The Malfoy Code

The Malfoy Code

>Awkward Conversations<

>.<

"Hey, Hermione? When's the Defence essay due?" Harry asked as he rifled through the papers in his bag.

She looked up from the enormous tome she was poring over. "Excuse me?"

"The essay on 'the symbolism attached to specific constellations and how they affect us today'" he parroted Professor West's lofty tone and shook his head. "That class! I suppose we learn interesting things, but it's just talk."

Hermione gave a derisive sniff. "Honestly. You have no appreciation for politics. What we're learning is terribly important - just as much as the curses and wards you're so fond of! If you don't understand Yo-Voldemort's motives, how on earth do you expect to ever triumph over him?"

"It's not politics," Harry insisted. "It's psychology. And I don't object to learning them, but learning them in a Defence class is mad."

She looked cross. "Oh, for heaven's sakes, Harry! It's only a chapter - no more than two weeks' study and a single essay! Stop being ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous," he snapped, "I'm just making a point. I only wanted to know when the essay was due."

"Tomorrow!" she barked, then softened. "Listen, you've worked yourself into a temper. Go out, calm down, and finish your essay. When you're more pleasant, come back and we can chat a bit."

"I've an entire essay to write," he said blandly, picking up his bag "so I'll be out quite late. Don't wait for me." Her face sagged with hurt, but he had already turned his back and started downstairs.

Hermione pressed her palms against the open pages of her book, biting her lower lip between her teeth quite hard. She rocked back and forth very slightly. The text kept blurring in front of her eyes. She combed a hand through unruly hair which caught and pulled at her fingers. "He doesn't really mean it," she said softly, more to reassure herself than anything.

She focused on the book. It was a very difficult read, which meant that she hadn't room in her mind for anything else. She liked difficult books.

>.<

Harry stopped at the library and borrowed something entitled Symbolism!, though he wasn't sure how helpful it would be. He distrusted books with exclamation marks in their titles.

Hermione, he thought, was so... patronising. She thought that the world needed to be lead on a leash, with her as its master. And then, as her apology, she offered to sit down and talk!

It wasn't the talking that ate at him, but rather the manner in which she said it. It sounded like the kind of thing she'd say to an errant child, not a boy four months older and five inches taller than her!

He was climbing the long, winding staircase to the Astronomy Tower, and his legs were pumping furiously. That Oh-Let's-Help-Poor-Harry-Who's-Lost-His-Parents-And-Godfather-And-Contributed-To-The-Death-Of-An-Innocent-Boy pitiful stare!

His breathing was ragged. He leaned against the wall at the top of the stair, panting lightly.

"Whoever you are, don't bother me. I've very nearly found M5."

Harry very nearly jumped. A large figure was bent over a Muggle telescope just a few meters to his left, carefully adjusting the dials.

"M5?"

"The M stands for Messier," the person said softly. It was a female voice. "It's a categorising system Muggles use."

"You're muggleborn, then?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

She laughed. "No, not at all. But Sinistra had us do a report last year, at the end of term... I'm sure you remember, Potter - everyone complained terribly about its length. I did mine on Muggle Astronomy, and I'm afraid I became quite fascinated. Using the telescope, rather than a simple viewing spell... it's almost an art." Her voice faded in and out: it began almost incomprehensibly quietly, then rose to a normal speaking level briefly before dropping to a whisper again.

Harry didn't know what to say. "You like Astrology?"

"It's alright," she said apathetically. "The myths interest me, as does the technology muggles use." She pulled away from the telescope momentarily, squinting at the sky. Her hair was fairly dark - either red or brown.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know your name," he said. He felt as if he should. Her voice was very familiar. (Not to say he'd heard it often - he hadn't - but one didn't soon forget such an odd voice.)

"Daphne Greengrass, Slytherin. I'm in your year," she said. "And as for you... no introduction needed. Everyone knows Harry Potter." It was said without any malice, but it was still faintly hostile.

"Right, yes," he said. He remembered Daphne. She was very pretty, and always sat at the back of the class - often sleeping, picking at her nails, or winding her hair around her fingers. She very rarely talked to anyone, and the teachers never called on her.

Silence prevailed for a few minutes, before she let out a pleased purr. "Finally. Bloody Muggles."

"You found it, then?"

