Light's End

Prologue: Incubation

"After all you put me through, the last thing I'll give you is the peace of death."

Prince Arthas - "The Reign of Chaos"

Monday.

12:00 A.M.

It's not the fear of something that keeps me awake at night, it's the fear of the unknown. For years, I've had nightmares so personal, like something in a past life... I don't know, I just reckon that something is out to get me. The shadow of darkness maybe...I don't really know. I wish I had the answers, I really do. Maybe if I had some answers, I could sleep at night.

Draco dropped the quill to the top of his desk and put his head in his hands. Nothing was more isolating than insomnia. Insomnia - whoever thought up that fancy scientific word should be shot in his own, peaceful slumber. To that person, it had just been a word. A shallow one at that - it sounded like a fancy word for medicine given to sick Mudbloods who couldn't afford something better. What it really was was hell on Earth. It was the embodiment of 'alone,' the most powerful word in the English language. Every negative thing in the world could be broken down to isolation - fear, hatred, anger, rage, suffering, angst, name it. None of those things seemed to make a person feel more alone than insomnia. The entire world sleeps, not remembering who he was or caring an ounce about him. All eyes were off him, and Draco hated it.

In the dark of the Slytherin dungeon, he heard no sound. Dungeons were supposed to be drafty, hence noisy, but it was not the case here. The fact that Crabbe and Goyle slept so soundlessly in their beds was so damn unnerving. Why the hell weren't they snoring like usual?

For the past few years of his life, Draco had kept a journal hidden away like the secret of his virginity - if Pansy Parkinson found either, he'd never get a moment of rest! These truths about him had to be guarded, lest even those he called friends would know too much about him. Knowledge was power, and Draco only felt safe if those close to him were disarmed. The truth of the matter was Draco hated keeping a journal. He hated it like sour milk in his tea. But, he depended on it and survived because of it. He had to do something about his thoughts in the night and if he didn't write them down, he'd think about them. It was a seamless process; his words and his fears went right onto the paper. But tonight, he just couldn't think. Was it possible to have writer's block when you were writing about your thoughts?

Draco laughed at that thought, a paper-thin chuckle that hung in the air like helium balloon nearing emptiness. Neither up nor down, his thoughts failed to move him anywhere tonight. Tonight, he had goose bumps on the back of his hands, crawling up and down, itching his skin like the hairy legs of caterpillars. He didn't want to be alone tonight - he felt a premonition of something vile.

Sighing, Draco pushed aside a lock of his messy blonde hair and continued running his quill across the yellowed parchment of his journal.

Classes are dreadful - I hate my teachers, I hate Harry Potter,I hate the D.A... I want them all to die. I hate them all. They deserve to die after what happened to Father. Die Dumbledore's Army. Die Die Die Die...

Draco struggled for words so he just continued writing 'die' over and over again. After dotting his twentieth "i" and looping the tail of his twentieth "e," he glanced down and laughed. If anyone found the journal, would he be taken into the Ministry for a psychological examination? Draco could hear the white-collared Mudblood inspectors ask their questions: 'Have you ever used the Dark Arts, Young Malfoy' - 'Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight, Young Malfoy' - 'Have you ever been possessed and twisted your head around 360 degrees and vomited pea soup, Young Malfoy?'

Dumbledore's Army indeed, he snorted, squeezing his quill, hoping it would bleed. Every single one of them, he wanted their blood. His father was in prison and Harry Potter was laughing at him because of it. His life had turned to hell, and hell was no joking matter. There was one thing he'd make good on - he was going to capitalize on his threat to kill Harry Potter. It didn't matter if he thwarted the Dark Lord four times, it really didn't. The Dark Lord couldn't possibly hate Potter more than him. The thought of Harry brought bile to his throat and pain to his fingers - the quill was squeezed to near breaking point.

Blowing cold wind from his lungs, he sat back in the uncomfortable chair. The dreams, oh yes, the dreams. Draco picked up his quill and resumed writing after his twentieth 'die.'

Have you ever thought about the things that really scare you? (Draco found it pathetically ironic he was posing a question to himself, but he went with it) Yes, I have. In the time I spend, wasting time until morning, I've considered that which is truly scary. It's said that evil is a word given to things people don't understand. That's right, I suppose - after all, you don't understand why Jack the Ripper killed people, and arguably, he was evil for it. But, let's be honest - who has nightmares about serial killers one hundred years dead?

Draco tapped his quill to his head, disgusted with himself. These bloody pages didn't help pass the time if he had to think about his answer. That sort of defeated the whole purpose.

One of the things that really scares me is ending up like my Father - the Malfoy name, gone with his guilt. He'd be back one day, for sure, but what sort of Father will he be then?

Draco never cried - instead, a strong pressure in his face, a white-hot anger that pushed against his skin, served the same function as tears.

I'm also afraid of nothing. That's not to say that I'm not afraid of anything. I'm afraid of what isn't there. I'm afraid of the shadows at night because they hide nothing. It's the fear of something that isn't there that keeps me afraid - my reason for these entries, the reason I haven't been able to sleep since... ... ...

God, he didn't want to talk about that - even to himself. Instead, he continued making ellipses, hoping the thought would just trail away, leaving him in the dark with his former train of thought. Why couldn't he just rant about Potter tonight - that had worked so well before! In a way, he had to thank that annoying git; if it wasn't for thoughts of him monopolizing these sleepless nights, Draco might have written about that instead. It seems foolish to call that the Thing That Must Not Be Named, but it wasn't short of the truth. He had spent the last seven years of his life desperately trying to forget it.

Draco set his quill down again - he was cheating and he knew it. To think about what you were writing in a journal defied the whole purpose. But, really, who(m) could he be cheating? This wasn't a bloody homework assignment - this was his mind on paper. This was his soul poured out, and his mind opened to the world. He made the rules here, not Professor McGonagall or anyone else. There was nothing to be afraid of.

If that was the case, then why was his hand trembling?

Draco clenched his left hand, a futile effort to stop its quaver. It didn't stop; in fact it only grew. Cold, dead eyes - the eyes of the raptor. Draco picked up his journal, the book feeling heavy in his hands. He flipped the antediluvian pages back as far as they could go. Over the years, his handwriting had grown firmer and his vocabulary had improved. For no reason at all, he began to read the first passage in the book. It was dated July 24^th, 1990.

Mum yelled at me for screaming at night. Im scared. I wish that I could sleep. Im sleepy, Im tired I hate writing. Bored bored bored. Scary dreams keep me up. Its stupid. The face in the dark, laughing, the smell of coffee and pooperei. (Draco hadn't known how to spell 'potpourri' then, and still didn't - bloody weird word) Father thinks Im crazy like Uncle Estban he used to do weird stuff at night in crypts Dark arts I guess. I hate writing Im scared Im tired. Why can't the dreams go away?

He heard a child's laughter in the back of his head. Draco's hand continued shaking - it was coming back, so much stronger now. He heard it again, and turned, nearly falling from his chair. The three beds in the Slytherin sixth year dorms were closed, drapes shut. He heard nothing - Crabbe and Goyle were too damn silent! Snore, please, begged Draco, remind me I'm not alone.

The closed curtain of his bed moved.

Draco hissed, his breath passing through his closed lips and starving his own lungs with the bounty of fear. His gray eyes were wide.

Cold, dead eyes - the eyes of the raptor. He watches you in the dead of night.

Again, the curtain moved ever so slightly, like a child's finger pressing into the back of it and giving it a flick. Draco tried to stand from his chair, but he was frozen. His lip began to quiver. A giggle echoed in the back of his head, like a child laughing from the far end of a hollow, clammy tunnel. Full of hollow mirth - it was laughing to be heard.

It was laughing to be feared.

For the longest of moments, Draco held his breath, the curtain moved no further. The laughter stopped as soon as it began. It was happening again. It was happening again. Draco rose from his chair, feeling drunk and weary. He was loosing what little rational edge he had - he needed to talk to someone now.

"Goyle," Draco rasped, a pitiful whimper.

Show the raptor faith in yourself, and he will pass you by. The eyes will leave you, and you will know peace.

"Goyle," whimpered Draco, a bit louder.

A grumble came from the bed next to him and the rustle of sheets, a massive form shifting its weight. The sheets came off and a large hand parted the curtains. "Ugh?" came the grunted question as Goyle's head popped out with the speed of a turtle, peering out of its shell.

He saw Draco, backlit by the lamp on his desk. Pale as a ghost, his skin was the color of untrodden snow. Usually refine of appearance, his messy blonde hair stood out at odd angles like dead, untamed grass. Eyes full of fear, he stood staring at his own bed, jittering like a madman.

"Draco," mumbled Goyle. "Why are you up?"

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a sigh. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if this was all some sort of sleep-deprived mirage. "Did you hear anything?"

Goyle glanced in the direction Draco was staring - his closed bed. "No."

With that, Goyle closed his curtain and Draco heard him thud back into his pillow. God damn, thought Draco, grabbing at the side of his desk. It was all a mirage - it had to be a dream. It couldn't be happening, not again. Not now, after all these years. It couldn't happen again.

