Bad Faith

Notes: Hopefully this chapter speeds things up a bit, now that most of the "intro" phase is over with. Cheers to those of you still reading; I know WiPs are hard to swallow, especially slow-moving ones, and I love you all into little sparkly bits. The kind they put into cookies.

Rosie is a beta goddess. In-the-flesh miracle worker. I cherish you, babe.

Chapter Five

Birds, Bees, & Unicorns

Trusting parents can be hazardous to your health.

- Calvin & Hobbes

* * * * *

At the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts, almost month after Draco had turned fifteen, the world as he knew it came to an abrupt end. This disaster began with the most absurd conversation he could ever remember having with his father.

Oh, God, he had thought miserably. It was one of those talks.

Lucius was sitting in the drawing room, elegantly sprawled on an embroidered green chaise. He indicated the ottoman at the end of the chaise with a brief nod, indicating that Draco should take it.

Draco sat down with a slight twinge of apprehension. 'Er,' he said, and then mentally cursed himself. His father gave him a well-deserved glare, which said quite clearly, Malfoys Do Not Stutter. Swallowing, Draco tried again. 'This--' What, exactly? Chat? Pep-talk? Inappropriate and disturbingly awkward discussion about birds and bees? '--isn't really necessary,' he finished lamely.

'Unfortunately for you, I am still the one who has the privilege of deciding what is and is not necessary,' Lucius responded coolly. 'Unless, of course, you'd rather speak with your mother on the matter.'

Draco prickled at that suggestion and shoved the concept forcibly from his mind. 'Er,' he said again, earning another glare, and tried to cover it up with an inconspicuous clearing-of-the-throat. 'No, I'd rather not.'

'Good, because she spent the afternoon pleading with me to handle it,' Lucius said, looking slightly irate--apparently, the memory was somewhat less than pleasant. In any other circumstance, Draco would have been smug at this; all other characteristics considered, his father was surprisingly uxorious. Whether it be jewellery or new drapes or a new horse, what Mother wanted, Mother got--that was just the way things worked in the Malfoy house.

In this circumstance, however, all Draco could do was strongly resist the urge to fidget. Lucius was reclining nonchalantly against the chaise, tactlessly insouciant in the face of his son's very obvious unease. He paused long enough to finish off the drink he was holding before placing it on the stand beside the chaise, and then turned his attention back to his son.

'It has come to my attention that you have reached an age in which certain... ah... issues may arise that could present rather, shall we say, inconvenient complications for your future as a Malfoy.'

What, you mean I've reached puberty? Draco thought irritably, but kept his careful expressionless expression in place. Even though he had a vague idea of what was prompting the conversation, he couldn't put his finger on where it was leading. If ever Draco wished his father would just sod it all with the formalities and be straightforward, even if only to get the pain of the ordeal over with, it would be now. Lucius, however, seemed to have perfected the art of not only beating around the bush, but playing hide-and-seek around the hedges, poking the seekers in the eyes when they weren't paying enough attention.

'What sort of complications, Father?' he asked tiredly.

Sitting up, Lucius said, 'Give me your hand.'

He produced a tiny vial that appeared to be filled halfway with some sort of clear liquid. Draco scooted forward slightly on the ottoman, holding his left hand out, palm up, with mild trepidation. It was only out of sheer trust in the fact that his father had never done anything to intentionally harm him that held Draco's hand steady in anticipation of an unknown substance.

Lucius tipped the vial, dropping most of the liquid into his cupped palm, and waited several long moments, not taking his eyes off Draco's hand. Draco watched with interest, expecting some sort of reaction, but the liquid sat idly in his palm, growing lukewarm.

Satisfied, Lucius held the vial under Draco's hand, indicating that he should return the substance. Draco did so carefully; years of excelling in Potions paid off, as he returned the liquid without losing a single drop.

'What was that?' Draco asked, as Lucius capped the vial and pocketed it.

'Unicorn tears,' Lucius replied, looking up at him with an expression that conveyed both pleasure and mild surprise. 'I needed to be sure.'

'I've nothing to hide from you, Father,' Draco said truthfully.

'That much I can see,' Lucius agreed. 'The test is simple: the tears would evaporate against impure flesh. You must forgive me for being unable to take your word for it on such a sensitive matter.'

'I wasn't aware my virginity was an issue,' Draco said with narrowed eyes, slightly put out by the accusation that he would possibly lie about such a tedious detail.

'Your innocence is of no matter to me,' his father replied, waving a hand dismissively and ignoring the sharpness of his son's tone. 'What does matter to me, however, are the possible repercussions of your losing it.'

Draco's eyes narrowed further, this time in confusion. 'I don't follow you.'

'Draco, if there is one thing, and one thing alone that I hope to impress upon you as you make the transition to manhood, it is the importance of your heritage. Not once in six centuries has our family line diverted from the path of the pure and untainted, never leaving so much as a Squib or bastard child in our wake.'

'Yet we have also narrowed down our line to a single heir,' Draco added.

It was not that he minded being a single child; truth be told, he was glad for it. But he didn't have any aunts or uncles or cousins on his father's side, and only an insane aunt locked in Azkaban and, possibly, a half-blood cousin of some degree to contend with on his mother's side. It left very little room for error on his part. His mother was growing too old to have another child, which left Draco the sole inheritor of all things Malfoy.

So, naturally, it would be a very terrible tragedy if he, like, died, or something.

'Which only serves to further increase the importance of you grasping the meaning of this conversation,' Lucius said, then paused briefly as a small crack and a quiet shuffle announced the arrival of a house-elf--one of the many Draco didn't recognise by name--and it hastily refilled the glass his father had left empty on the stand. Lucius hissed quietly as the elf clumsily knocked the table, causing the ice in the glass to rattle. 'As a Malfoy, you have many privileges your classmates do not,' his father continued, watching him with a slight tilt of his head. 'In return for these privileges, however, you are forced to sacrifice others. In this case... irresponsible copulation on your part.'

There was a moment of silence as Lucius watched his son, and Draco allowed the words to completely register.

And then he blurted, 'Are you telling me I'm not allowed to have sex?' The question was horribly blunt, but even so, saying it aloud didn't remove the incredulity of the situation as Draco had hoped it might.

Lucius was completely unaffected by his son's lack of subtlety on the matter, however, and replied, 'What I am telling you, Draco, is that you are forbidden to put yourself in a position in which you have any chance of prematurely and or irresponsibly procreating.'

Oh, Draco thought, as this further piece of information clicked into place. He sat in silence for a few moments, elbows on his knees and head propped on his hands, staring at the wall and allowing everything to sink in while his father patiently sipped his drink.

'I don't think that's very fair,' Draco said finally, eyes still boring into the opposing wall.

'Simply a precaution,' his father replied smoothly.

Grey eyes snapped back to their sire, narrowed indignantly. 'Still isn't very fair.'

His father chuckled--at least, he removed the malice from his very quiet, controlled sort-of-laugh that Draco very rarely heard. 'I suppose it isn't,' Lucius conceded. 'But it's necessary, however unfair. Though....' He trailed off. This was not something his father usually resorted to, even with awkward topics at hand. Draco raised an eyebrow quizzically. Lucius seemed to contemplate his son very carefully for a moment, before continuing with, 'If you find it unbearable to ignore your ardour, there are...' There was the pause and the careful deliberation again; Draco raised his other eyebrow, and Lucius finished with, '...alternatives.'

'Alternatives?' Draco resisted the urge to furrow his brow. He did not like where this conversation was going. Not at all. Unfortunately, he could not think of a reasonable excuse to flee, and was stuck mournfully to the ottoman. When his father simply regarded him with an unreadable expression, Draco voiced some of his desperation. 'Do I want to know?'

'That's what I'm trying to decide,' Lucius said, a smile threatening to play at his lips. 'How much consideration have you given this topic?'

By 'this topic' he assumed his father meant 'sex' and he answered as vaguely as possible. 'Enough,' he said, shrugging.

'Hmm.' Lucius finished his drink, leaving it on the stand again and seeming to ignore its prompt refilling via house-elf. 'Then let me be frank with you.'

Only barely did Draco manage to restrain the urge to say, 'Father, you can't be frank, I think it's a physical impossibility on your part.'

'I am not prescribing that you completely abstain from fornication,' Lucius continued mildly, watching one of his son's eyebrows rise again. 'To be specific, I'm simply forbidding you to do so with anyone for whom parturition would be a possibility.'

Oh, thought Draco. This was quickly followed by another, albeit louder and much more significant, OH.

'Oh,' Draco said aloud, and then grimaced at his lack of both mental and vocal vocabulary. After a moment, he concluded with, 'Well. That's--ah. Hn.' Draco chanced a look at his father, who appeared mildly bemused by his son's sudden lack of coherency. 'So, you're saying it only need be unfair if I choose to seek company with just... women?'

'I'm not going to dictate your preferences, Draco, nor do I particularly care to know,' Lucius said, lips forming a rather wolfish smirk. Apparently he had made his point, because he stood up, abandoning the chaise and the full glass waiting dutifully on the stand. 'As I said before, my only concern is that you refrain from siring any illegitimates, prematurely or otherwise. Do we have an accord?'

Leave it to Lucius Malfoy to end a discussion concerning his son's sexual liaisons with the demand of 'do we have an accord.'

'Yes, Father,' Draco said obediently. 'You needn't worry.'

Lucius raised his eyebrows. 'I don't,' he replied with the sort of confidence only a Malfoy could.

No women, Draco had thought, deadpan, as he watched his father sashay out of the room. No worries, then.

It was that very evening Draco found out his father was a Death Eater.

He remembered the moment vividly; his father had sent him out of the library early that night, forbidding Draco to leave the confines of his bedroom until morning. Tempted with the forbidden fruit, Draco had of course no intention of remaining in his room; clearly, Father was up to something, and Draco was old enough now that curiosity was beginning to overcome the instinctual fear he had of disobeying his sire. After all, what did his father spend all those hours in the drawing room doing? Where did he disappear to when he'd claim to retire to the library, but upon investigating, Draco would find the room empty?

At a younger age, Draco never cared enough to bother finding out. Riding broomsticks and horses and getting reprimanded by his mother when his friends were at the Manor and they'd turn the music up too loud was what occupied most of his time. But recently, Father had been so much more on edge; ever since the end of the Triwizard Tournament--on which Lucius absolutely refused to comment more than was necessary, despite Draco's pressing questions about the Dark Lord's rumoured reappearance--he had spent more and more time in seclusion. Lucius was neglecting Draco's weekly duelling sessions and rarely attended meals, and Draco was frequently witnessing his mother retiring to the master bedroom alone.

It was all of this combined with a genuine inability to lie still and go to sleep that prompted Draco to sneak out of his room and back into the library half an hour later. The sight that he beheld there was one burned forever into his memory.

His father was kneeling by the hearth, head bowed low, before a man in long, dark robes, whose face was hidden in shadow. This man emanated a raw power such as Draco had never felt before, a magic so strong it made the air around him feel heavy and blister with heat, as if they were standing amidst a suffocating, sweltering magical fog. The stranger was tall; using the hearth as a reference, Draco guessed he was slightly taller than his father, though also thinner and more relaxed, for the line of Lucius' shoulders was unnaturally rigid as he knelt on the library floor.

From the crack in the door through which Draco was spying, a low hiss was emitted. He stood frozen in terror as the largest snake he had ever seen rose half up in front of him, coiling by the door he held ajar. It had to be at least fifteen feet long and was a dark, dark green, with a black diamond pattern of scales running along its spine. Putrid yellow irises with slit pupils rose until they were level with Draco's, fixing him with an unblinking stare, and it hissed again, louder.

The strange wizard looked up, and a stream of ceaseless spits and hisses erupted from underneath his hood. Draco's blood had become concrete at this point; he had heard that sort of hissing before.

