Legacy's Fall

When the light changed on the morning of June 20^th, Harry Potter was lying in the same position he had been in for the entirety of the sleepless night that preceded it.

It occurred to him that it was growing rather warm in the room and he ought to remove the blankets from his body, or at least from over his head, but he couldn't quite muster up the energy to do it. It also occurred to him that he was starting to stick to the blankets and that a shower was long overdue, but if he couldn't even kick a few damned pieces of fabric off of his body, actually standing up and walking down the hall and taking a shower was strictly out of the question.

He could hear the muffled noises drifting up from the house below him and knew that Uncle Vernon was in the process of leaving for work, Aunt Petunia was cleaning up the breakfast dishes, and judging from the discordant electronic sounds in the mix, Dudley had parked himself in front of the telly with a video game. Harry spent a few moments pondering what this should all mean to him, and decided on nothing. At the sound of the dishwasher churning to life, Harry's stomach gave a rumble, and he realized in a detached sort of way that he had not gone down to breakfast, which brought the grand total of consecutive missed meals up to four, and furthermore, no one had yet come upstairs to bother him about it, which meant they probably wouldn't.

In fact, Harry's family had mostly left him to himself for the past couple of weeks, an unprecedented chain of events that Harry would have been grateful for had he been capable of feeling gratitude at the moment. When he had come home from school he'd been riding high on the threats placed on the Dursleys by Professor Lupin, Mad-Eye, and Tonks, and had consequently acted as cocky as possible. That had gotten boring and unfulfilling after three days or so, when he realized that Dudley had not risen to his bait once and his aunt and uncle were avoiding even looking at him.

Aside from becoming deeply mired in pointless shouting matches and being asked to clean out the gutters or something equally loathsome, there was really no standard form of contact between Harry and the Dursleys, and if those were no longer options, there was little for him to do but sit upstairs in his room and brood. The sitting upstairs and brooding had evolved, about a week ago, into lying on his back and brooding, and Harry really hadn't come up with any compelling course of action to replace that one, so he'd stuck with it. He felt, vaguely, that he would have appreciated being asked to clean the gutters, or to scrub behind the toilet with a toothbrush, or to lie in the middle of Privet Drive and let passing cars run over him, so he wouldn't have to sprawl around upstairs not thinking, but he hadn't been asked, and self-motivation was a trait he seemed to have lost over the past year.

In addition to lying on his back in a state of near-catatonia, Harry's major occupation was not thinking. He was concentrating with what little ferocity he could muster on exactly what his senses could pick up, and no more. His world was composed of the texture of the bedclothes, changes in light, and noises from downstairs, and now, with sweat pouring down his face in the summer morning, he was considering adding ambient temperature to the list. Last night he'd decided to pull the blankets over his face so that Hedwig would stop staring at him in what he regarded as an accusing manner, and he realized this morning that it might not have been such a good idea, since it pretty much killed off sight, sound, and unobstructed breathing. And, he realized, when the only thing to see is the underside of an ugly blanket, there isn't going to be a whole lot to concentrate on, and then not thinking goes right out the window. And Harry was most assuredly not thinking about Sirius, or his friends being in danger because they just wanted to hang around with him, or what would happen when he went back to school, or how he was a month away from turning sixteen and already marked for death.

Slowly, Harry kicked off the blankets and began to contemplate the ceiling.

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

The sound of a Quaffle hitting the wall was really very satisfying. So satisfying, in fact, that Ginny Weasley had been intent on creating it all morning long in the living room. Her mother had once again forbidden her to go out beyond the front drive to practice Quidditch, and she did not want to either clean her room or help in the garden, and after that Molly Weasley had run out of suggestions.

Breakfast had been the usual boisterous affair, populated as it was with nearly the entire family, everyone but Ginny laughing and shoving and tripping over each other while rattling on genially about nothing. In the hours following this early morning rally of Weasleys, Ginny had elected to slouch on the floor next to the couch, having no other maternally approved course of action. She was, at present, mentally imposing the heads of various family members on the Quaffle, depending on who was annoying her the most at any particular moment. Thunk, announced the disembodied heads, satisfyingly. Thunk... thunk... thunk.

The first annoyance had been her mother, who in addition to not allowing Ginny to go more then ten paces from the front door, had said that Ginny was getting to be quite nosy and entirely too much of a handful and needed to straighten up, which was completely out of line and completely unnecessary. (Thunk.) Then it had been her father, who went off to work with a false cheeriness that grated on Ginny's nerves, as though she wasn't aware that all was not right with the world, and hadn't noticed that he came home much later than normal these days with much more grim sadness on his face. (Thunk.) Then it had alternated between Fred and George, because she loved explosions as much as the next person, but seventeen - wait... eighteen - in the space of three hours was a bit of an overkill. (Thunk thunk.)

Right now it was Ron's head she visualized, and the mental game kept her from throwing the thing at Ron's actual head, which was currently bobbing around the living room in a very irritating manner. He had been trying to engage her in conversation or activity all day, but she had been too busy stewing in her own gloom to acknowledge him. And being Ron, he just kept trying.

"I wonder when Dad will be in tonight."

"Late." Thunk.

"I hope we don't have to wait dinner on him again."

"We will." The Quaffle bounced back, and Ginny caught it neatly.

"I got another letter from Hermione." Thunk.

"So did I." Hermione apparently was suffering from some kind of delusion, because her response to Ginny's complaint that Ron had been rather obtuse lately had been something supremely unsatisfying about giving him a break because he was only trying to help.

"She's been thinking about what we could do ourselves for the war effort, you know, really make people take us seriously, and she said that since we've gathered so much experience over the last year that we really ought to keep the D.A. going, and--"

At this point, Ginny tuned Ron out completely and devoted full attention to the Quaffle. The war was a topic which was strictly moderated and controlled by Mrs. Weasley, and thus was only traded in quick conversation when she was in the garden and out of earshot. However, the only thing anyone had to say about the impending war was that none of them really knew too much about it, and that tended to make Ginny boiling mad.

Ron was still talking, and the general topic seemed to be the Daily Prophet, which Ginny found somewhat interesting because her parents had stopped taking it. She began half-listening, but avoided looking at Ron, who was frankly making her dizzy with his weaving about frantically in front of the windows, making sure that their mother was well and truly occupied and wasn't headed back to the house anytime soon.

"--and Hermione was saying that they've been reporting all these incidents of Muggle baiting, and she's been a little worried because it seems like it's everywhere now, and you know, I overhead Dad telling Charlie that he's been dealing with five or six incidents a day--"

"What?" Ginny caught the Quaffle and held it.

Ron gave her a startled glance, amazed that he actually had her attention. "I said I heard Dad telling Charlie-"

"I heard you," Ginny snapped. She dipped her head, forming a red curtain between herself and the Quaffle on her lap. "I can't believe he wouldn't tell us."

"Well, I didn't think of it until Hermione said something, and Dad's always at work, it's not like we have time to ask him."

"Oh, as if he'd tell us anything if we did ask. He comes home looking like a dragon used him as a scratching post and tries to pretend to us that nothing's wrong. If he's telling Charlie everything, why the hell don't we get to know?" Ginny hurled the Quaffle rather violently and set the potted plants on the windowsill to vibrating.

"Ginny!" came the inevitable shriek from the yard. "I have told you and told you not to throw that thing in the house!"

Ginny threw the Quaffle, produced a final, loud noise, and let it roll away towards the kitchen.

"And since last year we got to take some real action, Hermione was saying we've got some good experience--"

"You know," Ginny interjected abruptly, knowing Ron's rushed stream of consciousness would go on until such time as their mother was approaching or Ginny herself went insane, "Hermione writes to me, too. And incidentally," she continued, frustration scaling her voice up just a notch, "that was probably the first and last time I'll be taking action, seeing as how I'm being watched and coddled and not let go to the toilet alone, but you, o best mate of Harry Potter, are dragged along for the fun whether you want to go or not!"

Ron blinked. " I wouldn't call it fun, Ginny. And I don't know what you're so angry about. I haven't noticed anyone acting like you're fragile."

"You wouldn't, would you?" Ginny jumped to her feet, the anger that had been threatening to explode all morning finally passing the flash point. "Everything's got to get rubbed in your face. In case you haven't noticed, we're not taking the Daily Prophet anymore because Mum doesn't want us to read it! And don't you find it odd that Charlie came back to the country all of a sudden? And Harry hasn't written to you once this summer, aren't you at least concerned?"

"Well..." said Ron, clearly still attempting to be reassuring and looking as though he wasn't sure why Ginny had thrown several unrelated thoughts his way at once, "I'm sure Mum and Dad and Charlie have good reasons for doing what they're doing, and sometimes the Muggles don't let Harry write, I suppose, and it's really nothing to get our knickers in a twist about, I don't think..."

"Maybe nothing gets to you, but I'm worried senseless!" Ginny sat down heavily on the couch and dropped her face into her hands.

"Ginny, we'd be told if something was really wrong, and we're all safe where we are, even Harry..."

Ginny's hands had curled rather painfully into her hair. "I know that, you dense twit. It's just... when there's nothing to do and no one lets you go anywhere..."

"What are you on about?"

"Forget it," she snapped, rising to her feet. "I just wouldn't be so sure everything's alright." Ginny stalked past Ron, up the stairs, and into her room, where she slammed the door with a rather satisfying bang.

She was somewhat less gratified with herself five seconds later, when she realized that the bang had not issued from her door, but from Fred and George's bedroom-turned-laboratory down the hall.

"Would you two give it a rest?" she thundered in the twins' general direction. It didn't make a difference in the noise level, of course, because they probably hadn't even heard her, which was ridiculous, not being heard when you were shouting.

Ginny dropped onto her bed and fisted the blankets in her trembling hands. She then stood, just as abruptly, paced to the opposite wall and back and stopped at the window. Had it been open, she would have thrown something through it, just to see some movement. There was nothing to see outside, even, save her mother's back as she worked in the garden, and the occasional garden gnome scampering away from her grasping hands. Ginny watched as an unlucky gnome wandered too close, got grabbed, and went sailing over the back hedge. She propped her hands up on the windowsill and stared. She thought about people who had reason to be alone and stare at nothing, and wondered what Harry was doing, and watched the arc of the gnome's flight as it became a tiny blot and disappeared from view.

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

Since he had returned home for the summer, Draco Malfoy had worried about not having enough time. Not enough time to practice Quidditch or finish the books he wanted to read, or to figure out what was happening in a house made strange by his father's absence. The last one was the kicker, and it was the only thing he was able to think about as he lay prone in the dirt, trying to remain unseen while he laid yet another charge along the perimeter of the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor. He'd repeated the same set of actions at least a dozen times already, and the spellwork had become less tricky for him after the first few. This left his mind free to wander in all kinds of directions, and Draco couldn't seem to stop it.

It was when he started wishing for less time that he thought he might be cracking up at last. After all, his tired brain reasoned, there is really no time to think, or be afraid, or back out when there is only one second, one minute, or even one hour left before the point of no return. Already that morning he had spent one second pushing his plate away at the breakfast table, one minute watching his mother pour her third vodka of the morning and down it like a dying woman, and one hour taking notes from yet another dratted book while idly pulling feathers from the end of his quill. During any of these increments of time, he mused, he could have changed his mind, could have undone his work, could have sat silent and secure as a prince in his tower for the hours, minutes, seconds he had left.

But then, he reminded himself sternly as he finished laying the charge with a flourish of the wand that was probably unnecessary, it was already too late to sit back and do nothing. If he had not been accosted by his mother's problems, not been bored and restless, if he had not opened his eyes, if he had not listened at the cracks of doorways, not actually sought out the crazy woman and really spoken to her, but he had, and he was not at all sure this new call to action suited him. In fact, this amount of strenuous and dirty work gave him a headache, but it was too late, and yet too early, and he wanted less time!

He glanced imperiously at his watch, which had wisely decided to comply with his wishes, but had somewhat less wisely subtracted only five minutes from the countdown. Draco's innate sense of obligation kicked in to remind him that this left him scarcely two hours to get his work over and done with before he had to go back inside and clean up for lunch, because his absence from lunch would likely be construed as odd, and Draco was banking quite a bit on not standing out at present

But how the hell was he going to get up to his rooms, without being noticed, and when he was noticed, how would he explain the dirt on the front of his robes and under his fingernails (of all the nasty plebeian places in the world to have dirt) and what he was doing outside at this hour of the morning when he usually needed to be prodded out of bed during the summer?

What he was doing, he reflected, was getting rather filthy while carrying out a rash and stupid set of actions that would most likely get him killed, but he had already argued these points with himself and decided that he had no other choice. What he was doing was magic he barely understood, copied from a diagram in an old book from the depths of the Manor library, and he'd had to flip that backwards because nothing in the world was designed with left-handed people in mind, certainly not when both hands were involved, and he wasn't even completely sure this would work right-handedly anyway. If he could just manage to reach back in his mind to that long-ago Charms class where Flitwick had covered basic theory.... he had always been fascinated by theory, so one would have thought that he would have taken better notes, but Draco had a distressing tendency in academics to fall back on his amazing short term retention, which carried him to the test and a decent mark, but not much further. Not that he'd ever been overly attentive in Charms or Transfiguration to begin with, and this particular spell, which was the only likely contender in a week's worth of frantic research, just happened to be the result of a misbegotten marriage between Exploding Charms and Vanishing Spells. He had been competent enough at Vanishing to earn a stiff nod from McGonagall, but this wasn't exactly a teacup he was dealing with. The whole idea of being able to Vanish an entire preexisting spell sounded a bit dodgy to him, but he supposed it would work if the book said it would, and if he managed not to mess up the execution of it too badly. The only positive thing he could say about the spell at present was that the results were invisible. Unless, of course, someone with too much time on their hands probed a little further.

