A Plague of Legends

Chapter Seventeen: Oaths and Oathbreakers

Or, The Wheel of Fortune

It was the lack of noise that woke Draco.

He had fallen asleep to Greg's nightly symphony of beastly noises, secure in the assumption that Vince and Greg would be there when he fell asleep and there when he opened his eyes. A habit, nothing more, but an old one; and everyone knows that the grip of old habits is hard to break, even for a Malfoy.

It was the lack of noise that woke Draco, and it took several long seconds for him to shake his mind clean of sleep and understand what that meant. It took him even longer to swing stiff legs out of bed and press his feet to the chilled floor, to go over to Greg's bed and discover that Greg was in fact gone. More mincing steps over cold stone to Vince's bed only revealed a similar lack. Further inspection showed their cloaks and wands missing and the door to the bedroom slightly ajar, where one of them (Greg most likely) had forgotten to close it all the way.

His discoveries noted Draco sat back down on his bed, curling his legs up under him, and waited for his roommates in the eerie silence that can only be found between two and four o' clock in the morning. Bereft of even the sounds of birds outside, Draco waited, and found himself overcome with the desire to hear Greg's low snoring, despite everything the bastard had done- was probably doing even now. The silence was brutal, and made Draco think about things he would have much rather forgotten.

It was the lack of noise that woke Draco; that, and the inexplicable knowledge that Potter was on the prowl, wandering somewhere and not thinking of him.

***

As one, the Order of the Phoenix stared at the scarred and stained bodies decorating the floor of Dumbledore's study. They lay there, the markings on the necks and bellies and thighs standing out like livid accusations against pallid skin. Padma Patil and Terry Boot had become no more than beaten skin, stiff now, and the shadow of a skull burned into the flesh of both of their arms.

"My god," Harry heard Hermione whisper for perhaps the thirtieth time, and he wondered. How could there be a god that would allow this to happen? How?

Terry's eyes were closed, but Padma's stared sightless into the crowd; Harry felt that they rested on him, pinned him to the floor with accusations and the now ever present question, 'Why?' She lay on the floor, dead, and asked Harry why, waiting for the answer she knew Harry to have.

"This is my fault," Harry whispered- mumbled, really- and kneeled on the floor beside her. Wand shaking he charmed her eyes closed, then shrugged out of his cloak and placed it over her. Before standing up, he grazed his fingers over the raised flesh of the Mark and waited for lightning to strike. He was still waiting when Dumbledore walked over and stood beside him. The sudden weight of Dumbledore's hand on Harry's shoulder was almost too much to bear, so Harry looked down when he said, "I'm so sorry, Headmaster."

"For what, my dear boy?" Dumbledore asked.

"For letting it get this far. If I'd somehow stopped him before, known, then none of this would've happened. I'm sorry."

Dumbledore's hand tightened. "Harry," he sighed. "There was nothing you could have done. Not then and certainly not now."

"But I-" Harry began to try again, when a hand came out of nowhere and cuffed the side of his head. Harry stumbled back, cupping his cheek, and glared at the guilty hand. For a moment he thought he saw Vernon Dursley standing before him, lips curled back in a snarl, but then his vision cleared. The hand's owner sneered at him, the man's disgust so potent even his obvious exhaustion could not dull it.

"You listen to me, Potter," Snape hissed. "We no longer have the luxury of time to coddle you or re-inflate your self esteem. Voldemort is still out there, and he needs to be defeated now. So, in the interest of time and saving lives, I shall tell you a few truths."

Harry stiffened his back and clenched his hands, staring hatred at the Potions Professor. If there was anyone else in the room but him and Snape he didn't see them, so narrowed was his focus to just one person, didn't hear them for the ocean raging in his ears.

"You are completely correct- this is your fault. Thanks to you, we now have Voldemort on the loose with his bevy of lapdogs. So- well done Mister Potter. Is that what you wanted to hear, you stupid, ignorant boy?"

Harry shook his head and squeezed the liquid from his eyes. He hated Snape, hated him.

"Then let me tell you something else," Snape snapped. "You are not the only person with a cross to bear. If your adored Headmaster had only protected you better, we would not be here with two corpses and more likely to turn up any day. If this council had done its job better the first time around, we wouldn't be here and you would not have that pretty scar decorating your useless head. And on a more personal note, if I had made better choices when I was a child I would not have had to watch and do nothing as these children were murdered." Snape gestured to the bodies and stopped, his lips curving into a tired, hollow sneer as Harry choked on his guilt.

"So do not speak to me of blame or guilt. You are in no position to do so. Your continued air of martyrdom is both presumptuous and insulting to those of us who do have a reason for guilt, and I refuse to let myself or anyone else baby you any longer. Because, in case you haven't noticed, you are not half so special as you think.

"Moreover, if you even think of pulling another stunt like you did tonight I will use your skin as upholstery, is that clear Mister Potter?"

"Clear as mud, sir," Harry said, and lifted his chin.

"Severus, Harry, that's enough," Dumbledore said, his voice admonishing. "Severus, I don't believe Padfoot here appreciates the way you've been talking to Harry."

Blinking, Harry looked down and found Padfoot standing between Snape and him. The dog's lips were pulled back and he was growling a low warning. Padfoot's teeth seemed enormous against the black of his coat, and they glowed like luminaries in the firelight. Had he been there the entire time?