"Yes." She still wasn't looking at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm doing an essay for Defence class. On constellations," he elaborated. "Mine's Orphiuchus." He nodded at the sky. "I was always rubbish at Astrology, though. All I know is that it's somewhere in that area, where your telescope's pointing. Is that right?"

She nodded in recognition. "Yes, it is. What are you writing?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Something about how his struggle with the serpent symbolises the endless battle between good and evil, or some such rot."

"Ridiculous," she sniffed. "Orphiuchus symbolises nothing of the kind. Serpents have to do with medicine and miracles, not evil and eternal conflict... Orphiuchus is the serpent bearer. Where did you do your research?"

He shrugged. "Mostly, I thought it up. Snakes are usually evil." His eyes strayed to the Slytherin badge on her robes. He could only see its shape in this light, but he knew what it was. "I mean, represented as evil. Most of the time. Because of - of biblical implications and, er, stuff. Not that they're always evil."

He thought she was sobbing for a minute, before realising that the shaking and the curious, hiccuping gasps were laughter. "Potter, you're more articulate than even Malfoy's made you out to be! Oh!" She shook her head in mirth. Finally, once she'd calmed down somewhat, she began to explain the myths and meanings to him at length.

And hour passed, then two, with the two of them crouched over Harry's paper. Sometimes her arm would brush his, and he would freeze. She seemed unaffected. At last they finished, and he slid his freshly inked paper inside his book and stood.

"Leaving, then, are you?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Maybe not just yet. I don't really feel like sleep."

Daphne raised a slim, gently arched eyebrow. "I've never heard anyone say that they didn't 'feel like sleep' before... Why don't you?" Her eyes flicked up to his forehead. He had brushed his bangs over his scar. "Nightmares?"

"Yes," he said simply.

She sat down on one of the stone benches and crossed her legs. Her hand rubbed the granite next to her; almost an invitation to sit down. Harry didn't. "What about?"

"Things," he said.

She looked vaguely hurt. "You can trust me, you know. I'm not a Death Eater." She pulled up the sleeve of her left arm to demonstrate smooth, ivory skin. He reached out to touch her arm and she moved away. "No. I don't... like to be touched."

"You didn't seem uncomfortable before, when you were nearly sitting on top of me," Harry pointed out. "Just let me touch your arm." He reached again, and she shied away.

"No! Can't you hear? Don't touch me!" Her voice had not risen above its norm, only gotten shriller and acquired a slightly hysterical note.

Harry didn't believe her. "You are a Death Eater. That's why you don't want me to touch you - because I'll know."

She started to sob. "Tha-that's not it at all!"

Harry took several steps backward, suddenly thrown off balance. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to accuse you -it was completely irrational... I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean to upset you..." he said helplessly.

She calmed down slowly, taking great gasping breaths. She was petting the fabric of her sleeves nervously. "I'm sorry, too... that I had such a reaction. I just don't like my skin touched. It was alright before, because it was just fabric. But I don't like my skin touched." She turned from him to rummage in the small bag she'd stored beside the bench and drew out a lacy handkerchief, which she then used to dab at her cheeks.

She stood. "I should be getting back to my dorm. You should, as well. It's quite late."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Er, thank you for your help, and I'm horribly sorry that I, um, accused you like that. I had no right. I've gotten as paranoid as Moody!" he attempted a bashful smile, and managed a nervous grin.

She nodded, smiled in a slightly sad way, and turned to leave. He watched her go, collected his quill and inkbottle from the floor, tucked his book and essay under an arm, and left.

He wondered if all Slytherins were so emotionally unstable, or if Daphne was a special case. He wondered if she even really was, or if it had been an act, as he'd originally thought, to prevent him from touching her arm.

He wondered a good many more things as he crawled into bed and pulled the curtains shut, but sleep prevailed and he soon closed his eyes.

>.<

Dear Journal,

Hmm. The red-headed girl in Pansy's dorm (I can never remember her real name, but everyone calls her Queenie. I think that's her mother's name or middle name or something, and she mis-introduced herself with it during first year.) just sneaked in. As Prefect, I naturally asked where she'd been, and she sort of stammers and blushes and says 'Astronomy Tower. Work for the Cause.' before scampering up to the girls' dorms.

