Muggle Studies

~*~

Chapter Eight

Toujours Pur

Young boy in the market
Sees the girl alone
And asks her
'Have you lost your way home?'
She sings
'You say the most beautiful things, just like my violins'

I look into your eyes
I am at the center of the sun
And I cannot be hurt
By anything this wicked world has done

When I close my eyes
I am at the center of the sun
And I cannot be hurt
By anything this wicked world has done . . . .

Center of the Sun: Conjure One

---

Astrid was tired.

She sat outside, relaxing against a towering willow; the brisk November wind was biting and cold as it whipped through the tree's bare branches. A particularly hearty gust kicked up, and a thin, tendril-like branch tip lashed against her cheek.

"Ow!" She put her hand up to her face; there was a streak of blood across her fingertips when she drew them away from her face. "Well, bloody hell," she muttered, digging through her bag for a handkerchief. She placed it to her face.

"Astrid?"

She looked up. "Oh." The Hufflepuff boy stood at the edge of the tree's danger zone; his school robes billowed behind him in the wind. "Hello."

He cocked his head at her. "Hello. Are you all right?"

She nodded. "Yes. Thank you, though."

He thought for a moment, and then plopped his bag down on the dry brown lawn. Astrid's eyes widened; she looked down, examining her hands. He sat beside her, resting his elbows on his knees; he ran his hands through his hair in a nervous, compulsory manner. After a moment he looked straight at her. "Astrid, would you just look at me?"

Astrid fought to control her nervousness; cautiously she met his eyes.

"Tomorrow's your birthday," he noted, pulling his wand from his robes; pointing it at her face, he healed the gash from the willow branch.

"Thanks." She looked down again, picking at her cuticle. "Um, yes. My birthday."

"Will you be celebrating, then? The Slytherins have a big bash planned for you?"

"No."

He rummaged through his pocket, and then tossed something at her; a small, lidded box landed in her lap. It was light blue tied with a white ribbon. "Happy Birthday."

"Oh!" Gingerly she picked up the box, fingering the white satin ribbon; it twirled itself around her chilled fingers smoothly and fluidly as she fussed with it. She didn't know how next to proceed; did he want her to open it now or later? She looked at him questioningly.

He returned her gaze, his expression determined. "You can open it later, but . . . " he hesitated. "Just tell me why."

Her face flamed and she felt a welling panic. No, she thought. "I can't." She turned her face away.

"Why not?"

She snorted, wanting very much to tell him why she couldn't return his affection. "Well, if I could tell you why not, then I could certainly tell you the reason to begin with, wouldn't you say?"

He got to his feet and ducked back under the swaying branches, heading out; he picked up his bag, shouldering it. He considered her intently. "I am going to ask again, you know. Maybe not right away, but I'm definitely going to ask you again. Oh, and you'll want to see Madam Pomfrey about that gash," he said, "because I'm shite at healing charms."

She watched his retreating back as it disappeared back toward the castle as she sat motionless under the whipping canopy of the willow. Slowly she pulled at the corner of the white ribbon, slipping it free from its neat bow, and dropped it at her side. It scuttled away in the wind. Astrid lifted the lid from the blue box and peeked inside; pulling a square of soft, precisely-cut protective cotton from the top, she looked, her mouth opening in surprise. Carefully, she lifted out a silver charm bracelet; a tiny serpent was the only charm dangling from its length. She smiled and ran her fingers over the snake, caressing it, and was surprised when it morphed into a silver badger at her touch.

"Oh." She couldn't help herself; she broke into a huge grin and looped the bracelet around her left wrist, pressing her hand against her belly to hold it in place as she worked the clasp. She shook her hand gently, stretching it out in front of her; the bracelet slid gracefully up her wrist, gleaming brightly. My first gift from a boy . . .

Satisfied, she gathered her things and stood, brushing off her robes. Tucking the gift box into her bag, she ducked out from under the willow's canopy and started back to the castle; she had promised to meet Mina in the library, to study for their upcoming Potions exam.

"Hey!" A male voice came from behind her; was her Hufflepuff back? Astrid turned.

"Oh . . . Hello." She immediately felt self-conscious.

C.R. Waldvogel was striding toward her, smiling. She returned his smile, tentatively. "What're you doing out here? It's quite chilly today, what with the wind."

She shrugged. "Sometimes I just like the fresh air. I don't mind the cold so much."

Smoothly, he grasped her hand, rubbing it between his own. "You're frozen!" he said, his brows furrowing. "Come on, I'll walk you. Where are you off to?" Gently he let her hand drop; she could still feel the warmth of his touch, even after he let her go.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, smoothing at it nervously. "I'm meeting Mina at the library . . . you know, Mina Malkin-Blotts? She's a third year too. But first I have to see Madam Pomfrey." She gestured at the red streak across her cheek.

He nodded, reaching for her face and tilting her head sideways by the chin. "A branch get you? Mina's your friend you were playing ball with that day, right? I've seen her around the common room." C.R. brought his fingers away from her, and Astrid's skin tingled where he had touched her. They fell into step with one another and continued walking toward the castle. He held the door for her when they reached the entrance.

"Thanks," she said, smiling. "Yes. Anyhow, we're studying for our Potions exam on Friday."

"Friday?" he asked, incredulous. "It's only Monday. Do you always study so far in advance for your exams? You'll definitely love your fifth year, and the O.W.L.s, if that's the case."

"No, we don't always study so early," Astrid said, feeling shy again, "but tomorrow is my birthday. Mina and Saorise have plans for me for tomorrow, so we all decided to get a head start on our studies this week."

He raised an eyebrow. "Your birthday, then? And . . . how old will you be?"

"Fifteen."

He smiled, nodding. "A grand age to be!" He looked at her, his blue eyes shining. "Not young anymore. No, not at all."

Astrid flushed, grinning. "I suppose not."

C.R. stopped on the landing, halfway up the staircase leading toward the hospital wing. Turning to her, he captured her hand once again. "I still want to take you to Hogsmeade, and it's a town weekend coming up. Do say you'll let me." His face was open and friendly. Keen, really.

She felt a wave of adrenaline wash through her; gulping, she tried to smile. "That's really awfully nice of you, C.R.," she started, trying to gather her thoughts as she spoke, "but . . . I don't know . . . ."

He gave her hand a little squeeze. "Oh, come on, Astrid! It will be fun! I'll take you to the shoppes and we'll have a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. You like Zonko's, don't you?"

"Well," she said carefully, "I've actually never been to Hogsmeade. I didn't go the first weekend, as Mina was sick and Saorise wanted to revise . . . ."

He looked at her with mock horror. "You've never been to Hogsmeade? It's settled then." He held up a hand. "No protestations --- I'm taking you to Hogsmeade this weekend."

"Oh, that's so nice of you, but--"

"I mean it, Astrid," he said, still holding up his hand. "I refuse to take no for an answer. I'm taking you, and that's final."

"All right, then." Astrid was surprised to hear herself agreeing with him. You are a stupid, stupid girl, her inner voice whispered ferociously.

His face lit up. "Excellent!" His grin faded after a moment as his eyes wandered over her face. "You are very intriguing, you know that?" he asked softly.

She felt the heat rise again in her face, and she smiled self-consciously. "Oh . . . no, I'm not. I'm just . . . " she searched for the right words. "I'm just, you know, me," she finished lamely.

He nodded slowly; carefully he reached for her bag. "I'll carry it for you," he said, slipping it from her shoulder. "Come on."

They walked to the hospital wing without speaking further.

"Astrid," Mina said, her eyes wide, "what's going on with you and Waldvogel?" She had seen C.R. escort Astrid into the library, had watched him watch Astrid as she crossed over to their usual table, and she had noticed, once Astrid was seated, C.R. had slipped back out the library doors, apparently his only reason for being there at all being her.

Astrid sat across from her friend, her hands folded on the tabletop. "Oh," she said, shy, "C.R. wants to take me to Hogsmeade."

A sly grin spread across Mina's face. "Really now? Wow." She lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. "He's very good looking. And he's a prefect! Plus, he comes from a fantastic family," she finished knowingly.

Astrid smiled. "Yes."

Mina's face took on a thoughtful air. "But, he does seem to . . . well, he dates a lot of girls, supposedly."

"So? I expect any boy like that would."

"So, I expect you should be careful."

Astrid felt suddenly defensive. "Why would I not be careful?"

Mina rolled her eyes and reached across the table to touch Astrid's hand. "Of course you'd be careful . . . " She leaned back in her chair, gesturing helplessly, searching for the right words. "I've just heard . . . well, you know."

Astrid's eyes narrowed. "No, actually. I haven't heard. Do go on." She fixed a hard look on her friend. Next to Mina, Saorise O'Shea put down her quill.

"He shags a lot of girls, Astrid," Saorise said impatiently; a sly look overtook her face. "And boys, too . . . "

Astrid screwed up her face in distaste. "What a horrible thing to say! Oh . . . yuck!"

Saorise leaned forward, animated. "That's right! Girls and boys." She began ticking off on her fingers. "Montague, Pucey, Weasley, Malfoy . . . "

Mina's mouth fell open in surprise. "Weasley?" She leaned forward again, revoltedly intrigued. "Which one?"

Saorise picked up her quill. "The one who was head boy."

"You've got to be joking!"

"Draco Malfoy?" Astrid asked, puzzled. "I thought he was on the pull with Pansy Parkinson."

"Oh, I'm sure he is," Saorise said, dipping her quill and returning her attention to her parchment. "But you know how those things go."

"Not really," Astrid said, rolling her eyes. "That's a terrible thing to say about anyone, really. C.R. seems perfectly nice enough."

Mina raised an eyebrow. "Just be careful, all right?"

A surge of anger rose in her throat. "Why can't you just be happy for me? It's not like any boys ever pay me attention, much less a boy like C.R.!"

"Astrid," Mina placated, "I didn't mean it like that. Clearly, C.R. Waldvogel is a fine boy; he's just older than you, and he's quite experienced."

"And he knows how old you are," Saorise interjected. "He knows you're older than our year normally calls for. He dates lots of girls, and you should just . . . be aware of it, is all."

Astrid crossed her arms huffily across her chest. "Well, I'm aware of it now, thank you ever so much."

Saorise stared at her, shaking her head. "Don't be cross. It's nothing against you."

Astrid felt petulant. "It's always something against me."

* * * * *

Draco knocked briskly on Snape's office door and didn't wait for a response before entering; he knew the professor's schedule thoroughly. "Good morning, sir," he said, his eyes roving the room for Snape's familiar figure.

Snape looked up from desk, where he was grading essays. He laid his red peacock quill down on the desktop; it emitted a rather feeble puff of smoke at Draco, then was still. "Mister Malfoy," he acknowledged.

Draco took a seat across from Snape. Rummaging through the pockets of his robes, he extracted an envelope and pushed it across the desktop. "Sir, my mother requests my presence at home this coming weekend. May I have your permission?"

Snape scanned the owl's contents quickly . . . Please ask Professor Snape if you might be allowed a weekend furlough in two weeks' time, Snape recognised Narcissa Malfoy's script immediately. You father and I wish to speak with you regarding the fine and noble history of the Malfoy family. Now Draco, before you lodge your protestations of boredom, which are undoubtedly forthcoming, I daresay you shall be quite interested in this particular branch of our family tree, and I am most excited to share this with you at last. Do not discount this opportunity . . .

Snape drew his wand and tapped the owl post. "Quisnam rescribo." A gentle energy flowed from Snape's wand into the thick, rich parchment. Draco watched silently as his mother's name appeared in glowing letters across the top of the letter: Narcissa Black Malfoy.

Snape leaned back in his chair. "Very well. You may go. I expect your studies to be completed before you leave. You shall meet with me briefly on Friday after dinner to verify your assignments have been finished. Will this conflict in any way with Quidditch?"

Draco shook his head. "No. Montague has the team flying brilliantly. I shouldn't be missed."

"Good, because Professor McGonagall is already salivating at the prospect of the cup's return." Snape picked up his peacock quill and returned to the abandoned essay in front of him. "You may go."

Draco didn't move. "Sir, there was actually one other thing." Snape looked up again; the boy was nervous. He reached forward and reclaimed his owl post, fiddling with the parchment.

Snape raised an eyebrow at him. "Well? I beg you to leave me in suspense no longer."

"I wondered if I might take Pansy along with me?"

"Miss Parkinson was not invited."

"If she were to be invited?"

"If she were to be formally invited, which she absolutely must be in order to obtain my approval," Snape said, remembering with distaste Dumbledore's request for him to have a discussion with Malfoy and Parkinson on tasteful coquetry and relations, "she would require written permission from her own parents."

