A Plague of Legends

Chapter Fourteen: The Undertow

Or, The Devil

Draco remembered the ocean.

He remembered the feel of coarse sand beneath his feet, slipping between his toes as he scuttled from one sand dune to another. The sand got everywhere, until even his hair was tinted a dull brown by it, particles smacking against Blaise's face as Draco tossed his head back and laughed. She had spat the sand back at him, angry and amused as she wiped grit from the corner of her mouth. And then she grabbed his hand and led him (dragged him, really) out to the surf. They stood there for a while and watched as the water made claims on their toes, and Draco learned something of tactics that day. Because sometimes he could still feel the way the water seeped into his skin, gently pounding away until invisible salt encased his feet. He could still feel- could remember- a lot of things.

Like the moment when Blaise dared him to take a dive, all the while shoving her wrinkled nose into the air (doglike, and Draco told her so) and rolling her shoulders exaggeratedly as she traced ripples in the water. Just one toe, and a pained smirk that told Draco exactly how cold she thought the water was. As if he didn't already know.

But he did. So he dove.

The water was cold, like hot knives and freezing fingers on warm skin. It clung to his jaw, prying open his mouth, and danced mockingly on his tongue. It danced, snapping his teeth open every time he bit them closed; nothing else could explain their chattering. A Malfoy's teeth do not chatter. Not even in cold such as that. That would imply a humanity few Malfoys were willing to claim. So his teeth struggled against the temperature, but Draco stilled them before surfacing and waving at Blaise, his hand blue and high as he smirked at her consternation.

He laughed shallowly as she glared. Draco could still remember Blaise's scowl; how she'd tossed her head and her curls had been caught up in a sudden salty breeze. Then she'd softened (inexplicably) and come a bit forward, stretching out a hand as she invited him back. He just shook his head (a decisive 'no') and laughed, forcing out another smirk as he drifted farther from shore.

He was still smirking when the Undertow caught him and dragged him under. It is impossible to describe the Undertow to someone who has never been taken its captive. To Muggles it is nothing more than an easily explained natural phenomenon; vicious swirling water born of tides and sneaking currents. A Muggle caught in the Undertow knows nothing more than fingers scrabbling against sand, legs kicking out at currents suddenly heavier than wet wool. Muggles know only the fear and desperation of being tugged deeper in, farther out as the mouth fights against opening and inhaling. The fight between instinct and intellect, it is assumed, if anyone can assume anything in the moments spent struggling against death.

Muggles know nothing.

Draco remembered them laughing at him.

They were laughing at him.

Laughing, giggling, breasts and chests heaving as they scrabbled for purchase on his skin and hair. They clung to Draco's ankles and his waist, pulling him down and back and ever into and against the sand. To where the sand dropped off and there was nothing but pitch and falling down, Draco knew. He knew, and so lunged forward, bloodying his fingers on a large stone in front of him. Nails grinding into rock, he thrust out with his legs, kicking at the transparent faces and bodies and limbs surrounding him. He felt the sudden urge to scream, to breathe- but then he saw the little one, the child, who had her fingers on his mouth and they pried and twisted and pulled at his numb lips. So he bit down and struggled on and told himself that the moisture on his cheeks was from their grazing kisses as they chimed out a lullaby. His funeral dirge.

Ink was seeping over his eyes when they finally let go, Draco's only sign of their departure the feel of their fingers and hair slipping away from his body. He barely felt it when other hands, cold and there and human, lifted him up and out of the water. But he did feel the hot furious breaths that kissed his throat. And as he clung to his father's neck he was somehow aware that the rumbling in his father's chest meant angry words.

Draco remembered how later Blaise had come to him and apologized, her eyes swollen and hating as she took her bottom lip in her teeth and bit. He remembered hearing about what his father had had done to the colony those naiads belonged to, and how he should never go in the ocean again. He remembered his mother's clucking, how she'd taken the news and the sight of his ruined clothes with impeccable composure. How she had chided him for his foolishness, stripping him clean and healing his fingers with a whisper and a kiss. How her own fingers had trembled against his forehead as she caressed him there, just once, before he fell asleep.

More than anything from that time, though, Draco remembered the Undertow.

Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't still caught in it.

***

There was an almost festive feel to the Great Hall despite everything. Of course, in the first week back from break there had been many announcements and even more new rules. Even so, the students bunched together at their tables like bees, practically vibrating with the remains of holiday cheer and the complete confidence that Hogwarts was still the safest place in all of Britain. Of course, most of them had not seen the body. So all they knew were stories, glossed over shadowy things that made for better legends than warnings. Harry had stopped counting rumors after the first day, sickened by the campfire atmosphere that pervaded each telling. Parvati was still not speaking to him, even though she had to know why he'd stopped her rumor-mongering. She just had to, and really that was why she- and everyone else- was doing this.