I asked Pansy about her. P. thinks her real name begins with a 'D' - Delia or Dahlia or Daisy or something - but she's always been called Queenie. She's dead average: moderate grades, no odd opinions, keeps to herself and doesn't talk much. (As is evidenced by the fact that no one can even remember her real name.) Ah, well. If she's suspiciously late again, I'll look into it. Neither Pansy nor Vince trusts her a bit.

Whatever it is that Scivi's been orchestrating for Halloween, it's huge. He's hardly sleeping for sneaking outside at all hours. (I let him, of course, because I know what he's doing. Or at least the general direction of what he's doing. Am I biased?)

The book's going well... the thing's bloody huge, though! It only looks to be perhaps three hundred-some pages, but it's all a reduction charm - it's well over eight hundred! Michael and the main character (You never learn his name throughout the book. It drives me mad.) had a bit of a tiff and now the main character's off sulking, as usual. The git really does remind me of Potter.

Well, it's terribly late, and I really should be off to bed. It's Wednesday tomorrow, not Saturday, and I've got a positively head-splitting exam in Arithmancy.

>.<

"Mr Lamb. Please come in."

The room was lavishly decorated, all done in scarlet and cherry wood. Thick drapes and tapestries cushioned the walls, a luxurious hand-woven Persian carpet coated the floor, and everything had pillows.

Mr Lamb did not fit in with his surroundings. He was a small man, quite pale, with a worried face and a hairline that had receded to ear-level. His eyes were steady, though, and his elegant hands did not tremble even now, in the presence of such a thing.

"Mr Lamb. I understand that you have news for us. No, no, sit down! Sit down. Please, make yourself comfortable. Now... what news have you brought me?"

Mr Lamb sat down, though he did not look as if he was in the least comfortable. The manner in which he spoke was almost fidgety, as if he couldn't quite keep his words still. "Doctor Thomson approved of your more recent payment. He would appreciate more, ah, freshly minted currency in the future, but the last selection was nicely diverse. He and his, ah, employees quite enjoyed spending it, he says."

Mr Lamb cleared he throat and continued. "He says that he would be most pleased to, ah, do business with you in the future. He wishes to enquire if he might have the privilege of taking a small - inconsequentially small - cut of the profit when you acquire the, ah, item which you are so anxious to obtain.

"In the mean time, Doctor Thomson requests that he and his employees be given more adequate, suitable quarters than those they currently occupy. He understands that you have recently contracted several major, ah, companies, and that you are having difficulties housing all of them, but promptness would be greatly appreciated, as we have been, ah, hiring many new, ah, staff."

The thing before him nodded. "Yes. I will look into it." It thoughtfully caressed the arm of the great chair in which it sat; the long fingers playing at the grooves of the wood. "Deliver this message to Doctor Thomson:" it said, after a sufficiently uneasy pause, "we are improving the quality of our payments as time goes by, and soon you shall have only the crème de la crème. Tell him also that his residency shall be improved shortly." The hands curled and caressed the wood in an almost hypnotising, sensuous manner. Mr Lamb's gaze followed them with mild disinterest, for he new that the thing wished him to look. "Last of all, be sure to tell him that, should he assist in securing my prize, he shall have a share of it. Now, Mr Lamb, you may go."

Mr Lamb rose smoothly, dipping his head in respect for the thing, and left quickly and silently.

Harry woke, shaking and cold, his pyjamas and sheets sticking to every inch of him from sweat. His teeth and the palms of his hands ached from being clenched, and his breathing came rapidly.

He knew the dream had been one of Voldemort - unusual in its clarity - but could not for the life of him recall the specifics. A small man, some sort of bargain... and that was all.

No, he would not tell Ron. Ron would only insist that he tell others, and then he would be subjected to lectures and worried faces and perhaps even another torturous Occlumency class.

Harry reached for his wand, performed a quick drying spell, and swallowed a beaker of the Dreamless Sleep potion he had goaded Hermione into brewing.

>.<

"Pass the bacon?"

"Here you are. Did you finish Binn's assignment last night?"

"Yes, of course I did. But I'm afraid it won't do you any good; you're not in my year, remember?"

"Oh. Yes. Quite right."

Harry and Ron observed this exchange tranquilly. "Girls," Ron pronounced through a mouthful of toast, "are weird."

