Reflections in a Broken Mirror

Chapter Three: - Facing the Morning

So when you fall to the ground

And finally get back to reality

And no one else is around

So tell me how does it feel to be the enemy?

The air is sweet and stale from too much smoke, too much alcohol, and too many people. It's the stench of excess, and Kay Fletcher smells it every morning when he cleans up his club, after he's closed the place down. In truth it's Mr. Borgin down the street who owns the building, but Kay runs the club, and so in the morning like this, when he's murmuring a last "Scourgify" at the bar and floor, he feels both possessive and content, even if he does know the tang of beer and dancing bodies too well.

There's glass on the floor, a shattered shot glass that the bartender Mary vanishes as Kay lingers over a much-needed cigarette before getting up to finish the last of the cleaning up. There's no smoking in the club, but he figures he's earned it. It's three o'clock, Wednesday morning; the club won't be open tonight, so Kay is looking forward to a day of doing very little, and he can afford to take his time. The club is a bit more of a mess than usual, but Kay doesn't mind the extra work. The club has been crowded for the past few nights. Last night was no exception, the dance floor packed with school kids looking for a good time before the start of term.

Strictly speaking, Kay refuses to serve anyone underage; it happens to be illegal after all. But Mary can't check for every Apparation card. There's an elementary Age-line of sorts up at the bar, but it's there more in name than in practice. Kay is more worried about brawls and dueling, which are far more destructive to his club. It is for this reason that there are myriad ward spells and charms on the building and more than a few hexes which make it all but impossible to do complex magic on the premise, a very beneficial feature when dealing with very drunk or very angry wizards. It also seems to have a funny effect on less experienced magic users, a feature Kay is not at all objectionable to.

On the whole this system works very well, with the only major exception having to do with the lights, which have a tendency to flicker or blaze when an extremely determined witch or wizard puts the wards to a particularly heavy test. This isn't actually supposed to happen, but it affords Kay a good deal of control over what takes place in his club. The wards are set to allow only him and anyone working that night to perform complex magic. Anyone able to circumvent Kay's wards is far outside of the club his league. In a case like that wards would be least of anyone's worries. But aside from the strobes going on the fritz once in a while, the club is - in Kay's mind at least - utterly perfect.

All masterpieces have their flaws, and Kay likes to think of his warding system as a masterpiece of sorts. The upshot of this lighting aberration is a warning when serious trouble comes about. Kay figures its just as good as real security, which he can't afford.

The lights were guttering something fierce the previous night, which Kay has been informed of by Mary. She gave him a very dirty look when she told him this, implying that she knows very well what he was doing when he supposedly "went to bring up another case of Firewhiskey from the cellar." Kay still maintains that the blonde accompanying him had merely offered to help him carry. Things evened out later on, though, so he isn't too worried about it.

Stubbing out the end of his fag against the bottom of his shoe - ashtrays would merely encourage smoking among his patrons, and really, it's a filthy habit - Kay heads toward the lavatory on the off chance that some pathetic creature is still there needing his head fished out of a toilet.

Kay is near ready to send to send Mary on home, but something stops him; an inclination perhaps He pays attention to impulses like the one he has now; they're rare, but they aren't usually wrong. Like most wizards from older families, he is aware of the significance of gut feelings. He pushes open the door, his shoes scraping and crunching in a way he dislikes.

"What the bloody h--"

Kay's eyes widen and the floor glitters as if it was strewn with diamonds, and he begins to swear profusely at what he sees. This is far beyond what he could possibly have expected. No one expects things like this.

"Mary! Mary, get your arse in here!"

There are footsteps and dark mutterings from the bartender, followed by the * thunk* of the heavy door. Kay is already turning to push past her as Mary enters the lavatory, disturbed by the panicked edge to her employer's voice. She's holding an empty glass from the bar as well as a towel, both of which drop from her hands as she takes in the entire scene. The towel flops lightly to the floor. The glass clunks once on the cold floor, surprisingly still intact on the first impact.

The second impact shatters it, causing more shards to spray out and litter the floor, which dazzles the eyes as if covered with ten thousand fallen stars.

*

Awakening to sunlight spilling through one's bedroom window after a night of intoxicated revelry is rarely a pleasant occasion. Often one does not fall into the category of agreeable.

Add to drunken revelry a nasty altercation with an aggressive stranger and blacking out on a dirty cobbled street, and semi-functional becomes a profoundly difficult height to achieve.

