Checkmate

When I was 9 I learned survival, taught myself not to care
I was my single good companion, taking my comfort there
Up in my room I planned my conquests
On my own, never asked for a helping hand
No one would understand
I never asked the pair who fought below
Just in case they said no

Pity the child who knew his parents
Saw their faults, saw their love die before his eyes
Pity the child that wise
He never asked did I cause your distress?
Just in case they said yes

Pity the child who has ambition
Knows what he wants to do
Knows that he'll never fit the system others expect him to

Pity the child but not forever
Not if he stays that way
He can get all he ever wanted
If he's prepared to pay

Lyrics from "Pity the Child" from Chess by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * *

"You did what?" hissed Lucius Malfoy.

Draco, standing at attention before his father's desk, could barely hide the surge of triumph that he felt in this moment. He'd never seen his father look so shocked.

The older Malfoy had summoned Draco to his private study the instant Draco had arrived back home from Hogwarts. Now Lucius sat behind that immense mahogany desk, staring at his only son, his stone-gray eyes widened in stunned disbelief.

"I seduced him," repeated Draco in a matter-of-fact tone, allowing just a hint of an arrogant smirk to cross his face. He crossed his arms over his chest, his stance relaxing, and gazed back at his father with exultant pride in his own pale gray eyes. "It was easy."

Lucius's eyes narrowed warily and his fleeting shocked expression turned hard, suspicious. "Easy?" he echoed in an icy, silken voice. "Easy . . . to seduce another boy - Harry Potter - who's been your bitterest enemy?" He studied Draco in steely silence for a few seconds. "Just how far did this . . . seduction . . . go?"

"As far as it could have," replied Draco smugly, fiercely glad that it was true, that Harry had talked him out of waiting, so that he could throw it up now in his father's face. "We became lovers," he stated, then cursed himself inwardly for the involuntary flush of heat that swept through him at the thought of Harry in his bed, knowing that his face was coloring in an all too revealing way. He looked down, away from Lucius's cold, perceptive gaze.

Lucius rose from his chair and came swiftly around the desk to stand face-to-face with his son. He took hold of Draco's chin in a rough grip and forced the boy to look at him. "You enjoyed it," he stated flatly, his upper lip curled slightly in disgust. "Didn't you?"

"I did what I had to do," said Draco, pulling away, swallowing at the sudden lump in his throat, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to keep control of the situation and sound cool and detached even as waves of desire and longing washed through him. He started to take a step back, but his father caught the collar of his cloak and held him in place.

"Don't lie to me," said Lucius, a taut, warning edge in his voice.

"I've never lied to you, Father," said Draco firmly in a low, offended tone.

"And I never raised you to be queer." Lucius's eyes were filled with repugnance.

Draco met the candid distaste in his father's eyes squarely, his chin coming up with insult. "So what if I am?" he demanded defiantly. "So what if I had my pleasure from him before you take him and destroy him? The point is," said Draco, regaining his confidence, "he trusts me now. He'll come running to meet me whenever I ask. And he'll come alone. Unsuspecting."

Lucius fixed Draco with a shrewd calculating stare for another few seconds while he considered that, then abruptly laughed and let Draco go. "So, you'll not only turn over an enemy, you'll betray a lover," he said, his voice quiet, conniving. He walked back to the chair behind his desk and sat down, nodding thoughtfully. "I'm beginning to like the idea. Go on," he said. "I'm listening. What's the rest of this brilliant plan?"

A small secret elated thrill ran through Draco. He pulled the two Portkeys out of his pocket and stepped forward to place them on the desk in front of his father. "These will take us to an abandoned Portkey hub between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade," he explained. "It's overgrown, forgotten and completely hidden from the road. I've already arranged for Potter to meet me there the day after tomorrow, at three o'clock. He believes I'm going to come back early from the holidays, so we can be together." Draco smiled craftily. "I'll go first, alone, to meet him so that he thinks everything is okay, and to make sure everything is secure. Then you show up a few minutes later. All we need is another Portkey to bring the three of us back here after you put him under the Imperius Curse."

Lucius looked up from examining the Portkeys. "He has the ring?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Draco. "I made him promise not to take it off while I was gone."

"And did you put a spell on it?"

Draco's eyes met his father's steadily. "Not after I found out you'd put that will-sapping spell on it," he said.

With a slight nod of approval, Lucius picked up one of the Portkeys and inspected it closely. "I can easily make a Portkey to bring us back here, but where did these come from?"

"Dumbledore, himself, made one of them for me," said Draco. "I duplicated it to make the other."

Lucius looked up sharply and frowned. "And why would Dumbledore make you a Portkey?"

Draco laughed. "I asked him to," he said with frank bluntness, taking them back from his father. "This is my emergency escape route," he said, tossing one of them into the air and catching it nimbly, then pocketing them both. "I told him I was afraid to go home. That I no longer agreed with your alliances and didn't trust you."

"And he believed you?"

"Oh really, Father," said Draco scornfully, "that was the easiest part. Everyone there thinks you're such an evil bastard, they were more than willing to believe that I hate you and want to defect. Well, except for Weasley, and no one listens to him."

"And you are a fool if you think you can deceive Albus Dumbledore so easily," said Lucius. He studied Draco, still frowning. "If Dumbledore made one of these, then he knows where it goes. Did you consider that?" he asked with rising anger. "If Potter disappears, that may be the first place they look!"

"And find what?" Draco countered evenly. "What I've planned will be fast and untraceable."

"Suspicion will still fall on us," Lucius snarled, "since you made such a point of telling Dumbledore that I am not to be trusted - not even by my own son, since he himself gave you that Portkey."

Draco shrugged. "Actually," he said, "my little love affair itself is the perfect alibi." He faced his father's displeasure with perfect composure and explained. "Dumbledore knows I'm involved with Potter and believes I'm completely sincere - so I intend to be utterly devastated by the news of his mysterious disappearance. If I'm asked, I will have spent a quiet holiday here at home while you were traveling right after Christmas. I never needed to use the Portkey and I won't have any idea what happened to Potter." He leaned forward and put his hands on his father's desk. "Father, they trust me," he said, stressing this. "It won't be hard for me to act credibly upset that he's missing and convince them I had nothing to do with it." Draco straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest. "But you, on the other hand," he went on, "will have to set up some kind of alibi right away. I'm assuming you will want to take Potter away from here immediately, so perhaps . . . a business trip . . . would be a good possibility."

"Perhaps," conceded Lucius after a moment, still frowning. Then he sat back in his chair and a small evil smile curled at one corner of his mouth. "I have to admit, Draco," he said. "I am surprised. This might have actually worked." Then he shook his head. "But, day after tomorrow is impossible," he said decisively. "That doesn't give me enough time to make the necessary arrangements." He gave Draco a cool, reprimanding glance before picking up a sheet of parchment on his desk. "You should have let me know about this several days ago . . . like I asked you to."

"But it has to be now," insisted Draco, "while all of his friends are gone for the holidays and Potter is alone at the castle. The day after Christmas is the perfect time - the teachers will all be busy preparing classrooms and lesson plans for the next term, there are no formal meals - no one will think it's unusual if they don't happen to see Potter during the day. It will be hours, maybe even a whole day or more, before he's missed."

"That may be," said Lucius dismissively, "but I still needed time to check with the others I'd planned to include - "

"No!" said Draco. "No one else! This is my plan - our plan. If it fails, you can blame me and I'll accept the consequences, but I don't want anyone else involved."

"This is too important to risk failure. The Dark Lord won't accept any excuses. You know there can be only one possible consequence for you if this fails. . . ."

"Of course, I know! And I'm fully prepared to face that. But it won't fail," said Draco looking up at his father, the light of expected triumph shining in his face. "Do you really want to share the credit, the achievement of capturing Harry Potter for the Dark Lord, with anyone else?" He leaned closer, his voice soft with excitement. "This act alone will guarantee that the Malfoy name will finally attain its rightful place in history - the place it has long deserved. Think of what you will gain! Your loyalty to the Dark Lord will be beyond question, your place at his side assured."

Draco paused for a second, then slowly walked around the desk to stand next to his father's chair. "Please, Father," he pleaded. "Let us do this together . . . just us. Let it be our secret - until the very moment the surprise is revealed to our Lord."

He went down on one knee, his head bent in deferential submission. "You asked me to come up with a plan," he said compellingly, "to prove to you exactly where my loyalties lie and I have done that. I did this for you, Father . . . and only for you . . . to show you what I am capable of. I'm only asking that you to give me that chance. Let me do it the way I planned. Please."

"Get up," said Lucius roughly, though his eyes sparked with satisfaction. "The Malfoys kneel to no one save the Dark Lord."

Draco stood, his eyes still downcast. "It will never happen again," he said quietly, then looked up to meet his father's eyes. "I promise."

Lucius steepled his fingers against his chin and regarded Draco intently. "I will consider your plan. We will have to go over the details tomorrow evening after the ball - there are still some loose ends that I am concerned about. But for now, you may go."

Draco bent his head, acquiescing, and went to the door. As he reached for the doorknob, his father called his name and he turned.

"Draco," said Lucius, a trace of grudging respect in his voice, "well done."

* * *

Draco grinned as he shut the door to Lucius's study and stepped out into the lamp-lit hallway, allowing himself this one moment of exultation as the long sought-after words of his father's approval rang in his ears. Even if the words were offered a bit begrudgingly, Draco felt quite pleased with himself as he set off for his suite of rooms on the third floor - he had done well. Very well, indeed. Not only were all the pieces of his plan now in play, but he'd won this small, previously elusive personal victory as well.

Not everything was settled of course; his father had not actually agreed to carry out his plan, but Draco was confident now that he would. He knew his father well enough to know that Lucius never agreed to anything straight away - his need to withhold agreement while he considered things was his way of maintaining the upper hand over anything Draco might have suggested. It had to be clear that it was Lucius who was in control and made the decisions.

Draco laughed to himself at how well he had played his part. He had expected his father to disagree about the rushed timing, but had deliberately informed him of that at the last minute to prevent him from forming additional plans. It had been a calculated risk and, aside from the fact that kneeling to the man had turned his stomach, Draco had prepared his arguments well in advance. It was critical that his father agree to do this now because the spell on Harry's ring was not permanent and would dissipate in strength slowly over the next two to three weeks. Draco acknowledged this fact with a lingering feeling of concern. The timing of this plan was everything and if his father didn't agree to go through with it on the day after tomorrow. . . .

Still, now that the nerve-racking interview with his father was over, now that the anxiety he'd felt for days, wondering if his father would even consider his plan, could be put behind him, other realities came into focus. It was Christmas Eve, past time for supper, and Draco was tired and hungry. The train ride home had been infinitely tedious and tomorrow would be another excruciatingly long day - the Malfoys always entertained on Christmas Day, hosting a mammoth Christmas banquet with a formal dress ball afterwards. Draco somehow had to get through tomorrow, convincingly acting the part of the smiling and gracious host, and then . . . the next day - the day he would see Harry for the last time - would come all too soon. At that thought, his brief sense of triumph deserted him. Winning his father's praise now, he admitted, was a hollow victory at best. Its sweetness was fleeting and artificial, leaving behind an unsatisfying and bitter aftertaste.

House-elves, frantic with preparations for tomorrow's festivities, ducked and scurried quickly out of Draco's way as he strode through the front hallways of the immense and opulent manor that had been home to many generations of Malfoys. Portraits of Malfoy ancestors watched him from every wall with sly, cunning eyes, or vain, insipid expressions. They had not all been pale or blond, but each had his own individualized version of the distinctive Malfoy sneer. Draco felt that inbred sneer curling at the corners of his own mouth as he met their stares boldly. Their eyes followed him everywhere, always relentless, watching, he thought, for any sign of weakness. As far as he was concerned, they were all spies for his father and he treated them accordingly.

All he really wanted right now was to have supper brought to his room and to be left alone for the rest of the night. There were things he longed to think about. Like how much he missed Harry. And making love with Harry. He just wanted to lie in bed tonight and drown in last night's memories. He felt miles and ages away from this morning when he had last held Harry in his arms.

Draco paused a moment outside the entrance into the great ballroom, then went inside. House-elves were rushing in all directions, putting the finishing touches on the banquet tables and the Christmas decorations. The black marble floor had been polished to such a brilliant sheen that Draco could see his reflection mirrored in it, as if he walked across the surface of a vast dark pool of water. Glittering sparks of golden light from a hundred candles floating overhead, and the darting rainbow hues of the fairy lights in the Christmas decorations, reflected in it too, seeming like underwater stars and tiny multi-colored comets. He caught one of the elves that dashed past him carrying garlands of holly and sent her to the kitchen with instructions to have food sent up to his room. One good thing about being home, Draco mused as he continued on to his rooms, was being able to eat whenever, and wherever, he liked.

