The Tangled Web

Chapter Three: The order of the Phoenix

"Romance and intrigue are like ice skates and Hippogriffs: perfectly manageable as long as they are not combined. Never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, even if it seems like the only option, should you mix cunning plans and true love, unless you're looking for some incredibly terrible consequences."

From Machiavelli to Voldemort: An Anthology of Intrigue, Tertius Borgia

Harry stared around him at the silent Weaslys and an equally silent Hermione.

"What is it?" he asked nervously. Arthur Weasly seemed to rally slightly.

"Are you absolutely sure that that's who it's from, Harry?" he demanded. Harry had the impression that he was finding it very difficult to breathe. He glanced down at the beautifully written missive in his hand, and nodded.

"It's signed "the order of the phoenix". I don't know what that is, though."

"Let me see it," Hermione said.

"Read it to us, dear," Mrs Weasly said, as Harry confusedly passed Hermione the letter. Hermione nodded seriously, and clearing her throat, began to read rapidly:

Dear Mr Potter,

In light of last summer's developments, which we are informed you witnessed directly, we have decided that it is time for us to re-declare our existence. In addition, we, the order of the phoenix have come to the decision that, despite your youth and inexperience, you would be an asset to our noble society. Due to the desperation of the times, it would also be desirable for you to enlist the help of any of your school friends who you believe would be suitable for this honour, although this is something we can discuss at your initiation ceremony, which is scheduled for 9 PM on 31^st September in the White Hall. Please be prompt.

Yours sincerely,

The Order of the Phoenix.

"Vengeance is ours."

Hermione gave a shuddering sigh as she stopped reading. Harry wondered with great unease what on earth was so frightening that it made sensible, practical Hermione react that like that. Ginny noticed with a stab of amusement that Ron moved to put his arm round her, before quickly thinking better of it and moving to take another piece of toast.

"I don't believe it," Mrs Weasly said. She sounded as if all the breath had been knocked out of her.

"What is it?" Harry demanded. "What's going on?" It was like watching a film when you've missed the beginning, he thought; it was incredibly hard to guess what exactly was going on. Arthur and Molly Weasly glanced at each other before seeming to make a decision, and then Mr Weasly said,

"It's a society, Harry. An infamous secret society that existed years ago. It was stamped out, but apparently it's been re-established. Of all the things to happen. You remember Crouch, of course? The older one, I mean."

Harry nodded. He saw Percy tense at the other end of the table, and felt a twinge of pity. Percy and Winky seemed to have been the only two living beings to take Mr Crouch senior's death greatly to heart.

"Well," Mr Weasly continued, with an anxious glance at Percy, "you'll know that occasionally wizards working against you-know-who became almost as cruel and ruthless as the very people they were working to oppose."

Percy stood up abruptly and went out. Ginny, who had caught sight of his face as he went, stood up also and moved to follow him, only to be stopped by her mother.

"I think he's best alone for the moment, dear" she said softly. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause.

"Was the order of the phoenix started by Crouch?" Harry finally asked. Mr Weasly gave a small smile.

"It was never proved," he replied, "although a lot of people did link Crouch to the organisation. It was certainly ruthless enough for Crouch to have been involved with. The order of the phoenix was started by a group of wizards and witches who had lost friends or loved ones to Voldemort and his followers. When the group was started, many of Voldemort's supporters were being brought to trial, and a fair proportion of them were put in Azkaban. But some of them weren't."

"Like Lucius Malfoy?" Harry suggested. He heard Ron make a soft vomiting noise of disgust, and felt vaguely and inexplicably comforted. Whatever he was up against, he thought, at least he would not be facing it alone.

"Exactly. Some death eaters managed to slip through the net. And of course this made the people who had suffered because of them extremely bitter. They had been bereaved of their loved ones, now they were even denied justice. So they decided to rectify the situation."

"They tried to kill the death eaters?" Harry said. He did not find this particularly shocking. Hadn't he wanted to kill Sirius Black in third year, when he had believed that Sirius had betrayed his parents?

"Occasionally, yes. But that's not everything. They're very inventive, the order of the phoenix."

"Like Emily Crabbe," Molly Weasly said in a hushed voice. "Crabbe's wife. If he wasn't as bad as he was I'd pity that man."

