Justified

Chapter Six

The Prince

It is better to be feared than loved. -Niccolo Macchivelli

There was a thud.

Pansy Parkinson halted her intricate cosmetic routine and glanced warily over her shoulder towards the stairs leading up from the girls' dormitories. The loud noise of something considerably large, perhaps even person-sized, falling onto the floor echoed around the Slytherin common room. Pansy rolled her eyes. The echo was the most unfortunate aspect of living in a dungeon, discounting the dank, close air and the almost complete absence of windows, of course.

She had awakened hours earlier than her housemates, and thus was the only person conscious when the thud that came from the general direction of the Head Boy's private room echoed above her head. Never one to pass up an opportunity for mockery when one landed at her feet, she drew her dressing gown tighter about her against the cold and ran up the steps towards Draco's room.

He was on the stone floor when she opened his door, an uncomfortable tangle of silk, linen and his own arms and legs. Draco was still kicking off the black sheets and straightening his pajamas when she finally opened her mouth to speak, a bit breathless and not a little disconcerted.

"Fuck. What the hell are you doing here?" Draco spat, standing up awkwardly in the pile of linens. She noted how he had somehow wrestled out of his black silk pajama top during the night and the flush of being caught in an uncompromising position stained his cheeks.

"Oh Draco, are you all right?" Pansy rushed toward the flustered Head Boy, adopting the simpering look she always used with him.

"I'm fine," Draco barked, his blond hair ruffled and messy. Pansy stopped for a moment to admire how the candlelight behind him shone through his silvery hair like a halo.

"Are you sure? Did you hurt yourself? It looks as though you gave yourself a black eye. I'll go---"

"I'm fine," Draco snapped, brushing away her solicitous hands and obsequious looks.

Pansy fell back, crushed. It was always Draco's way, shoving her aside, never giving her advances a second look. She scowled and retaliated, drawing her pride about her.

"Well, what the hell were you doing on the floor? What did you do, fall out of bed?" When the Head Boy did not reply, the answer dawned on the female Slytherin. An unpleasant smirk crept its way across her already unpleasant pug face. "You did fall out bed!"

"Shut up, Parkinson," Draco said, his voice tight. Draco's hands curled into fists at his side as he watched her laugh.

Pansy shook with undisguised mirth, her hand still on the doorknob. A long time ago, before their world had changed, before adolescence and the passage of years had altered their hearts and lives, Pansy would have obeyed Draco Malfoy's every whim. She would have given anything to be the dog at his feet, following his every gesture like a trained hound, only for a brief look or a kind word. Now the dog in Pansy had gone feral, biting at the hands that fed her, as the bitterness of unrequited love hardened her heart.

"Did ickle Draco have a widdle nightmare?" she taunted him in a child's lisp. "Was he dweaming about the scawy monsters in his spacious closet?"

"No," Draco said testily. "I did not have a nightmare." His voice was hard as he picked up the sheets and tossed them back onto the four-poster bed that was centerpiece of his room. "Now get out," he commanded imperiously, his finger pointed to his door, expecting her to crawl away with her tail between her legs. Pansy obstinately stood her ground, challenging careless demands in Draco Malfoy's face.

"I don't think I will," she said, as if she were announcing some monumental decision. The shock of her statement betrayed itself in Draco's expression before it closed off, cutting short her feeling of triumph. Draco merely rolled his eyes and tossed his bedclothes angrily onto his large bed. Pansy narrowed her eyes and began to walk slowly about the Head Boy's private room.

She tested his reaction as she cautiously approached the large chair in the corner. His face expressed nothing as he continued to shove his sheets into a somewhat orderly pile for the house-elves to clean up. Pushing her boundaries further, she flopped down in the dark plush chair and grinned wolfishly as he tensed. She knew it was his Favorite Armchair, delivered this year from the Manor to furnish his new room after his appointment as Head Boy. And Pansy knew also that nobody, nobody, but a Malfoy graced his pureblooded self on The Armchair.

