Two to Obey

LAST CHAPTER: Vivian, Balder, Moody, Fox and the gang explored the Malaclyptic Nexus and found a bunch of dark creatures - much to Fox's delight; Dumbledore offered Balder the opportunity to swing international favor in their direction then hied off to try to talk some sense into the other Guardians; with the Slytherins on their best behavior, Harry's new and improved D.A. had its first meeting; Thera learned that she may or may not be housing a portion of her father's soul; trying to use Instant Recall Potion to help Ginny remember what happened in Little Hangleton proved to be useless and somewhat embarrassing; Harry and Draco cleared the air regarding teddy bear pants, destinies and Picasso; Harry and Thera cleared the air regarding giving information to the Ministry, betrayal, killing people and the entailment; and Thera cavorted with a unicorn. In an entirely innocent fashion.

Chapter 15: Gains and Losses

The cabin sat halfway up a wooded hillside, invisible to the winding road, its existence marked only by an overgrown dirt driveway and the broken wooden post near the entrance upon which a metal box marked 'MALE' had rested until a group of whooping teenage boys in an El Camino had taken a baseball bat to it.

Old-timers said the place was haunted. Anyone who tried to approach the abandoned cabin with its broken windows and stove-pipe chimney promptly ran back screaming out of their minds until they collapsed. Upon awakening, they could remember nothing, not even accepting the dare to approach the cabin in the first place. But the old-timers were dying off, and the path to the cabin from the highway grew increasingly overgrown, until it could only be seen by those who knew to look for it, and by then, most people had stopped trying.

Even if the Tennessee Valley Authority hadn't done much for their little neck of the woods, things were still changing. Most of the children had grown and left with the manufacturing jobs, but then Wal-Mart had moved in, and now some stayed. These days, one was as likely to find a shiny new minivan negotiating the curves of the highway as a rattling pickup truck, and as likely to spot a satellite dish in the front yard of the houses along the hillside as a broken-down refrigerator.

None of them ever bothered to look, but through all of this, the cabin remained unchanged, no better or worse than it ever had been. The owner desired it that way.

Aside from being a Guardian, Cracker Bob considered himself the living embodiment of a dead way of life. Once upon a time, before highways and manufacturing and Wal-Mart, hillbillies had ruled this land. Now they were gone, like the Indians before them, but as far as Cracker Bob was concerned, there was no reason for him to change.

His still ran magically, but even after all these years, it continued to produce only his grandaddy's recipe for the finest hill hooch. He hunted occasionally with his two trusty blue-tick hounds, and whittled when the mood struck him.

And as for the rest of it, he dealt with it as he could. His grandmother had dubbed him a "strange'un," and it was a title he carried until the rest of his family joined their ancestors in the wooded graveyard behind the cabin.

Cracker Bob had never bothered to try to explain to anyone his peculiar situation, and when possible, he preferred to handle it all from in front of the fireplace in his cabin. He didn't like the noise of the cities, and he couldn't abide the smell of them, especially the foreign ones with their weird architecture and funny-tasting food.

That's why he'd insisted that if the rest of them wanted him on their side, then they could just apparate their asses to him, because he sure as hell wasn't coming to them. And that's why whenever they met - which was rare - he insisted they do it at his cabin.

Despite himself, Cracker Bob kind of liked entertaining.

On this particular day, however, he was not in the mood, largely because the guest was uninvited and decidedly unwelcome. He disliked the English on principle. He disliked this particular Englishman just because...well, just because, really.

He didn't look up from his whittling as Dumbledore approached, but his hounds both roused from their slumber, growling at the unwanted intruder.

"Do you have a moment to talk?" the tea-drinker asked politely.

"Nope."

"If you'd prefer, I could return some other time."

"Can't see why you'd bother."

"I think we both know why I would."

"Things change, Dumby-door," he said, finally setting aside his whittling and raising his eyes to study the elderly gentleman standing in his front yard dressed like a circus freak. "That's just the way of the world. See all that down there?" he asked, gesturing to the bustling little town at the foot of the hills. "Wasn't there when I was young. Used to be thick woods, far as you could see, so thick you could barely walk between the trees. It ain't no more. Is it better, or worse?" he shrugged. "I ain't to judge. It's just change, is all. And there ain't no stopping change once it's started."

"No," Dumbledore conceded. "But change doesn't have to be violent."

"Not always. Sometimes, though."

"I gather you think this is one of those times."

"Yeah," Bob said, practically sneering. "You could gather that."

"I'd be interested in hearing your reasons for that opinion."

Bob regarded the Englishman for a moment, putting his thoughts in order. "The earth is always changing', always movin'. Two plates rub up against each other underneath your feet, and whole civilizations get destroyed. Your boy and his enemy...they're like that. One of 'em's gotta win, but ain't neither of 'em gonna do it without taking a few civilizations down with 'em. That's the way of things. Bigger'n you and me."

Dumbledore peered at him. "Then why immanentize the eschaton?"

Bob leaned forward. "'Cause there ain't no other way to make sure what needs destroyin' gets destroyed and what needs savin' gets saved."

"We don't get to make those decisions," Dumbledore said, a note of warning in his voice.

"Well, maybe we should," Bob answered, sitting back and picking up his whittling.

After a moment, the other man spoke, sounding grave. "I will fight you. I don't desire to, but I will. If you all continue on this course, I'll have no other choice."

Bob nodded without looking up. "Well, that'd be your right then, wouldn't it?"

*******

Harry collapsed on the ground, panting. Fox trotted up and sat down beside him. "You're up to three miles now. Not bad."

"Feels...like...ten..." he gasped, his face bright red with exertion.

"You made good time, though," she said bracingly.

Harry relaxed a little more into the ground. "Long...run...tired..."

"Nope. None of that. It's freezing out here; your muscles will all seize up. Come on," she said, leaning down to offer him a hand. With a groan, Harry took it and she yanked him upright and started back to the castle.

"Can I ask you something?" he managed, once they'd reached the practice room and he'd caught his breath.

"Sure."

"You have tracking charms and stuff on me, right?"

"More than you can possibly imagine."

"So if I were to go off school property, you'd know?"

"Immediately," Fox said, turning around and fixing him with a glare. "Why?"

"Why what?" he asked innocently.

"Why do you want to know? What are you planning?"

"Nothing," he said, looking miffed. "Why would you think I'm planning anything?"

"I don't think. I know. You're a shitty liar, Harry."

"It's just that I'm seventeen now. I'm of age," he scowled. "I ought to be able to go off somewhere if I want to. It's not like you can stop me."

"Legally? No. Magically? Yes. Physically? You bet your ass."

"Are you so sure about that?" he smirked.

"Yes," Fox said flatly. "Now tell me what you're planning."

He fiddled around with the edge of his sweatshirt. "You won't like it."

"I probably won't, which is probably why I'll end up putting a stop to it. Now spill."

Harry regarded her warily. "First you have to promise not to stop me or tell anyone."

Fox raised an eyebrow. "Do I look stupid to you?"

"If you don't promise, I won't tell you."

"If you don't tell me of your own volition, I'll pop open your brain like a can of tuna and find out anyway. Which would you prefer?"

Harry took a step back, looking shocked and not a little betrayed. "You'd do that?"

Fox closed her eyes briefly, praying for patience. "You know, the next time Amina's biological clock starts ticking, I'm going to make her have one of these discussions with you. I think it'll clear the problem right up. Of course I'd do that, Harry. You're talking about leaving school grounds. You're only protected when you're on school grounds. An extremely powerful dark lord would like to kill you. It's my job to make sure that he doesn't. If you leave school grounds, it's very possible that he'll try. Therefore I'm going to do anything in my power to stop you. How does this not make sense?"

"Because I'm not a kid anymore, and you're not my Mum," he said, his jaw setting itself stubbornly. "I'm not powerless and I'm not unprotected if I leave here. You can still find me if there's trouble, I can apparate through wards now, and I do still carry this around at all times," he said, pulling the Port-A-Call out of his pocket.

Fox shook her head. "It's not worth the risk."

"Of course not," he said bitterly, shoving the device back into his pocket and hunching his shoulders up. "Dumbledore's little Voldemort-killing pet. Merlin forbid I get out of my cage." Fox felt the sizzling energy flowing out from him, pent-up anger that had been building up in him for months now turning into magic that she'd taught him to control a little too well, apparently. He needed to let some out before he gave himself an ulcer.

Might as well be now.

Waving her hand, Fox slammed him against the wall, trapping him there. "Think you know everything, do you? Think you're powerful enough to make it out there in the big, bad world all alone? Well, prove it then. Get yourself down."

"Stop it," he bit out. "Let me down."

"No," she said, coming to stand right in front of him. He was seething with impotent rage. "Get yourself down," she said, knowing he didn't have a chance in hell of doing it. "Here, I'll even sweeten the deal, Mr. I'm-An-Adult-And-I-Can-Make-My-Own-Decisions." Reaching out, she clasped his hand. "Get yourself down and I promise that you can go wherever you damn well please. I won't tell a soul. I'll even help you do it."

He tried to squeeze her fingers off after the promise went through, but Fox extricated them with a yank. "You're not all-knowing, and you're not even the most powerful person in this room, so just indulge in your burst of teenage temper, get it out of your system, and once you admit that I'm right and you're wrong, I'll let you down."

"STOP IT!" he yelled, straining with every ounce of energy to get down.

Fox shrugged casually. "Why should I? Just admit it, Harry."

"NO! IT'S MY BLOODY PROPHECY AND IT'S MY BLOODY DESTINY AND I'M THE ONE WHO HAS TO KILL THE SLIMY FUCK! NOT YOU! NOT DUMBLEDORE! ME! AND I'M THE ONE IN CHARGE FROM NOW ON!"

"Yes, yes," she said, studying her nails. "There's a good boy. Get it all out."

"ARRRRRRRGGGGHHHH! I FUCKING HATE YOU!"

Merlin, she was sick of teenagers. "I'm sure you do," she said tiredly. "And I don't really give a rat's ass at the moment. I only want what's best..."

"You don't want what's best for me," Harry hissed, his face contorted with rage. "You just want me to win. Lock me up in this bloody place so you can all make me into whatever you think it is will kill him. You think I don't know? You think I don't see through all of you? I don't even care anymore. I'm used to it. But at least stop fucking lying to me about wanting what's best for me, because you don't. You never have."

Fox rocked back a little at that verbal attack. "Harry, listen..."

"I'M DONE LISTENING! YOU DON'T GET TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO ANY MORE! I'M DONE WITH THE WHOLE BLOODY LOT OF YOU!"

"Harry..."

It didn't come out of nowhere. In fact, she was expecting it. Left with nothing else, Harry would unleash his power. But she'd been expecting something along the lines of what she'd seen outside the Leaky Cauldron. Something the protective barriers she'd placed around the room could easily control. But very quickly, Fox realized that they couldn't control this. Harry didn't just get himself down off of the wall. He took the whole bloody thing down with him.

Fox shot a containment spell at him, to no effect. The roof above their head began to shake, and she tried to stupefy him, again to no effect.

It occurred to Fox that she'd made two critical mistakes. Her first had been never asking Dumbledore exactly how much power he'd given Harry. And her second surprised her, because she'd never made it before. Had, in fact, swore to herself she'd never make it. It was a mistake Voldemort made on a regular basis: underestimating Harry Potter.

As her magic seemed to be having no effect, Fox tackled him. He tried to throw her off, but even if he could apparently compete with her magically once he got pissed off enough, he was no match for her physically.

"Harry!" she screamed at him. "Stop it!"

He didn't even seem to hear her. The roof above them collapsed and Fox contained them in a shield to stop them from getting buried in a shower of stone and mortar. She shook him viciously. "Stop it before you kill someone!"

That seemed to get through. Harry blinked at her in confusion and his power immediately stopped lashing out. He slumped a little, looking dazed. "Fox?"

"Where did that come from?" she asked, equally dazed.

"I don't know," he said worriedly, gazing around at the destruction he'd caused. "It just...it was different than before. I couldn't stop it."

Clicking footsteps echoed above them. "Merlin!" McGonagall's voice cried as her head appeared at the edge of the hole Harry had torn in the ceiling, which was also the floor of a - thankfully, empty - classroom. "What on earth happened? Explain yourselves!"

"Training mishap," Fox said. "Sorry. Step back and I'll clean it up."

"Well, you'd better," McGonagall said, pursing her lips. "What if there had been students in here?"

"It might be a good idea to keep them out of that particular room from now on."

"I rather agree," the Professor said dryly, stepping back from the hole.

After conjuring up a cushy chair and dumping Harry on it, Fox fixed the place up. Harry sat back with his hands over his face, looking pale and shaky. Frankly, she was surprised he was still conscious. Mortals weren't made to throw around that kind of power.

Conjuring up another chair for herself, Fox did up some pumpkin juice and poured him a glass. "Here," she said, handing it to him. "How do you feel?"

