Red Tide Rising

"We were young,

self-righteous, reckless,

hypocritical, brave,

silly, headstrong,

and scared half to death.

And...we were right."

~Abbie Hoffman

****

Ron paced through the Common Room, refusing to look at the fire. It was burning brightly, and he knew what it was saying. It was telling him there'd be an attack on Hogwarts.

Damn it! Everything was telling him there'd be an attack on Hogwarts: the tarot cards, tea leafs, Astrology, the crystal ball, and now the damned fire. He'd even gone into a trance the day before, in the shower, and he'd nearly killed himself when he'd come out of it and slipped.

The problem was that nothing he could do would tell him when this attack would take place. He had a feeling that the powers-that-be were testing him. Perhaps he was too arrogant. Perhaps he wasn't arrogant enough. He really was gob smacked, and he was really scared.

He was scared because he realized something he hadn't before; he was a Prophet. Firenze had told him over the summer that he was unnaturally gifted in prophecy, and he wondered if he hadn't been one before the incident at the Department of Mysteries, if only a weak one. It would explain his talent for Chess, anticipating his opponent's moves and tactics. But what Firenze had called a gift Ron now believed was a curse.

The attacks over Christmas had been his fault. He had, without thinking of the consequences, gone straight to Dumbledore and told him Voldemort would attack the Dursley's. Dumbledore then protected the Dursley's, allowing Lord Voldemort to launch full-scale attacks on the rest of the nation. Seventy-nine people had died that day; if Ron hadn't said anything, only three would have. But the full impact of being a Prophet was more than that blood being on his hands.

A prophecy was one view of the future, which would happen if dozens of other events took place. What he had thought before was that if Voldemort decided to attack the Dursley's, and they could stop him, they had beaten Voldemort. But now Ron realized prophecy was not a weapon, it wasn't even a tool. It was a cruel joke played on him, and through him, the entire world. There were no winners when prophecy was involved- you could not win against a prophecy, because there was always an alternative. He wondered if Dumbledore had been trying to tell him that before Christmas, with Chess. You could bugger your opponent's move by blocking it, but you ran the risk of exposing a flank.

When he received a vision, saw something in the crystal ball, deciphered something from how the stones fell, it was his choice. No matter how he railed against it, the future was his decision. If he knew something was going to happen, and he reported it, anything that happened would be his fault. If he knew something was going to happen, and he didn't report it, anything that happened would be his fault. If the Dursley's had died on Christmas Day, it would have been his fault. They hadn't, and instead seventy-nine people had died, and that too was Ron's fault.

In the summer, being a Prophet had been great, something to mark him as different than his brothers. Now, in the cruel gleam of reality, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. And he couldn't tell anyone how he felt, because they would try to make him see that he was wrong, and he wasn't. They would refuse to believe that he, Ron Weasley, could, and would, and maybe already had, decide when, where, how and why they died.

He had been playing with peoples' lives already, and not just at Christmas. He had convinced Harry and Hermione to trust Draco, because everything he knew said Draco was on their side. Well, shit, he hadn't bothered to find out why he was, or even if he was completely dedicated to the cause. And now Hermione had the entire school blinking up at Draco, looking to him to lead them into a new day. And maybe he would; in fact, Ron had a pretty good idea that Draco would succeed. He just didn't know what exactly was Draco's goal.

Being a prophet meant being a murderer, a false god. Ron had no choice in the matter; no matter if he acted or not, the consequences were his to cope with. And no one could escape the tentacles of prophecy.

Turning back at the fire, he spat at it. Gods, but I can't deal with this! "Aahhh!" he cried out viciously and kicked his favourite chair. It toppled over with a 'bang'.

Suddenly, Hermione was standing in front of him, her hands on her hips. Startled, Ron jumped back and fell on his arse. "Hermione! How'd you do that? Where've you been hiding?" he demanded, wondering exactly how long she been watching him. Dragging a hand through his hair, he winced as he made eye contact with her and a flash of vision crossed before his eyes. Hermione, alone, crying... These little visions were the most painful of all. He got them all the time.

The vision of Harry, a purplish-white in death, was the most- no, best not to think of it.