So it would be hard to fault Draco for awakening the morning of September first with a moan of pain and disgust (surely his head was going to split in half) followed closely by a torrent of curses at every thing from the sun--which seemed shining so brightly solely to burn his retina's to nothing--to the thunderous chiming of the grand clock in the entrance hall, which Draco knew was almost impossible to hear from his chamber.

After a good five minutes of hating himself and the rest of the world, Draco dragged himself to the bathroom, thankful for the darkness provided by the black marble of every surface.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Draco gingerly removed his clothing, ignoring his body's protests at even this small movement and the way his head spun. To say that his head hurt did not accurately convey the feeling of being beaten about the temples with a broomstick.

His shirt was dirty; the front soiled with a spot of what might have been blood and smudges of dust that marred the fine fabric, evidence of his fall. He paused for a second, realizing he didn't remember anything after the fall.

He did remember in a hazy, jumbled way the glitter of broken glass, the flare of bright, dizzy lights in too many colors, the burn of alcohol at the back of his throat, and the nicks and bruises that were not exactly a memory.

How had he gotten home? Had his mother seen him? Even if she had, he doubted she'd say anything--his father had always been the hand of discipline. Draco doubted his mother would suddenly change to be the strict force his father had been. It simply wasn't in her nature. Nevertheless, he didn't relish the thought of her quiet, hurt disappointment, which would sting more than a slap or harsh words ever could.

He unlaced his boots, feeling particularly grimy at the thought of having slept in them. He dropped his clothes into a pile on the floor, turning on the water on as hot as he could stand it.

With a vigorous efficiency that all but took off a layer of skin, Draco scoured every inch of himself, as if attempting to wash away much more than dried sweat and the stench of stale smoke and alcohol that still clung to him. Through all of this he took care to avoid actually looking at the largish bruise on his side, though he didn't manage to keep himself from wincing and pulling air in sharply between clenched teeth as he scrubbed the area. He washed his hair repeatedly, not really caring that the repeated scraping at his scalp made the ache inside his skull worse.

It was something like penance for the previous night's events, which were hazy and inaccurate in his memory, clouded by the steam of the shower and the aftereffects of an unknown amount of alcohol, which only made the all-encompassing guilt he felt clearer. He half expected a letter to arrive at any moment proclaiming him to be expelled from Hogwarts for underage use of magic the morning he was returning to school. Involuntarily, Draco's lip merely curled in disgust at his own stupidity.

In truth, expulsion would be a mild consequence; depending on the severity of the injuries he had caused the other young man--and from what little he did remember clearly, he wasn't sure they would be mere bruises and scratches--he could very well be put before the Wizengamot. There would be no hesitation on that front--to have the father and the son would be something like a crowning achievement for that useless dull-wit Fudge and the rest of his ineffective cabinet.

Draco understood very well what that set of consequences could--would--mean for him, and yet a funny feeling of apathy had settled on him like a wool blanket, when he was sure that he should be feeling something other than an empty, abstract sort of frustrated depression.

The guilt though, was sharp and immediate.

He scoured his pale hair yet again and turned the lever so that the water was near scalding. He knew what his father would say if he knew what Draco had done. It might have been one of the rare occasions that Lucius raised his voice to his son, berating him in angered tones as Draco unsuccessfully tried to explain himself or make half-hearted attempts to interject. More likely he would express in the iciest of tones how disappointed he was in Draco's actions and the tarnish he placed on the Malfoy name while Draco wished to sink through the floor. The Malfoy name irreversibly besmirched for a few hours of clubbing.

He felt a hot flood of shame as he imagined his father's reaction to his indiscretion. It made the feeling all the more acute to know Lucius wouldn't find out about it and he would go unpunished for his stupidity.

It was a difficult task to stave off the imposing feeling of hollow anxiety, but not impossible, and Draco did it beautifully via a copious amounts of soap, shampoo, and denial. The only thing he was unable to rid himself of was the nagging question: how the hell had he gotten home? The scenarios his mind created made him sick with shame and apprehension; it was obvious he hadn't managed to get home without help.

The question now: Who would he be unable to look in the eye today?

He had a very clear idea of who that would be. He prayed that Blaise would have the grace to let the incident pass without comment. Nevertheless, he was thankful that it was Blaise, who - for all his theatrics and an attitude of complete indifference - had a surprising amount of discretion.

The blistering spray hit his raw skin like razors. He took pleasure in the feeling, letting the water beat down on his face and slide over his back and shoulders, the heat loosening the painful tension that suffused his muscles. For long minute he stood under the spray, his mind mercifully blank. It was a blessing to focus solely on the hot water flowing over him. Finally, he turned off the water and wrapped a thick towel around his waist, taking another from the rack to rub his hair dry.