Snape shrugged, said, "What do I care for the thoughts of a cur?" and laughed when Padfoot snapped his teeth. "We are getting nowhere with this, you idiot dog. You can kill me if you please, but how long will it then take you to sniff out our enemy's secrets? I doubt your precious nose would do you much good."

At that, Padfoot growled and tensed, as if about to lunge. Snape folded his arms and glared back, and their hatred for each other seemed to course through Harry's body like electricity or poison. Snape's hand was hovering over what had to be his wand when Dumbledore inserted himself between them and gave them both a stern look.

"Gentlemen, please. This has been a very difficult night for all of us, and we are going to have to work together to see it to its end." Dumbledore looked up and continued his address to the room. "Therefore I think it best that we adjourn for the night. We shall continue this meeting tomorrow evening, when both Remus and Severus will make their reports. Is there anyone not in favor of this motion?"

Although the room seethed with discontent, not one word was spoken against Dumbledore. Even so, it seemed to Harry that the shadows on the walls crawled, sinking their tendrils into the people around him. Absolute trust and comradeship was a fantasy, one that had been shred to pieces tonight by Snape's and Sirius' display, and no one present would be forgetting that any time soon. Even Amos Diggory was silent, his own small rebellions against Snape cast into shadow by the enormous hatred between the Order's spy and the Grim before him.

Dumbledore surveyed the Order, smiling inexplicably, and nodded. "Very well. We will adjourn and reconvene tomorrow." He watched the disappearances of his fellows with a genial fatherly air that seemed totally out of place under the circumstances. Only when the last cloaked figure had departed did his manner change. Eyes suddenly hard and flat he said, "Poppy, if you would be so good as to take Miss Patil's and Mister Boot's bodies to the Infirmary?"

Madame Pomfrey nodded, all signs of good-natured twittering gone.

Dumbledore continued, "Alastor, I know that you have classes tomorrow, but would you please help Minerva and I inspect the school's shielding? Thank you. The rest of you, please go to bed. Tonight has been long, and tomorrow night promises to be even longer."

"Finally," Snape said, spared a glare for both Harry and Padfoot and stalked out the door, presumably on his way to the dungeons. Moody, McGonagall, and Dumbledore followed close behind him. Before Harry knew it he, Ron, Hermione, Remus, and Padfoot were alone in Dumbledore's office. Within seconds of the door closing, the room burst into recriminations, questions, and accusations.

"Harry, I cannot believe you followed them out there! You could have been killed!" Hermione said, and the wet corners of her eyes hurt far more than any words from Snape ever could.

In the corner, Remus was berating a now-human Sirius: "Padfoot, why didn't you send him back when you realized he was there? The risk was too great."

Ron glanced at Hermione and blurted out, "That took some guts, to do what you did. Glad you're still alive, mate."

"There was nothing we could do- by the time we realized we were too far from the school. Besides, Remus, why did you let him go? You could have stopped him before he left this room!" Sirius retorted- the weight of the worry he'd borne while out with Harry coming to rest on Remus' shoulders. Harry could still feel the bruises Sirius' hands had left behind throbbing under his shirt and he wondered if Sirius was going to shake Remus too.

Hermione turned to glare at Ron. "Ron, I cannot believe you're encouraging him!"

"I'm sorry, but when someone says they are heading to the loo, I tend to take them at their word," Remus snapped, and cradled his forehead in his hands.

"I'm not! When did I encourage him?" Ron yelped.

Sirius bunched his hands up and held them close to his sides. Slowly, as if speaking to someone mentally incompetent, he said, "Usually people don't take their Invisibility Cloaks with them to the toilet."

"Just now!" Hermione snapped, even as she rubbed at her eyes.

Remus made a cutting gesture with his hand. "Now, listen here Sirius, I-"

Harry drew a deep breath and bellowed, "Will everyone just please shut up?" and was amazed to find that they did. "What I did tonight was my fault. No one knew I was going to run after the search party; Merlin, even I didn't. And Sirius is telling the truth- they couldn't have sent me back by the time they found me out. I'm the one responsible for my actions, so will you all please stop blaming each other for what happened? I'm fine, nobody got hurt, and we're all finally back together. I know it's difficult, but can't we just be happy, this once?"

He stood there, fuming and guilty, and waited for the inevitable slings and arrows. They all seemed ready to take a shot at him- Hermione and Sirius were wearing matched expressions of almost parental displeasure, Ron was scowling to hide his hurt, and Remus just looked at Harry, his expression completely unreadable. What he'd done tonight had probably been as harebrained as the time he and Ron had followed a trail of spiders into the Forest- only this time, he'd followed Snape. Harry wasn't sure which was worse. So Harry knew that he deserved whatever he got; he just didn't think any of it mattered compared to being all together again. But it seemed to matter to everyone else, so he waited.

What Harry got instead of further rebuke was Remus walking up to him, a sad, resigned smile on his face. Harry stilled as Remus placed his hands on Harry's shoulders, his heart twisting as Remus' smile wavered, then firmed. It had been worth it.

"We are happy Harry, more than you can imagine. But I don't think you can imagine how Ron, Hermione and I felt when we realized what you had done. It was a very brave thing you did, and very foolish. For all we knew Voldemort himself was waiting for Severus in that grove. Sirius and Alastor might not have been enough protection for Severus, let alone you. Any number of things could have happened to you, and we're all very happy they did not. However, just because we're happy doesn't mean that we're not scared."

