The Malfoy Code

The Malfoy Code

>Malfoys Don't Keep Diaries<

>.<

It was dark in the room. There were no muggle street lamps outside to cast shadows of the window panes against the far wall, nor was there the comforting shine from underneath the door that means someone is out and about. You could see your hand in front of your face, but you had to squint a bit, and maybe wave once or twice.

In the darkness, behind a wall of heavy curtain, a light flickered on. It cast a very slight, almost-invisible glow to the room.

In the almost-darkness, behind the same wall of heavy curtain, something rustled. Then came the tiny pop, as one might hear when removing the top from a bottle of ink. Then the gentle skittering scratches much like that of a quill moving across paper. It was hesitant at first, as though the perpetrator was afraid of being caught and punished. It grew faster though - more confident.

In the almost-darkness, behind a wall of heavy curtain, Draco Malfoy lay atop the bedcovers in his green-and-silver pyjamas. The tip of a long, beautiful quill quivered and shook as he wrote. Occasionally it would brush his cheek and he would pause, startled, until he realised that it was only his quill.

These were the letters formed by that quill:

Dear Diary

[scratch through the former] No, that's not right, that's altogether much too feminine. I'm not feminine. Call it "Journal" , then.

It's very late and I think I'm incoherent. I know it's dangerous to write out my thoughts like this, but I certainly can't tell anyone and I think I have to express them somehow or I'll stand on the table and profess my love to Professor Snape, like that pathetic Seventh Year who went nutters.

Ugh. I am incoherent. I will make sure to use correct grammar henceforth.

I'm very confused, Journal. I mean, of course I'll follow in my father's footsteps and be a Death Eater and all that. It's for the Cause, right? It's noble, and Malfoys have been pursuing it for generations and...

Those are very stupid reasons, aren't they?

I loathe nobility. Every proper Slytherin loathes nobility. If you were to walk up to a stupid, snot-nosed little First Year and say, "How do you feel about nobility, then?" he'd say, "Oh, nobility. I loathe it."

And as for Malfoys pursuing it for generations... We're not followers. We're not supposed to be followers. We're practically taught from birth to find the one thing that no one, on any side, wants us to do and then do it.

So why are we kissing the hem of Lord V.'s robes, then? It practically goes against everything Malfoy, doesn't it?

And Father's in Azkaban.

And everyone showed up and Mother was so distraught and didn't know what to say and they were laughing like nothing had happened.

I'm sulking. Malfoys don't sulk. This is ridiculous. Writing in a diary. It's a bad habit. Making me go sentimental. I will not be sentimental.

And then the quill stopped, and a thick silence swathed the air. Another rustle, and a soft grunt as might be heard when shoving a book under a mattress.

The light went out.

>.<

Dear Journal,

Okay, so I'm writing again. Who cares? Father's trial is tomorrow and of course he'll get the Kiss. All the others have. Mother is only a Malfoy by marriage and I don't think she cares whether or not I uphold the Malfoy name. Well, she cares, but not to the point that Father did. Not to the point of restricting a diary.

Why is it that when I put a quill in my hand, I rant and rave like some fool Hufflepuff?

Snape's been giving me odd looks. Snape gives everyone odd looks, of course - he's Snape - but mine have been especially odd as of late. Who knows why? It's Snape.

You're a diary-thing, so I suppose I should give an account of my day. That's what you're for, right? Not for me spouting off about what might happen and odd looks and the Malfoy name.

Well... There's been a bit of a scandal as of late. It's really just gossip material, but the girls of Slytherin have elevated it into a bloody civil war.

A graduating seventh year, Samuel something-or-other, has been dating a Gryffindor fifth year. And so, naturally, everyone's going on about 'Betrayal!' and name calling - alternately - 'Slytherin Bastard!' and 'Gryffindor Slut!'

It's so stupid. Gryffindors are clumsy oafs, the lot of them, but... Well, whose bed Samuel something-or-other wants to sleep in his business, isn't it? I know for a fact Pansy's long legs have wrapped around the waists of a few of the prettier Gryffindor boys, and that Blaise's fantastic mane has seduced many a maiden from other houses.

But, apparently, Samuel's little affair is a bit more long-lasting. It's odd, isn't it, when we're scandalised that it isn't all about sex?

Gods above! First inane rambling and now petty gossip? Father was right. Diaries do turn you into a girl.

That's it. Absolutely not writing anymore. Load of garbage.

