Of Snow and Dark Water

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 4 - SHADOWS

Hermione ran along dimly lit corridors in the now still and quiet castle. She couldn't think clearly and she barely noticed her surroundings; her mind was a dark, whirling frenzy of half-articulated pleas and prayers, fragmented images and torn words. She didn't see Nearly Headless Nick in a second-floor corridor until it was too late to stop. She ran straight through him, which made her gasp at the sudden chill as if she had been doused with icy water. Nick shouted something after her, sounding deeply offended, but she only threw a "sorry" over her shoulder and ran on.

Please, please, please,

she wailed silently as she ran, please God, or whoever. Help me. Let the Time-Turner be where I left it. Oh, please.

By the time she reached the library, her brain had played a hundred horrible little scenes to her. A first-year had found the Time-Turner and got irretrievably lost in a time warp, and Hermione would be taken to Azkaban for her criminal carelessness... Filch had found the Time-Turner and would hand it in to McGonagall, who would promptly have Hermione expelled.... Malfoy had found the Time-Turner, would find out who had lost it and use it to blackmail her - he would demand Harry turned over to the Death Eaters.... Or he would return it to Hermione in exchange for... for... for God only knew what services.

Really, Hermione.

She blushed in the dark and forced herself to concentrate on the password to the library.

The enormous, book-filled rooms were oppressive in the dark; the musty smell of dust, dry leather and old parchment more pervasive than usual. The high vaulted ceiling seemed to have lowered itself and now hovered over her in silent disapproval. Hermione wound her way as fast as she could among the rows of shelves by the light from her wand. By the time she reached the table where she had been sitting that afternoon, she was so frightened she had to close her eyes for a minute before she had the courage to direct them at the spot where the Time-Turner had been. She had known the table would be empty, but she still stared at the empty surface in dismay, her heart pounding.

Oh, no. What am I going to do?

She half-turned and caught a glitter out of the corner of her eye. A glitter from something on the floor, almost hidden under the nearest bookshelf. Hermione dropped to her knees, snatched up the Time-Turner on its chain and sat for a while with closed eyes, holding it to her breast with both hands.

Oh, God. Oh thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

The relief was so immense it set her tears flowing again, but when she realised how melodramatic her prayer position on the floor was, she had to smile to herself. She could afford a smile now.

And within another few minutes, Hermione's rational brain had recovered from its temporary lapse and had to work on a different problem.

When she locked the heavy doors behind her with the spell McGonagall had given her, and turned around to head back to the Gryffindor Tower, she sensed something that made her stop dead and listen. She wasn't sure whether she had heard a noise or if something else had caught her attention, but there was a strong feeling that something had changed, had shifted... a different atmosphere... a streak of cold air... a foreign smell. She just knew, instinctively, that something was very wrong. For a fraction of a second she thought about Harry, who had taught her that acting before thinking was sometimes imperative, that sometimes you had to trust your instincts to survive.

But if her instincts were awoken, so was her brain. When she ran to the library, she had been oblivious of everything except the Time-Turner. Now, she was all attention. She felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand up.

She looked carefully around, and she thought the Hogwarts corridors had never seemed so frightening. If someone wanted to hide here, there were only too many places - so many shadows and corners, so many odd little rooms and corridors, and the changing stairs that could make you end up somewhere you definitely hadn't planned on going... And the light from the few torches that were still burning at this hour really concealed more than it revealed - it distorted reality, it moved and flickered and made you see things that weren't there.

But as Hermione heard no sounds and saw nothing out of the ordinary, she began to walk slowly towards the stairwell.

When she sneaked her head around the corner to look, her eye caught a movement at the foot of the stairs, and all her instincts screamed at her to move out of sight. She willed herself to stay where she was, immobile.

She saw a dark figure moving, swiftly but stealthily, towards the foot of the stairs, carefully staying in the shadows close to the wall, involuntarily underlining the fact that it didn't belong there. The figure wasn't wearing a Hogwarts cloak; the cloak looked more like the hooded capes the Dementors wore. Hermione pressed her back and her palms to the wall and tried not to breathe. The figure looked around, looked up through the stairwell where the occasional staircase shifted to connect to a different corridor, and seemed to wonder where to head next. It was obvious that this person, or whatever it was, was unfamiliar with the Hogwarts interior.

Something told Hermione it would be very dangerous to try to take on this intruder single-handedly. She edged away from the stairwell hall, breathed a spell to mute the sound of her steps, and ran as fast as she could to Dumbledore's office.

* * *

When the Hogwarts students returned to school after Christmas, rumours had begun to spread. They were whispered and vague at first, but lately had gained strength - rumours saying that Albus Dumbledore's magical powers were fading, that he was getting weak, getting old, was even on the border of getting senile. Hermione hadn't paid any attention to the rumours and still didn't believe a word of them. There were students at the school who were believed to sympathise with the dark side, perhaps even to report to the Death Eaters, and if Dumbledore thought that spreading a false rumour about his own failing powers would serve his, or the Order's, purpose, Hermione didn't think he would be above doing so.

When she saw him in his office this evening, she believed even less in his weakness. She arrived at the gargoyle panting with haste and fear, and it seemed to sense her urgency, spinning around swiftly and almost spitting her out at the door. Hermione flung it open and ran up to the Headmaster's heavy desk, stumbling on the steps.

"Professor Dumbledore, there is an intruder," she panted, "I saw him in the stairwell... someone in a hood and cloak... moving as if he didn't want to be seen. He headed up the stairs to the first floor and he was looking upwards as if he was going to continue... in the direction of Gryffindor Tower."

Dumbledore was on his feet at once, and Hermione took a step back at the sudden change in him. He seemed taller, and there were shadows across his face and a fire in his eyes that contradicted anything she might have heard about weakness, senility and lost power.

"Accio staff."

A tall, carved staff with a silver handle in shape of a phoenix head flew to his hand from a corner. Dumbledore went up to something Hermione had always thought was a mahogany cabinet but now turned out to be doors covering an enormous, detailed map of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. Dumbledore touched the map with the handle of his staff, and suddenly there were tiny, luminous dots grouped in rooms or moving along corridors and paths. Hermione drew a sharp breath.

"Yes, yes," Dumbledore said in reply to her unasked question, his back turned to her, "I assume this is where the idea for the Marauder's map originated. And... yes - here we have the intruder. You are right, my dear; he does seem to be heading for the Gryffindor Tower."

Dumbledore turned and pointed the staff towards his desk.

"Aperium."

A drawer unlocked and flew open, and Dumbledore fished out a small object of radiant blue. Looking at his face this very moment, Hermione could well understand why this was a wizard Voldemort would fear.

"There are times, Hermione, when circumstances require setting aside rules and regulations," he said, letting the blue object roll quickly from his palm into his sleeve. "Or even overriding the security system. This is one of them."

And with a loud crack, the Headmaster of Hogwarts Disapparated from his office.

* * *

Harry and Ron were on their way from their rooms to breakfast. They treated the stairs with the careless familiarity bred from nearly seven years of daily use, half running and half sliding down the worn steps. They were talking about a brilliant Quidditch move that the Arklow Arrows' Seeker had performed, but when they reached the Gryffindor Common Room, the scene in front of them made their smiles fade. Hermione was standing by the fireplace, looking huddled and cold despite the roaring fire, her face pale and pinched as if she was going to cry.

Ron took a few quick steps up to the trembling girl and put an arm around her, made her sit down in one of the old, squashy armchairs and placed himself protectively on one armrest.

"What's wrong, Hermione? You have the rosy colour of Nearly Headless Nick this morning."

But Hermione didn't smile, and her eyes, dark and frightened, sought Harry's.

"Someone broke into the castle last night," she said. "Apparently he was a Death Eater, and his mission seems to have been to... to attack Harry."

Ron bit back a very nasty word, and Harry sat down heavily in the armchair next to Hermione's. He had been feeling so good this morning, better than he had for quite some time as he had actually managed to get a good, long night's sleep without visits from Insomnia. He had chatted to Ron and felt almost... normal. And then this.

He laughed mirthlessly.

"To quote Dobby," he said and imitated Dobby's grating voice: "Oh, I'm used to death threats, sir. I get them five times a day. It does seem to be the theme of my life, doesn't it? 'Someone is trying to kill you, Harry.' Sometimes I wish they'd just do it and get it over with."

Hermione winced.