But it still made him sick. All of it.

How everyone played along, even the people that shouldn't, the people that had the most right to cry out.

Draco had rejected his sympathy, rejected any comfort Harry could offer except one. He'd sneered at Harry, drawing back his lips and snarling, biting down on Harry's shoulder blade and sucking up blood before whispering into Harry's mouth, "Don't concern yourself with my father, Potter, because I don't need your pity. And don't bother saying that you're worried about him- you were probably drunk and celebrating ten minutes after you heard."

Harry had leaned forward then, his lips almost touching Draco's before the smell of blood, his own blood, settled over him. Draco's mouth had glistened with it, and there had been something so horribly disgusting, so very rich, about it that Harry had wanted to do nothing more than lick those lips clean and press Draco to the floor. Instead he jerked away and up, settling for a cold, "I might hate your father, Malfoy, but I know what it's like to be without one. I wouldn't want anyone to live like that, not even you." Harry had paused, one hand pressed lightly against a stone wall as his shoulder ached and his gut burned, burning with Draco's rage, before saying, "Besides, I could never pity you. But that doesn't mean I can't feel." He whispered a request for release and, as stone cut between him and Draco, Harry thought he heard Draco say his name.

Harry.

But it could just have been his imagination.

Currently Draco was in his usual seat, an object of constant surreptitious scrutiny since the end of break. He had become something of a romantic figure, made beautiful and heroic in the tragedy that surrounded him. His actions, which had before cast him in the role of a minor devil, were now lauded as proper and perhaps even pure. Draco publicly burned every letter and flower he received from his admirers (watch the petals wither into blackness, curling implosions), and in some way this was proof of his everlasting love for Za- Blaise. Somehow he was the new heartthrob on the block, sullen and prideful and punctured in his unrelenting 'grief'. Lover and father gone forever (though Lucius Malfoy's body was still missing, no one doubted he was dead- it made for better stories that way), the clash between his dark robes and pale features as striking as wailing at a funeral, Draco Malfoy had been transformed into an icon or a battle cry when Harry had not been looking. Probably between breakfast and lunch the first day back from break, Harry guessed.

Draco sat at his table, stiff and sneering, the seat directly beside him conspicuously empty. Not even Crabbe or Goyle dared sit in that spot, not with the mountain of ash that crouched there possessively, so blatant a symbol that even the Slytherins could not ignore it. As Harry looked on (and strangely enough, Draco looked back, his eyes still a mystery) a lone owl swooped down from the ceiling and onto Draco's shoulder, jutting out one leg insistently as it pecked at pale hair.

More paper for the pile.

Or perhaps not. Back bowing under the bird's weight, Draco reached up and caressed its head once, then carefully accepted the small box that dangled, caught in a net of string and claws. He paused then, the package gripped in fingers that were almost trembling, before slipping it into his robes. Another pat to the head and the owl was off again, silver and black ribbons streaming from its legs and neck.

Coolly, as though unaware of the way the entire Hall was fixated on him, Draco stood up and left the table, his two henchmen scrambling to catch up with him. A shudder passed over the students as the Hall doors slammed shut, and everyone returned to battling with their peas and shepherd's pie. The afternoon's show was finally over, and the intermission before dinner long and dragging. Was Harry, then, the only one who saw it? Was he the only one who cared, now that Hogwarts' Silver Boy had up and left?

Because there it was, like clockwork: a pile of ash, lying diminished on the floor.

***

"Aren't you going to open that?" Greg asked, his pinkie finger busily probing at an ear.

Draco looked up from the box in his lap to Greg, then Vince, and then the door to their bedroom. It was locked, had been from the moment they'd entered the room. But Draco didn't trust doors or locks, and never had. So he cast a locking spell for safety and a muffling spell for good measure. Then, hands again gripping the package, he turned back to face Vince and Greg. They regarded him patiently, and suddenly Draco was overwhelmed by a wave of crimson and the urge to destroy them. Their trust was a beautiful thing, like porcelain. Flooding his mind with silver-threaded darkness, Draco composed himself, forcing away the encroaching red.

"Yes, I suppose I must," Draco said, and whispered the Key Charm to the box.

The air in front of Draco glittered as the packaging shimmered into nonexistence, revealing a small unadorned mahogany box graced by a light slip of parchment. Vince picked up the paper and examined it, grunting a bit as he turned it over and around.

"It's blank."

Draco sighed, irritated. "Of course it's blank, Vince. It's locked, just like the package was. Same Lock Charm, same rules." Frowning slightly, Draco plucked the letter from Vince's paw and muttered the appropriate Key Charm.

