Sometimes the Dragon Wins

CHAPTER 9:

Ron Weasley watched Lord Voldemort with an emotion that he identified as affection.

The professor was teaching Herbology (funny that he couldn't remember that) and he'd been demonstrating the uses of the Crimsonian plant's roots, which besides curing the drinker of all good and causing a natural high, also gave that lovely red-eyed finish.

"People think it's because I'm evil but it's just this plant," Professor Voldemort explained, pointing to his red eyes. He looked quite the professor today with his gold-rimmed spectacles and the book under his arm.

Ron had craned his neck to read the cover, expecting some scholarly book, but it had been a recipe book. A chicken recipe book.

"But your red eyes look good, sir," Joan Armstrong chirped.

"They do. Ooh I want them. Can I have some of that plant please sir," Parvati Patil squealed.

"Red eyes are so en vogue," Lavender Brown agreed.

Ron had to nod. Red eyes were totally cool. Besides, he thought stoutly, even if it wasn't that attractive, the fact that Professor Voldemort wore it meant that it was cool.

Nobody in the class was prepared for the wave of power that swept through the room, breaking the green house's glass panelling. Ron ducked as shards of glass exploded everywhere.

"What was that?" Neville Longbottom asked, trembling.

Voldemort looked pissed. "It's happened."

He clenched and unclenched his fingers.

"What's happened, sir?"

Voldemort scowled at the plant in front of him, and Ron suddenly felt pity for the plant.

"My mortal enemy has shown himself," Voldemort muttered. He scowled petulantly. "Why did he have to spoil my fun?"

Ron felt concerned. "Who could ever be your enemy, sir?"

Voldemort chuckled. "Poor boy. You really have no clue."

There was a tinge of condescendence in his tone and Ron struggled not to scowl.

"It doesn't matter anyway. I shall win," Voldemort said, rather self- righteously.

"We'll help you sir," Hannah Abbott offered eagerly.

"Really?" Voldemort seemed amused. "Would you die for me?"

"Yes sir, we all will," she squeaked.

Voldemort pointed his staff at her. "Crucio," he said casually.

She fell to the floor, writhing.

It was terrible. Ron stared as she screamed. He looked at Voldemort and pursed his lips like his mother did when his room was untidy. "Sir, that wasn't nice."

"Indeed Mr. Weasley. Just watch."

Hannah Abbot sat up with a pained look on her face.

Voldemort strolled over towards her. "Tell me little Hufflepuff, are you still loyal to me?"

"Of course," she said, without hesitating.

Ron winced. Something was wrong here.

He didn't like the way Voldemort was cackling. No, he didn't like it. Not at all.

******

Not far off, Albus Dumbledore sat up in the midst of his card game with Lucius Malfoy in the Hogwarts dungeons. They were both aiming the little feathery shafts at a large picture of Lord Voldemort.

It had been Lucius' idea and his aim was remarkably accurate. He hit the heart every time. Albus' aim was just as good, but he was aiming a little lower.

Lucius was definitely his favorite jailer. He let him loose, slandered Voldemort mercilessly and had even produced a vat of beer last time. The others tended to become aggravated at his attempts at mere conversation.

Lucius, it seemed, had also felt the wave of power, because he stiffened. "The midden has hit the windmill," he said gloomily.

"We shall be showered with shit if we don't watch our steps," Albus agreed (**Terry Pratchett again. I didn't realise it at first, but it's not my quote.**) "I wonder who it is that holds the Staff and the destiny of mankind in his hands?"

Lucius' eye flickered.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that it's Harry."

Albus had complete confidence in that boy. He'd save the world with relative ease.

"S'not Harry," Lucius grumbled. He sighed mournfully.

The sensitive listener would have noted that it was a rather depressive sigh.

"What's wrong Lucius?"

Another wave of power hit him. Damn, whoever had that staff right now could flatten the world without breaking into a sweat.

Lucius shuddered another mournful sigh. "I think I know who the Dragon is," he mumbled.

"Yes?"

"It's Draco," Lucius sighed.

"No-o-o," He couldn't help groaning. Of all the people. Fate had one nasty sense of humour. "Are you sure?"

Lucius aimed a malicious dart at Voldemort's eye. "Yes. He knows where the Giant City is. I took him there once for some strange reason. And he has a mark on his shoulder."

"I'm worried suddenly."

"Indeed."

It was Albus Dumbledore's nature to remain calm in the most grievous circumstances. And even the knowledge that the fate of the world lay in Draco Malfoy's sticky fingers did not even quicken his pulse.