"Harry! Don't ever joke about things like that! Not ever!"

She looked as if she was about to slap him. For a moment, he wanted to ask her whether she meant joking about the house-elves' situation or about his own, but thought better of it.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, stretching out a hand and squeezing hers. It was cold and trembled in his. "He was caught, wasn't he? Do they know how he got in?"

"Not yet," Hermione said in a low voice, "but it seems... it seems he must have had help from inside the school."

Ron bristled.

"Malfoy. The stinking little ferret. Help from the inside! As if they need to guess where that help came from."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the mere mention of the name, and he had to will himself not to rush to Malfoy's defence.

"Who stopped him?" he asked. "The intruder, I mean," he added hastily. "I doubt it was Filch."

Hermione told them her story, and while she talked, Harry felt a helpless tenderness well up inside him - that pale little face, the tense shoulders, the way her hands trembled in her lap...

"How many times is it you've saved my life now, Hermione?" he said gently. "I hope you're not keeping track. I must owe you a debt larger than Gringott's."

This finally made her smile, a small shaky smile, and she leant forward to hug him. Harry glanced at Ron, but Ron's mind was working along another line.

"A map like the Marauders' one!? And there actually is a way to override the security system and Apparate inside Hogwarts?"

"Well, of course there is," Hermione said with a hint of impatience in her voice, "or they wouldn't be able to teach Apparation here."

Both Harry and Ron smiled a little at the real Hermione returning.

"I just meant," continued Ron, "that if it's possible to remove the protective spells from the inside, perhaps someone has figured out how to do it from the outside? There are experts on magical security systems working for the Ministry, and I'm sure it must be big business outside the Ministry, too. All those pureblood wizards with huge estates they want to protect, for instance. They'll want to buy security systems." His face clouded over like the sky in April when he heard the implications of his own words. "It all comes back to the Malfoys. No matter how I try, it always comes back to the Malfoys."

Harry said nothing.

When they entered the Great Hall a few minutes later, they found it buzzing with excitement, fear and wild speculation. A barn owl swooped down and dropped today's Daily Prophet into Hermione's cornflakes. She picked it up, brushed it off and unfolded it, and they all stared at the picture of Hogwarts on the front page.

DEATH EATERS ATTACK HOGWARTS,

the headline screamed at them in heavy black lettering across the page.

"How could they have found out about this?" Hermione choked. "I thought Dumbledore and I were the only ones who knew!"

"Well, if you're sure you didn't make a detour to the owlery on your way back from Dumbledore's office, Hermione.... then it must be Dumbledore himself who sent a message to the Daily Prophet," said Ron as he helped himself to some toast.

"Why would he do that!?"

Ron buttered his toast generously and shrugged.

"To inform people? Now that the Ministry has finally accepted the fact that You-Know-Who has returned, and now that the Daily Prophet is actually reporting on Death Eater activity, it would be a good way of letting people know that nothing is safe... what the Death Eaters are capable of. That people should be careful because there are eyes and spies and traitors everywhere."

Harry said nothing. He just looked at his oldest friend and thought it would be a waste to let Ron go to Romania to study dragons instead of going to the Academy. A waste of a good mind. Ron didn't believe in himself enough.

"Or..." Ron was saying with an odd expression in his eyes and one cheek bulging with toast, "...or whoever helped the Death Eater from inside Hogwarts ran to the owlery and sent a message to the Daily Prophet."

Both Harry and Hermione stared at him.

"Why would he... or she... have done that?" Harry said cautiously. "They failed. They didn't carry the attack through. Why would they like to plaster their failure all over the front page of the Daily Prophet?"

"To show people it can be done," Ron said. "To prove it's possible to break into a place as heavily protected as Hogwarts. Perhaps it wasn't a failure at all. Perhaps they achieved exactly what they wanted to achieve."

"But what about wanting to attack me?"

"Well, perhaps it was a... secondary goal. I mean... I don't mean it's unimportant or insignificant, Harry. You know I don't, so stop looking like that. I just meant that goal no. 1, the most important one, was breaking in - kind of like a test run. Goal no. 2, attacking you, kidnapping you, whatever, wasn't really expected to happen, not this time, but if it did, it would be a... an added bonus. Do you see what I mean?"

Harry nodded slowly.

"It fits," Ron said. "It was a rather clumsy attempt, wasn't it, if you think about it? But if it was a test run... for something else, perhaps... What if he was meant to be caught? I wonder if he knew. The intruder... the one they sent. I wonder if he knew he was just a pawn they sacrificed."

Hermione hadn't said anything, but apparently her thoughts had wandered in the same direction as Harry's, to the Academy. She was looking thoughtfully at Ron, who now moved the lump of toast from his cheek and began to chew it vigorously.

"I know what I know though, Ron," she said quietly.

"What?"

"You should study hard for your NEWTs and apply for the Advanced DADA programme at the Academy. "

Ron stopped chewing and snorted. "What - ? Oh, yeah. That'd be the day."

Hermione launched into a persuasion speech, but Harry didn't join in, although he did agree with her. He put a spoonful of cornflakes into his mouth unenthusiastically and wondered what would happen now, with the inevitable security reinforcements and the inevitable focus on himself.

* * *

"Do you believe I did it, Professor?" Draco asked calmly. "Do you think I let him in?"

He held his head high and his gaze steady. Dumbledore leant back in his chair, put his fingertips together and rested them thoughtfully against his chin. He looked at Draco for a long time, but Draco was used to this kind of treatment from his father and didn't falter. He just continued standing there, with his feet slightly apart, his hands behind his back and his eyes on Dumbledore's face, waiting. He could stand like that for a very long time, if needed.

"Well, Mr Malfoy - did you?"

Draco looked at the Headmaster with defiance.

"No, sir," he said firmly. "I did not."

Dumbledore sighed deeply and rose from his chair. Draco angrily bit his lip.

If he dismisses me now, without giving me an answer... If he's mysterious and vague again... I must do something. I can't just accept it.

But Dumbledore didn't dismiss him; he came round the desk and placed a hand on Draco's shoulder. Draco had to resist an urge to move away from the touch - it wasn't unpleasant, exactly, only unexpected, and it made his shoulder tingle with a warmth that he didn't know what to make of. It was as if he could feel Dumbledore's magical power, how strong it was. As if Dumbledore wanted to demonstrate it to him.

"I don't believe you did, Mr Malfoy. I don't believe you did. But I do believe you might benefit from a... more personal talk."

After a second of bewilderment, Draco felt his face go hot. A personal talk? What did he mean?

Damn Dumbledore and his confusion tactics. I hope he isn't going to talk about Potter. I really, really hope he isn't going to talk about Potter.

"Please, sit down," said Dumbledore and nodded towards two red, high-backed armchairs. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," said Draco, now utterly confused, and obediently sat down.

"You haven't been home in a while, Mr Malfoy," said Dumbledore with his back to Draco as he opened a cupboard and got out cups and a teapot. "And I have noticed you haven't had much communication with your family."

Now that's an understatement

, Draco thought.

He felt his entire body relax, and leant back in his chair. The thought of discussing his present situation, discuss Lucius, with Dumbledore certainly wasn't a pleasant one, but anything was better than having to talk to him about Potter.

Dumbledore placed cups and teapot on the table and touched the pot with his wand. Steam rose from the spout. He poured Draco a cup of fragrant tea, then sat down and poured himself one. The tea was immediately stirred by a silver spoon that came dancing out of nowhere, acting on its own. Dumbledore leant back, cup in hand, and beamed benevolently at Draco across the table. Draco had to stop himself squirming. He always felt naked and defenceless under that blue gaze.

"I know Professor Snape has talked to you, but I don't believe you disclosed very much to him," Dumbledore said. "I must repeat I do think you would benefit from discussing your current problems, whatever they are, with someone. It needn't be me. But if there is something you'd like to tell me...?"

The fine bone china cup rattled against its thin saucer as Draco's hands began to shake. He took a too-big mouthful of the hot tea and burnt his tongue and his throat. The pain made his eyes water.

Don't lose it, Draco. Self-control.

"And if you do not wish to discuss your family with me, I would still like to talk to you about the Academy," Dumbledore continued. "I understand you intend to apply?"

Draco set the cup down and heard himself say:

"My father has forbidden me to come home until I have 'entered the right path'."

He listened with dismay to the bitterness, hurt and contempt in his voice when he quoted his father's words.