Harry blinked and scowled reflexively, not even realizing where the expression came from. "I'm safe now."

Remus smiled more widely, more sadly. "For the present."

***

Draco wasn't sure how many hours or minutes he'd been waiting when the door to his room finally opened and his two erstwhile 'friends' came slinking in. The shadows covered them completely and they moved without sound; if Draco not been waiting for them he would never have heard. He wished he had the luxury of ignorance- that he could wonder at this newfound stealth of theirs; instead, he simply sat and watched as his stomach burned and his eyes flooded with crimson.

Greg had just removed and folded his mask when Draco decided he'd had enough and spelled the lights on. For a moment they stood unguarded and blinked in the bright glare of the room's candles and lamps, and Draco saw that mud was caked to their boots and their hands were dirty. They smelled rotted somehow, and the scent of trees clung to their bare cloaks.

"Where have you been?" Draco asked, and gestured to Greg's mask.

"We went for a walk," said Greg, and hurriedly shoved the mask into his trunk. Vince hissed at him to shut up, then shut up himself when he saw it was too late.

"Really? At three o' clock in the morning?" Draco purred, not amused. "And with such an interesting choice of wardrobe. Really Greg, how stupid do you think I am?"

Greg just shook his head, his thick hands pulling nervously at the buttons on his shirt. Vince just stared at Draco, his eyes full of what might have been despair, might have been anger.

"By Mordred, you two. You're acting as though I didn't know about this. We do share a room together. So, you were out gallivanting in the Forbidden Forest with Mordred knows who else at an ungodly hour of the morning. For what, to pick berries?" Draco said, and stretched back against his pillows, careful to watch their reactions through slit eyes.

"How did you-" Greg began.

Vince shrugged and glared at Greg. "Can't say."

Greg stiffened and slowly nodded. "Yeah, can't say."

"Can't, or won't?" Draco sneered.

"Can't."

They all fell silent after that, and Draco watched them remove their costumes, watched black shadows dance on their left arms. Somehow, the sight of it made him feel- something, he wasn't sure. He watched them slip into bed, their breathing harsh in his ears, and hoped they felt dirty and guilty for being confronted like this, for everything they'd done and were planning on doing. Draco watched as Vince spelled the room dark, pulled his knees up to his chest and wondered if he would ever trust them again.

Draco had given up his vigil and retreated under his covers when Vince whispered, as if to himself, "For what it's worth, Draco, we're sorry."

***

The Great Hall was bustling as usual, though a keen observer might have realized much of the energy was nothing more than frenetic excess, a desperate attempt to stay active and sane. Ravenclaw in particular was extremely energetic, its members practically writhing with simulated jocularity as they waited again for news, any news at all.

Hufflepuff was buoyed by a low buzzing whispering, and Harry noticed that some of the older students had again taken to wearing black bands on their arms. Harry wondered who exactly the bands were for, if they had been transformed into a symbol of all lost student life in the past few days. He then wondered if Gryffindor and the other Houses would not begin taking up the practice.

Slytherin was cool as always, with its occupants ignoring the bustle of the other Houses and instead focusing on their daily fare of humor. Draco was once again performing, for the first time in a while, and he seemed to be lampooning Hagrid, the swot. Neither he nor anyone else seemed to notice the pile of ash seated beside him, diminished as it was. As Draco made a particularly wild gesture a clump of grey spilled to the floor.

Gryffindor was like a tense smile, Harry thought. Everyone ready to spring into action, every wand in place, and every available hand stretched out to Parvati, who sat at the very end of the table. If she let loose a sob or clutched at Lavender's hand there were always fifteen people ready with napkins, caring words, and perhaps even a gentle joke. Parvati sat flanked by Lavender and Hermione, and though Hermione was red-eyed and exhausted, she never faltered in her bearing, despite her burden of knowledge.

The knowledge lay on Harry, Hermione, and Ron, and it was all they could do to be there, be ready and waiting for Dumbledore's inevitable announcement. It had become something of a given in Gryffindor- a cliché, even- that when the world fell apart the Trio would still somehow be standing, and now those expectations had cast heroes' shrouds around the three.

So everyone waited, waiting for either what they knew not or for what they knew only too well. Everyone was waiting for the clink of Dumbledore's glass or the clearing of McGonagall's throat, just as they had been for the past four days. Only this morning they were not disappointed. Dumbledore's knife chimed against his glass, and the entire Hall fell silent, staring as Dumbledore slowly rose to his feet.

His face marked by solemn lines, Dumbledore cleared his throat and spoke:

"I bear sad news, the blow of which I cannot, and do not want to, soften. As all of you know, four days ago Miss Padma Patil and Mister Terry Boot of Ravenclaw disappeared, presumed kidnapped by Death Eaters. Their bodies were discovered early this morning. Their families have been notified and will be here to retrieve the bodies this afternoon.

"This is a dark time for all of us, but I ask that everyone provide support and comfort to those who were most affected by the tragedy.

"And let us not forget these two, who have fallen to Voldemort and his cohorts, nor any of those who died before them. We must remember them, and stay true to their memory by fighting those who killed them.

"We must struggle on, for both their sakes and our own. To Terry Boot and Padma Patil," Dumbledore said, raising his glass. The students and staff followed suit, and for a heartbeat the world seemed frozen, sent back to another time and a different name. Then the world continued spinning, and Harry watched it spin out of control, faster and faster until it finally toppled over.