Draco glanced around quickly to make sure he was still alone at the back of the orchard. No one else should really have had a reason to be out here at the edge of the Manor proper, and if he wanted to keep all of his limbs intact until he finished this, no one should know that he had a reason to be here, either. He crawled slowly and carefully on his stomach until his wand found the next power juncture in the wards. He tried not to think about it too much, crawling in the dirt like that, partly because he realized that the dirt was hardly ever favored with the full body presence of Malfoys, and mostly because he knew that wasn't so true anymore, and he repressed an image of his father crawling on hands and knees to kiss the Dark Lord's feet. He'd heard that his mother's aunt had a habit of burning the unworthy names out of the Black family tree and he thought, for a malicious moment, that he'd like to be permitted to do the honors for Lucius's name on the Malfoy tree. Groveling in front of anyone was hardly fitting behavior for someone from such a respected family, especially when it was obvious that they were far superior to anyone, including any Dark Lords that might happen along. The flash of renewed anger he felt only served to reinforce to Draco that he was making the right decision. He was serving his own purposes with this dirty and demeaning work, which made it acceptable. He was taking a risk here for the good of his family name, a risk that only he might end up appreciating in the end, but which was necessary for his newly reconstructed philosophy. He could only hope to hold on to these emotions whenever thoughts of his father crept into his mind.

He gave himself another boost of confidence by focusing on the memory of his mother, his silent, brooding little mother, waiting on the steps for him when he arrived home from school. Narcissa might as well have been carrying a flashing banner that proclaimed "something's wrong," because he had expected her to be shut up in her rooms or off walking the grounds, but never huddled on the steps in the slanting afternoon light like she wasn't sure she belonged there. Recalling her utter relief upon beholding her undersized sixteen year old son made him wonder where in the world she'd ever found the motivation to even get out of bed in the morning, much less do what she'd done.

When she'd seen him, she'd risen to her full, though admittedly unimpressive height and announced: "I'm glad you're back. We're going for a walk."

Draco had never been invited on one of her walks before, and he sure as hell hadn't felt like changing the pattern right then. He was tired, he'd argued. He was hungry, he wanted a bath, he'd been passed from train to coach with only a house-elf for company, he'd been hexed on the train by Perfect Potter and his henchmen, but he'd lost his audience halfway through the rant. He'd had to run to catch up with his mother, who had set off for the orchard at her usual breakneck pace.

"Mum," he'd bristled with utter annoyance at her lack of consideration, "what is going on? What are you doing?"

"Walking. Walk with me. I want to talk to you, but I'm not going to do it in the house." It was her customary speech pattern, but her abruptness still had the power to surprise Draco. She did not speak to Lucius Malfoy voluntarily, and he hardly ever requested it of her. Narcissa was not used to speaking at all, and the result was this utter forthrightness, delivered in a voice gone raspy from disuse.

She did not waste time in getting to the point. "Listen," she started, and Draco, who did not want to listen, focused his attention on a stunted little fruit tree that he found less trying at the moment.

"Bellatrix has been here since they came and took him. I want you to stay away from her. I wanted to take you away from here, but she's not going to let either one of us leave. I tried to..." her face twitched, and she turned her head as if to shake off the thought "...Bellatrix is watching the post. Keep your head down until I sort this all out."

Draco had not tried as hard as he should have to make sense of this, and frankly he'd felt that his pounding headache was enough of an excuse not to care. This odd speech raised many questions, but the only one he felt capable enough to ask was, "What's wrong with Bellatrix? I thought she was on our side."

Narcissa had given him a positively withering glance that he'd missed the brunt of, his attention still half devoted to the tree. There was a short pause, during which his mother sighed and looked upwards, as if appealing for help from above.

"She's insane, son," was the eventual, exasperated response. It had not been the most satisfying answer, and seeing his mother amongst the apple trees flinging her arms in the air and scowling almost comically made him wonder if maybe the pot wasn't calling the kettle black. But there had been a look in her eyes, then, a slight hesitant worry that he couldn't name.

It had been the only vocalized answer he'd received, however, and he had the unprecedented feeling that his mother had actually wanted to say more.

The sudden sound of voices broke into Draco's thoughts. He threw himself behind a thick tree trunk and pulled his cloak over his head. He was fairly well hidden here in the wild part of the orchard, but his pale blond hair had given him away more than once in the past and he wasn't particularly keen on being caught messing about with the wards. He found himself perched on a tree root that was digging uncomfortably into his thigh and fought the impulse to brush some low-hanging branches out of his face. Draco couldn't move without being seen by whoever was approaching, and his enforced stillness provided him with ample time to tell himself yet again that trying to take down the wards was a stupid idea and beyond his skill as a wizard. His uncooperative conscience further reminded him that if he didn't do something, he would be trapped in the house until he went back to school and that his mother wouldn't survive that long.

The voices had drawn close enough for Draco to realize that they were too high-pitched to be human, and he suppressed the urge to jump out and scold the house-elves for wandering about being noticeable. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps there were house-elves whose job it was to check up on the wards and make sure the spells hadn't deteriorated, and he was certain even house-elves would notice a difference if they examined the wards too closely. But then, maybe he was just being paranoid. He'd certainly covered his tracks well enough, and it wasn't as if he was certain what exactly any of the house-elves really did. He craned his neck around to see where this particular pair was headed, and was relieved to see that they were going in the opposite direction. Draco thought it was pathetic of him to be hiding from house-elves, but he knew they talked amongst themselves, and he wouldn't have put it past that old bat Bellatrix to listen at the servants' doors to pick up gossip. And the news that young master was skulking around the gardens would likely be entirely too interesting to her.

Everything he had done had been entirely too interesting to Bellatrix since the moment he set foot in the house. Draco had never met either of his aunts before, although his mother had pointed out Andromeda to him once when they were shopping without his father and they had passed her on the other side of the street. He had known, vaguely, who she was because Lucius had once said that Andromeda was a disgrace to wizardkind and had glared at Narcissa as if blaming her for that particular blemish on the magical pedigree. Bellatrix he had seen only in pictures and only heard discussed in tones approaching reverence by his father, which always led Draco to assume that she was someone he would admire if they ever got the chance to meet.

He was rather disillusioned to find that he didn't even like her. Bellatrix was cloying and sugary sweet to him, and asked him endless questions about what the professors at school were teaching these days and what sort of people the other students were and what Harry Potter did and said and ate for breakfast. With his mother's warning still struggling to find a place in the back of his mind, Draco had not said much beyond the fact that most of his classes were fine, some were impractical rubbish, most of his schoolmates irritated him, and he didn't like Potter and his friends at all and did not care what they did. Draco personally found all of her endless harping on about Potter to be a bit morbid, and although Draco would certainly introduce the subject of Potter's general wretchedness, it was not something he particularly cared to be harassed about. Draco had quickly found, that summer, that he much preferred reading to conversation, and he had stopped responding to his aunt beyond what mere politeness required.

Also, Narcissa had appeared to be quite correct about her sister's state of mind. Azkaban had obviously not done Bellatrix a great deal of good. Draco wondered why she didn't at least comb her hair once in a while or wear robes without oddly shaped stains on them, but he supposed she was too busy wandering the halls cackling to herself and conducting disturbing conversations with people who weren't there to concern herself with personal appearance. In fact, she looked like some sort of beggar that had washed up on the doorstep, and he was surprised that someone from a family as old and prestigious as the Blacks would allow themselves to sink to that point. He had found it prudent to follow the spirit of his mother's advice and sidestep Bellatrix whenever possible.

It was not so easy in practice, however. She was a constant, hovering presence, and was too keen on asking everyone from the mistress of the house on down to the smallest house-elf, where they were going and what they were doing and why they would ever feel the need to step outside. She had made it very clear that she was in charge in the house now, and that everything would be done on her sufferance only, and that she did not care whether or not she stepped on her sister's toes in acting so.

There was no end to the pointed conversations, either. After she had exhausted the round of questions about school, Bellatrix had begun delivering teatime sermons about what a great man Lucius was, and how dedicated, and how Draco should be so proud that his father was such a faithful servant to the Dark Lord. Draco, who did not care to think of his father - or any Malfoy, for that matter - being anyone's servant, was usually irritated enough to only be nodding perfunctorily by the time she had arrived at the part about how "those who oppose him, the blood traitors and those who have betrayed him, will pay when he once again reaches full power." At first he'd simply thought that he had nothing to worry about where the Dark Lord was concerned, if his father was such a model Death Eater and tuned her out. By the third or fourth repetition of these sentiments, Draco felt like he was listening to Dumbledore's even battier opposite number preaching about how to be one of the good little children, and his annoyance overrode everything else.

Then there was that one accursed morning that his eyes had wandered past Bellatrix's wild gestures and caught his mother's reaction. Narcissa was sitting so rigidly upright in her chair that Draco half expected her bones to snap under the strain. The hand clutching her teacup was shaking so hard that the tea was actually spilling onto her gown, something which usually sent her flying out of her chair with a sharp curse word, yet she remained immobile. It was the look in her usually impassive eyes, though, that triggered something inside him. His imperturbable mother was staring at the back of Bellatrix's head, Avada Kedavra in her eyes, angry tears starting in the corners.

And then he began to listen again. It wasn't the part about his father. It couldn't have been. Narcissa had never once bothered to hide her feelings about Lucius. If ever they were in a room together without Draco, words were sure to be exchanged. To their credit, they had never said anything to him against the other, and he had grown used to thinking of his parents as completely separate entities, each content to exist without the other in their vicinity. Narcissa was entirely too apathetic on the subject to react that way to praise of Lucius. So what was it?

Those who have betrayed him will pay...

A quick and rather feeble excuse later, he was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and trying to piece it all together. His mother was a very difficult person to get to know, much less know well, and since the days of early childhood when he had gone running to mummy for every hurt had faded out, Draco had grown used to thinking of her as a mostly silent presence. There had never been a reason to consider any of her actions before, close-mouthed as she was, but now even what little Draco thought he knew was not matching up to her current behavior.

He'd seen both anger and intense hatred in that moment, and while he could understand why his mother might be angry at her sister for jumping in and taking control of her life, he had trouble wrapping his mind around the passionate response. He had never seen his mother quite that angry over anything, and he had been privy to countless "die, Lucius, die" looks throughout his childhood.

He'd never heard anything but praise for Bellatrix from his father. She was noble, dedicated, had been persecuted unfairly for her beliefs, and she only wanted the best for people who deserved it by birthright. Narcissa's birthright was as good as anybody's, so why did Draco get the feeling that Bellatrix wanted something different for his mother? He tried desperately to remember anything Narcissa had ever said about Bellatrix or any member of her family, but could recall nothing aside from the quiet "that's my sister" when they'd passed Andromeda in Diagon Alley all those years ago. There had never been a word from Narcissa on the subject of Bellatrix, and although it was not unusual to go for weeks without a word from Narcissa, she did tend to speak up, rather bluntly at times, when the subject was of importance to her. Draco hardly knew what was important to her. Certainly, he had subscribed to his father's way of thinking, but it wasn't as though he had an alternative, since Narcissa had said so little on the same subjects. He thought, suddenly, of how hard she had fought his father's decision to send him to Durmstrang, recalled many nights when the distant sound of a shouting match between his parents had kept him awake, and wondered exactly what his mother had been so passionate about in those moments.

And why couldn't she even manage to contribute to the conversation when her own family was the focus? Draco had been raised on the concepts of pureblood pride and family unity. The Malfoys carried the weight of nearly ten centuries of noble and extensive lineage and accomplishments, and although there were only a few dried up old great aunts and distant cousins left now outside of his immediate family, Draco had always been inestimably proud of his name and where he came from. He had always drawn comfort from the ancient halls of Malfoy Manor and their endless rows of family portraits. It was his own bit of immortality, this idea that his name would endure long after he himself was gone. It was an absolutely foreign idea to him that his mother would miss out on the chance to talk about her own proud family when the opportunity presented itself.

Unless, of course, he thought, she wasn't proud. It was a startling revelation, yet so obvious that Draco berated himself for not making something of it sooner. Suddenly a moment from his last Christmas break drifted into his mind, an offhanded comment Lucius had made that there were too many deviants in the current generation of Blacks. It could conceivably have been the reason for his mother's disassociation from her family, but that would not have accounted for her current disposition towards Bellatrix. He had not paid attention to Narcissa's reaction at the time, and Draco found himself wishing uselessly for a Pensieve, so he could go back to that moment and see her face. She had not spoken, but had she simply let it pass? Had she given him one of her stony glares? Or had her reaction to Lucius been, possibly, as intense as her reaction to Bellatrix today?

He knew, had always known, that his parents had little use for each other. It wasn't as though it bothered him, in fact, he had assumed that they had simply grown tired of each other and that it wasn't that unusual in a marriage. In spite of their far from loving relationship, Draco had never given voice to the nagging suspicion that they might be divided on far greater issues than what should be served at dinner, and at most, where to send their son to school. It was as though a fog had been lifted from his memories, and he began to reevaluate them in this new and unsettling light. How many endless times had he wondered why his mother looked so sour when they had company for dinner? Draco knew that Narcissa profoundly hated being dragged around to various social events, and that she chose to keep no company herself, but she had been especially out of sorts when his father controlled the guest list. Could she really disapprove that strongly of the people his father associated with? And he knew for a fact that she detested going out into public with him. Just last year when they had gone to the Quidditch World Cup, Narcissa had done her best to hold things up, and when she was finally dragged out the door, she hissed expletives under her breath up until they had entered the Top Box. During the game, she had intermittently glared daggers at Lucius over Draco's head, and the whole thing had made him tense enough to quite forget to taunt Potter and Weasley and to vow to never set foot out of the house again with both parents in tow.

He knew their marriage had to have been at least partially arranged- Narcissa at least wouldn't have cared enough to approach anyone on her own volition- but he had always assumed it had been agreeable enough to both of them in the beginning, and that things had simply gone downhill later due to basic incompatibilities. But now that he was on the tangent of wondering, he had to surmise that there was some greater reason for it.

