Sometimes the Dragon Wins

"The joy of passion, that dread mystery

which not to know is not to live at all,

and yet to know is to be held in

death's most deadly thrall."

-Oscar Wilde, 1881.

Draco apparated onto the beach irritably.

He didn't like making courageous decisions; they made him feel rather nauseous. And the queasy feeling wasn't alleviated by the fact that he'd just stunned his own mother. And he'd stunned Voldemort too, but something inside of him had insisted that he shouldn't finish the Dark Lord off right at that moment. Something had insisted that there was supposed to a grand final battle, with many complications and lots of witnesses. He had to be a proper hero. Destiny wasn't finished with him.

And of course, it was tacky to kill someone who had salmon in their mouths.

'Voldemort eats fish too,' Draco thought, noticing Hermione and his friends appearing next to him,

He let his gaze drift a little. A couple was silhouetted in the moonlight a little way off, making out passionately.

'My god,' he thought. 'They are having a damn good time. Where's Pansy when I need her? Hang on...'

He craned his neck rather unsubtly. The girl and the boy were wearing parts of what looked like a Hogwarts uniform, hers with the green tie and silver embroidered snake of the Slytherin house and a signet ring flashing on her finger...

'I know that ring.'

He squinted. The moonlight shot a helpful little beam onto the girl's finger, showcasing the whirls of a phonetic P. The Parkinsons' rings had never looked as impressive or expensive as the Malfoys had, but they were rather pretty in a flashy way. Each family member had different gemstones set into the ring, although Lucius always said that they weren't real gems; they were costume jewellery.

Draco privately agreed. The Parkinsons were purebloods, and somewhere in their lineage they'd had a lot of money, but they didn't have it anymore.

This ring had dark blue stones.

"Pansy?" he whispered in disbelief.

It was Pansy's ring.

"Harry?" Hermione whispered next to him.

"Potter?" Draco mumbled, sounding quite appalled, even to his own biased ears.

Even Crabbe and Goyle had the decency to look confused. Mind you, they tended to lean towards the confused look most of the time. It wasn't that Crabbe and Goyle were stupid. They weren't exactly clever either.

They were just exceptionally slow thinkers, which wasn't the same as being stupid. Hell, he'd seen Crabbe tackle an advanced Arithmancy problem which had puzzled even Draco, and solve it. Granted, it had taken him an entire week, but he'd got it eventually.

No, they weren't stupid. But they wouldn't last a minute on the Weakest Link. (**All right, I know Draco has never watched the Weakest Link but let's ignore that.**)

That wasn't the issue at hand anyway. Draco spared a moment to chide himself. He'd always had a mind that was far too analytical to be likeable; a mind that could be depended on, when faced with the apocalypse, to study other people's reactions before deciding to behave in the least conforming and most surprising manner. This largely resulted in cruelty, which was hardly what people ever expected. Draco had spent his fifth year confronting his inner self and had by now largely accepted that he was the type of person who would find time to insult someone at the end of the world. He was rather comfortable with this fact, and hadn't bothered trying to find any semblance of good in himself.

In spite of all this, he was genuinely surprised to have apparated into a world where his supposed girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson, was engaged in a lip lock with his enemy, Harry Potter.

He strode forward and in the process, found his voice at last.

"What the hell?"

The lovebirds paused, and Potter opened his eyes inquiringly and swiveled his face without actually extracting his tongue out of Pansy's mouth. He looked rather ridiculous. Malfoy turned the glare up to the 'Shrivel up and die, you bastard,' which wasn't the worst glare in his repertoire. He wanted to hear what Potter had to say for himself before exposing him to the full blast. It could only be funny.

Pansy disengaged her mouth, still refusing to look towards him. "It's Draco, isn't it?" he heard her whisper.

"I think so," Potter ventured slowly, his eyes not leaving Draco's. "He looks a bit pissed."

"Ooh, he always looks handsome when he's pissed," Pansy murmured.