Dumbledore looked at Parvati, his eyes tired and sad, and sat down.

Parvati sat surrounded by her fellow Gryffindors, completely frozen but for the tears running tracks down her face. Her mouth hung slightly open, as if she had only before been about to say something, and her eyes were closed tight. She was still like this when a short stout Ravenclaw in Harry's year (Mandy Brocklehurst, was it?) stood up and asked, shakily, "Professor, where were the bodies found?"

Harry drew in a breath at that and wished the question hadn't been asked. He turned his head back to Dumbledore and waited for the inevitable- the necessary- lie.

Dumbledore shook his head and sighed, "On the front steps of Hogwarts, my dear."

Like Blaise, came the inevitable whisper, flowing like waves through the Houses' tables until it was cresting against Harry's ears like the whispering of the damned. Yes, like Blaise! Harry wanted to yell, scream out until they understood that it was war now, war and they were a part of it. That the patrols and check-ins and no more Quidditch and canceled visits and Mediwizard training and all of the new rules weren't just for fun or sprung from paranoia. That this was real, and no amount of denial was going to change that. In the blink of an eye, Harry realized that at that moment he wanted to do nothing more than shake sense into every single person in the room. He was pleasantly indulging in his own fantasy when a sudden crack from Slytherin table silenced the gibbering room and caught his, and everyone else's, attention.

Draco Malfoy stood panting over Vincent Crabbe, his fist red and Crabbe's face swelling. Harry didn't think he'd ever seen so much hatred in a person before; he felt it echoing in his bones. Draco's eyes shone silver in the candlelight, almost glowing, and he spat on Crabbe, saying, "You make me sick, both of you. If you ever attempt to speak to me again, I swear by Mordred, Morgaine, and Nineve that I will kill you and paint this Hall red with your blood."

"Mister Malfoy," McGonagall gasped, only to be halted by Dumbledore's hand on her sleeve. She gaped at him, then closed her mouth with a snap and sat down again, glowering. Harry found himself searching for Snape, only to realize the man was gone, probably still in bed. No one else made a move to stop the Slytherin altercation.

"Draco," Crabbe reached out to Draco, pleading. Harry watched, sick and disturbed, as Draco knocked the hand away and laughed. It was the most horrific, hollow thing Harry had ever heard, and before he knew it he was standing up and striding over to the Slytherin table.

"What's Harry doing?" Harry heard Hermione whisper, and then he was almost at Draco's side, close enough to hear the end.

Draco finished laughing, his eyes so cold it must have burned Crabbe and Goyle to see them. "You know what, Vince? For what it's worth, I'm sorry, too." He turned to leave and almost smacked into Harry. They stared at each other, and for a brief moment the raw emotion in Draco's eyes spilled over, filling Harry to the brim. Harry choked around his tongue, trying to say something beyond, "I'm sorry." Then the second ended and Draco's eyes glazed over, empty but for the distant fire of something else.

"Let me by, Potter," Draco mumbled, shoving past Harry and stalking from the Hall.

Harry rounded on Crabbe and Goyle, beyond caring what anyone might think. "What did you do to him?"

Crabbe sniffed, his small eyes gleaming beady and calculating. "We didn't do anything to him." He paused, grunted. "What do you care, anyway? Everyone knows you hate him. Isn't that right?" he asked, addressing the last question to the Slytherin table at large. The Slytherins murmured their assent, every last one of them radiating their resentment at an outsider prying into their private affairs.

"I just do," Harry said, ignoring the scrutiny and searching for the answer to all this in Crabbe's eyes. All he could see there was hatred; Harry couldn't think what he'd done to deserve it.

Crabbe looked back and said, seriously, "You shouldn't."

***

The Library was silent and empty; even Madame Pince was still occupied with breakfast, or what was left of it. Each step that took Harry farther into the Library made scuffing sounds that echoed against stone floor and bound books. It was so quiet Harry would have thought himself alone if not for the persistent tug that told him yes, Draco was here. The growing anger and despair burning away at his stomach was proof of that. As he paced forward, Harry was struck by the thought that he didn't even need the Marauders Map anymore, so strong was the inexplicable link he had with Draco. He was on the verge of worrying about it and its implications when he turned the corner of a bookcase and Draco came into full view.

Draco sat at one of the long tables, his face cupped in hands that were ever so slightly trembling. His hair fell loose around his face, hiding all but the edge of his twisting lips, and if Draco had been anyone else Harry would have said he was on the verge of crying. The only movements Draco made were with his mouth, sculpting from them the shapes of words. Over and over again, the same shapes forming the same words until Harry realized Draco was reciting a litany of his dead, though why Draco would include Terry Boot in their number Harry didn't know. Had they been friends? Watching Draco and the slow, painful working of his lips, Harry felt torn between running to Draco and running away from him. Then, gradually, Draco stilled, tightened his hands around his head, and whispered a name, whispered it so softly it was a miracle Harry heard. Or perhaps it was just a miracle.

Harry. . .

Harry drew in a sharp, painful breath and moved forward. The sound spliced the silence, but Harry was beyond caring as he walked to Draco's side and sat down in a chair next to him. His own hand almost trembling, Harry reached out and pulled Draco's hands down from his face.