"What happened?" Harry asked. There was no response. The Weasly parents looked at each other, whilst everyone else pricked up their ears. It was clear that nobody else had been told either. Finally, Mr Weasly sighed, and seemed to come to a decision.

"It was his wife, Emily. Now Crabbe isn't what you'd call the nicest of men, and doubtless some people would think he got what he deserved. But I don't think anyone could justify what happened to Emily. One day, about seven years ago, Crabbe came home to find that his wife was missing. Eventually, after a long search, she was found wandering the moors miles from their home. She wasn't in a position to tell them anything, but it was clear who had done it."

"Done?" Hermione asked.

"Killed her," Mr Weasly replied simply. "Don't ask me to tell you how they did it." He broke off, shuddering. "I saw the body, and it gave me nightmares for weeks afterwards. They could only identify her by the rings she was wearing. Crabbe's never been the same since. He's responsible for many terrible things, but I think he really did love Emma.

"And that wasn't the worst thing the order of the phoenix have done. Sometimes, if it was feasible, they'd make a death eater pay by striking not at them, but at their children."

"They killed people's children?" Harry said incredulously.

"All too frequently. Look at the Zabinis for example."

"What happened?" Ron asked. This was clearly news to him as well. It seemed impossible to associate the handsome, aloof Blaise Zabini they all knew and disliked with any kind of tragedy.

"Gemma Zabini," Mrs Weasly explained. "Oh it was terrible, really. She was the Zabinis' youngest child, killed in a floo accident when she was four. They couldn't prove anything, but it was obvious who was responsible."

"Was she -?"

" - Blaise Zabini's sister? Yes."

Harry glanced at Hermione and Ron, who both seemed as surprised by this news as he was. There was a heavy silence in the kitchen; Mrs Weasly began stacking plates rapidly, whilst the others stared down at the table.

"What shall I do?" Harry asked finally.

"Ignore it," Mr Weasly said seriously. "Ignore the letter, and try to put it out of your mind."

"Yeah, great idea Dad," Fred (or George, Harry wasn't in the right mood to tell) said sarcastically. "Because what Harry really needs is a load of pissed off psychos following him around asking why he didn't RSVP."

"The best thing to do is to leave well alone," Mrs Weasly said from the sink. "I'll owl Dumbledore about it today, and we'll see what he has to say about it. Apart from that, I suggest you try to forget about it."

Easier said than done, Harry thought, staring round at the serious faces at the kitchen table.

"I have my doubts about this, you know."

"Look, I thought you said were going to help me."

"I did, you cloth-eared moron. I just don't see why you need that Weasly girl. She's an idiot, Draco, you'll make yourself a laughing stock."

"I'm not choosing her as a girlfriend, imbecile, I'm just pretending it for a little while. I thought you'd be glad at a chance to make her family mad."

"I am."

"Well stop being so bloody pessimistic then. I need to drive my father to the breaking point, and running away has got to be a good start. Once term starts, we can move on to phase two of the plan."

It was two weeks after the arrival of Eris, Pansy and Draco at Hogwarts, and Pansy and Draco were sitting in front of the Slytherin common room fire, enjoying the last day of peace before the return of the arrival of the other students. Pansy, who was painting her nails green as well as listening to Draco, said nothing for a few moments. Draco, who knew her well, deduced that she was deep in thought.

"What do you think?" she asked at last, holding her hands up to Draco's inspection. Draco longed to demand irritably what she was thinking, but knew this would be a mistake. Pansy did not tolerate being badgered, even by him.

"Tacky," was his verdict, after a quick glance at her nail polish. "That shade of green really jars on people's nerves. You want to try something a bit more natural, apple-green for example, not that horrible neon colour."

"Poetry," Pansy said, without appearing to hear his response. She seemed to have a sudden brainwave. Draco was baffled.

"What?"

"That's what you need," Pansy explained patiently. "For the little Weasly girl. Trust me, if you'll take my advice you'll send her a nice anonymous sonnet. She's clearly the romantic sort, poor cow."

"Poetry?" Draco repeated uncertainly. "I don't think that really suits my image." Did evil people write poetry? he wondered. He couldn't picture Voldemort or his Father sitting down to write a love poem, somehow. A dirty limerick, perhaps, but a love poem, never. And yet, now that he thought about it, poetry did seem like a good idea.