>.<

Harry skidded around the corner, panting. Peeves' gleeful cackling floated after him. The poltergeist was relentless. Today he was hurling huge bucketfuls of slime at his chosen targets. (And Harry was, evidently, a chosen target.) He wouldn't have minded it quite so much if the stuff wasn't half-acidic. It ate your clothes - down to your underwear - right off. And he was near the Ravenclaw wing of the castle.

The Charms classroom door! Directly in front of him. He grabbed the handle and yanked, but it wouldn't yield. Locked. And Peeves' cackling was growing louder and more confident.

"Alohomora!" he bellowed, jerked the door open, and leapt inside, slamming it shut after him.

>.<

Dear Journal,

Broke my resolution again. Only because I'm bored, though. Filch has gotten progressively less imaginative, and I am now stuck in a classroom alone for four hours. Bloody hell.

Well, seeing as I have nothing better to do and you just happen to be lurking in my book bag, I figured I'd write.

Good god, did I just call this thing 'you'?

Potter is contagious. I'm thinking plebeian thoughts.

Well, never mind. Here's how I got into detention in the first place:

I was minding my own business as usual - just strolling along - when out of nowhere Weasley walks by and trips on my foot, badly injuring my ankle in the process! So, naturally, bruised and offended, I said "Oh, Weasley, come to grovel on the ground as is proper for one of your lowly station?"

Weasley has no decorum whatsoever. I will admit, under duration, that my comment might have, possibly, been mildly provoking. (Not very provoking, but I suppose that such creatures as Weasleys are easily provoked and allowances must be made.) It did not, however, call for him to punch me in the jaw.

So, as anyone in my position would have done, I pulled my wand and told him that if he dared do that again I'd cast a mild charm on his lady friend.

Well, perhaps those weren't quite the words I used. But they were close enough.

Anyway, Potter pulled a wand on me, as did Granger, and then it was three against one and completely unfair and I had a completely natural and rational reaction.

Besides. I'm sure Pomfrey will be able to get the spots off. I'm sure they aren't that permanent.

But McGonagall caught us and, as always, assumed it to be my fault. The woman is completely unfairly biased. She should be sacked.

So here I am in detention. Bored. Boredboredbored.

[Very large inkblot.]

I suppose I should tell you about my Father.

Truthfully, he's just that. Father with a capital 'F'. I'm sure he could hear it in lowercase a mile off. And he'd say, "Draco. Why. Aren't. You. Capitalising. My. 'F'."

I may be rather good at intimidation, but Father is far, far better. I know this.

Father's better at everything.

Well, of course he is. He's, what? Thirty years older? At least twenty-seven. No, must be thirty. Dear god, do I not know how old my Father is?

I don't know how old my Father is. I really don't. That's impossible. Mother's forty-one. So he had to have been somewhere around late twenties or early thirties when I was born.

Well, what do I know about him? Lots.

He's very powerful. Both magically and politically. He's the most powerful man I know. I admire him greatly.

I know I said he's the most powerful, and I suppose you're thinking 'Oh, so what's Lord V. then? Cat piddle?'

Lord V. is powerful in a different way, though. I mean, you say 'Lord V.' and everyone in the room says "Goodness! Don't say such things! How awful!"

You say 'Lucius Malfoy' and everyone in the room says "Oh. Lucius. Brilliant man. Very intelligent. Very powerful." They may add "Dangerous," but that's only if he doesn't like them.

Do you understand, though? The difference between Father and Lord V.? Father is power. Lord V. is intimidation.

Well, obviously Father is intimidating too, but there's a difference.

For instance

The door flew open just then with such suddenness that Draco upset his inkwell and spilled it all over his hands as he fumbled his journal back into his bag. Potter sailed through the door, slamming it shut behind him and leaning heavily against it, panting.

"Potter!"

Potter looked up and his eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in suspicion. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm in detention, where I hoped to be left in peace. What's chasing you?"

"Never mind," Potter barked, "I'm not staying here long anyway. Only until Peeves goes away."

Draco raised an eyebrow, but the Gryffindor didn't seem to realise that he'd just answered Draco's question. Rather, he was too preoccupied pressing his ear against the wood of the door and listening for Peeves.

"I think he's gone," Potter decided after another minute or so, and tried the knob. When it refused to move, he drew his wand and attempted an Alohomora. No result.

"Honestly, Potter. It's a detention. The door is impenetrable from this side," Draco snapped, irritated.

Potter sent him a glare that was no doubt meant to be fear-inspiring. "How does-" he began, but cut himself off as he noticed something odd happening outside the window.

An upside-down shape bobbed down from beyond the glass. It was wearing skin-tight all-black attire, as one might see on a particularly outlandish illustration of a spy novel, and its legs and arms were wrapped tightly around a rope like a frightened frog.