He took it with both hands, trembling. "The room is spinning," he said faintly. It took him a few tries to be able to drink it, and a good portion dribbled down his chin onto his shirt. Knowing he wouldn't like it if she tried to help him, Fox directed her gaze at the wall, still absorbing what had happened. It seemed as if every time she thought she had a handle on his power, she just found out he had more.

And considering the way things had been going lately, she was beginning to wonder where he'd gotten it. If the Guardians were really serious about immanentizing the eschaton, and they really wanted to get their money's worth, what was to stop them from channeling a little bit of their power to Harry? Or to Voldemort, for that matter?

The answer was - unfortunately - nothing.

It sent a wave of seriously Biblical wrath through her. He was just a kid, and he was her charge, and she did not like the idea of the other Guardians messing around with him. They might not care who won, so long as they got their desired result, but she did. Harry was going to win, and he was going to live through it, and if she had to conjure up her own fucking shoggoth and sic it on all of them to make that happen, then she would.

"Better?" she asked. Harry grunted and set down the glass, laying his head back again and closing his eyes. Fox shifted a little bit. She was good at the whole training thing. She was not particularly good with the whole mentor thing. Still, he needed to hear it. "What you said isn't true."

Harry chuckled weakly. "Which part?"

He knew precisely which part. He just wanted to put her on the spot. "About all of us just wanting you to win the war and not caring about what's best for you."

"Yeah, sure," he said tonelessly. "Haven't seen much evidence. No offense."

"None taken. You haven't, really." This was Dumbledore's job, and Fox really wished he was there to do it. "Why do you think we have all these protections for you, and that we don't want you to leave school grounds?"

Harry's eyes opened, staring at the newly repaired ceiling. "So that he can't put into motion some half-assed plan to kidnap and murder me on the off chance that it might actually work this time?"

"That's part of it," Fox admitted. "The other part is that you're seventeen, Harry."

"Yes, I know that," he said, beginning to get huffy.

"It's not that we don't think you can handle yourself. We know you can. You've shown that. But how powerful or talented you are doesn't change how young you are, and..." Realizing she needed a new tactic, Fox tried again. "How old do you think I am?"

Harry's lips twitched. "I thought it wasn't polite to say."

"Let me rephrase that. How old do you think I am, smart ass?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Thirty."

He said 'thirty' as if it were unfathomably old, the little shit. "I'll be fifty in April."

Harry raised his head, goggling at her. "Really? You don't look fifty."

"Well, I'm not fifty yet," she said, glaring at him. "And I'm a Guardian. I stopped aging decades ago. And in case you weren't aware, Dumbledore has a hundred years on me."

"Yeah, but he looks it," Harry said, giving her a curious once-over. "Why don't you?"

"I need to be young for my job. He doesn't," she said simply. "In any case, the point is that from this far out, a seventeen-year-old is still a kid, whether he or she is legally an adult or not. And no matter what obstacles you've overcome or how they've matured you beyond your years, it's still hard to get over that. We don't just keep you here so Voldemort can't kill you. We keep you here because it's the only place where you have a chance to be a kid. Go to classes, play Quidditch, hang out with your friends...that sort of thing. The minute you finish up here and go after him, that's all over. And you can never, ever get it back. Believe me. So in the limited capacity that you're allowed to just be Harry and not the Savior of the Wizarding World...we just want you to be able to enjoy it as much as possible. But in order for that to happen, unfortunately, there are some rules that have to be in place."

"I can understand that," Harry said thoughtfully. "And it's...I mean, the whole thing annoys me sometimes, but I don't hate it." He held his hands out in front of him, studying them. "I hate the idea that if I didn't have a prophecy, nobody would bother."

"If it weren't for the prophecy, we wouldn't have to," she pointed out as gently as she could. He'd have parents, for one thing.

"Yeah," he said, giving a short-lived, half-hearted smile. Then he turned his head to look at her, his face stretching into a grin. "You promised that if I got myself free, you'd let me leave school grounds," he reminded her. "You even promised to help."

And that would be her third mistake. Guardian or not, she was bound by the promise. Magical contracts were the most ancient magic. Even beings that were immune to most other forms of magic - goblins, giants and Guardians - couldn't break them. That was the whole appeal of the things, and why anybody trusted the goblins at Gringott's not to just run away with their life's saving and retire early.

There really wasn't much of a way to save face in this situation. "Yes, I did. Proving that even as a Guardian at the grand old age of fifty, a person can still fuck up."

"So I can, then? And you will?"

"If you want to be an idiot," she growled, "I'm in no position to stop you. Though apparently it falls to me to keep your ass alive while you're doing it."

"You've done a good job so far," he said, holding his arms out. "I'm not dead yet."

"Not for lack of trying," she said sharply, bracing herself. "Now what are you planning?"

Unsurprisingly, another 'training mishap' followed a few minutes later.

*******

The day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin match dawned cold, bright, clear and breezy. Sitting in the Great Hall with his head bent over last minute strategy changes to account for the unexpectedly pleasant weather, Draco felt good about the upcoming match. He had an experienced team of Beaters and Chasers. His Keeper was shite, but then so was Gryffindor's. And he hadn't spent all summer with a former world champion Seeker as his private Quidditch coach for nothing. All in all, he liked his chances against Potter.

Other students filtered in, buzzing with excitement. It was a grudge match, and everybody knew it. If Draco Malfoy wanted to prove once and for all that he was worth more than what his father had bought him, it would be today.

His last chance.

This was it, and Draco knew it. N.E.W.T. scores wouldn't be figured until after school was out, so even if he had a chance of outscoring Granger - which he didn't - nobody would know until summer. If he was going to be anything but an utter fucking failure at Hogwarts, it was going to happen today. His last chance.

He didn't look over at Potter or the Gryffindor table. He focused on his players, making sure they ate something, going over last-minute bits of strategy with them. And then, an hour before the start of the match, he stood up, leading them all out to the dressing rooms. He saw Potter stand as they left, but forced his eyes forward.

His team dressed without much talk, tense and anxious about the upcoming match. Draco remained silent until a few minutes before the match, giving everyone a chance finish up their pre-game regimens and indulge in their own individual superstitions.

He almost wished they'd lose so Goyle would finally change his socks.

"You all know what to do. Even the most imbecilic of you all knows what to do," he said, shooting a glance at his Beaters. "We've been over it and over it until you can do it in your sleep. Do what we've practiced and we'll win."

He stood, crossing his arms, pacing a little bit. "The wind is in our favor," he said to his Chasers. "Less passing, more maneuvering. Only short passes, and only when necessary. Always be between two of their Chasers. Cut the angles and we'll get plenty of steals. Tighten up and keep your eyes open when they're in a position to score. Pretend like every shot they get to make is a goal."

Which might be pretty accurate, given how much his Keeper stunk.

"As for me," he said. "I'll get the snitch. I'll get it if it kills me. I'll get it if it kills everyone in the entire fucking stadium. I'll get it if it kills everyone in the entire fucking world, because I'd rather have that than let Gryffindor win this match."

He paused for a moment, staring them all down in turn. "Are you with me?"

"Yeah!" they shouted, standing.

"You sound like pansy-ass Hufflepuffs," he sneered. "ARE YOU WITH ME?!"

"YEAH!" they roared, pumping their fists in the air.

"Well, then get your asses on that pitch and show them what Slytherin is made of," he said in a low, urgent voice. "We're done taking shit from Gryffindor. We're done taking shit from all of them. This is our time. This is our time. What is it?"

It was an old cheer, one they all knew by heart. "OUR TIME!" they chorused.

"Who's going to stop us?"

"NOBODY!"

"What do we do if they try?"

"KILL!"

"Who's going to stop us?"

"NOBODY!"

Keeping half an ear on the pre-game commentary, Draco kept at this until he had them worked up into a good froth. By the time they strode onto the pitch, still keeping up their chant, his entire team had murder in their eyes and victory in their grasp.

Madame Hooch did her little speech and Draco stepped forward to shake Potter's hand. The kid looked completely calm, his entire team steely and determined.

It was going to be one hell of a match.

They kicked off, Draco tailing Potter, determined to keep him away from the snitch and let his Chasers and Beaters have a chance to control the game. Slytherin went up quickly. Leading forty points, he had to throw himself in front of Potter to keep him from catching the snitch. Potter rammed him, but he managed to keep his broom while the Gryffindor spun out, losing sight of the snitch and giving Slytherin the advantage.

Slytherin was up one hundred fifty to thirty when Draco saw a twinkle out of the corner of his eye and took off. Potter had taken off at the exact same time, and Draco swore under his breath. He'd been hoping to keep it from being a race to the snitch, but if that was what it was going to be, he was prepared. This was it. His last chance.

Adrenaline was searing through his veins like fire. He and Potter were neck and neck, bumping each other and throwing elbows, trying like hell to force themselves in front of each other. They neared the snitch, but it fluttered just barely out of reach, zooming straight up into the air, and Draco ground his teeth together in the fury of competition. He didn't care what it took. He was going to get the snitch. For once in his entire worthless life, he was going to beat Harry Potter. His last chance.

The closer they got to the snitch, the dirtier things got, though no fouls were called. He kicked Potter in the knee and didn't even feel it when the kid answered with a kick of his own. All that existed at that moment were Potter, himself and the snitch.

Which turned out to be a very fortunate thing for Gryffindor.

*******

As it usually did when the snitch was spotted, play more or less stopped for the Chasers as they all turned to watch the two best Seekers at Hogwarts in a dead heat to decide the match. It was amazing to watch them fly next to each other, to compare their styles. Draco's had improved since she'd last watched him play; he'd tamed down his tendency towards showmanship and seemed to be tucking his feet differently - it was hard to tell from a distance. Harry's flying hadn't improved, but then it didn't really need to. Draco looked like the excellently-trained Seeker he was. Harry looked like he'd been put on earth for the specific purpose of riding a broom. He flew instinctively, naturally, and Ginny thought this gave him an advantage over Draco.

"Go, Harry!" she yelled, dodging to the side to avoid a bludger.

A few feet behind her, Andrew Kirke knocked it back into play as hard as he could. "That ought to help," he grinned.

Turning around, she saw that he was right. Quidditch Camp had been worth it for Andrew. He made a fantastic hit; the bludger was heading straight for Draco, who'd either have to dodge it or take it, and either option would likely get Harry the snitch. It was a risky move - if Draco dodged the bludger, it could easily hit Harry - but you had to trust your Seeker to have his wits about him. In the end, she was worrying about the wrong Seeker. Draco never even saw the bludger coming.

She gasped as it hit him on the side of the head, knocking him off his broom. Harry didn't even seem to realize what had happened. With a final surge, he reached up and caught the snitch. But Draco was falling, and Ginny felt her heart clench in fear as she sped forward. She couldn't possibly reach him in time, though. Nobody could. Draco hit the ground with a sickening thud that sent a shudder through her. His limbs all lay at awkward angles and he wasn't moving.

Ginny was about halfway to him when Harry appeared in her line of vision, diving down. He sent her a hard look that brought her back a little bit, chilling her. Don't give it away.

Harry landed a few seconds before she did, squatting down beside Draco as Madame Hooch rushed over. Ginny hung back a little, curling her hands into fists and trying not to look nearly as worried as she actually was. There was blood in Draco's hair and all over the right side of his face, and one of his legs was twisted up underneath him in a decidedly unnatural way. Madame Pomfrey was racing over from the stands, Dumbledore and Snape hot on her heels. He'll be okay, she told herself. Nothing Madame Pomfrey can't fix.

"He's not dead, is he?" Andrew asked, landing beside her, his face pale.

"No," Ginny said flatly.

"I mean, I wasn't trying to kill anybody or anything," he blathered. "I figured he'd see it coming. What kind of moron forgets that there are bludgers flying around?"

"Shut up," she snapped. Then she took a deep breath and let it out. "It was a fantastic hit. You won the game for us. It's not your fault he wasn't paying attention. And anyway, he'll be all right. That's just Quidditch."

Ginny felt an arm around her shoulders. It was Ron's. She stiffened, but didn't pull away. "Maybe it'll do him some good," he said, glancing down at her with an obvious 'I'm just playing along' look as he squeezed her closer. "Make him less of an arsehole."

It wasn't the wholehearted apology she felt she was entitled to, but it was something, at least. A sign that he was willing to be reasonable, she hoped. She truly hated being angry with him, especially since she didn't doubt for a moment that the twins had masterminded the entire plot, and manipulated Ron the way they usually did.

The two of them needed to talk. Really talk. They just couldn't go on like this.

Madame Pomfrey shooed everyone away and Harry ambled over to them. "Unfortunately, Malfoy will live," he said with a crooked smile. "Nice bludger, Andrew."

"Oh, well," Andrew said, blushing proudly, "just doing my job."