"We can get that," Draco said eagerly, leaning forward. Snape took pause at the boy's enthusiasm; he wasn't sure if he ought to be repulsed by Malfoy's unusually enthusiastic and shining countenance, or relieved to know the simple joy of holding a rather plain-looking schoolgirl in high esteem existed in the boy at all.

"You may speak to me again when you do."

"Thank you, sir! I'll come and see you again when Pansy's parents owl." Draco stood to leave, stuffing his mother's letter back into his pocket. "Our families have known one another forever. Surely they won't object."

"We shall see. Good day, Draco."

"Good day, sir."

* * * * *

As Draco exited Snape's office his mind was preoccupied by thoughts of Pansy and the intriguing prospect of having her as a house guest at Malfoy Manor, thus did not see anyone in front of him; when he slammed roughly into someone he was quite startled by the contact, and the sound of the person's rucksack hitting the floor, spilling its contents.

"Lestrange!" he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Watch where you're going!"

Astrid pulled back, throwing him an offended look. "Watch it yourself, Malfoy! You ought to keep your head level while you're walking --- you were looking up at the ceiling." She knelt and began re-packing her bag. Draco shook his head slightly, but followed suit. Kneeling beside her, he began collecting the parchments and quills which had fallen to the corridor floor. Silently they cleaned up Astrid's belongings; Draco politely extended a hand to help her back up.

"Well, sorry about that," he said, glancing her over quickly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, a touch put out, brushing at her robes. She jerked her head toward Snape's office door. "Is he in?"

Draco nodded. "And not in too bad of a mood either. I'd go in if I were you, before that changes."

She proceeded toward the door. "See you, Malfoy."

"Lestrange." He was already heading down the corridor, smoothing his hair away from his eyes. Astrid knocked and pushed open the door when Snape's voice bade her come in.

"Hello, Professor Snape," she said, sighting him at his desk.

Snape looked up. "Miss Lestrange," he acknowledged, rising. He gestured to chair Draco had just vacated. Astrid shut the door behind her and crossed his office; sitting, she gave him a wan smile.

He once again placed his peacock quill aside and steepled his fingers. "Are you well?"

"Yes. Thank you. I was just wondering . . ." She wasn't quite sure how to voice what she needed. "I have a date," she blurted.

Snape cringed inwardly. Dear God, he thought. Will the continued horrors of their adolescent needs be forever endless? "I expect this is good news to you?" he enquired neutrally, after a moment.

Her large eyes were unreadable. "I expect it should be, yes."

"May I ask with whom you plan to socialise?"

She hesitated slightly. "C.R. Waldvogel asked me to Hogsmeade, sir." A deep flush was overtaking her face.

Bloody fabulous. Snape remembered his recent conversation with Alastor Moody. There are, in fact, students whom I monitor extremely closely for Dark Arts proclivities he had said to the ex-Auror. Astrid Lestrange is not one of them . . . Snape sighed. But C.R. Waldvogel surely is. He braced himself before continuing. "And your opinion on the matter?"

She twisted her sleeve, worrying. "I don't want anything to happen . . . " She lowered her voice, although they were decidedly alone. "If you understand my meaning."

Snape nodded, acknowledging the beginnings of headache, which was manifesting itself behind his right ear. "Do you have any ability to suppress your symptoms when you feel their onset?"

"No."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever tried?"

"Yes."

"How have you tried?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I just have, is all."

"No," Snape said, irritated, "you haven't. Not properly, anyway."

"I'm sure you'll excuse my inability, sir," Astrid said petulantly, "but it's not my bloody fault."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Hush! Enough of that," he snapped. "Self-pity is an unattractive and useless state of mind. I shan't allow you to wallow." Astrid's mouth twisted into a frown as she regarded him sulkily, her arms crossed over her chest. Snape considered her, thinking; oddly enough his mind flashed to Potter -- his need to squelch Potter was absolutely inherent; however, Snape knew to deliver the same bearing to Astrid Lestrange would actually require effort. The girl needs it though, he thought, if she is to become strong. He stared at her haughty face for a moment, then stood. "Sit up properly," he barked. Astrid moved almost imperceptibly. He barked, "Do it now, or I'll send you on your way." Rolling her eyes slightly, she straightened herself and squared her shoulders, allowing her hands to drop to her lap. Snape continued, "Comportment is essential to one's self, culling spell or not. I expect you to carry yourself well and with dignity."

She stared at him silently.

"Close your eyes. Relax." She blinked owlishly at him. "It will not hurt," he stated. Slowly she let her lids close; as she did so, Snape returned to his seat behind his desk and watched her for several minutes. Shortly he saw her shoulders ease from their squared position, and the tiny muscles around her mouth slackened gently. Silently he pulled his wand and whispered the spell so stealthily, he was positive she heard nothing.

"Legilimens."

Astrid's left hand fell from her lap to the seat of the chair; otherwise she remained still. Snape closed his own eyes and quickly centered himself internally, allowing his brain to operate in an impressionist, rather than an analytic, mode as he stepped inside her mind. Images cascaded past him, a surfeit of shadowy impressions, disorganised and bleak. He found himself walking a couloir of undetermined length, black and craggy shadows streaking upward on either side; the distinctive rattling sound finally triggered his recognition --- he was clearly proceeding through a looming mass of dementors. In the distance, Snape heard the distinctive cry of a human infant; mentally, he drew his wand, his lips barely moving as he uttered the Patronus spell. The dementors receded and he continued forward through the whirling images. It was a visual cacophony; Snape stopped, tilting his head. A different sound was rising above the baby's cries: A voice, muffled, yet instantly recognisable.

He couldn't help himself. "Bella . . ." he hissed out loud. Astrid's eyes fluttered at his utterance; however, she did not open them. Snape refocused, calling out to her in his mind. "Bellatrix . . . show yourself . . ." And then he was in a small, cobbled cell, gazing upon a naked and bloodied Bellatrix Lestrange crouched on the floor, practically nose to nose with the newborn Astrid as she cast her culling spell. Snape heard the clanging of the heavy locks as the dementors attempted entry; Bellatrix turned her head to glance at the door, and Snape was surprised to find that her face was blurry and distorted, her distinct, elegant features indistinguishable through the curtain of tangled, long dark hair falling forward across her face. He moved closer and carefully put his face up to Bellatrix's. She remained a blurred visage to him, even at close range --- a mere impression of the image which had long ago been burned into Snape's memory. He registered that Astrid had only seen her mother as a newborn, and like all infants her newborn eyes had not been able to see Bella's face in focus; he realised he was experiencing the sole visual memory Astrid Lestrange had of her mother's face. The girl had had the benefit of gestation to thoroughly learn the sound of Bella's voice, however, which explained the distorted sound Snape was encountering.

Astrid's despair was fully palpable.

Snape turned and the scene disappeared. Bits of images were careening by him, impressions of Astrid's childhood memories and feelings: Armand and Agnes Lestrange, and their familiar home; a chocolate, standard poodle bounding about; a beautiful Christmas tree, fully trimmed; the small voice of an eleven-year-old girl pleading to be Sorted into Slytherin House; the faint voice of the Sorting Hat whispering in response; letter after letter sent hopefully to Azkaban prison by a tiny girl with immense, shining eyes; her private shame at never receiving a single reply. Snape picked carefully through Astrid's memories, amazed at the amount of anger he encountered, and paused to revel in her few bright spots of happiness and hope, for the feelings of despondency and defeat were fully overwhelming.

He found himself surrounded by fear and humiliation, and the smell of rotting, decayed flesh permeated his nostrils. Even though he knew it was an olfactory illusion, he had to resist the urge to retch as he considered the image of Astrid curled in her bed, Agnes Lestrange leaning over her, concerned and crying, patting the girl helplessly. Snape then felt the distinct impression of being kissed, and felt a faint tug in his groin, and he caught glimpses of a familiar Hufflepuff boy sporting an adoring gaze.

The dementors came again; Snape pulled his wand and uttered the Patronus spell; however, his Patronus charged about blindly, having no effect on their ranks, and he could feel the cold overtaking him, and smell the unmistakable, mouldering essence of the dementors, and he was suddenly terrified.

"Finite!"

Snape opened his eyes, blinking several times as his office came back into focus. "Miss Lestrange," he said, after a moment. Astrid opened her wide, brown eyes.

"Did you see all that too?" she asked bleakly.

"I did, yes."

"There's no hope, then, is there?" Her shoulders slumped forward dejectedly. "Professor Snape . . ." her voice trailed off momentarily. "Why me?"

Snape had no idea how to adequately respond. Sighing, he folded his arms across his chest. "It is an irrelevant question, Astrid," he said, letting his usual guise of stern formality fall. "The situation just is. Knowing the reasoning behind it will not aid in tempering the symptoms of the spell, nor will it assist us in finding its counter. Your impressions, your memories, your feelings, however, do have their use in finding a solution to your situation."

The girl was considering him closely, and Snape could all but see the wheels turning in her head as she gazed at him, her eyes narrowed in sudden realisation. "Did you . . . do you know my parents?" she asked, clearly enlightened.

Shite. He nodded. "Yes."

Her face took on a curious, eager look, her eyes shining at the prospect of information long sought. "What were they like?"

Snape stared, dumbfounded.

She continued, "Grand-mère and Grand-père refuse to talk about them, even when I ask." She leaned forward and inched toward the edge of her seat. "Can you . . . would you tell me about them?" Snape remained silent; after an uncomfortable pause, she prompted him one last time. "Please?"

His eyes glittering malevolently, Snape stood; clutching at the side of his desk, his voice unfurled dangerously. "What you need to know about your parents, you already do," he hissed. "There is no sympathetically tragic or noble back story for either your mother or your father, Miss Lestrange. You are living with their hellish legacy, a legacy which is exceptionally reflective of its origins. That is all you need know."

Her face screwed up in indignation, but she said nothing; fixing her jaw defiantly, she glared at Snape silently.

Slowly he re-took his seat and picked up his red quill. Returning his attention to his stack of essays, he spoke once he could trust his voice would maintain its usual mellifluousness. "You shall meet with me twice weekly -- Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings after breakfast," he commanded briskly, scrawling along on an unlucky student's essay. "I shall train you in structuring your mental defences --- it is an absolute imperative. As well, I will be devising an individual course of potions therapy to help contain your symptoms." He looked up at her then, easily penetrating her resistant facade. "Your mind is genetically predisposed to weakness -- is that the legacy you wish to know of? What is your ambition, Miss Lestrange? To be worthy of your name, to redeem it, or to merely be ordinary, to be washed along in the detritus that is wasted human ambition?" Astrid remained silent, although her gaze was less reproachful; finally she shook her head. "Then I suggest you tap into what resources you do have: your ambition; your resourcefulness; your compulsiveness. No one begs their way into Slytherin, no matter the familial heritage in question, so despite your unnecessary justifications to the Sorting Hat, you should know that you are not under my care by accident."

"You . . . you heard my Sorting just now?"

"Tuesdays and Saturdays, Miss Lestrange, beginning immediately." He stood and rounded his desk; rummaging through his supply cabinet, he emerged with two small glass phials, a phial rack, and a gleaming steel lance. "Your finger please."

She pulled away, her dark eyes suspicious. "Why?"

"I wish to have a sample of your blood; it will be useful in researching your predicament and countering your symptoms." He reached out and took her hand, pinching her left forefinger between his own index finger and thumb; deftly he applied a sterilising potion to Astrid's finger and positioned the lance. Pausing, he looked up. "Are you right or left handed?" he enquired.

"Left," she said, wincing slightly.

With an practised shrug, Snape efficiently jabbed the finger on her left hand with the lance. "You'll survive," he said dryly. Astrid's blood began letting into the first phial as Snape continued to apply pressure to her finger. "The Latin word for 'left' is sinister," he said, almost conversationally, once the flow was established. She nodded. "For many years, persons who were left-handed were persecuted as witches -- persecuted by Muggles, of course." The first tiny phial filled up, and he delivered it to the rack for safekeeping. He administered a drop of preserving potion to the sample and sealed the phial with his wand. He took her hand again and began the process once again. "It is how the word 'sinister' became associated with implying evil or nefariousness."

"I didn't know that, sir."

"Mmm." He was busy with his task.

The second phial took a bit longer to fill than the first; however, it was soon completed, and Snape tapped Astrid's finger with his wand, muttering a healing charm. Releasing her hand he turned from her. "I expect you here in my office Saturday morning, no later than ten o'clock. You may go."

* * * * *

Pansy snuck into the fifth year boys' dormitory after she saw Crabbe and Goyle leave for lunch. Closing the door quietly behind her, she stole across the carpet to where Draco was bent over his desk, parchment, books and quills spread out before him. She placed the small basket she was carrying onto the floor behind his chair before carefully covering his eyes with her hands from behind.