He calmly calculated Draco's hero-percentage. Lessee. Honour? Nil. Bravery? Perhaps a 0.5. Compassion? Nope, nothing. Experience. Uh uh. Unimaginativeness? The boy was too imaginative and clever for his own good.

Not a hero then.

But he was cunning, clever, devious, and mean, very much like a politician. And he was an excellent wizard.

Maybe, just maybe... It could work.

"I think we should hold on for the ride of our lives," Albus remarked.

Lucius nodded gloomily. "Don't I know it."

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

Draco was glumly sitting in the 'Hall of the King' on a throne (a throne? Where had they found a throne? Did they keep thrones handy for occasions like these?) pretending to survey his minions.

His minions.

Bloody hell.

His minions were approximately a hundred giants who still felt obliged to kneel when he merely looked at them.

He'd tried not looking at them but it was bloody hard, seeing as they were all clustered around him. And they were all so damn big.

The only efforts of conversation they'd attempted with him had been interspersed with 'my lords' and 'lord dragons,' and whatnot. They also seemed to think that he would suddenly appreciate their speaking in High English.

He flexed his fingers around the Staff of Ainesley. It seemed he was required to hold the staff at all occasions. It seemed he was supposed to share his bed with the staff.

He hated it. He wanted to throw the staff into a fathomless pit of doom and wondered where he could find one.

Its power kept throbbing inside of him, reminding him that he could probably flatten the entire giant city with it. With the Staff of Ainesley, he could kill giants. Hell, he could kill the world.

He wanted to at the moment.

The appropriate word for his emotional being at the moment would be vexation. Yes. Vexation.

Draco savoured the word. It was a very good word indeed. And he was indeed terribly vexed.

He wished he'd never taken the staff. He wished Granger had never made him read the plaque. He'd probably still be happily stripping if he'd never read the bloody plaque.

Where was that damn girl anyway? He wanted to kill her first of all.

She was cowering near the dais of the throne, looking rather uncertain.

He tried glaring at her. She didn't bow or shudder like the giants did. She merely looked sad.

She'd retained her shirt in all the pomp and splendour, while he had been escorted to the 'Hall of the King,' where he'd been placed on the throne.

The throne was a tasteless affair, red satin with twirling gold filigree all over the bloody place.

Perfect for Potter. Putrid to Draco.

And so far, all he'd had to do was sit there and look pompous and irritated while the giants wondered what do with him.

His arrival had been untimely, it seemed.

Some of them were consulting the prophecy books to try and figure out what exactly he was supposed to do and where they fit into the grand scheme of things, whilst the rest were peering into books on 'Royal Etiquette.'

Royal etiquette? If they bowed and scraped anymore, he'd Avada himself.

A few more had disappeared to collect the rest of the Slytherins, so that they too, could revel in his wondrousness.

He managed a grin at the thought of his cowardly housemates pissing themselves when they saw the giants.

But that was only a passing entertaining thought.

He tapped his fingers on the gold armrest. They were all conferring now, whispering and staring at him worriedly every now and then. At last they dispersed, bowing and scraping back into a formation around him. He wanted to kick every prostate back.

"My Lord Dragon," an elderly giant cleared his throat. "We have a decree to deliver in your honourable presence, my lord."

"Don't you ever call me honourable!" Draco snarled.

At this point the huge doors to the 'Hall of the King' opened. Alfonz swept into the hall with a rugged bow. The wide-eyed Slytherins trawled behind him.

They looked like frightened specimens of the rodent variety. Millicent Bulstrode was gnawing on her fingernails. Goyle's eyes were darting around nervously.

They noticed him and it was as if a huge sigh of relief rattled through the entire group.

And then as if an even more enormous "What the Hell?" followed.

They were obviously baffled. What was Draco Malfoy doing on a throne surrounded by kneeling giants? Something, their expressions said, was wrong here. Had they somehow inhaled drugs?

Draco could have kissed every one of them.

"My Lord," the elderly giant said, "As I said, we have a decree..."

"Shut up," Draco said. "I want to talk to my friends. Please leave."

"But..."

"I'll hear your decree later. And it better be in understandable English." He thought a little, "And I don't want to hear one more 'My Lord', or 'Dragon' in it. Leave."

He half expected them to squash him. That had been snotty, even by his own standards.

But they just bowed and scurried away. Just like that.

Wow. Power rush.

He got off the throne and threw the staff next to it, half hoping that it would break.

It bounced and seemed to glare at him reproachfully, in as far as wood could be reproachful.

"Draco," Crabbe said slowly. "Why are they calling you a lord?"

"Who cares?" he said. "Damn, I'm glad to see you."

This didn't have the desired effect. They were still staring at him with suspicious eyes.

"What's going on?" William Thornton demanded.

