Light's End

Chapter 3: Acquisition

- 1 -

Wednesday.

Zacharias Smith stirred that next morning, blinking his eyes free of a modest accumulation of sleep sand. At first, he wondered where he was until he wiped his face and recognized the thick smell of wildlife. The newly risen sun had warmed the greenhouse to a very comfortable temperature, though a rush of wind outside pressed in on the glass ceiling, creaking the building with its might.

He had fallen asleep at one of the workstations - not a unique occurrence for some Hufflepuff students, though it had never happened to him before. Usually, he was out of the greenhouse by eight at the latest, just before curfew. What really surprised him was that Filch hadn't found him and given him more detentions than days in his life to serve them.

A nearby groan jolted Zacharias to his senses. He glanced in the direction and saw a Ravenclaw girl sleeping on a bench next to a patch of fire daffodils. The events of last night began to return to him - the screams, the claim of something following her, her dead faint. After she had fainted, Zacharias set her up on one of the benches, not knowing what else to do. In hindsight, he should have taken her to the medical wing, but he was reluctant to leave the Greenhouse until his work was done.

But then his work was done, and he still didn't want to leave the Greenhouse. Something fetid had been in the air that night; it had persuaded him into staying. Perhaps it was the memory of her screams and the fear on her face - she had KNOWN she was running for her life. Whatever it had been, Zacharias was in no mood to contend with it. Bravery wasn't one of Zacharias's fortes, and rushing out after seeing a girl scared witless was not high on his 'to do' list.

So, he had vowed to stay up all night if he had to, to protect the girl and himself -he might have lasted a half-hour or so, because he felt like he had gotten a good night's sleep.

Zacharias stood from his chair, his back cracking with protest. He winced - he was as stiff as a board. He stretched his left arm, then his right and popped his back a second time before he could move without falling over. He brushed back his wrinkled sleeve and checked his watch (it read 6:36 in the morning) before kneeling down next to Lisa.

He ran his eyes over her, taking the time to study her. She was one of those 'not-ugly' girls, neither beautiful nor unattractive. While Hannah was one of the prettiest girls in his year, Lisa was just decent - curly blonde hair, freckles splattering her face, and a few pounds more than she probably should weigh. But, in truth, something about her turned him on. Maybe it was her defenselessness - the fact she had relied on Zacharias for help last night. Or perhaps it was her accessibility. This girl was not out of his league, in fact, on a scale of looks, he could probably do much better himself. He was a handsome boy and more than just his mother and father had told him so.

"Hey," he said at last, shaking her shoulder. "Wake up."

She groaned a second time and stirred, tired brown eyes searching Zacharias's face. He smiled and nodded a greeting. A moment later, she wiped her eyes and spoke, "Where am I?"

"Greenhouse 4," answered Zacharias, "Remember? You said something was chasing you?"

Lisa sat up, groaning with the effort. She looked confused and scared, like someone who had been through Marco Mayham's Super Shop of Horrors, a Halloween scare-trail type deal that Zacharias's mother used to take him and his muggle brother.

"Uh," she replied, shaking the stars from her head. "I, wait, huh?"

Zacharias retold the story from last night, as best as he could remember.

"That's impossible," she said, shaking her head. "I never did any of that."

It was Zacharias's turn to say, "Huh?"

Lisa shook her head. "I left last night to owl a rune... and... er..." She looked at him, a blank expression on her face. "I woke up here."

"You don't remember screaming, crying and fainting?" asked Zacharias.

She shook her head. "No - I just remember... coffee or something."

Zacharias offered her his hand, and helped her rise to her feet. "You mentioned coffee and... potpourri last night."

Lisa frowned, scratching the back of her head. "It's funny - I've never, I mean, I don't usually forget stuff, especially like that." She considered her words for a moment. "But, now that you mention it - yeah, I remember... I was so afraid... but now, it's like it happened in a distant dream or something, y'know?"

Nodding, Zacharias turned around. "Well, let's get back to our common rooms before they put our faces on milk cartons."

They walked out - typical, crappy, cold weather outside, clouds covered most of the sky. Zacharias wondered if they'd ever see the sun again - it had been almost a week.

"Right about here is where I find you," said Zacharias, as he took a few steps out of the Greenhouse. "You were near hysterics."

Again Lisa looked confused. "Found me?"

Zacharias turned back, thinking she was teasing him or something. "Yeah, I just told you... you were being chased!"

"Right," said Lisa, snapping to attention. "Oh right!" she repeated, with more force. "It's so weird - it's like, God, it's like my mind refuses to hold onto it!"

For some reason, he believed her. "That is really weird. Uh... were you Memory Charmed, maybe?"

Lisa shook her head. "No, it's not that at all. When you mention it, I remember everything... it was, like, right above me, chasing me by running across the wall - it's the only way it could make that sound. And, I smelt coffee and potpourri. But, if you hadn't reminded me, I'd never have remembered."

"Really weird," Zacharias stressed. "Think we should talk to Madam Pomfrey about this? You were so scared last night... like you'd be if Voldemort or something was chasing you himself."

Lisa shuddered with the word. "Don't use his name!" Once Zacharias winced apologetically, she continued. "I really can't be afraid of something I barely remember... if it were You-Know-Who, he'd be after Harry Potter anyway, not me."

"You are still alive. If it were Vol - He Who Must Not Be Named, I don't think either of us would be."

Lisa laughed at that, "Yes, I'm certain we are very much alive."

"If not, we're awfully loud for two corpses, huh?" asked Zacharias, smirking.

On that note, they entered the sleeping school, and Zacharias started toward the Hufflepuff common room, biding Lisa farewell.

"Hey Zacharias," said Lisa. Stopping in his tracks, he turned around. She was bashfully twirling a curl by her ear, giving him a modest smile. "Thanks for looking after me... even if I don't remember it so well."

Zacharias returned her smile. "Hey, it wasn't a problem - I'm just glad you're okay."

An awkward moment passed as if each of them weren't sure what was supposed to happen next.

"Bye," blurted out Zacharias, waving.

"Bye," she returned, chuckling.

With an equally awkward farewell, Zacharias and Lisa went their separate ways.

* * * * * *

- 2 -

"What does it take to get it through your bleeding, dense, skull!" cried Harry on his way back from Quidditch practice, rounding on Colin Creevey. "I'm not going to give you an interview!"

Before, Harry had been interrupted from his blissful daydreaming. You'd think Colin had the ability to Apparate, what, with the way he could pop up anywhere like a dandelion on the Dursley's front lawn. And that wasn't the worst of it - Colin found the exact time every day where Harry wanted nothing to do with anybody. After dictating orders to his team during practice, he didn't want to talk with anyone for a while.

Colin chuckled, immune to Harry's disdain and said, "Seriously, Harry - with the level of agitation I'm sensing here, you'd think you were about to murder someone!"

"I'm giving it serious thought," replied Harry, rubbing his temples.

"C'mon Harry," begged Colin, falling in next to him. "Any truth to the rumors about you and Pansy Parkinson? Every witch from the age of twelve to twenty-two wants to know! Give me the scoop."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm convinced you have a brain tumor."

With that, Colin threw up his hands. "Y'know, Harry, I'm beginning to get the impression that you don't want to give an interview."

Harry didn't dignify that with a reply. He kept walking, hoping that if he were quiet, Colin would go away.

"Seriously," continued Colin, "You can never have too much fame, can you? Another interview would boost your public appeal - not to mention, you'd start getting fan mail again!"

"You can't have too much fame?" asked Harry, as he pulled open the door of the Great Hall. "Let me ask you one question here for a change: have you ever been famous?"

Colin shook his head.