From the mouth of Harry Potter.

'Lucius, it would seem we have a visitor,' said the Parseltongue, reverting to English; the voice was soft, but possessed a dangerous edge that made Draco shiver. The snake staring eye-to-eye with Draco lowered itself and slithered to the feet of the cloaked figure, her belly sliding silently across the Nightingale floor. Lucius stood up slowly and turned to face the door. The fury in his eyes upon seeing his son was masking something else Draco didn't recognise at first.

Draco would realise later that, for the first time in his life, he had seen his father afraid.

'Do come in, boy,' the Parseltongue urged him. 'I don't believe you've had the pleasure.' The man's voice held a demand for obedience that Draco did not dare to defy, and he quickly entered the room, coming to stand beside his father.

'Forgive him, my Lord,' Lucius said cautiously, eyeing Draco with discontent. 'It would seem my son has allowed his curiosity to supersede my sovereignty.'

'Ah, but Lucius, the boy is young, and curiosity is not a sin.' The stranger sounded amused, but his father still wore an expression of distaste.

'Rest assured that it will not happen again, my Lord,' Lucius said, bowing his head slightly. His gaze flashed briefly to Draco, causing him to swallow. The look in his father's eyes was dangerous, and he knew he would be paying for his disobedience later.

'A good-looking boy,' the Parseltongue said approvingly, ignoring Lucius' obviously vehement feelings towards his son and turning his face to Draco. Draco forcibly crushed the urge to recoil from the sight; the black hood of the stranger's cloak framed grey, scaly skin stretched thin over a noseless face that barely resembled something human, and bright, red eyes that bored right through Draco's soul, as if scrutinising every flaw he possessed.

And suddenly, with more fear than any respectable Malfoy should have ever allowed himself to acknowledge, Draco realised whom it was he was facing.

'Draco Malfoy,' Voldemort hissed quietly, still watching him. 'Tell me: are you your father's son?'

Draco, caught off guard by this question, felt his calm façade falter slightly. It sounded very much like a trick question, and he did not have much time to articulate an appropriate response.

'To the best of my ability,' Draco said slowly, and then paused. Unsure of how to properly address the wizard, he was overcome by a small, silent fit of panic; this wasn't some important politician or wealthy friend to be impressed--this was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the most powerful Dark wizard ever known, a man with no mercy and even less patience, and he was addressing Draco directly. '...my Lord,' he finished, mimicking his father's earlier actions and inclining his head slightly.

Thankfully, this seemed to satisfy the Dark Lord. 'You have raised him well, Lucius,' Voldemort said approvingly. 'Now return to your room, Draco, your father and I have much business to discuss.'

Terrified and relieved all at once, Draco didn't chance a look at his father before fleeing the library and returning to his own room. He collapsed on the bed, covered in cold sweat that was making his shirt stick to his skin beneath his robes. Shaking, he stripped off his clothes, stumbled into his bathroom and took a very long, cold shower, but did not wash. Instead, he sat on the cold tile floor, with his back to the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest, letting the freezing water soak him through like a heavy rainfall.

He knew the Malfoys had supported Voldemort during the first wizarding war. He knew they would support him through the second. Before now, this had all been a good thing, in Draco's opinion. After all, the less Mudbloods and Muggles to muck with wizarding power, the better. Muggles were stupid savages that were destroying the planet through their inability to respect anything, and good riddance as far as he was concerned. And then they made it worse by breeding with idiotic witches and wizards and watering down the magical bloodline. If that kept up, wizardkind would be all but extinct in several decades' time....

But supporting the Dark Lord was one thing. Being in his direct line of service was entirely another. Draco knew the history. He'd read the books about the first war, he'd heard the stories--and not the rose-tinted versions, either. He knew what the Dark Lord was capable of. People died in his service. Whole families had been exterminated, entire lines wiped out--Muggle-born, half-blood and pure-blood alike. And to add insult to injury, all this time... all this time, his father had been a Death Eater. Lucius bore the Dark Mark, and hadn't even trusted his son enough to tell him so. And now Voldemort was in his house... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is standing in our library...

The Dark Lord had addressed him directly... and you called him 'my Lord'.

His stomach gave a very sudden, unpleasant lurch, and the next moment he was doubled over, retching all over the tile floor.

* * * * *

The ceiling in Draco's private bathroom was like a blank, white canvas. He liked it that way, because he could just recline in the tub, stare at it and doze off, without being distracted by tiny imperfections or details. Everyone else was down at dinner; his mother had come to fetch him some twenty minutes ago, upon which he had high-tailed it into the bathroom and locked the door. Of course, since he was without a wand to seal it shut, she could easily have bypassed this with a simple Alohomora--but one of the many reasons why Draco considered himself to have an exceptionally cool mum was that, by way of her Motherly Powers, Narcissa could tell when her son needed space, and gave it to him.

Draco had always preferred to bathe and shower in unnaturally hot water, much to the annoyance of his fellows at Hogwarts, because Draco was also always first up in the morning and always used the majority of the heated water. Blaise had told him once that one day he would scald his skin off and learn his lesson, but Draco couldn't stand cleaning himself in anything lukewarm or colder. If he wanted to douse himself with cold water, he'd say, he'd go for a swim. And now the tub was quickly becoming a very small pool by his temperature standards; the water was still lukewarm, but it was beginning to make his skin feel clammy, and, too lazy to bother refilling it and unable to charm it without his wand, he reluctantly climbed out.

Out the window, the sun was beginning to set over the trees. Draco reached for a towel to dry his hair with as he wandered back into his bedroom, tossing the towel aside and falling back onto his mattress, body still soaking wet. A light, warm breeze was coming in through the open windows, and the duvet under him was cool and downy and felt ridiculously good against his bare back.

The black drapes over his bed bathed his body in shadow as he lay there, right hand under his head and left idly caressing the wet skin of his sternum. Draco preferred his skin when it was dry and smooth, but something about the water always made touching himself this way more erotic. Perhaps it was the way his skin stung when the breeze hit it, or how the drops of water trailed down his sides when his chest rose and fell with each breath. Whatever the reason, it always felt good to do this; to lie on top of the dry, cool sheets of his bed after a bath, hands exploring his body at leisure, following well-memorised patterns to get himself aroused.

Not that this was a difficult task to accomplish. He was a young man, after all--quite literally in his prime. Even if his father had still been alive at this point, Draco would by now have been seriously considering the option of going to the Order, because really, what was the point of living if he never got to enjoy the finer points? That had to have been the most unbearable part of spending four years stuck on their estate with only his mother and house-elves for company.

At first, being restricted to the Manor had not seemed as if it would be any great hardship. It would only be for a couple of months, Father had assured him. Had Draco known these 'couple of months' would encompass the part of his life where one normally explores all aspects of ones sexuality and climbs over that mountain of 'I've had sex! It may have been sloppy, awkward, and over much too quickly, but I've done it', he would have greatly reconsidered the terms of the arrangement. He had just turned seventeen, for crying out loud, and had spent most of the previous year tearing his hair out in terror and frustration at getting the Vanishing Cabinet working in time. It had left very little time (and even less desire) to muck about socially; not to say that he did not indulge temptation when it arose, however, as there is very little an emotionally unstable teenager can do to ignore their sixteen-years-ripe-and-raging hormones.

There was a soft, damp depression in the duvet beneath him now. His chest rose and fell slowly, and he could feel his heart beating, a regular, rhythmic pulse beneath his ribcage. It was not news to Draco that his body was something to be desired; he had two strikingly attractive parents, for one--his mother, especially, for the Blacks were always known for their good looks. He liked to think that showed in his own features, all sharp and alluring and unnaturally flawless. If the attention he'd gained in school from fellow students as puberty had come along was any clue, that was certainly the case.

Draco was not one for fantasising; it just didn't do anything for him, probably because he had very little personal experience in matters of sex and anything to do with it, and he didn't fancy fabricating scenarios he knew very little about. What he did know was what felt good, specifically which parts of his body responded to what treatment, and he expanded on that. Things like how the water let his hand slide down his body easily, leaving his palm wet, droplets dripping off his fingertips. Things like how good it felt to run his palm flat down his abdomen, smoothing over muscles firmed by extensive exercise over the years; fingers curling now and again, letting his fingernails pinch the skin periodically; fingertips tracing the fine lines that composed his hips; letting his back and hips arch under the touch, interrupted only by the occasional shiver and involuntary shudder.

Trapping his lower lip between his teeth, he trailed his hand further down towards his groin, and let his mind wander as his fingers curled around his growing hard on; his palm felt cool against the hot flesh, squeezing and rubbing until the familiar titillative ache began to throb within his grasp. The sensations alone were more than enough for him to get off on, but his imagination had other plans... it had been far, far too long since he had been around another human being he could view in a sexual sense, and despite the valiant effort his consciousness made to deny it, the part of his mind concerned solely with what his left hand was doing felt it necessary to remind him of the half-naked, wet-and-dripping image of a green-eyed pillock from earlier that morning.

Harry Potter, for all of his flaws--disfigured mark on the forehead only one of many--overall hadn't grown into himself too shoddily. At least, not from what Draco had seen before breakfast, which had included everything except a couple of feet between his hips and his knees. Harry's chest wasn't as well defined as Draco's, nor nearly as slender; absence of Quidditch was probably responsible for the loss of obvious muscle tone, but apparently fighting Dark wizards required exercise of some degree, because that sure as heck hadn't been fat defining the lines of those hips. Draco had been particularly interested in how they dipped to meet the fine line of hair running below Harry's bellybutton, disappearing under the towel wrapped around his waist... small droplets of water slipping beneath the covering...

His hand tightened, sped up; he bit his lip again, too hard, and let out a sharp gasp--he'd opened the split in his lip and it stung horribly, but it wasn't enough to negate the tightly-wound coil in his groin, screaming for release, and now there were broken, involuntary sounds coming out of his mouth that would have been embarrassing, were there any risk of his being overheard--hell, it had been, what? Five days since he'd last bothered to do this? Only five days... but to his badly neglected libido it might as well have been five weeks, and the intensity of his orgasm was a sound testament to this.

It wasn't until after the vertigo had faded that Draco, a little breathless and briefly disgruntled at the realisation that he had to clean up without a wand, fully realised what image he had just jacked off to... and what name had crawled out of his throat and died on his tongue as the afterglow had overwhelmed him.

Groaning, he rolled over and pressed his face into the covers, muttering, 'Oh, fuck no.'

* * *

After Draco had stormed out of his room that morning, Harry had expected Hermione to explain what the deal was. But he had once again been reminded of how very stubborn Hermione was wont to be, because she had absolutely refused to budge on the subject.

'Did you call him Draco?' he'd demanded.

She had graced him with a very withering look. 'That was his name, last time I checked.'

'All right,' Harry had said, exasperated, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. 'And what was it he should be telling me?'

Hermione had looked at him for a moment, wringing her hands and furrowing her brow, and then very suddenly sprung to with a shrug, adopting an indifferent expression. 'Oh, it's nothing, Harry. He was just being a pillock, you know, the usual.' She'd waved her hand dismissively. 'So, what did Remus want?'

No amount of prodding had achieved a better result, so, after an hour of attempting to trick it out of her, Harry had given up and turned his full attention to assisting Arthur and Terry in de-cursing and putting up some of the Ministry wards around the Manor, disabling any already in place that conflicted with those they were installing. The installation of Ministry spells would allow proper monitoring of the Manor, and alert them of any suspicious magical events taking place, and more importantly keep track of Narcissa's goings about, as she was technically under house-arrest while Draco fulfilled his end of the contract. It required a surprising level of meticulousness, as the Manor was very, very large and--according to Terry--used not only very Dark Magic (which was dangerous in normal use, never mind when trying to disable or alter it) but also a lot of spells that were, by the book, 'outdated'; and magic, much like liquor, was the sort of thing that grew stronger with age.