Reluctantly he faced the mirror. His skin was damp and flushed from the heat of the shower, which served to emphasize the discolorations on his side. He looked ill. Pale hair hung into his face, dampness darkening it to the color of ash. There was a minor bruise on his jaw, but it was barely noticeable, for which he was grateful. His features were drawn, bluish circles smudged beneath his eyes, which were over bright and exhausted.

Draco stared at the face that gazed out of the mirror, seeing a near perfect reproduction of his father's face, the copy made more perfect by the drawn quality that had not faded with a few, inadequate hours of sleep. The same fair-as-death skin, same pale hair, straight and thick; the legacy of Lucius Malfoy. Draco had stopped slicking his hair back, but wet as it was at the moment, it was a dead on match. Ash colored brows formed straight, neat lines over mercurial eyes that looked, by some trick of light, silver as the lining of a cloud and very, very far away.

He didn't have the time or energy to sort through all of the emotions that were undulating too quickly toward the surface, so he shoved them away, clearing his head and setting his mind on the task before him. He returned to his chamber and carefully selected his attire, buttoning his shirt and smoothing his trousers meticulously, before running a comb through his hair, lacing his boots and sliding his wand into the pocket of his trousers.

When he looked at his reflection in the mirror again, an aristocratic, collected young man stared back at him. Not a hair was out of place, and his expression was haughty and sarcastic, any trace of his earlier distinct expression wiped clean away.

At that moment he could have fooled anyone into believing that nothing had changed, himself included.

*

With the sounds of early morning coming through the window and the scent of eggs, coffee, and bacon drifting through the air, Hermione was sure she had awoken to the most perfect instant in all of time.

Sitting up and pushing tangles away from her eyes, Hermione yawned, deliciously content. Today was the first day of school; she'd be back at Hogwarts, starting her sixth year--

It hit her then, much as delivery truck might hit an unsuspecting kitten.

She had kissed Ron.

Much as she would have liked to throw a fit of some sort--joyous or self-berating, she was unsure--she calmly got out of bed, gathered up her things and headed to the bathroom. After performing her morning ablutions she donned her skirt and blouse and began to work on her hair, still damp from the shower. Ginny reluctantly awoke, stumbling hurriedly to the bathroom when she realized what time it was.

As Hermione yanked the comb through her hair, Hermione's mind whirled around the thought of The Kiss (even in her head it required capitol letters). It wasn't as if she hadn't kissed anyone before; Viktor had seen to that, and she couldn't say that she had been unenthusiastic. But the differences were numerous when comparing Viktor and Ron. Ron was her own age, and had known her for five years. Viktor had been speaking to her for barely more than two weeks before asking her to the Yule Ball, and had been considerably older. With Viktor, a kiss had been that and nothing more. When he'd gone back to Bulgaria, things had been truly friendly between the two of them, and had stayed so; his letters were platonic and genuinely affable. With Ron, the were years of history between them.

With Ron, everything meant something.

But what could Ron possibly mean by kissing her without prelude in the middle of Diagon Alley after so long spent denying that he had feelings for her, after all the arguments, the embarrassed moments when she'd began to think that perhaps she'd been wrong and--

"Hermione!"

She jumped at the sound of her name. Ginny was staring at her impatiently.

"C'mon! We'll be late if we don't hurry." Hermione raised the brush to her hair without thinking. "You stopped brushing your hair ten minutes ago, and it looks the same now as it did then." She eyed the other girl suspiciously, before shaking her head. "And you're the one who's a prefect, staring off into space like a concussed mooncalf."

*

Platform 9 ¾ was teeming with students, all of whom seemed to be speaking to at least three different people at once. Owls hooted, parents called out reminders to forgetful children, and cries of cheerful reunion rose up.

Something in the quality of the familiar din was strange to Hermione's ears.

Though she had at first regarded it as over sensitivity on her part, as she found herself talking with Lavender Brown in a friendlier manner than she had ever thought possible, she became more sure: a sense of forceful comradery seemed to have settled on Hogwarts's students.

She didn't think it was obvious to many others--it was an unconscious action. Or more accurately, an overreaction to the relief of being back among fellow students, people you could never be quite sure were still real until you saw them up close.

Then again, perhaps she was assigning her own feelings to others.