I wonder if there's Veritaserum in the tea.

But he knew in his heart that Dumbledore wouldn't resort to that kind of method. The old wizard knew that that was no way to win an ally. His reign was not one of fear, unlike Lord Voldemort's, and he would want and need his allies to trust him. Trust him enough to tell him the truth without the influence of potions.

Dumbledore was still looking at Draco benevolently, but the smile had gone.

"And your own idea of the right path does not correspond with your father's idea."

It was a statement, not a question. Draco nodded and looked down at his hands. There was a long silence.

"What is the right path then, in your opinion?" Dumbledore urged gently.

Draco looked up, incredulous. The old man had asked as if he really wanted to know, as if he was not asking to rebuke, teach or preach. It must be a trick. Surely it was a trick.

"I don't know," Draco said truthfully. "I don't know what the right one is. I just know that I... I don't want to..." His voice sank to a whisper, and he was trembling. He had never discussed this subject with anyone but his father, and had never thought he would. He had entertained the most forbidden thoughts, and now he had uttered them out loud: deviation from the plan, from his assumed role; doubt and insecurity. What would Dumbledore do? Would he punish Draco for his doubts? Would he go on interviewing him, interrogating him, and then punish him for not wanting to join Dumbledore's side unconditionally? Draco cleared his throat, but his voice wouldn't obey him. "I just know I don't want to join the Dark Lord," he whispered hoarsely. "He is insane. He is, his theories are. I just can't make myself believe in what he is doing. What he wants to do."

He was shaking violently now. He had just laid himself open to Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard Lord Voldemort was said to fear, the wizard his father despised and hated more than anyone in this world. Draco, are you stupid? You have just given Dumbledore power over your life. He can dismiss you, expel you, and then where will you go? Are you trying to pronounce a death sentence over yourself? There was nothing Draco hated more than being at someone's mercy. That was the curse of being young. You were always at someone's mercy and under someone's power; you always had to follow someone else's decisions and abide by someone else's rules. Draco clenched his teeth and his fists and didn't look up. He waited for the axe to fall. Or the sword. Or the curse.

"I have always regarded a critical eye and a questioning mind as a very healthy sign in a young person," Dumbledore said gently. "Much healthier, in my opinion, than a tendency to quiet acceptance. One of the great joys of working at a school is watching young people develop into critically-minded, thinking and reasoning individuals. You, of course, Draco, are no exception. What I do find exceptional about you is your courage." He peered at Draco over his half-moon glasses and nodded, agreeing with his own words. "It does indeed take courage to stand up for your beliefs despite the consequences, the way you do and have done. Knowing your father, I know this is no easy thing. I dare say it is not something anyone would do lightly, not even someone who is not directly dependent on him the way you, as his son, are."

Draco listened without understanding a word. He was still shaking, and now his face was burning - he was being praised, but he didn't know what for. Courage? It didn't sound right. It didn't fit.

"I'm not brave in the least," he said in a low voice that was still hoarse and unsteady. "What else could I do? The Dark Lord is insane. They all are. I can't join them. I had no choice."

He looked up at Dumbledore, who began to smile, eyes twinkling.

"That, Draco," he said, "is exactly what I mean. You think this is the only thing you could have done, that you had no choice, but many men would have chosen differently than you did, for caution or fear. There is almost always a choice, and you have made one here, too. One day you will see that, and you will also see how courageous your decision was."

Draco said nothing, simply because he couldn't think of a single thing to say. It sounded so wrong, what the old wizard said about courage. Draco had never been courageous; on the contrary - when he looked back at his younger self he only saw a cowardly, loudmouthed little brat. And he would hate to tell Dumbledore that any choice he had made had probably been based less on premeditation and noble intent than on fear and contempt.

"The Academy, now." Dumbledore leant forward. "What do you have in mind there?"

And Draco found himself telling the Headmaster quite easily, now that he had already said the worst, what he had mulled over for some time. And Dumbledore, surprisingly, seemed very pleased, even enthusiastic, at the prospect of having Draco Malfoy as an Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts student at the Academy. They talked for a while about requirements and the expected curriculum. Draco's voice gradually returned to normal and his hands stopped shaking.

"Well, Draco," Dumbledore finally said and rose from his chair, "thank you for this enlightening talk. You will be very busy for the remainder of the school year - you will need to put in some work to get the required grades, but there is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed." He placed a hand on Draco's shoulder again, briefly. "I should add that I will be glad to listen any time you feel you need to ease your burden a little. And I want you to know that there will always be a place for you here, if you want it."

"Thank you, sir," mumbled Draco, unsure of what he had been offered.

He left the Headmaster's office in a state of confusion.

* * *

Draco couldn't sleep that night. He lay awake thinking about the unexpected turn his talk with Dumbledore had taken, about his future, about his possibilities. About Potter - or rather how he would like to talk to Potter. About the intruder at Hogwarts and the rumours about a collaborator inside of the school. Apparently Dumbledore believed Draco when he said he had not done it. It was a tremendous relief.

Someone had tried to attack Potter. It wasn't the first time that had happened, of course. But it was the first time the thought had made Draco genuinely uncomfortable, worried, even scared - the first time it had seemed real. Perhaps it was the first time he had realised what it would mean, what his own world would be like without Potter.

What would it be like?

Surely there would be no great difference. These days, they never talked to each other anyway. They had become a silent, passive part of each other's lives, with a few exceptions like that stupid fistfight on the Quidditch pitch. So why did the idea of the world without Potter, a future without Potter, suddenly seem like no future at all? It lost all its colour and became utterly bleak and meaningless.

No, they never talked, and Draco couldn't figure out a way to begin talking. Not a natural, relaxed way that wouldn't be awkward. But at the Academy - surely things would be different there, especially if they took the same subject...?

Draco turned irritably in bed. This wasn't normal. It was unhealthy. Letting Potter invade his head was definitely unhealthy. And he had only recently begun to recognise Potter's role in his own choices, the way Potter influenced his subconscious.

Potter is my greatest weakness.

Weakness was dangerous. Dependency was dangerous. Trust, need and faith were dangerous. They could make you fall so heavily and from such heights. Other people weren't worth it. You had to trust yourself, only yourself. And perhaps you shouldn't even trust yourself too much.

Children trusted their parents. Draco had trusted his, too. He had trusted them to love him, or rather had taken their love for granted - and perhaps they really had loved him, for as long as he conformed to their wishes, plans and decisions. Now that he did not, now that he had proved to have a will and a mind of his own, his father had banned him from his home and his mother had silently acquiesced.

Narcissa's passive acceptance of Draco's banishment had been far more painful to Draco than he would ever have thought, certainly far more painful than Lucius' actions. After all, Lucius' anger had been expected. Draco didn't often allow himself to think about his mother - when he did, he was overwhelmed by a bitterness and a pain so deep it took him days to fully recover and resurface.

It was a perfect illustration of just how dangerous it was to allow yourself to love and trust someone. Love made you weak.

All through Draco's childhood, his father had talked about weakness, about his theories and views on the subject. Weakness, or the absence of it, was crucial to him, to his philosophy and his life.

Lucius used to say: "Everyone has weaknesses, Draco. It's only human nature and nothing to be ashamed of. The real weakness is to let them show." And Draco had always believed this. He still did. Perhaps it was the only part of his father's creed that he still did believe in.

Draco remembered the first time he found that his father's opinions could be questioned.

It had started out like a mission for Truth, in Draco's sixth year. He had begun looking for books on one of Lucius' fundamental beliefs - one which Draco, at the time, embraced and supported, and had always more or less taken for a fact: The risk of degeneration of noble wizard families and the importance of keeping bloodlines pure; the importance of marrying within certain families only, to prevent dilution or contamination of the blood. Draco's only purpose when he went looking for literature on the subject was to find good arguments for it, arguments expressed and articulated better than he could, to have something brilliant and scholarly to throw in the faces of those pathetic Mudblood lovers at school. It had been very important to him then, after Lucius' brief sojourn in Azkaban. Draco had desperately wanted his father's power and position to be reinstated - he wanted so badly to prove Lucius right, to show them all what you could and could not do to a Malfoy. Only later, only recently, had he understood that he himself was the one who had needed convincing.

