Reflections in a Broken Mirror

Chapter Four - Warnings

Take these hands they're good for nothing

You know these hands have never worked a day

Take these boots they're going nowhere

You know these boots don't want to stray

Severus Snape was not in the best of dispositions. When the knock at the door to his office came late in the evening, interrupting his preparations for the following day's classes, he knew immediately that what would follow would inevitably try his patience severely. Setting down his quill, he called irritably, "Come in."

The door opened to reveal Professor Viridian followed by a sullenly impassive Draco Malfoy, whose smoke colored eyes stared straight ahead into the middle distance and gave away nothing.

"Professor McGonagall asked me to escort Mr. Malfoy. He and a boy from Gryffindor were dueling outside the Great hall just now." She seemed about to say more, but thought better of it and simply nodded in his direction

"I see. Thank you, Professor Viridian," he said, his eyes coming to rest on Draco as the other professor turned to leave the classroom.

Severus regarded his student for a moment, saying nothing, before motioning to the chair before his desk. The boy sat, but remained silent, waiting to be addressed, making it clear he would volunteer nothing. Severus continued to work on the lesson plan before him for several minutes, making notations in neat, slanted print as the boy sitting before his desk became perceptibly uncomfortable. Finally, Severus set down his quill and addressed the boy.

"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, were you born without self-control?" His tone was cold and impassive, and the boy's expression flickered in just the slightest.

"Potter started it, Sir," he stated firmly, the natural defiance of his words held in check. The immaturity of his statement did not matter - it managed not to sound like an excuse, but the description of an affront to Draco's honor.

"Is Potter's idiocy an excuse for your own?" Again, his words were icy-quiet, but cold ire was always the worst, because it didn't burn itself out. The serene quiet of the room had turned thick like clotting blood.

Severus Snape had liked very few students in his long tenure as Potions master. He found most children to be either unequivocally dull-witted or high on their own supposed intelligence. Few had the work ethic or precocity that he appreciated in a student, and many who did show traces of talent where often preoccupied with idiotic pursuits, intent on wasting their abilities.

When Severus had first been faced with the eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy, he had held out no hope for the boy. He had met the boy on more than one occasion while visiting Malfoy Manor on business, but had withheld any type of judgment on the child's character. Granted, he was Lucius' son, but this was no guarantee of anything. Upon truly assessing him that first time, he found the boy to be arrogant and too clever by half, but not clever enough to know how to use his intelligence to his advantage, instead inflicting it upon others in a terribly irksome manner. Worst, he believed that his father's name was enough to strike fear into the souls of nearly anyone that did not act as he wished. He was Malfoy to the core, but he lacked the cool reserve that had been bred in to the very essence of his forefathers.

Then Severus had learned who the boy was, seen the true substance of him. He could remember it down to the day, almost to the hour, so deep an impression it had made.

Severus had wanted very badly to send each one of them right back out the door the second they had stepped through it, with the command to grow about five inches. He had barely trusted them to hold butter knives safely, and shuddered to think what horrors the sniveling brats might produce when allowed access to hellebore and an open flame The Potter boy had proven himself an idiot at every turn, a veritable carbon copy of his father. The Granger girl's constant twitching as if she might explode did she not answer a question gave proof to his suspicion that she was in fact an insufferable know-it-all.

His own new students had been little better; Parkinson and Bulstrode scribbling notes to one another as Zabini had swung his feet incessantly and loudly popped chewing gum. If this had not been trying enough, Severus had found himself having to put up with Malfoy and his two hulking friends erupting into fits of laughter every time the Potter boy had answered a question incorrectly.

Snape had held out no hope for finding any sort of talent in this class, praying that the Ravenclaws were a brighter set. He had paired the students, and was surprised to find that Lucius' son had not only settled into his work easily, but had bullied the much larger Vincent Crabbe into silence, quite competently stewed his horned slugs and was now adding powdered snake fang to the pleasantly steaming cauldron with bright-eyed concentration. Severus had been surprised at the neat efficiency with which the boy worked, as well as the meticulous care he took with every detail. He had complemented Draco on his work, surprising himself and the boy, who had gone still in what mirrored confusion and then stared at him with unabashed admiration. Severus had been thrown by the boy's reaction.

He had been even more surprised to discover that after that day, the boy had seemed to feel the need to prove himself worthy of that small show of approval. The boy's drive to prove himself bordered on obsessive, startling Severus.

Then again, he was Lucius' son, his flesh and blood. It only made sense that he reflect this aspect of his father's character as well.

The Potions master had gradually become accustomed to this oddity in the boy, who took every opportunity given him to prove that he was the best, that he was worthy.

The one thing the boy lacked was an ability to control himself. It was impossible for Draco to allow a chance to have the last word pass him by. He had an uncanny knack for getting himself in trouble.

Or at least, he had at the age of twelve, when such things were nothing more than immaturity and impulsivity

Now, as he stood on the cusp of adulthood, it became recklessness and something like unconscious self-sabotage.

"Draco -," he started, his voice still artic and without emotion. That he used the boy's first name was a measure of untold affection, though Severus would die rather than admit it. "I have been your instructor and head of house for five years. You have always been a competent student and intelligent in your own right."

Severus was taken aback for a moment by the way the boy's eyes fair glowed at his words, before he remembered himself and his face was calm and opaque again, showing less than nothing. Undeterred by the boy's momentary slip, Severus continued. "And yet, for some reason, you cannot find it in you to show even a modicum of maturity when you are faced with Potter or any of his little companions."

" Sir, I -," he began, but Severus cut him off in a whisper sharp as a blade.

"I would have thought that recent events would have taught you to curb your temper at least. Surely you see the results of not keeping yourself in check." Draco's face paled the slightest bit at that, but Severus continued, his voice soft as ever. "Surely you were raised differently," he said, striking hard and deep.

It took so little to achieve his intended end.

The boy flinched visibly before a blank stare overtook his eyes. He'd hit something that time, Severus knew. The one thing that had always kept the boy in line was the desperate aspiration to please his father, and Severus had learned to exploit this desire. Lucius Malfoy's disapproval, real or imagined, was enough to keep his son obedient and focused.

It was also a constant reminder of the strange hold Lucius Malfoy had over his son. Severus was aware of the unsentimental and virtually affectionless hand Lucius took in raising his son; that the boy was so fiercely devoted to pleasing him was a testament to a twisted sort of perseverance on Draco's part.

Severus was deeply disgusted by this waste of fidelity to a man and an ideal so flawed.

That Severus saw this same quality in himself was not the issue at hand.