Since the confrontation in Draco's room, Harry hadn't seen him at all--through Remus he discovered that Draco had snuck back into his room when the group had taken a break for lunch, and informed Remus that he'd be spending the rest of the day there, and to 'please tell the rest of those sods to stay bloody buggered off'. Harry hadn't bothered to argue, and with assurances that Remus and Arthur would periodically be checking to make sure Draco wasn't up to anything untoward, had resigned himself to assisting Terry finish his de-cursing.

Narcissa had persuaded them to stay for dinner, as well, though the persuasion was mostly accidental; she had simply mentioned that Nivens and the other house-elves had made an especially large meal for their guests, and Hermione adamantly refused to let anyone leave without eating since the house-elves had 'gone to all that trouble!'. It had been like one of those really uncomfortable family-meets-future-in-laws meals, where no one spoke aside from when necessary, and they all constantly shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Remus attempted to engage in small talk with Narcissa, who was as uncannily polite as she had been that morning, but the majority of the noise came from the clinking of glasses and scraping of plates with utensils. The meal itself was spectacular; the house-elves here were just as proud and eager to show off as those at Hogwarts.

Terry and Luna left together, and Hermione had followed shortly thereafter. Arthur and Remus were staying the night with Harry, and Remus took the first shift; Arthur would nap until taking over after midnight. Nivens showed Harry to one of the many guest rooms, but Harry insisted on skulking off to the library. He was too overwhelmed by the events of the last week to turn in early; instead, he took to poring over the enormous selection of texts on Dark Magic in the Malfoy library, planning to read until he was exhausted enough to pass out, sod his surroundings.

He propped himself up with one elbow and took off his glasses, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. His scar prickled uncomfortably and made him feel disgustingly hot despite the cool, relaxed atmosphere of the room.

The sun had just begun to set over the forest, leaving shades of navy and turquoise blending above the trees before fading into the darker sky overhead, where stars were beginning to appear. Harry could hear crickets outside the open panel in the large windows of the library, chirping contently in the paddock visible from the ledge; the windowsill was large and had a cushion fashioned into it with several comfortable pillows, and Harry was draped across it on his stomach, a large book open before him. The fire in the hearth, which was crackling and beginning to die, was the only source of light in the room besides the small, old-fashioned oil lamp Harry had near his head to light the text he was reading. It was one of the many ancient books that seemed to call this library home, probably the only copy in existence.

The more powerful the magickal properties are of the Item, the stronger the resulting vitality. Mundane, laymen objects have not the capacity to sustain a Shard, much less defend against outside forces. When choosing an object to charge, one must be most meticulous in the selective process, for the Item's resilience is the principle defence...

Harry yawned. From what he could decipher, the book was one of several that the Manor's library housed on the making of Horcruxes; it was hard to tell for sure, however, as all the books cleverly refrained from mentioning the word 'Horcrux' anywhere, though they made many references to their characteristics, and the consequences and benefits of creating them.

He returned to the text until the fire had died down to embers and the oil lamp flickered pitifully--the flame of the Valaetas was brighter than that of the lamp, but Harry pressed on, refusing to fall asleep. He was too untrusting of Draco and Narcissa, not to mention the Manor itself, to let himself fall asleep, even with the knowledge that both Arthur and Lupin had remained with him.

Outside, the sky had turned into a dark blanket sprinkled with stars, more stars than Harry ever saw from his flat in central London, where streetlights obscured most of them; at the Manor, everything outside was dark and ominous, and the sky glittered like millions of tiny diamonds laid out on black velvet, clustered here and there in various constellations, outshone only by the waning moon, a thick crescent of white among the stars.

It was by this light that Harry happened to notice a small figure moving across the lawn towards the paddock. Turning the oil lamp down and off so that the library fell into complete darkness, he squinted out the window. The figure was all black with an unmistakable white-blonde head, and Harry watched as Draco trotted towards the paddock fence behind the Manor.

How Draco had slipped out of his room without being noticed, Harry did not know, but he'd be damned if he was going to let Draco out of his sight for a minute, for he was surely up to something. After all, people did not sneak out of their rooms in the middle of the night for a pleasure hike in the dark. Rolling off the ledge, Harry winced as his foot touched the library floor and it let out a pleasant but loud huaaaawm.

Bloody singing floor.

Glancing at the window, Harry wagered he could fit through the half-open pane, and shoved the Invisibility Cloak he'd been using as a pillow out ahead of him. With some delicate wriggling and twisting, he managed to squeeze through the space and tumble onto the ground several feet below. It was a cool evening, but comfortable, and Harry didn't shiver in his t-shirt. He had the cloak, anyway, if it got colder, and he didn't have time to find a coat or jumper because Draco was jogging across the distant grass, a white, bobbing spot in the darkness.

Draco reached the fence and vaulted over it with ease, and Harry slipped the cloak over himself as he followed, making sure to stay far enough behind so that he wouldn't be overheard, crunching along in the long, overgrown pasture, squashing thick thatches of plants and assorted wildflowers. Harry had seen stables beyond the paddock through the window earlier, but he hadn't noticed any animals. Now, Draco running through the grass roused the idle horses. Several of them clustered nearby raised their heads as he went past; one of them shook itself, whinnied, and picked up a trot to follow behind him.

It looked like a rather large, perky puppy on Draco's heels, head bobbing, snorting at regular intervals. Harry couldn't see Draco's face in the dark from this distance, but he could see him reach out a hand and rub the animal's shoulder affectionately. His jog slowed to a fast walk, and the horse plodded beside him, head slung low and swinging sideways with every step, and Harry could see that even with its head lowered, its back was almost as tall as Draco. Harry was surprised; the last time he had seen Draco with anything close to that size, it had been Buckbeak, and Draco had been absolutely terrified of it. His apparent ease with the horse's presence was almost as surprising to see as the horse's own affinity with him.

They walked for what seemed like hours; Draco leading the way, the horse keeping pace, Harry trailing behind at about twenty feet. At one point they entered a very sparse wood of birch and evergreens, thick trunks spaced widely apart with a thick canopy overhead through which Harry could see only hints of the stars. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the heavy thuh-duh-thuh-duh of the horse's steps ahead muffled the snaps of twigs beneath Harry's feet. The trip continued until they reached a break in the trees that opened onto a small clearing, through the middle of which a small creek with sandy banks bubbled.

Draco came to rest in the clearing, just before the creek. The horse stopped beside him, and Harry halted just inside the tree line, crouching beside the soft trunk of a birch. It had been a long walk and Harry, having already been tired in the library, gave a huge yawn under the safety of the cloak. He didn't know what Draco was up to way out here on his own with a horse in the middle of the night, but it didn't seem nearly as sinister as Harry had originally imagined. He watched with heavy-eyed, sleepy curiosity as Draco mounted the horse, bareback, and proceeded to ride in various laps around the area.

Harry himself knew very little about riding or horses in general, but Draco made it look like an art; even without the use of tack, he managed to remain straight-backed and stayed firmly fixed to the animal under him. It was almost like watching a dance, the way they circled around, the horse's gait changing periodically, sometimes jumping the occasional log or cluster of rocks.

By the time Draco dismounted, it was well after dark, and Harry was struggling to stay awake; the sky overhead was pitch black, with thousands of tiny, sparkling pin-pricks twinkling down through the trees. Draco seemed to have noticed too, because he stood next to the horse for a moment, arms and head draped over its back, staring up at the sky. Harry let himself take his eyes off Draco and stare up for a while, getting lost in the constellations. It wasn't until he heard a loud whinny and the thudding of hooves that he looked down again.

Now there were two horses. Draco must have shifted into his Animagus form while Harry was looking at the stars, and he was a brilliantly white spot against the night, practically glowing in the darkness as he trotted in a small circle around the other horse. The real horse--much darker, it looked black like the rest of the woods--made an impatient sounding noise and broke into a gallop, running back towards the stream and following it across the clearing. Draco's horse form hesitated, and for a moment Harry was sure that it was looking back into the trees, looking right at him--did Draco know he was here? But in a heartbeat the moment was gone, and Draco-the-horse looked away, and took off after the other horse.

Harry had no idea how long they had been out. It was a little colder now, and he pulled the cloak tighter around him. Soon, he thought, he should go and find Draco and drag him back to the Manor, so he could get some sleep... but Draco was running in circles, chasing the other horse, cantering through the water, and generally seemed to be having a good time. It was fun to watch, and Harry smiled a little as the white horse reared, whinnied, burst into a fast run and jumped clear over the stream--a good six foot leap--and the other horse soon followed, and the chasing game began all over again.

It couldn't hurt to leave him at it for a little while longer, Harry reasoned, yawning. Another ten, twenty minutes, or so....

* * *

Draco Malfoy was fighting a very sudden urge to roll in an enormous pile of manure.

The horse in his head seemed to think it was a simply wonderful idea--it would make him smell excellent, and there was a mare, right over there, that he had to go impress! She'd be so proud if he plopped down and did a few twists in the stuff, just enough to rub it in and make it really stick to him. According to the horse, the smell of dung and mud all over would make him irresistible to females everywhere!

Draco was begging to differ.

Unsurprisingly, being an Animagus took a hell of a lot of practise to master, both in physiological and physical aspects. For instance, one might have thought that going from two legs to four would be easier than vice versa. As Draco had discovered on his first complete transformation into his Animagus form, this was most certainly not the case. His first night of full transformation involved countless scrapes and bruises, many pulled muscles, several broken bones and just a lot of falling over in general.

By now, Draco had managed to master most of the basic functions of a quadrupedal, super-paranoid herbivore. The things he still had problems with now were suppressing the natural instincts and behaviours of the animal; he constantly found his conscious fighting with the horse's over the best plan of action in a given situation.

The horse, for example, was of the opinion that he was the best thing to come along since pewter cauldrons, and that anything that approached that wasn't a mare in-season could sod off or receive a hoof to the face. It was also of the opinion that dark, windy nights like tonight were Very Bad, because anything that moved--including the long grass in the wind--in his peripheral vision was an immediate cause for alarm.

This presented the horse with a paradox; ignore potential Doom in the darkness in order to impress the mare with his obviously excellent form and possibly be eaten, or turn tail and find a stable to huddle in and kick at the walls for the rest of the night. The constant indecision caused the animal's mind to be in a high state of agitation, and it gave Draco the distinct impression of a five-year-old tugging at his sleeves and asking over and over, 'Are we there yet? Are we there? Are we are we are we? Huh? Huh? Huh?'

Annoyances aside, however, Draco had found a new passion in running--nothing except flying could top running at full-gallop as a horse; they were pure power when it came to speed, all muscles and tendons and lungs pumping, pounding, thundering across the ground with such grace that it felt as if he hardly touched the earth. It was absolutely exhilarating. He could spend hours like that, just running to and fro, getting completely lost in time and place. And the best part about all of this was that an Animagus form was quite literally the animal version of oneself, so aside from sharing the pain of injury, he also shared any exercise as well. Running around the paddock all afternoon was the equivalent of Draco running several marathons in a row, and certainly had had a positive effect on his physique.

It also exhausted him rather quickly, which, earlier wank notwithstanding, was quite frankly the only way available for him to remedy four years of unresolved sexual frustration.

The stallion inside him was growing increasingly restless. Draco knew why; he could smell rain coming, and rain meant wind and thunder and wetness, which all made it harder to detect predators, and it drove the horses absolutely mad. Draco personally enjoyed the rain; it left everything clean and fresh and smelling wonderful, and he loved to run in the rain as much as he loved to fly in it, but running was by far the safer option when one took into account things like high winds and lightning.

