Against the Tide

Draco sat in the Common Room, his cloak about him for warmth. The Slytherin Common Room was always chilly, regardless of the enormous fireplace, but in winter, it was ice. Generations of Slytherin's had fought over a place at the hearth, but tonight Draco had chosen to freeze. Warmth wasn't of much use, when your insides were frozen by fear.

Interim reports from Malfoy Industries pointed towards massive losses. Due to the strikes and discontent, production was down. Due to the war with Voldemort, overseas sales were nonexistent. Due to mismanagement by Fudge, the British economy was dead. Due to total mobilization, the Ministry was not renewing contracts for cauldrons and such, but merely taking what they needed, with promise of payment later. Due to demand, prices for raw materials were skyrocketing.

Malfoy Industries was broke. The Malfoy family was broke, nearly bankrupt.

Smiling maliciously, Draco threw his pewter mug of drinking chocolate at the fireplace. It bounced off the stones and crashed into the first-years who played Gobstones in the firelight.

"Hey!" one brave soul shouted, turning in accusation. When the girl saw who her prey was, she paled quickly, unsure of what had happened.

"What?" Draco snarled, pleased with the blanched faces of scared children. This year's crop of first-years had not witnessed the old Draco, the disinterested and cruel teenager. They had only met the new Draco, who was, if not kind, then certainly not cruel or nasty.

They had no idea what to think.

"Er- nothing, sorry, Prefect Malfoy." Wisely choosing to discontinue the game, the children decided to go to the Library.

Draco sighed, pushing his white-blonde hair from his eyes. Broke. Poverty stricken. Not two Galleons to rub together... Well, it wasn't nearly that bad. He could liquidate the assets. Or he could end production, lay off the employees and wait it out. He didn't think the Ministry would let him do that, though. He'd sunk a lot of gold into modernizing the works, and his works had the fastest and most reliable production of any British company. He just didn't have any money.

He needed a new investor. He needed someone who had pulled out at the beginning of the war, but who was willing to take a chance. There weren't many around, though; someone who was smart enough to get out early wasn't about to risk it all now. And certainly not for Draco.

A month ago, he might have considered approaching Potter. He knew Potter had money, and was making quite a bit more off of his investment in the Weasley's joke shop. Potter would probably have done it, if for no other reason than Malfoy Industries was pushing the war effort along. Now, however, he was lucky if he could get the time of day off Potter, let alone thousands of Galleons.

And all because of Hermione. He wondered briefly, if he broke up with Hermione, whether Potter would invest, but dismissed it. There wasn't much in the world worth breaking up with Hermione over, and (odd as it seemed) money was the last reason to do it. Her decision to go to the Dragon's Keep was problem they had. Draco understood why Hermione wanted to go; it was where she belonged, even if it meant they wouldn't see each other for years. Draco knew nothing would change about how he felt about her, no matter how long they were apart. But if Hermione left, all those years together would be lost, and when she returned, they'd have to get reacquainted. Maybe, when she returned, she wouldn't want to be with him at all.

He was probably being selfish- always a possibility- but he didn't want to miss anything important in Hermione's life. He also didn't want to spend years without Hermione, to do things without her, to have victories without her to celebrate with. She was starting to lose her temper with him, whenever he asked her to stay, and if he didn't stop soon, they would probably break up. It was stupid of him, but he needed her to stay.

But, breaking up with her for an investment would prove Potter and Weasley right. And they weren't, so he wished they'd just sod off. Moreover, he wished he didn't care what they thought, or whether they spoke to him in anything more articulate then grunts and growls.

Weasley had been vicious at the get-go. Hermione may not be his sister, but she was close enough, and apparently, Draco wasn't good enough. Potter, more fair-minded, hadn't turned malicious until he and Hermione had begun arguing. The Gryffindors seemed to think that fighting equaled unhappy. Draco knew that when it came to fighting, at least the two were still engaged with one another. It was when the fighting stopped that one should worry.

