Sometimes the Dragon Wins

Hermione flung her book bag down the hallway rather carelessly. "Mum!" she yelled, "Mum!"

There was no discernible answer in the kitchen, where her mother was normally cooking dinner at this time of day.

Dad was still at the office, probably drilling people's teeth, and would no doubt love retelling the tale of the horrible gingivitis his last patient had. God, how could people let their teeth and breath go to grounds like that?

It was never a appetizing conversation, but once he'd finished ranting about proper dental care and staring at Hermione's own teeth suspiciously, he would settle down, put his napkin around his neck pompously, and ask Hermione to tell him about magic.

His eyes would light up with wonder as she related spells and potions and events in the Wizarding World gleefully, recounting every Prophet subscription article. He would worry about the future of the Wizarding World with her and try to invent elaborate schemes to stop Voldemort and his minions. And every night, he would let his dinner go cold as she talked to him.

It was the best part of the day for Hermione; having someone as awed as she was by the entire spectacle hanging on every word, and best of all, looking very envious.

This would last until mother would start clucking about both of them ignoring their food - as usual - where it would hastily be microwaved and gulped down.

Some conspicuous winking and eye rolling on her father's part would always tell Hermione that he, too, wanted to continue the conversation, but that they'd better not upset Mum.

And then, after a few scoops of watermelon, (sweets were not tolerated in the Granger-household) William Granger would retire to his study while Vera Granger would surf the Dental Channel on the telly to stay up-to-date with the latest dentistry developments. Hermione normally used the select time to write a few letters or to read a few non-fiction books. It was a perfect little family ritual.

But right now there were no sounds of pots burbling or crockery stirring in the kitchen. She went there anyway, and grabbed a fruit roll out of the pantry. Her mother was probably also working late then, but that never happened.

And it was a pity. Hermione had found the most wonderful book about wizarding lore; one so sensationally written that mum would have loved it as well. She wanted her mother to share in her life as much as her father did, although in truth, Vera Granger was very supportive. She was a little afraid of magic though, but this book would vanquish her fears.

"Mum," she yelled again, in case her mother was upstairs.

There was a muffled sound coming from the main bedroom.

'Perhaps she's sick,' Hermione thought, trooping up the stairs, "Mum?"

This time there was no mistaking a noise in the bedroom.

"You okay mum?"

"Oh shit," a woman's voice inside the bedroom, "She's back early. Hide."

'But that can't be mum,' Hermione thought hazily, 'Mum doesn't swear.'

She opened the door.

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly:

'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.'

-MARY HOWITT, The Spider and the Fly

CHAPTER 5 - The Spider and the Fly?

Hermione sat up with a start, breathing heavily. It was light, and she was sitting in her bed.

A dream. A dream. She closed her eyes again, imagining the vivid scene for a moment, and shuddered.

She looked around and saw her roommates' beds - messy and empty. Parvati and Lavender had probably gotten up to blow wave their hair and partake in their torturous make up routine.

The sun was streaming into the window and the birds were chirping outside.

She bit on an already gnarled fingernail, happy that her fashion conscious roommates were not there to admonish her on the habit. Parvati habitually wagged her fingers under her nose with admonition, "Uh uh uh. How are you going to win Harry back with those horrible nails?"

Hermione thought the topic of her winning Harry back was a moot point, and if he did want to beg his way back, her fingernails had better not scandalize him.

It wasn't that Lavender and Parvati were all superficial and stupid. Both were brilliant at astronomy, probably from all the time they spent with boys at the astronomy tower. They didn't like to act as if they were smart though, reasoning that smart girls did not get snogged that much.

'Huh,' Hermione grinned. She'd let them eat their words all right. Where'd she been last night again? With...

Last night came whooshing back at an alarming pace.

Voldemort was coming to Hogwarts.

Da-dum-da-dum.

Hermione scrambled out of bed and threw on her oldest jeans and a sweatshirt. She cursed irritably as her feet stubbornly refused to slide into her sneakers, forcing her to sit down, untie the laces, and carefully pull them onto her feet.