When the bedclothes were reasonably tidy and ready for house elf ministrations, Draco whirled around. "What do you want, Pansy?" His grey eyes bore into her face.

"You know what I want, Draco," Pansy replied, striving to keep her voice calm. There was something about Draco Malfoy that unnerved her, as much as it thrilled her. The full force of his appeal struck Pansy like an avalanche, and as those silvery eyes slid and skated over her face and settled on her own, much darker eyes, she felt her resolve freezing upon her lips. Pansy tried to recall the golden-haired Adonis of her youth and rallied her defenses. "You owe me some explanations."

Draco's face was impassive as he stared at her, revealing nothing. She felt whatever hope, whatever faith she had in the next Prince of Darkness flutter and die within her. She fought down the forlorn longing that rose to darken her expression and waited for his answer.

"What makes you think I would owe you anything?" he replied dismissively with an imperious tilt of his chin.

Pansy grew upset, her voice shrill. "Are you denying who you are?" she asked, her adoration of him slipping away beneath her feeling of betrayal. "You are a Malfoy. Your family holds high positions in the Ministry, your father is a close confidante of the Dark Lord himself! And you, as heir to the Malfoy line, are forgetting your duty to us. Why does my father still waste away in Azkaban when men like your father hold our world between their fingertips? We are loyal, Draco. I am loyal. I lo---I am loyal to you."

Draco sat there on his unmade bed with a haughty, princely air. "Father has not told me anything," he said simply.

When she had still worshipped him, this would have been answer enough.

"I don't believe you, Draco Malfoy," Pansy said. "You know more than you reveal and you hide it from us. I know things about you. I hear you. I see you."

"What do you know?" Draco demanded, whipping his head around to face her. "What do you think you know?" Pansy saw that her words had struck a chord with him. "There is nothing, nothing, do you understand?" Pansy cowered back in the armchair, startled by the unguarded anger and fear in Draco's eyes. She didn't think he was talking about the Rising. There was something else hidden within him, but before she could discern it, before she could hound it out for her own uses, the fear disappeared like a light. Draco recovered, and presently, a smile graced his lips.

"You know nothing, Pansy Parkinson. And I owe you nothing." Draco paused for a moment, his words giving him control. "Now run along and finish applying your war paint, or whatever you are bent upon calling it today."

"You are such a bastard, Draco." Her voice was sullen, and she made no move to vacate the premises. He smirked at her until she stood up. "Fine," she said, her voice bitter. "Fine. I'll go. I'll go and tell the other Slytherins. I'll go tell them about how you and Harry Potter---"

"What about Potter?" Draco demanded quickly, rising from his bed to tower over Pansy.

She stopped momentarily, taken aback by Draco's hasty interruption and sudden outburst. She had always been a little frightened of him, a little frightened of his beauty, of his power, and of his repressed sexuality. Such a combination could prove deadly for some. She gathered her wits about her and finished her threat.

"About how you lost to him in a fistfight last night. Oh don't look so surprised, Draco, I saw you come in after detention last night. I was still awake in the common room, but you were so preoccupied you didn't notice me." Pansy stared at him, hatred in her voice. "You never notice me," she finished, her voice low.

Draco looked at her, appraising her for what appeared to be the first time. He gave a small, derisive laugh and sat himself back down on his bed. "What is your proposal then?" He gazed insistently at her, expression swept clean of its usual contempt. She sensed a kind foreboding within him and saw it beading in slight pearls across his forehead. She smiled gleefully. Something must have disturbed him last night, some nightmare demon that clung to his memory and left him distraught and out of balance. Usually when Draco was angry and flustered, his emotions were focused, a battering ram of pure iron that caused people to quickly jump out of his path as quickly as they could. That was the way he liked it. She leaned forward to inspect her housemate's expression.

"What?" Draco asked, his voice hardening, his way of hiding the rising panic that he was feeling. This did not escape Pansy's notice. Was he so unsettled because of some dream? Or was there some deeper secret that Draco Malfoy was hiding?