And his father... Draco could hardly bear thinking of his father along these disturbing lines. Theirs had never been a supportive father-son relationship, yet it was the only thing Draco had ever known, and it had given him such leverage, being Lucius Malfoy's son. Lucius had been the one who talked, had been the basis of what Draco believed, what he was proud of, the things he disdained, who he associated with, and what his stance on everyone else should be. Lucius was the one who discussed his exam results and performance in Quidditch, and despaired of the fact that his son had to associate with Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers. His father had a firm opinion on everything, and Draco had accepted it as the right one because it was backed up by years of repetition, in a tone one did not argue with. Whenever his father was around, which had become increasingly less often as of late - and now his presence was absent altogether - Draco had chosen his words carefully, perpetually in search of something that would bring a rare look of approval from Lucius. He had been accustomed to considering his father's reaction first in everything, and he didn't see how anyone could blame him, when Narcissa had offered only silence more and more frequently as the years passed. And when she did put forward advice or commentary, he was usually left with more questions than answers.

When he'd asked Narcissa what classes she thought he should take, he was expecting a more academic recommendation than, "whichever ones you're good at, and something you enjoy." His father would have a steady lecture on which fields of study would carry him furthest in life. Whenever he'd gone on a rant about his schoolmates in general or Potter in particular, Narcissa had told him that he was capable of forming his own opinions about people and had never commented further. Lucius had dictated that Draco should associate with certain people and would do well to steer clear of others. The thing was, Draco realized with a dull, sinking feeling, he most emphatically did form his own opinions and hated feeling as though he were under control. There were people in Slytherin house that he did not care for no matter what his father said about their families. And Lucius had told him to keep his dislike of Potter under wraps, and Draco had certainly ignored that warning. He did, unconsciously, follow some of Narcissa's patterns then, yet it had never occurred to him before that his mother had held any sort of influence over him. She tended to do as she pleased and generally advised him to do the same, but Draco knew he didn't have too many choices if he was going to follow tradition, uphold the family pride, and avoid his father's wrath.

The disturbing thing was that Draco had no idea what his mother's own opinion was on anything, except his father. She'd always kept quiet when Lucius, and now Bellatrix, was going on about the state of the world. He'd never heard Narcissa use the world "Mudblood." He'd never heard her make derogatory comments about Andromeda's marriage to one, and she was the only family member Narcissa had ever bothered to acknowledge in front of him. Which brought him full circle back to the question of Bellatrix. What did Narcissa have to fear from Bellatrix, or any Death Eater for that matter? Regardless of how she might have felt towards Lucius, she was the wife of a Death Eater, and that had to afford her some protection, even from the Dark Lord's right hand nutcase.

But Draco knew for a fact that his mother wasn't a Death Eater herself. The Dark Lord's inner circle didn't tend to wander about with bare arms, as Narcissa frequently did, because it wouldn't exactly be prudent to go flashing the Dark Mark to the world at large. He did not know, however, if her lack of involvement in the actual organization counted against her in and of itself.

Draco had pondered his own left forearm on several occasions, wondering idly when it would be marked, and regarding it as inevitable. Or was it? Did Narcissa's little hints of free choice extend to such a large matter as that? She'd kept quiet whenever the Dark Lord - hell, Voldemort, this was no time to be squeamish about anything - had been mentioned or alluded to, but the woman kept quiet about everything, so that was nothing to go by.

A jumble of thoughts occurred to him with sudden force. His father was a Death Eater. His mother wasn't. His mother's tally of blatant hatred towards Death Eaters now stood at two. He hadn't lent much thought to his mother's frantic warnings about Bellatrix because he assumed that she simply didn't have anything to fear.

But she did. She had to, if his parents weren't on the same side.

He knew he was right, but his entire being protested it. All of the signs point to this, Draco, and you're no imbecile. His stomach knotted itself painfully, and he turned on his side to stare at the wall, as if it would help him ward off the coming barrage of emotion.

Mum, how could you? What have you done? It couldn't be over ideology alone, it just couldn't. She never would have said anything, she had to have done something, betrayed them somehow... she's going to get herself killed. His mother, some kind of clandestine do-gooder for the "side of light?"

And his father - the sick feeling intensified - what his father would do if he knew. What his father would expect Draco to do in his place.

It was what Bellatrix was doing in his father's place.

Draco had bolted upright then, sweating, hands shaking, had launched himself off the bed and out the door, had reached the hall of portraits at the top of the grand staircase before he realized it was his destination.

All of those dead Malfoys, sleeping in their frames, the paintings grand monuments to his heritage that stretched further than his eyes could see in the moonlight. He wanted to wake every one of them, beat on the canvas until they told him how to keep walking the path he had always walked and continue to please his father when the thought of any harm coming to his mother, no matter what misguided things she'd done, made him sick to his stomach.

This is who you are, a Malfoy. The oldest and proudest name there is. You need answer to no one.

His father did. His father worshipped Voldemort's power, swore allegiance to it, prostrated himself before it.

We do not serve anyone. We have always risen above the crowd and taken action.

The black-robed marchers at the World Cup, knowing his father was somewhere among them, indistinguishable.

We do not bring shame upon the family. We do not show weakness.

His father, claiming to the public that he had been brainwashed into doing what he had been accused of doing. Willing to let them make a fuss over poor, deluded Malfoy.

We pureblood families have remained strong by uniting under pressure.

The Blacks had splintered. Their line was all but finished. He would not let it happen to the Malfoys.

He needed to talk to his mother. Now. Whether or not his questions yielded even more painful and confusing answers, he had to find a solution. It was three in the morning, and it had been the point of no return. And he had found himself knocking at her door.

A week later, squatting guiltily behind a tree as though he did not belong on his own grounds, Draco still had no clear answers, and he cursed himself uselessly for not being content with ignorance.

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

The Burrow had been unusually quiet for a few hours, and Molly Weasley had come in from the garden humming to herself, so Ron felt that it was safe enough to perch himself on the edge of the stairs and start pestering her a little.

"Mum, why don't you write to Dumbledore about Harry?" It was better, lately, to come right out with it and tell his mother what you wanted, rather than try her nerves with hints and half-questions. He'd been asking since the beginning of summer, had let up for a while, and thought he'd try again after Ginny's explosion that morning. Maybe she'd worry less with Harry in plain sight.

Mrs. Weasley sighed as she stooped to pick up a shirt that someone had discarded across a chair back. "I'll write, Ron, but don't be disappointed if there's another no. Dumbledore is very busy, as am I." She was not quite scolding yet, but she was edging dangerously close to that territory, and so Ron only pushed his luck a little further.

"You want Harry to come and stay, right?"

"Of course I do. I'll try and write today." She paused, sighed again, and rubbed her temples. "Now be a help to me and stay quiet and give me a hand in picking up the kitchen."

Ron was indignant for a moment, and glared. Then he took in his mum's disarrayed hair and the shadows under her eyes and decided that now was not the time to argue with her.

"Sure, Mum. Just let me run and tell Ginny first, alright?"

Without waiting for the inevitable irritated response, Ron got his feet under him and pelted up the stairs. He was looking forward to cheering Ginny up with the news, seeing as how she'd been in a bit of a funny mood lately, and Ron was running out of ideas to make her feel better. He had been mildly upset with her outburst earlier, but the way everyone was acting lately, short tempers were not a surprise to him and he'd brushed it off quickly. By the time he'd arrived at Ginny's door he was on to wondering if maybe his mother would allow Hermione to come and stay as well, but he thought he'd save that conversation at least until tomorrow.

"Ginny?" Ron called out while tapping on her door. There was no response, so he escalated to firm knocking and raised his voice. "Ginny?"

He cracked the door a few inches and thrust his head inside. The penalty for any Weasley brother entering their sister's room without knocking and receiving an invitation was at best a shriek and at worst a jinx to the face, but then again it was a bit strange not to at least hear a grouchy, muffled "leave me alone" from behind the door.

"That's odd," Ron muttered to himself. "I thought she'd come up here." He had seen her running upstairs, right? And he hadn't heard her come back down. He padded down the hall to the twins' room, thinking perhaps Ginny had gone in there, at the very least to tell Fred and George to stop making such a racket.

He didn't knock, knowing they'd never hear him, but a quick, cursory inspection of the room revealed only Fred and George huddled over a table full of bubbling tubes of who knew what and looking disturbingly gleeful.

"I won't ask," said Ron to their startled expressions upon seeing him, and closed the door. He didn't think Ginny had any reason to be in his own room, but he decided to check anyway.

But his room was occupied only by the Chudley Cannons zooming around on his walls. Ginny wasn't there. He made to close his bedroom door, when it hit him.

Ginny wasn't there. Neither was his broomstick.

Ron bit off a word that he knew would have earned him a thirty minute lecture from his mum and leaned against the wall heavily. Ginny hadn't come downstairs. She wasn't in the house at all, and neither was his beloved, relatively new broomstick. He dashed back down the hall to Ginny's room, hoping for a resolution to this mystery, but all he found were a few articles of clothing strewn on the floor and a window open to the afternoon breeze.

"She's gone," Ron said slowly, in utter disbelief. He found himself headed back downstairs before he'd really processed this piece of information and had forgotten about his original mission upstairs until his mother asked him what Ginny had said.

"Um... she's excited too, Mum. She can't wait."

Ginny, he thought desperately, you had better be back before dinner, and my broomstick had better be in mint condition, or I will hex you into next week. He almost had himself convinced that she'd just gone for a quick jaunt to the village and back, but a quick look at the family clock showed Ginny's hand hovering somewhere between "lost" and "on holiday." He wondered how long he could keep his mum's attention away from that, and he had the nagging feeling that he ought to go ahead and raise the alarm.

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

After he'd listened to the unmistakable sounds of Aunt Petunia and Dudley eating lunch, hunger had gotten the better of Harry at last. He'd spent a few minutes more lying on his back, as if waiting for food to rain down from above, and then he realized dejectedly that there was really no way around getting out of bed if he wanted to eat. Standing up took a few tries, and although Harry was dimly aware that he'd been lying down for days, his shaky legs still surprised him. He swayed on his feet a minute or two until he got the hang of resting his weight on them again, and headed for the window. Opening it assaulted him with an overbearing wave of fresh air and street noises, and he almost slammed it shut, but he forced himself to leave it alone, and went to let Hedwig out of her cage.

His owl hooted shrilly at him and made for the window faster than Harry had ever seen her move. He lacked the energy to duck out of the way as she passed, but he felt that he probably deserved getting thumped in the shoulder by her wing regardless.

With his one obligation taken care of, Harry took his time getting to the kitchen. The house was relatively quiet, and nothing served to capture his attention until he had almost reached his goal. As he was shuffling slowly to the refrigerator, intending only to grab enough for a sandwich or two, he was intercepted by his aunt.

If you could even call it interception when one simply tossed a letter on the counter, looked at you, sniffed, and walked away, but Harry hadn't been noticed by anyone in weeks and he wasn't going to be too picky about his human interaction, especially in this house. Harry went to pick up the letter with a mild twinge in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. He was surprised to see that it was from Hermione, although he supposed that shouldn't surprise him too much, seeing as how no one else would have bothered to write to him via Muggle post.

Harry pulled his gaze away from the floor for a moment, preparing himself for a sharp comment or disdainful look from his aunt, but only caught a glimpse of her back as she left the kitchen. Apparently, she couldn't even stand the sight of him anymore, which really was alright with Harry. He stared listlessly at the refrigerator, but the effort of making a sandwich had apparently eluded him, so he snatched a few rolls from the basket on the counter and headed for the stairs with the letter clutched firmly in his hand.

As Harry examined the neatly written address on the envelope, the corner of his eye caught movement from the sofa. Dudley had lifted himself up and craned his head back to see what Harry was doing, and his beady eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Mum, Harry's got a letter." It was delivered in quieter volume than usual, but the tone was full of the same nasty spite Dudley had perfected over the years.

"I'm sure there's nothing in it that we would find worth our time, dear," Petunia sniffed in response.

It was the closest thing to Dudley being told to mind his own business that Harry had ever heard. He came close to being gratified by it, because it meant that Aunt Petunia was making a tiny, backhanded effort to leave him alone, but the effort had come so late in his life that it saved Harry from full appreciation.

He had always felt so much better, in the past, when the morning post brought a letter from one of his friends. Now, he felt only a dull anxiety. Harry was excessively paranoid about Hedwig's being intercepted again to conceive of writing to his friends. He had assumed that they would all be together at some point during the summer, and that they could safely talk then. He had not heard from Hermione yet, although Ron had written, unfortunately during a time when Harry had not had the energy to write back. He thought they would understand, and not be upset by it.

He had not thought of Muggle post, however. And if Hermione were annoyed by his silence, she would find a way to reach him, no matter what. The knot in his stomach tightened. He wasn't sure he was up to being scolded, and he didn't expect anything else from Hermione right now.

Once safely in his room again, he sat down on the bed and tried to remember how to eat. Even chewing was a trial to him, and he let the motion of eating and the rumblings of his stomach distract him for a while. When he could no longer reasonably ignore the letter, he opened it, fingers shaking and hoping it did not contain ideas he didn't want to handle.

Harry, she had written, I hope you get this letter. Ron told me you never wrote back to him, and I didn't think I'd hear from you myself. His feelings may be a little hurt, mine are not. I never expected you to write. Harry bristled at that. So he hadn't felt like writing! There was no need for her to try and be so right about everything!

I know you're hurt, I know you're angry, and I know you know that you're not the only one who is. Frankly, Harry knew nothing of the kind. He doubted anyone had reason to feel as badly as he did at present. We're all having our share of depressing days. Ron writes pretty often, and I hear from Ginny sporadically. Usually when she writes, I end up mediating a brother-sister squabble by long-distance correspondence, which is typical, but oddly refreshing. Sometimes I can hardly think about anything more serious than the likelihood of someone ending up with a Canary Cream hidden in their supper plate.