"I know," Bryce Avery breathed, staring at Draco in awe. "You're the Dragon."

Draco winced.

This awe-ful, awful proclamation didn't have the desired effect either.

"Come on Bryce, this is Draco Malfoy," Blaise Zabini said. "He shares a dorm room with us, he's a Slytherin, and he doesn't have double vision. He's never killed anyone by just looking at them." He appraised Draco worriedly for a moment. "Well, at least he's never succeeded."

Draco really wanted to kiss Bryce at that moment.

They were all digesting the information.

Bryce won. The awe disappeared.

"I'm hungry," someone moaned.

"Help yourself," Draco said, pushing an enormous plate of grapes towards him. Two giantesses, nubile by giantess standards, had attempted to feed him grapes.

Attempted to. He'd put a stop to it rather quickly. And besides, their enormous fingers had squished the grapes to a pulp every time.

The Slytherins all crowded around the bowl, fighting nastily over the grapes. Crabbe was threatening to tie a first year's entrails around a pillar if he dared steal his grape. Draco had a moment of pride for his house.

He sighed. His house. Everything seemed so far away now. A few hours ago, he'd been a normal, nasty teenaged wizard. Now he was the prophecies' favourite tortured hero, the Dragon.

'We live and learn,' he thought resignedly.

The mudblood was staring at the grape-war in horrified amazement.

He glared at her.

"Draco," she said softly.

"Mudblood."

She took the insult graciously. Only the tightening of her facial muscles indicated that she had heard it at all.

She said something else, but the Slytherin grape-war had reached an all- time high. Terrified screams filled the air.

He reluctantly moved closer to her. "I didn't hear what you said."

"I didn't hear myself either," she said wryly.

He almost smiled.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think this would happen," she said. "It's horrible."

Too true. And he supposed it wasn't all her fault. He'd been the one who'd come charging into the City of Giants. He wasn't going to admit it though.

" How am I going to get out of this Granger?"

She looked intelligently thoughtful; drastically different from the exuberant stripper she'd been a while ago and the passionate kisser she'd been just minutes before that.

That also felt far away, like a distant life.

"Malfoy, I think you should hear their decree. It could be important," she said slowly. "They have lots of prophecy books that could help you. No, don't interrupt. Then you should leave, because sitting on a throne looking like Voldemort's apprentice is not going to improve your temper."

"How do I leave?" he asked gloomily. "I suppose I can apparate."

The fight was subsiding.

"But then I have to leave here alone," he added. "You can only apparate one at a time."

Hermione cocked her head. "I think, with the power in that staff, that you could apparate the whole world."

He stared at the staff balefully. Stupid inanimate object.

"Probably," he agreed reluctantly. "I'll just go and call the giants back so that I can get this over with."

"No don't," she said. "They'll have a collective hernia if you come barging in. You're super- human to them. That would be a breach of etiquette. I'll go."

"Bugger bloody etiquette," he grumbled. "Am I not super-human to you too?"

Some of the old stripper showed in her eyes. "Definitely not. You're just a mangy old ferret to me. I'll go and call them, shall I?"

"Yes. Thanks Granger."

"Never a pleasure," she called back happily.

He came dangerously close to smiling again.

He was amiably chatting with Crabbe and Goyle and actually enjoying their ignorant grunts when the doors opened again.

One giant peered around fearfully. He swallowed, sidled inside and motioned for the others to follow. This time, only about twelve of them came in, treading softly for such big men.

Granger trotted behind them, looking rather satisfied with herself.

"I've had a little talk with them," she murmured into Draco's ear. "As the Lord Dragon's personal adviser."

Good idea.

"I told them to keep it short or you would kill them."

He grinned at her.

"And I told them to bring food for your friends."

As if on cue the doors opened again and a few giants bore down on the Slytherins, armed with mountains of grub.

The elderly bat w as at it again. "My err, err, Grace."

"No," Draco said coldly. "Grace won't do."

"Your Grace?"

"Definitely not."

"Your, err, Eminence?"

"The only thing eminent here is that you're going to get a pounding."

"Your Excellency? Your Majesty? Your..."

"Your Draco," Draco said. "That's my name. Draco."

The giant looked severely disappointed.

"Err, Draco?"

Draco smiled.

"Draco, we have an announcement to make and we hope that you will lend us your ears."

"Leave my ears alone." He was starting to enjoy making them squirm.

"We, err, ask that you listen with your heart..."

"Leave all my body parts out of this."

The giant snapped. "We have read the prophecy books, and it says that we are your soldiers and protectors and that you will lead us into war. It says that we should cherish you and you will restore us to glory. It says that you will cause many of our deaths, but that you are our only hope against extinction. It says that you will love and trust us, you ungrateful little prat!"

