Justified

Chapter One
Elusion
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
-William Butler Yeats

He was gone again.

Draco Malfoy was sprawled elegantly across his seat, taking in the classroom through sharp, discerning silver eyes. Harry Potter, once again, was not in attendance. Draco arched a blond eyebrow while a slight frown tugged at the corners of his lips. He cursed the Gryffindor mentally, resenting how his world seemed to revolve around the Boy Who Lived. Draco thought back to the last prefect's meeting.

"Have you noticed that Harry is not attending classes?" Granger's worried voice filled the meeting room.

"I fail to see how the private business of Potter is our concern, Granger," he had said, icing the disgust in his voice coldly.

"It is our concern!" Granger shot back shrilly. A manic gleam shone from her worried eyes and her voice rose higher. "Things are going wrong at the Ministry: Fudge has been assassinated, a former Death Eater is now in power, and Dumbledore isn't here to set things right!"

Draco sneered at her. "So when Dumbledore is out of commission, you turn to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Ditch Classes?"

"The circumstances happening in the world are too coincidental," Granger responded, her eyes wide with fear. "The incumbent was murdered and the Muggleborns' only ally is incapacitated. It can only mean that You-Know-Who is planning something. And I'm worried about Harry. This isn't like him at all. I don't want him to do something rash."

"Because if he did, then no one would be around to save your pathetic little lives? Is that it?" Draco retorted. Murmurs ran like wildfire around the table. Draco suppressed a desire to roll his eyes at their dependence upon Harry Potter, a mere boy like Draco, who didn't have the balls to come to class because he couldn't cope with the stresses of the world.

Draco sighed loudly. "Well, what is the general consensus?" The question was difficult for Draco to ask, he much preferred giving orders.

It was difficult for him to moderate the ensuing discussion. There were those who thought that Potter's absences should be tolerated because he was their Hero, the One Who Would Save Them. A small few, Draco amongst them, thought that Potter should be treated as any other student and punished accordingly.

In the end, the decision had been to watch Potter for a week, and if he missed classes again, in a noticeable pattern, it was his responsibility as Head Boy to find him. The end of the week was drawing nearer and the green-eyed Gryffindor had attended at the most two classes, according to the reports of the prefects.

Draco found it hard to concentrate on Professor Binns's words. He had long given up trying to take notes; it was too cold for his hands to properly manipulate the quill. The new headmistress, McGonagall, was stingy with the school Heating Charms as well as the traditionally lavish meals. Draco suspected she feared the difficult times ahead, now that men like his father had their world in the palms of their death-like hands, able to crush it with a single motion.

Students had brought warmer robes to accommodate the rationing, but somehow the cold always seeped through them, chilling the very marrow of Draco's bones. Especially in Binns's classroom. Drafts flowed in through the walls, making it difficult to think about the subject at hand, which was Binns's treatise on the history of dueling. Apparently Muggles strove to emulate dueling in their sport of fencing, but Draco's attention for such things was minimal, even if he had had a full stomach to help him think properly.

Rather than let the cold saturate his thoughts, Draco let them stray onto a subject that had always incensed him: the so-called Hero of Hogwarts. Draco had a pretty good inkling about why that smarmy git was skipping his classes. The damn prick was afraid. Afraid of what people expected of him. Draco smirked; this only added to his convictions that the famous Harry Potter was merely a lucky seventeen-year-old boy who had the exceeding good fortune to be able to survive as long as he did.

As Binns's ploughed on about the development of the wand, Draco remembered a time when this admittance of defeat from the Boy Who Lived would have amused him more than anything. Yet this triumph lacked any satisfaction or gratification for it did not provide the euphoria he had imagined. His enjoyment of Potter's defeat was dulled by the fact it wasn't he, Draco Malfoy, who had pulled Potter to his knees. He had wanted to beat him, to surpass him, to be better, and to prove to the world that simply surviving was not cause enough for hero-worship. But the surrender of his enemy had left Draco feeling curiously flat. It wasn't worth defeating someone who had already given up. It lessened his triumph, reduced his justification for Potter-baiting to a pile of ashes. He would hardly admit it, nor could he scarcely believe it, but he longed for the old Harry Potter, the one who had been ready to deal out insults, rather than this taciturn adolescent who so often refused to meet anyone's eyes.

