Earthbound Spook

Draco's hand snaked out and latched around Harry's arm almost before he'd finished speaking.

"Not to disrespect my own house," Draco said, "but sometimes 'Gryffindor' rhymes with 'stupid', I've noticed."

Harry tried to shake his arm out of Malfoy's grip, but the other boy was holding on too tightly. "Somebody has to go," he said. "We need that Horcrux. The mist will probably incapacitate whoever goes in, though, so there'll need to be other people out here. Once I've got the Horcrux, you can Summon my body."

Malfoy's eyes turned murderous, and Harry added quickly, "My unconscious body. I didn't mean dead."

"I'll go, then," Ron said.

Harry glared at him. "You're too heavy. And I'm lighter than Malfoy," he added. It was the first time he'd thought to be pleased about the fact that Malfoy had got taller than him sometime in sixth year.

Hermione shook her head, impatient. "And I'm lighter than you, Harry. By a lot."

For a moment he panicked. But, "No, your Summoning spell is the strongest." When she opened her mouth to object, he added, "Don't deny it: you taught me that spell, Hermione."

She bit her lip. "Let me see if I can work out what the mist is, at least."

Harry didn't think there was much point -- he was going to go in regardless -- but he let Hermione cast revealing charms on the entrance. After a few minutes she stepped back, tilting her head. "Well, I think it's designed to be breathed in, rather than being caustic on skin contact. I'm not sure, though."

"I don't think I can not breathe the whole time I'm down there," Harry said. "I'll try to hurry, but ..."

"One more thing," Hermione pleaded, holding up a hand as though she thought Harry was going to vault over her to get at the opening.

The others watched curiously as she found a twig on the ground and cast Engorgio on it until it was roughly the length and width of a gentleman's cane. Then she cast something Harry thought sounded vaguely familiar. He realised why when a silvery sphere flickered into life around the end of the staff. It was a bubble-head charm -- or a variation on it -- like the ones Fleur and Cedric had used in the Second Task.

Hermione knelt at the top of the steps and extended the staff down. They all held their breath as it nudged into the first wisps of gas. For a moment it seemed to be working, then the sphere shivered and broke apart.

Hermione pulled the staff back and straightened. "Well, I didn't really think something so simple would work," she said, but she sounded rather crushed.

"It was a good thought," Ron said. Hermione shrugged.

"All right." Harry squared his shoulders. He was nervous, now that he'd got his way. It was better that he went in than Ron or Hermione, though; or Draco, who'd already died once.

"We'll give you twenty minutes," Draco said flatly. "After that we're Summoning you out, whether you have the Horcrux or not."

Harry nodded. He was obscurely comforted by Malfoy's scowl. He had the impression that Draco had probably followed through on this kind of threat, in his old reality.

"Lumos," Harry said. The pale glow sprang into being around the tip of his wand, almost invisible in the daylight.

"Wait." Hermione pulled the Alice band out of her hair, the freed curls whipping into her face, and transfigured it into a wide band of cloth. She pushed her hair back as best she could and handed the cloth to Harry. "Tie this over your mouth. It's not a bubble-head charm, but it might help."

He nodded, tying the cloth loosely around his neck. "Thanks." She nodded back, her mouth set in a tense line.

He tugged up the cloth, fitting it snugly over his mouth. Then he stepped onto the first of the steep, packed-earth steps, leading down into darkness.

One step, two, three, four ...

Harry tensed as the first tendrils of mist coiled around his ankles. There was no effect, though. The mist simply coiled over his school shoes, as passive as an ordinary fog disturbed by somebody's passage. Hermione must be right: it was only dangerous when you breathed it in.

The light decreased at an unnatural rate as he descended; by the time his head dipped below the level of the surface, only the wandlight let him see at all. Another two steps, steeply descending, and the Lumos charm caught the swirling mist. From outside it had looked black, but now in the charm's light it sparkled white against the black of the earthen walls.

Two more steps, and his head dipped under the level of the gas. He held his breath, forcing himself not to do so much as breathe out. Even though he knew he could hold his breath far longer than this, he immediately felt stifled, as though he were drowning; as though if he didn't breathe in in the next second he truly would die.

He quickened his pace. He couldn't go too fast, though; it would be far too easy to slip and fall on these stairs, and the smooth, earthen walls gave him nothing to hold on to.