She ran to the Great Hall, not caring that her hair was bushy and uncombed, or that she had not bathed or brushed her teeth.

As fate would have it, she ran straight into Draco Malfoy.

He lazily drew his lips into a smirk, "Granger."

She stared at him in exasperation. How could he still swagger and smirk when the world was in danger?

She didn't have time for him. She ducked away and ran.

The impact of her body smashed the enormous doors open with a resounding bang.

More than 300 lazy eyes regarded her for a moment, and then dismissed her.

She spotted Harry, who was sitting next to Ron and looking tired, and ran up to him.

"You have to get away Harry! You have to escape!" she said breathlessly.

He stared at her tiredly, "What?"

"Calm down Herm," Ron added.

"Voldemort's coming! You have to leave or he will kill you!" she said, slowly becoming aware that she didn't seem to be making sense to them.

"Voldemort?" Harry said quizzically, taking a piece of toast.

"Yes. He's coming to Hogwarts! I talked to Draco last night, he said the Death Eaters have kidnapped the staff and that we should get away!" she felt almost hysterical. What, were they, stupid?

Harry grinned at her, "Hermione, where have you been? Voldemort's not coming to Hogwarts." He munched the toast contentedly, "He's here already."

"What?"

"Yeah, he's here," Ron confirmed calmly, "Came to the common room last night while you were out. Seemed like a nice bloke."

"You're kidding." She didn't quite know what to think.

"No Herm, we're not kidding," Harry said patiently. "Before he came in, we all felt so peaceful, and cosmically in tune with the world. And then he appeared and talked to each of us individually. I didn't want to talk to him at first, I'm not sure why. Amazing - he talked to every person in every house, except for the Slytherins. They couldn't hear him knocking above their music, or something. He actually asked where you were too, said he had a special plan for you and everything."

Hermione grinned feebly, "If this is some kind of joke because I'm not there a lot, very clever, ha ha ha. But I'm serious."

Harry smiled pleasantly, "So are we."

Hermione pushed the panic out of her mind and allowed annoyance to take its place.

She marched towards the Hufflepuff table and clamped her hand onto Hannah Abbott's shoulder.

The plump blonde looked around.

"Hannah, sorry to bother you while you're eating, but Harry and Ron are playing this really stupid joke on me. They're saying that Voldemort's here."

Hannah smiled brightly, "But he is." She frowned then, "I don't know, I can vaguely remember not liking him at some stage in my life, but I can't imagine why. He was so charming."

Hermione closed her mouth, whirled around and marched to the Slytherin table.

Very few of them were sitting there, but she recognized Bryce Avery.

"Bryce," she said, trying to tone down the anxiety in her voice, "Is Voldemort here?"

Bryce sighed, "Hey. Yeah. It's weird. I haven't seen him, but the other houses have and they're all acting like dopey sheep. He's sacked the house elves. Look at the food."

His spoon was skimming a bowl of grey slop. "They're all eating it, it's so weird."

Hermione looked around. Sure enough, the rest of Hogwarts Hall was eating grey slush mechanically with vaguely pleasant smiles on their faces. They looked as if they'd been smoking a whole vat of cannabis.

Bryce sighed again, "We're trying to figure out what happened. William figures he put some kind of memory charm on them."

"You can't be serious?" she asked desperately. "Why aren't you worried?'

Bryce frowned, "I don't think it's a joke, Hermione. He's really here. And we're not happy about it; he's not really fun to have around. But he's not going to hurt the Slytherins; we're supposed to be evil. He probably thinks we're his minions so we're probably safe."

"Safe and selfish," Hermione blurted out. She stared around, tensing at the glazed eyes and stupid expressions meeting her gaze.

She couldn't stay there. It didn't make sense. This was not how she had planned her morning. She looked at the sallow, glazed expressions around her, and the nervous stance the Slytherins had adopted one last time, and then she ran out of the hall without another word to Bryce.

'Not possible! Not possible!' her mind screamed. 'An incorrect, illogical point.'

At this point, as fate would have it, she ran into Malfoy. Again.

"Granger," he said. Again.

She snatched at his school shirt to have something concrete to hold onto. "He's here Malfoy, he's here."