The words "You-Know-Who" were heard more often than usual in snatches of conversation, and in quieter voices than was necessary, as if releasing suppressed tension in short, anxious bursts. So many unabashed glances had brushed Harry's scar that Hermione considered it a miracle that smudge marks hadn't been left on his forehead, like fingerprints on fine glass. The look of ill-concealed displeasure that crossed Harry's face each time a new pair of eyes surveyed him worried her more than she liked to admit to herself.

Harry caught her staring at him. She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, but she knew it was useless--he turned away, like he had from every other attempt made by anyone. It was one of those things she both adored and hated about Harry; he'd do what was necessary to get through anything, but you could never be sure how much it cost him until long after it was said and done and too late to change anything.

She understood why they looked to Harry. He was their sign; the proof that good could triumph over evil even while he served as a reminder of just how close to them the darkness could come.

It was becoming rapidly clearer that safety was no longer a guarantee.

The Daily Prophet had reported the stories, one in early July and another in August. They had been near the back of the paper, short columns of less than one hundred and fifty words each, drowned with coverage of the high-profile stories that gave no new information to the public.

"Responding to a report of magical disturbance, Ministry officials departed for a small Muggle neighborhood in Kent Thursday evening...Upon arrival, ministry officials found the residence Ezra and Doreen Sayre missing...Their son, Justin, 6, was found in the family's cellar in shock...He was taken to St. Mungo's Hospital before being released to the custody of his aunt ... Further investigation will continue."

"Alexander MacDonald, 45, and his daughter Natalie, 13, have been reported missing after Mr. MacDonald did not report for work at Whizzhard books Monday morning and could not be contacted... co-worker of MacDonald's stopped by the residence to find the front door unlocked and the house empty... Investigations are ongoing"

Neither of the reports had made it anywhere near the Daily Prophet's cover page, which was taken up by coverage of the Death Eater trials being held, most notably Lucius Malfoy's. His face had adorned the front page for a solid week prior to his trial. When Malfoy was finally put before the Wizengamot at the start of August, the proceedings had been surprisingly quick, lasting for only the better part of two afternoons before he was neatly packed off to Azkaban.

The Ministry acted as if it were a huge victory, putting away such an insidious villain. It was tacitly ignored that this insidious villain had been an important political figure only a few months before.

The Ministry's answer to this was to downplay and even at times ignore it's own sorry state of internal affairs. Instances that should have been plastered across the front page of the Daily Prophet had been tacitly shunted away from the public eye.

Whether it was more to keep the public from panicking or to mask the ministry's ineptitude was unclear. For Hermione, it failed to do either.

After all, a small, scathing voice in Hermione's mind hissed, "If one doesn't want the people know how dark of a shadow they're living under, don't remind them what real sunlight looks like." Vaguely, she thought that this might have been a line from a book she had read, but the title of the work eluded her.

Due to the fact that a meeting would be held before breakfast on the second day of classes, prefects were not required to sit in their assigned carriage for the train ride. Upon their arrival at the platform Ginny had immediately abandoned her companions upon sight of Dean Thomas--who had grinned at her affectionately and kissed her, unaware of a rather threatening glare from Ron--leaving the trio to find an empty compartment. They managed to find one near the back of the train and settled in.

For some reason it was impossible to find anything to say.

The three were silent for a while, Harry staring out the window at nothing as if it were the most interesting thing in the entire world, Hermione watching him in much the same manner, and Ron seemingly wanting to say something but refraining from it.

The grating tension was like the buzz of fluorescent lights in an otherwise silent room, a sound Hermione hated with a passion. The train pulled away from the station, and a final flurry of goodbyes was shouted out the windows to family members before the students settled into their compartments or traveled to others to talk with companions that hadn't seen all summer.

Laughter filtered into the compartment as the door was opened.

"Oh, no, occupied," said the young man turning to someone behind him before inclining his head a fraction with the word "Granger."

"Zabini," she said coolly. This received a suspicious look from Ron, who had been staring with a combination of disturbance and confusion at Zabini's T-shirt, which read, "I've been a bad boy. Send me to your room." for reasons Hermione did not want to contemplate

"Blaise, stop consorting with the serfs," a voiced intoned lazily from behind him. "Just because they appear diseased and helpless does not mean that one need feel pity for them." Ron snarled at this, making as if to rise from his seat, and Harry turned from the window, his previously unfocused gaze alighting on the pale countenance of the figure standing next to Zabini, who seemed to be trying to keep from laughing.

"Malfoy, you--,"

"Don't over tax yourself Weasley," Malfoy interrupted. "Sentence structure isn't one of your strong suits." Ron went a shade of red not generally found in nature. Malfoy smirked, his eyes narrowed as if it was not even worth the effort to open them fully for the lowly creatures before him. Zabini stood patiently at his side, saying nothing. His expression was bright and amused, but an underlying wariness hovered in them behind their dark vivacity.