A few moments after Draco saw that the History of Magic classroom was empty that he realized that class was dismissed. Draco collected his books, quills, and parchment and quickly swept out of Binns's class, striving to avoid any prefects on his way to the Slytherin common room. Unfortunately, he ran straight into McGonagall, who fixed him with a stern glare.

"I've been searching for you, Mr. Malfoy," she said. Draco knew what she would ask of him next.

"Professor, I have---"

Draco was startled when the Headmistress suddenly placed her thin hand on his shoulder. He was surprised at her wiry strength, which offered no room for argument.

"Find him," she said simply. Draco was taken aback by how weary and worn McGonagall suddenly appeared.

There was no need to ask for whom. Draco knew whom it was he had to find. He nodded solemnly, knowing it was unwise to let his displeasure show to the severe headmistress. She did not turn a blind eye to the antics of her students as Dumbledore had often done, which inspired a grudging respect in Draco for the careworn woman.

McGonagall released him and turned to continue on her way, noticing with a sharp eye everything that happened around her, despite the weight of Hogwarts School bearing down on her now frail shoulders.

Draco sighed and decided to go search for the Boy Who Moped. Now if I were a sulky, cowardly, famous Gryffindor with severe responsibility issues, where would I go?

Draco decided to take a leaf out of Potter's book and skip his next class (Divination) to go look for him. He passed students on their way to their classes, noting the somber mood, as though they were afraid to smile in fear that the Dark Lord would strike them down for having the audacity to be happy. He turned when he heard the door to a notoriously empty classroom scrape open and a pretty, brown-haired seventh year Gryffindor girl emerged looking decidedly shifty. Glancing briefly into the classroom, he could have sworn he saw a tall, dark (and somewhat scruffy in a I've-just-been-in-battle sort of way) man sheathing a sword. Startled, he looked again, only to see an empty classroom.

That's it, Draco thought. Of course. Potter would most likely be in an abandoned classroom. Bloody predictable. Typical of Gryffindors, I suppose.

**************************************************

Harry Potter sat atop an unused desk, surrounded by various magazines and newspapers, all with pictures of him trying to hide behind the edges as the he was mobbed by press agents.

Harry wasn't reading the accompanying articles, which blared titles such as "Where is the Boy Who Lived?", "Saviour Wanted: Apply Within," "Conspiracy? Who Will Unravel the Dumbledore/Fudge Mystery?", and "You-Know-Who on the Rise? The Wizarding World Asks Harry Potter."

Harry stared at a classroom wall, remembering the night during his first year when he found the Mirror of Erised. The deepest desire of his childhood had been to find the family he had never known, to experience warmth and love that he had been deprived of. That wish had long since disappeared, perhaps because he knew that Ron's family could never be his, nor the love of beautiful but distant Cho.

Harry stared into space, seeing the Mirror in his mind's eye, high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame and the inscription Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi carved around the top. Without seeing it again, Harry knew what image would be reflected back. It would show a somewhat thin seventeen-year-old boy with his mother's green eyes, his father's mop of messy black hair, and a scar-less forehead standing in the thick of a crowd, unnoticed and anonymous.

The deepest desire of Harry Potter's heart was not to be Harry Potter.

"Great place for some private wanking, I suppose, but really Potter, you have no sense of imagination when it comes to things like these."

Harry whirled around in the empty classroom. It was Malfoy, leaning gracefully against the doorframe with his arms crossed, smirking in his usual manner. Harry narrowed his eyes.

"How about the third floor corridor? Or behind the statue of Oggred the Ugly? I might recommend Greenhouse Six myself; it has all those lovely plants that offer a very convenient hiding place."

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Harry asked, his eyes dark with suspicion, guilt, and resentment. Harry crossed his arms, mirroring the blonde boy's stance from his position on the desk.

"Unfortunately, I have been sent to fetch your less-than-smartly-tailoured arse back to your classes, which I hear you have been noticeably absent from lately." Malfoy's eye fell on the press articles. "But I see that you've found a better way to pass your time. Catching up on your fanmail, I suppose." A Harry from the Daily Prophet article made a face and made a decidedly rude gesture at Malfoy. The Slytherin uncrossed his arms and approached the boy sitting on top of the unused desks.

"So?" Harry asked angrily. "So what if I've been answering my fanmail? It's better than sitting in Binns's class."