He remembered in second year, how Ginny, who had been small and poor and redheaded and generally not worth his notice, had sent that appalling valentine to Harry Potter, of all people. Pansy was probably right. A few rhyming couplets and he'd be laughing. (Draco hoped the girl wasn't still fixated on Potter, though, he had no intention of becoming part of a implausible - as well as embarrassing - love triangle).

Pansy gave a snort of laughter at Draco's reply that would have made her elegant parents blanch with horror. "Stop being such a posing idiot, Draco. And what image, anyway? Trust me, you've nothing to loose, most people round here see you as a whiny, talentless little brat with a rich Father."

"Well most people see you as a stuck up ugly bitch with a bad temper," Draco retaliated swiftly, "so I don't know why you're getting so uppity."

Pansy didn't seem affected by this remark. "Most people are idiots," she said with a shrug. "Just write the damn poem, Draco, or you'll have to manage without my help."

At this point they were interrupted by Eris, who entered the common room carrying a plate piled with toast and bacon and with Jamilla strapped to her back in a rather battered looking sling. She had taken to bringing Pansy and Draco food from every meal, as since no one was meant to know that they were in Hogwarts it was impossible for them to eat in the Great Hall. Pansy and Draco would have felt friendlier towards Eris if she hadn't insisted on charging them for every meal she delivered.

"What's all this about poetry then?" Eris asked, setting down the plate on a nearby table.

Draco and Pansy exchanged swift glances.

"We were arguing about...Housman," Pansy improvised rapidly.

"Yeah, that's right. I think he's great, Pansy says he's overrated," Draco chimed in. "What do you think?"

Eris, though privately unconvinced, furrowed her brow in thought. "I think he's alright. I to my perils of cheat and charmer and all that. Rather Slytherin, I would have thought. Anyway, do you want this toast or what?"

"I don't care what you say, Percy, you're going."

Mrs Weasly was inflexible in the same way that granite was inflexible. Arguing with her, as the Weasly children knew to their cost, was a fraught and normally fruitless task. This didn't stop them attempting it, though.

"But Mum -"

Ginny and Harry, who happened to be sunbathing in the garden outside whilst this conversation was taking place, grinned at each other. Despite being grown up, Percy sounded exactly like a teenager again. A whiny, rather bad-tempered one at that.

"It's a brilliant offer, dear, you should be flattered they asked you. It's a credit to all your hard work that they're willing to have you back. And you need something to do, you'll only go mad sitting round here all day."

"What's going on?" Ron asked, as he and Hermione wandered out the house carrying towels and comics (in Ron's case) and NEWT textbooks (in Hermione's).

Harry shrugged. He was as mystified by the conversation as anyone else. But the answer to Ron's question was drifted through the open window a moment afterwards:

"I am not going to teach Defence against the dark arts!" Percy was clearly near the end of his patience, Harry noted with a grin. Before noting disloyally that Dumbledore was clearly scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to prospective staff members, and hoping fervently that Percy would decide not to accept the offer to teach at Hogwarts.

"And why not?" Mrs Weasly demanded. "What are you going to do otherwise? Sit around here waiting for Penelope to take you back?" Mrs Weasly's tone was edged with distaste. She obviously considered any girl foolish to throw over her son as a lesser mortal who deserved nothing but contempt and a straitjacket.

Harry glanced questioningly at Ron, who mouthed she dumped him in July at him with a grin. Apparently Percy's misfortune had met little sympathy amongst his siblings, because Ginny was clearly endeavouring not to laugh. Hermione was trying to look compassionate and failing miserably.

A moment later they heard a door slam in the kitchen, a disgruntled "well!" from Mrs Weasly, and another slammed door. The conversation was apparently over.

"Did you know they wanted Percy to teach at Hogwarts?" Harry asked Ron. Ron shook his head.

"They must be really desperate," he said with a grin. "Mind you, it's not that good an opportunity for Percy either, really. I mean, everyone knows the job's doomed. I don't know why the don't just give it to Snape and make everyone happy."