Harry looked at the object of their conversation nervously. "I wouldn't know, but he doesn't look downright seductive right now."

He was quite wrong about this. The soppy observer, being fond of bad metaphors, would have taken note of "eyes dancing with the fury of silver fire" and "a jaw set so determinedly, it set his cheekbones apart from his already angular face", or alternatively "hair that glowed in the moonlight, as if being beckoned by an equally beautiful observer."

Unfortunately, the only person who could have made these deductions were Potter. Pansy was still refusing to look at him, as if convincing herself that this was not really happening, and Granger was standing behind him and would have only been able to make vague observations about his hair.

Potter was not very observant and seemed to be boringly and determinedly straight. "He just looks really angry," he confided.

Draco wondered what was supposed to happen next. He could, of course, yell and scream and make a scene, which was what they were obviously expecting.

He didn't want to give them what they were expecting though.

It was Granger who started though. Draco had in all honesty forgotten about his companions, and was very startled to hear a sudden snort of laughter. He determinedly ignored it until it became full-blown, hysterical laughter.

He chanced a backwards look.

Granger was sinking to her knees, howling with laughter.

Draco stared at her in amazement and she let out another peal of clear laughter. He blinked, frankly astonished, and looked back over at the guilty party. They looked bewildered and alarmed.

Good god. Granger had it.

Draco started smiling, as if he'd somehow seen the joke, and then allowed his voice to reverberate in a sexy chuckle.

Granger's laughter was infectious, and soon he'd joined her on her knees and was laughing along.

When the merriment died down Pansy cleared her throat.

"Hey Draco," she ventured timidly.

"Pansy."

"I take it you're not mad at me?" she looked rather hopeful.

"Why would I be?" he asked sarcastically. "Indulging in the love that dare not speak its name. Perfectly natural. Crabbe and Goyle do it all the time."

Potter, who seemed to have an inkling whom Oscar Wilde had been looked slightly worried. That hadn't been a compliment, and he'd understood it.

Granger, who no doubt knew whom Oscar Wilde had been let out a throaty, vengeful chuckle. "Nice Malfoy," she whispered.

Pansy, however, looked relieved. "That's great," she simpered. "You've always been so understanding. I have to ask you a favour then, if you don't mind."

Her eyes were pleading.

Draco crossed his arms manfully and waited for it.

"Will it be alright if Harry and I stayed at your house then?"

Granger looked over at him knowingly. Draco winked at her.

The laughter started afresh.

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"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

It was a very impressive scream, and it reverberated around the Gryffindor sixth year boys dormitory.

Ron Weasley had just awoken to find a dark figure hovering over his bed.

He had been acting rather paranoid lately, still suffering from the conviction that everything was not well at Hogwarts. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it, but something was wrong.

He'd even confided to Dean Thomas about his foreboding, but Dean had laughed it off at the breakfast table, holding a spoon of grey slop in his hands.

"How can you say that Ron?" Dean had chuckled. "Everything's perfect. Everything's wonderful. I love Chancellor Voldemort."

His eyes had been all glazed and he'd looked terribly content, which had only convinced Ron that he was being delusional.

When he'd felt a pair of hands slapping him awake softly seconds ago, he'd convinced himself, at first, that this was another paranoid delusion. But the slapping had become insistent, accompanied by the words, "Ron, you feckless git, wake up."

He'd opened his eyes after a while, to confront a demon in black with pointy ears and had yelled his head off.

And then he'd remembered a time a few years ago when the hangings around his bed had been ripped open and he'd been the first to witness the vengeful convict-on-the-run: Sirius Black, filthy black hair hanging around his gaunt face, looking like a vision of evil.

And Harry had...

Harry. Where was Harry?

And Hermione?

And Professor McGonagall, whom as far as he could recall had appeared in the room after his anguished howls?

They were gone. They were all gone.

After that the memories had came, in frightful chunks.