His face was flushed.

Draco, who was enjoying all of this immensely, whistled a careless little tune, sauntered over to the Staff of Ainesley and picked it up. He tossed it from one hand to the other. It crackled with power.

"You were saying?"

The giant swallowed.

"Anything else?" Draco asked, pleasantly.

"Yes. The books, err, say," the giant was staring at the staff as though hypnotised. "They say that you must find the White Knight."

"Who might that be?" Draco inquired lazily.

'I bet its Potter.'

"One who has defeated the Dark Lord many times. One who is also marked," the giant said.

Ah. It was Potter then.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Y-y-yes," the giant stammered.

"Great," Draco said. "I'll be off to find this White Knight then, and then we can save the universe and all that. Crabbe, Goyle, William, Granger, come here."

The four chosen ones started forward.

"But, but, my, err. Draco," the giant stuttered. "We have prepared feasts for you. We have composed songs in your honour."

"The rest of my friends will be delighted to join you," Draco said smoothly. "Treat them as well as you would treat me. I'll come fetch you for the final battle or whatever. Toodles."

He concentrated the staff's power on himself, Hermione, William, Crabbe and Goyle and the 'Hall of the King' winked out of existence.

*****

William Thornton literally felt the earth move under his feet.

Wow. One moment he'd been standing in that big hall, wondering why Draco was ordering giants around. The gall that boy had sometimes! Just because he was rich, clever, handsome, and a Malfoy, he thought giants would listen to his orders. And they did! That was the worst.

And then he was suddenly in a lush valley, staring at an enormous, bizarrely constructed castle.

"Malfoy Manor," Goyle said in a subdued voice.

But where was Malfoy?

"He's been splinched," Crabbe said, voicing William's own thoughts out loud.

Sentences such as 'he's been splinched' deserved to be treated with better tones than monotony.

"Draco wouldn't splinch himself," Goyle said. "He's been apparating since he was fourteen years old. I reckon he's doing something with that Mudblood."

"Killing her?" Crabbe suggested.

William didn't think so. He'd watched the interaction between Draco and the Mudblood in the "Hall of the King", and they hadn't seemed to be on killing terms. He didn't think they'd exactly be ravishing each other - after all, she was a Mudblood, but they were probably conferring.

Mind you, this was Draco Malfoy. Draco did not confer with girls. He either slandered them or snogged them and threw them away in either scenario. He probably wasn't discussing tactics.

"He'll probably be along in a few minutes," he said tactfully. "Let's just wait for him here."

"I heard that Thornton," someone drawled. He looked backwards distractedly and noticed a decidedly blonde Slytherin sitting in the bough of a tree some way to their left. He even looked relaxed in a tree. William marvelled at his posture. The legs were dangling as if he were in fact enjoying a cocktail on a deck chair. His arms were casually nudging the tree, conveying the idea that he really didn't have to hold on.

The Mudblood was teetering on a much smaller, much higher branch, but to her credit she also managed to convey some poise.

"Why are we in a tree Malfoy?" she inquired calmly.

"I haven't honed my multiple apparation skills yet Granger. Next time I'll see to it that only you end up in a tree." He hopped out of his perch onto the ground rather nimbly. "Get down Granger."

"Well, I'll just do a suicide jump quickly."

"Oh, just climb down. You must have been a tomboy in your youth Granger. Noone could have had hair like yours without being in trees a lot."

She glowered, and then shimmied out of the enormous tree at a remarkable pace. She seemed defiant when she stood facing him. "I might have been a tomboy, but at least I was never a Malfoy."

William mentally awarded a point to her. Not that he'd ever say it, of course.

He wondered how long this squabble would last.

"...at least I have good hair..."

"...at least I beat you in every class..."

"...at least I beat you in Potions..."

"..is that it?"

"...And Astronomy, last year..."

"...well at least I have wonderful friends..."

"...uh uh..."

William drew a deep breath. All right. He was a calm, laid back individual who didn't even yell in quidditch matches. But he wasn't going to stand watching those two bicker all day.

"Shut it!" he bellowed.

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

The broomstick flight lost its appeal about halfway. Pansy's hair was, to put it mildly, in an irreparable state of extreme havoc. Harry's looked pretty much like it always did, although it was hard to tell with the wind and the fact that they were exploring the stratosphere at 120km per hour.

It had been truly wonderful up to now. At some point, they'd entertained the notion that the sun was the golden snitch and that they had to catch it, but that venture had proved pointless when they'd almost been scorched by the earth's atmosphere.