He had searched the library at Hogwarts for works on degeneration of noble families, and there were quite a few. Draco read some of them, and to his astonishment they didn't contain the kind of information he had expected, not the clear-cut truth he had wanted to find. Instead, he had stumbled on material that completely contradicted his father's opinion. The first thought that crossed Draco's mind was censorship - of course the biased Board and Faculty at Hogwarts had censored the choice of books in the school library.

But during the spring break he spent some time at the Armando Dippet Memorial Library, which certainly wasn't censored but contained everything that had ever been published in the English-speaking magical world, and he found much the same information there. There were only two notable exceptions. One of them he remembered having seen a copy of in the bookcase in Lucius' study, and in some of his friends' homes, too. It gave a rather genuine, scholarly impression if you didn't read some of the statements too closely. The title was Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, and it was obvious that both the Malfoys and many other families regarded themselves as part of this nobility. The second was a volume with the title Blood and Power - A Study of Five Pureblood Families, where the tone and wildly speculative conclusions made the author come across as half demented. In short, there was nothing to support or prove Lucius' beliefs, and Draco felt the earth move beneath his feet. He was both frightened and fascinated, and he just had to know more.

It became an obsession; a secret, guilty obsession. When he returned to Hogwarts after the spring break, he read all he could find on the subject - big, heavy volumes that he carried to a dark corner of the library to read. And the more he read, the more he was convinced that this was the truth. It did seem that the efforts to keep bloodlines pure created degeneration - and that degeneration really only was a less offensive word for inbreeding. Fresh blood would not contaminate the blood of the noble families - it was also proven that the power of Muggle-borns or halfbloods was no weaker or less effective than the powers of pureblood wizards and witches. What could differ was knowledge and tradition, not actual power or talent. (And Draco grudgingly had to admit to the truth of this, having watched Granger's indisputable skill and Longbottom's embarrassing near-Squibbishness for years.) Intermarriage would serve to strengthen wizardkind, not threaten its existence.

Draco's world had been smashed to pieces, and he began to try to put it back together again. That was when he had stopped talking about Mudbloods. That was when he had nearly stopped talking altogether. He had had too much thinking to do. Too much re-evaluation.

And then, last summer, came the definite realisation that he couldn't go along with his father's and Lord Voldemort's wishes. The Dark Lord was demented and power-mad, and Draco wouldn't - couldn't - fight for his cause.

So what were his options now? Dumbledore had presented one to him today. "There will always be a place for you here, if you want it." And Draco knew that "here" had not referred to Hogwarts; it had meant "here with me, with us, on our side".

But Draco was far from sure he wanted it. He had no ideological or moral conviction to motivate him. Not wanting to join the Dark Lord didn't automatically prompt him to join the opposite side. He wondered whether, if he started studying the beliefs and ideals of Dumbledore's side, he would be as absolutely convinced about their truth as he had been by the counter-arguments in the pureblood discussion.

And this was the reason why he wanted to take Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts at the Academy - at least the main reason. He wanted to know more about the dark side's opponents, about the thoughts and ideals and arguments and theories they built their opposition and resistance on. Also, of course, he knew that being a Malfoy, he had a great advantage, a great store of knowledge that Potter, for instance, did not have, could not have. He would be a star student.

Finally, there was no doubt that Potter himself was a reason for Draco's interest in the Academy. Potter's reaction at the information meeting when Dumbledore had introduced the Academy to the final year students had made the hairs at the back of Draco's neck and on his arms stand up, electrified. It had been that strong, that exciting, and the pure exhilarating intensity of it had made Draco feel that nothing could make him stay away from the Academy, nothing in the world.

* * *

Despite the unusually warm and sunny weather that spring, it was a time of uneasiness and metaphorical darkness.

When Magical Law Enforcement had finished their work at Hogwarts after the break-in, Dumbledore wasted no time setting about improving and reinforcing the school's system of wards and protection spells. He temporarily engaged the team of wizards and witches working on securing the Academy to find and close gaps in the Hogwarts system. There was curfew at 10 pm, corridors were patrolled, and students were only allowed to go to Hogsmeade in groups escorted by a teacher.

The number of reports about mysterious disappearances and killings of both wizards and Muggles increased steadily. Antonius Greene, a high-ranking official at the Obliviator Headquarters at the Ministry of Magic, was found to be a Death Eater using Polyjuice. A few days later, the real Antonius Greene was found dead in a wood, by a Muggle walking his dog. There was a note pinned to his robes, sealed with a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. The simple message read: "There will be more."

Distrust, caution and suspicion grew.

At Hogwarts, life tried to get back to normal, but breakfasts were now a rather quiet affair as the Daily Prophet's reports on attacks grew more and more serious and frequent, and some students had even received messages tied with black ribbon. Harry felt personally responsible. If it hadn't been for him, would they all be safe now? If it hadn't been for him, would Voldemort have returned at all?

He spoke to no one unless he had to, studied hard, still took as much exercise as he could possibly fit into his schedule, and continued to stare at Draco Malfoy across the Great Hall.

* * *

The Daily Prophet, 21st April, 1998

"STUDENT KILLED IN ATTACK ON HOGWARTS

The youngest son of Ministry employee Arthur Weasley was killed in a vicious Death Eater attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry late last night. Death Eater access to the school is under investigation.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry suffered another Death Eater attack late on Monday evening. It was the second attack on the school in two months. The primary target of this attack, as well as the previous one, seems to have been Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who is a final-year student at the school.

The three Death Eaters broke systematically into all the rooms in the seventh-year boys' corridor of one of the House towers. Ronald Weasley, the youngest son of Arthur Weasley at the Ministry of Magic, was tragically killed in the attack. Harry Potter suffered injuries from a second-hand hit by the Avada Kedavra curse and is currently receiving treatment at an unknown location. His condition is reported to be stable. Two intruders were arrested and taken to Azkaban Prison, where they are now awaiting trial. The third intruder was found dead on the school grounds. The laboratories examining the body and the wand found that the death was a suicide.

Investigations of how the Death Eaters gained entrance to the Hogwarts grounds despite the school's extensive protection system have so far had no results. The first attack was carried out by a Death Eater special agent who entered via a channel opened with the aid of an advanced spell decryption device. Hogwarts has since sought assistance from the Ministry and other experts to secure the grounds and the castle to prevent further break-ins. Investigators working the case have declined commenting, but an anonymous, reliable source reveals to the Prophet that they have been working according to the theory of a collaborator inside the castle. The implications of this will be obvious to the Daily Prophet's intelligent readers.

The Daily Prophet finds it remarkable that the Board at Hogwarts did not remove Harry Potter from the school after the first attack.

"We believed that Hogwarts was still the safest place in the wizarding world for Mr Potter, as well as for all the other students," says the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. "Now we must reconsider. The final exams may have to be postponed and moved to another location for security reasons."

The Weasley family have been unavailable for comment."

* * *

Some feared it might be the end of Hogwarts. Others only felt that when Harry Potter finally left, the other students would be quite safe.

The Board decided to send the students home for the remainder of the school year with the exception of the seventh-years, who were to stay and take their final exams as planned, under heavy surveillance. For security reasons, the students' quarters were consolidated from four to two, as two locations were easier to monitor and protect than four. The Slytherin students were moved to Ravenclaw, and the Hufflepuffs to Gryffindor.

There were some mutterings and mumblings and grimacing at this, mostly from the Slytherins, but the students saw the necessity of it and only made token complaints. A few Hufflepuffs were heard protesting against moving in with the Gryffindor seventh-years - staying anywhere near Harry Potter was obviously connected with great risk. A few parents protested, too, but after they had been invited to Hogwarts to have the improved security system demonstrated to them, they agreed to let their children stay to finish their exams.

At the core of this turmoil, like the eye of the storm, Harry was still and silent. He had stopped studying, stopped exercising, stopped talking. He had stopped.

He was so very tired.

He rarely left his room. He lay flat on his back on the bed with the hangings closed, staring up at nothing, staring into darkness, not wanting the light, as if it would make him see things he'd rather not see. He hardly even thought - at least he didn't shape his thoughts into words. They were too fragmented; they were shreds of images and emotions more than actual thoughts. He existed, passively. There was pain, not physical, but a deep, sick, blurred pain that made sleep impossible and made his stomach turn violently at the thought of food. He cried without meaning to; it just happened - now and then he was overwhelmed by emotion, tears simply filled his eyes and ran down his temples, into his hair. He stared up at the ceiling, the ceiling he could not see.