The last one to slip neatly into place was the memory of a red-eyed spectre whose name Ron had been afraid to mention.

His name had been Voldemort.

Ron screamed again.

"Goddammit Ron, shut up," the demon snapped.

He tried to focus fuzzily.

"What's going on?" someone, probably Seamus Finnigan asked blearily from somewhere behind the curtain.

"Shut up and go back to sleep Seamus," the demon snarled.

"Don't Seamus, don't," Ron pleaded. "There's a demon here and..."

"Don't be paranoid Ron," Dean's voice piped up. "I'm going to sleep."

The demon leaned closer, looking very serious. "You have to be paranoid Ron," it whispered.

It sounded like a girl.

She slapped his face again, probably vexed at his foggy expression.

It was a familiar slap.

Ron looked at the figure blearily. "Ginny?" he muttered.

She nodded tensely, a lock of red hair falling onto her black suede outfit. He looked at the outfit and swallowed. It stuck to her curves in an alarming way, reminding him of leering comments Draco Malfoy had made once when his sister had walked past. Ginny had grown up, he could see that now. She looked very impressive, except for the ears.

"Mum is going to fry you if she sees you in that," he said.

"Mum isn't here," Ginny said impatiently. "Voldemort is."

"I know, I just realised. You remember too?"

"Of course I do. We have to get out of here."

He sat up, staring at her. "Where's Harry?"

"Harry isn't here to save the world this time Ron," Ginny said, tight-mouthed. "This time its up to us."

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Lucius Malfoy stared at the bowl of lumpy oats in front of him. The food had definitely not been concocted in a fit of passion, or at least it had not been made by anyone who was remotely passionate about cooking.

It was being monotonously chewed by hundreds of passionless mouths - mouths that didn't care anymore; taste buds that were impervious to the fact that what was prickling them into firing neurons to the brain wasn't really worth it.

Breakfast in the Great Hall had become a rather depressing affair.

Lucius, as new Astronomy- professor, doubting right-hand man and treacherous jailer all-in-one had the honour of sitting at the head of the head table in Chancellor Voldemort's absence.

Lucius had never been a very passionate man. Ambitious yes. Clever, yes, certainly (although he was starting to doubt the intelligence of a forty-something alpha male devoutly following the orders of a red-eyed idiot.) But passionate, no.

He'd never been very passionate, mostly because he'd never had to be passionate about anything. The Heir to the Malfoy fortune didn't have to try very hard to get what he wanted - be it women, money, power, toys...

To be passionate you needed desire, and Lucius had never had been misfortunate enough to have to desire something. He'd always believed in the power of passion in a cold, calculating way, and he'd known that passion could drive people to excel.

Which was why he'd foolishly married Narcissa Kohut, the beautiful girl who could dance up a passionate storm or kiss you until you thought that passion was contagious and that you, cold-blooded bastard of a man, could feel the blood in your veins pumping.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Turned out that the downside of the passionate coin was pain.

Lucius rubbed his jaw, mostly out of habit. That woman had a fist that could make molten lava bubble up out of the earth's mantle.

He eyed his oats hazily. Sometimes monotony was welcome as well, of course. He didn't particularly fancy watching his lovely, delicate wife throwing their strong, handsome son against the tapestried walls either. Although even that might have been preferable to watching his lord and master and his brainwashed army of Hogwarts students eat oats.

At least Voldemort wasn't awing the hall with his presence at the moment. And at least Draco wasn't at home, being thrown around by his wife. Lucius dug into his oats reluctantly.

Life could be worse.

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"They do look quite sweet don't they?"

"I don't know. He's drooling a bit, see. That's not sweet." He felt a finger poking his cheek.

"Boys, shut up."

Harry swatted at the voices sleepily.

"Aww, now he looks like a baby kitten."

That did it. He opened his eyes with a snap and glared, determined to seem orientated.