The eyes of the raptor couldn't be open once again.

And he would prove it, here and now. There was no raptor - it hadn't returned, not this time, not ever. Logic was in short supply, but how could it have gotten into the school? It couldn't have - if someone like Voldemort couldn't get into Hogwarts, there was no way it had gotten in. No way in bloody hell.

Every step toward his bed was labored and deliberate, as if weights the size of melons had been strapped to his feet. He willed his hand to the curtain of his bed. Goyle was right--it was all a dream. The laughter of children, the smell of coffee and potpourri - it was all in his head. Past experiences intruding on present day, trying to confound him and scare him. And now, he'd prove it.

He flung opened the curtain of his bed. The last thing Draco saw was the cold, dead eye of the raptor before darkness took him.

Chapter 1: Situation

- 1 -

6:00 AM

Yep, it was 6:00 AM alright - the red, cruel, demonic numbers on Harry's alarm clock never lied. It was a 'lovely' October morning, the wind was no doubt blowing from the lake would no doubt make this Quiddich practice the longest of his natural, bleeding life. Monday morning, rise and shine, droned Oliver Wood's voice in the back of his head - whenever he thought morning, it was always Woody and his genuine, daily bravado. Ever since he had taken Angelina's spot as Captain of the Gryffindor Quiddich team, the ghost of Oliver and her was always with him. Yeah, he knew Oliver was alive and well elsewhere, but he was also alive in him, never giving him a bloody moment for himself. With the reinstitution of Dumbledore, his lifelong Quidditch ban was lifted, leaving him the only suitable candidate for the captain.

"Why are you resting Harry," it would say, "you should be out practicing!"

"Why are you doing homework, Harry! You have a game against Slytherin in three weeks! Plan, Plan, Plan!"

"You are doing me right shame, Harry! Only five practices a week - Ravenclaw will hammer us to the ground!"

God - Wood had been the Mad-Eye Moody of the Quiddich Pitch. A humorous thought crossed his mind - seventy-year-old Oliver Wood at the old folks retirement home for wizards (if they even had such places) babbling on about how they don't get enough pitch time.

Harry pushed his thick mope of messy, black hair out of his face. Besides, they needed all the practice they could get - it was a young team this year. He couldn't help but wish Oliver was with him today to offer him pointers. Two first years on a team - an unbelievable record that had precedent but twice in House Gryffindor history, and the last time was 1498.

Well, no sense in complaining about that now - they had been the best but not anymore, which was sad, but Harry had to work with them. That was what Hermione had told him anyway - complaining doesn't make things any easier. Bouncing off the walls for ten minutes brings you back to the same problem, ten minutes later. Besides, he had a golden chance to take a bunch of kids and turn them into Quidditch players. He still had one more year even after this one with them - wouldn't it be great to take home the Quidditch cup with a team filled of children?

He'd love to see the look on Malfoy's face when two first years, two second years, a third year, a fifth year and him took the Quidditch Cup and waved it about. It would make Sirius proud.

Just the simple thought of Sirius, sitting wherever he was, watching over Harry and smiling as Gryffindor brought in another Quidditch Cup gave Harry great reprieve, until he remembered why Sirius was not sitting in the stands. He had killed him, plain and simple. Harry made a mistake, and because of that mistake, Sirius had died. Now, he had two deaths on his conscience - two deaths his actions had caused. Cedric had brought him to the near breaking point, but Sirius had shattered him. Harry had only begun picking up the pieces of his soul.

He threw on some robes and strode out of the Gryffindor sixth year dormitory - and plowed into Colin Creevey, just the one person he didn't want to see, who had been camping outside, waiting for him, camera in hand.

"Hiya Harry!" exclaimed the boy, as Harry took a ninety-degree turn, moving past him with haste. Colin, as tenacious as a niffler seeking gold, fell in step behind him. "A pose, please?"

Harry sighed, turning around. "If I pose, do you promise you'll leave me alone for the rest of the day?"

Colin was used to Harry's acerbic humor. Due to their Friday afternoon D.A meetings run by Harry and Professor Dorinthal, the robust Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher with no neck, Colin and his brother Dennis sure got to see a lot of it.

"Sure!" said Colin, without hesitation.

Resigning himself, Harry turned around and gave Colin a smile that might have placed him in a funeral parlor, had it had legs to move him there. The blinding flash of light staggered Harry, and Colin chuckled with glee. "Thanks Harry! Oh speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask you..."

Harry turned around and continued walking. "Colin, please - I'm late as it is. You promised."

"I lied," replied the obsessive fifth year, chewing on the wake of Harry's robes through the Common Room and swinging out from behind the Fat Lady. "Dennis and I got a job writing and photographing for the magazine Quiddich Weekly."

This was not news to Harry. In fact, it was so old, Harry smelt the mold accumulating on the topic. "I know," he answered through grit teeth. "You've told me about twenty-seven times."

Colin continued to ramble behind him. "Yes, well, I was hoping we could set up an interview - we're supposed to interview you by this Friday. It'll be a blast. I've got a bunch of questions to ask you - it'll make the front cover!" Harry could almost hear Colin's eyes glazing over. "The Boy Who Lived, interviewed by the Journalist Who Could - that's my name y'know, I modeled it after your title."

"Colin, you do realize that the Cruciatus Curse is less painful than your endless chatting?" Harry said. "Actually, I get homicidal urges when you refuse to shut up."

At that, Colin laughed, taking Harry at less than face value. When he had snapped at Colin once, last year, sending the boy away in near tears, Harry had really felt bad and apologized to him. Colin's only sin was being too social. Hardly something you could fault a guy with, huh?

"Yes, Harry, you've told me that about twenty-seven times." Colin's laugh ended. "Alright, what's your price?"

Harry groaned. They proceeded through the main hall. "Colin, I don't want to do interviews anymore - I'm famous for something that happened before I could say 'Colin, get a life' and the most recent press coverage I've gotten was associated with the return of Lord Voldemort. Why can't you just accept the fact I'm no different than anyone else?"

"Listen mate," Colin continued, as they pushed open the main doors and exited the school. It was just one of those days - too lousy to enjoy, too acceptable to complain. The last vestiges of summer gave fall a final kick in the ass, but fall was fighting back with cloudy skies and a sprinkle of cold rain. "You won the Wizard Weekly Most Charming Smile award, and you were frowning in the picture! After your Skeeter interview last year and the Department of Mysteries thing, you are twice as famous as you were a year ago! Do you have any idea what an interview with me will do for my career as a journalist? I'd be headed for the big time with your help!"

They trampled across the icy grass, crunching it beneath their soles.

"You're fifteen bloody years old. Wake up and listen to yourself. The most you'll get from Quidditch Weekly is a cookie and a pat on the back." Harry glanced down at his arm, staring at the scar that ran from his elbow to his wrist. "Don't be in such a rush to grow up."

Colin put his hands to his hips and said, "You are like five months older than me!"

Oh, that's a bloody treat, thought Harry sighing and looking to the sky. All it takes is one night to change your life - imagine what sort of shit can happen in five months? Summer comes and goes in five months, the memory of the dead fades from constant shame to depression in five months. Dumbledore calls you into his office because he's concerned about you in five months. Voldemort kills thousands of people in five months.

The world turns to shit in five months.

"Yeah, but I've seen things that you haven't even read about, Creevey," answered Harry, continuing the endless walk to the Quidditch pitch.

Colin sighed and followed after Harry. "Look, I won't ask any questions about Cedric or..." (Harry suspected he was about to mention Sirius, but saw his life flash before his eyes and smartly abstained) "... anything like that. It'll just be about you - you're Quidditch - you're sex life... y'know, the stuff that girls want to hear but no one else..."

Harry rounded on Colin a second time, the frozen grass snapping under his stomp. "Maybe I don't want to share my whole bloody life with the rest of the world, Creevey! Piss off, will you!"

Colin sighed and threw up his hands in the air, defeated. Harry finished with him and strode into the Quidditch locker room.

"Fine, I'll take a 'maybe'!" Colin called after him.

Harry closed his eyes, knowing where he wanted to stick that 'maybe'.

- 2 -

8:00 AM

Seamus chuckled and picked at the potatoes and baked ham on the plate in front of him. Life was going really good - really good. As he spooned another bite of food into his mouth, the Irish prefect gave his badge a flick. To his horror, the silver engraving read: Prissy.

"Alright, jokes over. Change me back before Hermione sees."

Dean made no move to do that. Instead, he just crossed his arms and sat back, mocking him with a show of innocence. "Really, mate - you've been on Cloud nine since you became prefect... I already miss Weasley as prefect."

Seamus's ears blazed over. He didn't like to be reminded that the only reason he was prefect was because Ron Weasley had turned in his badge at the beginning of the year - and Harry Potter obviously didn't want the job either. Scowling, he said, "What, do I need to fail Arithmancy to be 'groovy' like you?"

Dean held up a correcting finger. "I'm not failing, I'm just academically challenged."

