Ode

ODE

Chapter three: For Each Age is a Dream that is Dying

We, in the ages lying

In the buried past earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;

And o'erthrew them with prophesying

To the old of the new worlds worth;

For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth.

~O'Shaughnessy

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The woods are dangerous at night, especially when traveling alone and without the protection of magic. Roving troupes of vampires and feral werewolves have long made residence in this part of the country. Even now that the air is no longer quite so damp, Ron expects such a forest would make a fine habitat for a community of trolls, and who knows what else-- what other Aragogs and Mosags are lurking in the shadows? Who knows if blibbering humdingers and crumple horned snorkacks might turn out to be real after all? If such things could ever exist in the world, they would be in a place like this.

"How much longer?"

~*~

His traveling companions tried to leave him behind three days ago. That didn't surprise him much. They would have been successful if either had cared enough to stop fighting just long enough to get out of the mansion. As it was, Ron spent over an hour waiting for Harry and Malfoy outside the front gate, and that was only after he'd grown bored of listening to their argument.

Malfoy had been convinced to come along, somehow, and Ron crossed paths with him while he was on the stairs down from the study. Malfoy was on his way up looking angry and didn't notice him standing there. Ron was angry too, but he noticed the way Malfoy's hands were braced against his sides, straining to keep still, and he noticed the thin smear of blood along Malfoy's bottom lip, as if it had been bitten too hard.

London-- they were going to London. Whatever counsel Harry expected to get from Malfoy hadn't come. Whether he was ignorant or overly mindful of Harry's intentions, Malfoy gave no information on where Voldemort and his device could be found. So Harry left it at that and forced him to pack his things before common sense could creep in and tell him he was making a mistake. Even if it had, Harry only admitted to mistakes after someone died from them, and his newest error of judgment hadn't exactly been subtle about his threats.

Malfoy had gotten out the tent his family used eight years ago at the Quidditch world cup. Not only was it far too large to carry, but upon removing it form its case, it crumbled to pale green dust, flecked with barely noticeable hints of silver. After blame passed back and forth between them, along with shouted insults (from Malfoy) and aggravated sighing (from Harry), Ron sat down in one of the high-backed armchairs next to a small table and tried to make himself comfortable.

Neither of them could be bothered to kick Ron out because Harry had just broken the brush off Malfoy's Nimbus 2201 professional series and handed it back to him along with an old blanket Charlie used to cover the tropical dragons that weren't well suited for the cold of Romania, telling him that was his tent now. Ron had to wince at this, not because he knew just how bad the blanket smelled, though he did. The shock of it was that Harry had destroyed what was arguably the fastest broom ever created. Malfoy had turned decidedly pink and seemed to be sputtering for air, and Ron couldn't help hoping he would just stop breathing and save them all a lot of trouble.

When he finally found his voice, Malfoy used it to demand that Harry put his sacks of food back in the kitchens. Ron had to laugh at that, though he kept it quiet enough not to be noticed by either of them. After reaching a stalemate in their argument, Harry Grabbed Malfoy's pack and tried to shove in a few potatoes. Malfoy was livid.

"Get off, Potter!" he screamed pulling a wand from his pocket. When Harry peered up, only to give an unimpressed sneer, and then continued shifting through his things, Malfoy discarded the wand and produced one of the small silver knives Ron had seen mounted on the wall of the study. "Get off!"

Harry turned the bag bottom-up, allowing its contents to spill across the wood-panels of the drawing-room floor, and Ron noticed the threads at its base were thinning. "A crown Malfoy?" Harry said with something that almost resembled a laugh. "Is this a bloody crown?" Harry held it up for closer inspection, though Ron didn't see that anymore scrutiny was necessary. Even from his vantage-point the thing was clearly a crown, pointed and silver and polished to a mirror like shine. "Why in Merlin's name--"

Malfoy snatched it back with one hand, clutching it to his chest. "Don't touch!" He seemed to be trying to come up with a proper insult for Harry, probably something about muggle germs or Harry's hands being as dirty as his blood, but right then, his eyes met Ron's.

To Ron it looked very much like Malfoy mouthed the word 'you' a few times while progressively going a shade pinker. He thought briefly about saying something before deciding to leave Malfoy to Harry, who wanted him along in the first place. He turned away from them both and began fiddling with the long candle on the table beside him.

"It won't do any good where we're going," Harry said with a sigh, motioning to the crown. "Just give it up." He ran a hand through his hair, tangling it further. "Give it up, and you'll have less to carry."

Ron thought it odd that Harry vas trying to use his martyred-hero voice on Malfoy, and Malfoy, for once, seemed to be of the same mind. "Then how about not going with you, Potter?" he asked "It's not as if I want to. Then I won't have to carry anything at all."

"Yes, Harry, why don't we leave him here?"

"Ron!?" Harry looked completely baffled that he was in the room, let alone talking, "What are you--"

"You're spending too much time here," Ron said to Harry, before turning to Malfoy who was still clutching the knife in a white-knuckled fist. "Neither of you can afford it."

It was like being back at the burrow before Ginny left. There was magic running through the air, but not the kind that any of them could hope to harness. Harry and Malfoy continued to make silent threats, and Ron volunteered himself to carry most of the food, meaning he hoarded it into his pack, which still maintained some remnants of its original lightening charm.

Ron was good at reading people. At least, he'd always thought so, and he was better now than he had been in school. He could usually predict behavior with a fair amount of accuracy, that's why he was so surprised when, in the midst of all their posturing, Malfoy actually took a stab at Harry. He was more surprised still to find that his own first instinct was to step in front of the knife. He was too far away at the time, but he was fast enough to drop the loaves of bread he'd been counting and knock Malfoy to the ground with a well aimed sack of onions.

Harry was lying off to the side, having successfully dodged out of the way in time, he still looked slightly ruffled. He took the knife, which had slipped from Malfoy's grasp and picked it up. He stood, using a tabletop for leverage, and he brushed a shoulder roughly with one of Ron's as he walked by, as if he didn't notice him standing there.

"It's nice," Harry said to Malfoy, who was just managing to get to his feet, while absently rubbing the back of his head. "It was probably very expensive." With a sardonic smile Harry pressed the blade hard against tip of his finger and displayed the unbroken skin. "But not too useful is it?" He tossed the knife back to Malfoy, who fumbled with it briefly before letting it slip to the floor. 'Just like you.'

Those last words were left unspoken, and Malfoy may have been too occupied gaping incredulously at his empty hands to notice them hanging in the air like so much stagnant magic, but Ron did. Harry had said the same thing about him before, except for the expensive part, obviously.

So Malfoy stumbled about on the floor, grasping for his small knife, as if it was the only thing he had left to hold on to. And Harry stood, arms crossed at his chest, as if his feet were pressing down into floor, trying to keep him from falling up into the ceiling. And Ron stood there for a few minutes more before going outside and searching his newly stocked pack for something to eat.

~*~

"It's all in your head boy."

The shadows shift before his eyes, as old trees reach their claw-like branches out to scratch at his arms and tear the winter cloak that had once been Percy's and still has a head boy pin firmly affixed to the chest. He's heard enough stories about people being transfigured into trees to wonder briefly if this could be case. Life is life, Charlie would say, never assume that you're any smarter than a venomous tantanctula, and don't try to get the best of a dragon unless you're looking to get burned. Ron, himself, had enough experience with the womping willow to know that trees liked to have their own way, so he tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

"You've got quite an imagination."

The rains had come, and the rains had passed, taking with them the topmost layers of soft, loose soil, leaving the ground as dry and hard as exposed bone. He steps lightly over roots and under-story ferns, as he's nudged by a few errant young saplings into a large clearing that he thinks will do well for the next day's rest. He tries to close his mind against the voices and store this place away in his memory before giving a nod of thanks and turning back towards camp.

"How much longer until you snap like a twig?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tired as slow death and woken again by the warbling cry of some nocturnal bird, Draco mutters a few unforgivable curses under his breath before rubbing the grit from his face and the sleep from his eyes. He hasn't been staying, as Potter suggested, under the cover of some makeshift tent, so the first sight to greet him is the unfocused blur of the night sky specked with stars and a waxing mooning hanging low and slightly crocked, as if about to fall free from its hinges and drop off beyond the horizon or crack like eggshell against the newly hardened earth below. More noises come from the forest, rustlings too loud to be made by any bird, and Draco hopes that in the darkness he'll remain unseen. He hopes he's still as good at being passed over as he remembers.

~*~

By the end of his time at Hogwarts Draco didn't need a spell, or a potion, or a cloak like Potter's to make himself disappear. First years weren't scared of him, anymore. Mudbloods ignored his jabs. Professors didn't call on him when he raised his hand. They thought they'd won the war-- the war that never was. They thought they were safe, and he was harmless. They thought he was nothing-- nothing but talk, nothing but a name, nothing but pale blur in their periphery-- nothing.

Sometimes, he would pass Head Boy Potter in the corridors and try to trip him, but Potter would just quick-step over his foot and continue walking at his usual pace without even glancing back to see the disbelieving look on his face. Sometimes, he would stand in the entrance of the great hall, trying to block Potter's path, but Granger, or one his other friends, would just cast an insubstantializing charm over him, and they would walk straight through, not even pausing briefly to acknowledge his presence. Sometimes, he would dump an extra beaker of armadillo bile into the potion Potter and Longbottom were working on, but they would just add a pinch of mint to neutralize it before ever realizing anything had been altered.

In his sixth year, Potter beat him to the snitch, once more, so did Chang from Ravenclaw. In his seventh year Potter beat him only eighteen seconds into the first match of the season. The whistle was blown, and before anyone could move, the snitch flew right into Potter's hand and settled itself there, comfortably relaxing its wings. Then Slytherin was defeated by Hufflepuff, then again by Ravenclaw with their new second-year seeker. He broke an arm and both legs in a dive that wasn't begun until after that final loss had been announced. He expected to get made fun of because of it, but things never turn out as expected. No one said anything. No one noticed him at all. He vowed that would change after Hogwarts, but it didn't-- not really.

The next year, Draco went to the ministry and took a job with a long, impressive-sounding title which meant absolutely nothing. He hated it at first but kept telling himself it would get better. It didn't. One day, after a long morning spent trying to toss gobstones into the fountain from his office window, he went out and bought a new racing broom. He wasn't sure what made him do it. He hadn't flown since his last game at Hogwarts, and that had ended badly, but a part of him always wanted to just pick up and fly away. So, for an afternoon, that's exactly what he did.

When he came home, and his father glared at the broom as if willing it to burst into flames and then asked why he never came back from lunch, Draco announced he would be soon be playing for a professional team. He then quickly left the foyer, but not before he heard his mother begging his father to keep Draco's job open for him. Draco heard him say he would-- he heard the promise, and they all knew exactly what that meant.

After his last tryout-- the tryout with Chudley, Draco broke into their store room, setting all their snitches free, and he took to the sky and chased them, while the manager was being whisked away to St. Mungo's for his injured hand. Flying until it became so dark his eyes could no longer make out any faint hints of gold against the ink-black sky and so tired his blistered hands could barely keep their hold any longer, his broom began swerving slightly beneath him. He had tried to force a steady grip, and maybe, if he realized just how high up he was, he would have put in more of an effort. But he was dizzy and choking on the anger caught in his throat, and the wind was blowing so hard it made his eyes water. He wasn't sure which direction was up or down any longer, nor was he aware that he had flown over a mile away from the pitch.

He tells himself now, that he didn't choose to let go, but right then when his cheeks were burning and his fingertips were freezing and he couldn't hear anything but his own heartbeat, he let himself forget everything that came before. When the world he saw was the same one he always returned to behind his closed eyelids, it seemed like he could, for once, breathe without the air turning sour in his mouth, and when it felt like he could just fall into the dark forever, his hands slipped away.

Teeth can be charmed back to their places in a matter of minutes, but it's extraordinarily painful. Blood can be replenished, and bones can be healed. His ribcage was shattered and had to be regrown completely, but it still didn't hurt as much as the teeth. No one could tell, not that he was ever looked at with any particular interest, but even if he was, no one would have guessed anything happened to him. The next day he was back at the ministry, and the next year, and the year after that. Nothing changed, and then he saw bloody Potter sneaking about as he always had in school-- as he always had gotten away with, and Draco, wishing one more time to prove himself, tried to do something about it and ended up falling again-- this time down three flights of stairs and to the sound of strained laughter echoing above him.

They passed each other a few times after that, but Potter was too concerned with the fluctuation in spell efficiency to take any notice of him or his jibes. Draco Malfoy, once the pebble in Potter's shoe, had over the years, been ground into nothing more than a speck of dust-- magical dust perhaps, the type that sparks brilliantly once before fading into nothingness, but a speck of dust nonetheless-- unseen and almost completely insignificant.

~*~

The rustling from the underbrush nearby becomes louder. Draco doesn't move, instead he pulls the heavy cloak he'd been using as a blanket tight around his shoulders and waits. His pulse quickens, and his breaths become shallow and silent. A rush of relief comes when he sees that it's only Weasley, carrying his oversized pack. Draco watches him settling himself by the fire. His walk is slow and strangely deliberate, and his arms swing slightly outward as if trying to keep him balanced. Weasley looks hungry now, in a way that has little to do with their general lack of food. Actually, Draco suspects him to be taking more than his fair share as far as rations are concerned.

~*~

When the ministry was attacked, the important officials were executed and Draco wasn't among them, though he let himself believe the exclusion had been deliberate. Everyone else was trapped, packed together in the elevators and left for dead while the building dissipated away behind a wall of thick black smoke that surrounded it. Draco, luckily, hadn't been on an elevator at the time, but running down a rickety wooden staircase. It was actually nothing more than scaffolding-- there before the ministry was built and left standing after it was gone.