The eyebrows arched. "Voldemort? So soon?"

"He's brainwashed them all. I don't understand it. Everyone likes Voldemort. And they're eating gray slop and they don't even notice. It's absurd. I don't know what to do."

"Take a breath, Granger," Malfoy advised. "And let go of my shirt please. It was clean."

Hermione obeyed, mentally storing the insult so that she could rant at him another time. This was not the time to pick a fight with him. Draco looked at her face and his eyebrows rose aristocratically. "Okay, you're not kidding. I can see that. You're not that good an actress."
He wet his lips. "So Voldemort's here. And he's modified their memories or something. And...are we the only sane people left? Not that you're sane. Am I the only sane person left?"

"He didn't get the Slytherins, if that's what you're asking. What now, Malfoy?" She felt helpless. "I don't want to go back to Gryffindor, it feels as if they'll murder me in my bed."

"Relax Granger!" he ordered. "Let me think."

Hermione also attempted to order her unorganized thoughts. It was chaotic in her head. It was as if a tornado had swept through the ordered file cabinet that was Hermione Granger.

She stared up at Malfoy. She was not stupid enough to think that she could handle this on her own. Whether she liked it or not, he was her only hope. Until she could think of something better, of course. The house elves probably weren't an option. They'd been sacked anyway, hadn't Bryce said?

He shook his head suddenly. "This is not what I was expecting. Why did the other houses let Voldemort in?"

"I don't know. Harry said something about feeling really relaxed and chilled out before Voldemort came in."

Draco's eyes were lost in thought. "He used a calming spell then. A very powerful one."

He laughed suddenly, a wild humorless laugh that sounded as if it came out of his gallbladder. "Are you telling me that the only people unaffected by this spell are you and the rest of Slytherin?"

"Yes." She felt she couldn't deny it. She considered the situation. One brave, loyal, red, Gryffindor amongst hundreds of slithering, green, Slytherins combined with a zombie nation. She felt very small and alone suddenly.

Draco's eyes cleared. "Obviously we have to get away. That's our only plan right now. We have to get away before Voldemort gets us too."

"Just me and you?"

"God forbid, no Granger. It's not just about us. Me, you and the rest of the Slytherins have to get away."

"You sound almost...heroic," she said bitterly.

"Well, no, you're wrong. I'm not. I'm being smart. If Voldemort gets to us, I'd rather let 300 other people die before me."

She shook her head. Of course, she shouldn't have expected bravery from Draco Malfoy.

"You've always been a coward," she said, remembering how, in first year when Harry has seen Voldemort in the forest, Draco had run away screaming.

"Call it what you want Granger. I know what Death Eaters do to people who are brave and stupid. I don't have idealistic notions that a courageous last stand will make them applaud and drop their wands. They're not here to judge a personality contest. They're here to kill."

He didn't have to say it in such a calm voice.

He grinned at her mockingly. "Now, are you going to stay here to be tortured or are you going to act like the smart mudblood I know and come with us?"

She thought about it. Was she ready to stand against Voldemort on her own?

Well, obviously the answer was no.

"What about the rest of the school Malfoy? Are we going to rescue them?"

He shrugged, "We might if we don't have anything better to do. Maybe later, when I've sorted a few things out. Now, are you coming or not?"

She considered her options again: Abandoning her friends and escaping with the Slytherins or, being loyal and courageous and standing up to Voldemort...alone.

It wasn't difficult.

"I'm coming," she decided.

"Good. I need someone to carry my things. Consider yourself my personal house-elf from now on."

And even with that in mind, she went.

*******************

Lucius' eyes were squeezed shut.

There had been no sound in the past minute, so he stopped anticipating an explosion.

He allowed one eye to open ever so slightly, but his girlish, long eyelashes - the bane of his existence - interfered, and he found himself merely looking at microscopically blurred black smudges. He bit his upper lip, opened both eyes bravely and surveyed the situation.

Wormtail, wearing an appropriately rodent-esque expression was cowering before Lord Voldemort, who still had not moved from his Hitleresque-salute- pose.