A while ago, they had whizzed past some very baffled Muggles in a big white thing that Harry called an aeroplane

Pansy was quite impressed. Muggles weren't that backwards after all. Fascinating that they'd taught themselves to fly.

But now even that had escaped her interest and all she could think of was her very cold nose.

"I'm cold!" she yelled. Slytherins never bravely suffered in silence.

Harry managed to catch the words before they were carelessly flung away by the wind.

"We'll make a pit-stop!" he yelled back.

He let the broomstick spiral downwards slowly, and Pansy whimpered when they flew through the wet clouds.

She'd thought clouds were really big tufts of fluffy wool or herds of sky sheep. Turned out that they were condensed water or something like that.

Harry had explained that the sun pulled water out of the sea and the earth and that the water condensed into clouds which then turned into rain. Pansy didn't understand it, so she'd pretended that she couldn't hear him.

She was starting to get suspicious though.

What else did Muggles know that wizards didn't?

It seemed they weren't gutless wenches after all. She didn't like that notion one bit.

She peered downward and observed trees. Seemed they were flying above some forest.

Harry twirled the broom to the ground deftly until their feet thumped against the soil.

Pansy moved her leg off the broom.

"My geography's a bit off, but I think we're in Sherwood Forest," Harry announced.

Pansy climbed right back onto the broom.

"What?" he asked, looking amused.

"Sherwood Forest is magical," Pansy said. "Let's just go."

"Hogwarts is magical," Harry said. "There's nothing wrong with Hogwarts, oh, wait, Voldemort's there now and all that, but normally nothing is wrong with Hogwarts."

"Well, Voldemort's best friend lives in Sherwood Forest. Come on, let's go."

Harry almost reflexively clambered back onto the broom, but something stopped his foot in mid-air.

Oh no. Let it not be the fabled Gryffindor heroism.

"I didn't know Voldemort had friends."

Pansy glared at the motionless foot. "Well, not anymore. But at school, his best friend was Nathan Thor, and Nathan Thor lives in these woods."

Harry looked much too interested for his own good.

"Is this Nathan Thor evil?" he asked.

"Well, nobody really knows," she conceded reluctantly. "Some think he's Voldemort's greatest follower, but my dad says there's no truth in that. Nobody really wants to be Voldemort's right hand man anymore."

"Why?" he was scanning the surrounding forest with great interest.

"Well, he's a bit weird. And he has a hand fetish."

"Hmm. I think we should go and meet this Nathan Thor."

"Or perhaps we should just kill ourselves right now," she suggested sweetly. "I don't want to see Nathan Thor."

"Well, I'm afraid it's too late for that," a voice rumbled behind her.

Pansy kept her gaze on Harry's foot.

She was not going to look. Wizarding folklore said that Nathan Thor was practically the human equivalent to "Swamp Thing." He was a great, dirty, ugly beast of a man successfully used in stories by parents to frighten little children.

Pansy vaguely remembered her own mother tucking her four-year old self into bed with the warning: "And remember if you wet your bed, Nathan Thor will come and bite off your fingers."

Consequently, she had been a frequent bed-wetter.

But she had also become remarkably adept at cleaning spells at an early age.

Nathan Thor had never arrived in the middle of the night to bloodthirstily chomp off her fingers, but the thought of him still made her body fluids congeal.

Such were the building blocks of childhood innocence.

Harry was not visibly quivering in fear. In fact, he was smiling, green eyes twinkling.

Pansy deeply distrusted twinkling eyes. Her father had twinkling eyes.

And Harry was not the person to measure your own fear up to.

Draco had tastefully related the tale about Harry not running away from Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest.

"Stupidity," eleven-year old Draco had said, combing his fingers through that remarkable shock of white hair, "Is an amazing thing."

At that point Pansy had decided that she was in love. With Draco.

At this point, she was not sure who she was in love with. Probably Draco, especially if Harry still wanted to chat to Nathan Thor, which was precisely what he was doing.

"...and this is Pansy. Pansy, turn around," Harry was saying.

She shook her head furiously.

"Come on Pansy. You're being rude."

Harry gave the word "rude" the same inflection other people would bestow on the word "scum."

She swivelled around disgruntledly, narrowing her eyes so that she could confront the Swamp Thing.

He looked all right through blurry eyelashes.

"What's wrong with her eyes?" the brute demanded tactlessly.

"I think its mascara," Harry whispered helpfully.

"No, I mean, why is she screwing them up into tiny slits?"

Pansy rolled her eyes, and in the process, looked the thing full in the face.

She relaxed somewhat. This was not so bad.

He was tall, and muscular, but any other resemblance to monsters ended right there.

In fact, he was not a monster at all. Scratch that, he was very attractive. She wouldn't have minded if he'd appeared at her bedside to nibble off her fingers.