More steps; he had to be a good way below the level of the graves now. He was surprised he wasn't running into sewers, given that this was Muggle London. Another step, and another; the urge to breathe was overwhelming. Another step, and his vision was swimming, sparkling wreaths of smoke slipping out of focus against the never-ending black background.

He let out his breath; tried to hold for a moment longer; gave in and dragged air jaggedly through the soft cloth covering his mouth.

There was nothing but the air in his lungs: sweet, blessed, earthy and dark. He sagged against the hard-packed wall behind him. Trickles of dry, soft soil slid down his back, inside his collar.

It took a few minutes of dragging in air for it to sink in that the soft trickle of soil behind him meant something. His thoughts came slowly, with difficulty. The trickle hadn't stopped. There was another soft patter now, a pebble bouncing in a muffled cascade down the stairs into the darkness below. That darkness was menacing, a heavy weight, but when he pressed back there were the walls of earth again, hemming him in. They weren't solid, or safe. He could hear the sound of dirt trickling again, tiny grains, one, two, more, a small pattering rush; it would bury him alive.

He couldn't hold in a tiny choking noise, and he stumbled away into the opposite wall, slipping down a step and scraping his knee. There was no light other than the wand in his hand, a beleagured sphere of illumination that petered out at no distance at all. There was no sign of a way out. Up? Should he go up? It was so dark, though -- how far down was he? Would he find daylight at the top, or a steel hatch? Would he find something waiting?

Had he come down here to escape what was waiting up there?

That brought him up short. A strange calmness replaced the terror as he realised that he didn't know. Not how he had got here, not where he was, not where he had been when he woke up that morning ... or the morning before ...

Maybe he had been born here?

He hesitated a moment more. He stared into the darkness below. Up was the obvious direction. He was far more likely to find a way out if he went up. But these were stairs, and they went somewhere. Nobody built stairs to nowhere.

The formless dark seemed to be challenging him.

Mind made up, he took another step downwards.

Two more steps, five, seven, and the panic was almost completely faded. Ten, and he impatiently pulled down the cloth covering his mouth. It didn't seem to have a purpose, except to restrict his breathing, and he was already feeling enclosed enough. Twelve, fourteen. His foot struck flat earth where he expected another step. He stumbled, grabbing for a wall which wasn't there, and fell heavily onto his grazed knee.

He got to his feet, rubbing at his knee through his jeans. He raised his wand, spilling the light ahead.

Mist wafted around the interior of a long chamber. Although he had felt constricted in the stairway, now in this wider space he felt exposed, vulnerable to the darkness behind him. The chamber was seven or eight arms-lengths across; he couldn't tell how long, as the wandlight didn't reach. The walls and floor were of smooth, packed earth, just as the stairwell had been. There was no decoration of any kind.

And he shouldn't be here.

The knowledge was sudden and absolute. The darkness here was wrong. The mist curled into new shapes, forming into faces that twisted at the edge of his sight. They were nightmares, of things he couldn't remember, but remembered the terror of. The chamber seemed longer, wider. The mist around him sparkled near in the wandlight and faded to grey further out; beyond, the darkness pressed in like something watchful and huge.

He spun, feeling blindly for the entrance to the steps. A gleam of light at the edge of the wandlight stopped him.

He hesitated, frozen. There was something -- he wasn't supposed to be here but there was something, something glittered, he'd come for ...

The moment of almost-purpose faded away, but the new wave of fear had gone with it. Like the blinding terror he'd felt on the stairs, it faded away, leaving him feeling wrung out.

Cautiously, he moved forward. There was definitely a glint there. At the end of the chamber there was a shelf of some kind. Something rested on it, on a dark red cloth: something golden; fat, smooth and incongruous in this dark underground hall.

Close up, it was a small cup. It was two-handled and made of what looked like beaten gold. The handles curved round and jolly. Down low, on the upward curve of the base, he could see the lightly scored face of some grinning animal: a fox, or a badger maybe.

His hands had closed around the delicate golden handles almost before he'd realised that he was reaching for it.

The next second he nearly dropped it as pain seared through him. The air he dragged in burned him, oh, so deeply, the mist rushing into his throat, his nostrils; the pain was in his lungs, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He had the cup hugged to his chest, and he knew he had to drop it; that's what this was, it was the cup, for some reason it was the cup, but he couldn't think. He would die gasping on the floor of this cavern, and the cup dug into his chest, the handles cruel and sharp now. His vision was blacking out, droplets of mist sparking before his eyes.