The hospital wing was closed, but Madam Pomfrey was still on duty and came in a couple of times a day to try to make him eat something. She opened windows to let fresh air into the room, gave him pills and potions to strengthen his soul and lighten his mind, but he found it hard to swallow. Everything turned to ash in his mouth. He only wanted her to go away with her brisk words and her cold air and her foul-tasting potions which would not cure him.

Dumbledore came, too, and Hermione, but Harry turned his face away and closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear Dumbledore's words of wisdom. They didn't help him, couldn't help him, because nothing could. And he couldn't stand seeing Hermione's pinched face and her worried eyes, red-rimmed from withheld tears; couldn't stand looking at her and knowing it was all his fault.

"You didn't kill Ron, you idiot," she said vehemently one morning. "I know what you're thinking, Harry, and it isn't true. It's not your fault."

He admired her. She was so strong, so sensible, in the face of her loss and her grief. But it was his fault, of course it was. None of this would have happened if it hadn't been for him, and all he could do was stay in his room and hope the protective devices would make the Death Eaters, the journalists, everyone stay away.

Stay away, all of you. Stay away from me. Being near me is poison. Don't try to be friends with me, don't even talk to me. I'm infectious. Being close to me will kill you.

When he slept, which only happened for an hour or two at the time and rarely when he actually tried to sleep, he dreamt about sparkling, flashing wands, hoarse voices and that face, Ron's face - it was white and it shouted "they're here, they're here".

Every time, he woke up screaming. Sometimes he had to stagger over to the basin to throw up; sometimes he felt he couldn't breathe and ran to the window, flung it open and took great gulps of air. Every time, he realised that waking up from the nightmare didn't make it go away - it was real, it was true. Ron was gone, Ron was dead, and it was all Harry's fault.

The Gryffindor tower was high and Harry did think of jumping out and ending it all, because he couldn't imagine this pain ever lessening, couldn't imagine himself ever feeling better. The only solution he could see, the only thing that would solve all the problems, was himself being dead.

He had tried to jump, a couple of days after he had returned to Hogwarts from St. Mungo's where his dark burn from the Avada Kedavra curse had been treated. But Dumbledore, or whoever it was, had placed a Claustra spell on the window and no objects could pass, bodies or smaller things, in either direction. Only air.

Often he wished, he really wished, that the Death Eaters had fulfilled their mission; that they had taken him away and let Voldemort kill him. Being dead was the only thing that made sense, and the only thing that seemed even remotely fair.

* * *

Draco followed Dumbledore up the stairs. His heart beat in his throat, and it wasn't only because the stairs were long and steep. He had never been in Gryffindor Tower before; he had never even been sure where it was located, and it was strange that he was going there now. His errand was odd - in fact, he wasn't entirely sure what it was. He had only asked Dumbledore if he could see Potter, and Dumbledore had asked no questions. He had looked piercingly at Draco for a long while and then inclined his head.

When Draco had heard about the attack on Potter, he had panicked. He had tried to go out into the garden but had been stopped by some Magical Law Enforcement officers. Instead, he had paced the corridors, run up and down stairs, thinking about Potter, thinking about what had almost been lost, thinking that he had to talk to Potter. But he hadn't known what he wanted to say. Tell Potter that they were on the same side, really? That things had gone too far for Draco to remain silent and passive? Tell Potter that he, Draco, was not the collaborator everyone whispered about?

So here Draco was now, following the Headmaster up the long, winding stairs, so nervous he thought he might be sick. As always when he was feeling nauseous he was oversensitive to smells, and he was aware of the smell of the Gryffindor tower that differed from both the smell of the Ravenclaw rooms and that of the Slytherin dungeons. Slytherin House smelled the way it looked: a dark green scent of stone and damp walls, of darkness and well-kept secrets. The Ravenclaw Common Room had a faint, somehow translucent smell that reminded Draco of rain or lakewater. The Gryffindor smell was drier and dustier, with a hint of hot metal. Draco's throat tightened.

He tried not to think about what would happen when they entered the Gryffindor Common Room. He hoped no one but Potter would be around - he didn't want to think about the eyes on him, the whispers, the comments. What would he say to Potter? And what would Potter do?

But Dumbledore went straight past the Common Room and up further stairs, and Draco followed him through a narrow corridor where light fell in through a row of small windows to the left. They passed by several closed doors to the right, until Dumbledore stopped at the end of the corridor and knocked on the very last door.

Madam Pomfrey opened and let them into Potter's room. It was rather large - larger than Draco's own in Slytherin - and had two high, pointed windows. It was airy and light and furnished the same way most students' rooms were - a desk and a straight-backed chair, two armchairs, a basin in the corner. The hangings around the four-poster bed were closed. Draco swallowed nervously.

"The Headmaster is here, Potter," Madam Pomfrey said to the hangings. "Don't upset him," she added brusquely to Draco, gave Dumbledore a nod and left.

Dumbledore pulled an armchair up to the bed.

"I'm going to open the hangings, Harry," he said gently. "I have brought a visitor. Mr Malfoy would like to speak to you."

There was a deafening silence. After several minutes, during which Draco thought his heartbeat would drown him, Potter mumbled something from behind the drapes:

"I don't want to talk. Please just... just go away."

"You don't have to talk, Harry. I think Mr Malfoy will do the talking." Dumbledore opened the hangings slowly, leant forward and touched Potter's shoulder. "He will not stay long. I will come back in a little while, Harry, and then I do want you to talk. I expect you to."

He squeezed Potter's shoulder reassuringly, left the room and closed the door behind him.

Draco's hands were shaking, and his heart continued to beat so loudly he thought Potter must hear it. He went up to the bed, sat down in the chair and felt stupid.

Potter was lying with his back to Draco, curled up in a foetal position and looking small and fragile. He was dressed in jeans and t-shirt, but his spine showed through the fabric and his feet were bare. It made him look very young and extremely vulnerable.

Draco was overwhelmed by his own reaction. There were so many emotions - he was embarrassed for Potter's sake, for him being so utterly exposed and unprotected, for having Draco, or anyone, see him in this state. He was embarrassed for himself - what was it he had wanted to say? What had he thought he could do? And he certainly hadn't expected to feel so deeply, painfully sorry for Potter. He was shaken by the strength of his own emotion, by the pain of seeing Potter curled up like that, motionless, as if he was afraid of breaking if he moved.

Draco cleared his throat.

"Potter..."

There was movement, suddenly. Potter began to turn around, slowly and painfully, to face Draco, blinking against the light. He had lost weight that he really couldn't afford to lose; he looked tired beyond description and was frighteningly thin. Draco shivered and thought it was a good thing Lord Voldemort couldn't see Potter or reach him now - he'd be no match for the Dark Lord's strength. Actually, he didn't look as if he would even try to fight. He looked like someone who didn't care if he died.

Draco swallowed something that was burning his throat.

Potter sat up; he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and slowly pushed himself to an upright position. His hands and feet looked too big, and his hair, always untidy, was more dishevelled than ever. The dark, tired eyes met Draco's.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" His voice was flat. "Did you come here to gloat? Well, you've seen me now. I feel like shit. I guess that's what you wanted to know. You've seen it for yourself, so you can go now."

"I already knew you were feeling like shit," said Draco, stung. "Everyone knows that. I didn't come here to gloat - wherever did you find that word, Potter? I wanted to know if there was anything.... anything I could do."

Potter stared at him. He opened his mouth, silently, like a fish, and then closed it again. Draco stared back defiantly.

"Do?" Potter said. "No, Malfoy, there's nothing you or anyone can do, unless you can bring Ron back to life."

"I'm sorry," said Draco curtly. "Weasley was an idiot, but idiots don't necessarily deserve to die."

Potter gave a sort of snort. It wasn't a laugh; it was more as if he was spitting something out, and it made Draco shiver with discomfort.

"At least you're honest, Malfoy."

"Yeah. Well. Everyone knows I didn't like Weasley, so why pretend now."

Draco looked at Potter, at the tousled black hair, the dark circles below his eyes, the pale skin and the mouth that looked blurred, as if Potter had cried so much his face had begun to dissolve. He felt vaguely ashamed at enjoying the chance to look at Potter like this, so closely, so thoroughly; at being allowed to do it. No need to look away or try to be stealthy.

And Potter looked back, very still.