He saw no one else until he reached the second floor landing of the curved marble staircase, and then a voice called his name softly, as if not wanting to be overheard. Draco turned to see his mother standing in the doorway of her private rooms. When he paused on the landing, she came down the hall to meet him, pulling a thin gauzy shawl over her long white dressing gown, her light blond hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She reminded Draco of a ghost, pallid and insubstantial, gliding toward him down the darkened hallway. She was too thin, and her face, more pinched and gaunt than ever, still had its seemingly permanent, sour expression. But she must have been beautiful once, thought Draco sadly, before her marriage.

"You've been with your father," she said quietly, almost accusingly, as she reached him. It was not a question, and yet it was.

"Yes," said Draco, knowing at once that she understood the significance of that meeting - that she was quite aware of the conflict that had been escalating between her husband and her son over the last year and a half, and that since last summer Draco had been summarily banned from his father's presence. And Draco knew, too, that she was asking him to tell her what was going on. "Apparently, I've been forgiven," he said with feigned casual indifference in answer to the unspoken question, not willing to be more specific.

"Which can only mean one thing," said Narcissa in a hard, knowing tone, "- that you've given in and obeyed him."

"Mother," said Draco a little impatiently, wanting to placate her and escape, "it doesn't matter -"

Narcissa's hand closed on his wrist, cutting him off; her fingers were cold and when she spoke again, her voice was trembling. "Listen to me," she said urgently. She hesitated, glancing around, then drew Draco back into the shadows of the hallway. "I don't know what he's asked of you, but you are seventeen now," she said in a very low severe voice. "He will expect you to make certain choices . . . ask you to do things . . ." She broke off with a small shiver, then went on in a whisper, ". . . things . . . that you must not do . . . no matter what he says."

"Don't you think I know exactly what he expects?" hissed Draco softly, his temper flaring, lightning-quick. "Or what he wants me to do?" Where were you when he was casting the Cruciatus Curse on me? he thought bitterly.

She drew back slightly, seeing the anger in his eyes. His eyes were so like his father's and yet . . . unlike. . . .

"I know what I have to do," he said with inarguable finality.

It was a finality that frightened her, and she saw then the pain that lay behind the anger in his eyes. "Draco, no. Please," she said, suddenly dropping all pretense of sternness and begging. "You are my only child. You are the one thing in this world that I have ever truly loved . . . and I know . . . you have every right to despise me. I always did what he wanted . . . and did nothing to protect you from him. I was too afraid." Her fingers tightened around his wrist. "I was never strong," she whispered, her eyes filling up with tears. "But you are. Don't let him take you. Don't let him turn you into the monster that he is." She clasped his hand with both of hers, clinging. "Draco, promise me you won't become what he is. Please . . . promise me that I . . . won't lose you, too."

The last words came out with a strangled sob that tore straight into Draco's heart, ripping away his anger as if with a jagged blade, and he pulled his mother into a sudden embrace. She felt wrath-like and frail in his arms and grief choked him. It was too late, far too late for this.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he said, his voice breaking. He held her for a few seconds longer, wishing there was something else he could say, some kind of explanation. "He has given me no choice," he whispered finally, then wrenched away abruptly, his throat filled with an aching sorrow as he fled up the stairs to his rooms.

* * *

Draco entered his suite, shutting the door and leaning back against it, shaken to the bone. Oh, bloody hell. His mother. He'd never seen her cry. But much worse, he'd never given one thought to her, never once had he considered if his plan might hurt her. He'd been so focused on Harry, worrying about Harry's feelings, so caught up in his own feelings for Harry. . . .

"You are the one thing in this world that I have ever truly loved . . ."

He pushed away from the door and crossed the sitting room blindly to go into his bedroom. Slamming the bedroom door behind him, he threw himself down on his back on top of the bed, eyes tightly closed, his arms wrapped tightly over his chest, holding in the anguish that threatened to explode inside him. How could he have planned something that would leave her devastated . . . and alone?

"Promise me I won't lose you."

Draco groaned softly, appalled.

When he'd devised his plan, he'd acted in the belief that - like a Pawn perfectly positioned to make an unexpected and pivotally strategic move that would bring about the capture of the opponent's Queen - Draco Malfoy was expendable. It was the Pawn's position, its movement in the game that was important, not the Pawn itself. The Pawn was merely the means to achieve an end - no one cared if it was sacrificed and taken from the board. Draco had been no one's love; there had been no one who would miss him or care what happened to him.

He hadn't considered his mother's feelings at all in his planning, but even if he had, he wouldn't have known this - that she loved him so very much. He hadn't had any idea before of what she'd told him tonight. And as for Harry, never, in any of his expectations of reality back then, was being loved by Harry Potter a possibility. So that belief, that he was alone, that no one cared, had given him the freedom to act as he needed to. The only thing he'd had to overcome then had been his own selfishness, his own fear. But now. . . .

"Don't you know that if anything happened to you now, what I would regret for the rest of my life would be the future we never got to have, all the things we never got to do together?"

Harry's words rang in his memory clearly, haunting and so dear . . . and almost unbearably heartbreaking. The memory of all that Harry had wished for their future came back to him now in agonizing detail, and the immensity of what he was giving up crashed down on him. Hot tears slid from under his lashes and ran down his temples into his hair. He swallowed hard against the painful constriction in his throat, then opened his mouth slightly, breathing in short, shallow gasps. This was twice now that he'd been reduced to tears. If he had never cried in his life before last week, it seemed now that he couldn't stop.

Harry had opened him up, broken down his inner walls, exposed him and made him feel. And now everything stung, like acid poured on raw skin. He both loved and despised this change in himself. It meant he'd finally let someone get close, let someone in under his masks and armor and indifference. But oh, God, why did it have to be Harry? Why did he have to love the one person on the whole bloody planet that he couldn't have simply because the very fact that he loved that person forced him into a choice that would surely break them apart. He bit down savagely on his lower lip. Why did he have to make this brutally unfair choice?

What choice? he thought then, in anguish. When did I ever have a choice? He clearly remembered when the first dawning awareness had come to him that his life didn't have to be irrevocably bounded by the beliefs of his father, only to have that be swiftly followed by the realization that no matter which way he went, it still was. He thought back to that long ago summer after fourth year, after he'd confronted Harry and was hexed on the train, and how he'd spent the summer coming to grips with his newly discovered feelings for Harry. How his sudden baffling fear for Harry's safety had gradually revealed itself as something even more inexplicable.

He'd tested his father then, pushing boundaries, skirting or refusing his father's requests, trying the edges of Lucius's limited patience. That was when the Cruciatus Curses had started - the supposed Dark Mark training. And he'd taken it all, all of his father's callousness and abuse, hardening his heart to it, waiting. He'd had no plan then, no hope . . . no choice. Even now, with his plan in motion, his only choice had been between acting or being used - and one of those options was so completely unthinkable that the idea of his having a choice was ludicrous.

But here, tonight, alone in his room without Harry to touch and soothe him, now that he was no longer distracted and consoled with kisses and sweet words, and had only the final grim inevitable outcome of his choice staring him starkly in the face; now he could not hold back the feelings of unfairness and desolation that he'd managed to keep at bay at Hogwarts and the tears poured out of him like a bitter salt tide. A terrible heaviness filled his chest, as if a great weight bore down on him so that he felt he could barely breathe. He pressed the back of one clenched fist to his mouth to stifle a sob, but it came anyway, and for several long minutes he abandoned all thought and gave up fighting it, letting the uncontrollable flood take him.

He'd been rigidly taught, had believed, that tears were a sign of weakness. But it wasn't the tears now that made him feel weak. It was his inability to shut out the pain. And certainly it was weakness to be railing against what had to be done. Why did he have to make this choice? Because there was no one else who could do this, and it was too important - he could not let anyone's pain stand in the way of it - not his, not Harry's, not his mother's. He knew the answer to his question. Had always known it. There simply was no other choice.

Draco opened his eyes and stared up at the dark canopy over his bed, taking several deep breaths. Impatiently, he wiped away the wet, tell-tale tracks of his inner battle with the back of one hand and the wrist of his sleeve. He'd held back so much while he'd been with Harry, perhaps this momentary breakdown had been inevitable. But resolve, and yes, resignation, too, both familiar emotional allies lately, were stirring in him again, bolstering his determination. He remembered the moment on the train coming home when his eyes had stung with unshed tears. But he'd fought them then and had to do the same now - had to wall up his heart all over again and go on.

He heard the outer door to his rooms open. A second later, there was a timid knock on the door to his bedroom. "I is bringing up your dinner, sir," said a small, squeaky voice.

"Just leave it out there," called Draco gruffly, and he heard the soft clatter of a tray being set down and then the far door clicking shut again. With an effort, he got up and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He'd gone all day without eating, having not eaten on the train, and before that, skipping breakfast because he had gone out to write the note to Harry in the snow. The heavy weight in his chest lightened a little at the memory of that, easing his dark thoughts for a moment, and a small smile turned the corners of his mouth, softening his tense face. He might never know if Harry had even seen it, but it had been something he couldn't resist doing even if it was silly - a last declaration, a last happy memory he would have, imagining Harry finding it, and hopefully something that Harry would remember with pleasure too . . . someday.

Standing up, feeling shaky and yet somehow more confident, more sure in his purpose, Draco made his way into the sitting room and his dinner. His hand crept up to find the pendant he wore under his shirt - Harry's Christmas gift - the most tangible of the many gifts Harry had given him. Touching it gave him so much comfort. There was still so much he wanted to remember and think about. Maybe . . . maybe he didn't have to wall up his heart just yet. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Tonight, he'd promised himself his memories.

* * *

At Hogwarts, sitting in one of the chairs by the fire in Draco's room after dinner, Harry was alone on Christmas Eve for the first time in years. Either Ron, or both Ron and Hermione had stayed with him over the holidays before, and he missed them. He smiled, thinking of Ron, and tried to imagine how his friend was going to handle giving Hermione her engagement ring. Picturing their smiles and the no doubt delighted surprise of their parents made him very happy for them . . . and immensely lonely. He wished again that Draco had not insisted on going home. More than anything, he missed Draco.

The concern he'd felt that afternoon for Draco had returned full force. Draco had to be home by now, facing his father. Harry was very worried about that, hating the distance that separated them and the anxiety of not knowing what was happening. Was Draco safe? Would he be able to come back? What if he was in trouble and couldn't use the Portkey? So many things could happen, so many ifs. Two days seemed an eternity to wait.

And though Draco was uppermost in his mind, the other boy was not Harry's only worry. He reached into his pocket and drew out a crumpled, folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, Harry studied Cho's letter again. He'd read it over and over in the couple of hours since he'd received it, until he practically had it memorized.

He reread it again now, biting at his lower lip fretfully, alternating between being furious with himself that this had happened and being furious with her for waiting so long to tell him. He almost wished she'd never told him. No, that wasn't true - she'd had to tell him, of course he realized that, but oh God, it just shouldn't be happening at all. There were a thousand reasons that it was just so wrong. And yet - and Harry felt rather reproachful with himself for this - the beginnings of excitement and thrill were stirring in him too, as the initial shock wore off.

Cho and her new husband had arranged everything so neatly - they had been quite sensible and careful, and he had to be grateful for that. All this time, though, he thought angrily, for six months she'd let him go on, blissfully unaware of the secret she bore. It was beyond exasperating. But perhaps she'd been right to do so, he admitted finally, to give him time to heal his hurt feelings. If he'd known before now, before he'd understood why she'd slept with him in the first place, before he'd been able to forgive her. . . .

He read one paragraph near the end of the letter over again for maybe the hundredth time:

I truly never imagined this would happen, Harry, and I feel so stupid for not doing anything to prevent it that night. But I want you to know that now that it has happened, I'm very happy about it. I know you, and how much you wanted this, so maybe it was somehow meant to be. Lian and I both want you to be involved, and so, in accordance with his family tradition, we've agreed that you should name her.

Harry folded up Cho's letter and stuck it back in his pocket. He sighed deeply and slumped back into the chair, pulling off his glasses and turning his head to stare into the blurry glow of the fire. Stupid - yes, that was exactly how he felt. Incredibly stupid. What he wanted wasn't this, not like this, not now. But . . . her . . . oh, God. Knowing that made it so frighteningly real and undeniable - and . . . and breathtaking. He'd have to tell Draco about this as soon as he got back day after tomorrow . . . and that was another worry. How would Draco react? Would he understand? Harry fervently hoped so, and then he shook his head with a soft, self-mocking short laugh. Here he was full circle, worrying about Draco again.

