Of Snow and Dark Water

"The sympathetic connexion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."
Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough

CHAPTER 1 - FLOWER AND FLAME

Lucius Malfoy leant on the damp edge of the central basin in the Malfoy Victoria House, straining his eyes to take in as much as possible of the oval, darkly veined pads and the lotus-like white flowers floating on the surface. The flowers were small but perfectly shaped, the pointed petals a creamy white, darkening into warm gold at the tips.

"And you say this is the only one of its kind?" he asked the gardener, who stood nervously beside him, chewing his lip and waiting for the axe to fall.

"Yes, sir."

"And it's a hybrid you have produced here, in my Victoria House, without any assistance from London?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or, indeed, from Hogwarts? You haven't taken any advice or help from that foolish Sprout woman, have you?"

"No, sir."

"Good."

The gardener's shoulders relaxed visibly, but Lucius Malfoy had more questions.

"Why this colour, if I may ask? Why not something more... striking, like the Egyptian variety over there?"

He nodded towards some purplish blue flowers across the pool, and the gardener moved uneasily as the colour deepened in his cheeks.

"Sir... I had two things in mind. One was the colouring of the Malfoy family... of hair and eyes. And the other was the elegance and style and... and simplicity of white flowers. I thought flamboyance would be inappropriate, considering that good taste has always been emphasised in this house. I know how you abhor vulgarity, sir. And in my humble opinion, a small but perfectly shaped white flower with just a touch of gold would be a suitable representation of the Malfoy family." He paused, and as Lucius Malfoy said nothing, he added nervously: "Sir."

"Yes..." Lucius Malfoy said slowly, resting his eyes on the delicate petals without really seeing them. "Yes, Markham. You have done an excellent job. White is a very wise choice. Very tasteful. Excellent."

He eyed the gardener thoughtfully.

"You have a good understanding of the Malfoy values," he said finally, "and of the way the Malfoy mind works. And don't think I haven't noticed it before now. It wasn't coincidence that placed this delicate task in your hands." His eyes wandered down from the gardener's carefully neutral face, over his dirt-stained blue trousers to his boots, before slowly returning to his face. Markham said nothing, but met Lucius Malfoy's eyes with a slight air of defiance. "Old Fosberry is getting... well, old. He has hinted to me that he would like to retire sometime soon. I need a new head gardener, Markham."

Markham stared at him, the dark blue of his eyes shifting slightly as a thousand thoughts fluttered behind them, none of them articulated, all of them considered.

"The salary will be substantially higher than your present one, as I am sure you realise. And no doubt you are aware that, as my head gardener, you will have some... should we say... extended responsibilities?"

"Yes, sir." The answer came almost in a whisper.

"As head gardener at Malfoy Manor you will be a highly important figure. For the Manor, and for me personally. And you will also be of the utmost importance for... for some of my acquaintances. I am confident that you understand the implications of this."

"I understand perfectly, sir."

"Excellent. Can I expect your answer by this evening?"

A glimpse of something brilliant flashed across the dark blue irises. Lucius Malfoy held the gardener's gaze and was thrilled. He knew he had made a good choice. An interesting one, perhaps even a controversial one. The man was intelligent and resourceful and understood the concept of taste. It remained to be seen whether he was also trustworthy. Lucius Malfoy had a strong sense that he wasn't, or at least only as far as it served his own personal purposes - but then again, that was true for most of humanity and, besides, a Malfoy always enjoyed a challenge.

"I can give it now, sir. It would be an honour. I... Thank you, sir."

Lucius Malfoy smiled faintly as he held out his hand to the gardener, who took it, slightly wary, but his handshake was firm.

"I will let you know when you can start. You will need an introduction to your new tasks. Some... special instructions. Well done, Markham. I appreciate what you have done here."

The door to the Victoria House opened, Lucius Malfoy's dark cloak swept out, and the door closed again behind him. The cool draught stirred the hot humidity and made the gardener shiver.

It was a full ten minutes before his breathing returned to normal.

There was no denying that Lord Voldemort in his human form, a middle-aged Tom Riddle, was handsome. He had a powerful, square-jawed face, dark hair greying at the temples, an air of indisputable authority and a kind of palpable physical energy that visibly impressed the women and, less obtrusively, the men. His robes were simple but expertly cut, and if you looked closer you recognised the fall and texture of expensive materials. He moved as if his old-new human body was a joy to him. You could look at him and appreciate his person the way you always would appreciate a handsome human being, but when he turned and looked at you, you knew that this was no ordinary man. And it wasn't your intellect telling you. It was your reptile brain.

