Obsidian Faith

Obsidian Faith

2. Unhatched Eggs

"Master Draco, Master Lucius wishes for you to dine with him tonight in his private chamber."

"When would he like to meet me, Suki?"

"Precisely eight o'clock, Master says!"

"Very well. Tell my father that I am delighted and I will be prompt," Draco said, sending Suki the house-elf running. He knew the message would never reach his father. Lucius had made it clear that Draco would go to him whenever he was summoned, no matter what he was doing.

Draco expected dinner to be torturous. It always was, when Lucius was around. At usual mealtimes where his mother, Narcissa, was present, Lucius would sit at the head of the glass and chrome dining table in the huge mahogany and velvet throne. Narcissa would be seated at his side in a smaller and less expensive throne. Draco always sat on the left side of the table, a placemat away from Lucius. His manners were expected to be perfect. If so much as a crumb fell onto the glass surface, he would be sent to his room and had to stay there for two days with minimal nourishment that would just keep him from starving.

However, times had changed. Lucius no longer dined frequently with his family in the evenings. Ever since the Dark Lord started to prepare for his return, Lucius had spent more and more time locked in either the study or the library. Dinner now was a less formal affair than it had been two years ago. Narcissa disdained her throne and chose to sit across Draco at mealtimes. Instead of changing for meals, Narcissa had allowed Draco to come to the table wearing his everyday clothes (not that the outfits differed much in style - the formal dining clothes were just several hundred galleons more expensive). This was the first time Draco would be dining in his father's presence in several weeks.

He supposed that he should get ready. Special dinner preparations such as that night always took hours. He would have to select an outfit, inspect every inch of it to make sure there were no tears or dirt, style his hair, and then compose himself. Draco was not a person to be hurried, and he usually spent hours preparing, doing everything himself (he didn't quite trust the house-elves' sense of style), except for the most menial tasks such as polishing the shoes.

A soft knock came at the door. "May I come in, Draco?"

"Yes, Mother."

Narcissa opened the door and her thin, wraith-like self stepped into the bedchamber. She looked like a passive woman, and she was in many ways. During the long years of marriage, Lucius had changed the once proud and headstrong rose of the Slytherins into an obedient wife trained to live life like a ghost. She played meager roles in both her husband's and her son's lives. After Lucius married her and she had the ring on her finger, he had ignored her. Then, when her son was born, a wet nurse had been hired to raise Draco. Narcissa, in Draco's childhood, saw him only once every two days.

"I hear that you are dining with your father today," she said, gray eyes taking in the open wardrobe and clothes spread out on the bed.

"Father has requested that I should be dining with him," he replied blandly.

"Yes, Suki told me."

"Will you be joining us?" he asked. Draco knew it was a stupid question. How would it be a private dinner if his mother was there too?

"No, I am afraid no, Draco. Your father tires of me..." she said, sadly shaking her head no.

It was the same old story every time she came to see him. She would somehow work this complaint into every conversation. She would not leave now until she had told him the latest examples of Lucius' coldness. It seemed as if she still couldn't understand why he was no longer in love with her, if it had ever been love.

"I know I say the same thing every time, but...your father was never in love with me, Draco. He never even spared me a glance during the first few years at Hogwarts. I always liked him, though. He was the best looking, the most popular, and the most intelligent Slytherin. I was so happy - ecstatic - when he proposed. I should've known, though. Why would he suddenly propose to me when he had never looked at me? After we were married, I constantly made excuses to myself for his unfeeling behavior." She laughed softly, hands coming up and then falling hopelessly down again. "Oh, I was a fool. I'm sorry, Draco. I know how he treats you, and I want to apologize. You must pay for my mistake, it's not fair..."

Draco stopped flipping through his wardrobe as Narcissa spoke. Rarely did she ever say so much without stopping and dabbing at her eyes. Much of what she said, he knew already, but he never heard her side of the story. She surprised him this time. He always assumed that Narcissa was a weak and placid woman. She always showed a composed face to the public, but there was nothing behind that calm face. He always assumed that she possessed no will of her own.