But it didn't bother Draco that Potter and Weasley didn't understand his and Hermione's relationship. It bothered him that they would let him plan campaigns with them, rally troops with them, but the second he tried to be one of them, part of the group, they turned him away. As if he were trying to climb up the social ladder, and they were the avenging angels of nobility and honour.

Sod them! So he could fight and die to protect and preserve the good things in the world, but only for others, only for them? He wasn't to enjoy a bit of happiness, no matter that he was working to deserve it? Maybe it wasn't worth getting upset over; Hermione seemed not at all fazed by their reaction to him.

"What did you expect?"

What had he expected? Not necessarily love, but acceptance, certainly. If Hermione thought him good enough, shouldn't they? But then, Hermione was the brains, the logic in the group, only one part of the Trio.

Maybe it wouldn't bother him so, except that Christmas was coming, and he was to return to Malfoy Manor and receive instructions from the Dark Lord, which would pertain to his role in killing Harry Potter. It was very tempting to do whatever the Dark Lord wished, if only to rid himself of the disapproving glare of the Boy-Who-Lived. Beyond that, if Potter and Weasley did not appreciate his contributions, the Dark Lord would. Well, not appreciate, exactly, but he would certainly approve of a dead Wonder Boy.

Draco sighed, not sure what he would do. Staring at the parchment on his lap, with its charts and diagram forecasting collapse and doom, he felt a sort of giddy panic. He was just about to go to the Library himself, to find Hermione and drag her off to a broom closet while he still had the right to, when Morag burst through the portal and started shouting.

"Oh, Merlin, not the Gaelic!" Tobias Trubble muttered beside him.

Whenever Morag was enraged, she went off in the Gaelic, shouting the castle down. It had been that way since fist-year, and while no one was any closer to understanding a word she said, they had all learned to duck-and-cover, as Morag in Gaelic was enough to frighten a Dragon.

She marched straight to Draco and shouted something unintelligible at him. Not knowing what she had said, still his bowels clenched like a fist and his heart stopped.

"Me? I haven't done anything! If it's about the first-years, I'll apologize, damnit!" he promised hoarsely. Morag looked at him crossly, fury burning out of her eyes.

"I asked if you knew where Campbell was," she said in English, and then went off on a rant in Gaelic, finishing in English with- "Never trust a Campbell!"

"I think he scurried to his dormitory when you came in," Tobias answered for him. "What's he done?"

This only launched Morag back into Gaelic, helped along in translation but her hands, which slashed, punched and throttled the air in demonstration of Campbell's fate. Draco could feel the blood drain out of him. The last time Morag had threatened to kill someone in Gaelic, Josiah Flint had spent three weeks in the Infirmary, after being tossed into the fire. No one, of course, had admitted why he'd ended in the fire, all agreeing that he had deserved it (you do not

go about touching first-years, after all), but whatever Campbell had done, he didn't deserve death by a Gaelic banshee.

"Did not!" a voice cried from the landing above them. Hamish Campbell, a big, burly sixth-year was standing there, forced from his dormitory by his roommates, who clearly did not want Morag to wreak havoc in their room.

Somehow, Morag jumped over the couch and up the stairs before Campbell managed to finish. She had him, certainly three stones more than her, braced against the banister and staring upside-down at the twenty-foot drop before anyone could stop her.

"So, you dinna go to the Cameron's and the Gordon's for an alliance against me and mine?" Morag demanded, her accent thickening from anger.

This, in English, made a bit of sense. The Scottish clans were in a hurry to reached ascendancy, and Hogwarts seemed the perfect grounds for them to do it. Inside the walls, they could approach each other, through their children, and broach and broker alliances, without fearing violence or Ministry attention.

Well, the violence was minimal, anyway. But Draco knew that the alliance with the Cameron's was Morag's pet project. The clan, large and prosperous though they were, did not want to take control of Scotland. They preferred to align with another, more ambitious clan and take a supporting role. Morag had worked for months to broker the alliance, keeping it quiet from all but her closest friends, and the students who belong to the clan or to clans aligned with it. The MacDougal, the clan leader, had hoped an alliance with the Cameron's would bring the Gordon's and the MacDuff's in as well.