Harry crossed his arms. "Here's your single question interview, Creevey. 'What's it like to be the wonderful, great, beautiful Harry Potter?' And I answer - 'It's bloody hell on Earth - I've got a Dark Lord who is just aching to skin me alive - an idiot that wants to kill me for jailing his father - jealous friends, fourty-two Death Eaters - I ain't slept safe in five years - I've got no parents, summer housing problems and a little case of homicide, which in its bounds, ended the life of my god father - not to mention your bloody stupid interviews - Cedric Diggory, the fate of the free world, the hopes of mankind! And let me see... what else can pile on? Is there any more SHIT we can pile on top of this scar on my head? Is it POSSIBLE?'"

By the time Harry finished his tirade, Colin had to wipe Harry's spit from his face several times. The boy looked otherwise unfazed, making a note on his hand with a quill. He then asked. "Was it forty-two Death Eaters... or fifty-two?"

Harry made for the Great Hall, wanting to break Colin into fifty-two parts.

Before arriving at the Great Hall, Harry witnessed an explosion of motion from the corridor next to him. It was not an 'explosion' per se, it was Madam Pomfrey running down the stairs faster than Harry would have ever thought possible. He had seen the mediwitch out of her Hospital Wing once before - it had taken a fight with a Hungarian Horntail to get her out of Hogwarts. No doubt this had to be just as monumental.

"What do you suppose she's doing out of the hospital wing?" asked Colin.

Forgetting to hate Colin, Harry replied, "I haven't the foggiest."

Colin and Harry exchanged brief looks, sharing the exact same thought. "Seamus!" they blurted and took off at a run, bounding the stairs two at a time, racing through blurred corridors and bursting into the Medical Wing.

They saw Seamus in the bed next to Malfoy's - he was lying on his stomach, his face turned against the pillow, eyes closed. He looked at peace - too at peace. Harry and Colin rushed for his bed, grabbing him and shaking his shoulders.

"Seamus!" exclaimed Harry. "You ok?"

No response.

Harry drew his wand, and waved it like an expert. This was not happening - it was wrong. Seamus was just in deep sleep, he had to be!

"Enervate!"

Seamus's eyes jerked open and he let out a giant yelp, like he had stuck his finger into an electric socket. He sprung up two feet into the air, flailing about, shocked by the energy spell. "Yeaaw!" he yelped, thumping back into the bed and starting upright. "What gives?"

"Oh, thank God," exclaimed Harry, grabbing Seamus' shoulder. "We were so worried - we saw Pomfrey rushing out of the wing, we thought you bought the farm or something!"

Seamus shook his head. "Er... nope." He then offered Harry a disarming smile. "Sorry mate, I'm not leavin' yet."

Harry thought for a moment. "Well, that's good. But, I wonder what all the hubbub was about?"

"Uh," came Colin's voice, sounding distant. "Malfoy's dead."

Harry hadn't noticed that Colin, who was on the other side of the bed, closest to Malfoy. He had stopped looking at Seamus, and was holding up Malfoy's completely limp arm, white as marble. Once he dropped it, it fell without strength from his grasp, banging on the side of the bed once - twice...

And time stood still. For Harry, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck him on the spot, only he was still alive. He watched Malfoy's arm, swinging like a pendulum, the fingers half-cupped, as if holding an invisible object. Drawn to the swinging arm, like a hypnotist might draw him to a swinging pocket watch, Harry walked around Seamus's bed, shuffling his feet.

It was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. Draco was on his back, eyes shut, face set in a peaceful pout. His hair was in perfect order, combed back and appearing platinum white, matching the hue of his skin. Colorless of face, his lips stood out the color of blood, dry and chapped. Pitch-black rings looped his eyes, his skull showing through his lifeless flesh as if it were transparent, or not even there. Harry touched his swinging hand - cold, like he were gripping soft plastic. Not knowing why, Harry pulled Draco's slack arm from the side of the bed and rested it by his side.

A cold, creeping sensation filled Harry - he took a step away from Malfoy. He closed his eyes, but it was no use. Bye-bye, Malfoy. It was happening again.

He started giggling, doubling over with a sudden spasmodic motion. Loosing his balance, Harry staggered back into a wall, sliding down against it. Malfoy bought the farm. That's funny; he never thought Malfoy would want a farm. Too infra dig for a Mahl-foy.

Harry burst out laughing, shoulders shaking - body wracked with pain, like he were dancing inside an iron maiden. He had to stop laughing, had to stop. Harry chewed on his knuckles. Malfoy had kicked the bucket - I'm surprised he didn't pay Crabbe and Goyle to do it for him.

His teeth drew blood - he choked back another laugh. Aware that Seamus and Colin were staring at him, blank looks of disbelief on their faces, Harry tried to stop. Malfoy was now going to feed the worms - he could hear Malfoy bragging: 'the worms that ate my body grew to be princes.'

The door burst open - Madam Pomfrey entered, followed by Headmistress McGonagall, dressed in a simple light blue sleeping robe. Behind her, Professor Snape, Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout followed - with exception to Snape who wore black satin robes the other professors were dressed in their pajamas.

"Get out of here!" screamed Headmistress McGonagall, glaring at Colin murderously. "Get out!"

They didn't see Harry, collapsed against the wall next to the door.

Not questioning this, Colin rushed out of the room, giving Harry one final look. Harry looked at all his Professors. They were in their pajamas. That was funny.

Harry bit through his knuckles again, laughing himself hoarse, giving himself away. Once again, Harry was back in the graveyard - his professors were the Death Eaters and Malfoy's corpse was Cedric, or even Sirius... Diggory, Malfoy, Sirius, Malfoy - no difference!

"Potter," hissed Severus, striding forward and drawing his wand. His voice was saturated with enough scorn to dissolve metal. "So, you are to blame for this."

Harry shook his head. "No," he said. "No, it's horrible... really..." Another laugh escaped his hand - he didn't sound very convincing.

Professor Flitwick approached Harry and took his shoulder. He was as tall as Flitwick sitting down. "Come with me, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice like water thrown on a burning man. "We are going to get something to drink."

Harry stopped laughing, numb all over, his hand bleeding. He didn't care - it had happened again.

"The boy murders my finest student," hissed Snape, "And you want to give him a drink of water?"

"Silence!" screamed Professor McGonagall. "Severus, call a meeting of the student body - have everyone meet in a half-hour in the Great Hall and address them. All classes are to be discontinued for the rest of the day."

Everyone was staring at Snape. He snorted, gave Harry a look that could chill the undead, and stormed out of the room.

"Thank you Filius," said the Headmistress, in a failing voice. "Please, take Harry to my office." She then looked at Seamus. "Mr. Finnigan, are you healthy?"

Seamus shrugged - either he wasn't sure or didn't really hear the question.

"Can you move?" she clarified.

Seamus nodded.

"Poppy, please take Mr. Finnigan elsewhere," she ordered. "And Fay, (Harry decided that must be Professor Sprout's first name) please join me - Narcissa Malfoy must be told."

That was all Harry heard. He had risen to his feet, determination beyond his simple understanding and sleepwalking after the diminutive professor. Harry had a feeling this wasn't going to be a good day.

* * * * * *

Hermione lay awake on her bed, coiling a strand of her own, smooth hair in her finger. One hand clutched her covers close to her bosom, like a cherished loved one, the other was thrown over the top of her bed, her fingers flirting with her own hair in her desperate need to fidget. Exhausted, tired, depressed - it was all the same. A faint queasiness sat in her stomach, countless pictures of Seamus swam before her.

For the past two hours, she had been staring at the same spot on the wall, as if wishing Seamus's face would appear. When her eyes had begun to water, she'd blink, and then not blink again until more water appeared.