She noticed how his hands were clenched in his bedsheets, trembling slightly. Her eyes traveled from his shaking hands to his bruised eye and then she saw it.

She saw it in his face. Something new. Something unexpected.

Pansy lifted an eyebrow, and Draco knew.

"If you have nothing to say, Parkinson," he drawled, breaking the silence. "Then why don't you---"

"No, wait," she interrupted. "There is something I want from you. My proposal is this: you know what is coming. I want to be assured of my safety. I want---"

"To go the way of your father?" Draco laughed derisively.

"Sod off, Malfoy." Never before had she called him merely by his last name. She was struck by her own brazenness.

Seeing her hesitation, Draco smirked.

"Are you sure you don't want sexual favors, Pansy?" he taunted, regaining his composure. "I was sure that was what you were going to ask me for, and I don't doubt it would be pleasurable for at least one of us."

Pansy strove to keep the tears from glittering in her eyes. He knew, of course. He knew, that bastard, how much those words would hurt, and how tempting it would be for her, to grasp at a mirage that could never be. But she hid her tears and continued, business-like. "Listen, whatever happens, I want you to tell me if I am going to be in danger. My father is obviously not under your protection any longer, otherwise he would not be in wizard prison." She got up and walked closer to him, let her hands lightly touching his bare chest. "Draco, I want---I want to be kept in the circle. If you withdraw your support, I have nowhere to go." She lowered her head. "Don't abandon me."

"Let me get this straight," Draco said, pulling back out of Pansy's tentative touch. "If I promise to put in a good word with my father and his old boys and drop you a bit of a line if you make, say, the top 20 list of their Most Likely to Kill Sometime Next Week list, you will promise to not let anybody know about this---this morning?"

"And perhaps some other things too," she said softly, slyly. She raised her head. "Do we have a deal?"

He jerked even farther away from her. "I will let you know if I hear anything," Draco said, turning abruptly and sliding off the bed, out of her reach. He sauntered over to the door and held it open for Pansy. "And a have a good day, Miss Parkinson." His eyes shot daggers at her, quashing any thoughts she might have had of staying. Turning to face him, she marched towards the exit.

Before she left, she turned to face the tall Head Boy, and ran her fingers lightly over his bruised eye.

"I hate Harry Potter," she said honestly. "I hate what he's done to you. What he's doing to you."

He shut the door in her face.

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

A black owl in flight was a beautiful thing.

He watched it wing towards the school from the horizon, from the east, emerging from the fiery sky, where the dawn had risen a few hours ago. A day that had broken over a new order. He watched as the bird swooped, rose and settled into a comfortable glide, riding the thermal winds to its destination. A horrible smile settled on his lips and he closed the window.

The owl was not delivering anything to him, which could only mean one thing.

It had begun.

The Rising.

He shuddered. For months their eyes had never left him, watching him day and night, haunting his steps, assuring his loyalty to them. Now those eyes reached into the very soul of Hogwarts, penetrating deep within what had been magical sanctuary. An insane grin crossed his face. And he had been their aide, their lens into this Muggle-loving world. The students would not know they were being monitored, not until it was too late. Still grinning, like a tiger with blood on its teeth, he turned to the ever-increasing pile of student scrolls on his desk. He would work on them a bit before heading down to breakfast. Undoubtedly, this would be a long weekend.

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

The porridge was flat and tasteless, just like everything else around him.

Harry spooned half-heartedly through his breakfast cereal, shoveling more oats onto the tabletop than in his mouth. His hadn't gotten much sleep the night before and he could feel the effects taking their toll on his body. His lids felt heavy, his features swollen, although the puffiness of his face could have been a product of his late-night scuffle with Malfoy.

"Eat, Harry."

Harry turned to see Hermione's worried brown eyes. She bit her lip and tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. Harry tried to smile back, tried to reassure her, but could not find the energy to do so.

"How about a spot of sausage, mate?" Ron asked, dropping a couple into Harry's bowl.