A short while ago, Voldemort had been in the process of rashly wanting to put a spell on Wormtail. But he had allowed his wand-hand to hover right above Wormtail's head, where it still was. If you were watching from far away, it might have looked as if the Dark Lord was a good fairy godmother about to grant Wormtail three wishes.

That is, if you looked from far away, had bad eyesight and if you were quite mad.

Voldemort's hand suddenly moving set the scene back in motion.

Lucius let out his breath and Wormtail commenced gibbering, "So sorry my lord, I didn't mean for it to happen my lord. I am unworthy my lord."

Voldemort's haughty expression was softening.

'Oh bollocks,' Lucius realized, 'He's going to crack a joke.'

"You know what I was about to do Wormtail?" Voldemort asked, almost benevolently.

"No great and powerful lord. Have I mentioned that I am unworthy?"

Voldemort ignored this, "Wormtail, I was about to turn you into a rat." Voldemort doubled up, "Ha ha ha! A rat!" The spindly fingers gesticulated, and Lucius and the other Death Eaters all started laughing awkwardly.

"A rat! Ho ho ho," grumbled McNair.

"Nyur, nyur, nyur," Crabbe and Goyle rumbled simultaneously.

"Snnh, snnh, snhh." Lucius supposed old Gammer Thornton's laboured breathing could be classified as laughter.

His own feeble chuckle wasn't much better, "A-he he he."

"I won't punish you this time Wormtail. This is not your fault," Voldemort snapped his fingers, "An ancient foe is rising up against me, but I have learnt to Take My Anger Out On The Sources Of The Problem, Not On My Friends."

Ah yes. He'd been perusing self-help books in his spare time as well. Lucius had spotted them on the Dark Lord's shelves, nestling between McNair and Goyle's severed hands, which were acting as bookends for the moment.

The titles were things like "Chicken Soup for a Dark Lord's Soul," and "Effective Planning to Get Your Life Back," and "100 ways to be a good Dictator."

New ideas poured into Voldemort's head from the contents of these volumes and spewed out of his mouth. Today's Lesson, for example, had been "Love thy neighbour a little less than they love thyself."

The books filled Voldemort's empty little life with mirth and goodwill.

'Fa la la la la,' Lucius thought unhappily, reluctantly meeting the dark lord's gaze.

"Crabbe! Goyle!" Voldemort spat, "Bring Potter to me!"

The elder versions of Crabbe and Goyle lumbered away.

Voldemort's gaze was still pinning Lucius to the spot, making him feel like a rare species of moth being spotted by an avid lepidopterist.

"Lucius," the dark lord hissed in that way of his that made his voice sound multi-dimensional. "The Slytherins have disappeared, as you heard Wormtail inform me. Your son is a Slytherin, is he not?"

"So is mine!" Gammer Thornton interrupted indignantly.

"Your son is an intelligent Slytherin," Voldemort ignored Thornton, "One who is destined for greatness, I might even say."

"He tries," Lucius muttered.

"William's intelligent as well," Gammer piped up.

"Sources have informed me, Lucius, that the Dragon is at Hogwarts."

"...I know he's clever, no matter what anyone says, he got his father's brains..."

Voldemort's eyes were glinting dangerously. It did nothing to enhance his appearance.

Lucius shifted. He and Narcissa had attempted to keep quiet about the sudden appearance of a mark on their son's shoulder, but they had only thought it was a coincidence. Draco couldn't be the Dragon. They'd decided that he had run away to a tattoo parlour and had simply been too ashamed to admit it, and that he'd concocted a flimsy story about the mark appearing on him in the middle of an exam.

"I know who the Dragon is," Voldemort hissed dangerously. He was very close.

His breath reeked of chicken.

Voldemort snapped his head back and punched a fist into the air whilst looking up dramatically. Lucius was entranced.

If he hadn't been a dark lord, he should have become an actor.

"Potter is the Dragon!" Voldemort shrieked.

Lightning and thunder should have had the decency to crackle around him, but the only audible sound was old Gammer Thornton's wheelchair squeaking.

He looked suitably embarrassed.