He could no longer feel his fingers to tell them to let go.

He felt the tug in every part of his body at once. He was picked up and sent flying backwards through the air. He thumped bone-shakingly hard against the wall at the far end of the chamber, the pressure cracking the pain in his chest to dizzying heights. He dropped to the floor, sprawling. Then the tug came again, insistently. He kicked against the wall, weak with the lack of oxygen. The small shift pushed his shoulders into the stairwell, and when the overwhelming pull came again it dragged him the rest of the way. Up and up, and his shoulders scraped over the stairs, and there was dirt in his eyes and the pain in his chest just didn't stop.

Noise and light and air came in a rush. He was lying on the ground, somebody's arms coming around his shoulders. They held him upright as he coughed, hackingly, as though his lungs were broken.

"He must have hit every step on the way up. Why won't he stop coughing?" The words came from a long way off.

A cup filled with water was held to his lips. He gulped it, lifting his eyes past the hands holding it to the face above. A boy, or a young man, maybe his own age. He had fine pale hair falling into his eyes as he bent over, and a pointed, angular face. His eyes and mouth were scrunched with concern.

The boy twisted to look at somebody over his shoulder, holding the empty cup out behind him. "Hermione, more water!"

Somebody must have filled the cup again, because the boy held it to his lips. He drank again, messily, water slopping over his chin. Dropping it when it was empty, he lifted his eyes once more.

The boy was staring at him, his features tense.

"Don't go," Harry said. His voice came out hoarse, painful in his throat.

"I'm ... I won't." The boy sounded oddly blank, as though he were shocked. Threads of recollection were beginning to tickle at Harry now. He scanned the wide grey eyes; the white-blond fringe falling into his eyes as he bent his head; the sharp line of his jaw and the shape of his mouth as he hesitated to say something.

He's mine, Harry thought fuzzily. My responsibility.

"I've got you. It's all right," the boy said.

Draco, Harry thought, startled. Memory came back in a rush.

Harry blinked as the pale hair and pointed features rearranged themselves in his vision, settling back into the person he knew.

It was too confusing. Draco's eyes were still tight with worry, his arms a warm support against Harry's shoulders as he knelt on the path. Harry dropped his head against Draco's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut, and let the rest of the world keep itself. Draco's hands moved to hold his shoulders, careful. He must have tilted his head again because Harry could feel the tickle of Draco's fringe against his own cheek. It was soft, a whisper over his skin. He pressed his face into the shoulder under his cheek and, just for a moment, wished that he never had to let go.

"You got it," somebody said. Ron; it was Ron who'd said it. He laughed. "I can't believe you got it."

Harry lifted his head, opening his eyes. His hands had attached themselves to the sleeves of Draco's jumper without his noticing. He untangled them, reluctantly, and pulled away. Draco stood, brushing at his knees, and extended a hand. Harry took it and pulled himself up.

Draco was avoiding his eyes. His cheeks looked flushed.

Harry turned to Ron. "Yeah." He dredged up a smile and lifted the cup. The handles had dug into his palms, leaving angry red marks in the skin. "I got it."

Hermione threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. He stiffened, but she was careful -- she held herself a little away, not pressing on him. He was thankful, as his chest still felt ragged and sore. Not to mention that the bruises and scrapes he'd got when they Summoned him had begun to ache something vicious.

"Oh, Harry," she mumbled. "When the Accio didn't work I thought we'd sent you to die."

He laughed, shakily, and pushed her away. "You should have more faith," he said. "I haven't died any other time, have I?"

She sniffed, wiping at the tear-tracks on her cheek, and glared at him.

"You may be the Boy Who Lived, but you're not immortal, Harry Potter."

He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking away. "Yeah. I did notice, actually."

"We should go," Draco said abruptly. "It's getting late; we should get back to school."

"You're right." Harry shook himself. "I suppose we can Apparate now?"

"It probably won't work in the graveyard," Hermione warned. Harry concentrated, feeling the constriction in his chest for a moment -- almost unbearable after the abrasive mist in his lungs -- then stumbled as he snapped back to the graveyard. He caught his hand on a headstone.

"You're right. He's set anti-Apparition wards on the graveyard. We'll have to go outside the fence first."

