seduced Draco into sitting down on one of the benches. The cold wood felt good on his thighs, Nosferatu jumping down onto his legs, kneading them like bread dough and laying down to warm him. Enjoying the conflicting feeling of heat and chill, Draco looked around, absently stroking the cat on his lap. Not far from him, in the maze, lay Blaise. Draco was not the least bit surprised to see him.

Blaise's robes were thick and dark black for autumn. Draco slowly noticed the patchwork quilt of similarities between his parents and him, never having seen them before. Blaise turned around, facing him, so that Draco could see the slit-like eyes. His own eyes, as said, were more almond; very unlike the thin squint of Blaise. It was as if someone had pulled the skin tightly over his face, but the effect was rather nice. Soft light coloured his ebony face an ashy shade, dark shadows filling the hollows of his cheeks. No, he did not think Blaise was beautiful but he had an appreciation for such things, the contrast or dark and light, different pallors. Blaise walked over, robes in motion as he kicked them up, smiling a smile with the beauty of his mother and absent emotion of his father. When he had been a boy, Blaise would only have been an inch taller. Now, as he weaved in and out of corners, getting closer, he hovered over him.

He entered the patio, walking over slowly. Draco sat at the end of the long, dark bench; he was shoved over gently as Blaise took the seat beside him, despite the length of bench besides him. He was almost as warm as the cat, his leg pressed against Draco's own, almost pushing it. Self-consciously Draco had closed his legs, as most girls do, while the boy next to him sat with his legs splayed wide apart. He noticed with detached interest how Blaise's thigh was a few inches longer than his own, quietly observing the difference between him and his peer. This continued in silence for several moments, Blaise greeting him with an air of curiosity, while Draco greeted him with an air of familiarity. The Zabinis did not know of the Dark Lord's plan; it was kept so secret that only Lucius and Voldemort knew besides himself. Draco knew Blaise; he knew that once he had gotten piss-drunk and lit the common room tapestry on fire, then proceeding to sing a warbling version of Panis Angelicus. And he remembered, unraveling the dark mask of secret with an air of self-hate, that he had once gotten piss-drunk and kissed Draco too. Draco remembered that he had let him, that he had liked the soft warm lips and hard jaw that pressed into his own, the hands that ran over his shoulders as if he were made of marble, and the taste of sweet hard cider. The memory caused guilty tingles to ride through him, so that he shifted uncomfortably. Blaise seemed to have noticed and broke the silence, voice casual.

"You must be Pearl," he said, lashes lowered as he looked down. A part of Draco thought it was rather rude to look there but did not voice it.

Draco took it and smiled. "You must be Blaise. You're as handsome as your mother said." He said it without emotion, as if it were simply something he had heard and was passing on. He hoped his Slytherin counterpart was as perceptive as he let on.

Apparently not. Blaise smiled and looked up, straight into Draco's eyes. "Well, you're as beautiful as the servants say."

"You flatter me, Blaise," said Draco flatly. So this was what it was like to be hit on. He ached at the ruthlessness of it. He felt like an old medieval bar wench, although, surely, he wasn't as easy.

"Well," Blaise said, with an aristocratic air that especially made Draco want to pummel him. Since when did buying an ugly old brothel make you noble? But instead he stared on silently, listening as he drawled. "You're good-looking, I'm good-looking... perhaps I could take you back to my room. This house comes with some interesting..." he waved his hand carelessly, as if trying to swat at the word that hung in the air, "...attachments. Perhaps we could make use of them."

Draco smiled his sweetest sunshine-and-buttercup smile. Nosferatu jumped off his lap, sensing the danger, skulking towards the maze. "You mean you want to dress me up as a gypsy, handcuff me to the bed and fuck my brains out, right?"

Blaise raised his brows, as if surprised. Clearly he wasn't. "Well, if you'd like to."

Draco continued with an air of light consideration, voice dumb. "Well, even if I wanted to, I'm fairly sure with your lack of experience you'd stick it in the wrong hole and proceed to literally fuck my brains out. Bugger off, Blaise."

Something glinted dangerously Blaise's eyes, like a flashing comet, or a shooting star. He smiled, as if apologetic. "Fine, we won't go back to my room."

"Glad you've come to your senses," Draco said shortly, folding his arms over his stomach.

"I'll just take you here," Blaise said, his voice an animal snarl. Suddenly, before Draco could grab his wand, he was being pushed back, Blaise leaning his full weight into him until he was lying over him on the bench. His right arm was laid over his collarbones, elbow digging into him. He scrabbled to grab his wand but the other boy already had it, throwing it in the fountain. Draco punched him in the jaw roughly, kicking up his legs to escape, but he was trapped under heavy limbs. Blaise grabbed his right hand, not knowing he was left-handed. Draco pulled another punch, this one landing so hard onto Blaise's jaw that his head snapped back and made a muffled slapping noise. Draco's knuckles came back red, cut by his teeth and numb with the force. This momentarily dazed Blaise, and he almost writhed out from under him, but Blaise still had his wrist and drew him back in fiercely.

His hand glided up Draco's shirt, ghosting over his flesh in electric brushes. A steady pulse beat against his folded knee. Now he was panicking; the male part of his mind had prevented fear, ready to fight, but now a sort of despair was filling him. He thought he should have been screaming but his mouth somehow felt full of cotton and would not move. He felt hands deftly unsnap his bra, rubbing a palm over his breasts, the hand warm against his chest and sending painful mental jolts of wrongness through him. It moved downward steadily, over his crotch, flashing white teeth biting over his neck, licking and sucking inexpertly at it, as if he might devour him. As the hand slid up his skirt and tugged down his fishnets and panties he felt ashamed of himself for ever enjoying that moment so long ago, mortified for being so stupid as to let Blaise do that, drunk or not. He didn't even feel or see Blaise take off his long coat or unzip his trousers; all he felt was the pain as he entered, tearing Draco open forcefully. It hurt and stretched him, but not so much as to make him cry.