Draco also knew he had been followed. In this form, he could have detected a squirrel in the massive black forest behind him, and Harry Potter was about as stealthy to a horse as an elephant was to a hyper-sensitive mouse. The moment he'd adopted the horse's senses of smell and hearing, he had noticed the loud plod of human footsteps, the strange scent of sawdust and sweat that was typical of anything human that had recently been near a broom, dusted with a trace of ash from whooshing through a fireplace.

He could not see him--Harry would be using his Invisibility Cloak, of course--but Draco knew he was there; watching, waiting, somewhere just inside the tree line. However, oddly enough, he had not approached Draco, demanding to know what he was doing, so Draco continued to act as if he were unaware. He had had enough Harry Potter to last him the rest of the week, month, possibly year, because damned if he had forgotten that morning in Potter's flat or the bloody post-bath happenings earlier that evening. If Harry wanted to stand in the trees and watch, let him. Didn't bother him.

Right, Draco thought bitterly. If only horses' eyes could roll....

The stallion, on the other hand, truly didn't care that it could smell Harry. Harry was a human, and humans meant food or sometimes work and other annoying things, but they weren't anything to worry about. The stallion was more concerned with the mare off to his right, trotting along the streambed, getting wet and muddy and looking like she was having a very good time. Horses were like dogs in that way; they loved running in circles for no particular reason, playing and getting dizzy and soaked and dirty and rolling in everything. It was completely disgusting when he thought about it, but it was also a lot of fun--and really, that was what he needed right now.

The mare stopped along the streambed, water lapping at her hocks; she raised her head at him and whinnied. The white stallion snorted loudly in reply, and, carefully side-stepping the pile of manure in the grass, trotted off to join her.

* * *

Not again, Harry thought, unconsciously pulling himself in tighter and screwing his eyes up. Please, not again.

It'd been six years... six years and he was still having this dream. Harry knew it was a dream, and he had it memorised all too well; but it was a dream, not a memory, and there was nothing he could do to keep from reliving it.

He didn't know why it bothered him so much; Cedric was only one of many that had died because of the war. He'd hardly even known Cedric. If anything, he thought, he should have been suffering nightmares about mysterious veils and the Astronomy Tower, but no--it was always the same dream, same graveyard, same horrible, raspy voice hissing--

'Kill the spare.'

It wasn't fair that he had to relive that moment. The dreams had actually stopped for a while, after he'd left Hogwarts. He thought he'd gotten over the graveyard, and went into his Auror training after NEWTs, and things were all right for a while. He had gotten his own place, saw Ron and Hermione near daily at the Ministry, and got full nights of sleep for perhaps the first time in his life.

All of that changed the first time he killed another human being.

His first day as a qualified Auror, Harry had been called in, along with every other Magical Law Enforcement Officer the Ministry had, to deal with a surge of Dementors that had attacked a small town in Devonshire. They were accompanied by half a dozen Death Eaters, who, as the Ministry discovered too late, had arranged the attack in order to cover for a much smaller operation going on elsewhere--the attempted murder of Marius' son, Iain, along with the rest of his family.

Harry had been one of the only people that were out-spoken about the Devonshire attack being a diversion--he had a feeling, a very, very strong feeling that something else was going on that night, something larger than the terrorisation of random Muggles. Arthur, of course, had believed him, but he was heading the squad out in Devon and had to remain there. One of the other rookie Aurors--Harry couldn't even remember the idiot's name anymore, he'd been fired afterwards--had Apparated with Harry to Sussex, and the moment they'd seen the Dark Mark hovering over the Constantine household, there was no more arguing with Harry's intuition. They'd sent an immediate message for backup, and Harry wanted to go in right away, in case anyone was still alive. The bloody idiot with him was too cowardly, so Harry had gone in alone.

He remembered that night all too well--the screaming and sobbing always came back to him with terrible clarity. Katherine had only been sixteen at the time; the two Death Eaters had forced her and her mother to watch as they 'punished' her brother, then had proceeded to kill both Iain and her mother--but Katherine was a very pretty girl, even Harry would attest to that, and apparently too good an opportunity to pass up for the bastards that had come to murder her and her family.

Harry had recognised one of them. At first he couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the thin, weedy form of Theodore Nott standing over the girl, wand trained on her and laughing. Nott was his age--he'd been in the same year at Hogwarts, and Harry had sat through classes with the Slytherin for seven years, and now he had walked in on him in the midst of raping a sixteen-year-old girl. It was one of the most disturbing realisations he'd ever come to--that this person, this old classmate, was capable of such a thing....

Damned if he was about to stand by and wait when there was a chance to save someone, despite the fact that he knew that taking on two armed and dangerous Death Eaters alone wasn't a wise thing to do; the main problem, he found, was that it was impossible to incapacitate either of them. When he tried to Stun one, the other would block it, while the one he'd attacked retaliated. The only thing to do in that situation, per his Auror training, was the unfortunate option of casting an unblockable curse. Harry had tried to avoid that option anyway--he sent a Stunning spell at Theodore, who blocked it, just as the other Death Eater wheeled around and pulled out his wand....

It had been the sickest feeling in the world, Harry remembered, having the words Avada Kedavra leave his mouth.

Harry winced as the green light flashed through his mind, the same words repeating over and over; Cedric's shocked, lifeless eyes, the laughter and jeers of the Death Eaters around them, the sneering, noseless face of Voldemort as he stood over Harry... mocking, taunting, telling him how he was going to kill him....

Harry shuddered. Something velutinous and warm was nuzzling the crook of his neck, gently nudging his shoulder. Soft, fine hairs tickled his neck and cheek... a warm breath gusted into his collar, a silky, hirsute form was rubbing against his head and shoulder....

Harry couldn't identify it, but whatever it was, it was comforting, and his eyes flickered open momentarily. His vision met an expanse of stark white hairs that blended down into a soft, velvety grey muzzle and nostrils that flared, blowing hot air against his cheek again. Sighing, exhausted, and relieved to be free from the nightmare, Harry leaned into the touch, resting his head against the warmth. It leaned back, supporting his weight, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep again.

Only this time, he didn't dream.

* * *

People that see unicorns share with them a distinct trait;

they're lonely--with virtuous hearts.

* * *

Harry woke with a start and a strong feeling of déjà vu. There was a warm body against his, pressing into his shoulder, entirely too close for comfort just after awakening. As he turned his head and opened his mouth to speak, a hand clamped firmly over it and held his head in place. Instinct told Harry this was a Very Bad Situation and that he should react immediately and with force, but a soft voice in his ear quelled the impulse.

'Easy, Potter,' Draco breathed. His face was directly beside Harry's, so close that when he looked sideways he could count Draco's eyelashes. Draco was squinting, eyelids forming sharp angles around their stormy centres, and he wasn't blinking. 'Don't move,' Draco whispered. 'Don't make a sound.'

Harry's first impression was that it was still pre-dawn, but with a quick glance beyond the canopy of the trees, he could see that it was overcast and probably early morning. He inhaled deeply through his nose and smelt a crisp, piquant scent from Draco's hand mingled with cool rain on the breeze; he felt a sprinkle of moisture carried down through the trees and could hear the threatening rumble of thunder overhead.

Once again, he glanced at Draco, who still had both eyes focused in the distance. Harry had never been this close to him before--he had never had a need or reason to be--but now that he was, he noted some minute details with a significant amount of surprise. Absurdly enough, the first thing that came to Harry's attention was that Draco was showing signs of stubble; the idea that someone as vain and perfect as a Malfoy could even grow facial hair had never entered Harry's mind--although now that it had, Harry thought that it had been rather narrow-minded of him to assume otherwise. A Malfoy or not, Draco was, after all, just a bloke like Harry or Ron and obviously susceptible to the same idiocrasies.

The next thing that he noticed was how unnaturally flawless Draco's complexion was, aside from the five o'clock shadow. Even after spending all night in the woods, probably without sleep and getting considerably windblown, his hair and features managed to remain inexcusably immaculate. His skin was evenly toned and unblemished, just a shade darker than his hair, much paler than Harry's own sun-kissed tan. His eyelashes were a dark, dark blonde, almost brown, and his eyes, with the drab hue of the sky reflecting off them, were dark grey with hints of blue, roughly the same colour as the surface of a stormy ocean.

He also realised that despite his thin appearance--and contrary to his record of lost fights--Draco seemed remarkably strong; the hand over his mouth may as well have been held there with iron reinforcements, and when he tried to squirm between Draco and the tree, Draco held him firm with little effort. With a noteworthy struggle, he managed to free the arm that was by the tree, on the other side of him from Draco, and slowly reached for his back pocket, searching. Before he could react to the absence he encountered there, Draco shoved something in his other hand. Harry gripped the wands and eyed Draco suspiciously, but Draco still had his other hand clamped over Harry's mouth, and shook his head slightly.

'Now will you relax?' Draco hissed quietly. He nodded in the direction he was gazing. 'Look.'

Harry followed his eyes and his breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, all of Draco's odd behaviour made sense, because just beyond the tree line, on the other side of the creek and stepping daintily across the sandy bank, was a unicorn.

'Not a sound,' Draco mouthed, holding a finger to his lips, and then slowly removed his hand from Harry's mouth.

Harry began to breathe again, but more quietly, eyes fixed on the unicorn that was currently investigating the ground with idle curiosity. A three-foot ivory horn spiralled out of its forehead, and the entire animal managed to sparkle in the absence of the sun, a sure sign that this was indeed a very potent magical creature. The horse Draco had ridden and frolicked with the previous night was still there, grazing not five metres from where the unicorn was treading and decidedly ignoring it. In the muted light Harry could see that the horse was a dark brown animal with a high white stocking adorning each leg and a flaxen mane and tail. As far as Harry could tell, it was almost twice the size of the unicorn, but from what he remembered learning in Care of Magical Creatures, unicorns tended to be on the small side, closer in size to deer than horses, despite the resemblances otherwise.

'Stay there.' Draco quietly edged away from him, carefully stepping closer to the edge of the trees. Now that Draco had moved away, he was suddenly aware of how very chilly it was; Draco's warmth had been inadvertently shielding him from the cold wind whipping through the trees. Without looking away from the creek, he felt around by his feet for his Invisibility Cloak; finding it, he slowly and silently wrapped it around his shoulders, gaining some protection against the cold.

The wind was blowing towards them from the unicorn, pushing the hair from their eyes and causing them both to squint. Draco was standing but stooped, eyes evaluating the situation, before he took a careful step out into the open. Harry watched him curiously, unsure of what Draco expected to accomplish wandless; unicorns were shy, wary animals and it would bolt as soon as it saw him, surely.

Once past the trees, Draco continued through the clearing towards the creek with even steps, unhesitating. He was halfway there before the unicorn looked up, sharply, ears snapping to attention and horn lowered to the approximate level of Draco's chest in warning. Draco paused and the unicorn stamped a hoof and snorted loudly; the brown horse stopped grazing and looked up, its ears pointed curiously at its owner, but otherwise nothing moved.

Then, slowly, as if granting permission, the unicorn raised its head, and its horn along with it. Draco seemed to relax and walked forward again, stopping at the edge of the closest stream bank, not six feet from the unicorn. Harry held his breath again as the unicorn began moving forward.

At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but as the unicorn came midway across the small brook, water black under the cloudy sky, Harry could no longer deny it; the unicorn was walking on the water. Harry watched, transfixed, as Draco dropped gracefully to one knee, head lowered but eyes raised, following the tip of the horn that was once again pointed at his person.