"You're burning," Hermione pointed out with disapproval. Ginny, who shared Ron's skin tone, had wisely coated herself in Prometheus sunscreen, factor 333 ("will protect you against sun, supernova, lava and dragon fire or your money back!!!"), and was resting under a large sunshade with a picture of Gilderoy Lockhart on it, but Ron had taken no precautions whatsoever and was already turning red.

"So why did Penelope dump Percy?" Hermione asked, as Ron began rubbing himself with sunscreen. Harry noticed him open his mouth and glance towards Hermione, as if about to ask her to help him, and then appear to think better of it. He suppressed an uncharitable wish to bang their heads together.

"I can't believe we're sitting here discussing Percy's love life," Ron said scornfully.

"She didn't feel she was ready for commitment," Ginny said, looking rather amused, "he wanted to delineate their relationship, and she was more concerned with getting a degree in Arithmancy."

"Are you actually trying to bore me to sleep?" Ron demanded irritably.

"It seemed like the only way to get you to stop talking," Ginny replied sweetly, getting slowly to her feet. "Does anyone want more lemonade?"

Harry glanced with raised eyebrows at Hermione, who shrugged. As only children, they found the (relatively) friendly sparring between Ron and Ginny rather curious to observe. It occurred to Harry to wonder if Ginny was always like this and he simply hadn't noticed, or whether she had been behaving differently around him before. The second possibility seemed more likely, he thought.

"Yes please," Hermione said, in response to Ginny's enquiry.

"Me too, please," Harry added.

"I'll have some, if you're up," Ron said, apparently deciding that it was too hot to quarrel further with his sister.

"I'll give you a hand, if you like," Harry said to Ginny, and standing up, followed her through to the kitchen, which seemed startlingly dark after the brightness of the day.

"Do you have a lot of homework left to do?" Harry asked to make conversation, as Ginny began rifling through cupboards to find clean glasses.

"Some," she replied, her mind clearly on something else. "Harry?"

"Yes?"

"This is a stupid question, but...are you alright?"

The enquiry was entirely unexpected. Harry glanced at Ginny for a moment in complete surprise before replying,

"Yeah, fine thanks. I mean it's all a bit...well, you know, but, um, yeah. It's - yeah. Ok."

Ginny did not look convinced. Reflecting on his reply, Harry decided he couldn't really blame her. He decided to make another attempt:

"I mean there's Voldemort, and Cedric..." there was a dangerous pause, during which Cedric appeared before Harry's imagination as he had last seen him: grey, smoke-like and horribly, irretrievably dead. Harry pulled himself together. The last thing he wanted was for Ginny to start worrying as well. He forced himself to assume a flippant tone. "And now I'm also being pursued by a murderous secret society, but it's no big deal."

Ginny was not looking at him, she was staring down at the kitchen table, her face hidden by a veil of bright hair. She concentrated on pouring out the lemonade; her hands did not waver as she answered:

"You don't seem fine."

She glanced at him, and then looked away. He had never noticed how searching Ginny's eyes could be. Harry saw the concern in her dark glance, and was worried and comforted in equal measure. She should not be getting anxious, but somehow the fact that she cared so much about what happened to him was reassuring.

"What makes you say that?" he replied weakly.

Ginny looked faintly exasperated at his reply.

"Oh, come on Harry, I'm a year younger than you, not mentally subnormal. You're not eating, you're not sleeping, and you actually listened yesterday when Percy started talking to you about cauldrons instead of disappearing like the rest of us do."

Harry opened his mouth to tell her that he was fine, never better, as fit as a fiddle in fact, and that this little business with Voldemort would probably turn out to be a storm in a teacup, and found that he couldn't. He was tired of being stoical, he realised. He felt suddenly very weary.

"Well, I'll manage," he said at last.

"I think you will. I just wanted to say that...well, take care of yourself. And I know you've got Hermione and Ron (for what he's worth), but if you ever need someone to - "

"- Talk to?" Harry interrupted with a sudden feeling of bitterness. What, after all, could Ginny offer him? What could anyone do for him? It was him that Voldemort was after, and there was nothing anyone else could do to help him. "People have been telling me that a lot since the Triwizard tournament. It's all very nice, but it doesn't mean very much, somehow."

Ginny looked at him with a half smile, but there was a weariness in her eyes that Harry recognised from his own reflection. The oldness of the look jarred on him slightly: it was not an expression he had ever associated with Ginny before.