In a truly rare moment of pity and feeling, Draco went to his mother and brushed his mouth against her cheek. "Don't worry, Mother, I don't blame you. I never have. We're both in the same boat," he whispered in her ear.

Narcissa nodded wearily. She was surprised. Draco never really touched her if he could help it. This was something new. "Thank you." She turned to leave, but then turned back again. "I came here to ask if you needed any help getting ready. I don't suppose that you do need it?"

Draco had already gone back to selecting an outfit. He shook his head. "No, Mother, I'll be fine. If you see Suki, will you tell her to polish my Cain Elegance shoes?" he asked, looking up. She looked extremely sorrowful, so he tried smiling a little.

She smiled back, slightly less burdened. "Of course I will. Have a nice dinner, Draco."

After his mother left, Draco donned a smartly trimmed dress shirt of silver silk. Then he pulled on a pair of polyester pants dyed the color of true black. He couldn't help but smirk at his own image in the mirror. Pansy Parkinson would risk Azkaban to take a look at him now.

He checked the silver, emerald-etched Felix watch on his slim wrist (it had been that year's birthday present from Narcissa). It was still a quarter to seven. He had taken surprisingly little time in dressing today. He did not doubt that Lucius would find many faults in his appearance tonight.

Draco decided to do his hair later, not wanting to mess it up when he finished. Any other time, he would've taken this precious free time at home to wander around the mansion, usually spending his time appraising his father's collection of foreign and exotic animals.

Lucius had a thirst for powerful and rare creatures. He had spent hundred thousands of galleons building on a new wing to the manor to house his miniature zoo (of course, it was never referred to as a zoo because "zoo" was such an informal and ugly word). The animal collection wing, despite its outside gothic appearance, sported a completely new type of architecture. The massive fore chamber was made of marble. Huge black speckled pillars of imported marble ran from the floor to the ceiling of what would have been the ceiling of the third floor. Behind these pillars was an elegant French entrance, white doors branded with the Malfoy signet.

Whenever Lucius entertained guests, he gave a traditional tour of his collection. He never showed the same animals to everyone. He displayed the exotic and rare to foreign ambassadors, the loud and powerful to members of the Ministry, and the sly but deadly to the aloof and prestigious. Most people assumed that the reason why Lucius had so many people at his feet was because he threatened and blackmailed. Little did they know that it was the Malfoy Exhibit of Rare and Exotic Organisms that did the work.

Instead of visiting the Minion Zoo (as Draco preferred to call it to irk his father), he decided to go straight to the weaponry. The weaponry was just one square room near the animal wing. The weapons room was not built of expensive materials, but in Draco's opinion, the objects in that single room were far more precious than any true coral snake or the Chimaera.

The Founders of Hogwarts each had a weapon of their choice. Godric Gryffindor wielded a sword of silver, the hilt studded with the rarest of rubies. (Draco did not know that Harry had pulled the sword out of the Sorting Hat while fighting the basilisk in his second year.) Salazar Slytherin's greatest weapon was his own power-hungry mind. He could scheme and plot like no other. Yet, he was not to be outdone. He also made himself a silver blade, except the metalwork was much more intricate and precise. The hilt of the sword was etched with fine details of entwined snakes. Unlike the Gryffindor ruby dotted word, the Slytherin blade sported one single emerald on the sword's pommel. The Slytherin house founder's disdain for his rival's 'gaudy' sword was unmasked, and Slytherin never passed up the chance to ridicule the absurd appearance of the sword and how impractically heavy the sword must be with so many rubies.

This sword, the Slytherin weapon, now lay on a custom-made crimson velvet cloth, which was draped over an ebony box the length of the blade. This display was set on a block of stone, mounted on the top of a set of stairs. Whether there was light or not, the blade constantly glittered with magnificence, its beauty undeterred by its old age.