"My mistake," came Seamus's dull reply.

In truth, Seamus suspected the source of Dean's recent antagonism - blimey, if he wasn't him, he'd be jealous of him too. He had the best girl in the year all to himself. While the half-blood wizard knew there was magic in the world, nothing held a candle to the feeling in his chest whenever Hermione Granger was around. The world spun every time - it took him a moment to regain his orientation. It was like having a balloon in his chest Hermione was able to fill.

Dean waved his wand, dispelling his most recent amendment to Seamus's badge. He had to admit, Dean was great to be around. Seamus had always been a serious minded person, respecting shows of authority and mocking shows of incompetence. One of his greatest passions had been mocking Lockheart all throughout his second year. He had not even been able to bring himself to take Divination - what a crock of sod that class was. He had seen Harry and Ron, back when they were still friends, laughing over their assignments and not taking them seriously.

I mean really, what the heck was the point of a class composed of crystal balls and guesswork?

Nope, Arithmancy was his true calling and within the class, he found his second true calling - well, more like the other way around. She called him, and he accepted. He still remembered the magical night that it had all happened. He was sitting in the library, alone, studying for an Arithmancy exam. Doing out Arithmancy problems was hardly a thrill for him - it was creating his own problems that really moved him. How surprised had he been when he learned every spell was an Arithmancy problem at its core! Back during the time of the Founders, even a simple Light Spell was worked on, labored on, combined with other spells and solved. There was so much more to magic than waving a wand and saying a word. A logical side of the wizard was tapped during each spell, from unknowing first years to grand masters like Dumbledore. That logical side could be built up, developed and rationalized - creating your own, unique spells no one else in the world knew! Not even Albus Dumbledore!

And so, Seamus had begun to experiment, forgetting all about his test. At long last, he had come up with something worthy of a name of its own. He had created a spell that shot his own personal insignia into the air before him (at least that's what it became). A ruby gem with a dagger through it - how groovy was that? A sort of dark chill came over him - he had to admit, it was like having his own Dark Mark. If he ever became an Auror, that would be his insignia. That symbol would strike fear into the strongest Dark Wizards known in history - maybe even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself one day, if Harry didn't kill him first.

And how fortunate it was that Hermione was in the library as well and saw Kyrathdor, Seamus' mark and spell. Fascinated, she had come over and talked to him - she had shown him about ten spells she made up on her own, including one she had taught Harry in order to help him through the maze. It was a simple spell (Point Me), and had launched the two of them into a conversation about how to change the name of a working spell.

From there, a bashful courtship had ensued for months last year. Hermione turned him into her diary, though he hadn't minded one bit. She talked to him all about Harry - hell, it was like Seamus got to know Harry.

For as long as Seamus had lived with Harry, he was as closed as a vault at Gringotts, but never taciturn or unpleasant. After fifth year, the Harry he had grown to like had died, replaced by a cold, withdrawn person. Snappish was only the beginning of his charming personality traits. Even Ron (Seamus often thought of him as Harry's 'right hand' before - 'right hand man' seemed to distant to apply) had grown apart from him.

But, Harry had a lot of demons to cope with - Seamus understood. As prefect, Seamus had told Harry that his 'door was always open' if he wanted to talk. Perhaps it was his gratitude for running the D.A, which he had joined last year, or out of guilt that he had not trusted Harry for half of their fifth year. Harry had put his hand on Seamus's shoulder, the most physical contact he had ever had with him in the past, and thanked him.

Being honest with himself, Seamus had warmed up to Harry for Hermione's sake, not for Harry's. Hermione had been so worried about him - during their 'dating phase' she had gone as far as enraging Seamus by only talking about him. I mean, God, didn't he matter at all?

But, one night, Harry was not the object of Hermione's words. It had been Ron that magical night, and Seamus hadn't understood why until she had started crying. Seamus hadn't heard the half of it, but Ron had punched Harry in the face during a Hogsmeade trip, after exchanging terrible words.

It was so much like Ron to overreact to the smallest things. Once, Seamus had made a passing comment about Ron- not even anything all that bad really. He had the misfortune of speaking too loud, however, and he had been overheard. Ron came over and bashed him over the head with his Potions book - if you've seen the size of those Potions books, you'd know how much that hurt!

On a whim, after Hermione had poured out her heart to him, he had closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against hers. It had been his first real kiss - sure, he had pecked Parvati on the cheek once in third year, and she had responded once similarly, but that was just an immature little gigglefest compared to the level of passion the two sixteen year olds had exchanged that night. It was as if they had both been waiting for this for months and had such a difficult time stopping themselves.

"... over,"

Seamus looked at Dean. "Er... sorry. Missed that."

Dean was looking at his pocket watch. "I said, wonder where Hermione is? Breakfast is almost over."

Indeed, it was queer. Hermione always joined Seamus and Dean for breakfast. Between Harry's two hour long Quidditch practices, he was rarely able to join them. Occasionally, Ron would show up - always looking worse for the wear. He was usually alone; there was no one else he could hang out with. This term, Neville had signed up for an exchange program to Durmstrang - he had already sent a letter telling them how much he was learning in his Dark Arts class. Seamus looked forward to seeing him again after winter break.

"Must have forgotten her homework," decided Seamus, rising from the table in the Great Hall.

Dean snorted. "Right. The day Hermione forgets her homework is the day I become Draco Malfoy's sex slave."

Seamus shrugged and gathered his books. "Anything's possible, you just have to wish hard enough."

Dean grumbled, and the two friends made their way to Potions - Seamus failed to notice Dean waving his wand and changing his prefect badge to read Prat.

* * * * *

- 3 -

8:15 AM

"Hermione, normally I observe the 'three hour minimum rule' as well, but that's only for dates and proms!" complained Lavender Brown, hands on her hips and resembling a young Minerva McGonagall.

Hermione sighed, and turned to her. "I know. I know," she sighed. "How do I look?"

"Like someone who spent too long getting ready for Potions Class and therefore is going to make us late by about ten minutes," muttered Parvati Patel, who was waiting by the door.

"Sorry, sorry," repeated Hermione - she had a habit of repeating things twice when she was being rushed. She had just finished applying eye-shadow and lipstick, and before that, she had used a simple spell to shave her legs and arms, and before that she had plugged her eyebrows, straightened her hair, removed her pimples (ugh, those disgusting things just didn't stop springing up!) and ironed her robes for the second time and before that...

"Alright, spill it, Granger," said Lavender, hiding a giggle. "Is Finny giving you the cold shoulder?"

"No, no," Hermione said, as she gave herself a final look over and gathered her books under her arms. "It's just that - well, you know - it's just... I saw him looking at Hannah Abbot in Herbology yesterday!"

At once, Parvati and Lavender came to the rescue.

"Oh, please, Hermione - of course he was looking at her. With abs that large, how could he miss her?" began Lavander.

"Yeah, and what is with those earrings she had on yesterday, by Merlin! They looked like leeches biting her earlobe," returned Parvati

The excuses rolled, and Hermione felt no better. It was stupid and irrational! After all, occasionally, she'd look at Harry, or Zacharias Smith and even on occasion Draco Malfoy - she meant nothing by it. Seamus didn't seem to care, God that was the annoying part. He didn't seem to care about anything! Hermione could kiss Harry on the cheek, and Seamus would continue talking about Quidditch. It was like he didn't even notice her anymore. And where was he today? Why didn't he wait for her to go to breakfast!

Oh, come on Hermione, she reminded herself. This was so stupid. Seamus noticed her and loved her just as much as she loved him. She could tell whenever he looked at her - he was a handsome young man with baby blue eyes. It was safe to say she had always noticed him in 'that' way. To her, Seamus had always been that 'sort of cute guy' that Lavender and her had talked about, but would have never dreamed of dating. A cute face but without personality - that was what Hermione had thought of him before... well, before. A Ron Weasley without emotion, a half-person that never really had much to say or mark to make in the world.

All that had changed when she had actually given him a chance.

It seemed like she could tell Seamus anything and he'd keep a cool head about it. She often laughed when she thought of their 'dating' phase, where neither one of them had the courage to make a move beyond civil chat and study sessions. And, wow, had she made use of that listening quality of his. She told him everything under the moon, and he'd just keep smiling that simple smile and nodding that simple nod. Nothing mattered but her voice, and how she had grown to love that attention - even depend on it.

Lately, it seemed as though he had forgotten to listen, smile and nod. Was something wrong? Had she pushed him too far, too fast? Her mind raced back to the first weekend of their 6^th year, just three weeks before. They had been dating since the end of last year, had met several times over the summer, and after returning to Hogwarts, had taken the next step in their relationship. Using their D.A. room, the Room of Requirement, they had found what they needed: privacy. There, they had expressed themselves in new ways - gratifying each other in ways that Madam Pomfrey had never touched upon during their sexual education course last year.

The trip down to the dungeon was a blur, Parvati and Lavender were babbling about something she couldn't have cared less about. But, as sure as water in an ocean, the moment they drew near to their Potions Class, fifteen minutes late, they fell silent and realized the gravity of the situation.