The weight against him was crushing; he could not move or breathe, and Blaise had a hand wrapped around his neck threateningly. Helplessness made his heart pound a drum-beat in his chest, and he did not even have the urge to struggle. He sat, docile, as Blaise 'worked', his entire body clenching, fingers digging into Draco's shoulders and a low moan escaping from deep in his throat, disgusting and raunchy. Then suddenly it was over. Blaise got up, zipping his trousers and pulling on his coat as if nothing had happened. He looked so prim and clean, whereas Draco knew he was in a state of dishevelment. His bra, unsnapped, hung loosely under his shirt, paint-like blood dripping down his legs, knickers at his knees, leggings bunched under them. More blood was at his hand, where a cut was scabbing; the blood had leaked onto Blaise's fingers, the only sign he had raped Draco. As he was being examined, he seemed to notice this, staring at the blood. He sucked the blood off each one until it was clean, then touched the pads of his fingers together, flicking his hand away in a French gesture of delight with a soft 'mwa!' sound, as if Draco were some delicious dish he had enjoyed. Smirking a venomous snake's smile, he walked away from the fountain with an air of confidence, the confidence of a man who had conquered.

Draco watched in shock, as the dark figure disappeared into the back patio, entering the large house, as if he had simply enjoyed a walk. Draco had never trusted Blaise; they were both Slytherins after all, and that alone discredited any kind of true friendship. But he had just expected better.

The bench somehow had gotten even colder; it was like his bottom was touching ice. Before, the sudden molecular change had made him feel fresh but now he felt disgusting, as if covered in several layers of dry filth. Draco looked down at his rumpled clothes, his dripping scarlet hands. He clenched his fists, stretching the torn skin, making it bleed further. What was he to do now? Go inside the house and do what? Read books, ride his broomstick, pretend it didn't happen? Never in his life had he felt so disgraceful.

Never in his life had he felt so completely helpless.

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

Blaise was absent for a week; he spent it at the Nott's home, losing himself in a rich world of parties and fake laughter, deals to make more money, money that would hardly be spent. It was pure greed, deliciously sinful, to harvest all that cash and watch it collect in his till. Blaise knew this but did not care. Money was joy, his hobby, and he would dedicate himself to its prosperity. Blaise thought that when he grew up, he might become a businessman, own a great company and enjoy earthly pleasures with his gain. Yes. That was the life for him.

Returning home to the old mansion quieted the edacious burn in his soul. Silently he wandered the grounds, searching for something to do. His mother and father hardly stayed home; they had simply come home last week to great their guest. They made it clear that they were not babysitting the girl, Pearl. She was simply staying there for her own protection, as they were paid; and why not, when the sum was so great?

Pearl. He remembered touching her, loving her as before and how she thrashed under him with so much life. She was petite, with the slender body that suggested something athletic. Her skin was as soft and pale, her hair light as swan's down, her eyes cutting as a knife. Blaise knew what he had done and did not care; he knew what he had taken from her, her virginity and her dignity. Really, he thought indignantly, people put the pussy up on a pedestal. It wasn't so hard to get, but he knew if he tried it again, it would be harder.

But what more was there to do in a huge, empty mansion on a rainy day? The library was of little use; business was not something to be studied in books, and gain was all he was interested in. He thought of inviting over some partners, but perhaps the idea of an old whorehouse did not appeal to them, or rather disgusted them.

He asked the servants if they had seen her, and they had. Yes, they said. She was currently in her room, second floor, right wing, furthermost room, facing the front. And what a lovely looking girl, they said, and how lucky is the man able to woo her.

Quietly, carefully, he walked up the steps. His steps did not cause a single creak on the stairs, did not rustle the carpet at all. The only sound with the soft, pattering thrum of raindrops. He heard the clouds stir, as if mounting pressure to thunder. Silently he walked up the stairs, turning right down the hallway, moving his feet without thinking, until he reached the door. Soft golden light filled the halls, oily white wax sliding down the fresh candlesticks. He stood staring at the ornate wood of the door, surmising his plan. She wouldn't know if he was here; the Silencing charms were still in place, it had been unnecessary to have walked like that down the hall. If anything, he did it for the feeling of heightened suspense. He touched the reflective gold door knob, eyeing his reflect in it. His face was stretched widely, an impressionist's painting.

Slowly, he turned the knob. Recently oiled, it made no sound as it was opened.

The entire room was covered in soft blue light from the stormy sky. Grey-blue shadows fell everywhere, like silent ghosts. It didn't help that everything else in the room was blue too. The portrait on the wall reflected the molten silver sky, flashing white lightning mutely. It was ghostly still; so still that he could hear the gentle rasp of his own breathing. Suddenly a powerful rumble broke through, like the shifting of rocks and then the metallic sound of lightning clapping. It was loud, sending reverberations through the house. He looked up to see the girl.

She was dressed only in a baggy dress shirt, sitting at the cushioned seat of the bay window, leaning wall and staring out the half-open window in deep contemplation. A wispy, net-like canopy fell all around her, blowing in the hollow wind. Her face was touched with pale blue light, dark lines where the shadows of the panes fell, spotted with the shadows of raindrops. A single drop fell down the window, the shading giving the illusion that she was crying.

She was achingly beautiful, a white rose standing out against a dull cacophony of colour. He wanted her. He wasn't quite so sure of why he thought that; perhaps he had said that to her before, while they had made love, but he would hardly remember anything he had said in that state.

Walking around the furniture she did not seem to notice him. She didn't feel his scattered presence in her room, too absorbed in the outside world to look at what was going on inside. He walked around variously placed objects until he was but a foot from her, breath bated. He craned his neck forward until his mouth was proportional with her ear, silent.

"Boo," Blaise whispered.

Suddenly her body tensed, and he grabbed her wrist, hard, working his hand into an iron cuff around her. Instantly she spun around to see him, her eyes expressionless as if she were blind. She looked around him, at the desk where he had earlier seen her wand, so far away. Her arm relaxed in his grip. She looked up at him with furious defeat.