He'd decided he didn't want to return to the deserted Gryffindor dorm tonight, preferring to stay here in Draco's room overnight. He had gone back to the dorm briefly to pick up some changes of clothes after dinner and his room had seemed cold and dark and almost foreign with all of his friends gone. For a moment, too, on his way back to the Slytherin tower, he had wondered if he should tell Professor McGonagall where he was. But he hadn't - telling her that he was staying in Draco's room would require far too many explanations. If they couldn't find him for a few hours, well, Harry wasn't going to worry about it. He had enough to worry about already. And he didn't want anyone feeling like they should keep him company. If he couldn't be with Draco, he wanted to be alone so he could think about Draco, and he didn't want to have to explain that to her either.

God, he wished he could know what was happening to Draco right now - just to know he was safe. He closed his eyes, picturing Draco as he'd last seen him, standing in the doorway, smiling sadly, wishing Harry a "Happy Christmas," then tried to imagine where he would be, what he might be doing now, on Christmas Eve. What was his home like? Would he be with his parents . . . or alone in his room? What kind of room did he have there? All of these questions circled through his mind and Harry realized there was so much he didn't know about Draco yet.

Harry remembered the sensation he'd had earlier this afternoon, of thinking of Draco and suddenly feeling as if they were actually together, so real was the illusion of touch, the beating of that heartbeat that echoed his own. Wondering about that now, curious, he breathed deeply and centered himself, thinking of Draco, this time deliberately reaching out with his thoughts through the magic. And almost instantly he felt it again, the closeness, the steady echo of a second heartbeat inside him . . . and a wash of emotion so strong. . . .

* * *

Draco stood at one of the windows by the desk in his sitting room, his picked-over dinner plate pushed away to one side of the table across the room behind him. It was too dark to see much outside, just the pale blue-violet moonlit snow stretching away from the house across the gardens, but he wasn't seeing even that. In memory, he stood at the window of his room at Hogwarts, looking out over the castle grounds as the snow fell, reliving the moment when Harry had said, "God, Draco, how could you imagine I would regret making love with you? I know how uncertain things are." Then Harry had touched him so gently, Harry's next words nearly breaking Draco's heart at the thought that he'd been so wrong - that there was no way that Draco could keep Harry from being hurt.

Then Harry had begged, in a voice that was soft and warm and tender, "Please don't make this something else we never got to share with each other." Those words had shattered all of Draco's best intentions, his resistance evaporating like mist before the sun . . . and Harry had come into his arms, irresistible and inviting; his to kiss, to hold, to love. Harry wanted him - no matter what. Draco had felt dizzy with that knowledge.

They'd held each other for a long, amazing moment, teasing each other in whispers, and then Draco had kissed Harry the way he'd wanted to for so many days, holding nothing back, knowing, knowing what would follow and that he wanted it . . . had wanted it for ages, it seemed. Harry had unbuttoned Draco's shirt, and little thrill tremors had run all through him when Harry had touched his skin. He'd felt melted and unable to think as Harry took his hand and led him to the bed.

That had been only yesterday . . . and yet it felt like a lifetime ago. Draco turned from the sitting room window with a sigh, and walked into his bedroom, absent-mindedly flicking his wand to put out the lamps. As he undressed in the dark by his bedside, more memories surfaced - of two wands and a pair of glasses discarded hurriedly to the night table, of Harry slipping Draco's already unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders while they kissed again beside the bed.

With a small shiver at that last memory, Draco slid into bed and lay on his back, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach, and let the rest of his memories carry him away. . . .

They stood by the bed a moment, kissing each other, both of them shy and eager, anticipation and need building in waves of heat between them. Draco felt light-headed; his heart was pounding. He felt the delicate brush of Harry's fingers at his wrists and over the backs of his hands as Harry tugged at the cuffs of Draco's shirt, pulling the sleeves down his arms and off. Draco wrapped his bare arms around Harry's waist and the shirt dropped unnoticed to the floor.

Harry pulled slowly out of the kiss and then arched back a little within Draco's embrace, his hands going between them to undo his own shirt buttons. Draco released him slightly and then helped by taking hold of the shirt at Harry's waist and pulling the shirttail out. A moment later, Harry's shirt also fell to the floor. Draco lifted one hand and ran his fingers lightly down the length of Harry's body, from the base of Harry's throat down to the top of his jeans, a bare whisper of a touch, and he saw Harry respond to that touch, closing his eyes with a sharply indrawn breath.

Draco felt a deep sense of awe then, that Harry should be so moved by his touch. Harry was strikingly lovely - dark tousled hair and black lashes lying against his flushed cheeks, his lips parted slightly, and as Draco watched, Harry opened his eyes. There was so much love and desire kindling in those shining green eyes that for a moment Draco was lost in them, as lost as he had been the night Harry first kissed him. Never in his life had he wanted to be so much, or give so much, to another person. He sat down on the edge of the bed, overcome with his own feelings of love and desire, and Harry sat beside him, pulling him into another soft, stirring, thrilling kiss, holding onto him with those wondrous, gentle hands that could fill him with fire and magic at a touch.

They broke apart, breathing hard, and for one suspended second their eyes met, and suddenly they were toeing off shoes and shedding jeans and boxers and socks into a jumbled pile on the floor. Harry slid into bed, moving over to the center to make room as Draco got in too.

Draco lay down on his back and reached urgently for Harry, wanting skin against his skin, wanting the solidness of Harry's weight on him, needing Harry's mouth not to be separated from his . . . maybe ever again. Harry was reaching for him, too, leaning over him, so close that their noses bumped slightly. But then Harry pulled back just a little. Looking up into Harry's eyes, Draco saw a question there, as Harry stilled, his body not quite touching Draco's.

"Forever?" asked Harry in a breathless whisper, vivid green eyes holding Draco's gaze earnestly, his fingers coming up to draw a tender caress across Draco's cheekbone.

For a half a second, Draco paused, his heart flying into a thousand broken, melted pieces. He wanted desperately to say it back, wanted to swear it like an inviolable vow, but if he did, would it be a lie? He tightened his arms around Harry, pulling Harry down, and Harry slid his hands under Draco's shoulders, moving over so that he was lying fully on top of him. The body contact between them was suddenly intense, and Draco held on tightly, his eyes closed and his heart pounding. Harry bent his head, resting his forehead against Draco's for a moment, his breathing fast and uneven, then he lifted his face and Draco opened his eyes, meeting Harry's gaze steadily.

"Forever," Draco whispered back, and hearing the assurance and certainty in his own voice, knew that it wasn't a lie, that he was Harry's totally, for however long forever could be for them.

Lying now in his bed at home, Draco remembered this with a deep ache in his heart; the smothering heaviness he'd felt earlier filled his chest again, this time with intense longing. He remembered how deeply Harry had kissed him after that, how passion had ignited like need-fire between them, and how Harry had pressed him down, moving against him so that Draco pressed back up under him, wanting to be so much closer. The incredible searing newness of this, heightened and inflamed by their long pent-up desire, rushed through them both in a rising flood of emotion and arousal, bringing them to the edge so fast. . . . Harry had abruptly broken the kiss and buried his face in the curve of Draco's neck with a drawn strangled moan just as Draco arched up under him, clutching Harry with knees and hands, feeling as if he was sliding off the rim of the universe, his bones turned to liquid fire. Holding Harry, clinging tightly as warmth and love and a sated radiance spread through his body, Draco was distantly aware that he was trembling and Harry, too, was trembling in his arms.

Draco turned over now, curling onto his side, wishing he was back at Hogwarts, that he could simply reach out his hand and find Harry there to hold him and love him again. He felt empty and bereft, desperate suddenly for Harry's touch, needing the comfort only Harry could give him. And then, just as suddenly as he had wished it, Harry was there with him. The sensation of Harry's presence was so real, it made his breath catch.

It was not Harry so much physically, as the feel of the magic he could do that Draco sensed. Draco could feel the magic flooding through him, calming and consoling, just as if Harry was with him. The peacefulness of the spell invaded him and the heaviness he'd felt fell away, leaving him light and weightless, feeling as if he could float. Closing his eyes, he let the feeling ease all his worries, his longing and the fear. Harry did love him, and he loved Harry back with all his heart. He laid one hand just above his heart and his fingers closed around the pendant he wore. "Please remember that I loved you, Harry," he whispered, then let the comfort of the spell drown out his conscious thoughts, and relaxing finally, drifted into sleep.

* * *

The sensation of being with Draco came easily to Harry - he could feel the humming vibration he always felt when doing the magic with Draco and the echo of a heartbeat just next to his own, but this time, underlying that, was a deep sense of sadness, of longing so intense it was painful.

Draco . . . oh, God.

Harry felt the pain inside himself as if it were his own, and for a second he was struck with a terrifying jolt of fear that something was wrong, that Draco was in trouble or even hurt. But a moment later he knew. He recognized that very familiar pain, heart to heart, as the profound longing ache of missing someone you love, and knowing what it meant, he was moved and deeply touched. The love he felt for Draco welled up in him and without stopping to think if it was even possible, Harry whispered the words of the calming spell and imagined the spell traveling out through his thoughts, through this emotional connection they somehow shared. He imagined touching Draco and letting the reassuring comfort of the healing spell flow from him to the other boy, exactly as if he were actually with him. And just as if they were together, he felt the spell taking effect, quickly soothing and replacing the hurt and loneliness, and for a moment it seemed they shared a deep peace together.

Harry didn't know if what he was imagining was true - if Draco really felt the spell or if, perhaps, he had actually only cast the spell on himself - but he hoped that somehow Draco had felt it. But a moment later he felt such a strong surge of love; it was pouring through him like an incoming tide, and Harry knew this feeling. It was exactly like the night he'd first done this spell at Draco's request and first experienced the sense of being joined through the magic, when they had seemed to dissolve into each other and Harry, casting the calming spell on Draco, had felt a flood of love spilling back into himself from Draco. Harry felt this now, the bonding, the joining, and the love that streamed between them. There was no question in his mind now that this was really happening. "I love you, too," he whispered, his heart filling with quiet joy at this miracle, that they could be together even now, while miles apart.

In a little while, the spell slowly dissipated, and Harry, greatly reassured about Draco, went to bed and slept soundly.

* * *

Draco woke slowly, his first thoughts of Harry and of what had happened last night. It had most certainly been real, and he didn't need to understand how it could happen to know that somehow Harry had been able to reach him with the touch of his magic even here, so far away. The effect of the spell seemed to linger within him, or perhaps it was just the knowledge that Harry could still be so close, but there was a deep sense of calm inside him this morning and he felt much more ready to face the long day ahead.

Sitting up, he found his breakfast tray on the bedside table. Christmas breakfast at Malfoy Manor was traditionally served to the family in their rooms. He ate a little, then unwrapped the presents he found at the foot of his bed. From his father, he received books - first editions of two rare 17th century Potions books - at least his father knew him that well, he thought, wondering, too, if anything other than money had been employed in their acquisition. As usual, his mother had given him the dress robe that she expected him to wear today - dark blue velvet with silver trim and a touch of lace at the wrist. It was nice, but not as stylish as the ones he and Harry had worn to the Yule Ball. She had also given him a light gray cashmere sweater and a new pair of black, dragon skin flying gloves. Running his hands pensively over the soft wool of the sweater for a moment, he decided that he would wear it tomorrow to meet Harry, then he picked up one of the books.

It was a beautiful text, with charts, formulas, and elaborate pen and ink illustrations of potions ingredients, and Draco turned the pages carefully, reverently. It was a waste of time, of course, to read these books - but Draco spent the morning doing so anyway, unable to resist them. Eventually, a house-elf had appeared to tell him that his mother was asking for him downstairs and he had reluctantly put the books away. The morning spent reading in his favorite subject, however, had taken his mind off everything else and the continuing sense of calm he'd woken with persisted as he dressed for the banquet.

When he got downstairs, most of the guests had already arrived, and were gathered in the massively decorated, candlelit ballroom. Long tables covered with wine-red damask table linens and laden with all kinds of rich delicacies and hors d'oeuvres, sliced meats, puddings and other sweets were set at intervals along the far back wall. Smaller tables covered in burgundy linen and white lace, each decorated with a lighted candle set in a holly garland, were arranged along the other walls leaving the center of the room for dancing. A small orchestra was playing soft ambient music in one corner. House-elves wearing tea towels with the Malfoy crest kept the tables full of food and brightly colored drinks.