A few years ago, Hermione would have berated herself for weeks about being late for a class - there was no greater dishonor than forfeiting a chance to learn over something stupid, like her hair. But now, she didn't care. Something as critical as the way Seamus saw her was so much more important than Snape's never ending favoritism. It wasn't that classes weren't important - they were! - but if she wasn't late for his class, he'd take points anyway just because she knew too much.

It was not proper to hate ones professors, but she hated Snape!

Seeing the fear in her housemates' faces, she sighed and pushed open the door. She entered the class, followed by her two companions, head down, gait fast. Her very wishful hope that Snape was too involved in his lecture to notice them was dashed without delay. The class was silent and all eyes were on her.

She wondered if Seamus was looking at her.

"Welcome," greeted the voice of Professor Severus Snape, as baleful as ever. "I'm so grateful you found time in your busy schedule to join us, Miss Granger."

And there it goes, noted Hermione as she slumped into one of the desks in back, unable to muster the strength to walk to her usual seat in the front. Always singling her out like she was the only one who mattered.

"I said: Welcome, Miss Granger," repeated Snape - she still didn't look up, didn't want to see anyone looking at her. Well, ok, maybe she wanted to see Seamus looking at her, but that wasn't enough to lift her downtrodden eyes.

"I'm sorry that I am tardy," answered Hermione, as Parvati and Lavender slouched down beside her. "And would gladly take as many detentions as you'd give to escape loosing points for Gryffindor, if you'd allow it."

That brought a cool, collected laugh from Snape - which brought giggling from the Slytherins. There was Pansy Parkinson's high pitched, snorting laugh and Crabbe's combination grumble and chortle (but where was Draco's condescending snicker?). Slytherins were always recognizable by the way they laughed at other people's misfortunes.

"Why, Ms. Granger, that would imply I had a desire to endure you for even longer in a day." She dared glance up and saw him smiling - those yellow teeth of his made all the more yellow by comparison with his greasy black hair. "No, I'll just settle for ten points from Gryffindor..."

Only ten, wondered Hermione - was he orally serviced last night? She nearly erupted with laughter at the thought. Where did that come from?

"... for each of you. That'll be thirty points."

A groan came from the Gryffindors while Hermione mentally corrected herself. Definitely not. And so, she resigned herself to taking out her scrolls and looking over the room. Seamus wasn't looking at her. She could see the side of his face, sitting next to her usual seat - he looked hurt and even angry. She froze. This was so silly! Was he going to blame her for this? She had spent almost forty-five minutes preparing herself, just for a second of his attention and his smile.

Now, he was blaming her for a sad, worthless thirty-point loss?

Hermione tried to take notes, but she found she was stabbing through her scroll every other word. Was he seeing another girl - was that the problem? Did he no longer find her attractive - God, he was as open as a book at times, inviting her to look straight into his soul... and other times, he was as sealed off as a quarantine zone, nothing out and nothing in.

God damn it Seamus, what are you hiding from me?

* * * * *

- 4 -

12:00 PM

Ron had gotten used to Hagrid's rock cakes - sure, they were tough and could break your tooth if you bit down on them wrong, but they came with as good company as Ron could hope for.

"Ya know, Ron," the half-giant said with his typical gruff, yet kind voice. "Yer spendin' way ter much time eatin' lunch with me instead o' with yer friends."

Over the last month, Ron had stopped taking many of his meals with the other Gryffindors - it was too hard to eat near Harry. Even now, five months later, Ron's knuckles hurt whenever he remembered that event. That blow that had ended their friendship - the blow that had hurt himself as much as Harry - it had been over something so stupid.

It had started as any typical meeting between two best friends might, at Hogsmeade, the first weekend of sixth year, over a few butterbeers and candy. They had split three a piece, and even though butterbeer was hardly a very alcoholic drink, it had been just enough to loosen up both boys to the point where stupid situations seemed as critical as heart surgery. He still remembered the exchange - it played over in his head like a bad song.

"Seriously, mate. You gotta stop beating yourself up about Sirius. It's been a months. It was Malfoy's dad and the Death Eaters, not you."

Harry had given Ron one of those looks meaning 'get off it right now, you stupid prat' in common English.

And Ron usually did, after all, he never wanted to push buttons in Harry - never that! - but, ever since the one year anniversary of Cedric's murder and shortly after, Sirius's death, he had slipped into this horrible funk. That day, Ron hadn't been able to let it go.

"C'mon Harry. You're my best friend, and I don't want you upset."

Ron should have known - to keep at it was playing with fire. Harry had shown a new side of himself in 5^th year, a side Ron hadn't liked. It was personified in that look he had given Ron, the angry look a stranger might have given him on the Underground for bumping into him.

"Yes you do," Harry had said. "You are only happy when I'm upset. You still want a scar of your own and when I'm feeling miserable, you feel one step closer to that, don't you?"

Harry couldn't have wounded Ron any deeper had he used a dagger. Later, Ron came to understand it was true. A primitive psych lurked under the surface delighting in the misery of The Boy Who Lived. It wasn't a selfish thing - it really wasn't. It was a sense of relief. It was nice to know Harry Potter was human, after all. He liked it, human Harry Potter - it had a nice ring to it.

Needless to say, Ron's pride - stupid thing - didn't let Harry get away with that comment.

"I've been nothing but supportive of this whole stupid, unjustified funk of yours, Harry. All last year, you were biting my head off, and now you're insulting me? Snap out of it. And where do you think you can get off talking to me like that?"

Harry had laughed, such an embittered and hollow sounding thing. "Oh, what's wrong, Ron? Are you going to ignore me for two months for not telling you what you want to hear, like you did in fourth year?" Harry narrowed his eyes like a rabid dog - fixed on his prey.

And then, Ron said it - the cruelest thing ever said to another human being.

"Fine." He had said, slapping the table. "You got Sirius killed and it's all your fault. Is that what you want to hear, Harry? You played into the Dark Lord's hand like putty and you just can't stop crying about it."

It had been lacking both rational and wit. He had wanted to wound, but hadn't meant a single word of it - he had wanted it to come off sarcastic, quoting the worst-case scenario - instead, it sounded like he had meant his words. If Ron was looking for a reaction, he sure as hell got one. Harry dumped his mug of butterbeer over Ron's head.

And Ron had responded with a similar level of maturity, his fist shooting out and smashing Harry in the face.

They had never set this broken bone between them, and now, almost a month later, they were perfect strangers - any hope of salvaging their friendship was slim to none. And it hurt Ron, especially during lunch. The shame was too great to eat anywhere near Harry. He had ruined their friendship with stupid, unfounded, stupid, irrational, stupid statements - anytime he tried to talk to Harry, he just couldn't find the words.

It was one of the saddest times in Ron's life.

"Ginny's in Transfiguration during lunch on Mondays," explained Ron, looking somber. "I usually eat with..."

"Codswallop," interrupted Hagrid. "Ron, yer 'ere three times a bloomin' week. Duncha get me wrong now, I'm more 'en 'appy ter 'ave ya 'round, but why aincha with 'arry and Hermione?"

Ron shifted in his very large chair, balancing on the stack of books he had to pile to sit at Hagrid's table. Ron's height stretched well over six feet, however he still couldn't compare to the half-giant. "Hermione couldn't care less about me," Ron rested his elbows on the table and took on a dreamy expression. "Oh, Seamus, Seamus, wherefore art thou, Seamus? Does my dress look good for Seamus? Seamus thinks I should dye my hair blonde, Seamus thinks I study too hard. Seamus this; Seamus that; Seamus Seamus Seamus!"

Hagrid was chuckling well before Ron finished. "Cor, Ronnie, Hermione's just goin' through a phase y'know? All girls go through it. Doncha be thinkin' she cares any less fer ya, because she don't. She's jus' found someone she be likin', ya know... 'n ah different way."

Ron shrugged, playing his aloof face - it didn't last for long. "And Harry - I just... oh Hagrid, I said that and that happened and it's been a month, and I can't stop beating myself up over it."

The steam from the kettle began to whistle, and Hagrid rose from his chair, retrieved it and poured Ron and himself a cup of tea. Ron had to admit, Hagrid made a fine pot of tea. Granted, it was hard to mess up tea, but every cup seemed tastier in Hagrid's hut.

"It might be betrayin' ah bit o' confidence that Harry be sworin' me ter, but I'm gonna... since ah don't think he'd be carin' all that much," began Hagrid. "Yer not the only one who be comin' ter me, speakin' ter me 'bout what 'appened. I still ain' never seen Harry cry - tough as nails, Harry is, but he almost broke down, tellin' me 'bout 'ow he pushed ya away so far n' that it was 'is fault."

Ron took a deep breath - this was definitely news. More often than not, Hagrid and him would just chew the fat about magical creatures (if there was one thing that kept the conversation one-sided, it was talk about the newest monster in Care of Magical Creatures!) or the weather, or Quidditch. But today was different - Hagrid had stopped playing along, pretending Ron wasn't miserable. Today, he was going for the source of the problem. He knew Hagrid meant well, but it wasn't helping.