Draco now entered the chamber. The first thing he saw, as always, was the Slytherin sword. He did not know ho it came to be in the possession of his family, and for as long as he could remember, no one had actually held or even touched the weapon. His fingers itched to grasp the handle and go through his fencing paces, but he knew better. Lucius knew how much Draco loved fencing, and he also knew how much Draco wanted that sword. One day, Lucius showed Draco the sword in its display and explained almost gleefully that anyone (except Lucius, of course) who touched the sword would be bound with the Devil's Snare and slowly be suffocated to death. If the Devil's Snare didn't kill them off, a most unpleasant curse that felt like lava pouring eating at your skin would be triggered.

The Slytherin blade was only one of the priceless items around the room. Other equally valuable items were displayed in adamantine cases along the stone walls. It would have looked like a jewelry store except there were no price tags.

The weapons belonging to the other Founders could also be found in the weaponry, save the Gryffindor sword. Rowena Ravenclaw had chosen the Time-Turner to be her weapon. She had been the most responsible out o the four and was therefore allowed to travel back in time. The first Time-Turner ever created lay on a purple cushion, its gold chain sparkling. It looked like any modern day Time-Turner except for the fact that it was made from a cherry birch tree, and the edges of the wood were lined with pure gold.

Helga Hufflepuff, the least known of the Founders as well as the least important, used a six-point star diamond pendant to store her powers. She was the least violent of the four companions and so chose not to wield a killing weapon (well, in most cases). However, her pendant had enough power in it to kill when it was all released.

The star pendant worked like a Pensieve. The owner could store her thoughts and emotions into the pendant. The center of the pendant sported a black pearl, in which everything collected. Every time she had stored a thought, she gave up a bit of herself. This bit of her also contained a morsel of her magical prowess. Naturally, the darker and passionate the thought, the more magic. During times of conflict such as being confronted by an enemy, she had only to crush the pendant against the palm of her hand and speak the magic word. Every bit of feeling and magic would then be unleashed, possibly killing her opponent.

This diamond pendant lay next to the Ravenclaw Time-Turner. No one knew how much power the pendant still contained, and no one dared to try it.

Such Pensieve-like objects were hard to make, as the ingredients were difficult to obtain and magic more advanced. They were referred to as the Hufflepuff Icon, or simply, the Icon. Helga Hufflepuff's weapon was counted among one of the most intriguing artifacts, as no one knew what it contained. Certain philosophers believed that when released, not only would it release the magic, but also the owner's memories. It was hard to tell as each was made slightly differently and no one dared to use the actual object.

Draco checked his watch again. His watch now read eight fifteen - time to finish preparing for dinner.

When he left the room, he cast a backward glance at the mounted Slytherin sword. He could've sworn that the emerald had glowed an unusual green.

~

Ginny wasn't talking to Ron. That much was obvious. How could she, anyway? He'd done an unspeakable thing. He had invaded her privacy, or at least he'd tried to. As much as Ginny loved her brother, she had to draw a line between them where privacy was concerned. After all, no matter how understanding Ron might be, he wasn't an adolescent female and therefore unable to comprehend her feelings.

But how could Hermione tell? Ron said that Hermione told him. But how? Somehow, Ginny didn't think Hermione was the type to just be hopelessly infatuated with someone. Sure, there was Krum during the year of the Triwizard Tournament, but Ginny never really thought that Hermione ever liked Krum much. Hermione was just Hermione.

Sometimes Hermione was the older sister that Ginny never had. Other times, Hermione was a friend, a confidant. Occasionally, she even resented Hermione. Ginny didn't love Hermione as if she was a family member, but she did feel a special attachment to her. Perhaps, after being around boys in the ten years before Hogwarts, she was relieved that Ron had a female sidekick as well.

Right now, Ginny wasn't exactly thrilled that Hermione, to whom she hadn't said a thing about anything, could tell right away and had tattled to Ron. What right did she have anyway? Didn't Hermione understand privacy policies? But then, what right did Ginny have to criticize someone else's actions and say it was wrong? I'm sure Hermione told Ron out of good will, Ginny thought, She probably wasn't expecting Ron to come ask me about it.