"Ugh, porridge and sausage," laughed Seamus. "Might as well give him chips and catsup." The Gryffindor boys chuckled with him, stuffing their faces with good appetites.

Harry smiled weakly at them, but was unable to enjoy their good humour. Fatigue had settled over him, rendering him unable to lift his spoon, or even his head.

"Now what's that bloody no-good prat doing?" Seamus muttered. Harry raised his eyes.

"Who, Seamus?" asked Dean.

"Malfuck, who else? Look at him, torturing poor Hufflepuff first years. Yeah, that's right, Pretty Boy, hold your head up. Makes you feel more like a man, eh, being able to scare off first years? You pathetic fuck." Seamus murmured disapprovingly.

Ron looked up from his food and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Are you talking about Malfoy?" he asked, before shoving another spoonful of porridge into his face. "Malffgh shh awghu bestghd."

Hermione looked disgusted and jabbed him playfully with her unused fork. "Don't talk with your mouth full!"

Ron swallowed and repeated, "Malfoy is always a bastard. It's his hobby, since he doesn't really have any other talents."

Harry mustered the energy to fix his gaze upon the blond Head Boy. Malfoy approached the Slytherin table, giving Pansy Parkinson a wide berth. He held himself differently, carefully, as though a single false move could break his fragile bones. Harry smiled with grim satisfaction, knowing that due to his punches Malfoy probably wasn't going to be able to sit down for a week.

"Oh Malfoy's got plenty of talents," Seamus waved Ron off. "You know, he's able to offend people with a single look, he can run away and scream like a girl, and I bet you he probably holds the world record for the being the sorriest little wanker you ever saw." Ron, Dean, and even Neville laughed at that.

"I don't know," Harry said softly, almost to himself. "He was acting really...odd last night."

Ron chose not to respond to Harry's comment, merely remarking, "Well, mate, I'm glad you decided to come eat with us this morning. It's been awhile, you know..."

Ron's voice faded into the greyness that defined Harry's world, as the only sound that filled his ears was the rhythmic thud of his heart and the soggy crunch of his breakfast. Harry watched as Malfoy spooned himself a bowl of porridge, the movement cultured and refined, and suddenly Harry was overwhelmed with a feeling of hatred. Hatred for everything that Malfoy stood for, hatred for his appointment to Head Boy that inflated his already ballooning ego, and most of all, hatred for the pity he inspired within Harry.

The porridge began to taste sour in Harry's mouth.

"Harry."

He heard Hermione's voice as if it were at the end of a long tunnel.

"Harry."

It grew insistently louder.

"Harry," Hermione persisted. "Are you all right? Harry?" She punctuated her question with a gentle jab from her fork.

Harry turned around to face her, her face emerging from the greyness of the Great Hall, concerned and anxious. He shook himself as if emerging from a daze. Suddenly, the whole room seemed a dizzying vortex of sound and color, swirling around the complacent form of Malfoy. Harry blinked and his vision returned to its normal state, with students laughing and chatting over breakfast. Unconsciously, Harry brought his hand up to lightly touch the bruise on his jaw. An impromptu healing spell had restored the appearance but the bone was still tender. The gentle sweep of his fingers over the injured jaw aroused memories of the unrestrained, overpowering emotion of the night before, Malfoy's righteous anger, and suddenly, the room came into sharper focus while he thought.