Landing on the bank Draco knelt before, the unicorn surveyed him with bright, amber eyes and snorted, before running the tip of its horn down Draco's forehead with fastidious care, hairline to the tip of his nose. Draco's eyes fluttered closed at the touch and the unicorn pulled its head back, as if surveying its work, whinnying softly and shaking its head and neck with a great heave of its shoulders. Draco held out his left hand, palm up, and the unicorn lowered its muzzle into it, nostrils flaring.

A small, odd smile was playing at Draco's lips, and he touched the horn lightly with the fingertips of his right hand before running his palm down the flat surface of the unicorn's head. The unicorn rested its horn on Draco's shoulder and leaned into the touch, closing its eyes. Draco leaned forward, his own eyes still closed, his nose and forehead becoming lost in the shimmering, wavy coils of white silk falling between the unicorn's ears.

It was without a doubt one of the most spellbinding things Harry had ever seen.

Then, without warning, a strong wind surged from behind Harry, rustling his cloak and causing his hair to whip uncomfortably around the backs of his ears. The unicorn jerked away from Draco, jumping backwards and half-rearing, eyes fixed on the trees where Harry crouched, hidden in the shadows. Neighing in agitation, the unicorn pawed the sand briefly before whirling, galloping across the creek, hooves penetrating the water this time and splashing wildly, and vanishing swiftly into the opposite curtain of trees.

Draco made a face as he stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. He watched the trees for a moment before turning his head towards the brown horse and whistling once; the horse looked up from the grass once more, and trotted enthusiastically towards him, tossing its head, and as it came up alongside Draco, he grabbed a fistful of its mane and heaved himself up, swinging his leg over the side and mounting it bareback. The horse slowed as Draco settled atop it, walking steadily towards the trees, where Harry was just beginning to stand up.

Draco ducked to avoid low-hanging branches as the horse walked under the canopy, and ran both hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes; his face was heavily shadowed by the trees, but from the centre of his hairline to halfway down his nose was a shining strip of silvery white, gleaming through the contrasting dark like an iridescent scar.

Harry stared at him. 'Malfoy, what--'

'It'll wear off in a few minutes,' Draco assured him, tucking some of his hair behind his ears and bringing his mount to a halt. 'It's just a revitalising spell--good for insomnia--' he paused, '--and hangovers, for that matter,' he added with a small smirk.

At this, Harry's mind dimly registered that the split lip Draco had boasted yesterday was gone; in fact, he had gone from looking positively haggard to appearing to be the epitome of good health. He didn't look nearly as gaunt as he had that morning, the shadows under his eyes had disappeared, and his skin had a hale glow to it in the semi-darkness. Could one touch from a unicorn have made that much of a difference? Harry wasn't sure, but absorbed this bit of information for later, still in awe of what he had witnessed. 'But what--'

'Hell, Potter, I've met Muggles with more magical knowledge than you,' Draco interrupted, sounding exasperated. 'Are you telling me that in those eleven years before Hogwarts, you never read anything on unicorn lore?'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'I figure I learned everything I need to know about them in school,' he replied curtly.

'In school they generally don't go over the benefits of baiting wild unicorns,' Draco said, 'or else everyone would be doing it, and they would probably be extinct.'

Harry folded his arms around the Invisibility Cloak he was holding. 'I know enough,' he insisted, determined not to be undermined. 'And if I recall, they prefer virgins.'

'They do,' Draco confirmed with a small nod. He paused and tilted his head, eyes giving Harry a brief once-over. 'That's why it buggered off when it sensed you.'

'Then why did it come to you?'

Draco raised his eyebrows. 'Benefit of chastity, Potter.'

Harry blinked. 'You're a virgin?' he blurted.

'Not by choice.' Draco smirked at him. 'Unfortunately, Mother has some principle against the hiring of courtesans. Woe is me, I suppose.'

Harry did not know why this information surprised him; another narrow-minded assumption on his part, probably. And it made perfect sense, for Draco had fled Hogwarts at just barely seventeen, and then spent the next four years locked inside the Manor, leaving very little opportunity for socialising. In all fairness, his being a virgin really shouldn't have come as a surprise.

In the short silence that ensued as Harry thought about this, Draco looked him over once more. 'You look cold,' he observed.

'You think?' Harry said, rubbing his forearms under his cloak. The wind was becoming stronger and colder now, and the drizzle was falling more heavily, penetrating the thick cover of trees. It was a far cry from t-shirt weather.

Draco regarded him curiously for a moment; then, right hand tangled securely in the caramel-coloured mane of the horse, he lowered his left towards Harry. 'Want a ride?'

Harry stared at him. 'Come again?'

Draco shrugged. 'It's a long walk.'

Harry didn't move immediately; it was stupid, really, to feel apprehensive about something like this, he reasoned. Draco was still unarmed, and Harry had ridden both a Hippogriff and a Thestral before, and didn't hold any reservations about getting on the back of a horse, even considering the lack of tack. Still, it was the back of a horse with Malfoy, and even if he trusted his own abilities, he certainly didn't trust Draco.

Thunder rumbled loudly overhead. The horse made an impatient, nasal noise and stamped a hoof.

Making up his mind, Harry clamped both wands between his teeth, tossed the cloak over one shoulder, and took Draco's hand. His grip was warm and dry, and with the uncanny strength Harry had noticed earlier, Draco's arm took most of the strain in helping Harry vault onto the back of the horse. It was a lot higher than it looked from the ground, and Harry teetered dangerously before he found his centre of gravity. With every breath, the horse's massive lungs expanded against his calves, the animal serving as a warm and reassuring mass underneath him. Harry felt his apprehension wane and he nodded to Draco to show he was ready, pocketing the wands now that he was up and balanced.

It wasn't until the horse began to move that Harry realised he didn't have anything to hold onto.

The previous night, Draco had made riding look a lot more graceful and easy than it actually felt; the horse stepped forward, just starting to walk, and Harry practically lurched forwards into Draco, who tensed and absorbed the impact without losing his balance.

'Generally, it's suggested that you try to move with the horse,' Draco said, though not unkindly.

'Shut up,' Harry said, desperately searching for something to steady himself on. There was Draco, obviously, but Harry had no intention of using Draco's hips, arms or shoulders as a means of balancing himself, thank you very much. 'These things should come with handlebars,' he muttered.

He didn't intend for Draco to hear it, but as his mouth was level with the back of Draco's neck, it was inevitable that he did. 'We can swap, if you like,' he offered.

'Thanks, but I have no desire to be molested by you,' Harry remarked dryly, stomach tightening as the horse increased its pace to a trot.

'Please, you're practically gagging for it,' Draco drawled. Harry ignored him. Chuckling, Draco continued, 'You can always try holding your arms out on both sides--' Draco demonstrated briefly, holding his arms out as if he were tightrope walking--even though he couldn't see it, Harry could tell Draco was smirking, '--or, if you're really going to be that stubborn,' he continued, lowering his arms, 'try leaning back and keeping your palms flat on the flanks.'

Harry tried this; it was a bit awkward, but sufficed, and was certainly better than the alternative. Even so, his legs and knees were bumping haphazardly against the backs of Draco's thighs, though Draco didn't seem to notice, sitting straight-backed with apparent ease, one hand lightly grasping the mane and the other resting in his lap.

The horse skipped a few paces as it clambered out of the woods into the pasture Harry had followed Draco through the previous evening; clear of the foliage, the Manor was now clearly visible and close. Dark grey clouds were merging overhead, causing the long grass inside the paddock to sway. Other horses were about, some grazing, most trotting restlessly in anticipation of the coming storm.

'What were you doing out there?' Harry asked abruptly.

'Think I was running off to turn you in?' Draco asked.

'What was I supposed to think when I noticed you sneaking out in the dark unannounced?'

'Well, in all honesty, you weren't supposed to notice.'

'Well, I did. So what were you doing?'

'Weren't you watching?' Draco asked with an air of impatience. 'I was practising, you pillock.'

Harry ignored the insult. 'Practising?'

'Transforming,' Draco said. 'McGonagall sent an owl last night that outlined how to complete the process with material items, and I wanted to try it out.'

'Couldn't you have done that in the house?'

'I could have, but if I'm going to suffer the shift-lag and lack of sleep, I might as well get more out of it.'

Harry braced himself as the horse did a small skip over a forgotten log in the pasture. 'What do you mean?'

'Best way to learn how to be a horse is from a horse. It's not as if you shift into your Animagus form and instantly know what you're doing.' Draco fell silent for a moment. 'It's the closest thing to flying, you know,' he added finally, 'running as a horse. Without leaving the ground, anyway.'

'You looked like you were having a good time,' Harry reasoned. 'But why don't you do it during the day?'

'I have other things to do during the day,' Draco said reasonably. 'And I really didn't feel like having an audience, it's distracting. Thanks for that, by the way,' he added.

'For what? Spying on you?'

'Not interrupting, actually,' he explained. 'Really, Potter, you were sitting upwind from perhaps the only creature in the world more paranoid than your pal Mad-Eye.' Draco looked back over his shoulder, as if checking that Harry was still there. 'Have you ever ridden a horse before?'

Harry snorted. 'Muggle upbringing, remember?'

Draco shrugged. 'Plenty of Muggles keep horses.'

Images of a horse living in the backyard of number four, Privet Drive briefly flashed through Harry's mind, and he could already hear Aunt Petunia's screams reverberating inside his skull. 'Not these Muggles.' He paused, then added, 'But I've ridden a Hippogriff and a Thestral, which I suppose almost counts.'

Harry was thrown forward again, knocking into Draco as he brought the horse to an abrupt stop and said, 'You've ridden a what?'

'Ow,' Harry said, wincing. 'Er. Buckbeak,' he said by way of explanation. 'And a Thestral--one of Hagrid's, you know, back at Hogwarts.'

Draco had turned around halfway, so that he looked very off-balance; Harry was sure he would fall off, what with the horse shifting its weight restlessly underneath them, but Draco may as well have been strapped in for all the wobbling he did. 'When the hell did you ride a Thestral?'

'Fifth year,' Harry said automatically. 'After...' He trailed off as the memories came flooding back, and felt his insides go cold. 'I really don't want to talk about it.' Draco continued to look at him for a moment, then shrugged and turned back around, and the horse started moving again. 'Why do you ask?' Harry said suddenly. 'I mean, if I've ever ridden before--am I doing something wrong?'

'Isn't much to do wrong so long as you stay on,' Draco replied, still facing forward.

'I guess,' Harry said. 'You know,' he continued after a moment, 'you're like, the last person in the world I would picture as being on friendly terms with a horse. Even if you can... well, you know. Turn into one.'

Draco turned his head and raised an eyebrow at him. 'It's not really that unusual for wizards to keep horses. Most major Quidditch stars have been brought up riding.'

Harry shook his head. 'That's not what I meant. I mean, you couldn't even handle a Hippogriff--'

'Yes, well,' Draco said, cutting him off sharply, 'as you can see, my horse has neither talons nor malicious intent.' As if to emphasise this statement, said horse snorted loudly beneath them.

'Buckbeak wasn't malicious, you were being an arrogant prat.'

'I was fucking thirteen,' Draco said defensively. 'And you, of all people, have no right calling anyone--'

He stopped talking abruptly as he looked up; over his shoulder, Harry saw that they were nearly at the paddock fence, and the small, furious-looking figure of Hermione was storming across the grass towards them. Draco slowed the horse, bringing it to a halt as she reached them.

'Where have you been?' For a very small person, Hermione managed to look awfully imposing, even when they were sitting on the back of a large horse. 'Remus and Arthur have been searching the entire Manor for you both since sunrise!'

'Chill your knickers, Granger,' Draco sneered, his voice reverting to the more familiar, snippy, holier-than-thou tone. Harry was surprised by the realisation that Draco had been talking to him normally, even pleasantly, beforehand, and he hadn't even noticed the change in his tone until he'd addressed Hermione. 'Just because his mother's dead doesn't mean you have to take over coddling him.'