"So how's your father been, Draco?'' Harry asked, his words falsely conversational. Hermione watched what little color there was in Malfoy's face drain from it. It didn't seem possible to be that white, as if not just color but life was leeching away from the surface of Malfoy's skin. What was just as disturbing, if not more so, was Harry's tone. She had never heard him sound so cruel, even to Malfoy, bastard that he was.

Malfoy's wand was out and pointed between Harry's eyes in the time it took to blink.

Harry was still quicker, on his feet and half the disarming spell already on his lips before Malfoy ever had a chance to strike. His wand shot from his hand and clattered to Harry's feet. Harry nudged it with the toe of his trainer so that it rolled over the floor to a place a foot from where Malfoy was standing.

Eyes fierce with fury and frustration, Malfoy slowly dropped to one knee and retrieved his wand, his gaze never leaving the dark headed boy standing before him whose expression was a study in impassivity.

He straightened almost formally, and seemed ready to try again at hexing Harry, when Zabini hissed something barely audible at Malfoy before turning to another compartment and walked away. Malfoy followed him with a look of murder in his eyes.

Hermione wondered about that as she stood to shut the compartment door. The comment on his father had thrown him into a cold fury. He had gone the color of skim milk, as if he were shutting off a part of himself. It had been like a light bulb burning out.

Harry had become more alive, his eyes blazing at the anticipation of a fight. He needed to fight something, anything, and Hermione was starting to believe that he didn't really care who or what that was, so long as it put up resistance of some sort.

It was a far and frightening cry from her Harry, a boy she now had to look very closely to see.

*

He's the fucking Boy Who Lived. You won't win this fight. Ever.

Blaise's words had frozen Draco, striking him hard and leaving him paralyzed more efficiently than any hex Potter could have cast on him. Blaise walked off to find Vince, Pansy, and Greg. Draco followed, hating Blaise more with every step.

He'd still followed.

Though it went unsaid, it was clear that Blaise had been the one to take him home the previous night. It ate at him that he should feel beholden to Blaise, who said nothing of the previous nights events. Instead it hung between them unsaid. Draco himself was determined to remain silent, lest he draw more attention to the situation, which he was desperately trying to drive out of his still-aching head.

You won't win this fight. Ever.

He'd been right, which had incensed Draco most. It really was that obvious to the rest of the world that no matter how hard he fought, wherever he stood, he would always, always lose to Potter.

Blaise pulled open the door to a compartment, revealing Greg asleep, his head tipped back and mouth open as he snored in much the same manner as a severely congested bull. Pansy and Vince sat across from one another on the seat next to him, playing cards. Pansy cheated shamelessly, taking full advantage of the fact that Vince rarely noticed she was cheating. When he did happen to catch her at it, he tended not to say anything, merely give her suspicious looks. Pansy responded by flashing him a wide, unabashedly insincere smile before continuing to beat him thoroughly.

Blaise draped himself over one of the empty benches, putting a stick of gum in his mouth and folding the wrapper into a small square and flicking it toward Greg's sleeping form. Draco sat down across from him, eyes alight with anger. He knew at that moment he looked very much like a petulant, sulking child, but his rage burned away any self-consciousness. After a moment, Blaise looked up, his expression bored.

"What the fuck was that?" Draco snarled at the other boy. "Where the hell do you get off t -,"

"I'd rather not be threatened with expulsion the second we step of the train, if it's all the same to you." Blaise's clipped tone cut him off sharply.

Pansy looked up from her game. "What's the matter with you two? Run into the terrible trio?"

Draco laughed mirthlessly. "Blaise was just having a good time talking with Granger when Potter and I got into a little argument, which her for some reason he felt the need to get in the middle of." He turned toward Blaise. "Why were you chatting with the Mudblood anyway?" The query was falsely good-natured and dripping with ire.

Pansy looked at the boy, confused. "Blaise, what--,"

"Did the events of last night leave your head entirely?" Blaise snapped, ignoring Pansy entirely as he glared at Draco is something very like a challenge.

Draco wanted to hex him. Blaise acted as if he was the one at fault, as if he had had control over the events that had taken place. It felt a like being disowned, watching them disapprove of him when he deserved their understanding. Damn but this was not how things were supposed to go. Since when was any of this his fault?