The night's events had upset Ginny, but when she thought about it, it was really rather amusing. There had been a verbal war over this tiny aspect of Ginny's life (it wasn't tiny to Ginny though). It was natural for people her age to have crushes like that, wasn't it? Why had Ron been so worked up anyway?

If this had been four years ago, Ginny mused, she would be sobbing and scribbling into Tom Riddle's journal. She would've waited anxiously for his reply, waiting to hear suave words of comfort that often lulled her to sleep.

The door opened and Hermione stuck her head in. "May I come in, Ginny?"

"Why?" Ginny asked sharply. She found to her surprise, though, that her sharp tone was not backed by any reasonable anger. After she had contemplated the situation, she had let her fury go. She had reasoned herself out of anger, and there was only a twinge of annoyance left.

"I think you know why."

Ginny merely grunted consent. Hermione came and sat down on the bed next to Ginny's, Adele's bed. "It was my fault. At least, if I hadn't given Ron that hint, none of this would've happened."

"Keep talking."

"Ron commented that you were acting odd lately. I'd noticed it too, although I didn't think it was abnormal or anything, so I merely suggested that you were in love. I didn't expect him to come and cross examine you like that, I swear it, Ginny. I've never exactly been madly infatuated myself, but I can say that people who are don't like to be questioned. I should've seen it coming, but I didn't, not until it was too late."

Ginny inwardly rewarded herself a point. She was right; Hermione had never gone through this. "What's your point?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "Will you forgive me?"

Ginny stared levelly into the other girl's eyes. Hermione hadn't betrayed her intentionally, but if Ginny trusted her, what if she made another slip? But this was the first time, wasn't it? Hermione deserved a second chance. "All right, I don't blame you. I did," she admitted, "but not anymore."

"Oh, thank you, Ginny!" Hermione made as if to hug her, but she refrained. "Would you like me to talk to Ron? I already did, but I don't think he listened. Would you like to talk to Ron?

"No, it's all right. I don't want to speak with him."

"But please do soon. He was just a bit overprotective, that's all..."

"I know, Hermione."

"Then I'll be leaving."

As Hermione walked out, Ginny suddenly asked, "Aren't you going to ask who it is?"

Hermione turned around. "Who's what?"

"Who I'm 'in love' with."

"Oh. Would you like me to?" Hermione asked quizzically.

"I don't know. I don't even know why I asked."

"Do you want to tell me?"

"I guess I wanted to tell someone..."

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure."

"I'll leave you to it."

"No - it's Colin Creevey."

Ginny blinked in confusion. Had she just said that? Had she actually admitted it? If she had, then it had been pure impulse. Or perhaps it hadn't been. She had wanted to say it for so long. Colin Creevey. She kept it from her friends because they would laugh and tell her she couldn't possibly like Colin Creevey. The Creevey boy who still sometimes went around taking pictures of Harry Potter with that age-old Muggle camera of his? Impossible!

Hermione looked long and hard at Ginny. "I can't say I'm not surprised, but I don't think it's silly. You're embarrassed, because you think people will laugh and brush it off, but I'm not laughing. I think...if you and Colin got together, I'd be happy," she at last formulated.

"Are you sure you're not just saying that to make me feel better?" Ginny asked suspiciously. Of all people, Ginny had thought Hermione would be the most skeptical (she still didn't know what had compelled her to tell the truth). After all, Hermione had never really approved of or liked Colin, even though the two barely knew each other. It was pretty much established that Colin was the annoying Potter fan who went around taking pictures of Harry (although that wasn't true anymore since he had started to take pictures of other things too).

"No, I'm not. I just don't understand why you're keeping it from everyone," Hermione said. " I know you think they'll laugh, but you're a popular girl. Not many would laugh openly at you."

"My reputation-"

"Your reputation does not matter. You should not care about it if you're lovesick over him. I thought you would know that."

Ginny fell back into her pillow in a resigned manner. She was glad she had finally told someone, but she didn't exactly like the advice she was getting. Hermione was right, of course, but it was easier said than done. With one move, she could throw her carefully kept façade away, just like that.

"I think you need some rest, but please think about what I said." Hermione didn't wait for a reply. She merely smiled crookedly and then closed the door behind her.

