Sometimes the Dragon Wins

CHAPTER 13 - PROGRESSION AND REGRESSION

"And he shall travel to the dragon mountain to gain his acceptance..."

-excerpt from Eravocalese's prophecies of the Dragon.

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"Come out, come out wherever you are, little Dragon."

Draco forced himself to stop shivering. 'This is Voldemort,' he reminded himself. 'Barmy uncle Voldemort. Don't be frightened.'

His words were terribly unconvincing as he peered around the tree he'd been hiding. Barmy uncle Voldemort was stalking through the forest, an unmistakably predatory expression on his handsome face.

This was the Voldemort everyone talked about, Draco realised. This was the man who'd managed to disrupt the magical community hundreds of times. This was the man who'd given Harry Potter a reason to be famous.

Arse.

He was unmistakably frightening. His power coiled around Draco temptingly, making his knees wobble.

He wasn't a phoney after all.

'I should have been scared to death all along,' Draco realised, reprimanding himself for his foolishness. 'This isn't a dinky-toy. This isn't a man who earned righteous fear by being a wretched idiot.'

This was the real thing.

This was Voldemort as Harry Potter and many a cursed wizard had observed him, and Draco found himself disliking the man intensely. He didn't like people who put up pretentious fronts, like Albus Dumbledore, who tried his utter best to look like a nut whilst holding immense power in his deceptive Father Christmas-like body. The man was intolerable, and it seemed that only Draco had realised that. Stupid Potter had never noticed that he was essentially Dumbledore's slave. He was an old man, granted, but the gyp shouldn't have stopped him from helping Potter and the A-team save the world. As far as Draco could tell, Dumbledore always set tasks that he obviously knew the answers to, and then sat with his hands folded and his twinkling eyes waiting for poor Potter to undergo a few near-death experiences before deciding to help a little.

And here was Voldemort, bloody Vol-de-mort, who'd pretended to like scones and chamber music, making Draco decide that he was essentially harmless and slightly mad. And he obviously wasn't harmless.

Contrary to popular opinion, Draco didn't like deception. He'd always presented himself as exactly that: himself. He was spoilt, he was nasty, he was rich, he was sexy and damned wasn't he proud of it all. Admittedly there'd been a moment or two where he'd said a few nasty things to Potter which hadn't essentially been true, but they were quits now. Potter wasn't ever setting foot on any imported Malfoy tiling again, not after that little incident at the beach house.

"Oh little Dragon," the Dark Lord cooed menacingly.

Draco stiffened. Where was that staff? He looked around desperately, trying to find the staff of Ainesley, but it had evidently decided to sulk and hide.

Voldemort stopped stalking around. "Enough already," he grumbled, in much rougher tone of voice. He pointed his staff ahead of him. "Accio Draco," he snapped.

Draco froze, which was a good thing, because flailing limbs would have made the horizontal flight to Voldemort's feet very painful. He thudded onto the ground and looked up at a pair of menacing red eyes. Ye gods, the man really looked most unattractive with his eye potion. What people did to keep up appearances...

"I've never liked hide and seek," Voldemort mused calmly, staring down at his terrified companion.

"I've never been good at it. You only had to look behind the next tree and you would have found me," Draco grumbled, attempting to sit up.

"Poor little Dragon," sneered Voldemort. "Your only weapon is your bloody awful sense of humour." He pointed his wand downwards.

"And I thought this would be a challenge. You're weak, young Malfoy. Weak. Potter should have been the Dragon. He would have made it interesting. But you? You haven't prepared, you haven't practised your power, you haven't cultivated your staff - hell, you clean forgot your staff - why, you haven't even used any of your forces. Giants, dragons, dryads... they would have all fought for you[,] young Malfoy. But you were ambitionless enough to lie down and tan during the crucial planning stages." He sighed. "Are you sure you shouldn't have been in Hufflepuff?"

"Take that back," snapped Draco, lashing out with his foot and hoping that the Dark Lord would crumble.

Unfortunately the kick proved ineffective.

"I'll show your parents and your friends the tiny bruise you've left me on my shin," Voldemort offered condescendingly. "So that they feel better. Now, I'm afraid I'm getting bored with you. Avada..."

Draco's eyes snapped open. Unlike most people he knew, he never woke up foggily, desiring to return to the world of dreams. With him it was wake up, jump out of bed, greet the bloody rainy English new day with a smirk, yell at the house elves to get some bloody coffee bloody now, shower, get dressed and bloody well get a move on, people! In his experience, life was far more interesting than sleep was. It was a few shared by an astonishingly small amount of people.

The dream he'd just had had an even more effervescent effect than Crabbe's snores usually had.

