Take My Hand

*** *** ***

The next morning, everyone was buzzing about the library incident. The charm Draco had used on the statue was of his own design. And, most unfortunately, he had yet to discover the counter charm. He and Tate both received six weeks of detention. If either wanted to study in the library, they had to visit Madame Pince first, who would cast silencing charms on them for the duration of their library time. Fifty points were taken from Gryffindor, and fifty points from Slytherin.

Overnight, Tate went from well-liked to black-listed. Keeping the company of a Slytherin had a worse effect on her reputation than Hermione had imagined. Apparently Tate hadn't foreseen the shock and fury either. When she arrived at breakfast the next morning, her usual seat between Ginny and Dean was gone. Dean sat next to Ginny, and the only vacant seat was near the end of the table. She blinked twice at the new arrangement, but took her seat without comment.

For the entire duration of classes that day, not a single Gryffindor so much as cast a glance toward their shunned housemate.

Ginny and Hermione nervously kept their distance - they weren't nearly as furious with her as the others, however it seemed in their best interests to wait until the situation cooled down. More than once Hermione tried to catch Tate's eye and send her comforting glance, but Tate never allowed her guard to come down. She bore the silence with the air of someone who couldn't give a second thought to anything. She ignored the dirty looks and passing comments, and concentrated solely on her studies. The weeks passed slowly, and the general mood did not change, even as February approached.

*** *** ***

Snape sat in his office, in his beloved swiveling chair, looking intently at a small vial that sat before him. On the opposite side of his desk, Draco watched him curiously. Tate sat beside him, eyeing her teacup cautiously.

"Oh, come now," Snape said irritably, "I've not poisoned that tea. Despite what you may have heard, my cooking is not lethal." Tate broke into a smile, and shrank away from him in mock terror.

"But sir, all the Gryffindors say you're planning to destroy the world."

Snape managed a small smirk. "Gryffindor and houses alike be damned, so let's to the matter at hand shall we?" Tate shrugged, and grudgingly took a sip of her tea. It wasn't bad, after all, but it needed sweetening.

Snape swiveled around in his chair, opened his cabinet and withdrew a stainless steel flask. He regarded it momentarily, unconsciously rubbing his eye where the potion inside had splattered him two months before. Turning around slowly to face his two students, a look of veiled admiration graced his face. He weighted the flask in his hand carefully, before handing it over to Tate. She quickly put the potion in her robe pocket, and lifted her eyes to meet Snape's glittering black ones.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "It means the world to me." Draco looked pensive, as though he wanted to say something. Instead, he looked at the floor, an unnatural emotion spreading through him. Snape nodded curtly at Tate, as though eager to end the meeting. Cordials and acceptance of pure gratitude were not his strong suit.

"Get on with you," he said quickly, and spun around in his chair. Tate smiled and rose from hers, Draco following suit. As they were walking out, a murmured 'good luck' came from behind Snape's chair.

"Thanks," she whispered as she exited his office. Draco fell into step beside her, neither speaking for the length of the corridor. At the juncture in which they would part ways for classes, she turned to him suddenly.

"You know this means I'll be leaving soon."

"I know," replied Draco, shifting his eyes to hers. He shrugged. "You'll be back soon."

She smiled, rather unsurely, and put a hand chummily on his shoulder.

"When..." Draco faltered for a moment, regained his composure, and spoke more clearly. "When do you leave?"

"Next Wednesday," she replied, "Eight days." Draco nodded.

"Snuck up on me, it did. I mean, you told me a month ago, but it seems like...seems like yesterday."

"I've known for ten years. Nothing ever prepares you for it though," she whispered. "You're late for History of Magic."

"And you're late for Herbology," chided Draco. "See you after dinner, then?" Tate nodded, and they parted ways. As Draco begrudgingly slouched up the stairs towards the most boring class he'd ever encountered, the burning feeling in the pit of his stomach began to flood through his body. The first true friend he had ever had was leaving, and he was frightfully unsure whether or not he would ever see her again. The latent fear tasted metallic upon his tongue, and try as he might, he could not push it aside.

*** *** ***

The following day, the mood in the library was sober and tense. Hermione worked diligently on her Potions Essay, while Ron and Harry bemoaned the latest Divination project Professor Trelawney had assigned to them.

"I can't believe this," Ron fumed, "Mum said before that this particular reading is one of the most difficult seeing procedures ever!" Parvati and Lavender, seated at an opposite table, giggled pointedly, and began to talk loudly about their excitement. Ron snarled briefly at them, and then turned to Hermione.

"I'll never forgive you for dropping Divination, Hermione," he lamented, half-joking, "I need you and you're off doing your little Arithmancy tables!"

"Divination is a fuzzy little ball of bullshit, taught by a barmy old loon," she snapped, without looking up. "I'd be forced to punish myself if I were still bothering with that rubbish." Harry looked up in surprise.

"Really, Hermione, there's no need to swear." Ron shot her a disapproving look.

"Perhaps not," she mumbled. She looked over her potions essay, and the words swam in front of her eyes. She passed a hand over her forehead. Her concentration was nowhere near its usual blade like edge. There was an awful nagging in the back of her head - an endless song that played over and over. She'd been trying all day to force herself to stop thinking of it, and that had merely caused it to swing full force. Harry noticed her discomfort, and swung an arm over her shoulder, pulling her head down to rest on his. She sighed, and closed her eyes briefly.

"Overworked, are'ya?" Hermione nodded. On top of Snape's ridiculously elaborate essay, her transfiguration thesis was due in two weeks, an in-depth Arithmancy project was scheduled for the fifth of April (giving her a scant three months to compile nearly ten thousand years of relevant facts into a single hour of an oral report), and she had been selected to assist in the translation of a recently recovered Runic scroll, dating back to the third century. It was an amazing honor, but extraordinarily time consuming. She, Hannah Abbot, and Terry Boot, the top Runic students, had been informed of their extra credit assignment that very afternoon, and all three had been delighted. However, it demanded hours of intense work - at least two hours every single day, weekends included. This didn't bother Hermione in the slightest, but it was starting to weigh on her. She always seemed to take on too many responsibilities. It was an endless cycle. She would begin the year promising herself that she would relax for a while, enjoy her last few semesters, but no. She would overload her schedule, her hunger for knowledge seemingly overpowering her need of a well-deserved break.

"There goes the quiet one," Ron whispered to Harry. Hermione turned, and saw Tate approach Madame Pomfrey, who removed the silencing charm from her (but not before fixing her with a wilting glare). Tate bent her head, and exited the library, without so much as a glance toward the table Hermione occupied.

"Honestly, Ron. It's been three weeks. You really must get over all this." Ron frowned at her. "And you too, Harry! You're being very unkind!"

"Unkind?!" Ron was flabbergasted. "Unkind? Hermione! She transfigured that statue into Harry's likeness, and all you can do is nag at us for not wanting to talk to her?! That's ridiculously hypocritical."

Hermione glared right back at Ron. "Malfoy transfigured that statue, and you know it!" Ron waved a dismissive hand at her.

"It doesn't matter. She was with him when he did it. I've a mind to say she's sneaking around with him all the time!"

"That didn't stop you from ignoring her when she went to the Yule Ball with him." Ron's eyes blazed in fury.

"She didn't know any better then! She was new, she couldn't have known how awful he was then. She's got no excuse now."

"I'll second that," Harry cut in. Hermione drew in a breath, intending to continue her argument, but suddenly, she was very tired. Too tired, in fact, to beat a dead horse. It was more or less useless for her to continue berating Ron and Harry over something they would never see her way.

"Well, I'm off then," she said quickly, forcing a smile.

"Sweet dreams, love." Harry caught her shoulder, and gave her a lingering kiss.

Ron choked. "Oh, go on! Do that somewhere else!" Hermione chuckled, leaned over and messed up his fiery hair, ducking as he tried to swat her. "Oh stop that! Get on with you!" He grinned at her.

"G'night, gentleman." She swept away. Harry leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

"Is the Athena statue back yet?" Harry shook his head. "Did you get to see the other one?" inquired Ron.

Harry shook his head. "I expect they carted it off the moment Madame Pince found it."

"Pity," said Ron, "I heard it was rather funny."

"Funny or not, Malfoy created it. I've no interest in anything remotely associated with him."

Ron nodded his agreement. "I'll bet his father is furious. Maybe he'll ground him, or hex him, or ship him off to Durmstrang!" Harry smiled.

"We can dream, can't we?" He righted his chair, and looked at Ron. "Have you noticed," he began in a serious tone, "That the Slytherins are acting funny?"

Ron snorted. "Dunno what you mean, Harry. You say that as if they've always acted normal or something."

"That's not what I mean." Harry shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "They're actually angry with Malfoy for breaking the rules, have you noticed?" Ron stared at him. "You haven't noticed that?"

"Harry, they aren't just angry with him. They hate him. I've definitely noticed, I don't see how anyone hasn't. I suppose they finally realized what a complete pillock he is, although they still like each other. They're all mental, if you ask me." Ron returned to his book.

Harry shrugged, and bent his head over his Divination handouts. The next few weeks were going to be nightmarish. Trelawney claimed that the fates had "encouraged" her to implement a new teaching structure. For the next three days, they were going to be sifting through various tubs of disemboweled animal entrails. After that, they were going straight into blood signs. Ron shuddered involuntarily.