"Oh, hallo," Pansy said.

"Nathan Thor," he said gruffly. "I expect the two of you will be wanting to speak to my wife then?"

Oh gods no. The wife. That was another nightmare altogether.

Helena. The sibyl. The prophetic nymph who apparently appeared in teenagers' naughty dreams, and come to think of it, also chewed off fingers.

Her mother hadn't made her spectral nightmares very original, had she?

"Who's your wi..." Harry started.

"No thanks, we'll be going now," Pansy said quickly, backing towards the broom. "Nice to meet you and everything."

An enormous hand grabbed the expensive broomstick.

"Oh no, you don't!" Nathan boomed.

Pansy quivered.

"Helena's expecting the two of you. She made a nice cup o' tea."

Why did tea suddenly sound like arsenic?

"I could do with some tea," Harry observed happily.

Pansy found herself following Harry and Nathan Thor to the wife, bitterly wondering if any other of her biggest fears were going to pop up along the way.

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

Harry skipped after Nathan Thor, purposely ignoring Pansy who was trawling after them like a sulky tortoise.

They'd been walking for about five minutes.

Nathan Thor was quite all right.

Harry had crept up onto the subject of Voldemort with expert stealth, sneakily inquiring about Thor's school days while Pansy muttered something about subtlety.

Thor had immediately somehow realised that he wanted to know about his friendship with Voldemort and had started off the fireworks with a fascinating string of expletives. The next five minutes had been spent spewing on the Dark Lord's name.

He was still at it.

"...and if he dies I'll piss on his grave," Nathan finished.

"So you're not friends anymore?"

Thor didn't bother to reply. "Ah. We're here. Helena will be glad to see you."

Pansy stiffened notably. They had reached a small clearing where a big fire was burning brightly.

A beautiful, dark-haired woman looked up from where she was kneeling by the fire.

The lines on her face somehow accentuated her beauty. She handed two cups of steaming tea to Harry and Pansy.

"Go and find us some food," she said. Nathan Thor took off without another word.

Not a very talkative couple then.

"Euw," Pansy muttered, watching as Thor brandished a crossbow. She sipped at her tea and pulled a face. "Can I have two sugars please?"

"No," the woman said sternly. She smiled suddenly, and the lines on her face softened. "I'm afraid the nearest sugar cane plantation is a few miles away, Miss Parkinson."

"How can you live like this?" Pansy demanded.

"I find that sugar is not a necessary component to achieve happiness," the woman said succinctly.

"Sugar makes me very happy," Pansy muttered.

The woman somehow became taller. "Drink. Your. Tea," she ordered.

Pansy shrunk back from the bad punctuation and started sipping obediently.

Harry would have liked some milk, but he decided that he'd rather not hear that the nearest cow was hundreds of miles away.

He drank the bitter, scalding liquid from the cup hastily. The woman was obviously waiting for them to finish before indulging in any pleasantries, like introducing herself.

She grabbed the cup out of his hands when he'd done.

"Mr. Potter," she said, swirling the dregs of the tea around the cup and peering into it speculatively.

Oh no. Divination. He had to get away as fast as he possibly could. This woman couldn't be some phoney prophetess, could she?

"Interesting Mr. Potter," she said, staring at the cup.

Damn. It seemed she was a phoney prophetess.

Pansy didn't look surprised at all.

"Mr. Potter," the woman crooned, "I see a tall, dark, handsome stranger in your future."

Harry stared at her blankly. She looked at him intensely and then burst out laughing.

"I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" she exclaimed. "I don't do tea cups."

Harry stared at her in disbelief.

"However, I am, as you are thinking, a prophetess. Not a phoney one though. My name is Helena, and I am known as the Sybil."

"How did you..."

"Read your mind? I don't know." She shrugged. "Comes naturally, although your expression helped. Now I'm afraid you can't stay here long, and besides, Miss Parkinson doesn't want to."

Pansy glared, as if in affirmation.

"No, she's just tired," Harry said quickly and politely.

"Am not!" Pansy snapped.

"Anyway," Helena said, "I had a vision that I have to warn the two of you about. And I have a few prophecies that you should relate to the Dragon for me."

"The Dragon?" Pansy said suspiciously.

"Your young friend Draco has, I believed, claimed that title yesterday evening."

"What?" Pansy sputtered.

Harry's heart sank. So Draco was the Dragon.

"Never fear Mr. Potter. You still have an important role to play if I understand my vision correctly."

He scowled. He didn't care. He didn't want to play a role. He wanted to the tube around which the roles were wrapped.

