A Reflection of Himself

September of Harry's seventh year at Hogwarts was eventless. Despite all the worries the Order had regarding Voldemort's gain in power by the day, the powerful dark wizard had not struck, nor had any information been revealed. When people say that no news is good news, that can be a foolish thing to say, for only about half the time, if one is lucky, is this the case. To assume that not knowing what is going on behind the proverbial closed doors is a good thing is to assume far too much. Assumptions are indeed quite dangerous things in and of themselves, for they often mislead and misinform, and as a consequence, the outcome can be even worse than it may have been in the first place.

In this particular case, Harry knew that no news was bad news. Very bad news. Just as he had predicted, the teachers tried to keep some semblance of normalcy within the walls of the school, by keeping their agendas focused on classes and homework, seemingly mundane tasks to hide the concern that filled their wary minds. It did not help matter any that the infamous N.E.W.T.s would be coming at the end of the school year, and so, much like their fifth year, the workloads were heavy, but to make matters worse for Harry and every other seventh year, all their classes were advanced levels.

As uneasy as Harry was feeling due to the lack of news, Snape had an even more difficult time going about his day to day routine as if everything were perfectly fine, when, in fact, this couldn't have been further from the truth. The niggling question of why Voldemort had not called his Death Eaters to him within the past month kept eating away at his mind, gnawing on the frayed edges, making them raw and weak.

The subject came up quite often between Dumbledore and Snape, but all Snape could tell the Headmaster was that he knew nothing new and that he had suspected that Voldemort had his suspicions that someone among his ranks was spying on him and his Death Eaters. Snape and Dumbledore both knew that if he were caught, his life would surely be ended on the spot, no questions asked.

"Have you thought that perhaps he isn't summoning you to the meetings?" Dumbledore inquired of Snape one evening in front of a roaring fire in the confines of his office.

Snape regarded Dumbledore shrewdly and nodded.

"There has not been a day that has passed when I haven't thought such," he admitted.

To this, Dumbledore had no response.

Besides the monotony of classes, there was the monotony of the weather. If it wasn't raining, thick, grey clouds still hovered in the sky as a warning that more rain would be on its way soon. Although it was early autumn, the temperatures were on the cool side for the time of year, and Hogwarts was constantly drafty inside.

Perhaps one of the only things that the students had to look forward to was Quidditch. Practice had started up again during the third week of school, and no matter how much it rained, Harry, as captain of the Gryffindor team, led his players out onto the pitch, and there they would practice faithfully. The first match, which was to be with Ravenclaw, was still three weeks away. The Gryffindor team remained unchanged from the previous year, seeing as no one had graduated, and the best players for each position were already on the team.

After practice one evening, Ron complained vehemently to Harry as they put away the equipment about the fact that Draco Malfoy was the new Slytherin captain.

"He doesn't deserve that title or position any more than he ever deserved to play on the team in the first place," Ron practically proclaimed to the world.

Hermione, who had been watching from the stands, sighed and rolled her eyes at Ron's continued unwillingness to let go of the past.

"Well, his father couldn't have bought Draco's way as team captain this year, now could he?" she asked.

"Well, no, of course not," Ron replied hastily, feeling a bit guilty, because despite the fact that the Malfoys were not good people, speaking ill of the dead was not appropriate.

"He's not that horrible at Quidditch," Hermione pointed out, only to receive looks of contempt from Harry and Ron. "But hey," she quicked recovered herself, "he's no Harry."

"You're forgiven," Harry smiled, "but just this once."

Ginny, who had been conversing with the other Chasers, joined Harry by his side and asked, "Forgiven for what?"

"Never mind," Harry muttered.

They left the pitch and were about to head back for the castle when Harry cast of glance over in the direction of Hagrid's hut. A light was on, and smoke was coming out of the chimney.

"D'you want to stop and visit with Hagrid for a bit?" Harry inquired.

"It has been a while," Ron pointed out. "Sure, why not?"

"Well, just as long as we don't stay too late," Hermione said hesitantly. "I don't think it would be looked kindly upon if we returned to the castle after curfew."

"But we are prefects," Ron said, as if they made everything perfectly excusable.

"Prefects or not," Hermione insisted, "we wouldn't exactly be making a good example out of ourselves by breaking rules, now would we?"