Harry was in the third paragraph of a particularly nasty description of how to read prosperity signs when looking at a handful of fresh pig bladder when Professor Flitwick scurried into the library. He disappeared behind the counter, and Harry craned his neck to get a better look, prompting Ron to take notice as well. Madame Pince was looking down, probably at Flitwick, and nodding. The tiny little wizard ran from behind the counter, Madame Pince behind him. They exited the library.

"Well, what was that all about?" Harry wondered.

"Let's follow them!" suggested Ron. Harry looked dubious.

"Ah, c'mon mate! We haven't had a good adventure in a long time!"

Harry grinned at him. "Let's go get the map." They seized their books and dashed out of the library.

*** *** ***

"What a bloody shame," Ron fumed, shifting his weight under the Invisibility Cloak, "Why can't they just meet in the Great Hall?" He glared murderously at the locked Staff Room door. So far, they'd only been able to make out slightly muffled phrases like 'earlier than we expected', 'totally unprepared', and 'move up the dates'. Must've been an issue with fifth year O.W.L.S.

"Probably to avoid manky little earwigs like us," admitted Harry. Ron clenched his jaw. "Let's go see Hagrid. He'll know what's up."

"Are you mad, Harry? It's bloody freezing outside!" Harry shrugged.

"Then we'll run. Since when does snow bother ickle Ronnie?" Ron sighed in defeat.

"All right, but check the map first and make sure he's home. Otherwise, I'll be stepping over your dead body to get to bed." Harry chuckled and pulled the map from his pocket. It was already activated, as they had used to it to discern the locations of Professor Flitwick and Madame Pince. Harry scanned it briefly.

"Nah, he's in there," Harry pointed to the Staff Room.

"Damn!" Ron was a bit enthusiastic. "Well, it's off to bed then, isn't it? C'mon, up you get, let's go." He started to trot away.

"What the hell is she doing outside?"

"Who?" Ron leaned over to look at the map. Harry pointed a black dot, labeled 'Summere Blackeberry'. Ron pressed his mouth into a thin line.

"Who cares? C'mon Harry, I'm tired."

"Fine, you go on, but I'm going to see what she's doing."

"That's spying, Harry. Aren't we beneath that?"

Harry laughed. "I'm sorry, remind me. What were we doing down here in the first place?" Ron grimaced. "Thought so. C'mon." They took off down the hall. Unbeknownst to them (but knownst to us - A/N: Haha) the Staff Room was alive with fear and scrambling. Months of planning were about to be shattered, and evil was preparing to spring forth. Voldemort was through stirring, and his malevolent forces were moving quickly toward inevitable confrontation. The professors had just been informed that they were to rapidly rearrange the delicate network they had been preparing all year. Not fifteen seconds after Harry and Ron left, the door opened and teachers flooded out and scattered in all directions, every one of them with an indispensable job to do. Dumbledore paused at the door, and inclined his head in the direction the two boys had run off in. He smiled in their wake of boyish excitement. Professor Snape came to stand beside him.

"Should we tell her now, Headmaster?" Dumbledore shook his head.

"No sense in worrying either of them straight off," he said, "They were already set to depart in a week. This date will not change. I will tell both of them on Wednesday, as planned." He turned a smiling eye to Snape. "Besides Severus, it is not certain yet whether our recent information is correct. Until we know for sure, I see no point in adding unnecessary fear to the shoulders of our young friends. Let them have this last week in blissful ignorance." The two men bade each other good night, and left for their respective quarters.

*** *** ***

After a few minutes of running, Harry and Ron were fast approaching the balcony, when a shriek split the silence.

"You disgusting bastard!"

Harry froze, causing Ron to slam into his back. They both toppled over.

"Blimey, Ron, can't you watch where you're going?"

"Right Harry, since I could see you and everything! Did you hear that shout? Sounded like Ginny."

"Shh, someone's coming!" Indeed, the sound of running footsteps filled the corridor. Ron seized Harry, and they both rolled toward the wall, and not a second too late. Ginny came flying down the hallway, her red hair undone and streaming behind her like a river of fire. Her bare foot came down, mere inches from Harry's face. She was crying. Seamus was in hot pursuit. Ron growled, and began to get up. Harry caught at his cloak.

"NO," he whispered, dangerously, inclining his head toward Seamus. "This is their business. Not yours."

"Ginny, will you please wait! I can explain!" Seamus caught up to her and seized her arm, pulling her to a halt. "Please, there is a logical explanation to all this mess."

She struggled against him, scrunching her eyes against the new onset of tears. "You're damned right there is! You're a lying bastard, and I'm sorry I ever wasted any time on you!" She yanked her hand away, and drew it back.

SMACK. Seamus stumbled as Ginny's hand impacted his cheekbone, saw stars and three or four Ginnys sweeping down the hall. Seamus looked after her for a moment, and then began to swear.

Ginny continued to run, her tears impeding her vision. The events of the past ninety seconds began to replay themselves in her mind.

She'd been walking to the Ravenclaw Common Room to find Mandy Brocklehurst. They'd been paired up in Astronomy, and were planning to complete their star chart that evening in the astronomy tower. She rounded the corner, and descended the staircases. On the fourth floor, unnatural sounds from an empty classroom distracted her sufficiently from her intended course. Peering in, she saw a girl with long, dark curling hair. The girl was fervently kissing a taller, blond boy. Ginny's heart stopped as she recognized the profile. Seamus. She viciously kicked the door wide open, and the two sprang apart. Recognizing the girl as a Hufflepuff fourth year, Ginny's heart began beating again, only to snap in her chest.

"Ginny," Seamus tried to be soothing, but she had taken off both of her shoes, and they bounced off of his forehead in succession.

And here she was. Violently, Ginny pushed open the double doors in front of her, and stumbled onto the fourth floor balcony. The frigid wind laced into her, nearly throwing off her balance. Her bare feet stung with the icy ground but she paid the pain no heed, and threw herself into the rail, sinking in tears.

How could this happen? Finding Seamus had been so uplifting to her. He had rescued her from her debilitating thoughts of Harry. He had saved her crumbling self esteem from extinction. He had shown her a new and different outlook. And now that was all gone. He had lied. She was nothing special, and never would be. She brought her hands to her face, and began to sob her troubles out onto the wind.

"Ginny?"

Ginny's head snapped up, the vicious wind whipping her hair into her eyes. She squinted against the elements as the blurry figure before her came into focus.

Tate sat, one knee extended, on the ground next to the door. Ginny was rather perturbed to see that she was wearing her ridiculous Birkenstocks, and didn't even look cold. She made no move to get up, but remained on the ground, regarding Ginny solemnly. A lit cigarette rested between her long fingers. She wore no gloves.

"What's wrong, Ginny?"

Ginny just stared at her, the magnitude of the situation lost on her tongue. She wasn't ready to bring it out into words yet. Tate seemed to recognize this. She drew herself up, and was at Ginny's side in a flash. She knelt next to her, but made no move to touch her.

"C'mon, hon. Get up. This is no place to be walking around in without shoes and a coat."

"No!" Ginny turned her face away, and recovered it with her hands. "I'm not going back inside. I don't ever want to see that...that asshole ever again!" Tate sighed deeply. Those few words were enough to grasp the situation. She pitched her cigarette over the side, and extended a hand to Ginny.

"At least come over there. It's warmer, I promise." Ginny didn't answer. She went totally limp, defeated. Tate slid her arm behind Ginny, and pulled the girl to her feet. Ginny complied, and allowed Tate to lead her over toward the door. The atmosphere went from brutally cold to comfortingly warm. Ginny looked at Tate in confusion.

"Handy warming spell," Tate explained. "S'called thermae. One of the first spells I ever learned. It'll keep a five by five foot area warm until you take it off." Ginny nodded, not really listening. She sank down on the ground, and Tate flopped down beside her. Ginny gently touched the ground. God, even the snow was pleasantly toasty. Tate pulled a lighter from her pocket, and lit a new cigarette. Ginny wrinkled her noise against the unpleasant smell of smoke.

"I'll never understand why people do that," she said sulkily. Tate shrugged, and inhaled deeply on the cancerous little concoction.

"Nor will I." Tate regarded the white stick with contempt. "It's an awful habit, I know," she met Ginny's eyes. "But we all have that one thing we wish we could quit. It just won't go away, no matter how hard you try."

Ginny snorted. "Easy for you to say. You could just stop buying them. I have to see him every day." Tate nodded, and trained her eyes on the ground.

"Seamus?" Ginny shook her head miserably.

"Harry." Tate started to cough violently, exhaling smoke in great volumes.

"Harry?! You've got to be kidding. You like him?" Ginny shrugged in desperation, and placed her index fingers against her temples, willing a familiar migraine to go away. "Aren't you dating Seamus?" Ginny's face darkened.

"Not anymore."

"Ah...catch him cheating, did you? That'd be a logical explanation to this outburst." Ginny nodded, in dark misery. "Wow. That sucks. That really sucks. I'm sorry Gin."

"With a fourth year."

"Oh man. A fourth year...that's rough. I heard he was a cradle-robber, but geez..." She smiled at the broken redhead. "Well, look at it this way. You'll no longer be unfulfilled by the notorious Irish Inch." Ginny giggled weakly. "Hang with me tonight. I've got an evening of laughter planned. Will you join?" Ginny shrugged, but nodded.