Draco's face was an impassive mask again, but Severus knew the boy well enough to see the tension in his shoulders and the look in his eye that meant too many things at once.

" Your prefecture is already in jeopardy due to your actions, Mr. Malfoy," he said softly, carefully avoiding the familiar use of the boy's first name and stressing the last word just slightly. "You'll have detention for the next week. And -," he added, cutting the boy off before he had a chance to protest, "if there is a repetition of this indiscretion, I can guarantee that detention will be the least of your worries."

The boy's eyes were unreadable, but his jaw tightened the slightest bit.

"You may make as many attempts to waste your potential as you wish, but I certainly won't aid you. And I strongly suggest you avoid this situation or any one like it in the future. You may go."

At length, he added, "If you wish to continue your duties in assisting me as you did last year, you may begin next week."

Without another word, he returned to the lesson plan he had been working out as if Draco wasn't there. The boy had been dismissed and there was nothing more to it.

It wasn't until he heard the door shut behind the boy that he let out the breath he had been holding.

Something in him told him that this once, it had been wrong to bring up Lucius. The boy needed his own reasons to save himself from himself. He regretted his words to the boy, but Severus understood regret well. He had accepted a long time ago that there were things he hadn't the power to change, and there was little he could do in this case, no matter how much he might want to intervene.

It wasn't his place, and it never would be.

*

Blaise Zabini stared up at the low stone ceiling of the dungeons, his eyes following a meandering crack above him. The back of his head rested on the couch's back, the fabric creating a crosshatched pattern on his skin that he could feel too well. Pansy lay with her head pillowed on the arm of the sofa, taking up two full cushions of her own and most of Blaise's as well, her ankles crossed and one heel resting against the boy's hip.

The two had taken up residence on the couch after the feast with some comment or another about not being tired by way of explanation to their fellow sixth years. It went unspoken that they were waiting for Draco. Blaise wasn't sure why he had chosen to; if he examined all of it logically, he and Draco were more acquaintances than friends. The two had been nearly inseparable for a few months during their fourth year, but they had drifted.

Or so Blaise liked to tell himself. He remembered down to the second when he and Draco had stopped being friends and entered that grey uncomfortable area with no name that had eventually dissolved into the funny half-friendly tension the two had resided in ever since. When they had left school at the end of fourth year, Blaise had been unsure whether he was hurt, angry, or just disgusted. Eventually he had set all of this aside and settled on indifferent. He hadn't known what Draco had felt about it, but he found he didn't much care.

They had returned the summer after fourth year to find themselves nearly strangers to one another. Blaise, in tattered blue jeans, his hair, which had never quite been neat now curling darkly over his ears and the words to "Rock the Casbah" on his lips, had just stared at the neat, pallid boy with a silvery prefect's badge gleaming on the front of his dark robes, the crease of his crisp collar razor-sharp and not a single strand of light hair out of place.

Blaise had been unable to remember then, how they had ever managed to get along. Blaise's blood was as pure as it needed to be, and he'd been raised to respect names and lineage, but the Zabini family hadn't managed to weather the centuries without a healthy understanding of adaptation. And when Blaise had stood facing his one-time friend, he had stepped away, readjusted himself to the rift between himself and this boy, and had begun to create a new definition for what was between them.

The two still talked, assuredly. They managed that easily; it was a sort of mutual understanding of each other that allowed them to hang out and occasionally raise hell when the stars aligned in such a way, as they had the night before, and to tacitly ignore certain issues on which they were destined to oppose one another.

At least, this was how it was supposed to work in theory; how it was supposed to work according to The Rules in Blaise's Mind.

In reality, Draco was devious and malicious, immature, too clever, and able to charm the fangs off a viper if he ever stopped being a bastard long enough to try. He didn't follow the rules he knew of, let alone the one's in Blaise Zabini's head, which was the reason, why things like the previous night happened, the reason why Draco hadn't had to fend for himself, because somehow if Draco didn't follow Blaise's rules, then Blaise couldn't either.

It was the reason Blaise had avoided talking about the previous night as best he could, considering the situation - a situation Draco seemed to have conveniently forgotten. It was the reason why he put up with things like last night, and today, and every other stupid, nasty thing Draco did. Draco didn't follow any of The Rules, and no matter how ugly a situation had the potential to be, it was still interesting, because if Draco was involved, it was bound to be interesting.

It was the reason Blaise was still sitting with Pansy, waiting for Draco to get back from a clearly deserved reprimand, even though Blaise didn't even like the other boy very much at the moment.

The Rules didn't apply to Draco Malfoy, even if The Rules didn't realize it. Draco would keep bending, twisting, and breaking them to his own advantage until the whole world worked like he wanted it to.

Or he died trying.

Sometimes Blaise really did wish the latter would happen. Like now, as he sat staring at the interesting crack in the ceiling.

"So you aren't even trying out?" Pansy asked, nudging him in the thigh with her foot, which was really insanely annoying when it was done more than once. Blaise was tempted to hex her sock if she did it again.

"No, I'm not, so stop askin'. I. Don't. Play. Quidditch." He lifted his head from the back of the sofa and looked over at the girl, who lay sprawled on the remaining space on the cushions. She nudged him with her foot again.

"Mustn't ruin your spotless image? Is that it?" she asked, her lower lip pushed out childishly.

"You just want to see me in those obscene Quidditch flannels," he shot back, playful suspicion in his voice. Pansy laughed, and wrinkled her pug nose in mock disgust, kicking him lightly in the thigh. One more time she does that, he thought, and the wrath of heaven will rain down on her stupid knee sock.

"You? You don't nearly have the arse for those pants," Pansy stated in a tone that made it clear she'd done a lot of observing. Her nose wrinkled again, and Blaise found himself thinking it didn't help that her nose was already rather hopeless without her scrunching it that way. "Anyway," Pansy continued, " you'd be hopeless at Quidditch, pants or no." A malicious smile started on her face. She'd picked that grin up from Draco, and she was good at it. It made her look different, and there was something about the expression Blaise liked, seeing it on her face.

Pansy tended to follow The Rules. She was easy to understand, which was part of why Blaise liked her. She said what she meant, and it always made some sort of sense. It was the kind of sense you might not always like, but it was solid, often wicked and always direct.

"Since when have you ever seen me play Quidditch, with or without pants?" he asked, knowing all the ways his words could be taken wrong. Pansy raised a suggestive eyebrow, but didn't rise to the bait. Too easy for a woman of her skill, who could find dirty meaning in an empty eggcup.