He continued running after he got out. Not knowing where he was, he let his legs carry him to a muggle grocers', where he stumbled into the public bathroom and ran cold water over his face. There was a look about him then, when he stared up into the tarnished mirror-- desperate and determined. It's the same look he now sees in Weasley, but only when he thinks no one's paying attention and never directed at Potter.

Draco peers up towards the sky to realize that it's nearly dawn and that Weasley, who he thought hadn't noticed him at all, is starring at him in a decidedly strange manner.

Draco glares back. "What are you looking at, Weasel?"

"Nothing," Weasley says, rubbing his forearms to keep warm, "absolutely nothing."

"Sod off," he snaps, but Weasley only shrugs and turns back to the fire.

Draco pulls his cloak tighter and suppresses a shiver.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She tells you to go look after them, and you will. Such an obedient pet you've become. It wasn't always like this, you remember. Once you could fly for weeks without tiring and burn through the center of icebergs. Once you could hold the weight of nine men with your tail and stop death with a single tear. Once you could sing.

You cry for a boy in a hospital who holds a sword in one hand and a list in the other. You perch yourself atop his bedpost just as you had been positioned on hers, and you close your eyes.

"It's raining," he whispers without looking up, "I thought it stopped, but it must still be raining."

Two girls sit in wobbling plastic chairs at the end of his bed. "It's not raining, Andrews, you idiot," hisses the first. "It's just a stupid bird!"

"Get away from him!" screams the second, throwing a medicine vial at you.

You're barely able to dart away in time. You used to be faster, and now you're not so sure you could have withstood the strike uninjured. You used to be stronger.

"Merlin, Greengrass!" he shouts using his elbows to prop himself up. "Can you try not to hurl things at me?!"

She only crosses her arms and grunts.

He narrows his eyes at both of them. "Why are you here, anyway? Aren't there some Quidditch trousers you haven't stolen from the changing rooms yet?"

"There's no Quidditch anymore," she says. "Brooms don't work. No one can fly. No one's been able to fly for months." The other stays silent. She seems to be searching her corner for more things to throw at you. "Only a Hufflepuff could be so oblivious."

"Stop it Atwater!" The boy jerks his head in your direction. "Just leave it alone."

The one he called Greengrass changes the subject by pointing to his sword. "Why the bloody hell are you holding that thing?"

"Incase the Dark Lord shows up." He forces a smile. "This'll be the sword to take him out."

You see her lips twitch slightly and than flatten. She cocks her head slightly and gives a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Yeah, good luck with that."

"Well I am outnumbered by Slytherins and not exactly in my best health. I figure I should be armed." He seems, suddenly, to lose all traces of good humor. "Never give up without a fight-- you know?"

"Never," you hear Atwater whisper back, but it comes out as a chocked sob, and the boy, Andrews, is too busy staring at his reflection in the sword's notched blade to notice.

"I'd start with that bird," Greengrass says narrowing her eyes at you. "I don't trust it."

"It's a phoenix, stupid." He sighs and lets his head flop back against the pillow. "At least Hufflepuffs are smart enough to take Care of Magical Creatures instead of getting drunk in Divination."

There comes a squeak from low in her throat, and you're not sure if she's laughing or crying. You're not sure if there's any difference.

Atwater rubs the back of her hand harshly over her eyes. After studying you for a few seconds, she finds her voice. "I thought phoenixes were supposed to be brighter."

You stay there for a bit longer, watching their exchange. Every few minutes a particular phrase or unvoiced thought catches one off-guard and turns them silent. The others seem, at first, not to care, until you realize they're only pretending they don't notice. They raise their voices and joke between themselves, until the other is ready to join or until another one goes teary, and then the one who wasn't talking swallows hard and gives a watery smile before telling the best joke they can think of.

So they continue this way, loping along through their conversation, sharing whatever sadness they have between the three of them, only becoming strong when needed, and if you close you eyes, you'll think they're fine because when one loses it there are always two left-- two pretending everything's okay.

They don't need you.

So you fly again, out of the open window and over the hectic streets. You reaffirm that your voice, once clear as crystal, has become just as fragile, as your soft call cracks against the cold morning air. It takes longer than it once would, and two tail feathers come lose in the winds and drift away, turning dull brown as they float steadily downwards. You get there to find him just waking up, and you look over him because, for whatever its worth and however it's weakened, he still holds a part of you.

He's not the only one.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tom Riddle was born with a broken heart, but other than that he was perfectly normal. Perfectly normal with absolutely no wish to be otherwise-- none except that secret longing buried deep within the heart of every child-- the most sincere hope and greatest fear to be completely, irrevocably different and a silent wish for his life to measured by be more than the possessions he would inherit from his family when the time came. But for whatever unspoken dreams and yearnings Tom had, he, unlike so many others, harbored no illusions about such things, and in that way, at least, he was unique.

While the other children played, pretending to be heroes found anywhere from ancient stories, to weekly comics, he would stay inside to explore the hidden passageways and crawlspaces of his house. Tom always liked having secrets, and he kept them well.

Hilltop Manor was its proper name, though the villagers of little Hangleron referred to it as the Riddle house for so long that, that had become its more common title, but whatever it was called, Tom's home was an imposing structure, sitting high on the summit of Woodsgotten hill. With smooth ivory columns, the finest brickwork available and carefully cultivated ivy growing along the far walls, it was easily the most beautiful building for miles around. The climb up from the main town was said to be enough to make strong man tired, and Tom had never been strong-- quite the opposite, really.

"A broken heart," the doctors said. They liked to say things like that and tried to make jokes about it often, because it made them seem less stiff. Besides, it was far more romantic to be born with a broken heart than to have a malformed left ventricle. Most of them were too inept to determine the actual problem, anyway.

"It's broken, just broken."

He went to the doctors regularly, and by the time he reached ten years of age, his poor health had become something of a joke amongst the townspeople. Every time they saw his father's cart pull away, they would start placing wagers on him.

"What do you think is wrong with Tiny Tom this time?"

"You ask me, what's wrong with that boy is in his head and his parents' for indulging him."

He heard them whispering. They didn't think he could, of course. His heart may have been broken, and the cold may have made his legs go weak and his bones ache, but Tom's ears had always been perfect. He listened in secret, and he heard everything they said.

"Oh hush! It's no fair, you picking on an invalid--"

"Ha! And a puny one at that!"

"Yes, yes mustn't make fun of poor little Tommy."

"Ha!"

And their laughter, he heard that too. He heard it ringing in his ears long after he returned home and closed himself in his room where all sounds of streets and horses and doctors faded to complete silence. He took what comfort he could in having so much more than them. He told himself, they were only jealous of his family, of their wealth and of his future in a world so much bigger that that of Little Hangelton. He told himself, they spent their days wishing they were something other than themselves, and he told himself, he would never need to. He told himself so often, he began to believe it.

He could understand his mother and father were surprised at his excitement when they discussed the prospect of him going away to school. It was probably the first time they saw him truly eager about anything. As uncomfortable as he may have been, Tom had always seemed oddly content. He had nothing to want until now, which was not especially unusual in boys of his age and social class. What was unusual was his complete conviction, the uncommon strength of his desire and the fact that of all the things in the world, he was excited about school. His parents agreed, reluctantly, to let him go as far as he pleased. So, to them he cordially promised he would do his best, and to himself, he promised he would do anything.

Smeltings, however, was not what he expected. It was foolish, he found, to think that things could ever really change. No one could wave a magic wand and make him smart or brave, but they could swing their smelting sticks to bruise his knees, and they could run away before he had a chance to call the professors, and they could stand outside his closed bedroom door and laugh, knowing he heard every bit of it.

He wasn't the only one they bothered. Most of the first years got bullied a fair bit unless they were unusually large, but by second year it ended for them-- for everyone except him. He could never stand up to the older boys. His legs were always too sore, and he knew if there were a fight, he would lose. Tom had never been strong.

For all he tried, he didn't do particularly well at his lessons either. By his third year he was failing math and writing, and he had flunked out of Latin the year before that. The headmaster once pulled him aside, telling him that he would not be able to continue there unless some progress was made, but his father's money told them differently. And he came back the next year and the year after that, still barely scraping by.

He was still in school the Great War came, and it remained through his final terms looming black on the horizon, but he didn't mind so much. He had always been able to find the beauty in silver-lined storm clouds and oil-slick rainbows. At breakfast every Sunday the chaplain would read the names of former students found dead or gone missing, as he sat eating his eggs and toast. Tom could always recognize a few from the signature-emblazoned sticks that had smacked against his legs years earlier and allowed a small smile, knowing he would stay when his year mates began to get called to their duties, knowing he would, forever, hide safely behind a heart that could never beat out a proper rhythm.

~*~

Out of school his father had tried to force him into politics, saying it would be good for the family's reputation. He refused. The older Mr. Riddle eventually conceded and set him up at a fine, well paying job as a mercer. He hated it. That wasn't the worst part. He knew there were many people in the world who didn't like their work. The worst part was that despite being a recluse, everyone in town could see just how miserable he really was, and despite his pretending otherwise, they knew just how hard he had tried to get out.

The first winter was the worst. The war had just ended the day after his birthday-- the day he would have been expected to join, had he been strong enough. Nothing would have happened. He would have signed a paper and been given a speech about the glory of the kingdom, and he would have safely told himself that he could have been a hero, if only he had the chance.

Some soldiers returned to their homes in little Hangelton, others never would. Most were younger than him, many were still recovering from injuries, and all of them had acquired a strange new posture. They held their heads higher than he ever could, but were slumped at the shoulders, as if holding cannonballs in each hand. They walked like they might need to break into a run at any second.

There was a blizzard the day his parents held a party for them, and he was forced to attend. They told him about the machine guns and the poisoned gasses-- how the crushed pits of apricots served as the only protection against the toxins hidden in tiny mustard seeds. He was just tall enough to see his reflection distorted in the shining medals they wore on their chests.

Outside snow drifts blanketed the town in white, sending swirls of fine power through the night air, and the ivy growing along the far wall withered and died.

~*~

Years passed languidly at some intervals and with dizzying quickness at others. Winter snows melted away and Tom was surprised to find that, for once, he didn't find the smell of his family's flower gardens quite so cloying. His parents were on holiday, and he remained at the house, feeling that life might not be quite as horrible as he previously thought. He hadn't exactly quit his job, so much as stopped reporting in, and he wasn't particularly surprised that his absence went unnoticed. Still, it was liberating, in a way-- like this was how things were meant to be all along-- fated, except Tom didn't believe in such things. He didn't believe in fate anymore than the words of fortune telling gypsies that came with warm breezes and springtime carnivals.

For all he knew, she could have blown in on a breeze as well--.

He should have known from the start she wasn't normal. Normal girls don't have names like Stheno. Normal girls didn't show up on doorsteps with nothing but polished broomsticks and secret smiles. Normal girls would never have given him a second glance.

Tom might have recognized something of the scenario, but he had never paid much attention to fairy tales, and he had no reason to believe anyone would want to lay claim to his heart-- pitiful, weak thing that it was. Either way, he never saw it coming, and all it took was a kiss.

Stheno Marvolo was holding his hand when they drove away from little Hangelton, and though, he was dimly aware of the townspeople's whispers, Tom saw no reason to pay them any attention.

~*~

His blood ran cold when he first saw it, and touching it caused pinpricks against his skin. How could he not have noticed?

Tom was holding-- well he didn't know quite what to call it, though the word wand was echoing in the back of his head. The thin piece of smooth ebony was still resting in his hands when she walked through the door.

He couldn't find words for her, so he stood there with the question in his eyes, and she pressed a hand to his chest before taking it from him and putting it in the pocket of her skirt.

"I'm a witch, Tom," she said as if that explained everything. So he nodded, giving shaky smile and felt an unsteady jolt beneath his skin where she had touched him.

They never mentioned it after that.

~*~

There is a singular kind of loathing you can feel only for someone you loved once before hating, and there are places to reach within yourself when all hope fails-- ways to continue in the darkness that aren't spoken of until the moon is high enough to drink all sunlight from the sky. At those times he sat outside their room listening to her whispering secret spells in a language he couldn't understand.

He was trying, he told himself.

He was trying to be calm about it.

He was trying to pretend everything was fine.

He was trying, but it was all too much.

Lower Winfield might not have been little Hangelton, but it was close enough in character, if not in distance. The people still whispered about him, but they didn't know about his heart or his legs-- they knew about his wife.

"She's an odd sort isn't she?"

"Wonder what that Tom saw in her?"

"You ask me, he's not normal either."

"No. Not normal at all."

"Ha! Best be careful what you say about them, she might put a spell on your crops."

"Ha!"

He didn't tell her he was leaving-- he couldn't. She'd been feeling sick lately, nauseous, and seemed weaker than he remembered. The sky was dark by the time the driver left him standing at his destination, and never missing a step, he ran from the street up to his parent's house-- his house.

It would haunt him, he knew, that he'd chosen pride over happiness, and in the end, it would cost him both. But it couldn't have gone any differently, not really. There are some things in the world that are just meant to happen. There are some people who are truly different, and there are some times when sacrificing safety just might be worth it, if you can manage, but not for him. Tom had never been strong.

~*~

In the passageways behind bookcases and hidden doors, he would listen for any sounds of laughter or whispering voices, but there was only silence and the steady, measured beating of his heart.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry wakes up with the sun, which brings a cool light to the sky, without ever showing its face. He looks back in the direction they came from and then out over the distance still left to travel-- there's no end that he can see, not before them or behind, nor will there be any standing still.