"I'm in need of some laughter, that much is true. What'll we do?" Before Tate could answer, the double doors burst open once again. Tate jumped up, and blocked Ginny with her cloak. Ginny shrank back, expecting to see Seamus burst out. But that was not who had arrived.

"Sorry I'm late. Potion took longer to brew this evening." Ginny would know that drawling voice anywhere.

"Good. Are you sure it worked."

"Tate, I live with the Potions Master. Dare you question his genius?"

"You WHAT?!" Ginny suddenly covered her mouth, realizing she probably should not have spoken just yet. Draco gently shoved Tate aside, and glowered down at the youngest Weasley. Then he locked his pale grey eyes with Tate's flashing brown ones.

"What is she doing here?" His voice was slow and controlled, yet there was a dangerous undertone. Tate held his eyes unwavering.

"She's had a bad time of it tonight, Draco, and she'll be joining us."

"She most certainly will not!" Draco was furious, and fixed Ginny with his most hateful gaze possible. "I'll not be showing my secret room to a Weasley."

"If your secret room is not fit for a Weasley, then you can be sure I won't step foot into the steaming little cesspool of yours. I'm sure it reeks of foul bigotry, you heartless prick."

All motion stopped. Tate and Draco looked down at Ginny in stark surprise. Ginny was shocked at herself, but she glared at Draco in unwavering resentment. Something behind those pale grey glaciers melted at her harsh words, and - for a fleeting moment - approval and respect shadowed the chiseled bones of his face. He did not speak. He merely angled his face toward Tate, and nodded slightly. His hand snaked toward her jacket pocket, and dropped something inside. Then he spun on his heel and disappeared through the double doors. Tate turned to Ginny, and extended a hand to her. Ginny took it, stood, and regarded her friend with renewed curiosity. Tate, without letting go of Ginny's slender hand, retrieved her wand from her pocket, waved it quickly, and frigid cold replaced the pleasantly warmed enclosure. She leaned over, seized her sky blue satchel, and passed through the double doors, pulling Ginny with her. The two padded quickly down the hall.

At the hall's juncture, Ginny made to go up the stairs, but Tate shook her head, and pulled her away from the path to the Gryffindor common room. Ginny looked at her in confusion, but followed her, their hands still linked.

Tate led her down many unfamiliar corridors, but then again, Ginny had to remind herself that one could live in Hogwarts for a hundred years, and still never distinguish one corridor from another in the dead of night. Currently, they were traipsing down a side corridor on the second - third? - floor, lined with coats of armor.

Tate stopped in front of a nondescript coat of armor and gently lifted its arm. Ginny's eyes widened in excitement as a narrow section of the wall behind slid apart, revealing an opening that would accommodate a small child. Ginny snorted in disbelief, as she measured the hopelessly tiny entrance. Tate was nearly six feet tall, and she herself was not far behind at 5 foot nine and a quarter. There was no way either of them were going to fit through that wisp of an opening. Tate, sensing her apprehension, inclined her head to grin at Ginny. Then she slipped between the coats of armor and somersaulted into the small passageway. Ginny, still in a daze, followed suit, albeit less graceful. She thumped into Tate, who kicked a protruding brick in the rather claustrophobic passage, causing the wall to close behind them. Ginny's breath began to come in harsh, ragged gasps as the claustrophobia set in on her. Tate's body tensed, and then pulled away from her.

"Lumos." Light streamed through the passage, and Tate reached into the small enclosure, seized Ginny's arm, and pulled her two or three feet forward. Ginny felt the suffocating walls of the tight passage disappear, and forced herself to open her eyes. She blinked twice, and saw only ceiling. She sat up, and surveyed the room. It wasn't very spacious - more long than wide, really. The room was probably fifteen feet by thirty. A large, arched window connected the room to the outside, and Ginny surmised that it was likely quite pleasant during the day. A plush green carpet lay in the center of the room, flanked by several fluffy bearskin rugs, complete with faux heads and limbs. Silken tapestries, the color of amethyst, gilded the walls. Naturally, no Hogwarts room would be complete without a roaring fireplace, however, the fireplace in this room was most elaborate. Extending from the top and sides of the hearth were inlaid filigrees of silver and gold, intertwining in the shapes of licking flames. It was quite magnificent.

"How on earth did you find this place?"

"I didn't. It's Draco's room." Tate surveyed the room with a small sense of pride. "You should've seen it the first time I came in here. It was awful, all done up in black and green and silver. Draco has no future in interior decorating." Ginny giggled at the thought of Draco as an interior decorator, complete with clipboard, flashy designer clothes, and a pronounced lisp. "He's been coming here since he was a third year. I think his mother told him about it, but I could be wrong. His father didn't, though, that much is for sure." Tate grinned, walked over to a corner piled with strange looking contraptions and flopped down on a polar bear rug.

"Why wouldn't his father tell him about this place?" Ginny asked. "The way he's always going on about that bastard, you'd think he'd hung the moon." She grimaced at the mention of Lucius Malfoy, and staunchly tried to ignore the ice cold shiver that stabbed at the base of her spine. Tate remained expressionless, but her eyes grew dark. She busied herself with a knick knack from the pile of odds and ends.

"When was the last time you heard Draco going on about that man?"

Ginny opened her mouth, and quickly shut it. Truth be told, she couldn't remember a specific time in the last few months, but she was sure he had. However, she decided to abandon the subject, as Tate seemed rather put out by the mention of the eldest Malfoy, and Heavens knew that Ginny loathed the subject of Lucius Malfoy with all the fires of hell.

"What's that you've got there?" Ginny joined Tate in the corner, settling herself on a grizzly bear throw. Tate looked up at her, eyes flashing in glee, and spread several things out in the space between the two.

"This," she gestured to a metal framework that had tiny wires protruding from every which direction, "Is going to be a car." Ginny snorted, and shot her a look of disbelief.

"No, really! It's not going to be a normal sized car, of course, but it'll move around. And this," she pointed to a smaller metal box, "Is what we'll use to make it move. I've just got to finish putting it together."

"Oh really? Well that's just excellent! By the by, could you come with me to the animal shelter next Tuesday? You-Know-Who and I have moved into together, and we're looking to pick out a cat to share our cozy flat." Tate looked up at Ginny, who was grinning wryly, and raised an eyebrow.

Tate began muttering to herself. "Now, where is that stuff Draco gave me...Aha, here it is." She withdrew a glass vial from her jacket pocket, and placed it on the ground. Plunging a hand into her satchel, she retrieved a black velvet case, and unfolded it, revealing several silver tools. Ginny watched in fascination as Tate took a pair of shiny pliers and began connecting wires all over the framework. Every once in a while, she'd dab a bit of the potion from the vial onto the wire connections.

"Here," she said, placing the vial closer to Ginny, "It'll go faster if you help me. Will you put a little bit of this stuff on the remote? Just put a dab of the potion anywhere a wire is showing." She handed Ginny the small metal box, which Ginny assumed to be the "remote", and Ginny set herself to work.

"Congratulations on your Quidditch game today."

Ginny glowed in flattery, despite her miserable evening. She valued compliments concerning her Quidditch style above all other praise (even over Harry - something she prided herself on). It made her feel worthy, in comparison to the rest of her family. She tried to curb her grin, and blushed, muttering a 'thank you'. Tate pressed on, doing her best to lift Ginny's dark mood.

"How long you been flying, anyways?"

"Goodness, since I could walk really, so I'd say about twelve years or so. You could say it runs in the family." Tate smiled and nodded, her eyes trained on the car. "What about you? You seem very athletic, why aren't you on the Quidditch team?"

Tate looked up at her with an incredulous expression. "Me? On a broom? Hell no, not a chance." Ginny looked almost affronted.

"Well, why not? Flying is the most liberating feeling in the world. All my troubles disappear when I get on my broom."

Tate laughed, and shook her head resolutely. "That's where we're different. All my troubles would begin if I got on a broom. Those things freak me out."

"You're mad! Have you even tried getting on a broom before?"

"Oh sure, Ron tried to make me over Christmas. It just felt unnatural." Ginny looked thoroughly unconvinced. "All right, fine Ms. Broomstick Queen, here's how I see it. Would you go boating on a stick?"

Ginny made a face. "Well, no, but I don't see how that's got anything to do with -"

"Of course you wouldn't. I wouldn't go sailing on a stick. And I won't fly on one either! This girl doesn't go flying without a plane or a parachute."

Time began to pass pleasantly, as the two playfully argued and toyed with the delicate craftsmanship. Ginny become so absorbed in the conversation, she neither heard the passageway slide open. However, when Draco somersaulted into the room, she jumped and dropped the remote.

"Very graceful, Weasley." It was infuriating how fluid and polished Draco looked, even when he had just rolled into a room. Ginny shot him a look of disdain, and returned to dabbing potion on the "remote". Tate rolled her eyes dramatically, and shook her head, concealing the smile on her face. When Draco was in the company of other girls, his demeanor was drastically different. His early years of refined etiquette and polished style resurfaced, and the charm he managed to exude was legendary. He moved with the sleek grace of a cat, and his eyes held the promise of treasures unknown. It was amusing to say the least. Around her, the grace was forgone - he was goofy, very open-minded, and totally comfortable in his own skin. Comfortable enough to make ridiculous crude jokes and talk about conquests and failed relationships. She was the closest equivalent to the best guy friend he'd never had.

"Start without me, did you?"

Tate smiled up at him innocently. "Yes. Also tried to lock you out, but the damned knight wouldn't listen to me."