"Ah," Draco said, cheering up, "Pansy!"

Pansy tried to spin herself upright in one fluid, graceful movement, nearly fell off the rope, and ended up scrabbling at the window panes for dear life. Her delicate blonde ringlets were in complete disarray.

Draco rose from his chair and went to the window, which he very carefully opened and let Pansy inside. Dried bits of white paint from the windows were stuck all over her black jump suit in a most undignified manner. As soon as she had regained her footing she commenced with brushing them off.

"Oh, honestly, Draco," she scolded, looking up from her trousers momentarily. "Must you always antagonise Potter so? I swear, if I've ripped these you'll be paying for it! And what is Potter doing here, anyway? I thought he got away with it, as usual."

"Potter, as per his usual idiocy, locked himself in here."

Her elegant blonde eyebrows rose mockingly. "Did he indeed? Well, well. Shall we take him or leave him?"

Draco considered. It was certainly tempting to leave Potter in the classroom all by himself, stranded, as he climbed off into the sunset with Pansy on his shoulders. Unfortunately, Potter would tell and he would be facing another detention in which he would probably not be placed near any accessible windows.

"I suppose we have to take him with," he said regretfully.

Potter looked at the two Slytherins with utmost contempt. "I'm not coming with you!"

Pansy shifted irritably. "If Draco wants you to come, then you're coming," she said decisively. "I'll carry you myself if I have to," she added, almost snarling, and stalked up to Potter. He was rather short, and Pansy was fairly tall, and, with the added support of three-inch platformed boots, she was able to look down on him quite successfully.

Potter was not intimidated. He then prepared to say the single most devastating thing it is possible to say to a vain Slytherin. "Your hair's a disaster."

Her eyes narrowed. "Potter. As if you're one to talk."

"I'm not kidding," he said cheerfully. "The curls are in absolute chaos."

She made a low growling noise deep in her throat. Draco's hand appeared at her shoulder and he made a great show of pulling her back. "Shhh, Pansy," he whispered loudly, "the poor, dumb Gryffindor doesn't know what he's saying."

Potter rolled his eyes. Pansy ran her fingers carefully through her hair, commanding it into some semblance of order. Draco smirked.

"Well," Pansy managed after a bit, "if we're going to go, let's go."

After a fair bit of useless squabbling, they decided that Pansy should go first, then Potter, then Draco. Both Slytherins agreed that the Gryffindor should be kept between them so that one of them might catch him if he 'tried something'.

This also meant that Potter spent twenty minutes climbing up a rope with non-gloved hands, staring fixedly at anywhere that was not the bottom of Pansy Parkinson.

And Harry thought as he climbed...

Pansy was probably an attractive girl. No, she was attractive... to other Slytherins. She had very nice legs, as Ron and he had often observed on those cold winter nights where a bit of spiked Butterbeer and hormone-crazed confessions while away the time. Actually, she had a physique like a comic book heroine: Short, busty torso and legs that seemed anatomically disproportionate to the rest of her body.

But there was something about her face... Oh, she had nice blonde hair which was always done in thick sausage-curl ringlets that framed her features nicely, and she had very pouty lips, but.... her nose turned up rather sharply and the cast to those lips was not just pouty but also, Harry thought, fundamentally unpleasant. And her eyes were icy blue and just as cold and unscrupulously Slytherin as Malfoy's.

Harry didn't like blue eyes. He liked brown. Warm and comforting like hot cocoa, with maybe just a bit of cinnamon spice to add a little adventure. Blue eyes, he thought, were glossy and lacquered. And grey eyes were just strange. Malfoy's eyes were awful.

"Potter," Pansy snarled from above him, "will you stop staring at my ar-"

"Are you going to go any faster, Pansy? I didn't bring gloves, you know," Malfoy said simultaneously.

Pansy sniffed from above, and kicked Harry firmly in the ear. "Oops, sorry," she said, not sounding sorry in the least.

Harry idly wondered why he hadn't got tired and fallen off the rope by now. He'd never climbed rope before, and he didn't have any support besides the rope itself on this one, and yet all three of them were ascending tirelessly at a fair speed.

Magic, of course, Harry scolded himself. Then he wondered why they didn't just levitate themselves to wherever they were going. Thinking of that, where were they going that could possibly be so high in the air?

Malfoy evidently had the same thought, and asked about it.

"Oh," said Pansy, "just to the Astronomy Tower. And before you ask a stupid question, yes, I know it's on the other side of the castle. That's why it's taking so long to climb there. This rope goes anywhere I want it to, but the distance remains the same. Look, there's the tower now."