Rest indeed! Ginny's mind was too worked up to get any rest. Should she tell him, or should she not? She could just imagine herself walking up to Colin in the common room, tapping him on the shoulder, and then confessing to liking him. Just the thought of it made her heart beat faster and her hands all sweaty.

For the rest of the night, Ginny lay in turmoil as she debated back andforth in her head. She ignored Adele when Adele came in and tried to start a conversation. Should she tell or not? The question was wearing her nerves thin.

~

"Ah, stop right there, I say! A pair of feet walking all by themselves! IF you are foe, then I challenge you to a fight!"

Harry nervously drew his invisibility cloak around his feet and hurried past Sir Cadogen's painting. Indeed, the knight had not changed since third year. Harry could hear him waving his sword around and yelling challenges to empty air.

He had been wandering the halls for over an hour, thinking about Hermione. He just couldn't figure it out. He had looked at it in all different lights, but he still couldn't solve the mystery. Was he being especially thick or was he doomed to be as clueless as right then forever?

Lately, something had been bothering Harry. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it seemed like he felt something whenever he was around Hermione. His eyes had begun to pick up details of her face that he had never noticed. For example, he noticed that whenever she pushed her hair back, a lock of her hair always escaped her and would fall into her eyes. When he first started noticing these fine details, it scared him. But now, when he found himself entranced, he would take the liberty to look a little longer and study the contours of her face again.

One day, Hermione was bending over her books when her hair, piled into a loose bun with a pencil, came tumbling down to shield her face from sight. When she straightened, it suddenly struck Harry that Hermione was a very pretty girl. It was just Hermione being Harry's best friend that prevented him from seeing her as any other girl in his grade. He couldn't exactly recall too well what she had looked like in those few milliseconds, but he had been left with the impression that she was beautiful in her own way.

Maybe all boys when growing up started noticing these things in their female acquaintances. The Gryffindor boys never discussed those sorts of things with each other, since Quidditch still occupied much of their minds, but then again, as Ginny had pointed out this evening, such issues were personal. This brought Harry's mind to Ron.

Ron seemed a bit stuffy lately. He was more close-mouthed about many subjects, which caused Harry to suspect something. Whenever Harry brought up the subject of Hermione, Ron would shoot it down quickly, almost as if he was unwilling to talk about her. And then, if Harry said something about Ginny, Ron would either drop the subject a well or mumble some incomprehensible reply. Perhaps, if Ron was smitten with Hermione, that would explain why -

Smitten with Hermione!

Harry suddenly started walking back the way he had come. Of course, he must be in love with Hermione (meaning himself, not Ron)! It didn't take a genius to realize that (so it must've been some stupidity record to take three weeks to figure things out). The symptoms were all there.

Harry jogged back to the Gryffindor tower, his mind at peace now that he had sorted his thoughts out. He wanted to tell Ron and ask him for advice. After all, with five older brothers, Ron would know more about what to do than Harry who had never felt like this before (except with Cho Chang, but she had long graduated, and he had forgotten all about her).

When he opened the portrait hole, the common room was completely silent, and everyone was staring at two figures near the dormitory stairwells. The two figures were Ron and Ginny.

"I really don't need you butting into my love life, Ron! You're really going overboard now!" Ginny was shouting, face all flushed.

"Ginny!"

"Don't, Ron!" Hermione latched onto Ron's robe and restrained him from following Ginny, who had fled upstairs.

Harry quietly closed the portrait hole and crept past Ron and Hermione, who were furiously talking about Ginny.

Seeing that Ginny had rebuffed Ron, Harry decided that this was not the time to carol about his love life. As Hermione was clearly speaking with him, Harry chose to wait for Ron upstairs. While he was waiting, Harry thought, he might as well contemplate how exactly he would break the news to Ron.

~

"Your hair. Boy, what have I told you about your hair? You haven't been using conditioner lately, have you?"

"Yes I have, sir. I always use conditioner."

"Is it the kind I ordered you to use?"

"Yes, Father."