"I understand why, though. Really I do. Fear of heights really is an unfortunate thing," she said, ignoring the last comment. "Not even an interesting fear like being buried alive or McGonagall in her knickers." At this, she wiggled her toes within her sock. Blaise shivered at the sudden metal image of the Gryffindor head in a tartan teddy. He felt the sudden, burning need to wash out his brain.

"I have a healthy fear of both of those things. I'm not afraid of heights, I just - Parkinson, if you kick me again, I'm gonna -," Blaise dropped off as he caught sight of a bright blonde head passing though the entrance to the Slytherin commons.

"Ah, so the prodigal son has returned," Blaise called across the room. Draco came over to where they sat, saying nothing as Pansy moved her legs and sat up to give him a place to sit. Draco sat, and Blaise took just a second to appreciate the way he held his shoulders straight, the lines of tension about his body.

"So?" Pansy asked, her expression becoming one of concern that most likely mirrored the one Blaise would have worn if he'd allow his thoughts to show on his face, or admit to himself he was thinking along that line at all.

"That bastard Potter started this whole thing, and I'm the one who gets a reprimand. He bloody near took that new Professor's head off with his stupid jinx, and I get detention for a week!"

Blaise said nothing. He knew Draco well enough to know that the other young man didn't see his own fault in the situation. To point it out would be a personal attack, and Blaise wasn't in the mood for it. He watched instead how the other boy shook his pale hair back in that too familiar way that was almost disgustingly arrogant and at the same time oddly appealing. Like everything else about the other boy - interesting.

Pansy put a hand on Draco's shoulder, but he only shook her off. He'd been doing that more and more often. Blaise saw the half-second of angered hurt in her eyes before she sat back, her expression harder now, and resigned. "Is that all?" she asked, the thinnest film of sarcasm painted over her words in a way Blaise appreciated.

Draco missed it entirely, and turned to her, his eyebrows drawn in a silver line and his eyes churning like mercury. "Even Greg can follow conversation, Pansy, but somehow you managed to miss my entire point."

Pansy's expression hardened, and Blaise knew the exact second when the mask dropped and she made the conscious choice end her attempts at kindness.

"Sorry about that," she said softly, her eyes blazing. "Really, how could I make that mistake, when clearly you didn't deserve that after putting a hole through an antique stained glass window on the first night of term? It isn't as if you were in danger of being expelled or anything like that, after all. How could I have been so stupid? It's not as if you were caught in the bloody act."

Pansy stood, silent as she bent to pick up her shoes, which sat on the floor next to the sofa. Without a backward glance, she headed to the girl's dorms, her short hair bouncing above her shoulders. Blaise noted that no matter how angry she was, her hips still swayed a little when she walked.

Draco hadn't watched her go. Blaise watched with off-hand interest the gentle curve of the other boy's lips as the line of his mouth twisted in anger, and wondered what Draco would say, when he realized that he didn't much care.

He stood and stretched languorously, reveling in the feeling of his spine cracking loudly. Draco glanced up at him, his eyes only half-guarded, and for the first time in a long while, Blaise truly looked into the other boy's eyes. A glimmer of something was present, and Blaise held his cloud-grey gaze for several seconds.

The glimmer didn't reveal itself further, and staring into Draco's pale eyes wasn't worth the effort when it was clear there was nothing there for Blaise to find. There never would be, would there? A cynical smile tilted his lips as he stared down at the other boy.

"You never deserve it, do you?" he asked evenly. He didn't expect a reply.

He touched his forehead in a strange little salute.

Softly, he said, "Goodnight, Draco." They were the only words he was willing to offer him at the moment. It probably wouldn't be true days from now, or even tomorrow, but for now he had nothing else to say.

He headed to the boy's dorm and didn't once look back.

Later, when he lay in bed, he thought he heard the door to the room close, but he was asleep before he could be sure.

After all, he didn't much care.

*

Draco Malfoy was an utter failure at apologies.

Pansy knew this. It was likely that she understood this fact about Draco better than Draco himself, and she had accepted this fact on their first meeting, when he had told her she had an ugly nose, and a was girl besides, and he wanted nothing to do with her, then stood by her for - well, ever since really.

They had been nine, the youngest in attendance at a formal dinner, and lost in the swirls of skirts and robes as their parents and had socialized and left their children with the stern demand of perfect manners or else. Pansy had gravitated to the pale boy, seeing that he was just as bewildered as she by the awing site of so many adults talking about grown up things and expecting their children's best behavior. Though he had tried to hide it in the upward tilt of his chin, he had remained standing close to his father's side, looking small and pallid and sullen and very much like he wanted to grasp tightly the folds of his father's robes. Pansy's attempt at friendship had been greeted with scorn, but her snapped reply that his nose was pointy and he was shorter that she, and a boy besides had been greeted by angry, round-eyed shock and the eventual query about whether her parents made her take Latin as well. Pansy had been the first person to ever insult Draco, and it had earned her the boy's friendship and what little trust he was willing to place in others.

And it had been that way ever since. He never apologized, because he'd never openly acknowledged his own fault in anything. Instead, he made funny, charming gestures that made it impossible for one to stay angry with him and inevitably brought you back over to his side.

It was how he operated, and Pansy had adjusted to it, learned the way he worked, and did what she could to work things to her advantage when the opportunity arose. It was a complicated dance of debts and nuances that went back too far to remember.

The way he was catching her eye at the moment as Professor McGonagall expounded needlessly on minute changes in the rules and regulations of Hogwarts was entertaining, and indulgent. His expressions were near perfect renditions of the old Scot's pinched visage as the line of her lips thinned more and more every time her eyes rested on Draco or Pansy, who quelled smiles and wore shamelessly innocent countenances whenever she looked at them directly.

It wasn't much, but Pansy knew she had been accepting this type of "apology" forever with Draco. She'd never expected more, and when she got it without trying, it was always an electric shock.

She could count on one hand the times that Draco focused that haughty, radiant energy on her and her alone with purpose, and it had been much like staring at the sun. It dazzled and blinded you, and if you weren't careful, it hurt.

A Christmas present of the griffin's talon in their second year that she had coveted since their first.

The Yule ball in their fourth year when she had kissed him squarely on the mouth after a night of dancing close and nervous smiles, and had been rewarded with a flush that had burned on his cheeks like fire and another awkward kiss by the stairs to the dungeons.

A number of Hogsmeade trips the previous year, one that had ended in a fumbling tangle of awkward hands and legs and nervous, shivering sighs that seemed absurd and foreign coming from their own lips, but couldn't be helped in the midst of this new strangeness. Hands and mouths had learned curves and angles with clumsy ungraceful urgency, and to this moment, every second of that first time was burned into Pansy's memory.