The boys fell into discussing the match and Ginny listened with half an ear, watching as Madame Pomfrey loaded Draco onto a stretcher and floated him inside. She'd have a figure out a way to get up to the Hospital Wing to see him tonight. They began filing inside slowly, held up every few seconds by people coming up to congratulate Harry and compliment Andrew on his outstanding Beater play.

Once they reached the common room, Ginny sought out Hermione. "Can Ron and I use your room for a few minutes?"

Her friend raised an eyebrow. "To do what? Have a battle to the death?"

"No, just to talk. I think we need to clear the air, and we don't need people overhearing."

"Oh," Hermione said, surprised. "Of course. Anything you need, just so long as the two of you aren't at each other's throats any longer. Let's get Ron." She stood up, then hesitated. "Actually, how about I let you in and then I'll get Ron."

"An ambush?" Ginny asked, following her.

"It's for a good purpose," Hermione said bracingly, opening the door to her room. "I'll be back in a minute." Ginny sat down on the bed, trying to put her thoughts in order.

She hadn't quite managed that feat when the door opened and Ron was unceremoniously shoved into the room. "Do I have to lock you in here, or can you two conduct yourselves like a pair of grown-ups?" Hermione asked sharply.

"No, it's fine," Ron said dully, obviously realizing what was about to take place.

The door shut and the two of them sat for a few moments in silence, not looking at each other. "You could apologize, you know," Ginny finally said.

"Are you going to apologize for putting that picture up in the Great Hall?" Ron snapped.

"You brought that on yourself," she told him. "I warned you what would happen..."

"And do you think I cared?!" he said, his voice rising. "If you thought I was in danger, would you let something that stupid stop you from getting me out of it?!"

"I'm not in danger, Ron. Not from him," she cried, standing up, her hands going to her hips automatically, her voice turning shrill. Dear Merlin, she really was her mother. Forcing her hands to her sides, she tried again. "My relationship with Draco is hardly a life or death situation," she said, fighting to keep her voice even.

"It might be," he said darkly.

"Oh, honestly. Even you don't think that Draco would just turn around and hand me over to You-Know-Who. Even if you refuse to believe that he actually loves me as much as I love him, it would hardly be in his best interest to let the spell be completed."

"Fine, I'll give you that. He doesn't want the spell to be completed, but that doesn't mean he cares about you. It doesn't mean that he won't end up hurting you anyway."

Ginny felt her jaw drop. "Dear Merlin. You really believe that, don't you?"

"Of course I do," he scoffed. "He's Draco bloody Malfoy."

"Yes, I know that," she said, feeling as if her throat was closing up. "And who am I?"

Ron blinked at her, puzzled. "You're Ginny," he said very slowly.

"Right. And how old am I?"

"Sixteen," he said, staring at her.

"So I'm not eleven anymore. At least you're aware of that."

Ron shook his head. "That doesn't mean you're an adult."

"Yes, well it doesn't mean I'm a child, either," she said tightly. "Do you really think I didn't learn anything from the Chamber of Secrets? That I'd just go putting my trust in somebody like Draco Malfoy that easily? What kind of an idiot do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're an idiot," he said in a low voice, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "But you never really bothered to make it clear exactly why you do trust him."

"It's not like there's just one single reason," Ginny said, staring down at her hands.

"That's not an answer."

"I know. It's hard to explain, really. I just...I got to know him."

"Yeah, I'm sure it was great fun, pleasant sort of bloke that he is," Ron said sarcastically.

Ginny looked away. "Do you remember when we got caught by Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad when we were trying to let Harry get in contact with Sirius?"

"You mean the Inquisitorial Squad that Draco Malfoy led?" Ron snarled. "At the end of fifth year? Yeah, I remember that pretty clearly."

"Harry and Hermione left with Umbridge and then Draco left the room, so we attacked them." Ron nodded. "I was the last one out. You had to come back to get me, remember? And when you came back, Draco was fighting off my Bat Bogey Hex."

"Yeah, I remember that," he said, smiling fondly. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you don't know what happened when he came back. He snuck up on me. He could've cursed me before I even knew he was there. But he let me go."

Ron eyed her almost pityingly. "He let you go so that you could go off to the Department of Mysteries and be captured by the Death Eaters, Ginny."

She shook her head. "He didn't know about that."

"Right," Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"He didn't. None of them did. If they knew You-Know-Who was only interested in getting Harry to the Department of Mysteries, why would they try to stop us? Why wouldn't they just let us all get away? Why would they help Umbridge catch us?"

Ron gave her a look. "So you trust him because he didn't knowingly send you off to face certain death? Well, that's touching."

Ginny rubbed her hand across the back of her neck. Her headache was starting to spread out, making her shoulders tense up painfully. "It's not just that. He told me the truth about what happened." Looking up, she caught his gaze. "He's still a Slytherin, Ron. Getting the truth out of them is like pulling teeth. I more or less assumed that he'd known about the Department of Mysteries. Challenged him on it, even. He wouldn't admit anything one way or the other, not until he knew I'd believe him."

"That's convenient," Ron said tonelessly.

"He could've lied. He could've told me the truth from the beginning if he wanted to gain my trust that way. But he didn't."

"So why'd you believe him when he did?"

"Because he didn't have to tell me the truth. It wouldn't have helped or hurt him at that point. But he did. And he's shown me that he's trustworthy every single day since then."

"Like giving you the diary?" Ron bit out.

"He didn't know what they were going to do," Ginny said for what felt like the millionth time in her life, "or he wouldn't have given it to me. He meant it as a gesture of faith."

"And you just took his word on it. Just like that."

"You weren't there, Ron," she said, taking his hands and squeezing them between her own. She looked up at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't," he admitted.

"He's on our side. Harry's accepted it. Even Dumbledore has."

"I know. That doesn't mean I have to be okay with you having a relationship with him."

"Merlin, Ron. Do you think you're half as surprised as I was? I never meant for anything like this to happen, but it did. I love you. But I love him, too. And I'm asking you to..." she shut her eyes, searching for the right words. "Just don't make this into some sort of melodrama. Don't make me choose one of you over the other."

"We're your family," he said harshly. "Do you really even have to think about it?"

"Yes, I do," she said, opening her eyes, letting go of his hands, staring at him and feeling as if everything inside her had been washing away, leaving her hollow and empty. "But I don't want to have to choose. Could you choose between us and Hermione?"

Ron's face closed up. "It's hardly the same thing."

"But it's only fair, isn't it? Which would you choose?"

Her brother crossed his arms, looking away, his eyes distant. "I couldn't," he said finally.

"Well, there you go," she mumbled, sinking back down on the bed. "Difficult, isn't it?"

"But it's not the same thing," he said, his argument sounding strangely weak. "Hermione isn't Draco Malfoy."

"No, she isn't," Ginny said wearily. "But I'm not on a flight of fancy, Ron. I'm not just caught up in the moment. I do actually have my head screwed on straight."

"Listen, I know you love him," Ron said grimly. "If it makes any difference, that's why I really didn't want to go through with the twins' plan. I knew it would hurt you."

"Then why did you go through with it?"

"Because I knew he'd hurt you worse in the end."

"Worse than finding him snogging some strange girl in the middle of the hallway?" Ginny asked, her voice approaching shrill again. "Yeah, that didn't hurt at all."

He winced at that. "Ginny..."

"Sod off, Ron. Imagine yourself coming upon Hermione in the same situation and then finding out that it was just me polyjuiced to look like her, because I wanted to break you two up. How bloody forgiving would you be about something like that?"

"That would never happen," he said firmly, "because Hermione isn't Malfoy."

"Draco would never do something like that."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do," she said through clenched teeth. "Much as you think I'm fooling myself, Draco loves me. I know that. He would never hurt me."

"And how do you know he means it?" Ron asked, his voice challenging.

"Because I know what it takes for him to admit it. It nearly killed him the first time. I thought he was going to choke on his own tongue. It's difficult for him, and I'm hardly going to make him dance around in circles just to prove that he's really honestly telling the truth. There are some things you just have to trust. Do you make Hermione jump through hoops just to prove that she loves you, or do you take her on her word?"

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze directed at the floor, his face flushing bright pink. Only then did Ginny realize how far she'd stuck her foot in it. "Oh, Ron," she breathed, "I'm so sorry. I just assumed that you two..." her voice died.

"I haven't told her," he said miserably, his attention focused on the toe of his right shoe, which he was digging into the carpet, "because I don't think she'd say it back."

"She loves you," Ginny said, standing up and pulling him to her, unable to bear the stark pain in his expression. "Even if she hasn't said it, I know she does."

Ron leaned into her a little bit, hugging her back halfheartedly. "Yeah," he said bleakly, "but I know it's not the same way I feel about her."

"Maybe she just needs some time," Ginny tried.

"Maybe," her brother said, holding her away from him, trying to shrug it off and not quite succeeding. "I don't know. Thing haven't been all that great with us lately."

"I'm sorry, Ron," she said honestly.

"Yeah, well," he mumbled, looking down and shifting uncomfortably.

"That's the thing of it, really," Ginny said gently. "You can't choose who you love. Draco's not perfect. I know that. He's a right arse most of the time, and he's not exactly wonderful relationship material. If we don't last through school, then we don't. It'll hurt, because I love him, but...well, it's not like it would be completely unexpected."

Ron nodded a little, an abstracted look on his face. "D'you think that's where Hermione and I are headed?" he asked with forced lightness.

Ginny felt herself growing oddly misty at that. Poor Ron. He always wore his heart on his sleeve. "I think if Hermione can't see how great you are, she's a fool."

"That's the problem, really," he said glumly. "She isn't."

"Book smarts aren't everything," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "She's a fool."

"She's right here," Hermione's voice said from the doorway. She looked bloody furious, too. Ginny started to apologize, but Hermione cut her off. "Can I talk to Ron for a moment, please?" she asked, her voice a little unsteady. "Alone?"

Oh, dear. Not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, Ginny beat a hasty retreat, heading back through the common room to find Harry.

*******

"What did I do this time?" Ron asked in a martyred tone.

Hermione took a moment before speaking to try to calm herself down. It didn't work very well. "How is it," she said, barely managing to keep her voice even, "that Lavender and Parvati just made a little joke to me in the Common Room about you and I having sex? No, scratch that. How is it that they're aware that you and I have even had sex?"

Ron paled, his eyes going wide. "Oh...er..."

"HOW?!" she shouted, hearing an edge of hysteria in her voice. "I know I didn't tell them, so would you care to enlighten me on how the bloody hell they found out?!"

He took a step back, eyes going even wider. "You just swore," he whispered.

"I'm going to swear a bloody fucking blue streak, Ronald Weasley, because it's the only goddamned thing that's keeping me from killing you right now!"

"I didn't tell them," Ron said, holding up his hands, backing away some more.

Hermione followed, cornering him. "Well, you obviously told someone."

"Dean, Seamus and Neville," he confessed. "Harry already knew. It was just guy stuff, talking in the dormitory. But...I never thought they'd tell anybody else, I swear."

"Well they did," she said in a low voice. "They told Lavender and Parvati, which means that by now, the entire school knows." She put her face in her hands, trying not to imagine what classes were going to be like on Monday. "Merlin, Ron. How could you?"

"Hermione, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." He tried to pull her hands away from her face and she jerked away.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

"Oh, right," he spat, throwing his hands up. "I forgot. I'm never supposed to touch you."

"You have no idea how much I don't want to talk about that right now."

"Well, that's nothing new. Why should we talk about it? It's not like there's anything remotely strange about a girl not wanting her boyfriend to come anywhere near her."

She hated it when he took that superior, sarcastic tone with her. "Maybe I just need some time, Ron. Did you think about that? It's not as if the first time was so wonderful, anyway. Or at least, it wasn't for me."

He ducked his head, looking ashamed. "I'm sorry about that, okay? It was my fault. I got a little...carried away. It wouldn't be like that again, I promise."

"It's not even that, really," she said. "I mean, I'm fairly certain that it gets better. But it's like everything changed suddenly. We can't be in a room alone together for more than five seconds without you pawing me."

"I'm not pawing you right now, am I?"

"That's because we're fighting," she bit out.

His temper was rebuilding. "Oh, so we can't be in a room alone together for more than five seconds without me pawing you or us fighting, is that it?"

"Well, that's how it feels!" she cried. "I'm not a receptacle, Ron!"

"I know you're not! If I wanted someone to just shag whenever I bloody well wanted to, I'd be going out with someone I could just shag whenever bloody well I wanted to!"

In hindsight, it occurred to her that the way she heard that statement probably wasn't the way he'd meant it. "Well, if you don't think I put out enough, then why don't you just go find somebody who does? Lavender and Parvati are right outside."

Also in hindsight, it occurred to her that the way he heard that statement probably wasn't the way she'd meant it. And frankly, she might have taken the words back had Ron not stuck out his jaw in that horribly stubborn way that made her want to scream and beat her head against the wall. And he might have corrected his error had he not completely lost control of his temper upon hearing what he thought he'd just heard her say.

"Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you?" he shouted. "Then at least you'd have an excuse for treating me like shit all the time!"

"You're the one who pouts like a toddler every time I'm not in the mood to have you slobbering all over me!"

Ron took a step back, blinking at her. "Slobbering all over you?" he asked slowly.

"Yes," she spat. "And I wish you'd stop it already."

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes glittering. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away. "Fine, then," he said tonelessly. "I'll stop."

Hermione was a bit taken aback at his sudden acceptance. "Good," she finished lamely.

A corner of his mouth twitched, more of a grimace then a smile. "Well, I hope it makes you happy. Merlin knows I can't. Consider us broken up."

Shocked, she could only stare at him. "What?"

"Oh, don't act so surprised," he said roughly. "We weren't getting along anyway."

"Yes, I know," she whispered. "But I didn't think..." It was an awful thought. So awful she was ashamed of herself for even thinking it. She'd imagined breaking up with Ron many times, pondered over the pros and cons more times than she could count. Never in her life would she have expected him to break up with her.

Dear Merlin, she'd just been dumped.

"We're better off," he sighed, suddenly sounding exhausted. "This way, we can still be friends, at least. If we'd kept going the way we were...I don't think we could've."

"Friends," Hermione said vaguely, wondering why it hurt so much. He was being entirely reasonable - more reasonable than she would have thought him capable of, honestly - and more than that, he was right. When it came down to it, they weren't very good together, not romantically. They just didn't work. It was simple, undeniable.

So why on earth did it hurt so much?

"I'm sorry," he said, his hand touching her shoulder briefly. "For what I said."

Hermione nodded, biting her lip and looking down at her hands twisting together in her lap. "Me, too," she managed to get out. She was not going to cry.

At least not until after he left.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, his voice gentle.

She nodded, not looking up. He paused at the door, as if he was going to say something else, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, praying for him to leave before she exploded.

Thankfully, he did.

*******

Draco swam into consciousness with a groan. Everything hurt. He felt like he'd just been hit in the head with a bludger and then fallen fifty feet from his broom.

Which, he recalled hazily, was exactly what had happened. He'd also lost the match, but found it difficult to care too much in his current state. If only he'd known before that this was the perfect way to handle losing to Potter, he'd have gotten himself mangled at the end of every match against Gryffindor.

"Draco? Are you awake?"

He answered with another groan that had nothing to do with physical pain. What the bloody hell was his mother doing here? He felt her hand on his head, stroking his hair. It was a comforting, motherly sort of gesture that would have been a lot more effective if he hadn't known that it was an act. Somebody else must be in the room with them.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, his voice garbled and slurred. His face was wrapped up, the whole right side throbbing mercilessly. His mouth tasted downright foul and he seemed to have left a few teeth out on the pitch. Madame Pomfrey must've dosed him with Skele-Gro, which explained why he wasn't floating on a blissful, fuzzy cloud of Painkilling Potion. The two potions interacted, with some nasty results.

"Professor Snape informed me of what happened. I came to see how you were."

Well, that was nice of her, he supposed. "Whaddabout my face?" he asked, with a sudden thrill of panic. Specialists. He'd get specialists. A whole team of them. Expensive ones. There was no way in hell he was going to walk around for the rest of his life with half of his face looking like steak tartare.

"It'll be fine in a few days," she said. "Good as new, once the swelling goes down."

He sighed in relief, his heart still thudding a little bit. "We lost," he said dully.

"Yes, rather spectacularly," Snape's voice sounded. "You'll be happy to know that your broomstick survived intact. I've secured it in my office, so you don't have to worry about your Housemates making use of it while you're recovering."

Which they'd have done in a heartbeat. "Thanks," he said, feeling oddly touched. All of this concern and kindness was a bit overwhelming. Thankfully, it didn't last long.

"Well, I'm very glad to know that you'll be fine," his mother said briskly, her hand leaving his hair with a final little pat. "You can't imagine how worried I was." Draco didn't snort in disbelief only because he wasn't capable of it at the moment. "I'm off to the St. Mungo's Fundraising Dinner. I'm sure it will be dreadfully boring, but you know how important it is for us to keep up appearances, especially now."

"Yes, mother."

"Your grandparents have invited us to join them in St. Tropez for Christmas. I do hope you'll be able to come. They miss you so much when you're at school."

Only his mother would view this as the perfect time to have a discussion about his plans for Christmas break. "Dunno," he said wearily. "N.E.W.T.s an' all."

"Of course your education comes first. But try to make it if you can. Christmas is a time for family." She squeezed his hand, gave him an air-kiss, thanked Professor Snape and breezed out of the Hospital Wing.

"A gracious woman, your mother," the Professor said evenly.

Draco grunted, finally opening his eyes, Or - more precisely - his eye. The other one was buried under gauze. Snape was standing at the end of his bed, frowning at the door.

"Prob'm?" he asked.

Snape looked back, black eyes peering at him. "I always wondered how much she knew. Sometimes I get the impression that your mother is far craftier than Lucius was."

Thinking about Lucius sent a sharp pain through his chest. If his father was alive, he'd certainly have a thing or two to say about Draco's performance on the Quidditch pitch today. That was the worst part, really. Everything he was feeling right now - the only person he had to blame for it was himself. And there wasn't even anyone around to properly remind him of that fact. Frankly, he'd have preferred that over his mother's little display. At least with Lucius, he'd always known where he stood.

"D'she say somethin'?" Draco asked.

Snape shook his head slowly. "I just wonder. She always struck me as rather dependent. And yet she's done an admirable job of separating herself from your father's crimes in a very short amount of time. It is an altogether different side of her, to be sure."

Draco hmphed, a touch bitterly.

"She's head of the fundraising committee for St. Mungo's. She's taken over your father's position on the board of directors."

"Oh."

"I am simply saying that it would have been bad form for her to be late."

Draco wondered how many Slytherin parents Snape found himself regularly making excuses for. "Yeah," he said, closing his eye, every ache and pain in his body making itself felt again, wearing him down, tiring him out.

"You'll be able to have a Painkilling Potion in a few hours, once your teeth have come in," Snape said, apparently reading his mind.

"S'fine," he mumbled, closing his eye again. He'd love to spend those few hours curled up in a ball whimpering, but he wasn't about to do that in front of Snape.

"I'll leave you to sleep, then."

Draco opened his eye back up. "You can stay." He wasn't going to be able to sleep, and he'd honestly prefer to have something to divert his mind. "F'you want," pride forced him to tack on at the end. Despite his general demeanor, Snape had a perfect bedside manner, so far as Draco was concerned. He didn't hover, he didn't force you into conversation, and he was very good about disappearing as soon as Madame Pomfrey came in to do something you'd rather not have witnessed by your Head of House. Draco remembered from when he'd been mauled by that stupid Hippogriff.

They'd talked about books and Potions theory, and it had actually been remarkably pleasant. It had been so pleasant that Draco had made one argument after another to prolong his stay in the Hospital Wing, until Madame Pomfrey had more or less bodily tossed him out. And then he and Snape had gone back to normal.

It was funny, really. He hadn't thought much on the memory until now. Whenever he'd been ill as a child, he'd either been given a potion to clear it right up, or a stack of books and games to keep him entertained. It was...nice, he supposed, to have company.

So he was just the tiniest bit relieved when he heard Snape sink into a chair.

*******

Severus had never been coddled in his entire life, and did not believe it to be his job to coddle others. But when one of his own students was in the Hospital Wing, he did try to make a point to stay longer than the parents. Assuming the parents showed up at all - or even bothered to answer his owl.

"I can only stay for a few more minutes," he said coldly. "Draco Malfoy's injuries aside, I do have a job here, and I have yet to finalize my lesson plans for tomorrow."

Malfoy looked assuaged, which grated a little bit. Draco had learned during his run-in with the Hippogriff Third Year that with minimal manipulation, Severus would accio his lesson plans and sit there until the boy fell asleep.

It was not coddling. He did not hold children's sticky hands or coo at them. It was just that Severus had extensive firsthand knowledge of how dreadfully boring the Hospital Wing could be. And there was nothing more dangerous than a bored teenager.

"Are you up to conversation, or shall I amuse myself with a ten-year-old copy of Witch Weekly from Madame Pomfrey's magazine rack?" he asked.

"Conversation," Draco said, opening up his eye and gingerly maneuvering himself over onto his side so he could see the Professor. In doing so, he caught sight of a small basket on his bedside table. "What're those?"

"Scones," Severus said, his mouth twisting. "From Crabbe and Goyle. They've taken the opportunity of your absence from the Seventh Year dormitory to transfigure the extra bed into a kitchenette. I wouldn't be surprised if they're all half-eaten."

"So thass why they've gotten fatter," Draco mused. "Since when can they transfig'r?"

"They can't," Snape said flatly. "Zabini must have done it for them."

Only Crabbe and Goyle would send a get-well present that the recipient hadn't a chance in hell of being able to appreciate while getting well. "S'at it?"

"Parkinson stopped by - dressed inappropriately, as usual," he sneered. 'Inappropriate' was an understatement. 'In her underwear' was more like it. "Her parents are pressuring her; she's looking to bear the next Malfoy heir. I'd look out for her, if I were you."

"The day I get oussmarted by Pansy Parkinson's the day I sli' my own throat with a rusty spoon," Draco gargled.

"That would be the noble thing to do," Severus allowed. Then his sneer reappeared. "The Weasley girl showed up with Potter, also. I summarily sent them away, idiot Gryffindors. There isn't an ounce of discretion or sense in that entire House."

The Malfoy boy looked pleased by this. Severus shot him a look and he stopped, reaching up to brush his fringe out of his face.

"You're going to have to do something about your hair. Hogwarts regulations require..."

"S'only for boys, though," Draco argued. "How's that fair? You 'ave long hair."

"I didn't say it was fair. I said it was regulations. And I'm not a student. I'm a professor. We're allowed to wear our hair however we choose."

"S'Malfoy tradition," Draco said stubbornly.

"It isn't exactly wise right now to make yourself look more like your father than you already do," Severus pointed out.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Doesn't matter."

Merlin save him from sulky teenage nihilism. "It might matter to you quite a bit after the war, when the stories begin to filter out. If you've a brain in your head, you'll separate yourself as much as possible from your father and keep your nose clean. A bit of philanthropy wouldn't hurt, either. Money means little in Azkaban."

A coughing sort of sound came from the boy, as if he were trying to laugh and couldn't, quite. "How 'bou' I start th'Harry Potter Home Fr'Unwan'ed Orphans?"

Severus let his lips twitch briefly, but refused to smile. "An honest philanthropic endeavor."

Draco made more coughing noises that became gagging noises. Severus sighed and reached under his chair, holding out a bedpan. "Spit in it, if you have need. Please refrain from spitting on me." Swallowing a few times, the boy shook his head at the pan.

"Th'Nevillongbottom Rest Home F'r Squibs," he choked out.

Okay, that deserved at least a more noticeable twitch.

"Th'Mione Granger..." he trailed off into more coughing, and Severus shoved the pan under his face, slapping him on the back a few times. The boy spit out something he chose not to look at, then fell back, wheezing and wiping tears from his eye.

Severus conjured up a parchment and quill, handing it to him. "You obviously won't give up until you kill yourself, so just write it down."

Still snorting a little bit, Draco did, handing the parchment back to him with a gleam in his eye.

The Hermione Granger Woodchuck Sanctuary.

Okay, yes. That was funny, but he didn't need Madame Pomfrey coming in her and leading him out by his ear. "Yes, very amusing - if a bit outdated," he allowed.

The boy looked pleased with himself nonetheless. Having not put off his lesson plans to play the straight man to Draco Malfoy, Severus got back down to business.

"Nevertheless, you aren't an idiot, Malfoy. It is a sound idea."

The boy groaned again, but Severus shut him up with a glare.

"You can afford it, and Merlin knows I'm all in favor of anything that has the ability to knock Potter off of the society pages for a few days."

"You read th'society pages?" Malfoy asked, disbelief seeping through his slur.

Severus turned up his glare a few notches, from warning to possibly homicidal. "The only thing shielding you from Ministry scrutiny right now is the fact that they have no proof of any wrongdoing on your part. However, such a minor thing as proof has never stopped the Ministry before when they've a point to make."

Draco actually seemed to think about that statement for a moment, thus showing more intelligence than ninety-nine percent of his House.

"So there wasn't any proof when they arrested you before? After th'first war?"

Severus sniffed a little. "I'm hardly that stupid. But there was plenty of insinuation. Although given what happened with my parents, even if I hadn't been a Death Eater, they'd likely have still arrested me, for appearance's sake."

"Parents?" Draco asked.

Severus glanced at him. "I assumed Lucius had told you. The story of their ostensible martyrdom was quite the rallying cry for the Death Eaters at one point."