"Yes, I did!" Campbell said bravely once his friends had managed to pull Morag off him and he back over the banister. "No crime, is it?"

This set Morag off again, in the Gaelic, and Campbell was shouting back at her. Remembering that he was a Prefect, Draco climbed the stairs and situated himself between the two, both being held back by startled bystanders. "Er- why don't you take this to McGonagall?" he suggested, thinking a Scottish professor the best choice to unravel this mess. Apparently not, though, by the looks of pity Morag and Hamish gave him.

"We canna do that," Hamish said, scandalized.

"Tell the sister of the McGonagall clan leader that the Cameron's and Gordon's are both lookin' for a better alliance than with them? Hah!" Morag snorted in derision. "Really, Draco!"

It suddenly dawned on Draco why so many Scots were in Slytherin. Bloody, twisted manipulators, all of them. Who else but a Slytherin would try to wrangle alliances from the Deputy Headmistresses clan, right under her nose?

"Fine, then. Detention for the both of you," Draco said with force. "And whoever is leading the Cameron's and Gordon's. Morag, you'll clean the trophies with Cameron. Hamish, you and the Gordon kid will wash the greenhouse glass."

Immediately, Campbell objected. "No! I'll work with Cameron, not Gordon."

"Cameron's more important, eh?" Draco muttered to himself. Stupid clan politics. On the other hand, he didn't particularly like Hamish Campbell, and Morag was his friend and ally. "Well, I suppose Morag will serve both detentions, then," he announced and turned away.

Campbell was screaming murder by the time Draco shut the Common Room entrance behind him, whistling a jaunty tune about witches and Disillusionment Charms.

**

Harry was running through exercises with the second and third-year recruits for the DA. It was hard to tell, in the dark, but he thought they might be getting the hang of it. When he shouted the command, four-dozen small lumps of rock leapt into action, casting Disarming spells and then darted out of range again. Most of them managed to hit their target and get out of the area before time was up. "Good!" he announced. And it was, for only one evening of work. These students were too young to take much of a role in the fighting, should it come to that, but they needed to defend themselves. If they could, then it would take fewer older, better-trained students to keep them safe. Should it come to that. "Now, we're going to try it again, but you'll have less time to get out of range, all right? Let's pretend you've missed your mark."

It was the last evening before Christmas began, and everyone wanted to stop. There was to be a ball that night, for the older students. Not a single female had been willing to instruct, needing more time to become pretty, so the lads were out in force.

Other seventh-years were teaching older students more aggressive means of Dueling. All of the instructors, from Neville to Padma, were graduates of the first DA. Ron suggested this distinction, that they be members of the original DA to lead a platoon or to train new students, for two reasons. First, the training that the first DA went through was very intensive, and very in depth. Second, it kept the Slytherin's away from the impressionable youngsters. Harry sighed, watching the students with only half an eye. He shouted his remarks to them when they finished the exercise again. "Riothamus!" he shouted, signaling Hermione's cousin. "Try not to announce your presence until the signal. Tuck your cloak in more neatly, it flapped in the wind."

The Slytherin's were a problem again. After the protests against the Board of Governors, in October, relations amongst the Houses had rapidly declined. It wasn't Malfoy or any seventh-year, but the younger Slytherin's that caused the disturbances. In all honesty, Harry was angry with Draco, not because he was dated Hermione, but because he couldn't control the House. That had been his job, along with Blaise and Morag. Of course, he blamed only Draco, probably because he was dating Hermione.

There was no help for it, he supposed. The Slytherin's would support whomever they liked. At the very least, they could openly oppose Voldemort and live to tell the tale, which had been impossible only a year ago. So, there was development, even if the gains they'd made earlier were gone.

Maybe the New Year would go better. Then again, knowing as he did that the next term would be Hogwarts' last, he felt a bit panicked. The only way he could deal with that bit of news was to keep going, day by day. He'd finally had the nerve to approach Ron about it, and Ron had admitted that it was true.

It was because of Ron that Harry wasn't expiring with worry over Professor Gryffindor's disappearance. After Hermione had finally told Ron and him about Norbert, the Dragon Pox outbreak, and the appearance of a Draconus in the Department of Mysteries, she had also told them about the professor's disappearance.