Pearl was submissive this time, knowing that to go for her wand, she'd have to get through him, and she couldn't. He was surprised; he thought she might at least try. Perhaps she was tired. Perhaps she was homesick. Perhaps, even, she was filled with desolation at the last encounter. He decided not to care, doing as he pleased, like he'd be young forever and like there was no such thing as karma. Her softness contrasted pleasantly with his hardness. She laid there awkwardly and limply, staring up at him with vacant eyes, like drifting grey tides washing over him. He hissed and was done. Cleaning and preening himself up, he left her as one might an untidy mess and went back to his room. So quickly sex was over, he thought with a mental sigh, thinking it slightly a waste. Few pleasures lasted very long; except money. Money lasted forever and bought all the others out. Yes.

Perhaps, he thought casually, I'll order a carriage up here and go out. Blaise turned towards the steps without a second thought.

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

For the next month or so, Draco spent his time in the village. Stugensville was a small, cheerful town, full of simple architecture and beauty. The roads were paved in red bricks, the apartments made of the same, everything darkened by the cool damp of autumn. It was full of small shops owned by the town's people, not a single chain store in sight. That old sort of elegance, when people took care in building things. It was fashioned in the same Victorian sense as the Mansion, with intricate designs and angular buildings and a timeless sort of beauty he had only once known in old books. The entire place was caught in the 1800's, even most of the people. It gave the town a strange, warm feeling that was alien to Draco, distant. He was used to cold beauty; the charcoal-grey of the stones at his Manor, the violent curves of a snake slither over a tapestry, the sharp bones of the relative's portrait, the bold, blandness of colours in the Mansion. It was nothing like the warm charm of this village, which both fascinated and elated him.

He flew there on his broom everyday, Nosferatu sitting with him, so that he perfectly resembled the stereotypical Muggles' witch. Everyday, invariably, he went to the local café. It was small, and a fire crackled quietly in the fireplace, bright copper tea kettles hanging over them, puffing smoke like a cigar. The place smelt like sweet spices; lemon grass, cloves, cinnamon. Small padded chairs and tables sat in two corners of the room, an armchair near the door. Shelves hung on each wall, decorated with the most delicate flowers and ornaments. Outside on the small wooden level sat a few small benches and tables, wicker chairs and love seats. It was painted light green with ivy growing up the sides, calming and cheerful. He didn't know what cats ate, so he usually bought it whatever he was having; chicken noodle or beef stew with a piece of a baguette. When it was done he would force it on to his lap, which it would, too full of soup to fight back. Draco would sprawl across the bench, sipping the hot, zested tea and read a book; strangely, vampire books. He didn't know why, but it reminded him of home.

He traveled back to the house by midnight, with his cat. He ordered a book on protective and shielding spells and put, literally, hundreds of them on himself and his room, so that no one could touch him. In the morning he left to go to town, to visit the antique shops and bookstores. He'd visit the park, go into the forest beyond it with his sword and fight with the trees. The blade was sleek silver, shining with an almost oily smooth sheen. The pommel was ridged steel, cool but easier to grip. A curved guard snaked around his knuckles when he held it. On the top of the pommel a large, milky pearl sat, large as a bird's egg and perfect as the moon. The blade was shallowly engraved with beautiful flowers and words, Latin words of course; Est specialis res infidus? But he had neither the time nor inclination to check the meaning; maybe later, but not now. It was a new sword his father had given him, not to be confused with the old one that he had owned as a boy. He practiced on one tree until it was missing great hunks and bleeding sap, then moved on to the next.

The days went by in this quick succession. He thought that it was strange and ethereally peaceful; he thought that perhaps, he could live this way forever, in this small town, in his own world, alone and unappointed. This was a place where he did not feel and did not create chaos, a place where he could simply be happy because of the infectious air.

But school was approaching soon, and with that came those knotted twinges of guilt, similar to the ones he got when he didn't finish his assignments. He hadn't worked up a plan, but perhaps he might be inspired by a few events there. He mused there sometimes on his bench; what would he do, knock him out, put him in a sack and drag him into the woods? What would he say if people asked him about the sack? "Oh, nothing Professor, I just have a real hankering for potatoes." "Went clothes shopping. Very grunge-chic store, which would explain the bag. You were saying?" "I'm on that new Neanderthal diet. I decided to take it literally and start hunting antelope." Ridiculous things like that, and then suddenly the serious notion that he would need outside help to finish his task.

Oh well, he reminded himself shakily, he had a lot of time to plan at school. What were those nine months for, after all? He sat on the same bench the same way, everyday, losing himself in a world of classics when he finished the vampire series, fittingly Victorian. Endless days went by this way; happy, if not solitary days that he enjoyed. Soon, though, the term would start, and thoughts of staying at the timeless old town would be dusted away forever.

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

He did not linger over his luggage as he packed or take his time; quickly, urgently, he packed and left. Draco did not want to stay in the house another moment. The man gathered his luggage and took it to the train station; they took a Portkey there and it was very quick, almost rushed, but he was careful with his urgency. It was chilly, so Draco had put his robes around his skirt, a string of pearls around his neck. He held Nosferatu in his arms, pressing himself into the cat for warmth, stroking the long throat and touching noses with its raised head. Around him people bustled, the roar of a train heard coming from not far away, one of the earlier departing ones. The purl of chatter wafted to his ears, accompanied by pattering of rolling luggage against cement and swearing, as it rolled over somebody's foot.

He walked through the portal into the crowd casually, the man following behind him awkwardly. The Hogwarts train was there, and he was early. Already a few students were boarding, and he joined them quickly, soaking up the lazy warmth of the train that fogged the windows. Several already seated students were staring at him as he passed, one boy drawing on the condensation, pausing midway through to stare at him with moony eyes. His girlfriend proceeded to pinch him and glare, at Draco and at her boyfriend. Draco smirked. He still had it in him. Which was funny, because he hadn't really expected to lose it at all.

There was no one for him to sit with, so far as he was concerned. He moved to the furthest cart, the caboose, sitting where no one might think to find him, stretching out across the right hand seat. Usually Potter sat there, not wanting to be disturbed by gawking first years, but he could just sit in the front and put on a show for all Draco cared. If they'd been moving, he could have seen out the back window there, see the countryside they went through to get to Hogwarts, and he wondered if Potter liked it too, sitting there and watching them pass the world by, or if it was just him. But no, he was probably off being a pratty little hero and sat back here bragging, or pretending to be modest.