"No one listens to you. You really must accept that."

"Well, you're right on that one. No new developments, in case you were wondering. Gryffindor still remains cold and silent, with the exception of Ginny and Hermione." Draco laughed airily. "Which brings me to another point. We need to talk."

Draco grew solemn. "Ah, the worst four words in the English language."

"Well, it's either that, or 'whose bra is this'?" Tate reached behind the polar bear, and lifted a frilly little negligee with her pinky finger. Ginny, who had buried herself in the remote control in order to keep from looking at Draco, looked up in interest.

Draco furrowed his brow in deep thought. "Hmm...pink...who wears pink..."

"Pansy wears pink." Tate clucked her tongue and met his glare with a grin.

"The day Pansy gets into this room will be the day I fall on my knees at Trelawney's feet and profess my undying love. That's probably Blaise's...or maybe Patil's." Ginny's jaw dropped.

"You're not carrying on with Parvati?!" Draco glanced at her lazily.

"And if I am? I don't see how that is any of your business." Ginny tried to tame her building anger.

"The long 'arm' of Draco reaches deep," giggled Tate, "His promiscuity is unmatched." Draco smirked with pride, but frowned when he saw a familiar gleam in Tate's eyes. "Ever wonder who was responsible for the massive outbreak of crabs six months ago, Ginny? You're looking right at him." Ginny burst into giggles. Draco scowled petulantly.

"You were not even here six months ago, Tate. And that outbreak was entirely Kevin Entwhistle's fault. Megan Jones made sure everyone knew that."

"Oh, fine. That's not even the point."

"There was a point?"

"Yep. This is the fourth, or maybe fifth, piece of naughty underwear I've found in three weeks. I've never seen anyone go through girls like you do. This is a small school! How is it that you're not constantly recycling?"

Draco shrugged. "They all get boring too quickly. Once they start their endless prattling about god-knows-what, I usually usher them out too fast for proper collection of clothing." Tate pursed her lips in disapproval.

"You know what your problem is? Your standards are too high -"

Draco interrupted defensively. "I kissed you!" Ginny's jaw dropped once again, and she fixed Tate with a look of disgusted anger.

"That's because my standards are too low. Besides, it was a favor." She ventured a glance toward Ginny, who was literally trembling in fury. Draco took note of the strange behavior as well.

"Jealous, Weasley?" Ginny's eyes lit upon Draco, who involuntarily backed away an inch or two. If hatred were a tangible entity, Ginny Weasley's eyes would've ripped him apart.

"Jealous? You're quite mad, you know." Her fiery eyes shifted to Tate, who held her ground. "Do you have any idea how upset Ron is about this whole thing? And here I've been, trying to convince him that you would never hurt him. And you've been carrying on with Malfoy? No wonder everyone is angry with you! You've been lying this whole time! You deserve this recent treatment, and much more!" Ginny slammed down the remote, and prepared to escape, but Tate seized her wrist in an iron grasp. Tate drew her forward, until the two were nearly touching noses. She spoke tightly, each word ground out like shattered glass through a mill.

"I would never do anything to hurt your brother. I never 'carried on' with anyone. You and Hermione are independent and understanding enough not to judge people on who they spend time with, but everyone else is content to pass judgment without a second thought. You're different than that, you're better, and you know it, so act like it." Throughout the entire delivery, Ginny was aware of an intense heat between Tate's hand and her wrist. Now that Tate had completed her tirade, she released Ginny's wrist, and looked at the floor. Draco placed a hand on her bare arm, and quickly pulled away.

"You need to control that, darlin'," he said matter-of-factly. Tate nodded without looking up, and seized her little car, attacking the wires with renewed vigor.

Ginny looked at him curiously, her anger gone, and replaced with sympathy. Tate was clearly very affected by the distaste Ron had recently displayed toward her. "What does she need to control, exactly?"

"That," he said, pointing to her wrist. Ginny examined it, and found that the skin was quite red.

"Oh, it's nothing," Ginny said dismissively, "She squeezed a bit tight, no harm done."

Draco rolled his eyes, and grazed his fingertips over Ginny's wrist. A new heat blossomed in her veins, but of a different nature altogether. He gently took her wrist and turned it over, tracing his thumb over the blue artery that pulsed beneath her ivory skin. "Feel that?"

"Feel what?" she asked, assuming what she hoped was a blank expression. Ginny was too busy masking her discomfort to notice Tate shoot Draco a severe warning. He dropped Ginny's wrist quickly and attempted to change the subject.

"Just to quell your heartbreak, I only kissed the little spitfire," he shot a playful glare at Tate, who wrinkled her nose at him, "Once. She begged me. It was a favor between friends, nothing more."

Tate clapped a hand to her forehead and groaned. "You lie like a rug!"

"Oh what? I don't!" Draco assumed a face of cherubic innocence. Tate made a noise of fury in the back of her throat, and spoke to Ginny.

"A few days before the statue incident, we were in the library and Pansy was coming over to bother him - I don't know if you've heard this tragic tale, so I'll explain," At this, Draco shook his head in disgust, took the remote from Ginny and began to work on it earnestly.

"Pansy has a most unhealthy obsession with our blonde friend here, or more specifically his 'little' friend." Draco snorted and pointed out that precisely nothing about his "friend" was little. Ginny cracked up, remembering full well the many times she'd seen the horrid girl running after Draco in the halls (more often than not, he was sprinting to escape her).

"Therefore, she's developed quite a distaste for me on the side. So, she's at our table, yammering on about some bullshit, and Draco writes 'help me' on the corner of his homework. So I smooched him. She flipped out, called me 'trash', and took off. Two birds, one stone, it was great. I've never seen anyone so mad." Draco's shoulders shook in silent laughter, as he recalled Pansy's purple face.

However, Tate hadn't told Ginny the whole story. While Pansy did still have a voracious sexual attraction to Draco, she also now viciously hated him. The majority of the Slytherins did, what with his turn away from the Dark Arts. Up until recently (recently being the past three days), no one at Hogwarts (with the exception of the faculty) had known of his quiet refusal into Voldemort's ranks. Of course, Draco knew that, eventually, it would come to light. But nothing ever prepared him for it. For a year and a half, he quietly nursed his wounds of being disowned by his family. Now that his secret was out, his house, his supposed "family" away from home, had turned against him. However, contrary to popular belief, not all of the Slytherins were young Death Eaters in training. This didn't make Draco's change of heart any easier though. The Slytherins who did not subscribe to Voldemort were wary and afraid of Draco, both due to the possibility he might be a spy and to the consequences that might befall them from the other loyal housemates. Even without Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were a mighty force to be reckoned with, as was Pansy and Blaise. The four of them ruled the house with terror and hard faced tyranny. No one questioned them. They had taken Draco's place as Slytherin dictator.

Draco, being a Malfoy still, was not afraid of them in the least. They disgusted him beyond telling. Draco grimaced at the thought of the four, kneeling pathetically to a man who ruled with terror and violence. In front of Voldemort, everyone, even the strongest man, was a sniveling weasel. It was enough to turn his stomach every moment he was forced to sit among his housemates.

Now, he didn't have to keep up his friendly guise. He was free to ignore them in peace, publicly. In private, he avoided them, spending nearly all of his time with Tate, either in the library or in his special room. His mother had, in fact, revealed the room to him - Hogwarts was riddled with secret rooms, none of which showed up on the Marauders Map. The lucky finder of a room simply changed the entrance's mechanism or password, and no one else could ever get in unless the finder chose to reveal it to them (or blindfold them, which Draco had done on more than one occasion - usually with his never ending conquests).

"Done!" Tate crowed, and set the odd looking car on the ground, beaming proudly. Draco looked up and grinned. "How's the remote coming along?"

Draco snatched a small antenna from the pile of metal scrap, and carefully screwed it into the remote. He held it aloft and waved it around.

"Finished, as well." Ginny looked on in anticipation as Draco handed the remote to Tate. She accepted it, flipped it on, and pressed a button. The car sputtered slightly, and exhaled a tiny fume of red smoke. Tate started to verbally wheedle the car, and fiddle with the toggle stick. The car whined and putted, and spat a new cloud of purple smoke. Draco laughed heartily.

"Always with the purple smoke, Blackeberry! Be careful, or your precious car will explode like most of your potions!" She shot him a death glare, and resorted to swearing at the car. This didn't help matters, but it did cause the car to produce more of the same thick violet vapor. Ginny giggled as Tate's language got more colorful.

"C'mon, you fucker, go! Move! Drive!" It coughed angrily, as though offended by the stream of profanity. "You ungrateful little smackwhore! I order you to go!" More smoke. "I'll smash you into pieces, I swear! And then I'll make a toaster out of you and you'll never move! You'll be worthless!" The car stopped making any responses and went silent. "Oohhh, that's it you heartless bitch, you're getting shock treatment!" Tate threw down the remote, and staunchly ignored Draco and Ginny, who had both collapsed into unstoppable laughter. Ginny was on her back, hands over her eyes, giggling madly. Tate smiled slightly, and seized her wand. She pointed it at the car, muttering, and a small bolt of blue electricity arched from the point of her wand to the car. It buzzed excitedly, whined and expelled a massive cloud of blue vapors. She grinned, seized the remote, and the car came alive.