Ron had refused to answer any questions Harry had had about Gryffindor's well being, but once Hermione had demanded to know (in that understated way of hers), Ron had capitulated. "Professor Gryffindor will be just fine," he'd insisted resignedly. The odd way he had said it wasn't entirely comforting, but Ron was telling the truth, Harry knew. Not great, not good, or healthy, but fine, which Harry had to assume meant alive and still pregnant- which was probably all Gryffindor herself expected.

Lately, Ron had said, over and over, that everything would "work out for the best." It was his new way of telling someone not to continue asking, that the subject was involved in prophecy.

His assurance that the war with Voldemort would work out for the best did nothing to assure Harry. It didn't naturally mean Voldemort would be defeated; it didn't naturally mean he and his friends would be carefree and live to old age. It merely meant that, in the end, everything would make sense.

It seemed entirely too wise for Ron to be saying, but Harry understood; he was feeling very mature and almost old in a way. Sooner, rather than later, Voldemort would be dealt with, one way or another. That, in its self, made Harry a bit melancholy, and not knowing how it would end made him nervous. He should be scared, but in truth, there wasn't much to be scared of. Something had to happen, and either way, it would be over.

"For now," Ron would remind him, whenever he expressed the sentiment. "It'll never be completely over."

That's when the melancholy came back.

"All right," Harry shouted to the young students on the grounds. "Everybody back to the castle."

Preparing for the dance was impossible that night. Trevor, Neville's frog, had escaped again, and Dean had found him, sleeping soundly, slimily, on his clean, pressed robes. The robes had to be chucked back to laundry, and Trevor nearly joined them. Later, after they'd all showered and changed, Ron had played with his hair, monopolizing the mirror for so long Seamus used a water Charm to ruin Ron's styling. A fistfight delayed the group further.

Finally, when they made it to the Common Room, the girls were waiting. Hermione nodded approval to her 'boys', declaring them fit. Then she hurried off to meet Draco in the Entrance Hall. Ginny looked gorgeous, but kept fussing with her hair, her nails, her gown, and Harry nearly went mad before the Ball began.

The dancing began with the Head Boy and Girl, dancing briefly- very briefly, actually, either because Ron wasn't especially graceful at six foot, six inches, or because he was too tall for Hermione to look at, at such close range.

"They don't look very comfortable, do they?" Blaise asked, amused. Ron had convinced Blaise to be his date for the Ball, though it had taken a lot of convincing. She still thought everyone was whispering about her and Stephen Cornfoot, and that Ron was just being kind in asking her.

"Not really," Harry agreed. "Its nice that you're so tall. Perhaps you won't have a crick in your neck tomorrow."

Once Ron and Hermione finished, he led Ginny to the floor, and managed to dance two songs with her before she gave up, complaining that men had no rhythm. She then warned him not to assume they would not dance again.

"We'll dance lots at Percy's wedding," she promised. Harry was going to the Weasley's' for Christmas, to attend Percy's wedding. He wasn't pleased, but Gin had asked very nicely. Ron was livid that his mother insisted he would be attending; Charlie, 'unfortunately, Mum,' had to be back at Hogwarts before the wedding. But Ginny was looking forward to the first wedding she wouldn't be a flower girl for, couldn't wait to be an Aunt, and was excited to be invited to the Hen Night.

"Maybe Harry and I'll manage a way out of the wedding," Ron said, coming up behind them. Blaise was dancing a fast song with Tobias Trubble, and Ron didn't seem to care much for Trubble just then.

"I'm not sure if a week is enough time to be disowned and killed, Ron. I think that may be the only way to get out of it," Harry said.

"Harry doesn't want to get out of it. He and I are going to have a lot of fun," Ginny said, warningly. "Aren't we, Harry?"

"Er- yes, of course." And really, the wedding would be fun, since Mrs. Weasley was putting the reception on. Only Harry didn't want to celebrate anything to do with Percy, and it didn't seem right to attend, if it was only to drink and dance.