"Boo!" she whispered, and he sat up, tipping his head upward, resting it gently against her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, grinning. She let her hands fall away and gazed down at him adoringly.

"I wanted to see you," she said coquettishly. "Mother owled me; I thought you might be interested." She ducked down and brought up her basket, and Draco vaguely remembered it from the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of term. Rising, he turned and straddled his chair, resting his arms casually over its back.

"Well?"

She held up an envelope. Draco took it from her and pulled out its contents, reading them quickly. "Oh, excellent," he murmured, smiling at her. "You can come with me, then."

"Mmhmm." She ran her hands up his arms, squeezing his biceps lightly as she leaned down. "I am formally allowed to come play with you at Malfoy Manor next weekend." She kissed his lips gently. "How shall you entertain me?"

"Read you Martin Miggs?" he said cheekily, rising, and moving the chair aside with his foot. He pulled her to him, his arm firmly clasping her waist.

She giggled, pressing up against him. "I don't read Martin Miggs anymore, Draco. It's for babies!"

He was looking at her in a new way, his face open and curious as his fingertips lightly traced the skin on her neck. "You're not a baby anymore."

She swallowed, holding his gaze. "Neither are you . . ." She shivered as he kissed her lightly along her jaw, before turning her face so their lips brushed.

After the afternoon on the moor, they had not been overly intimate. Pansy sensed a need on his part to sit with things as they were, and to regroup on his own terms. At times they snuck into one another's respective dormitories, and would lay together fully clothed on the bed, Draco spooning her from behind, his arm draped over her side. Occasionally he would let his hand flutter over the curve of her breast in an offhanded manner, and he clearly enjoyed teasing her neck lightly with his fingertips, his breath hot and damp in her hair as he whispered into her ear from behind. She found herself aching when he did his, but she did not ask for more. It was simultaneously maddening, but yet a completion of sorts. When he did feel like snogging her, she could feel him against her, hard and ready; however, his general sense of contentment was so obvious to her, she couldn't imagine making requests of him that might sour his peace, and she resisted her urge to pull him closer, or shift against him, even though it would feel so good . . . .

She often wondered why she wasn't ashamed of him -- of what had happened to him, that is. Perhaps, she had thought, it was because he seemed unaffected. Draco still sported his usual haughty demeanor, sprawling languidly when he sat for class, or relaxed in the dungeons, and he still watched his surroundings with his well-honed disinterested affect, and he held court per usual within Slytherin House itself. Since his confession to her that day on the moor, he hadn't again tipped his hand regarding his thoughts on Waldvogel and the incident. He hadn't wavered an iota, had shown no weakness, not even during their prefect meetings where Waldvogel was present. The individual house meetings made Pansy wholly uncomfortable -- the six Slytherin prefects and Snape all seated around a table in a locked room in the Slytherin dungeons, with Waldvogel's subtle, triumphant smirk omnipresent, and Draco returning Waldvogel's look with his own flat, hardened gaze, which he fixed upon his older housemate across the polished cherry tabletop.

Her only clue to his internal discomfiture was his physical complacency when they were alone together; she wanted to delve under his skin, in into his mind, and see what was there -- see what she could do for him.

But he was kissing her now, slowly and deliberately, his fingers still tickling at her neck.

"Don't you want to . . . to touch me anymore?" she whispered, fully frustrated.

"I do," he whispered back, letting his fingers trail down the side of her arm.

"Why don't you, then?"

He didn't respond.

"Is . . . is it something I did?"

"No."

"Is it something I'm not doing?"

His grey eyes were unreadable as he shook his head. "No."

She let the breath she hadn't even known she'd been holding in escape. "Okay."

He pushed at her gently. "Lie down with me?"

"All right." He held her hand as she crawled up and fit himself against her once she lay down; Pansy moved to turn to face him this time.

"No," he said. "I like it just like this."

She paused for a moment, and then continued turning until she was laying on her other side and staring into his eyes. They considered one another peacefully.

"I like watching you fly, you know," she said simply. "When you're up there, you're spectacular. You're so focused, so natural."

A smile played at his lips. "You haven't flown with me in yonks."

"That's because I fly at night, and you don't like to as much."

"I'm far more glorious to behold in the full light of day, Pansy."

Laughing, she poked him. "Conceited prat!"

He snorted, regarding her lazily again. "Let me take you flying, then."

"Sure," she said, brushing a wisp of his hair back behind his ear. "Anytime."

"Now."

"Now? We've potions at four, though. I doubt there'd be enough--"

"Now."

For a moment she was silent. "All right." She pushed up. "I'll get my broom."

Draco rose, swinging his feet over the side of his bed and resting his elbows on his knees. He ran his hand through his hair, glancing sideways at her. "We can just use mine."

She came around to where he sat; grasping his bed post, she leaned against it, amused. "The last time you took me for a ride on your broom you deliberately dumped me into a disgusting patch of the smelliest, shite-infested mud imaginable." A smile played at her lips as she regarded him with raised brows. "I don't fancy a roll in the mud today, thank you."

A sly grin crossed his face. "You sure? It looks like rain. Seems I fancy you all dirty and disheveled."

She laughed. "Oh, do you now? Good to know." Pansy stepped over to where he was and faced him, twining her fingers through his. He looked up at her and she let her eyes rove over the faint smattering of barely-visible freckles dotting his cheeks, just under his eyes.

"Seems like we always get rained on," he said, his face open and untroubled. "Think it's some kind of omen?"

"No." She shook her head. He stood then, gently pulling a hand free to again run it through his hair. Pansy reached up and fingered a lock, tucking it behind his ear. "You need your fringe trimmed, Draco."

He shook his head, giving her a lopsided grin. "I like it this way," he said. "Besides, if I cut my fringe, then you wouldn't have cause to fiddle with it anymore."

She beamed. "Let's go flying."

"Another go?" Draco asked, fingering the snitch.

"One more."

As she'd seen him do a thousand times before, Draco threw the snitch into the oddly darkened sky; the sleeve of his robe snapped lightly at her ear and she could smell the outdoors on his hand as it passed by her face. He pressed forward, flattening himself against her back, forcing her to stretch herself along the length of the broomstick under his weight. She did so reflexively, leaning flat against the broom, swinging her feet backward, deftly hooking them behind Draco's ankles; they had flown this way since they were old enough to mount a broom, and she felt perfectly at ease.

She pointed, calling excitedly, "There it is!" He pressed onward and within seconds it was clasped tightly within her grasp; she laughed, and she could feel him smiling against her cheek as she revelled in her simple victory. "Let's go down now," she said, blowing gently on the Snitch's delicate wings, until, coaxed into relaxation, they folded perfectly into themselves and disappeared within its golden body. She pocketed it.

They glided to the ground, and Draco leaned back, allowing her to step off. Satisfied, she waited for him to dismount as well, taking a seat on the grass and wrapping her arms around her knees. With a mischievous grin, he floated upward again, zooming up toward the strange amethyst clouds; after a moment he passed by again, and rolled the broom, letting go with one hand while sliding one leg free from the security of the sturdy handle.

Draco zoomed by in a dramatic fashion, hanging from the broom with one hand and one foot, which was hooked precariously over the handle. "Look!" he called to her, "Starfish and Stick!"

Pansy laughed, her mood light. "You look absurd! I can see your socks!" she called after him, watching him wind his way around the pitch in ridiculous form.

"My socks are bloody brilliant!" he called back, flipping effortlessly upright, regaining his normal position, and Feinted to where she sat on the grass, rolling easily from his Nimbus 2001 just before it impaled itself handle first in the grass. Stretching out next to her, he folded his hands behind his head, regarding the odd clouds with a quizzical look. "Father's told me of amethyst rain before," he said, simply.

She rolled to her side, letting her hand slide up his belly to rest under his sternum; the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing contented her. "What's he said of it?"

He flicked a glance at her, bringing one of his own hands from behind his head to cover hers, absentmindedly caressing the slight indentations between her fingers with light strokes. "Father says it means betrayal is nigh."

"Past, present, or future?"

"Future, I suppose," he said, continuing loftily. "After all, can something that's already happened really be 'nigh'?"

She pressed at his chest. "Very clever," she conceded. "Anyhow, tell me?"

Draco took pause. "The Muggles, of course, cannot see the amethyst rain; the clouds appear black to them. Not since the first betrayal, anyway." He shifted onto his side so he was again facing her, just as they had been in his room just a short while before; as he moved, Pansy let her hand slide softly over his side, until her fingers were tickling at his back. With a gentle nudge, she urged him closer to her, and he scooted in, the warm puffs of his breath against her face contenting her as he continued. "The Muggle Lord -- the Muggles killed their own Lord, I guess -- it was a long time ago. The right-hand man of the Muggle Lord betrayed him, and they spiked him to a pair of logs by his hands and his feet." He moved his hand up to cup her face, running his thumb over her cheekbone; she closed her eyes, still listening. His thumb stilled, but he did not remove his hand. "The blood in our veins runs blue," he said, "as you surely know. But, when we're cut, and oxygen hits it, blood is red in colour. The Muggle Lord, 'cos his blood was different . . . " Draco paused, snorting lightly. "Allegedly different, I should say, for he was just a Muggle . . . well, Father says the Muggle Lord's blood spilled up to the sky, and not to the dirt below, and he bled in such a way that the unoxygenated blood and the spilt blood combined to make purple as it rose to the clouds, which had gathered above the execution site." She nodded as he paused again, her eyes still closed. "The Muggle Lord's blood stained the clouds, and to this day the Muggles claim it rained amethyst tears that day -- the first betrayal, they call it."

"What's your father telling you of a Muggle Lord for?" she murmured, as he thumb again swept over her cheek with a feather-like fluttering.

"Father tells me of all sorts of things," he explained, feeling his own lids droop. "He likes chatting to me about any and everything."

The wind was beginning to pick up; it moved swiftly over them. Without opening her eyes, Pansy fumbled through the folds of her robes, finding her pocket and fishing out her wand. Giving it a lazy swirl, she incanted Animus and felt the chill drain away as her warming charm settled over them.

"Know thy enemy, Father's always said," Draco explained, his eyes drifting shut. "Amethyst tears . . . Father's seen them so many times. He says there's been a tonne of betrayals in my lifetime." He slid his hand down the side of her neck, resting it there. "He says it rained purple the day the Dark Lord was born. And also that my mother's family has seen the amethyst tears more times than they'd have cared to."

"Why's that?"

"Dunno," he drawled. "Mother doesn't speak of her family, really. But in the owl she sent, she mentioned something about it, and wanting to impart to me some important family history, so maybe we'll find out." He paused. "Do you really want to go with me? It might be boring. You don't have to."

"Of course I want to go with you!" she said. "It's been quite a long while since I've been a guest at your home. Maybe we can go play in your attic, like we used to?"

A smile played at his lips. "I'm not wearing party hats for you, Pansy. I don't care what you bribe me with."

She grinned, the warmth of the Animus charm caressing her face. "Does your mother still have that lovely guest suite ready? I remember how I loved to sleep in those rooms -- they're so regal and grand. I always felt like a princess!" She felt the pads of his fingers touch the delicate skin of her closed lids.

"You are a princess!" He grinned, glancing at her. "An insufferable, spoilt princess!" He sobered. "Actually, I thought perhaps you might stay with me?"

"In your room?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure your parents will have wards up, though. They'll be expecting we'll try to sneak about."

"I don't care."

"I care."

"We don't have to do anything, Pansy."

"We already don't do anything, Draco." His breath hitched in his throat, and Pansy was immediately recalcitrant. Bringing her own hand up to his face, she clarified softly, "I meant what I said to you on the moor," she said, the rest of her sentence -- and I wonder if you feel the same way -- left unspoken, "but it's hard for me."

"Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?" he asked cunningly with a devilish look. "I, as the male, should be complaining about how hard it is and whatnot, right?" Pansy rolled her eyes, flushing. He continued, more seriously. "Besides, this is something," he said emphatically, drawing her against him.

She wiggled against him, curling into his chest in a more protective manner than romantic, her forearms squashed between their chests; she could smell the damp earth and the sleeping grass, and the vividly dank scent of winter clung to Draco's skin; she did not find it displeasing. "We'll see," she said, sighing, completely relaxed.

They missed Potions.

* * * * *

Pansy bumped into Millicent outside of Professor Umbridge's office; Millicent was just leaving.