"Potter, you really are an appallingly bad liar. I wager you've been sitting here for the past hour, debating whether or not you should return to class."

Harry set his jaw in a stubborn line.

"And?"

Malfoy shrugged his thin shoulders elegantly. "I could care less whether or not you're no longer the wizarding world's poster child; in fact, I'd be delighted to take you off your pedestal and expose you for the weak, sniveling prat you are. I'm simply the herald."

Harry's face contorted in an expression of disgust. "You've always been 'just the herald', Malfoy," he retorted bitterly, turning back to stare at the wall. "It figures; you've never had an idea of your own. Always in your father's shadow, never thinking for yourself. You're still his little lackey, aren't you, Malfoy?"

The words hung in the air between them, and for once Malfoy did not make a response right away. Harry heard him take a step backward in shock and prayed that Malfoy would leave and let him alone.

There was silence. Harry could sense the other boy's silver glare boring holes into his back. Presently, Malfoy spoke.

"Listen, Potter, I don't give a fuck what you do with your time. Really." Malfoy's voice was hard with steely resolve. "You could sit here all day and stare at walls if it were up to me, but it isn't. Fallen hero or not, McGonagall has insisted that you attend class, and as Head Boy, the job of dragging you back to them was given to me. Granger would have done it, but she has such a blindside when it comes to you. So it's me, Potter. Now get your sorry, moping self off that desk; you will be escorted to class."

Harry flew off the desk and turned to face Malfoy, his green eyes glittering across the dim room.

"You think you can force me? You?" Harry laughed humourlessly, his eyes flashing emerald knives that cut the distance between them to shreds. Malfoy gazed at him with a studiously blank expression. "You don't know anything, do you, Malfoy?"

The tables had turned since their first meeting; it was Harry who was now making Malfoy feel as though he were the stranger in Harry's tortured world.

In the back of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley's self-absorbed manner, although this boy appeared to have been born and bred to his imperious carriage whereas Harry's cousin had merely been spoiled fat.

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

"No," said Harry.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be and feeling lost in the face of this boy so obviously raised in the magical world.

"I do--- Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.

If Malfoy had felt a sense of superiority and triumph then, it would have been quelled by the fury now in Harry's eyes.

A flash of something passed between the two boys that Harry could not discern. He wanted to look away, but not before Malfoy. The other boy merely stared back, a pink tinge around his ears. Harry fought a losing battle with himself; he wanted to break the tension between the Head Boy and himself, but didn't want to admit defeat. Malfoy would never back down; it was that damned pride of his.

"Let's go, Potter." Malfoy's voice had lost its edge. Harry relaxed. Under that unruffled exterior, Harry sensed that Malfoy was just as uncomfortable as he was feeling at the moment. "Someone, somewhere, has missed your breathtaking visage in his or her class."

Then Malfoy turned abruptly, not glancing back to see whether or not Harry was going to follow him out the door. Harry debated for a brief moment if he should stay or go, but soon made the decision to leave and return to class.

***********************************************

Hermione was sitting in Arithmancy when she was summoned from class by McGonagall.

"I need to speak with Miss Granger," she heard the Headmistress whisper to Professor Vector after she had walked into their class. Vector glanced over to where the Head Girl was sitting and frowned slightly, but nodded his consent. Hermione met McGonagall's eyes and the Headmistress inclined her head slightly, indicating that Hermione was to follow her out of class.

Reluctant to miss Vector's lecture on the significance of birthdates on a person's life, but unwilling to disobey her mentor, Hermione rose from her seat and quietly left class, wishing away the inquisitive stares that followed her out of the room.

"Miss Granger, I have some news that might be a bit troubling for you," McGonagall said, once they had reached a secluded talking place. Instantly Hermione was alarmed. Had something happened to Harry? Hermione's mind drifted back to the prefect's meeting the week before and worried that Harry had done something rash.

"I have a task I would like you to undertake, a project, if you will, with Professor Snape. It may infringe upon for academic studies, and I understand that that may bother you but---"

Hermione released the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

"No, indeed, Professor McGonagall," she said. "I don't mind. May I ask what this is about?" Hermione was relieved that McGonagall's news hadn't been about Harry. Hermione's nerves were constantly on edge; she was waiting for the axe to drop concerning her best friend. Everyday she awoke, afraid that his disappearance from classes had a real significance, afraid that she would find him dead on the Quidditch pitch, with a message that read "With Love, from Voldemort," written in Harry's entrails.