"Everything's a fucking mess, Potter," Draco said. "Actually I'm not quite sure why I'm here. I think I just wanted to tell you that..." He stalled. What did he want to tell Potter? I'm sorry about how things have turned out? I miss staring at you across the Great Hall at meals? It wasn't me - I wasn't the one who let them in? He finished lamely: "...that I'm not... with them."

Potter didn't reply, but his eyes were awake now, steady on Draco's face. Draco felt naked.

"I'm not with them," he repeated. "And I'm going to try to get into the Academy. The Advanced DADA programme. I guess that's where you're heading, too?"

Potter looked down at his hands and shook his head slowly.

"I don't know," he said in a low voice. "I don't know anything any more. I don't know how the hell I'll be able to sit my exams. I can't concentrate for longer than five minutes, and when I try to think, everything just goes to pieces."

He stopped himself and looked embarrassed.

"I don't know," he said again, with a vague gesture. "I'll probably be useless anyway. There's just no energy any more."

"What's the alternative then, Potter? If you don't go to the Academy, where will you go?"

Potter just shrugged. "Go out there and let myself be killed? That would be the simplest solution, really. For them and for me."

Draco was seized by sudden anger that rushed through him like wildfire. He shot up from his chair, hands balled into fists.

"What the fuck is this, Potter? Are you going to lie here and sniffle and feel sorry for yourself, is that it? Are you going to go for the coward solution? I've never liked you much, Potter, but I have to say that for you - you've never been a coward. You can do better than this."

Potter was staring up at him now, mouth hanging slightly open. He looked like an idiot. Draco wanted to hit him.

"For fuck's sake, Potter, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Weasley's gone, there's nothing you can do about it. But it wasn't your fault, you moron. You didn't kill him. What the hell do you think he'd have thought if he'd seen you like this? You don't think he'd have been proud, do you? You don't think he'd have wanted you to be a weepy mess? Get out of bed, Potter. Get your bloody NEWTs. Go to the Academy, and then go out and kick that madman's arse."

Something that looked like the beginnings of a smile crept into Potter's eyes, a faint glitter that had not been there before. Draco, looking down at the tired face, faltered as the troubled eyes lost their darkness and regained their clear green colour. The famous scar on Potter's forehead was very pronounced against the pale skin.

" 'That madman'? Is that Voldemort you're referring to?"

Draco winced at the name.

"That's who I mean," he said. "He is mad. I've met him. Mad."

"I know, Malfoy. I've met him, too."

Potter smiled weakly up at Draco, and Draco frightened himself by wanting to bend down and kiss the blurred, smiling mouth. He took a step back before he could do anything he'd regret.

"Think about it, Potter," he said hoarsely. "Weasley always wanted you to be a hero."

Feeling that neither of them could take any more, Draco turned around and left the room without looking back or saying goodbye. He shut the door behind him and leant against it for a moment, closing his eyes and trying to swallow his heartbeat.

He had done it. He had talked to Potter, finally. For the first time in their lives, they had talked. And Potter hadn't been hostile. He had smiled.

Draco shook his head, opened his eyes and began to walk slowly along the corridor. As he descended the stairs from Gryffindor Tower, he met Dumbledore. The Headmaster opened his mouth to ask him something, but he couldn't take it. He only mumbled "Sorry" and started running. He ran all the way back to his room.

*

When Malfoy left, Harry lay back against the pillows. Tears of exhaustion and perhaps of something else, too, spilled warm and wet down his face.

For the first time in weeks, he felt awake and present. How was that for irony? That the first ray of light that had pierced his mind since Ron died, had been directed there by Draco Malfoy.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey did a double take.

"Oh! You've finished your Laetificans syrup," she said, beaming. "Unless," she gave Harry a stern look, "you poured it down the drain?"

Harry, sitting at his desk trying to cram the ingredients list for a complex potion into his tired, uncooperative brain, shook his head.

"No, I didn't. I took it. And it was foul, as usual."

"Medicine doesn't usually taste of strawberries or toffee," Madam Pomfrey said tartly. "You should be grateful it's not as bad as Skele-Gro."

Harry gave her a weak smile.

"Okay, okay," he said, "I'm grateful."

Madam Pomfrey's eyes were both warm and worried as she looked at the frighteningly thin boy.

"I just hope you will start eating properly soon," she said. "You haven't finished your breakfast, young man."

Harry's smile went out like a candle flame. "I can't," he said. "Everything just tastes like... mud, or something."

Madam Pomfrey mumbled something about Sena powder, and left carrying the tray.

Harry pushed his hair from his forehead and rubbed his eyes. The black hole inside him was still there, the burning screaming darkness that he tried to avoid, but which still swallowed him from time to time and made him cry, yell and break things without really knowing what he was doing. He didn't think it would ever leave him entirely. He knew he ought to look forward, concentrate on his exams and start going outside to get exercise and air, but everything felt so heavy. As if the air itself weighed down his shoulders and made it difficult for him to breathe or move or speak.

But it was better than it had been, albeit marginally - and he couldn't stop marvelling at the fact that it was Malfoy who had made it so.

Harry hadn't attended lessons or been to meals in the Great Hall for weeks, and he actually missed seeing Malfoy. A smile touched his face briefly at the thought, and he shook his head, sighed and returned to the Potions ingredients.

When Madam Pomfrey came back in the afternoon to hand him two kinds of horrible-looking potions, he told her he'd go down to dinner that evening.

* * *

Dinner at Hogwarts was a rather quiet affair these days, after most of the students had left. Draco's gaze still kept going to the Gryffindor table although Potter hadn't been down for meals for three weeks. He sighed, took a mouthful of pumpkin juice and then very nearly choked on it. He had been looking down on his plate and had missed Potter unobtrusively entering the Hall - now Potter slid quietly down in his seat, trying not to glance at the empty space next to him. Granger leant over to put a hand on his arm, and he gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Draco looked down on his plate again, careful not to show anything, but warmth had lodged itself in his chest and made him want to laugh or dance or do something really stupid. Potter was back, and life had suddenly adjusted itself that one inch that made the difference between uncomfortable and just right.

* * *

Hermione sat at the desk in her room, looking unseeingly out of the window. The glass was old and uneven and distorted the view. Sky and lawns rippled, and tree-trunks snaked their way from the ground into the crowns of the trees. But Hermione didn't pay attention to the view. Her hands were playing absent-mindedly with the Time-Turner.

The Time-Turner.

Professor McGonagall's voice echoed like a ghost voice at the back of Hermione's mind. It was her voice from the beginning of the sixth year, when Hermione had asked renewed permission to use a Time-Turner to be able to fit all the subjects she wanted to take into her schedule, as well having time for her Prefect duties.

"A Time-Turner places great responsibility on its user, Miss Granger," McGonagall had said sternly. "I know you understand all this, but I would still like to repeat it to you. A Time-Turner is a powerful and potentially very dangerous magical object. If used irresponsibly, it could cause great disruption. Time-travel is immensely complex magic. Changing, or trying to change, the course of history may have very serious consequences, reaching further than even the wisest wizard can foresee. I cannot stress this enough, Miss Granger: Never use the Time-Turner for anything but the specific purposes you have received permission to use it for. Never try to use it for any other personal gain. In your case, this means never use the Time-Turner for anything but fitting all of your subjects and classes into your schedule. Misuse of powerful magical objects is a serious crime."

Hermione had nodded, aware of the responsibility placed on her by McGonagall's and Dumbledore's faith and trust in her.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall."

But now, with the recent horrible events fresh and raw in her mind, Hermione wondered whether this wasn't a time where you could, or should, break the rules.

In their third year, Harry and she had used her Time-Turner to change the course of events. They had saved a hippogriff and rescued a man. So why shouldn't they use it now, to prevent the death of a seventeen-year-old boy? A boy who hadn't been intended to die but had only happened to get in the way. A boy who had died protecting his best friend.

A tear fell from the tip of Hermione's chin onto the wood surface of the desk. She started and wiped a hand across her face. This was unbearable. The whole situation was. She had never known the real, raw pain of loss before. She had missed Sirius, of course, but she had never been close to him, not the way Harry had. But now she understood why Harry had raged and snapped and over-reacted all through his sixth year. Now she understood what that look in his eyes was, where it came from. She could see it in her own eyes every time she looked in a mirror.

But Harry... He didn't rage any more. All his energy was gone. He just seemed tired, so very very tired.

Hermione angrily wiped away more tears and stared defiantly at the Time-Turner. Then she snatched it up, put it in her pocket and went to knock on Harry's door.