He was gently aware that he had the cat on his chest. It was like awakening from a dream you did not know you were having. He stroked the bowed back, staring into the eyes he wasn't sure were his own or not. The grey eyes looked back at him, seeming to blink as he blinked, slim and tired looking as he. Draco turned carefully onto his side, holding the cat to him, the small head resting on his arm. The soft reverberations of a purr traveled through him and acted as a tranquilizer, his eyelids weighted and soon he drifted off into sleep.

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

Harry was surrounded by the Red Sea.

Or Sea of Redheads, really. Ginny stood at his side, talking to Charlie at the station, who had come to wish him well from the house; his work, thankfully, had let him off for the summer, and he had been able to stay at the Burrow and tend to his wounds, lolling about the house, wincing and 'ow'ing iteratively as he moved each limb. Mrs. Weasley was constantly wailing about the way he picked at his burn marks but really, Harry thought, she was just glad to see her son. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stood side by side, talking to each other, laughing and saying their farewells. Harry himself was talking to Ron. He had yet to see Hermione; she said she'd be there a quarter to ten, and according to the watch she'd bought him, it was five past ten. The Weasleys finally left, done with their yearly custom, and Harry turned to board the train, Ginny trotting ahead of him. Panting exuded from somewhere to his left, and he turned.

A short girl sat before him, eyes bright and shining, hair curled and a soft golden yellow, topped with an artist's cap. Her breath puffed in front of her, a large yellow and black Hufflepuff scarf wrapped around her neck, giving Harry the impression of a bumblebee. He quickly took in that she was about fifth year, although she looked like a second year with her height. The girl's expression was excited, but it was not directed at Harry, her face speckled with tan freckles. With just enough time and great reflexes Harry managed to dodge her, as she flung herself at Ron, who was not the least bit aware of her presence until she bowled him over.

He staggered slightly backwards despite their great height difference, crying out in alarm. Then he looked down and smiled, rusty bangs falling in his eyes. "Heidi?" Suddenly Harry's entire summer vacation was made comprehensible and anger blew through him like a bullet.

She nodded, laughing and cuffing him lightly in the side with one mitten encased hand. "Well yes, Ronald. I'm only your correspondent of the last three months. It's good to finally see you again," she said, stepping back and surveying him critically. Her voice was brisk and American--he would have been more accustomed to it, if the Dursley's had ever let him watch the telly. "You look taller than in your photographs."

"They're... older photographs," he stammered, looking sidelong at Harry. "This is my friend, Harry Potter." Ron steered around Harry by the shoulder, as if he were some kind of exhibit. Harry tensed immediately, expecting a great goggle from anyone who had never met him in person. But well, he was really more of a British icon, perhaps an American girl wouldn't act that way, or maybe thinking that was too conceited either way he looked at it or...

"Oh cool, nice to meet you too," she said with levity, smiling and he was slightly relieved, shoulders sagging. It was good to have someone act normal for a change, but it did not change his anger at Ron.

"Ron's probably told you we're in sixth, right? What year are you?" he said, looking at Ron from the corner of his eyes, making everything clear.

During his visit at the Burrow, Ron would often sit up in his room, never making a noise, and each time he'd come up and find him hunched over on his desk. He had been writing. Every time he had asked Ron had got flustered and had said he was writing to Hermione, and he'd believed this excuse until Ron had used it during her visit. Halfway through her stay she had stopped talking to him, even going so far as to leave, failing to explain why. A guilty air hung around Ron ever since, a tempest around Hermione. And now Harry had broken through the clouds to see Ron right now.

She walked a little forward, past Ron. "Fifth," she chirped, looking up. "And obviously Hufflepuff." Then held up her scarf, smiling.

"Oh," said Harry slyly, glancing at Ron with a growing contempt, "would you like to sit with us?"

Ron gave him a horrified look from behind her, waving his arms and shaking his head 'no' wildly. He did not seem keen to have Heidi and Hermione in the same room.

"That's okay, I was going to sit with my friends," she said, oblivious to the unspoken words that hung in the air between Ron and Harry. She spun around and held out her arms, a 'come hither' expression in her eyes. And Ron seemed powerless to do anything but stoop down and hold her. She tried to kiss his neck but instead hit his ears, red with cold and nerves. When she giggled, her whole body shook, and that was one thing that had already endeared her to Harry.

She drew away and smiled, slipping a small bit of folded parchment into his palm and walking away. Ron tried to slip it into his pocket without Harry seeing, but he was Ron, and therefore could not. Heidi hopped up the steps to the train and disappeared down the corridor.

Harry could not help but give Ron a withering look. He was feeling very sympathetic to Hermione right now and very much pissed at Ron. One of them could have told him; Hermione, at least, had an excuse.

Ron shrunk back, wincing as if the look had drawn blood into him

"You have been acting weird all summer and I think I know why now," Harry said, making his voice mock the tone of realization, not really in rage but just upset that he had never been told, and that Ron could do that to Hermione, who had always loved him. "What the hell was all that about?"

Ron's hair showed dimly in the shadow of the train, rays of light glaring off the windows. "I'll tell you, in the car. Sit with me?" he said, sounding oddly dejected.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Why do you even need to ask?" He was, if nothing, suspicious.

Tiredly, Ron held his forehead, as if checking himself for fever, eyes closed. "Because I'm pretty sure Hermione will not want to sit with me."

"What if I wanted to sit with her?" Harry asked, squinting at him as though he could not really see Ron. Mentally, he really could not see him clearly at all, his eyes seeming so far away.

"I wouldn't blame you," Ron said, face flushed and pink as he spoke. "But she's upset, and you are not really the most sensitive guy, nor the strongest shoulder to lean on. She'll probably sit with a girl."

Which, Harry admitted, was entirely true. A small part of him admired the bluntness Ron seemed to have recently acquired. "Okay," he said, tilting his head. "But I want to see her first. You can go in and save us a car, I'll be in soon." Ron nodded and dove into the train with something like gratitude.