His head hurts.

He dreamt that night, though he doesn't remember anything except cruel laughter and children crying. He doesn't dream in pictures-- not anymore. Occlumency took that from him, and of everything Snape's done, Harry hates him the most for that, but he would never admit to being so selfish. Now there are only sounds when he sleeps, and if he had become more adept, he probably wouldn't dream at all. They never warned him that it couldn't be unlearned, that once he managed to close his mind well enough in sleep, it could never be opened. Sometimes, Harry thinks the only good thing that can come of this is that when it's over, he'll at least be able to see his nightmares again.

He suppresses a shiver.

The cold is everywhere, sudden and unrelenting. He could say he's prepared for it, if preparation only meant matches to light the fires at night and warm blankets to sleep under. The truth is he's not prepared for any of this. No one is.

Above the treetops, he sees a brief flash and flicker that looks like flame against the cloud-white sky. He blinks again and it's gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Weasley's left, finally. He'd had sat about for only a few minutes and stupidly left his cloak behind. Draco gets up and moves closer to the fire. Potter appears to be up now, gazing off into the distance. He stretches, and his lips curl into a barely-perceptible smile at the start of another miserable day. Watching Potter bask in the light of a sun that warms only him, Draco can't help but wonder if he's the only one left sane enough to tell just how cold it is.

Potter turns and notices him staring. "Time to go, Malfoy," he calls.

"Will we be trying to lose the Weasel again this morning?" Draco asks.

"What's that?" Potter still hasn't put shoes on. He walks away from his tent carrying a bucket of water. He's trying to look as if he doesn't know what Draco's talking about. The impression's a poor one.

"Give it up, Potter. You're not fooling anyone," he says, "I guess he's just not perfect enough for you anymore."

Throwing water over the fire, Potter seems to make sure that some splashes on Draco in the process. Then he turns back and begins to pack his things.

"So, when did Weasley finally snap?" Draco asks, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his robe.

Potter stays silent, as if it takes him a great deal of concentration to shove a ratty, old blanket and an extra jumper into his bag.

"Hey, Potter, I asked when did Wea--"

"Let's go, Malfoy," Potter interrupts. He's finally put on a pair of old boots, but still wears nothing but jeans and a thin t-shirt. His glasses are cockeyed on his face, and he's badly in need of a shave.

"It's because the mudblood's dying, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer. Looking over to the forest again, Potter blinks hard before shaking his head and running a hand through his hair.

"So where is he, then?" Draco asks picking up a small pebble and throwing it at Potter's head. It hits him just above the ear and all he does is snort a bit. "Maybe it wasn't him at all, Potter," he says standing up. "Maybe it was you."

"Malfoy--"

"Is that it? Did he finally realize what a prat you are? Or did he just get sick of being trapped in the shade?"

Rolling his eyes, Potter attempts to straighten his glasses. "I don't know what you're talking about"

"I find that hard to believe," Draco says, picking up another pebble, "An entire generation growing up in the shadow of the great untouchable hero-- do you have any idea how much we would all love to watch you fall?"

"Not everyone is like you, Malfoy." Potter turns back to the fire making sure it's completely out.

Draco sneers, not caring that he isn't looking. "I suppose not."

Potter spots the cloak Weasley left on the ground and throws it over his shoulders. "Thank Merlin for that."

Draco throws the second pebble, this time hitting him just to the left of his scar.

Potter blinks.

~*~

They haven't been in the forest long, Draco thinks, but it's enough. There are enough dead branches scattered about and enough dry leaves lining the ground. There are enough thick trees with not too much space between them. And, most importantly, when he looks back there's enough distance that he can no longer see where they came in. Draco smiles to himself.

Outside the canopy, he knows the sky must be getting brighter, but with every step further in the shadows lengthen. Three days has seemed a very long time to wait, and Draco will be glad when it's over. He closes his fingers over his wand and waits just a fraction longer until he can feel the faint traces of magic pulsating beneath the smooth, wooden surface. It's there but weak like a dying heartbeat. If he wants this to work he knows there won't be room for hesitation. He grounds himself, pushing his feet into the dirt and leaves. Ahead of him Potter turns around. "Malfoy are you--"

Draco aims at a hollow log directly behind him. "Incendio!" There's enough force behind his whisper that the spell works, but not enough volume for Potter to hear it from where he stands. It takes him by surprise, and Draco treasures the shocked twisting of his features as he jumps back from a rising wall of flame.

"What are you doing?!" Potter turns on him instantly. "What?"

As if to answer his question Draco recasts the spell, "Incendio!" and then twice more for good measure, because Potter always has been exceptionally dim, "Incendio! Incendio!"

The fire spreads quickly. Dry wood burns fast in the cold. Half-dead things want warmth so badly they don't care if it kills them in the end. In the end, that doesn't matter at all. Potter's eyes are lost somewhere behind his glasses, which only reflect the flames, but his mouth forms a thin line.

"I'm not as weak as you thought," Draco says pointing his wand at the ground to the left of Potter's feet. "Incendio!" He stifles a laugh as Potter searches his pockets for a wand. "I'm not as stupid as you want to believe." He aims slightly to the right this time, "Incendo!" Again he tries to get a good look at Potter's face, but the smoke makes it difficult for him to see anything but Potter's mess of hair. "And, isn't it funny," he shouts, raising his voice to match the roar of the fire. "I'm playing by your rules-- magic just like you told me to-- a spell." Draco sneers, fixing Potter in his sights again. "I just had to wait for the rain to stop, wait for us to get here." He trains his wand on Potter's chest and imagines his heart beating beneath his skin and beneath all the layers of robes he wears. He imagines it pumping so fast blood isn't enough to keep it oiled and it ignites, it bursts shattering his ribcage.

Skilled wizards can do this, he knows. Their charms can be cast through stone walls and from miles away. Potter's skin had never been very thick. Draco steadies his hand, and closes his eyes, and he whispers, "Incendio."

But, when Draco opens his eyes Potter's still there glaring up at him, wand drawn. "Stop it."

"Too late, Potter," he says, brushing off his recent fumble. "You can't change anything now."

Potter tries to summon water and fails.

"Must be all that mud in your blood that's doing it-- making you weak."

With a clumsy flick of his wand, Potter attempts a finite spell, but it doesn't work.

"Dirty things carry disease, haven't you heard?"

Potter's gaze intensifies before he rubs a hand over his forehead, leaving it black with ash. Then he waves his wand. This time Draco can't hear the incantation, but he feels the magic released mixing with his own, and he knows it worked. Everything fades away except thick fog and muffled laughter. Like swimming up from the bottom a deep lake, when the air's first swallowed it's rough and sweet and absolutely perfect. He can breathe. Potter's somehow made the smoke harmless. His fists unclench, and his shoulders go slack, and for a for a few timeless moments Draco can feel nothing but the gentle prickle of cooled fire against his skin as he draws his fingers across the center of the blaze-- a flame freeze charm. The sensation is more intense than any rictusempra, and he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be standing in the center of fire with only Potter's will keeping him from burning. He should run. He should knock Potter unconscious and get out while he can. If only it were that simple. If only he hadn't promised. If only touching the fire wasn't strange and mesmerizing and completely addictive. Through the flames, he catches a glimpse of a slight smile on Potter's face as he hangs his foot over a burning log, but it doesn't last-- nothing lasts, and Draco's hand blisters before he can pull it away.

"Not good enough, Potter," he hisses through the pain.

"How will you get out, Malfoy? Did you even plan for that?"

"Appario!" Draco shouts, attempting to cast the apparition charm over himself, "Appario!"

"Not good enough." Potter's voice is toneless, and his face remains completely blank. "Not even close."

"Shut up!" Draco tries to inch closer to Potter without being burned. "I don't care," he rasps through the smoke. "I don't, just as long as I get to watch."

Potter closes his eyes, and Draco steps over a bush so he's standing right in front of him.

"It doesn't matter now. Don't you see? It doesn't matter!" Draco Pokes potter in the chest with his wand. "Open your eyes, Potter." He pokes him again, harder this time. "Open your eyes!" Potter mutters something under his breath, and shoving his wand back in his robe pocket, Draco takes out the dagger Potter called useless and stabs him in the chest-- or tries. Instead of pushing through flesh and a few layers of thin cloth it hits something hard-- metal and, with a high, sharp grinding sound ricochets off to the side leaving him unharmed. Draco looks down to see the blade tip bent in his hand and a slightly dented head boy pin on Potter's cloak.

"What?" Potter blinks.

Draco presses the dagger's edge to Potter's neck. "You shouldn't have underestimated me."

Potter blinks again. Without warning, the pain of Draco's burnt hand intensifies. He looks down, expecting it to be consumed by the flames, but instead sees Potter's fingers wrapped around his own digging hard on the newly formed blisters "I haven't."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Do you know what you're doing, Ron?"

Yes.

"You left your family behind."

They'll be fine.

"We told you to do that. You're such a good listener. Listen, listen, listen-- that's what you're best at isn't it?"

I don't know. Leave me alone. I'm trying to think.

"You don't need to think."

Go!

"Hermione thinks, and Harry does, and you listen, listen, listen . . ."

That's not true.

"Really? Do you actually think Harry and Malfoy need you?"

Shut up.

Ron forces the voices away and takes inventory of his surroundings-- Trees to thick to wrap even his arms around, curling vines everywhere, leaves and seedpods scattered about the ground and bushes thick with thorns rising up out of the dry soil, things seem alive-- are alive here. Ron passes a web too small to belong to even a young wolf spider, but he can still feel that slight stirring of fear in his stomach that had, for years, been just a memory of a world where heroes were stored in unlikely places like cupboards, and flats beside dental offices, and maybe even old magic-houses that moaned with the wind when the air turned cold enough to burn.

What changed?

There was something new in the air, or maybe it had always been there. Maybe he just never noticed before, or maybe, it was buried beneath the strong scents of his family's kitchen. Smoke, he thinks. It smells like smoke.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry will burn soon if this continues any longer. For now, he's just choking on the smoke and spitting out what spells he can remember that might be able to stop fire. Somewhere amidst the confusion of the rising flames and ash and the uncontrolled magic swirling about, he ended up grabbing onto Malfoy's hand, which was too damaged to pull away from him and has since gone limp.

He could die here-- prophesies be damned. He could close his eyes and lie down, and no one would blame him. Already exhausted from his flame freeze charm, which was too weak to maintain, his eyes shut on their own to avoid the assault of heat and debris flying up from the forest floor. In the red-tinged darkness, Malfoy's frantic screaming drowns out even the loudest cracklings of wood burning beneath his feet.

"I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. I DON'T!"

Harry takes a deep breath which, he knows, is not the wisest thing to do in the circumstances, but luckily gets a share of fresh air mixed in with the hot soot he forces into his lungs.

"You'll die here, Potter!" Malfoy screams. "You'll die, and they won't even be able to recognize your bones from mine!"

"I thought you were going to get yourself out of here, Malfoy."

"Shut up. I will. I don't care. It doesn't matter. It doesn't--"

Harry uses what strength he has left to tighten his grip on Malfoy's hand. "Git," he hears Malfoy mutter under his breath

He laughs.

"STOP IT!" Malfoy screams, nearly choking on the smoke. "STOP IT, POTTER!" He clutches his good hand to his chest, struggling to catch his breath. "Stop laughing."

"What?"

"Think this is funny, do you?"

Harry doesn't answer. He closes his eyes and concentrates. He hears a faint sob from Malfoy, as his fingers constrict around the charred skin of his hand. He tries to think of grass and water and solid ground beneath his feet. Over Malfoy's screaming, he tries to imagine fresh air and clear skies. He tries, but all he can picture is fire, and there's no time now to start over. "Appairo!"

The landing is clean for both Harry and Malfoy. They stand back at the old camp in the pile of ashes where Ron's fire had been that morning. Slowly, Harry uncurls his fingers from around Malfoy's hand and gets his first real glimpse of the damage. It's a ghastly sight, looking like nothing so much as burnt wood, or compressed ash-- not even real. To think that it's still alive underneath, that it can still feel, makes Harry slightly nauseous. He's too busy staring at the injured left hand to notice Malfoy's right fist before it makes contact with his jaw.

"This is all you're fault, Potter!"

"What? That we're both alive?"

He gets punched him again.

As if hit by something one-hundred times stronger than Malfoy, Harry doubles over, exhausted. He should have expected this. Somehow, he had enough need or enough adrenaline to make the charm work, but single-person apparation is tricky business in itself. To manage it with two people, with the state of magic being what it is should have been impossible. But then, nothing's impossible for him-- that's why he's here, remembering what Ron said all those days ago about how hard it is to breathe, how it would be so much easier to stop.

Harry can't stay in his memories long because Malfoy's started kicking him in the legs. "It would have been worth it," he chants. "It would have been worth it."

"No!" Harry isn't sure who he's trying to convince. He lies on the ground, and he can barely feel Malfoy's kicks now. Either he's gone numb, or Malfoy's just that weak. As much as he hates to admit it, it's probably the former.

"Shut up, Potter. You don't understand anything."

"I saved you." He sticks out his foot tripping Malfoy, who is already off balance holding his left hand with his right. Malfoy crashes to the ground to his side and instinctively tries to break the fall with his bad hand.

"I didn't ask for this," he says lying beside Harry and blowing onto his burnt skin. "This is what you want. I didn't ask for any of it."

"You promised. We need you."

Silently, Malfoy struggles to his feet and makes sure to step on Harry before stumbling away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Ron steps out of the forest, the first thing he sees is white. The sun has brightened significantly, and he has to wait a few seconds before the small town comes into focus. He likes the white-- blank and new. This is his chance, his fresh start, and he knows better than to waste it.