"Is there something else I can help you with?" Blaise asked, cocking an eyebrow at the pale boy, who hadn't taken his eyes off him

"Why the bloody hell did you stop me?" Draco's expression was one of anger and disdain, insulted by Blaise's interference. Pansy had now fully abandoned the game in front of her, frowning slightly before turning her back to Vince, her attention now on the conversation between the two boys.

"Because you were being stupid." Blaise's words came out very slowly, as if re-explaining himself for the thousandth time to a slow child. Draco opened his mouth to form a cutting protest, but Zabini cut him off. "How hard did you hit your head last night? 'Cause you seem to have forgotten that you got were brawling in a lavatory. And then you feel the need to get into a duel with Potter, icon and bloody savior of the magical world."

All of this came out in a very conversational tone, Blaise's expression something between uninterested and vaguely exasperated. Draco's reply was slow acid.

"Tell me, when did you develop a conscience? Because it doesn't really suit you." His tone implied a thousand transgressions that Blaise had committed, all of which Draco could describe in detail.

Blaise's expression faltered for half a second before returning to mild annoyance. "You see the shrubbery so clearly, but I swear you wouldn't notice the forest if it bloody fell on you. They'll kick you out for the smallest thing, you know." He continued, "Things aren't in your favor any longer. None of us are going to be showered by any sort of benevolence. So make it easy for the rest of us and be an idiot on your own time."

Draco might have protested this, but he decided against it. He knew he had been wrong, and had been berating himself for it since around eight that morning. But to hear Blaise say the same thing to him that he had been saying to himself chafed at him fiercely. For Blaise of all people to take up this attitude of sober sensibility--after all the shit he'd pulled, all of the things he'd gotten away with, all the thing he hadn't gotten away with--angered Draco beyond measure. The whole stinking world had turned upside-down and against him and everyone he knew with it.

Pansy's brows were drawn together at this. She turned to Draco, as if about to say something, but thought better of it, her face going expressionless.

"Look, there are fewer students in Slytherin this year than any year we've been at Hogwarts," Blaise stated, his words resigned in way that was more foreign to his nature than an icicle would be to Hades. Still, the anger was gone. He continued, "I heard from Ted Nott that three of the seventh years have transferred to Durmstrang, not to mention all the families who are just sending their kids to smaller schools like Wyverly and Olmond. Hogwarts hasn't got to even pretend to be civil to us any longer. "

The pause that followed is words held more meaning that the words themselves. For a long second, no one spoke, only glanced at one another, attempting to gauge the type of reaction appropriate in response to what had just been said. Pansy broke in first.

"Slytherin's always been the smallest house." Her tone was haughty, serving to emphasize confidence she was very obviously not feeling. "This isn't going to change anything." Her words came out more as if she wanted to believe them than as if she actually did, with vehemence that was directed at everyone in the compartment. "And no one will find out what happened last night," she said pointedly, but her eyes didn't meet those of anyone else in the compartment. She began to gather up the cards, shuffling them and reshuffling them before putting them into a fold of her robes.

The list of people that Draco Malfoy was not willing to lie to was an exceedingly short one. The first name that appeared on that list was his. So while he projected the appearance of taking the girl's words to heart, there had never been so much as an instant that he found himself relaxing into the false sense of security those words provided. As the conversation turned toward a more normal line of topics, Draco found his eyes wandering more and more often to, and eventually out the window, and his mind with it, even as he kept up a light banter with his housemates.

Brooding was something he had not indulged in since early summer. However, it was a very Slytherin pastime, and house pride was after all terribly important. By the time they had passed into Scotland, they had lapsed into silence, Blaise eventually leaving the compartment with an eloquently distracted expression on his face and a murmured excuse about going to talk to some of his friends in Ravenclaw.

Draco was about to make a very scathing comment on the other boy's earlier demeanor, but something in Pansy's expression stopped him, and he lapsed more deeply back into his previous state of brooding solemnity.

The sky purpled to the shade of a fresh bruise, then darkened to the inky velvet blue marred by ten thousand minute pinpricks of faraway light. The breaks of the engine squealed and sighed and finally halted.

Draco got to his feet, Vince stepping in behind him and Greg falling in opposite him, Pansy taking her place at Draco's elbow out of habit, forming the unit of "Malfoy's Court" that they knew best. The familiarity of it was comforting, reassuring, or perhaps just reminding them of who they were now that they had arrived. They would play their roles well; too busy acting the parts to remember that they were something other than the characters they portrayed for the eyes of others.

Forgetting a thing does not transform it. Merely, it suspends the inevitable realization of a truth, which is often more overwhelming in it's delay.

*

Things were not going well for Angeline Viridian, for a number of reasons.