Narcissa was still at the ballroom door, pale and drawn-looking in dark green velvet robes, greeting guests, a crystal flute of golden, chilled champagne in her hand. Draco slipped in past her while she was speaking to Madam Ramsbotham, a stooped, elderly witch with a sheephead cane, a predatory scowl, and an ancient, moth-eaten, ostrich-plumed hat.

Once inside the ballroom, he spotted his father across the room, holding court within a circle of gentlemen that Draco was fairly certain were all Death Eaters. He headed for the tables of food, intending to eat, to let his parents see him in attendance, preferably without having to speak to either of them, and then after the obligatory dancing with the daughters of his parents' friends, to make an unobtrusive disappearance. The idea of dancing with these girls made him shudder to himself. He dreaded it because he always felt put on display - the girls simpering up to him, each hoping to be the one to catch the interest of the immensely eligible and wealthy Malfoy heir. This year he knew he would hate it more than ever - because he'd danced with Harry.

Draco joined the line of guests filling plates at the banquet tables, nodding at a few of his parents' friends that he recognized. Crabbe and Goyle were there with their parents, and were already sitting at a table, stuffing themselves from plates they had piled high. He rolled his eyes when they waved their forks at him. He joined them a few minutes later, his plate laden with much more modest helpings of everything.

Eating with Vincent and Greg didn't really appeal to Draco much, but he didn't want to sit alone. That would be an open invitation for some girl or other to sit down with him, and that was the last thing he wanted. He also knew his old roommates would be far too busy eating to care if he talked to them and that was another thing he wanted to avoid - he wasn't in the mood to have to carry on polite, social conversations with anyone today.

However, about five minutes later he caught sight of Pansy sitting with her parents and froze for a split second with his fork halfway to his mouth. Draco swore inwardly, greatly annoyed with himself. Of course she would be here. He couldn't imagine how he'd been so stupid as to have forgotten that. She'd finally left him alone in the train compartment, but Draco was under no illusions that, if given a chance to continue it, she would let their conversation on the train drop.

As many guests finished eating, Draco saw his father give the signal for the dance music to start, and the room was consequently filled with the sound of violins and flutes soaring into a waltz. Several older couples drifted out onto the dance floor, and Draco got the distinct prickling sensation on the back of his neck, that several girls had fastened their hopeful eyes on him.

"So, how many hearts d'ya think he'll break today, Vin?" teased Greg with his mouth full, jabbing Vincent in the ribs with his elbow and jerking his head at Draco.

Vincent grinned at Draco. "All of 'em," he said, taking a large bite of cake.

Draco grinned back and picked up his goblet of punch, lifting it in a mock salute to Vincent before drinking it.

"Don't like the girls, our Draco don't," said Vincent knowingly to Greg as he chewed. "You know that."

Draco nearly choked on his punch. He turned to look at Greg who was smirking back at Vincent and felt his face go hot. Bloody hell! Did they really know? He set his goblet down. "Figured that out, did you?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage.

Greg guffawed. "We lived with you for six years, mate, and with the lot of girls drooling over you and you not liking even one back, well, that don't take a genius to figure out."

"And besides that," added Vincent, "Pansy told us on the train."

"She . . . what!?"

"Yeah," said Greg. "She thought it was going to be Big Shocking News, but we told her we already knew."

"That really got her knickers in a knot," said Vincent, with a rude sniggering snort. He paused to bite off a half a piece of mince pie.

"So she said, all know-it-all-like then, that she knew who you fancied," said Greg, picking up the story again.

"And we told her we didn't care who you fancied as long as it weren't one of us," chimed in Vincent, "and that she should mind her own bloody business."

"And what did she say to that," asked Draco, looking from one boy to the other, momentarily horrified and practically holding his breath for the answer.

"She said, 'Fat chance,'" laughed Greg. "Then she just screwed her face up, you know, like she does, and didn't speak to us for the rest of the trip home."

"We didn't let her have none of the Choc'late Frogs she saved for you neither," said Vincent.

"Ha!" gloated Draco. "Excellent." For a moment it seemed like old times - the three of them had been practically inseparable once. He grinned and raised his goblet to them again, feeling enormously pleased. But before he could say anything else, as if conjured out of the air, the subject of their conversation plunked herself down into the one empty chair at their table.

"Oh, hell-o, Pansy," said Greg with such an air of blatant innocence that all three boys snickered.

She gave them each a black look.

"Well, I'm off," said Draco quickly before Pansy could start talking, rising from his seat with a smirk at the other boys. "Got this damn bloody dancing to get on with," he added in a martyred tone, his previously amused expression changing to distaste as he turned away and surveyed the room. If he was lucky, he thought, as he headed toward the tables across the room, he could find Mlle Delauncey, a sixth year at Beaubaxtons whose grandmother had been friends with his grandmother. She, at least, could dance properly.

He had only gone a few steps however, when a hand slipped through his arm, tugging him back.

It was Pansy.

"What?" said Draco, turning and looking down at her irritably.

"Dance with me, Draco," she said imploringly, keeping a tight grip on his arm. "I want to talk to you."

"And whatever gave you the idea I want to talk to you?" he retorted in a lowered voice. "Greg and Vin just let me know what you told them on the train."

"Oh, so what," she countered defensively. "Evidently I was the only one who didn't know." She glared at him, refusing to let go. "I didn't tell them anything else, did I?"

Draco looked away impatiently, scanning the room for some excuse to escape. Perhaps if he spotted Mlle Delauncey he could claim a prior engagement. But instead of the other girl, he happened to catch sight of his father watching him, frowning in disapproval. Noting Lucius's expression with interest, he changed his mind. Suddenly it seemed that dancing with Pansy might have its little compensations after all. At least Pansy knew the truth about him and where he'd given his heart, and in addition to aggravating his father, it would serve to keep the other hopeful girls away. Draco smiled impudently at his father for a second, then turned and nodded to Pansy. "Come on then," he said brusquely, and led her out onto the dance floor.

They danced in silence for several minutes - Pansy could tell that Draco was still put out, and she didn't want him to be. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I shouldn't have told them - but I was angry with you for yelling at me on the train - I was only trying to be nice to you."

"And I had told you I wanted to be left alone," said Draco frostily.

She sighed. This being-a-friend business was going to be far more difficult than she had expected. She guessed Potter didn't have to chip away at the ice wall that Draco always put up between himself and her. And thinking of Potter brought her to the subject she'd wanted to talk to him about.

Waiting a few minutes until they were not too close to any other couple on the dance floor, Pansy voiced her concern. "Did you really tell your father?" she asked in a strained whisper. "About you and Potter?"

"Yes," said Draco shortly. "As soon as I got home last night."

"I find that hard to believe," said Pansy, looking up at him skeptically, "since you don't appear to have been dismembered. No visible hex marks, either."

"I told you, I'm only doing what my father asked me to."

She studied his inattentive face and shook her head, not at all fooled by his practiced, cavalier manner. "Draco, what are you really planning?"

"If I have to dance with you, I will," said Draco with cool indifference, "but I am not playing twenty questions."

"You love him," she went on, ignoring this rebuff. "You told me so yourself, and I've seen it in your face." She snorted. "You couldn't even risk hurting his feelings by breaking up with him for five minutes without giving him hints so he knew you didn't mean it! Don't deny it," she said at his frown, "I know you did. And now you're trying to tell me you've only been going along with something your father asked you to do? Well, I don't believe it! So, I want to know - what are you really planning?"

Draco eyed her seriously, perhaps for the first time in his life. "There is a war starting," he said acidly. "So, tell me, Pansy, which side are you on? Do you stand with the rest of this herd of bleating sheep? Or on your own two feet?"

"I can think for myself perfectly well, Draco, if that's what you're getting at," she said tersely. But she shivered a little at the new intense look in his eyes, as if he wasn't looking through her like he usually did, as if he finally saw her. "I have no particular reason to be loyal to that lunatic they call the Dark Lord," she said. "Or to Dumbledore, either." She lowered her eyes for a moment, screwing up her courage. "I would stand with you," she said softly, looking up at him with determination, "wherever that is . . . if you would let me."

Draco looked away. After a moment, he said, "That's not good enough. You're still acting like a sheep."

"I am not a sheep!" she said, drawing herself up indignantly. "I'm being . . . a . . . a friend, Draco. Potter said . . . if I cared about you, I should try being your friend. But you shut everyone out," she added resentfully. "Everyone but him."

Taking time to consider this, Draco danced with her in silence for several minutes. At least she hadn't told Vince and Greg about Harry. "If you really want to help me," he said finally, watching her carefully, "there is one thing you can do." Then one corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight, amused grin. "But it will be hard," he said, teasing. "You won't like it."

"What?" she asked, offended at his mocking tone. "I can do anything you ask me to, Draco."

"What will help me the most," said Draco, turning serious, "is for you to keep your mouth shut and don't interfere."

She glared at him for a second, then twisted away angrily as if she meant to walk off the dance floor. But Draco held on to her and pulled her tighter against himself, forcing her to keep dancing.

"Let me go," she snapped. "All you ever do is insult me - "

"That wasn't an insult," he cut in insistently. "It was the truth."

The sudden, unusual earnest tone in his voice caught her attention and she stopped fighting him.

He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. "Pansy, think! If my father suspects you know anything at all, it could ruin everything. If I'm going to trust you, I need you to swear to keep what you know totally secret - just between the two of us. Will you promise me that?"

His hair tickled her cheek softly and the brush of his mouth against her ear set tremulous fluttery feelings loose in her stomach. She let him sweep her around the dance floor one full turn before she gave him her reluctant but predictable answer. "Yes," she whispered, and was rewarded with a dazzling smile that took her breath and made her forget everything else.

For the rest of the afternoon, he danced with her, and laughed at things she said, and brought her goblets of pink punch and plates of sweets. The jealous glares she got from several girls in the room was just icing on the cake. Oh, she laughed to herself, not able to resist gloating a little, if only they knew what she knew. It wasn't until she was in the carriage on the way home, mulling over the strange sense of solemnity that had colored Draco's goodbye to her at the door, that she realized he'd told her nothing. She was sworn to secrecy and still had no idea what he was planning.

* * *

Draco stood next to his father at the grand entrance doors to the manor as a soft blue dusk fell over the snowy lawn and the tall lanterns were being lit, saying goodbye as their last guests departed. He could tell from the set of his father's jaw that Lucius was annoyed, yet the elder Malfoy was all that was charming and gracious as he thanked their visitors for coming and wished them a Happy Christmas. Draco had not made an early escape after all, and Lucius had plucked him from the ballroom to stand here at the door with the simple inarguable statement, "I want you out there with me . . . now."

The long, formal flagstone walkway from the door to the drive, where carriages were lined up to receive the departing guests, was bordered with elegant topiary and had been swept free of the snow. But Draco, watching his father closely, saw him glance outside several times, his eyes narrowing in thought, to where one of the outside lanterns cast a faint golden glow over the snow-covered lawn. Draco couldn't see what was attracting his father's continued interest - the snow wasn't even pretty there since it had been tracked up by the house-elf that had lit the lantern earlier.

Still, it was evident to Draco that his father was annoyed, and he hoped that it wasn't with him. Well, he had intended to annoy him a little with Pansy, but considering what was at stake, he hoped he hadn't gone too far.

When the last guest had gone and the house-elves were closing and locking up the doors, Lucius turned to Draco with a hard look in his eyes. "Come to my study," he said in a tone that allowed no refusal. "There are things we need to discuss."

Draco followed him without a word, his heart beating rather fast in his throat. At a turning in the halls, Draco caught a glimpse of his mother standing in a doorway watching, one hand on the doorframe as if to steady herself, a half-full champagne flute in her other hand. He turned away quickly.

"I saw you with that Parkinson girl," said Lucius as soon as they'd entered his study and the doors were closed firmly behind them. "And I saw the way she was hanging on you while you danced attendance on her all afternoon. Are you involved with her?"

"No!" exclaimed Draco, slightly startled by the abrupt question. "Absolutely not. Pansy is noth- . . . a friend." He stared at his father, irritation surfacing in a rush. "I've already told you I don't fancy girls," he said blatantly, aggravated.

Lucius returned Draco's insolent stare with an icy, commanding glare of his own, then turned his back and crossed the room to sit down at his desk. "I don't care what you do or don't fancy, Draco," he said severely. "But understand this very clearly now - whatever your . . . preferences, you will be married. You will produce at least one heir to carry on the Malfoy name. And you will not jeopardize that by getting involved with someone who is beneath you."

Draco stiffened. He'd been expecting this, not that it mattered now, but still. . . . "So who's the unlucky girl?" he asked curtly. "I assume you have someone in mind?"

"Not yet, but you can be sure it won't be Parkinson's little chit," said Lucius with a disapproving sneer. "She's entirely too . . . unrefined, and her family is not at all in a class with us, socially or financially. I have contacts on the continent with eligible daughters much more . . . suited to our requirements."