Harry groaned. "You've said."

"No, I mean, look at them!" Ron said, and nearly got jelly in Harry's ear as he waved emphatically. Ginny was now crouched down next to Colin Creevey, awarding him her best impression of a starving kitten as she begged for his essay. "They've got to be the most manipulative creatures in the world, but..." and on and on he went. Harry's eyes glazed as he systematically processed his biscuit.

"Harry! Post!" Hermione called, and his head jerked up. Hedwig was approaching; her trademark white feathers noticeable amongst the greys and browns of the other owls. She had a letter tied to her right leg.

She landed, and he swiftly picked the knot apart, freeing her of her burden. She pecked a bit out of his biscuit, and then took off again, vanishing through the windows.

The envelope read merely 'Harry Potter, Hogwarts' and was sealed with some odd symbol involving an L and some kind of plant. (Wheat?) He slit the seal with his butter knife and shook out the letter.

It read:

Dear Harry:

How are you? (Such a typical way to begin, but a valid question nonetheless.)

I'm sure you've heard this from the rest of the Weasley clan, but Arthur and Molly are doing just fine - as are Tonks, Shacklebolt, Figg, Fletcher, and everyone else. Oh, and I'm doing well, also.

The lot of us have been terribly busy lately and I'm afraid that my letters over the summer were rather brief - though I fear this one will be too - and I didn't get to say half so much as I wished. Believe me, Harry; if it were safe for you to stay for any length of time with me during the summer, I'd have you.

I have heard no ill news from Dumbledore or yourself - I trust this to mean that you're experiencing no further nightmares? Perhaps the Occlumency only needed time. If they do return, however, please notify an Order member immediately. It's imperative that we know everything we can about these dreams of yours.

Please write me with any concerns of yours, whether they're regarding Voldemort or simply 'girl trouble'. I can't guarantee helpfulness on the latter, but I'll certainly lend a sympathetic ear.

I hardly have the time it took to write this, so I'm afraid that I must go now. Give my best to Ron and Hermione.

With Love,

-R Lupin

"Who's it from?" Ron demanded, tugging at the letter. Harry jerked it out of his grasp and stuffed it down his trouser pockets.

"Just something stupid," Harry said dismissively.

Ron hesitated. "You know, if there's anything you want to talk -"

"I don't need to talk about anything!" Harry roared, standing up. Ron rocked back in his seat, as if the volume had physically pushed him. The Gryffindor table fell quiet, and several members of other houses cast curious glances in their direction.

Hermione caught his arm. "Harry, don't. Whatever's wrong, we can -"

Again, he cut her off. "There is nothing wrong! Why do you all think there is? I'm fine! In fact, I'd probably be cheerful as anything if you'd leave me alone! And you're all just standing there, chatting - chatting as if nothing's happened!" His tone was low and dangerous; no one outside his own table could hear him, but everyone within was staring at him in rapt attention. It was not every day that Harry Potter threw a full-fledged temper tantrum in the company of so many.

He shook Hermione off and stormed from the hall. There was only half an hour before Transfiguration, so he didn't have time for a good sulk by the lake. He stomped through the halls as noisily as possible.

Everyone - Ron, Hermione, Lupin, the teachers - acted as if this year was no different from any other! As if people hadn't died and Voldemort wasn't rapidly gaining power. 'Terribly busy', Lupin said! Well, he could've written. Harry was tired of being pushed aside and forgotten anytime he wasn't saving the world. He was tired of being the means to the end. He was tired of no one caring about what he was thinking unless it had to do with that - that bloody prophecy!

McGonagall's head snapped up as he entered the room. "Mr Potter! Please refrain from slamming my doors! If you do so again I will be forced to take points." She looked at him for a moment, and her thin brows drew together in concern. "Mr Potter, are you alright?"

"Fine," he said, and sat down.

>.<

Harry rummaged in his trunk for the hideous old orange jumper that he knew would be at the bottom. He couldn't remember if it was a Dursley gift (not from Dudley, though, as it fit reasonably well) or a Dobby gift, but it was perfect for Halloween. He pulled it on.

The door swung open and Ron strode inside, scowling fiercely. Harry quickly tugged the jumper into place and turned to face him.