Ah, so it was Potter. Good.

"Is your son friends with Potter?" Voldemort inquired.

"No. He hates him," Lucius said, quite truthfully.

"My son is friends with Harry Potter!" Gammer Thornton announced. He finally had Voldemort's undivided attention. It didn't look as if he wanted it.

It would have gone very badly for Gammer if Crabbe and Goyle had not appeared on the scene, manhandling Harry Potter between them.

Harry did not look afraid in the least.

'Brave little bugger,' Lucius thought, without feeling respect for that. The Malfoy family had many rules. One of them was "Being brave in the face of death provokes death." Malfoys were not known for their courage.

Lucius had no admiration for courage unless it was courage achieved in a non-dangerous situation, and that wasn't courage anyway.

Many of the Malfoy-rules had slipped right over his head, but Draco had at least caught onto that one.

"Potter," Voldemort growled.

The Potter boy smiled, "Professor Voldemort! Good to see you sir!"

He seemed sincere.

Huh?

Lucius, who had assumed that Voldemort had taken the school by force, was baffled.

Harry was holding onto his scar and wincing in annoyance.

"I don't mean to be rude sir, but every time I see you, my head hurts something awfully." His brow wrinkled, "I don't know why. What cologne do you wear sir? Perhaps I'm allergic."

"Eau de chicken," Lucius muttered under his breath.

Voldemort had obviously taken the school by putting memory charms on the students. He had to smile.

It really was a stroke of brilliance. He'd been wondering why the students were all so docile.

Now even Harry Potter liked the nice, thin man with the red eyes.

Genius.

Voldemort was surveying Potter like a large spider watching a fly.

"Mr. Potter," he said in a breathy voice. "Yes, it is nice to see you too. I was wondering, are you busy?"

"Oh no!" exclaimed Helpful Harry, "I don't know what has happened, but I'm never busy these days! I find myself sitting and staring at nothing all the time!"

If Lucius had been a Muggle, he'd have been able to compare the chirpy edge to Harry's voice to that of a door-to-door insurance salesman.

But he wasn't, so he merely realized that the boy sounded desperate and fake.

"Good," Voldemort rubbed his hand together, "I have a little task for you..."

***************

It had been quite a mission to get away, but Draco had finally convinced most of the Slytherins that going away would be "cool" and that they should think of it as "a road trip."

This approach had been much more successful than the "Voldemort is going to screw us, we have to get away"-approach.

And then there had been the problem of Hermione.

None of the Slytherins wanted her along, but Draco had gotten his way by declaring that she was his slave.

This had worked. It had worked so well that he'd had to stop thundering hordes of galloping Slytherins short of the Gryffindor common room in the process of acquiring their own slaves.

There had been much grumbling that Draco was the only one with a slave, but the grumbling had been converted into taunting Hermione.

She was being leered at, being called names and being mocked, but she was holding her head up high, as if she were a monarch, and walking like a stubborn tortoise.

Draco didn't feel sorry for her. If she still had her pride, she was fine.

He was rather embarrassed to find himself walking at the head of the motley procession.

They'd been walking for 3 hours, but it sounded as if they'd been wandering the desert for forty years.

"I'm dying," Pansy moaned. "Can't we have a break?"

"Must rest..."

"I feel so dirty..."

"My feet are killing me..."

"I miss my bed..."

"I have a headache..."

"This is so heavy..."

"My nail!"

Draco, who had no illusions about his house, reflected that the Slytherins really were a lot like snakes. Venomous bite, soft bellies.

Threats and curses abounded - at present many of them were directed at Draco for "tricking us into coming" - but not one of them had been fulfilled. And they wouldn't be fulfilled either.

He was actually starting to wish that he'd left them all behind and that it had really only been him and the Mudblood.

She, at least, was not complaining, and she looked rather sexy in a very irritable way.

They still had a five-hour march ahead of them before they reached their destination.

"Urgh! Urgh! I have dirt on me!"

It was going to be a long day.

**********************

A FEW HOURS LATER:

"We're here," Draco announced.

There was a moment of confused silence.

"What is, here, exactly?" Pansy asked.