She had been going with Seamus for five months now - five wonderful months that had helped redefine who she found herself as a person. In just five months, one hundred and fifty days, give or take a few, she had gone from a reserved workaholic to someone who cared as much about her spirit as her mind.

As much as she had wished her friends would make up, she hadn't lost much sleep over the end of Harry and Ron's relationship. She wasn't plagued by a guilty conscience because she had Seamus to take care of her. Every night, she'd sit and talk and he'd listen and listen. That was it. She had seen it in his eyes - he had wanted nothing from her, and that was precisely why she wanted to give it all to him, and not Harry and Ron. While a mutual, two-sided friendship was very important, a true lover had to be willing to go further than friendship. Seamus would walk to the moon and back for her and she would do the same. With Seamus, she was always reaching for the stars, with Harry and Ron, she fell shy and only got the clouds.

And now he was sick, and she couldn't help him. No known magic in this world could fix Seamus - he was trapped and some alien power was holding him hostage. She had felt it in his hands - cold. His flesh had been so unlike flesh, for the most angst-filled moment of her life, she had thought him dead. When Madam Pomfrey had told her he needed his rest and shooed her out, she wanted to hug her. He would be alive, it wasn't time to say good-bye or anything. She had jumped to the conclusion he would die, and she never jumped to conclusions often.

She heard a loud shout from outside of her room - the voice was Professor Snape It was enhanced to ear-splitting volume and seemed to rumble the entire foundation of Hogwarts to his smallest stone.

"ALL STUDENTS ARE TO MEET IN THE GREAT HALL IN TWENTY MINUTES! THIS IS MANDATORY AND STUDENTS WITHOUT AN EXCUSE WILL COST THEIR HOUSE FIFTY POINTS!"

The noise startled Hermione to the point where she had almost fallen off the bed. Parvati wasn't so lucky - she had leapt out of bed so quickly. It was probably like something out of her darkest and most terrifying nightmare. Wasting no time - she wasn't really that tired anyway - Hermione rose and donned a clean and ironed school robe from her dresser.

Lavender was waging war against her hair with a brush, trying to comb with record speed. "Can you imagine this? We were supposed to have first period off. Damn that man!"

Hermione yawned and took her own brush to her hair, working to tame her own mane of hair. "I'm sure it's serious. If it wasn't, they'd just wait."

"No, this is serious!" protested Parvati, fanning herself with both hands to stay calm. "I'm not going to have time to shower!"

Hermione was the one Gryffindor girl who didn't care. She had taken a nice, long shower at two in the morning, driven to by her need to do something so late at night. She was so alone - she wanted Seamus in her embrace, to feel his warm touch, to know that he'd be all right. These were answers that were not going to come until the morning, which took its sweet time getting here, and now that it was upon her, she was delayed once again from getting to him.

"It must be real important," she repeated, more to herself than her fellow Gryffindors. The school had its own intercom system of a sort, magic of course being the key component of it. But, she had never heard it used before. Just like that, she was worrying again, this time even trembling. What if the emergency was about Seamus? Was he all right? If something happened to him, she'd never forgive herself. She had dragged him away from safety, put him into harm's way down a random and obscure corridor. If a hair on his body was harmed, she would give ten of hers to make it better. Unfortunately, life didn't allow for such stupid sentiments of sacrifice and romance. If something had happened to the boy she loved, that would be on her conscious, and her conscious alone.

Before she knew it, she was jogging out of the room, despite the pleas to 'wait up' or 'go together' from the rest of the Gryffindors. She pushed through the Fat Lady, the first Gryffindor out of the room. Perhaps she should have waited for Harry and Ron - but then she remembered that Harry was at Quidditch practice and Ron may have very well been lurking in the stands, watching.

When she got to the Great Hall, she took one of the seats near the head of the Gryffindor table. Few had beaten her, a collection of Hufflepuff first years, a Ravenclaw fourth year boy, and Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be the only ones. Crabbe and Goyle were talking amongst themselves, chortling like the incoherent gorillas they were. They were looking at her, giving her a strong incentive to pull out her wand and throw a hex or two at them. Might have gotten her into trouble, but at least it would had made her feel good.

Where had the voice of reason gone, she wondered. Introspection was a nice talent of hers, though she often neglected it in favor of living in the present and not thinking too much of the past. In the end, it seemed like most every mistake she made led up to a beautiful end - her loss of fifty points for Gryffindor in their first year had been overshadowed by the effects of the greater good. Life was about chaotic solutions leading to good goals, a lesson that Hermione was taking to heart more and more. It seemed as though breaking the rules was the only way to achieve a favorable end for everyone - imagine if she hadn't brewed the polyjuice potion in her second year. They would have never found out that Malfoy wasn't behind the attacks. If she hadn't abused the rules of the Time Turner either, Harry, her and Sirius Black would have all been kissed by Dementors - not that it mattered now that Sirius was dead.

An irritable looking Ron, who looked as though he had brushed his hair with a vacuum, soon joined her along with Dean, who needed a facelift - his cheeks sagged low and his eyes seemed to have flown away, leaving nothing by unseeing brown glass orbs.

Parvati and Lavender arrived, just as the hall was completely full of students - no professors however.

"Alright, what's going on - I was having a very agreeable dream about me and a cutie named Muffin," muttered Ron, pouting.

Parvati responded with a mirthless laugh. "Did it take place in an Azkaban shower room?"

"Meh," grumbled Ron, while Dean laughed. Hermione would have laughed too, but she wasn't up for it, not when Seamus might be in trouble. What else had been happening in the school to warrant such a scary and sudden meeting of every student at 8:15 in the morning?

The door slammed open and Professor Snape - just Snape - entered, slowing his run to a jog.

"Quiet, all of you," growled Snape in between breaths, his voice magnified with magic. His robes swished around his legs as he moved, riding up with static, caused by his frenzied pace.

Hermione bit her lip - something was very wrong at Hogwarts today. She had never seen Snape run before; the man had the mentality that the world would wait for him. Not any more, she supposed.

"I will get right to the point," he began, once at the front of the room. "A terrible tragedy had occurred. There is no light way to say this, so I won't even try. Sixth year Draco Malfoy passed away last night, victim of a sickness of unknown origin."

At first, there was stunned silence. No one spoke - no one breathed; no one so much as took his or her eyes of Snape. For Hermione and Ron, however, this news didn't come as a shock. None in this school had faced trials of faith and mortality like Ron, Harry and Hermione. Maybe only four eyes weren't fixed on Snape, but they were the two who had seen the most in their time at Hogwarts. Ron's eyes, across the table from Hermione's, were focused on hers and hers on his. Time might have drifted them a small degree of separation, but here and now, she was bound to him again. As childish as the thought was, there was a new mystery in Hogwarts to solve, and she looked not to the library, or to Snape... but to the one who had solved life-threatening mysteries with her before.

"Classes are suspended for the remainder of the day - I will take intelligent questions from Prefects and the Head Boy or Girl. If you have something to ask of passable merit, forward it to them."

Staggered, whispered conversations began - mostly between the older students. The younger children looked too confused or too indifferent to pose any questions Snape would deem answerable. Hermione, too lost in Ron's eyes to speak, felt as if someone was grabbing her spine and holding her down. The Great Hall was steadily growing in discomforting, turning from a harmless dining room to a crypt with over three-hundred warm bodies within.

Erin Slovise stood up. The tall and slender Slytherin Head Girl was striking in her own way - serious green eyes, Harry-black hair, so dark it seemed to be colored with charcoal and a straight, pointed nose like the beak of a raven. Her glare commanded Snape's undivided attention at once.

"Will the school be closed?" she asked, her proper and powerful voice carrying all the way to Hermione.