I welcome that feeling when it comes. It's not very often that I feel lighthearted lately. I'm not going to trouble you with any discussion of the news. Either you're getting the paper and know it all already, or you're not taking it for a reason and anything I have to say would be unwelcome knowledge. Of course he wasn't taking the paper! He didn't trust it anymore, after everything that had been said about him last year. He had better things to do with his time, like... Harry shook his head viciously and continued reading.

I can hardly stand reading accounts of everyone else's paranoia, anyway, so there's no real loss to not writing about it. I get enough requests for news from Ginny, anyway. She's desperate to hear anything and everything. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley won't have the Daily Prophet in the house anymore, and Ginny thinks it's all some conspiracy against her, naturally, but I think her parents probably feel exactly as I feel about it, and they just don't want to be reminded, either. Ron is content to hear what he hears, and I must admit that it's more comforting to hear from him than from Ginny. Yeah, Harry thought, like it was possible for Ron and Hermione not to take a shot at each other whenever either one had the chance.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I understand, even if only a little, some of what you're feeling. You and I are the ones who have to make the transition every summer, to go from wands and moving photographs and flying on broomsticks to watching the telly in the evenings and seeing machinery do all the work instead of spells. I can't even talk to the other teenagers on my street. I grew up around them, and considered some of them friends, even, but they're full of the cinemas and going to clubs and talking about cars. And of course I can't tell them a thing about where I've been and what I've been doing. So there's nothing left for me but to stay at home, and although my parents know that my world exists, they can't really understand it.

I'm not comparing our situations, really. I know you have it harder, alright? I just knew you'd understand these particular feelings where Ron and Ginny can't. I'm not expecting you to suddenly become cheerful and start writing, either. I will not be upset in the slightest if you don't. Maybe you can take some comfort in the fact that we are worrying in solidarity. Write back if you like, and use the Muggle post if you don't want to send Hedwig. If you do suddenly get chatty, you might want to write to Professor Lupin. You probably can't use his real name and you'll have to be vague, but I think he would be glad to hear from you. I hope I'll see you soon.

Love, Hermione

Harry carefully folded and creased the letter, and then just as carefully reopened it and spread the pages back out. It was so far from what he'd thought it would be that he had to scan the perfect handwriting three times to get the full sense of it, and even then he couldn't fix on any one thought.

There was a telephone number printed neatly at the bottom of the page, along with a postscript exclaiming that she had completely forgotten about the telephone, and he could ring her up anytime. Harry knew it wouldn't do him any good. He doubted that he could get permission to use the telephone, and Hermione probably hadn't meant he could call in the middle of the night, which was the only time he could do it without interference.

Harry wasn't sure he could handle talking to her, anyway, when this one short letter was proving difficult to digest. Hermione really hadn't been hard on him, though she certainly could have been, and could have come up with a million reasons why she was justified. Harry had been so in the habit of banishing logical thought during the last month that he couldn't immediately shift his brain back into working order. He could feel his carefully squashed anger starting to bubble up to the surface, and since it was easier to be angry than to think, he gave it free rein for the time being.

He was angry at Hermione, first, for even venturing to compare the two of them. She had parents who loved her, and probably a comfortable bedroom of her own, while he had the Dursleys and what basically amounted to a garret full of Dudley's unwanted belongings. She didn't know the half of what he was feeling, and he couldn't quite believe that she would even say she did. Then he was angry at Ron, because he and Hermione had been getting all close and chummy over their letters, and Harry had nothing of the sort. He was angry at Ginny for nagging Hermione when she was trying to be diplomatic, and in the next thought, Harry had viciously turned against Hermione again for presuming to know the reasons behind all his behavior.

But Harry had little energy left to be angry for long, and upon another rereading of the letter, he caught the little details he'd missed. Like the news. She didn't want to share the news. Which Ginny wanted. From the Daily Prophet, which was apparently banned from the Weasley house. Real news. Harry sat up straighter. Was the truth now circulating in the wizarding world? And Hermione had assumed that Harry didn't want to hear it?

And she'd given him the benefit of the doubt, there, said the small voice in the back of Harry's mind that he hardly paid attention to. She assumed that he was doing exactly what he wanted with his information or lack thereof. Hermione had not been scolding, she had not told him what he needed to do, she hadn't alluded directly to Sirius or Voldemort or a number of other touchy subjects that she could have gone for.

Harry actually smiled a little to himself when he thought of Hermione readjusting to the Muggle world. There was one instance where he actually could give her credit for feeling as he did. It had always been strange to leave a world he felt so much a part of and return to the drab pettiness of Privet Drive. There was always that shock of alien recognition when he saw whole streets full of people who were not wearing robes, or if he heard a car's engine rumbling to life.

Harry closed his eyes and sighed. He missed the wizarding world, and despite the lingering sense of irritation still left over from the letter, he missed his friends. He supposed he ought to try and ring Hermione, it would take less effort than writing a letter back. He might have to do it tomorrow, though, he was suddenly bone tired even though it was only late afternoon. He stretched out on his back, overcome by a tangle of thoughts and emotions.

He did want to ask what was going on back home. He needed to know, whether or not he really wanted to, what he would be facing when he went back to school. Hermione probably would have told him if anything really awful was happening, right? She couldn't have really thought he might have been getting the paper, she should have given him a hint. Fear replaced anger in the pit of his stomach, and he nearly went back to cursing mentally at Hermione again as his tired mind developed the worst possible scenarios.

If she had not written to him, he reasoned, he would not have had to think about Voldemort, or Death Eaters, or the world falling apart at a distance. He would not have had to wonder how many Voldemort had managed to get on his side by now, or how many in the wizarding world still doubted his return and thought Harry a deluded liar.

Harry knew that he was always in some sort of danger, but how much could his friends be in, while they were stuck at home? Was he going to hear secondhand about something terrible happening to one of the Weasleys? Would he wake up screaming one night after a vision of Hermione being dragged away by Death Eaters? He hadn't had any such terrible nightmares this summer, in fact, there had been nothing that vivid since... well, since Sirius. Harry had awakened some mornings with a dull headache, but could remember nothing from his dreams beyond vague disquieting feelings. He had certainly not kept up with Occlumency this summer, but his thoughts had been so blank that he doubted Voldemort could have picked up anything more exciting from him than the thought that Hedwig's cage needed cleaning, and he doubted that owl droppings would tend to be interesting to supremely evil wizards. So there was no indication of what was really going on from the source itself, and Harry would rather have no information than to have it be inconclusive. All that did was make him angry and restless, and he had been trying to avoid that all summer.

Harry hardly knew what to do with himself. Thinking about the war inevitably turned his thoughts to all that he'd lost already, and that subject always left him with a lump in his throat and an uncontrollable urge to throw the nearest object into a wall. He was suddenly so desperate for company that he very nearly roused the physical energy to go downstairs and ring Hermione, but if she was reluctant to talk about things, he didn't think he could stand idle chit-chat right now.

Dusk had fallen on Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon had come home, and while the Dursleys ate dinner and discussed trivialities downstairs, upstairs Harry was morosely nibbling at a roll in a sort of warped solidarity with his relatives and mentally replaying all of his reasons to be sad and angry at the world. It was in this agitated frame of mind that he went to sleep that night.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he would end up paying for that, but it wasn't until he awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, his scar burning, that he realized the extent of his mistake. Anger too intense and frightening to have come from Harry alone was emanating through him, and though the words were unintelligible, the echo of that familiar cold voice lingered in his mind.

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

The sun had just set when Ginny had dismounted from Ron's broom in a small park, and dusk had almost faded by the time she'd made her way down Hermione's street and managed to figure out which house belonged to her friend. She was sore, stiff, drenched in sweat, and well past irritable by the time she determined which window to knock on. The lights were dimmed within, so Ginny couldn't be entirely sure that Hermione was even in her room, but the distance she had just traveled convinced her to keep knocking.

Hermione had actually begun to open the window before Ginny saw her. The other girl drew back, blinked hard as if to vanish what she was seeing, and then lunged forward to grab Ginny by the forearms.

"Get in here before someone sees you!" Hermione hissed urgently. The cooperative efforts of the two heaved Ginny over the windowsill quickly, but Hermione pulled too hard in her haste and the younger girl dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

"Ow! Hermione!"

Hermione paid no heed to Ginny; instead, she had poked her head a little out the window, darting a glance left and right before ducking back inside and slamming the window shut. She crossed her arms over her chest and turned to face Ginny.

"Ginny," she said in tones of great indulgence. "You have one minute to explain."

"I--" she faltered. "I just..." It wasn't as though she'd been expecting a cheerful and excited welcome from Hermione, she just hadn't been prepared for what bordered on hostility.

"Really, Ginny, what were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous it was, to come all the way from the Burrow to here? Does your family even know you're gone? No, wait, I'm sure they don't. And I'm sure you never thought of all the things that could have happened to you on the way, all alone and unable to do magic! Not to mention, you scared me! I was asleep, and then when I woke up, there was someone outside my window! What are you doing?"

Ginny had pulled herself to her feet, and was glaring at Hermione. "Well, I'd tell you, but I think you just took up my entire minute."

Hermione gave a deep and long-suffering sigh, and plopped down on her bed, head in her hands. "Did something happen to Ron or one of the others?" Her voice came out muffled and strangely forlorn through her fingers. "Is that why you're here?"

"No, they're all fine. They're too fine." Now that someone had actually asked her to talk, the words spilled out in a barely coherent rush. "Mum and Dad have gotten all close-mouthed suddenly, and Ron's trying to pretend he doesn't notice. I hardly see anything of Bill anymore, and the twins are shut up in their room, making noise all damn day long. And Charlie's home, did you know that? And I can't even be happy to see him, because I know why he's home all of a sudden, but I can't talk about why, because then I get a scolding from Mum about how I need to mind my own business. But I haven't got any business to mind, Hermione," Ginny's voice rose to a plaintive wail. "All I've been doing is hanging about, trying not to have to strangle Ron and watching my parents act as if nothing's wrong when I can see in their faces that everything is wrong!"

Hermione jumped up, throwing her mass of brown curls behind her head with one hand. "Keep your voice down!" she snapped, while striding briskly to the door. She opened it a crack, and apparently satisfied that no one was coming to investigate the noise, returned her attention to Ginny while pacing back and forth slowly. Ginny had half a second to wonder what was making Hermione so jumpy before she spoke again.

"Ginny, I know you have a lot to be tense about. Believe me, I know. But you can't just go running off the first time you get a little restless. It's hardly going to help all of your parents' worries when they realize that you've gone missing." She stopped her deliberate circuit of the room and snapped her head back to look Ginny in the face. "Did you at least leave a note? No, you didn't, did you?" It was not maliciously spoken, merely matter of fact, and Ginny wished fervently for a moment that she had not chosen to go running to the most perceptive person she knew.

"No one knows I've gone. Well," she qualified, "they probably do by now. But maybe they won't even notice, except to say 'suddenly there's one less person in the way right now.'"

"That's ridiculous, Ginny!" Hermione had not dropped the snappish tone. "And you still haven't given me one logical reason why you're here!"

"I just got tired of sitting around, doing nothing and being useless, is all." It sounded pathetic to Ginny even as she said it, and she was prepared for Hermione to tear it all apart.

Hermione was silent, however. When Ginny looked up at her again, she saw that her friend was staring out the window at a now starlit sky.

"I understand, Ginny, but it doesn't excuse your running off. I really think you ought to go back home. I know it's frustrating to you, but you're safest there until we go back to school."

Hermione's gentle words didn't stop Ginny from bristling at their meaning. "I'm not just turning around and going back home, Hermione. I'm not going to sit tight and not worry, again."

"I don't know where you thought you were going to go for the rest of the summer, especially if you're going to be dropping yourself off uninvited on people's doorsteps." Apparently, Ginny had provoked Hermione into giving up gentleness. "I'm not sending you off in the dark, but you can't stay here. I'm sorry, but I can't really explain this to my parents. You'll have to go back home in the morning."

Ginny glared daggers at Hermione, but she couldn't really hold her own with the older girl when it came to a staring contest, and she knew it. It had been rude of her, she realized, to assume that she could impose like this on Hermione, friend or not. Ginny still wasn't completely sure what she'd thought was going to come out of this little visit, anyway. She'd had an entire journey by broom to consider it, but she'd never been able to feel anything beyond raging frustration, unfocused concern, and the exhilarating rush of relief at being free from the Burrow.

"Hermione," she said pitifully. "They're driving me crazy. I want you to at least understand that, if you're going to send me off home tomorrow. You're abandoning me to complete madness."

Hermione smiled ruefully. "I'm not abandoning you to anything. I'm being sensible."

"Yes," said Ginny. "I also hear that giants are very tall."

Hermione chose to ignore this remark. "How did you find me, anyway? You must have been flying over an hour."

Ginny produced a crumpled Muggle road map from her pocket. "Longer. I had to follow the roads."

"Where did you get that?"

"Dad leaves things like this lying about all the time. I found these, too," she said, while pulling some Muggle coins from the other pocket. "Is this a lot of money?"

"No, I don't think you could have bought so much as a sandwich with that," Hermione paused for breath, as if collecting steam again. "And what if that was a lot of money? Are you suddenly alright with stealing, too?"

"Hey," snapped Ginny. "My morals haven't suddenly disappeared, just because I took a little holiday, alright? You're already kicking me out on my arse, and that's bad enough, so can you stop lecturing me?"

Hermione did not reply, merely rolled her eyes and sank back onto the bed again. This time, there was a distinct crackling noise from under the sheets. Hermione's eyes went wide. "Dammit!" she said in a strangled voice.

The immature part of Ginny's brain was too busy chanting Hermione said a swear word! Hermione said a swear word! to form a theory about the sudden alarm.

Hermione leapt to her feet, and was scrambling frantically amongst a pile of paper on the bed. "I can't believe I fell asleep with this in plain sight," she muttered, apparently to herself. She gathered up several stray pages and marched into the bathroom with them. She held them over the toilet, and with her free hand was attempting to activate another Muggle device Ginny had seen before, the one that produced a flame from one end. It was then that Ginny caught something on one of the pages, a small picture, otherwise unremarkable except for the fact that it was moving...