Hermione picked up her bag and they turned toward the gate.

Harry only took one step before he knew something was wrong. He had a moment to think: Idiot, the Inferi only attacked when we tried to leave, too.

The air had turned grey and heavy around them. As Harry watched, something gathered and solidified out of the air: the shape of a bird, as big as Fawkes, but grey and misty black, with a savage beak and beady black eyes.

He spun around, seeing more -- a dozen at least, forming out of the air all over the graveyard.

"Shut your eyes!" Hermione yelled. "They're Avissi. They can only see out of your eyes!"

Malfoy cursed. Harry stared for a moment, wide-eyed. One of the birds was diving for him, talons and beak extended in a rush of air. He gulped in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut, diving to the side.

The sound of talons scoring over the ground where he'd been chilled him, and he scrabbled further away, pointing his wand blindly over his shoulder and shouting, "Impedimenta!" He really, really hoped he didn't hit any of his friends.

He couldn't remember whether they'd discussed how to fight Avissi when they were talking about Air defences; he supposed they probably had, since Hermione knew about them. Either way, the Impedimenta must have worked, since he heard the thump of a light body hitting the ground.

The graveyard was a nightmare of sound and movement. Harry manoeuvred around another headstone, blind and groping. He could hear the shrieks of the birds, the violent flap of wings, and the voices of the others, shouting hexes.

This was hopeless. He'd only hit the last one because it had almost ploughed into him. Without sight, he couldn't navigate either to get out of the cemetery, or to defend against the birds. He was useless without his sight; but the Avissi were used to flying in darkness.

He threw himself into motion, cracking his eyes open at the same moment and scanning the air. One of the shadowy birds immediately wheeled and dove at him, shrieking. The talons scored over his shoulder, a slash of hot pain. Then he was rolling, his eyes closed tight as he aimed his wand at the bird, catching it as it wheeled up again.

He fell into a pattern. It was chaotic and terrifying, and he had no way of watching his friends' backs, but it seemed to work. He would dash out of cover -- bruising himself on headstones and stumbling on the uneven paths -- and blink his eyes open for one beat, two, then squeeze them shut again and aim for the birds that found him each time. He got more talon marks on his back and arms, and once a jagged beak digging into his shoulder, surreally painful. Most of the time he hit his target.

He tried not to look for the others each time he opened his eyes, knowing that it would give away their position to the Avissi. He was aware that Ron and Hermione were fighting over near the gate, though; almost near enough to slip through it, if they'd wanted to. Once he accidentally looked at Ron directly and had to shout out a warning, his voice ragged.

He found out where Draco was when he stumbled behind the plinth for an urn, or maybe an angel, and fell against a warm back. He put out a hand, startled.

"Don't open your eyes!" Draco said breathlessly.

Harry nodded. "Right." He moved carefully, keeping track of where Draco was. It was unbelievably comforting to feel the human warmth of somebody at his back.

"I'm going to look around the urn," Harry said. "Get ready, all right?"

"All right."

Harry moved forward, the tangle of grass and weeds around the stone plinth dragging at his feet, and cracked open his eyes.

Two dark shapes, directly overhead. They wheeled, and Harry dove forward, rolling and shouting, "Stupefy."

He used the sound of Draco's own hex, shouted a moment later, to join the other boy behind another headstone.

Both birds had tumbled out of the sky.

Draco was panting. He put out a hand, touching Harry's arm and shoulder, verifying where he was. Then, "Again," he said.

They repeated the manoeuvre. Draco was doing the same thing Harry was: flicking his eyes open just long enough to locate a bird and make it turn, then casting blindly.

Harry saw the moment he misjudged.

Harry was halfway through a dash between two statues, and he cracked his eyes open to see Draco trip over the tree root he'd not seen because he was looking at the sky. He scrambled to his feet and Harry wanted to scream at him, because he should have rolled away, and now it was too late.

Three birds converged on him from different directions, their screams primal and harsh. Harry cast a wild hex but it flew wide. The birds reached Draco together, beaks gaping, claws extended.

And somehow Draco ... missed them. Harry blinked, sure that he'd mis-seen. He rolled sideways to avoid another bird and shot a Petrificus Totalus at it. It fell out of the air with a thump, but Harry was staring at Draco. It was as if he'd flickered out of existence for a moment; Harry could have sworn the Avissi had gone through him.