In the dark irises, red flames glowed and danced. And when he turned those burning eyes on you, you knew you had met evil.

Most people recognise evil when they see it, but their reactions differ. Some recoil in horror; some stare in fascination. Some immediately see the possibility of power positions for themselves in the proximity of evil. Some get sexually excited by it.

Draco Malfoy had seen evidence of all these reactions during the meeting he had attended this afternoon, from both women and men.

His father was definitely one of those who sought power, but Draco wasn't entirely sure that he was not also one of those who found sexual gratification in evil. Draco found this revolting.

It was the first time Lucius had allowed his son to attend a Death Eater meeting. Draco had never been told right out that his father was a Death Eater, but it hadn't been made a secret, either. All through his childhood, he had known, but he had only just had it confirmed. Now that he was seventeen, Lucius had deemed him old enough to be introduced into the higher society.

It wasn't an inner circle meeting in any respect. On the contrary. This was a mass gathering, held at Lord Voldemort's country estate. Draco suspected that Lucius had chosen this as his son's introductory meeting because of the sheer size of it. He wanted to show Draco the spectacular side, the impressive side, before he let him see anything else.

The Dark Lord had spoken, and the people, the congregation, had listened to the man they regarded as their god. Towards the end of his speech, or lecture, or sermon, he could have snapped his fingers and they would all have jumped off the cliff into the black lake for him, or impaled themselves on swords, and they would have felt it an honour.

Draco had almost been ready to do it, too. Almost.

In the evening he sat at the banquet table, where candlelight glittered in glass and silver and was reflected off stiff, snow-white linen. Absent-mindedly, but politely, he conversed with the young women on either side of him and the rather sinister man opposite, while his eyes kept going to the Dark Lord at the High Table.

It wasn't only Lord Voldemort's magical powers that made him a man to fear. It was also psychology, his ability to manipulate. Draco felt that this wizard could make almost anyone do almost anything and believe they were doing it of their own personal conviction.

Draco had always looked up to Lucius, seen him as the perfect combination of strength, intelligence, good looks and good taste, a role model, an ideal to work towards. He had always been more than prepared to adopt his father's views and opinions as his own. As a child, he had done it without thinking. Perhaps all children do. But Draco was not a child any more, and the image of Lucius as a tower of strength had been seriously damaged today.

Draco was sure Lucius had aimed to impress his son by so obviously being one of the most favoured followers of the Dark Lord, one who had his confidence. But Lucius had been the Dark Lord's right hand for so long that he had ceased to recognise his own subservience. Perhaps he had made a subconscious choice to forget about it and only retain the image of himself as a man of power. He disregarded the fact that he only had power because Voldemort chose to give it to him.

Draco saw his father's subservience clearly, and he did not find it attractive. He watched Lucius practically bow down in front of the Dark Lord to let his forehead touch the hem of his robes, to kiss the toe of his already shiny boot, if only figuratively. And the Lord himself looked down at the back of his bowed head with a kind of amused contempt that Lucius did not see, and Draco was not meant to see. The entire scene made Draco want to be sick.

He had always seen his father as a leader. Lucius Malfoy was the head of the family, the one who made the decisions about his son's education and future, who handled the family's financial matters and the overall running of Malfoy Manor and other property. His wife shared the responsibility for their son and for the servants, but it was Lucius who made the important, strategic decisions and who had always decided on means of punishment. He was also usually the one to execute it.

It was obvious that the staff at Malfoy Manor both admired and feared their master. Draco had always been proud of this, proud of him. He had wanted to be like his father. It had been the ultimate goal. Wealth, respect and power. The preservation of the natural superiority their pure bloodline gave them.

And now, as Draco smiled politely into the dark eyes of pureblood beauty Elizabeth Lestrange, he wondered what had frightened and disgusted him the most today: Lord Voldemort's strength or his father's weakness.

* * *

Elizabeth usually knew what she wanted. And she was persistent.

She was three years older than Draco Malfoy, and she suspected she ought to feel embarrassed about her infatuation with him. But she couldn't help it. She wanted to lick him like an icicle and break him into a thousand shiny pieces.