Hermione was glad to see that lately, he had at least begun to get out of bed in the morning and make attempts at studying. He was sitting at his desk when she entered the room, his History of Magic book open in front of him. His eyes were tired when he looked up, but he smiled at her, warmly. The warmth turned into worry when he saw that she'd been crying. He didn't ask why. There was no need.

She sat down in one of the armchairs.

"Harry, I've been thinking."

He said nothing.

"The Time-Turner." She took it out of her pocket and held it out to him. It lay there in her palm, looking very innocent, as if it was only an old time-piece on a gold chain.

Harry looked at it, and then back at her.

"I've been thinking about that, too," he said. "But I don't think we can."

"I don't know," Hermione said. "Most of the time I don't think so either. But sometimes I feel anything, any consequences it might have, would be better than this."

Harry shook his head.

"When we used it back in our third year," he said, "it was on an order from Dumbledore, and we were only thirteen then. Now we're seventeen, we're of age, we can be tried in court and sentenced to... well, the Kiss. If we did it, we'd have Ron back, alive and well and free - but you and I would end up in Azkaban."

"There would be a price to pay," Hermione agreed, "but it would be a very short prison sentence for something like that. I know there are Dementors at Azkaban again, but this isn't an offence we'd ever risk getting the Kiss for."

Harry nodded and looked down in his book. He closed it and followed the gold script on the cover with a fingertip, slowly.

"There are principles to consider, of course," said Hermione. "I would betray Dumbledore's and McGonagall's and the Ministry's trust, for one thing, and we would both break the law. The laws against misuse of magical objects aren't there for nothing. And if we break them, we demonstrate disregard for them."

Harry was still looking down at his book.

"And there's another thing," said Hermione. "If we use the Time-Turner, we might risk you. I believe Dumbledore when he says the safest place for you right now is either Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place. In Azkaban, we have no idea what might happen to you. No one can escape - well, unless they're Sirius Black, anyway - but you don't know who or what can get in. You can't trust Dementors to be loyal to one side, and Voldemort knows exactly how to handle Dementors to get them to do what he wants."

There was a long silence before Harry abruptly looked up. The pain in his eyes made Hermione draw a breath.

"I would hate it if the real reason we don't use the Time-Turner is that I'm scared," he said defiantly. "Ron died protecting me. The least I can do is to risk something in return, to get him back."

"Yes," said Hermione with tears stinging her eyes again, "but you're forgetting something else. A lot of other people's lives depend on you. If we use the Time-Turner, and you die without even a chance to fight Voldemort, the wizarding world will be exposed to the rule of one of the worst tyrants in history."

Harry opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. Hermione got up from the armchair, took the two steps that separated them and hugged him. He stiffened for a moment, but then his arms slowly crept around her waist and he leant his head against her. She smoothed his hair.

"Nothing is easy any more," he said, muffled by her jumper. "I wish we were thirteen again and could just act on impulse - do what we felt was right that very moment without thinking too much about what might happen."

"But we're not," said Hermione. "We're not."

Her fingers slid through Harry's hair again and again. She felt an almost painful tenderness for him, for who he was, for the loyalty and friendship he was capable of. Her heart ached for him, for the difficult decisions he had to make and the decisions fate had already made for him. Finally, she said:

"I think people who lose someone close to them always wish for a Time-Turner, or something to make things return to what they were. We happen to have a Time-Turner, but that doesn't give us the right to use it. It doesn't make it right for us to use it."

She felt Harry nod against her tummy, and she let him go. His eyes were dry and infinitely sad, and he managed a smile up at her.

"I've been thinking about this a lot," he said quietly. "I've even thought about stealing the Time-Turner from you. I miss Ron like..." He shook his head. "I can't describe it. And I know you feel the same. But we've come to the right conclusion - we can't do this. We can't use the Time-Turner."

Hermione suddenly realised that they had both known the outcome of this talk from the moment it began, but they had needed to have it all the same. They had needed to show each other their loyalty with Ron; show that they were both willing to go to some lengths to get him back. And they had needed to reach the decision not to use the Time-Turner together. It was a decision that was too big for either of them to make on their own.

Hermione bent down, kissed Harry on the cheek and quietly left the room.

* * *

June, 1998

The exams were over, their last term at Hogwarts was over, and it was a relief when the Leaver's Dinner was over, too. The Great Hall was beautifully decorated with flowers, garlands, candles and House colours, but despite the grandeur and the excellent food and wine, the festive mood just hadn't descended on them.

After Dumbledore's finishing speech, where he gave the students a few words of wisdom for the future, wished them the best of luck and hoped to see as many of them as possible at the Academy in the autumn, everyone rose rather hurriedly to escape the oppressive atmosphere. The students would continue their celebrations less formally in the smaller Dippet Hall, with drinks and music and dancing. Members of staff would check on them now and then, but otherwise this was the students' own party.

Harry was exhausted. More than anything, he wanted to go back to his room and sleep, but Hermione coaxed him into coming with her at least for a drink.

"It's our Leaver's Party, Harry," she said. "Our first and last and only one. Even if we could wish for better circumstances, we have to make the most of it. We'll hate ourselves later if we don't."

Hermione, always so sensible. He looked at her with affection and pulled her into a hug. She hugged him back, hard, and then turned away with tears in her eyes.

"Hermione..." His hand was still on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she muttered and fished for a handkerchief in her minimal, embroidered silk purse that didn't look as if it could hold much more than a lipstick. "So... stupid."

She blew her nose and walked firmly ahead of him to Dippet Hall.

"It does make you think of him more than ever, doesn't it," Harry said into her ear as they entered the dimly lit room.

There was no need to specify who. There was no need to try not to talk about him.

"He had looked forward to this so much. Leaving school... going to Romania." Hermione's jaw set. "But we mustn't allow ourselves to think too much about that, or we'll go mad. The only thing we can do is go on, study hard and prepare ourselves. I'm just worried that this will make us hate Voldemort so much we lose our heads. We can't afford to let it cloud our minds. We need to be sharp and strong and smart to defeat him."

It warmed Harry, the way she said "we". He wasn't alone, after all. Perhaps he had never been as alone as he had thought.

Suddenly Hermione had a furrow between her eyebrows.

"Malfoy is staring at you," she said unexpectedly. "What does he want?"

Harry started. It was true, Malfoy really was staring at them from across the room. Harry felt himself blush crimson and was very grateful for the dim light.

"He came to see me some weeks ago," he said. "When I was ill."

Hermione turned and looked at him. "What - Malfoy? Did he? What for?"

"I... I'm not sure. He told me that... he said... he said he isn't with them. That's word perfect. He 'isn't with them'. And he told me he's going to the Academy."

After a few seconds of astonished silence, Hermione burst out laughing. "Oh... oh..." she gasped. "You know, I always thought nothing would surprise me more than seeing you pass your Potions exam. But this - !" And she laughed again, so hard she had to wipe her eyes.

"Yeah, very funny," Harry mumbled, deeply embarrassed. "I think I'll go over and talk to him."

"Do," Hermione choked. "Do, or he'll have to stare at you like that all evening."

Harry tried to look casual and relaxed as he crossed the room. He was aware of eyes following him, aware of faces turning to see the unprecedented sight of Malfoy and Potter together. Malfoy looked completely unperturbed. He was holding a glass between his fingers the same way he had held phials and glass tubes in Potions class; delicately and with great precision.

"So this is it, then," he said to Harry.

"What...?"

Harry hated being confused, and right now his confusion was so strong he could taste it in his mouth.

"We've finished school. We're leaving. We're supposed to be adults and know what we want." Malfoy gave him a close-lipped smile that somehow made Harry's stomach float.

He wanted to hide his burning face, but at the same time he was exhilarated; he wanted to laugh and sing and turn cartwheels across the dance floor. It was the first time he'd felt happy since Ron's death, and the thought made him feel guilty - for being here, being alive, and enjoying himself. But Malfoy's hair gleamed golden in the light from the few torches, and his eyes didn't let go of Harry's for a second. Harry smiled back at him, a warm and genuine smile, the first one he could ever remember having given Malfoy. The ice wine at dinner must have gone to his head.

"And do you?" he said.

It was wonderful to see Malfoy's cheeks darken; oh, it was beautiful. The feeling that sank into the pit of his stomach was close to what he felt when he had just caught the Snitch.