Snape cringed at the mention of that, as if closing the school was a nail being jabbed into the back of his knee. "That has not yet been determined - further study concerning the cause of Mr. Malfoy's death is needed. If this proves to be an isolated or semi-isolated incident, then school will remain open. If it is determined beyond reasonable doubt that a threat remains in Hogwarts, then I can say with some certainty that the school will be closed until this threat is sorted out."

"What do you mean, the cause? Did you not say yourself the cause of death was sickness?" replied Brian Maylee, the chubby Hufflepuff Head Boy - handsome beady eyes and a round, rosy face gave him a sort of Neville-like charm, though his intellect and confidence seemed more on the level of Cedric Diggory, or even Hermione's own.

Hermione could almost hear Snape grinding his teeth while he rebuked. "The sickness is what doubtlessly caused his death. As I have said, the origins of this sickness are unknown."

Cho Chang spoke next. "What of Gryffindor Prefect Finnigan, Professor? Was he not next to Malfoy, stricken with the same sickness?"

In light of the revelation concerning Malfoy, Hermione had pushed her concern for Seamus's well being to the back of her mind. But, in truth, her concern for him had not lessoned. If Malfoy had died from this sickness, who was to say Seamus wouldn't be joining him shortly? She put her hand to her mouth, cringing with fear. Please God, make Seamus ok. She knew her prayer was juvenile, sophomoric even, but seeing as how she wasn't religious in the least, it was the best she could do.

"Prefect Finnigan has had... better luck coping with the sickness. He is up and about and will be rejoining the student body by the end of today."

A few more questions were asked, mostly by Erin and Brian. All of them were intelligent, well-thought out questions, but Hermione had already lost interest. Whenever she was in situations of high tension, she always made a checklist. Right now, her sallow and uncompassionate Potions Master was not on the list of helping boons in cracking this mystery. Snape was a no-nonsense type of professor who would not spare their feelings, had he known something worth saying. No, this was already beyond Snape, and the more time they wasted in the Great Hall, the longer this mystery would remain unsolved. Ron had that look too, as if he were reading Hermione's eyes. He nodded his agreement - if he was agreeing to her exact thought or not, it was hard to say for sure. What she could say with no small amount of certain was that it helped. She didn't feel so alone now. Seamus was going to be back with her, and Ron was going to be working with her on this case. Now, only one thing was missing, but what was it?

Then it hit her: Harry!

Where was Harry? Why wasn't he down here? A simple look confirmed her fears. With obvious exception to Malfoy, Harry and Seamus were quite possibly the only students not in attendance. Seamus was in the hospital wing, according to Snape - but that didn't account for Harry's disappearance. She had seen him just last night; there was no way he had gotten sick. In fact, his entire Quidditch team was sitting further down the table - they hadn't mentioned his eerie disappearance today. He must have also been at Quidditch practice.

Boldly, she rose, drawing eyes from every Gryffindor. "Professor Snape, where is Harry Potter?"

Snape stared her down for a moment, as if wishing he could deduct points from Gryffindor. However, he knew as well as she did that Hermione was a prefect and had every right to speak. "Harry Potter is being detained for questioning - it is a lamented fact of Hogwarts lore that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were not exactly civil. As such, he is the prime suspect for... fowl play."

"Detained for questioning?" asked Hermione, her expression budging with concern, "You seriously don't think that Harry murdered anyone, do you?"

Snape extended a bony finger at Hermione. "Watch yourself, Miss Granger."

In a very surprise move, Erin spoke up. "It was an intelligent question, Professor Snape. I've known Harry Potter for six years - an idiot, yes, a murderer, no."

On any other occasion, that bold statement would have been met with the voices of several dozen screaming Gryffindors. But here and now, even the most dense of Godric's flock understood what Erin, the student idol of House Slytherin, had done. She had just defended Harry Potter in a way that wouldn't enrage Snape.

Snape considered his most distinguished student for a moment, and his expression lightened - that meaning he didn't look like he was about to vomit pea soup. "That will be for the Ministry to decide, not us, Ms. Slovise. Mr. Potter was found in a rather compromising situation, but rest assured, if it goes as far as trial - I'm certain the courts will allow ample character witnesses." Hermione didn't miss that snide look, right in her direction.

"Of course," replied the Slytherin Head Girl, sitting down and withdrawing.

"Any other questions?" asked Snape, eying the student body with heavy eyes.

No one else in the Great Hall spoke - again, Hermione could hear her own breathing again, as could everyone within ten feet of her. Harry was no murderer; she seethed like bacon on a frying pan. How could Snape have the gall to stand there and insinuate that Harry - her Harry - was a murderer! It was beyond ridiculous, it was flat out cruel. Whatever Harry had done to earn Snape's contempt - be it unwillingly hog the spotlight, or simply been born to James Potter - could not have been reason alone to justify such a bold and blatant suspicion from him. What had this compromising situation been, spoken with condemning thickness?

"Then, get to your Common Rooms. No one is to leave them until further notice is given - food and beverages will be delivered at noon today and again at seven this evening. Anyone caught wandering the halls before this curfew is lifted will be expelled without question."

Hermione was one of the last Gryffindor's present to rise. She was lost with doubt and confusion - her private little life having been smashed by circumstance and fate. How she wanted to kiss Seamus, for him to put his arms around her waist, pull her close and tell her that he was all right. But, as comforting as that would have been, her mind was put at ease just as much by a light pressure on her hand. She stared at the hand - larger than hers by a significant factor, and also lighter of skin. Her eyes traced a path from the narrow wrist, a light covering of hair peeking out from the cuffs of the robes. She followed up the second-hand robe and fell again into Ron's eyes.

"He didn't do it, Hermione. You know it, and I know it."

She nodded. While there had never been a doubt in her mind, there was something about Ron's confirmation that put a deeper part of her at ease. She squeezed his hand, the only way she could think of to return his support. Her love for Ron could move mountains with a completely different force. She knew she could love two men at the same time - three even, counting Harry.

Each love bound her in a different way. Her love of Harry was the type that a sergeant might develop for his commanding officer. She thought of Harry as a charismatic leader - he always took the next step for her when she was afraid. His very presence inspired others to new levels of bravery and his examples could bring anyone back from the edge of despair. For Seamus, her feelings were of a lover - an equal and necessary part, running deeper than any friendship could take them. Distant enough to be mysterious yet close enough to be intimate, she knew Seamus the least of the three, and yet, she was the only one she kissed, opened up to completely, and sated her appetite of flesh. And of course, there was Ron - the love of her plutonic self. Ron and her were more equal than Seamus or her could ever be. If Seamus and her were love mates, her and Ron were soulmates. Seamus completed her, making one pea, but her and Ron were two separate peas in the same pod. Like a brother, only Ron could drive her to perfect irritation, and like a sister, only Hermione could make Ron stop and think. They lived to argue - they lived to debate. With Harry, there was never a debate - whatever he did, Hermione did too. With Seamus, whatever he did - she returned, a kiss for a kiss, pet for pet, and touch for touch. With Ron, if she did something he didn't like, he would bash her over the head with a wooden spoon, and throw his meal at her. Only Ron could get away with that.

"I know, Ron," she answered, releasing his hand and standing up. "I know."

Ron nodded and tucked his hand back into his robe. "C'mon then, let's get out of here before Snape digs us graves next to Malfoy."

Hermione gasped, putting her hand to her lips. "Ron! That was downright crude!"

He gave a half-hearted shrug. "A loud, ripping fart is crude. Talking about the dead - who cares? Malfoy sure as hell doesn't."