"Whatever you say, Gin," Ron said, distracted. Harry followed his eyes across the Hall, to where Hermione and Draco were arguing.

Again.

"For the love of Mungo, are they still fighting?" Lavender asked, coming off the dance floor. "Or is this one new?"

"Who knows," Ron said tersely, turning back to the dance floor. Once he found Blaise, now dancing with a sixth-year Ravenclaw, Ron barged up to the pair and dismissed the boy, rather rudely pushing him clear off the floor.

But no matter how they tried to give Hermione and Draco privacy, hoping she'd come to her senses and dump him, the pair wouldn't stop arguing. During a lull in the music, the reason for the argument became clear:

"... the Dragon's Keep!" Draco shouted at her. Hermione began to shout something back, but managed to stop before she (hopefully) dumped him in front of everybody.

Seeing that everyone was watching them, Hermione bit a terse reply to Draco and elegantly fumed her way towards her friends. Draco came straight after her, but several people made it clear that he was not welcome. Harry peered at Draco through a cluster of Hermione's friends, and shivered at Draco's glittering eyes. The Slytherin turned and marched towards Crabbe and Goyle.

Within a few minutes, Draco returned to Hermione's side, and they began arguing again. Hermione had seemed close to tears when Draco spun on his heel and marched, fuming, back toward the Slytherin Common Rooms. By midnight, the other students had followed his lead, returning to their Common Rooms. Harry and the other Gryffindor seventh-years were chatting by the fire when an owl arrived for Seamus.

"What is it?" Parvati asked.

"A message from the Irish Ministry," Seamus said slowly. "They've broken the Defense Pact with the British, recalled our Auror's."

"Jesus!" Harry gasped, not even bothering with a proper Wizards' curse.

"Why is the Irish Ministry informing you, personally, Seamus?" the ever-practical Hermione asked.

"They've offered me a position in Foreign Affairs, if I'll return to Ireland after graduation."

"But- but your going to live here, with Parv, and enter our Ministry," Neville insisted.

Seamus glanced at Parvati, and then toward the parchment. "It's less money. But the opportunity- I mean, foreign affairs? Fresh from school!" He glanced again at Parvati, who was shaking her head.

"I don't remember saying I'd move to England," Seamus said, stubbornly. "I wouldn't want to live in England. Dirty place, really."

Everyone else was dead silent, horrified at Seamus. He can't be serious, Harry thought. He's about to marry Parvati, and he'll throw it all away.

"You'd come to Ireland, wouldn't you?" Seamus asked Parvati. Her head shaking stopped abruptly.

"No, Seamus. I couldn't," Parvati said quietly, ashen faced, searching Seamus's. The pair was silent for a few moments, while the rest of the year tried to find the fire remarkably interesting.

"Ah, well, I suppose it wasn't meant, then. Your a likely lass, Parv," Seamus said hoarsely, standing. "You'll do well." With that, he nearly attacked the stairs trying to get away from his friends.

Parvati burst into tears. Loud, inconsolable tears. The boys all tore after Seamus.

"What the hell, Finnegan!" Dean shouted as soon as the dormitory door was closed. "A job is not more important than Parvati, surely?" he asked as he flopped onto Seamus' bed. "Come on, mate."

"It hasn't anything to do with the job, you eegit! It's got to do with the Common Magical Defense Pact."

"Well, you can't let politics ruin you and Parvati, Seamus," Neville said sagely.

"We never even talked about where we'd live!" Seamus exploded, launching himself off the bed and into a fury. "She just assumed! She knows I hate fucking England-"

"Watch it, Seamus," Harry warned, feeling terribly insulted.

"I thought we'd go to Ireland, because she knows...! I can't live in England, not when there's a choice."

"Even if it means losing Parvati?" Ron asked.

"Yes," Seamus said miserably. "I really love Paravti, but I can't help how I feel. I was raised to it. If the Irish Ministry wants me, they get me. That's more important than what I want, myself."

"Self-sacrifice," Harry murmured. "I understand that."