"HA! It's alive!" she shrieked wildly, as the car sped around the room under the control of the remote. It maneuvered in a wide circle, then spun around and clipped Draco on the ear as it passed. He howled in a victimized sort of way and summoned the remote away from Tate. She laughed and leapt lightly out of the car's oncoming path. Draco, Ginny, and Tate continued taking turns with the car well on into the evening.

"Well, that's it. I'm off. If you need anything, you know where to find me," said Tate as she slung her satchel over her shoulder.

"Right," grinned Draco, "On your fiery throne of the damned!" Tate laughed, shot him the finger, and somersaulted out of the room. Draco seized the remote from Ginny, and the car began to edge along the hearth. Ginny smiled uncertainly, a bit conflicted. She knew she shouldn't stay with Malfoy, but she didn't want to leave. No matter how much she tried to silence her conscience, the truth was she found Draco tolerable. She was even beginning to enjoy his company. Lost in her thoughts, she didn't realize the car was coming straight for her until it crashed into her knee.

"Ouch! Well, that wasn't very nice, was it?" Draco grinned sardonically at her, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not nice, remember Weasley? I'm an evil Slytherin." She pursed her lips together and studied his face briefly.

"You're not so evil," she said thoughtfully, stretching out on the recently vacated polar bear throw. "I've found you to be quite tolerable this evening."

"Have you now? Well, that's comforting. I'll shout it from mountaintops." She snorted, and redirected the conversation to a topic she held much curiosity in.

"How is it that you became such good friends with Tate so quickly? To be honest, Malfoy, I never thought you were one to befriend outsiders, especially Gryffindors."

Draco drew his brows together, and leaned on his elbow. He looked appraisingly at Ginny, taking in her innocent eyes and curious face. Inwardly, his conscience began debating. Why not tell her? It's not like anything is worth hiding anymore. He sighed slightly, and gave over.

"Well, I suppose there is no harm in telling you." Ginny looked at him with interest, lacing her arms behind her head. "A year and a half ago, I declined to join Voldemort." Ginny's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing, willing him to go on. This strengthened Draco's resolve, although he couldn't discern why. He had expected to see surprise, even doubt on Ginny's face, and yet she simply looked as though she half expected him to tell her that Lucius Malfoy's only child had refused his supposed destiny.

"Needless to say, it didn't go over well with my family, and I had no reason to stay."

"And you moved in with Snape?" Draco looked sharply at her, confused. She smiled. "You said as much earlier, out on the balcony." He softened, and ceased cursing mentally at Tate.

"Right. As you might imagine, most of the Slytherins would not look kindly on a decision such as that. Not to mention, no one from that house was really my friend to begin with. There's nothing substantial to relationships that are formed out of convenience. Plus, Crabbe and Goyle are the poster children for stupidity. I've had better conversations with brick walls and spiders." Ginny laughed, and Draco smiled at her. Her breath quickened slightly, and she prayed he took no notice.

"Anyways, there wasn't much for me to do, really, no new friendships to spark. People are too biased at Hogwarts, I had no interest in coming clean to anyone. And then she came to school." Draco paused, searching for the right words. "She didn't know anything about anyone, had no concept to the sort of gossip that runs rampant in this place. For the first time, I met someone who had never heard of the Malfoys, or of Potter, or even of Voldemort. She didn't have any biases to base me on, nor I her." As Ginny watched, his eyes grew compassionate and wistful. He sighed, and swept an arm out in front of him. "And there you have it."

Ginny had managed to keep her racing mind from expressing itself on her face. In her head, a battle was waging itself. Draco registered as human for the first time. She recognized compassion and morality in a person she thought harbored only cold and hatred. Something changed in her, and she found herself smiling at the silver haired boy in front of her, as though seeing him for the first time. Draco looked up, expecting her to speak, and was rather met with her beautiful smile. His breath hitched in his throat slightly, confusing him, and he tried to dig up a witty remark. But none came. Like a goofy child, he grinned back.

"It's nice to know blood flows through your veins, Draco," quipped Ginny.

"Hey, I never said that," he joked, and assumed his trademark Slytherin sneer.

"Don't do that," she said, "It hides your face."

"Nothing will ever hide this face," he grinned, "The gods of beauty have seen to that." She snorted, and looked at her watch. It was past midnight. Draco, seeing the tired look on her face, stood and offered her his hand. Taken a bit aback, Ginny took it, and he pulled her to her feet.

"I'll walk you back to Gryffindor," he said chivalrously, and Ginny felt a flush creep up her neck and face. Later that evening, in her bed, she would realize that, not once throughout her evening in Draco's secret room, did she think of Seamus. Or Harry.

*** *** ***

Hermione lay in her bed, curtains drawn, the tiny lantern attached to the left bedpost winking cheerfully. In her lap lay The Blessed Few, and she read it with an unnatural hunger. She was nearly finished with the introductory section that described the three cornerstones of the fascinating mind powers as far as humanly possible. Now, however, in the midst of describing the power that allayed telepathy, the author had begun to cite several interesting legends and prophecies, mulling over them thoughtfully. Hermione was beginning to realize that the book was not so much a volume of text, as it was a journal. The reader journeyed with the author as he outlined his plan of attack, discussing every aspect as fully as possible, and musing over the abundance of odd metaphors that sprinkled every legend.

The accelerated mind development of the telepath is designed to focus on specific teachings. Logically, whatever a telepathic child learns throughout his or her life will be retained in the photographic memory, however when certain aspects of learning and technique are focused upon (at minimum, a year), the telepathic child will develop the skills as far as humanly possible. Even if the physical body of the telepath is unable to complete such demands, the mind will systematically take over, enabling the body to comply.

The closest thing to mind control that telepaths possess is a heightened sensitivity to the emotions of other humans. One would do well to think of it as a radar. Telepaths can sense fear, excitement, sorrow, love, hate, and anger (to name a few - the scope of emotions is limitless). This sensitivity alerts telepaths to the presence of people they may not be able to see. When a telepath is particularly intimate with a fellow human being, the telepath learns to detect that particular person's aura, as a dog recognizes a smell. In addition, this "sixth sense" (to be cliché) allows telepaths to sense each other's powers. A telepath in close proximity to another telepath will be well aware of the others' presence and powers as a telepath. Physical contact between two telepaths can bring about many desired reactions, from sharing powers and information, to drawing the other into their respective memory. The sensitivity extends to include foreboding. A telepath's most precious sense is their ability to recognize impending danger (whether human, spirit, or other), and remove themselves from any such harm that may be in store. Telekinesis is, as defined in any dictionary, the ability to control objects with the mind. What the dictionary does not tell you is that the size of the object does matter. No one can lift a building, a car, or a dragon. It doesn't work that way. While the options of what one may lift or manipulate does definitely expand, there is no such "superhuman" strength involved. Leave that castle alone! Trying to move it will only give you a massive headache, and may even induce bleeding from the ears. If this should occur, clap your hands over your ears immediately. You don't want your precious brain leaking out anymore than your mother wants it staining her carpet. Then scold yourself for being an idiot.

Now that we have covered exactly what a telepath is/is not, their use and importance can be taken into consideration. Often the question is posed to me, what purpose do telepaths really serve, other than to flaunt their superior mind functioning over mine? The answer is not always what one would expect to hear. Allow me to make it clear, however, that we telepaths do not exist solely to annoy the non-telepathic (although this can be a perk, when presented with a particularly offensive non-telepath. My childhood at the prestigious Hogwarts comes to mind). Telepaths are the only effective weapons against any sort of psychic threat - human, spirit, or animal. Just as a polar substance will dissolve only in another polar substance, psychic power can be fought only with psychic power. Thankfully, in this modern day and age, the threat of psychic power has diminished remarkably. In fact, with the recent fall of Grindelwald and his enlisted furies, the percentage of active psychic demon activity has fallen so low, that the prestigious Ministry of Magic has deemed it non-threatening. To read up more on this important decree, the author recommends Annual Journal of the Ministry of Magic, 1945-1946. In addition to this, it should be noted that telepaths are, in fact, the only link with high, otherworldly powers (namely, the Four Elements - Earth, Air, Fire, Water). However, this link is shadowy, at best.

Shadowy? Hermione wondered, What does that mean? She read on for another fifteen minutes or so, before sleep overtook her.

*** *** ***

"Stop looking over my shoulder, Ron!"

Ron jumped back, guiltily. Hermione turned to glare at him. He batted his eyelashes at her, and she softened and began to grin.

"Write your own parchment, Ron. You won't get any help from me." Ron grumbled a bit, and returned to his own chair. Hermione turned her gaze back to the Potions essay she was poring over. Harry sat at her feet, his head against her knee, reading over his Divination notes.

The portrait door swung open, and Tate's head appeared.

"Hey 'Mione -- if you want to go do that potions stuff, we need to go now." Hermione eyed her suspiciously. She had done her hair again in that ridiculously annoying fashion - two braided coils over her ears, Princess Leia style - and Hermione knew for a fact that Tate only did it to bother her. She sighed heavily, tossed her book onto the end table, and rose to accompany Tate to Potions tutorials.

"Neville!" Neville looked up, rather alarmed at being addressed by...well, anyone. He looked at a spot a bit above Tate's head and nodded.

"Get up," she demanded, "You are coming with us." Neville blanched, and began to shake his head. Tate's amicable expression hardened.