The simple logic put things in perspective for Hermione. Why had she even rebuked him so? Was she supposed to pretend she had deep feelings for Malfoy and that his death would mourn the passing of a great person from Hogwarts? Malfoy was the son of a Death Eater and a scumbag. If death had to choose someone in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it couldn't have made a better decision. She supposed she was just being hypocritical. Death was never a joking matter, whether it was the death of an enemy or a friend.

She would mourn Malfoy's death, she decided - not for the sake of the person he was, but for the person he might have been. Had Malfoy and Ron had traded places - if it was the Malfoy family in second-hand robes, learning the value of brotherhood and sharing at a young age, would he and Ron have really been so different? A bizarre image of Draco Weasley, slick red hair, a mischievous gleam in his gray eyes to compliment his kind smile, patchy brown robes, with Pigwidgeon perched on his shoulder, flickered through her mind. Likewise, Ron Malfoy, tall, with curly blond hair, dead blue eyes and a cold sneer on his face coupled with the Draco image.

The scary part was, she could see it, and it didn't look so very paradoxical - for a juxtaposed, paradoxical fantasy at any rate.

Without further words, Ron and Hermione left the all but empty Great Hall.

* * * * * *

- 3 -

Seamus didn't like Madam Pomfrey's office. To him, it smelled like a mixture of band-aids and ammonia, and it was so small and confining, like an eight by eight prison cell. And that's exactly how he felt - a prisoner, restricted from breathing or leaving without a good excuse of a full pardon for his unspoken crimes against the school. It was as though his perfect ignorance of anything concerning Draco's death was proof of his guilt - the way Madam Pomfrey looked at him was unsettling at best and accusing at worst.

"During the night, you didn't hear or see anything that would suggest a painful death?" asked Madam Pomfrey, a disbelieving look on her face.

Seamus shook his head. Why was she accusing him? Again, he repeated his side of the story.

"Look, I already told you. I woke up last night - someone was rasping next to me. I guess it was Draco, because he tried to say his name. I think I asked him where we were - I don't remember. And then, I fell back asleep."

Pomfrey scowled - her plump face lined with frustration. "That was it?"

Seamus frowned. For the life of him, that's all he remembered. Yet, at the same time, he... felt weird, like there was something missing, a gaping hole in his own story. Doubt filled his mind. While he knew he was telling the truth, there should be more to this. It just didn't sound like him. Malfoy had been rasping, croaking even - like his voice has been torn out. He had been so weak, and Seamus remembered how he wanted to get up and run around. Seamus had no intense dislike for Malfoy, and he had been suffering. Why hadn't he offered to get him a drink, or moved over and talked to him closer?

Something was missing in his story, and Seamus didn't like it - not one bit.

"It's all I can remember," said Seamus, trying to be honest. "I'll take truth serum if you wish.

Madam Pomfrey sighed, accepting this at last. "All right, Mr. Finnigan. All right. One last question - when you were awake last night, did anything seem out of place?"

Again, Seamus thought back, remembering Malfoy's questions of where they were, coupled with his own concern. In the back of his mind, he had noted something else that was strange as well, something he hadn't been able to place or justify.

"It was like we both woke up at the same time," suggested Seamus. "I found it weird that he was asking the questions at the same time as I was wondering them - and... there was another thing. It was, I don't know, like a weird smell."

"A smell?" asked Madam Pomfrey. "What smell?"

"I don't know," he replied truthfully. "Call me a loon, but - it smelt like potpourri, I reckon." Seamus scratched the back of his head. "But, I might have just dreamed it."

Madam Pomfrey scratched her chin was deep consideration, but seemed to draw a blank. "Very well, Mr. Finnigan. You are free to return to your Common Room."

Seamus rose on shaky legs. He had changed out of his hospital robe and back into his school robe, combed his dirty flaxen hair and washed his face. The face he had seen in the mirror when he looked had been blemished, like he had been afraid of something. Whiter than usual - his freckles had been hued dull gray against his skin. In fact, it had looked like he had through hell and back, and somehow back in one piece.

He left the office, pausing only to view the body. Madam Pomfrey had pulled a sheet over Malfoy, covering him from view. What had only been a glance of curiosity drove a spike of shame even deeper. Had he not fallen back asleep, could he have maybe helped him? What had only been a spike of shame turned into a yearning desire - he strode away from the door, step by step, closer to the sheet. Had he failed in his duties? Was Malfoy's death just as much his fault as it was anyone's?

Before he knew it, he was standing next to the covered body, his eyes filled with doubt and shame. Malfoy had rasped for him - he had needed someone to talk to him, and Seamus had fallen back asleep. He swallowed a lump in his throat. In a daze, he reached out toward the head of the sheet, wanting to look on him one last time...

A screech echoed in his head, and only his head. He saw a mental picture of Malfoy's head, eyes opened and staring lifeless above. Inside his mind, the body heaved - tortured, ruinous limitations - thrashing wildly against its bondage. Malfoy tried to breath, failed to - convulsions, the torment of death.

Seamus leapt back, his hand dropping to his side again. As suddenly as the screech had started, it stopped - all was quiet. The body hadn't moved, the sheet still covered his head. Heaving a deep sigh, he didn't pause to consider this strange and unsettling vision - he just ran the other way as fast as his legs could carry him, clear out of the medical wing.

* * * * * *

- 4 -

Looking Narcissa Malfoy in the eyes and spilling the news of her son was the hardest task Minerva McGonagall ever had to do in her long years of life. To see those white, gray eyes so full of hope at the return of Hogwarts staff - praying without speaking for good news and then to see the squeamish, stunned expression when the final word hit home nearly made the elderly Headmistress cry.

Death in the Wizarding World was as equally lamented in the grand scheme of society as it was in the Muggle World, though Minerva really didn't know much about that. Yet, everything moved faster in a world full of magic, where any location was the swish of a wand away.

"Weebee!" yelled Narcissa, her fists tight rocks at her side. The pathetic house elf staggered into sight, all but tripping on his pillow case dress. "My son is dead. Write a funeral invitation to all those on Lucius's list. The service will be held in the backyard at three in the afternoon."

Narcissa's cold voice chilled Minerva, but hid a deep pain within - she had never seen her speak in such a calm voice before, with neither a drawl nor an edge. She suspected that her cold withdrawn attitude was all that was keeping her going.

The house-elf drooped its ears, as if disbelieving what he had heard. "Little Master is dead... Weebee is so..."

"NOW YOU SLAVE!" screamed Narcissa, driving her foot into the house-elf's face, launching it head over heels through the air. It landed twenty feet away, tumbled another five, and lie still for several seconds before whimpering, cradling its broken nose, and rushing off. Even Minerva winced with pity for the house-elf unlucky enough to be a servant of the Malfoy family.

"And you, McGonagall," she sneered, rounding on her and jabbing a finger into her face. "I'll have your job for this... this... THIS!" Tears began to ring her eyes. "Your filthy, cheap negligence has killed my son - I will see you in Azkaban with my husband for the rest of your natural days, no matter who I have to bribe to pass the sentence!"

In all her life, she had never been spoken to in such a way. Had it been under any other circumstance, her strict pride and upstanding courage in the face of any threat would have forced her to draw her wand and curse the living daylights out of the man, woman or child who addressed her like that. She saw the girl Narcissa once was - alone, scared and spiteful, scared of no authority that didn't start and end with the Black family. For what might have been the first time, Narcissa was learning of a new authority that existed, one that even a family as prestigious as the Malfoys had to answer to: Death.

That, and that alone, stayed McGonagall's wand hand. She looked with reserved pity upon Narcissa Malfoy, and the finger she was jabbing in her face. She said nothing when Narcissa pushed by her, marching outside.

After all, what else could either the teacher or the student say?