Draco looked up and glared at Harry, his eyes desert-dry and bitter as he ground out his welcome. "Sneaking around again, Potter? Haven't you uncovered enough dirt on me today? Or was there something else you wanted?" Slowly, the look in his eyes changed and he tilted his head to one side, showing off the line of his neck. "Want to fuck my troubles away?" Draco said, dangerously.

Harry's breath caught in his throat at the sight of a tiny love mark fading into white at the base of Draco's throat. Catching control of himself and his hormones, Harry reached out and straightened Draco's collar, covering his neck. Gripping Draco's hands still in his own, Harry leaned forward and stared into Draco's eyes. He would not be put off any longer.

"Why now, Draco? Why care now about the people who've died? You barely knew Padma and Terry."

"Well, why do you care, Potter? What business is it of yours who I mourn?" Draco snapped, stung.

Harry felt his gut tighten, felt Draco pulling away. He tightened his grip and pressed harder, determined to help Draco let everything out, even if it meant breaking him open. "Why were you saying Terry's name along with your father's and Blaise's? You weren't even friends with him."

"Fuck you," Draco snapped, yanking at his hands.

"Why mourn for him when you obviously never cared about him, never even talked to him?" Harry continued grimly, continued despite the feeling of untruth that almost made him gag on the words. He was getting closer, he could feel it.

Draco snarled, inchoate.

"Of course, you didn't seem to much care about Blaise dying either, so it's not much of a stretch for you to mouth platitudes over the grave of a complete stranger, is it?"

There. Harry had him.

"How dare you, you- I was fucking him, you twat, fucking him up until the day he disappeared," Draco panted, almost insensate with rage. "Is that what you wanted to hear? That he was a good lay and I miss that?"

"You're lying," Harry said.

Draco sneered. "What, that I was fucking him? I assure you I'm not; would you like a blow by blow description of what fucking him was like? Maybe I should start with the way it felt inside him-"

Harry saw them together, overlapping until they melded into something beyond skin, sweat, and groping hands. Harry saw Terry touching Draco in ways that had been denied him.

"Stop," Harry gritted out, and tightened his grip until he could feel Draco's bones bending under his fingers. "How long. How long were you- were you fucking him?"

"Jealous?" Draco said, and for a moment Harry couldn't remember where he was or who Draco was talking about. And then he did- but this time Harry couldn't lie to himself.

"How long," Harry repeated, knowing himself revealed- knowing that he didn't care. He didn't care.

For a split second Draco just stared at him, his mouth slightly open. A heartbeat later, Draco made his recovery and said, "Since fifth year. Is there anything else you want to know? Would you like to take notes, maybe? I could tell you about the ways he used his very clever tongue and where he used to put it, like-"

No. Harry watched Draco rage and realized: It wasn't about the sex, not with Boot dead and Draco mouthing his name to an empty room. It wasn't even about Harry and Draco, though Harry wanted nothing more than to throw Draco to the floor and take him until it stuck, until Draco was branded his. It was about how Draco felt about Boot.

"No. Why don't you tell how you felt about him." Harry narrowed his eyes, tightening his grasp on Draco's hands.

"Nothing," Draco said, pulling back. "I was just fucking him."

"Just-" Harry stopped. Then, snarling, he stalked over between a couple of bookcases, dragging Draco behind him. Draco swore and yanked at his hands, pulling away from Harry and back into whatever imaginary castle he'd built to hide himself in. Harry could feel it, could feeling him running, and Harry had had enough. Still fuming, Harry threw Draco at the wall and, before Draco had a chance to run, thrust himself at Draco, shoving him against cold stone. Draco swore again, clawing at Harry's back and twisting in his arms; Harry simply pressed closer and grabbed Draco's wrists, taking them in one hand and pinning them above his head.

Briefly there was only the sound of their harsh breathing, breaths mixing in the air separating their lips, and then Harry whispered, "Tell me how you felt about him- how you really felt."

Draco blinked, then smiled evilly. Harry braced himself for the attack certain to come.

"I kissed him all the time, you know. He was an amazing kisser and had none of the hang-ups about it you do," Draco said, almost conversationally, as if their locked gazes and bodies weren't charging the air around them. As if his eyes weren't burning with fury. They glowed.

"Did you care for him?" Harry asked stubbornly, ignoring the burn Draco's words had ignited.

"He would come in the most extraordinary way- he used to say it was like being able to hear angels singing. When he came I almost believed he could."

"Did you care for him?" Harry repeated.

Closer, now.

Draco continued as if he hadn't heard Harry. "He used to cry at the very end, always. I never could decide if I liked or hated that." Draco stopped and smirked, "You used to cry too, in the beginning."

"Did you care for him?"

Almost there.

"Potter," Draco suddenly dropped his eyes, his voice no longer mocking. "Stop. Now."

Harry shook his head and lifted up Draco's face with his free hand. Gently, he asked, "Did you care for him?"

"And if I did?" Draco said, looking anywhere but into Harry's eyes. "Do you think it matters now? Besides, I didn't love him."

"It matters to me," Harry said, and kissed the corners of Draco's too-dry eyes.

Draco let out a long, ragged breath and dropped his head into the curve of Harry's neck. "You can stop now, Potter. You've won."

And he had- Harry could feel it. Sighing, Harry released Draco's wrists and pressed closer to Draco, skimming his hands over the other boy's body until they came to naturally rest against his cheeks. Cradling Draco's face, Harry tried to come up with the right thoughts, his mouth shaping words not good or strong enough until he gave up and said, "Let me help you forget him."