"Ne-ville," she drew out the pronunciation of his name languidly, "Pretty please get up and join us." Neville looked helpless -- Tate was his Potions partner -- drew himself to his feet, and reluctantly followed Hermione out of the portrait hole. He followed three steps behind them, the two girls chatting rapidly as they went.

"Anyways," Tate was saying, "The whole movie was based on The Iliad. I can't believe YOU of all people don't know this!"

"I try to busy myself with school and not with something I only have time for in the summer!"

Tate quit walking. She looked at Hermione, a mask of pain upon her face. Hermione grimaced. Tate threw her hands over her chest and sank to her knees. She began mewling in pain, and Hermione started to shake in laughter.

"Fair Hermione!" squealed Tate in an abnormally high pitched voice, "Thou hast banished me from --" Hermione cut her off by smacking her across the back of the head. Neville winced at the loud CRACK! Hermione leapt around Tate, leaned over and seized her head. Tate yelped in mock fury, and Hermione buried her hands in Tate's hair and twisted. The cinnamon bun hairstyle was no more in less than three seconds. Neville began to back away, expecting Tate to explode in fury. However, she merely grinned, and snapped to her feet, scampering ahead to lead the way. She shouted over her shoulder at Hermione, her hair messily swirling out behind her, aspects of how Star Wars was paralleled precisely to Homer's epic poem, and Hermione would occasionally agree, but more often refute. Neville was getting quite interested in this...whatever it was they were talking about, when they reached the Potions door. Neville reddened, and tried desperately to curb his trembling. Tate placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Suck it up," she said -- he would've preferred her silence and the hand on his shoulder, but she viciously kicked the door open, and dragged him in. Snape stood behind his desk, analyzing some disturbing look potions. He looked up when the three burst through the door.

"And just what are you three doing in here?" he spat venomously.

"Doing our damn homework, Pro-fess-or." Tate batted her eyelashes at him. He eyed them suspiciously.

"Get on with it then," he snapped, "And get of here as soon as possible." Neville's face was quickly turning purple, and he was only too happy to comply. The three Gryffindors turned to the nearest cauldron.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione was once again surrounded by a giant purple cloud that reeked of candy. It seemed to be Tate's specialty in Potions -- screwing up and causing great purple vapors to arise and cover the class. The Slytherins had even grown tired of making fun of her for this, and that was definitely saying something. Even Snape seemed to be accustomed to it these days -- taking an obligatory ten points from Gryffindor without even looking up. This particular explosion had been one of the more powerful ones, and Hermione, Tate, and Neville were knocked off their feet, and lay tangled together on the ground. Hermione waved a hand through the thick purple cloud.

"GET OUT!" roared Snape. Tate, from her position on the floor, nodded. Hermione and Neville were practically clawing each other in their haste to disentangle themselves and escape. Tate got to her feet lazily and turned her head toward Snape on her way out. Something that echoed of fatherly love gleamed in her eyes and she grinned at him. He smiled, a real smile, back at her, as she skipped out of the room.

Exiting the classroom, Tate sped up to catch up with Hermione and Neville, although she knew the odds of that were extremely low - they had run out of the classroom like gazelles under attack. She sighed and put on speed, flying past the suits of armor who turned their heads to watch. Rounding a corner at breakneck speed, she pitched forward over an outstretched foot, and landed hard on the rough stone, her elbows and knees absorbing the impact of the spectacular fall. She skidded a few feet, groaned heavily, and flipped onto her back.

"Goddammit Malfoy, I thought we were beyond these little sneak up games!" No answer came, no blonde head appeared through the shadows. She examined her scraped elbows, briefly. "All right you little prick, if you want to settle this like men again, I'll be perfectly happy to kick your ass." She smiled good-naturedly, expecting Draco to appear out of the shadows and respond to her threat when an unnatural feeling struck her. Draco had not tripped her. She knew this because she had never before sensed an aura of such intense hatred when in his presence. She squinted into the darkness cautiously. Pansy Parkinson stepped into the light. Tate looked at her, reproachfully, and sighed in annoyance.

"Figures," she said. She raised herself on her elbows, preparing to get up when rough hands seized her arms and yanked her unceremoniously to her feet. They locked her arms behind her back like an iron vice. Anger began to bloom softly in her stomach, as she recognized the humid, garlic scented breath emanating over her shoulder as Goyle's.

"Can I help you two?" Her voice was light and airy. Pansy twisted her mouth into a smug sneer. Tate itched to slap it off her face, and then scolded herself for doing so.

Don't lose control, she repeated over and over in her head, Don't lose it, don't lose control.

"Why yes, you can." Pansy looked quite pleased with herself. "You see, there is this rather pressing issue of Draco Malfoy. We," she indicated herself, Goyle, and Crabbe who had come to stand beside her, "Want you to stay away from him. We would prefer it if he were miserable and friendless, as he was for so long. A dirty traitor deserves no less. Consider yourself warned." Pansy nodded to Crabbe, who advanced toward Tate. Tate braced herself, knowing he would probably smack her - she had an incredibly high tolerance for pain, but this boy was as big as a house. Crabbe drew back his fist and lit into Tate with all his strength. Despite herself, when his fist connected with her breastbone, she doubled over and gasped for breath. He was much stronger than she imagined. He slapped her, open-handed, across the face, and tiny sparks of black impaired her vision. Pansy simpered, and Crabbe drew back to knock her again when Goyle's eyes bulged, and he shouted in pain. He released Tate, and she went to her knees, still panting for the air that had been knocked out of her. Goyle stared at his hands, a mixture of horror and shock plain on his face. His hands were bright red, as if they had been scalded with hot water. Tate lifted her head and fixed her gaze on Pansy.

"Come now, Ms. Parkinson," she said silkily, between deep breaths, "Have you Slytherins no dignity at all? You've got to attack me, three to one, while one of your boy toys holds me down? I'd say you were losing your touch, but I doubt you ever had one to begin with. I'll give you all one last shot at a fair fight, before I make you sorry. Deal?" Pansy glared at her, furious over the dignity stab.

"Fine then, bitch. Get up."

Tate stood, slowly, taking her time. "Drop your wand." Pansy smirked, and laughed.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't fight that dirty mudblood way," hissed Pansy. "I fight the witch way, and if you aren't up to that, well, my condolences to your pitiful family." Tate clenched her jaw tightly. Pansy tightened her grip on her wand, and grinned malevolently as Crabbe snuck up behind Tate. This time, however, she was ready.

She whirled around, and kicked her leg high in the air, meeting Crabbe in the jaw. He howled, and she planted her elbow directly in his solar plexus. He backed away in fear.

"Scared, Pansy?" Pansy took a step back, glaring at her in fury. Suddenly, she shrieked in pain and dropped her wand, which was glowing orange in heat. Stunned, she stared helplessly at her useless wand. Out of ideas, she flew at Tate, scratching wildly with her long, emerald green nails. Tate was too surprised to react for a moment, allowing Pansy's talons to make contact with her. She scratched Tate's throat deeply, drawing blood in four perfect lines down her collarbone. Tate seized Pansy by the shoulders and held her at arms length, dodging the wild swings that came her way. Pansy managed to get a handful of Tate's hair, and she twisted her hand in it and yanked viciously.

Tate hit her limit. "That is IT, you bitch!" She spun around Pansy and twisted her arm behind her. Pansy squealed in pain, and squirmed wildly. Tate increased the pressure on Pansy's wrist, and Pansy stopped struggling.

"Had enough yet?" she growled. Pansy swore.

"Let her go." Tate peered over her shoulder. Goyle was behind her, his wand raised. She released her grip on Pansy, who whirled around to face her.

"Petrificus Totalus!" A stream of blue light shot from behind Pansy and struck Goyle dead center in the chest. He stiffened, having been hit with a full body bind, and fell over backwards, his arms straight against his side. Pansy whipped around to face his attacker. Hermione Granger stood behind her, wand raised.

"You leave her alone," she snarled. Pansy grimaced, and snatched up her own wand, wincing slightly at the waning heat, and pointing it at Hermione.

"A duel then?" She glared at her menacingly. Crabbe lurched forward, but Tate was faster. She crouched and spun, her leg catching him behind the knees, and he crashed to the ground. She leapt onto his chest, and the heel of her hand connected soundly with the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted as his nose broke, and he moaned painfully, clutching his face. Pansy whirled around and pointed her wand at the girl on her henchman's chest, but Tate's leg curved up in an arc and caught Pansy in the ribs. Pansy stumbled briefly and Tate was on her feet, seizing the collar of Pansy's robes. She lifted the Slytherin right off the ground and slammed her hard into the wall, holding her there and glaring in utmost fury. Pansy's mouth opened and closed like a fish, and her eyes flashed with fear and hatred. Her feet dangled a foot off the ground. Hermione placed a hand on Tate's shoulder.

"She's not worth it," she whispered. Tate ignored her. She brought her face within an inch of Pansy's.

"Consider yourself warned," she hissed, repeating Pansy's threat. She released her grip on Pansy's collar and the girl fell to the ground. She breathed deeply, rubbed her eyes. When she looked up, Tate and Hermione had gone.

*** *** ***

"Are you hurt?" Tate shook her head. "Stop walking so fast, will you? You forget that I'm half a foot shorter than yourself. Your legs are longer." Tate grinned slightly, and slowed her pace. "So, what the bloody hell was that?"

Tate shrugged. "I was running to catch up with you guys, and Pansy tripped me. They said they didn't want me being friends with Malfoy."