"I was going to say, someone to lean on. To be weak with, for a little bit, because you have to be strong for so many people. Almost as trite, I know, but I meant it, actually."

Then she turned and stalked rapidly out of the kitchen, leaving Harry to pick up two ice-cold glasses of lemonade and follow her, wondering as he did so whether Ginny had been affected as much as he had by what had happened last year, or whether she was simply beginning to grow up.

After a great deal of swearing and crossing-out from Draco, the poem was finally written. When it was finished, Pansy took it wordlessly from Draco and, chewing a blade of grass (the two of them were outside, making the most of the late summer sunshine) read through the scrawled lines rapidly.

"What do you think?" Draco asked, when she finished.

Pansy looked at him strangely. "It's convincing enough, I suppose. Not very brilliant poetry, but then you can't have everything." She paused, obviously wondering something. "Draco?"

"What?"

"Explain to me again why you have to seduce her."

Draco sighed with irritation. "I've told you. Father hates her and he hates her family. It'll drive him mental, he'll be putty in my hands. If anything's going to convince him to let me join them, it's going to be that."

"So that's the only reason you're doing this?"

Draco was offended. He didn't like his motives being called into question.

"Don't insult me, Parkinson. Not being a masochist, I don't date Gryffindors for fun."

"You don't date anyone for fun, Draco, you haven't had a girlfriend since third year."

Draco sat up and glared at Pansy, looking distinctly annoyed. "I'm picky, that's all. I could have any girl I wanted, you know that."

"Yeah right. The only sort of person I can see you ending up with is someone blind. Or possibly Millicent Bulstrode. Oh wait, you wouldn't have a chance with her any more, either."

"Why not?"

"She's dating Goyle. Didn't he mention it?"

"No. And how revolting. How did it happen?"

"Well, you know, she was teaching him how to box, and one thing led to another, apparently."

"Well, now that makes perfect sense," Draco replied acidly. "What do you care, anyway?" he added suddenly.

"Care about what?"

"Why I'm going after the Weasly girl."

"I don't. I just don't think you should demean yourself for no good reason. Especially if you're joining the Death Eaters. They're very keen on having a good reputation, you know that."

"You're not jealous, then?" Draco suggested with a grin.

"No, Draco, I'm not. You're really not that attractive, you know. Besides, I actually know you, remember?"

Draco seemed to accept that this point was entirely valid. "Oh yeah, I'd forgotten that. Heard from Blaise recently?"

Pansy's face suddenly took on the look of a shut door. A locked, barricaded and bolted door at that. "No. Have you?"

"No."

Draco's response bore every resemblance to the truth, despite the fact that at that moment he had an elegantly scrawled note from Blaise in his pocket. He had read the brief missive that morning whilst Pansy had been busy playing with Jamilla, and the note had almost made him laugh out loud:

Draco,

You're a complete pillock. Going back to school before you have to is simply pathetic. Besides, tattoos are really out at the moment, I don't see why you're so keen to get one. How's Pansy? (Apart from the brain damage which must have caused her to go back to school with you, of course). How many people is she dating at the moment?

Listening to my parents yesterday, seems your Father's pretty mad. I hope you know what you're doing.

B.Z.

P.S.

Burn this.

I hope you know what you're doing was Blaise's way of saying be careful. Blaise, like most Slytherins, found that gushing displays of worry set his teeth on edge. For an instant Draco wondered whether he was being entirely wise in deliberately annoying his father, but he pushed the thought aside.

Blaise always ended his letters with the command that Draco burn them, Draco remembered; Draco thought it was rather melodramatic, but Blaise seemed to have some paranoid obsession with the fact that his letters could be used against him at a later date. It was rather endearing, in a way. Draco had realised with a start that he missed him. Which by Slytherin standards was unacceptable and inappropriate.

Now, as he sprawled on the grass beside Pansy, Draco gave the letter a brief prod with his wand, and the whole thing vanished in a brief flash of flame. He did not ask himself why he had decided not to mention the letter to Pansy, because he was Draco Malfoy, and not in the habit of great self-examination. He decided what he wanted, and then he obtained it. There was no need for any further deliberation.

"What was that?" Pansy asked, glancing at the sudden flame as the letter burned to cinders.