"Oh, Mills, Blaise wanted me ask you if she could borrow your Arithmancy notes from this week's lecture? She's lost her rucksack, and Accio isn't working--"

Millicent stood slack-jawed, her eyes glazed and unfocused as she leaned against the stone wall just outside Umbridge's office. Starting at Pansy's voice, she cast a harried glance. "Hmm? Oh, sure . . . " Millicent began digging aimlessly through her own rucksack, and she pushed away from the wall, almost bumbling as she headed off down the corridor, Pansy's words barely registering. "Yeah, tell Blaise I'll help her when I'm done with my Arithmancy . . . "

"Millicent? Is everything all right?" Pansy made to follow her friend, but just then the door to Professor Umbridge's office creaked, and a coquettish voice trilled behind her.

"Oh, you received my owl, Miss Parkinson. Very good."

Pansy turned and found her Defence instructor regarding her, an overly-friendly expression casing the woman's toad-like features. "I do hope you'll forgive the short notice." Umbridge stepped back, sweeping her arm in a welcoming gesture.

Hesitating, Pansy cast a final glance at Millicent's retreating back, and then reluctantly stepped into Professor Umbridge's office, looking about. The room itself was a garish technicolour splash of childish feline decor; she imagined a giant Persian cat pattering about the office, randomly vomiting doilies onto the furniture -- she much preferred Professor Moody's previous theme of keen gadgets and dark arts detectors. She flicked her eyes back to Umbridge. "Yes, ma'am." She furrowed her brow. "Professor, what happened to Millicent? Has something gone wrong?"

Umbridge's brow furrowed. "Hmm? Oh, no. No, not at all. Miss Bulstrode and I were merely discussing . . . a proposition I have to make." The professor clarified. "For Slytherin House, to be specific." The squat woman gestured to a seat; Pansy took it, perching on the edge.

"Proposition?" Pansy asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "What kind of proposition?"

Umbridge seated herself behind her desk, taking a fuchsia, fur-covered kitten figurine from the corner of the desk as she did so. She idly smoothed the kitten's fur as she considered Pansy appraisingly. After a moment she spoke. "Of course we are of the same house, you and I," she said, a wide smile spreading across her features. "Slytherin, of course. And I clearly remember what it's like to be a Slytherin in this institution." She set the kitten down. "Would you care for a spot of tea?"

Pansy regarded her warily. "Thank you, but no. I've just come from tea."

Professor Umbridge rose from her seat and made her way to the kitten-covered teapot; pulling her wand, she pointed it at the teapot. "Incendio." A flash of light erupted from the tip of her wand and encased the bottom of the teapot; the spout sprung open and emitted a belch of steam. "Perfect!" she continued, laying out the cups and saucers, and then filling the tea ball with loose leaves. "Earl Grey. Traditional, but always suitable." She plopped the tea ball into the steaming pot, glancing at Pansy sideways. "I was a Slytherin at Hogwarts, too, you know," she said, flashing a smile suggestive of camaraderie.

Pursing her lips in a partial grimace, Pansy raised an eyebrow in Umbridge's direction. "Yes. You mentioned that already." Like anyone'd be surprised to hear it.

Umbridge poked at the tea ball with a long, slender-handled silver spoon, stirring delicately. "It occurred to me just this week past."

Pansy's brow furrowed as she followed the professor's movements with her eyes. She was curious, despite herself. "What occurred to you?"

Umbridge poured her tea, selecting two sugar cubes for her cup. "From the moment the Hat touched my head, I knew I what I was meant to do -- I'm sure it was the same for you." Turning, she graced Pansy with a beaming smile. "It's only fitting that I extend opportunities to those of my own house. Tell me, Miss Parkinson, do you fancy power?"

Pansy blinked, caught unaware; instantly on alert, she steeled her face neutrally. "My father says it's not wise to declare one's ambitions outright," she countered carefully, confused.

Umbridge seated herself behind her desk, wispy vapours steaming lightly from her tea. Folding her hands, she considered Pansy. "Come now," she said, just the slightest hint of predation seeping into her voice, before she broke into another broad smile. "Forgive the query, won't you? For of course you crave power -- you are a Slytherin." Umbridge held up a finger. "Ah, but this institution fails us Slytherins; it fails to cultivate the type of skills we Slytherins most need. It is never shameful, Miss Parkinson, to seek what one desires." The professor's voice was sweetly earnest as always. She stretched her hand out, lightly slapping the desktop with her fingers in an exaggerated show of a bright idea suddenly realised, continuing emphatically, "What we need here at Hogwarts, I have recently thought to myself, is an organisation! A sanctioned organisation -- for the ambitious, but overlooked." Umbridge adjusted herself in her chair, her honeyed smile firmly in place. "Dolores, I said to myself, by crumb, you've caught the Golden Snitch of all ideas!"

Pansy considered this silently, keeping her gaze trained on Umbridge.

"The idea further sussed itself out when Miss Granger insisted upon disrupting our Defence lesson just this class past -- surely you remember. Order. Discipline. Leadership." Umbridge drew back her shoulders, raising an upturned hand toward Pansy, beckoning strangely. "I am here to bring all these things -- and more -- to this fine institution, but," she poked the top of her desk emphatically, "first we must collectively put an end to the rashness, the lack of consequences, and the nepotism which rules with its iron fist. Simply put, it cannot continue."

"Are you quite sure about the nepotism?" Pansy asked dryly, barely raising an eyebrow. "My father says nepotism is always an option -- useful when one is in a pinch . . . ."

Umbridge leaned forward. "Aren't you a droll girl, Miss Parkinson!" she said brightly, but her eyes remained flat and unimpressed. "Anyhow, the idea came to me: a club. What's needed is a club -- hand selected by myself, of course, consisting of only the finest, the bravest, the most loyal students. Do you follow?"

Pansy didn't. "I suppose."

Umbridge steepled her fingers. "This hand-picked group of students I will train fully, and I shall arm them with the very latest hands-on Defence strategies, and they shall help in my mission to restore order to Hogwarts." Umbridge trained her eyes on Pansy. "Might you be interested?"

"My father's also always been a great fan of the chaos theory," Pansy hedged, wanting more detail. "How would we do it? Restore order, that is."

"I am prepared to bestow specific powers upon my squad members."

"Such as . . . ?"

"You yourself are a prefect," Umbridge observed.

"Yes, and . . . ?"

"What troubles you most about your position as prefect? Surely there are times you feel limited in your duties."

"Hmm." Pansy considered this, intrigued. "Well, I expect rounds aren't always very fun. Boring, repetitive -- you know. Oh, and not being able to take points. That's even more frustrating."

Umbridge jabbed her desk again. "Precisely!" she exclaimed. "Not being able to take points yourself, and having to log all infractions for the Head Boy or Head Girl to consider -- a waste of time and parchment, correct? Under my plan, you and your fellow squad members would be allowed to deduct house points for any -" she cleared her throat meaningfully "- obvious infraction."

Pansy was sceptical. "Define 'obvious infraction'"

"Well, these things are always subject to interpretation now, aren't they? I say tomato, you say tomahtoe . . . . "

"So . . . hexing in the corridors?"

"An infraction, obviously."

"Using quick-quote quills in class?"

"Cheap shortcuts are never an appropriate tool for the less mentally agile. Hard work gives the brain cause to blossom."

"Sneak-o-scopes?"

"Fraudulent devices, ones completely without merit! And infraction worthy of confiscation as well as a points deduction."

"Tardiness?"

"An infraction."

"Horizontal stripes?"

Umbridge glanced down her front, pulling her pink cardigan closed across her striped blouse with a slight roll of her eyes.

"Breathing?" Pansy continued, unfazed.

The Defence professor stood finally, glancing at her watch. "My dear, I expect that would depend entirely upon who is doing the breathing," she said sweetly, motioning for Pansy to rise. "All pithy games aside, I think you understand my point, Miss Parkinson, for you are neither slow nor mentally deficient. Might you interested, then?"

Pansy had risen and she caught up her rucksack. "May I think about it, Professor?"

"Of course, of course." Umbridge smiled sweetly, showing her the door. "Please do. But remember -- this would be a limited opportunity."

Well, that was interesting, Pansy thought, as she hurried down the third floor corridor, intent upon making it to dinner in the Great Hall; as she dug about in her rucksack for her pot of lip balm, she found herself abruptly slamming into another person, accidentally biting into her lip. The taste of blood filled her mouth and she drew up her hand reflexively. "Ow!" She looked up into Harry Potter's surprised face. "Oh, brilliant." She shoved him aside, pushing past him. "You've bloodied my lip, you great arse! God." Several steps later she stopped, once again pawing through her bag for a tissue, pressing it firmly to her injured lip. She turned back, finding him still standing where they'd collided, rubbing his chin as if in a daze. She let her gaze flick over him. "Otter? Id oo eely eee uh ark or?"

Harry looked at Pansy, a mixture of confusion and irritated disgust on his face. "Excuse me?" Instantly he was regretful of his automatic inquiry -- surely this was just another opportunity for him to be mocked.

Pansy drew the tissue away from her mouth, releasing her lip. "I asked: did you really see the Dark Lord?" She watched his reaction closely, wondering if he'd be shocked at her cheek, but he remained unfazed as he considered her in turn. Finally, his lip curled almost imperceptibly, just the tiniest hint at his distrust and inherent hatred.

"Fuck off, Parkinson." He turned and continued walking. Pansy said nothing; she watched as he turned into the small alcove leading to Umbridge's office, the sound of his knock on Umbridge's door ringing hollowly through the corridor. She pressed the folded tissue to her lip again, setting course for Madam Pomfrey.

Draco extended his hand, helping Pansy from the Floo into the rich warmth of his family manor's library; Pansy drew in a deep breath, the satisfying scents of leather-bound books and ancient pages, woollen carpets, cedar, and the almond oil the house elves used to preserve the heirloom wood filling her nostrils.

Narcissa Malfoy rose from the chair where she had been keeping watch and swept forward, grasping Pansy's hand. "Hello, dear." She pecked a kiss on each of Pansy's cheeks, and then turned to draw her son in tightly. "Draco," she said, kissing the top of his head fondly. "So good to have you home, son. And Pansy too."

"Hello, Mother," Draco said, flushing slightly as he squirmed awkwardly in her embrace. "It's good of you and Father to let Pansy come too."

Narcissa stepped back, still smiling, and grasped each of their hands, turning her eyes to Pansy. "Pansy, I've set you up in our guest suite -- Draco reminded me how fond you are of that particular set of rooms. They are lovely aren't they? I remember when Mr. Malfoy and I were courting, often I would be invited to stay in those very rooms. I've never redecorated them, for I always adored them just the way they are!" Narcissa let their hands drop with a final affectionate squeeze, and called for a house elf. "Frippy? Frippy! We've a guest . . . " The tiny creature peeked out from behind the curved leg of a wingback.

"Yes, Missus," he said, scuttling forward to pile the collection of luggage they'd brought on its little head, the tower of bags teetering precariously. Balancing both Draco and Pansy's rucksack in his hands, the elf managed to snap its toes, and disappeared.

"Where's Father?" Draco enquired, craning his neck to look around his mother.

"Oh, working. He'll be home shortly." Narcissa gestured toward the library doors. "Show Pansy to her rooms, Draco. Dinner shall be served promptly at eight. Dress well, please."

"We didn't have lunch before we came, though," Draco complained. "We're hungry!" He cast a glance at Pansy. "You are hungry, aren't you?"

"A bit peckish, yes."

"Well, then," Narcissa said. "I haven't eaten yet -- would you two like a light lunch with me?"

"That'd be good." Draco nodded agreeably. "Thank you, Mother."

Narcissa waved her wand with a practised air, directing a table and three chairs next to the hearth, bringing elegantly simple settings of plates and silver with a smart summoning charm. "I'll have Frippy bring up a tray, so don't fuss, Draco -- you'll never starve."

"May I use the loo?" Pansy asked.

"Of course," Narcissa smiled. "Use the guest bath -- it's newly painted. You know the way."

Pansy padded swiftly through several winding corridors of Malfoy Manor, the direction ingrained in her mind since toddlerhood. She paused occasionally, trailing her fingers over various treasures and antiques, and taking stops to admire several particular paintings she'd always fancied -- there was the picture of the old black sheep who always complimented her on her shining hair, and the gruesome vision of a ridiculous French Muggle queen being beheaded by guillotine. She stopped in front of its enormous frame, standing with her hands clasped behind her back.

The queen turned her neatly-coiffed head, straining for a glimpse at her onlooker. Her eyes narrowed sulkily as she recognised Pansy immediately. "Oh. Eet eez you," she said, unimpressed. "Back again."

Pansy rocked casually, heel to toe, vaguely amused. "Eet eez me, Muggle," she mocked, confirming the queen's assessment. "Back again to watch your show."