With a snort that was part amusement that his father actually agreed with him about his marriage prospects with Pansy and part derision at his father's conceit, Draco raised one eyebrow. "I'm frankly surprised you haven't arranged it all already," he said resentfully. "I expected all year to be notified of my impending wedded bliss."

"When the Dark Lord is victorious," responded Lucius smoothly, "and we see who still stands with us, then will be the time to consider finding a suitable match for you."

"Whatever you say, Father," replied Draco dismissively, suddenly bored with the discussion. It really didn't matter. "I will leave that in your much more experienced hands," he added, surprised that he managed to keep the sarcastic tone in his voice fairly understated.

"As you should," said Lucius, ignoring Draco's unsubtle dig at the state of his parents' marriage. "Now, we need to discuss this plan of yours." He waved to one of the chairs opposite his desk. "Sit."

Draco sat down facing his father. "Yes," he said, his interest recaptured immediately. This was what he had been waiting for all day. "What have you decided?" he asked impatiently.

"First, there is something you didn't think of - a major flaw in your plan. I saw it as we stood at the door." Lucius looked expectantly at Draco as if hoping he would figure out what it was, and a shadow of disappointment crossed his face when Draco shook his head slightly. "The snow, Draco," he explained with exaggerated patience. "Potter will leave a clear set of tracks if he walks from Hogwarts to meet you. The trail will lead any search party directly to that Portkey hub, and since Dumbledore knows you have that Portkey, you will most certainly be implicated in his disappearance."

Draco swore under his breath. His father was right; he hadn't considered the snow. Thinking fast, he gave a small, unconcerned shrug. "What if he doesn't walk there?" he asked. "I can write to him tonight - ask him to fly out on his broom. In fact, if he does that, I'm guessing he will leave the castle through the window in my room instead of going out the front door. That will confuse any search even more." He raised one eyebrow impertinently at his father. "And surely you know a spell for covering up any tracks we make at the Portkey hub before we leave."

Lucius narrowed his eyes, looking as if he'd just bitten back a nasty comment.

"Well, that solves that," said Draco, gazing appraisingly back at his father, meeting his stare straight on. "But really, Father," he added with unconcealed contempt, "how careful do we have to be? When Potter is taken, it will be an open declaration of war. If we are successful and get Potter, it hardly matters then, does it, if they discover who did it?" He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Or are you still afraid to openly proclaim which side you are on?" he challenged. "Maybe you were planning to plead the Imperius Curse again."

"I intend to land on my feet whichever side wins," snarled Lucius. "I have a lot to lose if I am careless." He waved his hand at the opulent room they sat in. "And, need I remind you, so do you."

"I'm well aware of what I have to lose," said Draco in a low voice.

"Good," said Lucius, rising from his chair. "I've taken care of all the arrangements for my so-called business trip tomorrow," he said as he took a few steps to a tall thin cabinet and pulled open a small drawer. "In reality, I will be taking Potter away immediately to a place he can be hidden safely for a few days until we can present him to the Dark Lord." He pulled a small black skeleton key on a silver ring out of the drawer and brought it back with him to the desk. "I've also made the Portkey that will bring us back here once we have Potter under our control," he said showing Draco the key. "So write to Potter - tell him to fly to meet you."

Draco grinned slyly. "Then you're agreeing - to go ahead as I planned? Just us, no one else?"

"Yes, yes, as long as you take care of this detail. I have decided that the fewer people involved the better - the less chance there will be for us to be discovered. However, you must assume Potter will be careless and leave your letter where others can find it after he's left. Make sure you don't write anything that will give anyone else any clues about where he is."

"Of course, Father," said Draco readily. "I'll go back to my room and write to him now."

Lucius held up one hand to stop Draco from getting up. "No, that can wait. We have something else more important to discuss. There is something I require of you, before we carry out this plan."

Draco sat back, eyeing his father guardedly. "And what would that be?" he asked, guessing before his father spoke what it would be, and what it would mean.

"If you are to stand with me before the Dark Lord, then you must do so as one sworn to be his servant. I've made the arrangements already this morning. There will be an initiation ritual tonight, right here. Then you can take your rightful place at my side . . . as a Death Eater."

The floor seemed to shift crazily under Draco, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the arms of the chair. "So I will take the Dark Mark?" he asked. "Here, tonight?"

"Not the Mark," explained Lucius. "That will have to wait until we are with the Dark Lord himself. Only he can do that. But the initiation ritual that must precede the taking of the Mark can be done here. And that will expedite the marking ceremony when we are with our Lord."

Draco nodded. This was a test and he knew it, a test he had to pass or forfeit his father's involvement in his plan. It was also a game, he reminded himself. A game of control - the same he had played with his father all his life. A game he could play now as skillfully as he would any game of chess where strategies were hidden, where the pattern of true moves was concealed behind clever feints - and where indecision could be fatal. His father was watching him closely. Just as one did not allow reaction to show at an opponent's deadly countermove, Draco made his next move in the game with calm certainty. "What do I do?" he asked without hesitation.

"The ritual is simple, though . . . unpleasant," said Lucius. "I'm not allowed to tell you the details beforehand . . . but we've all been through it . . . and lived." Lucius looked at Draco with a steely glint in his eyes that might have been a very transitory glimmer of humor. "Most importantly," he continued seriously, "you will speak the preliminary vows that, once you've taken the Dark Mark, will bind you for life to the service of the Dark Lord."

Draco nodded again, accepting this without a trace of vacillation. "When?" he asked.

"I'll send my servant to wake you when it's time for you to come down tonight," said Lucius. "He'll bring the robe you are to wear with him."

Draco stood. "Until later tonight then, Father," he said. "I'll be in my rooms for the rest of the evening, and I'll have dinner brought up there. I have a letter to write."

* * *

Harry woke on Christmas morning and was surprised and pleased to see that his presents were at the foot of the bed, even though he was in Draco's room. Mrs. Weasley had sent him the usual stack of mince pies and a sweater - this one was a brilliant red with a pattern of flying Snitches worked into the weave. From Hermione, Harry got a set of books on teaching: So You Want To Be A Flying Instructor and The Finer Points of Teaching Quidditch, both by Horatio Broomsby. Ron gave him a new jar of Fleetwood's High-Finish Handle Polish to replenish his old Broomstick Servicing Kit. Harry smiled a little ruefully. Since no one but Draco knew about his plans to be a mediwizard, it seemed his friends were doing their best to encourage him in what they all thought he would have to do after graduation. Ron had also sent a huge box of Chocolate Frogs with a note that said, "Thanks for the help with the ring, Harry." Harry smiled at that and had to take a moment to admire his own very-much-loved Christmas present ring. He decided to save the Frogs for when Draco got back.

At lunchtime, Harry went down to the Christmas feast in the Great Hall. All the decorations from the Yule Ball were still up and the room was sparkling and festive. Very few students had stayed over, so everyone was seated at one extra long table with Dumbledore at the head and Professors Snape and McGonagall seated next to him on either side. Harry sat down next to a third year Hufflepuff and smiled back when Professor McGonagall nodded cordially at him.

Dumbledore pulled a large, shiny red Christmas cracker with Snape, seemingly oblivious to Snape's thin-lipped disdain for the whole procedure, and with a loud BANG! was rewarded with a shower of Fizzing Whizbees and a straw sombrero with a bright pink flamingo sitting crookedly on the top. A fringe of little glowing, fuzzy purple balls surrounded the brim and they swung back and forth crazily as Dumbledore popped the new hat on his head. The headmaster beamed down the table at the teachers and students. "Tuck in, everyone!" he exclaimed. "Merry Christmas to you all!"

Everyone immediately helped themselves to the delicious feast. Harry sliced the roast turkey for the younger students at his end of the table and then filled his own plate. He wanted to talk to Dumbledore, so he ate quickly, part of his attention fixed on watching for the headmaster to leave, the rest of his mind preoccupied with missing Draco, who he suspected would have loved the cherry-raspberry trifle.

At long last, Dumbledore was getting up and moving slowly toward the door, exchanging a word or two with each of the teachers as he passed. Harry stood up, shoved his fingers in his back pockets because he was nervous, and waited.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir?" he said, as the headmaster approached. "Do you have a minute?"

"Certainly, Harry," he said jovially, though his light blue eyes were serious.

"I . . . I just wanted to thank you for what you did for Draco," said Harry softly, " - for giving him that Portkey."

"It was the least I could do, just in case he needed it," said Dumbledore, regarding Harry very solemnly over the tops of his half-moon glasses. "Naturally, I am hoping that he won't need to use it at all."

"Oh," said Harry, and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Dumbledore that Draco did intend to use it to come back early, but a sudden desire to keep that to himself stopped him. Obviously, they'd have to tell Dumbledore that Draco was back once he got here, but Harry felt the need to meet Draco alone. He was sure that Dumbledore would insist that someone, probably a teacher, should go with Harry to the Portkey hub, and Harry wanted to keep their planned meeting private - especially considering that what he wanted to do to Draco as soon as he saw him was not the kind of thing one usually did in front of a teacher.

"Yes, sir," he said instead, his face going warm at the thought of seeing and kissing Draco and because he felt a bit guilty for keeping the secret. "I hope he won't need to use it, too, sir," he added, and that was the truth.

Also, Harry knew he was going to have to tell Dumbledore about Cho's revelation, but he couldn't - not yet - not until he'd told Draco. He wanted Draco to know first, before anyone else found out how stupid he'd been. At that thought, he felt doubly guilty, and as Dumbledore's eyes seemed to question him, Harry, feeling as if the headmaster could see right through him to read the thought straight from his mind, blushed crimson.

"Is there something else, Harry, that you wished to tell me?" asked Dumbledore lightly.

"Yes, er, no . . . I mean . . . Merry Christmas, sir," stammered Harry.

"Ah!" said Dumbledore with delight. "Merry Christmas to you, Harry." He tipped his funny hat, making all the little glowing purple balls swing wildly back and forth, and continued on his way out of the Great Hall.

Harry sank miserably back into his seat and dished up a large helping of Christmas pudding that, after eating a couple of bites, he found he had no appetite for. He poked at it for a few more minutes, then finally gave up and went back up to Draco's room. No one seemed to have worried about his whereabouts the night before, or missed him, so he had decided to stay in Draco's room again tonight. At least, sleeping in Draco's bed, even if he was alone, helped him feel close and connected to Draco, the memories of what they had shared easy to relive in the familiar surroundings.

* * *

Draco sat down at the desk in his sitting room. On either side of him, tall, narrow, mullioned windows looked out over the back gardens, the icy reflecting pool, and the snow-covered forest beyond. He laid his hands on the dark, polished surface of the desktop and sat still for a long moment. He closed his eyes, feeling the wood under his palms, cool and smooth and solid. The world had shifted under him just now without warning, though he should have known his father would do this. He felt dark and hollow inside, as if a black hole sat in the place where his heart should be.

But there was no way he could have known that the Dark Mark ceremony could be split, he reminded himself - and then immediately pushed that excuse aside. The time for struggling against this was over; in this, his father had won. Draco had been forced to give up one hope after another, until now, with this initiation ritual and the taking of these vows, whatever remaining flicker of hope he had harbored, though small and faint, had been extinguished. The ending which he had foreseen just days ago while standing in the path to the Portkey hub, the ending which he had always known was most likely inevitable, was now inescapable.

Draco clung for a moment more to the solid firmness of the desk beneath his hands, letting it bring him back to the reality of what he must do now, letting it help him focus on the present rather than in that cavernous darkness that yawned before him in the future. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Expensive parchment, embossed with the Malfoy crest, lay in a rosewood box inlaid with silver scrollwork near his left hand. His best quill, too fine to be used at school, stood in a faceted crystal holder next to it. He ran one finger lightly, pensively, over the soft white plume of the quill before he picked it up. It was foolish, he thought, to feel saddened by the sight of these familiar objects, but believing he would never see them again stirred up pangs of reminiscence and loss.

And yet - he took a look around his room - there was nothing still here that he really cared that much about. He'd taken the things he loved most with him to school at the beginning of the term, hidden in his trunk. That was the reason he'd had his grandmother's chess set with him, that he and Harry had used for their game of dare chess. The rest of his things, he thought now with surprisingly little regret, could rot here. With an unconscious shrug, he tucked his hair back behind one ear, pulled out a sheet of parchment and began to write:

Happy Christmas, Harry!

I wish I had been there with you today. Instead I had to dance all afternoon with Pansy. The only good thing about that was that it annoyed my father, who doesn't approve of her as a match for me. At least we are in complete agreement with each other on that.