A flurry of wings filled the room, interrupting his reverie and student's faces turned to the ceiling, awaiting, hoping, or expecting something. Harry scanned the air, and caught a glimpse of an owl heading straight for him. The sight caught him by surprise as he wasn't expecting a package or a message from anyone. Sirius, who had frequently sent him short letters, had disappeared last year and he would sooner expect Voldemort to show up at Hogwarts front door wearing a tea cozy and a sign that read "I Love Muggleborns" than expect the Dursleys to send him any sort of package. However, the great tawny owl dropped an off-white envelope into his hands, an envelope which was sealed with an unfamiliar design of seven stars. Harry frowned, the symbol tugging at some secret buried deep within the clamor of his brain. Shrugging the feeling off, Harry opened the letter, and read it quickly.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We offer our condolences. S. Black, your former guardian, is now missing in action. Although his whereabouts were unknown to us in consideration for his personal safety, he had sent us regular reports. However, we regret to inform you that for the past three months, there has been no word from Mr. Black, and that the Order is now forced to consider him lost to us. Your new contact is now your direct superior. Unfortunately, secrecy prohibits V. from contacting you in person. Nonetheless, he will be in touch. Please accept our sincere condolences for your loss.

The letter was unsigned, but stamped with the now familiar seal of seven stars. Harry's hand convulsed, but he quashed the impulse to crumple the message. He glanced quickly around to see if anyone was taking an interest in what had arrived for him. Hermione was hastily placing several letters addressed from her mum in her satchel, and Ron continued to shovel food in his mouth with gleeful abandon. Dean, who sat next to Ron, was thumbing excitedly through the latest issue of Babes and Broomsticks as Neville and Seamus peered over his shoulder. Harry put the message carefully in his pocket; he would tell Ron and Hermione about it later.

Harry returned to his breakfast when a hush gradually fell over the hall. He raised his head to see a lone owl flying in elegantly and silently. He was at once struck by its unusually large size, and then, as it winged its way closer to the Gryffindor table, its color. Although it was roughly the same size as a Great Horned owl, it was like no Great Horned Harry had ever seen. Black feathers covered the bird from wingtip to wingtip, but it was not simply black; the bird's dark plumage was more like an entire absence of color, a well of midnight where nothing existed. And although Harry was quite sure no one in his House owned an owl of that kind, the unfamiliar bird fixed its glowing yellow eyes upon them. Murmurs arose from everyone in the Great Hall. Harry gazed up at the owl, tracing its trajectory and hoping it would change course to swoop down upon the Slytherin table.

But he was wrong. The mysterious owl dropped low and deposited its letter before a terrified Neville. The students held their breath and watched as the owl flew back the way it came. Neville gingerly picked up the envelope, not knowing what to expect.

"At least it's not a Howler," Dean said lightly, but his half-hearted attempt at humour fell flat in the eerily silent Hall.

"Open it, Neville," quavered Hermione, visibly shaken. She leaned across the table, her eyes bright with fear and curiosity.

Neville turned it over. "It has the Ministry seal," he said nervously.

Harry glanced at Hermione and both shared a grave look.

Harry held his breath as Neville opened the envelope slowly, the jagged sound of tearing parchment echoing in the quiet breakfast hall. Harry saw that his friend's fingers trembled as he drew out the small card within.

"Why don't you read it aloud, mate?" Seamus asked, his voice small against the silent mass of students.

Neville's voice shook as he read the carefully scripted and neat handwriting on the page.

"Dear Mr. Longbottom,

It has come to our attention you have used the word "Inconceivable" incorrectly at 6:02 on the evening of Friday the 16^th. We do not think it means what you think it means. Desist, or more serious actions will be taken."

Laughter broke out across the hall, releasing the tension that had been building since the arrival of the black owl. Harry made a point to look at the Slytherin table, at Malfoy in particular, and he noted that there was a mocking smirk on the blond's face.

Harry turned his attention back to Neville, who sat rather blankly with a stupefied expression on his face, his mouth opened into a gaping O. The card fluttered to the floor, where Hermione snatched it up.

"There is no signature," she remarked, turning the missive over, "but the card reads the 'Department of the Misuse of the Word Inconceivable' across the bottom."

"Rather silly, don't you think?" asked Ron, chuckling with the others while stuffing his face. Hermione frowned and silenced him with a glare.

A sickening feeling began to spread throughout Harry's stomach, and suddenly, he found himself feeling ill. He jabbed at his porridge morosely, and then shoved the bowl away.

"Harry," Hermione began.