And, indeed, Pansy was already dropping herself onto the balcony as she spoke.

Wait... dropping?

Well, of course - magic rope again... but there was something horribly wrong, he thought, when you spend twenty minutes climbing up a rope from the second floor, and then suddenly you're dropping down onto the Astronomy Tower balcony.

Harry wondered what they were doing at the Astronomy Tower, anyway. As far as he knew, it was only used for classes and the occasional, er, ren-dez-vooz, as Scivi Pratt* called them.

"Do you mind, Pansy," Malfoy said, his tone indicating that she had better mind, "telling me why we're on the Astronomy Tower?"

She shrugged. "It seemed as good a place as any."

Harry looked up at the pale blue sky. He really loathed Malfoy. Parkinson was tolerable, if certainly not pleasant, but the only positive emotion he could conjure for Malfoy was pity. Hermione's long speeches concerning the trials Slytherins were put through and why so many of them turned to the Dark Arts had managed to instil this, at least, into him.

He supposed he could see what had inspired so much rage in Malfoy the last time he'd seen him. Deserving or not, his father had gone to prison and of course the other boy would be angry. He didn't agree in the least with Malfoy's anger - or at whom it was directed - but he certainly understand where it had come from.

Pansy snapped her fingers only centimetres away from his glasses. "Flooing Potter! Hello?"

His eyes focused.

"So where do we go from here?"

Pansy looked about, her lips twisting into a cruel smile that had been carefully modelled after Malfoy's. "We could torture the half-giant," she suggested. "Let all his pets out."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Pansy, he's a bloody Gryffindor. Of course we can't torture the half-giant."

She looked up at him, cross. "Oh? As if that's ever stopped us before."

Malfoy was steadily getting more and more exasperated. "Merlin's flaming eyebrows! Do you remember how enormous the dungeon was that Filch had us clean after that particular incident?"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What did you do?" he demanded.

"Oh, we just tried to feed the youngest Creevey to the Squid. Unfortunately, it seems to have taken a liking to him, and not as food. Alas. Another planned foiled." She shook her head and the curls flew. Harry privately thought that ringlets should be outlawed on anyone over the age of five.

Harry glanced from Malfoy to Parkinson, both of whom were bickering intently over what sort of mayhem to wreak, and decided that he'd had more than enough Slytherins for one day. Besides, magical or no, he had rope burns on both hands.

He let out a terrifically exaggerated yawn, garnering both Slytherins' attention. "Mmm," he faked sleepiness, "I'm tired. Long day. I'm going to head back to my dorm."

Malfoy and Parkinson exchanged looks, held a brief mini-conference, and elected that they, too, were tired, really had no energy to pick on him too terribly, and would let him go in peace. They all headed off to their own dorms.

As they trotted off in their own directions, Malfoy just barely remembered to jog back down to his detention room and (with the door firmly propped open) retrieve his book bag.

Wouldn't want anyone to find that journal.

>.<

*Lascivious, or Scivi, Pratt was one of the most vile and hormonally-challenged boys in school. It was rumoured that he was a descendant of Licentious the Lecher.

>.<

Dear Journal,

Forgive me for being blindingly obvious, but Harry Potter is quite odd. Today he accompanied Pansy and I, with little complaints, all over Hogwarts via Pansy's MagiRope. I don't know why he didn't just stay in the Charms classroom until the professor came back. He could've got me into terrible trouble then, but I suppose he didn't think of it. Sometimes I love the stupidity of Gryffindors.

Also, he has grown to be less of an enemy, which is severely annoying. You always know where you stand with a good enemy. (Or, even better, a bad enemy.) But Potter won't rise to the usual things - like, for instance, Pansy kicking him in the ear - and I don't know how to handle him.

I am almost positive that the Giant Squid hold no special attachment to Potter. Perhaps we should instigate Operation: Squid Fodder 2.0?It would eliminate many problems.

For instance, Granger would be horribly grief-stricken and her grades would drop and I would lead the class and win position as Head Boy.

Or Slytherin, as it should have for the past five years, would win the Quidditch Cup.

Or Snape would cheer up so much that he would take a good, long shower.

Or Lord V. would be so overjoyed that he'd stop killing people.

In short, many problems could be solved by Potter's untimely demise. So I have theorised for many years, but no one has allowed me to experiment with this. Most unfortunate.

On a side note, I think I will try to convince Pansy never to play dress-up again. Her black ensemble today was quite frightening. I think I shall be scarred for life.