The queen sighed and touched the back of her hand to her forehead in a dramatic fashion; in the background the executioner stood silently, the end of the heavy rope holding the guillotine ready curled tightly around his thick hand. "Still zee cruel, thoughtless child of yore! Begone, witch! Leave me to die in peace!"

Pansy smirked. "If only it were that easy," she said loftily. "I don't know what you did, Muggle, to deserve such a fate, but it must have been really despicable if you're still stuck here in this portrait, reliving it fourteen hundred times a day. I really can't help but temper my pity."

"Horrible, cruel child!" The queen wept as the guillotine's blade thundered down with a metallic whistling sound, and Pansy screwed up her face in anticipation. With a sickening schink, the queen's head rolled, and the executioner hauled the blade upward; a hot, pulsing stream of blood erupted from the queen's severed jugular, drenching the front of Pansy's blouse, skirt, and shoes, and spattering across a section of the priceless oriental, which ran the length of the hall. Pansy looked down at herself, holding her arms away from her sides as she admired the queen's mess.

"Brilliant!" she said breathlessly. Glancing up at the picture, she watched as the executioner finished hauling the blade back up its stocks and tying it in place; with a air of bored resignation calmly retrieved the queen's head from the dripping wicket basket it had dropped into and affixed it back onto her neck. Retaining his hold on the blade's rope, he flicked his finger against her eyelid with a pop.

"Êtes vous dormant?" He laughed, as the queen's eyelids began to flutter.

Pansy watched as the scarlet stains covering her began to fade, until the queen's blood had disappeared entirely, like ink meant to be invisible when scrawled across specially charmed diary parchment. "This is the best picture ever," she said to herself, delighted.

"Eet eez eezy for you to say," moaned the queen, bereft. "Go on, leetle girl! Begone with you, I say!"

"Piss off, Muggle!" Pansy said brightly, as she stepped away and turned to head down the hallway leading to the Malfoys' guest bathroom; she could hear the muffled chatter from the end of the corridor as soon as she turned the corner, chatter which grew louder with each approaching step. Pushing her way into the loo, she was overwhelmed by the din.

It was largest guest bathroom in all of Britain, she was quite sure. The walls stretched upward, seemingly endless, and every square inch was covered with framed photographs -- pictures of various generations of Malfoys posed with the British elite, wizarding and Muggle alike. Pansy's eyes scanned the immense room, falling onto a picture of Lucius and Narcissa standing with the current Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Fudge was enthusiastically pumping Lucius's hand in a firm handshake. "Ah, yes, Lucius! Your continued support of the Ministry is, as ever, most appreciated," Minister Fudge was saying; Narcissa beamed from the photo, tilting her head, beguiling. Hundreds of photographs spread upward, each of them chattering noisily.

"It was then," came an anciently robust voice from a prominent photograph, which showed a wizard dressed in full military regalia, grand medals and commendations swaying gently on the front of his robes, and sporting a most astonishing handlebar moustache, "that I received the Victoria Cross -- for exceptional devotion to duty and bravery! I lead my men dutifully, straight across the barren plains of northern Africa . . . . " The wizard stood precariously close to the desk of what Pansy took to be a young Ministry drone; the younger man was nodding politely at the Colonel's recountment, but Pansy could tell he was wholly trapped even as he discretely attempted to hint at his busy schedule by shuffling through the waiting stack of parchments at his side.

Pansy's eyes roved again, stopping on two men dressed in what was obviously turn-of-the-century fashions, one elegant and regal, quite clearly a Malfoy with his translucent hair and light eyes, the other a dirty, matted corpse of a man, with eyes rendered flat and predatory by the inherent lack of a conscious. The well-dressed wizard was clapping his odd compatriot on the shoulder. "Well done, my fine man," he bellowed enthusiastically. "We'll rid the streets of the Muggle harlots yet!"

The disheveled man smiled, his teeth rotten and scarce, and turned to his counterpart. "Whetting me appetite in Whitechapel, me lord -- a mere introduction of t'terror t'come . . . " He withdrew a knife from the folds of his shabby robes; Pansy was briefly reminded of Professor Lupin. He drew his thumb down the blade, an almost imperceptible thin, red line appearing in the blade's wake, before he continued speaking. Pansy felt a cold shiver pass through her as the strange man seemed to look straight into her soul from the sepia confines of his tin plate. "I am down on whores and I shan't quit ripping them till I get buckled . . . "

The man Pansy presumed to be one of Draco's long-dead relatives tipped his head back and roared with laughter. "The Muggles shall not know what to make of the bits and tatters of whores left scattered about, Kosminski," he drawled. "They shall be left only with unanswered questions amongst the rot."

"I fancy myself a spot of whore and kidney pie, me thinks," the man called Kosminski leered, drawing his blade in a wiping motion across the top of his thigh.

"Ah, but you are a saucy jack . . . ."

Wrinkling her nose at the strange bedfellows, Pansy made for the toilet, flipping her skirt up as she approached. Immediately the nattering ceased, the contrasting silence deafening. She rolled her eyes, her lip curling. "Do you mind?" she asked impatiently. "Carry on, then, good God. Can't a girl take a pee?" There was a slight pause and the din picked up again, snatches of conversation discernible as Pansy sat on the loo.

"I shall never be able to look at that boy -- my son -- without a shame! He is debauched and shall never be a proper king . . . .Oh Edward! Edward, my son, what have you done? You're there to satisfy your commission, to set an example . . . " A dour looking Muggle female wept openly from the wall; standing behind her, Pansy could see, was a young girl from the scullery. Tilting her head and squinting a touch, Pansy was able to discern the object in the girl's hand was not in fact an ostrich-feather duster, but rather was a wand, disguised to appear as a cleaning tool; idly, she wondered who the witch in the photograph was, for she was obviously meant to go unnoticed by the Muggle.

"Henry may have gone through many women," another wizard was saying loftily, "but at least he married them, unlike so many other royals. Why, there is absolutely no evidence that Henry fooled around when he was married!" A sardonic female voice could be heard in reply.

"Yes, yes . . . rather big of him, the sport -- bother the decapitations, for he was faithful whilst married . . . "

"YE GODS, MUGGLE-LOVERS!" a thick brogue shouted through the chaos. "STOP YOUR INCESSANT CHATTER ABOUT THE BLOODY MUGGLE HISTORICAL FIGURES! HAVE YE NO PRIDE, YE BLOOD TRAITORS?!" A giant of a man towered over a flock of bleating merinos; his blue eyes flashed dangerously, red hair and beard wild and unkempt. He reminded Pansy of a horrific experiment in cross-mutation between the Weasel and Hagrid.

"Oh, honestly, Angus!" A thin whip of a woman drove the sheep past her angry husband, smacking their woolly behinds with a crop to keep the flow going. "After fifty-five years on t'bloody wall, I daresay any new topic of conversation 'tis a breath o' fresh air indeed!" Angrily, she caned the lone black sheep, which had appeared suddenly from the left side of the frame; the black sheep bleated in protest, and galloped wildly over Angus's foot.

"AYE!" he roared. "GET ON WITH YE!" Swiftly he drew his sgian dubh, and poked the black miscreant in the arse; he re-sheathed as the unfortunate creature trotted hastily out of sight. "WOMAN, I'LL NOT BE TOLERATIN' SPEAK OF MUGGLES IN MY DOMAIN! 'TIS WRONG AND UNSUITABLE, OR MY NAME ISN'T ANGUS MALFOY PREWITT MACGREGOR!"

A chorus of voices echoed through the bathroom. "Shut up yourself, Malfoy Prewitt MacGregor!" "Shut your damn cakehole, Angus!" "That's right, Angus! Tell 'em we don't want that kind of talk on our walls!"

Mrs. Malfoy Prewitt Macgregor prodded her husband with her crop; sheep filled the frame. "Get on with ye, Angus," she said sternly, "or ye'll be gettin' your Ghillies covered in shite!" The sheep bleated, complaining.

Ugh, Pansy thought, as she finished washing her hands and fled the bathroom, nothing like a pee in full view of three thousand elitist rubberneckers.

As she slipped into the chair next Draco's she leaned in. "Your family is quite surely the strangest lot in all of wizarding Britain," she whispered, shaking her napkin primly into her lap.

He pulled a face, turning his head to speak into her ear. "I don't know what you're talking about! What about your Uncle Egg?"

"What?" Pansy furrowed her brow, genuinely puzzled. "Uncle Egg writes about the separation between Muggles and wizards! How can you protest that?"

"He's not been sober anytime this century for one," Draco said, smirking. Triumphantly he spooned a bite of his apple and blackberry crumble into his mouth, waggling an eyebrow at her; a trickle of the brandy-flavoured cream from the crumble inched from the corner of his mouth, and he dabbed at it with his napkin.

"Honestly!" Pansy's jaw dropped in protest, as she remembered the debacle in the loo. "At least . . . well, at least Uncle Egg likes whores!" Narcissa coughed delicately, also dabbing at her mouth discretely with her napkin, and Draco snorted into his crumble. "Right then," Pansy said, picking up her fork and poking at her endive, a spot of pink flushing above each cheek.

In Hogsmeade, Madam Rosmerta set a basket of cod and chips onto the table in front of C.R. and Astrid. "Four galleons," she said briskly, her other arm laden with more orders. C.R. rummaged in the pocket of his robes and passed her five. "Thank you, sir," Madam Rosmerta said, slipping the galleons into her apron.

"And two more butterbeers, please?" C.R. asked politely.

Astrid covered the rim of her mug, shaking her head. "Oh no! I think I've had enough."

"It's all right," he said, smiling at her. "You won't feel much fuzzier than you do now. Do you like the taste?" Astrid nodded, for she did. C.R. glanced back at Madam Rosmerta. "Two more, please."

"I can pay this time," Astrid said, reaching for her purse.

"No, no. It's my treat."

"Erm, well, all right . . . . "

He'd managed to snag the corner booth from a group of fourth-year Slytherins, and Astrid could barely see any other patrons in the Three Broomsticks. She picked up a chip and nibbled at it carefully, not wanting to appear ungraceful or, God forbid, dribble crumbs and food down her front. C.R., perfectly at ease, ate the fish and chips with gusto.

"So," Astrid said, after she'd finished her microscopic bite, "what all'd you buy?" She wasn't sure what to talk about, and shopping seemed a safe topic.

"Lots of stuff," he said through his cod, bringing his curled fist in front of his mouth for a moment; swallowing, he washed the fish down with a swallow of butterbeer. "Two new quills -- Abraxan -- and ink. Two bottles regular black, two bottles Slytherink." He furrowed his brow, thinking. "Hinkypunk treats for Defence, a book, two rolls of privacy parchment, a new pair of shoes, a new school tie, and . . . some Droobles. What about you? What'd you buy?"

"A book. And some peppermint sugar quills."

"You fancy sugar quills, then?"

"Just the peppermint ones," she said, reaching into her bag and extracting one. "So, what book did you buy?"

C.R. cocked an eyebrow at her. "The Rise and Fall of Lord Voldemort, volume one," he said, watching her closely.

"Er . . . "

He smiled. "It's for Binns, Astrid," he said soothingly. "I'm in N.E.W.T. History of Magic, and I'm doing a research project. What book did you buy?"

"Ah," she said, feeling completely idiotic. "Just the latest installment in a serial I read."

He considered her from across the table, and the slid around the round corner of the bench so he was sitting next to her. Carefully, he covered her hand with his own, idly fingering the sugar quill she was still clutching between her fingers. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "I know about your parents, Astrid," he said, not unkindly. Astrid felt her stomach plunge, and she fought against the urge to flee. He continued. "All this aside," he gestured at the food and drink on the table, "I am your house prefect. It's my business to know about you. Besides, you don't have to be embarrassed."

She was wholly uncomfortable. "How would you know?" she blurted out, without thinking.

C.R. was unfazed. "You just shouldn't be embarrassed." He tested the waters carefully. "Some would consider it . . . a great honour."

"To be born in Azkaban?" she asked incredulously.

His eyebrow lifted again, and he spoke without his usual buffer of control. "You were born in Azkaban?" He hadn't known this.

Astrid died of humiliation. "Oh, god, piss off already," she spat, and slid away from him, wanting only to escape and run screaming back to Hogwarts; she was stopped from leaving the booth by a massive moleskin wall, which she quickly determined was covering Hagrid's arse. He was planted right in front of the bench's opening; she could hear his loud voice as he spoke to an unknown person, and it was quite clear he'd been into the firewhiskey quite heartily. Astrid shoved at Hagrid's backside. "Move, you great oaf!" Hagrid, oblivious, was now sobbing, lamenting the current state of ethics and care when it came to today's magical creatures; the honk of his great nose echoed through the Three Broomsticks as he blew into his handkerchief.