The houses are small, but sturdy like the ones in Hogsmeade and he can see people frantically milling about. Things are changing fast, but he had spent years cultivating a practiced indifference so his fall into obscurity would not seem quite so tragic, and he'll be damned if he's going to waste it all now. He cracks his knuckles in a way that would have caused his mother to scold him about proper manners, and straightening the perpetual slump of his shoulders, walks down the cobbled path to join in the hustle.

Things don't seem quite so pleasant up close. All the stores are closed, and the glass windows are either boarded up or shattered. The houses still don't seem as beat-up as the burrow, but only because they don't rely on magic holding them together.

"What's in your bag?!" calls a sharp female voice, and he turns, half expecting to see Ginny. She's not Ginny, but certainly the same type of girl-- familiar, blonde, about his age and short enough that as she sits in the back of her cart her feet don't quite reach the ground. "I said, what's in your pack."

"Nothing."

"Food?" she asks, hopping down and taking a few steps closer.

"I said, it's nothing."

"Well it's an awfully big nothing." She runs her hands over his pack and pokes about, taking inventory of its unseen contents. "What do you want for it?" Ron shakes his head and begins to turn away but she grabs hold of his arm. "I'll pay," she whispers, "as much as I can. I'll pay."

"I have money." Ron jerks his hand from her grip and starts walking away.

"You don't dress like someone with money," she calls after him. In a few moments she's caught up and is walking beside him. She only comes up to his shoulders.

"And you," he says, staring down at her with his best Percy impression, "don't dress like someone who hasn't got any food. Do I know you?"

"Ron?" She raises her head so her eyes meet his. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's not smiling like she used to, but no one really is these days.

"Hannah Abbot."

She holds up a hand showing off a gold ring set with the biggest diamond he's ever seen. "Not Abbot anymore."

"Oh?"

"What happened? You don't look yourself."

"Nothing."

"A trade then, half of what's in your pack," she wrenches the ring from her finger and holds it out to him, "for this."

"No, I can't." He turns again in the opposite direction and starts waking away, but she's faster this time and cuts him off back at her cart.

"Anything here," she says indicating sacks filled with dress clothes, fine silver and what look like broken-down muggle appliances. Ron certainly doesn't need anymore of those.

He sighs. "Me and my . . . friends need to get to London. Can you take us?"

"London's a long way from here."

He pats the pack with his free hand. "You'll be well compensated."

"What about now?" she asks. "Here just for a bit, here this was my best." She holds up a taffeta dress robe shimmering somewhere between maroon and violet that's hideous enough to make Ron thankful for Weasley jumpers.

"What would I do with that . . . thing?"

"Sell it for more."

"Just like you are? No thanks, Hannah. I really--"

"Some things have uses you wouldn't expect," she snaps. "You should know by now that people-- things can do what weren't ever originally planned for them."

Ron is immediately struck by the mental image of Malfoy dressed in the robe, looking indignant and gives a few wheezing laughs. "You're free to find them then," he says, finally regaining his voice. "Just leave me out."

"I don't remember you being so rude."

"I'm surprised you remember me at all."

"What?"

"Never mind." He rubs his hands over his arms. "I'll find someone else."

"No! You don't understand." Her eyes lose some of their ferocity and turn pleading. "My children, they're sick." From some unseen pocket, she produces a photograph that has gone still and looks like it's about to crumble to dust. "See," she says holding it up to his face. "Fredrick and Catherine, they're--"

"Merlin, you have two kids?"

"Twins." She draws herself up slightly. "Their father-- Justin-- you remember Justin don't you? Well he-- when the ministry was taken he--just take whatever you want," she says pointing to the cart and looking at the ground. "Take everything. I don't need much for it."

Ron pulls a sword from beneath a stack of books and stares at it for a moment. He tries to read the initials carved on the blade but they keep switching before his eyes. He swings it slowly inspecting the balance, and then nods. "I'll take this."

"That? It's dented. It can't be worth two knuts."

Ron reaches into his pack and takes out a parcel of potatoes, carrots and two loaves of bread and tosses it to her. "It's worth your family's supper." She catches it deftly, and he remembers something of her being a chaser back in their days at Hogwarts-- now a widow and a mother of two. The world certainly is changing.

"Thank you," she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. Ron begins to walk away to spare her the drawn-out embarrassment of being helped by a Weasley.

"You'll get more if you can get us to London," he calls back, swinging the sword and listening to it slice through the air. He doesn't need to turn around for her answer to know that she will.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Fire feeds fire. Warmth and light and hope, all that, you once were and all that fails now. The change brings cold. Gone are the days of sunlight. The rains have passed, but only here. In other parts of the world floods are just beginning.

You haven't flown far before drawn back to the rising smoke over the trees. You need this-- you have for months, but you were too proud to admit it. Capitulation is sometimes necessary. You know that now, and you fly to the center of the blaze and let it fill you with false strength until even the smoke and ash has been siphoned away. And you know, in the end, it will only last a moment, but you cling to it, talons grinding together. This is life, not your endless repeating cycle. This is human-- real. Everything aches more. The colors of the world wash away, as if seen through a veil of rain. And you know that, this time, death will last. Life was held in a fine balance, but that's gone now. It can never be the same.

"The hell?" a voice screams from below. You should have been flying higher, but the winds are too strong. "Scat!" You dodge a thrown rock. "Get away from me!" You try to let him know that you have no interest in him anyway, but he doesn't seem to take the hint

He's not the one you're supposed to be looking after. Pale and pointed, he couldn't be more different from the others, but you don't see them. He's here, and you're here, and holding his burnt hand stiffly to his chest, he throws another rock at you. You almost have to admire him for it.

He squawks louder than you when your wing beats against his face, and he makes his biggest mistake when he grabs your tail and you lift him ten feet off the ground. Only, this time, the defeat goes both ways. After a few seconds, you're too weak to have him holding on, and you lower him back down. Thankfully, he doesn't know the reason.

You've seen pain enough to realize that he makes it worse for himself by refusing to accept what is and keep living. He must dwell on every scratch and bruise and small hurt until they fester in his mind and he can't think of anything else.

You try to inch closer, and he glares at you, but he doesn't try to fight. You manage to squeeze out a few tears onto his hand until the skin is white again and knits itself seamlessly back together. His eyes are closed, and he still moans and whimpers a bit. You can't help but give him a sharp peck on the nose and fly off with a feeble sense of triumph.

Below you, his eyes ignite with a renewed fury, and his arms swing wildly at the air until he catches sight of his hand and goes silent. Then, after only a few moments, he uses it to throw a rock at you, but this one is better aimed and smaller than the others, and you catch it in you beak and drop it back so it hits the top of his head. You let out a pleased whoop at his indignation. It's petty, and it's weak, and such actions should be beneath you, but it's something and for awhile longer, there won't be anymore tears.

And maybe, somewhere close by or somewhere far away, someone else needs you more than he did, but they'll have to hold out for a bit, because you need this now. With a sudden burst of renewed energy you try to go a bit higher, and your voice, which has been failing you, settles on a note it can manage

Just for awhile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There were few constants in the world, but Tom knew this much at least, gruel would be his breakfast this morning, and toast was only served every other Sunday. Leaving behind bed sheets stiff with cold, he would make his way to the kitchens. Orphans didn't eat unless they cooked first. Tom wasn't an orphan, though. He knew he wasn't, and no matter how silly or stupid anyone said he was, his belief never wavered. Somewhere, he had a mother or a father. He wouldn't be stuck here forever.

Tom woke last, he usually did. The others would joke about it, saying he thought he was the heir to some vast fortune and too good for chores. He told himself he was more than that, and he told himself their laughter didn't bother him. Slowly lifting the heavy lids of his eyes, Tom was startled by the sight of the matron, Madame Guthe's, pinched, grey face staring down at him. "Does Little Tommy think he's too important to bother cooking breakfast?" she asked in a voice that somehow managed to be just between a whisper and a screech.

"No, Madame," he replied with false politeness, and defiantly, he made no move to get out of bed.

"I know your kind, Tom. You think you're too important to eat with the rest of us, don't you?"

"No, Madame," he yawned. "I don't."

"Well then, I guess you're just lazy. Is that it?"

"No. Tired, Madame," he said, rolling over so that he no longer had to face her, "and I don't feel well."

"No one feels well here, boy," Guthe snatched his pillow out from under him. "Go get a pot on the stove, and start the water boiling."

He moved his arm up to use as a headrest and closed his eyes. "Yes, I will."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Madame." Tom suppressed a smile as her heavy footsteps retreated. It was a small triumph, to be sure, and it wasn't as if anything was actually won. He would still have to cook his breakfast if he wanted to eat, and he would, likely, have to mop up the kitchens afterwards, but Tom collected his victories wherever he could get them. He pulled his sheets up over his head so he could rest just a bit longer and wondered about the places in the world where the closest thing to bravery wasn't to hide under bedcovers.

~*~

Guthe was a dull frumpy sort of woman, no matter how much she wished to be otherwise. She, likely, had learned early in her life that no amount of fine perfumes or rare baubles could ever make her an exotic beauty, though it never stopped her trying. She didn't like children generally and loathed one in particular. That much was obvious to him before anything else-- before movement, before words, before focused sight, or clear memory there was hatred, and there was resentment strong enough to burn like acid against his lungs and set the tempo of his heart's beating off its natural pace.

Wincing as a ghostly pain that attacked his legs seconds before his feet hit the splintering wood of the bedroom floorboards, Tom tried to think of a way out. The others would gather together and whisper their plans of escape, but he could tell they didn't mean to, not really. Even if there wasn't a way out, he knew something had to change. Things couldn't go on like this forever. Guthe was getting worse by the minute. For all the wonderful things she wished to become, she only got older, and duller, and uglier with each passing year, and Tom knew her wishes. He could see them in his own mind if he concentrated hard enough. He knew she could sense that he was something different-- special, and he knew she hated him for it.

After washing the windows, he sat down for breakfast. Guthe liked playing them against each other, so all the children had to wait for Tom to finish his duties before eating, and all the gruel had gone cold. "Remember whose fault it is you won't be getting a warm breakfast this morning," she said. "You can all thank Tommy for that."

A few of them glared at him, but most stared down into their laps or gazed hungrily at their empty bowls. After all, right then it was Guthe making them wait.

"Now, I expect plates cleaned afterwards, and there'll be double chores today, so don't dawdle."

The responding chorus of, 'Yes, Madame' made Tom clench his jaw and raise his chin slightly, as he remained pointedly silent at her leaving.

"So, Tommy," said one of the boys who had been glaring, "did you sleep well?"

"No. It was cold, and the beds here are awful. But I'll be free of them soon enough."

"Yes," said another. "Do write your parents and tell them to come soon so you can move back to your castle-- so you won't keep mistaking us for your servants."

Tom knew he would have real enemies someday-- stronger than these skinny little orphan boys and certainly stronger than Guthe, but he didn't need them all against him now, not when it could be different.

Tom closed his eyes and thought of a great manor high set high on a hill, and he held that picture in his mind as a dirty-faced girl opened the tin pot to find that the gruel was gone. Instead, she began to pull out crumpets and muffins and hot bread fresh from the oven. Tom stared at the dingy wooden bowl in front of him and with a pop it turned into a bone-white china plate inlaid with silver. More successive popping followed as the other bowls did the same. Jars of honey and fruit jams seemed to appear from thin air as the table lengthened to accommodate the feast, and the chairs grew arms, becoming higher and elegantly curved.

For a few moments, everyone stared silently at him until he picked up the bright red apple that had materialized beside his crystal goblet and took a bite. "Courtesy of my family," he said after swallowing. Immediately, everyone followed suit. They were too hungry to be suspicious, and would be too grateful to tell Guthe. He even heard the boys who had made fun of him mumbling thanks between sips of juice.

No one joked about him after that.

~*~

One of the older girls once told Tom that before he had ever learned to talk he would hiss. He hadn't known what that meant at first, but more and more often he felt the need to press his tongue against his closed teeth and talk-- not hiss, talk. Sometimes, when he was sure no one could hear he would have whole conversations with himself this way, and though he knew they were being formed differently, he heard the words in his own voice-- in English.

~*~

It smelled like mothballs in the attic and cold, if cold could be said to have a smell. Spring cleaning Guthe had called it-- Spring cleaning in early February. "No supper until the boxes are sorted-- no bed-- no leaving until it all gets done." The gold bangles hanging from her wrists clinked distractingly as her arms waved about in another failed attempt at graceful posturing, and Tom gave a proud smile as everyone around him bit their lips. "Very well," she said looking directly at him. "I hope this will be a good lesson for every one of you."

Tom used his new language to call her a daft cow, and the others seemed to gather it was an insult and look on approvingly.

She slammed the heavy wooden door shut, but it was not until they heard the soft click of the lock and Guthe's not-so-soft footsteps that they let themselves breathe.

"Can you believe how mad she was?" said a short girl.

"She's always mad," said another.

"What do you think she meant about it being a good lesson."

"Not sure."

"It doesn't matter. She's just a nasty old witch."

Tom felt his blood run cold. "Let's get this done," he snapped, suppressing a shiver. "The sooner it's done, the sooner we can get out of here." He pulled an old wooden crate out from a dusty corner and began to shift through the contents, all cutouts from old newspapers. Around him the other children were doing the same.

Only a few minutes later the short girl from before dropped a large pile of papers and sent them sliding over the chilled floorboards. "Father," she whispered, as a boy in the corner hugged his knees to his chest and let out a pitiful whimper

Obituaries. Police reports. Hospital records. Death notices.