A day during the end of the Easter holidays, a frown on his face as they had sat side by side on a couch in the common room, the words "just friends" said aloud in place of the things that ran through their heads like "too deep too fast" and "mind's always elsewhere".

Pansy wished she could say she wouldn't put up with it, that she was tired of all of the madness that seemed to follow Draco wherever he went like a cloud of acrid smoke or thickest fog, but in the middle of all of it was Draco himself, who was worth the insanity, worth it to her because in his own way he let her know she was worth it to him. They didn't mean that to one another anymore, but they meant something.

In her mind she kept a mental tally of the other girls Draco had been serious about since their - whatever it was the year before. Not a one had lasted more than a few weeks or so, and often less. Of those, she doubted that more than perhaps one had found herself beneath him, despite the wild rumors and speculations Draco did nothing to discourage. He'd flirted shamelessly with practically anything that moved the previous year, and though he'd spent an inordinate amount of time sulking as of late, she doubted that this year would change that pattern.

Not once had he turned that blinding, radiant attention on another specific girl. Pansy knew she couldn't have him the way she had for that shining span of time months ago, but no one else had either, and at the moment, that was enough for her.

McGonagall had ended her speech and the prefects began to file out of the room. Draco caught Pansy's elbow, pulling her close to him and tossing a casual arm around her waist. Seeing the way that a few of the other prefects eyed them, she leaned in closer, her arm going around his slim hips. She didn't think about the times those hips had been cradled lovingly against her own because she wasn't the sentimental type.

"Now that that's over," he sighed in the long-suffering manner of one who had just been released from the stocks or had slaved for thankless years. Pansy rolled her eyes, still clinging to that last thread of wariness that remained after the previous nights conversation. Draco pulled her closer, running a hand through his hair and sneering at her.

"You know you love it, the glory that is me. Admit it, wench." The sneer was still in his voice, but there was no edge to it, no sharp side meant to sting.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, you utter nancy." But he was smirking now, and she rolled her eyes at him, knowing this had become the elaborate route that would lead to normality's return to their relationship, or whatever you were supposed to call the twisted, slightly wrong, at times brilliant thing it was that they shared.

For now, it was enough for her. It always had been.

*

Hermione had never thought to notice it before, but Harry's hair hadn't been cut in a very long time. Harry never paid it any mind, she was sure, and it was for this reason she never gave it any thought. After all, he was Harry - his messy hair was a constant in the same way that her eyes were brown and Ron's sleeves never entirely covered his wrists.

Hermione thought it had something to do with vanity. Harry was unable to comprehend the idea of making any kind of change to his appearance for solely aesthetic reasons. She'd asked him once, near the end their fourth year, why he still wore glasses. The charms used to correct vision weren't all that difficult to master with practice, and she'd offered to help. Harry's brows had drawn together when he had looked at her, as if he were confused, and he had shrugged. "It isn't really important." Hermione had come to realize that Harry's mind would always be focused on what was "more important", without exception, which somehow seemed more unnerving than admirable. He looked at the big picture, the ultimate goal, and that meant the little things got left behind in the process.

That was Harry. It was never about the little things for him. She doubted there had ever been a time in his life when it had been. At least that he could remember.

Hermione knew a little of what Harry's Muggle family was like from off-hand comments he had made and one halting conversation that neither of the two had ever mentioned again. Hermione had always known somewhere in the dark, semi-subconscious part of her mind that apart from perhaps one or two others, she was in possession of more details about Harry's home life than anyone save Harry himself. The fact that she knew only a fraction of it stirred up an agitated tension in her, making her want both to hug Harry quite severely and edge away from him slowly. So instead she put these things out of her head and went back to noticing that Harry's hair was now so long it covered the back of his collar and curled behind his ears, a thicket of dark tangles. It was so unique, as if it had a life all its own that allowed it to defy any attempts to tame it on Harry or anyone else's part.

Ron's hair was the opposite - bright, neat, and short. Under the clear blue of the enchanted ceiling, the great hall was open and bright with morning light. Ron's freckles stood out on his nose and over his cheeks. Hermione watched him for a full thirty seconds before he felt her eyes on him and looked up, making her realize she was staring. He smiled and at her, slightly embarrassed before going back to his conversation with Seamus and Dean.

Seamus was a likeable boy. Hermione had to admit to herself that of all of her housemates in her own year, she was least familiar with Seamus. His blue eyes and sandy hair were pleasant, but unremarkable. Still he was another constant; it was hard not to imagine him like he was now, sitting next to Dean, laughing. It was funny, how close those two were. If she didn't know otherwise, she would swear he and Dean had grown up together.

Dean was interesting. Apart from Ron, Harry, and maybe Ginny, Hermione considered him to be one of her closest friends, though in truth it was more by default than anything. The two took Ancient Runes and Arithmancy together, nearly always working together in two courses dominated by Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Dean was good natured and funny, and his guileless attitude toward the world made him easy to talk to. She had to admit that Ginny was a lucky girl - Dean was more than easy on the eyes. He was tall and well built, with tight dark curls and an easy smile. It was nigh impossible to dislike the boy. He got along with everyone. Hermione had been shocked one afternoon when walking into Ancient Runes she had found Draco Malfoy sitting in her usual seat talking with Dean about something in the Gryffindor boy's sketchbook.

Draco Malfoy. There was one who had no problem with vanity. Hermione had couldn't understand how Dean had managed to put up with the other young man. She couldn't see how anyone managed really. He was arrogant and sarcastic; everything about him seemed to express a sort of disdain for his surroundings. And for some reason, he was disgustingly well liked among his housemates and a number of students outside of Gryffindor house. Rumor and truth had become inseparably tangled to produce a long and very colorful catalog of the Slytherin's escapades, many which one would expect to create widespread hatred among his fellow students. Strangely, it had the inverse effect. At the moment he was seated between that pug-nosed cow Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass, both of whom were rumored to have numbered among the past members of Malfoy's little harem.

Hermione supposed it made sense on some level - Hitler had been popular with women as well. Perhaps the evil bastard gene gave off some sort of sex pheromone.

It still didn't explain why someone hadn't murdered him by now.

It wasn't just that he was bigoted, immature, and a hypocrite - though those were all more than enough to make Hermione's teeth begin to grind on their own accord. It was that he was so convinced that he could do no wrong, that everything he said was the full truth of any matter.

The fact that he was intelligent enough to be a rival for Hermione had very little to do with it, all things considered.

Having to see his pointy face in every class she took did take its toll.