He sat up and frowned at his companions, who were lazily snoozing on the deck chairs.

"All right, that's it!" he exclaimed brightly. "Get up."

"Whaa..." Granger muttered sleepily.

William's foot stirred slightly.

"Up!" Draco said. "Up, up, up!"

Vincent and Gregory, who were quite used to this kind of behaviour, crawled out of their hazy dreams, and in Vincent's case, right off the deck chair.

"We're up," Gregory mumbled.

Granger pouted sexily. "Not getting up," she slurred, hugging her arms to her chest (which was very impressive.) "Not going to leave. It's lovely and warm and..."

"I've got a pool here Mudblood, and I'm not afraid to use it," Draco growled.

She opened her eyes. "What's wrong with you Malfoy?"

"I've had enough of your lounging around, that's what's wrong with me. I'm tired of your lackadaisical attitudes. We have armies to raise, dark forces to fight, and you're just lying around. That's what's wrong with me," he said, deciding to ignore everything that was wrong with the sentence. He glared at his bleary minions, as if daring them to contradict him.

Granger of course, wasn't familiar with the "If-you-don't-shut-up-I-will-fill-your-intestines-with-cockroaches" glare.

She seemed quite awake suddenly. "Us lounging around?" she hooted. "Us? Who told me to stuff my prophecy books where the sun doesn't shine?"

"That'll be England," remarked William. "The sun doesn't shine in England."

"Neither does it shine in your native country Scotland, Thornton!" Draco snarled, reverting back to Quidditch-captain mode. He could be quite the drill sergeant before quidditch matches, ranting and raving and screaming and generally convincing his team-mates that it would be a far more viable option to win. He'd never believed in soft tactics.

"Okay," Granger conceded, looking at him quizzically, "I'll get up, but only because I think you're right. We should do something."

She smiled at him sweetly. "What are we going to do?"

"None of your business Granger!" Draco shouted, feeling wonderfully energetic.

She unfolded her legs languorously. "Are we going to save the school?" she probed.

"No." That sounded like too much effort. "We'll do that later," he offered reassuringly.

"Are we going to go back to the giants?" Crabbe inquired.

"Never!" Draco said exuberantly.

Hermione frowned irritably. "What are we going to do? What about checking the prophecies to see what we have to do?"

Inspiration took hold of his feverish mind. He had no idea what they were going to do, but it definitely wasn't going to involve prophecy books. Potter and Pansy had tried to pressure him into accepting a few prophecy scrolls last night as well, insisting that they were important, but he'd ignored them and had stomped off to bed. It was a ridiculous notion to read a prophecy to see what he was going to do next. He was going to improvise.

If Draco had been in a thoughtful frame of mind, he would have realised that prophecies foretold things, and that, if he were to read them later, he would have probably done the things they had foretold anyway. This would have saved a lot of time deciding what to stubbornly do on his own devices.

Today, however, the voice of reason was unreasonably far away from Draco Malfoy's mind.

"Well," William, who had emerged out of his sun-drenched stupor, probed, "What are we going to do?"

"Stuff," Draco said rudely. "But first of all, we're going to get dressed. We have to look suave if we're going to do heroic things."

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"That went well," Pansy remarked after what seemed like an hour of trudging on the beach.

Harry looked up at her, momentarily snapping out of the whirl of confusing thoughts gallivanting in his head. "What?"

Pansy sighed exasperatedly. "Never mind. What do we do now?"

Harry paused to consider the scathing look Draco had had in his eyes when he'd told him to get out of his house - in no uncertain words. There'd been no doubt about it. Draco had looked triumphant. His expression had said, 'Ha! I was right about Potter all along. Poor-bred piece of scum.'

"What do we do now?" Pansy repeated impatiently.

"Does Draco really hate me?" Harry asked.

Pansy grinned. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," Harry snapped.

Pansy had never been a compassionate person, but even she could probably tell that nothing was going to be accomplished if she didn't have a heart-to-heart with the-Boy-who-lived.

"Let's sit," she offered quite kindly, only managing to sound slightly irritated. He plopped onto the beach promptly.

"Ouch! Bloody pebbles are uncomfortable," he muttered.

Pansy sat down carefully, folding her skirt over her knees in an attempt to appear decent. Harry ignored his moral dilemma to admire her legs unobtrusively. Hermione and Cho, the only other girls whose legs he'd been priviledged [privileged] enough to see under their Hogwarts robes, had lovely builds - they were both willowy with graceful backs and long, toned legs. Pansy was considerably shorter and built much more athletically. This, Harry decided, craning his neck to observe her innocently pulling up her stockings, was not a bad thing. There was enough shape in that calf to keep any boy interested.