I'm in a bit of a whimsical mood, which is odd for me. Well, it was an odd day. Climbing up/down a rope next to Potter and an eccentrically dressed Pansy. Whatever shall we think of next?

>.<

Dear Journal,

Got letter from Mum today. Father is getting the Kiss. Knew it.

Yeah, they've still got three or four Dementors left... Not enough for guarding duty, but just enough to Kiss.

Don't know what to think. Potter's going to gloat. And Father will be...dead. Well, not dead, but close enough.

It doesn't seem real, you know? I mean, he's my bleeding FATHER. He can't die. He was alive... I mean, he hasn't been ill or anything. And I know he's going to die and everyone knows he's going to die and there's nothing I can do about it.

It's so hopeless.

I've been trying not to think about it. I've been thinking 'It's okay; he's Lucius Malfoy! Of course he's going to get off! He wouldn't allow it otherwise!' Except he isn't. He's going to die.

It's so stupid. He's so stupid. The Death Eaters! Of course he'd be killed - if not by one side then the other! It's so stupid!

It'll be in the paper tomorrow. Everyone will know about it. Weasley will gloat. Granger will try to shut him up and look at me with her abominable pity. Potter will be as he has been lately: distant and uncaring of our rivalry.

I wish I could pound his face into the wall. I wish I could twist my fingers in his hair and hit and hit and hit and hit until it was bloody and you couldn't see his stupid stupid scar for all the others. Then he wouldn't look at me like that - like we had something in common!

He was angry last year and that's how it should be! Angry! But this stupid oh-poor-Malfoy act is awful and fake and by Merlin, I just want to grab him and bash his stupid pitying face in!

Ugh. Calm down. It's a good thing this is private, or I'd be expelled for Thinking Evil Thoughts or something. Calm down.

It's just... Father's going to die. He'll be dead tomorrow. He's my Father! He drives me mad and he's made loads of bad decisions and he's scary as hell, but he's my Father! And he's going to die!

Far too emotional. Not going to write anymore. Filling up pages with useless rubbish.

>.<

Dear Journal,

He's dead.

[water stains, something incomprehensible due to running ink]

My Father

[incomprehensible] forever. He's gone. I can't [incomprehensible]

Not writing any more.

Draco pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. He would not cry. He would not cry. He was crying already, of course, but by denying it he hoped that he would stop. Unfortunately, the pressure of his hands only irritated his eyes further and the tears flowed.

His breath hitched between sobs. Sobs? Sobs? Crying was one thing, but sobbing quite another. And he couldn't stop.

No one would see him, of course - he'd locked the door and charmed it repeatedly to make sure of that - but it was the principle of the thing.

He picked up the quill again.

I shouldn't be like this. I should write Mother. She's devastated. She needs to talk to someone.

Damn it, he's my Father! He can't be dead!

Ridiculous statement. Of course he's dead. Denying it won't make it any less true. Still...

I've got to stop all of this emotional angst. It's awful. I can't mope around, sulking. I'm Draco Malfoy. I'm Malfoy. Can you imagine what Potter would think, coming in here now?

That's it. No crying. Malfoys don't cry; isn't that one of the top ten rules in the Malfoy Code of Honour?

Code of Honour, hah.

No crying.

He shut the book and shoved it into his bag, and then sat for a while, chin resting on his palms. He could taste his tears still, and he knew that his face must be red and swollen.

After a while he stood up, performed a quick Cleansing Charm, unlocked and de-spelled the door, and left.

>.<

Dear Journal,

Potter's been looking at me all day with those big pitying eyes. Have I mentioned the intense urge to shove him face-first into a wall?

Weasley caught my eye in Care of Magical Creatures today and started waving around the Prophet (it ran an article on his Kiss, of course) and was about to open his fat mouth when both Potter and Granger grabbed his arms at the same time.

I WILL NOT BE PITIED!

Crabbe and Goyle look tired. Their fathers were arrested too. They haven't gotten the Kiss yet, but it's only a matter of time. If it weren't hypocritical, I'd feel sorry for them.

Pansy is a nervous wreck, flying about every which-way to makes sure 'I'm happy'. It's more irritating than Potter, I swear. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her til her hair is straight.

Sent Mother an owl, asking about the Manor and her health and the servants and such. I hope she's alright. She looked untidy and older than her years throughout the summer, and I'm worried for her.

McGonagall assigned a lot of homework. I'd better do it.

>.<

Harry sighed and pushed a captured pawn around with one bony finger. Ron was still deciding what moves to make. Brilliant at the game he might be, but he took forever.