Her left foot was falling asleep.

There was a smudge on one of the lenses of her eyeglasses.

Something in the trifle really had not agreed with her.

And she was bloody nervous.

She was seriously reconsidering the intelligence of her decision to take the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts School, and for far better reasons than bad trifle and nerves.

The Sorting hat had been cleared away along with the newly sorted first years. All applause had died, the silence that replaced it laced with expectation. Every eye in the hall was focused on the head table, waiting for the Headmaster to speak. The surety they had in him surpassed reason. Save for those seated at the staff table, it was possible to count on one hand those present who had lived to witness any sort event that provided a basis for that type of blind faith.

"It is a sad day when we find ourselves returning to Hogwarts with fewer in our number than there should be..."

Angeline Viridian was not one of these people, and she did happen to be seated at the staff table, something she still had a difficult time accepting. Somehow, she was working as a teacher for a man she had no reason to place any sort of trust in.

There was a complete injustice to this. She was twenty-seven years old, intelligent, and more than confident that she could--and would--do her job well. She would not have been hired if it were otherwise. In all truth, if she hadn't believed herself that she wasn't suited to it, she'd never have accepted the position. She'd been asked to--though who would apply after what had happened in recent years--and decided to take on the position. It would be a challenge, but her other options were less than appealing, so she had taken up the offer and was now seated at a table she could remember staring at from her seat at from her house table as a student and thinking of how she couldn't wait to be away from this place for good.

She was seated among her own professors, now her fellow staff members, wondering how the hell she had gotten into this situation, which was sure to evolve into a disaster, as a man she had at one time feared and had never like or really even trusted, comforted the students--her students now as well--over the loss of two their numbers.

The headmaster had finished with his speech and was now moving on to other matters.

" . . .more encouraging, note, I would like to introduce the newest member of the Hogwarts staff, Professor Angeline Viridian."

She tried not to let her smile turn cynical at how the word "professor" sounded to her - which was more like a sentence for some crime more than anything - or the applause that followed his words.

*

"First years this way." Hermione called out over the commotion of the end of the feast. Stuffed with food, the high of anticipation deserting them, the newest Gryffindors were acquiescent, picking themselves up from the table and making their way to the entrance to the hall. Harry and Ron were ahead of her, talking with Seamus and Neville about some incomprehensible and intensely masculine subject. After the summer they'd had, Hermione was glad that they had slipped back into the comfortable normality of school, though in truth it was too early to be sure of this. And there was a restrained air about the way they spoke. The solemnity of the Headmaster's speech had muffled the exuberance of the students.

The train ride had consisted of conversation that at one time was by all appearances normal, aside from the extensive explanation to Ron that Zabini was simply in her Arithmancy class, no, he was not to her knowledge in inherently evil, and no, she did not associate with him on a regular basis.

Still, after Malfoy's little appearance Hermione had continued to catch herself glancing at Harry, as if trying to discern where that aberrant vitriol had come from. Harry was normally one of the most compassionate people she knew. It was so rare that he purposefully said anything so hurtful. He knew firsthand how it felt to be struck regularly with petty cruelties; she understood from the very little that Harry had told her of his relatives that he loathed the grinding tension of their constant unconscious nastiness. It was something that she loved about him that he was so different from them, not allowing their bigoted resentment make him into something weak or spiteful.

"So how's your father been, Draco?''

It had been so direct an attack, so cutting, and vindictive. The cool malice of the remark, so lightly said, was so unlike Harry. He was the type to get angry and yell or fume. Snide remarks were Malfoy's province, and the Slytherin had merely stood there as if he'd been slapped across the face.

But it had been Malfoy, and he was a nasty, racist, slimy little snot that deserved whatever he got. And he'd always been the one person who could get to Harry more than anyone. He made it his goal to make Harry notice him and to draw Harry into conflict.

Hermione saw it then, but she didn't think to stop it. She stood watching the whole thing unfold like a well-rehearsed play, each detail a variation on a theme that had been created ages. Harry and Ron were standing, conversing with Seamus. Harry was facing the entrance of the Great hall, which Malfoy was just leaving, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, to whom he was talking to spiritedly. His hands were moving rapidly and his eyes were bright as the two larger boys nodded along with his clearly rapid speech, catching perhaps every word out of five.