Harry was a leg-man. They were one of his favourite womanly attributes. Ron, Seamus, Dean and himself had had many a discussion about woman's bodies back in their dormitory, (while Neville listened eagerly) and whilst the others all seemed to focus on breasts, Harry had discovered that he preferred legs. Breasts were good, yes, but legs were beautiful.

"You like my leg, do you?" Pansy asked suddenly.

"Wha... no!" Harry sputtered indignantly.

"You don't?" she asked coyly.

Harry felt his ears reddening. "Well, now that you mention it, they are nice."

She grinned. There was a moment of silence. He forcefully ignored her leg that she had perversely stretched out onto the pebbled beach, shamelessly taunting him.

'Be strong,' he told himself. 'This is just a leg.'

His gaze drifted back to it nevertheless, and he found himself admiring the concave curve of her calf again.

Pansy smirked, reminding Harry of Draco and his current predicament.

"Flattering as this is, these pebbles are really uncomfortable. Do you want to talk or not?"

"I do want to talk," he agreed solemnly. "Does Draco really hate me?"

She chewed on her lip for a moment. "Yes," she said finally. "Well, if he didn't before he does now. But if its any consolation I think he's always hated you."

"Why? Because I didn't want to be his friend in first year?"

"I think he's past that," she offered. "Draco's grudges last about two years."

"Two years? You sure?"

She tucked a hair behind her ear and smiled. "Pretty much, yes. I've had practical experience myself. But in your case it's lasted so long because you keep upstaging him, and your cronies keep taunting him."

"Oh please."

She giggled. "I'm serious Harry. You've been just as nasty to him as he has been to you."

"He started it!" Realising that he sounded childish, he continued hastily. "Why does he hate Ron so much then?"

"Because Ron's always attacking him!"

"Rubbish! Ron only attacks when provoked."

She looked at him rather sagely. "So do animals. He also hates Weasley because he's a shame to the pureblood name."

Harry shuddered. Bloody pureblood schmucks. "And Hermione? Why does he hate her?"

Pansy frowned. "I don't think he hates her."

"Why would you say that?" Harry demanded worriedly.

"Are you blind? Did you see the way they looked at each other? Draco was preening like a bloody peacock and she was drooling. I don't like it either," she amended, "I'm supposed to be his girlfriend. I've never fancied that Draco and I would get married." She had a far away look in her eyes. "Even if he would have wanted it, we couldn't have."

Harry pointedly noted that she only mentioned that Draco's opinion mattered.

"But he's never felt very serious about me," she continued. "Don't look so surprised, I know he doesn't love me. I'm not that stupid."

Harry ignored the emotional nuances and the far-off look in her eyes. "But he loves Hermione?"

"Ha!" she shook her head. "Have you been reading soppy romance novels? People don't just suddenly love each other. No, I think he's interested in her though. She's different than the norm. My guess is that he's treating this as some sort of conquest, something he can laugh about when he's old and he has a beer belly and he's talking to his rich aristocratic friends."

Harry could already envision that scenario:

"Yes," geezer Draco would smirk to some snotty wizard, puffing on an imported cigar, "I too had a Mudblood once. Feisty little thing she was. Pity I had to kill her, really."

"And why isn't she ignoring his advances?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Are those glasses of yours fogged up? Have you looked at Draco properly in the last year? He's gorgeous."

Harry's lip curled distastefully. "If you like arrogant, nasty, conniving, ferrety..."

"Tall, blonde, high-cheek boned, well-built," Pansy contributed.

"Bastards," Harry finished. "Are you still in love with him?"

"I don't do unrequited love," she said coldly.

Her posture, which had been relaxed had stiffened considerably, and her face was taut.

Harry winced. "I'm sorry, that was too personal."

"Yes, it was. You're being an insufferable ponce."

"I'd say Malfoy's an insufferable ponce. Stupid git suits me better."

She smiled slightly.

"I feel terrible about what I've done with Malfoy," Harry admitted finally. "I've been a complete wanker. I punched him, I insulted him, and I kissed his girlfriend."

"He'll get over the last one," Pansy said wryly.

"And he never even said anything nasty until after I punched him," he continued remorsefully.

"That was out of character," she agreed. She put a hand on Harry's knee suddenly. "I wouldn't be too worried about it. Don't let this little incident tarnish your heroic career. Draco's never been a nice guy and he's not going to change. He's probably forgotten about you already." She looked at the water lapping onto the beach slightly wistfully. "And he's probably forgotten me too."

Harry stared at her profile, a painful lump forming in his throat. She did love Draco. Her pride was the only thing that was keeping her from admitting it. And Draco probably knew it as well, he just didn't care.

Bastard. Although he shouldn't have punched him.