C.R. recovered from his shock and scooted after her, once again taking her hand; she ripped it from his grasp, frantic to get away. "Astrid!" he tried to soothe her. "It's . . . it's okay! I just didn't know! I know your parents are there-- OW!" She'd stabbed him in the hand with her peppermint sugar quill; he yanked his hand back.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Astrid seethed, humiliated and trapped. Looking around, and finding no obvious escape, she slid under the table and began crawling for freedom; C.R. was there in a flash, and he caught her by the ankle, dragging her back. She sat up, her head knocking against the underside of the table, pushing at his hands. "STOP IT! LET ME GO!"

"Astrid!" C.R. grasped her upper arms. "Astrid, calm down," he commanded, using his most authoritative prefectly tone, and, finally, she did. His fingers tightened, and she glared at him defiantly, her eyes wild and terrified; he knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. He spoke carefully, hoping he was choosing the right tactic. "I didn't know about that last bit, but I do know about your family. I know what your parents are, what they've done. And all I will say is there are those who would find great honour in your parents' committment."

"Oh, right!" she sneered, remembering Snape's reaction to her question about her parents. "You're only just saying that!"

He was genuinely perplexed; he wasn't used to girls fleeing his presence. "Why would I do that?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "I know all about you," she hissed, lashing out at him, trying to free herself by any means.

C.R. was beginning to feel nervous; for the first time ever, he felt unsure of what to do with a girl. "Know all about me how?" She kicked out at him, knicking him in the shin and wrenching her arms free; turning, she scrambled to escape. C.R. dived after her, catching her around the waist; she writhed like an eel, rolling under him until he managed to pin her under his body, stretching across her and slamming her hands to the floor on either side of her head, his fingers wrapped firmly around her wrists. Astrid flexed her fingers helplessly just as Hagrid stepped backward.

"AHHHH!" she cried out, the heel of Hagrid's boot mashing the fingers of her right hand as the giant trundled away.

C.R. squeezed her wrists again. "Astrid," he commanded gruffly. "Stop it." She struggled; he tightened his grip once more. Finally, she let out a shuddering breath and relaxed under him, her chest heaving from her effort.

"Let. me. go." she warned.

"No."

"Waldvogel?" Fourth Rosier's voice interrupted them. "What's going on? Are you all right?" He peered under the table, apparently alerted to their presence owing to the scuffle. Astrid caught his puzzled expression, and struggled against C.R.'s weight.

C.R. snapped his head up. "Get the fuck away!" he growled at Fourth; several other Slytherins had paused to look over to their table, watching suspiciously.

Fourth shook his head. "What the shite, mate?" His eyes swept over the two of them, narrowing slightly as he took them in. He repeated himself. "What's going on?"

"Rosier, if you don't get the fuck away right now, you will hurt in places you didn't even know you had once I'm through with you. Now GO!" Their housemates were whispering amongst themselves now, and Astrid caught two seventh year girls gazing at her, a mixture of curiosity and what appeared to be sulky resentment clouding their faces.

". . . don't understand what C.R. sees in a third year . . . . " Astrid could hear one of them saying; she wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. She bucked up once again; instantly C.R. was hissing into her ear.

"Do. not. move." He lifted his head, gazing coldly at Fourth; the sixth year's eyes widened slightly, and he stood, backing away.

"Okay, okay!" he said, placating. "I'm going!" Fourth couldn't help but glance at Astrid; his brow furrowed worriedly. "Lestrange? Are you all right?"

"PISS OFF!"

"Go on, arsehole!" C.R. ordered. Fourth let a glance skip over them once more, and then he was gone, and the background noise ballooned. C.R. considered Astrid, still heaving and defiant underneath him.

She stared at him, her eyes still flashing.

"I fancy you, Astrid," he said, realising as the words tumbled from his mouth that they were true, and this surprised him. It had less to do with having it off with her than it did with . . . just her. Not that having it off with her would be a bad thing, but . . . This, C.R. thought to himself, as he studied her defiant face intently, is odd. Then again, he'd always thought odd could be exciting.

"You can't tell anyone," she whispered finally, feeling squashed and cramped under his weight. "Nobody knows."

He nodded, gazing seriously into her eyes. "I won't tell anyone," he said, hauling her back under the table to avoid the risk of another stomping. He loosened his grip on her wrist and moved his hand up to cup the side of her neck, prompting her toward him. "I won't tell anyone." And he leaned in and kissed her neck softly, his lips barely grazing her skin.

Oh God. She froze once again. "No," she murmured, liking the way it felt.

"I won't hurt you," he said, whispering it into her ear, and kissed her neck again, twice this time.

"No it's just . . . " His other hand had loosened around her arm, and he was rubbing it carefully. "It's just that . . . I can't," she said desperately.

He brought her right hand to his lips, kissing her throbbing, squashed fingers. "I'm going to have to see you to Madam Pomfrey again," he said. "You can," he added.

She groaned, frustrated. "Please don't . . . "

C.R. fluttered his lips along the line of her jaw, reaching up to turn her face to his. "You can," he said, kissing her chin.

I can't, she thought, on the verge of tears. It feels so good, I know what will happen . . . I know what will happen . . . Except it didn't happen. Nothing happened, in fact -- no terrible odour, no anything. Tentatively, she lifted her hand to his chest and met his gaze, and he slid his hand around the back of her neck and leaned in, kissing her softly.

Astrid didn't know what to do. She knew she ought to tear herself away, but the fluttering sensation in her belly was far too nice to abandon, and his mouth was soft and fresh, and after a moment she kissed him back, his bottom lip fitting nicely between hers, and a tiny heat ignited inside her as she waited for the cloying smell of death to wrap itself around them.

It didn't come.

She pulled back just a fraction and stared at him. C.R. stared back with an almost perplexed expression, stroking under her ear with the pad of his thumb. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting triumphantly. She shook her head mutely, swimming in the sea of his blue, blue eyes. A curiosity was blooming inside her now, superceding her fear, and she brought her hand up to his face, tempting her demon within.

Still nothing.

She tilted her head at him and nudged her head forward tentatively, and brushed her lips over his again. His fingers tightened in her hair and he pressed his mouth against hers, waiting. Give me . . . "Give me . . . " she muttered against his lips, and he made a strange noise in the back of his throat and licked urgently into her mouth.

As the clock chimed eleven, Pansy shifted in her seat, sated, her belly comfortably full from an especially divine Beef Wellington, and crisp asparagus with tangy hollandaise; she'd not wanted dessert, but was content to relax and let her mind drift lazily as she let her dinner go down.

The Malfoys' formal dining hall was a crowning achievement in understated elegance. Gleaming walnut paneling cased the ancient walls, its whorls and rings glowing richly under the softly pleasing yellow light of the floating candles; the paneling reached up the walls, segueing into the ornate wooden lattice work which neatly encased the base of an immense marble balustrade that ran nearly three-quarters of the hall -- guests and party-goers could stroll along its length, and gaze down upon the more languid diners, or clearly view the arched ceiling, which was charmed identically to the one in Hogwarts' Great Hall. Tonight was clear, and the stars were infinite against the inky, blue-black midnight sky.

At the north end of the hall, a series of fluted archways were carved into the stone, casing a massive series of stained-glass, which rose from floor to ceiling. Lighting charms were cusped into the coloured glass itself; the design was a magnificent, vibrant collage of faeries, pixies, sphinxes, manticores, magical flora and fauna, unicorns, and Abraxans. The creatures shifted subtly; in between a mouthful of potatoes or a spoonful of soup, one might glance up and find the unicorn had migrated silently to another section of the window, whilst its prior spot was claimed by a flock of Diricawl, the only indication of the stealth trade being a glassine puff of feathers left under the unicorn's hooves, which quickly faded gently into the general amalgam of colour before one could manage a blink.

Enormous portraits lined the walls, each hung precisely and evenly -- great ancestors of the Malfoys were enshrined here, and it was the only room in the estate where the portraits were always silent. At times the frames hung empty, abandoned by their owner for a more interesting scene elsewhere, but Draco had told Pansy once that Narcissa required all the portraits to be habitated during the most formal of parties, bribing the occupants with promises of portrait massage with expensive linseed oil-based restoration potion and only the finest of Demiguise brushes. Individual tile mosaics were tastefully placed between the portraits, and carefully-placed antiques and art works filled the hall, so that despite its indisputable formality, it was not rendered cold or austere.

Unconsciously, Pansy plucked at the top button of her formal dressrobes, the fabric-covered rise teasing into the ridges of her fingertip. Fearing sleep might overcome her, she leaned forward finally, sipping from her crystal goblet of water and, bored, attempted to listen to Draco and Lucius as they heatedly discussed Quidditch.

"No," Draco was saying, poking the table's gleaming top, "Montague's right, Father! The Hawkshead manoeuvre, carefully timed, definitely gives the Slytherin team a mental edge over the other -- it's intimidating to the opponent, and that's always good. You should see the looks on their faces when we do it."

"I have, Draco," Lucius Malfoy drawled patiently. "Just don't overuse the play. Once in a match is quite enough, and timing is crucial." He paused then, taking several deliberate moments to light a cigar he had drawn from the inside pocket of his robes. The sweet scent of fine tobacco wafted forth, tickling at Pansy's nostrils. Once he was certain the cigar was satisfactorily lit, he settled into the high back of his chair, his grey eyes sweeping leisurely around the table before he continued. "Executing such a play when Slytherin is, say, twenty points up is rash and uncalculated. But should you find yourself one hundred points up? By all means, let the other team know a Slytherin victory is imminent. However, never forget the Hawkshead, when overused, quickly becomes an empty threat." His eyes settled on Pansy. "Pansy, what do you think? Who's right? Draco or myself?" His question posed, Lucius considered her with an amused smile, slowly savouring another mouthful of smoke.

Pansy came to attention. "Hmm? Oh, well . . . "

"Lucius," Narcissa interjected, regarding her husband. "How unkind of you to put Pansy on the spot like that! Surely, she'll not want to say."

Lucius laughed lightly. "Nonsense. The girl's entitled to her opinion." He gestured at Pansy with his cigar, sending a thin, winding trail of smoke her way. "Go on, then. It's perfectly fine to say."

She cocked her head, thinking. "I expect what you say is right, Mr. Malfoy, in that . . . " She paused for a moment, the conversation she had several days prior with Professor Umbridge flitting briefly through her mind. "In that, it's not good to overestimate one's position?"

"Precisely!" Lucius was still smiling; Draco furrowed his brow. "Good girl."

Pansy leaned forward, smiling slightly at Draco across the expanse of the dining table between them. "But the unfortunate truth is," she expounded, feeling a bit daring, "that I adore watching Draco lead a Slytherin Hawkshead, no matter how inappropriate it might seem. So, I can't really say I'm truly objective." Draco smirked and crossed his arms victoriously over his chest, flicking a triumphant glance at his father.

"Very, very good," he said, drawing in a final puff from his cigar before stubbing it out it in a heavy glass ashtray he summoned with a flick of his fingers. "Well done, Draco. It looks as if you win this argument." Smoke puffed gently from his mouth as he spoke.

"Of course I adored the Hawkshead manoeuvre myself," Narcissa said knowingly.

"Indeed you did," Lucius acknowledged, stretching his hands down the length of his chair's arms in a relaxed manner. "Port?" he enquired.

"Yes. It's Saturday, so I don't see why not." Narcissa stood, pushing back her chair. Lucius, Draco, and Pansy followed suit. "In the study, then? I'll show Draco the tapestry while you relax," she said to Lucius.

"Tapestry?" Draco asked curiously. "What tapestry? We've hundreds of tapestries."

Lucius clapped a hand to his son's shoulder. "You'll know soon enough. Not everything a family values need be openly displayed, Draco." He rounded the table, offering his arm to Narcissa. "Shall we?"

Lucius snoozed by the library fire, legs crossed, head back, his glass of port still fixed in his grasp, as Narcissa glided back into the room with what looked to be a small, rolled carpet in her arms; she had gone to fetch the item, leaving Draco and Pansy sitting at a long mahogany study table, each with a small goblet of port. "Drink it slowly," Narcissa had admonished when Draco threw back a mouthful. "This is wizarding port, not Muggle. It's exceptionally strong, but my parents taught me when I was fifteen, and so I shall you." Pansy had sipped gingerly at the port, not sure if she liked the taste at all, but Narcissa had been right: by the time she had returned from her errand, Pansy's cheeks and ears were warm.