"Look," Ron began, sounding once again as if he'd rehearsed the speech he was about to make, "I'm sick of the way you've been treating Hermione and me. We're your friends - your best friends - and you're going mad on us for no reason at all."

"Yes," Hermione said from the doorway. Her right hand clutched her left wrist nervously, "you're being quite unfair to us. I know that you're very angry, but we aren't the people on whom to take out your frustrations."

"And," Ron continued seamlessly, "if you're really having that many problems, you should talk to a teacher. Like Dumbledore."

"Or Hagrid, or McGonagall, or anyone at all!" Hermione quickly interjected.

"If you continue like this, though, we're going to leave you alone, just like you want. Except we'll leave you completely alone. We can't take this kind of - of - of..."

" - casual cruelty," Hermione deftly came to his rescue.

"Right. We can't take this kind of casual cruelty. So we're giving you a -"

"An ultimatum."

Ron sent a positively seething glare in Hermione's direction. "I know the word. I'm not stupid." He turned to Harry. "We're giving you an ultimatum. Either you're fair with us and talk to us, or we don't talk at all."

Harry bit his lip. Silence permeated the room; only the sounds of nervous breathing and the slight shuffle of equally anxious feet were audible. "I'm sorry," he said at last, "I have been horrible to you two, and I'm sorry. I'm just... stressed. Worried."

Hermione's lips parted, no doubt to ask what he was worried about, but he anticipated this and cut her off. "But let's talk about all of this later. I'd like to actually have dinner." He gave her his widest grin. "It's the Halloween Feast, after all."

"Yes," she said, "it is." She didn't look like she believed him in the slightest. Neither did Ron. They didn't make any further protests, though, and the three of them headed peaceably - if tensely - to the Great Hall.

>.<

Draco slumped over his pumpkin juice. Everything was pumpkin. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheesecake, cauldron cakes with pumpkin stuffing, pumpkin-flavoured Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, and pumpkin sherbet to finish it all off. He had never liked pumpkin in the first place and, every Halloween, this dislike was escalated into a full, pulsing, mind-blowing hatred. He fervently wished that all the orange squash in the world would wither on its vines come the first of October.

Pansy sat down next to him. "Now, don't be sulky," she coaxed, smirking a bit, "it's Halloween. The day of evil spirits and all that. Aren't we Slytherins supposed to be bathing in blood and invoking all sorts of malevolent forces to plague the school? Scivi's the only who's actually up to something. That's rather pathetic, don't you think?"

He agreed that yes, it really was.

"So?" she said. "After this intensely boring feast is over the lot of us can utilise one of the secret passages and sneak into Hogsmeade. We'd be caught in the Three Broomsticks, but no one bothers anyone in Hog's Head, and we could get fabulously drunk. Not to say that I would," she added quickly, "I've learned my lesson. It would be great fun, though."

He shrugged, and everything burst into chaos.

Eleanor White, a Ravenclaw who had been chatting with Blaise (his secret girlfriend?) was the first at their table to notice anything amiss. She felt the cool dampness in her hair and reached up to touch it, letting out a startled gasp when her hands came away coated in brown muck. She cried out when it started to drip into her eyes, but it was Blaise that screamed when he turned to look at her.

The same thing was happening all across the hall. All the Muggleborns and Halfbloods of the school were bellowing and shrieking as the substance materialised from nowhere and coated them.

Panic didn't really hit, though, until a Hufflepuff second year screeched "I'm bleeding! I'm bleeding!"

Blood - or something very like it - was pouring from their hands and mouths and ears and eyes and everyone was screaming, many breaking into hysteric sobs. The strangest thing, though, was that even though the tainted ones were running about, smashing into walls and floors and purebloods, the stuff remained exclusively on them.

Hermione was the worst-afflicted. The mud was so thick on her that she couldn't rise from her knees, and she was 'bleeding' more than anyone else in the room. Harry and Ron were searching for her, pushing themselves through the crowd, but she could not talk through the mud and blood and her form was indistinguishable.

"Draco, oh, Draco, oh, flying muggles, Draco, oh! Look at them! Will you look at them? Oh! What... who did this? Was this - was this from the Cause?" Pansy's voice shook very slightly. She was standing still, her arms crossed over her chest and hands clenched around her shoulders.

"I think it was Pratt," he said.