Stars fell, dripping across the parchment and running together in streams to form delicate loops and dips. Draco forced out a smile. His mother had always been proud of her penmanship, and correspondingly hard on his own when he began learning his letters.

Bear it well.

Narcissa

So this was it, then. Some part of Draco had expected more, perhaps even something as unreasonable as hope. After all, how could she be sure? How could she have known it was time to pass this on? Had it revealed itself to her, like in legend? Despite the fact that she was not a true Malfoy? Had the body been found? How had she known, when even Draco did not? He didn't know. He wasn't sure what he knew, anymore. And the taste of oily scum clung to the back of his mouth. His tongue rotted with its flavor.

Was he still dreaming, still caught up in that nightly vortex of shadowed red?

Vince shifted closer on the bed, each movement sending ripples spinning across Draco's blanket. Chaos. He reached out and poked at Draco's shoulder, "What is it?"

Draco twisted away from Vince's touch, his fingers twitching as he obsessively traced the box's edges. Draco looked up and through Vince, "A family heirloom."

Vince shook his head, his lips pressed together almost sternly, "But what is it?"

Did Vince think he needed another mother, now that his father was gone? A caretaker- or perhaps a bosom pal to exchange golden heart charms with, like the ones Pansy and Blaise used to wear when they were eight? Draco wished his heart was simple like that: a bit of magic metal, enchanted with a pretty spell that promised eternal friendship and mended love. It's simple, just look. Press the edges of the pieces together and the magic makes them one. Pull them apart and they are separate again.

It was all so simple, really.

Draco sighed, and looked down again at the box. The answer was simple- too simple. He picked up the box, holding it in his hands (it fit perfectly, more at home there than his wand) and weighed it against generations before saying, "A set of Tarot cards."

Greg blinked, completely lost, and grunted, "So why'd she send it to you now?"

And that was the real question; the question whose answer was evident in the cards' very presence here. And now that it was here, Draco realized. That he had loved his father, though he would have been hard pressed to admit it before now. And now it was over, and there would never be any new chances no matter how much he might wish for them. Draco clenched his fingers around his answer, the answer to Greg's question, and calmly said, "Because my father is dead."

Because it really was that simple.

"But they haven't found a body yet, so maybe. . ." Greg mumbled, his eyes fixed on the small, wooden answer.

"He is dead," Draco interrupted. "I would not have received this otherwise."

Draco was grateful for the silence that followed, though he would never have admitted it.

***

Dean's fingers were cold against Harry's arm, and initially Harry thought his frantic whispers nothing more than another late night prank. Harry shuddered away from Dean and pulled his blanket over his head, shoving his numb nose into the dent in his pillow. Why was Dean up so late, anyway? Harry had to sleep; he and Draco had to move their games even earlier to avoid suspicion. And Draco had been talking about game 59 for weeks now. With that thought in mind, Harry swatted at Dean's fingers, prying them off of his skin and mumbling something off-putting and vaguely insulting. Draco (yawn) really was rubbing off on him, though Harry blurrily supposed that his rudeness could be justified (but only by more coherent minds than his).

"Harry, wake up!" Dean shook at Harry's shoulder, then lost all patience at Harry's determined efforts to ignore him and ripped back Harry's comforter. "Harry, you have to help me wake everyone up! It's an emergency! We're having a meeting."

Harry shivered, his toes tingling from the cold, and blinked up at Dean, "A meeting? At this time of night?" Harry fumbled for his glasses and, having found them, pressed them backwards against his eyes and peered at his clock. "But it's- uh- oh, got them reversed- one in the morning! What sort of meeting? Everyone?"

Dean settled himself on Harry's bed, perching birdlike on its edge. "I don't know, really. Hermione and I were in the common room, and-" Dean caught Harry's look, "Oh, nothing like that. Hermione was studying, as usual, and I was- um- up working on a personal project."

Harry settled back and nodded. Of course, if it had been like that it might have finally kicked either Ron or Hermione into gear. Any less initiative on their parts and they'd be dancing around the issue for all eternity. He raised an eyebrow at Dean (or at least tried to- Harry had the odd feeling that he'd gotten his face all scrunched up and mixed together instead) and asked, "And then what?"

Dean sucked in a deep breath. "And then McGonagall came in."

Harry started. "McGonagall?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, McGonagall. She told us to get everyone up. I'm supposed to wake you lot up, and Hermione the girls. Apparently she has something to announce to all of us. The other Heads of Houses seem to be doing the same thing. So- can you help me wake up the others? That way we can split up the other forms."

"Right," Harry said, and began the dangerous work of waking his fellow year-mates. Dean went on to the seventh years (an arguably safer proposition), leaving Harry at the mercy of Ron and Seamus. Wisely, Harry woke Neville first. Seamus was taken care of by the judicious use of some pillows and a feather, and Ron- Ron was just taken care of.