"Huh. Now what's wrong with your shirt?"

"I do not know, Father."

"It hasn't been ironed for awhile, has it? Mm, you must make it clear to the half-witted house-elves that they must iron your shirts on a regular basis, Draco. Really, I'm ashamed of you."

"Father, others cannot tell if this shirt has been ironed or not, nor if my hair has been conditioned."

"But I can, Draco, and that's the point."

"Yes, Father."

"Now, are those the Cain Elegance shoes - ah, yes they are. They have been polished. Well then, sit. Next time, however, I expect you to be more careful with your attire."

"As you wish, Father." Draco drew out an elegantly carved chair out from the small table in his father's private study. On the table, there were to places each with their own complete set of silver and utensils.

"Lakey, pour the wine."

A female house-elf, pretty by house-elf standards, emerged from behind the shadows delicately holding an expensive bottle of wine. She filled her master's goblet first and then poured the liquid into Draco's. Then she set down the bottle, picked up a pitcher on the side of the table, and poured some of its contents into Draco's wine.

"Watered wine. We wouldn't want you leaving drunk, would we?" Lucius said casually.

"No, of course not, Father," Draco replied automatically. To anyone else, the remark would've been a perfectly irrelevant comment, a conversation-starter. Not so to Draco, or Lucius. It was another one of Lucius' subtle insults. He obviously belittled Draco's drinking capacity, ordering Lakey to water the one goblet of wine that his son would drink throughout the meal.

"A toast, I believe, is appropriate," Lucius said, raising his ornate goblet.

Draco raised his as well, but he was surprised. Lucius never proposed toasts to Draco. He wondered what was in store for him.

"After all, you have finally been dedicated into the Dark Lord's service. You and I have been waiting for this a long time, haven't we? Cheers."

"Yes, Father, cheers."

Lucius sipped his wine, but his eyes never left his son. "You're curious as to what this is all about, I see," he said, putting down his cup.

"Mm." This wasn't an exclamation of how fine tasting the wine was. It was another way of saying I-don't-know-what-to-say-so-I'll-just-utter-a-random-noise.

"Harry Potter is not an easy catch. You need to plan every move you make and prepare the countermoves in advance. I don't pretend to beat around the bush. Have you thought at all of what you have been asked to do?" Lucius, while speaking, tapped one of his spoons against his cup.

Draco watched Lakey, with the help of another house-elf, unload the first course onto the table as he thought about his answer. There was no point in lying. He had thought about it since the hour he had entered Voldemort's service. Yet, despite that, he couldn't decide on a plan. "I have considered the proposal-"

"Fool," Lucius hissed. His eyes glittered condescendingly. "Fool. This is not a proposal. IT is your job. You have no choice."

"I have considered it, but I have not formed my plan yet," Draco finished, staring past his father.

"In other words, you have no idea how you might pull it off."

Draco chose not to answer. No matter what he said, his father would only twist it around and repeat it with a knowing sneer. Someone starting out to best Lucius Malfoy with words would have lost even before they opened their mouths. The sad thing was, Lucius in all of his bluntness, was right most of the time.

"I can help you, Draco."

"You have never offered to help me. Why all this sudden kindness?" Draco dipped his spoon into the bowl of bland fish soup (a delicacy nevertheless).

Lucius chuckled softly. "I often wonder wha6t kind of son I have raised - Death Eater or court jester. Your behavior tonight suggests the latter. I do not offer help out of kindness, boy. The Malfoys have always been one of the wealthiest and most prominent pureblood families. Not only are we high in society, but we are also high in the Dark Lord's favor. The Malfoys lust after one thing only - power. There is no Light or Dark, only power, and it is within my liege's grasp, this power that we Malfoys covet. The more the Dark Lord trusts me - you - the more power." He leaned back a bit, wiping the corners of his mouth.

"What is this plan you speak of?" Draco chose to ignore the power speech. After all, he had only heard it every year - it was an annual event.

"My, you do cut quick to the point, don't you? And we are not even through with the first course."

"It's a trait handed down by fathers of this family."