"Well," said Minerva, in a high voice, trembling with restrained grief. Her lips quivered with outrage. "That - that went well."

Professor Sprout looked stricken. "Are you all right, Minerva?"

Minerva took a few deep breaths, the twitch in her wand hand eventually succumbing to practical reason. "Yes, Fay, I will be fine," she answered. "We must return to school - any student who wishes to attend the service will be given full privilege."

Fay frowned, putting a hand to her trembling hand to her lip. "Do you think that is wise? The Malfoys may want a private..."

"Narcissa Malfoy will just have to cope," she said, through clenched teeth. "Any student who wishes may to attend. A lack of closure turns people into - that," she spat, glaring out the open door of the estate.

Without further delay, both Professors waved their wands and vanished with a loud 'pop.'

* * * * * *

- 5 -

As hard as Draco's death was hitting his mother, every bit of that pain was felt by Gregory Goyle as him and his friend - now his only friend - Vincent Crabbe. They had received word of the funeral service that would be conducted in the setting sun of the afternoon, but in truth, Goyle couldn't even think of his name let alone whether or not he should attend.

As dense as Goyle was, he was every bit a self-aware sixteen year old. He knew his own limitations and strengths. The power to bully was a formidable power - capable of cowing all but the most stalwart hearts. Whether it was the threat of force, standing tall and proud while Draco did the talking, or an actual display of it, like the time they hung Neville Longbottom by his ankles in their third year, Goyle knew he had some degree of power. Complex thought, however, he knew was outside of his scope - Draco had taken care to remind him of that every day.

In a most primitive way, Draco had completed him. Had they merged into one body, as strong as him and has smart as Draco, they'd be one of the most formidable wizards in the Wizarding World, capable of ripping the arms off of a pro-wrestler and cursing all but most apt duelists. On some level, both Draco and him had known this - thus was the nature of their association. When Crabbe and Goyle needed to think, they turned to Draco. When Draco needed to act, he turned to Crabbe and Goyle. Never once had the large boy given any serious thought to what life would be like without Draco.

Draco was always the one who gave serious thought to anything.

Three o'clock came faster than a virgin on the night of the Yule Ball, and Goyle had barely moved a muscle. Hours had passed and he had thought of nothing. Crabbe, no further away than the distance between their beds, had also been in a like stupor. Had a knock not sounded at the door, and had Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini not then forced their way in, they might have forgotten about it all together.

"It's time," Pansy said, looking with pity upon the other two boys.

Each was dressed in morbid, black dress robes, thin veils covering their faces. Made up to look like grieving widows, they too, were going to say good-bye to their classmate and friend.

"Here, let me help you guys," offered Blaise, drawing her wand. Only then did Goyle realize he was still dressed in his school robes. A swish of the wand later, the red-haired Zabini girl had transfigured their school robes into black dress robes with green and silver lining - the marks of Slytherin house. Twin hoods grew over their heads and drooped down, covering their hair.

Nodding his thanks, Goyle rose from the bed, as did Crabbe, and the five remaining Slytherin sixth-years made their way down to the common room. They joined the entire Slytherin House, dressed in identical, morbid clothes. Snape, a hood low over his black eyes, led the students to the fireplace. A large sack of Floo powder sat next to the flame, opened and ready to be used.

The first years went first, grabbing a fistful of powder and reciting the line 'Malfoy Manor' before vanishing in a puff of green smoke. Before Goyle knew it, he was next. He did as was done fifty times before, dropping the ash and vanishing in a cloud of smoke.

He reappeared in the family enough parlor of Malfoy Manor, where Minerva McGonagall waited, dabbing her eyes with a black handkerchief and pointing the way out the rear door. Memories lurked at every turn for the large boy - the parlor itself possessed one of Draco, him and Crabbe, age eight, driving the baby sitter insane by lobbing water balloons at her. Draco had done the filling - Crabbe and Goyle had done the throwing.

Another one popped out on the rear patio - the swimming pool, fenced off and made up with black ribbon in solemn decoration. Draco had done flips off the diving board while Crabbe and Goyle had rated him. They, of course, always had given him a ten because he didn't want to hurt his feelings, and Draco tended to scream when he got anything else.

A final memory, as vivid as day, entered Goyle's mind as they tramped across the well maintained back lawn and came to a stop with the rest of their classmates, outside a large crop of trees leading to the Malfoy Family Mausoleum.

"Mum says my great Uncle Estikar is still alive down there - and at twelve, comes out, hoping to find a meal!" Seven-year-old Draco had once said.

"Really?" he had asked, his eyes wide with disbelief, his lips shaking.

"Ya. Betcha' you are too scared to go down there and see, huh?"

Goyle had shaken his head - even then, he was huge for his age. Gregory Goyle feared nothing! The ground shook under his feet when he stepped, the world quivered at his passing, even then.

"I'll go," he had volunteered, wanting to prove his bravery.

And so he had, and when Crabbe had jumped out at him, a white sheet thrown over his head, Goyle nearly crapped himself. Even years later, Draco and Crabbe shared a good laugh at that, and eventually, Goyle had become numb to it.

It occurred to him that Draco and him would never laugh about anything else, ever again.

The back yard was positively packed - filled with family and classmates, classmates not just from Slytherin either. Ravenclaw had a formidable number - even Lisa Turpin had showed up, despite all the insults they had slung at her over the years. To Goyle's continued surprise, most every Hufflepuff seemed to be in attendance and more confounding still, every Gryffindor looked accounted for, though most of the males wore no hoods.

The line Goyle was in came to a stop - He realized that he had gotten into the line to convey his condolences to Mrs. Malfoy. Before he could say anything, Narcissa reached up and hugged him, having to stand on her tippy-toes to wrap her arm around Goyle's massive frame.

"Thank you for coming, Gregory," she said, her voice well controlled.

"Er... sorry, Mrs. Malfoy," spluttered Goyle, caught off guard.

Narcissa nodded her thanks, but Goyle caught the look in her eyes - raw anger as she stared over his shoulder.

.

Goyle dared look back and, at once, found the source of his anger, staring right back at them. Harry Potter of all people had made a showing, no hood on top of his head. Goyle noticed that Snape had found his way to Harry's side, keeping a fixed eye on him, like he were escorting a prisoner - though, based on his question and answer session in the Great Hall, that probably wasn't shy of the truth.

The final guest to arrive was none other than Albus Dumbledore, who apparated in along with the former minister, Cornelius Fudge. Albus conveyed his deepest condolences to Mrs. Malfoy, and even she didn't speak ill of him when Albus leaned forward, imparting upon her some deeper words. To Goyle's disbelief, Narcissa had lowered her head, and Albus hugged her before moving past. Whatever Dumbledore had told her had really struck a nerve.

And, to even further Goyle's surprise, it was Albus Dumbledore who gave the benediction. His words filled Goyle's mind, going in one ear and staying there, unlike so many lectures he had been given in his life. The old wizard had ambled up to the closed-faced coffin and rested his hand on it for a moment, imparting a few silent words, before turning around to speak. He began, without even getting everyone's attention first - when Dumbledore spoke, all four hundred or so gathered people listened.

"It is with a heavy heart that I give the benediction of a fine student - a student who had only begun to realize his potential, and the choices that were wide open to him. During this time of mourning, we may find ourselves questioning why or even going as far as anger over the death of one so young as Draco Donalbain Malfoy."

The old wizard removed his black cowl, allowing him a better view of the gathered people. Loud sobs echoed from Narcissa, and some of the female Hogwarts students. (Pansy, Millicent and Blaise included)

"I ask of even those who hold no belief in divine power to lower their heads, and to open up your hearts for a moment of silence, to honor Draco. Let our prayers extend to his family, father Lucius - who could not attend today - and mother Narcissa, and all of his friends, so that they may find comfort in the solemn truth that Draco rests in green pastures and will find peace eternal."