"Wait!" Hermione spared her a quick, incredulous glance before turning her attention back to her task. "Is that the Daily Prophet?"

"Yes, but I'm finished with it," Hermione said firmly.

"Well, I haven't read it all summer! Let me see it, please, before you set it on fire." Ginny paused, the absurdity of Hermione's actions suddenly striking her. "Why are you setting the Daily Prophet on fire, anyway?"

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. "Fine. Here. Have a look. But hurry, would you? I need to get rid of it before my parents come in to say goodnight."

"You were already asleep," Ginny reminded her while snatching the disorganized pile from Hermione. "And why can't your parents know you're reading the paper?"

"It's not like I go to bed this early by habit, Ginny. I dozed off while I was reading. And they have no idea what's going on in the wizarding world, and I don't want them to, and you're not going to spoil that for me by being here."

Ginny stared at the Daily Prophet's headline, which declared "Ministry Intelligence Reports You-Know-Who's Ranks Are Growing: Further Threats of Violence Feared."

The story took up most of the front page. It was today's edition. Her throat closed. "Your parents don't know anything?" she managed to get out, although she was barely able to divert her attention away from the picture of a panicked-looking Cornelius Fudge to follow the conversation.

Hermione had sat down with her knees drawn up to her chest, and suddenly looked very small. "They don't even want me to walk down the street after dark, Ginny. They've always been protective of me, and if horrible things are happening in a world that they don't completely understand, how can they let me go back?"

"But in case..." Ginny was half-listening, half-trying to follow the hysterical mess of an article. "In case something happens to you, don't you think they ought to know?"

Hermione sighed. "Don't think I haven't thought of that. I've thought of everything. And there are other reasons I think I might need to talk to them."

"Like what?" Ginny was sharper than she'd meant to be, but she somewhat relished the chance to interrogate Hermione for once.

"Look at page two," Hermione replied quietly.

The tone of voice made Ginny comply, although she was by no means ready to turn the page, and she scanned rapidly for something Hermione could have been alluding to. "Which article are you talking about? New bill in the Ministry to expand wand registration, imported broomsticks turned away, Dementor sighting in Kent..." she mumbled to herself until her eyes fell on a small sidebar. "Man's Muggle Relatives Disappear?" she asked aloud, and was met with a pained expression from Hermione.

"Read it."

Ginny spared Hermione a look which said that she had better get a good explanation before returning her eyes to the column of neat print. Adrian Beckett, 23, of London, appealed to the Ministry of Magic for help yesterday afternoon in locating his parents and sister....Ginny glanced up at Hermione worriedly, but she was looking down at her trembling hands determinedly. This is the third such unexplained disappearance in two months. Ministry officials have no information on the whereabouts of these or any other missing persons, but they do not rule out You-Know-Who's involvement. Mr. Beckett is employed by the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

"Were all of these people Muggles?"

"Yes, and so far they were only the families of Ministry employees or professional Quidditch players or the like. I know I'm no public figure, but I can't help being afraid for my own family."

"Is Adrian Beckett anyone all that important, though?"

"He's important only because he's Muggle-born. The paper hasn't been too careful about waiting for evidence before they link anything with the Death Eaters these days, but in this case, I don't think they're wrong. One good way to scare the Mudbloods off is to threaten their families." Hermione finished this speech with so much bitterness that Ginny couldn't immediately think of a response.

Her heart was racing, however. Part of it was due to anger, because this was what her parents wouldn't discuss. The number of Death Eaters growing by the day, their resources great enough to consider such a bold move as kidnapping, Dementors everywhere, the Ministry gone paranoid, the entire world descending into fear and wild speculation... and the worst of it was that none of this was any surprise. It was, in fact, exactly what Ginny had supposed was happening. Her most fevered imaginings were right there on the page for the whole world to share in, if they chose. There was rampant chaos, and seemingly no constructive response. Ginny felt rather silly now when she thought of her reasons for taking off. There was no action to take now, except to stay aware and keep a clear head, and Ginny had never had trouble doing either of those things.

On top of those considerable feelings was a slowly dawning sick fear on her friend's behalf. If the families of Muggle-born wizards in positions of influence were being targeted, it was only a matter of time before someone got the idea of moving on to students' families. And Hermione Granger, widely known to be so close to Harry Potter, was sure to be high on the Death Eaters' list.

"Oh, Hermione," Ginny said desperately. "You never let on that you were this worried."

"I'm going to write them a letter," Hermione answered in a low, strained voice while staring determinedly out the window.. "Once I'm on the train and they can't stop me from going, I'm going to write them a good, long letter and tell them to be careful. I just can't tell them right now. I can't stand going over everything again, from the beginning, for one thing. Even if I told them how much I'd already been through, what I've done, they would be too afraid for me. They're always telling me what children should and should not have to handle, and this, I'm quite sure, would fall under the category of should not." Here she gave a very forced laugh, and finally made eye contact with Ginny again.

Ginny smiled faintly. "It sounds as though your parents and mine would get on very well."

Hermione sighed. "True. But Ginny, neither one of us can go out looking for danger. I'm not belittling what you and I are capable of," she said in a rush to head off Ginny's indignant look, "but trouble has a way of finding us no matter what. It has for you, because of your family. It has for me, because... well, it's to be expected when I chose to be friends with Harry and I'm the friend with Muggle parents."

"What, now you're regretting being Harry's friend?"

"Ginny, don't put words in my mouth! Of course I don't! What a horrible thing to say!" Color had risen to Hermione's cheeks and her eyes were more animated than they had been since she had been surprised by Ginny's sudden arrival.

"Well, then maybe you'd better watch how you say it, when you've been going on all night about not being able to handle things!" Ginny was vaguely aware that not was not the best time for her temper to make another entrance, but the words burst out of her before she really thought better of them. "You start saying things like that and I'll start thinking that you regret me and Ron, too, because our parents are in the Order and everyone's after us, too!"

"Let me set a few things straight." Hermione's face had gone completely white, and she was nearly shaking with rage. "I am concerned about not being able to go back to Hogwarts for one reason and one reason only. And no, it is not because I think myself so completely invaluable that everyone would be lost without me. My primary concern is, and always has been, being there to help my friends in whatever way they need me. I am hurt that you would doubt how much you, Ron and Harry mean to me. Nothing would ever convince me to give up being friends with any of you. Nothing. I do not care how high up you are on Voldemort's enemies list. I am not such a coward that it would scare me away from the people I love."

Ginny was in tears by the time Hermione had finished speaking. The older girl was always so composed, and not likely to express her emotions violently, and now Ginny had made Hermione the angriest she'd ever seen her. She was so ashamed that she could do little but hide behind the tangle of her windblown hair for a minute and try to collect herself. Of course Hermione hadn't felt what Ginny had accused her of. She had known that even as she said it. She had just given way to whatever maturity she possessed and blurted out whatever felt good to say at the moment. It was the same thing she'd been doing to everyone, she realized, since school let out. Furthermore, she knew cruelty was the last thing Hermione needed right now, and Ginny suddenly felt more like a child than she had in a long time.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," she said at last. "I never should have said that to you. I don't know why I said it. I've just been angry, and scared, and I... I'm so sorry!" She felt the pressure of a hand on her shoulder and looked up. Hermione's face was calm again, and her eyes were gentle.

"It's okay. Forget it. We're all scared, and none of us are thinking as clearly as we'd like to think we are."

"If you aren't thinking clearly, the rest of us might as well give up." Ginny thought about attempting a laugh, but her speaking voice was still so embarrassingly watery that she thought better of it.

"I'm doing my best, but there's been a lot to think about. And I have been worried about all of you. I know you hate having things kept from you, and I'm sure you're smart enough to realize why your parents are doing it, even though you don't agree with them."

"Yeah," said Ginny dejectedly. "I do know. I guess it lets Ron sleep at night, but it doesn't do much for me."

"Have a little more faith in Ron," said Hermione reproachfully. "He's been a good deal more patient than the rest of us."

Personally, Ginny felt that Ron had been a good deal more dense than the rest of them, but as she had no wish to upset Hermione again, she kept that thought to herself.

"I don't suppose," Ginny ventured, "that you've heard from Harry and forgotten to mention it to Ron or me?"

Hermione looked resigned. "No. I wasn't expecting to for a while, honestly. I wrote to him yesterday."

"So maybe he'll write back today." Her voice came out sounding more hopeful than she felt.

"I don't think so, Ginny."

"I suppose I didn't think so, either." Ginny paused, considering how best to phrase this without reawakening certain suspicions in Hermione. "I'm actually quite worried about him. I know Harry's never been the best at answering letters." This earned a snort from Hermione. "I just don't like not knowing if he's okay. A lot happened to him last year. We're all upset about Sirius, but he was the family that Harry had left. I keep thinking about how close we came to losing Dad, and that was bad enough. I can't imagine what he's feeling. But in some other ways, I can. He's in the same situation I am, only worse."

Ginny waited an anxious few seconds for Hermione to reply. She hoped fervently that Hermione didn't jump to any ridiculous conclusions about the amount of time Ginny had spent thinking about Harry. She'd certainly devoted a great deal of time to thinking about Harry in the past, but her crush had long since faded out.

To Hermione's everlasting credit, she only offered one raised eyebrow, which Ginny countered with an irritated look.

"Well, we know he's not okay, Ginny," Hermione said gently.

"I'd feel better knowing that all of his limbs were attached, and that he isn't doing anything stupid."

"That could be too much to ask," said Hermione slowly.

"Thanks for the reassurance," Ginny retorted.

"You realize that Harry doesn't share too much even when he's in the best of moods. The fact that things are quiet on that front doesn't mean anything's happened to him."

"And...?" prompted Ginny.

"And he might be rash at times, but I doubt he's off chasing down evil. He's going to be depressed for a while. I don't think he really knows what to do with himself unless there's a crisis."

"Wow," said Ginny flatly. "You just made me wonder what you say about me when I'm not around."

Hermione shrugged. "I don't tend to say things about people that I wouldn't say face to face with them." She sighed. "Look, I haven't got the energy to stay up all night talking. I'm sorry, but I think I'll turn in."

Ginny felt unaccountably hurt at this. She'd come all this way to end up napping on Hermione's bedroom floor?

Ginny nodded absently. She couldn't quite articulate just what she was feeling anyway, and it was usually better not to take anything half-formed to Hermione if you didn't want her filling in the blanks for you. Ginny sat down in an overstuffed chair, not realizing until she did so how badly her legs ached. Hermione tossed a spare pillow at Ginny. "That chair's as good as anyplace," she said.

"Do you mind if I sit up and finish the paper? I promise to read next to the toilet."

Hermione gave Ginny a rather unappreciative look as she climbed into bed. "Go on," she said, "but if you're looking for reassurance, you aren't going to get it."

"It is a little... charged," mused Ginny. "I wonder why nothing's more conclusive."

"The bad guys can read, too, Ginny," said Hermione sleepily.

And of course Hermione was right, Ginny thought as she skimmed half-heartedly through the paper. She was not reassured, and there were no revelations, there was nothing but rumor and crazed opinion and the occasional reference to some political figure's curious reluctance to comment. None of it was anything that someone of reasonable imagination couldn't have come up with on their own, given enough time. She couldn't even get through the first few pages.

Ginny dutifully burned the paper and flushed the ashes, feeling extremely ridiculous as she did so, but the very last thing she wanted was to be the ultimate cause of Hermione's nervous collapse. Woodenly, she made her way back into the bedroom proper, dimly aware that she hadn't behaved in the most rational way today but unable to really conceive of any other method of behavior. She felt as though there were things being left undone somewhere, but she had no idea what they were or how to go about taking care of them.

As she curled up in the chair and listened to Hermione's even breathing somewhere across the room, Ginny formed a new resolution. Her fingers found the road map and she stroked the surface of it idly. It would be harder to find Harry, but she was sure that she could figure it out. She supposed he wouldn't really be any more thrilled to see her than Hermione had at first, but it wasn't like she was planning on staying long. Just for a little while, to make sure he was okay and to let him know he wasn't forgotten. And then she would have to go home. There wasn't anything else that she could find out, she told herself firmly. There was nothing else that she could be doing.

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

He was still not finished. After all of his work that morning, and after his nerves had been stretched thin and his back was aching to the point of distraction, he was still not finished. Sure, he'd lost about thirty minutes when he'd had to hide from the house elves, because he'd been unlucky enough to have stumbled upon a place where they apparently liked to congregate, but that hardly left him much of an excuse when he'd been up since six that morning and had spent so many hours working with as little to show for it as he currently had.

Draco estimated that he had about half of his work done, which meant that he would have to sneak out tonight to do the rest of it, which meant another night without sleep, which was a prospect he was extremely tired of facing. He glanced sideways at the clock, which showed him that it was ten minutes to midnight. Draco growled and sank his face back into the pillows. He had fixed on midnight as the time when he might safely leave his room without interference and make it outside without being seen, and the usual force of his resolutions decreed that he was not going to leave one minute earlier. These last minutes were proving to be the most trying, and although Draco had never considered himself a nervous person, he was beginning to see the merit of becoming one. Nervous people sure as hell didn't get themselves mired in difficult, dangerous situations such as this, because they were too busy lying around worrying to even get close to them. Draco was half convinced that there was actually no cowardice in that, merely prudent caution.

As midnight loomed closer, Draco alternately wished that he had never been nosy enough to get himself into this and reminded himself that Malfoys didn't get where they were by being afraid. He tortured himself in this vein until it was time to gather up his wand and cloak and go.