Hermione groaned. "I should've known. They're very protective of their kind, they are. Don't want him crossing over, I suppose." Tate shook her head.

"That's not it at all."

"Then why?"

Tate shook her head again. "It's not my business to tell you. You'll have to ask him yourself." Hermione scoffed, but half-heartedly. To be perfectly honest, she really didn't care about Malfoy's personal life. Hermione looked up at Tate curiously, and noticed the thin bleeding lines on her collarbone.

"Good lord, that girl has the fingernails of a banshee! I'm surprised you didn't snap her in half for that!"

"Years and years of discipline'll do that. Wouldn't have been a fair fight anyways. That girl is a swizzlestick." Hermione giggled. They turned down a narrow corridor and came face to face with Peeves.

"Oh great," Tate muttered. "'Lo there, Peeves. Off to jump in the sack with Myrtle?" Peeves grinned maliciously at the two.

"Late for classes, are you?" he jeered, in a maddening sing-song voice. "Out mucking up the halls for Filchy to clean?" Hermione began to back away, Tate following suit.

"Where ya goin', friends?" shouted Peeves as they turned and sprinted away. "Come back! I've got a surprise!"

"You're a freak, Peeves! Take some Zoloft!" shouted Tate, over her shoulder. Hermione looked at her in fury.

"Now you've done it, Tate!" Peeves was gaining on them, the wind whistling through his vaporous body.

"Run faster then! Find a shortcut, I know you know a million of them!" Hermione put on speed, and wracked her brain. Peeves was within reaching distance of them, and Hermione really didn't want to get doused with a freezing cold water balloon. They were coming up on a very familiar painting...

"There!" shouted Hermione.

*** *** ***

Harry and Ron sat in two overstuffed chairs in front of a roaring fireplace in the main kitchen, each clutching a butterbeer. Dobby sat across from them. Seeing as it was his day off, Harry and Ron had mutually agreed to chat it up for a bit with the house elf (the food, of course, had nothing to do with it!). The small elf was perched on a footstool, and grinning broadly at Ron, who had presented him with his annual Weasley Christmas sweater (shrunken to Dobby's size, of course). The elf was chattering on, happily.

"Dobby is not seeing Harry Potter for a long time, he isn't! Dobby has many things to tell Harry Potter!"

"Sure, Dobby," smiled Harry. Dobby's green tennis ball eyes filled with tears.

"Harry Potter is so nice to listen to Dobby! Harry Potter is so wonderful to visit Dobby! Dobby is not deserving such wonderful friends, no he is not!" Ron grinned, and rolled his eyes affably. "Dobby is wanting to tell Harry Potter and his Wheezy that Winky is doing very good in the House Elf Treatment Program. She is not drinking butterbeer for six months now! Dumbledore says Winky can come back to work next month. Dobby is very happy, he is - Dobby misses Winky very much." Dobby sighed, in what was clearly deep affection for the troubled Winky. Harry grinned

"That's great, Dobby. I'm sure you'll have an extra special pair of socks for her when she comes home, eh?" Dobby blushed deeply.

"Perhaps Dobby will sir, perhaps. Where is Harry Potter's miss, today?" Harry shrugged.

"I think she's in Potions tutorial with Neville and Tate."

Ron grimaced. "I truly never thought that anyone could be as bloody terrible in Potions than Neville. Who knew?" Harry laughed.

"Trust Snape to partner them together. Bet that tickles his sadistic fancies." He took a sip of butterbeer. "So Dobby, what else've you been up to, then?" Dobby's expression became grave.

"Dobby was lighting the fires in Professor Dumbledore's office yesterday when Dobby heard...Dobby heard..." He hiccupped, and seized his ears roughly. "Dobby heard his old master there!" With a screech, he leapt off the footstool and began banging his head against the floor. Ron swore, and seized the little elf.

"Dobby, you don't have to do that anymore, remember! You're free, please stop forgetting!" Dobby valiantly tried to compose himself.

"Dobby is sorry, sirs, but sometimes he forgets." Ron nodded.

"What did Lucius Malfoy say, Dobby?" Harry's voice held a hint of urgency.

"Dobby heard old master say that Dumbledore was beating a dead horse. But Dobby wasn't seeing no dead horses, so old master must be...CRAZY!" Dobby grinned excitedly, but his ears drooped when he realized his outburst had earned him several disapproving looks from the other house-elves. Harry furrowed his brow.

"Later, when Dobby was in the staff room, Dobby heard teachers talking about a gray man." Harry and Ron exchanged confused looks with each other.

"A gray man, you say?" mused Harry, "Did you happen to hear anymore?"

"No, Harry Potter, Dobby is only hearing that."

Ron sighed. "Well, we know who to ask then."

Harry nodded. Hermione, of course. She always knew the answer.

Suddenly, there was frantic scrabbling from behind the portrait that concealed the kitchen. Harry, Ron, and Dobby jumped, startled, and looked toward the door. The sound of shattering glass, and a roar of outrage filled the kitchen as the door swung open, and Hermione toppled in, Tate falling on top of her. They were both covered in bright red jam. Harry could faintly hear Peeves cackling like mad as he zoomed away. After a few seconds of recovery, Hermione began to whine like a wounded llama under Tate's weight. Tate rolled off Hermione and lay on her back, laughing hysterically.

"I don't see what could possibly be funny about this!" growled Hermione. "You go and hack off Peeves, which you know is stupid, and then we get covered in...in..."

"Jam!" gasped Tate, through her laughter.

"Right! Jam! And you find this funny? You're mad, do'ya hear me! Barking mad!" Hermione pulled herself into a sitting position, glaring at Tate. Tate's laughter subsided.

"C'mon, Hermione, have a sense of humour." She smiled, and licked her fingers. "Mmm, strawberry." Hermione cracked a very sarcastic smile, and noticed they were being watched.

"Oh, perfect," she muttered. Tate looked up and saw Harry and Ron's incredulous faces for only a split second. A huge mob of house-elves were running toward them, mops and buckets in hand. Hermione jumped up, and performed a quick cleaning charm on herself, and then backed away from the busy elves. Tate pulled herself into a sitting position, and looked in awe at the elves swarming all around her. Curiously, she touched one, and was rewarded with a great toothy grin from the tiny, bat-eared creature, who immediately asked her if he could get her anything. Tate stared, openmouthed, in mute awe. One of the elves, whom Dobby identified to Harry as Blinkin, leapt onto Tate's knees and snapped his fingers. The jam was instantly removed from her face and clothes. In a very uncharacteristic show of girlish demeanor, Tate squealed in delight and swept the house elf up in a hug.

"You are so adorable!" she cooed, and Blinkin struggled valiantly to escape her grip.

"Blinkin needs to be cleaning, he does! Miss must let Blinkin go! There is mess to be cleaning!" Tate reluctantly let the squirming elf go, and joined Hermione who was looking furious, and muttering about slave labor under her breath. Still fuming, she stomped over to the fireplace and flopped down on the hearth. Tate gingerly sat beside her. Dobby eyed Tate nervously, as though expecting her to attack and hug him.

"Lo, ladies," grinned Ron, "Having a spot of trouble with the local poltergeist, are we?" Hermione snorted, and gave him a one fingered salute. "You're cutting me right here, Hermione!" Ron pointed at his heart. She rolled her eyes at him, raised a hand and flicked Tate on the forehead.

"Ow!" shouted Tate, "That was unnecessary!"

"I'll be buggered if it wasn't," snarled Hermione, "You could've gotten us in big trouble with Filch."

Harry smiled. "But you're not in trouble, Hermione, so give over."

"Shut up, Harry! You are not involved in this conversation." Harry shook his head, and took another sip of butterbeer.

"Will Miss be wanting a butterbeer," Dobby inquired hopefully.

"That'd be lovely, Dobby, thank you," replied Hermione. Dobby scampered off, and returned almost immediately with two butterbeers.

"Thank you," echoed Hermione and Tate. Dobby grinned broadly, and resettled himself on his footstool.

"Hermione," Harry ventured, "Do you know what a gray man is?" Tate dropped her butterbeer. She managed an apology through chattering teeth, and her hands trembled madly as she groped for the bottle.

"Sure," piped up Hermione, casting an uneasy glance toward Tate, "A grey man, or Fear Liath More, is a demon. It's both physical and psychic in form. It can cause pretty awful effects with its' psychic attacks. Most people run into him in wide, open fields or hills, and they either die or go mad. The legend goes that the gray man procreated with balrog, and the spawn that resulted is a deadly amalgam of the two."

Tate ran a shaking hand through her hair. This wasn't right, it was too early, far too early. I'm supposed to have six more months, she thought, This isn't right, it can't be. We leave to train in five days, this is not right, not right, not right... "Where did you hear about a gray man," she whispered, her eyes trained on Harry.

"Dobby heard professors talking about the gray man, he did," squeaked Dobby. Tate looked at him sharply.

"What did they say?" As Harry watched, Tate's grip tightened rigidly around her butterbeer. Her knuckles were turning purple.

"Dobby doesn't know! Dobby doesn't like to be droppin' eaves around the noble professors!" Tate looked at him, her eyes wide and insistent.

"Did they say he was coming?"

Dobby shook his head. "Dobby heard them say he was awake."