It took about a half hour to gather everyone together, and most of the students were still blinking the grit from their eyes when McGonagall began to address the Gryffindors. Amazingly (or perhaps not) Colin Creevey had somehow maintained possession of his camera, and was even on the verge of snapping some memorial shots when Harry shot him a stern look and mouthed out a quick warning. Blushing happily, Creevey stuffed away his camera, over-thrilled that Harry had taken the time to notice him. Harry stifled a sigh and turned his attention back to a stiffly waiting McGonagall.

Professor McGonagall had placed herself in front of the fireplace, an obviously strategic move that drew all eyes to her and lit her from the back in an oddly reassuring way. Strange, then, the skitterings of fear Harry felt crawling up his back. McGonagall looked very, very old- older than she ever had in any of the Order of Phoenix meetings. Harry barely had time to wonder what had happened before McGonagall drew in a deep breath and began:

"I am sorry for waking you at so late an hour, but I have news of the utmost importance. By now you should all know of Miss Zabini's death and the disappearance of Lucius Malfoy. Although we are not certain, they, like Cedric Diggory two years ago, have most likely fallen victim to You Know Who and his cohorts."

One first year raised his hand and said timidly, "But I thought You Know Who was gone. That Cedric Diggory's death was an accident."

McGonagall shook her head, her expression grave. "That is what the Ministry would have us believe, Mr. Christianson. It is untrue, and we now no longer have the luxury for untruths, if we ever did.

"The tragedy of Miss Zabini's death and Mr. Malfoy's disappearance has been further compounded- unimaginably so." McGonagall paused and stiffened her back, steeling herself. She clamped tight her lips and looking at her Harry suddenly understood the phrase 'flashing eyes'.

"There is no easy way to say this, so I will be blunt. Earlier this evening, there was an attack by the Death Eaters on a small town in Caernarvonshire of northern Wales."

The room rippled with gasps, and then for a moment that seemed to span infinity, the room was silent. Even the sounds of breathing had stilled, somehow, though Harry could feel Ron's breath hot on his shoulder. The room throbbed with silence, full almost to exploding, and Harry wondered if everyone was waiting for the punch-line. Did they think this was all some joke, some strange whim of Dumbledore's? Or were they even thinking at all?

Then McGonagall sighed, saying, "I'm sorry," and broke the silence.

The first person to begin crying was Carter Christianson, and Harry wondered if he was crying for the attack, or for the betrayal of his illusions. But it didn't really matter, did it? Because neither answer would make his tears any less wet or valid. And for a bit only the sounds of Carter Christianson's sniffles and sobs filled the room, until he was joined by a fourth year. And then Parvati. And then more and more students until McGonagall's apology hung in the air, suspended by a cacophony (symphony) of tears.

It seemed the only ones not crying were, unsurprisingly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Even so, they drew together, unwilling to face the news alone. Harry inched closer to Ron and relaxed, reassured by the steady presence pressed against his shoulder. Hermione came near as well, then peered into Harry's eyes and reached up to push his hair away from his forehead. Her smile was sad and she grazed a thumb against the scar, once, before letting her hand fall away. As McGonagall readied herself to continue, Hermione inserted herself between Harry and Ron and clutched at their hands, holding them tight and woven together. Hermione's fingers were cool and rough, her palms warm and moist- but they were there and real and more than beloved. Harry snuck a quick glance at Ron: Ron looked worried and scared, but a tint of red danced among the freckles on his nose and cheeks and he gripped at Hermione's hand like it was something precious and easily lost.

Ron was right. People were hurt and even killed, but life went on. They would make sure it did. Harry would make it so.

Harry stepped forward, careful not to break the chain of clasped hands. "Professor, what was the name of the town?"

McGonagall pinned Harry with a gimlet gaze, her eyes resting for a moment on Harry's hands linked to Ron and Hermione. "Little Degannwy, Mr. Potter."

"Then," Harry looked back at the other children, "Are there any students at Hogwarts who have families there?"

Are there any students here who had families there?

McGonagall's shoulders drooped momentarily, as if overwhelmed, before she rallied and responded, "Sadly, yes. Miss Clendaniel in Ravenclaw, and Mr. Morgan-Davies in Hufflepuff both have families in Little Degannwy. I do not need to ask that they be supported in this trying time."

Hermione let go of Harry and raised her hand (really, in spite of herself) before blushing halfheartedly and asking, "And what of Degannwy proper? The Muggle part of town? Did the violence extend that far?"

McGonagall peered over her glasses at Hermione and, forehead knotted, rapped out, "Do you have family in Muggle Degannwy, Miss Granger?"