"I haven't been hiding, Ron. I'm just coming back from the Library," she stated calmly. She looked exhausted, like she had dead earlier in the day and by pure will had returned to the living. She looked at him curiously. "Are you alright?" He nodded, his lips pursed, trying to get the image of Hermione, weeping, out of his head. She began to move towards the staircase when Ron grabbed her wrist.

"Don't tell me lies, Hermione. You went to bed hours ago. I want to know what your up to, sneaking back out? Got a lad, have you?" he asked. When Hermione paled slightly- or further, more like- he shook his head. "You can tell me, Mione. I won't get angry, even if it's Malfoy," Ron promised, even if he shuddered a bit at the idea. Sure, it may be his fault Hermione trusted Malfoy, but that didn't mean he wanted her around him. "In fact, I want to know who your seeing, Mione." He needed to know, though the thought was so dark. Even now, knowing the poison that he was, he still wanted to be involved.

"I'm not seeing anyone, Ron, and certainly not Malfoy," she exclaimed. "I've just been studying, or I tried, but I fell asleep, and now I really should go to bed."

Ron knew she was lying, but he let it slide when she turned back to him. "Why are you still up, Ron? Is something the matter?"

" No," he said, not to quickly, not to slowly. "No, just thinking about which girl I should fall in love with next." Hermione snorted. "Any suggestions, then?"

"Yes," she replied, a terrible grin on her face. "Morag."

Everything was so damn complicated. Ron actually looked fondly back to fifth-year, when Umbridge had terrorized the school, as peaceful and particularly nice times. He shuddered to think that next year he could feel the same way about this year. The flashes were becoming more frequent; he had to force himself to look people in the eyes, he was so frightened of Seeing a flash of their future. The vision of Harry had come to him just after the closet incident, and had probably saved Harry's life- ironic, as the vision was of his death. Besides, he was trying not to interfere with the future, not force it.

He went about, practically trolling for a new girl every other week. It was the only respite he had, squeezing a bit of contact out of a girl. Always before he'd had Hermione and Harry and his brothers, or the other lads in his year. He'd always had someone. But now, everyone, including himself, seemed too busy. He didn't get it, really. Why couldn't Hermione and Harry and him just manage a bit of real time together? It wasn't that they never saw each other, or that they were often apart, but that they were always busy and others were always around.

He'd always liked the fact that Harry and Hermione were his, and not his families. It wasn't that he was lonely, really, but just that he wasn't sure what was happening to Hermione and Harry, and they had no idea what was going on with him. Ron was a bit worried that this would bite them in the future.

If he could actually talk privately with them, without all the noise and ears about, then he wouldn't need to find someone to be with; eventually, every girl realized they didn't like him all that much and left him. He didn't hold it against them, because he wasn't too fond of himself, coincidentally.

Plus, everything about the chase was fun. Flirting, initial contact, primary contact, post-ahem contact, it was all brilliant. If he could do nothing at all but chase women, he'd be a happy man. Girls were just so perfect, whatever they looked like- round, short, tall or lean, they were all perfect.

Hermione was wrong, though. Just as he could never date Hermione, he could never date Morag. Both girls were too settled. Morag was a Taurus; she was too patient, too confident in her ability to clear every problem herself. She was pretty, sure, in a way. Her eyes and cheeks and lips and hips and shoulders were all wide- she looked like the mother of the world, with the rounded body to support and nurture every creature. But she didn't move quickly enough for him- she would dither on something or other for weeks before coming to a conclusion. Of course, once she'd made up her mind there was no deterring her. But that was not what he needed.

He knew whom he needed. She was tall and slim, looked as if she'd break. Smart and pretty and funny and decisive- and mysterious in a completely baffling way- she made him breathe deeply when ever she was in the room. She was everything he wanted, and when he met her eyes, he never got a horror. He saw children laughing as a man- not Ron- tickled them, and he was so jealous of that man. That's how he knew, beyond a doubt, that she was the one.

But the idea of her being with him was preposterous! He couldn't imagine touching her, not only because she was pure, but because he'd break her. She was so fragile, and he was an oversized lout. The idea of touching her made his blood go thick, but he couldn't imagine a possible situation where she'd allow it. She wasn't the sort of girl- completely pure and sweet and gentle. He winced when he thought about how his loud, booming laugh would completely muffle her soft chuckle.