And by the look of things, he should never have kissed Pansy either.

He stood up slowly, feeling rather shaky. "We should probably go."

"To Hogwarts?"

Was she crying? He couldn't tell.

"To Hogwarts," he agreed heavily.

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Lord Voldemort, ruler of all evil or confused wizards, sorcerer of note and international gourmet chicken savourer, opened his eyes foggily and bravely beheld what the world had in store for him.

Narcissa Malfoy's slippered foot, jittering in an impatient tap dance, was the first thing that he saw.

She waited for him to continue the exhausting and appreciative gaze up her legs, and her waist and her abdomen, and it finally focused on her face, and almost whimpered. Draco had received his piercing, intrusive gaze from his mother.

"My Lord, you're awake," she said. 'Took you long enough.'

"Cotton in my mouth," he muttered.

Narcissa clucked her tongue. "Elf!" she motioned to the closest terrified creature.

"Mistress?" it squeaked reverentially.

"Get this man some chicken. And fetch me a Martini." She thought about it for a moment. "Get me five Martinis."

Blasted Draco.

She'd fed him (or rather, she'd let creatures feed him), she'd clothed him, she'd given him good genes and impeccable taste, and although she'd never given him much nurturing, she considered that she'd been a bloody good mother, and he'd turned right around and put the body-binding curse on her. How was that for gratitude?

Voldemort grumbled and stood up irritably, brushing flecks of lint from his clothes. "Your son," he swayed slightly and tried again, "Your son deserves a smack on the bottom."

Draco must have delivered a very powerful stunning curse.

"He deserves to be vanquished from the face of this earth," Narcissa said grimly.

"That too," Voldemort agreed politely. "You are aware that he is the Dragon?"

It was a casually posed question, but Narcissa staggered.

"What are you suggesting?"

Voldemort scowled. "You and Lucius' spawn will be the one to supposedly rid the world of evil. You know? The legendary Dragon in the prophecies. That's Draco. And he would have been such a promising Death Eater."

"How could you dare to suggest that? He will still be a Death Eater. It has been our dream for him."

"I'm an intelligent human be... creature," he said smugly. "And he has the staff of Ainesley with him. That was a big clue. I saw it under his cloak when he hexed you. I wish him the best of luck in his new pursuits of glory. The lad is ambitious and powerful, and being a Death Eater is a dead-end job. But I'm afraid I will have to kill him nevertheless."

"Well," Narcissa breathed, sinking into a conveniently placed dining chair. "Of all the ungreatful..."

"I know, you've done much for him," the Dark Lord soothed. "It's not your fault. You know how children are these days."

"Well," Narcissa breathed again.

Voldemort looked sympathetic.

"He has the mark," she said absently.

"The mark of the Dragon?" he seethed. "Why did you not tell me?"

"Draco's never been the type of boy to run off saving the world. We didn't think it was possible. We thought it was a joke," she whispered, feeling half-terrified.

The luckless house-elf scurried into the room with a tray of chicken wings and five martinis, and deposited it onto the table.

"Stop loitering," Narcissa snarled, and the elf scurried away. She gripped one triangular glass by the stem and drained its contents quickly. She savoured the olive slowly though, thoughtfully watching her companion nibbling on a chicken wing.

"Why are you so calm about this?"

Voldemort chewed some more and she watched his adam's apple bobbing agreeably. "I've got plans," he said mysteriously. "Granted, I didn't bargain on the Dragon having your son's personality type and I'll have to alter the plan slightly, but I've been preparing for this for quite some time." He smiled down at his chicken wing evilly, and Narcissa looked at him admiringly. "Don't worry dear, your son doesn't have a chance."

He tucked the chicken bone away neatly. "I'll be on my way to start devising his demise. You just sit here and drink yourself into a stupor." He patted her shoulder cheerfully and swept his cloak up dramatically.

The grand display of bravado was slightly diminished as he glanced at the plate of chicken longingly.

"I'll have the house elfs pack that in a container for your, shall I?" Narcissa suggested, resisting the urge to smile.

"That would be lovely," Voldemort said with dignity. "Can't fight good on an empty stomach."

As he marched away Narcissa helped herself to another Martini. Voldemort seemed confident to the point of cheerfulness. This was a good sign. It was too bad that he had to kill her son to help evil, but Draco had shown himself as a traitor and let the side down.

Narcissa gulped the Martini down.

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"Aargh!"

"Ron, that was just your shadow."

"It was a very scary shadow." Ron bit his tongue, and Ginny grinned at him affectionately. He was being a really good sport with all this, as they were creeping along in the shadows of the deepest dungeons. Rats and spiders scuttled underfoot.