Hermione swallowed and nodded, "My aunt and uncle."

The professor jerkily shook her head, "Yes, Miss Granger, it is. And no, Muggle Degannwy was left unharmed. Which indicates that Muggles are not on You-Know-Who's immediate agenda."

Carter Christianson squeaked a low denial and looked down, trying to hide the dragging motion of his hand across his eyes.

Harry's mouth went dry and his tongue was like sandpaper as he tried to wrap it around some word or phrase that would summon his heart from his feet and assure him that this was all just the remainder of a nightmare caused by too many Chocolate Frogs and too much pumpkin juice.

He had known that this was something inevitable, that it would have happened no matter what, given time. But hearing that it had in fact happened was another thing entirely. So was knowing why it had been inevitable. Harry felt sick.

"Yes, Mister Christianson, You-Know-Who. He was confirmed to have been there with his Death Eaters." This prompted another outcry from the assembled students. McGonagall paused momentarily. Finally there was an almost-silence that was punctuated by low heavy breaths and the snapping of Lavender's nails as flakes of nail polish flecked her lips.

McGonagall spared a compassionate glance for Lavender and almost smiled as Parvati reached over and plucked Lavender's hand from her mouth. "We know this because, while all of the Death Eaters went about masked, You-Know-Who was operating completely undisguised. Much changed, yes, but undeniably himself. His physical appearance corresponded with certain," McGonagall glanced over at Harry, "reports we have received.

"I am deeply saddened to say that Little Degannwy was completely destroyed. There are Ministry task teams currently on location, but as far as we can tell there were no survivors." McGonagall paused then, giving everyone a chance to process the enormity of what had happened.

"This is all the information currently in our possession. There will be further announcements made tomorrow by the Headmaster. Now, try and get as much sleep as you can. Tomorrow will be trying for all of us."

McGonagall fixed them with a stern, compassionate look and then swept out of the room, most likely on her way (back?) to the Headmaster's office.

The portal had no sooner closed on the professor's back when the younger students began wailing, filling the room once again with hopeless tears. Hermione gave Ron and Harry a look, squeezed Ron's hand tightly before releasing it, and then rushed over to the shaking children.

Ron let her go, his mouth briefly twisting into a smile, and turned to Harry, "You have to do something, Harry."

Harry looked away from his contemplation of the other Gryffindors. Everyone was in shock, their expressions almost militantly blank as they clutched at chairs, walls, even each other in an effort to remain upright. Ginny was slumped in a corner, and there was something in her eyes that kept anyone who might have offered comfort away. Dean was in a corner arguing with a flushed seventh-year, and Seamus just stood staring at the place where McGonagall had stood, his lips beating winged prayers as he clenched his hands around the memory of rosary beads. Neville especially looked pale, his eyes busy beneath closed lids as he gripped at the cloth of his nightshirt. Was he remembering his parents? What the Death Eaters had made of them? And who knew? Perhaps they now had fellows to keep them company, others who had been tortured in just the same way. Harry turned to Ron.

"I have to do something? Ron, we should all be doing something about this, not just me." Harry became angry at the thought. "Just because I have a title doesn't mean anything, let alone that-"

"Yes, it does, Harry," Ron said. "You don't know what it was like, being told stories about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. How somehow he defeated You-Know-Who and saved us all, saved the Wizarding world. About how special he- you are. And right now it doesn't matter if you really aren't, though I think you are." Ron held up a hand, Harry's protest stillborn on his lips. "It doesn't matter because they believe. In you. They'll listen to you. And if you tell them to, they'll get it together. And yes, you're usually 'just Harry' to them,"

Harry winced and regretted that he'd told Ron about that.

"But right now you're Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. So use that. To help them," Ron said, and shoved Harry forward.

Harry stood frozen for a moment, framed in the light of the dying fire, and helplessly wondered what to say. He even gnawed a bit at his thumbnail before realizing what he was doing. Biting one's nails was not the best way to win an audience's confidence, Harry was sure of that much. It was just- he was himself. Not the most brilliant of thoughts, but there it was. No one special, because if he were he'd have been able to stop Voldemort before it ever got this far. And, sure, maybe he was curious, got into more trouble than he knew what to do with, but that was just- luck. He wasn't a leader like Cedric had been, nor was he a genius like Hermione. He was just Harry. Just himself. With that thought weighing down his feet Harry took a step forward and hoped he would be enough.

"I, um," Harry stuttered, feeling swallowed by the way everyone's eyes were suddenly fixed on him. He shot a desperate glance at Ron and was almost relieved by the thumbs-up he received in response. Almost.

"Um."