NEWT level classes were smaller than most classes, and consisted of students from all four houses without exception. For the most part, Hermione enjoyed this detail of her schedule. Granted, she saw Harry and Ron for fewer hours in the day, though if she admitted it to herself, she wasn't as upset as she might have been. The course work she was being given was challenging and interesting, and for once, it seemed she was learning things she would use, important things that would be useful when she left Hogwarts, Apparition Card in hand, a shiny new member of the adult magical community.

This didn't make up for the fact that Malfoy was constantly and condescendingly present. She was still upset with him in an abstract sort of way over what had happened outside the Great Hall the first night of term, though she really had no reason to be, considering that the altercation hadn't been entirely one sided and it hadn't involved her. Still, she had plenty of good reasons to dislike Malfoy, and all of them came to the surface all too easily every time she heard him answered a question in that bored drawl of his or saw him smirk cynically, as if he knew something about the world that the rest of his unfortunate classmates were just too stupid to see.

The funny thing was that that was all Malfoy seemed to be doing. He still made snide remarks, still acted like the racist, snobbish bastard that he was, but he never went so far as he had during their earlier years. He held himself in check, allowing opportunities to positively blast people slip by with only a glare and a snide remark.

Maybe he'd done a little growing up over the summer. God knew everyone else in the world had. Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban now; surely not having daddy around to save him had put things into a new perspective for Malfoy. Then again this was Malfoy; it was very likely he was simply waiting till he'd recruited enough minions to create a living wall around himself when he pissed someone of enough to take a swing at him.

Hermione snapped her attention back to the Gryffindor table. She realized with a start she'd been staring at the ferret-faced prat for the last five minutes without intermission. Harry was looking at her with a questioning look on his face. She shrugged, and went back to her Transfiguration book, which was propped against the jug of pumpkin juice before her. She never did manage to find her place, though, for the air was filled with owls as the post was delivered. A large Ural owl dropped a letter in front of Ron, who glanced at the address before calling Ginny over to share the letter their parents had sent them, telling their youngest children of their return to the Burrow from Romania.

Hermione almost missed the letter that was dropped before Harry by an unfamiliar barn owl. Harry stared at the front of the envelope for a moment, and then tucked it into the pocket of his robes unopened. Hermione was ready to ask him about the letter, but Charms began in ten minutes, and by the time she, Harry and Ron had made their way to Professor Flitwick's classroom, it was forgotten. By the end of Charms, Hermione was already thinking ahead to Care of Magical Creatures, which turned out to be a surprisingly informative lesson on the detection and extermination of Ashwinders, and by the time lunch had rolled around, Hermione had forgotten completely.

She hadn't meant to, it was only that Harry's mood had improved as the afternoon went on, and Hermione knew better than to take it for granted that her friend wasn't depressed or angry or apathetic at the moment, so she went to Arithmancy feeling good, and didn't even allow it to bother her that Blaise Zabini's "Hey Baby, Let's Make Our Own Quidditch Team" t-shirt, no matter how disturbing the thought was, though she was secretly pleased when Professor Vector gave him detention for dress code violation.

Her good mood lasted all the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts. The sixth years filed into Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom quickly, anxious to see who--or what--their new teacher was. After a werewolf, a fraud, a high inquisitor, and two servants of The Dark Lord, there were few ways left to surprise the students. The Gryffindors took their seats, Hermione seating herself with Harry on her left and Ron sitting on her other side. The bell rang, signaling that class was to begin, but the Professor was absent.

Minutes passed.

Ron leaned across Hermione's desk, a grin on his face.

"What're your bets? A harpy? Perhaps a zombie this time?"

"Ron, a zombie could never teach a class," Hermione stated with a vague air of annoyance. "They lack the ability to think. Besides," she added, thinking of the great number of B-grade Muggle films she had seen on the subject, "they'd be too busy trying to eat out our vital organs to prepare lessons."

Harry wrinkled his nose at the idea. "You saw that woman who was sitting at the High table," he said. "She's it."

"Her?" Ron asked incredulously. "She can't be. She's... well..."

"Too normal?" Harry said. "You're right. What person in their right mind would want the position?"

"You know, " Ron said. "Taking the job is a bit like saying 'Plan my funeral now' isn't it?"

"Well, we won't know anything until class starts, now will we? Professor Dumbledore hired her, so she can't be that terrible."

"He hired Crouch, didn't he?" Harry said darkly, unforgiven transgressions shining like emeralds in his eyes.

"Who he thought was Moody," Hermione countered. "He also hired Professor Lupin, and he was the best teacher we've had."

Hermione couldn't place why, but she felt the need to defend their new instructor. Maybe she was being to fair minded about this.

Their conversation ceased as the door to the classroom opened and the young witch from the high table entered. She wore cat glasses with steel-colored frames that she straightened one handed while shifting a stack of heavy-looking volumes to the opposite arm. Setting the books down on her desk in a neat pile, she turned to the class and smiled.

"Sorry about being tardy on your first day of class," she said good-naturedly, taking her wand from a fold of her robes. "You're my NEWT sixth year class, correct?"

A few nods and murmurs of agreement.

"You'll be up to the difficult stuff, then won't you?" She checked the clock on the wall, and frowned slightly. "It looks like we won't have enough time to start on what I had planned for today, so I think we'll save that for the next time this class meets."

Questioning whispers and a few cocked eyebrows at this.

"Maybe she's just got no clue what she's doing," Ron whispered to Hermione in a voice that sounded half hopeful "Dumbledore wouldn't hire someone as a favor to her rich uncle, would he?"

"Of course not," Hermione hissed back. Still, the young witch was so casual she did wonder a bit.

"Seeing as I don't really have anything for you to do today, it would probably be a good idea if I learned your names. I'm Professor Viridian, by the way. And you are?" she asked, pointing her wand at the first desk in the front row.

"N-Neville Longbottom," the boy answered, nervous as usual. Professor Viridian smiled, and pointed to each student in turn. Hermione found herself wondering if perhaps Ron was right and the young teacher had little idea of how to conduct a class and was simply faking her way through.

Professor Viridian was now explaining her expectations to the class. "My plan this year with the more advanced classes--such as yourselves--is to work on active defense and also to learn a healthy amount of Dark theory."

The class was silent as the grave for a moment, before erupting into whispers.

"I see I've hit a point of interest with you," the professor said coolly.

Hermione raised her hand.

"Professor," she asked, "why would we need to learn Dark Theory? This is a defense class."

"You're right, Miss...?"

"Granger."