"No."

"Ah, well," the Potions Master said, noncommittally. He had no true feelings one way or the other for what had befallen the two individuals who had spawned him...or at least, not anymore. Sometimes he wondered if he'd even really cared then, or if he'd just needed something to be angry about and they'd provided a convenient excuse. "I suppose it would do you well to hear it." It would do anyone good to hear it, in his mind.

Someday he intended to write a very thick book entitled 'How Ministry Ineptitude Can Ruin Your Life and Get You Killed and How To Avoid Having It Do So, Provided You're Not an Idiot and Actually Manage to Follow My Instructions,' or something like that. Severus was keenly aware of the fact that once a person felt the need to decorate every statement with a list of qualifiers, that person had been teaching for far too long.

It took him a moment to get started; he hadn't told the story in quite a while. "My father was an apothecary; the last in a long line of them in our family. He had extremely good international contacts, and as a side business, he obtained hard-to-find potions ingredients for certain rich customers from abroad - illegally, though I doubt he knew that. He wasn't a particularly fastidious businessman." Being constantly inebriated and incapable of doing simple mathematics would do that to a person. "It was all handshakes and verbal contracts. Off the books, in other words, and it gave the Ministry what they needed to investigate him."

"They seized everything from the house, including his cache of potions ingredients, many of which were outlawed in Britain. Very soon, of course, they also learned of his side business, and began investigating his customers. Unsurprisingly, a great many of them were associated with the Dark Lord, though the Ministry had no way of knowing that. The Dark Lord was just beginning to settle into the larger consciousness at that point as someone to fear, but the Ministry hadn't any capacity to stop him. He killed as he pleased, and at that point, his inner circle was far too tightly-knit and secretive to infiltrate. Everybody knew that he had followers, but nobody knew who they were. The public was in an uproar over it, castigating the Ministry for not being able to protect them, or not doing enough to stop the Dark Lord."

Severus felt his lip curl. "So the Ministry decided to make an example out of them, to show the citizens that it was doing something to stop the Dark Lord. It was quite a popular show trial at the time. Unsurprisingly, they were found guilty."

"Huh," the boy said detachedly.

Ah, the part where a Snape finally made history. "My father's the reason they began restraining the accused in trials. He was a large man. He managed to overpower the Auror guarding him. He took the man's wand and killed my mother, then himself. They were about to be Kissed. I'd have done the same thing." That was the singular circumstance in which he could honestly say that with respect to his father.

Well, his father had at least had enough mercy to kill his mother, too. Severus hadn't previously believed the man capable of it. Or of foresight, for that matter.

"Me, too," Draco said firmly.

"When I joined the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord took up the story. I suppose it struck his fancy in some way. He enjoyed the drama of it."

"Ah," Draco said, nodding a little bit. The boy, had, after all, experienced Barnum and Voldemort's Flying Magical Circus firsthand.

"After the war, Dumbledore managed to get their names cleared," Severus said, feeling the same familiar mix of resentment and something akin to gratitude. He hadn't asked the man to do it. Regardless of the fact that none of the Death Eaters arrested named his parents as followers of the Dark Lord at a time when everybody whose head was on the chopping block was accusing their own mothers in the hopes of avoiding a prison sentence, nobody had been interested in reopening his parents' case...including him.

"S'that why you became a Death Eater? 'Cause of the Ministry?" Severus shifted a little. The boy was pushing his luck, and he knew it. Still, if a twisted tale of teen angst gone horribly awry could make sure the boy kept his head about him, it was worth it.

Not to mention the fact that it gave Severus a certain amount of satisfaction to know that he was actively turning Lucius Malfoy's son against him. Considering the man was dead, it was a petty revenge, but then all his revenges were petty.

"That's the main reason - which reflects my level of maturity at the time. I likely would have become one anyway. During the first war, it was a rather popular career decision for a Slytherin looking to make something of himself in the world."

Rather characteristically, Draco then proceeded to push his luck a bit further. "Why'd you leave, then?"

Severus regarded him, thinking the answer ought to be obvious at this point. But then, he reasoned, it likely wouldn't be. Not for Lucius Malfoy's son, who had been bred to lead them all to glory. "Because I joined the Death Eaters with the sole purpose of taking down the Ministry. I didn't join to kill Muggles for sport. And it quickly became obvious that - as a rank-and-file Death Eater - killing Muggles for sport was going to be my main duty in the organization. Only the inner circle planned the Dark Lord's next moves, and I was never going to be a member of the inner circle."

The boy nodded, showing he understood at least that much about the politics of the Death Eater organization. The Dark Lord loved to have great minds on his side...just not in his inner circle. Those positions had been reserved for the privileged few, who had connections and money and heavily-warded secret properties to donate to the cause.

They bowed and gave him shiny new things to play with and he preened in enjoyment, and strategy took a bit of a backseat. And Severus had know that while the Ministry might be a passel of idiots, Dumbledore wasn't. It had also begun to dawn on him that pure blood did not automatically bestow an individual with superior intelligence or magical skill, as it had with him. For a great many of his compatriots, it merely seemed to bestow upon them laziness and an overinflated sense of self-worth. Having read his fair share of military histories and political treatises, Severus had spotted this as a glaring sign that he had thrown his lot in with the wrong crowd.

"The Potions Master position opened up at Hogwarts," he continued, "and I saw my chance to get out, as much as anyone gets out. The inner circle had been waiting for an opportunity to place a spy at Hogwarts. I suggested that those on the Board of Governors appoint me to the position. When they did, I threw myself on Dumbledore's mercy and offered to spy for him."

"Take down the Dark Lord without helping the Ministry," Draco murmured.

Severus smirked to himself. "Precisely."

"Good work."

"I thought so."

*******

Returning from the Hospital Wing with Ginny, Harry saw that the only person still awake was Neville, who was reading by the fire. He sent Harry a significant look and turned back around. After Ginny kissed him on the cheek and headed upstairs, Harry sat down beside Neville. "What's up?"

"Ron...I think he's lost it," Neville said in an undertone, closing his book.

Harry sat up. "What happened?"

"He came storming into the dormitory yelling about the circle of trust and how it was broken. Then he turned Dean and Seamus into slugs and told me to get out. I tried to talk to him through the door, but he won't let me in. D'you think you can talk to him?"

Harry sighed. "I'll try." Ron and Hermione's fight must have been a doozy. He jogged up the stairs and knocked lightly on the door. "Ron? It's Harry. Can I come in?"

There was a moment of silence before he heard Ron say the unlocking spell. Gingerly pushing open the door, Harry entered. The first things he noticed were a pair of slimy, gray, shivering masses in the corner than he took to be Dean and Seamus.

They looked more like grubs than slugs in his mind, but he supposed it wasn't important.

Ron was sprawled across his bed, looking utterly forlorn. "Hi," he said tonelessly.

"Hi," Harry said, casting a glance at Dean and Seamus. "What happened?"

"The beds - our beds - they're in a circle, you know?"

"Er...yeah," Harry said. It was a circular room, after all.

"The circle of trust. Two people in that circle broke the trust. They blabbed to Parvati and Lavender about Hermione and I having sex. Hermione heard about it and had a conniption." Ron heaved a hopeless sigh. "So we broke up."

"She broke up with you?" Harry asked, wincing in sympathy.

"Why is that the first question everybody asks?" Ron inquired of his bed curtains. "I don't see how it matters, but I broke up with her."

"Oh," Harry said, absorbing that. "Was she upset?"

"Yeah," Ron said dully. "You know that look she gets on her face right before she's about to start crying? It's kind of scrunched up, and...well she had it when I left. You should probably go talk to her."

"Sure," he promised. "But...um...maybe you might want to think about turning..."

Ron's face went hard. "The two slugs in the corner back into human beings?" he finished. "I'll think about it. After all, Parvati and Lavender already know that Dean didn't have the flu last year. He missed classes because his hemorrhoids got inflamed. And then there's the matter of Seamus' extra nipple. You know, the one he keeps hidden under a concealment charm whenever he's out with a girl. Considering those two tidbits of information will be on the gossip agenda tomorrow morning, I guess I can be forgiving." Waving his wand lazily, he changed his roommates back.

Dean and Seamus had the grace to look guilty, at least. "Are you okay?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine. Go," Ron said, turning over on his side. "Tell Neville he can come back up."

"Sure," Harry said quickly, leaving the room. He relayed the message to Neville, who looked as if he desired to reenter the dormitory about as much as Harry did. Somewhat glad to have an excuse to stay away until everybody was asleep, Harry headed to Hermione's door and knocked softly.

"Hermione? Can I come in?" There was no answer, and he was about to knock again when she opened the door. Her hair was in disarray and her face was red and blotchy.

"Ron didn't send you here, did he?" she asked, her voice hoarse from crying.

"No, of course not," Harry lied.

She didn't buy it for a minute. "Well, tell him I'm fine," she said firmly.

"Can I just come in, please?" he asked.

Hermione shrugged, sniffing. "I guess." She turned away from the door to get more tissues and he came inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Uh...are you fine? 'Cause you don't seem to be."

"Yeah," she said dully. "It's just...everyone knows about what we did. Everyone."

"And they'll all be talking about it," Harry said, finishing the thought for her. "Well, it's not like all of us haven't been through that before."

"I know," she said, sinking down on the bed, her eyes on her hands, which were in her lap, slowly tearing apart the tissue. "But it's different."

Harry eyed her. "Is that really what you're upset about?"

"Yes," she said faintly, running a shaky hand through her hair. "Okay, no, it's not. It's stupid, though." She looked up at him, all big needy brown eyes.

Way too much need. In that she needed a girl around to weep on, to comfort her. Knowing that he was not up for the part, Harry wanted very much to leave. He also knew that if he ever wanted to toss all of the nice-guy hero crap and become a legitimate asshole, this was his chance. But this was Hermione, and she'd done this for him plenty of times - well, without the heartbroken weeping and all - and so...he sat down next to her on the bed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned in.

"It's not stupid, I'm sure," he told her. "You're never stupid."

She snorted a little bit. "Of course I am. I was about this whole thing. I mean, we both know how Ron is. Everything's all or nothing with him. He either loves something, or he hates it. Either it's his whole world, or else he doesn't care about it at all. I'm not even upset about us breaking up. Everything he said, I've thought more than once. I never thought about us as soul mates or anything. I just figured we were in school and we liked each other and...why not? You know?"

Harry knew that very well. "Okay. So why are you crying, then?"

He could feel her body tighten, trying to fight it, but he felt the wetness soak into his shirt anyway. "Because he dumped me," she said in a small, wavery voice.

"I'm sorry," he said, patting her back.

"I told you it was stupid," she snuffled into his shirt. "All this time, I knew he was getting far too involved in the whole thing and I wasn't, but I figured I'd deal with it at some point. We'd talk about it and sort it all out. I didn't think he'd...dump...me."

"Well, I hate to say it," he said gently, "but you weren't very good together."

"I know that!" she cried. "I've known that all along! It's not that!"

It was because getting rejected made you feel like the lowest form of life on earth.

"Getting dumped sucks," he said fervently.

"Yes, it does," she agreed, sitting up a little bit, wiping her face off. "I guess you'd know, wouldn't you?"

Harry winced a little. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It was really decent of you to come in here and let me...do that to your shirt," she said, looking a bit chagrined.

"It's okay," he said, not desiring to look down at the damage. "I have other ones."

"Well, at least let me...uh..." Reaching over, she pulled out a few more tissues and began scrubbing at the spot just under his left shoulder. Harry decided that it was not a pleasant experience, and that he was not enjoying it at all.

"Are you okay now?" he asked her, his eyes fixed firmly on the door.

"You can go now, Harry. I won't be mad," she said, sounding amused. "I'm sure you've had all you can take anyway."

His head snapped to her, and he could feel that guilty look on his face, the one that always allowed the Dursleys to know that no matter what he said to the contrary, whatever strange thing had just happened was wholly and entirely his doing.

That look had earned him a lot of cupboard time. This time, it earned him a laugh and a hug. In some strange corner of his mind, Harry was beginning to see how Thera had become so manipulative. If he could just find a way to control that look...

Harry didn't think there was anything in the world more pleasant than a wonderful-smelling girl pressed up against him doing all she could to bring him closer.

He quickly abandoned the path of those thoughts, even as they made him uncomfortably aware of her breasts smashed against his chest and the curve of her spine against his forearms and the simple fact that this was Hermione did nothing to stop any of these thoughts. The fact was...it had been a long time. Decades, perhaps.

Hermione loosened her hold and he followed suit. She pulled back and looked up at him. Her eyes were still red from crying but she was smiling.

"Thanks," she said simply.

"Anytime," he replied, trying to surreptitiously draw his hips back so that the effect that the sex thoughts were having down below didn't become too noticeable.