Four hundred people within an area that could fit three hundred comfortably, and not a single noise could be heard over the driving wind in the trees beyond the coffin and the sounds of choked sobs.

"No!" Narcissa cried suddenly, breaking free of the crowd, and rushing for the coffin. She planted the palms of her hand against the wood, pounding furiously. "Draco, wake up! Stop this! Wake up!"

Three hundred and ninety-nine people held their breath, stunned beyond the capacity to speak. Goyle watched, spellbound, as several of Lucius's friends raced after her, grabbing her around the waist.

Even Albus Dumbledore just stood there, his kind eyes brimming with tears as he watched the scene Narcissa was making. A few unknown members of Draco's extended family contained Narcissa, but she fought with raging strength against all hands that grabbed her.

"He is just a baby!" she screamed, "He can't be dead! He's just a baby! DRACO!"

Goyle felt woozy as he watched three grown men finally pull Narcissa back from the coffin, her struggles turning into defeated sobs, as if the very act of being pulled away from her son's body somehow made the experience seem all the more real. To his left, he noticed Zacharias Smith wiping his eyes, his face set in a sour pout. Goyle wondered if this display was having any effect on Harry Potter for some strange reason.

That was the last thought he had before he fainted dead to the ground.

* * * * * *

Long after the funeral service had let out, Lisa Turpin sat in the Ravenclaw Common Room, staring at the fire, feeling so empty. When she was thirteen, her Gran had passed away. She had been ninety-one and had lived a long, celebrated life. Her funeral service had been nowhere near as large as Draco's and had been conducted with dry eyes all around. Her benediction had been given by her own father, praising her Gran for her long life, and in a failing voice, had told her that he'd miss her. Nothing drastic - she had shed a few tears after, but nothing had really stuck with her.

She regretted ever going to Draco's service, feeling oddly defiled and unclean. The gathering had been massive and the guests had been her friends - it was something she had decided to do as opposed to sitting in the common room, reading. She, Terry and Luna had stood near the back and had watched with terror as Mrs. Malfoy had lost her sanity in front of everyone - Lisa wasn't sure it was possible to love your son any more.

At least three-dozen people had fainted, most surprising was Gregory Goyle - she had him figured for a person with the emotional depth of a tube of toothpaste. Lisa had not been able to stay dry-eyed, and had fallen into Terry's chest, crying - wanting nothing more than to leave. Terry, who never expressed his emotions in great supply, had hugged her gently, his eyes as dry as the Sahara.

From over Terry's shoulder, near Goyle's fallen body, she had caught a glance of Zacharias Smith, trying to hide his sobs by pulling his black hood as low as it could go. Next to him, his fellow Hufflepuffs seemed to be no help - there wasn't a single dry eye among them. She wanted to go over and give him a hug, but she had opted to be selfish - Terry was, no doubt, a more soothing presence than Zacharias would have been.

Even now, he sat in the chair a few feet away. Ever the pragmatic, his glasses rode the top of his head and he sat, watching her, his long, gaunt fingers stroking his chin. His legs were crossed, a pair of year old trainers sick with ratty holes, were visible where his robe rode up.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice as dry as ever.

Lisa shook her head, feeling a second wave of grief washing over her. She saw Mrs. Malfoy screaming and again felt the pressure of an apple lodged in her throat. At once, Terry rose and moved over to her side, crouching down next to her chair, a patient, comforting look in his warm, brown eyes.

"Can I do anything to help?"

Lisa glanced at him, and took his hand into hers. "Just be here, okay?"

Terry squeezed her hand affectionately and slowly rose. She felt him touch her face using the same care he might in handing an infant, and turned her toward him, his fingers driving a sensation of warmth through her body. Unexpectedly, he leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. She stiffened at once, but he broke contact a split second later - he hadn't even opened his mouth and given her a taste of him.

"I'll be here, Lisa..." he answered, running his hand back through her curly blonde hair affectionately and then just letting his hand drop. "... anytime you need me."

Still stunned over the kiss, Lisa could only nod her thanks. She had never imagined Terry to be interested in her - that way. After all, he had never shown her the slightest bit of interest - like that. He always gave her the best gifts for her birthday, and even on other occasions - sometimes he'd just give gifts to her for the sake of giving them. And, other times, he'd do favors for her that no other friend would think...

... by god, he had been so blatantly showing her that kind of interest for more than a year.

How could she have been so stupid, she wondered as Terry, sensing her conflict, rose and left, leaving her to make a very difficult choice. She loved Terry as a friend, but not even all her years of friendship had ever been able to open him up. He was a guarded book, all but incapable of emotion. Everything with Terry was so one-way; she was always receiving, whether it be attention or favors of gifts. Terry never asked for anything, never spoke when she didn't want him to - he claimed he didn't even know his own birthday (he had been lying, she found out later). She had made one up, despite his protests, so she could give him presents... until he finally cracked.

But, despite his perfect, dispassionate poker face, Draco's service had triggered a strong emotional reaction within Terry - he had never initiated something that bold before. Now, she felt dually miserable - she hoped her surprise hadn't given him the wrong impression! She sighed and threw her had back, sighing a frustrated sigh. "Why is it whenever it rains, it pours?" she asked the air around her.

The air didn't answer.

* * * * * *

- 6 -

Goyle stood alone; the funeral service had long since ended. But, not for Gregory Goyle, best friend of the deceased. He stood before the coffin, his eyes riveted to the box, like it were some kind of stage prop - not really, and only in his head. Could Draco really have been dead, Goyle wondered. What was the purpose of it all?

The sun had set, and the dark wind howled through the crop of trees behind the coffin, kicking up dry leaves and scattering them all around. Goyle removed his black cowl, allowing the wind to drive through his hair. It felt cold and his breath flowed out of him in gouts of white mist.

Goyle frowned and rested his hand on the coffin, his eyes darting back and forth. The night thickened all around him - a thick fog rolled in, blanketing his feet in a low riding lair of cloud.

"You were a good guy, the best friend a dumb old lug like me could ever hope for," Goyle began, speaking directly to Draco's coffin. "I'm gonna miss you, buddy."

A shriek pierced his head - Draco's face, eyes wide open.

Goyle retracted his hand, his eyes wide with confusion. But, he wasn't afraid. He had nothing to be afraid of. This was his best friend, and he was in the back of his best friend's house. Slowly and stubbornly, Goyle rested his hand back on the hood of the coffin, his skin crawling with goose bumps.

Nothing happened - no shrieks, no flashes before his eyes, but - huh? Goyle sniffed the air, once... twice... was Weebee making coffee? That would hit the spot, he decided. Goyle turned around and began to walk back to Malfoy Manor.

Draco was staring at him - his eyes were open, his lips twitched and smiled.

Goyle glared back at the closed face coffin, rubbing his eyes. "What the...?"

Everything was as it should be, Draco's coffin closed and nailed tight.

Goyle, please... I need your help...

* * * * * *

- 7 -

Goyle lurched out of bed, awakening with a loud cry. He rubbed his eyes, so terribly confused. It took him a long moment to realize he was in his bed, in the Slytherin Dorms.

"Lumos," mumbled Goyle. The torches on the wall ignited, filling the room with sketchy, inconsistent light. He found Crabbe, upright and sweating, his hands in his head. The flickering fire played off his face, giving the large boy the appearance of an efreeti, straight from the fiery depths. They looked at each other, sharing a silent moment of pure confusion.

"Did you dream..." Crabbe began.

"Malfoy and the coffin," finished Goyle, nodding furiously.