Harry stood in front of Gryffindor, blushing so hard he could feel the red from his cheeks invading his vision, and mumbled out a string of incoherent nothings. He stood there, and knew with certainty that he was going to fail. This wasn't a pep-talk for the Quidditch team or the late night planning of some bit of mischief with Ron and Hermione. It was real life, and somehow the weight of consequence had come to rest on his quivering shoulders.

Harry was almost about to try again, despite knowing better, when he was close to blinded by a flash of light. When his vision cleared, the white parted to reveal Colin Creevey (of course, who else would it have been?) standing in front of him, a twisted smile covering his face, and saying something about a picture for the school news.

And somehow, that was it. Harry stomped forward and grabbed Colin's camera, yelling, "What was that about, Colin?"

Colin shrank back a bit, his hands fumbling for the flailing camera strap as he said, "For the news!"

Harry stopped. His arms dropped to his sides, and the camera settled against his shins, thumping purple dents into them. His hands clenched reflexively around the camera, pushing at its joints in a fit of rage before Harry remembered that this, this was Colin's precious thing. Too much would be lost before long. Precious things such as this should be treasured. But then, not as much as people. And Colin needed to remember- to understand-- that.

"Colin," Harry said quietly, "I understand that you might want to- to record this, but there are more important things to think about. Don't you think?"

Colin flushed, his hands involuntarily reaching out for his camera. "Yes, but-"

"There is no 'but', Colin. Just- there isn't. And maybe you wanted to forget about everything for a moment," Harry glanced over at Parvati, who was white under her skin as she gripped at Lavender's hand, "but that's the one thing we can't do. We can't forget. Otherwise we're just like them. And I don't want to be like them. Do you?"

Colin shook his head, frantic in his denial. He almost didn't notice when Harry pressed his camera into his hands.

"Just remember what's important, Colin. It is people, or things?" Harry felt almost bad saying that, because he didn't doubt Colin's true priorities; he wouldn't protect Dennis like he did if he didn't care. But still. Forgetting could be very easy. Harry had seen it.

Harry saw how everyone (his classmates- his friends) was looking at him and let out a small, imperceptible sigh. So this was what Ron had meant. He wanted to run and hide, go back to bed, be with Draco. And as that last, disturbing thought leeched to the back of his brain, Harry began to talk.

***

He's been very still lately, Draco has. Not a good stillness either; it's sort of like the enchanted porcelain Lady Malfoy has (had, got to remember what Draco did to it) in her glass cabinets. The crystal-inlaid ones. The ones she had been so very proud of. The ones that had Draco's hands in ruins.

He's sitting there now, across the table, and the ash is piling up again, laying the foundations for a new pyramid. It's become such a constant that even when it's not there it seems like it is. So I suppose that, in a way, Blaise is always with us. Wonder if the rumors are true- Draco never talks about that day. Or her. Ever. It's strange, or would be if I- we- didn't know.

Sometimes I wonder if we know too much.

Looks like it's time for another speech- Dumbledore's getting good at them, isn't he? Though this one's a sight longer than the one he rushed out for Blaise. 'Course, it was more than one person who died yesterday, but still. He doesn't look good, which, I guess, is a good thing. Should please my Lord just fine.

Not that He isn't already mighty pleased.

Draco's looking again, over at Potter. Not good, Draco. Oh sure, Potter's a beacon. He just sort of. . . shines. And he does have amazing eyes- like death. Before breakfast I heard from a second year, how he somehow rallied the Gryffindors, got them all warlike and brave. Look at them now, so very puffed up and brave. They think they're strong.

They don't know what strength is.

But they will.

Soon.

Don't worry Draco, we'll catch you.

***

Snape paced in front of the Headmaster, eyes wild and bloodshot as he sprayed spittle to the floor, "I warned you. I told you it would come; that he would come."

The meeting had been dragging on forever, called due to 'emergency circumstances'. Hours in session, and only now had the headmaster finally seen fit to ask for Snape's report. Ron was tired, and Hermione even more so from her recent trend of all-nighters. Harry palmed the Cockroach Cluster Dumbledore had slipped into his pocket before the meeting and popped it in his mouth. Thankfully the light was low.

Dumbledore tapped his knuckles against his desk, asking for a more complete silence. "There was little we could do at that time. We knew this then, and denying it now will make no difference. I'm sure that we all," Dumbledore sent a level gaze to Mr. Diggory's corner, "are agreed on this. The most helpful thing right now, Severus, would be for you to give your report."

The room tilted and spun for a moment, wrapping Harry in a fearful insanity. He was no more ready to hear this than he had been last night. The room shivered, waiting.

"He is, for lack of a better word, invincible. I don't believe that any other term can describe it."