"Would be ah right shame fer yer two boys to be throwin' away yer friendship over this. Ya be thinkin' a month be a long time, but live ter be as old as me n' ye'll see tha' months come n' go migh'y fas', but a good friend'll always be there fer ya."

Sure, easy for him to say, thought Ron, letting out a deep sigh.

"What would you have me do?" asked Ron, a note of anger in his tone. "Walk up to Harry, give him a hug and tell him I'm sorry?"

Hagrid continued looking at Ron, his thick beard as full an as familiar as ever. "There be 'arder things ter do in the world... if it be savin' yer friendship with yer best friend, then aye, I'd be doin' it 'n ah 'eartbeat."

Ron stood up, shaking his head. "I can't. I'm sorry for what I said to Harry - I really am - but... no, he wouldn't want that. He's gotten over his friendship with me."

When Ron saw that flicker of sorrow on Hagrid's face, he felt his own eyes brim up. Ron took a cooling breath and forced his emotions back down. Real men don't cry and real men don't play coulda-woulda-shoulda all day. He had made a mistake and he was sorry for it. Odds are, Harry knew that. Yeah, Harry knew Ron was sorry, but he hadn't warmed up to him at all. It was obvious that Harry didn't want him as a friend anymore.

Wouldn't he have shown him something that suggested it - a simple greeting, perhaps, or maybe sitting next to him in a class once? No, Ron decided, Harry wanted nothing to do with him anymore, so there was no reason to beat a dead horse.

"Thanks for the talk, Hagrid," said Ron, draining his cup of tea and choking down his last slice of rock cake. "Gotta run to Charms."

Hagrid heaved a deep sigh - the room seemed to implode to a small degree, "See yer in class, Ron."

Ron nodded and left the hut, feeling no better than he had before. The weather was crappy and the conversation bleak. What did the world expect from him? Was he supposed to bend over backwards whenever someone was angry at him? Why was he expected to do nice things? It wouldn't have killed Harry to be a bit nicer once in awhile. If he wasn't always brooding over Cedric or Sirius, Ron would have never chewed him out to begin with!

The truth of the matter was simple - now that Hermione had Seamus and Harry had his Quidditch team, there was just no room for Ron in this equation.

When he returned to the castle, he stormed right up to the Gryffindor tower, forgetting all about Charms. To hell with it, what did it matter? It was just another stupid class. He'd get the assignment from Dean and make up something about being sick. The way he felt right now, it wouldn't be much of a stretch.

He arrived at the Fat Lady and said, "Cornucopia."

The portrait swung in and he made his way to his dorm room. It was empty - Harry was at Charms and Seamus was probably making out with Hermione somewhere. Ron flopped down on his bed for a nap and knew that if he didn't wake up, no one would care. Ron Weasley could die, and no one would even remember him in a day.

Part of him wished it would just happen.

* * * * *

- 5 -

3:00 PM

It was just about time, noted Zacharias Smith as he suffered through the last ten minutes of Potions with the Ravenclaws. Snape was consumed by his infatuation with his own voice as usual, but at least he wasn't competing with himself to see how many points he could take from both classes.

To Zacharias, Potions was a cross between the rack and some sadistic torture using acid. Snape delighted in tormenting him on the grounds of 'being useless,' just because he couldn't remember exactly how much wolfsbane went into a Growth Potion. C'mon, who besides Hannah Abbott and maybe Terry Boot, the Ravenclaw know-it-all, could pull those numbers out of their skulls?

Zacharias was about to start rolling up his scrolls when he felt something brush against his sneaker. At first, he thought it was just a dropped scroll or something like that. He bent down to pick it up and found that, instead, it was a planted note beneath his sneaker. With a careful glance to Snape, insuring that he could bring the note from the floor to his lap without suffering the damnation of five detentions, he bent down and scooped it up.

Zacharias recognized the handwriting at once and glanced to Justin Finch-Fletchley, who nodded once, confirming the origin of the note. Returning his nod, Zacharias began to read, having a hard time deciphering the other boy's dreadful penmanship.

Z

Meet me & Hannah outside of school after Potions. Something to show you.

J

Zacharias shot a questioning look back to Justin, but Justin was pretending he didn't exist, out of fear of being 'Snapeified' as he liked to call it. Loosing points in Potions was considered to be common enough to warrant its own name in his strange friend's book and 'Snapeified' was the working term for it. To Zacharias, it sounded like something he might hear about on the Muggle game shows. "Uh oh, you have just been Snapeified; better luck next time!"

Zacharias crinkled up the note and jammed it into his pocket. At least he had something to look forward to. If Justin planned to spend the effort dragging him away, it was to show him something that would rival the first sighting of Venus. While the Hufflepuff motto called for hard work, Justin was an exception to that rule in one of the most oxymoronic ways - he was the hardest working slacker Zacharias had ever seen. He came up with spells that did Arithmancy for him, even if that took twice as long.

A fleeting thought passed his mind - he hoped Justin hadn't killed someone and needed help with the body. That'd be something he might seek aid for. If he did, hopefully that person was Draco Malfoy. Not that he wished harm on anyone, even the annoying Slytherin, but lets face it, if someone's gotta get the axe, might as well be a snake. Zacharias considered that for a moment and wondered if Draco's head would grow back if it was chopped off, since he was a far cry from human, all things considered.

Weird thoughts defined Zacharias - often, he'd just blurt them out. If he had a galleon for every time he could silence a room with a one liner, he'd be able to afford a Firebolt X2 and break his neck with style. He didn't mean to be rude, that was just him.

Potions class ended with scant few points taken from either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. Odds are Snape had his fill earlier today with the Gryffindors, so he was content. Like a lion, Snape would only feed if he were hungry. But, stopping that train of thought, it would seem like Snape would feed like a snake - snake was the Slytherin mascot after all - vomiting out his last meal to cram more in, since all Slytherins were snakes. He wasn't sure how that could be expressed in a metaphoric sense - hmm, he'd have to think of that.

Would it be him giving points back to Gryffindor before slamming Hufflepuff for twice as many, then taking those points back tomorrow? Zacharias promised himself he'd do some further consideration there.

"... or what?" someone was calling him from behind.

Without even realizing it, Zacharias had started back to the Hufflepuff Common Room, forgetting about Justin and Hannah. He blushed and turned around. "Hmm?"

Justin and Hannah were following him, both looking a bit grave. "I said," repeated Hannah, "are you coming or what?"

"Yeah, Z," answered Justin, tapping the side of his head. "Your mind runs the gambit right into a brick wall sometimes - you know that, right?"

Zacharias smirked and nodded to Justin. "You remind me every day, J," Ever since fourth year, Justin had developed the habit of calling everyone by the first letter of his or her name - it grew on Zacharias given some time, but once in awhile, it was annoying. Today was one of those 'awhiles'.

"So anyway," exclaimed Hannah, grabbing Zacharias's arm and pulling him back. "You've gotta see this."

"This?" trailed off Zacharias, being dragged like captured prey.

"Yeah," answered Justin. "Found it in Greenhouse 4 last night after doing some extra credit. It's amazing!"

The three Hufflepuff students strode through the corridors on the first level of Hogwarts, passing by the Fat Friar and Nearly-Headless Nick - Nick saluted Zacharias in that way that made him faint in his first year. Ever since, he believed that Nick loved half-removing his head just to give him a spook. The Fat Friar waved as they passed, and resumed his conversation.

Ever since the end of fourth year, death had fascinated Zacharias. Madam Sprout had talked to them, tears in her eyes, about Cedric Diggory. Not a single Hufflepuff student had disliked Ced, as he liked to be called by those in his house. It was a terrible shame what had happened to him, an understatement if there ever was one. While Ced and Zacharias had never really been close, he had observed him often. Justin had been much closer than him, for they were residents of the same town. Also, Justin's sister, Camay Macmillan, had dated Ced before she graduated. Ced had thought of Justin as his young protégé, a title that had earned Justin almost as much face in the Hufflepuff House as Cedric had.

On those sleepless nights caused by something he ate that didn't agree with him, (Zacharias's stomach had always been much more sensitive than most) he'd mull over Ced's fate. Had he found peace on the other side? Or was he a ghost somewhere far away - wherever him and Harry Potter had been dragged that day? Zacharias wished for that answer and someday, he meant to ask Harry where fate had brought him that during the third task. He wanted to go if only to say hi to Ced and ask him if there was something he could do. Making the life of a ghost easier is one of the noblest things you could to.

And quite ironic too: making the life of a ghost easier...

In no time, the three students arrived in Greenhouse 4. No students remained and the three students were given free reign. The thick, humid air was warm despite the day outside - one perk of the greenhouse; it was always a nice, pleasant temperature. And, of course, as far as smells go, it was sensory overload every time he went in. Flowers, fruits, mint, spices all blended into this fruit punch of odors pleasing to Zacharias's nose in every way.