"Thank you, Miss Granger. True, this is a defense course. But I doubt very seriously if any of you know much more about the Dark Arts other than they're evil and should be opposed." The offhand way she said these last words did not sit well with Hermione, but the Professor continued. "However, if you have no idea what you're fighting against, how can any of your defenses be truly effective? The key to fighting the Dark Arts is understanding how they work and preventing them from working."

This made sense to Hermione in theory, but she still felt very uncomfortable with the idea of learning about the mechanics behind the Dark Arts.

"Perhaps I should explain myself better," the Professor said, her brows drawing together in thought for a moment. "Studying Dark theory is rather like examining the strategies of an opposing Quidditch team that plays a very dirty game. You don't take on their tactics, but you have a much better idea of how to work against them before you play them in a match, which makes it possible to win, no matter how dirty their game is."

A number of students nodded in hesitant understanding.

"Slytherin!" Ron said, badly disguising his exclamation with a cough, which earned a few laughs from his fellow Gryffindor and a number of hisses and snarls from the green-clad students sitting off to one side.

Professor Viridian looked directly at Ron. "Your opinions on other houses are your own, Mr. Weasley, and I respect that. However," she said, directing her word to the class as a whole, "in my class, kindly leave house rivalries at the door. They are terribly counterproductive. Also, it really will be inconvenient to spend time ending petty skirmishes, so if you have any desire to maim or severely injure any of your fellow students, do it now and be done with it." Her entire monologue was given in a sort of off-hand voice that made it seem as if she was only mildly perturbed by the longstanding rivalries between the houses, as if it were no more than a quarrel between small children.

Still, it seemed to Hermione that there was some underlying quality to her words that made it crystal clear that the young professor would tolerate very little in her class.

Viridian cast her gaze over the class, then sat down on the edge of her desk. She glanced again up at the clock.

"Well, we seem to have a few minutes left, so I guess if you have any other questions, I'm more than willing to answer them."

The entire class seemed unsure of how to conduct themselves. The Hufflepuffs seemed intimidated by Viridians forthright manner, while the Ravenclaws looked as if their academic interests had been piqued. Most of Hermione's own housemates seemed incredulous, but most surprising were the reaction of the Slytherins. They seemed wary, more as if they didn't want to trust this new instructor than actually distrusting her. Then again, they really didn't trust anyone but Snape, did they? And the professor's open manner of speaking made it unlikely that she would be very Snape-like in nature. Hermione did a perfunctory check of the cleanliness of the professor's hair, just to be sure. The lack of grease confirmed her assumptions.

A hand went up.

"Yes, Mr. - ,"

"Malfoy," came the reply, the inquisitiveness in the Slytherin's voice outweighing the sneer. "What are the course aims for this term?"

"This term focuses on active defense and history," The professor replied without missing a beat. "We'll start on in-depth theory work after Christmas, so for now, I want you all to be acquainted with the basic roots of active defense. And in preparation for this terms work," she was addressing the class now, "I'd like you to read the first three chapters in your books for our next class together. I want you to be familiar with the material before we use it."

Mutterings of protest met her words. Viridian glanced up at the clock.

"I'll allow you the rest of the class to get started." At that, she moved to sit at the chair behind her desk, adjusting her glasses before carefully taking the topmost book off the pile she had brought with her into the room and opening it to a page that had been marked previously.

Hermione opened her book, taking out her quill and ink to take notes as she read. She'd need them - the first three chapters in their textbook totaled fifty-seven pages, and the information was dense. Hermione had skimmed the first two chapters when she'd purchased the volume, so she knew for a fact that this was not light reading. Settling into her seat, she began to read.

She almost jumped out of her skin when the bell rang at the end of class. She, Ron, and Harry had begun to pack their things when Viridian called out over the noise of departing students.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, if you would stay after for a moment?"

Ron and Hermione turned to Harry, whose face had become visibly changed by anger, his mouth a firmer line. He shrugged at his friends' quizzical looks, putting his books into his bag and eyeing Malfoy, who was carefully rolling the parchment he had taken notes on and placing it into his bag as if he hadn't heard

"You two go ahead to dinner," said Harry, reluctantly taking up his bag.

Hermione looked at Ron, and they both seemed to shrug without moving or saying a word. For once, they were both utterly clueless. They left the classroom, standing outside the classroom. After a minute or so, Harry stepped out of the classroom. The three didn't wait for Malfoy to appear as they made their way down to the Great Hall.

"Well?" Ron asked, picking up - as Hermione had - on the neutral expression on Harry's face.

"It was weird." Harry shrugged halfway, sitting down at the Gryffindor table. "She apologized to me and Malfoy for "the way she handled our actions" after the feast. Said she'd had no reason to use the language she'd used or something like that, and hoped we would get on better in the future, since we're both such 'promising students'. Pass the potatoes?"

Neither Ron nor Hermione could come up with a single thing to say to his words.

*

Hermione collapsed onto the sofa next to the fireplace, happy that the day was over. The first week of classes had been a welcome relief, putting her mind on logical, important things like the Arithmantic equations for abstract Numerology and the uses of hellebore and -

"You really are too happy that the holidays are over. That expression of academic bliss is kind of scary, Hermione," said a voice behind her. Hermione turned to see Ginny dropping into the armchair next to her. "Don't deny it, I saw the look you had on your face."

"There's nothing wrong with being focused on one's studies," Hermione replied with a sniff. Ginny let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like the word "unbalanced" before casting a bright smile at Hermione.

"How am I unbalanced? This year and next year are the most important in my educational career," Hermione stated primly, ready to go into a lengthy speech.

"Which is true," Ginny said thoughtfully, "but that was more in reference to your taste in boyfriends."

Hermione stared at the red haired girl, eyes narrowed. "How did you find out about that?"

"That goofy happy look my brother had on his face and the staring at you all through dinner gave it away pretty well." Ginny grinned at the look of dawning distress on Hermione's face. "Though overhearing Ron and Harry talking as I left the hall might also have been a tiny sort of tip."

"But we're not--at least I didn't think--,"

"Don't say you don't want it," Ginny said somewhat warningly. "I remember all the ranting you did around the Yule Ball, and last year when you were so sure you were doomed to be unnoticed forever. It just took him a bloody long time to realize is all." The way Ginny spoke made Hermione remember that Ginny had been head-over-heels for Harry for a long time and that she hadn't been lucky enough to have him reciprocate. Hermione had no room to complain when she thought about it.

Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Hermione changed the subject. "Where are Ron and Harry anyway?" She had wanted to talk to both of them, but she hadn't seen them when they left the Hall after dinner. She and Ron had fewer classes together than the previous year, and though Harry and she still shared many of the same courses, he always seemed as though he were... somewhere else. Not that that was unusual as of late, but likewise it didn't make Hermione feel better about it.