The merrily crackling fire suddenly surged with intensity, sending a shower of sparks raining down on the Hermione, Tate, and the terrified house elf. Harry, whose eyes had not left Tate once during the exchange, felt a terrible sense of foreboding as her face turned ashen. The butterbeer in her hand suddenly shattered under the incredible force she had gripped it with. Everyone stared in shock, as she apologized profusely and hid her bleeding hand in her robes. A legion of house elves swarmed around her and swiftly erased any traces of the mess.

"Thanks for the butterbeer," she said rapidly, "I've got to go." She leapt to her feet and began to run, but Harry threw himself forward and seized her ankles, bringing her crashing to the ground.

"What do'ya think you're doing!" he shouted.

"I'm preparing to run away," murmured Tate, facedown on the floor.

"You're not going anywhere," snapped Harry, and sat on her legs. "What do you know about this gray man?"

"Nothing."

"You are a bloody terrible liar!" exclaimed Hermione. "You just reacted like a spooked horse!"

Tate jerked her head up and locked eyes with Hermione, causing Hermione to shrink back. Tate's eyes were glowing metallically, fear blazing like fire through the dark orbs.

"It's bad," she whispered, "It's very bad. If he's awake, it's because someone woke him up. And the only way you wake up a demon is by..."

"Making a pact with the devil," finished Hermione. She blinked in realization, and cradled her head in her hands, suddenly very tired.

"Right. Ten brownie points to the person who can figure out who would want to do something like that." The disturbed, heavy silence that lingered between the four students was the only answer anyone needed.

"There's more," murmured Tate.

"And what might that be?" asked Harry, now very suspicious. Tate hid her face briefly, cringing at the sharp edge in his voice. Lithely, she flipped over, catching Harry by surprise. He tumbled off of her legs and fell on his side by the hearth. She sat up and tossed a dismissive, icy glance in his direction.

"The grey man isn't enlisted by anyone. He doesn't make personal deals. If he is awake, it's to wake up his son." Hermione's eyes opened wide, glassy with comprehension.

After a long time, Ron spoke. "What do we do?"

Harry turned to him, his face slack with exhaustive fear. "We wait."

*** *** ***

Late into the evening, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were gathered around the fireplace in the common room, poring over endless volumes in search of something that would aid their cause. So far, they had come up with nothing, save for loose definitions and ancient anecdotes.

Ron raked a hand through his hair, and angrily tossed a massive book into the wall. Hermione jumped, and glared at him disapprovingly. Harry took no notice.

"I can't find anything substantial," Ron fumed, "Nothing but descriptions upon descriptions of the giant, evil monster that's going to eat us."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Nonsense. We're looking for history. It'll be in these books, we've just got to find the right one..." The minutes dragged by, and the hands on the clock seemed to turn at a cruelly accelerated speed of their own. Twice Hermione looked up to find that an hour had passed. Now it was one in the morning, and she was looking at another dead end. She knew that the offspring of the Grey Man and the Balrog would take on the most horrifying characteristics of its parents. There was no doubt it would inherit the body of the Balrog, wreathed in fire, standing at perhaps twenty five feet tall, give or take. And then the dark, psychic prowess of the Grey Man - a psychic evil so great, it could cause a man to go mad in a matter of seconds. Hermione shivered visibly, and continued turning pages in the Malum Insania. From her readings in The Blessed Few, she knew that psychic demons could be counterattacked with strongly telepathic humans. But, to her dismay, telepathy was not mentioned in a single book she had come across so far. In fact, she couldn't ever remember reading anything substantial about telepathy before The Blessed Few. Things weren't adding up. Why wouldn't there be records, documents, hell anything concerning the mental disciplines? She bit her lip painfully, and viciously swatted at the next page.

"I think I've found something." Hermione's head snapped up to look at Harry. His green eyes were almost indistinguishable under the flickering firelight reflection in his glasses, but she could tell he was excited. He climbed off his chair and joined Ron and Hermione on the floor, spreading the book between the three.

"Here," he pointed to a grotesque drawing of a Balrog, the Grey Man, and the child they had created. Hermione breathed a great sigh of fear, goose bumps starting on her arms and neck. Harry went on.

"It says here that the demon was defeated by two powerful wizards, by the use of a difficult invocation spell. The spell allowed them to take control of lightening for a short time span. Since lightening is pure, it's supposed to be able to send the demon back to Hell. But see, look here," Harry gestured to another sketch, in which the monster was spirited away into a black crevice, surrounded by shades, "It didn't work right. Something went wrong, see the two wizards?" Hermione looked closer at the picture, and saw the two wizards lying still on the ground. "They died before the spell could be completed. So the demon went back to Hell, but it wasn't crippled like it was supposed to be. It could come back."

Ron peered closely at the pictures, and then looked searchingly at Harry. "So that's it? They just happened to snuff it at the exact moment the monster was going back into Hell? What a pain in the arse, the least they could've done is finished the job." He moaned dramatically, and flung himself on his back, covering his eyes. Harry turned to Hermione, annoyed with Ron's juvenile display.

"What do you make of this?" Hermione looked alarmingly blank.

Harry's eyes faltered on her, blinked, then slid back to the book. He clenched his fists tight, willing them to stop trembling. He'd never seen anything like these pictures before, and the sight of the monsters, even though they were only in pencil sketch, was terrifying. He couldn't even begin to imagine the possibility of facing one down.

"I don't know," she whispered breathlessly, "I just don't know."

"I do." Harry and Hermione whipped around. Tate stood behind the couch, looking imposing and mysterious. The firelight danced on the features of her face, making her eyes glitter and reflect sinisterly, like a cats', while the rest of her figure was shrouded in the darkness of the room. Ron sat up like a shot, and his eyes darkened considerably at the sight of her. She moved silently around the couch, and came to stand beside Hermione. She regarded the three solemnly before sitting.

"The two wizards died from exhaustion." She pointed to the two prone figures. "The invocation of lightening is extremely difficult, and a fantastic drain on the resources of the people doing it. Death is usually expected, but these guys had bad timing. The spell wasn't finished, the demon wasn't crippled."

"Yes, we've established that," snapped Ron.

She ignored him. "To invoke lightening, you need two telepaths. They're the only kind of people that can withstand such intense power. Unfortunately, they've got to be special kinds of telepaths. One of them has to be pyrokinetic. The other has to be untrained."

"Wait," Harry interrupted her. She looked up from the book. "Why does it matter which one is untrained? Why can't the pyrokinetic be untrained?"

"Because an untrained pyrokinetic will die after their powers emerge. Without proper instruction, they won't be able to control it, and eventually they end up incinerating themselves," replied Hermione.

"Right," said Tate, glancing at Hermione.

"I don't get it. Why would one of them need to be untrained? Sounds rather daft to me." Ron voiced what no one would say. Three pairs of eyes fixed themselves on Tate.

She shrugged. "I don't know why, I didn't make up the goddamn spell. I've heard lots of reasoning for it, nothing seems to cover it fully though. I think that its set up this way so you have like a dichotomy...on one hand, you've got this machine that's been programmed specifically for situations such as these. On the other...you've got this bundle of raw, pure talent. Talent that has developed solely on its own, with no structure or foundation."

"But that's impossible," Hermione interjected, "Every telepath or telekinetic or what have you must be instructed following emergence. That is by law! And there is no way anyone would somehow miss the birth of a telepath, they're all well recorded and tracked."

Now Harry and Ron were really confused. Like most other wizards, they knew little to nothing about telepathy beyond a loose (and incorrect) definition.

"You're half right," Tate said, "Every telepath, telekinetic, and pyrokinetic is recorded, and the U.N.M. (A/N: United Nations of Magic) keeps hardcore tabs on them. But, they always make sure that there is at least one untrained telepath per generation. Otherwise, we'd be defenseless against demonic invasion, if there ever were to be one."

"But they can't control whether or not a pyrokinetic will be alive at any given time," countered Hermione.

"That part is luck," Tate said, matter-of-factly.

Ron laid on his side, propping his head with his hand. "Right, so where do we find an untrained telepath and a pyrokinetic at one in the morning on a Friday?"

"I'm a pyrokinetic. Dumbledore knows who the untrained telepath is." Knowingly, she glanced at Hermione, but Hermione was steadily avoiding her eyes.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I knew that was coming." He shifted his view to Hermione. "Is this what you've been refusing to tell me about her?"

"Mostly." Hermione smiled at him.

"Oh great," he moaned, "So what else is in her past?"

"There's nothing in my past," Tate snapped, looking offended, "My childhood was not abnormal, there is nothing dark or mysterious about me, and I am not a vampyre." She emphasized this last word with searing glare at Harry. He faltered, and felt a bit guilty. He scowled as Hermione gave him an "I-told-you-so" look.

Tate continued. "My training was conducted in the same fashion as every other pyrokinetic since the sixteenth century. I have a loving family, and I attended muggle school. That is it, my life, end of story."

She fixed Harry with an intimidating glare, daring him to contradict her. Harry cleared his throat, and adjusted his glasses, feeling very uncomfortable. For several months now, he had been silently accusing her of something malevolent. Now she had told him that she was here to dispatch a demon, thereby proving her alignment with the good side. He had no reason not to believe her. The argument she presented made sense, in an odd sort of way. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he barely noticed when Tate and Hermione bade goodnight and left. He didn't notice when Ron began to snore, his face half buried in the still open book. Through his haze of dizziness and sleepiness, the dull, warningly familiar ache that started in his scar barely had time to register before his head fell onto his shoulder in a deep sleep.