They had marched through the very forbidding Forbidden Forest, walked across acres of abandoned farms and had finally stumbled to a halt to face...well, nothing.

Hermione stared around hopefully.

They were still surrounded by farmlands. In the distance she noticed a cow chewing and staring at the bedraggled company with an utter lack of intelligent expression.

'Must be nice to be a cow,' she thought. 'Must be nice only to think of food and sex.'

She grinned wryly. 'Must be nice to be a male human as well, then.'

The blonde male human leading the procession, or, Hermione thought, migration, was smiling in satisfaction.

He seemed rather pleased that he had bought them to a cow.

She waited patiently for the whining that was certain to ensue.

Five hours in the company of the Slytherins had been quite an eye-opener. They were not, she had realized, dark friends or devil-worshippers. Their only connection with darkness or devil worshipping was that they thought black was a cool, fashionable color. They liked to shock people. They did not want to please anybody except themselves.

They were mostly a lot of petulant, spoilt brats who worried about getting dirt under their nails and taunted her because they were bored and because it was tradition.

None of them had enough guts to want to hang out with the Dark Lord.

Except perhaps for their blonde male human leader.

"I don't understand Draco," Pansy wailed, flopping onto the ground sulkily.

Much as she did not want to share an emotion with Pansy Parkinson, Hermione did not understand either.

She stared at Draco thoughtfully. He was difficult to figure out. He was not really a coward, or not anymore at least. There was something strange inside of him.

Something the other Slytherins did not have.

She would have thought it was intelligence, because he certainly was very bright.

But it wasn't that, many of the Slytherins did well academically.

It wasn't that he was gentle or kind or honorable, because he wasn't. He'd been sorted into Slytherin for a reason.

But there was something...Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on it. There was some depth to Draco Malfoy, something undeniably interesting...

She gasped at the realization.

It was the same thing Harry had.

Heroism.

Draco Malfoy was a hero somewhere deep down. She wondered how she had managed to draw this conclusion. He was not brave, or loyal or trustworthy or...nice. He really was a bastard.

But he was a bastard who thought differently, who questioned things, who followed his own head. He was unorthodox. He was different.

And that was what heroes were.

Consider Muggle leader Winston Churchill. He'd suffered from depression. He hadn't been a nice guy, really. Sure, he'd been witty and he'd had a sharp mind, but he hadn't been nice. Or kind.

He'd simply done what he had to, and offered his blood, sweat, tears and toil to the Western world.

The newly appointed hero was at present acting rather unheroically and rolling his eyes.

"Pansy, I did not bring you to a field."

"Well excuse me Draco, but it looks like a field to me."

"Definitely looks like a field," someone else said. "Not a fun palace."

Hermione had to agree. Definitely a field.

"Why did you bring us to a field? It's going to be boring."

"Yeah, this was not such a good idea after all."

"Maybe the cow has special powers," someone suggested.

Draco snorted. "The cow does not have special powers." He sighed, and then noticed Hermione's rather intense gaze.

He winked at her. As is they were the only truly intelligent beings on the field, and as if they shared a secret, intelligent joke.

She was surprised at how the wink made her feel. It made her feel special.

She banished the thought impatiently.

"Oh ye of little faith," Draco drawled. He stomped his foot onto a rock protruding out of the ground three times.

Hermione stared as a patch of ground moved aside to reveal a large, stone corridor leading underground.

The Slytherins cheered.

"What is this?" she asked Draco desperately.

Draco grinned. "This," he said, "is the time of your life."

****************

Something was jumping up and down in the back of Harry's head. And it was screaming, but Harry couldn't hear what it was saying.

It was vaguely annoying.

He wished he could reach it and squash it.

He tore his attention from it and smiled at Professor Voldemort.

A rush of affection flooded to his heart when he looked at the nice, thin man with the red eyes.

He had no idea what Professor Voldemort had done in his life but it must have been something really big and something really wonderful, because he was the only person Harry felt any emotion for these days.

And what an onrush of emotion it was! When he saw professor Voldemort, all he wanted to do was reach out and hug him. Anyone and anything else just made Harry feel rather numb.