He did not move his head forward. He was certain of that. What happened was - this time - entirely Hermione's doing. He was just trying to cover for his hard-on; she was most definitely the one who kissed him.

For a brief moment, all of his senses were filled with smell and taste and soft lips on his and a nice soft body against him, and he leaned down to deepen the kiss, brushing a hand down her back as he teased her mouth open to taste a little more.

And then reality intruded. Hermione. Ron. Breakup. Very bad. Very bad, indeed.

He pushed her away, stumbling back a step. Hermione tried to follow, but he stopped her with his hand, which ended up in the middle of her chest far too close to her breasts for his liking. Harry gulped and pulled it back.

"We shouldn't have done that," he said, his voice scratchy.

Hermione looked up at him worriedly. "I just crossed the line, didn't I?"

"No!" Harry said quickly, backing up another step. "Well, yes, I guess. But...hey, I've done it, too. And now you have. So...erm...yeah. There you are. Even Steven."

"Merlin, Harry. I'm so sorry," she whispered, a horrified blush working its way up her neck. "You didn't want that. Not from me, at least. And I...oh, damn."

"It's okay," he said quickly. "No big deal. These things happen."

"I just thought that you might be attracted to me a little bit, since...you know...since you tried to kiss me before. And you're not, and that's okay. That's perfectly fine," she babbled. "I mean, it's not like you're obligated to be or anything..."

"Hermione," he said sharply. She stopped talking and looked away, embarrassed. "It's not that, okay? You're...well, it's definitely not that. It's just that we're friends and all."

She nodded, smiling thinly. "Friends. I'm sorry, Harry. I guess I just don't feel terribly attractive right now." She forced a laugh. "I'm sure I don't look very attractive at the moment, either, and it was awful of me to try to use you just to make myself feel better."

Harry frowned. "That's the only reason you did it?"

Her eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no, Harry! Of course not! You're...you know...as in, if we weren't...you know...friends and all, I'd think..." she trailed off, clearing her throat awkwardly and rocking back and forth on her feet. The tiny Slytherin part of Harry couldn't help but enjoy the moment a little bit. Hermione was rarely lost for words. Harry got the distinct feeling that both of them were trying very, very hard not to paint themselves into a corner.

"You'd think what?" he prompted, watching her eyes avoid his as she shrugged.

"Oh, honestly, Harry," she muttered. "You know how girls talk about you."

He grinned. "So if we weren't friends, you'd be writing fan mail to Yolanda, maybe including a nice picture of yourself in a bathing suit?"

"Please," she scoffed. "I wouldn't have been one of your groupies."

"You were a groupie for Lockhart," he reminded her.

"That was second year, and I was a child," Hermione began, before finally looking at him and catching on to the fact that he was joking. She scowled. "I'm never going to live that down with you two, am I?"

"No," Harry said honestly. "We exist to keep you humble." It occurred to him that neither of them seemed to want to say Ron's name.

"Thanks," she said dryly.

"So if we weren't friends, what would you like about me?" the Slytherin voice made him ask. The moment the question was out of his mouth, Harry regretted it, recalling that the Slytherin voice rarely earned him anything but trouble.

Hermione gave him her McGonagall look. "I'm not the only person who needs to be kept humble," she said piously.

"Come on, Hermione. Be a sport. It's only theoretical."

"All right," she said, her eyes narrowing speculatively. "But then you have to answer the same question for me."

"Fair enough." Harry crossed his arms and bit his lips to keep from smiling.

"Fine, then," Hermione answered, also crossing her arms. "Your eyes."

Harry slumped a little, disappointed. "My eyes?" All those sit-ups and push-ups and lunges, and she admired his eyes?

Hermione smiled, a real one this time. "You can't see them like the rest of us do. I mean, they're very striking on their own, but when you get angry or excited about something, they practically glow. I can always tell what mood you're in."

"And that's it?"

"Of course not," she pooh-poohed him. "It's kind of...the whole package, I guess. You don't even have to do anything, you're just...you. The messy hair and the goofy way you grin when you're actually happy instead of just pretending to be happy. And you're not skinny like you used to be. You're...sturdier," she said, making a vague gesture.

At least somebody had noticed. "I guess it's your turn."

"Yes," Hermione said, grimacing. "This should be interesting."

Harry fumbled around for a moment, trying to think of a way to describe Hermione's physical attractiveness in a way that wouldn't incur a slap. "Well," he said slowly, "a lot of it's your intelligence."

"Oh, dear," she said, grimacing. "I didn't think it would be quite that bad."

"It's not," Harry said quickly. "I just...do want me to be completely honest?"

"Of course," she said, looking up at him wide-eyed, and Harry had a feeling that his idea of honesty and her idea of honesty were several sexual experiences apart.

He gave her a sickly smile. "Right." Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself to walk a thin and dangerous line. "You've a lovely face, and - on the occasions it's shown, at least - a lovely body to match. You wrinkle your nose just a little bit when you're thinking really hard about something; it's rather cute, actually. And it's nice that you don't play games like other girls, so a guy always knows where he stands with you..."

Harry trailed off as he realized that she was giving him a look. It was a very blatant look that stated quite plainly that if he was willing, she was more than willing.

Not that he was, because she was his best friend and she was very upset about a very painful breakup with his other best friend, and he would never, ever take advantage of Hermione of all people, especially in a situation like that.

Which was why she was forced to make the first move.

*******

Hermione knew quite well that she never would have done what she did - i.e. step forward and nearly maul her own male best friend in a sexual manner - in any other set of circumstances. It screamed through her head even as she did it that she was doing it for all of the wrong reasons, that she was upset, that she was feeling unattractive and Harry was too nice to turn her down in her hour of need, that she was using him terribly.

And yet...it really had nothing to do with any of that. If one were to pare the discussion down to its most basic components, they were both attracted to each other, and they were both in need of a bit of attention. Had this been any other boy - even Ron - she never would have crushed her lips against his and unbuttoned his shirt and thrilled at the smooth, hard texture of his chest under her fingertips. She'd have been too nervous. But she wasn't nervous around Harry. She couldn't be. He was Harry, and she knew him far too well for anything he thought or did to be surprising or foreign to her.

Not the way it had been with Ron, not at all. Harry was...safe.

Even the feel of his hands on her was familiar, sliding up her stomach to stroke her breasts just above the line of her bra. He reached around to the back to unhook it, his lips still on hers. He didn't kiss the same way Ron did. He wasn't tentative or urgent, but warm and a little needy, as if he expected her to shove him away at any moment and wanted to get in as much as possible before that happened.

"I want this," she said, pulling away slightly to unbutton her blouse and yet clutching her unhooked bra over herself in a silly, maidenly sort of last-ditch covering maneuver as she avoided his eyes. "I really do. Not just because of everything else, either."

She felt his hands go still. "Hermione," he said, his voice sounding strangled.

Finally, she forced herself to look at him. "I'm serious, Harry. I know what I want."

His face tightened. "Do you? I mean, all of it? Because I think if we do this right now, it'll be because of everything else whether you want it to be or not. And I kind of can't believe that we're having this conversation, and I also kind of can't understand why I haven't left yet, and another part of me kind of can't understand why I'm stopping."

"Because you want it, too," she informed him. "And it won't be about everything else. Not for me, at least. I meant what I said, Harry."

"I did, too. But that and this aren't necessarily the same thing."

Despite her best efforts, the most she could manage was a whisper while looking away from him again. "I'm standing here with my shirt half-off, Harry. Maybe you think I'm just doing this because I'm upset, but I'm not. I really do want to do this, and I really want to do it with you." She glanced up at him quickly. "If you'd like to, also, that is."

His eyes moved down. "You have," he gulped, "no idea. I just think that somebody should be reasonable here, and that job usually falls to you, but it seems to be falling to me, and I'm not really in what you might call a reasonable state of mind at the moment." He coughed. "I think it might have a bit to do with your shirt being half off."

Slowly, Hermione eased her blouse off and finally did away with her bra, blushing furiously. She felt exposed, and a little foolish. "How about now?" she asked tentatively, glancing at him. Harry looked as if he'd just received a blow to the head. About a heartbeat away from dying of shame, Hermione squatted down to pick up her blouse. Oh, Merlin. How on earth was she supposed to face him after this?

Only she could manage to get rejected by two different boys in the space of an hour.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, pulling on her bra, her fingers missing the fastenings several times because the one time a person desperately wanted to get dressed in a hurry was always the one time their dexterity failed them in order to prolong the humiliation.

"Don't be sorry," he said. "It's my fault, too." His voice wasn't coming from the same place. Hermione hadn't recalled hearing him move, but he had. Looking up, she saw that he was gallantly facing the other direction while she got dressed.

Hermione fought the urge to find that hilarious. Not just because it was yet another manifestation of Harry's rather famous Victorian sensibilities, but because it just seemed to sum him up in a nutshell. If, in the course of the final battle, the Dark Lord's trousers dropped, Harry would probably do the same thing until his mortal enemy got them back up again. It was only fair. He wasn't going to fight a man with his trousers down.

"It's not your fault," she told him. "I mean, I tried to seduce you. Er...rather badly."

"It's not that..." he began.

"I have my shirt on, Harry," she interrupted.

"Oh," he said, turning around carefully.

Hermione felt the weight of that gaze, and all the guilt that came with it. He had come here to be a good friend, and she'd tried to use him. "You were saying?" she asked, bracing herself. He was going to try to make her feel better, and she didn't want to feel better. She didn't deserve to. She'd been awful to him.

"It's not that I don't want to," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "And I don't just want to because I'm a desperate, horny teenage boy. You are pretty. I know you don't think you are and I know you think I'm just telling you this because I'm your friend, but I'm not. Believe me. If we weren't friends, I'd do...uh...I'd be very interested in having sex with you. I mean it. Very. You're beautiful, really."

Having always been undeniably plain, Hermione's self esteem had always revolved solely around her academic performance. In her mind, she had thought this was a rather mature outlook. At least she valued something she could do over something silly that she had no control over, like her facial features. But all the same, being called beautiful by somebody other than her extremely biased parents gave nourishment to something that had been starving for so long that she'd consciously forgotten about its existence.

And now she was about to cry. Again.

Harry looked stricken. "Hermione?"

There was no way she couldn't hug him for being so perfectly, unknowingly wonderful. It took Harry a moment to react, as it always did. "I'm...confused," he decided, finally wrapping his arms around her. "I really am bad at this, aren't I?"

She shook her head, pulling back. "No, you're not. You're very good at it."

Harry looked worried. "You're not coming on to me again, are you?"

Hermione chuckled weakly. "No, I'm not. I promise. I'm sorry about that, Harry. And for what it's worth, what you said...the same goes for me, too."

"Well, it's nice to know I wasn't just intended to be the Head Girl's revenge fuck..."

She slapped him on the arm, scowling at his language. Harry grinned down at her.

Hermione sighed. "I know, I know. I'm McGonagall at seventeen."

"Merlin, no," Harry said, making a face. "Your breasts are far..."

"Harry!" she cried, shoving him away, half-laughing while her face colored in embarrassment. He slid his hands back into his pockets, regarding her with a familiar crooked smile. "That's a hideous image," she informed him.

"Well, of course it is, if you're thinking about McGonagall..."

"Stop making fun of me," she said, still smiling. It was strange, really. She'd never have let Ron get away with this much. And...Merlin, their relationship really had stunk. Everything had gotten so serious and dire and complicated. "I'm completely humiliated."

"Yes, you look it," Harry said soberly. "All cowering and trying to hide under the bed."

Hermione laughed, then wrapped her arms around herself. She wanted to keep this in, this feeling. She didn't want to acknowledge it, because she knew she'd ruin it if she did, but all the same, she wanted to know that she wasn't alone in noticing that it was gone.

"I miss this," she said softly, hugging her arms tighter. "Us, I mean. You and me and Ron all unified against the world. Best friends forever. I miss it."

Harry smiled half-heartedly. "Yeah, me too."

"I don't know what happened," she said, shrugging, looking away. "I don't even really care anymore. I just want us to be friends again, the way we used to be."

"We can't be," Harry said simply, and when she looked back, he had that terribly adult look on his face, as if he'd finally lost enough to figure the rest of it was likely to go soon, too. She hated that look.

"So we can't be friends any more," she said flatly.

"Of course we can," he said, dropping his head and turning back into Harry again. "It's just different, is all. I don't want to lose you."

Hermione swallowed. "I don't want to lose you, either. It's just...it gets to this point, and I don't know how to talk to you. We used to be able to talk about anything."

"Things were simpler then," he shrugged. "We just have to...adapt, I guess."

"I know," she said, a bit resentfully. "But we don't have to like it."

Harry gave her a tentative look. "You're still my best friend."

"You're my best friend, too," she said giving up. "And I love you."

"I love you, too," Harry said, looking half-relieved and half-guilty. "I know I'm a prat about it, but I do. I don't know what I'd do without you. Go mad, flunk out..."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. She knew that tone. "You haven't finished your Transfiguration essay, have you?"