Deftly, Narcissa unrolled the tapestry across the table; its fringe came to rest against Draco's fingers, which were splayed casually on the tabletop; the golden embroidery shone by the light of the fire.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

Toujours Pur

Draco whistled under his breath, and Pansy leaned forward, interested. "Whoa," Draco said, dropping his usual superiour countenance, "this has to date back to . . . . " His eyes scanned down the elaborate family tree.

"To the Middle Ages, yes," Narcissa finished for him, lifting her robes an inch so she could perch gracefully on the table's top; using her wand as a pointer, she let its tip graze over a name. "There you are, Draco." Draco peered more closely, brushing back a stray lock of hair which fell into his eyes as he craned to see. Finally, he stood and leaned over the tapestry, resting his elbow over a portion of his sixteenth century relatives; he rested his chin on his fisted hand, his quick eyes taking in the names and dates. Pansy could practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"A-ha!" he exclaimed, an impish grin spreading across his lips as he pointed excitedly. "Sirius Black!" He cocked his head cheekily, grinning at his mother. "Everyone has one of those relatives, don't you know!" Pansy remained silent, her mind drifting automatically to her French auntie who ran a wizarding bordello in Paris. Everyone has one of those relatives . . . her mind repeated.

Narcissa raised a brow. "Hush, Draco," she admonished, but Pansy could see the hint of mirth in Narcissa's eyes.

"Father's told me of him before," Draco said, still smirking.

Narcissa waved her hand. "Yes, yes. Your father does so enjoy his petty torments," she said, amused. "Sirius Black is my cousin."

Draco's fingers moved sideways, underlining a second name. "Regulus Black?"

A shadow passed over Narcissa's face. "Hmm . . . " She traced the name, upside down, with her wand. "Regulus was Sirius's brother. He was my favourite cousin -- we grew up together." Her eyes flicked to Pansy, and she gestured with her wand. "Much like you and Pansy. He was . . . my best friend." Pansy took another sip of her port, her face quite flushed now; she noted, over the rim of her glass, Narcissa's face had grown wistful.

Draco's face had softened as well, and he glanced up at his mother, merely curious now. "What happened to him? How'd he die?"

Narcissa took great pause. "He was . . . killed by Aurors fifteen years past." Her gaze lifted above Draco's, and she looked about the library as she spoke; Lucius grunted, and shifted in his leather chair, resettling himself and falling still once again. "Sirius and Regulus's father was my father's brother. I have two sisters . . . "

Draco furrowed his brow. "You do?" he asked expectantly.

Narcissa nodded. "I do," she said, continuing. "My one sister, Andromeda . . . well, you can see here." She pointed to Andromeda Black on the tapestry; a horizontal line led from Andromeda Black's name to Theodore Tonks, and a vertical line between both names pointed to Nymphadora Tonks.

Draco snorted, pointing at the name. "Oh, that has to suck," he said. "Nymphadora? What an incredibly stupid name!"

"I agree!" Pansy chimed in, feeling quite hot from the port. "An absurd name!" She nodded sagely, crossing her arms over her chest. "I know I'd make fun of it . . . . "

Narcissa spoke haughtily. "Andromeda married a Mudblood; her offspring's name is really the least of her worries." She sighed. "It was most unfortunate about cousin Sirius. Why, he's the only Black to go to Gryffindor --" She wracked her brain. "-- well, ever, as far as I can recall. Oh, he was despicable! He threw away everything his family stood for, spouting Muggle-loving rhetoric all the while." Her eyes glittered darkly in the low light. "Mother was delighted when he was arrested, figuring we had all been wrong about him all those many years, and that he was really the cleverest of us all in the way he went about serving Lord Voldemort. Sheer genius, we thought!" Narcissa's face twisted bitterly. "But, no. The joke was truly on us. For Sirius Black is no servant of the Dark Lord -- it was not he who committed the offence for which he saw Azkaban, but rather it was another."

Draco was enthralled despite himself. "Who was it?" he asked.

"No one you know," Narcissa replied shortly. "Sirius Black is free -- a fugitive on the lam. He is a disgrace to my family, a disgrace to you, Draco, a disgrace all around. He makes a mockery of us pure-bloods, those of us who believe --" She spoke fiercely. "-- that pure blood, and family heritage, and lineage still mean something."

Draco was watching his mother intently. "All that means something to me," he said, his own eyes shining brightly now; Pansy nodded emphatically at his side, fascinated.

"Son, I know," Narcissa said soothingly. "You've been raised with the purest of values; you are a smart and clever young man, Draco. I do not know where my aunt went wrong with Sirius." Her eyes steeled. "If I knew where he was . . ."

"You'd kill him yourself?" Draco asked excitedly, his cheeks flushed from the port.

Narcissa tutted. "Heavens, no, Draco!" She paused, her fingers trailing down the lines criss-crossing the tapestry to lightly caress the golden thread of a new name: Bellatrix Black. "Well, not exactly."

Draco traced his way up the embroidery, his fingers coming to rest over his mother's. He looked at her. "Who's this?"

"My other sister, Bellatrix." Narcissa did not elaborate.

Draco drew a finger horizontally: Rodolphus Lestrange. Pansy leaned forward, a different name catching her eye. "Oh," she said, pointing. "Look!" Draco's eyes darted over immediately.

"Oh," he said, simply. Astrid Lestrange. "I know her."

"Yes, I know," Narcissa answered, her mouth tightening. "Draco, you are never to trust Astrid Lestrange. Never."

Draco was suspicious. "What? Why?" he asked, confused. "She's a Slytherin! And," he said, gesturing toward the family tapestry, "she's my cousin, isn't she?!" His eyes narrowed in thought. "Why haven't you told me before that I had a cousin -- she's been right there for three years now!"

"The circumstances of her birth are, of course, unfortunate; my mother would have gladly taken her in," Narcissa said, lifting her glass of port to her lips. Pansy took this as her cue to drain her own glass, her mouth burning as the liquor slid down her throat.

Draco was genuinely perplexed. "What are you going on about, Mother?"

Narcissa waved her hand again. "Never mind," she said, shifting from her spot on the table, and then retrieving the decanter of port. She refilled her glass and then hesitated; after a moment she allowed Draco and Pansy another serving, pouring carefully. She set the decanter down, replacing its glass stopper, levelling her gaze at Draco. "But you will heed my direction."

Draco was clearly unimpressed. "Right, Mother. If you say so."

It was two-thirty a.m., and Pansy had just finished her bath. She was still quite tipsy -- the port had been strong -- and she fumbled with her nightclothes by the light of a single candle. Pulling on her knickers, she turned to gather her nightdress from the footboard of the massive four-poster where she had laid it across; she saw him out of the corner of her eye, leaning against the door frame to the guest suite, watching her openly in the dim light.

Hurriedly, Pansy thrust her arms into the garment, dropping the simple white gown over her head, and pulled it downward. "What are you doing?" she whispered fiercely, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks for the umpteenth time that evening.

He beckoned to her from where he stood. "Come on," he said, and turned and ran. Pansy blinked, caught unaware, but her instinct kicked in and tore after him, grabbing her wand from the bureau as she flew out the door.

The ran silently through the winding corridors, wands extended, the faint glow of Lumos bouncing from passing object to wall; Pansy's white nightdress fluttered ghost-like in the silent wake of Draco running ahead of her, the pale bottoms of his feet flashing dimly. They ran and ran, up stairs, down hallways that narrowed consecutively the higher into the manor they wound, until Draco turned into a familiar turret and crossed through, finally slamming against a heavy wooden door bracketed with ancient iron. Pansy skidded to a stop, sliding into him, and turned to lean against the stone wall, her chest heaving as she regained her breath.

Draco stooped over, bracing his hands on his knees, gulping in air.

"You remembered," Pansy managed to choke out, massaging a stitch in her side.

He nodded silently, his ever-disobedient fringe tickling at his nose. He straightened, pushing a hand through his hair and stepped forward; his fingers curled gently around her wrist, and she manoeuvred her fingers through his with a twist. "Do it," he said; she could see the rapid rise and fall of his bare chest as she brought up her still-lit wand.

"Alohomora," she incanted, and the door creaked open. They crept up the spiralling stone stairway, finally letting out into the massive expanse that was the manor's attic. Pansy looked around, her wand still held aloft; its light spilled over mountains of objects. Heirlooms, antiques, magical artifacts, suits of armour, dressing busts, portraits, and toys were illuminated, only to disappear into the shadows again as she turned slowly in a circle, Draco moving with her unconsciously.

She ventured forward, her hand slipping from his. "Look! Remember that?" A child-sized table with two chairs fell under the glow from her wand. Draco stepped around her, pulling out the tiny chair and flipping it backward; he sat, resting his forearms over its back, tapping the table with his wand. He looked at her bemusedly.

"You're going to serve me, Pansy, right?" he asked slyly. "You used to always like to serve me when we were little."

She lifted the hem of her nightdress, crinkling her nose at him as she sat opposite him. "Ever so funny." She flicked her wand at him, conjuring a miniature china tea set, and adorning his head with an enormous party hat -- cone shaped and trimmed with wide ruffles at the base, four colourful pom-poms sprigging from the hat's point, suspended upon bouncing stalks made from licorice whips. She scrutinised him, biting her lip in thought. "Not good enough," she said, as Draco's eyes flew upward; he lifted his hand, drawing his fingers up the cone, a pom-pom bouncing merrily against them. Pansy waved her wand several more times, conjuring roses for the hat, as well as a glittering faerie to orbit Draco's head, and quickly transfigured one of the pom-poms into a miniature hornet's nest, complete with a swarm of buzzing occupants. Finished, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back triumphantly. "Excellent!"

Draco ceased all motion. "What is that . . . noise?" he enquired, his hand frozen upward.

Pansy smirked. "Hornets!"

His lip curled as he considered her in disbelief. "Hornets? Are you mad? No one decorates party hats with hornets!" he sniffed, offended, gingerly testing the hat for unsteadiness with a gentle poke. The hornets buzzed alarmingly. Pansy smiled, feeling cheeky still from the effects of the port, and she drew the tip of her wand to her lips and kissed it, and then touched it to Draco's nose.

"Don't be cross," she said, looking intently into his eyes, sobering when he held her gaze. Carefully he lifted the ridiculous hat from his head and slowly placed it onto the table between them. He lifted his chin, staring down at her silently for a moment, and then reached over and placed his hand over hers.

"Nox," he said, and she could have sworn she saw the word condense in the dark as the inky blackness wrapped itself around them, a smokey whisper of a word hovering silently between them. She sensed him round the table, and she stood; he was behind her then, and his arms were around her waist. She felt his warm breath puffing against her neck, a slight chill brushing the skin there when he drew in a breath, and she did not protest as he slid his hands up the flat plane of her stomach, although her gut quaked as his fingers passed over her. "Come on," he said again, taking her hand.

They inched forward in the dark, instinctively knowing where to go, where to step; the pathway was forever burned into both their minds, even though they had not ventured to their place in many years. "It should be here," Pansy said, after they had crept along for what seemed an eternity. "Look, there's the dormer." She pointed at the charcoal outline of the lone attic window which loomed high above them.

"Go left," Draco said, steering her gently, and then her thigh bumped against smooth wood, and instinctively she put out her hand, wrapping it around the carved bedpost of 'their' bed.

Draco and Pansy had adopted the bed when they were both six. It was the most enormous bed either of them had ever seen -- stretching the length of three of the largest-sized Muggle beds, Pansy had always thought the Malfoys were surely hiding evidence of a secret giant relative, and that this bed had been proof of its existence.

Reflexively, they both dropped to their knees, their fingers plunging into soft tufts of fur. Pansy reached out blindly, locating the bottom of the sideboard, and ducked under the bed, crawling forward. "One, two, three, four, five . . . " She counted under her breath, aware of Draco doing the same just behind her, until she reached forty-seven. She stopped.

"Lumos," she whispered, her wand's eerie glow flaring to life once again. She tilted her head upward, twisting to look up into the slatted frame of the giant's bed. "They're still here!" she said, a feeling of reminiscent excitement coursing through her. Next to her, Draco was also looking into the bed's frame; the bed was so enormous he was able to sit upright. He sat back on his haunches, beckoning for Pansy to do the same. She laid her wand into the sea of the Demiguise and chinchilla rug, which was still as soft and clean as it was the first day she and Draco had discovered their niche -- Narcissa required every inch of the manor to be kept impeccably clean at all times. "Actually, I think I'll lay down," she said, and stretched forward, splaying her fingers through the velvety area rug, sighing contentedly as she turned her face, burying her cheek in the soft warmth. Circling her fingers lazily, she watched as Draco reached up into the slats.

"Who's this?" he asked, bringing his hand down to her face; he was holding a small, carved ivory elephant. Pansy smiled and reached out to touch the elephant's broken tusk with her finger.