Harry leaned against the train, waiting, searching the crowd for a crown of bushy brown hair. He remembered how her hair used to be dark blonde and how it had slowly turned a light brunette, but the change had been so subtle no one had really noticed it. The cool, thin metal of the train reminded him of a Muggle bus and he smiled with faint nostalgia. He always thought that having Hermione as a friend they'd talk about the news in the Muggle world, but he slowly found out he did not care. He was too caught up in the magical world; they were always in awe at it, the same kind you felt at a magician's trick only slighter, and more frequent. And a lot more real.

He looked at the ground, expecting to see Hedwig's cage, but he only saw his trunk and broomstick. He'd sent Hedwig to the Owlery from the Weasleys' today, and it was his first Hogwarts trip without her. Idly he sat, five minutes passing, and then ten, and then fifteen. He watched the sea of students enter the cars, walking slowly inside, filling the train up with the consistency of water to a cup. Then suddenly he looked around and all he saw was adults. The train lurched slightly forward, and he stumbled backwards, quickly turning and banging on the closed doors to get in. The cart witch laughed, opening the doors, and he reeled inside, walking past the laughing first-years who had witnessed the encounter with glee. He himself smiled, walking from car to car, waving to an occasional Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.

Twenty cars or so passed in a flash, and it distressed him when he could not find Ron or Hermione. It was the same feeling he had had as a child when he hadn't been able to find his aunt in the department stores. He opened yet another door. It was the Gryffindor fifth years' cart, and there he found Hermione hunched over in her seat, face in her hands, Ginny leaning over her worriedly. The other girls in the cart fawned over her also, asking what was wrong in simpering voices as was ritual in these situations. Ginny looked up at him expectantly, and he was sure he had turned red, unsure what to do. She glared and fanned him over to Hermione, as if it should have been obvious.

He got down on his knee, gently taking Hermione's shoulders. They shook in his hands, and she looked up, face puffy and rose-pink, hair standing around her face wildly. She wiped furiously at her face, spreading the wetness and staring at Harry with large, glassy eyes. Hermione was a smart girl and a strong person, and he could tell she hated to be seen this way. It occurred to him that everybody wanted to be attributed with the ability to control themselves; he thought of his grief for Cedric, Sirius's final days roaming mindlessly around a house he hated.

She stood up quickly, face stretched with the effort of not bawling. "Oh, Harry," she said, voice slightly hysterical and frustratingly pained. Then, it seemed she gave up entirely on the act of not crying and let loose, sobbing into her hands.

Immediately, he held her, encircling her in his arms, and she wept into his robes weakly, shuddering, breathing strangled, sniffing. She continued in this vein until her shaking was reduced to the occasional hiccup, looking up at him.

"Oh, gosh, I am so silly and pathetic, why am I crying over him?" she said, voice slightly shrill on the word 'him'.

Harry felt that saying 'I don't know' might be a tad uncivil, but it was all he could think of to answer a question so desperate, so he held her and let her keep on talking.

"He is so stupid and his jokes are stupid too. And he always gets crumbs down his shirt when he eats breakfast. And his ears get all red when he lies and he is so goofy and only good at chess really," she said, which was all true in a rather spiteful, yet loving way. "And I am not even his girlfriend, but did he ever even notice that I cared?" she said, her voice sounding like the tearing of paper.

"He did," said Harry truthfully, petting her back and being as brotherly as he knew how to be. "He cared about you, too."

"Not anymore," she said, voice icy, tense in his arms. She drew back stiffly and wiped her eyes. Hermione had dark brown eyes, the colour of coffee. They shined now in the same liquid sense that was reserved for Hagrid. She smiled, a rather jagged smile, seeming to focus on Harry, as if she had not seen him clearly before. Probably not, he thought , recalling tear-blurred eyes covered by her hands.

"You keep getting taller," she said randomly, then spoke warmly, voice thick with emotion. "Thank you Harry... I suppose you'll be off to see Ron." He liked that she said his name. If Ron had been in this situation, Harry knew he would refer to Hermione as vaguely as possible. She fluffed her curly hair and then patted it down.

Harry nodded. "Have you seen him? I waited outside for you till the train left. Did you see him pass?"

She nodded, looking up with a faintly embarrassed expression. "I didn't want to see him, so I went inside when you two were busy with that girl... Heidi." This time, she said the name as if to make the situation more real. "I'm so dreadfully sorry, I didn't know you'd wait for me. Was that you who held back the train?"

"Yeah, it's okay though," he said, shoving his hands in his robe pockets. "If you ever need me, call me, okay?"

"All right. Thank you Harry, you're so good to me, really." She smiled, the colour fading slightly from her face. She gave him a peck on the cheek as Harry walked off, and then she sat down with Ginny.

Harry was slightly worried about her, but he had kept Ron waiting and was too curious about the situation to think more of it. He trudged on hurriedly, until he was at the second to last car. If Ron was not in the last one, he thought, I am going to jump out the window and hunt him down like a fox.

Harry sighed, tired, placing his hands loosely on the knobs of the sliding door. He opened it dramatically and looked around. Ron lay out across the opposite seat, too long legs folded slightly up on the seat, a Quidditch magazine in hand, relieving Harry immediately. His blue eyes darted to the seat beside him, as he held a finger to his lips and made soft hushing noises. Harry looked and saw a girl strewn over the seat, very much at rest. Her robes were bunched up over her legs, and she held a black cat to her chest, the likes of which was also sleeping. A large bell hung around its neck, unraveled and almost falling off. An awry lock fell over her pale face, occasionally stirred by her soft breathing, like in a cartoon. There was something familiar about her presence, but he could not put his finger on it. He had never seen her before at Hogwarts, but he was sure she was one of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen, and that was next to Fleur, and Cho, and Ginny, of course.

"Who's she?" he asked, curiosity touching his voice.

Ron shrugged. "Dunno, but this was the only car I could get, and I don't mind sharing. Do you think she's our new teacher?"