I'm writing to let you know that I'm okay, so you won't worry. My father is going away on business right after lunch tomorrow as I thought he would, so there shouldn't be any problems. I'll meet you at the station, just exactly as we planned. Please come on your broom and bring mine with you - I don't want to have to walk back in all the snow.

I miss you,
Draco

Draco studied the wording carefully and nodded, satisfied. Except for the use of the word station, which might momentarily confuse Harry, it was perfect. And Harry, Draco thought, would most likely dismiss that word as a trivial inaccuracy. What mattered was that nothing had been said that would be threatening or incriminating. In fact, just the opposite - it implied that he and Harry had innocent plans to meet each other at the Hogwarts train station when he returned at the normal time, that he was not in danger from his father and therefore had no need to use his Portkey. Yet Harry would get the message Draco needed him to, and believing that Lucius was going away would put Harry at ease. He wouldn't suspect anything - exactly as Draco wanted.

He folded the letter carefully and standing, stepped to the window to call an owl. A blast of wind, cold and frosty and bracing, blew in as he opened the window. Draco stood for a second, breathing deeply, and it restored a great deal of his self-assurance and resolve. Perhaps he was a Pawn, but even a Pawn, he smiled to himself, could take a Queen. He turned his face into the wind and whistled.

When the owl had been dispatched with the letter to Harry, Draco closed the window and sat down at his desk again. There were two more letters he had to write tonight, and these letters, he expected, would be the hardest things he'd ever written in his life. It might be better, he thought then, to start with the one that would be the hardest of all. He took out another piece of parchment and dipped his quill into the inkpot, but before he could begin, there was a soft knock and the door to his sitting room opened.

He turned and motioned for the house-elf to set his dinner tray down on the table.

"Will sir be wanting anything else?" she asked in a trembling, squeaky voice.

"Just see that I'm not disturbed again until my father sends for me tonight," he answered.

"I is seeing to it immediately, sir," she said brightly, evidently greatly pleased to have been given an order by the heir of the house. She gave Draco a deep, bobbing curtsy and left.

Draco turned back to his blank parchment. Dinner could wait. After taking a moment to sit with his eyes closed, gathering his thoughts, he wrote:

Dearest Harry,

I hope with all my heart as I write this . . .

It took him nearly two hours to write it; the hole that sat where his heart should be felt as if it had expanded to fill his entire chest and his throat burned from swallowing back tears before they should fall and ruin the ink. But when it was done, and he'd read it over twice, a faint sense of peace settled over him. At least . . . at least he'd explained things the best he could. Harry might not be able to forgive him, but he'd said all he could say.

Harry had already forgiven him so much, and that was still an enormous source of surprise to Draco. But Harry loved him. And Harry had said he wouldn't regret what they'd done. Draco could recall the words perfectly. "God, Draco, how could you imagine I would regret making love with you? I know how uncertain things are." A new, small feeling of hope kindled in Draco. Did he dare to hope that Harry's words could also stretch to mean: "how could you imagine I would regret loving you?" Maybe . . . just maybe, Harry would understand and forgive him this, too.

With a deep sigh, he folded this letter, then stood up to stretch the stiffness from his back and neck and saw his dinner, long forgotten and cold, still sitting on the table. He reached under his desk, sliding his hand along the underside of the right-hand drawer until he felt a tiny indentation. Pressing that opened a little door cleverly hidden in the carving on the upper panel of the desk. Draco tucked the letter into that small compartment and snapped it shut. He didn't intend for anyone to see that letter until he handed it to Harry tomorrow, himself.

Tomorrow . . . could it possibly be so soon?

The candles in the lamps had burned lower; it was getting late and there was still one more letter to write. He had no idea when his father would send for him and this third letter had to be finished tonight. But . . . now that the letters to Harry were done, he found he was hungry. The ritual tonight would be challenging he was sure - he would definitely need all his strength and all his wits about him. He went to the table, cast a warming spell on the plate of food and sat down to eat.

Only a short time later, he was back at his desk, a third sheet of parchment laid out in front of him, writing quickly but with a great deal of calculated thought. This letter was not emotionally draining like the second one to Harry had been, but it was one of the most critical elements of his plan, so it was vital that he choose his words with deliberate care. The ultimate success of everything he'd planned depended on this letter. Finally, that letter too was finished, scrutinized carefully, and hidden away.

Draco put out the lamps with a wave of his wand and went to bed. His father's house-elf would be there to wake him soon enough, and he intended to get at least a little sleep before he had to go down to whatever his father had arranged. Lying in bed, he wished that he had Harry here to do the sleep spell on him, or even to just touch him. It was amazing to Draco that the simple touch of this one certain person, just a hand lying warm and gentle on his skin, could make him feel so loved. He'd never felt loved before in his life. Turning over and pulling one of the pillows tightly against his chest, he closed his eyes and hoped that the respite and welcome oblivion of sleep would come soon.

* * *

Harry was spending a very quiet evening in Draco's room, curled up in the chair in front of the fire reading the books Hermione had given him, hoping to take his mind off his concerns for Draco. He was halfway through Chapter One, "Your Broom is Your Friend" in So You Want To Be A Flying Instructor, when there was a distinct tapping at the window. Harry looked up, startled. An owl? But who . . .? he thought, and then with sudden hope mingled with fear, he dropped the book and rushed to the window. One of the Malfoy eagle owls stepped in to stand on the wide sill as soon as Harry got the window open, and presented its leg. Harry's heart was pounding and his fingers turned clumsy in his haste and anxiousness to unfasten the letter. The owl took off in a flurry of wings as soon as Harry got it untied, but Harry barely noticed, for he had recognized Draco's handwriting on the front. Without even bothering to close the window, Harry tore off the seal.

"Happy Christmas, Harry!" he read, and grinned in relief. If Draco was in trouble, he wouldn't have started out with such a cheery greeting. Harry read through the rest of the letter, frowning at the thought of Draco dancing with Pansy, and feeling profoundly grateful for whatever business made Lucius Malfoy have to leave home on the day after Christmas. He stumbled over the word station, reread it, then shrugged. The Portkey hub was a sort of station, he guessed, but the important part was that Draco was going to be able to come back as they'd planned. And the idea of flying there made Harry smile with delight. If Draco was willing, Harry hoped they might go flying together again before coming back to the castle. That would make the day perfect.

He was very glad now that he hadn't told Dumbledore that Draco was coming back early. This way they could spend the afternoon flying and come back in time for dinner. At dinner, Harry made himself promise, they would explain to the headmaster what had happened. Harry closed the window finally, and went back to his chair by the fire. Picking up his book, he settled down to read a bit more before going to bed, his earlier worries now all but forgotten in his excitement. Draco would be back tomorrow, safe and sound, and everything was going to work out all right.

* * *

Draco was awakened by several pokes from a skinny finger. For half a second, he thought wildly that it was Harry, but it was only Nobby, his father's personal house-elf.

"I is getting you up for the Master," he whispered. "And you is to wear this robe."

Draco groaned and fumbled for his wand on the night table. "Lumos," he said, and the tip lit up, illuminating the earnest, wide-eyed face of the house-elf whose arms were full of an elaborately embroidered, folded dress robe. Draco sighed, sat up on the edge of the bed and checked the clock on the night table. God, he'd only slept about four hours. He ran one hand through his hair and glared at the elf. "When am I supposed to be down there?"

"As soon as you is ready, sir," said the elf. "The Master says come to his study and knock on the door. He says you is to come right away, as soon as you is dressed."

"Okay," said Draco, feeling far from ready for this, dressed or not. He took the robe from Nobby and the elf bowed and left the room. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Draco got up and waved his wand to light the lamps. He unfolded the robe and laid it out on the bed. It was made of green brocade shot through with silver embroidery that glittered subtly in the lamplight. The design woven into the fabric was very intricate, appearing at first glance to be an overall series of intersecting circles and spirals, but when Draco looked more carefully, he realized that he was looking at patterns of entwined silver snakes.

It figured, he thought, frowning: green and silver and snakes. He never wore green, it made him look sallow, and snakes had been . . . well, entirely overdone in his life. Leaving the robe on the bed, he went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face and combed his hair. In the mirror, as he moved, the light caught the crystal in the pendant he wore, making it flash, and Draco had a moment of intuition perhaps, that it would safer not to wear it tonight. Reluctantly he took it off and went to his desk, hiding it in the same hidden inner compartment with the letters he'd written.

Closing the little door, locking away this symbol of his heart's truth, filled him with a heavy sadness. He walked back to his bedroom to get dressed, his mood depressed, weighed down by the seriousness, the finality, of what he was about to do.

Leaving his room in the very early, secret hours before dawn, Draco walked alone down the curved marble staircases and long, night-dark hallways of the huge manor, his only light the dim, clouded moonlight that fell from the tall windows in faint arched stripes across the dark parquet floors and pale, antique Aubusson carpets. His quiet footsteps echoed in the silence of the deserted halls as he made his way purposefully to his father's study. The robe he had been given to wear was heavy and uncomfortably stiff, though he had not allowed such a trivial thought to fully surface in his awareness. All of his attention was focused on staying calm, on appearing unruffled and confident.

But walking alone in the silence and the darkness, the deep, oppressive solitude of the cavernous hallways bore down on him, and suddenly his sadness resurfaced and an engulfing wave of loneliness swept over him. A single, betraying wish, that he was not facing this trial, which was then instantly also a wish for the gentle reassurance of Harry's touch, the steadying comfort of Harry's embrace, caused him to halt abruptly in the shadow of some ancient Malfoy ancestor, one pale hand braced against the cool, paler stone of the statue. The comprehension of all Harry had given him, the miracle of Harry's love and trust, flooded through him once more, and his head bowed in longing so intense it was several moments before he could take another step.

Yet, as important as it had been for Draco to win Harry's trust, it was now critical that he show loyalty to his father. He reminded himself once again, and a little impatiently this time, that his commitment to what he was doing here now, to his plan, went far beyond his personal feelings for Harry. That was simply how it had to be. This was war. And this was his chance, his best and possibly only chance to have a significant effect on the outcome of that war. It was no time to go soft, or to let his emotions rule him. Even if it had been love that had brought him to this, he could not allow that love to influence his decisions now. Remembering this, after a minute or two he managed to reassert his determination, regaining enough self-control and composure to go on.

He truly had not anticipated this test, this last stratagem of his father's, and bitter distrust welled up in him as he approached the tall, ornately carved teak doors of his father's study. He could hear low voices speaking inside the room, and a small knot of fear twisted in the pit of his stomach. This afternoon, Lucius had told him only a little of what would be expected of him tonight. Remembering all too well the evenings Lucius had used him for ridicule and sport, sometimes even casting the Cruciatus Curse on him, no doubt in front of some of the very same men he would face tonight, Draco wondered now what cruel or humiliating things he would have to endure before the night was over. He reminded himself that it didn't matter - whatever the demand, whatever the cost to his dignity, it was imperative that he prove himself and earn his father's trust. If becoming a Death Eater tonight was what his father required for proof of his loyalty, Draco would willingly give him that proof.

He stood still for a moment in the enveloping darkness outside Lucius's study, just long enough to steady his nerves, to straighten his robe and steel himself for what was waiting for him behind those closed doors. Then, with a last deep breath, he set his fears aside, shutting out all of his conflicting thoughts, especially of Harry. He couldn't think of Harry any more now. Because of what his father was asking of him tonight, any remote hope he had cherished in secret, that things would not turn out as he'd foreseen, was shattered. For tonight, he must become his father's son. And the price he would pay for that was irrevocable.

The voices in the room fell silent at the sound of Draco's soft knock, and after a moment, the door opened. Lucius slipped out, closing the door behind him, facing Draco in the dark hallway. He was dressed in a black hooded cloak, a mask tucked under one arm. In one hand he held two ivory-colored candles, unlit.

"This will be one of the most important events in your life," he said sternly, "and the most serious vow you will ever take. Tonight, you will become the youngest member of the most powerful and elite group of wizards in the world." Lucius paused, studying Draco's face intently, and placed his free hand on Draco's shoulder. "Are you ready?"

Draco met Lucius's eyes squarely, expecting from long habit to see the usual scorn in his father's eyes, assuming too, that the next words Lucius spoke would surely be the customary cynical warning that Draco must not embarrass him. Instead Draco was stunned to find his father's gaze full of fierce pride for his only son. Draco was suddenly, devastatingly aware that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he had his father's full attention and unreserved approval. The irony of this stung bitterly and he had to swallow down the anger and hurt that burned in the back of his throat before he could reply. "Yes, Father," he said, lifting his chin. His voice sounded clear and self-assured, and no trace of his emotions betrayed him. "I'm ready."