He had changed a lot from the last time she saw him, two years ago. He had still been a boy then, fifteen and insufferably boastful. A little puppyish, as if different parts of his body and face had grown at their own separate pace and were out of sync. It's not uncommon in pre-teens or young teenagers - Elizabeth remembered her own disproportionately long legs and large hands and feet when she was twelve. But Draco had obviously been a late developer, and he had somehow looked as if he had been put together from spare parts. High quality parts, of course. You could see the promise of beauty.

Now, everything had been pulled together and the promise fulfilled. He had grown much taller, and both his body and his face were harmonious and calm. The slight, puppy-like clumsiness had gone completely, and he moved smoothly and with something that certainly was assurance but could also perhaps be described as dignity. His very blond hair was straight and sleek as it had always been, his skin flawless and very pale. He was quiet, and the expression on his face and in his eyes had changed from general adolescent truculence to a kind of sharply observant integrity.

There was power; she could tell. She always knew about power.

It was obvious that he was worried about something this evening. But so far, it hadn't stopped him from being both attentive and charming towards her, even if the attention had perhaps been slightly impersonal or automatic. It showed his good breeding. He was definitely someone she would consider as a future husband. She was twenty, old enough to think along these lines.

He found her beautiful; she could see it. And why shouldn't he? So many others did.

Towards the end of the dinner, his eyes strayed more frequently to the High Table, and it made her curious. There were several beautiful women there, and after a while Elizabeth had to follow his gaze to see who it was he kept looking at like that. And she found that the object of his interest was no woman, but Lord Voldemort himself.

Somehow this impressed her. That Draco Malfoy was bold enough to search the eyes of the Dark Lord, while still remaining polite and attentive towards her.

After dinner, he danced with her, and she lured him out into the garden with an excuse that was as simple as it was classical. She was too warm... she was feeling a bit dizzy after the wine and the dancing... she thought she'd feel better if she had some fresh air.

In the garden, she pretended to look at the faint summer stars, at the roses that seemed to float ghostly in the dark, at the reflection of the half-moon in the lake. But all she was aware of was him. Draco Malfoy dominated her senses in a way she had never experienced before, with anyone. She had to get him to kiss her. This evening wouldn't live up to its promise until she felt that slightly curling mouth against her own.

He understood enough to know what was expected of him. And, besides, he was attracted to her. Of course he was. Most men were. Her hair was dark and shiny and curled just right; it fell in soft waves around her face without ever becoming frizzy. She had a straight nose and soft, full lips, and eyes large and dark enough for even the most world-weary lover to want to immerse himself in them.

Draco Malfoy kissed her delicately and surprisingly tentatively, but she reminded herself that he was only seventeen and could hardly be expected to be an expert. His tongue was as polite as the rest of him, the body that pressed her up against a tree trunk was slim and soft and hard and, after a while, insistent. The warmth of him paradoxically made her shiver. Her long legs trembled under her as his hands came under her robes and his fingers bunched up the thin, filmy fabric of her dress. They slid along her thigh, telling her how silky her skin was. When his fingertips reached the lacy edge of her underwear she was suddenly afraid that he would notice the telltale dampness, and she forced herself to whisper no, despite the cries of yes, yes, yes her body made.

He let her go and laughed. Her skirt fell back down to cover her thighs, and he kissed her again, full on the lips, but without meeting her tongue with his. Then he turned abruptly, and she watched him walk up the garden to rejoin the party, leaving her leaning against the rough tree trunk, hot and trembling and insulted, sobbing drily to herself for reasons she wasn't quite clear on.

He had been a perfect gentleman, but had still treated her like a slut. She wasn't sure what that said about him, or about herself. Perhaps especially about herself. She only knew that she didn't want to know.

* * *

A cold, lonely little wind blew down the quiet street. It was a residential area, with sprawling, well-kept gardens and largish houses, peacefully asleep in the late summer evening. Toys were spread over lawns, children's bikes leaning against walls. Pruned trees and hedged-in security. The choice between freedom and stability long since made. Surprises, good or bad, rarely came to this street.

The Muggle woman who opened the door was beautiful in a quiet way, with shoulder-length fair hair and steady blue eyes. She looked at them, her face shifting from surprise to worry, and then to fear. Five men in dark robes; five strangers at her front door late at night. But she didn't step back.

"Yes?" she said, and her voice was steady, too.