The hallways of the Manor were silent and still and dark enough that Draco almost used a Lumos charm before he mentally questioned himself over his willingness to get killed and thought better of it. There was a pool of light spilling out from under his mother's door, and Draco skirted the edges of it warily. He was not surprised that she was awake. He knew that she'd enjoyed a number of sleepless nights herself, probably many more than he had in the past few weeks. He supposed he wouldn't be getting much sleep in her situation, either. But I am in her situation, he reasoned, and I'm off creating havoc instead of in bed. In fact, he had it worse than her at the moment, since he was off taking decisive action while she was most likely nursing another drink and brooding.

Far from being resentful, he only felt a fresh surge of the new solidarity he'd been sharing with Narcissa in the past few days. It was alien, but not entirely unwelcome, to feel as though he was working in concert with one of his parents, instead of trying to please one and make sense of the other, and avoiding being in the same place as both of them. Narcissa, at least, was starting to make more and more sense to him, so at least one no-win scenario was coming together.

Stranger still was the slight guilt he felt at passing her door without stopping in to talk to her. The unspoken mother-son affection had gone from assumed to nearly tangible, and Draco wished that there were more opportunities to take advantage of it than currently existed. He wanted her help, yet it was too dangerous to ask for it.

Draco slowed his steps and hung closer to the shadows as he hit the entrance hall. Marble floors and vaulted ceilings did not tend to lend themselves well to the art of sneaking, and even a person of Draco's small stature would cause something of a racket if they walked to the front doors at normal speed. He'd made it halfway when he heard a sharp noise reverberate through the hall. Draco slipped behind a hanging banner, all too conscious that his boots had made an audible squeak on the marble as he moved. He plastered himself to the wall, heart pounding, biting into his bottom lip in an effort to keep his breathing even. He had been too careful himself cause such a loud sound, so who the hell was down here and more importantly, had they seen him?

Draco moved his head as much as he dared, searching out the source of the noise. The hall stretched up to the full height of the house, and a number of windows in the ceiling allowed the moonlight to filter through. The device was simple and the effect was lovely, and on any other occasion Draco would have stood back to admire the beauty and efficiency of his beloved Manor, but at present he was panicked by the surplus of light. If someone else were in here, they would find him sooner rather than later. Why couldn't my ancestors have just been satisfied with the trends of the era and built the damn place like a dungeon?

The primary object of his irritation had been snoring lightly in his portrait across the room from Draco's hiding place until the sudden interruption. Taliesin Malfoy's eyes had snapped open, and he'd grumbled in his thick Welsh accent that whoever was making all that damned noise had better bloody stop it and go away. From above and to the left of Draco's head, he heard Taliesin's wife concur. He smiled, despite the queasy sensation in his stomach. Even Bellatrix herself would be unlikely to ignore orders from the undisputed guardians of the house.

In another second, the interloper was revealed to be a house elf, Narcissa's personal house elf in fact, who appeared from the drawing room toting a bottle of liquor, no doubt sent on an urgent mission to retrieve it for her mistress. The elf scurried out of sight quickly, eyes wide and ears lowered. In a few more seconds, Taliesin had closed his eyes and was snoring contentedly once more.

Draco held in his sigh of relief, and waited for his heart rate to return to normal before making a quick, stealthy move for the door. He had not checked to make sure that Lady Branwyn had gone back to sleep in her portrait, but he knew he had nothing to worry about from her. The first Lord and Lady Malfoy, as the owners of the Manor had been called before titles went out of style in the wizarding world, were the only two portraits who had the honor of being hung in the entrance hall, and although they kept a close eye on comings and goings, they were silent almost without exception. Besides, Draco had always felt like they were rather fond of him, since they usually both smiled as he passed, and even now, Branwyn was favoring him with an impish grin, as if to say, I will keep your secret.

Draco held her gaze for a few seconds before turning and slipping out the door. No Malfoy, even a long-dead one, was going to betray his private business to anyone outside the family.

Which could only be a good thing, in his case. Draco had strongly considered asking for his mother's help in the beginning, and he still wished that he had the judgment of someone older and more experienced in covert dealings to rely on. He'd had to reject the idea due to Bellatrix's intense scrutiny of his mother's every move, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that Narcissa would probably be more of a hindrance than a help anyway. His mother and intricate wand work had never been on the best of terms, and at any rate, she'd been drinking so heavily lately that she was quickly becoming no use to anyone.

Draco stumbled his way blindly through the gardens, cursing at every rock and tree root that tripped him up. He really couldn't see a thing, and he evidently didn't have the terrain memorized as well as he thought he did. Alright, I finished the front drive, the orchard's done, I left off---

All thought was suspended for the moment as Draco's feet found the culvert he was looking for before the rest of him did. He tumbled gracelessly to the bottom, his head striking a rock on the way down, and landed in a sprawl on his back.

"That was completely unnecessary," he announced to the stars, gingerly feeling the back of his head. He was going to have a sizable knot there come morning, which was really the last thing he needed. He resolved to personally kill the idiot responsible for this particular bit of landscaping, and if they had the luxury of already being dead, he was going to personally track down their portrait and have it shredded. Draco got to his feet, grateful that his head was really the only thing hurting, although he found, to his severe annoyance, that he had ripped the leg of his trousers. I might as well be as drunk as my mother, if this is how I handle myself.

He didn't like to think about his mother's drinking problem, he mused as he got back to work laying charges, but he couldn't say he'd have done better in her situation, and he probably had the alcohol to thank for her willingness to talk when he'd showed up at her door asking questions.

He'd dropped a perfunctory knock on the doorframe before barging on into her room, and she hadn't really protested the entry, just looked at him bemusedly from her under her eyelashes. Narcissa had been lying on her stomach across the end of her bed, the hand holding the omnipresent bottle draped over the side. Her nightgown was hiked up above her knees, affording Draco a clearer sight of his mother's legs than he ever could have conceivably wanted, but he told himself that was what he got for barging.

He turned his head away, to avoid being stricken blind, and to give Narcissa a chance to rearrange herself into a less improper position. She showed no immediate inclination to move, however, and Draco's peripheral vision caught the bottle being raised to her lips and drained of the rest of its contents. He closed his eyes briefly, and in the instant of blackness became aware that the wizarding wireless was broadcasting softly in the background.

Narcissa sighed loudly, and Draco opened his eyes again to see that she had mercifully relocated herself to a chair next to the bed. She fixed him with a fierce stare through the tangle of unkempt golden hair and tapped the wireless with her wand. The volume increased substantially, and Draco felt a flash of confusion.

"Mum, I came in here to talk to you."

"I realize that, son," she said with exaggerated indulgence, and turned the wireless up another notch. "You obviously don't know the first thing about subterfuge."

Her smile was too close to self-satisfied to keep Draco's temper from erupting. "But apparently you do!" His fists had clenched, and his eyes were spitting fire in his mother's direction. How could she be so matter-of-fact about this? His world had imploded, and she was sitting there smirking!

"Keep your voice down," she said in the same tone she'd used to keep him out of the sweets before dinner.

Draco took a few deep breaths and told himself that at the very least, it was rude to yell at one's mother. "You're not in the least bit surprised that I'm here, are you?"

Narcissa shrugged one shoulder in response and reached for the pack of cigarettes lying on the table. "You're too smart not to have found out eventually."

The compliment did nothing to mollify him. "I didn't know for sure. You just confirmed it." Draco watched the thin curl of smoke drift towards the ceiling. Lucius hated the fact that Narcissa smoked. He thought it a very Muggle habit.

Narcissa exhaled on a long sigh. "Well, son," she said in tones approaching grandiosity, "I give you free leave to rant and rave at me if you want. I'm not deducting points for cliché at the moment, so if you want to fall back on the old pureblood loyalty speech, I'll try and be the best audience I can. It's not like I'm going anywhere anytime soon."

Draco fought the impulse to sputter something unintelligible in Narcissa's general direction. He had to tell himself to think logically and try to abandon emotional response. Despite her casual posture, his mother had to be nervous. She'd already finished her first cigarette in about five drags and had lit a second. Her posture was brittle, and there was uncertainty in her eyes despite all the sarcasm. He wouldn't get anything out of her by being confrontational. If only she wouldn't be so trying...

"I am not going to rant and rave," he said slowly. "And I'm not going to lecture you."

Narcissa tilted her head to the side and regarded him through half-lowered eyes. "There's a relief," she said at last. "I was hoping I'd get to make an heroic last confession to somebody."

Draco took an unconscious step forward. "Isn't that a little dramatic?" He couldn't quite keep the edge of panic out of his voice.

"What did you think she was here for, a family reunion? I told you I was in trouble, didn't I? I told you something was wrong as soon as you came home! " Her words hadn't slurred once during the conversation, but Draco was starting to think his mother was pretty far gone.

"No," he said calmly, "you didn't. You said some vague things and told me to stay away from her."

Narcissa bowed her head. "I notice that you have."

"She really hasn't given me a reason to seek out her company."

His mother nodded slowly, and took a deep breath. "Why don't I stop being vague, then?" she said, and lifted her head.

Draco stared into his mother's tired eyes without flinching. They were so unlike his own clear grey ones, wide and dark and bright with intoxication, seeming to suggest blue without actually being blue. "Why don't you?" he said, surprised at how conversational he sounded.

"I don't have anything to lose anymore by telling you the truth. I'm sure you're more than aware of what you have to face by hearing it."

"I asked for it."

Narcissa turned her head sideways and screwed her eyes shut. "I didn't want to have to put you through this. I made the decision before you were born, and I knew this would come, but I'm suddenly not sure if I'm equal to it." Another pause. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Mum, I don't need the disclaimer," Draco said, more to the ceiling than the addressed party. "Just tell me what's going on."

She made a funny noise in her throat that turned into a nervous laugh. "Oh, hell, where do I start? I've passed information to the enemy, I've purposely hindered or prevented Death Eater activity, I've gone out of my way to prevent harm to total strangers and total Muggles, and I've done everything I can to incriminate the followers of the Dark Lord, up to and including my own father and yours." Here she leveled a severe look at Draco, who couldn't bring himself to face it head on. So much for this being merely an ideological difference.

"So you're a... spy," the word tasted strange in his mouth. "For them. For Dumbledore."

"Not for Dumbledore, no. Much as I like the idea of being a spy, I think it would be more accurate to call me an informant."

"Who exactly are you informing, then?" Draco didn't have any concept of the do-gooders' power structure that didn't include Dumbledore, or maybe Potter, but he hardly thought Narcissa was slipping notes to Harry Potter through owl post.

"Hmm," said Narcissa, "how do I put this? None of your damn business, son." The irritating smirk was back, and Draco found it just as unnecessary as he had before. He was not surprised, though, that she refused to name names, and he had probably better be satisfied with that.

"Well, then," he persisted through his incredible dissatisfaction, "what are you telling whoever-it-is, and more importantly, what ever possessed you to- I mean, why?" At least he had averaged an even temper.

Narcissa stretched a foot out and began to draw vague shapes on the carpet with a toe. The smoke was not dispersing very well, and she was currently shrouded by a cloud of blue. It looked as though she was taking the time to formulate an answer, so he strode over to the nearest window and opened it a crack. He took in the fresh air gratefully. He might have stolen from his mother's tobacco stash on occasion, but even his eyes were watering from Narcissa's nervous indulgence.

She started speaking again before Draco had turned away from the window. She snapped each word off with brittle efficiency, as though she was explaining something simple to someone not particularly bright. "I knew a few things with certainty. My mother died young and unhappy. I was a little girl with two much older sisters, one I was always afraid of, and one I idolized. The frightening one comes home one day with an impressive new tattoo, and the other isn't coming home at all anymore, and I get in trouble if I so much as mention her name. And I was eight years old and couldn't make sense out of it." She paused, and Draco saw in his mind's eye two women on opposite sides of the street, following each other with their eyes.

"But maybe that isn't where it started. Maybe it started at school, which wasn't as great as I thought it was going to be, where I made exactly one friend the entire seven years, and where I watched people who'd never touched a wand before handle one better than I can even now. And oddly enough, I couldn't make much sense of that, either. But do you know, Draco," he snapped his head around at being so directly addressed, and made tentative eye contact.

"I think what finally killed it for me was getting married to someone I thought was a decent pick, only to find out that he's a member of the same crazed death cult that's split my family right down the middle. And incidentally, two days later I find out that I'm pregnant. And I thought that I had better start trying to make sense of things, if I'm going to be someone's mother, because the kid might come flying into my room in the middle of the night sixteen years later, requiring explanation." She took a long drag and laughed. "You'd think I would have thought of one."

"So you don't know why you did it." Draco threw his arms up in frustration. "You have no idea why you turned against your family-"

"Half my family."

"--Fine, half your family, and Father, and me." Draco was grateful that confusion was overriding his temper as much as it was, or else he would have been in danger of becoming angrier than he'd ever been in his life.

"You are the last person I'd ever turn on, and if you don't believe that, then there's nothing further I can say!" Of course, Draco hadn't considered his mother's temper, which had been roused to full force with this declaration. He briefly pondered finding shelter, because if her fights with Lucius were anything to go by, the next step involved the flight of a heavy object into the nearest wall. "I've never done anything to put you in danger. I've never breathed a word of this to you until I got frightened, and until you asked! And of course I have my reasons! I'm not a stupid person, Draco, and I've never been impulsive!"

"Well, then come on out with it! You're a Muggle lover, you're secretly a Mudblood, you just hate Father, what?"

Narcissa leaned forward, her hands white-knuckled around the arms of the chair. "I'm saying I did this for your sake, you spectacularly ungrateful child. I'm saying I wanted you to have a choice. And it didn't look to me like you were ever going to make one, and my mind wasn't going to change, and I couldn't back out. So, I went about my business for the time being, and I got desperate, and I slipped up. So here I am at the end of my rope. And there you are, looking at me like I've just killed and eaten your favorite kneazle."

"Well, Mum, this is a little much to handle, don't you think? You're trying to tell me that Father's been wrong about everything my whole life, and I'm supposed to just agree? I don't care for Muggles myself! I don't think Mudbloods really have a place in our world, and I wish that they'd all just leave us be! The Malfoys haven't been around for a thousand years because we've gone cozying up to the people who used to burn us alive!" His fingernails dug into his palms painfully, the effort of keeping relatively quiet taking its toll at last.