Harry stared at her for a moment then sat down, scrunching Ron's legs up further, so he'd have room. "No, she looks more like a student," he said, yawning.

Ron squinted at her accusingly. "I know, but there's just something... older about her. Is it just me?"

Harry shook his head, arms crossed. "No, but why don't you tell me about Heidi?"

Ron turned bright pink, glaring at Harry as if he'd betrayed him. "There's nothing to say. I like her and that's it." His voice was defensive and offensive at the same time.

"What happened over the summer? All I know is that you hooked up with her at some point and Hermione did not like this." He had a curious itch that he needed to satisfy, slightly upset with his own callousness at the situation. But he had known nothing up until now; he didn't have any emotion towards the situation, except extreme frustration and a distant pity for Hermione.

"Well, I met her when I was getting my schoolbooks, and we talked, and she gave me her address, and we just sort of... clicked," he sighed, finishing the explanation lamely. He bit down on his blunt thumbnail, biting it feverishly, all nerves and guilt.

"So you met her in Diagon Alley and from there you sent her letters." He made it as scientific sounding as possible. "Then what?"

"Well Hermione was curious about who I'd been writing to and saw one of my letters before I sent it, and she hasn't talked to me since," he moaned, letting his hand go free to grasp at his bright copper head. He looked like a little boy with a bad migraine.

Ron lifted his head and spoke rashly before Harry could reply, eyes flashing in a square of pale morning light. "But it's not like I was dating Hermione, I shouldn't feel guilty, and if she liked me, she should have told me earlier. It's not like I didn't like her either, but she was too late."

Harry raised his brow, or at least tried only to raise one. "I thought the boy was supposed to ask the girl."

Ron scowled, cruel laughter touching his voice. "And if a frog had wings, it wouldn't bump its ass when it hopped."

A smile stretched over Harry's face involuntarily. "Right. Well, do you love her? I think even I'd have a right to be pissed if it was just a fling."

"I do," he said sheepishly, reddening further. He blathered on, voice low and steadily falling, the comprised tone of anyone in love, and as if Harry needed proof. "I like how she dots her eyes and exclamation marks with stars, because I hate that, and how she spends about as much time on her appearance as me and still looks good, and how she never leaves me out of the loop, and I like the sound of her voice, and how little she is, and that she always talks about life in general instead of just her life."

Harry grinned. "Ron, are you gay?"

He shook his head. "I'm in love, but your guess is not far off after... whatever it is I just said." Ron sighed and brushed his hair back. He mock-pouted, his face a child's asking one. "Harry, she is so cute, may I please keep her?"

"What're you asking me for?" he said, holding his knees up to the seat. He noticed something new in Ron's personality; there was an underlying kidding to almost everything he said, similar to the innocence Heidi held. Harry wondered if he adapted it from her. After time spent with Ron, he was more apt to make jokes, and after time with Hermione, he was apt to be a bit more sensible.

Ron frowned. "I thought you might be mad that I didn't tell you. It's just, it would seem strange, because I've only really talked to her in letters and such, and my parents might think that's a little unfounded..."

"Oh, like an internet relationship," chimed Harry, thinking back to the Muggle world. Ron gave him a peculiar look.

"Muggle thing," Harry explained, shaking his head and quickly changing the subject. "I wonder if the cart witch has to go to every car. Ours is terribly far down." It was true, he thought, looking out the back at the passing scenery. Below them lay water; they were going over the bridge to Hogwarts, he could tell. The landscape was faintly familiar; quickly the scenery drew away from the train, and he looked back at Ron, who had also been staring. Somehow he liked the feeling of passing the world by; maybe it was because he was just so used to it.

"I hope so, because I have not eaten anything for at least the last hour," interrupted Ron, looking at his stomach with displeasure, as it were to blame.

Harry snorted. "Yeah, because that's such a long time. I do wonder what you fantasize about; a girl with meatball breasts and spaghetti hair?"

"Whereas yours is liquorices hair and gumdrop nipples," Ron said, speaking of Harry's newly acquired sweet tooth. Over the summer his affection for sweets had grown, and he had decided it was time to make up for all the cavities he had never had. His floor at 4 Privet Drive was littered with Honeydukes and he was fairly sure if Hermione's dentist-parents ever witnessed his candy intake they'd faint.

Harry grinned, and his eyes flicked to the girl on the opposing seat, whom they had almost forgotten. "What house do you think she'll be in?" If nothing, she was something to talk about.

"Hmm. Maybe Ravenclaw," said Ron, nonchalantly. "She's very pretty."

"Gryffindor gets good-looking girls too," Harry stated defensively, his tone injured. "And don't go on about Hufflepuff girls; they are notorious whores--sorry, Heidi is an exception. I wouldn't like to associate her with them."

Ron grinned fiendishly. "And when the Sorting Hat calls out 'HUFFLEPUFF' she will déjà vu this sub-conscious incident and question 'Am I really that big a slag?'"

A wicked thought occurred to Harry. "What if she's Slytherin?" he said, lowering his bangs over his eyes, tone dark.

Ron stared at him, brows furrowed, retching. "She'd have to be covered in ingrown hairs or have a hunch back or something. Slytherin girls are a small, disgusting minority. Millicent has more arm hair than me."

"Not true. Narcissa Malfoy was Slytherin, I'm sure, and I recall you rather liked her," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"What's with all these stereotypes anyways, you can't label people like this," replied Ron airily. "Oh, good, the snack witch is here, finally."

The witch had bobbed hair, dyed bright turquoise-green with matching lipstick and candy striped socks. She accepted Ron's and Harry's money, flashing her vivid green smile and dropped her clanking fistful of sickles in the sack, handing them over their selected treats; Ice Mice, Peppermint Bombs, a pack of Drooble's and a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans just because he felt like it. Harry bought extra just in case the girl woke up and complained of missing the cart witch, who sighed, magicking the cart away and walking joyfully back to the front, finished.

With an air of jubilation, he bit into his Peppermint Bomb, warmth exploding through him, pleasantly traveling to his fingertips. Magical sweets always left you with that feeling. Ron, who had been hungry only moments ago, was sitting silently, staring solemnly at the front of Harry's robes. He blinked, unsure what he was concentrating on. It was not a studious or admiring glance but rather a rueful one.