Justin led them past some Elf Snappers, plants that the house-elves did well to avoid, and beyond them some Pixie Tulips (Justin smacked one as he passed, telling it to behave) and after a few more encounters with the local wildlife, they arrived near the rear of the greenhouse.

At once, Zacharias knew why Justin and Hannah had dragged him out here.

"Oh wow..." trailed off Zacharias, staring ahead.

An oracle rose - just like the ones Zacharias had read about in Advanced Herbology books. The pedals were shaped like pansies, countless smaller pedals attached to a center, rich with nectar. It was not the rarity of the flower that impressed him however (though it was certainly one of the rarest flowers he'd seen at Hogwarts) but rather the size and colors. Over five feet in diameter, the flower was midnight black and bore a rich blue center that would provide the most refined pollen in the world to any bee lucky enough to find it. Zacharias was in awe of its size and beauty, wondering why Madam Sprout hadn't told them about it.

Justin glanced at him, "Oh wow? Is that all you can say, Z?"

Hannah shared Justin's disbelief at what they must have interpreted as an understatement. "Don't you know the significance of an oracle rose?"

Zacharias tapped his forehead a few times and looked at Justin. "Well, I'd be right crazy to drop on my knees and start a hymn of honor. It's an amazing flower, though."

But both of his friends were shaking their heads before he finished. "It's more than amazing," Hannah continued. "It's horrible."

"Horrible?" questioned Zacharias, looking to Justin for clarification.

"Don't you remember why an oracle rose is called an oracle rose?" pressed Justin.

Zacharias shrugged, not remembering.

"It's a flower that's attuned to farseeing and divination!" exclaimed Hannah.

Oh, thought Zacharias a silent, internal groan later - here we go again. It was no secret that Hannah and Justin were both Divination nutcases. If he had a galleon for every time Justin had tossed salt over his shoulder or Hannah had chewed her fingernails over her foretold demise, he'd buy them each a clue no matter how much he was charged.

"So, what's it say?" asked Zacharias, moving over to the flower. He then began to speak out of the side of his mouth, in a higher pitched voice. "Beware of the Ides of March, ten years hence. Hannah shall give birth to the heir of Hitler and Justin shall marry a stripper named Muffet."

"Not funny!" exclaimed Hannah, though even Justin was hiding a chuckle behind a wall of lips. "When an oracle rose blooms, its size and pedals reflect the future!"

Zacharias rolled his eyes, but resigned. "Alright - alright... what does it mean when it's big and black?"

"Look," said Hannah, tracing her fingers across the soft pedals. "You can tell by its diameter - its four times as big as average, and, and, look - its black."

"Good," commented Zacharias. "Thanks for the eye exam."

Hannah gave him a delicate slap on the soldier, puckering her face up in that way, like she had bitten into a sour lemon. "What it means is future is four times darker than the present. It means something really bad's gonna happen."

Zacharias, too amused to take her at face value, chuckled. "What, Justin is going to do the Macarena?"

The rolls reversed - now Hannah was trying hard not to laugh, and Justin slapped his shoulder, sucking on a lemon.

"C'mon guys," Zacharias began. "You don't really believe everything Trelawney shovels, do you? Divination is so inaccurate - it's like a blind man shooting at an archery butt. Once in awhile, he gets lucky, but more often then not, he's so far off he sticks someone in the arse."

"Only if you don't have the Sense," put in Hannah, as they left the greenhouse.

Zacharias chuckled and then said, "Hun, you've never had sense."

"Oh, hush you," laughed Hannah, continuing her abuse of Zacharias's shoulder.

They walked back to the school in peace. Divination didn't exist, Zacharias affirmed. But, nonetheless, a small cloud of doubt passed over his mind. A blind man shooting at an archery target did get lucky once in awhile. Could the oracle rose also be lucky once in awhile as well?

Weird thoughts, Zacharias - just weird thoughts.

* * * * *

- 6 -

6:00 PM

Lisa Turpin spun around, holding her wand to her lips like a microphone, her eyes glazed over as her imagination ran wild. She pretended she wasn't in her dorm room, but rather on a stage, surrounded by screaming fans. Her imagination, strong as tempered metal, permitted this fantasy to grip her - and with magic of her own, she left Earth behind, becoming one with the Muse within.

"I'll hold you closer, despite all my fears..."

"Wave good-bye to the world - so long to all cares..."

"Say but a word, and we are half way there..."

She couldn't hear her own voice in her ears, but she hoped it was good. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted to be a singer - on stage, with a band behind her, covering the notes her single voice missed. To weave such harmony - to bewitch the minds of those who listened - to one-day make the Wizard's Weekly Top 10 was what the 6th year Ravenclaw lived for. Music, like any art, came from her soul. If she could make a living pouring out her soul, there would be no greater happiness.

And she continued singing, her voice rising with control and grace. She opened her eyes long enough to see Luna Lovegood and Terry Boot, her best friends, clapping out rhythm for her, smiles wide on their face - she was doing good!

She had to admit, she had never warmed up to Luna Lovegood before the end of last year - she had always been Loony Lovegood to her. While she had kept her distance, Lisa had never been outright mean to her, and occasionally talked to the young fifth year. However, when Terry had introduced them, and even convinced Lisa to start attending D.A meetings, she had learned Luna was very skilled in Defense Against the Dark Arts. After giving her a chance, they had formed a tight friendship.

At last, she finished her routine - to the thunderous applause of her two friends, a standing ovation from both.

"Bravo, bravo," applauded Luna.

Terry also gave her two thumbs up, his foppish brown hair hanging low over his eyes.

Lisa gave a bashful bow and pushed her damp, blonde hair back. Even the simplest reviews, heavily weighted by her best friends, were causes for great delight. Especially Terry - the perfectionist in every respect. His brown eyes were filled with brutal honesty, magnified all the more so by his thin glasses. While Luna's approval was nice, it didn't hold as much weight as Terry's. Should she press Terry far enough, he would find something to nitpick, but she didn't feel like loosing her momentum - not tonight.

"Thanks," she said, through a chuckle of delight. "One day, if I ever make it, I hope I write my own songs, though. That's just one of my favorites."

Terry sat back on Lisa's bed, a critical look on his face. "Which won't ever happen..."

Lisa's momentum was stolen by the strict tone in Terry's voice.

"... unless you submit a rune to the WBC."

Taking a deep breath, Lisa nodded. The Wizarding Broadcasting Corporation was the largest record-producing agency in the Wizarding world. Granted, if things didn't work out, she could always try the Muggle world - but that was only a shade of the fun she could have. In the Wizarding World, she'd be able to put on a hell of a show at concert, blasting off sparks from her fingertips - creating illusions of herself. It would be such a blast.

"I know, I know - but look, really, I have plenty of time. When I'm sure I've got the perfect copy, I'll start thinking about it."

But Terry was smiling, and that was a bad thing because he was smiling that way. Half his mouth was curved up, and his eyes were twinkling, full of mischief. Luna was looking at him and laughing, knowing more than Lisa did.

"What?" Lisa asked, feeling ever so defensive.

Terry produced a rune from his pocket, spinning it in his hand. For such a tall boy (nearly six feet) he had amazing coordination. In time, his features would grow to be strapping, but for the moment, he was stuck in teenage hell. His looks didn't earn him many friends among the other guys - he was angular to the point of being feminine, his cheekbones were just a bit too high, and it stretched his skin tightly over his face. His lack of muscle tone also was noticeable, but really, she loved him.

Well, most of the time, she thought, while gasping with horror.

"You didn't..."

Terry drew his wand into his other hand and waved it over the small, brown rune "Prior Incantato."

An image of Lisa appeared at the center of the rune in vivid, bright light. Like a three dimensional wizard photo with sound, the image moved around on its on volition, her voice singing in perfect harmony with the song Lisa had just sang.

She swelled up like a balloon. "Not happening! You give that to me right now - I... I... I..." she began to stammer fitfully - something she only did when she was very nervous. "P-p-please give that back!"

Terry waved his wand, dispelling the image and the sound above the rune. "This is going right to the WBC. You were stellar, and you'd never do it without help from us."

Lisa glared at Luna. "You m-m-mean you were in on this, t-too?

Luna flashed her a bright smile. "Darling," she drawled, "You were simply marvelous." She then looked at her friend, an even and fair expression on your face. "Terry's right. If you ever did sit down and do this, you'd be a nervous wreck. I mean, look at you now... besides, I can get my dad to interview you in the Quibbler. He's adding a music and arts section."

Lisa was trembling, filled with a deep sense of fear. Late stage fright, perhaps, now that she realized she really HAD been on stage the whole time. She didn't like this one bit - not one bit at all. After all, didn't she have a right to know when and where she was being recorded?

She frowned and kicked the ground, unable to come up with much to say in complaint. "Look, no, Terry... p-p-please don't. I'm not r-r-ready..."

"You are," answered Terry, deadpan, "Stop trying to convince yourself you aren't."

Lisa tried to speak again, stuttering over the beginning of a few sentences. She took a few more calming breaths.