"Now listen to me closely," Helena said sternly. "You must go to your initial destination. You will see the Dragon within the next few days, and you have to give him the parchments I'm going to give you immediately. And then you must both vow allegiance to him and leave before you get killed."

Harry processed the information sourly. Fine. Give parchment. Swear allegiance. Escape death. Sounded easy so far.

"And then you must go back to Hogwarts. Pansy, you must allow yourself to be taken prisoner,"

"And if I don't?" Pansy said irritably.

"The world as we know it will cease to exist."

"Okay."

"Harry," she looked at him gently. "Yours will be an infinitely more difficult task."

"Yeah right," Pansy grumbled.

"Hmm," he muttered. He was still stewing that Draco was the Dragon. Undeserving asshole.

Helena paused. "You have to take the Dark Mark."

"What?" he yelped.

"You have to Harry," she said urgently. "You have to become a Death Eater, or the world as we know it..."

"Yes, yes, we get it, the world as we know it will cease to exist," Pansy said boredly.

"I can't," Harry protested, mind whirling. "I'm good. I'm a Gryffindor. Heroism runs in my blood."

She looked at him gravely. "That's why it has to be you. And stop being so bloody conceited. Let me go and get those parchments for Draco. Poor boy. He's going to go through much more pain than you are. And you are going to experience pain."

Harry stared at her fuzzily as she disappeared through the trees.

"Any good news?" he yelled after her sarcastically.

He stared at Pansy hazily.

"Bitch," she said, with conviction.

He had to agree.

**************************************************
It was almost dark now, but Malfoy Manor still seemed eerily impressive. Draco shivered. The castle wasn't scary, only strange and dimensionally twisted. What resided inside was scary though, and also, funnily enough, strange and dimensionally twisted.

"It's incredible," Hermione breathed.

It was something else, all right. The entire stone castle, decked with a furry jacket of green creepers, commanded a hilltop with an absolute stoic, Malfoyish presence. And, as you stared at the castle a little longer, it suddenly began to creep up on you that something wasn't quite right. In fact, something was horribly wrong. The pillar that was supposed to be crossing straight down to the ground somehow subtly meandered down to the other side of the castle. The stairs near the one turret seemed to be swooping upside down. One of the windows far away was facing downwards. And yet it was subtle. If you looked quickly, nothing was wrong. It was such a perfect Malfoy-house. Subtly wrong, intircately detailed, cleverly constructed, and gorgeous on the surface. (***If this explanation doesn't do it for you, go and check out M.C. Escher's drawings and woodcuts, particularly "Ascending and Descending," and "Balvedere." ***)

"What are we doing here?" Goyle asked bluntly.

"I have to get a few stuff," Draco said non-comittably.

"What...stuff?" Granger snarled. Her voice could have made the Abominable Snowman give it all up and start over on a tropical island.

"Some books and things," he said carelessly.

"Are they important or do you just want to waste our time?" she demanded.

"Hell yeah, Granger, I want to waste your precious time. I'm here to pick up my pornography. That's why I'm about to confront my worst fear. That's why I've decided to endanger all our lives. That's why..."

He trailed off. He'd said too much.

Granger, and even Crabbe, Goyle and Thornton were regarding him suspiciously.

"What's in there?" William ventured slowly. "Why would it endanger our lives if we go in there?"

"Is it your father?" Granger added keenly. "Are you afraid of him?"

"Stop thinking that I'm afraid of my father!" he snapped. "Lucius is harmless."

"Lucius Malfoy is a Death Eater who has killed hundreds of people," Granger informed him snootily.

"He can't help who he is," Draco said stoutly. "And he's not here anyway. Let's just get this over with."

Granger planted one foot in front of him. "Us? Malfoy, there is no us if you don't tell us what's in there. You can face it alone if you can't even tell us what we're risking our necks for."

"I'll come with you anyway Draco," William said loyally. Draco smiled sourly. Slytherins could be terribly Hufflepuffish if they wanted to piss Gryffindors off.

Granger gave the Abominable Snowman yet another run for warmer climates.

"I'm not moving if you don't tell me."

"Fine. Stay out here. Get eaten up by the werewolves that patrol the estates. I don't care."

"Werewolves?"

"Yes, and not the professor Lupin-kind. They don't stop to lecture. They go for the throat."

Granger's lovely, pale throat bobbed as she swallowed. She looked at him pleadingly.

He rolled his eyes. "I'll tell you inside. Let's just get into the gates before it gets dark and before we get mauled."

They were all remarkably silent as they trudged up to the enormous metal gates with the large "M" embellished on it in gold.

His father had his little tasteless eccentricities.

Granger was about to whip out her wand to "Alohomora."

It would be the last "Alohomora" of her life.