"They had to stay behind. Katie wanted to talk to them about tryouts for Quidditch." Ginny stretched her arms over her head, stifling a yawn.

"Why didn't you stay?" Hermione asked, noticing the slightly lascivious curl to the girl's lips as she smiled.

"I talked to her before dinner. Anyway, I came back because I told Dean I'd meet him here. Not that the boy has any sense of time." The irritation in the other girl's voice was false, and the way she rolled her eyes was more affectionate than annoyed. Hermione looked at Ginny pointedly, but the other girl merely flashed a lopsided grin at her. It reminded Hermione of Ron, that goofy-happy look. Somehow, both Ginny and Ron managed to look profoundly embarrassed even when they were unspeakably happy. Hermione wasn't sure if she found this endearing or not.

The portrait hole opened again, admitting a couple of third years and Dean Thomas, who smiled easily as he walked over to where Hermione and Ginny were sitting. The two left the common room, hands linked and smiles touching their lips. Hermione might have let herself fall into thought about this, but the door to the common room opened to admit Ron and Harry. Lamenting the luxury of taking up the entire couch, she moved to make space for the two. Harry sat down, taking his glasses to clean them on the tail of his shirt. Ron dropped onto the cushion next to her.

"For someone who's only 5'2", Katie Bell can be a very frightening woman," Ron said to the ceiling. Do you know, she actually told me she would beat me with my broomstick if I didn't put a better show than last season?"

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him and glanced over at Harry. The dark headed boy pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger, crossing his eyes. Hermione smiled, amused as Ron did not notice Harry's miming of bludgeoning the red haired boy to death. She barely stifled her laughter as Ron turned to her.

"It isn't funny, Hermione," Ron said, not seeing as Harry proceed to demonstrate Katie's popping the keeper's head off and hitting it with a Beater's bat. "She's mental! You were there Harry," he said, sitting forward and looking over at his friend, who was in the middle of a lively rendition of the Quidditch captain's technique for popping a player's eyes like grapes.

"She seemed perfectly fine to me," Harry said, feigning innocence. "She just wants to win. Besides, Jack Sloper is the one she put the fear of God into." Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Threatened to mount bits of him over the mantle of the fire when he complained about practices starting next week. If she doesn't either kick him off the team or take his ability to have children, it'll be a miracle." Harry yawned, stretching as he stood up. "It'll be fine, Ron," he said, heading toward the boys' side of the tower. "Just keep a tight hold on your broom while she's around."

With a devious grin on his face, Harry mounted the stair, calling "G'night" over his shoulder. Ron and Hermione sat in silence, looks of utter disturbance on their faces. Ron turned to look at Hermione, a look of wariness on his face as his ears reddened considerably.

"Did he just..." he trailed off, unable to put the ideas of "Harry" and "dirty, shameless innuendo" into the same sentence.

Hermione kept her mouth shut, as she was having trouble not giggling like a first year at the word "broomstick". Must not think that way, she scolded herself, this is Ron!

For a long while, they said nothing, watching as the portrait hole opened and shut from time to time or staring into the fire.

"So what did you think of Professor Viridian?" she asked at length, attempting to puncture the awkward silence that was rapidly expanding between and around them.

"All that stuff about Dark Theory - you'd think she's trying to teach us Dark Arts." Hermione could hear the years of being told the evils of the Dark Arts in Ron's voice. She could also see how close his hand was to hers on the sofa cushion. Feeling suddenly brave and curious, she closed the space. Ron went quiet, and their hands - rather clumsily - explored one another, finally sliding together.

They were looking at each other by now, and suddenly it seemed terribly logical for Hermione to tilt her head to the side, and for Ron to lean forward, and for their mouths to touch like this. Hermione didn't pull away. The two hadn't discussed what had taken place the week before in Diagon Alley, and there had been no repetition of the scene. The two had been eyeing one another shyly across the table and blushing from time to time, but it had stopped there.

Nothing so direct as linked hands being squeezed slightly as lips met and Ron's tongue pushed between Hermione's and teeth clicking just slightly in a minutely flawed attempt to deepen the kiss. There was a hand resting on her thigh that seemed to be out of place, sort of resting there uncomfortably as if waiting for a bus, now and then circling cautiously as lips slid and pressed in odd patterns.

"Well done, Ron!" came a call from the other side of the dorm, causing Ron and Hermione to snap apart and jump to their feet. Seamus was standing in his pyjamas on the stairs, grinning at the two of them. Ron's ears looked to be on fire, and Hermione was sure her cheeks bore a striking resemblance.

"Shut up Finnigan!" Ron barked at him. Seamus quickly picked up a roll of parchment from a chair near the window and darted back to the boys' dorm, aiming a wink at Ron from the doorway.

From there, things became a rush of awkward goodnights and quick exits. Hermione made her way to the room she shared with Lavender, Parvati, and Katie, pulling out her pyjamas and quickly putting them on as her mind turned over this second kiss repeatedly and compared and contrasted it with the first. Again, something had been missing.

This time, Hermione understood what it was.

There had been no spark. It had been like kissing her best friend, which was all it had been.

Nothing more.

*

Narcissa had stopped reading the papers long ago. . For her own sanity, really, though anyone who had the opportunity to speak with her would never have guessed it. She saw her husband's name displayed in block type too often for her own liking.

Still, Narcissa was nothing if not obstinate, and the part of the wilting flower was not hers to play. She gave the world nothing to feed on, and retained the image of cool, aloof purity that had served her well in the past. Never once did it falter.

It was for this reason that she continued to receive owls from publications, begging for an interview, a statement, any scrap that would be thrown to them.

The whole world wanted a piece of the Malfoy family, now that it was shattered and defamed. Narcissa refused to oblige them. She knew how she appeared; cold, heartless, and unapologetic. In the eyes of many, she was just as guilty Lucius.

Narcissa agreed, and found that this did not affect her in the slightest. She did not regret for one second any decision she had made in regards to her family She had chosen to protect and support the name of Black and that of Malfoy. They were the threads that held her very being together, and they shot through to her core. She was proud of what she was, as she always had been.

Blood had always been most important to Narcissa. It's purity, to be sure, but blood itself, the bonds represented by it and those it linked her to.

Malfoy and Black; the names and all they represented were woven inextricably into the fiber of her soul. To the end, she would honor them above all else.

It was for this reason she had stepped aside, said little in the way of protest when it had become apparent that the Dark Lord 's servants were returning to him. She had said nothing the night she had watched her husband polish with infinite care the silver mask that had been locked away from the world all those years ago, for what Narcissa had thought would be forever.