For years, she had been trying to work away her stutter. One of her most embarrassing moments was in her first year - Draco Malfoy had snatched her '101 Ways to Cast Away Your Stutter," and began to read from it. Ever since then, she had redoubled her effort - his words still haunted him to this day, the little twerp.

"A-a-at f-f-first, th-th-think a-a-about exactly wh-wh-what you want to s-s-say," Draco had said, to the howling laughter of every Slytherin in the class. He had then looked at her and threw the book on the ground. He had continued "C'mon Turpin, c-c-cast a sp-sp-spell on me!" Then, he proceeded to wave his wand like a showboat, curse his bloody name. "Lo-lo-locomotor M-mort-mortis!"

When Terry had walked up, grabbed her book from Draco's feet, given it to back

her, and escorted her away, Lisa had known he'd be one of her best friends for keeps. His words had stuck with her then - even when he was eleven, he was so bloody brilliant.

"If you start listening to him, you might start believing him. Then, he'll win and that will stink."

She had taken his advise and had even gone as far as speaking to Professor Flitwick about her stutter - she was far behind in her classes because even the simplest of spells were so hard for a girl with a stuttering problem. Bless his small heart, her Head of House worked with her during his free time to help her loose it. She really admired him and if she couldn't become a musician, she would try to become a professor.

Now, it was just about gone - take that Malfoy! Only moments of tension could bring it back - and this qualified in its own way. She felt scared and naked, as if Terry held her fate as a musician in his hand. Perhaps that wasn't too far from the truth.

But Terry, cunning in his own right, was by no means malicious. He'd never be her enemy, and she knew it. With a calm hand, he extended the rune to her. "Consider it a birthday gift. Think about sending it in, will ya?"

Lisa blushed took it from him, holding it close. It must have taken a long time for him to create that rune - he hailed from a poor family and could hardly afford to be spending money on recording runes.

"Okay," said Lisa, a smile bright on her face. "I'll think about it."

"Please do," replied Terry. "You should give the world a break. They've been waiting for you to work up the guts for so long."

Luna just smiled and nodded her agreement. She stood up, clapping her hands. "So, shall we have a nightcap?"

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Luna, it's only 6:07. It's dinner time - not nightcap time."

Luna conceded the point, but was still bouncing on her bed. "Ah well - nightcap sounds much more betterer."

"Well, let's go then," Terry said, looking at Luna with his traditional long eye - he could speak without talking when he wanted to and right now, he was saying 'you're weird, Luna, but I mean it in a good way'.

With that, the three Ravenclaws left their Common Room, heading for the Great Hall. Lisa sighed, still clutching Terry's 'birthday gift' (a nice try, but her birthday was three months away - and Terry wouldn't have forgotten) like it were the most cherished item she owned. She would do it, she decided. Tomorrow, she would owl it to the WBC and try her luck.

* * * * *

- 7 -

9:00 PM

In past history, every two years or so, situations called for Albus Dumbledore to leave Hogwarts for a short while. While the ancient and wise man understood that important circumstances can and did occur, every time he left Hogwarts was a somber state of affairs. Over the course of his fifty years, serving as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, he came to understand something every Headmaster who had ever run the school had learned as well. Hogwarts was more than just a job - it was alive. And this, of course, wasn't in a metaphorical sense. The school reacted to the feelings of those within. Lulled by the calm personality of the school, students found their minds set on their own goals - always driven to excel by the spirits of those long gone.

Yes, it was safe to say that Headmaster Dumbledore never felt at home anywhere away from Hogwarts and longed to return whenever he was away.

"It's always with a heavy heart that I leave Hogwarts - even for a short while," Dumbledore rasped in his kindly way. He had just fed Fawkes, his splendid looking pet phoenix. The bird hardly needed any sustenance, as was their magical nature. The antediluvian bird preceded him by many lifetimes, and would be alive many life times more. With every death, it was born again from its own ashes, an endless cycle of rebirth and resurrection that would take a magic far beyond even his ability to end.

Yes, it would take a very evil heart filled with power to instigate a phoenix's final death.

The object of his saddened words, the Head Boy of Hogwarts, helped pack a bag for the Headmaster. His name was Brian Maylee, a round-faced and energetic Hufflepuff boy - Hogwarts finest student Transfiguration student.

"It's a shame you must go, Headmaster. Hogwarts just doesn't feel the same without you." Brian was out of his common room late tonight, helping the Headmaster pack even though he hardly needed him. Dumbledore had been happy to see him nonetheless. It was good to talk to someone.

Dumbledore chuckled, his trademark twinkle of hope never fading. "Never fear, Mr. Maylee. The sun will rise tomorrow - and when it rises seven more times, I'll return. A week is not a month and a month is not a year for this simple reason. Before you know it, I shall return."

Brian nodded, the logic simple and easy enough to understand. "I understand, Headmaster. I'll do my duty while you are gone."

"And, I am certain you will do a wonderful job, Mr. Maylee," Dumbledore said, a kind smile.

Yet, the Head Boy didn't seem convinced. In fact, far from it. Something was on his mind - over the years, the wise Headmaster had developed the ability to see right through a students face, to see the conflicts within.

"Headmaster..." trailed off Brian, beginning to dip into his personal feelings, something Dumbledore had seen coming.

"Yes, Brian?" he answered.

"I have a bad feeling about this... I..." for one of the first times, the Head Boy fumbled over his words. "I can't explain it. It's a feeling deep down, y'know?"

The Headmaster nodded, his expression unchanging. "Ever since Voldemort's resurrection, I've felt it. It is called intuition, Brian. Always listen to it, and heed it well - that feeling is the most accurate information you can ever learn within yourself."

Brain nodded, still looking conflicted.

"While I am gone, Professor McGonagall will fill my role. I expect you and Erin..." (the Head Girl - a very capable girl in her own right, but Dumbledore feared for her - A Slytherin who spent most of her time studying. A student named Tom, long ago, had followed a similar path, he always reminded himself. She had also served on the Inquisitional Squad of Professor Umbridge, something he didn't fault her for, but something he remembered nonetheless.) "... to be my eyes and ears in the school." He put a kind, caring hand to Brian's shoulder. "Let me leave you with some words of encouragement: Spaghetti, sprinkles, golf and doorstep."

At that, Brian smiled bashfully. "Thank you."

The Headmaster nodded. "Now, off you go, Brian. I will see you in a week and thank you for helping me pack."

With a casual wave, Brian withdrew from the office, leaving Dumbledore alone with his Fawkes. A simple wave of his wand later, and he was packed and ready to go - he had hardly needed Brian's help. However, the boy had wanted to feel important, and besides, he enjoyed his company. What other reason was needed to delay his departure just a bit longer?

Once Brian had left, however, Dumbledore's face sagged with age. These were tough times, and everyone needed a face to look to for confidence and inspiration. The old wizard had no problem putting one on, but the truth of the matter was simple - he was getting tired. One-hundred and fifty years - the lifetime of two typical humans. Magic or not, blood ran through his body and flesh covered his skin - the same flesh that would have fallen away after an average of seventy-five years. It was pulling double duty, but he was not ready to quit yet. He needed this world more than the world needed him, he often mused. Just as wizards blessed with talent beyond their expectation, he bore the responsibility to use this talent well, for the sake of those he loved - his students.

But, alone with Fawkes - his senior by centuries - Albus Dumbledore wasn't afraid to be a man. Fawkes knew he was more than just an icon, for he had been there in his moments of weakness. Phoenixes were truly remarkable creatures.

"These old bones are getting weary, my friend," he said, slowly turning to his longtime friend and companion. "I fear I'm just not strong enough anymore."

The phoenix, of course, understood Dumbledore's words and bobbed his head, as if agreeing with him, but Dumbledore knew better. The phoenix was sympathizing with him, understanding his plight. No creature in the world knew the disabilities that came with old age better than a phoenix. Fawkes had lived to be a venerable age thousands of times over and knew the tranquil touch of death, before his rebirth. While in his prime now, it would not last for another two months. And again, he'd grow old, weary and weak, and perish again.

Of course, Fawkes knew that old age and venerability meant more to Albus Dumbledore than to itself. He had seen Headmasters no less capable than Albus perish from old age - as strong and as good as they were, the human condition could be mastered only so long.

"But," continued Dumbledore on an optimistic note, "I'm not ready to kick the bucket quite yet, and we both know I'm not getting any younger." He scratched underneath Fawkes's chin. "Please keep an eye on my children."

Fawkes closed his eyes and rubbed the side of his beak against Dumbledore's wrinkled, leathery hand. They didn't need to share a spoken language to convey the point. Fawkes would watch over the children of Hogwarts with as much care as Dumbledore himself would.

With a final addition to his wardrobe, Dumbledore dawned his proud, red hat, giving him an extra foot in height. His traveling bag, shrunk to the size of a walnut, fit snugly into the pocket of his robes. With a proud walk that possessed strength, despite his failing body, Dumbledore strode out of his office, down the stairs and through the main hall.