At that, Draco jerked back, almost hitting his head against the wall. His eyes filled with loathing and his body shook with fury. "You're making a lot of assumptions, aren't you, Potter? What makes you think I want to forget T. . . him? Well, it's only logical, I suppose, since you mean so much more to me than he did. Mordred, Potter, it's a good thing you were here to remind me that I'm so much better off now than I was with him. Bloody hell, what am I moping about? Come on, Potter, let's find a quiet corner and fuck each other's brains out so you can help me forget. Sodding right."

Draco laughed; Harry could feel Draco's disgust wash over him. That wasn't how he'd meant it, wasn't what he'd wanted to say. Or maybe it was and Harry was everything Draco thought him to be. Harry sucked in a deep breath and held Draco's gaze. Draco blinked and his eyelashes brushed against the tips of Harry's fingers. Harry trembled at the touch. Draco suddenly seemed so delicate, so easily broken, in his arms- this person who had probably never been fragile before in his life.

"I'll make you forget him," Harry whispered, pressing his words into the corner of Draco's lips.

Draco yanked his mouth away and laughed again, hatefully. But his eyes weren't laughing. "You fucking prat. Like you made me forget Blaise and my father?"

Harry shook his head, hurt. "Like I help you forget yourself." It was the only way he could help Draco now; there was no other way Draco would let him help.

Draco stilled in Harry's arms and stared; Harry took that as the only assent he was ever likely to get.

Taking in a deep breath, Harry tugged Draco's shirt free and slipped his hands under the slick silk. Then there was nothing but skin beginning to sweat under his hands, Draco's throat quivering under his lips, Draco rising against him. Draco gasped something out above him, his hands bunching in the back of Harry's robes, and Harry found himself whispering reassurances in Draco's ear. He said them over and over again until there was nothing between them but the movements of their bodies and the rhythm of Harry's words binding them together.

Let me help you. Let me help you. Let me help you. Let me help you.

Harry gasped the words against Draco's lips, an almost-kiss, felt Draco shudder beneath him. And then Draco said, "No."

"No," Draco yelled, striking Harry, ripping himself free of Harry's grasp. "No. You can't help me. No one can." Sneering, he gestured to himself and said, "Certainly not like this."

He did up the buttons on his trousers and shirt and was about to walk off, not one backward glance, when Harry lunged forward and pulled Draco to him.

"Potter, what are you doing?" Draco snarled, kicking behind him at Harry's legs. "Let me go- You can take your sympathy fuck, take it and-"

"Shh," Harry said, and crossed his arms over Draco's stomach. "I'm just holding you. Nothing else."

Draco stiffened. "Well stop. I don't need it."

Except he did, and Harry knew it.

"No," Harry said, nuzzling Draco's ear and tightening his hold. "Just- let me hold you."

At that, it seemed like something in Draco broke; Draco hissed and swore, scratched Harry's arms and kicked at his legs, trying to fight his way free of Harry's embrace. Holding onto Draco was harder than holding onto a Blast Ended Skrewt and twice as dangerous, Harry realized when Draco haphazardly tried to claw Harry's eyes out and jab his elbow into Harry's stomach. Finally, after only Merlin knew how many minutes, Draco collapsed against Harry, panting and spent. Harry hid his smile in Draco's hair (how could sorrow be so glad?), and held Draco close. Draco just stood there, limp and quiet in Harry's arms. Harry had almost decided to let him go when Draco sighed and covered Harry's arms with his own, resigning himself to Harry's embrace.

There was a long pause.

"Are we friends now Potter?"

"No."

"What are we, then?" hoarsely chuckled.

Softly, "We're lovers."

"We don't love each other, Potter."

Firmly, "We're lovers."

A jagged laugh, "You're delusional."

***

Hermione whispered the password to Snape's office and watched, relieved, as the door opened to admit her. As much as she would deny it to anyone who asked, Hermione had become attached to the room with its stacks of books and walls covered in potions. That Snape had not changed the password hinted at an element of trust, unbelievable as it seemed. At the moment the room stank of Wolfsbane, and Hermione could only assume that Snape had begun work on the monthly stock of Remus Lupin's potion.

Deeply aware that the room was no longer hers, Hermione cleared her throat and waited in the doorway. For some reason she thought of Ron and how he'd sat across from her and spent hours flipping through books and scrolls until both of them had been beyond exhaustion. She remembered the way he'd occasionally looked up at her and smile for no reason at all before diving back into the books. She remembered how her hands had felt in his.

Snape walked out from his Potions cabinet and waved her in, his fists full of vials. "Yes Miss Granger, is there anything I can do for you?" he asked after putting down his burden. Not waiting for Hermione's answer, Snape went over to the cauldron and inspected its contents, tapping one gloved finger reflexively against his cheek. After a couple of seconds he picked up the spoon hanging from the cauldron's side and began slowly stirring.

Hermione almost smiled at the sight. This was how it was supposed to be. Only one person truly belonged here, and the room knew it- it welcomed Snape back.

It was only when Snape growled, "What is it, Miss Granger?" that Hermione realized she'd been staring almost fondly at Snape.

Blushing slightly, Hermione closed the door and walked over to Snape's side. The potion whirled before them, and Hermione found herself forgetting the reason for her visit and asking, "What potion is that, Professor?"