The guilty face began to border on puppy-dog. "No," he admitted sheepishly. "I was going to do it, but Ginny wanted me to go the Hospital Wing and then..."

Growling, Hermione snatched up her bag and pulled out her own completed essay. "Here," she said, thrusting it at him.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said, standing to take it. He paused a second, green eyes wide, hesitant to leave. "So you're okay now?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. He hugged her one last time and left, already scanning through her essay. "That's not for copying!" she called at his retreating back. "It's just for reference! If you don't do your own work you won't..."

The door closed.

"...learn anything," she finished to herself.

Well, it was nice to know that some things never changed.

*******

Halfway through his lunch in the dining room at Shirag Castle, laughing at something one of his compatriots had just said, Jeremiah Mumbleman reached into the pocket of his robes and his laughter died. He dug around in the other pocket for a moment, then explored the original one, his face clouding over. "Awright, which of you arseholes took my money pouch?!" he yelled to the room at large. "I just had it a minute ago!"

Actually, it was about five minutes ago, when she'd brushed by him to use the loo.

Thera had no idea whether it was a product of her upbringing or simply a natural characteristic of only children, but she'd always been very good at amusing herself.

In recent years, sex had generally fulfilled that capacity, but - unwillingly entailed and virginal as she was at the moment - that wasn't exactly an option. However, she'd been a child once, and the time in her life when sex wasn't a useful way to fill the hours wasn't all that distant a memory. So in between spells of paranoia, sleeping in her car, working on her car and killing Muggles, Thera found herself falling back into one of her main childhood methods of amusing herself: pickpocketing.

Of course, back in the day, the activity had been dedicated less to amusement than to the pursuit of a decent meal, but since that was no longer an issue, it was a useful way to keep her mind working, to keep her skills up. To keep her from lying on her bed for hours on end, contemplating the numerous ways in which her life sucked, its likely chances for continuing to suck in the near future and the probability of it getting worse.

Which was why Jeremiah Mumbleman's money pouch was at that moment safely ensconced in her left sock, with a silencing charm on it so the coins wouldn't rattle and an anti-summoning spell on it so he couldn't...

"Accio money pouch!" he said, waving his wand.

...do that.

Along with most of the Death Eaters at the table, Thera turned an innocently surprised face towards him. "Lousy, sneaky bastards," he railed, glowering at all of them. "When I find out which one of you took it, I'll kill you, hear?"

Sitting down angrily, he shoved his plate away and settled into glaring suspiciously at each of them in turn. Thera snickered inwardly, toying with her tater tots. Her appetite wasn't what it used to be; the knowledge that whatever she put in her mouth might very well be making a round trip had a way of sucking all of the enjoyment out of eating.

Despite what the world at large probably thought, for the most part, being a Death Eater was boring beyond comprehension. If they weren't being actively pressed into service or engaging in a spot of Muggle torture, there wasn't anything to do. Thera had a feeling that it wasn't even the murders she'd committed that were driving her mad. It was the fact that she often had entire days with nothing else to do but think about the murders she'd committed. Over time, the others had found ways to pass the hours - Gobstones, poker, getting drunk and watching wizard porn - and Thera had, too. She worked on her car or read and was becoming a rather accomplished crochet artist. Not being a terribly social person, she didn't partake in many of the group activities, and one only needed so many scarves, so...here she was.

With Jeremiah Mumbleman's money pouch in her sock, Cerberus Avery's stuffed in one pocket of her jeans and Sol Morningshaft's in the other.

Considering the day was less than half over, it was a pretty good take. The nice thing about stealing from Death Eaters was that she didn't have to pace herself. She was literally surrounded by possible suspects. It was a petty thief's dream.

Damien Mulciber leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. "So...do you want me to come by later?" Having never employed the strategy before she was forced to, Thera had never realized before just how much withholding sex from a man messed with his head, forcing him to do everything in his power to get back into your good graces.

Merlin, how had she not figured this out years ago?

"No," she said, finally picking up the tater tot and biting off a corner.

"Thera, come on," he pleaded. "You can't still be mad at me."

A key component to her relationships with the men to whom she was currently denying sex was that they seemed to automatically assume it was because they'd fucked up, and the more vague she was about what she thought they'd done, the guiltier they acted.

"Why shouldn't I be?" she asked casually.

And when pressured, they confessed like a Catholic on his deathbed.

Dear Merlin, did she have some dirt. None of it strategically useful, but...Damien Mulciber in a weak moment with Marcus Flint? Honestly. Once she got her virginity situation dealt with, Thera had half a mind to continue withholding sex just on principle.

"I said I was sorry about that," Damien explained. "We were drunk, and it's not like anything really happened. Just a bit of...well, nothing important. I promise."

"I don't believe you," Thera shrugged. "You're a lying sack of shit."

"Thera..." he tried, but she sent him a cold glare. Everything else aside, she needed to get him off her back for a while. And she knew a damn good way to do it.

"I just don't feel like you have the same commitment to me that I do to you, Damien."

His jaw dropped open slowly. "Er...commitment?"

"Yes," she said, injecting just a tiny note of hurt into her voice. "If I'm going to spend the rest of my life with someone, I have to be able to trust them."

Damien looked at her as if she'd just informed him that he was next up on her Publicly Executed Victims List. Under the circumstances, Thera had a feeling he was almost wishing that were the case. "Rest?" he asked, his voice a little squeaky. "Life?"

Thera took a sip of juice, regarding him calmly. "After we're married, I can't be worrying every time you leave the house, wondering if you're just running off to Flint."

"I have to go on duty," he said quickly, fleeing the room.

Thera smirked a little bit to herself, but the amusement was fleeting. She desperately needed something to keep her mind occupied. She'd read her way through most of the bloody library - or at least through all of the books in the bloody library worth reading. The Secret World of Puffapods was beginning to look tempting, but that was about it. She had hobbies, but they didn't take up a great many brain cells. She needed something more, something that could take up the time she used to devote to thinking about sex, finding someone to have sex with, having sex with them and then getting rid of them.

She needed a project, she decided as she headed out to her car. Something to occupy her mind, like learning a new language or...well, she could borrow Draco's old Arithmancy books and try to make herself useful, she supposed. That was an idea.

She drove out to what had become her usual spot. It had been a scenic lookout for Muggles traveling on the road along the ocean; now it was covered on all sides by anti-Muggle wards so that she didn't have to worry about anybody happening upon her sitting in her car talking to a piece of parchment. She had also done a bit of research into evil spirits - feeling like a complete jackass the entire time - so the little concrete parking lot was scattered with bits of burned herbs, talismans, a ring of salt and just about every single protection against evil she could find from any culture on the planet.

Thera decided that was not paranoid. She was merely thorough.

Killing the car, she dropped her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. Harry was usually late for their mirror conferences, so she might as well get in a little nap.

She was just getting all nice and relaxed when she heard Harry calling her.

"Bugger," she mumbled, blinking her eyes open and rubbing them a little bit. Reaching over, she picked up the mirror. "Yeah, I'm here."

"Sorry I'm late," he said breathlessly. "There was this..."

"I really don't care," she informed him. Being a person who valued truth over entertainment value, Harry's excuses were unerringly truthful, and thus lame. "So?"

For reasons she couldn't quite understand, Harry had offered to plan their entailment-ending rendezvous. Thera had let him because she didn't particularly give a rat's ass.

Looking utterly scruffy and boyish, he sat down on his bed, scooting up until he was leaning against the headboard. "Halloween. Everyone's usually too wrapped up in the festivities to pay attention to who's there and who's not. Hermione and Ron'll tell anybody who asks that I'm not feeling well, and I'll put up a couple of charms around my bed to discourage anyone who might want to check out my story."

"Well, that covers you. What about me?"

Harry looked amused. "The day you need me to think up your cover story is..."

"Never going to happen," Thera finished for him. "I'm just wondering if I won't be a bit busy with other matters on Halloween. It being Halloween and all."

He shook his head. "Voldemort never does anything on Halloween."

"Really? Seems like a missed opportunity to me. I mean, the whole atmosphere of death and scariness - that's like the Death Eater version of Christmas, right there."

"Yeah," Harry said sarcastically. "It's also the night he lost his powers to an infant. I don't think he really likes to commemorate that occasion."

"Oh," she said, wincing internally. "Well I guess I can see that." Sometimes she forgot that what was just Halloween to most of the world was 'The Night My Parents Were Murdered and My Life More or Less Went in the Toilet for About a Decade' to Harry.

"Besides, assuming he wants to make a statement and try to kill me on Halloween," Harry shrugged, "he'll try to do it here. And I won't be here."

"So nyah, Dark Lord."

He grinned briefly, then looked down. "Of course, if I'm not at Hogwarts, he'll probably just kill every person here he can get his hands on."

"Harry, believe me. If he could into Hogwarts, he'd be there right now. You might want to take a peek outside your curtains just to make sure."

He studied at her for a moment. "You're in a much better mood than you usually are."

"Well, much like everybody else, I'm a lot more cheerful when I'm not actively puking."

"Good point," he muttered, scratching his jaw. "I do have bad timing don't I?"

"You certainly do. You should've met me two years ago. I was a bundle of laughs."

"And ropes and whips and handcuffs," he added dryly.

"Yeah," she said, feeling a bit of nostalgia for the good old days. "It's just part of growing up, I guess. You have to put away childish things."

Harry blinked. "Like...sex toys."

"I gather you never used a vibrator as a speedboat when you played in the tub as a kid."

He recoiled. "Merlin, no! That's bloody...you're having me on."

Thera rolled her eyes. "Well, I didn't know what it was for. And I immediately washed my hands when I figured it out. At which point I also understood why Reina found the whole thing so hilarious. So anyway, in case you ever wondered, most vibrators float."

Harry stared at her in open-mouthed horror, and in some distant, psychoanalytical part of her brain, Thera recognized that she'd been shooting for that exact reaction.

And seeing it made her feel...calmer, somehow. More relaxed.

"I have," Harry said slowly, "never seen a weirder method for changing the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject," she snapped at him, the tension she hadn't even felt until it was gone returning full force. "You're an idiot."

Thera honestly couldn't think of an occasion in which she'd been forced to employ a lamer comeback. Hanging out with Death Eaters must be making her stupider.

"If you're trying to piss me off, you're doing a really half-assed job of it," he told her.

With more effort than it should have taken, Thera pulled herself together. "Sorry," she said evenly. "I'm not trying to piss you off." And she wasn't, really. Okay, she was. But only because he seemed far too upbeat about this whole thing. It annoyed her. And that annoyance just added to the mild feeling of dread that she got every time she thought about Thera Castelar Loses Her Virginity, Part II: This Time It's Consensual.

"What are you trying to do, then?" he asked, unmoved.

"Nothing," she said, shoving everything else aside and getting down to business. If she was going to go mental, now wasn't the time. "So where are we meeting up?"

*******

Remus glanced up from his work when Harry walked into the library and dramatically -for Harry, at least - threw himself into a chair, heaving a sigh. Carefully marking his place in the long columns of arithmancy he'd been poring through, Remus stretched his back. "Problem?" he asked lightly, collecting his notes and setting them aside.

"Do you remember when you came to Privet Drive to pick me up and I asked you about girls, and you said it doesn't get any easier, it only gets more complicated?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

"I should have believed you."

"Oh," Remus said, finally clueing in. "You talked to the Castelar girl, I take it?"

"Yeah," Harry said flatly, "but that's not really the problem."

Well...okay. "What is the problem, then?"

"So you know why she's working for the Ministry," Harry said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm aware that Dumbledore more or less pushed her into it. That doesn't change the fact that she's not someone you can trust." Once more, Remus castigated himself for overlooking the mirrors. Well, he hadn't overlooked them so much as he'd chalked them up as an emergency measure, but he should have realized what was going on much sooner. He had no idea what dog and pony show the Castelar girl had put on for Harry, or if the boy had bought it, or what the girl's motives were for putting it on in the first place, and he didn't care. Thera Castelar was not his responsibility. Harry was.

"I know that," Harry said exasperatedly, sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "Why does everybody think I'm so naïve and clueless, and..." He rubbed a hand against his forehead. "Never mind," he muttered. "I don't even know if that's as big a problem as Hermione."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Hermione? I thought she and Ron..."

"They broke up," Harry interrupted, sounding neither pleased nor displeased with the event. "And then I went to talk to her and she was crying and we...I mean, nothing happened, really," he qualified. "And it shouldn't have. But all the same, I know I can trust her, and she's my best friend. And in some weird way, I can kind of see us as...that. Only Ron's in love with her."

"Yes, I can see how that would be a problem," he murmured.

Harry shook himself a little. "I'm sorry."

Remus drew his eyebrows together. "Sorry for what?"