It didn't take Tom long to discover what Guthe's lesson to them was. The truth of the thoughts that slithered unbidden into his mind, coiling and constricting and changing the shape of everything he had known was true-- the hissed whispers he would fight against by pulling the covers up over his him and burying his head in his pillow until they were all wished away. Because, every child knows that thoughts banished while still in bed before the sun rises over the windowsills, are nothing more than harmless dreams.

"You are alone, Tom," they would say. "Don't believe us yet, but you already know you don't belong here. Someday you'll understand you don't belong anywhere else either. Someday you'll know how different you really are. Someday you'll know we're right."

He found his mother amongst the piles. Her paper wasn't like the others-- not at all. Stheno Marvolo-Riddle, dead of heart failure. Her picture blinked and reached a hand out as if trying to touch him. He shoved it into the pocket of his trousers while no one was looking. They were done soon, and the others, satisfied with the new organization, went downstairs, while Tom stayed in the attic searching until it was too dark to see. In the jumble of pressed pages and tattered papers, his father was nowhere to be found.

~*~

The next year Guthe was worse. She draped herself in silks shipped all the way from India and China, while Tom slowly forgot the last time he'd been allowed to the end of the street. Soon he wasn't able to remember the feel of sunlight in the early morning, or the strange, tickly sensation of wet spring grass brushing against his bare feet. After that, he discovered other ways to console himself.

Closing his shutters became his one silent rebellion and the dark his only refuge. Sometimes, he would look at his mother's picture, but he always felt small and helpless afterwards.

Guthe had sensed the desertion he was creating and quashed it by being perfectly nice to all the others, giving them no reason to side against her. He would sit alone on the kitchen with a cup of stale tea while everyone else enjoyed cake bought from the bakery. She bought toys and sent them outside when the weather was pleasant, while he scrubbed the floors of his darkened bedroom.

If he wasn't to be let in the sun, then he wouldn't waste his life away searching for clear windows to gaze longingly out of, wishing for things to be different. If there could never be joyful days for him, then he would make it night-- night for the all the world, and night never-ending. He knew he was different-- special. He knew he could.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Potter's scar looks fresh these days-- recently cut and purple-edged with the dull brand of coldness that should only be reserved for late autumn. It's the third day of July and everything is backwards now, not just the weather.

I will succeed.

You would not think it possible, but the boy who lived will die.

My hand is better now. I would call it luck. Though, if I had ever been lucky I wouldn't be here now. Luck-- luck, which changes too and is now in my hands. Something unexpected, a reason, for once, to be thankful-- I couldn't have managed the waiting. They say time will heal you, but they lie. Like all precious things in the world, time is of far too short a supply, and you never know quite what should be done with it until your chance has passed.

Gems tipped with poison to kill the wearer, sabers sheathed in silver with handles carved of bone, gilded jail cells, lovingly crafted nightmares, what treasures I left abandoned at the mansion may not have been too large a price to pay to be here now.

Walking a fine balance, you begin to fear the failures that will mar the beauty of your life, but there's no way to leave untouched. You know this already. Deep down everyone knows this. I always have, but it wasn't as easy then as it is now. There two types of situations in which human beings can do the impossible, when they refuse to accept its impossibility and when they have nothing left to lose, both apply now. Old rules no longer hold.

Even Weasley's been acting strangely. I don't understand what made him come. It's harder to chalk it up to him following Potter in all things, because Potter doesn't want to be followed now, and it's harder still to believe that he would willingly give up the only thing that makes him slightly less offensive than a muggle. There's no way . . . unless.

It doesn't matter. Weasley never mattered.

They say time heals, and maybe they're right. Maybe if you let yourself forget it does, but time also kills.

Life-- victory is kept in the blood of the pure, and Potter has always been tainted.

If I serve well I will be given my reward-- and even if not . . . even if Phineas and Potter are right, some things must be worth dying for.

I'm not afraid.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry wakes with his mouth tasting like blood and wonders briefly if Malfoy had punched him a lot harder than he thought at the time. He vaguely remembers putting up his tent before passing out but, all the same, is shocked to see that it held. He's weak, very weak, and he doesn't think he could find his feet to stand even if his life depended on it. The worst part is that they went backwards. They're no closer to London than they were that morning, and now he's felling half dead and Malfoy's hand is destroyed and Ron's nowhere to be seen.

Harry can't help but think he would have stood a better chance of it alone.

It's too much still to wrap his mind around, the goal of his task. He wonders if he would be happier staying forever with the Dursleys on their rock in the middle of the sea. To have nothing to lose would be a great relief now.

His head hurts worse than before, and for a second, he finds himself wishing he hadn't apparated. It would have been so much easier not to. Now, thanks to the smoke, he finds taking deep breaths nearly impossible. A strained gasp catches in his throat as the tent flaps are pulled aside.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco similes at Potter's shocked look as he stands over him. "He doesn't know does he?"

"Who?" Potter asks, "doesn't know what?"

"Weasley. He doesn't know what you plan on doing does he?"

"Ron knows." Potter's voice is raw and pained. Draco remembers how it felt to release so much magic and imagines Potter must fell at least as bad, probably worse.

"He's a pureblood," he says. "He wouldn't stand for this no matter his family status. He, at least, was born to be a wizard." He punctuates the last part with a sneer at Potter.

"Think what you like." Potter tries to sit, but he can't seem to manage.

Draco leans down and grabs him by the collar of his robes. "You didn't tell him," he hisses, jerking Potter forwards so they're face to face.

"He knows."

"So, I'll have a little chat with him then?"

Potter's teeth are clenched, and his face is still spotted with ash. "Fine." he pushes Draco away with surprising strength. "Just shove off, Malfoy."

"No." Draco smiles and holds Potter's angry glare in his memory. "Don't think I will. It would be a shame if I left before doing what I came for."

"What about Ron?"

"I don't care about him."

"Oh, so you care about me? Really Malfoy--"

Draco takes out his dagger and presses it to Potter's neck exactly where it had been before. "Keep talking."

"You said you would only use magic," Potter rasps, "a spell." The last word comes out as a cough and Potter's breath is hot against his cheek.

"You said it first." Draco pushes Potter's head back until it's flat against the ground and crouches beside him. "You said you were expecting this. What changed?"

"Nothing." Potter spits in Draco's face. "Nothing, Malfoy. I shouldn't have--"

"We will all rise up to our expectations don't we? Or down in some cases." Draco wipes his chin with a robe sleeve and sneers at Potter. "Boy who lived."

"I thought you could be bound by you agreements-- your debts."

"What makes you think I owe you anything more? Until you die, Potter-- that was the only promise. I'll be with you until you die."

"I guess not then." Potter sighs, and his Adams apple bops dangerously close to the blade against his neck. He looks away from Draco's face and his eyes widen slightly. "Your hand," he breathes almost too soft for him to hear.

"What?"

"It got better, how?"

"Harry!" With the lack of wind, voices carry far in the open, and this one is unmistakable. "Harry!" Even from inside the tent, Draco hears it perfectly.

"Ron," Potter says barely above a whisper. "He'll be here soon. You best stop with this, Malfoy." Draco puts the knife back in his pocket. Potter's right, so much blood would be difficult to explain.

"It doesn't matter."

Potter tries to sit up, but he still can't quite manage it. "R--" he starts, but Draco stifles him by putting a hand over his mouth and pushing his head back onto the ground. Potter was right. To cut him would be too much, but there are other ways. Draco can't suppress the giddy thrill he feels looking down at Potter so wide eyed and helpless. His fingers trail down Potter's neck, searching and felling his skin turn to gooseflesh beneath his touch. When he finds the pulse point, he presses down hard.

"Harry!" Weasley calls again.

Draco hears a slight gurgle in the back of Potter's throat.

"Hey, there's a town beyond these woods or what's left of one. There were some witches and wizards we may be able to get a horse and cart to take us."

Draco feels Potter's heartbeat slowing and his breaths are becoming shallower-- more labored. His eyes have closed.

"What about it?" Weasley calls from right outside the tent. But Potter's gone still beneath Draco. "Harry?" One day, Draco will think on how odd that he hears this with such perfect clarity-- that he will always remember the exact inflection of Weasley's voice at that moment. "Hey . . . Mate, you in there?"

Under him Potter shakes slightly and then begins to cough again. Draco tries pushing harder on his throat to stop him breathing, but that only makes the coughing worse. Potter's chest shakes and rattles as if something inside has broken, and his limbs begin convulsing. A few feet away, separated only by a thin piece of cloth, Weasley seems to be holding a perfectly normal conversation about already having eaten a parcel of food.

It is when Draco sits on Potter's legs to stop their twitching, that something begins pouring from his mouth, something wet and sticky under the hand that covers it and over the other hand pressing into his neck-- Blood.

"Merlin, Potter!" Draco jumps back frantically wiping his hands on his robe.

"Harry?" Weasley asks, steeping into the crowded space of the tent. His eyes meet with Draco's before they can trail over to Potter, spewing blood on his blankets. "Malfoy! What are you are you here?"

"I--" Draco stammers. "Potter . . . I . . . he--"

"What's going on?"

"I-- I didn't . . ."

"Harry?" Weasley asks turning to Potter.

Potter's clamped his mouth shut and appears to be trying hard to swallow. His covers are set at an angle and overturned so that they look reasonably clean, but the smear of blood over his nose and lips gives him away.

"It's not . . ." Draco tries. "I didn't."

"What?" Weasley's voice is softer than Draco ever remembers hearing it. He's still looking at Potter.

Draco moves towards the half opened flap. "I'll just . . ."

"No." Weasley catches hold of his arm. "You won't." He gives Draco a brief look of disgust before his fingers loosen and fall away. "Harry?" he whispers.

"Ummm . . ." Potter swallows again.

Weasley's common features are contorted in a mask of confusion. "What's going on here?"

Draco's still rooted to the spot. "Nothing!"

"Shut up, Malfoy!" he snaps.

"Nothing."

Draco nearly bangs heads with Weasley and they both pivot to face Potter, who's just spoken.

"He's right," Potter says to Weasley. "I was resting. I didn't expect him here." He's wiped his face and looks no worse for the wear than he had earlier that morning. "He probably just wants to complain about the ground being too hard or not hard enough. What is it now, Malfoy?

Draco's heart is hammering in his chest. "You bloody well know what it is, Potter," he manages in an almost even tone.

Potter smiles, and the cracks between his teeth are stained red. "Do I?"

"You're feeling alright?" Weasley asks, looking genuinely worried.

"Fine." His smile softens. "Better. I was just too tired this morning."

"Alright," Weasley begins tentatively. "There's a town, like I said. We might be able to get a ride."

"You'll handle it?"

"If that's what you want."

"Okay," Potter says. "I'm fine, really." His head tips almost unnoticeably in Draco's direction. "He's nothing. Don't worry."

"It's a bit of a walk-- to get to the town, I mean. Are you--"

"I'll be fine," Potter says firmly.

"Okay." Weasley says turning shakily on his heel and walking out.

Draco's pulse still hasn't slowed, and being left alone with Potter has made it quicken further. He can't seem to make sense of what's happening around him, and from his seat in the dirt, Potter's looking far too entertained by his apparently dumbstruck expression.

"You can't walk, Potter," he says. "You can barely even sit up. You're not fine."

"Does it matter?" Potter's head relaxes, and he flops bonelessly back onto the ground. "I thought you were going to finish what you started."

Fury is overtaking Draco's confusion, and the sensation of it is strange and dizzy. He grabs onto the old broomstick shaft to keep from stumbling over beside Potter. "This will kill you, Potter," he says in a voice infused with all the violence he has left in him. "I won't have to do anything at all. You'll die of it. You can't beat this. You can't beat him. No one can."

"Not even you?" Potter asks with a smirk.

"I am loyal to him I will be granted--"

"Eternal life in reward for your service." Potter sighs, looking thoroughly amused with himself. "Yes, Malfoy. You have told us."

"You'll die." He says flatly, and unlike all of his other proclamations, this causes giddy a tightening in Draco's chest, because this time he knows that it's true. "You will die."

"There are worse fates than death," Potter says, still grinning. He stares up at the cloth ceiling of his tent as if it's infinitely fascinating. "I can think of a good many."

"No. Not yours. Nothing will be worse."

Potter turns to stare at him, and the mirth seems to drain from his face.

"I suppose I should be glad when it's all over," Draco laughs.

"Oh?" Potter asks. His eyes are clouded and have begun to drift shut.

"Then-- then the world won't revolve around you anymore."

"If there's a world left, you mean," Potter whispers. He already seems lost in sleep before Draco can answer back.

"That doesn't matter."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron isn't sure if this is one of those things he's always somehow known or if it's new. He isn't sure if he's just realizing it for the first time or if he forced himself to forget years ago to make things easier. Beneath the thoughts and the memories, beneath the whispers and the screams, beneath the dreams he clings to and the fears that are just emerging again, there's a part of him that can't be touched or changed or taken from him, because it belongs to Harry, and in a way, it always has.

Harry was, after all, his first real friend. Ron was eleven when they met for the first time. At twelve, on the chess board, he realized he was willing to die for him. When he was fifteen he began to understand that he probably would, and by sixteen he knew it. but, thanks to the strange new thoughts silently twisting amongst his own, he didn't particularly care. The most he could hope for then was not to make a complete embarrassment of himself before the time came, but then he did that anyway-- in Harry's eyes, at least.