Hogwarts after dark was just that - dark. Even Dumbledore couldn't help but feel intimidated by night in the ancient building. He made it no mystery to his students - this school was filled with more secrets than any mortal could ever learn in a lifetime, and Dumbledore was by no means an exception.

While walking the halls, heading for the exit of the school he had grown to love with all his heart, his mind wandered back to his own childhood long ago. Passing of the ages had dulled most of his memories to but a former shade of themselves, but there was one reflection he carried with him all throughout the school as he wandered.

He couldn't have been older than fourteen, his fourth year as a Gryffindor at Hogwarts. The names of his classmates didn't return to him - the passing of time had lost them, but he remembered one teacher - Professor Raynos. They had walked this hallway together once, during a detention Albus had served for forgetting a homework assignment. Even back then, some things always just slipped his mind.

Professor Raynos had given him one of the strangest detentions in his young life - he had escorted Dumbledore around the castle, talking to him the way a man might speak to another man. It had been a method of teaching that left a mark on Dumbledore he had never forgotten.

"What is your dream, Albus?" the man had posed to him, just like that, out of the blue.

The image he retained of the man was a smooth faced, soft as cream - he couldn't have been older than thirty. He wore robes that Professor McGonagall would consider outlandish, but Gilderoy Lockheart would just find 'tolerable' - a combination black and green, marking him properly as the Head of House Slytherin, yet with more style than most of the grim faced Slytherins he had ever seen. A Slytherin in his youth, but unlike most Slytherins, he was levelheaded and charismatic. He wore his hair black and slicked back, like one of those Muggle pianists.

"To be an artist," answered Albus, honestly. Even now, his passion and reverence for art was a little known trivia fact. No amount of magic could duplicate the works of Muggles like Picasso or Michelangelo - and even the most powerful archwizard couldn't replicate the exact magic used by illusion weavers like Sora Spellbound.

Raynos hummed at that, neither dismissing it as foolish nor prideful. "When I was your age, I wanted to be the greatest wizard the Earth has ever known. That sort of ambition was what guided me into Slytherin - at least, that's what the Sorting Hat said."

"I suppose," answered the confused Albus, scratching his chin. "But, what's so great about power? If you have it, someone else always wants it."

The Head of House Slytherin chuckled softly - barely more than an accented breath of air past his lips. "You are wise for your age, Albus. Let me tell you what is so great about power. I wanted to be the most powerful wizard the Earth has ever known... so I could protect those under my care with my very presence." Dumbledore still remembered the way his look fixed him - an expression of pure honesty and compassion, something he'd never expect to find in a Slytherin, let alone the leader of House Slytherin. "That is what real power is, Mr. Dumbledore. It's the ability to possess it, and never have to use it. It's the power to protect people in a certain place just by being there." The man chuckled again. "Claim that, and you can claim you are one of the most powerful wizards the Earth has ever known."

And now, one hundred and thirty six years later, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was still working toward Professor Raynos's dream. One day, he hoped it would be soon because he didn't have so much time left, he would be able to claim Hogwarts was safe simply because he was there.

But, a lingering doubt lurked in the back of his mind as he left the school, walking out beyond the range of the anti-Apparting wards. He couldn't help but dismiss the feeling that he was leaving the school during a time of danger, and those who conspired against him would see this as the perfect chance to strike.

* * * * *

- 8 -

11:00 PM

"Pansy or ... Abbott..." Goyle said, smirking at Crabbe with typical delight. Who Would You Rather was always a fun game, great for killing off some time before bed. The sixth year Slytherins were free of first period classes tomorrow, and Crabbe and Goyle were taking a chance to enjoy it by staying up late.

It was funny to make Crabbe sweat, Goyle observed. Questions about girls always made him look like a pig on a skillet, wide-eyed, with his mouth open, just begging for an apple to be slipped in.

They were each on their own bed, lounging about and chortling with each passing exchange. Boy, had some weird ones come up - Goyle had to give some serious thought to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney. In the end, he said Trelawney - at least she seemed younger!

"Abbott," answered Goyle. "She's cute and she's a Hufflepuff - stupid duffer. I'd have it off with her."

Oh, how the bed rolled with his superiority when he passed judgment on another student. Goyle was big and bad, and after all, he was a Slytherin! He wasn't a duffer, or he'd be in Hufflepuff, he wasn't a nancy boy or he'd be in Ravenclaw, and he wasn't a bullheaded moron, or he'd be in Gryffindor! He was a Slytherin - cunning and ambitious.

The ground always seemed a bit looser when he walked, as if even the floor parted its way for him. He imagined himself as a colossal of will, able to command respect from those who'd not otherwise give it. And he was a Slytherin to prove it!

"Draco," asked Goyle, looking to the pallid boy who sat at his desk. Goyle performed a double take - Malfoy looked awful. Like a puppet without strings, Draco slouched at the chair of his desk, unmoving. His arms were sprawled over a strange, yellowed tomb and his chin practically rested against his chest. Goyle's first impression was that he had fallen asleep at his desk, but when the boy glanced over at him - moving his eyes and nothing else. "Potter or Weasley?" he continued, regaining his breath.

Crabbe broke out laughing, hitting his pillow with amusement, but Draco didn't even flinch, or pretend to retch. He just stared at Goyle mechanically. "Not now. I don't feel good."

Crabbe and Goyle both were silenced by the words. They stared at him - Goyle couldn't believe what he had heard. Since when was Draco too tired to play a game of Who Would You Rather?

"What's wrong with you, mate?" asked Goyle, cocking his head. "You've been acting really weird today."

Draco yawned, staring at the journal in front of him. Nothing seemed to be alive within him - his skin, usually fairer than most was as white as plaster, bringing out the rings of unhealthy blackness beneath his eyes. In a word, he looked like a zombie.

"Have you ever had this feeling... like you should remember something, but for the life of you, can't?" asked Draco, his words sounding painful and strained to the ear.

Goyle nodded twice. "All the time. Arithmancy - bad class." That class was so stupid. Who cared about making new spells when regular spells worked fine? He wished that class would just be dropped.

Draco sighed and picked up his quill - he began to write, not speaking any further.

"I thought you finished your stuff?" asked Crabbe, leaning over his bed, trying to get a look at what Draco was doing. From his bed, it was a futile task.

"No," came the stone-cold reply. "I've got some work to do."

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged looks, but shrugged. Goyle looked back to Draco. "Ok mate - uh, good night."

Draco had stolen the flavor of the game tonight - it just wasn't any fun unless he was playing it with them. With that, Goyle drew the curtains of his bed shut and fell into his pillow, fatigued from the day. Goyle may not have been smart by any stretch of the imagination, but he had noticed Draco today - it was hard not to. He had been like a shell - a shade of his former self. He had not even laughed with the three Gryffindor bitches came in late for Potions; it was like he didn't even care. In charms, when Lisa Turbin was demonstrating a charm, she had broke into stutters. Goyle and Crabbe proceeded to mock her, loosing ten points for Slytherin. Where were Draco's snide comments to make it a nice, uneven fifteen? The boy had remained silent, as if he hadn't even cared.

In Herbology, Draco had allowed him and Crabbe to do their work - not helping them or working for their grade. As a result, they had gotten an F for the day, but Draco didn't even bat an eye. For the life of him, Goyle couldn't think of the cause. He remembered a dream where Draco was by his bedside, staring at his own bed with terror. It was just a picture, frozen in his head - that's how dreams faded from his mind. They were clear upon waking up, but by first period, they had faded to just flashes and random caches. By now, he remembered just that one expression - it had been such an alien thing on Draco's face. Draco was a guy who feared nothing! He was brilliant, fearsome and even if he was small, he had power. Oh, he had power all right. The ground shook under his feet too, even if it was only because Crabbe and Goyle moved the ground with each step.

Yes, as dense as Goyle was, he was worried about this sudden and unexplained change in his best friend.

* * * * *

- 9 -

11:59 PM

I'm sick, I'm tired, I'm sick, I'm tired. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm scared. I can't think. I'm sick, I'm tired. Something is coming to get me.

Draco couldn't think. He felt weak - faint - drained. Moving the quill was such strenuous activity. He set it down, moping the sweat from his forehead. Nausea fought its way up his throat from his chest, falling over him like a wave of disorientation.

Crabbe and Goyle had fallen asleep again - why weren't they snoring! He had to get up - he was going to be sick. Draco rose and the room spun around - no, he turned around, but the room was spinning any way. He felt his eyes rolling to the back of his head, felt the ground shift radically beneath his feet.

Hands out in front of him - feels like nothing - on the floor. Staring at the carpet, fallen down. Breathe... breathe... Everything was coming to Draco in a blur of information, facts mixing with stimulus. Sniffing deeply - coffee and potpourri. The laughing of a child. He heard it, he saw it, smell, taste and touch - it was so clear.

Draco crawled across the floor, too dazed and confused - pulled by some force. He threw himself on the side of his bed, forgetting to part the curtains. They ripped with a dull tear and came down, covering him like a green death shroud. Everything went black.

He pulled himself free of the sheets - He could see again

Saw the eye of the Raptor a second time. Everything went black again.