He was staring, dazed, after the three birds which had failed to tear him to bits. They wheeled about now, cawing angrily, and Harry shouted, "Move, damn it!"

Draco shook himself and shut his eyes, running to the shadow of another headstone. Harry quickly shut his own eyes and turned away, back to the battle.

It was nearly over. Harry heard Hermione Stun another bird, then Ron's voice over the top of hers, taking out the one swooping at her from the other direction. There was a rush of wings over his head, and Harry looked up long enough to get that one as well, hearing the crunch of bones as it veered, Confunded, into a headstone.

Then silence.

Harry opened his eyes, gingerly. The others were doing the same, looking ready to close them again at a moment's notice. There were no more birds in the sky, though. Ragged, feathery grey shapes were scattered around the cemetery, and Hermione had a few feathers caught in her hair, wildly tangled and attached stickily to her face where blood smeared it, but that was all that could be seen of them.

"Let's go," he said, breathing out.

Nobody argued.

He eyed Draco as they gathered in the narrow lane again. It was narrower and darker, now. The topsy-turvy cobblestones were grey and vague in the fading light. Harry shook his head. Draco must have Apparated for a moment, somehow -- accidentally, maybe, given how shocked he'd looked. Harry simply hadn't heard the crack of Apparition over the noise of the battle.

He waited until the others had disappeared, one by one. Then he hugged the Hufflepuff Cup to his chest and Apparated to Hogsmeade.

*

Hogsmeade was almost deserted when they got back. All of the students were gone. Harry had never seen Hogsmeade without students joking and laughing in the streets, before, except in winter; and even then, there had been rugged-up students hurrying between Zonko's and the Three Broomsticks. In their wake, the tiny village seemed to have fallen into a picturesque coma. A cat washed herself on a fence. A flock of birds winged across the sky; high up and swift. Harry gave them a wary glance as they moved off over the forest in the distance.

The sun had fallen below the horizon, but the last golden streaks of sunset still caught the edges of the clouds, and stained the chimney boxes reddish-gold.

Mr Honeyduke gave them a stiff, disapproving nod as they passed him shutting up his shop. A witch walking her toad on the village green glanced at them, a knowing smile on her lips. They saw no one else, though, and then they were out of the village and on the road to Hogwarts.

Hermione shivered, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. "I had no idea it had got so late. I hope we weren't missed."

"We probably were," Draco said. "Does it matter?" His face was beginning to light, as if he were just realising it himself. "We got the Hufflepuff Cup."

Harry looked down at it, still held in both his hands as it had been when he Apparated. He'd almost forgotten it was there.

"Here." He held it out to Hermione. "You should put it in your bag."

She took it carefully, turning it over in her hands. "We did, didn't we?" She bit her lip, turning bright eyes to Draco. "I can't believe we finally did it."

"That's three," Ron said. He hung over Hermione's shoulder, eyeing the cup. "It should look nastier, don't you think? Wouldn't having a piece of You-Know-Who's soul inside it -- I don't know, make it tarnish a bit?"

"It's stealth evil," Draco said. He rolled the words on his tongue, enjoying them. "Beneath this fair face lurks a darkness tarnish could never express. Let me look."

Hermione handed it to him.

"Fair face?" Ron raised his eyebrows.

Draco turned the cup over. "Badger face," he amended, spotting the faint animal features scored into the metal. "An evil badger," he added, running his thumb lightly over the gold.

He stumbled over a stone in the road, intent on the Horcrux. Harry put out a hand to catch his shoulder, and Draco swung towards him, his smile brilliant. He held the cup next to his cheek. "Fear me, for I am the Dark Badger." He adopted a harsh, sepulchral voice. "My claws are hungry; my teeth are stained with the blood of the righteous."

Hermione choked on a giggle, using a hand to push back the strands of hair that the wind had pushed into her mouth.

"You are a bit stained in the tooth," Ron said. "I didn't like to say anything."

Draco swung the cup towards him. "You do not mock the badger, Weasley." His eyes glittered. "The badger will rip you apart."

Hermione made a face, laughing again.

Draco tossed the cup from one hand to the other, watching it glitter in the last of the sunlight. The red-gold sunset gave it a spark as though it were on fire, for a moment. "Evil is messy," he admitted.