He had too much energy for her too- even now, she laughed that he wore her out, and all they did was talk during class. She didn't bounce from idea to idea, like he did- well, once you've decided something is possible, why bother thinking any more about it? She worked an idea through, he'd seen her do it in several classes without knowing he was watching her.

There was no chance. And besides, she had a boyfriend, even if he was a poor excuse for the term male and there was nothing to make a person feel they were particularly attached. Logic told him he hadn't cared when he'd wanted Hannah, but logic also told him that Zacharias Smith was an asshole. He didn't have anything against his Venus's lad, except that he was his Venus's lad.

It didn't make a difference, anyways. They'd probably all be dead by summer, anyways.

April began on the stormiest night of Quidditch Ron had ever witnessed. Hufflepuff had won against Ravenclaw 270-220. Ten points more for Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor would have lost the Quidditch Cup. For most of the game, Ron had covered his eyes with his scarlet and gold scarf and had been screaming, "Bloody hell, just score a sodding goal, Smith!" Ron hoped it was the only time he'd ever encourage Zacharias Smith to score.

Easter Holiday had arrived, and spring was bright. Ron was seventeen, legal, and having his first drink ever, in the Hog's Head. Strangely, it was Professors' O'Neill and Gryffindor, with their friend Adam Scratch, buying him drinks (they assured Hermione there was nothing improper about it- then they began laughing). Harry and Hermione were beside him, beside themselves with laughter.

"What? Charlie did what?" Ron rasped, well into his fifth pint of beer.

"Yes, what did Charlie do?" Gryffindor asked, returning with yet another round of drinks.

"Well," O'Neill said grandly, stretching his long arms over his head and resting one against the back of Gryffindor's chair, "the night of Charlie's seventeenth, he, I and Stevie Jones decided to celebrate. So, we snuck out of Hogwarts, came here and got piss-faced. Unfortunately, the next day was a match against Slytherin. The three of us, Charlie the captain, Stevie and I the Beaters, were so hung-over we could hardly open our eyes."

"What'd you do?" asked Harry.

"Well, we organized a sick day," O'Neill laughed. "Nearly half of Gryffindor crawled their way into the Hospital Wing, complaining of a horrible flu and headache. Worked like a Charm! The game was pushed back a week, and we beat Slytherin soundly. 'Course," he added, curling his arm about Gryffindor's shoulders and grazing her neck, "Snape was on to us, and we paid for it the rest of the year. Sure and as we won the Cup, it was well worth it."

There was a moment of silence before the table cracked up.

"I don't believe it!" Gryffindor crowed. Then, after looking at O'Neill, she said, "No, actually, it seems quite believable." O'Neill smirked at her.

"Why don't we have any stories like that?" Harry asked Ron and Hermione.

"I expect we will, Harry, if Ron keeps drinking like this," Hermione said. "Besides, we have quite a few good stories of our own."

"Sure you have!" O'Neill said while glancing at his watch. "And if Ron doesn't finish up soon, you'll have a wonderful story of how two Professors snuck you lot into school, passed curfew and Ron drunk."

"Can't wait for that to get back to Weasley," Scratch grinned.

"It doesn't get back to Charlie, Scratch," Gryffindor warned, what seemed like fear in her eyes.

"Oh, but, c'mon Briar! He'd be happy to know how much Ron drank tonight," Scratch claimed. "In fact, I would say he'd be proud. The lad's done right well."

"And you'd be wanting to be the one to tell him, Scratch? You're a braver man than I," O'Neill said.

"Oh, right. For the story to have any benefits to me I'd have to admit to being here tonight, wouldn't I?"

"Exactly," Gryffindor said. "Now, on with you lot! Get ye to bed, all three!" she shouted, banging her fist on the table.

An hour later, after many stops and delays, most of which involved Ron needing to have a pee, Harry and Seamus were begging him to put on his pajamas.

"But, it's funny, idinit?" Ron begged as he tried to shake his boot off.

"Ron, you have to untie it first," Harry said exasperatedly. "And I don't see what's so funny."

"Not funny, really. More like odd, or off," he explained. "See Charlie an' 'em, Gryff'dor and Neill and Scraatch. They's all born when Voldemor' was 'round, and we'll all die when he's 'round." And it is funny, damn it! Or, odd. Voldemort was such a constant, someone you could really depend on to be around. Ron began to giggle. Good old Voldemort. True friend, true friend. Gonna kill us all. Ron realized Harry and Seamus had both stopped what they were doing. "Whasamadder?"