Ginny clattered down the stairs, head bent down to see the clasp of the necklace she was trying to manipulate, and paused as she reached Harry.

"You're too thin," she said, and handed him a chocolate frog that she appeared to have hidden in her cloak. "Eat more." She commanded, and quickly vanished out the portrait hole.

Harry sighed and watched her leave, turning back to Ron with raised eyebrows.

Ron shrugged. "Don't ask me. She may be my sister, but she's a girl and therefore completely mad. Hermione's best friends with her lately, though." He finally moved the rook and took Harry's bishop. He looked up, grinning, and paused when he saw Harry's forlorn expression. "What's wrong?"

"Just thinking."

Ron scowled. "Tell me it's not about Malfoy again."

"I'm just... His father died. He's got to feel awful."

"Forget the girls! You're the one who's mad! Who's been after you because of your father for six years, then?"

"Oh, I know. I still hate him. I just feel sorry for him. Actually, I think it's annoying him more than the enmity ever did, so it's fine."

Ron scrutinised him. "When did you start using words like 'enmity'?"

Harry laughed. "Hermione's finally rubbing off on me." He pushed his pawn forward, not really caring that it left his queen open. "But, you know... He's a terrible prat who deserves to be hanged by his toes from the ceiling, and I would rather be eaten alive by wild hippogriffs than spend any amount of time with him, but I do feel rather awful. I didn't even know my father when he died. Can you imagine if I did? And if I knew that he was going to die before he did? I remember what it felt like with your father, when that snake attacked him. That was horrible. Malfoy must feel like that."

His best friend rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. "Oh, stop it. Malfoy doesn't have feelings. They were removed at birth because it might get in the way of his Slytherin-ness. And that was my father, anyway. If Lucius Malfoy were my dad and he died, I'd be throwing a party!" Ron said, and took Harry's queen. Then he looked more closely at the board. "Oh... oops. Didn't even see that. Sorry, Harry. Check and mate."

Harry tipped his king over without really looking at it . "Right. Yeah, I suppose I wasn't thinking how awful his father was. Then again, Malfoy's awful so he might miss his father's awfulness." He appeared contemplative.

Ron snorted. "Don't think it works like that. The thing about being a git, you see, is that you hate everyone, even other gits. That's why gits are gits. Otherwise, you're running on the assumption that gits have friends and that means Malfoy has friends, and I just can't believe that."

He was completely serious and Harry had to grin.

>.<

Dear Journal,

How many students receive a letter from Lord V.?

Well, not Lord V. exactly, but from one of his right-hand minions, which is close enough.

Summarised, it says:

Master Malfoy,

Since your father has now, unfortunately, snuffed it, we wish to request that you sell your soul to the devil (aka Lord V.) in return for a big stinking pile of NOTHING! Your ancestors were very evil and did lots of Dark Arts, and we hope that you'll follow in their footsteps. Give my regards to anyone who is interested in becoming a Death Eater, and write everyone else down on a blacklist.

Our thanks,

The Bloody Stupid Minions of Lord V.

Their version went on for three rolls, but otherwise it's pretty much the same. Can you believe it? The day after my Father's death and they want me to join their 'noble cause'. They're calling it noble? And here I thought the whole point of being a D.E. was to escape nobility.

My list of people I want to bash face-first into a wall now covers an entire roll of parchment.

>.<

Hermione's eyes seemed to snap back and forth in their sockets as she scanned The Daily Prophet. After a few minutes, she set it down. "Another attack. Six killed, two kidnapped. Aurors didn't get there in time, so no Death Eater casualties. Three of those killed were muggleborns, as was one of those kidnapped. A message had been carved into the wall: 'Mudbloods Die Slowly'. Fudge is fairly ineffectual, but the Aurors are doing all they can. Goyle's father was sentenced and is to receive the Kiss on Wednesday. They move fast."

Harry's eyes were closed, as if in pain. "Anything else?"

"Besides more claims that they never doubted either you or Dumbledore? No. That's all. It doesn't say who the victims were, though."

"That means there's something odd about it," Ron said authoritatively. "They never tell you everything if there's something odd about it."

Hermione peered down her nose at him. "Honestly! I think you've been spending too much time with Luna lately, Ron! Conspiracy theories everywhere - hmph."

"I'm just saying," Ron protested, "that they don't tell us everything!"

The two launched into a hearty debate over whether or not this was true, and Harry sighed. He stared glumly at his orange juice and prodded the glass with his wand. The water rippled, but nothing further happened.

Seamus peered over his shoulder. "I figured out how to turn orange juice into vodka if you're interested," he offered.