In spite of that he couldn't help yelping at the sight of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle staring at him with the sort of soppy expressions women normally reserved for babies.

Harry sat up slowly, scanning the room carefully. Draco Malfoy was leaning against a wall clad in a dark grey velvet bathrobe (a sight which would have impressed the readers of Witch Weekly immensely) looking at him irritably.

Fifth year William Thornton had his feet up against the coffee table and was flipping through the pages of a magazine.

Pansy Parkinson was curled up in his own arms, snoring and not looking all that sexy.

What the hell was he doing in the Slytherin common room?

Hermione burst through a door in a bath towel.

Harry rubbed his eyes confusedly. What was going on here?

Hermione was advancing towards Draco angrily. Her hair was wet, and her body was glistening disturbingly. She'd obviously just hopped out of the shower. "What did you do with my clothes?" she snapped.

Draco smirked and let his eyes rove over her slowly.

"I will rip that gown off your body if you don't tell me where you put my clothes," she hissed.

Pansy opened her eyes groggily.

"Kinky Granger, but I didn't do anything with your clothes. Now be a good Mudblood and stop dripping water all over our floor."

She was quivering furiously. "I'm giving you one last chance Malfoy," she said slowly.

Harry, not quite used to waking up in such a manner, blinked a few times.

"I don't know what happened to your clothes Granger," he said. "Must have..."

He got no further. Hermione moved in and deftly pulled the carelessly knotted belt of his robe off. His robes had the audacity to fall open silkily and provocatively.

Hermione started, blinked, and then started stuttering.

Draco smiled smarmily, looking oddly like a lizard who'd been baking in the sun contently.

"Snakes on your boxers Malfoy, honestly," William, who had a full-frontal view, drawled lazily.

Hermione was still at a loss for words, and seemed to be staring at Draco's chest hungrily. Harry frowned. He didn't like the way she was looking at him.

He was grinning at her. "Well, one good turn deserves another Granger," he said lazily, reaching over to unknot her towel.

Harry was on his feet. 'Don't you dare, you bastard!" he snarled, trying to ignore the way Hermione was looking at Malfoy's hand curiously and hazily, as if she wouldn't have minded him ripping her towel away.

She shook her head and the fog cleared out of her expression. "Malfoy," she said warningly.

He moved towards her, obviously quite aware of the impression his chest seemed to be making on her. "Are you sure Granger?" he asked solicitously

She actually hesitated.

"Damn straight she's sure," Harry snapped. "Give her clothes back Malfoy."

"I don't have her clothes Potter," Draco said, harshly this time.

Perhaps it was his insolent expression, or perhaps it was the way Hermione was staring at the back of his blonde head slightly lustfully, but Harry pulled his arm back and let his face settle into an expression of rage normally reserved for Ron.

And he punched him.

He simply couldn't imagine not doing it.

Draco fell backwards elegantly and hit the marble floor.

He looked slightly stunned, and his sneer had disappeared for the moment. His hair settled onto the floor a little later than the rest of him had, fanning out like an insolent halo. He looked up at Harry confusedly, and then he started smiling sweetly.

"That feel good Potter?"

"Give her her clothes back!" Harry thundered, vaguely aware that someone was tugging at his sleeve insistently.

"Sir, Harry Potter sir," a tiny voice squeaked.

"What?" he snapped, turning around to glare at a tiny house elf.

"I washed Missy's clothes for her sir," the elf squeaked. "While she was showering sir."

Surely enough, it was carrying a pile of neatly pressed clothes - jeans, a sweatshirt and lacy pink underwear.

Hermione blushed.

Draco decided to get up, dusting himself off irritably. "Now do you believe me Potter?" he asked.

Harry looked around, suddenly terribly awake. He remembered Malfoy conceding, last night, that he and Pansy sleep on the couch in spite of the fact that Harry had just snogged his girlfriend. He remembered marvelling at the Malfoy's beautiful beach house, which wasn't half as pretentious as he'd thought it would be. He remembered Malfoy ordering the house elves to feed them properly, and he remembered himself and Pansy curling onto the couch exhaustedly.