"A variant on Wolfsbane Potion," Snape replied without thinking. He performed five careful strokes to the left, then stopped and looked daggers at Hermione. "Miss Granger, if this is simply a social visit I'll have you know I am extraordinarily busy."

Hermione sighed and gathered herself up. Trust Snape to cut past any pleasantries. "No, I do have something to discuss with you."

Without looking behind him Snape reached back and grabbed a vial, seemingly at random, and carefully measured three drops into the cauldron. "Well we don't have all evening, girl. Say what you have to and leave."

Hermione gritted her teeth. Maybe Ron had been right when he said she'd been painting Snape in her preferred colors. "While you were gone, Professor, I researched the Malfoy family as you suggested."

"And?" Snape asked, not sounding as if he particularly cared. He didn't even have the decency to look up at her while she was speaking. Not once. Hermione forcibly reminded herself that it had been easier researching when he'd been with her.

"And I found only one instance of a family legend, something called the Malfoy Silver. I made some discreet inquiries and no one was able to tell me what the legend actually was, but since you are close to the family I thought you could tell me something." Hopefully Snape would be able to shed some light where no one else had been able to.

All Snape did was scowl at his potion and mutter something about not enough Rowan bark. Then a low muttered, "Ruined, no good at all. Ruined, by Merlin's beard!"

Hermione bristled. "Professor?"

Was this how she treated Ron and Harry when she was researching? If so, Hermione realized that she might have something to apologize for. Not that she could ever be half so rude or mean as Snape.

Snape blinked and sneered, almost as an afterthought. "Yes, yes, the Malfoy Silver. No Miss Granger I do not know what the story behind the Silver is; as close as I was to the family I was never considered elite enough to be enlightened as to its actual nature." Snape smirked bitterly, "Indeed, friends though Lucius and I were, we were never able to completely broach the class gap. Too much history on both sides, I suppose."

Snape stared off at nothing, and for a moment it seemed like he would continue, but then he shook his head and the story that had been hanging in the air waiting to be told was consigned back to whatever dark place he hid such memories. "No, Miss Granger, I can tell you nothing of the Silver that you most likely do not already know."

Hermione sighed, "Then we're back to the beginning."

Snape spelled away the fire and pulled off his gloves, tossing them to the table. Smirking, he turned back to Hermione and said, "Not quite. While attending the last meeting I was able to discover the nature of the Fabula Project."

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been keeping in; it might have been holed up inside her for months with the way it gushed free. "And?"

Snape's smirk remained plastered to his face. "And you will have to wait to hear about it, just like everyone else."

"Oh," Hermione said, trying to keep her disappointment from showing. For some reason she'd rather thought he might at least tell her beforehand. She supposed Ron had been right.

Snape continued, "After all, this room is not protected well enough for my tastes; the only place in this benighted castle I would trust this information with is that old fool's office, candy wrappers and all."

Oh, of course.

Snape stood silently and observed his failed potion, ignoring Hermione in favor of something more interesting. Hermione was heading towards the door and, without looking up from the cauldron, Snape said, "One moment, Miss Granger."

Hermione looked back to find Snape staring at her, his gaze harshly evaluating. His black eyes glittered at her challengingly, and Hermione suddenly felt as a medieval knight must have felt upon seeing a gauntlet thrown before his feet.

"Before you leave there is a favor I would ask of you."

***

"Thank you, Remus," Dumbledore said. "You have worked miracles, and I am sure all of us will sleep better knowing of our new allies. Are there any more questions?" He paused, surveying the members of the Order. "No? Then before we continue and hear Severus' report I think it would be best if any necessary announcements were made now. Once he begins, I doubt there will be an opportunity to go back to other matters. Does anyone have anything to say?"

"Yes Albus, I do," said Arthur Weasley, pushing away from the fireplace. "This morning I heard that the Ministry Defense Force had caught wind of a probable attack in the next week or so. I wanted to know if this has been confirmed."

"Severus," Dumbledore said, turning to Snape. "Have you heard anything?"

Snape shook his head, his expression unchanging except for a small flicker in his eye. Perhaps, Harry thought, perhaps it was just the light.

"I have heard nothing of any such attack, but it is possible. The frequency and length of the last few Meetings would suggest something is afoot. I will endeavor to look into this at the next Meeting."

"Be careful, Severus," Remus said, stepping forward. "You more than anyone know how canny the Death Eaters are, and we can't afford to lose you. Your ignorance stinks of suspicion or, at the very least, censure."

Snape sneered and dipped his head in a mocking bow. "Thank you for your concern, Lupin, but I am familiar with the game and its rules. However, once I have concluded my report you will see there is no choice in the matter. There is to be another Meeting tomorrow night- I must be there."

At that Lupin simply shook his head and sighed, his hands playing with the fur at Padfoot's ruff. He looked like he wanted to say more, except he knew it would do no good. Padfoot, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to assault Snape. For his crime of brushing Remus off or his crime of existing, Harry could not say.

Sirius had only stayed one month at Hogwarts before leaving with Remus for the werewolves last year, and if there was one thing Harry had become very familiar with during that time, it was the depth of hatred Snape and Sirius had for each other. If Sirius could have pinned the blame for Original Sin on Snape, he would have; Harry was certain the feeling was mutual. Even when they had been at their worst, Harry knew he had never loathed Draco like Sirius loathed Snape. Ron, on the other hand- it was a problem.