Anyway, the great man wanted him, Harry, to do a favor for him, and he was waiting to hear what it was. He fervently hoped that it was important.

At present, Voldemort was rubbing his fingers and muttering to himself. Harry shivered momentarily.

A rush of shame washed over him. He'd feared the man for a moment. What a bad boy he was, that he would doubt the Great Professor Voldemort.

"What can I do sir?" he quivered nervously. "I'd do anything."

"Anything? Well..." Voldemort was grinning rather nastily, "No, no, I shouldn't let myself get side tracked. Take off your shirt, boy."

Harry cringed awkwardly. He didn't mind taking off his shirt for professor Voldemort - anything for professor Voldemort - but he felt rather embarrassed by the other thugs standing around and watching with evil intent.

But he obeyed quickly, taking off his pants and his shirt.

"Put your pants back on," Voldemort said, in disgust. Harry whimpered. He had displeased him.

He pulled his pants on hurriedly, hoping and praying that Voldemort would seek what he was finding.

It didn't seem that he found what he was looking for, because he glowered at Harry's bare chest.

"He is not the Dragon," he snapped. "My sources have been misinformed. Put your clothes back on boy! Then we'll probably have to kill you..."

"Please lord, don't be displeased with me. I will do anything you ask."

To his surprise Voldemort started chuckling. "Harry Potter, acting as if I were his favorite uncle!" he cackled uproariously. There was much slapping of thighs and doubling over with laughter that Harry couldn't comprehend. "Does anyone have a camera?"

The old nutter in the wheelchair had a camera.

"Come here Harry," Voldemort said solicitously. "And give me a hug."

Harry stumbled forward enthusiastically. Here it was the thing he'd wanted to do for as long as he could remember. He couldn't remember very much, truth be told, but he wanted to hug this amazing man.

Voldemort's arm fitted neatly around his shoulder.

"Smile Harry!" he said. Harry smiled.

There was a flash of blinding light as the camera went off.

Voldemort fingered the picture that came out. "Pity," he said. "It was nice while it lasted. And now, we will have to kill you." He whipped his wand out of his pocket. "Avada..."

The platinum-haired thug who had been eyeing Harry seriously scurried forward. "No my lord. Stop. Don't do this yet. Think. There are many possibilities. We can do a lot of things with this boy."

Voldemort twirled his finger around his own chin exactly three times.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he said reluctantly. "He could lead us to the Dragon."

"Exactly."

"We could use him as a decoy and commit horrible deeds."

"Indeed my lord."

"He could even," Voldemort closed his eyes rapturously.

"Yes my lord?'" Platinum-man asked, looking slightly worried.

Voldemort grinned. "He could even cook me a bowl of Thai Green Curry Chicken with peanut butter sauce." (*Just for you macabre.*)

****************

Hermione was the second last to descend into the underground corridor; Gregory Goyle was last and he incanted the word "Dormus." The opening above Hermione's head grinded to a close and she felt rather claustrophobic suddenly.

It was dark as hell and Slytherins surrounded her.

However cool the color black was to them they also seemed to dislike the dark underground tunnel.

A few Slytherins lighted their wands as Goyle bumped into her.

Hermione felt slightly better. In the dim light she could see them all herding together like a bunch of incontinent sheep, and she took advantage of the situation by pushing forward and pressing past them.

The wand lights were feeble and it was too dark for them to see whom it was that was stepping on their toes. She escaped comments and persecution until she glimpsed the silver sheen of Draco's hair.

He seemed to feel her gaze because he looked over his shoulder and grinned rather wryly.

He looked translucent in the darkness - his pale skin shone like a beacon.

"Ah, intrepid reporter Granger, here to interview me for a hot, hot scoop. What are we doing here? Where are we exactly? How did I know about this place? When will you find out? Who will we encounter?" he grinned mockingly.

"You sound like a Muggle reporter," Hermione accused. "Where did you..."

"Relax Granger, I haven't been anywhere in the Muggle world."

"How do you know the five w's and the h rule then?"