But no one replied. The Dark Lord made a small gesture, and the men entered the house, prosaically, sweeping the woman with them into the dark rooms.

Her face was very white now in the light from the Lumos-lit wand, and it was obvious their silence scared her almost as much as their presence did. She tried to talk to them, get a response from them, but still no one replied. She pleaded with them. They only stood around her looking at her, some of them with small, anticipatory smiles on their faces. They were hardly human any more, and she could feel it.

"Who are you? What do you want? Please don't hurt me. Please don't. I have a daughter. Please, for her sake. Don't hurt me."

Finally, one of them spoke.

"Will she do, my lord?"

The Dark Lord's eyes burned red in the dim light, and the woman sank to her knees in front of him, so frightened she all but lost consciousness.

"No.... please... " she repeated with her head bowed, unable to meet his eyes. "Please let me go. For my daughter. Please don't hurt me."

But her tone of voice told them that she knew by now. She knew that they would, indeed, hurt her very much. And their smiles would only widen while they did it.

*Oh, yes," Lord Voldemort said with soft satisfaction. "She will do."

* * *

They took her back to Malfoy Manor, and Draco was present when they killed her. He didn't take part in the act itself; had he wanted to, they would have stopped him. He was too young and too inexperienced, and it was a process that demanded precision.

He watched as rhythmical spurts of blood from her throat decorated the white wall with dark red arcs, each one lower and shorter than the previous one as the pressure weakened with her heartbeat, until the spurts had died down and her blood dripped from the table where she was lying onto the stone floor.

No one had said a word, but the look on the men's faces was ecstatic, as if they had just watched something glorious, the answer to all their questions, the promise of power ahead of them.

One of them signalled to Draco to come up to him where he knelt by the spreading puddle of blood below the woman's head. Draco's head was spinning, and he thought his own breathing echoed around the room. The smell of blood and human death filled his nostrils like thick smoke, and he thought he was either going to throw up or pass out, or possibly both. But he managed to take the few steps up to the man, who dipped his finger into the puddle and smeared the still warm blood onto Draco's forehead, both his cheeks and his chin. Waves of nausea washed through him, but he didn't move.

"Take off your robes."

He did so, mutely, aware of the men's eyes directed at him. They were expectant. It was obvious that something was going to happen, something to do with him, but he had no idea what it was. He just knew somewhere, deep down, that he didn't want it to happen, and never had.

The Dark Lord entered the room with Lucius Malfoy. Draco knew immediately that they had been watching the ceremony, without knowing how he knew or how they had done it. Their faces were alight with something akin to sexual exaltation. Lucius stopped by the door and gave his son an approving nod and a tight-lipped, excited smile.

Lord Voldemort came up to Draco, stopped only a foot away from him. He looked him up and down, and the red eyes sent a flame of fear searing through Draco. He began to tremble.

"Take your clothes off," the Dark Lord said, the soft hoarseness of his voice like an unpleasant, clinging caress.

Draco went rigid. His hands wouldn't work. His fingers wouldn't. He didn't want to be stared at by these men. He didn't want them to stare at his naked body in front of his father. And most of all, he couldn't bear to be naked under those avid, red eyes.

"Don't be alarmed." The hoarse voice was laughing now, a wheeze that made it even more unpleasantly caressing. "You are a beautiful boy. There is no need to be shy. Take your clothes off and let us look at you."

Draco knew there had been an unspoken spell hidden somewhere among those words, because his fingers began to work all by themselves, without his collaboration, against his will. One by one, his garments fell into a pile next to him, until he stood naked beside the dead woman. His skin was even paler than hers, an almost fluorescent white in the candlelight.

The Dark Lord's eyes slid slowly from Draco's face over his throat, shoulders, chest, arms, stomach... rested on his hipbone. And he smiled; the red eyes smiled.

"That is a beautiful tattoo, my boy."

He stretched out his hand; his eyes riveted on the taut, silvery skin. His fingertip touched Draco, light as a feather as it followed the little flower tattoo. Caressed it while the red eyes devoured it.

Draco bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming. He had never felt anything like that touch. The hand was cold as ice but sent flames through his body. The touch was poison. It was dragon fire and burning ice. It filled his entire being with hot white fear and revulsion, an overwhelming impulse to run. But it also triggered a reaction that made him so ashamed and embarrassed it bordered on panic: He was aroused.