"It's Toomai!" she said, giggling. Over the years they had hoarded pachyderm-themed trinkets and treasures -- ivory elephants, jade elephants, wooden elephants, elephants of all kinds, from all countries -- and at last check they had stashed away over a thousand of them, hidden away in the slats of the bed, charmed not to knock over when they ran, jumping and screaming across the bed's top, or wrestled amongst the pile of feathery duvets.

Draco marched the elephant up her arm to her shoulder. "Toomai fancies you, Pansy," he said. "He always has." His eyes were open and unguarded as he moved.

"Has he now?"

"He has." Draco reached up into the slats again, gently replacing Toomai. "Remember the story?"

"Mmm," she mused. "How could I forget?" She adopted her most proper speaking voice. "I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain -- I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs . . . "

Draco continued, "I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane: I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs."

"I will go out until the day, until the morning break -- out to the wind's untainted kiss, the water's clean caress . . . "

"I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake. I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!" Draco smirked, pleased with his recall. "Don't I have an exceptional memory, Pansy? It's been years since we last recited it, I'm sure."

She smiled. "Yes, you are brilliant as always. Of course, I remembered it just as well."

He was guiding his fingers along the edge of another slat, looking. "I remembered it better."

"Don't be a prat! We both remembered it the same, which is to say neither one of us did better than the other!"

He sighed dramatically, his fingers closing in on another trinket. "Believe what you will, Pansy." Deftly, he changed the subject. "Who's this?"

Pansy rolled her eyes, determined not to rise to his bait. "It's Nutter Nutter," she managed to get out, eyeing the small statue in the palm of Draco's hand; the creature had only one great, flapping ear, which waved at them jauntily.

Draco turned the elephant to face him. "Do you need another ear, Nutter Nutter?" he asked seriously. "Do you need a-nutter ear?" Pansy groaned and rolled onto her back, prodding at Draco's knee, and then laughing when Nutter Nutter -- clearly disgruntled -- trumpeted tinily into Draco's face. Draco replaced the pachyderm carefully, not selecting another. They fell silent; thousands of elephant ears waved silently at them through the slats, as the packs of trinket elephants -- from the cheap knick-knack to precious antique -- patrolled the underside of the bed endlessly, their regal, kind eyes regarding Draco and Pansy curiously as they made their way about.

Pansy broke the silence. "I'm glad you brought me here. I think about this place sometimes." She took a deep breath. "About you and me."

Draco rubbed at the top of his flannel-clad thighs distractedly, and she could see his throat working through the shadows, as if he were trying to speak, but no words would come. "Well, it's not like . . . who else would I bring here?" he asked finally.

She smiled wryly. "Oh, that's good of you," she quipped.

"I--"

"What?" she asked, perhaps too expectantly. "Go on!"

His eyes skimmed downward, and Pansy realised he was looking at her as she lay on her back in the fur -- really looking. Her nerves exploded.

"Show me another elephant?" she asked, lacing her fingers over her belly self-consciously.

"Later," Draco said, and he pushed off his haunches toward her and settled himself next to her, stretching out. She looked up at him and he kissed her, and they were instantly a frantic tumble of tangled tongues, their hands roving over each others' bodies, exploring.

"I want to touch you," he said, in between kisses, and an explosion of lust centered itself deep within her groin, coiling tightly, and she didn't object as he circled his hand up the inside of her thigh, kneading her skin, and she didn't object when he bumped the ball of his palm against her leg, prompting them open, and she didn't object when he slid his fingers under the elastic of her knickers. "Oh my God," he said, his breath hitching in his throat as he touched her slick warmth, and she inhaled sharply.

He thrummed his fingers against her experimentally, watching her face with great interest. "All right?" he whispered; she nodded mutely. Her nerves slowly subsided as he took his time with her, and she eventually let her hand fall to the flannel waistband of his pyjamas. Running her fingers along its edge, she looked into his face and then he was kissing her again, shifting his hips upward. "Oh, yeah," he muttered into her mouth, their tongues still touching, "do that . . . "

She slipped her hand into his pyjama bottoms. He groaned, and she felt another warm rush, and she did the best she could to please him, but he bested her first. Her breath quickened, and her mouth felt dry. "Draco, stop," she whispered, convinced she would look silly as he brought her over the edge, but he shifted so he was mostly leaning against her, and he grasped her jaw gently between the thumb and index finger of his free hand, and stared into her eyes, a mixture of lust, curiosity, and wonder fleeting through his own. He prompted her to lift her face, and she touched her mouth to his, her voice catching in her throat with a hitch as she came, throbbing gently against his fingers.

He pulled back slightly to look at her, an odd expression crossing his face as she breathed rapidly against him; suddenly he rolled away, his hand slipping out from her knickers and dragging wetly across her thigh. She watched as he crawled rapidly toward the edge of the bed. Confused, she propped herself up on her elbows, still coursing, and tingling, and full. "Draco?"

"Fuck!"

Puzzled, she scrambled onto all fours, her gown askew, and grabbed her wand from where he had laid it, and hurried after him. "Draco!" As she approached the edge of the bed herself, she saw his feet disappear upward, and then the creaking slats above her head let her know he had hopped up onto the bed itself. Emerging, she stood and turned, holding her wand out; the pale plane of his back emerged as she crept closer.

"Fuck, Pansy! I just have to . . . Ah, god, I can't stand it." He had stopped; kneeling, his knees spread apart and digging into the mattress, she saw his shoulders hunch forward and his hands disappear in front of him. Alarmed, she clambered after him, crawling rather ungracefully across the deep mattress -- it was like trying to run through water. She stopped short and drew herself up behind him, realising instantly what he was doing. She couldn't see his hands because they were down the front of his pyjama trousers, but she understood the fluid motion of his arm as he thrust into his own fist. "It's so hard being near you. I want to do things to you."

Pansy moved forward, reaching around him, and slipped her hands under his waistband once again, stilling his hand with her own. "Stop," she said, placating him soothingly. "Stop, stop, stop . . . " She was pressed tightly against his back, and she felt the rapid rise and fall of his sharp breaths through the thin cotton of her nightdress. "Just stop." Gently she pushed at his hand until he relaxed, replacing it with her own hand. She ran her fingers up him and he moaned wordlessly. Resting her head on his shoulder, she turned her face into the crook of his neck, and pressed a kiss there. "I want you to do things to me," she whispered, barely audibly.

"I want to do things with you," she repeated. "I want to." Draco looked back at her over his shoulder and she pushed his pyjamas bottoms down, and that was all the prompting he needed. He twisted out of his bottoms, and then he was pushing her onto her back, and sliding her nightgown up. Hooking his fingers in the waistband of her knickers, he drew them off and tossed them aside, and he pushed at her legs, and she let them fall open; she reached for him then, lifting her arms up.

He pulled her nightdress over her head, and then slid up the length of her body, settling between her thighs. "Okay?" he asked, sliding messily against her. She nodded and ran her hands down the warm skin of his back and he brought his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply. She shifted her hips, forcing him closer, and he moaned and circled and ground against her slick heat, moving purposefully, and she tightened her arms around his back when he arched up and came with a strangled cry, his warmth raining gently onto her naked belly, and they breathed an unspoken longing into each others' mouths as they lay, lips still touching, in the dark.

The window was six inches by four, a slice of freedom admitted once per day, contingent wholly upon the position of the sun. She never wasted its opportunity. Every day found her dirtied and naked, stretched out upon the rough stone of the her cell's floor, her head angled strangely so she could soak up every centimetre of the sun's penetrating ray. Oftentimes she fell asleep there, not moving for hours at a time, dreaming of her weak patch of sun.

It was there that He found her, it was there where He eased himself into her mind, the invasive tendrils of His essence probing easily through her head, as she lay still and silent. She felt Him instantly, recognised Him; her eyes flew open and her fingers curled fiercely into the stone beneath her until the blood leaked from her nail beds and one nail itself went flying with a sickening rip. She raised her head, peering blindly into the night, her mouth opening wordlessly.

Bella . . .

Adrenaline surged through her and she pushed up onto her forearms, stilling again, all her senses keenly alert and hyper-aware.

Bella . . .

She licked her cracked lips, which was a useless endeavour really, for her tongue was dry as sand. "Master?" she croaked, still squinting into the sunlight. There was a pause, and then her mind burst open with colour and scent and memories, and He filled her, and she was alive and invigorated and roiling with anger and pathology. He snaked through her mind, whispering, cajoling, promising, and she saw visions of silver and green, visions of blood, visions of her hand in his, and she knew her patience had been finally rewarded.

And she saw the light -- He gave her the light.

She scrambled toward the wall of her cell and clawed her way up, desperately thrusting her hand upward where the ray of light should be, not caring as the Cruciatus ward in the window was triggered and its pain poured into her as if her hand were a lightening rod; in this instance she was impervious. She was alive and He was inside her, and He protected her from the effects of the Unforgivable.

"Master!" she screamed frantically. "Master! I am here! I seek to do your bidding, and only your bidding . . . You have been good to me, and I will be rewarded!" The door to her cell rattled ominously as the guards attempted entry. "I AM YOUR MOST LOYAL SERVANT! YOUR ART IS ALIVE IN ME! YOU ARE THE MASTER AND I THE APPRENTICE!" She was seized from behind, all four guards crying out as the Cruciatus flowed from her against their hands; struggling, they pried her, bucking and screaming, from the window, using a tackling manoeuvre to pin her to the mattress of her dank cot, which was pushed up against the wall.

She fought viciously -- scratching, flailing, kicking -- managing to throw off her jailors multiple times, until finally one ran for help, and within minutes returned, the air in the cell turning condensed and icy upon his arrival. The towering shadows appeared, and Bellatrix could hear the rattling breath of the dementors as they approached. She bucked, smashing one guard's nose with the heel of her foot; blood spurted, and instantly her feet and legs were too slick for the guards to grasp.

Her eyes were alight with fanaticism as she sunk her fingers into a guard's throat. "DO YOU NOT FEEL HIM? HE IS HERE! HE IS HERE! HE HAS ALWAYS BEEN HERE . . . BEEN IN ME!" The guard was making gurgling choking sounds, and he clawed at her hand, trying to loosen her grip, his eyes glazing over from oxygen deprivation.

The three remaining guards wrestled their prisoner ferociously. "Oy!" one called, gestured to the dementor hovering near the doorway. "A hand here!" Silently the dementor glided across the cell, and Bellatrix's eyes widened as it approached, a horrible smile splitting her face. "Calm her," the guard ordered gruffly, and the dementor reached.

"HE IS BACK!" she said, eyes glittering madly, as a scaly, rotting hand slid from beneath the dementors robes and closed around her wrist; she let go of the guard's throat, and the dementor leaned in, sliding its grey hand into her matted hair, the instantaneous, white scurrying of lice a grotesque contrast against the dementor's skin. Bellatrix spoke into its mouth as it closed in. "HE IS BACK! LORD VOLDEMORT IS BACK! HE HAS COME FOR ME!"

The dementor breathed into Bellatrix's mouth, and she stilled instantly, her mouth slackening, and her body going limp.

The guards relaxed cautiously, catching their breath, the one holding a handkerchief to his nose, the other massaging absently at his throat. They motioned the dementor away, and the creature rejoined its kin, all of them gliding from the cell, their work completed.

At Hogwarts, in Slytherin, Astrid Lestrange's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed with a start, her breath hanging, eerie and frozen, in the frigid air of the dungeons.

At Hogwarts, in Gryffindor Tower, Harry Potter cried out in his sleep and curled into himself, clutching at his head, his scar exploding with pain.

At Hogwarts, in the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore cocked his head, as if listening for a voice or sound just out of range. Laying his quill down, he lifted a finger, and Fawkes fluttered onto his desk. He stroked the Phoenix's head gently, sighing, a brief feeling of imminent doom filling him as he stared silently at nothing at all.

At Malfoy Manor, in the library, Narcissa Black Malfoy waited patiently. When the owl finally arrived from the Dark Lord, it contained only one word: Soon. Relieved, she held it for a moment, and then laid it gently across the dying embers of the fire.

At Malfoy Manor, way up in the attic, both Pansy and Draco slept deeply on the giant's bed, arms entwined, their limbs tangled and sticky, under the silent watch of the elephant patrol.

In Azkaban prison, Bellatrix Black Lestrange used every ounce of strength she could muster to get up from her cot and shuffle heavily, back to her window. She slid her hands up the cobbled walls, bringing her fingertips to the edge of the sill. "Soon," she whispered, tilting her head upward. "Soon . . . " She repeated it again and again, her new mantra of faith rising through the deceptively silent rectangle of pain, and disappearing into the ebony sky.