Lucius squeezed Draco's shoulder tightly, then released him and handed him the candles. "Light them," he said.

With a slight nod, Draco pulled out his wand. "Incendio," he murmured, igniting both candles at once.

"This fire will seal your vows," said Lucius with formal gravity. He put on his mask and raised his hood, then took one of the lighted candles from Draco. "Follow me," he said quietly, as he opened the door.

Draco stepped into the darkened study behind his father. Tall votives of emerald glass floated near the ceiling, the candles inside them lighting the room with an unnatural green glow and casting eerie, shifting shadows. Hooded, masked Death Eaters stood shoulder to shoulder in two rows starting on either side of the door, forming an open path between them that led to a table placed at the far end of the room, their white masks luminous in the dim green light. One man, shrouded completely in black stood behind the table, faceless and inscrutable. In his black-gloved hands he held a third unlit candle.

Following his father and keeping his eyes fixed firmly straight ahead, Draco walked slowly down the aisle of Death Eaters, gripping his burning candle tightly, feeling as if the stares of the masked men bored into his very bones, the enormity of what he was doing shivering up his spine like a finger of ice. He reached the table and stood at his father's side before it. Silently, the shrouded figure held out his candle, and Lucius held his own candle forward, signaling Draco to do the same. Simultaneously, both Lucius and Draco tipped their candles to the unlit wick, their flames joining together to light it.

With that candle, the man in the shroud lit a fourth large pillar candle that stood at the far left side of the table. While he did that, Draco had a moment to notice the other items that were set out on the table. The surface of the table itself was covered with a cloth of ivory linen. Placed in the center upon it was a silver candelabra with three branches that were fashioned like intricately entwined snakes whose now empty open mouths would hold the candles. To the left side of the candelabra were set an ornately carved wooden box with a design of pierced filigree running around the top edge just under the fitted lid, a small, shallow pewter bowl, and a larger, deep silver bowl. To the right stood an empty silver chalice and a crystal decanter of red wine, both with emerald and bloodstone and onyx cabochons set in silver on their sides, and a small glass jar covered with a tightly stretched fabric.

In front of those things, Draco saw with a chill, lay a long, silver dissecting tray and a silver handled dagger that resembled a scalpel. Draco looked up at his father. Lucius's eyes behind the mask reflected sparks from the candlelight, but told him nothing.

Draco glanced away, back down at the table before his father should see something in his eyes that he would prefer to keep to himself, and startled, another chill shocking through him, as something dark moved within the wooden box, the slight movement just visible through the filigreed openings that circled the sides. Something alive was in that box -

The shrouded man behind the table spoke and Draco wrenched his gaze from the box to look up at him.

"We light a fourth candle tonight to honor and invoke the presence of our absent Lord," he said. His voice was deep, vaguely familiar, but not enough for Draco to identify him. He lifted one hand and held it up, palm outward. "The candles are lit, the Ritual of Initiation has begun," he said solemnly. "Let no man present here dare speak of what is done tonight."

Placing his candle in the center branch of the candelabra, he turned to Lucius. "Who brings this Initiate here, to be joined with us in service to the Lord Voldemort, immortal Lord and exalted Master of the Dark Order?"

Lucius set his candle in the candelabra. "I do."

"State the name of the Initiate and your relationship, that it may be recorded."

"Draco Malfoy," responded Lucius. "My son and heir."

Turning to Draco, the figure spoke again. "And do you, Draco, come here of your own free will, to join us in this service by the binding of this ritual, swearing eternal loyalty and submitting your life and your will from this time forward to the Lord Voldemort, immortal Lord and exalted Master of the Dark Order?"

At a nod from his father, Draco placed his candle in the third branch of the candelabra. He felt a cold trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades. "I do," he said firmly.

"Then by heart and tongue, by tooth and blood, let it be done as you have sworn," intoned the man in the shroud, raising his arms out as if to embrace the room. "Let the ritual proceed." Then he motioned with a small gesture to the Death Eater standing on Draco's left. "Chain him."

The man stepped forward and in his hands were black chains of iron. These were wrapped around Draco's wrists so that Draco's hands were loosely chained together in front of him. Draco felt the cold hard metal of the iron links pressing against his skin, binding him, and he shut his eyes for a moment, uneasy. When the chains were fastened, the man stepped to the side, and the shrouded man spoke again, this time to Draco.

"These chains are a symbol," he said, "that henceforth you are bound in service, a servant of the Dark Order and of our Lord and Master." He paused, then said, "The Initiate will kneel."

Draco went down on his knees and behind him he heard the soft rustling of robes as the Death Eaters moved to form a tight circle around the three at the table. Draco kept his eyes on the shrouded man, for he was moving the objects on the table aside, setting the candelabra down on the far right hand side of the table and bringing the wooden box to the center.

Lifting the lid slowly, the man paused a moment, then with one swift darting movement of his gloved hand, reached in and drew a live snake from the box. The snake, which he had grasped behind the head and held aloft, writhed in the air and twisted around his wrist.

Draco recognized it at once from the dark zigzag stripe down its back. It was an adder, and Draco also understood immediately why the man wore gloves - to protect himself from its poisonous bite.

With his other hand, the shrouded man picked up the small, fabric-covered jar and forced the snake to bite down on the rim. Draco watched, fascinated, as drops of yellowish venom flowed down the inside of the glass and pooled at the bottom of the jar. When that had been set aside, the Death Eater standing to Draco's left, the one who had chained him, reached forward and grasped the tail of the snake. There was a hushed stir of expectancy in the air, a sense of tacit excitement as the Death Eaters surrounding Draco waited, tense with anticipation, watching with dark, glittering eyes behind their masks, and Draco heard the soft rasp of their breath in the surrounding silence.

Held between the men, the snake was stretched out and laid lengthwise on the silver dissecting tray, its body twisting in their grip, the pale underbelly reflecting in the shining surface of the tray. The man in the shroud lifted the dagger and spoke.

"This snake is the symbol of our Master," he said, his low voice resonating in the stillness of the room, "and its death, and life, the sign of the Dark Lord's mastery over Death, and the proof of His Immortality." He looked down at Draco, the dagger now poised over the neck of the snake. "Death you shall eat and in your own body you shall share in the symbolic resurrection of our Master."

With those words he quickly severed the head of the snake and slit its still moving body open lengthwise. In a few swift, practiced moves, he removed the snake's heart and placed it in the shallow pewter bowl, then he held the headless body up by the tail, draining the blood into the silver chalice. Draco watched all of this with a mixture of distaste and detached interest - it had happened so fast - until it hit him suddenly that chalices are meant for drinking out of . . . and his stomach lurched and his mouth went cottony dry.

The shrouded man laid the now limp body of the snake back on the dissecting tray, and taking up the dagger again, opened the mouth of the severed head and cut out its tongue. This also he placed in the pewter bowl. He nodded at the Death Eater on Draco's left and the man covered the snake's remains with a black cloth. Then he nodded at Lucius who removed the center candle from the candelabra and passed it to Draco.

Draco took the candle in both hands, relieved to find that his hands weren't visibly shaking, though the chains around his wrists clinked softly.

After pouring wine from the crystal decanter over the heart and tongue, the man in the shroud gestured to Draco. "Burn them," he instructed, and Draco set the flame of the candle into the contents of the pewter bowl. Immediately, the wine ignited and there was a blazing flare of fire that engulfed the heart and tongue in a rippling sheet of blue and orange flames. Lucius took the candle from Draco and replaced it in the candelabra as they all watched the body parts shrivel and blacken until, in a few moments, nothing was left but smoldering ashes.

"By heart and tongue, by tooth and blood, we serve Him," intoned the shrouded man. As he spoke, he mixed the ashes and the venom from the jar into the blood in the chalice, then added wine from the decanter. He drew his wand and with an elaborate swish over the top of the chalice, spoke the words of a spell.

"Exvoromors Pariovita," he said in a forceful and commanding voice. A thin, snake-like stream of translucent green smoke flowed from the end of his wand and encircled the foot of the chalice, wrapping itself around and around the cup in an ascending spiral until the entire chalice was enveloped in it. After a few seconds, the smoke began to dissipate and Draco saw a faint greenish glow emanating from the contents of the chalice, a glow that pulsed and ebbed, as if with a heartbeat of its own.

"Brothers of the Dark Order, we are called tonight to witness this Ritual of Initiation and the drinking of the Cup of Death and Life," said the man in the shroud, his voice low and resonant in the deathly quiet room. Lifting the glowing chalice in both hands, he began an invocation.

"With this cup we swallow death,
with this cup we conjure immortality,
with this cup we are forever chained,
with this cup, swearing loyalty with our lives,
We are named."

Draco felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the words reverberated in the silent room, and he shivered. After a half-second's pause, the man in the shroud inclined his head at Draco and said, "Let the Initiate rise."

His legs felt stiff and unsteady from kneeling and it was awkward to get up in the long heavy robe with his hands chained together in front of him, but Draco stood and faced the shrouded man. The man nodded slightly and continued the incantation. As he spoke, the words pierced Draco with a dreadful finality.

"By the flame of your own wreaking,
by the burning heart and tongue consumed,
by the venom flowing forth from tooth to vein,
by the draught of living blood,
You are claimed."

He paused, then spoke again. "Draco Malfoy, by your life and the drinking of this cup, you swear to be bound eternally to the Lord Voldemort, immortal Lord and exalted Master of the Dark Order." He passed the chalice to Lucius. "Do you so swear?"

"I do so swear," responded Draco, and Lucius placed the chalice in his hands. The pulsing glow had dimmed, but to Draco, the dark red blood and wine mixture now appeared black in the green light of the floating candles and suddenly the room seemed suffocatingly hot. It was hard to breathe. Draco felt his hands trembling as he lifted the cup to his mouth.

With the first mouthful, Draco nearly gagged. The potion was thick and warm, and tasted sickly-sweet and metallic from the wine and the blood and gritty from the ash. He gulped it down quickly, fighting the repulsion and the reflexive urge to retch. Lowering the empty chalice, he swallowed thickly, and immediately felt queasy. The chalice was taken out of his hands and he looked up to see his father replace it on the table. Then as Draco watched, the shrouded man drew his wand again and pointed it directly at Draco. His father moved closer to him and the soft rustle of robes on Draco's left told him that the man who had placed the chains on him had done the same, but Draco's eyes never left the hidden face of the man in front of him.

"Exvoromors Pariovita!"

Draco recoiled slightly as the pale green smoke snaked across the table toward him, but strong hands gripped his arms on either side to hold him in place. He felt a second of intense panic when the smoke touched him, but the tight pressure on his arms prevented him from moving. He closed his eyes, fighting nausea, while the stream of vapor slithered over his hands and began coiling and undulating up his chest to his throat. A chilling, wet, clammy sensation spread out from its touch, like something cold and dead but moving, and Draco had to struggle to hold himself still as it crawled around his neck.

When it reached his mouth, Draco broke out in a cold sweat and nausea gripped him completely. Oh God. Something seemed to be churning and twisting inside him, making his stomach cramp. He didn't care about the smoke now - all he could think about was how sick he felt. His knees threatened to give way beneath him and he was dizzy. He opened his eyes for a second and everything seemed to tilt and blur out of focus; the candle flames swam crazily in the darkness and he shut his eyes again quickly, feeling even sicker.

His pulse was racing; the writhing and pain in his gut intensified. He swallowed hard, but his mouth was full of the aftertaste of the blood and . . . oh . . . oh God . . . He was going to vomit right here, in front of his father and all of these men, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried to cover his mouth with his hands, but other hands caught his wrists and pulled them away. Something cool and metallic bumped up under his chin, and his eyes flickered open to see that someone was holding the large silver bowl in front of him. He was only vaguely aware of a low voice saying, "Hold him," and of the hands that held his arms gripping him tighter, before he retched violently over the bowl.

At first nothing came up, and then something monstrous was coming up and he gagged. It seemed to go on and on forever, sliding, burning, up his throat, over his tongue and out his mouth; it was hot and slick and tasted of blood and acid. Draco strained against the hands that held him, his own hands clenched into fists, unable to breathe because it obstructed his throat. He opened his eyes again and staggered slightly where he stood, horrified to see the body of a live adder coming out of his mouth into the bowl. His knees buckled under him from the shock, and he inhaled a desperate, ragged breath as the snake's tail finally cleared his throat and he could breathe again. The shrouded man was speaking, but Draco heard his voice as if from a distance and it was an effort to concentrate to catch the words.