They could all see his physical reaction. He was naked in front of their eyes; there was no hiding it. And they all began to smile. His father smiled too, and his smile held something that looked like pride. Tears of confusion and humiliation stung Draco's eyes. He had no idea what was expected of him. But as the painful embarrassment slowly began to ease, he looked at their faces. And he realised from the approval he saw, and from the atmosphere in the room, that he had reacted the right way. This was how it was supposed to be, what was supposed to happen. He had neatly followed a set of rules he hadn't even been aware of.

The threat of tears was averted now, and he breathed again. The Dark Lord was still smiling as his eyes took in the rest of Draco's body.

"Turn around."

Draco turned in silence. The red eyes licked his back like flames, but he gritted his teeth and didn't make a sound.

"I will finish the blooding now, Draco," Lord Voldemort said, satisfaction like a smooth undercurrent in his voice. "It will hurt a little, but it will be worth it."

Draco stared straight ahead of him. If prepared, he could take pain as well as anyone in this room. He clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. He knew rather than heard that the Dark Lord dipped his finger into the puddle of blood and whispered something. Then he felt the hot, cold, poisonous touch on his tailbone, just above his buttocks. And the pain came. It was short and intense and searing. It was only a finger touching skin but it left a needlepoint of pain that spread and expanded, like a flower bud opening to a scorching sun.

And then it was over. There was only a dull pain, mutedly throbbing in time with his pulse. A dark, soft, appreciative murmur of voices moved across the room like a wave.

"You can get dressed now," the Dark Lord said, dismissively, as if he had lost interest.

Draco put his clothes back on with trembling fingers, his eyes avoiding the dead, naked woman. The tense atmosphere was broken, and the men moved around the room, talking, smiling, preparing to go to dinner. Draco hoped he wasn't expected to go. He still felt a bit nauseous, and above all he was deathly tired.

Lucius came up to him and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"You've made me very proud of you tonight, Draco," he said.

Draco's tired eyes took in his father's haughty face, the aquiline nose, the grey eyes, the mouth with its curling corners. He had waited all his life to hear those words, but now that they were finally spoken, he could take no satisfaction or joy in them. He felt nothing; he was exhausted. He made no response because there was nothing to say.

"If you don't want to come to dinner, we will all understand," Lucius said in a low, almost conspiratorial voice. "Being blooded is a draining process. Everyone here has been through it. You did very well, and it's a beautiful flame, by far the most beautiful one I've seen. If you want to go back to your room, that's fine."

"Yes," Draco managed to say. "Yes, if I could please be excused...? I think I would like to... sleep."

Lucius squeezed his shoulder again.

"Be sure to remember your dreams. They could be significant."

Draco wandered slowly back to his room, half of his mind already in a dream, a colourless dream. He barely noticed the halls and corridors and rooms he passed on the way. Portraits whispered and turned their heads to follow him with their eyes as he walked by, as if they could sense what had happened.

When he fell into bed, too exhausted to take off more than his shoes and his robes, Lucius' voice echoed through his head:

"Be sure to remember your dreams."

And then he slept, despite the dull throbbing pain that wouldn't leave him.

* * *

Draco dreamt of snow.

At first the dream was blue and white and free, filled with white plains and space and crisp air. Then red flowers began to push through the snow. When he got closer, he realised they weren't flowers but flames, small fires that made the snow melt and revealed dark mud underneath. The fires burned until all the snow was gone, and light turned to darkness, pinpointed with flames.

And Draco was frightened. There was nothing threatening here, nothing that the eye could see, but he ran in a panic, flames burning his feet.

He was looking for something, searching desperately, knowing that if he didn't find it, he would be lost here in the darkness forever. But he didn't know what he was looking for.

Then there was water. The darkness didn't go away, but the water was cool and soothing after the burning flames, clean and clear after the squelching mud.

Draco swam. Head barely above the surface. Gasping for breath. When his hand met something rough and dry and solid, he woke up.

The darkness in the room felt dusty. His throat was dry and he wanted the water back. It had felt so good. As if he had glided through that cool silky water to finally find something rock solid, something he could trust. Something that would be there for eternity.

The sense of loss was so overwhelming he wanted to cry.

But he was Draco Malfoy, and he was good at fighting tears. So he fought, and turned on his other side, and went back to sleep.