"What do you mean, 'invincible'?" asked Arthur Weasley. The fireplace had become his spot over the past months, and right now he was leaning up against the mantle, one palm cradling his face. Harry knew why Mr. Weasley was covering his face, what expression he was trying to hide. He needn't have bothered. Everyone in the room wore the same mask, and the same, scared eyes peered out from behind each one.

Snape quickened his pacing. "Just that, Weasley. Although he is impervious to Avada Kedavra as expected, he is also immune to every other form of magic that anyone in Little Degannwy threw at him. His imperviousness to assault was so blatant it almost had my 'fellows' mutilating themselves from joy." Snape stopped mid-movement, "Did you forsee that this would happen after that incident at the end of the Tri-Wizard, Albus?"

Dumbledore shook his head, his face crumpled in thought. "No, Severus, I did not. The spell, as reported by Harry, was only capable of extending the some of the protections set on Harry over Voldemort. This must be a new spell, most likely the result of the 'Fabula Project' you told us about. If not that, then some other spell. This theory fits with the rest of your information. Please continue, Severus."

Snape resumed his pacing, anxiously wearing tracks in the room's already threadbare rug. His hair gleamed in the firelight, more oily-looking than Harry had ever seen it. In fact, everything about the professor was 'more' than usual. Snape's skin was so sallow as to look jaundiced, his cheekbones jutted out like cloth-covered tent poles, and he hadn't even bothered to cast a hair-removal charm for the growth on his chin. He looked a wreck and unreal- like a revenant or some magical almost-copy of Snape. But not like the real Snape. Because he looked scared, deep down.

He terrified Harry. He was a prophecy of what was to come.

"You are most likely correct on that count, Albus. Before heading into battle, Voldemort gathered us together and announced his invincibility. He assured us that the sacrifices of our brother and sister Death Eaters had not been in vain, and that no magic would ever be able to harm him again. He made the implication that his new state of being was thanks to those Death Eaters, and that he is likewise impervious to physical attacks. While I find the latter claim doubtful and most likely a warning to my most ambitious 'associates', the former has been proven true. He cannot be harmed by magic."

A low muttering grew, quickly filling the room with hysterical reverberations. How did a person become invincible? Had You Know Who finally gained his long-sought immortality? How could they possibly hope to defeat someone with such powers?

Dumbledore held his hand up, silently asking for quiet. "It is a hard thing, to be told that an enemy is invincible. However, we must all remember that no spell is perfect, or unbreakable. Harry here-"

All eyes in the room pinned Harry under their weight. He felt pressed to the floor, though he was still standing.

"-has shown us that, more than once. Remember, even the Philosopher's Stone did not grant true immortality. We must have hope."

Dumbledore paused and turned to Harry, Hermione, and Ron. For one insane moment Harry thought that Dumbledore was going to offer them chocolate.

"Hope can be found in all places. Now, Miss Granger, if you would be so good as to tell the rest of the Order what you have told me?"

Harry put his hand on Hermione's arm and squeezed once, before pushing her forward. He rather thought she smiled back at him before saying, "After the last meeting I researched the meaning of 'fabula' and found that it means 'fable' in Latin."

Snape stepped forward, waving his hand irritably. "Yes, yes, Granger, you have informed us of nothing new. Most of the people here in this room have more than a passing familiarity with Latin. What is your point?"

Harry scowled. Snape was the one professor capable of intimidating Hermione, if only because of the number of years he'd spent shoving her down. He had already stepped forward, having consigned his Potions grade to the darkest depths of hell, when Ron yelled out, "Now look, you slimy git,"

Harry winced. Ron was doomed. Not that there was any stopping him.

"Hermione's been working hard on this, so the least you could do is listen to her, you snarky, self-centered, evil, rotten, heartless-" Ron flushed menacingly at Snape for a brief breathless second before getting hauled into a corner by his irate father.

Snape regarded the sudden father-son tussle with something that might have been an empty sort of amusement before fixing his attention back on Hermione. Lips curved upwards maliciously, Snape murmured, "The younger Weasley has an approximation of a point. Please, do continue."

Hermione shook herself from her shocked contemplation of Ron, blushed, and continued. "I believe that You Know Who has returned to a pattern he is comfortable with: namely, the use of Ancient Magic."

"And how, Miss Granger, did you come to that conclusion?" Snape smiled unpleasantly.

"Before, at the time of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, You Know Who used Ancient Magic; magic that he first heard about in stories and legends. Couldn't he have done the same thing this time around as well? Really," Hermione shifted her arms, reflexively clasping tight to her chest books that were not there, "'fabula' could be loosely translated as 'myth' or 'legend'. You Know Who has always wanted immortality and invincibility. Couldn't he have found some legend that promised it?"