Ginny didn't believe in Harry's legend, even though she wanted to, and Ron can't help but believe, even though for years he's been trying not to be so foolish. No matter where he is, there are some things he just can't escape. Malfoy's reaction is altogether unexpected. He seems to take Harry's fallibility as a personal betrayal, which is especially odd since he's been trying to kill him. He can't, though. Ron's sure of that. Something's protecting Harry, from Malfoy at least, something new.

He hears sharp cackling from inside the tent and wonders what Malfoy's said that amuses himself so much. He imagines all the stupid, petty insults. Malfoy's laugh, he noticed earlier, has a strange abrasive quality. If laughter is infectious then his is a deadly virus. Harry doesn't laugh anymore, such is the burden of heroism, and when Ron laughs, it's silent, and he can't make himself stop.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Storming away from the tent, Draco is caught by the strange sight of a newly lit fire reflecting on Weasley's face making it a brighter shade of red than he thought could be captured by human skin. The spot on the log where he sits had been Draco's earlier-- just one other thing that was taken away from him by an undeserving idiot like the weasel. He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to suppress the unbalanced jittery feeling in his stomach. "Go away."

"Make me," Weasley says without bothering to look at him.

Draco moves to sit on a dry, clean patch of ground that's closer to Weasley than he would prefer. "Why are you here anyway?"

"Because it's warmer here than in the tent."

"Why do you follow him, I mean?" He finds a pebble and flicks it at Weasley before burying his hand in his pocket once more. "Do you really think he'd do the same for you?"

Weasley turns and glares at him in annoyance. "Yes."

Draco feels a smile beginning to form. "You don't understand," he says. "Potter's been playing you for a fool."

"I know enough."

Draco searches his memory for any instances of Weasley showing intelligence beyond of the odd question answered to McGonagall or that mongrel Lupin, but finds nothing except a brief mention at the leaving their feast first year that was easily overshadowed by Granger's brilliance and Potter's valor. Even Longbottom got more of an ovation. Weasley's schooldays could easily be termed unmemorable, peppered with dozens of small failures and losses-- a continual slide down a rocky slope, rather than a magnificent fall. Draco recalls laughing at him, though, quite often, particularly during seventh year when, if caught off guard, he would answer to the name Wheezy. Still, Draco can't help but think there must be something more that would make Weasley follow Potter than blind stupidity, and he hates not knowing-- not understanding what it could be. "He told me," Draco says. "Potter told me what'll happen at the end of it."

The look Weasley gives him is at once vacant and condescending, as if he's trying to muster the lost humor to joke openly at him. "And you believe him?"

"Potter doesn't lie."

"There's a difference between not lying and telling the truth."

"Oh?" Draco's attention shifts back to the fire, and Weasley's strays to the forest beyond.

"Is his word something you'd be willing to stake your life on?"

"I didn't come here to listen to this, Weasel. Not from you."

"Why did you come here then?" he asks lightly.

"I-- "

"To tell me that you think the wind is too cold for you, or the fire too hot?" Weasley snaps cutting Draco off. "You're mistaken if you think I care. Harry might humor you. He has things he wants to get off his mind. You'll find we differ there." Something bright catches in his eyes, and for a moment, Draco can't be sure that it's just the fire, but it's gone before he can trace it, and against the outside light, Weasley's face looks dull and faded, as if without the fire's reflection it would have no color of its own. "I'd rather you shut up long enough for me to keep what thoughts are mine."

The rush of adrenaline that left his skin hot and his back damp with sweat has deserted Draco now. The wind is biting and trailing its icy fingers down his spine, and something in him decides that uncomfortable silence is better than any strained conversation he and Weasley could manage.

They sit without speaking, the seconds stretching uneasily until even through the veil of clouds, Draco can see the sun lowering in the sky and the shadows of the forest beginning to lengthen. Weasley takes a small slice of bread from his over-filled pack and begins to pick at it inelegantly. Draco sneers at him to forestall any offers of food, clinging desperately to the thin strands of his remaining pride. He doesn't trust his stomach enough to eat-- not yet, nor does he trust his legs to carry him away without shaking. Draco can feel the individual pebbles on the ground beneath him, and Potter's blood is drying on his hands, making them itch. Weasley produces a thin stick and begins stirring the fire.

"You should add more logs," Draco says.

Weasley looks at him, but shows no sign of understanding his words.

"The fire, it's too small."

"It's fine. Size doesn't have anything to do with intensity. Low burns are often the hottest."

Draco expects he knows this from trying to conserve fire logs in the winter. His family certainly didn't seem the type to have expensive heating charms like he had back at the mansion or house elves to stoke the furnaces. All the same, something seems off. The stick Weasley uses to poke about the flames is smooth and rather long and-- "Bloody hell! Is that your wand?" Draco doesn't need to wait for an answer. His disgust at Weasley is almost palpable. It's a perfect example of the degradation of Wizarding culture, of muggle and mudblood influences, of Weasley's complete lack of self respect. As far as Draco is concerned, he deserves to go down with Potter. "You're sticking your wand in a fire. Your wand!"

"Might as well use it for something." Weasley shrugs. "Besides, I wouldn't want to burn my hand getting too close."

Draco gapes.

Weasley isn't grinning openly, not yet, but as if trying to garner Draco's revulsion he plucks his wand unsigned from the fire and begins using it as something of a shoehorn to remove his boots. His motions are sure enough for Draco to tell that, however repellent, this display is not solely for his benefit. Weasley's done this before, probably quite often.

"You shouldn't use your wand like that," Draco says reflexively, knowing it will make little difference. "It's not right."

"It's not proper, you mean," Weasley says, but much to Draco's surprise, puts his wand in his pocket and begins unlacing the boots by hand.

"Same thing."

"Is that an explanation of Slytherin morality?" he asks without looking up from his feet. "I was beginning to wonder, but then, you haven't been following that too well have you?"

"I--"

"You never think your stupid rules should apply to yourselves. That's why You Know Who's actually a halfblood. His father was a muggle silk merchant and Grindewald's mum was muggleborn. He grew up in the muggle world because she liked it better. Bet you didn't know that, did you Malfoy?"

"That's not true."

"When Dumbledore fought Grindewald to finally defeat him they couldn't get anywhere using magic they were in a stalemate and just kept blocking each others curses, so Dumbledore took his wand and slapped Grindewald across the face with it to distract him right before casting the final spell."

"That's complete rubbish, Weasley. Nobody knows how Grindewald was really defeated. Most purebloods from respectable families think he killed himself."

"Probably because they're too embarrassed about the truth getting out."

"Where on earth do you hear things like that, The Quibbler?"

"No," Weasley says looking mildly confused. "It was in Hogwarts a History, I think. Hermione told me and Harry-- anyway it's true. First year after he stuck his wand up that troll's nose she-- I-- lots of witches and wizards do stuff like that, or are willing to when it comes down to it. It's expected of Slytherins, anyway." Weasley sighs and rubs his hands over his forearms, and something like a laugh catches in his throat. "No one would be stupid enough to hope for you to play by the rules, but then you look down on the rest of us if we're not proper."

Draco blinks almost expecting to see an entirely different person when he opens his eyes, but Weasley's still there, still fumbling with his boots. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do, Malfoy." Weasley looks up at him, and even his eyes are red from the fire's reflection. "Some things have uses you would never expect."

Draco swallows hard.

Weasley finally manages to get his boots off. His feet are large, but, apparently, the boots he wore are too large even for them and stuffed with old parchment to make up for the difference in size. "I wish I had a warmer pair of socks," he mutters under his breath.

"Weasley, my socks are probably worth more than your house," Draco says, trying to fall back into his pattern.

"Are they warm?"

"No," He admits after a moment's consideration. "Nothing's warm here."

"I think they messed up with us, Malfoy."

"What?"

"Don't you ever wonder if you're not supposed to be who you really are?" Weasley asks still looking at his feet.

In Draco's experience people who talk in riddles are either completely aware of their situation or confused by it, and his pride won't allow him to entertain the notion that he's the one being manipulated by Weasley. "No," he says absently. "I don't need to."

Weasley only shrugs. "I used to be jealous of Harry."

"Potter's the bloody boy-who-lives everyone's jealous of hi--"

"No!" Weasley almost shouts. His temper's coming back. Whatever restraint he's learned since school isn't enough, and Draco feels a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"He's keeping things from you."

"Harry's a good friend." Weasley's voice is almost steady, but it's clear he's trying to convince himself more than Draco.

"No, Weasley, you're just an idiot."

"If he was any better, I'd be dead."

"What?" Draco says. "He's a liar."

Weasley's conviction is coming back, but he manages to keep more control than Draco had expected. He rubs his arms again and his eyebrows knit together. "I thought you said he couldn't lie."

"He can't-- but he does anyway-- that makes it worse!"

Weasley's looking at Draco now, as if he doesn't know what to make of him.

"You're nothing to him," Draco hisses. "He'll lose. You'll all lose."

Weasley's anger fades quickly and his voice with it. "I'm used to it," he mutters, "being on the losing side."

"Of course you are."

"But there are some things worse than that." To Draco's surprise he begins to smile and points to a barely noticeable pin on his outer robe-- a crest emblazoned with two interlocking C's and a cannonball, stylized to look like a bludger. Draco recognizes it instantly-- the emblem of the worst team ever to play Quidditch.

"Shut up!"

Weasley erupts into a bout of noiseless laughter.

"Stop it! Go away, Weasel. Not even Potter wants you here." Weasley bristles, and Draco knows from the rigid line of his back that he's hit a nerve.

"You have no idea what I . . ." Weasley begins before trailing off. He glances down at his arms, and Draco notices, his fingers twitch slightly. "I'm not jealous of him

"Of course you are. Everyone is."

"No, Malfoy." Weasley's looking at him now, and his voice is dry and brittle. "Not everyone. You. Only you."

"You're filthy, Weasley," He says getting to his feet. "You're worse than Potter-- worse than a mudblood."

Weasley stares at him for a few seconds longer before slouching back and returning his attention to the ground.

"You're pathetic."

"Clean your hands, Malfoy," Weasley says blankly without looking up.

Draco had used a hand to help him stand up, and he shoves them back in his pocket and tries to look purposeful walking away. He remembers Weasley barging in to Potter's tent and Weasley swinging a sack of onions at him and Weasley's other cloak pin scratching against his dagger.

The wind blows, stirring the hair and half-dried sweat on the back of Draco's neck. He shivers a bit before looking through his things for something warmer to wear.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A girl sits alone in her bed, listening to the calls of owls and night thrushes. For a moment, you let yourself think you could sing for her, and that could make her happy. You hope it might lift your spirits as well, but you look at closer, now, and you see that she's sick, just like the others and has fallen asleep. You don't want to wake her. For all that's changed, children still need their dreams-- the ones that haven't yet been tainted.

You go back to the other girl, she's slightly older and lying asleep in another bed, and she's sick, just like the first. Even now, old patterns stay true, and a balance must be restored. You realize you can't sing through it-- not this-- not anymore. It's something few people in the world can comprehend-- the power of a true sacrifice. You wonder if she might be one of them and whether it'll make any difference in the end. So you give it up. You give your voice for more tears and are rewarded only by a soft sigh and a mumbled thank you.

There is a voice in you head that sings, even now that you can't-- fly away little bird out amongst the comets and the stars. There's nothing left for you here just cold and hurt and tears falling hard enough to extinguish even the brightest fires. Fly away. Fly away. Fly away. But her voice, frail and broken, is stronger. And she says you're extraordinary and whispers the name the humans called you, the one that means traitor, and you promise to be better than that. It is your body that betrays you now, your parched throat and your aching wings. She tells you to go enjoy the sunlight for her, but when you fly back out the window, the sky is black and starless.

Tears fall seeping into the parched earth of what was once a small brook. Nothing happens. Soon you'll begin to overturn the chalk-dry rocks in search of grubs, and if you're lucky, you may find a few, but for now you stay still, and think about icy winds and waning moons and how things always grow back faster with heat as a catalyst.

Two more feathers fall.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sometimes Tom would dream of a girl with hair like fire and of a boy with eyes that sparked green with some unnamed fury. Sometimes these two visions would merge in the face of a woman soundlessly screaming before she fell still. These were the times he would wake up with the carved serpents on his bedposts hissing in his ears-- alone, different, alone.

Usually, Tom's dreams were more mundane. He saw his mother reaching for him from her picture and a man with a face like his own clutching a hand to his chest. He saw himself sitting through his classes and back in his room at the orphanage. Sometimes, he dreamed he was outside in the spring when the grass was green and the sun had just barely risen over the forest. He liked those dreams best.

~*~

From the start, Tom was not overly fond of Albus Dumbledore. He found Transfiguration to be a rather inessential subject, really, but that wasn't especially surprising so was herbology, and history of magic was completely useless. Tom usually tried to quell such thoughts except when they were directed at Guthe, but he was sure Professor Binns could only be improved by death. Dumbledore, on the other hand, just needed to be taken down a peg-- or ten. Tom knew he could be the one to do it.

Dumbledore had given the first years an extra credit assignment on the theories of human transfigurations and which circumstances would warrant them acceptable. Most of the others in his class didn't attempt it because of its difficulty or tedium or the amount of research involved, but Tom was different-- special. He didn't mind those things so much, and on the last day of his first term, he handed in thirty-one inches of parchment that could match the best work of any owl level student.

His housemates didn't understand. They were all spoiled snobs who wore darkness in their eyes like it was the latest fashion. He was staring into the back of Mortimer Goyle's head in disgust when the self-important voice of his transfigurations professor wrenched him from his thoughts. "I should like to speak with you after class, Mr. Riddle."

"What-- I-- the extra--"

"After class, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said, cutting him off, "And even you would do well to pay attention unless you want your lapel pins to come out spotted."