A prank, he thought, some prank indeed. The teachers were wading through the masses now, trying to disspell their students. It wasn't working.

Pansy caught his arm. "Let's go," she said, "I don't want to be around here anymore. You know they're going to look through all of Slytherin for the culprit."

"If we leave, they'll think we did it."

"Not if we take a lot of people with us. Let's - let's go the Hog's Head early. We'll get everyone in our year, and anyone else who wants to come along. I don't want to be here when they get it all straightened out," she repeated.

"All right."

"I'll go get Vince and Greg. Maybe Blaise. And all the girls, of course. Don't move," she said, and pushed her way into the masses.

"Are you disappointed that you didn't join in when you had the chance?" Scivi said from directly behind him.

Draco turned. "I would think you'd be more careful about keeping your identity a secret, with the teachers nosing about so much."

Scivi laughed. "They'll never figure me out; I've covered myself far too well for that. No, this was perfectly planned and precisely executed." He awarded Draco a proud grin. "So, I heard that you and Parkinson are assembling a party and meeting at the Hog's Head. Mind if I join? I've been working so feverishly lately that I'm dearly in need of a bit of... fun."

Draco watched Blaise Zabini, who was desperately trying to comfort the panic-stricken Eleanor. (Yes, almost certainly the girlfriend.) Every time she opened her mouth to talk to him a fresh wave of the blood-like substance would pour out. By rights, Blaise should have been coated with the stuff, but it wouldn't even touch him.

"How did you manage it?" he asked.

"Manage what? Oh, this. Well... I'd prefer to give the details in a more... private place. I'm sure you realise how much I'm risking my neck for this. So, am I invited to your little excursion? We can talk there, at the Hog's Head."

He doubted that Pansy would approve - she loathed Scivi with a passion and probably wanted to get as far away from him and his 'Halloween Prank' as possible - but he was curious. Besides, if enough people came she wouldn't even have to look at him. "You're welcome to come."

Scivi grinned broadly. His teeth were very white. "Fantastic! I'll assemble some others to join us." He dipped into a mock-servile bow, said "If you'll excuse me?", and left.

In the end, they had all but Blaise - who refused to be parted from the injured Eleanor - from their house and year, as well as three-quarters of the Slytherin seventh years, a scattering of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and two Gryffindors. Only Snape had noticed them departing (in little groups of twos and threes, and all in different directions) and taken any note of it. He, as usual, said nothing.

>.<

"Quiet! Quiet! Look, everyone, will you bloody well shut up!" The chatter of their little gathering fell to a hush and then silenced completely under Scivi's wrathful stare. Draco was rather cross that the leader of this meeting - himself - had been so easily usurped by Pratt, but reasoned that the other boy was the 'man of the hour', and it was only natural that others would listen to him, if only out of curiosity.

"Alright. Now... I know a lot of you have questions about the event that took place in the Great Hall this fine evening - and I have the answers. For, you see, it was I who dreamed it up, I who planned it, and I who implemented it!"

"The only thing that stops him from being a great orator is his ego," Pansy confided softly, her breath whispering against his ear.

"Why did I do this? To show our power! Our power over the low-born scum that are allowed - allowed by stupid, blind old fools like Dumbledore - to overrun our fine, fine school!" He leaned over the table, his intriguing cinnamon-coloured eyes bright with excitement. "And so I decided to concoct a little demonstration! To show them their place! They are nothing to us, just filthy little Mudbloods. I only labelled them as what they are! Surely, no one can find fault with that!" He straightened and raised his arms in a broad, questioning gesture. No one made a sound.

"For those of you interested in the mechanics - well, it was complicated. I am not so bold as to say I did it completely on my own - I had help from several senior members of the..." He broke off as he realised that not everyone at the table was an initiate. "... of the, ah, ah, Society Against Muggleborns."

A blonde boy in Draco's year - a Hufflepuff, by his tie - raised his hand languidly. "I thought S.A.M. was purely politics, and that they were ultimately against any sort of violence or harmful demonstration. They're very peaceful, from what I understand."

Scivi turned. "What's your name?" he demanded.

"Zacharias Smith. Hufflepuff Sixth Year. You were going to say 'Death Eaters', weren't you?"