McGonagall heaved a tired sigh and Hermione couldn't help but notice the dark circles underneath the Headmistress's eyes and the intruding white hairs upon her black head.

"It is a complex potion that requires some time, research, and dedication. Professor Snape needs assistance in developing a potion for...for Professor Dumbledore. And being as you are the best Potions student at Hogwarts, we have elected you to be his assistant after class."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. Professor Dumbledore? Hermione was under the impression that the aged professor was beyond any magical aid, ever since...ever since that horrible attack the summer before school opened.

"When would you like me to start, Professor?" she asked, feeling a stirring of hope for the first time in months.

"Next week, at the earliest. Most likely by next Friday as Professor Snape needs some more time to develop the potion. Be in the dungeon by three o'clock Friday afternoon, Miss Granger until otherwise notified."

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione said. A little sliver of curiousity wormed itself into her mind about just what Professors McGonagall and Snape knew about Dumbledore's condition that she did not.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall said, surprising Hermione by placing a frail hand upon her shoulder. "I hope you do realize the...pressures that we have been put under. I would greatly appreciate it if you did not mention this to anyone else." There was a warning in the older woman's eyes that Hermione did not quite understand. Seeing her student's puzzled expression, McGonagall continued apprehensively. "Miss Granger, it saddens me to inform you that the world might not always be as it seems. Those you feel you can trust may not, in fact, be your allies. I can only hope that you will use your better discretion about this endeavour."

The answer dawned upon Hermione. McGonagall, seeing as she had nothing more to say, patted her protégée gently on the shoulder and then turned to return to Dumbledore's office to resume her Headmistress duties.

As Hermione walked back to Arithmancy, she pondered about the persons McGonagall had warned her against. Certainly there were many new teachers this year who were not intimate with McGonagall, nor did they often approve of her methods. They were employed by the Ministry, against the wishes of the Headmistress. Yet they seemed innocuous enough, teaching their subject with competence to the students under their tutelage.

Hermione passed Professor Rochester on the way to class. He smiled at her and nodded his head in greeting, which she returned. He was the new Transfiguration teacher, chosen by the Ministry to take over McGonagall's teaching position when she rose to run the school. Hermione shivered slightly from the cold.

Rochester, truth be told, frightened Hermione a bit. She knew that he was a friend of the current Minister pro tem, Eleazar Zabini, who had assumed Fudge's offices after the previous Minister was killed by an extensive use of the Cruciatus Curse. A deranged outpatient from St. Mungo's Hospital of Magical Maladies had been blamed for the old Minister's death, and when the case had closed, the patient returned to St. Mungo's, where he had reportedly committed suicide a week later.

Rochester, like Lupin, seemed to have the easy ability to enthrall his classes, yet unlike Lupin, whom Hermione had inherently trusted, Rochester was a bit of a mystery. His appearance frightened Hermione slightly. He had a scar cutting a slash above his right eye, which gave him a permanent scowl, crooked teeth, and a rough, brusque manner. He was also extremely thin, causing his skin to hang upon his sharp cheekbones like paper. Yet in all other respects, he was perfectly presentable, always sharply dressed in conservative robes with his grey hair cropped closely, and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke hanging about his person.

Hermione shivered again, this time from a prickling sense of foreboding. Despite his casual interaction with his students (he was affectionately referred to as "Chester" by most Slytherins), there was a slightly sinister air about Professor Rochester that bothered Hermione.

When she returned to Arithmancy, the class had already ended and emptied, save for one person. Draco Malfoy sat in her seat, his long legs crossed elegantly on her desk, his polished shoes resting on her meticulous notes. He was smirking at her with his habitual expression of contempt. Hermione suppressed her disgust and dislike as she addressed the boy.

"What is it, Malfoy?"

"McGonagall charged me to inform you that we have another prefects' meeting tomorrow in the fourth floor classroom," the boy drawled. "We're going to discuss your little boyfriend. Apparently he's missed all but two classes this week and we are going to decide the appropriate course of action."

"The appropriate course of action?" Hermione asked, her cheeks flushing slightly at the mention of "her little boyfriend."