Tom stared down at the ladybugs on his desktop and tried not to think of Dumbledore or Guthe or Goyle. He tried not to think of anything, but that just made him angrier. He saw a flash of green behind his eyes and when he regained focus, two of the ladybugs were dead. He transfigured the one left alive perfectly. At the end of class, when everyone else had left, he placed it on Dumbledore's desk with a flourish beside the other pins, which were red or black or both and often still twittering about.

"Only one, Mr. Riddle?" Dumbledore asked without looking up.

Tom tilted his chin slightly upwards. "It's done right."

"I see. It is an interesting paper-- the one you handed in."

"I didn't cheat. It's all my own work--"

"Oh, I never had any doubt about that," Dumbledore said calmly. "However, some of the books you referenced are only available in the restricted sections."

"I borrowed them from Prospero Malfoy, Sir," he said with a tight smile. "He brought them from home." This was, technically, a true statement, though he never told Prospero about the borrowing.

Dumbledore grunted and furrowed his brow. For a second, he looked much older. "The Malfoys would do well to keep all their books at home."

"Yes, Sir."

"I wanted to talk about you more than the paper, actually," he said with a careless wave of his hand. "You needn't worry about it. You've been given full marks."

"Okay." Though slightly unnerved, Tom made sure to keep his back from slouching.

"Do you ever wonder if you're not supposed to be who you really are?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question."

"It's simple, really. I myself often wonder how I came to be here teaching you, and sometimes, it seems that if fate had played out properly, I'd be in Timbuktu collecting runespoor venom, Greece studying the oracles-- much better at divining than our Professor Glass, I'm afraid." He got a misty look in his eyes and faltered for a second before continuing. "Sometimes, I feel that if I did things a bit differently I'd have a family of my own, and maybe that was the way it was supposed to be instead of this. Do you ever think--"

"No." Tom wasn't sure whether Dumbledore's current vulnerability was just an act, but he had no intention of letting it sway his answer.

Dumbledore sighed and his shoulders dropped a bit. "You seem to think people should, if they're capable, use magic to improve themselves, to make themselves stronger. You've never seemed the type to be concerned about weakness before, so I couldn't help but wonder--."

"I'm not."

He absently shifted through the pins on his desk and put a few in a glass jar to keep them from scurrying away. "Who are you, Mr. Riddle? You needn't answer, just think about it."

"I know who I am."

"Do you?" he asked, looking up at Tom curiously. "Or do you think making a new name for yourself will change things?"

"I--"

"I can tell you it won't." He snapped a lid over the jar, trapping the pins inside. "Titles are not nearly as important as you seem to think."

Tom couldn't recall any occasions where he went on about names or titles. Some of his housemates had, perhaps, but never him.

"That's all, Mr. Riddle. Do think about what I asked," Dumbledore said in a blustery tone before Tom could tell him that he was mistaken. "You may go back to Slytherin, but you must not make a habit of losing my ladybugs." He smiled, and his eyes sparkled behind his glasses. "They're lucky, you know."

"Yes Sir," Tom said, hoping he at least appeared polite. He walked out the door and began making his way to the dungeons.

From a good teacher you can best learn fairness-- to see the world as how it should be. From a bad teacher you can best learn truth-- to see the world for what it is, and to understand why it needs so badly to be changed. It was a fine line to walk and Dumbledore was slipping. Tom couldn't blame him-- not really. Something big was coming, and soon all the idealism in the world wouldn't do any good unless tempered with a reasonable amount of doubt.

~*~

While he was at school a war came greater than any that had ever been seen ever before. Surprisingly, it didn't change much in the castle. Classes went on as usual, and Binns only taught the history of the long dead, not the recently dying. Hogsmeade visits had to be chaperoned, but Tom hadn't the permission to go anyway. He knew asking Guthe to sign the sheet would cause more trouble than it was worth, and he heard about everything that went on there whether he wanted to or not.

Prospero and his younger brother Antonio always came back carrying shopping bags overflowing with candy and stories about famous Quidditch players they saw in the three broomsticks. Few people actually believed hem, and no one liked them much, except each other.

"Tiny, Tiny Tom never knew his parents," Antonio said through a mouthful of beetle-bites, as he pulled the book Tom was reading out of his hands. "You could be a mudblood for all we know."

"Don't call me that!"

"What don't call you by your first name? Fine then, Riddle. They must have named you that because you're such a joke, right?"

Tom stood from his chair and grabbed the book back with one easy motion. "No, Malfoy," he said as Antonio fumbled at the empty air. "You're the joke."

Antonio wiped the caramel from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Clearly, no one ever taught you proper manners, Riddle," he snapped before turning to sit with his brother by the fire.

~*~

Tom was in the library. He had finished all his homework, but he liked the atmosphere of it better than his common room, and he was always worried about catching a chill from the dampness of the dungeons. He sat at a table with two Ravenclaw boys and a round faced, girl from Hufflepuff, who broke into half-stifled giggles every few seconds. Tom tried to focus on what he was reading, but her laughter was thoroughly distracting.

After a few times reading the same sentence and absorbing none of it Tom slammed both of his elbows onto the smooth wooden top of the table and fixed her in a stern glare. He was different, he told himself. He wasn't like the rest of them, and it certainly wasn't like him to be so easily diverted from what he set his mind to. The two Ravenclaws hadn't let her inanity over some Victorian novel take their attention from their studies. Turning a page, she absently gazed up through her thick glasses and caught his eyes. "Sorry," she whispered, not sounding very sorry at all. "This is just so terribly funny and . . ." She dropped her voice a bit further. "Sorry, I will be quiet."

Tom was surprised that she actually kept her word. She hardly made another sound until she got up from the table, when, in typical Hufflepuff fashion, she dropped her bag and sent her books and scrolls sprawling across the table top and moaned in embarrassment. As she was clumsily gathering everything into her bag the book she had been reading slipped onto his lap. It was heavier than he expected and the cover showed a moving photograph of a transparent curtain waving slowly over a huge expanse of black, but what surprised him most was the title, The Art of Necromancy. He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow, and she plucked the book from him with surprising quickness and stashed it away somewhere before meeting his eyes again. She only gave a slight apologetic nod before hurrying off.

Tom's next annoyance was much worse, as the Malfoy's and Mortimer swaggered into the library and began throwing gobstones him. The acid burned his hands and stained his skin bright yellow.

~*~

"That's my book you were reading," Prospero hissed, stepping in front of Tom as soon as he had turned the first corner of the hallway.

Beside him, Antonio's lips curled in a sneer. "Yes, Riddle, what are you doing with it?"

"Reading, Malfoy, I trust you're at least familiar with the concept, then again, looking at your marks in charms, maybe not."

"So," Prospero cut in again. "Do you plan on giving it back or should I go see Drippet and tell him that our resident orphan has taken to thievery in his spare time-- not that it would surprise anyone, really, but--"

"I'm done. Go get it!" Tom grabbed the book from his pack and threw it down the corridor. "Why do you have it anyway? It's not like you could ever do those spells."

"They're not possible," Prospero said, looking puzzled. "No one can do them. It's self transformation. It's all just theoretical."

To the Malfoys, Tom was sure such things would be impossible, but he wasn't like them anymore than he was like Guthe or the other Muggles at the orphanage. "I will."

"Fine," Antonio said. "You, practically a mudblood, will perform permanent human transfigurations on yourself. Whatever, Riddle. You'll be burnt to a crisp trying."

"And if I'm not?"

Prospero rolled his eyes and looked him over like some problematic ghoul in his dressing room. "You will be."

"Yes," Antonio echoed back. "You will. be"

"And if I'm not, you'll serve me." Tom's voice wavered, but only because of the skip of his heart that came with his absolute surety took him by surprise. "You'll bow down to me," he said. "And you'll call me master, both of you." He looked from one to the other seeing no real difference between them. "All of you."

Prospero was placating and typically sarcastic, but such things were to be expected. "Of course," he sighed. "We'll do that."

"Oh, yes." Antonio smirked. "Anything you say."

Tom knew he'd make them regret it. "Then it's agreed."

"Whatever." Tom couldn't be sure which one muttered the response, because both of them were walking away. When he reached the end of the hall, Prospero bent to pick up his book.

"You Malfoys will keep your promises," he called to their retreating backs. They'd already vanished around a corner when he dropped his voice to a whisper. "You won't have any choice."

~*~

Tom was surprised when Dumbledore pulled him aside after class and asked his opinion on Grindewald. What surprised him more was the discovery that he didn't truly have one. Lying would do no good. Tom had already figured out his transfigurations professor was able to spot lies easily.

"I'm not sure, Sir," he answered.

"Indeed, I thought you may not be. You're a smart boy, Mr. Riddle. You know not to trust blindly."

"I suppose."

"But, I fear, you may not know how to trust at all."

"I don't understand, Sir."

"Look around you," Dumbledore said. "Look at the other students, how much they care about what's happening. I've had to stop ten of my Gryffindors from running off to fight just this week and some Ravenclaws are working to form a student paper, because so many parents won't let their children get subscriptions to the Prophet for fear it will upset them. Why even in Slytherin--"

"What's your point?"

"You're different. They believe in so many things-- so many ideals, and you-- you don't seem to believe in anything at all."

"I believe in myself."

Dumbledore let out an exhausted sigh. "Think, Mr. Riddle, about what Grindewald is doing think what side you would be on if you were made to choose."

"Your side, Sir," Tom answered truthfully.

"And why do you say that?"

"Because, Grindewald can't win. He's already lost the backing of the French ministry and almost all of the English. They say even the Americans are beginning work against him, not overtly of course, and Germany's so divided-- It's bad strategy, Sir. He should at least try to utilize the backing of his native country before killing most of them off. If I were him, I'd ignore Italy and work to win Russia back to my side. There's power in numbers, and the Russians tend to know a good bit more about the dark arts than the Italians do. It'd also do good to have more backing from the east. As things stand now he's pretty much surrounded by those allied against him." Tom let a smile of self content pull at his lips. His classmates certainly wouldn't know so much about current events-- most wouldn't even be able to find Russia on a map, let alone know that witches and wizards were more common there by at least twenty percent than anywhere else in Europe. Dumbledore, however, did not seem so pleased.

"That will be all, Mr. Riddle." His teeth were clenched and he was rubbing his right forearm as if it was giving him considerable pain.

"You'll beat him easily, I think. They say his mother was muggle born. It's just a matter of finding him, really, and catching him by surprise."

Dumbledore's expression shifted to anger.

"Sir?"

"You are a smart boy," he said to Tom. "But you're not a man yet. There is much you still have to learn."

"Respectfully, Sir, I think you'll find I have quite a good understanding of the situation. I know for a fact that--"

"No, Tom, you don't." Dumbledore's eyes took on a brighter cast than they had before, and Tom was startled by the use of his first name. "You know nothing. You haven't seen what he's doing-- what he plans to do. You would likely side with him if you thought he could win, and you, however smart you are, would be just another one of his minions. You don't understand death or torture or the corruption of power. You are a child, Tom, a brilliant one perhaps, but a child nonetheless."

"I'm not. I can learn, and then--"

"Some knowledge can't found in books, not even the ones you borrow from Mr. Malfoy." For a moment Dumbledore's head dropped into his hands, and when he raised it, again his gaze had sharpened, and the air between them shimmered with magic. "I suggest you leave now."

~*~

Tom felt nothing when he left the transfiguration classroom, but his niggling sense of unbalance seemed to increase with each successive step. By the time he hissed the password and walked through the stone wall to the Slytherin common room his blood was near boiling, and he felt like his legs might collapse from under him.

On the floor the Malfoys were playing chess. Each sat with a bag of candy on their lap. "Well, well, well if it isn't-- AHHH!"

Tom never found out what insult Antonio had thought up for him. Before he was able to get it out, his bag burst open, spilling out a mess of steaming, watery grey sludge-- gruel.

Beside him, the same thing happened to Prospero's bag, and the gruel until the covered his arms and legs. "What? How? Merlin, that smarts!"

Tom shut himself off to their screaming until he almost had control over his anger. When he glanced back at them Antonio's eyes widened in fear, and Prospero glared at him furiously, but Tom didn't think about him. They were beneath him, and his thoughts traveled back to Dumbledore and the things he had said earlier. The gruel began to steam more intensely, and then boil.

He walked back through the wall so he wouldn't get a headache from their screaming.

They never joked about him after that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'm tired. I'm not sure if it's my mind or the forest that won't stay quiet enough to allow rest-- probably both.

I've realized there are no straight lines. In the end, if you keep moving, you'll find yourself going in circles. The world's built that way. Never discount the impossible or the unlikely. If you pay attention, you'll figure these things out for yourself. You'll be left to wonder whether there's any difference between being a joke and being nothing at all.

Weasley's gangling walk doesn't come from confidence, only shoes too big to fill. And, maybe, the only thing Potter's marked for is death.

I suppose, all attempts at self justification will fail in the end. When you kill someone, you might expect them to be relieved that it's finally over, but that's not the way it works. They're furious-- furious with themselves for giving up, for letting go. At the end there's no freedom or hope of something better that will come after, only darkness. It's not easy to tell, but I've seen it enough times by now to recognize easily, and to recognize that Potter had none of that fury left in him. Maybe he lost it the first time, or maybe it was more gradual than that. Maybe he doesn't even know it's gone.