Harry blanched at the thought of vodka and porridge. "Um, no, thank you. Unless you can manage butterbeer."

Seamus shook his head. "Can only do butterbeer with gingerbeer, sorry. But I did finally manage water into rum."

"No thank you," Harry repeated firmly and Seamus wandered off to drape himself over Ginny, who was ignoring him. Harry sneaked a glance at her out of the corners of his eyes.

"She's seeing Dean still," Hermione said, startling Harry nearly out of his seat. "They've been writing to each other all summer. Oh, don't look at me like that, Harry! I can tell when you're looking at a girl. You're the most obvious person in the world, you know."

"I was not looking at Ginny! At least, not like that," Harry protested.

Hermione smirked as if she were omniscient. "Oh, of course not. But they're going through a rough spot right now and it would be best if you spoke up soon."

Harry felt the urge to throw his rapidly cooling porridge in Hermione's face. She thought she knew absolutely everything.

"Shut up," he growled instead. Her brows drew together and she looked rather hurt, but said nothing. It seemed as though she had decided that Harry's moods were his own problems and that she would not take any notice of them.

Ginny abruptly rose from her seat, sent Seamus a scathing glare, and stomped out of the great hall, toast in hand. A folded scrap of parchment fell unobtrusively from her palm to Harry's lap.

He waited a minute, until he was sure Ron had occupied Hermione's attention, and unfolded it under the table. It read:

Don't mind Hermione. She's just sticking her nose in things, as usual. Loudly, too. (hehe) Don't worry. I and everyone else know that you don't have any feelings for me.

-Ginny

P.S. But maybe you could do a jealous-reaction thing to scare Seamus off? Dean won't do it because Seamus is his friend and he's too shy anyway. Thanks.

-G.

He smiled slightly, cheered a bit, and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. He turned to Ron and asked what class they had next.

Ron shrugged, a trickle of maple syrup drizzling down his chin. He wiped it off, chewed a bit, and spoke. "Ah, I don't know. Oy, Hermione!" he called, and she looked up from a homework assignment she was reading over. "What class do we have next?"

"Defence with Professor West," she said without even having to think, and resumed scanning the paper for errors.

"Defence," Ron repeated, making a face. "She's so creepy. Ugh. Makes my skin crawl. She stares at you, and you get the feeling like she's looking out the other side."

"You complain at everything," Hermione snapped, standing up. "I wish you wouldn't. It would make your company far more tolerable." And with that she swung her bag over her shoulder and stormed out.

Ron scowled. "Girls. I will never, ever understand them. Do you know what's wrong with her?" Harry shook his head. "Well, neither do I. It's a complete mystery. I mean, you're having a nice, normal conversation and all of a sudden they hate you and are never speaking to you again!" He waved a fork at Harry. "I tell you what, when I get married my wife will never do that! When we argue, it'll be rationally! She won't just storm off..." Ron continued on this vein for quite some time while Harry stared glumly into his congealing porridge and thought about things.

He wondered what it would be like to have a proper relationship. Last year he'd wondered about being kissed, and then he was kissed... And it wasn't quite what he'd expected. It was so... soggy. Well, that was probably more Cho than anything else, but still. He didn't want timid, damp kisses with someone mourning an old boyfriend.

He pictured slamming someone against a wall - the image he conjured was something like a perfected cross between Hermione and Ginny - and running his fingers through her hair, kissing wildly. But Ginny was taken (not that he was really interested in her anyway; she was a wonderful person but far too much a sister to him) and Hermione was, well, Hermione. Both girls were pretty enough, but he couldn't imagine an actual relationship with either.

His eyes drifted across the tables, looking for someone that he could fit appropriately into his snog-her-up-against-a-wall fantasy, and his eyes settled, for some odd reason, on Pansy Parkinson. She was tossing her curls and laughing wildly at something that long-haired boy, Blaise Zabini, had said. He couldn't imagine kissing her either - for one thing, she was at least two inches taller than he with her shoes on - and couldn't imagine a relationship in the slightest. She was an awful girl, he thought.

He glanced at Zabini (who looked somewhat like a girl himself, Harry thought), and then at Crabbe, Goyle, Bulstrode, Pratt, and Malfoy. He looked at Malfoy for quite a long time. He wondered what Malfoy was thinking. He wondered if Malfoy really was grief-stricken over his father, or if he didn't care at all.

Malfoy was the simplest person he knew, at times - pure malice and petty, childish revenge - and the greatest enigma at others.