Snape blinked, the shadow of what might have been respect passing over him before peering down at her, his calculated disdain dulled by exhaustion, and muttering, "Are you proposing that we research every legend or tall tale that contains mention of immortality, invincibility, or simply even immense power?" Snape shook his head.

Hermione's response was equally quiet. "Yes, I am."

"An insane undertaking," Snape barked back.

Hermione flushed and took a step forward. "Well, at least it's something."

"Quite right!" Dumbledore clapped. It was a hollow sound. "It is hope, and that is something we are in sore need of. Severus, I would like you to work in tandem with Miss Granger. Share any information you have with her, be it even the smallest or least likely lead. Clues to this puzzle may come from the most unexpected of places." Dumbledore took a moment to beam at the rest of the Order, his gaze resting briefly on Harry. He dipped his head in a slow, enigmatic nod, and turned back to Snape, "Now, do you have anything else to report?"

As he spoke, Dumbledore's face hardened, and for a moment Harry thought he might be about to. . . Harry wasn't sure. But whatever Dumbledore meant by that strange, forbidding look, it was certainly- well, commanding. Snape returned the gesture, his eyes' intensity hazed over by an exhaustion Harry could not begin to guess at. Harry (almost) felt sorry for him, for the painful angles of his bones and the too-careful way each of his steps made contact with the ground. Almost, that is, until the man faced Hermione and curled back his upper lip, his body practically vibrating with resentment. "No Albus, I do not. And it will be a. . . pleasure-"

Hermione's hands clenched, and Harry was only too glad that Ron was still under his father's supervision.

"-to work with our brilliant Miss Granger."

"Very good, Severus," Dumbledore smiled. Harry supposed it was meant to have been encouraging. It almost worked, too.

Thankfully, McGonagall took over for the closing of the meeting: "Now, does everyone have their assignments? The scrolls for Remus are ready for owling? Everyone at the Ministry understands what they are to do? Is everyone clear on everything? Yes? Good," McGonagall rapped out. "I declare this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix closed."

The members of the Order filed out of Dumbledore's office in small clusters, each group talking over the evening's information and the events of the previous day. Ron had been released by his father and was fervidly rubbing at his pinked ears.

"He didn't have to box them that hard. It was only Snape, 'fter all," Ron grumbled as he ran his fingers over the shells of his ears, tugging at the lobes. "My ears are still ringing!"

"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed.

Harry didn't bother to hide his wince. Not another fight, not now.

Hermione waved a finger at Ron, a gesture guaranteed to set him off. "Professor Snape is a respected member of the Order, and a Potions Master, not to mention our teacher! He deserves respect, and-"

"I don't care if he hung the moon in the sky! He should be nicer to. . ." Ron paused.

Hermione stopped, whatever the rest of her sentence had been dropping unspoken off of her lips. The sudden tension in the room was enough to incite a heart attack. Hermione waited, her finger frozen in the air between her and Ron. Harry wanted to shake the both of them, or maybe just lock them in a closet together for however long it took until they worked it out. Forever, if the current pace was any indication.

Say it. Just say it, Harry mouthed, crossing his fingers.

Ron gulped and continued, "-people!"

Harry sighed.

Hermione resumed movement, her finger coming to hover resentfully in front of Ron's nose. "And, as I was about to say before you needlessly," glare, "interrupted me, Professor Snape will be working with me from now on. So I would really appreciate it, Ron, if you could learn how to restrain yourself."

Ron flushed and stomped off, snarling something like, "Fine, see if I ever stick up for you again," over his shoulder.

Harry was sure that if Ron had seen Hermione then, he would have rushed back with a hug and apologies and perhaps something else on his tongue. As it was, the only person who saw Hermione clutching herself, crushed, was Harry. He went up to her and hugged, cradling her in his arms until she settled, the top of her head grazing Harry's chin.

Hermione sighed, and Harry sighed back, saying, "Couldn't you just tell him? You know how he feels about you."

"Yes, and that's the problem. You know, and I know, and most likely the entire school knows- but does Ron?"

Harry just hugged Hermione tighter.

Hermione smiled into Harry's shoulder, and he did his best to ignore her small shudders and the stick of damp fabric clinging to his skin.

***

Draco Malfoy believed in dreams. And so, he prayed.

He prayed that the dreams would not come, that the nightly rape would not occur. He prayed and hoped; but even so held no stock in prayers or hopes, instead placing his waning trust in magic and charms. He huddled under his family's crest, no longer victim to the belief that it would protect him from everyone, everything. From the dreams. He ran from them, taking refuge from sleep when he could and spelling his bed when he could not. By night the air inside his four-poster crackled with energy, the space within mutated by magic and supposedly powerless prayers. Draco fled from his dreams, but even so he dreamed, lost in a red and black abyss.

Pulled down by the Undertow.