This is my path-- the only one left to follow, and all it leads to is inescapable loss. There are some things that you just can't win against or even bother fighting, Veela dances and nightmare potions and Quidditch with Potter. And I suppose I have to try, because not to would be to lose myself. I'm not simple like Weasley. I'm not willing to give that up just yet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Malfoy's asleep, using his cloak as a blanket. Despite days and nights of being outside in the often harsh weather, he's still as pale as he had been in school. His skin seems to reflect all light that shines on it, but absorb none, and the winds that burned Harry's cheeks and chapped his lips didn't seem to touch him at all. When the full moon's beams fall over Malfoy, he looks white and completely featureless. When it goes behind a cloud, he seems to disappear.

Ron has already put the fire out by throwing dirt over it. He said something about needing to save what water they had for drinking. Harry was half sleeping at the time, and when he woke, Ron was gone again. Ron had been in and out of the woods more times than he could count.

He doesn't feel well at all, but the part of him that he still allows to be hopeful thinks it might feel better walking than lying in the claustrophobic darkness of his tent, stumbling blindly through his nightmares.

"Time to go, Malfoy," Harry says standing over him.

Malfoy opens one eye and pulls the cloak he's been using as a blanket over his head. "We're going to wait until morning."

"No, we're not." Harry knows he can't drag Malfoy up physically, and as much as he'd love to hex him into a Malfoy sized puffskien, his magic nearly gone. "Get up." Harry makes ready to pour water over the lump that he guesses is Malfoy's head when Malfoy throws the cloak aside and glares up at him.

"Will we be trying to loose Weasley again today?"

"No, actually we're going to find him."

"But it's still dark."

"The moon's bright enough to see by. Let's go."

Harry waits for Malfoy to begin throwing things again-- punches, pebbles, knives, but instead he stands up and fastens the cloak around his neck. "Fine." He starts off in the direction of the forest and Harry follows close behind.

However bright the moon, the canopy of treetops is thick enough to shield its light from everything that dwells beneath them. Walking is made difficult for Harry by low hanging vines and thick roots that seem to rise up to trip him and by Malfoy, who jerks to a halt every few seconds.

When they come to a clearing surrounded by younger looking trees Harry tries to get a better look at his traveling companion. Malfoy's shoulders are tense, and head jerks to both sides with every slight rustling of leaves or snap of a twig. An owl hoots somewhere, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He's scared, Harry thinks with a half smile. Whatever else changes, he can always count on Malfoy to be a coward. "I should have chosen Crabbe or Goyle," he mutters.

Malfoy turns to face him, and Harry notices the teeth marks on his bottom lip. "Crabbe's not a Death Eater," he whispers.

Harry absently rubs some fog from his glasses. "He'd still be more useful than you."

"Live with your choices, Potter." Malfoy snarls, still whispering. "The rest of us have to."

"Malfoy, you--"

"Shhhh!" Malfoy's panicking. He's grabbed his sack and began frantically rummaging through his things.

Harry tries to walk forward, but ends up clipping Malfoy's ankles. "Come on, keep moving."

"Shut up. Listen."

He pauses for a few seconds, but hears nothing. "What is it?"

"Shhh!"

Harry waits again. Malfoy's hands have gone still except for a faint tremble. In the distance, he hears howling. "Dogs," he says. "It's only dogs. Ron told me there's a town nearby."

"Look in front of you, Potter. I know it's dark, and you're nearly blind, but you must have noticed how thick the trees are getting. There's no town nearby. We're in the center." Malfoy's eyes dart wildly, as if looking for an escape route, and the trembling has spread to his shoulders. "You had to go at night."

"SHUT UP!"

"Oh that's it, Potter, yell," Malfoy whispers harshly. "Let's attract the attention of whatever's growling."

Growling-- yes. Harry can hear growling now, growling that's becoming louder and branches snapping in quick succession. "I'm sure I'm not-- not . . ." he stammers as a wave of dizziness washes over him. "Well they've already heard you complaining anyway."

"Scared?" Malfoy hisses. Through the moonlight and shadows, Harry can detect a slight smile on his thin lips.

"No."

"Of course not," he snaps turning away from Harry. "Potter's not scared of anything, is he?"

The pressure on Harry's head increases, and the pack he wears seems to have multiplied in weight. When he tries to move forward, he finds that a skeletal tree branch has clasped onto his shoulder. "Malfoy--"

"Well I bloody am, so I'll be getting out of here as quick as I can." Malfoy's looking ahead, and his voice has become unexpectedly reedy. "And you-- you can just stay here, Potter. It'll make a fitting home for you-- better than the filthy muggles, at any rate."

Harry can't move. He can't move his legs to run or move his hands to pry himself free of the claw-like twigs. He forces his back to stay straight, hoping to fight the dizziness and the nausea, hoping to break free of whatever cements him to the ground. His heart is pounding in his ears, but he can still hear everything around him. There's a rustling of leaves nearby. "Malfoy?" His eyes open, but even in the darkness, it's clear he's alone. "Malfoy . . ." He's gone, and now the howls are coming from only a few meters away.

Harry shallowly swallows the cool night air and listens as the rustling grow louder. He closes his eyes and pretends he's only dreaming, but it doesn't last long. Curiosity and the faint hope of a rescue prevent him from giving up, so he opens his eyes again to see huge, half-upright figures stalking through the shadows-- werewolves. He can hear them breathing and sniffling. They must know he's there-- alone, trapped, weakened. He curses himself for being so stupid. They're on all sides of him now-- circling their prey, and all Harry can think is that it isn't supposed to end like this-- that he was destined for great things.

Real wolves would have been too scared to approach or, if starving and desperate, would have attacked openly. It's the human in them that makes them toy with him and stretch this out as long as it can go. They've moved in front of him, five of them all together. He can see the grey of their coats and the fog of hot breath coalescing around their snouts. They advance on him in a rush, and he can't even force his eyes to shut again. Then, as if by some miracle, they stop, crashing fully into some invisible wall only a few feet from him, and the air fills with their pained howls and whimpers as they stumble away.

When Harry tries to take a step forward, it's surprisingly easy. The branch that held him in place is gone, and he can't feel any of the bruising soreness that should have come with being clutched so hard, but it might just be the cold that's made him numb. He can't hear the werewolves anymore, and for a few moments, he stands listening for anything to break the silence.

He begins to walk again, but stumbles over something that gives a metallic clink. Looking down, he sees a polished silver crown lying in the dirt at his feet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron's dreaming again.

Bill is lost in the desert. He was always the handsome one, but his face is rough from the sand and red from the sun. The winds blow, picking up dust all around him, and he stands at the center of the spiral. When the storm dies away and the sand settles again, he's disappeared completely.

Charlie digs a hole, a nest for dragon eggs, to hide them, to keep them safe. He digs through soft top soil, then hard, pale dirt, then thick orange clay until he's so deep in the ground he can't climb out again. He yells for help, but the wizards above only covertly slip the eggs into their robe pockets and slink away. Eventually, he lies down and goes to sleep.

Percy runs through corridors thick with smoke carrying an armful of scrolls and folded parchments. He tears down a stairway, stumbling every few steps and loosing his glasses along the way. Finally, he comes to a dead end with nothing but a small window an when he turns back a wall has moved to keep him from retracing his steps. The smoke shields the ground below from view. He could be ten feet up or a hundred. Falling to the floor, he clutches his knees to his chest and shivers. Gradually the ground beneath his feet begins fading away. With a deep breath he climbs out on the window ledge and jumps.

Fred and George eat from their newest batch of nosebleed nougats, and they laugh as the blood falls in thick red drops, settling in stark contrast against the threadbare white sheets of their twin beds. They're still laughing when they fall to the ground and when they crawl next to each other. They're still laughing when everything goes still. Then their eyes glaze over, and they don't laugh anymore.

Ginny flies, her broomstick dropping tail branches along the way. Soon, it begins to swerve out of her control, but she keeps flying until she's out over the ocean. And, with no branches left, it dives down. There is a spectacular splash. Then she rises from her fall and bobs gently in the waves and foam as seaweed laces itself through her hair. The water is dark and thick as ink.

Ron's in his room again-- trapped with his leg stuck under a fallen bookcase, and the ceiling is caving in. Outside Malfoy's laughing and Harry's too busy watching as he makes exaggerated hand gestures to notice the house that falls down behind him. Inside Ron hears loud crying from every direction. Then, with one last violent shake of the foundations--

"Get up!"

For a few moments, he can't remember where he is, but a familiar figure brings back the recollection of an agreement and an offer of shelter for the night. "Hannah?" he asks, rubbing his eyes.

She gives the bed frame another hard kick.

"I'm up."

"Good. Here," she says, shoving a squalling bundle into his arms. "Take Catherine. Your screaming woke her, and now I need to go check on Fredrick."

Upon realizing what he's holding is a small child, Ron's immediate reaction is to let go. Luckily, he's still lying down so it only flops to the mattress beside him and stats crying louder. "I wasn't screaming."

"You were." Hannah sweeps back into the room carrying what Ron can only guess is Fredrick. "It must have been some bad dream."

"Yeah." He tries to keep the shrug out of his voice.

"I don't know you very well do I?" she asks. "You're not what I would have guessed.

"Huh?"

"Well, for someone with six brothers and sisters, I figured you'd at least know how to hold a baby." She rolls her eyes and scoops up Catherine from beside him and places her and her brother in a playpen just a few feet from the bed.

"I was one when Ginny was born," he says flopping his head back onto the pillow.

"I think they get nightmares too," says pointing to the playpen. "I know they're too young for that sort of thing, but I swear sometimes they seem so terrified, and with everything that's happened--"

"Mum always said children are more perceptive to that sort of thing. We were, apparently, before the Dark Lord's first fall, me and Fred and George. It was worse with me because I couldn't understand it then-- that not all dreams are real"

"I just wish I could shield them from all of it."

"Yeah." Ron feels a lump forming in his throat and tries to force it down. "Yeah, well we can't."

"I know." She swallows hard. "We weren't really ever friends in school, were we?

"No," he snaps, trying to keep his mind clear.

"I mean, I had my friends, and you were so busy with your prefect duties.

"What duties?" he asks with a sharp, forced laugh. "Hermione did everything. I wasn't ever really a prefect-- just a place holder for Harry." He stares up at the pattern of painted daises on the on the ceiling. "Hero Harry, the greatest wizard of the age."

"Can he still do magic?"

"No," Ron answers, struggling to keep his smile hidden. "He most certainly can't. That's why I got this from you." He holds up the sword he traded for earlier. "Bet you didn't know this'll be the sword to take out the Dark Lord. Then maybe you wouldn't have been so willing to give it away."

"So you and Harry are really going after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" she asks with the hint of a smile.

"Yep."

"Without magic?"

"That's the only way to go."

"Why? How?"

"Harry's the hero that's what he does. I suppose he has a plan, though Malfoy doesn't seem to think it's a very good one."

She blinks, and her smile falls flat. "Malfoy's with you?"

"Harry's idea, not mine."

"He's a murder. Don't you pay any attention to the news? He kills people for fun. How can you make jokes about this?"

Ron's smile falls too, and he looks down from the ceiling. "That's what I do."

For a few minutes there is a heavy silence broken only by the sounds of the street outside.

"I don't think that at all." Hannah says, finally. "About Harry, I mean. He's nice and all, but I don't think the hero's the person who was chosen at birth and has the whole world behind them, cheering them on. I think the hero should be someone who could have turned back at every step but keeps going anyway. It has to be that way, doesn't it?"

"Maybe, probably not."

"It is," she says with more conviction than before. "There's no such thing as courage when you're not scared in the first place." She sits down on the corner of the bed. "If you believe in something enough to die for it--"

"They make up those stories though," he says thinking about Binns' history class-- the wizards and witches who went out in search of dragons or manticores, he couldn't understand it-- if you were trying to save a friend, maybe, but otherwise it was just bloody stupid. "They make them up until no one knows what's really true. That's the thing about dying for a cause-- in the end no one will remember what that cause is. In the end you're just dying."

"Some things are stronger than death. You've been best friends with Harry Potter all these years, you should know that much at least." She gives him a strange look. "I don't get how you managed to end up in Gryffindor."

Ron sits up, becoming dizzy from the sudden movement. "Well I was. You saw it. I was."

"That wasn't an insult," she says with a sigh. "Red and gold-- blood and glory there's no balance between them, and anyone, who thinks there is, is a fool."

"I guess."

"Ravenclaw," she continues as if he hasn't spoken. "Blue for wit and bronze for wisdom. Slytherin-- silver for magical ability and green--"

"Jealousy?" he asks.

"It seems that way now. It originally meant growth, that and change, but things don't grow well without the right conditions."

"Not enough sunlight in the dungeons?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"What about your house? Yellow is optimism, right?" He forces a smile. "You're the one who should have some hope left."

"Yes hope." Her eyes narrow and drift, again, to her children sleeping side by side. "It's funny how everyone forgets."

"What?" he asks, and she turns back to him still looking insulted. He supposes she has a right to be, after all, optimism isn't much to go on. All children are optimistic. In his first year Ron had actually thought that the mirror of Erised showed his future, but that too had been eclipsed by Harry, and his wishes were quickly pushed to the side so the boy-who-lived could continue dreaming of his family-that-died. With childhood idealism stripped away, Ron realizes persistence can become much stronger than before. Hope doesn't mean much, not now, and Hannah is incredulous over his presumption that she should be able to conjure some up out of nothing. "Sorry. . ."

Her voice is cool when she speaks, and her eyes don't seem focused on anything at all. "Everyone always forgets that Hufflepuff's other color is black."

Ron doesn't need to ask what that means.

"I suppose they think we weren't good enough," she continues, "to be given the color of a precious metal. I suppose we didn't ever shine the brightest, when it comes to that. But there's something there, you know, something to it." Her head turns toward the window's and Ron's follows, looking out and the full, yellow tinged moon against the darkened sky. "There's something."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~