Damn.

He looked up into Draco's eyes, which were absolutely humorless.

"I'm sorry," he said, managing not to grit his teeth.

Draco met his gaze without flinching. "Get. Out," he said.

"Malfoy, I forgot and I was... I'm sorry."

"Get out of my home Potter."

"I need to tell you stuff, prophecy stuff. And we have to..."

"Out! And take your little whore with you."

"You don't understand," Harry said desperately. He wanted to slap himself. It didn't matter that it was Malfoy; he'd snogged his girlfriend, ate his food and slept on his couch and then he'd punched him in the face. Bad houseguest wasn't the correct term for what he'd done.

"You're right," Draco said maliciously. "I don't understand and I don't want to. Fuck off."

Pansy wasn't even trying to argue. She'd seen the look in her ex-boyfriend's eyes. "Come on Harry," she said quietly. "I've got your Firebolt." She waved a pack of cigarettes in her hand.

As Harry slunk out of the house with her, he noticed Hermione giving him a sad wave.

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"I'm burning."

"Ooh, burn, baby burn," Draco muttered, flopping over onto his side.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be doing something constructive?"

"Like what?"

He opened his eyes and gazed at her speculatively. "You don't look at all unflattering in that bikini Granger."

"Thank you Malfoy. You look like a lobster."

"I thought you were burning."

"I think you've gotten the brunt more than I have."

"She's right," William Thornton said drowsily. "You're a bit red."

Hermione smothered a grin. Malfoy looked more than a little red. They'd been tanning under the Malfoy's sun charmed patio for the entire day, and Draco had managed to acquire an all-over red glaze. Served him right too. He'd been snapping at her whenever she attempted to make him think about his destiny. Some people were just so... unmotivated.

"Well, I'm sure I still look devastating," Draco said confidently. He glanced at his shoulders unconcernedly and then his eyes widened. "No! My skin! What have I done?"

He yelped, sat up and ran into the beach house with frightening speed.

"Faster than a speeding bullet..." Hermione murmured drolly, following him with her eyes.

Crabbe was grinning. "Draco can't tan," he announced proudly. "He's been trying to tan since he was four years old. Never managed it."

"Yes, remember that time in Majorca?" Goyle said, and they both giggled.

Hermione didn't want to admit it, but she was actually enjoying herself somewhat. She'd been sad to see Harry go, especially with Pansy in tow, but lying on inflatable deck chairs with cocktails made the world seem all right.

"What happened in Majorca?" William inquired. "It was last year wasn't it?"

"Fourth year," Crabbe corrected. "You were third year. We had that wizard family Christmas thing in Majorca, but you couldn't come."

"I remember," William grumbled. "Dad said I wasn't allowed to hang out with a bunch of pansies."

"Pansy wasn't even..."

"He means gay people," Goyle said mildly.

Hermione looked at them in interest. She hadn't forgotten Draco's admission that both Crabbe and Goyle were quite gay, but he might have just said it to be malicious. She didn't think seventeen year old boys could classify themselves as gay and straight; they could merely admit to being confused.

"I've always had my suspicions about Draco, I must say," William continued blithely. "There's a boy who could do the YMCA in sparkly hot pants if I ever saw one."

"Hmmmm," Goyle agreed, winking at Crabbe.

Hermione smothered a chuckle. William continued to look oblivious.

"You have wizarding family island vacations?" Hermione asked, determined not to be ignorant.

"Well, our families are good friends," Goyle said. "You have to be, when you're in Slytherin and everyone else hates you."

'And you're all the sons of Death Eaters,' she added to herself. Goyle was quite the conversationalist when Draco wasn't around.

"Anyway, Draco got all burnt in Majorca and tried to flirt with this cocktail dancer..."

"Yes, and she told him to go and crawl back into the ocean with the other prawns..."