"Don't. The gate's got a binding curse on it. If you utter as much as an "Alo" at it, you will die."

"I'm starting to understand your intimacy issues," she remarked dryly. He glowered at her, and focused his attention on the gates.

"Veni," he whispered dramatically.

The gates swung open. Draco took a deep breath, gripped the Staff of Ainesley in his hands, and strode through. The others followed.

"Vici," Draco incanted. The gates clashed to a close, almost disfiguring William's bottom for the rest of his life.

"Vici-tor," Crabbe joked. "Get it? Vici-tor at the gates. Like visitor?"

Nobody laughed.

Draco allowed them to gape in awe as they gazed around the courtyard.

It was certainly very impressive. Enormous marble statures of Malfoy's lined the gravelled walkway up to the main entrance. It was not just any gravel, mind you. His mother had insisted on imported Italian gravel. Draco, at least, couldn't tell the difference.

Trees that were ten times the size of the giants clustered in foreboding corners, lighted by sprays of Elixir-water from enormous fountains.

It was a bit much, really.

Granger was drooling at a statue of a handsome, well-built man. "This you, Malfoy?"

"Nope, it's my cousin."

"Is he a bastard too?" she asked keenly.

"Well, he was responsible for the murder of 3000 Muggle borns in a pointless war."

She sighed. "Pity. Which one is you?"

He pointed to the headless statue at the front. She stared.

"Where's your head?"

"My mother got mad because I didn't clean my room."

More silence greeted that.

He continued bravely. "Which brings me to why I don't want to be here."

They listened attentively.

Bugger. He didn't want to tell them, but he probably had to. "You were all at the quidditch world cup, right?"

Obedient nods all round.

"Well, you saw the Veelas, right?"

More nodding.

"You saw that they were really beautiful and the suddenly very ugly and mean when they got pissed off, right?"

"We saw it all Malfoy," Granger said, so that she could listen to her own voice. "They were frightening."

"Well, my mother's half-Veela. And she has a terrible temper. Even Voldemort is afraid of her."

There. That said enough, without being too graphic.

Apparently it wasn't enough for Granger.

"What do you mean? Does she hurt you?"

Draco sighed matter-of-factedly. "Yes she does. She hurts people when she becomes passionate or angry."

That was it. He was absolutely not going to say anything more. He was going to suffer in stoic, heroic silence.

"That's just the strangest thing I've ever heard," Granger said finally.

"Yes," He said curtly. "It is strange. But it's also horrible and frightening. So please, act as blandly as you possibly can when you see her."

More blank incomprehension. "Don't say anything intelligent, she'll feel threatened. Don't be a smart-ass. Be nice, but not too nice or she'll think you're being condescending. Don't contradict her. Don't be sarcastic. Don't confuse her, and don't disagree with her."

Granger looked rather compassionate.

"But that's the very essence of you Malfoy. You're sarcastic, confusing, disagreeable, intelligent and you're a smart-ass."

"I know. I'll show you my scars."

"I've seen them," she said unexpectedly.

There was a sudden uncomfortable silence as Crabbe, Goyle and Thornton wondered how she could have possibly seen the scars on his shoulders and his torso. Obviously she had been paying attention when that brute had whipped off his shirt in the Giant City.

"But Draco, surely she loves you. She's your mother."

"Yes, of course she does. But love makes her excited and turns her into a monster."

"Shame."

He tried to look like a forlorn Spaniel-puppy. He wasn't used to sympathy, and it was actually quite nice.

They fawned and fussed, tutted and ooh-ed and aah-ed around him for a few minutes.

"At least it made you a strong person," Crabbe said consolingly.

"Yeah, hang in there buddy," William patted his shoulders.

Draco pouted and cultivated Potter's "I'm-so-brave-please-pity-me" persona.

Ooh, he could get used to this.

His pity-party was interrupted by the arrival of a house-elf.

"Welcome back Little Master," the elf said, bowing reverentially.

That name still ticked him off. Little Master? He was a proud six foot two, one inch taller than "Big Master" and at least five inches taller than "Scary Mistress".

And he was still growing.

The elf proceeded to ask whether they were hungry, what they wanted to drink and whether Mistress Malfoy was expecting them.

Draco sent it off for some sandwiches and a few mugs of butterbeer, and a plea not to bother Mistress Malfoy."

Maybe, just maybe, they could sneak in and out unnoticed.

The elf dashed away gratefully.

"I suppose we have to go in," Draco said.

The others nodded supportively. Every pitiful eye and every condescending smile made him swell with happiness.

Oh, it was wonderful being a martyr!

He eyed the gaping hallway owlishly. Oh well. Time to face some tough love.

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