"Ron, you just said we'd all die when Voldemort was around," Harry said quietly.

"Did I?" he asked. "Whoops! Weren't supposed t' say nothin'."

"Ron? Ron!" Harry yelled, but Ron rolled onto his bed, fully clothed, and passed out.

Seamus turned to Harry. "Maybe Ron shouldn't drink. How much did he have?" he asked in amazement.

"Five pints and a quarter of a pint of Ogden's old," he replied. Seamus whistled. "At least we aren't playing Slytherin tomorrow," Harry said and made his way to his own bed. He didn't sleep all night, but neither did Seamus.

"Harry?" Seamus whispered, at three o'clock. "Harry, you awake?"

"Yes. What's the matter?"

"What do you think?" Seamus returned sarcastically. "How accurate is he, Harry?"

Harry thought for a while before replying. "Don't know really. He's kept it to himself since Christmas. Blames himself for the attacks."

"Well, he was wrong about those, wasn't he?" The knowledge of Ron being a Prophet was not common, public knowledge, but the sixth-year Gryffindor boys did know.

"Not really. He was right at first, but Voldemort switched tactics."

Seamus didn't reply for over an hour. Harry knew he wasn't asleep, though. Finally, "So we may all die?"

"That's generally the idea of mortality, yeah, Seamus."

"Don't get swotty," Seamus muttered. "Listen, Harry, if something does happen-"

"Nothing is going to happen, Seamus," Harry said quickly. "Even if something does, there's no point in worrying about it now."

"Yeah, you're right," Seamus said. "But if something does happen," he sped out, "I want you to know, I actually believed you all last year. You just got me mad when you attacked me mam. You should know that, in case something happens to me, and I never got the chance to tell you."

"Er- thanks, Seamus. And really, I'm sorry I said what I did," Harry replied. "Not at the time, obviously, but later, I was really sorry."

*****

The end of April was a hectic time for Hermione. She was doing far too much, she knew it, but she just couldn't stop. People kept asking her to do things, to edit papers or articles, to quiz them on a subject, to relieve them of patrol, to oversee the Gobstone's Club when they couldn't, to explain something from a class. And on top of that, she had all her regular duties. She just couldn't say no to anyone; it was like an illness. The Time-Turner helped a bit at first, but now it was weighing her down. She felt really bad for having it and using it, and she could never tell Harry she had it. He was mad at her, had been since Dumbledore's birthday, because he knew she was cheating somehow. He thought that she'd regret it someday. The truth was, she already did.

On top of the work she was doing, there was Draco. For some reason, she couldn't get him out of her mind- he wouldn't let her. He was everywhere; the night before, he had turned up as she was on patrol, and he'd walked with her, ostensibly to discuss the merits of free enterprise versus a state controlled economy. Hermione didn't buy it for a moment; if ever she had met a capitalist, it was Draco. And even though she couldn't stop herself from thinking of him, she couldn't bring herself to make a decision, either. And it had become more complicated when Viktor had come to his senses- his words- and asked her back.

Hermione was considering her options.

She had been sick for nearly a week in March and had fallen behind in her work. While she'd been working to catch up, she'd fallen sick again. Stress was killing her, she always had a headache, and she never managed enough sleep, even with the Time-Turner, because a month of sleep wouldn't be enough. Professor Gryffindor had given her detention in the middle of the month when she couldn't do twenty sit-ups when the assignment had been fifty sit-ups. Hermione was sure Gryffindor had only used the detention as an excuse to feed her chicken and potatoes and be sure she actually ate, but to her it seemed the most condemning measure of how badly she was doing. She couldn't do twenty sit-ups, she couldn't go a week without falling ill, she couldn't concentrate for the headache she constantly had, and she couldn't keep up in classes because she didn't ever sleep.

Of course, the end of April meant the beginning of May. She hadn't realized until the day before what was approaching. Beltane- the Celtic New Year. The day when selected witches gave thanks for what they had. North American Muggles had Thanksgiving, where they ate turkey and potatoes. Witches had Beltane.