"Nothing. Let's go inside."

You are the light that no eyes see

A candle in the gloom

A flame that flickers desperately

Shut in an empty room.

You are the dawn when I despair

My comfort in the night

Your soul is brighter than your hair

Though still your hair is bright

And all I am is hate to you

Your coldness never thaws

Yet still my love is ever true

And still my heart is yours

In the emptiness of the Weasly kitchen, Ginny scanned the poem three times over, her mind refusing to accept what she was reading. The note had arrived by post owl shortly before Ginny had left to catch the train for Hogwarts along with the rest of the family. Ripping the envelope she had been expecting a note from one of her friends, or perhaps some kind of joke from Fred and George, but she had not anticipated this. Was it a joke? Or was someone writing poetry (in the broadest possible definition of the word, Ginny reminded herself; there was no getting away from the fact that although the sentiments of the poem were fine, its execution left much to be desired) to her in earnest?

Don't be stupid, she told herself, folding the note and stuffing it into her pocket with unusual briskness. They were waiting for her, she told herself, she was slowing everyone down on the first day of school. On the way to the station she chattered incessantly, trying to drive the unwelcome thoughts from her head. Because of course for a few crazy seconds she had assumed the note was from Harry.

Once on the train she deliberately detached herself from Harry, Ron and Hermione (who were probably glad to see her go, she thought with a touch of bitterness) and retreated to an empty compartment, where she could re-read the note and wonder to herself. She had a natural mistrust of poetry, after the disastrous episode in her first year, when she had sent Harry what she now realised was a hideously embarrassing valentine, but the anonymity of the note, as well as the fact that it rhymed, were both points in its favour.

She had been sitting in silence for about half the journey when she heard voices directly outside her carriage. With a sudden ardent wish that like Harry she owned an invisibility cloak, Ginny recognised them as those of Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode.

"So have you heard from Pansy?" Millicent was asking. "Or has she been too wrapped up in those boyfriends of hers to write to you?"

"No, I haven't heard from her. And I thought you wanted to know about Draco, anyway."

"Touched a nerve, did I?" Ginny heard Millicent's raucous laugh and shrank instinctively against the wall. Blaise must have said something in a low voice to Millicent, because she replied: "There's no need to get all cross, Blaise, I was only joking. So where's Draco then, anyway?" She sounded rather put out, Ginny noticed with a shudder. The hospital wing at Hogwarts was rumoured to be filled with people who had encountered Millicent when she was put out.

"I told you, he's at Hogwarts. Ran away a fortnight ago, apparently," Blaise replied. He sounded exasperated, as if he had disclosed this information many times before.

"Well I think it's all really weird, if you ask me."

"He's all miffed about this death eater business, apparently. Poor fool. Thinks if he causes his father enough trouble he'll be forced to let him join." Ginny was surprised at Blaise's rather scornful tone, but she didn't have time to wonder about it because at this moment the two Slytherins entered Ginny's carriage and stopped short at the sight of her, fixing her with identical hostile stares. Ginny noticed with unease that both were older, taller and probably stronger than her.

"Mind if we sit down?" Blaise asked politely. Ginny might have felt reassured if it hadn't been for the expression in his dark eyes, a faint glitter which was attractive and at the same time deeply unnerving.

"Doesn't really matter either way, does it?" Ginny replied more bravely than she felt. She struggled to her feet, and picked up he bag.

"You have a point," Millicent replied, sitting down. She was apparently too absorbed in Draco's flight to bother herself with tormenting Ginny. Blaise sat down opposite her and put his feet up on the seat. Ginny decided that to remind him that this would get mud on the upholstery would be akin to suicide "What's that?" Millicent added, catching sight of the paper Ginny was still clutching. Ginny coloured.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, but she was too late. Blaise had already pulled out his wand and summoned the poem, and she could do nothing as he quickly scanned the neatly written lines with a look of contempt which turned suddenly to confusion.

"Take it," he snapped after a moment, flinging the paper back at Ginny, who snatched the poem and fled, not bothering to conceal her haste. She was beginning to feel very confused indeed.