". . . Ritual of Initiation is complete. The immortal symbol of our Lord . . . restored whole and alive. . . . Our newest brother, Draco Malfoy, stands before us . . . fully invested . . . Death Eater . . . to take the Mark of the Dark Order in three days time. . . ."

Draco battled against the dizziness and revulsion that threatened to overwhelm him, trying to keep standing, but the room seemed to be spinning around him and the candlelight wavered and dimmed alarmingly. His throat was raw and a cold numbness was creeping through his arms and legs. He was only barely aware when the hands that held his arms moved to catch him as he fell, then everything went dark around him and he fainted.

* * *

Draco woke up in his own bed just before noon the next day. He felt groggy and ill, and the thin winter sunlight that streamed in his window and across his bed through the partially open bed drapes was particularly offensive this morning. What had happened? Why . . . was he undressed . . . and in bed? He didn't remember getting in bed. . . . And then memory slammed him - he'd passed out during the initiation ritual. Oh God, no.

Panic and despair welled up in him and he was filled with a deep abhorrence for everything he had done last night. No doubt he'd shamed his father beyond all reckoning. And if that was the case, what would happen to his plan? Had it all been for nothing . . . just because he'd been too weak to remain standing until the end? He covered his eyes with one hand, shutting out the light, wanting to shut out this sense of futility and failure. . . . If he really had failed beyond all saving, there was still the coward's way out; there was still the Portkey -

The door to his room opened and he heard footsteps, unmistakably his father's, crossing the sitting room toward his bedroom. For an instant he felt a rush of alarm, his hand going to his throat, until he remembered that he'd hidden Harry's pendant. He struggled to sit up, and a wave of weakness and queasiness assailed him, but with an effort, he managed to prop himself up against the headboard of the bed and draw his knees up to help brace himself. If he had to face his father's anger and disappointment, he didn't want to be lying down.

"Draco?" Lucius strode into the bedroom and straight to the bedside. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Draco looked up at his father in confusion. This solicitous concern was not at all what he had expected. "Ghastly," he said, his voice coming out raspy. He had to know how things stood. Was his father angry? "I . . . I'm sorry, Father," he said, "that I passed out. I'm afraid I've disgraced you."

"No," said Lucius, "on the contrary, you did very well. Everyone loses consciousness - it's merely the effect of the poison you drank." A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "More than one of those men that watched last night screamed like a girl when they went through the Initiation." He reached out and gripped Draco's shoulder firmly and squeezed. "I was proud of you last night. You proved yourself to be much stronger than I expected."

Draco closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard, uncertain if he felt relief or dismay at this revelation. His plan was safe, but the thought a moment ago of using the Portkey, of running away from all of this, had filled him for a few seconds with wild hopes. . . .

"Thank you, Father," he whispered.

"Come now," said Lucius, turning away for a moment and then turning back with a goblet in his hands. "You need to drink this," he said. "It's a restorative potion. You were given the antidote to the poison last night, but this will counteract the remaining side effects of that and of the revivification spell."

Taking the cup from his father in slightly shaky hands, Draco examined the contents suspiciously as a vividly disgusting memory of the nasty black, green-pulsing stuff he'd been forced to drink last night came back to him. But this potion was a clear golden color, like apple cider, and the cup was cool in his hands. He found out from the first tentative sip that it didn't taste as nice as it looked, but it was cool and soothed his sore throat, so he willingly drank it down.

"And I've had Nobby bring up a tray of food," said Lucius, taking the cup from Draco and moving away. "You should eat something and then get cleaned up. Nobby is to stay and help you."

Draco noticed the elf then for the first time, standing just behind Lucius holding a silver tray laden with pastries, sandwiches, and a teapot.

"Yes, sir," said Draco.

Lucius went to the door. "Get ready quickly," he said. "It's noon now. I'll meet you downstairs no later than two o'clock to review our plan. We'll activate the Portkeys from my study." Then he swept from the room, leaving Draco facing the dutiful house-elf.

"Put that down out there," said Draco, indicating the tray and the sitting room. "Then you can go," he added firmly. "I can take care of myself."

"But . . . but, sir," said the elf, his voice going squeaky and trembling, eyes widening in something very like terror at the sudden unthinkable dilemma of having the two men he had to unquestionably obey giving him completely opposite instructions. "Master is saying I must stay and help."

Draco put his feet out of the bed and stood up. The potion had indeed done its work very quickly and very well. He felt completely recovered. "And I am telling you," said Draco, taking the tray out of the elf's hands to forestall any further argument, "to go." He walked into the sitting room carrying the tray with Nobby following closely at his heels, then set the tray on the table and opened the outer door. "I don't need or want help right now," he said sternly, but not unkindly. "I want to have some time alone. Go hide in the kitchens if you don't want my father to know you're not up here. But go."

With a squeaky whimper, Nobby crept hesitantly out the door, wringing his hands. "Yes, sir," he said as Draco closed the door behind him. "Thank you, sir. Nobby is definitely hiding in the kitchens, sir."

Alone, Draco sighed and sat down to eat. He felt ravenous after what he'd been through last night. God, what an appalling, horrible ordeal, he thought, and shuddered. He poured the tea and wrinkled his nose up at it, wishing it was hot cocoa. For a second he considered calling Nobby back. Tea and fancy little sandwiches. He sighed again and picked up a jam-filled pastry, eyeing it disdainfully before taking a bite. No, this was not his idea of a last meal at all.

* * *

At two-thirty on Friday, the day after Christmas, Harry was in Draco's room getting ready to leave. He'd had lunch earlier with Hagrid, wisely declining a second helping of holiday rock cakes, and was now bustling about, straightening the room, finding his gloves and borrowing a pair of Draco's boots. After setting the fire roaring in the grate so that the room would be warm and welcoming for them later, he collected his cloak and Draco's broom. He was grinning from the anticipation, more excited that he could remember being in a very long time. But there was a taut, high-strung edge to his excitement, too, that he knew wouldn't go away until Draco was safely back here in this room and back in his arms.

Ready at last, Harry opened the windows panes wide and mounted his Firebolt. Rising slowly off the floor, he guided the broom carefully through the window, Draco's Nimbus Two Thousand and One tucked securely under one arm. Hovering just outside, he reached back and pushed the panes closed, leaving them slightly ajar, just as Draco had on the day they had gone flying together, so that they could return that way unnoticed. Then with a broad smile, he sent his broom streaking across the Hogwarts grounds, and straight out over the forest toward Hogsmeade. He knew he'd be there a little early, but he could hardly wait to see Draco again.

* * *

Draco stood under the shower so that the water hit the back of his head and neck, streaming down in hot rivulets over his shoulders and dripping from the tendrils of hair that fell over his face. He tried not to think of Harry's body, wet and warm and soapy in his arms, or how Harry had grinned and leaned into him as Draco washed his hair, or how his bright green eyes had closed in pleasure when Draco had kissed the droplets of water from his face. But it was impossible not to remember, impossible not to want Harry to be with him here now, and that intense longing that had claimed him so profoundly in the hallway last night threatened to undo him again.

Turning around to let the water pour down on his upturned face, he thought about the startling change in his father instead. That "well done" he'd earned the night he returned from Hogwarts had been grudging, but last night before the initiation and this morning, the praise his father had given him had not been reluctant at all - it had been real and honestly given. Draco hadn't actually known his father was capable of that kind of sincere sentiment or expression, and it had both touched him and hurt. He had finally gotten his father's respect - the respect he had always wanted from this man, had believed he wanted even two days ago when he'd burned that letter in his room. How ironic was it, Draco thought cynically, that it was given to him only now, after it had become meaningless, because of the very thing he'd done to earn it. It made him ache inside to think that things could have been so different. If only his father . . . but he stopped himself from thinking that, too.

There was no time now for thought, only time for doing - there were many things he had to do before he went downstairs. He focused on those instead, and realizing how little time he had, hurried out of the shower.

At five minutes before two, Draco stood at the window in his sitting room, dressed and ready to go, watching the owl he'd just sent disappear over the distant forest. He was wearing the soft gray wool sweater his mother had given him and his heaviest black wool cloak. His new flying gloves were in one hand; his other hand rested just above his heart, his fingers absently tracing the outline of the pendant Harry had given him which lay under his clothes. Tucked into an inner pocket of his cloak was the letter he'd written to Harry and in a side pocket were the two Portkeys. He just needed to get the return Portkey from his father before they left and he knew exactly how he would do that. Then everything that he'd planned to do would be done; the outcome trusted to rest, after that, in other hands.

Once the owl was out of sight, Draco turned and left his room. He left everything behind him in perfect order, and he left without hesitation, without a single backwards glance. He felt remarkably calm as he made his way down the stairs to his father's study - only a few last things to do and then he would be free from everything - free from the pain, the worry, free even from the love that had enchanted and possessed him and torn his heart to pieces. That last thought hurt very much, but it was true. Right now, more than anything, Draco longed for peace. Except for the ephemeral, seductive illusion of peace he'd experienced when Harry did the calming spell, there had never been peace anywhere in his life. Perhaps that was the one last hope he held onto - that in giving up everything, he would find that peace.

He entered his father's study without knocking, knowing he was expected.

Lucius was seated at his desk, quill in hand, writing. He looked up briefly as Draco walked in. "You're late," he said, and resumed writing.

Draco shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs facing his father. "We have time," he countered.

"Not as much as you think," said Lucius, still writing, "since I had some important things to talk to you about before we go."

"Yes, Father?" Draco kept his face carefully neutral, though his stomach had clenched. Now what. . . ?

Lucius set his quill back in its stand and gave Draco a stern look. "I thought you should know my plans for the next few days. It's possible I may need you to join me sooner than we discussed."

Draco nodded occasionally, pretending to pay attention, as his father explained at length where he would be taking Harry and what would be done, told him names and addresses of the business connections he was using as alibis and the details of the meeting he had arranged with the Dark Lord in three days. There, after turning Harry over, Draco would take the Dark Mark. Draco only half listened, his mind on Harry - hearing, now, all that his father planned to do to Harry, he felt sickened. He stared at his father and saw the man for what, in a short time, he would most certainly become and wondered at himself, that he could have been such a sentimental fool only an hour ago.

"I've written these names and addresses down," said Lucius, indicating the parchment in front of him. He drew his wand and murmured a spell.

Draco saw the writing vanish from the page.

"I trust you can remember how to read this," said Lucius, handing the now blank parchment to Draco.

"Of course."

"Put it somewhere safe."

Draco folded the paper and pocketed it. "Just until we get back," he said at his father's raised eyebrow. He pulled out the Portkeys and set them both on the edge of the desk. "The keyword to activate them is . . ." he paused, ". . . Chocolate Cream."

Lucius narrowed his eyes as he picked up one of the silver coins. "Dumbledore's idea, no doubt," he said scornfully.

"No," said Draco, flatly. "Mine." He picked up the other Portkey, turning it over in his hand. He studied it as if thinking hard about something. Then he looked up at his father, his face serious, concerned. "I've just thought of something, Father," he said. "Perhaps I should take the return Portkey with me now . . . as a precaution. If something has gone wrong, if Potter isn't alone, or he didn't fly to the hub, I can come back to warn you and stop you from coming. You should not be seen there if we have to postpone the plan." He paused briefly. "Besides, even if everything does go exactly as we planned, you will have your hands full with Potter," he added. "It will be easier if I take care of making sure we get back here."

Lucius hesitated a moment. "Very well," he said. "I agree." He took the small black key from his pocket and handed it over to Draco. "The word to activate it is my father's middle name."

Draco nodded, tucking it securely into his own pocket. That was it, then. Everything he'd intended to do was done. There was nothing left now but to let the course of what he'd set in motion carry him to the end. He stood up, glancing at the large clock on the mantle. It was ten to three.

"I think I should go ahead now," said Draco. "That will give me a few minutes to be sure everything is secure. Potter should be there at three. If I haven't come back by five after, come ahead."

"I'm looking forward to seeing the expression on Potter's face," said Lucius, a cold calculating look in his eyes, "when he finds out you've betrayed him."

Draco smiled inwardly at that. His father had done several things over the last two days that he had not expected, but this he had expected, had counted on it, even. "Yes," he said softly. He was looking forward to something very much like that himself.

Lucius stood up.

Draco held out his hand, his fist closed tightly around the Portkey. So it was down to this, he thought with a sudden lump in his throat. He would have only a few minutes to be with Harry, before Harry found out what he'd done, before he had to watch the betrayal and hurt appear in Harry's eyes, before there was no more future for them at all anymore and Harry was left with a love turned to ashes.

Love, he thought disconsolately, as he whispered the keyword and felt that dizzying yank grab him behind the navel. Love, exquisitely beautiful as it had been, could also be a cruel and bitter thing.