This silenced Ron, as he knew this was a battle he was not going to win. There was always the next one, though. So, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all headed for Hagrid's hut, padding quietly across the wet grounds.

Upon reaching the heavy oaken door, Harry pounded loudly on it, and within a couple of seconds, it flew open, revealing Hagrid in his usual unkempt and wild manner. He beamed down at them.

"Hullo!" he greeted them jovially. "Yeh come ter visit me, eh?"

"Yes, Hagrid," Harry said.

"Well, wha' yeh waitin' fer? Come in! Come in!"

Hagrid held the door open with one extremely large outstretched arm, while Harry and his friends entered the small, cozy hut. They took seats in the over-large chairs that surrounded an over-large wooden table, its surface covered with scratches and dents from many years of use. Everything about Hagrid's hut was over-sized for the average person, and as Harry surveyed the one room place, he noticed several creatures moving about, most of them small. Hagrid's extreme love for magical creatures, especially dangerous ones, had not dwindled one bit.

"Jus' put a pot o' tea on," Hagrid announced. "Would yeh care fer a cuppa?"

"Sure," the Gryffindors replied in unison.

"So," Hagrid said, busying himself near the stove, "anythin' yeh wish ter talk abou'?"

Harry glanced around the table at his friends, who all stared back with apparent looks of curiosity. Harry knew the question that was burning in all their minds, for it had been the same one that had been burning within the confines of his own mind these past few weeks.

"Hagrid," Harry began, "why are all the professors acting like nothing's happening?"

Hagrid pretended to not understand what Harry was talking about. "Beg pardon?" he asked, turning around, carrying a plate of his infamous rock cakes back to the table with him.

"Oh, Hagrid!" Hermione exclaimed, unable to stand the looming silence that hung thick in the air. "We know Voldemort's up to something!"

Hagrid jumped back at the sound of the Dark Lord's horrible name, nearly dropping the rockcakes.

"See wha' yeh almost made me do?" Hagrid asked, flustered and on edge. Placing the plate on the table, Hagrid took a seat and released a long, heavy sigh, the hairs on his beard near his mouth standing up as the massive amounts of air left his lungs. "Yeh shouldn' be talkin' abou' such things," he tried to lecture.

Hagrid had let important information slip out of his mouth in the past by mistake, and he knew that was what Harry and his friends were trying to do now. Frowning at their resigned looks, Hagrid stood up and fetched the tea and five cups. He poured them each a cup and resumed his seated position, taking large swigs from his cup as if he were drinking liquor.

"Don' give me those looks," Hagrid sighed, shaking his head. "When yer to know what's goin' on, Dumbledore'll tell yeh. 'Specially you, Harry."

"Look," Harry said firmly, "I already know that Voldemort is going to try and attack Hogwarts, but what I can't understand is why everyone's going about their day to day business as if there's nothing to worry about... as if the threat of Voldemort attacking isn't real enough."

"Stop sayin' his bloody name," Hagrid said with a cringe.

"Sorry," muttered Harry, "but you know what I mean, right?"

Hagrid nodded. "Yeah, I do, Harry, but look a' it this way: If all we did was sit 'round worryin' 'bout You-Know-Who attackin', our lives'd be pretty mis'rable, eh?"

"He's got a point, Harry," Hermione pointed out matter-of-factly.

"But isn't that denying the truth?" Ron asked, perplexed. "I think that's what Harry's been trying to say."

"No, not really," Hagrid countered. "It's called livin' our lives. We can' jus' stop livin' 'cause of a threat, no matter how big it is."

There was much wisdom is Hagrid's words. Although Hagrid wasn't known for wisdom, his simple outlook on life sometimes gave him a clearer view of the way of things than the complicated views of someone whose mind seemingly possessed more wisdom. In his own simple way, Hagrid was wise, and as Harry listened to what he said, he knew Hagrid was right. There was no point arguing with him.

They finished up their tea one by one, and even though Hagrid offered them his "delicious" rockcakes three times, the kind invitation to his baked goods was declined by polite excuses of "I'm full" or "I ate too much at dinner" or "I'm watching what I eat."