Harry watched him tossing Voldemort's butchered soul in the sunlight, his hair catching the same late golden light that made the cup gleam. There was a bounce in his step, as though he hadn't just been battling flying dark creatures. Hermione was still a mess of flyaway hair, beaded blood and dirt dotting her forehead, and Ron much the same. Harry himself felt as though he only needed to sit down somewhere and he'd never get up again. His throat rasped and there was an ache deep in his chest. The jagged beak wound in his shoulder pulled when he walked, too. Draco, though, looked as though he couldn't even feel the scratches and tears all over him.

Harry stumbled, grunting as the jolt intensified the ache below his ribs. Draco turned, his face tightening as he took in Harry's expression. Harry straightened. "I'm fine."

"Oh, for ..." Draco took two quick steps back towards him. "Let me --" He stopped himself in the middle of whatever gesture he meant to make, his face screwing up with some emotion that was gone too quickly for Harry to read it.

"Weasley!" Draco stepped back. "Deal with Potter, would you? Apparently being poisoned and then having bits torn out of him has shaken him up." He looked back at Harry, his eyelashes lowering. "Obviously a real Gryffindor would look on this as a gentle massage, but we all know that Potter's delicate."

"Oh, shut up," Harry muttered. Ron had fallen back to his side.

He gave him a concerned look. "You all right, mate?"

"I'm fine."

Draco coughed. Ron slipped a shoulder under Harry's arm. "All right, then," he said.

Harry hesitated for a moment, then relaxed into Ron's support with relief. He felt like a rag doll.

"I would have been fine," he said.

"'Course."

Hermione coughed something that could have been "Boys." She and Draco dropped behind as they left the road for one of the shorter paths that ran up through the castle grounds.

"Do you really think the cup itself has become tainted by the presence of Voldemort's soul?" Harry heard her ask Draco. "Or could a pure container hold impure contents?"

Harry hadn't thought much about Hermione's question of whether they'd been missed. He didn't think about it until Ron stopped, jolting Harry out of cyclical ideas for destroying the Horcrux. Harry looked up, blinking.

The small crowd of people gathered on the steps of Hogwarts, obviously in the midst of some kind of council, fell silent and turned towards them. Harry caught Professor McGonagall's eye and gulped.

"Oh my god," Draco said in a distant, horrified voice behind him. "My mother is here."

"So's mine," Ron said. "D'you think we should have ... um, left a note?"

McGonagall picked up her robes and walked down the steps of the courtyard. Harry withdrew his arm from Ron's shoulders and stepped away, ignoring the swirl of dizziness. He tried to straighten his shirt. They'd forgotten to put their robes back on after they got back to Hogsmeade.

"I assume, from your appearance, that you have not in fact been on a jaunt to Diagon Alley, Mr Potter." She let her gaze linger on each of the others, including them in the statement.

"Er. No," Harry said.

"Well, we did go to Diagon," Draco said conscientiously. "Briefly. Just not in a ... jaunty sense." McGonagall's gaze settled on him and he tried a winning smile. "Er."

"You didn't need to worry, Professor," Harry said. "Or do ... this. Really."

Besides McGonagall and Mrs Malfoy and Mrs Weasley, there was Professor Sinistra and, for some reason, the other three Gryffindor seventh year boys as well as Ginny, Pansy Parkinson and Crabbe and Goyle, all hanging back and looking awkward.

"Thank you, Mr Potter. Next time that the wizarding world's most wanted target disappears during a supervised school excursion, I shall remember not to worry."

"I told them you were probably just doing something you had to do, but they were that jittery, mate," Seamus said in a low voice, edging closer. "Malfoy's mum was nearly hyperventilating."

Draco glared at him. Seamus faltered to a stop. Draco looked at Narcissa.

If she was hyperventilating now, she was being quite calm about it. She stepped with elegant deliberation down the stairs, through the seventh years, and made her way to Draco.

"Sorry, Mother," he said.

She touched his shoulder. "Do try to remember that I've already lost you once, Draco," she said. He nodded.

Ginny was hanging on to Mrs Weasley's sleeve, trying to keep her from charging forward. She whispered frantically into her mother's ear. Whatever she was saying only seemed to make Molly's lips compress into a line, however. Eventually Ginny lost the battle, and her mother strode forward.