Several exclamations rose from the non-Order members of the group, and one of the Gryffindors (a seventh year) actually stood up.

"I've had just about enough of this," he said. "I only came to see what it was you Slytherins were all up in arms about, but I've had enough of this. My best mate's a halfblood, and he's a great person. I'm leaving." He collected his hat, pushed his chair in, and began to do so before he stopped. "And don't think that, if I hear anything like this again, I won't report it!" The door slammed behind him.

Zacharias Smith stretched his arms above his head. "Don't bother with him," he said, "that's Casca Broomsmith. He doesn't have any friends, and he's possibly the biggest coward in the school, though he loves threats. I think he must've bribed the Hat into placing him in Gryffindor."

Pansy sat up in her chair and rapped her mug of Butterbeer (thankfully already drained) against the table three times. Again, silence descended.

"Before we talk any farther, I think we should investigate those that are... unfamiliar. Maybe Broomsmith won't talk, but I don't want to risk anyone else. Not that I had any part in this, of course," she added hastily.

Scivi laughed. "Of course you didn't, Parkinson. You were far too concerned with your Prefect status to do anything meaningful. However, I'll grant you that we should conduct brief interviews." He shifted his gaze back to Zacharias. "So, little Hufflepuff, tell us about yourself."

Zacharias shrugged. "Like I said, I'm a Hufflepuff sixth year. I'm fairly unremarkable. As for the traditional Hufflepuff loyalty - I'm loyal to myself, and those people or causes that deserve it. I've come here to find out if yours does."

Pansy nodded. "I'll let him pass."

Pratt bristled. "You're not judging this, Parkinson! Anyway, I'm inclined to think your opinion is based solely on the fact that he looks like your boyfriend."

"Pratt, that's enough." Draco snapped.

Scivi's jaw shut with a click of teeth, the muscles of his face tense and angry. Draco felt immensely powerful.

Pansy tossed her curls and awarded Draco a terrific grin of thanks. "I said, I'll let him pass. Now: you, Gryffindor. Who are you and why are you here?"
"I'm Seamus Finnigan," the boy said, "and I thought that what you did tonight was really, er, brave."

One of the Slytherins, previously thought to be sleeping, straightened and peered at him blearily. It was "that Queenie girl". "I thought you were a Halfblood," she said. "In fact, I'm almost sure of it... How did you manage to get out of the curse?"

All eyes turned to the Gryffindor. "I - I... I don't know! I wasn't affected!" he stammered.

Scivi hit the table with his fist. "Damn! I thought I had everyone in the school plotted out! You see," he explained to his audience, "I couldn't manage a spell that encompassed only the Muggleborns and Halfbloods - if it were possibly then the Dark Lord would already have won the war - so I simply bound every Muggleborn or Halfblood I could think of. I got almost all of them, but I suppose no one is perfect." He shook his head.

"My mum divorced my dad last spring," Finnigan cut in quickly, "and I'm living with my her. She's the witch. I don't like muggles."

"That doesn't-" Scivi began.

"I'll pass him," said Pansy loudly, overriding him. "Personally, I think that Halfbloods are rather second-class, but they aren't vermin, like Mudbloods. And, if he doesn't support Muggles..." she trailed off.

"You'd allow Harry Potter in, if he attended!" Scivi snarled.

"Shut up, Pratt," Draco commanded, and once more the other boy fell silent.

The Queenie girl raised her hand slightly. "I vote," she drawled, "that we adjourn this meeting. We're getting nowhere, and Pratt's just pumping his own already-bloated ego. Besides, it's just past midnight and the school board no doubt thinks we're planning dastardly things. Added to that, I'm dead tired and there's school tomorrow. If it hasn't been cancelled, of course. Let's go."

A few minor arguments were put up, but they were swiftly squelched, as most everyone felt the same. They left by broom, passageway or Portkey (Draco and Pansy by the last), departing to their separate dorms and houses. In the chaos, no staff members had noticed their absence, and their dorm-mates were too frantic to really comment on it.

>.<

Dear Journal,

Another interesting night.

Scivi Pratt implemented his little 'plan' tonight, during the Halloween feast. All the Muggleborns and Halfbloods of the school were covered in, appropriately, a mixture of mud and blood. While the teachers were rushing about and panicking, a couple of us who admired - or at least agreed with - Scivi's prank assembled at the Hog's Head. It was meant to be a meeting, but it was really more of an argument. After an hour of getting absolutely nowhere, we came home.