He dreamt of voices. He tried to find his way in the dark while hands groped his body, hot insistent hands whose touch made him feel sick. Every time he saw a light in the distance, he heard a wheezing laugh and the light went out. There was wetness on his face, and he knew it was blood. He fell on his knees. He heard a scream, and suddenly there was light before him. Blood pulsed slowly out of nowhere to paint arcs of dark red on nothing. He tried to scramble back on his feet, but when he reached out for something to support him, his hands met only air. And there was darkness again.

This time, Draco woke up screaming. He stifled his scream in the pillow and had to reach for his wand to get some light, to check the pillow-case for blood. But it was as crisp and clean as the house-elves had left it.

He sank back on the pillows and stared up at the dark ceiling, tried not to remember his dream, tried not to think.

He didn't get back to sleep until it was nearly morning.

* * *

On his way up from the lake to Malfoy Manor a few days later, Draco walked past the open door to the tropical house and saw his father there with Lord Voldemort. It was dark outside, a soft summer darkness, and the house was lit.

"We must clear this world of mud," he heard the Dark Lord say.

Lucius mumbled something in response. His voice was ingratiating, and Draco felt himself shudder as he lingered just outside the door, at an angle where they wouldn't spot him if they looked up. He knew he wasn't supposed to hear this conversation.

There were some rare amazonica flowers in the Malfoy Victoria House, and the two men had apparently come down here to see them. But being who they were, they couldn't let beauty suffice. They had to combine it with politics, with business.

"What we need for the magical world is purity. Pure blood, pure ambition, pure power. Cloudy minds must be exterminated. They only breed weakness. Our society, the one that we're going to build, will be superior to anything this world has ever seen, because the mainstay of it will be absolute strength. And death, my dear Lucius - death won't exist. Death is the ultimate weakness."

The Dark Lord stretched out a hand toward the flowers in the basin, broke one of the tough stems just below the surface and held the flower up only an inch or so from Lucius' face. Draco couldn't see the expression in his father's eyes clearly, but even from where he stood, he could sense both the fear and the excitement.

"Yes. Yes, my lord. Death is weakness."

Lord Voldemort began to pull the petals from the flower, one by one, and watched them as they fell. Finally he let the maimed flower drop to the floor, and crushed it under his heel.

"This, Malfoy," he said, indicating it with his hand. "This is what it's all about. All those people who have mud in their veins and mud in their brains. The unworthy and the weak. The mortals. This is what will happen."

His eyes flared red, the same flickering red that had made Draco feel sick the first time he saw it, the same flickering red that had scorched him and licked him. Lucius half-turned towards the door, his eyes unseeing and shining with admiration, fear, anticipation... They shone as he saw his own glorious future laid out before him, a future that would never end but stay a future forever.

Lord Voldemort laughed, a low, hoarse, wheezing laugh that was barely audible but crept under Draco's skin and made him shudder violently. He tried to quench it, afraid that the movement would make them notice him.

"This is where the power is. The absolute power. What could be greater than killing death itself?"

And he laughed again, a laugh that made Draco think - but he is insane. He is insane, and he will drag my father into destruction with him.

He slowly backed away from the greenhouse and returned to the manor house unnoticed.

He went to bed, but he couldn't sleep. The Dark Lord's laugh rang in his ears the entire night. He tossed and turned and tried to think of a convincing speech to make to his father tomorrow.

Draco wanted power. Of course he did. He had learnt from Lucius that power was the only thing that counted, the only thing that was real. But he didn't want madness. He didn't want this. Lord Voldemort was immensely powerful; there was no doubt about that. He had a following of powerful men. But to Draco, this instant, they all seemed insane, and Draco wanted more from his future than to swear loyalty to a deluded, half-demented old man who thought he could conquer death.

He had to face his father and tell him that he, Draco, was not prepared to do this. Subservience? Not to this. He wanted something far more concrete and tangible than candle-lit rituals and symbolic flower-crushing.

And he despised himself. He wanted power? How very impressive. And how very plausible, considering the fact that here he was, trembling with fear at the prospect of having to face his father. He didn't want to crawl at the Dark Lord's feet? Well, then perhaps he should have the courage to say so to his face.

He knew he never would. Never.

He turned on his other side and clamped the pillow over his ear. But the Dark Lord's laugh continued to ring in his head, and refused to be shut out by anything.