"What is it, Ron?" Harry asked, voice quiet. His friend did not often get this way; before, he had never had a reason.

He looked up, as if surprised. After a moment he settled back, the dream-like stance lost. "Your robe. There's a wet spot." Ron pointed a long arm at it accusingly.

"Well, that's what happens when people cry on you," Harry said, trying to make his voice sound light-hearted around his mouthful of sweets. The sweetness was quickly dissolving into sourness.

Ron gently pursed his lips, as if about to say something, but stopped himself short, staring at his magazine. The rest of the trip passed in silence, except for the occasional flip of pages and the crackle of sweet wrappers.

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

Someone was holding Draco's shoulders; cool fingers, feeling good against his warm body. Softly, they shook him and his head lolled on his neck, turning to see. He squinted, eyes blurred with sleep, the darkness dissolving to show the day. His eyes felt sore and sleep-swollen, his mouth thick and salty, incapable of protesting. A molten heat on his chest sent waves down his stomach and he saw Nosferatu. Somebody was urging him in a soft tone to wake up, and through his lashes he could see a tall figure. Notes, solid sounding, poured into his skull; it was a lullaby, but it did not make him tired at all, if anything it woke him up. It was sung in a teasing tone, mostly to him.

I am thinking it is an Angel fair
The Angel that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair.
And swings the green world upward by its leagues of sunshine hair

It roused him into consciousness, and he could see someone; dark hair, green eyes, pale.

But just as he opened his eyes, they were gone. And beside him lay a neatly wrapped bag of sweets.
**************************************************************

It was slightly warmer than before, the after-coldness of night that plagued the morning vanishing into warm afternoon. Yes, it was still cool, but the sun beat down on Harry's back warmly, as they got off the train. He had written a note to Hermione, figuring that he might have to play messenger if he wanted to talk to either of them, or if they wanted to talk to each other. It reminded him of Hermes, to Greek god's messenger who usually delivered news that was worse than it sounded. Perhaps he'd rather be Iris, the messenger who never failed.

He walked beside Ron, who hulked over him as usual. It was strange that he had never felt small near Ron; perhaps it was because he was so often the centre of attention. It was usually he who did all the detective work and found the first clues to all the schemes, with Hermione connecting the dots and Ron making suggestions, saying things that inspired new ideas. This year, so far, he had heard none of this. He was very sure this year his life was going to revolve around Ron and Hermione, and maybe, just maybe, preparations to fight the Dark Lord.

He had written her a note, folding it to a fourth, twisting it to a V, folding both ends under and tucking it in neatly. If there was one thing he missed about the Muggle world, it was lined paper, and why didn't they just use pens and pencils and paper? Often he borrowed them from Hermione, but he hadn't had the chance to do it this year, so he wrote with his quill, blotting the ink here and there as he fought to be neat.

Harry entered the Great Hall, relishing in the warmth and the smell of things cooking. Cho passed him by, barely noticing him and he was surprised that he himself still did not care. A part of him wished he still did, just to feel that excitement again, but he found that he liked the clearness of his mind more than he would have expected. The lack of bewilderment and fluster was welcome now, but it bothered him how easily he could stop loving someone--or stop being attracted, maybe. Hermione sat near Ginny, talking and smiling, which was good, he thought. He passed her, swiftly placing the folded note atop her fuzzy curls, and she felt around her head with an air of surprise, taking his note. He sat down next to Ron and listened, Ron looking over Seamus's head at the Hufflepuff table with a searching gaze. Harry sat and listened to the greeting; the welcome to Hogwarts and the events taking place. The speech was different every time, and he found he could not take his eyes off of Dumbledore whenever he spoke, having that odd attention grabbing quality that made everybody respect him; not that he was unrespectable without it. Harry listened to the deep voice.

"To our new students, welcome to Hogwarts, and to our older students, welcome back!" he said, beaming at them with bright eyes. It was strange that when he looked at a crowd, it seemed like he was looking at person individially. "This year, I assure you, will be most quiet--despite the news that Voldemort," the students all flinched, as if he had scratched his nails over a chalkboard, "has come back, our staff and the ministry have worked together to provide the greatest wards for the school, besides the ones already set in place. Right now, you are probably sitting in the safest place in the world.

"This year there will be no Triwizard Tournaments, or prisoners on the loose, or Chambers of Secrets, or Philosopher's Stones. No, I believe now is a time to lie low and live life as normally as possible, a sort of self-defiance to the Dark Lord and his followers. But, however, by power of the Ministry we are now to teach evacuation methods; as standard as fire drills or tornado warnings.

"Should the castle be under a siege, we have been given a vast supply of magic carpets; large enough to hold fifty or more students at a time. They are safely hidden where only the teachers can find them, and are to be used strictly in case of emergency," he said, and the students all exchanged sneaky glances. Dumbledore smiled and continued in a light tone sure that quickly crushed their hopes. "We have set up some relatively harmless jinxes around them that will point us in the direction of those curious young people.

"But alas, on a lighter tone, soon we will be feasting and soon we will be making friends. And I hope the students and staff extend a welcoming hand to Professor Thomas Finnegan, who has kindly offered to take up the Defense Against the Dark Arts job," he said, nodding to the staff table where a blond man sat up. His hair tumbled in waves down his back, dirty blond and like a great lion's mane. He smiled, slightly thinner and taller than Seamus. The students applauded him with vigour, especially the Gryffindors who made the connection between the Finnegans. Seamus doubled over and buried his head in his hands, obviously embarrassed to have his brother teaching. Ron whispered to Harry, frowning, "I give him till third term, at best." Dumbledore smiled and waved his arm as if waving away a tide, redirecting the flow of attention back onto himself.