There's another D.E. meeting - not this weekend, but next - and I'll be able to join the full Death Eaters this time. I've heard stories from Father, of course, but... can you imagine what it will be like? I realise that he may have idealised things somewhat, but it sounds fantastic. They're really making a statement - and one that's much more potent than Pratt's stupid idea!

I think Snape knows what we're doing, but chooses not to say anything. I know that he's a D.E. as well, but Father never believed him completely. I like him fine, but as far as the D.E.s go... he isn't to be trusted.

Now that he's finished with his latest example of stupidity, Scivi must find some other way to wreak havoc on the school. He's now preaching that we've got to get Professor West sacked because "she's an alcoholic!". Honestly. Apparently, he had a detention with her and, when she went out of the room for a moment, he started nosing about. He opened one of the closets and found a private little wine cellar.

Bloody idiot. If Pansy hears him he'll be sporting a few bruises come the morning. She idolises Prof. West, as I think I've mentioned before.

Why does Halloween have to be on a Thursday? We have school tomorrow and I'm most certainly not going to get enough sleep. Whoever decided to set such holidays by the date rather than the day should be hanged.

Well, I suppose I should turn in for the night.

>.<

Harry and Ron were packed in with perhaps three dozen other students, pressed against the waiting room walls. Every time the door to the Infirmary creaked open it was hailed by a cacophony of voices, each demanding how their friends and family were faring. The concerned parties were let in by ones and twos, then quickly ushered out again to make room for more. Intense charms had been utilised to magically expand the entire Hospital Wing, and every available object had been transfigured into some kind of cot. Madam Pomfrey rushed back and forth, cleansing and nullifying charms falling fast and thick along with soothing ointments and sedatives. She repeated to herself, over and over, that "This place was not meant to accommodate so many! How can I cope?"

Nevertheless, she managed.

The door opened fractionally and everyone pushed forward eagerly. "Potter! Weasley! To visit Miss Granger!" McGonagall bellowed from within, nearly catching her nose between the door and frame as the students pressed closer.

Somehow, they managed to wind their ways to the front of the room and slip through the doors.

Hermione, like everyone else in the infirmary, was clean (at last!) and wrapped in an under-robe and white cotton sheets. Her eyes were open, but she had clearly been sedated, for they wouldn't focus on any one thing.

"Hey, Hermione," Ron offered.

She looked up at him. "M'lo," she slurred. "Ha' this spell. 'm can't think prop'ly. Can't focusus. 'n I've got a funny mark on m' shoulder. 's weird." She pulled down a corner of the sheet to show them.

It was livid red and looked almost infected, though that was almost certainly the colour. It looked almost like a stamp; two elegant initials wrapped inside a decorative circle with little symbols trailing from the ends of the letters. And, really, it was a stamp of sorts - just not a positive one.

The initials were 'M B', and the symbols were scarlet teardrops - blood. Ron pulled away as if touching the bed on which she lay had burned him, while Harry's entire body went rigid.

" 's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Harry, "we'll talk to you when you're feeling better."

"M'kay," she murmured, pulling the sheets up over her chin and scrunching herself down among them.

McGonagall approached again and escorted them out. "All of them have it," she whispered. "It's some sort of side effect of the curse. We'll be able to take it off, never fear, boys. Miss Granger and everyone else will be fine." She pushed them out the door and called, "Brocklehurst and Patil to see Turpin!"

>.<

Dear Journal,

Apparently, there was one effect of the curse that Scivi neglected to tell us - and one that would assure him a sentence in Azkaban (possibly for life!) if he were caught.

Apparently, he invoked the same sort of charm used to bind us to the Dark Mark, and has branded almost every single Mudblood and Halfblood in this school with a seal denouncing them as such. Two or three have escaped this, but only by good fortune.

Why has everything suddenly become so serious? And so complicated!

>.<

A/N Many thanks to Cardigan Pantalones, SnowspiKe, and Closet_Geek. (For betaing, artistry, and exemplary reviewing - respectively.) This chapter was rather difficult to write because of the intense... well, tension that runs all the way through. Thank you all for being patient and understanding!

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