'Your mother is in a right state,' Hermione snapped, rounding on him--as well as she could, taking into account that they were still on a horse and she was still on the ground and only came up to Draco's knee. 'Sneaking off alone in the middle of the night like that! What did you expect us to think?!'

'It's alright, Hermione,' Harry said, dismounting beside her. Draco stayed on the horse, most likely in an attempt to remain looking superior. Harry noticed that the mark on his forehead had already faded. 'We're fine.'

'And thank goodness for that! You can't just wander off around here, Harry! And you,' she hissed, turning on Draco again. 'Don't sit there looking smug, like you've done nothing wrong. Have you even read the contract? You're not allowed to go anywhere without either mine or Harry's permission, and buggering off in the middle of the night is a clear violation of the only thing keeping you out of Azkaban, Malfoy!'

Draco narrowed his eyes; he had clearly not considered this point before. He started to respond, but Harry interrupted before he could. 'He didn't violate the contract, Hermione. He had my permission, and I was with him the entire time.'

Draco blinked. 'I did?'

'He did?' Hermione blurted over him.

'Yes, I did,' Draco amended before Hermione could assess what he'd said before. 'Mutual camping trip. Guy thing, really. We were bonding, Granger.'

Hermione bristled slightly, shooting Draco a nasty look, but turned her attention back to Harry in the end. 'You still should have let Arthur and Remus know where you were going--we were all terrified something had happened to you. Both of you,' she added, still refusing to look at Draco, who raised an eyebrow at the remark. 'Anyway, we should get back and let them know you're all right--'

'I have to take her in, first.' Draco patted the horse's neck affectionately, running his fingers through her mane. 'She's been out all night, needs to be cooled down.'

'I'll go,' Harry said, nodding. 'Let Arthur and them know we're okay, I mean.' Hermione had her arms folded, and was still glaring at him. Harry sighed heavily. 'I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean for anyone to worry.'

'You never do,' Hermione said, quietly. 'Anyway, that's fine, just go quick, they all still think you're missing--Arthur might have sent an owl off to Minerva by now.'

She watched Harry haul himself over the fence and sprint towards the back of the Manor with mild exasperation. He just didn't understand how much people worried about him even when he wasn't doing stupid things that put him in horrible danger; he never had, and likely never would. It was just one of those things that came with being one of Harry Potter's best friends--but someone had to do it, and it was a full-time job.

'You didn't tell him,' Draco said as soon as Harry was out of earshot. He had rearranged himself on the horse, so that he was now lying across its back on his stomach, arms folded over its withers and head resting on his forearms. 'Or at least, I assume not, as he hasn't accosted me about it yet.'

Hermione huffed. 'No, I haven't,' she said, meeting his eyes. 'I decided he has enough on his mind, without having to feel guilty about you.'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'How predictably thoughtful of you.'

'You don't deserve his remorse,' she added stiffly.

He gave her a very long, hard look before pushing himself back up into a sitting position. 'What the hell makes you think I want it?'

With a small push of his heels, the horse jumped into motion, trotting alongside the fence towards a long row of stables at the end of the field. Hermione watched him go without bothering to follow, and wondered if it was just her imagination, or if he really had sounded piqued.

* * *

Heaven hath no rage like love to hatred turned;

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

- William Congreve

* * *

'I fucking hate that pillock.'

Harry winced. 'You know, it's really not--'

'Fucking hate him,' Ron interrupted firmly, eyes sweeping the main hall of the Manor as they made their way to the drawing room. 'No wonder he's such a stuck-up little arse. Look at this place, for crying out loud.' He turned his gaze to Harry. 'Can you imagine living here? As a kid, even? I had to share a room with Percy my whole life--well, until Bill and Charlie left, but still.' He paused, shaking his head at a particularly extravagant display of ornamental carving around a wooden post. 'And you grew up in a bloody cupboard, Harry. Are you telling me you don't think that this is--that this--'

Speechlessness seemed to be the average response when it came to describing just what the Manor was, at least in terms of comparison to what they considered normal. Harry sighed and looked at the floor as they walked. 'Yeah, I do,' he admitted, understanding Ron's inarticulateness.

Ron had arrived shortly after Harry finished reassuring Arthur that yes, he was fine and no, Draco had not run off and yes, they did in fact spend the night in the woods, though Harry wasn't quite sure how that had come about. Harry had had to wait by the entrance to the Manor until Ron arrived; he'd sent an owl to Arthur that morning announcing that he had some updated news on the information Draco'd handed over earlier that week.

Meanwhile, when Draco had finally returned with Hermione, Narcissa had swept down on her son with such fury that it reminded Harry vividly of Mrs Weasley scolding her sons for stealing the Ford Anglia back in his second year. Draco made a bold escape into the drawing room, tailed by Hermione, while Narcissa continued to stalk the entrance hall, looking decidedly murderous, for nearly twenty minutes before moving to follow. It had taken another ten minutes before Ron finally arrived, and another ten minutes after that before he'd gotten over the shock and started cursing Draco and all of his ancestors for being unnecessarily wealthy bastards.

'I can't believe you spent the night here,' Ron continued, still looking extremely sour. 'Surprised the bloody house-elf didn't try to strangle you in your sleep. I don't see why we can confiscate Malfoy's wand but his bloody mum is allowed to keep hers. She could be just as dangerous as her damn sister for all we know.'

'Part of her amnesty,' Harry explained, shrugging. 'And we can't really leave her unarmed; if Malfoy's a target then Voldemort would likely use her to get to him, wouldn't he?'

Ron shuddered at the use of the Dark Lord's name, but continued to scowl. 'You ask me that as if I give a shite, Harry. If it was up to me, I'd bloody hand him over myself.'

Harry frowned, stopping outside the door to the drawing room. 'You don't mean that,' he said.

Ron stopped as well and looked up at him. 'Don't I?' he snapped sharply.

Before Harry could reply, the door opened. Hermione, looking very harassed, sighed in relief at the sight of them. 'Oh, about time,' she said to Harry. 'He's being a right bint without you here.'

'I heard that,' snapped a lofty voice from somewhere in the room behind her.

Hermione whirled around. 'You were supposed to,' she snapped back, leaving the doorway with a great huff.

Rolling his eyes, Harry followed, Ron trailing along behind him. Narcissa was lounging on a golden chaise at the far end of the room beside the window, politely ignoring them and staying immersed in the book she held in her lap. Draco was reclining on one of two sofas flanking a small, highly polished coffee table; he'd changed since that morning, and was now wearing dark blue robes that were of a very modish, elegant style with a high collar, boasting silver fastenings that complimented his eyes. He acknowledged Harry's presence with a nod, Harry noted with slight surprise, but then narrowed his eyes when he saw Ron behind him.

'Oh, hullo, Weasley,' he drawled. 'Enjoy the tour? Do mind the carpet, it's likely worth more than your house.'

'Piss off,' Ron spat.

'Lovely to see you, too,' Draco responded. 'How's the eye?'

'Piss off,' Ron said again.

'That well? Spectacular.'

Draco picked up a half-filled glass off the table, downed the remaining liquid and held it aloft as a house-elf appeared and hastily refilled it with a transparent, sparkling liquid. He then gestured at the table and a silver tray appeared, with several empty glasses arranged around an ice bucket boasting a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé. In the most cordial of tones, he offered, 'Champagne?'

Ron looked as if he was struggling to withhold a third 'Piss off', and possibly a punch, too.

'You really love to rub it in, don't you?' Harry said dryly, taking a seat on the sofa across from Draco. It was some old Italian antique with white and navy silk cushions and a finely carved crest, and Harry perched on the edge of it rather than allow himself to sit back--years of Aunt Petunia harassing him about furniture had been enough to make him automatically treat anything that looked even remotely expensive with particular care.

'Can't say I know what you mean,' Draco replied smoothly, wolfish smirk in place. He lounged on the other sofa--identical, from the looks of it--with the sort of regard one would give a public park bench.

'Oh, wow,' Hermione breathed, though it sounded involuntary. She picked up the bottle of wine and stared at it, eyes widening slightly. 'Is this vintage, Malfoy?'

'Ninety-one,' he informed her cheerfully.

She looked to be torn between impressed and scandalised. 'This runs for nearly three hundred pounds a bottle!'

'Fifty-six Galleons, to be precise,' he translated.

She replaced the bottle and, noticing the extreme smugness of his expression, narrowed her eyes at him. 'Oh, sure, go ahead and flaunt,' she huffed, sitting next to Harry.

'Flaunt? This crap?' Draco scoffed at her. 'No, Granger, if you want me to flaunt I'll have Nivens break out the Clos du Mesnil.' He smirked at the expression that comment garnered, and then proceeded to sip the light amber liquid in his glass. 'But that would mean allowing you to drink the Krug, and, in all honesty,' Draco continued after a moment, smirk growing as he spoke, 'none of you are worth a hundred Galleons a bottle, so...' he sat back, wineglass poised in his hand like a delicate ornament, eyes flickering between the three of them. 'Shall we get to work? Or would you like a tour of the wine cellar so you can get those pores of yours properly oozing with envy first?'

'We don't care about you or your stupid fucking champagne,' Ron snarled. Harry winced again, mostly because Ron had been raised by Mrs Weasley well enough to refrain from swearing with every other word, but being around Draco seemed to strip him of this propriety. Ron looked briefly at the empty spot next to Draco, then the sofa on which Harry and Hermione sat. His eyes met Harry's and, bowing his head as a sort of non-verbal agreement, Harry stood up and took the seat beside Draco; not that he wanted to be any closer to the bastard--he'd had enough of that that morning on the horse--but Ron looked like he was going to strangle Draco if he got within arm's reach.

Taking the space next to Hermione while Draco smirked into his champagne, Ron took a thin roll of parchment from within his robes and dropped it on the table beside the serving tray. 'That's what checked out from I.D. this morning,' he said, sitting back. 'Kingsley's running the ops on the confirmed safe houses, but he gave me a copy of the Death Eaters and supporters we don't have anything on. He wants to know if Malfoy can give us anything else, in case Lucius had something on them we don't.'

'Anyone in particular?' Harry asked, unrolling the parchment and scanning the report.

Ron shrugged and shot Draco a nasty look. 'The name "Yaxley" mean anything to you?'

Draco's cool demeanour vanished like a candle blown out. 'You're trying to tag Yaxley? The Italian Yaxley? Are you fucking insane?'

'Who?' Harry asked with a blink. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

'Signore Gervasio Alessandro Yaxley,' Draco said with a flourish. 'Probably the only wizard alive more pure-blood than I am. He's the unofficial duke of wizarding Britain; or at least, he likes to think he is.'

'What do you mean?'

'What I mean, in short,' Draco said, smirking again, 'is that he has a lot of money.'

Harry raised his eyebrows. This statement, coming from Malfoy, seemed ridiculous. 'More than you?'

'Hah! He wishes,' Draco drawled, looking smug. 'No, Potter, most of my money is lying in a vault, and you're sitting on the rest. Yaxley's wealthier in a capital sense; most of his worth is through interest, debts owed and various commodities. He's the pot of gold at the end of the loan rainbow, if you will,' Draco supplied, when Harry cocked his head in question. 'In other words, he's got half of wizarding Europe in his pocket.'

Hermione was leaning forward in her seat now, elbows balanced on her knees. 'Do you have any reason to believe that You-Know-Who'd be getting money through him?'

Draco shrugged. 'It's highly likely. Good business, war. And he's no fan of Muggle-borns, for sure. Plus, Yaxley is perhaps the only person in the country who is better connected than my father was, though my father was much deeper into the Ministry than Gervasio could ever hope to be. He'd be an ideal supporter.'