* * *

The Hogwarts Express left Platform 9 3/4 at eleven o'clock sharp, as usual.

Draco buried his head in his folded cloak and pretended to sleep. He breathed in the smell of wool-kept-in-cedar while Crabbe and Goyle grumbled about his having a window seat if he wasn't going to look out the window anyway. But after a few minutes, the trolley came and they were distracted. A chocolate frog escaped and jumped onto Draco's lap, but he pretended not to notice, or wake up.

Crabbe and Goyle. They were seventeen like himself, they were heavy and broad-shouldered, but in their minds they were still children. What did they know? How could they still be excited about chocolate frogs and enchanted vanilla creams, when they had met the Dark Lord? They had been at the gathering at his country estate. They had seen him; they had met his eyes. But to them it had all been an exciting adventure. They had been delighted with the riches of the table, goggle-eyed over the pretty girls. They had pestered Draco to find out what had happened between him and Elizabeth Lestrange in the garden, and he had played along, been mysterious and let them believe a lot more had happened than really had.

They were already looking forward to their Dark Mark ceremony, which would take place nearly a year from now. No one received the Dark Mark until they had left school.

Draco was sure they hadn't been blooded, and not entirely sure why he himself had been. At first he had thought it was because his father was one of the men closest to the Dark Lord, and also one of the wealthiest and most powerful, and Draco was expected to follow unquestioningly in his footsteps. As if his choice had been made long ago, and his loyalty, dedication and enthusiasm were taken for granted. But now he wasn't sure.

He wasn't sure of anything.

He had had a long talk with his father, telling him what he had heard in the tropical house, telling him that the Dark Lord's plans were madness. Lucius had been paler than usual, face white with anger, and also, Draco thought, with fear at the thought of Lord Voldemort's reaction to Draco's reluctance to conform. The argument had been vehement, but neither of them had raised his voice. If someone had put an ear to the door of Lucius' study, the voices would possibly have seemed a little agitated, but civil. The argument had lasted over two hours, and Draco was proud to have stood up to his father. Proud not to have been crushed by Lucius' strength. It proved that he had strength of his own, perhaps more than he had thought.

Draco had believed his father would throw him out of the house, but had been surprised at Lucius' willingness to discuss, in spite of his obvious anger. They had settled on a compromise. Draco was on probation while he thought things through. He was not to come home on vacation until he had entered the right path. Lucius would continue to provide his allowance, but it was meager compared to what it used to be. There would be no communication between Draco and his parents until Draco had reached his decision, however long it would take. (Narcissa had paled and started to cry softly when Lucius told her this at dinner, but she had made no protest. She had only stretched out a hand to smooth her son's hair. And Draco had felt more than just a twinge of disappointment - disappointment, and perhaps contempt.)

Draco was left on his own to try to find his way in life. But he simply didn't believe, the way Lucius did, that there was a choice of two paths only. Well before today, he had decided that his task now was to find alternatives. The Dark Lord was insane. Dumbledore was a fool, but in a different way. There had to be other paths to follow. And if there wasn't - who said you couldn't make your own path through the wilderness?

He had nearly fallen asleep, rocked by the train's movements, but now his eyes pinged open in the darkness under the cloak as he heard his name mentioned in the corridor. Two distinct voices were discussing Quidditch as they passed.

"...don't think Malfoy will pose much of a threat to you this year, either. I'm not saying he's a bad Seeker, but he always relies more on his gear than on talent. Well, I guess that's wise, considering."

A snort of laughter. Weasley.

"You know what Wood always used to say, that a Seeker has to work on his agility as much as on his speed? We've worked out this programme where..."

And Potter.

Suddenly the cloak was too warm, and Draco pulled it off irritably. He caught a glimpse of the two Gryffindor boys as they slowly walked past. Potter looked tanned, and taller than he had been a few months back.

It felt like ages since Draco had thought about Quidditch, or indeed anything, in that easy-going, single-minded way he heard Weasley and Potter talk about it now. He had practised flying, he had practised turns and speed and loops, but lately he hadn't done it to improve his Quidditch skills as much as to take other things off his mind.

He flung the too-warm cloak down on the seat next to him and looked out on the green landscape rushing past, wondering why his face still felt hot. He winced as he heard Potter laugh somewhere in the corridor.

This year was going to be different, in many respects. Different and difficult. Why couldn't things just be simple and straightforward?

Draco clenched his teeth.