Ron had been mostly quiet, only whimpering as arachnids made their presence known by dancing past his head on their thin little threads. He most probably was trying to file all that had happened in the past few days into his head.

"And you say the Slytherins left?" he whispered suddenly.

"Yes, they did."

"Probably on some errand for Voldemort."

"No, Voldemort has no idea where they are. Harry's on an errand for Voldemort though."

"What?" he hissed.

"Yes, I don't exactly know the details, but he's probably been brain-washed Ron, it's not like he'll ever turn to the dark side or take the dark mark."

"True. What's with the outfit?"

Ginny sighed.

"No really, what were you thinking Virginia? That's not the sort of outfit you wear in dungeons on dark nights. You look like," Ron seemed revolted, "Some kind of sexual deviant."

"You look like a grade A moron," Ginny retorted. "I don't know why I did the outfit. I sewed it last night, with some of Mary's cloth for her formal robes," Ron let out a scandalized gasp, "And Crookshanks was sitting on my lap whilst I was doing it, and suddenly I started making some cat ears as well. Don't ask me why, I'm still wondering about it."

Ron subsided. "Well, if you weren't my sister I wouldn't have minded the outfit," he admitted gruffly.

She grinned. "Thank you. Oh, speaking of Crookshanks, Hermione's gone as well. She went with the Slytherins."

"What?"

"Shhh," she put her fingers to her lips. "You can completely do your nut later. I hear voices."

Sure enough, two male voices could be heard arguing angrily.

"Dire situation... do something... wanker," Ginny heard vaguely.

She crept closer, already having a good idea who else would be quarreling [quarrelling] in the middle of the dungeons where all the Hogwarts staff were ostensibly kept.

The voices became clearer. "You insufferable bastard. Of course we can't leave them."

"I tell you, you self-righteous squid, he'll be suspicious if we do."

"Does your opinion ever matter?"

Ginny breathed a sigh of relief and Ron allowed himself a smile. They weren't alone.

Severus Snape and Sirius Black were in the dungeons.

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Draco glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and it winked back charmingly.

His hair had been moussed artfully and arranged to give it a messy, out of bed look that otherwise could have only been achieved by days of wandering through the wild without a hairbrush.

He'd donned a black button shirt and a pair of rather tight khaki suede pants, which had been tucked into his dragon hide boots, and a charming charcoal cloak settled over his shoulders. He looked exactly like a hero on the cover of a fantasy-book, although they normally wore white shirts. Draco had long ago waged a war against white, mostly because it made his skin look sallow. And it showed dirt much too easily.

In spite of this, he'd conned William into wearing the white counterpart to his outfit - William too had the khaki pants and the long boots, but he'd been forced into a white shirt and a dramatic green cloak.

He looked... dashing.

"I look," said William, morosely glancing into the mirror, "Stupid."

"This is protocol. We have to look like this. It's practically written in the rules of heroism conduct. Wear a white shirt, which I simply can't, tight brown britches, poncy boots and a cloak, which helps broaden your shoulders. Besides," Draco lowered his voice, "We don't look half as stupid as Crabbe and Goyle."

This was certainly true, and William grinned. "You're nasty Draco, you are," he muttered, glancing over towards the hulking bodyguards.

Goyle was uncertainly tugging the collar of his white shirt. Crabbe looked surly in his breeches. Both of them were outfitted in tights, little hats were jauntily perched on their heads and arrow bags were slung over their shoulders.

"I especially like the feathers," William whispered. Draco grinned proudly. Each of Crabbe and Goyle's hats had striking feathers, which Draco had fixed on with glue. He'd found their outfits in a book called Robin Hood, and had decided he quite liked the idea of a bunch of merry archers who were nifty with the bow and arrow. Granted, Crabbe and Goyle didn't look quite merry, and as far as he knew[,] they'd never been good shots, but they'd positively begged for the tights. They deserved it for nancying around and staring at each other's arses all the time.

"Where did you find the clothes?" William asked.

"My parents have a costume trunk. They went through a phase where fancy-dress parties were all the rage."

"My dad always dressed as a Death Eater at those," Goyle chortled. "Just to keep everyone on their toes. Course, he was a Death Eater so he didn't have to go very far to find an appropriate costume."

"Why are we wearing costumes then?"

"Not costumes," Draco rolled his eyes. "Heroic attire. We have one last adjustment to make to that outfit," he informed William. He dramatically unveiled a leather belt with a sword scabard attatched to it behind his back. "Ta da! Here you go."

"I get a scabbard?" William said. "Where's the sword?"

"You have no sense of drama." Draco reached behind him and handed William a rather rusty sword with obvious pride.

William stared at the sword in disgust. "That? But that's so... old."