Lucius ignored this comment and swallowed another spoonful of soup. "Lakey, I believe we are done with the soup."

Lakey hurried over again, pulling a small trolley along. She carefully placed the still full soup bowls on the second shelf. The leftovers from Malfoy meals could, in total, feed up to thirty families for five years as everyone only ever ate a morsel of what was served. From the first shelf, she unloaded the next course - lamb leg roast with broccoli on the side. She also refilled Lucius' cup before leaving.

They ate in silence for the next two courses. Very agonizing silences these were, as Lucius observed every move his son made. Draco never fumbled, however, no matter how hard his father stared. If Lucius was looking for etiquette flaws, he would be sorely disappointed. Draco was, after all, his son. Like father, like son. Neatness was as much a part of Draco as breathing. Mannerism was something the Malfoy heir never made a mistake in.

At the end of the third course, Lucius interlaced his fingers and placed the palms down on the table. When he started speaking, his voice was not the usual cold and brisk tone. This voice was deadly and quiet, drawing attention to its speaker.

"Listen to me, Draco. We both want what is best for the Malfoys. I have a plan that is neither suspicious nor two fast-paced."

Draco set down his fork. "What is your plan?"

"You will befriend yourself with the Potter boy."

Draco had to take a gulp of wine in case he started laughing. This was his father's first act of sheer stupidity. Befriend Harry Potter? As if! "Father, you cannot be serious. Trying to be friends with him will cause much suspicion. I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, repent of my sins and join the Light side? Truly, you cannot expect anyone to believe that?"

"Yes, I do expect people to believe it. What else would you do? Send him an anonymous note telling him to meet you on the battlements?"

Actually, that had precisely been what Draco was thinking of doing.

"He'll bring his friends with him. Besides, I already told you, Hogwarts has certain wards to protect it. Also, you cannot be sure you have completely captured him if you just do it physically. Corrupt from the inside. Betray him so that when he kneels before my master, he will have no will left. Betrayal is on your side."

They dined in silence for another while. Lucius clearly did not want to speak again as he wanted for this to sink in. He was on his fourth cup of liquor now, but he showed no signs of weakness.

"I shall do as you bid, then. I see that I have no choice in this matter."

"Is that your excuse, then, for your ignorance? You accept my plan because you claim you have no choice. Ah, but you do, boy. You have many choices. You do not have to follow my intentions. IF you were not so inept, you could come up with many other options. Hogwarts has dulled your brain."

Draco turned his face away. "No, father. Hogwarts has not dulled my brain. It is just that you have lost your control over it. I have said I will follow your plan."

"I never lose control, Draco. Remember that. I suppose we shall have dessert now."

Dessert (some fancy fruit cake sculpture) was served, and Draco was forced to remain another twenty minutes. He mechanically spooned the gooey stuff into his mouth, barely even tasting the cake.

When desert concluded, father and son stood up. They pushed their chairs in and faced each other.

"Thank you, Father, for the delicious meal tonight."

"How could it have been delicious if you looked like you wanted to vomit?"

"I am rather overwhelmed by today's events. I believe, when I go back to my room, I shall simply go to sleep. I bid you a good night."

Lucius nodded curtly. "Oh, I forgot. I asked you not to call me Father anymore," he added shortly.

Draco didn't stop to reply. He walked out the doors as fast as was courteous. He wanted to kick something, destroy something. Anything. Leave it up to his father to expertly weave insults into everything he said. Leave it up to his father to make his son feel like the lowliest being on earth.

It was true, though, that Draco really had no ideas of his own on how he would snare Potter. It had been rather humiliating to have to accept his father's offer. Now that both were in Voldemort's service, the two were more opponents than father and son (not that they were ever close). Of course, they both wanted prestige and fame for the family, but it was also a popularity contest.

"You, light my fire and get out," he said to a nameless house-elf.

After the house-elf bowed his way out the door, Draco slammed it shut and dropped onto the bed fully clothed.

Lucius Malfoy could rot in hell for all Draco cared. In fact, his father deserved nothing less.