"I'm not saying I don't agree with any of that, Draco," Narcissa said softly. "Maybe this house is standing, but mine isn't. Plenty of other families have wasted themselves this way."

"So you've gone and thrown yourself in with the people who don't care a bit about any of these things?" Draco realized he was getting a bit shrill, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

She leaned forward, voice low and intense, eyes dark and steady and dangerous. "I threw myself in with the people who don't consider death and destruction a way of life. I would like to make it through the day and live to see another one without someone breathing down my neck and telling me how to live it. It's that simple."

"What about Father?" Draco asked quietly.

"You know what he thinks. You listen to it every day. He has the Dark Mark, I know you know that much."

"Did you have anything to do with putting him in Azkaban?"

"No, I didn't," Narcissa said softly. "But I do think he belongs there."

Draco thumped the window frame with one hand. "For what?" he asked desperately.

"Oh, for the love of..." Narcissa rolled her eyes. "It's not as though the Death Eaters are merely a political party that supports certain ideals, Draco, they're a band of mass murderers. There, are you happy? I've gone back to tired speechmaking, is that what you want to hear? I'm no crazed Muggle lover, but I don't think they all need to be killed, either! And incidentally, it is not just Muggles they kill. Purebloods don't get off any easier if they get in Voldemort's way. Bellatrix is not just here to keep an eye on me, she is here because I've been found out and I can only assume that she is waiting for approval before she kills me!"

"She's not going to kill you, Mum," Draco said with conviction. "Because of Father. She wouldn't."

"Oh, son," Narcissa wailed in frustration. "You would persist in thinking that man hung the moon and stars."

"I don't, but he's... I mean..." Draco was losing ground fast. He couldn't get past the idea that his mother was determined that she was going to die, he was unable to factor his father into it. He knew what was coming, and he would have done anything to hold it off--

"What he's hung, Draco, is me." She curled into a small ball on the chair. "I do not think that either he or Bellatrix has said as much to Voldemort yet, but... something came to your father's attention a few weeks ago, and he brought it to her attention, and I can only assume that they were going to work up some grand unveiling of me as a traitor and have me put to death as an example. Then the Aurors came for your father, and Bellatrix has been biding her time, but she's got some ground to regain with Voldemort, and I think she's eager to grab all the glory for herself while your father's out of the picture."

Draco felt sick all over. If he was supposed to believe this, he had to believe that his father wouldn't have discreetly dealt with this on his own, that he would have conspired with another to have his own wife killed, just to gain further favor from someone else. As though Lucius Malfoy were just another underling. It was too close to his earlier reasoning, and Draco could not dismiss it.

"What would have happened to me? Would he-"

"Nothing. I would guess you would have known I was dead without knowing why."

"So are you saying that the only difference now is that I'll know why?" He was choking up, and unable to stop it.

"That is pretty much it, son.," she said entirely too matter of factly. She looked so frail all of a sudden, leaning forward with her bony elbows on her knees, too thin and pale, more like a lost child than his mother. "It's a shit thing to say, but I don't think there's anything I can do."

"Why," Draco said desperately. "why do you say that? If you've really got some friends out there, why can't they help you?"

Narcissa laughed. "Ah, the passion of youth." Draco shot her a disbelieving look. "The wards keep us in, and the wards keep everyone else out. You wouldn't have noticed, but I can't Apparate anywhere on the grounds anymore, and I can't get a letter out. I tried, you know. I tried to send one to Andromeda. Obviously, it didn't get to her, and in the end, I only created one more piece of evidence against me. And I don't think she would have helped me, anyway," she continued, bitterness creeping into her tone, "we haven't spoken since our father died, and it wasn't very cordial, then."

"Your mystery person that you've been talking to, what about them?" The words came out in a rush. "Won't they notice if you're suddenly quiet?"

"No, I've been quiet before. They won't be unduly worried, trust me."

"There has to be something we can do!"

Narcissa sat bolt upright. "Excuse me, we? We are not going to do anything. I want you to stay out of it!"

"I thought you told me I had a choice. What if I decide to make it?" He wasn't sure he was at that point, yet, but Narcissa still hadn't thought one thing through, apparently. She hadn't factored in Draco's reaction very well, and she certainly seemed never to have believed that he would be willing to prevent her death.

Her hands looked as though they were about to snap the chair arms in half. Her shoulders trembled with each word, as though her customary sarcasm was costing her great effort. "Then that is very commendable. I applaud you. I'd buy you something to mark the occasion, if I could leave this bloody house. Keep your head down, or I guarantee you that you won't be keeping it at all." She kept trying to fix a sort of pained half-smile on her face, but her trembling lower lip gave her away.

Draco didn't know what he'd do if his mother started crying. It was bad enough that there was a lump in his own throat, and it was getting harder and harder to force words out around it. He felt like a little boy again, running to Mummy and trying not to cry. "I don't want anything to happen to you, Mum. I don't know how you expect me to turn away from this."

Narcissa's face twitched, and a few tears managed to fall despite her best efforts. Draco's stomach dropped. "And I don't want anything to happen to you," she said, and although her voice did not waver, it was full of emotion. "I'm being watched. You're going to be in just as much danger as me if you start getting all chummy with me now. Stay out of this, and stay away from me, and I promise nothing will happen to you."

She sighed again, and got to her feet. "Look, this is a stupid thing to say, but try not to get too upset. I'm a resourceful girl, and I'm sure I'll come up with something." The tears had stopped coming, and she smoothed her nightgown across her stomach and took a deep breath. "At the very least, if anything happens to me, and you still want to make a choice, you'll have a chance to run. My sister lives in London."

Draco made a move to speak, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. "You had better get back to your room before someone figures out you're up here."

"Right," he said dully, "you're being watched."

Narcissa put a hand on his cheek and tilted his face to hers. "You grew up cute," she announced, "even if you don't look much like me." Her smile was brilliant and unwavering. She seemed almost proud of him, and suddenly looked as strong as she had been weak a few minutes ago.

He'd put his hand over hers for a brief second before leaving silently. He hadn't even made it ten feet away from her door before he'd discarded all of her warnings, and well before he'd reached his own room, he'd come to a resolution.

She was still being watched, but no one had ever been watching Draco and they weren't now, either, judging from the complete lack of Avada Kedavra in his vicinity. Draco wasn't quite sure how Bellatrix had been able to keep his mother confined to the immediate grounds, and he could only assume that some kind of proximity charm was being used. He had no reason to believe that such similar watch was being kept on him, and he'd been assured early on that as long as he didn't attempt to get through the wards, there would be no alarm raised if he simply happened to get near them. Thus, he had felt reasonably safe in coming up with a plan to get out of here. Narcissa was apparently not going to do anything of the kind herself, since Draco had hardly seen her out of her room since they'd talked the other night.

He'd wished he could join her for a while there. He had cried, not very hard or for very long, but he hadn't slept the rest of that night, and the tears had come and gone sporadically. He wasn't sure of much at all, but at the very least, he knew he could never sit back and let his mother die. And if she was making no attempts to save herself, he would have to be the one to save her, which pretty much marked him out as Bellatrix's next target.

Draco scooped a handful of leaves over the latest readjusted power juncture and moved on. Covering up his invisible alterations to invisible wards was of course completely pointless, but the simple gesture made Draco feel better anyway. At least the cover of dark meant he didn't have to crawl on the ground under his cloak. He'd still worn a hat pulled low over his forehead, in case the moon decided to get too friendly with his hair. It was Narcissa's hat, actually, swiped from a coat rack on his way outside, and it was actually quite comfortable, and she was probably not getting it back. Although if he didn't succeed in pulling the wards down and getting help in here, she wasn't ever going to need it back.

Draco kicked at a rock more forcefully than he ought to have done. He thought of the rows of family portraits back in the house, all the Malfoys and their wives hanging across from each other upstairs. None of those Malfoys had ever killed their wives, no matter how unhappy the marriage might have been. Even Draco had been moved by some of the stories about Taliesin and Branwyn, and he didn't have a romantic bone in his body. He'd had the Manor built for her, and she used to ride into battle with him! Even after doing nothing but hang on the wall for centuries, it was clear that they adored each other. Draco was too practical to think that everyone got to live a legendary romance like Taliesin and Branwyn had, but he thought that after that particular precedent had been set, it would be a definite blot on the family for a Malfoy to put their wife to death.

Or to start the chain of events that left any Malfoy son and heir in this kind of position. Draco paused in his work and turned back to look at the Manor. It seemed even larger and more beautiful when outlined by starlight. Almost a thousand years ago, Taliesin had laid those first stones with his bare hands. Others had come along and added their own touches, and repaired what was in need of it, but what the first Malfoy had done had not been changed. He had been a commoner, too, before his father's wartime heroics had earned the posthumous gift of land and title that had fallen to his son. And that mere blacksmith's apprentice with little education, who spoke with a common accent until the day he died, had built all of this out of nothing, had made his fortune with what was on the land alone, had set the code of honor and loyalty that every future Malfoy should live by. Lucius seemed to have gotten the spirit of it wrong, somewhere. His family name decreed that your loyalties lay at home first. Harm was not supposed to come to a Malfoy from another.

They were worth more than that, and the world had used to think so, too. Now people like those idiot Gryffindors whispered about his family in the hallways at school. They're a bad lot, every last one of them... his father bought the Ministry off, that's why he's not in Azkaban... they deserve whatever's coming to them...

They were wrong, and they would know that they were wrong soon enough. Draco was the last one left to carry the Malfoy name, and he would make the most of it. If he didn't make it out of here alive, which was looking more and more likely, his mother would make sure the rest of the world knew to whom she owed her life. If the line had to end with him, it would end well. The only irksome thing there was that the property would go to a relative who didn't actually carry the family name. He supposed whatever stupid distant cousin it went to would be exceedingly happy in the event of his death, since he was sure that they were only waiting for Draco to die without an heir to make their happiness complete. It was almost enough to provoke him into taking the easy route and living through the summer, but he couldn't entertain the thought for long without returning to his guilt-ridden reality.

It was the only choice he really could make anymore. Narcissa wanted him to sit it out and let her die, so he could have the chance to live. Well, he couldn't have lived with himself if he had done nothing to stop it.

There was really no decision to make, it was just... the right thing to do. The Malfoy thing to do.

Now, all he had to do was give Narcissa an avenue of escape. The wards had to be down, and she had to know it when it happened, and someone else had to be there to tip the odds in her favor against Bellatrix. Draco wasn't entirely sure he would live to help his mother. If Bellatrix was keeping a close eye on Narcissa when things suddenly went all to hell, there was only one suspect left, and his aunt would very likely close in on him with all due speed. And Draco somehow doubted that the family connection would inspire her with enough mercy to kill him quickly.

He shook his head to clear it of desperate thoughts for the time being, and mentally surveyed the distance he had left to cover. He'd laid the first spell behind the house, and he was nearly there again, so... probably ten or twelve more. The spells were held in check for the moment by the glass paperweight in his pocket, which had been enchanted as a sort of inhibitor that kept them from doing their work until he was ready for it. Then, he would simply have to destroy the inhibitor from some point inside the perimeter of the wards, and with enough luck, they'd go down, and if they didn't, well, he might have time to try something else. He probably wouldn't knock them out permanently even if this worked, but he would at least give Narcissa and her cavalry time to run.

The inhibitor had been the easy part. Obviously it was working, since nothing had blown up in his face yet, and that simple fact bolstered his confidence a little where the charges were concerned. Now all he had to do was write the letter.

He was probably going to give himself another day or two for that one. Draco estimated that his spells would hold at least that long, and he really needed to brace himself for the letter. As much as he'd had to go through so far, that would be by far the hardest part of the whole operation.

But, like the rest of this, it had to be done.

When he stumbled on the next juncture, Draco was surprised to find that his wand registered a different slight shift in magic than the other ones caused. With a start, he realized that this one was already altered, so he was back where he'd started sooner than he'd thought he was. His relief lasted only a few seconds as he probed a little deeper into the juncture. Dammit, he thought, cold fear clawing at his insides, I can really tell something's been done to it, which means that anyone could.

Well, there wasn't anything he could do about it. He couldn't back out now, it would take him twice as long to dismantle his spells, not that he knew how to return the wards to their original state anyway, and he was lucky that he hadn't been caught thus far, so he could just forget sneaking out again.

Draco straightened up and stretched the kinks out of his spine. His head had continued its dull throb, and it was threatening to break into a full-fledged splitting headache. As he slipped in the back entrance, he pondered going to down to the kitchens for some ice, but he really didn't feel like making up a convincing story to explain why he'd hit his head in case he ran into Bellatrix or a nosy house elf, so he resolved to live with the pain.

He glanced at a clock as he passed; it was going on four in the morning. Tremendous, he thought, maybe I can get a two second nap in before I have to get up for breakfast.

The constant pounding in his head almost drowned out the sound of voices nearby. Draco chided himself severely for the moment of flailing panic that nearly sent him careening into an end table. He gathered his thoughts enough to realize that the voices were coming from his father's study, that the door was only open a crack and that it was highly doubtful anyone could see him, that one of the voices belonged to Bellatrix, and the other he had never heard before. In all of Draco's sixteen years, it had never occurred to him not to eavesdrop, so he took up a careful position alongside the door, with enough room to duck into the shadows if someone came through it.

"--quite assured of this?" The stranger's voice was oddly high pitched, and sounded far away. Bellatrix must have been speaking to someone by Floo.

"She covered her tracks well at first, but she has become careless, Master."

Master? By all things holy, that was--she was actually talking to--

"You have disappointed me in the past, Bella. You have disappointed me in the recent past."

"I will not fail you again, Master," Bellatrix said hurriedly. "I have evidence of her betrayal. I only wait on your permission to eliminate the problem."

A cold chuckle issued from the fireplace, and Draco felt the hair on his arms stand up. "Eager, are we, Bella? Very well, then, do as you see fit. I am only... surprised that Lucius took no action of his own."