They continued trying to convince Seamus, but to no avail. If Ireland wanted him, they'd get him; and, in honesty, any of them would have been ecstatic with Foreign Affairs. Not even Hermione had been offered a posting, and Seamus had a flair for politics. It was probably the best posting he could have received. Harry knew without a doubt that Seamus's bluster about wanting into the Department for Experimental Charms had been a bit of a cover.

"It helps that you attend school at Hogwarts," Ron pointed out. "Ireland hasn't a lot of properly educated wizards."

"Yes it has," Seamus argued loudly. "If there is a deficit of education, than the English are to blame. You lot refused to let us learn to read, let alone spell cast, until only a few decades ago! That's why we got pushed into the Defense Pact in the first place. We've finally gotten round to using the knowledge passed down to us. There isn't any shame in that."

The conversation could have degenerated from there, but Harry, tired of arguments, suddenly realized no one had begun to pack his trunk for morning. Clothes were sniffed, scrunched and stuffed into trunks that creaked angrily when they were closed. Harry and Ron offered to magick them into the Common Room.

"Hermione, what are you doing still up?" Harry asked, as they deposited the trunks in a corner heap. "Not still upset about Malfoy, are you?"

"I just set a school owl to him, breaking up," Hermione said. She smiled mockingly. "I'm a coward."

"No," Ron said, sitting next to her at the hearth. "Not a coward. You just don't like confrontation."

"Which makes me a coward," Hermione reiterated. "The argument is so stupid, as well. He just refused to see things my way, that's all. And so I've refused to see him at all."

"That's something we were wondering about, Hermione. Why were you arguing about the Dragon's Keep?" Harry asked.

"Oh, that. He doesn't want me to go to the Keep. Claimed it was something I'd appreciate more if I was older," Hermione said. Harry and Ron met eyes in silent, surprised agreement to the statement, and with the superior understanding that they would never suggest such a thing. "Imagine! He tried to tell me what to do, to direct my future. Besides, the sooner I go, the sooner I come back. So what if I miss a bit."

"And you can always wait if you want, at the end of the year," Ron added, bolstering her argument.

"Except that-" Harry began, then stopped as Hermione and Ron glared at him. Considering the options, he chose to press forward. "Well, now, we're on our own. We haven't any responsibilities, outside what we want to do. But in ten, or fifteen years, Hermione, you might have children, or a brilliant career, and you'll find you can't just leave."

"I've thought of that, of course, Harry," she replied. "Which is another reason to go now, to be sure I do. I can understand why Draco would be upset, but why would he tell me what to do?"

"Maybe he doesn't know you as well as we do," Harry said. "You won't be happy until you've conquered the Dragon's Keep. Then you'll return and conquer something else. That's the best part about you. You aren't at all a coward! You don't mind the challenge, that's why you were Summoned. But, honestly, you'd be wasted as an Auror."

"You don't think I'd make a good Auror?" Hermione asked crossly.

Ron sighed and jumped in. "An excellent one, certainly. But, you're not meant to slog it out in the trenches, Hermione, but to be above it all. You're meant to remind impudent berks like Harry and I that there is more to it than the fight."

"That's right," Harry said. "So its all for the best that you and Draco break up, if he's trying to tell you what to do." Although, a niggling part of his brain sympathized with Draco, even respected him a bit. If Harry hadn't known Hermione as long and as well as he had, he too would be fighting for every minute of her life he could get. He could imagine the terror of Ginny telling him, after this year, that they wouldn't see each other for ages. "Its just like Parvati and Seamus, really."

"Yes. That's what got me to thinking. If Seamus could give up everything for Ireland, couldn't I give up Draco for the counter to the Killing Curse?"

"Well, you're giving up more than Draco," Harry said. "Ron and I, and all your friends, and S.P.E.W., and the Auror's and the-"

"Stop, Harry, please." Cheerless, Hermione shook her head. "There's a lot I'll give up. But it's worth it."

"Of course it is," Ron said. "You watch. It'll all work out for the best."

Both Harry and Hermione winced when they recognized Ron's oft-repeated assurance, the one that indicated the subject was wrapped up in prophecy. But what about Hermione's time at the Dragon's Keep could belong in prophecy?