Lucius Malfoy sat in his study (which was tastefully decorated in mahogany furniture and attractive claret upholstery) and took a sip of hot chocolate. It was his fifth cup of the day, but he had earned it, he thought, considering the drivel he was being forced to read. Whilst one insolent note from a silly teenager trying to be funny was bad enough, two in one day was simply unacceptable:

Dear Father,

As you may have noticed, I ran away last fortnight and have taken refuge at Hogwarts school. Normally you could just come and claim me, but I suppose now that you're not a governor any more you're not allowed on the premises. Shame.

Anyway, thought I'd drop you a line to say how things were going. I have some important news: I've decided to get a girlfriend. Now I hope you're sitting down before you read this, because I'm sure my girlfriend's name will come as a bit of a shock - surprise, I mean - it's Ginny Weasly.

I know her family's a useless collection of muggle-loving peasants who were directly involved in your embarrassing dismissal from the board of governors in second year and barely have enough money to buy food, whilst the girl herself is a dull little red-headed fool who should have been left in the chamber of secrets as a snack for the basilisk, but love helps me to see past all that.

I suppose it's the lack of responsibility, really. I mean, if say I was allowed to, say, join the death eaters, I'm sure I'd be too busy to soil the family name in this way, but as it is I don't have anything better to do, so don't be too surprised if you read about me in Witch Weekly in the days to come (I hope your subscription's still up to date). You clearly have no faith in me anyway, so I might as well live down to your expectations.

Anyway, I'd better go, I'm off to discover more ways to lower our standing as a family and bring our name into disrepute.

Lots and lots of love from Draco. XXXXXX.

P.S.

I've noticed that Potter's friend Granger is also quite pretty. In an ugly mudblooded sort of way. Might start going out with her if the Ginny thing doesn't work out. Actually, Potter himself isn't that bad looking, is he?

Lucius,

Have seen your son. He is still alive. He's not as pretty as you, but he seems more or less well disposed towards me. (He absolutely loathes you, though, despite also seeming to admire you a great deal. You Malfoys obviously have such a twisted family life, I'm rather glad you've disowned me.) You didn't ask me to report on his health, but I can tell you that he's well enough anyway, he has his formidable (girl?)friend around to protect him - she makes my job rather redundant, I think, but I suppose it's better to keep things of this sort in the family - (incidentally, could you clarify the relationship between them? Don't worry, I don't have any designs on your son, I just don't want to make a faux pas).

He received a letter a couple of days ago which I burned without him seeing. Fortunately I did the burning it outside, or doubtless I would have been asphyxiated by the clouds of poisonous gas that resulted. In answer to your question, no, I haven't seen anyone answering to the name of Weasly hanging around. Although I think the name did come up in conversation a few days ago. Something to do with poetry. There was a rose, too, but I think Draco threw it away. He said it was clichéd, but I don't really know what he was talking about. Do you want any more information?

Yours in secrecy,

Meander Strange.

P.S.

I received your first cheque with gratitude.

Eris had sighed as she finished writing her letter. She enjoyed writing, it was so much easier for her than speaking; on paper, she could be anyone she chose. She could be Meander Strange, despatched to an unfamiliar land on a secret mission, rather than dull little Eris, the plain, speech-impaired daughter of a gambling addict. She had been fulfilling her task rather well, she thought, having saved Draco from certain death at least once since her arrival. Lucius had proved a generous enough employer, and with a little luck she would be able to afford for her and Jamilla to stay in a hotel over the summer holidays, should their father have not recovered his fortune by then. Yet she was feeling inexplicably depressed.

It was not that she was lonely, she reminded herself. Eris did not get lonely. She had been friendless at Beauxbatons, and that had suited her. The fewer friends you had, she always reasoned, the fewer birthday presents you had to shell out for. Yet seeing Draco and Pansy together had somehow made her wonder what it would be like to have someone to talk to.

Pansy, she had already discovered, had apparently dozens of boyfriends, whose letters she was always reading aloud to Draco, who found them all very amusing. Eris, although she also found the letters rather funny, did not envy Pansy this; after witnessing her parents' distinctly strange relationship, romance was not something she ever wanted to get involved in. But she did sometimes wonder what it was like to be so much in demand. To matter so much, to so many people. It was something she could not imagine. Better that way, perhaps. For Eris, who could not trust anyone beside herself, love was simply too dangerous to contemplate.