Harry's eyes, which had been focused on Seamus, traveled to a point past the sandy-haired boy's shoulder. His attention appeared to remain on the other boy, his eyes narrowed in that way that was reserved for one person, alighting on the Slytherin, whose animation at the moment was out of place after the sober nature of the feast. Hermione thought of the way so many eyes had traveled over to the Slytherin table during the feast in response to the bright, inappropriate laughter that had bubbled up from time to time. The almost defiant quality to Malfoy's unconcerned brightness made it impossible to ignore.

Harry had never been able to ignore Malfoy, who seemed to make a goal of Getting Potter's Attention.

Malfoy's eyes flicked to Harry, brimming with fierce rage. Hermione saw the palest pink flush spread over the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. Suddenly, everything about him said determination.

It wasn't any different now than it ever had been.

The two boys had not been in danger of so much as brushing sleeves before they had taken note of each other. If they had never noticed one another, they would have passed without even feeling the disturbance of the air created by their robes. But somehow Harry was standing directly in Malfoy's way, doing anything but moving and suddenly the two were set to collide as if it had been ordained by the gods.

Their shoulders struck, and their stances were defensive before either had had a chance to even register the actual blow.

"Watch where you're going, Malfoy!" Harry snarled into Malfoy's face.

They were less than a foot apart, ready to launch themselves at each other, needing a catalyst.

"Is it my fault you don't have the brains to move out of the way, Potter?" the Slytherin sneered in reply, shoving Harry away from him.

Harry's wand was out before Hermione could blink; Malfoy's followed within the second, jinxes called out in sharp heated voices as students moved out of the way of the two. The jet of blue-white light from Malfoy's wand shot past Harry an inch from his face, which elicited a gasp from Hermione, as well as a few of the first years standing behind her that she had all but forgotten. The jinx hit one of large windows, obliterating one of the panes of tinted glass. Harry's aim was off by his dodging the jinx. His own jinx caught one of the doors to the Great Hall.

Neither boy got a chance at a second shot.

"What the hell are the two of you doing?" a female voice called out angrily. Harry and Malfoy's heads turned in unison to see the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor standing a foot from the spot that Harry's jinx had hit. There was a scorch mark in the wood that still smoked slightly.

Hermione found herself biting her lip to keep herself from calling out the words "It wasn't Harry's fault!" But then really... that wasn't true was it? He could have stepped out of Malfoy's way; he could have refrained from casting the jinx that was now bringing down the anger of their new professor on him.

"What were the two of you doing, dueling the middle of a hallway? What makes you think you're so special that you can act completely irresponsibly?" The new professor was now standing between the two boys, who had both been effectively silenced by this last comment. Harry at least had the decency to look somewhat contrite, though he shot a murderous glance at Malfoy. The Slytherin had his chin lifted defiantly; though he was looking a bit unsure by now, unused to the sheer volume the young professor had used to express herself. The way her eyes were narrowed and blazing did not bode well for either of the boys.

"What is going on here?" Hermione recognized the voice of her head of house. Professor McGonagall's lips were almost invisible; so tightly were they pressed together. Her hair was pulled back severely as usual, and the whiteness of outrage that colored her face made the sight all the more striking.

The new professor turned quickly at the sound of McGonagall's voice, an expression on her face that Hermione would wonder about afterward. For a second she didn't speak, then, seeming to remember herself, she stated clearly, in tones much more even than those she had uses to address the two boys, "These two seemed to think that this would be the perfect setting to show off their dueling skills."

Hermione thought she could almost hear McGonagall's enraged indignation at the thought of one of her own students being so far out of bounds, and it was at this point that she felt very sorry for Harry, who was very likely going to be receiving one of the nastier punishments of his school career.

"Professor Viridian, would you be so kind as to take Mr. Malfoy to his head of house and explain the situation," Professor McGonagall said in a voice that was very quiet and much too calm to foreshadow anything other than Something Very Ugly. "Mr. Potter, please come with me."

The younger professor nodded, giving both of the boys somewhat odd looks, before heading toward the dungeons. Malfoy followed like a man headed for the gallows.

Professor McGonagall surveyed the crowd of students that gathered around to witness the spectacle. "The rest of you have places to be," she state primly. "I suggest you go to them. Now." With that, she headed toward the nearest stair, Harry making his way up the staircase after her with an expression of mute rage on his face.

*

Later, when Hermione was back in her dormitory, she thought again about Harry's clash with Malfoy. The entirely rules and regulations centered side of her mind kept reminding her clearly that Harry shouldn't have let Malfoy get to him like that. He simply wasn't worth it.

In another part of her mind, she wondered if maybe Harry had let it happen. He had stood before Voldemort - she was able to say the name in her thoughts now at least - and held his own. How could someone like Draco Malfoy get to anyone so much?