'The problem,' Ron interjected, staring at a point over Harry's shoulder in order to avoid looking at Draco, 'as always, is proving it.'

'So you don't know if he's even involved for sure?' Hermione asked Draco. 'Wouldn't Lucius have anything on him?'

Draco shrugged again. 'Gervasio and my father were more like opponents than associates. Gervasio controls people with his money, but my father didn't need it, so they never got on well. I really don't know what you expect me to tell you,' he continued. 'What I can tell you, though, is that pointing a finger at someone like Yaxley without solid grounds is folly. What would you need on him, anyway?'

'Assuming he doesn't have the Dark Mark? Access to his accounts, his books,' Hermione said, pausing to think. 'Anything that would get us access to original records, not the crap he submits to the Ministry during enquiries, really.'

Draco shook his head. 'You'll never get it. You'd have to put him under the Imperius Curse to get access, and even then...' Draco trailed off, looking thoughtful. 'Well, they have ways around that, too. Hex-detectors and such at most vaults these days. You'd need Yaxley there, in the flesh, and willing to give you the information. Which isn't going to happen.'

'Couldn't we just use Polyjuice Potion?' Ron suggested to no one in particular. 'I mean, bugger the bloody rules, if we can just get the evidence, they won't care how.'

Draco laughed at him. 'Polyjuice Potion. Genius, Weasley. Really. Because people like Yaxley would never think of that. No, seriously,' Draco continued, looking as if he was refraining from rolling his eyes. He held out his arm to Harry, who blinked at him. 'Do you see anything on my arm, Potter?'

Harry blinked at him again, then looked at the spotless, midnight blue sleeve of his robes, then back to Draco. 'Is this a trick question?'

'Of course you don't,' Draco went on, dropping his arm and ignoring Harry's stupefaction. 'Because I don't have white-blonde hair that would be completely inconspicuous if it shed onto my robes, or anything, which is the natural human thing to do, last I checked.'

'So why don't you--'

'Because if someone can Polyjuice into me, Potter, and manages to get a copy of my bloody vault key, I'd say I'd be having more than just a few financial issues, wouldn't you?' Draco finally gave in to the urge to roll his eyes. 'There are literally hundreds of charms and spells to keep any sort of "personal items" that could be used in potions from falling off carelessly,' he explained. 'I had to memorise over a dozen before my father would let me step foot in Hogwarts.' He smirked and added, 'After all, who wouldn't want to be me?'

'We'd need to get close to him,' Hermione said thoughtfully, ignoring Draco's last comment, then shook her head. 'But if he's that cautious about his personal items, it wouldn't make a difference....'

'Right,' said Ron. 'So what Malfoy's saying is, to even accuse someone like Yaxley, first we'd need access to things we can't access unless we Polyjuice into him, and to get the ingredients to do that is impossible...' (Hermione said, 'Ron' warningly but Ron barrelled on), '...so in summation, Malfoy hasn't told us anything useful at all except that it's "folly". And we kept you out of Azkaban, why?'

'If I recall, Weasley, you are the only person I don't have to thank for that,' Draco sneered rather nastily. 'Not that I would anyway...'

'You have me to thank for that busted lip if I reca--'

'If you could get the components you need,' interrupted a cool voice from behind him, 'could you guarantee that Gervasio will be convicted?'

Ron and Hermione both turned their heads to look at Narcissa in mild surprise and Harry squinted at her, slightly perturbed that he hadn't even noticed her leave the chaise and waltz over in the middle of their conversation. She stood poised behind Ron and just off to the side, one hand resting daintily on the finely carved veneer of the sofa's crest.

'Er,' said Ron. 'Assuming we found evidence that he's been feeding gold to You-Know-Who, then yes. We can.' He looked at Hermione. 'We can, right?'

'Yes,' Hermione confirmed. 'If we did--as you said--find proof that he's supplying funds to the other side of the war. That's a charge of treason; a life sentence in Azkaban any way you spell it. Why?'

'In that case, I may be able to assist you.' Narcissa's eyes flickered briefly to Draco, who had quieted at his mother's interruption and was periodically sipping his drink, clearly just as curious as the rest of them as to why she was taking an interest, before coming to rest on Harry. 'Are you familiar with the concept of a debutante ball, Mr Potter?'

'Er,' said Harry. 'A what?'

'A debut ball?' Hermione asked over him, the words clearly holding some meaning for her that Harry had missed. 'Are they anything like the Muggle versions?'

'In the most primitive respects only, I assure you,' Narcissa replied curtly, eyes casting briefly down on Hermione before shifting back to Harry. 'A debutante ball, Mr Potter, is an annual summer event to introduce young, pure-blooded witches into high society. An event that is hosted and arranged by the aristocratic duke of any given country; in this case, our friend Mr Yaxley. An event that, conveniently, happens to be taking place in three days' time.'

'So, wait,' Harry said, leaning forward. 'How does that help us?'

'Gets us close to Yaxley,' Hermione supplied, catching on. 'I mean, he'd hardly suspect that Aurors would be trailing him at such an event, would he?'

'But how do you plan to get Aurors into that sort of place?' Ron asked, turning his eyes up to Narcissa. 'Most of your pure-blood parties are by invitation only, aren't they?'

'Mm,' she confirmed. 'And fortunately for you, as the wealthiest bachelor in the country, my son has an open invitation.'

Draco gave his mother a look. 'If this is some back-handed attempt to buy me a wife, I'll save you the trouble and say no now.'

'Your lack of interest in granting me grandchildren aside,' Narcissa dismissed smoothly, 'we'd still require a debutante to expand your invitation to include myself. Draco may be able to attend at his leisure, but as a widow I'd have no business at the ball unless it was for the purpose of presenting a young witch to make her debut.'

Draco's eyes narrowed a little; Ron blinked and asked, 'Why would you need to go?'

'Because as my son said before, Gervasio is not a simpleton.' Narcissa removed her hand from the couch and placed it on her hip. 'Even if you managed to get right up beside him, you wouldn't find anything on his person you could take without his noticing it.'

'So what makes you think you can get us anything?'

Narcissa graced Ron with an expression most people reserved for house-elves. 'I do not think, Mr Weasley, I know. So long as you can find me a witch to present, I can get you what you need.'

'A witch to present?' Hermione repeated. 'Wouldn't she have to be pure-blood and--well--'

'Highborn? Not necessarily. The identity of the girl is unimportant; we can create her image and history easily enough. All that matters is that she's of the right age and is able to play the role of a noblewoman.'

'Could get Tonks to do it,' Harry said reasonably. 'She can disguise herself well enough, and she's a trained Auror, and--'

'And about as adroit as the average sot,' Narcissa finished, her tone deadpan. 'No, dear Nymphadora will not do. I'd require a dextrous girl at least of age, but preferably no older than yourselves.'

Harry ran through a brief checklist in his mind of possible witches that were qualified Aurors, and even Ministry personnel. It wasn't very long, and most of the witches were extremely old; Hermione and Tonks were among the youngest. 'There aren't any female Aurors our age,' Harry told her. 'Susan Bones is the right age, but she's already married...'

'And too well-known among pure-blood families,' Narcissa conceded.

'Pansy might do it.' Everyone looked at Draco, who was staring at the floor with a thoughtful expression. At the resulting silence, he looked up and narrowed his eyes. 'What? She's the right age, and unmarried,' he added, shrugging. 'At least last I heard.'

'Yes, because it'll be much easier for you to escape if you walk into that party without a certified Ministry escort, won't it?' Ron said nastily.

'Half of the people in that party will probably be as keen to kill me as you are, Weasley,' Draco said snidely. 'Maybe if your luck's in order they'll do you the favour.'

'Don't get my hopes up.'

'Enough,' Narcissa snapped, earning a surprised blink from Ron and a quiet, indignant huff from her son. 'It was bad enough with your fathers, I won't tolerate any ruffian behaviour in my household.' Harry dimly noted her wording of my household and that Draco did not bother to correct her. 'I believe it's more than obvious at this point that my son has no intentions of violating his agreement, and it would be in his best interests to cooperate,' she added, with a sharp look at Draco.

'Ask Pansy to do it, then,' Harry put in. 'I mean, if it's just to get your mother in, she wouldn't be in any danger anyway. If it means cutting off one of Voldemort's--'

Narcissa flinched and closed her eyes, and one of her hands jumped to her temple, as if she'd gotten a sudden headache; Ron shuddered just slightly, and Draco cursed and nearly dropped his glass.

'Will you quit with the name,' he ground out through gritted teeth, glaring at Harry.

'All right, but even if Parkinson agrees to do it,' Ron said, recovering and looking up at Narcissa, 'and assuming we somehow get the operation approved, tell me: how do you plan to get what we need without Yaxley noticing? I mean, what makes you think you can pull it off better than a trained Ministry agent?'

Narcissa cast her eyes on him for a moment, then glanced briefly at Draco, before looking away and giving the merest of shrugs. 'To save you from the details, let's just say that Gervasio and I share... a rather intimate history.'

There was a short pause, in which Ron and Harry blinked, Hermione's eyebrows shot up into her bushy fringe, and Draco actually did drop his glass.

'I'm sorry,' Draco said slowly, ignoring the appearance of a house-elf to clean up the mess. 'What?'

'Er,' Ron said, flushing and shifting uncomfortably. 'Well. That's--you know, we don't need you to....'

'Oh, it's quite all right, Mr Weasley, I assure you.' Narcissa smirked, ignoring the look of impetuous fury on her son's face. 'You could say that I'd be more than happy to assist you in the matter.'

'Excuse me,' Draco said sharply, sitting forward and glaring up at his mother. 'It most certainly is not "all right". What the bloody hell do you mean, "intimate history"?'

'Kindly don't take that tone with me, Draco,' she replied smoothly, looking remarkably unconcerned by the dark look in her son's eyes. 'You are not a child anymore, and it would be advantageous for you to refrain from acting like one.'

Narcissa turned back to the three of them, once again ignoring Draco, who was clearly furious at being addressed in such a way in front of company, his mouth forming a sharp snarl. Harry was quickly learning that Narcissa was, much like Molly Weasley tended to be, a no-nonsense woman when it came to her offspring. 'Wizarding dukes have always exercised a traditional sort of control over the families within their reign, very much like feudalism, in fact,' she began, pausing to let them absorb this information before continuing. 'This includes the promise of patronage in exchange for certain privileges.'

'Privileges?' Hermione asked.

'Privileges?' Draco demanded.

'Mm.' Narcissa appeared to be choosing her words very carefully, and she kept shooting warning looks at Draco, who, in his ever-increasing outrage, was beginning to look more and more like Lucius with every moment that passed. 'In the interest of being forthright,' she began, 'let me say that, in short, Gervasio reserves the right not only to grant warrant on all legal unions that take place under his jurisdiction, but also the prerogative to... christen the bride of any marriage he so chooses.'

Hermione blanched, and Harry was fairly sure he had too. After a few extra seconds, realisation set in for Ron, who then proceeded to gape at Narcissa.

'That's bloody barbaric,' Ron blurted.

'I didn't know things like that still went on,' Hermione said quietly.

Draco was massaging his temples with his fingers methodically. 'Are you telling me,' he said slowly, 'that Father allowed that sonofa--'

'Naturally, there is an alternative to such practices,' Narcissa said dismissively. 'If you have enough gold, there always is... those that can afford to buy their brides' fidelity are able to do so, and Lucius had indeed paid his dues for my integrity. However....' She smiled faintly. 'I regret to say that there's no judicious way to phrase this, but Gervasio is a man who takes what he wants--much,' she added, with a hard look at Draco, who seemed to be cemented with shock at what he was hearing, 'like your father was.'

'Are you saying he--' Ron began, eyes widening.

'Did Lucius know?' Hermione asked over him, a bit breathlessly.