"Now... LET THE SORTING BEGIN!" he boomed, and the student body clapped, even the Slytherins. With an air of drama, Madam Hooch came down the hall, wearing the ratty hat on her head, brows furrowed and looking up at it as if they were having a rather disorienting conversation. Huffily, she pushed the Sorting Hat down on the wooden stool, holding her clipboard full of names and standing by it. The drama faded quickly, and the youngest students stared at the Hat with owl eyes, having been told by their brothers and sisters that they were to kill great monsters and perform impossible spells. They did not know what the hat was, but they all looked relieved and disappointed at the same time.

The Hat belted out a new song, and Harry caught just snatches of it. Houses sticking together... strength in hard times... The same as last year's, but with a different rhyme. And then began the Sorting.

The names were blurry, but he remembered the faces; a short third-year boy with dark hair became Ravenclaw, a freckled boy--Hufflepuff and a black girl--Gryffindor. Each House cheered when they got a new student, as if it were a game in which they had scored but in the end they were welcomed warmly and offered seats. Harry clapped too.

He watched the younger students go on and on, called, decided and seated. The line got shorter and shorter, as he watched the back move inwards. There was only one more first-year, and after she was done, everyone turned expectantly to their plates. Madam Hooch was still up there. She pushed her hair to the side and read off one last name.

"Cavalier, Pearl."

The girl from the train seemed to appear out of thin air, walking up to the stool in long strides, bouncing as she walked. She blew a kiss to the Slytherin table, as if wishing it luck and sat on the stool, placing the Hat swiftly on her head. She grinned devilishly. It barely touched her head, before it belted out "SLYTHERIN". The tables roared, as if they had won the Snitch and took her in with a wave of arms. Harry half expected them to carry her around on her back like in a mosh pit, but instead she just sat down, snuggling in-between two dark-haired boys, as if she had always been Slytherin, and mounting her plate with food.

The other Houses seemed very curious, whispers going around and around. Harry looked at Ron, who grinned.

"I'm just glad you didn't bet me anything," he said, wrapping a few chicken legs in a napkin, adding in some biscuits.

"Because?" Harry smirked.

"Something to do with a parallel universe in which the order of operations is reversed," Ron said lightly. He waved over at the Hufflepuff table and then, suddenly very giddy-looking, gave Harry a playful kiss on the cheek. Harry blinked and looked up, just for once given the impression of being too small, an Alice in Wonderland, as Ron stood over him.

"Good luck," said Harry, nodding. He knew where Ron was going. And he knew he wouldn't need it.

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

Draco smiled, legs spread with the unabashedness of his true gender, a boy. The table had been easily fooled; the Slytherins, cunning Slytherins, did not pick up on any of his old habits. Then again, they were never the kind to foster one's attributes. He did, simply because he could not help it; people were fascinating, one could never tell what drove them. It was fun to look beyond the problem at the person who caused one, and to wonder why, and how. To know someone, or to try, was protection and a weapon in itself. One could mock the wonts of a person, stab at their ego or fondle it, lull them into false security and trust.

Of course, Slytherins did not trust either, but he had a way with them. He always had, being so smooth, such a pride to the House. Besides, now he was a hot girl, and that was always a plus, seeing as most of them were male, and long ago many of them had given up hope of meeting a Slytherin girl who didn't require monthly back-waxes. He was sunlight on a rainy day to them. His plan would go smoothly--when it was developed, anyway.

Still on his lap was the bag of sweets. The plastic made strained, crinkling noises when he touched it. A coiled red ribbon bound it, and idly he unraveled it, pulling it tight and watching it recoil back into a looser spring. He was sure it had been Potter who had given it to him, had sung to him on the train. But when he looked around, he saw that many people had dark messy hair and green eyes. It was then that he realized how normal Potter actually was. The actualization was shocking.

Draco was a blond but had always admired brunettes in a way, redheads too. And Potter, sadly, was no exception. His hair was inky and reminded Draco of the character cards at the Zabinis', the thick black strokes carelessly swept. And his eyes had always seemed so vivid, more gold in them than grey, like most green-eyed people. Maybe it was just because he paid such exclusive attention to him that he seemed special. A novel idea occurred to him; he could probably pick him out of a whole crowd of dark-haired boys, and it caused a sharp bark of laughter that made the two boys beside him jump as if by impact, and stare. One was laughing out of nerves and wiping thick mashed potatoes off of his hand, which had slammed down on his plate in his alarm. Draco could not help but grin, saying a quick sorry and turning to his plate.

If it was him, he thought, staring delicately at his speared piece of filet, he questioned the motive of his mission. Capture Potter, bring him to the castle, get Voldemort to toss him off, then what; live in a Muggle-free world where everybody spends the rest of their life hand-peeling oranges for him, because he insists they taste better that way that cut, but is too lazy to do it himself? Where's the fun in that? Besides, he couldn't be that bad if he knew some Celtic lullabies. Perhaps he should just be made to peel oranges or do something even more mind-numbing.

Long in his life, Draco had been sheltered from the good in the world; it was the same kind of progress-slowing sheltering that inspired the teaching of creationism, that the sun rotated around the earth. But it hadn't completely worked. Draco recognized the worth of people and perhaps he, Potter, was worth it. He chewed thoughtfully on his wedge of steak.

"You gunna eat your muffin?" grunted something across from him. He blinked and looked over at Crabbe. Yes, thought Draco savagely. If Crabbe had known it was him, he would never have asked.

"There's a whole pile of muffins in front of you, you cretin," he said, shoving the plate at him violently. His face lit up with delight as he finally noticed them, and quickly he grabbed a handful, passing them over to Goyle. They ate them without butter, which he found strange. Hmm, if Crabbe had known who Draco was...

A sudden delight, equal to Crabbe's at the presentation of the muffins, sparked through him. No matter how comfortable and routine it seemed to him, sitting with the Slytherins, he was a new asset. They knew nothing of him. A few people had casually asked him his family name, where he came from, how old the name was, and he had careful answers for all of these. But they didn't really know him. He had no reputation to live up to whatsoever. Make a mistake and it was immediately accounted to your character. Do something great and it was too.

Deception, he thought happily, is a beautiful, unmarked canvas that is wiped out only by truth. Draco decided to paint the most wonderful, uncontrollable painting ever, just this year.