Not every witch knew about the ongoing celebrations of Beltane. Many of them assumed the custom had ended with the Roman invasions. But no army, and certainly not an army of Muggle men, could ever end the thanksgiving of strong, intelligent and talented witches for the gift they had received. Not every witch knew about the ongoing celebrations of Beltane because not every witch qualified as talented and strong and intelligent.

Hermione had been attending celebrations since her first year when McGonagall had given her a 'detention' for doing too much work, and then spirited her out of the castle for the gathering. Once the gathering had been held at Stonehenge but Muggles had taken it over, chanting their silly songs and wearing white robes, as if they thought ceremony was all it took to be magical. The witches of the British Isles lucky enough to be initiated into the Sisters of Beltane met in the heart of the Forbidden Forest where prying eyes would not see their bonfires and no one awake would hear their voices.

It was a solemn occasion, but also one of renewal and rebirth. A new year began on Beltane, and a new life began within a woman who attended. They knew which woman bore the new life created by the magic of Beltane when the baby, always a girl, was born, always on the night of the December Full Moon. It wasn't immaculate conception of course- the adult witches all returned to their men and tried to create a baby born of Beltane. Always a daughter was created, and it was said that if no Sister was born from the Beltane celebrations, terrible things would follow.

But on the whole they didn't worry about such things. Honestly! Who believed in that kind of pre-medieval doom and gloom nowadays? These were the days of scientific discovery and Hermione was quite sure there was no need to worry about whether or not a Sister was born on the December Full Moon, although she always breathed easier when one was. And she didn't comment, even internally, about why she knew Beltane was so important- it was just something she knew! - If she didn't believe the legend.

The night of Beltane, May 1^st, she assembled in McGonagall's office with the seven other Sisters at Hogwarts; all of them girls and women of strength and smarts and skills. Morag, Ginny, Susan Bones, Mary Brenna O'Brien, Georgia Moon, Professor Sinistra, and Madam Pomfrey. Three other girls, initiates, Luna Lovegood, Cho Chang and a first-year Ravenclaw, Maureen Applegate were waiting as well. A knock on the door revealed Professor Gryffindor, wearing the traditional white robes that only McGonagall and Pomfrey also wore, and a young girl with blonde hair: Samantha Malfoy.

"Welcome Sister," McGonagall intoned. Her hair was not in a bun tonight, nor was Gryffindor's hair in a braid. The sight of the professor's hair unbound and free filled Hermione with the sense of Beltane; she was free and safe tonight. This was a night for renewal and thanks and happiness and pure female power. This was not a night for restriction or vigilance. Tonight they welcomed a new year and a new child.

"Shall we go, Sisters?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "The moon will rise soon."

As one they left, extraordinary women, all of them. Once they entered the forest their voices rose in song. It was ancient, they didn't even know what the words meant, except that it was so soft and sad it could be naught but a lullaby. On and on through the forest they went- no Centaurs or Giants or Acromantulas would deter or attack them tonight, what with Beltane throbbing in the air. Hermione wondered how the boys and the men and other women didn't feel it, except that she never had until she'd been initiated. No man alive knew that the Beltane celebrations continued, not Fudge or Snape or Dumbledore. It was possible, perhaps even probably, that Voldemort himself had no idea.

And it wasn't as if his Death Eaters had no Sisters among their ranks, as they cast no requirements that the Sisters be pure-hearted. It was the importance of Beltane that assured its secrecy. What would a man do with Beltane but ruin it? What interest could a man have in Beltane now that the ancient gods were gone, replaced with science, and science not allowing men to bear children? What reason would a man give to attend Beltane? That he wanted to be part of the spirit of Druidic magic? Let him join the Muggles in their false praise at Stonehenge, for no man, and no Muggle, could truly appreciate what was left of a Beltane stripped of a Goddess.

Entering a clearing, the Sisters of Hogwarts stood away from the other groups amassed. They were organized into occupation or family or region, wherever they found comfort. A few women returned to the ranks of the Sisters of Hogwarts, where they felt they belonged. When the moon rose, the two parallel bonfires lit on its own accord, and Beltane began.

"Hermione," McGonagall said. Turning to face the older women, she saw all she wanted. Power, respect, self-assurance and the aura of peace and calm. McGonagall placed Samantha Malfoy's hand in hers. "Take her to the fire."