"Draco Malfoy was rejected by a cocktail dancer?" Hermione whooped. "I can't wait to tell everyone at school."

Privately she thought that even acute sunburn didn't manage to make Malfoy ugly. Sexy wasn't the correct word to describe him then either, but nothing managed to make that torso unattractive.

Crabbe seemed to be thinking the same thing. "He has that Dragon-thing. You really think he's the Dragon?" he asked casually.

"I don't know. It's screwed up if he is," Goyle investigated his stomach tan, which wasn't half as bad as Hermione thought it would be.

She'd thought that Crabbe and Goyle were two lumps of lard. Crabbe was rather porky, but Goyle was beautifully muscular - much more so than Draco. He must have used steroids. He didn't have Draco's delicately beautiful face, which was a relief, but she couldn't blame Crabbe for shooting him naughty looks. Not really.

"I mean, he's a rotten dirty bastard. He's the worst guy in Slytherin," Goyle continued.

And his powers of observation were rather apt too.

"Why do you hang out with him then?" Hermione asked frankly.

"He's got that thing," Crabbe said innocently.

"Thing?"

"Charisma," Goyle clarified. "He's always interesting to hang around with. He's either scheming or having fun. Plus he's not so bad when he's drunk."

"Who are you going on about? Sound like a pill," Draco had rejoined them, coated with suntan lotion.

Only Draco Malfoy could look dignified in a suit of cream.

"What are your plans Malfoy?" Hermione asked. She knew she was being insistent and probably irritating, but she'd never imagined that prophesied heroes sat around and tanned whilst the world was possibly in imminent danger.

"Shut it Granger," Draco grumbled, settling down comfortably. "If I'm supposed to save the world I can do it in my own time, can't I?"

"That's not how it works."

"Well, then the world can go to hell. I'm going to tan."

Hermione glared at him.

He opened one eye and leered. "You can come over here and give me a massage if you want to inspire me to save the world Granger."

She threw him a sign.

His eyes glinted mischievously, and suddenly he got up, scooped her up in his arms and ran over to the edge of the pool. "Did you just tell me to go to hell?"

"I believe that sign meant that you can go and fuck yourself," she said coolly, looking up at him impassively.

He seemed annoyingly amused as he bent over and let her hand skim the pool.

"Malfoy, I'm still wearing my shorts!" She flailed her arms.

"Are you going to give me a massage?"

Hermione waggled her legs desperately. "Never!" she yelled happily, screaming as Draco dropped her into the water.

(**A/N: Sorry, that's really a little clichéd, but I thought Hermione deserved it.**)

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A/N: Sorry this took so terribly long, but I've been suffering from a severe case of writer's block. I've also not been in the best of moods lately, so I found it difficult to write. I hope it wasn't that noticeable. The first half as written last, right after my rugby team lost, and I discovered that I had a horrible disease, so I don't think it came out as cheerily as it was supposed to. And I am well aware that I write too many bits where our heroes and heroines wake up foggily, as Harry did now. My creativity is shot. Oh well. I know Harry acted like a royal arse, but this was the last of Harry's bad scenes. He'll be his sweet canon-self soon enough. Feel free to review, in fact, please do. I respond very quickly if I get lots of reviews...

Another thing, exams are coming up next week, and even though I pride myself on not being studious I should hit the books. I have to, I'm royally screwed if I don't, so I'm afraid I probably won't be writing for a while. I'll try my absolute best to sneak in another chapter this week, but don't count on it.

NEXT CHAPTER: Aaaaaand we have: Snape! Severus-fans stand by. Nathan Thor and his lovely wife will feature, Ron and Ginny will probably make an appearance, and I'll try to get a bit of Voldemort in. Draco might be motivated enough to move the plot along as well and I'll see if I can get myself into Sirius and Lupin's heads long enough to write a bit of witty repartee involving them... Possibly. I haven't written it yet.