It was for this reason that she had paid her respects to Sirius Alexander Black, the last male heir of what had once been the greatest of families. Putting aside years of disapproval and resentment toward him and the choices he had made, the life he'd chosen to lead, she'd allowed herself for perhaps just a moment to call him "cousin" under her breath and recall dusty memories of daisy chains and pulling braids. Surrounded by strangers though she had been, she had more a right to lament his loss, and she had done so. It didn't matter that the only other bearers of that once-honored name would never come to understand its gravity.

It was the reason she had sat erect and dry-eyed, and watched as her husband, the father of her child, her lover, was sentenced to a life spent rotting away in a cage for acts she had done nothing to prevent him committing, though some piece of her accepted long ago that she would lose him to them.

It was the reason that her son had had to witness his father be taken from him as the world watched and knew that this was the last time she would let anything be taken from her or her child.

It was the reason that all the madness, the suffering, would stop there. Lucius had left her to stand at his master's side, and there he would remain. He had made his choice, and Narcissa had done all she could for him. He was gone from her now. Tears and confessions had no power to saw through iron bars.

Narcissa had left Lucius behind her the moment she had walked out of the ministry courtroom. The verdict had been given, the sentence given, and nothing was left to be said. To anyone.

Narcissa sat before the fire in her husband's office, dropping unopened envelopes into the flames one at a time, half mesmerized by the way the flames slowly ate the

They were stupid to ask her for anything. She had one thing of value to her name, and no force in heaven or hell could take away from her the only thing left for her to fight for.

No force in heaven or hell could match the resolve that resided in Narcissa Adehara Black Malfoy. In the face of such purity of emotion, nothing could stand.

Tojour Pur...

For Narcissa at least, it always had been and ever would be true.

Taking out a quill and a sheet of parchment, she wrote in neat, spidery script:

Draco, my son...

*

They would be tested... they had failed him once, but never again. He would test their loyalty, their strength...

...their thirst for power...

...for blood...

This would be the final forging, the refiner's fire with the greatest heat.

And with his most powerful weapon, he would enter battle...

High, maddened laughter rent the air.

Harry Potter woke sweat-damp and struggling to gulp in breath. Frenzied afterimages played over and again in his head like silent movies, blurred and dark, and his head felt fit to split in two.

A small, logical part of his mind repeated over and over that he was safe here at Hogwarts, that nothing could get him. The rest of his mind, which remained unconvinced, drowned it out with a repeated cry that no place was safe while Voldemort still existed. No place on earth, and nothing would be left if he failed.

And a tiny part of Harry's mind childishly shivered and wailed that even his dreams weren't his. No one was left to care about him; with no place to run to, even sleep was not his to control.

Harry did then something he hadn't done as long as he remembered.

He did not scream or rage, or silently block his feelings off. He did not tell himself he was not afraid, or crush down his fears and forge ahead.

Harry James Potter curled onto his side, a small gasp escaping his lips like the breath of a dying man before the dam broke, and when one or two stubborn, wayward tears slid over the bridge of his nose and down onto the pillow he didn't wipe them away. For once, he simply gave in to the crushing feeling of desolation and didn't try to stop it.

What point was there to even attempt it, when his world had already come down around him.

When Ron pulled the curtains of his bed the next morning to try for the third time to wake Harry, and found him curled tightly on his side, his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow, he closed the curtains again, leaving Harry to what little rest he could find in unconsciousness.

*

Draco woke early, for the first time in weeks feeling good. His detention with Professor Snape the night before had been the last he had to serve, and he had spent the evening setting up the materials need by the professor's classes for the following day, something he had done the previous year as Snape's assistant.

It was Saturday morning. There was Quidditch practice in the afternoon, but the majority of Draco's day was free. Taking his time, he made his way to the prefects bathroom and filled the enormous tub in the center of the room, allowing himself the luxury of squandering unholy amounts of ice-white foam and thinking fondly on the crushed expressions of those who would be deprived of it. He even took the time to condition properly, something he never really had enough time for. He only left the bath when his fingers were in danger of wrinkling.

Stepping out of the bath, he wrapped one of the deliciously soft towels around his waist and took another to dry his hair. Standing in front of the mirror, he regarded his reflection with a critical eye.

His hair was falling over his forehead; quickly, he combed it back for the moment. Wondering why in the name of all things holy he had ever slicked his hair back like this. It made his face look even pointier than it was. Not that it was that pointy. Angular really, it was angular. Thankfully, he wasn't so damnably short as he had once been, though he still held a small grudge against the Weasel, who was vertically gifted to the point of absurdity. At least he wasn't so very liberally freckled.

Resisting the urge to flex before the mirror, Draco dried his hair fully and combed it neatly before dressing and heading down to the Great Hall.

Pansy was chatting with Millicent Bulstrode, the two laughing at something or other. Greg and Vince were seated side by side, as always, Vince's eyes traveling to Pansy now and then in a manner Draco found amusing - in the unlikely event that Pansy ever gave Vince the time of day; she'd eat him alive. Blaise was nowhere to be found, but it was Saturday, after all, so Draco didn't wonder. He sat down across from Pansy, his eyes traveling across the hall out of habit to sneer at stupid Potter, but the idiot Gryffindor wasn't there, so he set about buttering a slice of toast and snatching up a few slices of bacon before they were fallen upon by his carnivorous housemates.

His breakfast bliss was interrupted by the sound of boots crashing frantically against the floor. Blaise Zabini came skidding to a halt behind Pansy.

"We gotta go now," he said, breathless. A copy of the most Recent issue of the Daily Prophet was clutched in his hand, the knuckles shining over rumpled pages. "C'mon, I'm not jokin'," he said, looking Draco directly in the eye. The urgency in his gaze was enough to make Draco take a second look at Blaise, whose hair was still wet from the shower, the hem of his shirt half in, half out of his trousers. Pansy looked from Blaise to Draco incredulously, then got to her feet, as did Draco, following Blaise out of the hall. A number of eyes followed them, not only those of students, but a few belonging to quizzical professors.

Blaise was standing under one of the high windows outside the hall when the other two reached him. Well, not standing really, Draco noticed, but shifting his weight a good deal and looking very agitated.

"What was that all about?" Pansy asked, stepping close beside Blaise. Their shoulders brushed as he unfurled the paper, displaying it for the two of them to see.

Draco read the headline again and again, but the clashing roar in his head drowned out everything by the continuous screaming of a voice that repeated over and over every word to all of his nightmares.

Lyrics - Do You Feel Loved by U2