With a glance at the small girl, a Malfoy through and through, but a Gryffindor to the bone, Hermione made her way to the fire. Other initiates, some older than Gryffindor was, some as young as Samantha, had begun to gather around the fire, alongside them the Sisters who would give them a new life. It was a great honour to be a Sister, but even higher was the honour of bestowing Sisterhood on a new member.

The fire was warm enough to begin, and Hermione squatted down immediately. She did not wait to see when the older Sisters would begin because she felt the rhythm of the night beating in her mind. Samantha gave her a stick of oak, the most holy of woods, and Hermione quickly and clearly wrote Samantha's name in the soft ground. The heat pulsed at her face and beat at her hands as she threw the stick into the fire. Samantha couldn't help but gasp and Hermione knew that she truly was a Sister. She could feel the power of the night and she understood what had just happened. Samantha Malfoy was no longer.

This time with her own wand, Hermione wrote the Runes for magic, fertility and for strife. The third Rune was the discretion of the initiator, the person who knew the initiate the best of all the Sisters. The third Rune was the reason Hermione had taken Study of Ancient Runes, she couldn't find it anywhere, and she needed to know what it meant. Once a Sister found the Rune she had earned, she again had a name, and every Sister would call her by that name when prying eyes were not around. Professor McGonagall was Stern. Professor Sinistra was Golden. Professor Gryffindor would introduce herself tonight, probably. Hermione may be Hermione to everyone three hundred and sixty-four days and nights a year, but one night a year she was something else altogether.

She was Knowledge.

And Samantha Malfoy was Strife.

Once the Rune was drawn, Hermione stood. "Sisters! This child is now one of us!" A greet cheer rose up among the women. Samantha barely noticed, so intent on memorizing the Rune that nothing else mattered. An initiate did not become a Sister until she knew her name. It had taken four years for Morag to announce to the Sisters that her name was Justice. Padma hadn't announced her name, Twin, yet, although she planned to tonight. Susan had discovered hers in third-year, like Hermione. Perseverance. Ginny didn't know yet that her name was Hope, given to her by her mother, Mother (she had already had Bill when she was initiated. Ginny was a Daughter of Beltane, born in mid December as a Sagittarius).

All the names would seem extremely melodramatic if they weren't so correct.

All around the fire initiates were being proclaimed. Cheering and singing broke out, and those initiates who knew their names stood and announced themselves Sisters.

*****

May was spreading sunshine on the grounds, even if the weather was still chill and brisk. In fact, for all the sunshine Hogwarts was getting, it was cold! But this could not deter Harry on a Sunday afternoon, nearly the middle of the month. He merely put a thick cloak on. The snow hadn't even completely melted yet; everyone was saying it was an omen of things to come. Ron's words earlier that spring were haunting Harry daily, and he had no idea what to do.

Some things were automatic, results of the hard training Gryffindor had put him through, as well as the paranoia of his life. He had begun to draw up a list of potential enemies, potential allies and potential targets. Later, he would bring his conclusions up in what had become to him a war council: he, Ron and Hermione. He was wondering if they should add Draco, but he had grave reservations.

Draco was very vocal in his support for the struggle against Voldemort; in fact, to the casual observer, he seemed more dedicated than Ron or Harry or Hermione. But Draco had never acted in defense of his 'beliefs', as there hadn't been an opportunity yet. And Harry was not going to give him a chance to betray the struggle, even if he was inclined to believe this new, greatly improved Draco Malfoy. He just had no idea why Draco had changed. Which was why he was outside on a sunny, but very cold, Sunday afternoon.

Malfoy was down by the lake, reading and practicing warmth exercises they had been taught in September. He just wasn't very good at them, since he apparently had bad circulation; it didn't surprise Harry that his heart had a bit of difficulty pushing warmth through his body. After all, he was still Draco, and Draco still had ice in the blood.

"Hello, Potter," Draco said without looking up. "Won't you sit?" he continued after Harry sat down without being asked.

"Malfoy, put the book down. We need to speak," Harry replied, trying to stay calm. Draco glanced at him, one eyebrow cocked.

"I was wondering when this would happen, although I must admit I assumed it would be Hermione who asked. Hermione does seem to run quite a bit of interference for you," Draco said. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Draco held up his hand to cut him off. "You want to know if you can trust me?"