She planted her hands on her hips. "Ronald Weasley, if you disappear without notice again you will be eviscerated and fed to the garden gnomes." She waited until Ron had swallowed and nodded, then turned to Harry. Her face softened. "Harry, you poor lamb. Minerva, he needs to go to the hospital wing; the poor boy can barely stand."

Harry stepped back, trying to work out whether the expression in her eyes meant that she was going to hug him. "I'm fine, really, Mrs Weasley."

Ron was making sputtering noises. "I get eviscerated, and he goes to the hospital wing?" he muttered to Ginny.

"Hey, I'm a bad sister because apparently I'm supposed to watch you all the time to make sure you don't run off to fight You-Know-Who," Ginny grumbled. "And could you not do that, by the way? I really am tired of being lectured for your lack of a survival instinct."

"Excuse me?" Ron drew himself up, making the most of the good foot in height difference he had. "Was it some other bratty little seven-year-old who tried to fly off the third floor chimney on the kitchen mop?"

McGonagall clicked her tongue. "Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy: you will go to the hospital wing and get Madam Pomfrey to patch you up. When she releases you you will come immediately to my office to explain why it was that you felt the need to leave school premises on an obviously dangerous mission."

"Professor, we can't say --"

"Miss Granger, I believe I told you to go to Madam Pomfrey."

Pansy ducked under her arm and tucked her hands into the front of Draco's shirt. "Did you really go off to fight the Dark Lord?"

"Uh ..."

"Oh my god, Draco, you idiot. The Dark Lord. Incredibly powerful dark wizard. Are we even --"

Whatever she was going to say was never finished. Draco paled as she spoke and took a step back. As the assembled crowd watched, his outline trembled, flickered. Then he disappeared.

Pansy dropped her hands with a yelp.

Harry took a step forward, his eyes widening --

-- and Draco reappeared, slumping to his knees on the grass.

There was a moment of silence.

"Oh, Draco," Narcissa Malfoy whispered. McGonagall snapped out of her state of suspension.

"I think," she said, "that in the circumstances, it might be better if you came to my office now; before the hospital wing."

*

"I demand that somebody tell me what just happened to my son."

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the centre of the headmistress' office, one hand anchoring Draco at her side by his wrist.

"It wasn't Apparition," Pansy said, shaking her head repeatedly. "It wasn't. I would have heard it -- I would have been side-alonged!"

Seamus, Dean, Neville and Ginny had been left behind on the steps, along with Mrs Weasley, who had gone home with an anxious look at Draco -- whom Harry could have sworn she'd never thought about one way or the other, before -- and a last distracted promise to Ron that there'd be a Howler if she was ever called to the school because he'd got himself lost again. Pansy had insisted on coming up with Draco, though, and had dragged Crabbe and Goyle with her. They hulked at her shoulders, looking uncertain and desperately out of place, and casting long, worried looks at Draco.

"You can't," Hermione said. "You can't ... Apparate ... at Hogwarts." Her voice trailed off as she caught McGonagall's eye.

"Thank you, Miss Granger. I believe we are aware of that." She paused, fixing her gaze on Pansy, who stared back, wide-eyed and tearful. Then she turned to Draco.

Her mouth moved uncertainly for a moment. Harry thought she might be trying to work out how to sound kindly. "Can you tell me whether this has ever happened before, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco hadn't said a word since he disappeared. He looked up now, his face blank. "I -- no, I don't --"

"Yes," Harry said. "Today. You disappeared in London. I saw it happen, Draco."

Draco seemed to draw further into himself. Harry saw Narcissa's hand tighten around his wrist.

"Has it happened before today?"

Draco bit his lip. He shrugged. "Maybe? It's confusing. I don't remember the actual -- I don't remember very well."

"But it's not --" Ron stopped, uncomfortable. "Look, it's not a big deal, right? He came back. It's just like -- not Apparition but like it, yeah? It's just one of those things."

"Young Draco's case is different though, isn't it?" Professor Sinistra was leaning against a bookshelf, watching the proceedings. "If anybody else were flitting in and out of sight, it might be an interesting party trick."

McGonagall's stern expression intensified; Harry wondered whether she was regretting not asking Hagrid to be Head of Gryffindor House after all.

"But Mr Malfoy ..." Sinistra came forward, sidestepping Narcissa's suddenly dangerous glare. "He doesn't belong here." She touched his cheek, her eyes bright and birdlike and curious. "I do think that our reality may have recognised that, and be trying to squeeze him out."