"Exactly," Draco said smugly. "It's bloody old and bloody valuable. Called Cetearyl. Belonged to the first Malfoy. It's said it's enchanted, but it hasn't ever done anything so I'll be buggered what it does. Dad keeps it here as a family heirloom."

"We shouldn't take it then," William's eyes were wide.

"We need it now," Draco said. "Old Augustus Malfoy would have bloody well wanted us to take it. Of course he wouldn't have wanted us to go and do good with it..."

"And Lucius Malfoy?" William asked wryly. "Would he have wanted us to take it?"

"Are you a bloody Gryffindor or what?"

William tucked the sword into his scabbard nervously. "What's that Mudblood going to wear?"

"Oh, it's good," Draco smirked. "You'll love it. It'll give us all endless pleasure. She should be knocking on this door to yell at me right about now."

On cue[,] there was a frantic knocking on the door, and Hermione burst in with a furious expression on her face.

It wasn't the face that held Draco and William's attention though. Hermione was clad in a brown leather corset and matching thigh high boots, and armed with a delicate sword. And not much else.

Draco winked at William, who was taking a long gawp. "Good, eh? I couldn't find a heroic maiden's outfit that I liked until I got to the part on barbaric maidens."

"I will not wear this," Hermione declared with dignity.

"But aren't you a barbaric maiden?" Draco asked sweetly.

A string of swear words was flung at him.

"You look very nice," William volunteered, eager eyes scavenging her cleavage. "I've never seen you looking so nice."

"I've never seen you looking at me so hungrily either," Hermione snarled. "Eyes off. Malfoy, you imbecile, get me some proper clothes or I will attack you with this sword right now."

"Aren't you holding the wrong side in your hands?" he asked mockingly. This wasn't true, but he wanted to nettle her in an effort to see at least a bit of heaving bossom. "Should I teach you? See, that part there goes into your hand, and that part there goes into your enemies' stomach. The other stuff is much too complicated for you right now but..."

She didn't react as he'd expected at all. She merely glanced at him as if what he said did not matter, and coolly walked out of the room and closed the door politely.

A few minutes later she returned, demurely clad in beige pants and a white cotton shirt. Draco, who noted a look in her eyes not drastically different than the ones his mother was capable of, shut his mouth and handed her a red cloak, which she fastened around her shoulders silently. She was the only one moving.

Draco watched her warily and worriedly.

"All right, I'm ready," she said.

"Yes Hermione," Crabbe, Goyle, William, and Draco chorused.

"And I think," she added, fixing her piercing gaze on Draco, "That now would be a good time to stop fooling with us and lay out a proper itinerary of what you want us to do."

He swallowed. "No problem."

"No problem what?"

"No problem Hermione," he replied quickly and subserviently.

"No more games?" she said sternly.

"No Hermione."

She smiled cheerfully without ever changing the evil look that shone prominently in her irises. "Good," she purred. "Now, let's hear what you have in store for us. And make it quick, will you?"

Draco sighed. He'd wanted it to be a surprise. Voldemort had alerted him to the idea in his dream, and he'd thought it might be worth a try. He didn't think the others would like it though. He didn't like it either. "We're going to recruit some more members to our cause," he informed them heavily, staring at the floor. "We're going to Mount Morae. We have to find some dragons."

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Draco hadn't gotten as much shtick as he'd expected for his suggestion. Hermione had wanted to ask a few valid questions, such as "Is it potentially life threatening?" "Will I need to take my coat or should I risk a runny nose?" and most importantly, "Why would dragons want to follow you? I don't even want to follow you."

But she remained silent as Crabbe, Goyle and William gasped at the announcement.

In spite of her being the most well-read witch at Hogwarts, there were still some things Purebloods knew that Muggleborns didn't, and judging by the reaction of the others, this was one of those things. Hermione idly cursed the fact that she'd never in fact, know it all, whilst scanning the amazed expressions on Draco's cohorts faces.

William was smiling at Draco, much like a proud mother would look at her son after he'd taken his first step. Goyle was watching his leader thoughtfully, one eyebrow raised quizzically, seemingly pondering deep thoughts. And Crabbe looked terrified.

"Draco, are you sure?" he asked worriedly.

Hermione half expected him to square his shoulders and say, 'Course I am,' dispelling any doubts that he was not a born hero.

But he didn't. "Of course I'm not sure!" he snapped agitatedly. "I'd rather snog Longbottom than go out and bloody seal my fate."