"For not making a lick of sense," Harry said with a wry smile. "And for strolling in here and throwing all of my petty girl problems at you."

"You can do that anytime, Harry. You know that. Frankly, I welcome the interruption."

"Is it boring?" he asked, nodding at Remus' work on the table.

"Yes," he answered definitively.

Harry reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "None of that was actually what I came to talk to you about. I actually came because..." He looked up hesitantly. "You know what we talked about? The memorials for my parents, and Sirius?"

"Yes," Remus said, cringing a little bit. In retrospect, he kind of regretted the action. Harry was too young still, and had too much going on in his life. It had been a question meant for Harry when he was an adult, far enough away that it wouldn't be felt so keenly.

"I think I'd like to do that," the boy said thoughtfully. "Maybe at Christmas."

"Harry, you really don't have to..."

"I want to," Harry stated, shifting a bit. "They deserve that much, at least."

Remus went over to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. Harry dropped his head, looking like the terribly weary, overburdened kid he was. "You don't have to do this. I never meant for you to think it was something you had to do. And you certainly don't have to do it now. Just let it go for a while, okay? Give it some time. And if - someday - you feel like this is something you want to do, then we'll do it."

Harry stiffened slightly. "I'd rather just do it at Christmas. I'd like to know it's done."

"Done?" Remus asked faintly, the words disturbing him less than the connotations behind them. "Listen, don't do this just because you think..."

"I might not be around much longer?" Harry asked, looking up at him with challenging green eyes. "Well, I might not. I know that. I don't like it, but pretending like it isn't a possibility doesn't exactly make me feel a whole hell of a lot better. I'd at least like to know that this was done. And that everything else was taken care of."

"A will," Remus said, squeezing his eyes shut. Two words managed to shred his heart into pieces. Sixteen years ago, he'd bounced James and Lily's son on his hip, occasionally swinging him up onto his shoulders, much to little Harry's delight. Four years ago, he'd met the boy again, already battle-hardened at thirteen, even if he seemed shy and unassuming on the outside. And Harry had gotten right back up every single time the boggart knocked him out, straightening his shoulders, already prepared for another go even if he could barely stand.

Harry didn't need him at that point. He had his own identity, his own friends, and - by the end of the year - his own godfather. Remus didn't regret stepping back. Harry had Sirius, and they both got along so well, and Sirius loved the boy with the same fierceness that he loved anybody who deserved the honor. Sirius had plans, as he always did: Christmases and summer holidays, exotic vacations. But then Sirius died, too.

And Remus knew for certain that he was no replacement for Sirius. He knew it would be awful to even try to be. And yet, he could hardly leave James' son to his Muggle relatives, the Weasleys and Dumbledore. So he'd done his best for Harry, but it was different. Harry was more an adult than a child. He didn't need a parent.

He needed someone to prepare his will. Since he'd overseen Sirius' estate, Remus supposed it was hardly a gigantic leap of faith, but that didn't make it any better.

"I was afraid if I didn't do anything, the Ministry would get it all," Harry said calmly.

Remus acknowledged that the teenager in front of him was regarding the situation with far more pragmatism and honesty than he was. Frankly, he didn't care. It was sickening to be asked to prepare a will by a seventeen-year-old boy. Who might actually need it.

This was, Remus decided, the absolute worst. All of it before, with James and Lily, and then Peter, and Sirius...at least they'd been adults. As horrible as it had been, shock upon shock, death upon death and the worst sort of betrayal...at least they hadn't been children, for fuck's sake.

"I'd just feel better knowing that it was all taken care of," Harry continued. "You and Professor Wellbourne, the Weasleys, Hermione..."

Harry's voice was cut off when Remus crushed the boy against him. He didn't cry; he was too far gone for that. It was just a need, an impotent sort of despair that made him almost believe that if he kept Harry just like this, if he just held him tight enough, then no force on this planet could take him away. "Remus," Harry choked.

Apparently tight enough wasn't too pleasant when you were on the receiving end.

He let up his hold a bit, knowing that it was pointless. He could do every single thing in his power to protect Harry, to live up to James and Sirius, and it still wouldn't make any difference. He didn't have the power to stand between Harry and his destiny, and that was that. The world did not stop turning for anyone, him especially.

Remus let Harry go, stepping back, almost embarrassed. There were words he supposed he should say. I love you. I couldn't love you more even if you were my own son. He didn't say them, though. They'd just make Harry uncomfortable. To a boy he'd watched grow up, who'd known him every day of his life, they would mean something. But to the one in front of him, they likely wouldn't.

Harry sought him out quite a bit. Even relied on him. But Remus knew that he would never be more than a stand-in for a stand-in, a nice Professor who helped him out every once in a while. "Okay," he said hoarsely. "I'll do it."

"Thanks," Harry said honestly, a sad little half-smile crossing his face. "Really."

Stepping forward, the boy squeezed his arm briefly before turning to go. He paused at the door, turning around. "At Christmas, do you think it could just be you and me at the memorial service? I don't really want to make a big deal out of it."

Remus managed to compose himself enough to speak. "Of course."

"Good," Harry said, nodding a little bit. "I think that's what they'd want. And...thanks again, Remus. Really." Turning around, he left. And Remus proceeded to destroy every piece of furniture in the room.

*******

Making an aggravated noise to herself at the knock on her office door, Vivian tossed down her quill and slapped a patient look on her face. "Come in," she said, trying to sound pleasant. Unless she actually had the opportunity to work without interruption, she hadn't a chance in hell of catching up on the classes she'd missed.

Draco Malfoy entered, closing the door quietly behind him. His face was a bit puffy, but otherwise back to its usual perfection. She took that to mean he'd be returning to classes in the morning. "Sorry to bother you, Professor," he said politely, reaching into his bag and drawing out a sheaf of parchment. "I just wanted to drop off my essay."

"Add it to the pile," she said, indicating a stack of parchments on the edge of her desk.

Smoothing it out, he did so, thanking her and turning to leave. Then he paused and glanced back at her. "Professor, could I ask you something?"

Vivian diverted her gaze from her stack of work back to him. "Yes, of course."

"May I?" he asked, indicating the chair across from her desk. Biting back laughter at his occasionally over-the-top adherence to propriety, Vivian nodded. Laying down his schoolbag, Draco Malfoy sat down, frowning.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

"I'm not doing very well with my part of the spell," he admitted. "It's like you said. Trial and error."

"If you'd like some help..."

"That's hardly necessary," he said a bit stiffly. Then he forced his shoulders to relax, casting a glance around her office. "You seem a bit busy at the moment."

She waved it away. "Yes, well I'm still capable of prioritizing."

Draco Malfoy lifted a hand, brushing a few strands of hair out of his eyes. "Professor, may I be frank?"

Vivian sat back at that, raising her eyebrows. "Sure."

"Am I on a wild hippogriff chase?"

Vivian dropped her head for a moment, biting her lip. "I don't know," she said.

"Because if I am," he said, obviously not believing her, "I'd rather not pursue it, really. There are other things that are more useful..."

"More useful than your own possibility for survival should Voldemort lose?" she asked.

"If we manage to stop the spell entirely, that's rather a non-issue."

"Yes," she sighed. "But it's a great deal harder. He's nearly completed the spell..."

"Are we absolutely sure he hasn't?" he interrupted in a clipped voice.

Vivian pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ninety percent, at least. Ginny Weasley came back from Little Hangleton both physically and magically unchanged."

"Then why isn't it one hundred percent?"

"The same reason I imagine you wonder if it isn't. She doesn't remember. We don't know what happened. For that matter, we still don't know what happened in the Chamber of Secrets. And if Dumbledore can't get it out of her, I don't know who can."

Malfoy nodded slightly, frowning. "He said she couldn't remember because of the spell, but I don't see how that's possible. What sort of influence does he have over her?"

"Based upon what the rest of them have told us about her behavior at Little Hangleton, quite a bit. Voldemort preserved a piece of himself in the diary, and it still has the ability to affect her. But that seemed to be a separate issue, tied to the diary itself. How he could possibly use the spell to block her memories, I couldn't say."

"So I should focus on the spell itself," he said softly, as if to himself.

"It's...up to you," she said lamely. Merlin, she hated this. In retrospect, the bravado with which her generation had faced the war - the same bravado that had gotten them mowed down by the dozens - seemed silly. These kids were a lot wiser than they'd been, and in measure, they were up against a lot more.

"Thank you, Professor," he said, before raising his head and looking at her narrowly. "I noticed that you could use a bit of help...straightening up," he said diplomatically. "I thought perhaps I might be able to lend a hand."

Lend a hand indeed. Vivian raised an eyebrow. "In exchange for...?"

He smirked a little. "My assistance on the spell, and in lieu of a term paper."

"I never pegged you as one of the 'my owl ate my homework' types," she murmured.

"I'm not," he said. "You've had me in class. You know the caliber of my work. But if you waived my term paper requirement, I'd be able to dedicate another three hours per week solely to helping you with the spell and organizing your office."

"That's a very kind offer," she said.

His eyes skidded away. "Well, when it comes to Defense Against the Dark Arts, I figure working on the spell is more valuable than a paper on containing inter-spatial demons."

Vivian bit her lip, thinking over his offer. "You've read Mosley's book on the subject?"

"Well, obviously," he scoffed. "For background and references. I've read all of the relevant articles in Demonic Arts Quarterly and the Dark Arts Defense League Update for the past five years. I found Ichuri's piece on how the demons exploit different cultural conceptions of space highly enlightening, and that led me to Li Cheng's treatise on the fallibility and ephemeral nature of the demons in circumstances..."

"Alright, I'm satisfied," Vivian interrupted. "You know your inter-spatial demons. Now, I gather you're familiar with personal security wards and their possible consequences?"

Draco sent her an amused look. "My father was Lucius Malfoy."

She took that as a yes. "Well, so long as you heed them, you'll be fine."

"In other words, not beheaded," he finished, standing. "Thank you, Professor."

"The pleasure," she said, eyeing the numerous teetering stacks around her, "is all mine."

*******

Stopping the recording spell on the disk Thera Castelar had given him, Balder stood up, yawning and checking his watch. He'd been at it for nearly eight hours without a break this time. Listening to the disks wasn't exactly hard work; most of it was silence, or meaningless conversation. Nevertheless, he'd managed to pick up some highly useful information.

He'd expected certain parties to drop whatever they were doing to attend one of the Dark Lord's galas - underworld characters, petty magical dictators - but the Foreign Minister of Bulgaria showing up, hoping that Voldemort could help them control their veela problem without getting the international community involved? The Viziers of several Magical Caliphates making an appearance trying to get some outside muscle to eliminate their growing squib problem? Representatives from Egypt - an ally of the British Magical Government for nearly a hundred years - agreeing to join forces with the Dark Lord, exchanging ancient necromantic secrets for getting Grigotts out of their country?

The Dark Lord had some big plans, and Balder had at least twenty feet of notes.

Despite what Thera Castelar had said, the tapes had obviously been edited, considering every time her voice showed up in one of the visitors' rooms, the encounter always ended with disappointment and comforting words. Bullshit. The only way the scenarios he'd heard played out on tape could have actually happened is if she had some sort of Impotence Potion on hand, and she hadn't the education to brew such a potion. It would take a master to do that; it wasn't the sort of thing taught at Hogwarts.

Balder suddenly felt like slapping himself on the forehead. Snape. It had to be. Whatever Thera Castelar was in on, Snape was in on it, too. Not that he was terribly surprised. Barty Crouch might have followed the dictate of 'Once a Death Eater, Always a Death Eater,' but Balder felt the situation was a bit more nuanced than that. Snape had turned to save himself. Thera Castelar had come to Balder for the same purpose.

Why they were helping each other out was key to this whole thing. He knew it. Something else was going on here; something even Dumbledore didn't know about. And the answer was in these disks.

He still had a few days left on them before he could finalize his strategy. He had a few initial thoughts about what to do, which were helped by his unknown partner, who sent him occasional owls, like the one that drifted in, dropped a parchment on the table in front of him and blithely drifted out again.

Picking up the parchment, Balder read the message that appeared, written in swooping, pretentious, calligraphy-style handwriting:

Biliankov's wife is half veela.

That was all it said. That was all they ever were - simple statements of fact. Well...fact insofar as he could tell from his initial research, at least. Whoever his silent, anonymous partner was, they had access to good information. Biliankov wasn't the Foreign Minister of Bulgaria. He was the next most powerful person in the Foreign Ministry, however, in charge of international trade. He was also tangentially allied with the Prime Minister's main opponent, and had only been given his position in the first place in order to appease the opponent's supporters. It was an opening, a weakness. Something he could exploit. Something that might help them head off Voldemort.

And it was a hell of a lot more than he'd had a few weeks ago. Brewing up some coffee, Balder yawned again, shook himself and restarted the recording.

*******

REFERENCES: "I'm not a receptacle" is a Ruth line from Six Feet Under.