"Now, may I begin my report?" Snape said, scanning the audience. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, Snape continued. "After much work, I have discovered the nature of the Fabula Project."

Harry gasped and heard himself echoed by everyone else in the room. He felt like he'd been hit in the back of the head with a Bludger, only the shock felt rather nice once he was able to appreciate it. In fact, the only people in the room who didn't have surprise running down their faces were Dumbledore and Hermione. The former was simply smiling, placid as always if you didn't look too close, and the latter had the smug insufferable look she always got whenever she'd beaten everyone else in the class (usually by several months) to the book in the Library everyone needed (of which there was only one copy). Figured Hermione would know, what with her and Snape getting all- not chummy, but less spiteful.

As people surfaced from their shock they began to babble, a very human but very annoying trait, Harry realized. Even Ron was doing it, suddenly distracted from the sulk he'd been indulging in all evening.

Then Snape coughed, once, and the room fell silent. Looking gratified at the response (one which he never got from his students), Snape began. "I am going to tell you a story, because apparently this whole debacle began with a legend. This legend is known only to the Malfoy family, though it may not have always been this way. Before Voldemort corrupted it, it was apparently nothing more than a bedtime story. At its deepest it was a warning against relying overly on the Dark Arts for protection; one I wish Lucius had heeded." Snape stopped and bowed his head, and Harry wondered if he was remembering Lucius Malfoy. Hermione had said they'd been friends. Normally it was hard to imagine Snape with friends, but seeing him like this Harry could. And he felt sorry for the man, sorry in a cold, restless way.

"Severus?" Dumbledore said, gently.

Snape shivered a bit, then, his teeth bared sardonically, continued. "No matter. I have memorized the legend as it was told to me, so if there are any discrepancies they are of Wormtail's doing."

"How do you know Wormtail didn't lie to you," a person in the back shouted. Harry was easily able to identify the speaker- after all, if it wasn't Padfoot at Snape's throat it was Amos Diggory aiming for his heart.

Snape smirked and spread his hands wide. "Only as certain as Veritaserum," he said, his eyes black and bright. When Diggory opened his mouth for another volley, Snape dropped all pretense of friendliness and sneered, saying, "You may trust me when I say he will remember nothing before or after my interrogation. Now, if I may continue?

"Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, so lovely that even the stars themselves sighed whenever she passed under them. From one look into her eyes, hardened murderers would begin their lives anew, artists would go insane, and inspired ballads would spring fully conceived from the mouths of bards and minstrels. She was simply that exquisite. . ."

Harry shivered. He knew this story. He remembered it, still felt it sometimes, like poison. Like desire. He remembered Draco's words, Draco's shaking, Draco's sweat as it rubbed between them and polluted the sheets. He remembered the caramel of Draco's voice, how it had thrummed out desire and legend, twisting Harry's wish for love into something else. It was a Malfoy legend, Harry supposed it made sense. Except, Harry also remembered Draco's choice, and the decision he'd made.

"Do you want reality or fantasy?"

"Why do I have to choose?"

"Because the truth is never one-sided. Because everything in life is a choice. Because I say you have to. Now choose."

"Then fantasy."

What Snape was reciting was a fantasy, but he was telling it as a truth. Where was the truth? Had Wormtail known Snape was a spy, and betrayed them? But how could he have, if Snape fed him Veritaserum? Did he, or even Voldemort, know about the choice? Or were the Malfoys playing a deeper game than any of them knew?

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. No. If there was one thing Harry knew it was that Draco was falling apart with almost every action Voldemort took. Harry could feel it, feel it more strongly the closer Draco got to breaking. No, whatever game Lucius Malfoy had been playing, it had ended with his death. Blinking, Harry realized that the room had fallen silent and that everyone was staring at Snape with the same carefully blank expression on their faces.

"That's all very pretty, Snape," Amos Diggory finally spat out from the back, "but what good does a children's tale do us? A Muggle one, from the sound of it. Wizard being defeated, indeed," Diggory grumped, and slapped a hand against his thigh. "Sounds to me like you came back with nothing but bedtime stories."

Snape worked his face into a cruel smile. "Diggory, if you were any less intelligent you would qualify as an ape." His smile widened as Diggory sputtered threateningly. "I would like to see you try. I would also like to see you try to think for yourself for a change, but I've come to not expect miracles." Then Snape turned his back on Diggory, effectively dismissing him, and addressed the Council at large:

"Wormtail informed me that Voldemort has been surprisingly true to the legend; as best he could without making it too obvious. Hidden on some mountain, guarded by some doubtless fearsome dragon, lies entombed Voldemort's life force. This romanticism will prove to be Voldemort's downfall- with such clear markers it is only a matter of time until we discover the location of Voldemort's Heart."

"And then?" someone asked, as if she had to be reminded how to hope for an end to it all.

"And then we destroy it," Dumbledore said.

***

The next evening Severus Snape set out for the Forbidden Forest under the light of a rotting, yellow moon. Five people watched him leave Hogwarts, though only three could claim any sort of affection for the man. They worried about him, one more distantly than the others, and wished him safe passage and return. The other two simply watched and waited before leaving themselves, determined to see their work through to the end.

Snape never did return from that Meeting, nor was his body ever found.

**tbc**