Ron jostled his elbow, apparently finished with his tirade against women. "Hey there - you finished?" Harry nodded his assent and followed Ron to class.

>.<

Dear Journal,

Another letter from D.E.s today. Doesn't Lord V. ever get tired? Here, I'll copy this one out exactly.

Master Malfoy:

The ties between your family and The Dark Lord are strong and ancient, and we under no circumstances, wish them to be broken.

Service under The Dark Lord is guaranteed to be rewarding. What is it you desire, Master Malfoy? Power? Prestige? Love of a certain young lady? I am aware that you are at that age. Whatever you desire, The Dark Lord can grant you. His power is limitless and His reach is all-encompassing.

I mentioned that you 'were at that age'. I was referring to the age at which the lust in young bodies becomes strong, but it is the age of many other things as well.

You are at a critical point, Master Malfoy. You may choose our side - the true side - or those who oppose us. I would wish you to know that our Cause has been pursued and fought for by the greatest wizards of all time, and now is when this, our dream, becomes a reality.

Victory is tangible. We are close to winning, to triumphing once and for all over our oppressors. We will rise again, the pure-blooded and strong-hearted families of old, take what is rightfully ours and reap the bounty of the carefully-planted seeds we have sown.

Join us.

-B.L.

Lestrange, of course. Carefully-planted seeds indeed. I do agree with some of the D.E. principals - pureblood supremacy and complete separation from muggles, etc. - but this sounds altogether too much like a speech Borgin would make. Lust in young bodies! Love a certain young lady? Who the hell does she mean? Pansy?

They've already taken my father! Can't they leave me alone?

>.<

The fire crackled green and blue in the darkness, and the heat of it made the images around him waver. The circle of hooded robes shivered and shimmered, at times only grey vapour and at times as sinister and deadly as they truly were.

"Death Eaters! Children! The time of our conquest draws near!" And then he felt a presence in his mind... An alien presence...

Everything - the voices, the images, his own thoughts - dimmed and faded until he was in a murmuring world of greys and couldn't think... Couldn't concentrate. Occasionally, something would drift in clear and strong. As soon as it did, though, the greyness would clamp around him with threefold the strength of before.

"Rise again!" Grey. "Lord and Master..." Grey. Long, pale hands. Grey. "Escape from..." Grey. "The trials..." Grey. "Crucio!" Grey. "... by the blood that binds I will..." Grey. "The final battle." Grey.

And then the talking stopped and the grey cleared and two slitted red eyes were staring at him, through him, and those long, brittle fingers were reaching for his mind...

Harry bolted awake, not screaming but letting out soft, gasping cries. His hair was plastered to his forehead from sweat. He shivered convulsively.

He tried to roll out of bed and stand, but his knees almost gave way under him and he had to catch hold of the heavy curtains to prevent falling. Nausea crawled its way up his throat like a particularly loathsome toad and he sat on the floor, hands pressed over his mouth and scar.

His scar felt as if it were being crawled upon by a thousand tiny insects. Voldemort had come so close - so close! - to invading his mind. To learning his secrets... and Dumbledore's. Harry closed his eyes and waited for the shaking and sickness to pass.

"Lumos," said a voice, and a light blinked on behind a curtain. The curtain was quickly pushed aside and Ron, all arms and legs in too-small pyjamas, stepped into the light.

"Harry? Mate? Are you alright?" Harry made a vague noise of affirmation and nodded. "You don't look alright," Ron said, and stepped closer. Harry tried to move his hand away from his scar as unobtrusively as possible. Unfortunately, Ron - so oblivious with some things, so quick with others - noticed. "Your scar...? Did you dream of V-v-You Know Who?"

Finding lying rather pointless, Harry nodded again.

"We'd better go to Dumbledore," Ron said immediately, "or at least McGonagall. Merlin..." He passed his hand over his face and through his hair worriedly.

"It wasn't anything," Harry protested. "I couldn't hear anything important, and neither could Voldemort - Ron, honestly - hear anything from me. I'll tell him in the morning. I... I just want to sleep tonight. I'm tired, and there're two tests tomorrow."

It took some convincing, but Ron finally accepted it and Nox-ed his wand. Harry closed his eyes and hoped for better dreams.

>.<

AN

: Okay, what do you think? Please - feedback!

Big Schnoogles to:

Lily

, for being as wonderful as ever and reading my work before everyone else.

Kevin

, just for being a friend. Even though he'll never read this.

Snowspike

, for the fantastic art! *grabs and huggles*

And Cardigan Pantalones, The Well-Dressed Editor for also betaing wonderfully and being a fantastic help with Latin. (Next chapter!)