"Wizards have reporters too, you know. I'd like to think that we invented reporters. The Wizarding world, is after all, so much more exciting than the Muggle world is. Or have you forgotten Rita Skeeter?" he grinned at her mockingly.

Hermione scowled, "No. And I haven't forgotten your involvement in her articles either."

He shrugged, "You got your own back, Granger. And I wasn't wrong about you being his girlfriend, after all. You and Potter were sucking face a few months later," He smiled modestly, "In fact, I always like to think that me and Rita made Potter open his eyes and realize that he did want you. We bought you together. You should thank me."

"Thanks for nothing. And the Muggle world is not boring. You haven't even ever seen a television."

"I've heard of them," he said coolly. "They make people stupid."

"My mother uses the telly to learn things."

"My father uses books."

"Well, at least my family aren't a bunch of prejudiced sods."

Annoyance flashed across his face, bounced off his shoulder and settled onto his left hand, which he flexed slightly.

"Prejudice? Yes, Granger. I'm prejudiced against a world that can be persuaded to let virulent bombs lose on one another without a thought."

She actually risked smiling at him. "That's naive Malfoy. The Muggle world is also a world that cares for people in need. It's much less selfish than the wizarding one."

He wrinkled his nose. "Why would I want to live in a selfless place?"

"Because you can learn to love people that way."

He raised his eyebrows. 'Now that IS naive Granger."
"I think..." she started.

Pansy's awful nasal twang shattered the moment.

"Draco, why are we just standing here?" she whined.

"We're waiting for you to drop dead," he said amiably. "But since that hasn't happened, we'll move on."

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked as they started walking.

Thud.

"Ouch."

Her head had bumped against the ceiling.

"Oh, I should have told you to mind your head," said Draco, not looking sorry about it at all.

At least he didn't warn the rest of the Slytherins either.

A succession of thuds, ouches and much more expressive curses followed.

He could see his teeth glinting in the darkness as he smirked away.

No, he was not a nice guy.

"Where are we going?" she demanded again.

"I believe it was Lord Nelson who coined the phrase: "Wait and See.""

Hermione had seen that one coming, "No, I've been waiting for hours now Draco. And I haven't been seeing."

"Wait and see."

"But..."

"Shut up!" he snapped.

Hermione tried to hold the reigns and calm the wild, bucking stallion that was her temper.

Draco was just a rich, arrogant, pretty-boy who had been spoilt into not having manners.

Yes, as long as that made her feel better, because only minutes ago, she'd been thinking that he might be qualified to be a hero. But never mind that.

"Sbcoewefoub," he mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry Granger," he said unexpectedly. Hermione almost stopped breathing. He'd apologised?

"Thank you. It's all right," she said, quite taken aback.

"Don't make a big deal about it," he grumbled, "We're here anyway. So you don't have to worry about being ignorant much longer."

They'd been moving closer to a great expanse of crashing water - or that's what she'd surmised from the rushing noise in her ears.

"Lumos grande," he said. His wand flared so brightly that it felt as if they were standing in broad daylight. It was so unexpected that Hermione had to narrow her eyes for an entire minute before returning to normal.

She grinned in amazement at what she was seeing. Most of the stuck-up Slytherins also had the decency to "ooh" and "aah" appreciatively.

They were staring at a sheer, rocky wall extending upwards at least 200 meters.

But the remarkable thing was that the entire wall had been carved into realistic figures and statues and objects. It was the largest sculpture in the world.

A natural, underground waterfall spouted near the intricate arched doorway which was large enough for people ten times Hermione's height to enter.

It was breathtaking.

"What is this?" she shouted above the rush of the waterfall without looking away. Her eyes were exploring every crevice, every smooth bit of granite, and every watchful eye on the figure adorning the walls.

It was better than Michelangelo. It was more fantastic than Dali. The stonework was smoother than Brancusi's sculptures, more intricate than a Morris-wallpaper design.

Draco's voice sounded very smug when his answer came at last.

"They'll never find us here," he declared, sweeping his arm with an intolerable amount of savoir vivre.

"Welcome, my friends, to this forgotten place: The entrance to the Lost City of the Giants."