"Yes. Malfoy, it isn't that I want to doubt your reformation, and it isn't that I do, particularly. It's that I haven't enough information on why to draw a concrete conclusion. Ron and Hermione both say that you can be believed, trusted, and usually their right."

"Yes, usually," Draco replied. "I've noticed something, between the three of you. Hermione makes decisions based on logic, and she's the brain of your group. Weasley makes decisions based on instinct, and he's the soul of your group. You, Potter, make your decisions based on Weasley and Hermione and a little of your own feelings, and then you act. You're the body of the group. Brain, soul, body. Perfect, a Trinity, there is no room for improvement." Draco sounded bitter as he said this.

"There is always room for improvement, Malfoy," Harry said. "But, please, tell me why you have chosen our side."

Draco hesitated, staring at the lake. The Giant Squid waved some tentacles in the air lazily, slapping them on the surface without any conviction. Finally Draco began to roll his sleeve up. He pushed his left arm under Harry's face. There was a Dark Mark marring the nearly pasty whiteness of his skin.

Harry gave out a strangled cry and reached for his wand, but Draco's hand drug his away from its query. "NO!" Harry cried as he swung wildly at Draco.

"Potter, shut up!" Draco said, looking about furtively. "I'm not going to curse you, I'm not going to betray you. Harry, I got this the summer after fifth year, and I hadn't a choice in the matter! I did want it then, I'll not deny it, but I didn't know what I was getting into. I wanted to avenge my father, to show you that I could, and to restore the family honour for Sam's sake! I didn't know that I'd change as much as I have, that I would want nothing to do with family tradition," Draco's voice broke. "I didn't know I'd be this way, and sometimes I wish I weren't!"

"What?" Harry demanded, not sure he had heard correctly.

"Have you any idea how simple it is for the Death Eaters, Harry? They just do as they're ordered, they have fun doing it, and then they can do whatever the hell they like. It's not like that for us, is it? We're responsible to ourselves, aren't we? And Dumbledore, or Gryffindor, or someone! And there aren't any orders, either, not really. We just do what we should, what we can. No demands for action, because we're all in this by choice! If we do something wrong, something cruel or unjust, we have consciences! We can't just shrug it off, we'll feel it forever, because we've betrayed ourselves and what we've committed ourselves to." Draco sighed. "But all that, Harry, all that!- it doesn't matter to me. When it was just me- just us, our generation- it didn't phase me; I didn't rage at the injustice of having to sacrifice my childhood, because it didn't seem unfair or preventable. It was what it was. But now, with Sammie, I just want her to be my kid sister, a happy girl, not an assassin. And I'm willing to do anything to allow her freedom- even take my own away."

Harry sat back and stared at Draco. Draco stared back; the same Draco as always. Haughty, a bit annoyed, confident. But underlying that, Harry saw the change. There was fear, or panic, in his eyes, and it wasn't fear that Harry would tell his secret- no, he trusted Harry. The fear was general, something Harry saw everyday in everyone's eyes, something that had been growing slowly but was beginning to encompass their lives.

"None of us can deal with this, can we?" Harry muttered, his shoulders dropping on a sigh.

Without hesitating, Draco replied. "It's because none of us should have to deal with anything like this. But we will, and we do, and we will survive it."

"That's not what Ron says."

"No? Well, I've never thought highly of his intelligence, anyways," Draco smiled. "Potter," he continued, "what choice have we but to stand and fight? As children, you three and I- we hated each other. Can you see how far we've come? Merlin's Balls, Potter, I trust you! And, I think I even understand why you three are what you are. Heroes, envied by half the school, simply because your stronger than them- because they trust you to keep them safe. They don't know it- of course not- but they expect you to save the world every time Voldemort threatens. I used to hate and envy you for that trust. Now, I just thank the gods that I can feel it too."

"Do you know, Draco? You're a very deep person," Harry said, feeling a good bit uncomfortable with Draco's compliments. He turned away and faced the lake again. "You'll join us, when it comes? Hermione, Ron and I? You'll fight with us?"

"Yes, like the good little soldier I was raised to be- except not at all. I'll be with you."

"Win or lose, Draco, thank-you. You have my trust, you know."

"Win or lose, Potter, we'll survive. That's our lot in life, I'm afraid. No matter the outcome, we'll survive, and will have to live with it."