"Yes, punishment, no doubt," Malfoy answered, not failing to notice her change in complexion. "It will either be hot oil or the rack. Personally I prefer the rack, but we can't all have what we want." Hermione's eyes widened.

"It will most likely be detention if he is to punished at all," she replied.

Malfoy snorted. "Listen, Granger, I don't know how a piece of Mudblood filth like you got to be Head Girl, considering your biased stance concerning your boy toy, but if this sort of behaviour continues any longer, Potter will surely have to be disciplined."

She was about to plead for leniency on Harry's case, but Malfoy stopped her before she could speak her piece.

"Look, Granger," he said, sitting up straight, now not bothering to mask the disgust on his face. "I know what you'd say. He's Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Well, I might remind you that while Harry may be the Boy Who Has Been Extremely Lucky Dodging Curses, the fact remains that he is still only a boy. You might care to remember that, Granger. He's a mere boy, who's subject to the same laws of gravity as the rest of us, dammit!"

Taken off guard by his passionate outburst, Hermione stepped back. Malfoy took this opportunity to collect himself and rose, brushing past her hard in the process. Her notes fluttered softly to the floor, bearing the stamp of Malfoy's footprint.

Malfoy turned at the door. "Oh, and I forgot. Chester is going to head the meeting tomorrow; McGonagall's off to London for the week to confer with the Ministry." And with that, he left.

*********************************************

He missed Hagrid.

Harry stood on the Quidditch pitch, his Firebolt in hand, forgetting his original intention to fly as the sight of the half-giant's forlorn hut caught his eye. He scanned the field; it was entirely empty, save for a few tattered banners that flapped feebly in the wind, signaling an approaching storm.

When Zabini had taken office after Fudge's death the previous summer, he effectively dismantled all programs and classes at Hogwarts that he had deemed "frivolous." Such activities as Quidditch and social Balls were considered to take away attention from students that otherwise would be devoted to magical studies.

Harry glanced at the derelict pen adjacent to Hagrid's cottage, which had housed what Harry and the other students privately called monsters, but what Hagrid had affectionately referred to as pets. The magical creatures were gone, replaced by the now-discarded Quidditch hoops and equipment. Care of Magical Creatures was one of the classes Zabini had pronounced superfluous, as well as the post of gamekeeper. Harry thought that Zabini's actions were more than a little suspicious concerning his friend; prejudice against the giants was at its peak ever since Voldemort had risen again.

Superfluous is a relative term, thought Harry. Having Quidditch abolished and Hagrid fired left Hogwarts School devoid of anything worthwhile, so to Harry, attending classes seemed superfluous.

Harry glanced at the broomstick in his hand; he intended to fly again, although that had been banned under the Ministry's new regime. He longed to leave the ground, to leave the demands impressed upon him by the public, and to leave the role of Saviour behind him.

"If you want to fly, you might wait for a more appropriate time."

This time, Harry did not turn around. He knew the voice of the person standing behind him, and he knew his intent.

"Are you implying that I should return to class?" Harry asked, still staring at the open pitch.

"I was merely going to suggest that you wait until the weather cleared," the voice replied, cool with amusement. "But now that you mention it..."

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

"Listen, Potter," the Head Boy said, "If you're thick enough to believe that your absences from class would go unnoticed or unpunished, think again."

Harry didn't respond.

"Look Potter, I'm onto your game," Malfoy's voice was harsh. Harry started. "You think that skipping class, failing your exams, and sneaking out past hours will take you off Witch Weekly's 50 Most Likely To Save the World list, I'm sorry to inform you that it won't. But if you also think that your status as the Boy Who Lived will exempt you from retribution, you are also wrong."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, knowing perfectly well what Malfoy meant.

"Are you really that slow?" the other boy scoffed. "You have detention. Or, to put it in terms you might understand: you are in trouble. Or perhaps 'serious shit' might more accurately describe the extent of your situation."

Harry showed no sign of having heard Malfoy. He heard the Slytherin sigh.

"If you care to come, detention will be held in Rochester's classroom next Friday afternoon around three o'clock. Have fun flying. Hope you fall and break your neck, Potter, maybe then you'll be on Witch Weekly's list of Men Who Failed to Follow Through Due to Nasty Flying Accidents."

Harry felt, rather than heard the blond Slytherin leave him on the abandoned Quidditch field watching the storm clouds gather.