"Perhaps," Malfoy said in a low voice. "Perhaps I do."

They looked at each other for a few very long seconds, and then the music began. Pansy Parkinson came up to them, slid her arm under Malfoy's and rubbed herself against him like a cat.

"Come, darling, dance with me," Harry saw her lips say as she looked up into Malfoy's eyes and gave him what was probably meant to be a very seductive smile.

Malfoy looked at Harry, shrugged as if to say "What can I do?" and followed her out on the dance floor. She turned her head to shoot Harry a glance that was both contemptuous and triumphant.

Harry sauntered back to Hermione, who had thankfully stopped laughing, and danced alternately with her and Parvati for most of the evening. He was intensely aware of Malfoy's every movement, and although they didn't do more than cast an occasional glance at each other, he knew that Malfoy was equally aware of his. He didn't stop to analyse his feelings, not sure he really wanted to know what the warmth at the pit of his stomach meant, or the fact that he twice went to the bathroom not because he needed to go, but to check himself in the mirror to make sure he looked his best. He was still very thin, and it didn't really suit him, but the dress robes did, and the colour in his cheeks did, too.

Parvati smiled up at him when he danced the last dance with her, and the look in her eyes told him she didn't find him at all bad, either. But at present there was only one person in the room whose opinion mattered to Harry, and that person certainly wasn't Parvati Patil.

Their last night at Hogwarts was at an end. It was almost morning; the musicians packed up their instruments and the sky outside was pearly light. Someone opened a window to let in birdsong and clear, sweet air.

As Hermione and Harry left Dippet Hall to go to their rooms, Malfoy caught up with them.

"See you at the Academy, then, Potter," he said.

He held out his hand, and from the wry look in his eyes, Harry knew they were both thinking about the same thing - at that time seven years ago, when Harry had refused to take Malfoy's proffered hand on the Hogwarts Express. But it was seven years ago. Things had changed, the world had changed, they had changed.

Harry took Malfoy's hand and felt a thrill along his spine as he did so. He looked into the grey eyes and saw no hostility, no deception, no malice. There was only wonder, and perhaps there was a wish.

"Have a good summer, Malfoy," he replied quietly.

Malfoy nodded, turned on his heel and headed towards the Ravenclaw quarters.

* * *

"My lord."

Lucius Malfoy bowed as Lord Voldemort entered the room. The Dark Lord seemed to be in a hurry; his stride was long and his cloak flowed behind him

"Good morning, Lucius. You wished to speak to me? I only have a minute."

"Yes, mylord. This will not take long. I wanted to ask your advice."

"Yes?"

Lucius Malfoy's face was tense and strained, whether from anger or worry was impossible to say. He also looked as if he had not slept for several nights. His skin was taut and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

"I have heard from... from our contact at Hogwarts. Draco plans to go to the new Academy."

Lord Voldemort looked faintly amused but unsurprised. "So I have heard."

A flicker of confusion crossed Lucius Malfoy's face. He tried to meet Lord Voldemort's eyes, but the other man was casually inspecting his midnight blue velvet robes, the amused look lingering on his face.

"Should I let him...?" Lucius asked.

Lord Voldemort brushed some invisible lint from his clothes. "Can he afford it?"

"Yes, mylord. He is not entirely dependent on me any longer. He has a small private fortune, from his grandmother, that he came into when he turned eighteen."

"Then let him do it."

Lucius' face fell.

"What...?"

Voldemort looked up and laughed his wheezing, near-silent laugh that always sent a shiver down Lucius Malfoy's spine.

"I said let him do it, Lucius. We need as much information as we can get from that new, crawling anthill of Dumbledore's, and I'm not altogether sure of the sources we already have. Perhaps they won't even be accepted. Draco certainly will."

"Yes, I have no doubt about that," said Lucius, pale to the lips. "But..."

"You are afraid that Dumbledore will indoctrinate your son? You are afraid that that pretty, stubborn head of Draco's will be turned - irreversibly?" Voldemort was still amused, and Lucius straightened up, frowning. "Yes, I see you do." Voldemort placed a heavy hand on Lucius' shoulder, and Lucius winced like he always did at the icy, burning touch. "Leave it to me, my dear Lucius. If we need Draco before he is ready to come back, I will call him home, and he will come regardless. But I believe he will return to us willingly and of his own accord, and that, of course, is to be preferred. I'm sure that having him at the Academy will prove most useful. Be patient."

"Thank you, mylord." Lucius had regained his poise, although the tension was still there in his face. "Then I will take no action for the time being."

"Patience," Lord Voldemort repeated, turned around with a swirl of his elegant robes and left the room.

* * *

AUGUST, 1998

The room is dark and warm but he senses a bright light somewhere. He doesn't see it, not yet. It's as if it's inside of him. It's shimmering an eerie green, and it's getting closer.

After a few seconds of confusion he understands why he's uncomfortable: It's the same bright green light that appears in his mind and his memory when he is confronted with Dementors. The flash of bright green light that means destruction of everything that is warm and safe. The bright light of death.

All this is slow. Then it speeds up.

The door is flung open and there is light in the corridor outside, not eerie green but the ordinary warm golden light of Gryffindor tower. Against it is Ron's silhouette. He rushes into the room and screams at the top of his voice: "Harry, wake up! Your wand - get your wand! Move! They're here!"

Harry scrambles out of bed, shocked awake by the white-hot rush of adrenaline. He grabs his glasses and his wand, and as three dark shapes enter the room noiselessly and frighteningly swiftly behind Ron, Ron shields him with his own body. And that is the last clear image before chaos descends. Curses and hexes and spells fly across the room; some of them collide in the air and destroy each other. There are flashes of red and purple, and sparks of ghostly blue. The dark figures move around the room, harsh voices call out, and Harry hears himself utter spells long forgotten, spells he didn't know he knew. His voice is clear and commanding, much stronger than he feels. Light blazes from his wand, and two of the shadows crumple and sink to the floor. Then there is the sharp flash of green light, showing up Ron's red hair in a weird muddy colour. A scorching, searing pain explodes in Harry's arm, and at the very same moment, Ron's body slumps against him heavily and they both fall.

But Harry is the only one screaming. Ron is silent. And so very still.

* * *

Harry woke up with a second scream on its way. He was already halfway out of bed, panting and sweating and shaking, wildly flinging the covers off. He made a conscious effort to halt his movements, stifle the scream, make himself breathe...

Breathe. Focus. Breathe.

He inhaled slowly, deeply, and exhaled equally slowly. Grimaced at the metal aftertaste of fear in his mouth. Looked around the dark room to make sure there were no shadows moving and no green light, and then sank back against the pillows. Tears began to ooze slowly down his feverishly burning face.

He had had this dream innumerable times, but the pain of it never seemed to lessen. He wondered if it ever would. The emptiness, the void that Ron had left behind was still there, as real and as merciless as before. Pain. Emptiness. Guilt.

The door opened softly, and as an ironic, visual echo of the dream, the dark shape of a man towered against the light.

"Harry? Bad dreams again?"

"Yes. It's nothing. Go back to bed."

"Do you want anything? A glass of water?"

"Nothing, thanks, Remus. I'm fine."

The door closed, and the room was like a grave, as dark and as silent. The darkness that hadn't quite left him, that returned to him in waves, came back now. And the thoughts, the unavoidable thoughts, returned with it.

A grave. I might as well join them. How many people have died for me? How many have died to protect me? How many more will die, if this doesn't stop? I wish I hadn't fought. I wish I had just pushed Ron away and let myself be killed.

Harry turned on his side and cried until he fell asleep again, face hot and itchy with tears, cheek pressed into the wet pillow.

And that was how Lupin found him as he came into the room to check on him in the bleak morning light. Huddled under the covers, arms hugging the pillow, the smooth cheek still streaked with tears. He looked so boyish when his face was relaxed in sleep, but as soon as he awoke, the boyishness would be gone. There would be guilt and fear and the heavy burden of expectation, weariness covered up with determination. He would be a very young man with a thousand years in his eyes.

Remus was very fond of Harry, more than fond - at times he wished Harry were the son he had never had. But what parent can ever protect their child to the extent they would want to? What can they do to protect their child from evil? He knew it wasn't within his power to ease the pain. There was nothing he could do except pull up and straighten the bedclothes over the sleeping body, touch the boy's hair and try to send some tenderness and love into his dreams.

He felt utterly helpless.