William twitched. "Really?" he asked, grimacing.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, feeling embarrassed . She had in fact snogged Neville Longbottom before. He'd been conveniently close by when she'd broken up with Harry, and he'd been awfully sweet. He'd been the first rebound guy. She hadn't cared about anything - at that stage, she would have snogged Dumbledore if he'd been slightly willing. She glanced around at the men in the room, noting with relief that she actually didn't want to snog the majority of them. She'd been through a rough patch at Hogwarts - when she'd seen anyone vaguely male, she'd wanted to prove to herself that she could get him, but those intense feelings had subsided.

She made the mistake of glancing at Draco, who looked quite magnificent in an outfit copied out of the Dragon-books. Drat him for being so beautiful. Obviously she wasn't completely free of her lustful phase.

Draco noticed her look and mistook it for curiosity. "Don't you know Granger? Don't you know about the Dragon prophecies?"

"Only what I've heard in professor Binn's class," she admitted. And she'd only been to one class - the one where she'd exposed Draco as the Dragon. She'd been lax with her studies lately, which meant that she still had the top score in the grade, but she hadn't done any reading for extra credit. She had heard about Mount Morae, one of the few dragon-homes in the United Kingdom, where the dragons were wild and fierce and roamed free. But she had no idea how going to Mount Morae would affect Draco, unless he planned to be attacked by a troupe of fire-breathing creatures.

"Not up to your usual standards Granger..." Draco began, but William, who obviously disliked bickering interrupted him.

"According to folklore the Dragon has to go to Mount Morae, and surrender himself," he said. "The dragons can do whatever they like with him. They can kill him. There was a false dragon a few decades ago, called Duke Eckhart, who marched up to Mount Morae and surrendered himself to the dragons. They killed him. It was big news in the wizarding community. Everyone was quite upset."

Hermione stared at Draco, who glowered. "Well, I'll have you lot to protect me, won't I?" he snarled.

Crabbe looked particularly doubtful.

"I'd advise you all to start practicing your combat skills, normal magic doesn't work against dragons very well. The staff could work but its not allowed near Mount Morae. You'd better be bloody invincible by the time we get there," Draco growled. "I refuse to die a martyr. I refuse to die."

And somehow, in spite of the mean glint in his eyes, Hermione found herself frantically thinking of combat spells. William was swishing his sword thoughtfully, and Crabbe twanged his bowstring a few times. They were all obviously going to protect their leader in spite of his nasty demeanour.

She sighed. Loyalty could be such a warped thing sometimes.

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"All right, that's it," Draco announced.

Hermione glanced at him worriedly. They'd been walking for over four hours. Draco had decided to apparate them all a few kilometers away from Mount Morae, just to be safe - they didn't want to land on top of a bunch of dragons after all - and as he'd remarked before, his powers of multiple apparation were not quite honed to perfection yet.

They'd landed much farther than "a few kilometers away" - Mount Morae was only a vague lump on the horizon. So far they'd traversed across swamps, meandered through clumps of forest and on one occasion, waded through a river. And everyone had been complaining about everything the whole time. Hermione was experiencing a sense of deja vu. The experience was much too similar to the walk with the Slytherins to the giant city. But they'd all agreed that they wouldn't risk another apparating experience. They might just find themselves back at Hogwarts.

However, this time Draco was not cool and composed. She'd never seen him quite like this - he was edgy and jumpy, as if he'd been eating too much sugar. He interrupted the whiny conversation only once in a while to vaguely tell them all to shut up, and once or twice he'd made strange observations about the mountain like, "It's only a mountain, don't be stupid." She suspected that he was talking to himself.

Mount Morae looked intimidating, even from afar. Like most magical places, it was unplottable and no living muggle had ever set foot near it. It was shaped much like a child's drawing of a mountain - a solitary, upside down ice cream cone.

Draco eyed it distrustfully before turning his attention back to them. "Right," he said, rubbing his hands together. "It's time to practice."

"Practice what?" William asked.

"Your combat skills, Thornton. If any of you have any, that is. I don't plan on barging in unprepared."

Honestly, did he really think that a few minutes of sword flicking would mean that they were prepared?

Obviously he did. "Right, Granger, you first. Show us what you can do with that sword."

Hermione glowered. She was exhausted, her boots were caked with mud, and he wanted her to suddenly engage in a bit of fencing? Daft bugger. She unsheathed her sword obligingly, thankful that it didn't seem to be stuck. Draco did the same.

"Should we bow?" she asked sarcastically.

He ignored her and loftily advanced, sword held at a forty five degree angle, hips swaying gracefully.

She gulped. In spite of his continuous blabbering about combat, she'd thought that he was just as clueless as all of them. It didn't quite seem that way now. She held her sword out nervously, and Draco advanced.

The next few seconds passed in a blur. Hermione thrashed wildly with her sword, noticing much too late that he'd dodged her thrusts easily, and quite suddenly she felt cold steel against her neck. Draco's mouth was hovering near her ear. Somehow he'd managed to get behind her.