"My Lord, I am sure that - I think that Lucius was perhaps not aware of the situation. She is quite devious, and it is possible that her activities escaped his notice."

A slight tsk from the fireplace. "And in his own home. Unfortunate," the voice pronounced with none of the attendant emotion behind the word. "Most... unfortunate."

"Indeed, Master," simpered Bellatrix. "But I will correct this oversight. She will not live past tomorrow night."

Draco's heart fell to his stomach. Death warrant, signed, sealed, and delivered. His few days suddenly shrunk down to nothing.

"See that she doesn't, Bella. I am tired of failure."

"Yes, Master." There was the space of a heartbeat, and then- "What about the boy?"

Draco's heart continued downward and landed somewhere around his ankles. Nothing about the boy! Absolutely nothing about the boy that's interesting at all!

"You have a concern about young Mr. Malfoy?" The voice registered faint surprise, and then a cold chuckle emitted from the fireplace. "Ah, Bella, how maternal of you. Leave it until midnight then, after the boy is in bed, if you want to spare his feelings."

"I merely wondered if I ought to try and speak to him--"

"Bella, we are speaking of Lucius's son. His loyalty, if not already assured, will be final once the alternative is clear to him."

"Very well, Master. I will do as you say."

Bellatrix had thankfully remained in the study when the conversation was over, and with her location fixed, Draco was able to make excellent time back upstairs. Anger was nearly overriding fear in his mind. So he was a sure thing, now, was he? His aunt, who was no better than an uninvited guest, and - Voldemort- had the nerve to conspire together to dictate not only his family's future, but his own? And they were assuming that just because his father had joined up with that backstabbing bunch of lunatics, that he would as well?

He came close to slamming his bedroom door behind him, but had to content himself with punching his pillows repeatedly. Narcissa had been right about one thing, he mused, Bellatrix did claim all the credit for discovering his mother's secret doings, and she had probably been responsible for adding "torture Lucius" to Voldemort's to-do list.

Draco sat upright with sudden realization, and his aching head protested by way of making him extremely dizzy for the next few minutes. When the nausea caused by his abrupt movement passed, it was replaced with a fresh wave that stemmed from the very idea of what he had to do immediately. If Narcissa's death was scheduled for tomorrow night, he had to send his letter off right now in order for it to get where it was going in time to do him any good.

It wasn't until he had started writing that it hit him. His mother was supposed to die in about thirty-six hours. She wouldn't. He would.

In the end, he supposed his ancestors would forgive him for actually being sick at that point, and for the way the quill shook violently in his hand.

He told his owl not to return, and fell into bed. He knew he needed sleep, and feared it wouldn't come, but exhaustion had claimed him within minutes.

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

Harry chewed his way through the second of his leftover rolls, and forced it down with a grimace. His food, such as it was, had grown stale overnight, and he wanted to go downstairs less then ever, so naturally his appetite had selected this moment in time to return. There was still a dull pounding in his head, which he was trying to studiously ignore, in hopes that it would go away.

He wished that he could have retained something coherent from his nightmare, but it had been maddeningly faint, and far away, and he knew nothing with certainty beyond the fact that Voldemort was angry about something. The vagueness of the dream left Harry with no clue what that something could be, although he hoped that Dumbledore or someone in the Order had done something to set him off.

Harry tossed the rest of the roll into the wastebasket irritably. For all he knew, Voldemort was angry because he couldn't find a pair of matching socks, and Harry was only going to work himself up again with wondering about it.

Hedwig had come back that morning, but she had perched obstinately on top of her cage, apparently not trusting Harry to remember to let her out once in a while if she were locked up again. He had worried about her while she was gone. Even if she wasn't carrying a letter, enough people knew that she was Harry Potter's owl to make him uneasy.

He had let Hedwig remain where she was, because she had been quiet and pretty much motionless, but now she was shuffling from foot to foot rapidly and hooting excitedly.

"What?" he snapped at her, momentarily amazed by how croaky his voice was.

Hedwig didn't spare a look for Harry. Her attention was fixed entirely on the window.

Harry's first thought was that Dudley had wandered home for lunch, but he didn't see what his owl would find particularly exciting about his cousin's pursuit of food. He was about to get up and see what was so noteworthy about the front yard when a hand appeared on the edge of the windowsill.

It was followed by a second hand and a grunt of effort before Harry got past his bewilderment enough to react. He darted to the bed, retrieved his wand from under his pillow and leveled it at the windowsill. He could probably manage to Stun whoever it was before they were in a position to strike.

It was just beginning to register that climbing up to a second story window in broad daylight wasn't the most intelligent tactic for the forces of evil to use when a shock of red hair became visible and a voice whispered, "Harry! I could sort of use a hand here!"

It didn't sound like Ron's voice, but with hair that color, who else could it be? A surge of excitement ran through Harry. Ron had actually come to see him! And that meant that he was going to the Burrow, and was free of Privet Drive for the rest of the summer!

He grasped the hands on the windowsill and leaned his head out, grinning. His exuberant planned greeting for Ron died on his lips when he instead found himself dangling Ginny Weasley over the flowerbed.

"Ginny?" He nearly dropped her in his shock.

"Hi," she gasped out in return. "Would you stop gaping at me and pull me in? Or let go, I don't care, but pick one, my arms are hurting!"

Harry pulled her through the window, and Ginny jumped down gracefully to the floor.

"This window entry thing isn't so bad," she announced cheerfully, while swinging her arms back and forth vigorously. "That was loads better than the last one. Thanks for not dropping me."

"The Dursleys probably would notice if I started throwing girls out of my window. What are you doing here?" Harry was completely floored. Ginny, of all people, showing up here? They weren't even that close! Why should she be here, and not Ron, if anybody?

"I came to see if you were alright." At Harry's bewildered look, she continued. "I'm actually on my way home. I was at Hermione's yesterday, and you were on my way."

"You went to Hermione's? You just... how did you even...?"

Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes. "The short version is this. Oh, do you mind?" she interjected, gesturing at the bed. Harry shook his head, and Ginny plopped down on the blanket. "Thanks. I'm exhausted. I lost my temper at home. It was a bit stupid, but I took off. I was... tired of sitting around not knowing things. By the way, do you think your aunt and uncle are likely to go digging about in the hedge anytime soon? I hid my broomstick in there."

"Since when do you have a broomstick?" Harry asked, glad to find a point which he could make sense of.

"Since I borrowed Ron's."

"Ron let you borrow his broomstick? To go and visit Hermione?"

Ginny looked sheepish. "I didn't exactly ask before I took it. Like I said, it was stupid." She laughed dryly. "Don't let me stay too long, alright? The more I think about going home, the more keen I am to avoid the explosion from Mum."

Harry nodded his agreement. He didn't like to imagine Mrs. Weasley's response to her runaway daughter either, but he really wasn't sure he wanted her here. He didn't know Ginny particularly well, and this whole situation was so bizarre that he didn't even know what to say. But Ginny was looking at him so expectantly that he supposed he ought to try saying something.

"I, um," Harry cleared his throat and tried again. "I had a letter from Hermione yesterday."

"So she said." Ginny turned her head sideways and regarded him thoughtfully. "Was it a very nice letter?"

Puzzled, Harry responded, "It wasn't a mean one. What, should it have been?"

Ginny shrugged. "She wasn't in the best of moods when I was there. She didn't even want me to stay, but it was late. You know how she is, always wanting control of everything. Her family doesn't know a thing, you know, about the war and all."

Hermione was perfectly capable of being secretive when necessary, but the idea that she was keeping things from- and probably lying to- her parents seemed odd to Harry. But what was it that needed to be lied about?

"Has something happened?" he asked nervously. "Something I need to worry about?"

"Oh, no, not really," said Ginny. "At least not up 'til yesterday. I left this morning before Hermione got her paper. She wanted me to go before her parents found out I was there."

"So, the papers are telling the truth, then?" Excitement and a little alarm shot through Harry. His guess about the papers had been right, then.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "They're telling the truth as imagined by a five year old who's afraid of the monster under his bed."

Harry wasn't entirely sure what she meant by that, but he didn't want to admit it, so he nodded in what he hoped was a wise and understanding fashion.

"The worst part is," she continued, "was that I ran off looking for information, and my imagination had already covered everything pretty well."

Harry's laugh felt scratchy and painful in the back of his throat. "Yeah," he said bitterly, "it'll do that."

Ginny drew her legs in and sat up straight. "So I suppose this summer hasn't been any good for you, either."

"No," muttered Harry. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He was entirely unprepared to answer questions, and with another person here, the English language was eluding him. There was no way he could describe what he'd been doing all summer and sound in any way rational. He sat gingerly down on the bed next to Ginny, his body not holding up any better than his mind had.

"I've been trying not to think," he said experimentally. There, that worked, and it didn't sound too pathetic.

"Makes sense," said Ginny, who didn't sound too convinced. She wrinkled her nose suddenly and leaned away. "Apparently, you've also been trying not to bathe."

Harry shrugged. He tried not to let his irritation show, but if Ginny had been in his place, he doubted personal grooming would have seemed important to her, either. "I didn't think anyone would be here to smell me."

Ginny let out a frustrated groan and covered her face with her hands. "Harry, go clean up," she begged through her fingers. "If this visit accomplishes nothing else, at least I will have convinced you not to reek."

"I don't reek," he grumbled at her, but he was getting closer to embarrassment now, and he found clean clothes in his hands before he realized he'd picked them up.

He stomped to the bathroom in a toweringly foul mood. Not only did Ginny have the nerve to show up and not be Ron, or someone he knew how to actually act around, she had to be critical, too. What was she on about anyway? She had gone nuts sitting at home? What the hell did Ginny even have to do with anything, and why was she here harassing him? No wonder Hermione had wanted her to leave.

What was she out here trying to do, anyway? If she was bored and looking for excitement, he was certainly the last person who could provide it. He'd been trying to avoid anything of the kind. And since she obviously hadn't been the forerunner in a band of Weasleys come to take him off to the Burrow, he really didn't have any use for her presence.

Harry wallowed in this attitude all the way back to his room. He left a trail of wet footprints on the carpet, and he could feel a spot forming on the back of his T-shirt where he hadn't dried off all the way. He really didn't think he looked any better now, but maybe it would make Ginny happy enough to send her on her way. It wasn't like he'd asked for someone to drag him out of his misery.

He threw the door open and glared at her. She was still sitting on the edge of his bed where he'd left her, but she looked distinctly more uncomfortable. Good, he thought, she should be. I'm glaring.

"Um, Harry," she ventured. "You appear to have gotten a letter."

Harry felt a bit stupid, then. Trespassing Weasley or no, he really should have noticed the dark eagle owl standing on his desk.

He'd seen that owl somewhere before, but he couldn't quite place whose it was. It looked rather forbidding, as though it would as soon peck your fingers as carry your post. Hedwig had retreated into her cage and was eyeing the newcomer with suspicion.

"It wouldn't just drop it off and go," said Ginny warily, one eye on the owl.

Harry had no idea who would be writing to him now. "Maybe it's from Hogwarts," he said, moving towards the desk. "It could be my O.W.L. results."

Ginny shook her head. "Not this early. My brothers all got theirs later in July."

The owl stuck its leg out to Harry and hooted irritably. He darted his hand in and plucked the parchment away, half-afraid this cranky owl would decide to take a bite out of him. He was glad he'd moved away quickly, because as soon as the letter was in his hand, the owl spread its wings and took off out the window.

Harry jumped back as the rush of air hit him in the face. He'd met some rude post owls before, but really!

Ginny looked curious, but Harry wasn't about to gratify her. The letter was addressed to "Harry Potter, Wherever He Is." He was sure he'd seen the neat, elegant handwriting before, too.

"If you don't know who it's from, you probably shouldn't open it," said Ginny.

Harry glared at her. "You sound like Hermione."

"Well, in this case, Hermione would be right! It doesn't even have an address on it! That's a bit odd, don't you think?"

Harry sighed, and turned further away from Ginny so she couldn't see the letter anymore. "Next you're going to say it's from Voldemort," he grumbled.

Ginny looked like she wanted to say more, but Harry forestalled her by breaking the seal and unrolling the letter. If it was meant to explode in his face or something, it would have happened already, and he doubted that Voldemort meant to kill him in any way but a face-to-face duel. Sending booby-trapped letters didn't seem to be his style.

Keeping the letter shielded from Ginny's prying eyes, he began to read.

Potter-

As you are no doubt aware, asking anything of you would be my last resort. Let this fact stand as a testament to the kind of situation I am in. You have an infuriating habit of getting yourself out of trouble you quite frankly deserve to be in, and you can't seem to resist going out of your way to rescue everyone and their pets. I can only hope that you are seized by the latter impulse and it drives you out of your inconsiderable wits enough to inspire the former.

I certainly don't expect you to go all out for me. I'm not asking that, nor do I particularly want it. My mother is the one who needs help. She's been working for your side since before I was born, and though I'm not aware of the extent of it, certain other parties are as of last night. If she doesn't make it out by the night of the 22^nd, she will die. The Manor is heavily warded, and in addition, there is someone present who is making escape quite impossible without outside assistance.

I know you've got plenty of people in your pocket who can help her. However, I don't know any of them, I just have the misfortune of knowing you. Why don't you round up a few of your powerful friends and come liberate the innocent? Not that my word means anything to you, but she doesn't deserve this.

I'd thank you in advance, but as you likely consider this part of your hero's duty, thanks are unnecessary, I'm sure. It's a pity I won't get to see you put to the test. I was looking forward to seeing how good you really were, but I'll probably be dead by the time you get here.

I'll have the wards down by nine that night. The rest is up to you and your army.

--D. Malfoy

Harry's body somehow found the chair, and he sat down in it slowly.

"Well," said Ginny eagerly. "Who's it from?"

"Malfoy," Harry said, through the strange buzz in his head. "He wants my help."