Shaking their heads with disbelief, both boys sat stunned and rooted to their beds, refusing to believe it. What were the odds of having the same dream? Cor, that was like hitting the Wizard's Yearly One Million Galleon Give-Away.

No, even Goyle was smart enough to know this had been no coincidence. Sharing a silent agreement with Crabbe, both boys nodded and got into their school robes.

Having no real 'plan' per se, both boys had went down to the Slytherin Common Room, brooms in hand, intending to fly to Malfoy Manor, when Goyle had a novel idea flash. Why fly over when they could floo? Certainly, the floo channel had remained open for at least twenty-four hours, so people could pay their respects, right?

Goyle considered that, very proud of his sudden thinking capability.

"We could just Floo over!" suggested Crabbe, nudging Goyle with pride. "Certain, the uh... uh... floo channel is gonna remain open for at least twenty-four hours... so people can pay their respects, right?"

Whoa, thought Goyle, amazed. Talk about two great minds thinking alike!

"I think it'll work!" declared Goyle, dropping his broom to the floor and moving over to the low-burning fireplace. It must have been the wee hours of the morning, for no one was about at all.

Goyle grabbed a handful of powder, and moments later, was riding the Floo Network all the way to Malfoy Manor. Once Crabbe had followed, they smacked themselves and coughed, ash flying everywhere and staining the green carpet gray. The torches burned an ominous shade of green, ever so gently lit - just enough light for them to see by. Crabbe and Goyle moved through the estate, pushing open the back door, and out into the night. A light fog covered the ground, just like in his dream (what a coincidence! Goyle thought) though the coffin was nowhere to be seen. They arrived by the crop of trees, finding nothing but empty space.

"Uh..." scratched Goyle's chin. "Wasn't it right here before?"

Crabbe nodded twice. "Er... yeah. Where is it?"

Oh wait; thought Goyle, it must be buried in the mausoleum by now! Certainly, the coffin couldn't stay out here all night!

"The mausoleum!" exclaimed both boys at once. They moved through evergreen trees, parting stinging bushed that cut at each of their arms in passing. In the center, a small clearing, no more than ten feet in radius was cleared, and a stone stairwell was set into the ground, leading to the Malfoy family resting grounds. Not for the first time, Goyle braved these stairs, not really sure exactly what he was doing and why. Could this have all been an elaborate joke, perpetrated by Draco, who was alive and well in his coffin?

That Draco, thought Goyle, tempted to laugh. If that were it, he'd really have to say something to him about good taste.

Goyle drew out his wand, striking up a simple 'Lumos' to give them light to see and work by. He put a strong hand upon the stone door and, with Crabbe's help, heaved the large crypt open.

It was short work finding the coffin - a fresh hole had been dug for it in the longest wall in the main chamber. The shining mahogany still possessed its polished luster, bending Goyle's light back on him, even seeming to glow. Nodding to Crabbe, both boys reached into the cubby, grasped the handles of the slick wood, and pulled. The coffin groaned, sliding across the earthen floor of the niche before it was free, smashing onto the ground.

As they pulled, they got the exact impression of what was going on. Draco really HAD been fooling with them, had pulled one by them all, and was now chuckling within the coffin, waiting for his friends to set him loose. What was next, Goyle wondered. They'd go back to Hogwarts and Draco would scare the hell out of everyone! Oh, that as going to be so much fun!

"We're here, Draco!" laughed Crabbe. "Come on out! That was great!"

Draco didn't reply from within, but Goyle suspected he knew why. That big lock on the side of the coffin was keeping him from escaping and joining in the laugh. Even Crabbe could handle the first year spell "Alohomora!"

The lock clicked open and fell away.

"Come on out, Malfoy!" exclaimed Goyle, chuckling. "You're free."

Draco didn't reply from within, but Goyle suspected he knew why. He was probably asleep! It was so late at night, he had probably given up hope that Goyle and Crabbe would come tonight, so instead, just decided to catch a few Zs before tomorrow, when they were sure to arrive.

It made perfect sense, so Goyle dug his fingers in and lifted with all his might, the face of the coffin pulling free without any lock to constrain it. A thick smell of preservation fluid hit Goyle in the face, nearly making him retch. His eyes watered, blurring his vision and tearing up his eyes. He dried them on his sleeve and looked within.

There was Draco, clad in his finest dress robes, magnificent green with a silver shawl over his shoulders and down his chest. Goyle was as straight as they came but, for a minute, Goyle thought he was in love. Draco's hair - as white as a thick, winter blizzard, was solid and smooth, combed back over the top and sides, showing his flat and flawless forehead. Even in slumber, Draco's proud, pointed nose was lifted up in relation to his pouting, rosy lips and his chin was lofted in just a way to give him the perfect illusion of contentment.

His glassy gray eyes were wide open.

"Oh, he's awake!" chortled Crabbe, his deep voice guttural like a troll. "Hey Malfoy, get on out of there. We're gonna have a blast back at scho..."

And he did just that. Draco rose out of his coffin, his seeker's body as lithe and graceful as ever before. He turned his unblinking, piercing stare at Crabbe, and the boy fell silent. Goyle watched with stunned disbelief as Malfoy stepped out of the coffin, one black leather shoe at a time. It was as if someone had just woken him up from a pleasant dream and plunged him into a terrifying nightmare. He staggered backwards, hands raised pathetically. It was so obvious to him now; Malfoy hadn't been sleep - he had been dead!

"Thank you, Crabbe," Malfoy hissed, his voice stemming from the seventh level of hell. Goyle crashed heavily into the opposite wall, whimpering with terror. Crabbe, however, did no such thing. He stared adoringly into Malfoy's eyes, loosing himself in their depth and bounty. Malfoy stretched out his hand, beckoning him closer. "Now, we have much work to do..."

Crabbe nodded, as if Draco had asked him if his name was Vincent and drew closer to him. Goyle screamed, his legs turned to jelly as Draco closed his eyes and yawned, wolf-like incisors flashing like daggers in the light of Goyle's wand. Like a striking snake, Draco latched onto Crabbe's neck, his teeth sinking into his flesh. Crabbe's eyes fluttered and a euphoric groan escaped from his lips. Goyle couldn't believe it - it couldn't be real! Crabbe moaned with fading energy as Draco drank deeply, his gray eyes belying the devil itself.

"One, two, three, wake up... one, two, three, wake up..." chanted Goyle, as he tried to run. His legs refused to cooperate.

After what seemed like hours, Crabbe fell to the ground, slipping from Draco's hungry embrace, drained of all his blood - a dead, empty husk, barely recognizable as Goyle's only remaining friend.

Discarding the piece of meat that used to be his best friend, Draco's drifted over to Goyle, his feet inches off the ground as he moved - his emerald green robes whipping in some kind of wind from beyond the grave. He landed next to Goyle without so much as a hop. His chin and lips were saturated crimson, the smell of coffee and potpourri mixed with the stale smell of blood, creating an overwhelming sensation of helplessness. Goyle felt all the fight in his body stop - he was literally frozen in terror.

Draco wrapped his arm around Goyle's neck and licked the side of his face with a dripping wet and warm tongue, leaving a red line on the flesh of his cheek. His bladder went off as his fear climaxed in the form of a pitiful whimper. He felt the freezing press of Draco's cheek against his, and his soft, soothing voice in his ear.

"My friend," he spoke, lips no more than inches from Goyle's, cheek pressed firmly into the side of his face. "You have a greater purpose."

As he spoke, Goyle noticed Crabbe's body twitching - surely he had to have been dead, but it seemed to be stopping Crabbe as much as it was stopping Draco.

"Now listen well..."

Goyle did so, too afraid to do anything else.

* * * * * *