"Too easy Granger," he whispered, hot breath bothering her ear drums.

"That's not fair," she moaned as he withdrew. "Where did you learn that?"

"Not in books Granger," he said, appearing in front of her again, suddenly seeming quite dangerous. "I'm not actually a good fencer, but I'm a damned lot better than you."

"Well, you've had practice, haven't you?" she said defiantly.

"Not much," he shrugged.

Liar. William looked distinctly unimpressed.

"Now Thornton here should be a good swordsman," Draco observed. "His dad was damned good, if what my father says is true."

William shrugged. "Yes, I'm good."

No modesty there either. "I'll show you guys how it's done," he offered, confirming Hermione's thoughts.

He stalked towards Draco and the sword appeared in his hand. Hermione backed out of the way to join the spectators to watch quite an interesting match. William was a deft hand with the sword, and he had natural elegance. Draco, although not equally talented, was as fast as a snake. Time and again William advanced and Draco sidestepped. Neither of them were taking the loss of their male pride very well. William was clearly the better swordsman, which irritated Draco (she could tell by the way his sneer was increasing) and it was bothering William that although he was clearly the best, he hadn't managed to finish Draco yet. She could practically smell the testosterone.

Hermione became bored after a while. Crabbe yawned next to her.

"I hate fighting," she said brightly, trying to engage him into conversation.

"I like fighting," he said. "But with fists. And not when someone else is doing it."

Goyle nodded agreeably. "Ooh, look," he said.

William had somehow managed to make Draco's sword fall out of his hands, and it spinned in the air exactly twice before clattering to the ground.

Draco swept his blonde hair back and blew out his breath. "Not bad Thornton," he said neutrally.

"Not bad either, Malfoy," William responded politely, smiling in a friendly way.

They wanted to kill each other, Hermione could feel it.

Neither Crabbe or Goyle proved to be very good with the swords, although Goyle seemed to have some potential. Draco watched their play-fighting with obvious disgust, and when they'd finished he threw up his hands. "That's enough," he snarled. "We're all going to die. I'm going to take a walk."

And he stormed away before anyone could find anything to say.

"Moody bugger," Goyle managed at last.

"He thinks he's going to die," William observed. "I would also be cranky. Let's try the bow and arrow, perhaps you'll be better with that."

This was directed towards Crabbe and Goyle. Hermione was ignored. None of them were very good at hitting the target, which was a large tree about a hundred meters away. They were very good at hitting objects behind them, objects to their side, and on one account Goyle had almost killed William.

When it seemed no potential was forthcoming, and they'd gathered up the arrows scattered around the area, William sighed and motioned for Crabbe to hand his bow to Hermione. "We might as well try," she heard him murmur. "Hermione, have a go."

She plastered a smile on her face and took the bow and a handy arrow from Crabbe, seething inside. She put the arrow in rather inexpertly, drew back, looked at the target and shot.

The arrow bounced near her feet, and Crabbe and Goyle burst out laughing.

William was also trying to conceal a gleeful grin. "All right," he said, "Let's..."

The blood was pounding in her skull. She could feel a vein throbbing in her temple. She curled a fist around the bow. "No," she said. "I want another shot." This statement sent Crabbe in another fit of laughter. William nodded condescendingly, obviously thinking that he should humor her.

Hermione swallowed, and drew another arrow into the bow. She cleared her mind, ignoring the amused snorts somewhere behind her. She focused on the tree, making it the vocal point of all her anger. Her hand drew back and she released the arrow...

"Nice try," said William, who wasn't even watching the arrow speed across the field. Hermione smiled grimly as it shot into the tree.

"We'll just..." William looked at the tree, where the arrow was still quivering. He looked back at her and then back at the tree. Crabbe and Goyle had stopped laughing and were staring at her as if she'd announced that she was carrying Voldemort's unborn child.

There was much clearing of throats and many feet scuffed the ground.

"Do that again," William said quietly.

Hermione complied. Seconds later another arrow quivered alongside its predecessor.

"Again," Goyle implored hoarsely.

Hermione drew the bow back naturally and the fourth arrow dashed through the air. All of them noticed the blonde figure moodily walking past the tree much too late.

"Draco!" four screams tore through the air, and Draco looked up into the oncoming arrow. A look of pure horror crossed his features. 'Duck,' Hermione willed him silently. 'Duck.' What the hell. "Duck!" she yelled.

It took him a moment but he dived to the ground. The arrow brushed past his head, and he yelled and crumpled to the ground.

Oh no.

Hermione ran towards him, hoping and praying that she hadn't killed him.