Eventually, since the hour had grown late, Harry and his friends wished Hagrid a good night, and they headed back to the castle. As Harry trudged across the grounds, the wind was picking up in velocity, whooping around them violently. The branches on the trees were moving back and forth in a crazed dance as their leaves rustled frenzically in the symphony. There was a horrific beauty in the whole display around them.

"Sure is windy!" Ron called over the rushing wind.

"I know!" Hermione yelled back, trying to keep her bushy hair from blowing every which way, at which she was failing miserably.

Ginny glanced up at the sky and could see not a single star.

"I think there's a storm coming in!" she called out, motioning toward the sky.

Sure enough, as soon as those words left Ginny's mouth, Harry felt a raindrop hit him squarely in the nose.

"We'd best hurry up, then!" Ron exclaimed.

They picked up their pace, and it seemed that the faster they ran, the faster the rain began to fall down, and by the time they reached the front doors of the castle, the rain was pouring down upon them in buckets. Once they were inside the dry, warm castle, they wanted nothing more than to return immediately to Gryffindor Tower and take nice, hot showers and be under the covers of their inviting beds.

"We're soaked!" Ron complained.

As the four Gryffindors walked toward the tower, they didn't see the lone figure in the shadows that had been watching them. Once they were out of sight, Draco Malfoy stepped away from the wall and muttered, "Rain tends to do that, Weasley."

With a roll of his pale eyes, Draco began to slump through the hallway again. He was finding it more and more difficult to be amidst the Slytherins, especially those whose parents were supporters of the Dark Lord.

If only they knew what I was up to, he thought, I'd be a goner for sure.

The prospect of being a spy was still unnerving for Draco. He wanted to spit at Harry Potter for worrying about when Voldemort was going to attack, for more on Draco's mind was worrying about trying to keep up his facade when the Dark Lord called again. Like Snape, Draco wondered every day when that day would come, and he also wondered if he would be discovered. Unlike Snape, Draco didn't have years of experience in Occlumency and the finer aspects of spying. He had always prided himself as being a cut above the rest, but more often then not, as of late, Draco found that he was second-guessing himself.

And so, Draco would leave the Slytherin dormitories and wander the halls late at night and whenever he wasn't in class. As a prefect, he was justified in being out past curfew. As he walked the halls this night, he wondered if he had made the right decision. Would he have been better off in Azkaban? Draco didn't know if he could have handled that any more than the current state in wich he was forced to live. Either way, he reckoned, he was still a prisoner.

I won't be free until this is all over... if it's ever over.

Forced to stay in the castle, Draco wanted nothing more than to leave it every waking second. Had it been a clear night, he would have walked the grounds, and now he found himself grumbling about the rain. Nothing, it seemed, could go right for him.

My father always held our family name is such high esteem. He had the power, money, and authority to get anything and everything he wanted, and I was to follow in his footsteps. The bloody coward... some father he was. He had to go and get himself killed, and now look where it's gotten him... dead... and me... in a world of trouble and confusion. I'd rather be anywhere then here on this accursed earth...

Draco pounded his fist into the wall in his frustration and rage and immediately regretted it. Slamming one's fist into a stone wall is not the brightest of ideas, but obviously he hadn't been thinking when he pulled his balled hand back and brought it directly into one of the aged stones of the hallway's wall.

"Damn it!" he cursed, hissing in pain, and bringing his throbbing hand to his chest, cradling it like a wounded child.

It was then that he realized how tired he was feeling, and reluctantly, Draco headed for the Slytherin dormitories. Most of the students were already in bed by the time he returned, and once he was in his room, he sat on his bed in the darkness, peering around the room. Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott's beds were still there, but they were empty. Now, Draco was the only seventh year boy left in Slytherin house, and every time he entered the room he used to share with the other boys, it only served to further remind him how truly alone he was in his journey. A journey, it seemed, that he was beginning to doubt if he should have ever begun.

In another part of the castle, Harry was sitting awake in his own bed, finding sleep unable to come over him. Ron was already asleep, but he could probably sleep through the final war against Voldemort. The rain outside pounded against the window pane, its noise drowning out the light snores coming from his classmates. Shadows from the raindrops on the window covered Harry's face, and as they trickled down the surface, only to be joined by more, it gave the illusion that Harry was crying as the shadows crept down his face.

But he no longer cried any tears.