'If he had, do you really believe Yaxley would be around to cause you grief today?' Narcissa asked, and Harry knew the answer was unequivocally no. In fact, judging by the look in Draco's eyes, if Draco had known before now, the answer would also be an unequivocal no.

'No,' she confirmed lightly, 'my husband remained blissfully unaware to his grave. I was just a girl at the time, you understand, and did not want any blood shed on my account.' She smirked. 'My views on the matter have since changed dramatically; you could say I consider this both a way to remunerate the leniency you extended towards my son, as well as a means of requital.'

'Bugger that,' Draco said simply, as he stood up to face her. 'You won't bloody need to do anything, because I'm going to kill him.'

He said this with such calmness and certainty that, inability to do the deed against Dumbledore aside, Harry found he believed him, and it bothered him deeply. Though, he supposed, if his mother had been alive and had just informed him of a similar injustice done to her, he'd probably have threatened to do the same.

'Sit down, Draco,' she said serenely. 'Despite what you'd like to believe, you won't be having a say either way.'

'The hell I won't.'

'Draco,' she began warningly.

'No,' he snapped over her. It was worse than watching Ron get defensive about Ginny; until now, Harry had not noticed that Draco was actually taller than his mother--not by much, but he was standing so close to her now that the three-or-so inches difference was suddenly apparent. 'No. No sodding way in Merlin's bloody beard--'

'You have no authority over what I choose to do--'

'--you're my bloody mother--'

'--and you would do well to remember it,' she finished firmly.

'Father would never have allowed it,' Draco snarled.

'Your father is dead, Draco,' Narcissa said, her voice lowered dangerously. 'And now I have done my duty both to him and to you. For twenty years I've bided my time, waiting for reprisal, and I'll be damned if you or your father have any say on the matter.'

'Then you'll bloody well be damned!'

Draco had not shouted until this point, but it seemed Narcissa had finally hit a nerve. If Harry, Ron and Hermione hadn't winced at the volume of his voice, they did shortly thereafter, when the bottle of Dom Pérignon suddenly exploded, spraying the three of them with champagne.

This seemed to remind mother and son that there were, in fact, other people still in the room; Narcissa raised her chin slightly and Draco bristled, swore loudly, and sat heavily back down on the sofa. Nivens appeared with a crack and began cleaning the champagne off the furniture while Hermione charmed it off all their robes.

'Apologies,' Narcissa said sweetly, indicating the mess. 'My son isn't normally prone to such outbursts, but I think we've said all that needs to be said here.' She looked briefly from Ron to Harry, eyebrows raised. 'So, Mr Weasley, Mr Potter--do we have an accord?'

Harry fidgeted. Draco wasn't looking at him, he was glaring at the floor, but the sharpness of his expression was dangerous. 'Are you sure about this? I mean, technically, you're not obligated... I mean, we'd love to get Yaxley, but it's not in the contract that you have to. You know.' He paused. 'Do anything.'

'I understand that, Mr Potter. As I told you before, I would be more than happy to be of service.' The words of service were delivered with a salty undertone that caused Draco to make a convulsive motion with his fist, breaking another glass. Narcissa continued without losing a beat. 'That is, as I said before, if you can find me a young witch to present.'

Ron looked at Harry, who shrugged. 'If it gets us Yaxley....'

'Kingsley would be all right with it,' Ron agreed. He chanced a look at Narcissa, then Draco. 'D'you think Parkinson would do it?'

Harry looked at Draco, who was glaring up at his mother. She was returning the look, and the silent visual battle continued for several long seconds before Draco, sensing defeat, looked away.

'What do you think, Malfoy?' Harry asked him. 'Would Pansy be up for it?'

Draco glanced sideways at him, then looked away and shrugged. 'Only one way to find out.'

* * *

Thanks to Draco's information and the quick work of the Inquisitorial Department, Kingsley had arranged the first raid to take place that very evening. Harry and Ron Apparated back to the Ministry with Arthur, while Remus remained with Hermione at the Manor. Since he wasn't a Ministry employee, Remus did not have to take shifts at the Manor, but he insisted on helping as a member of the Order, and Hermione personally thought it was good for him. Although he was less outspoken than Sirius had been about spending so much time at Grimmauld Place, she could see he was enjoying the change of atmosphere.

Despite the shabby robes and the werewolf issue, Narcissa seemed rather fond of him; they'd apparently been on very good terms during their time together at Hogwarts and even after that, through Sirius, until the First War had started and torn the Black family apart. Hermione supposed Narcissa had been just as lonely as Draco had over the years, and from the growing tension exhibited by her and her son, she supposed that four years was a long time to spend with anyone, even close family; Narcissa was probably glad for the company of someone closer to her own age.

Of course, this left Hermione to contend with Draco on her own for most of the afternoon, as Remus and Narcissa had gone off on a tour of the gardens and not returned for hours. It wasn't as bad as it could have been; Draco was still silently brooding over the argument with his mother that morning, and hardly spoke to her at all. Hedwig dropped off a letter from Harry mid-afternoon informing her that he and Ron would likely be on duty until well past midnight, and she would therefore be spending the night at the Manor alone with Remus to keep an eye on Draco.

Lovely, she thought bitterly. Draco was in his room collecting his cloak; it was after teatime now, a time when Pansy was sure to be at home. A very fluffy, white cat with one green and one blue eye was prowling down the corridor as she waited, and she crouched down and offered her hand to it. It rubbed its head under her hand and purred appreciatively.

The half-ajar door to Draco's room suddenly slammed open and the cat mrowed in agitation before sprinting down the hall. Frowning, she stood up and glared at him. 'Was that really necessary?'

'I hate cats,' Draco said by way of explanation.

'The feeling seems to be mutual.'

'I'm sure it is.' He swung his cloak over his shoulders and fastened it around the high collar of his robes. 'Are you ready, then?'

As I'll ever be with you, she thought bitterly. 'Yes,' she said, putting her hands in the pockets of her own cloak. 'How're we--'

'Apparating would be easiest.' He glanced at her and made a face. 'We'll have to do it Side-Along, though, since you've never been there.'

'And where, exactly, is "there"?' she asked.

'Yorkshire,' was all he offered. 'We'll have to go outside the Manor grounds... c'mon.'

By the time they'd reached the gate to the estate, the sun was beginning to set. The two massive stone dragons standing guard outside cast large, ominous shadows over the pair as Draco halted and held out his arm. His nose wrinkled slightly as Hermione took it with her own.

Side-Along Apparation was similar to taking a Portkey--only instead of an object, you were using another person to get to your destination. After the dizziness faded, Hermione surveyed her surroundings with a slow blink.

'Er, Malfoy,' she said, eyeing the rather run-down row of houses bordering the street. 'Where the hell are we?'

Draco started off down the deserted walkway before answering; she was tugged along, still attached to his arm. 'Just outside Bradford.'

Hermione balked. 'Bradford? She lives in Bradford?'

Draco stopped, dropping her arm, and turned to look at her, eyebrow raised. 'Despite what you may believe, not all pure-bloods are well-off. Just look at your dear Weasleys.'

'But--' she spluttered, moving to catch up with him as he continued walking, '--after all of the grief your lot gave Ron--'

'There's a difference between being poor and being trash, Granger,' Draco said sharply without looking at her.

'Ron's not--'

'Pansy's an only child,' Draco said, cutting her off. 'And the Parkinsons are, as far as I know, still better off financially than the Weasleys, who have more children than most stray dogs.' He looked sideways at her as she opened her mouth to berate him. 'I'm not even trying to be cruel, you know, I'm just being practical. It's bloody idiotic to have so many children when you can't even afford their schoolbooks every term. Here.'

He stopped outside one of the many homes that, in the dark, looked particularly foreboding. It was two-storied but squat, with dark windows and chipped paint along the porch. The yard looked horribly neglected and Hermione jumped as a small dog came running up to the gate when Draco opened it. Upon further inspection, she saw it was actually a Crup; similar to Jack Russell terriers, but with forked tails, Crups were one of the few pets that wizards could keep in the presence of Muggles without arousing too much suspicion.

The Crup barked sharply, but in a friendly manner, and jumped up on Draco's knee as he closed the gate behind her. 'Go on,' he said, and the Crup stood down but continued to run in circles around them as they made their way up the walkway, Draco with his hands jammed in his pockets and Hermione trying to conceal herself behind him. She hadn't seen Pansy Parkinson since Hogwarts, and was not sure how the girl would react to seeing Hermione standing on her porch, with Draco Malfoy of all people.

'Were you two, you know,' Hermione asked suddenly, but quietly, 'together? At Hogwarts.'

Draco didn't look at her. 'For a while, yes.'

'What happened?'

Draco gave her a long, sideways look, but didn't answer. Instead, he knocked sharply on the door. The Crup barked again; the moment the door opened, he rushed through the small opening, and Hermione could hear him yipping inside the bowels of the house. A withered, thin woman with wiry, dark grey hair had answered the door. She had a sharp chin and short face, and Hermione recognised her eyes; she must have been Pansy's mother. She gaped when she saw Draco.

'Mr Malfoy,' she said quietly, recovering. 'What a... pleasant surprise.' She looked him and Hermione over once, quickly, but did not ask them inside.

'Evening,' Draco said politely. 'Listen, Julie, is Pansy--'

'Yes, yes, she's here,' Mrs Parkinson said quickly. 'Just a mo'.' And she disappeared back into the house, closing the door. Almost immediately Hermione could hear the sound of someone thumping down stairs at high speed, and then the door opened again. She barely registered the dark hair and slightly pudgy face of Pansy Parkinson as she stormed out of the door and slapped Draco harshly across the face.

Draco didn't recoil, but took the assault, perhaps thinking he deserved it. 'Hullo, Pansy,' he said dryly.

'Don't you hullo me,' she snapped, not even noticing Hermione. 'What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to get me killed?'

'On the contrary,' Draco said, stepping back a little. 'I've actually come to ask a favour.'

'A favour?' Pansy laughed at him. 'I would as soon do you a favour as gnaw off my own hand.' Looking to the side, she saw Hermione, and bristled immediately, turning her glare back to Draco. 'You brought her here? The Prophet said you'd made friends with Potter, but this filth? And now you bring it to my door?'

'Pansy--'

'No,' she said sharply, backing up and shaking her head. 'Whatever it is, I don't care. The answer is no.'

'Will you just--'

'No, I will not just!' she snapped at him. 'You think you can just vanish for a few years and then drop by whenever you need something from me?'

'It's not li--'

'I was in love with you!' she shrieked. Hermione noted with surprise that her eyes were watering, and Draco winced. 'I was in love with you, Draco,' she repeated, her voice lower. 'And you just disappeared--I thought you were--' She stopped and collected herself quickly before Draco could interrupt. 'No, Draco, I'm done. No favours. No nothing. If they find out you've been here--if He knew--you have to leave,' she said. 'Right now.'

'I'm sorry,' he said, a bit weakly. He looked extremely uncomfortable all of a sudden. 'And I know--I don't want to cause any trouble. But will you at least hear me out before you--'

'No,' she said again, firmly. She was in the doorway now, one hand on the doorknob. 'It won't matter, the answer will be the same. I can't have anything to do with you. You were just protecting your family, and now I'm protecting mine.' She paused and Draco opened his mouth, but she continued over him, 'I'm sorry, Draco. But no. Now go, and take your Mudblood filth with you.'

Draco winced again as she slammed the door in his face without ceremony. Heaving a heavy sigh, he stared at the closed door for a few moments longer, then turned around abruptly and faced Hermione. He was looking her over, head to toe, as if considering something very carefully. Then he abruptly looked her in the eye.

'So, Granger,' he said casually. 'I don't suppose you know how to tango?'

* * *