"We need to talk," he interrupted. He turned to rise. "Today. Hermione, Ron, meet me in the common room after dinner." He left his Housemates, ignoring their puzzled looks. He knew his behaviour was being erratic, but he found himself not caring. He threw open the Hall doors and stalked off towards the dormitory, where perhaps he could lie down on his bed and hope the nauseated feeling would pass away.

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

"Ooh, look, Draco," Pansy purred, "You got something from your father."

Draco glanced down at his plate where a letter bearing the Malfoy coat of arms rested. In the wake of Longbottom's Ministry warning, he had not noticed when his eagle owl gently dropped a letter before him.

"Well, aren't you going to open it?" Pansy persisted, edging towards Draco to look over his shoulder.

Draco ignored her. He fingered the letter, guessing at its contents. It was indeed, a letter from his father; he recognized the spidery scrawl immediately. He knew better than to expect a casual, cheerful letter full of sentimental well-wishing. Lucius Malfoy was not that sort of man.

"Draco?" Pansy asked, peering earnestly into his face, her eyes eager. He glanced at her. He knew exactly was thoughts were running through her head, what emotions were lurking in her dark eyes. She presumed that this letter from his father contained information about the Rising, information she sought only to protect herself against the fate of her own father.

But Draco knew otherwise.

Sensing his annoyance, Goyle, who was seated to Draco's right, shoved Pansy out of the way with a grunt. She glared at his goon, and returned to her seat on the other side of the table.

"Fine," she pouted noisily. "I just hope it is good mail." Her words were pointed at Draco, but he studiously avoided looking at her, mastering his annoyance.

Hesitantly, he lifted the envelope from his plate and opened it slowly, knowing it was not "good" mail. His father never sent "good" mail.

Draco,

There comes a time in the life of every boy when he must take up the work of his father and enter into the full honour of the family. Your eighteenth birthday approaches, when you will come into your rights as the heir to the Malfoy estate. You know what this inheritance entails. You know what your duties are. You know what I expect of you, what we expect of you. The Malfoy name is not a charge to be taken lightly.

I trust you understand this. Any failure on your part, Draco, and you shall cease to be one of us. The Malfoy name will not continue in you and you shall be cast from us, forgotten and lost.

You know of what I speak. And I hope that you are fully prepared to obey our whims unquestioningly.

You are expected at the Manor during the holidays. We are due for a talk. Times are changing. Our world is changing, and for the better, we trust. And you will do your part to make it so.

We expect it of you.

Your father,

Lucius Malfoy

"What is it? What is it, Draco?" Pansy asked, leaving across the remains of breakfast. "Is it a good letter?"

He raised his grey eyes to meet hers over the parchment, a cynical smile gracing his lips. Pansy faltered and his smile hardened. He glanced back at his letter, reading the words that Draco knew would shape his entire life. The role, he as the Malfoy heir, knew that he would have to play, although it was never said, never mentioned. There was nothing he could do to avoid it, no road that would circumvent his destiny.

It was coming.

Draco cast his eyes about the Great Hall, where students from all four Houses were gathered, eating, chatting, and living. The heat of his stare brought their attentions immediately, but all averted their eyes from his. Pride glittered along his smile, hardening his vulnerable heart.

They hated him; they all hated him. They hated his wealth, his looks, his name. They hated what he was, who he was. A Malfoy.

A soft laugh escaped his lips as he traced the Latin inscription along his coat of arms.

Oderint dum metuant.

Let them hate, so long as they fear.

He raised his eyes again, smiling with satisfaction as the two Hufflepuff first years he had barked at that morning skittered quickly out of his sight.

Was this not his father's gift to him? His legacy? His name? His duty?

He turned to Pansy, and gently put down the letter with cold, trembling fingers.

"Yes, Pansy," he said. "Yes, it was a good letter."

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

"What was that about?" Ron asked Hermione after Harry had gone.

"What was what about?" she asked lightly, picking at her toast.

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about, Hermione!" he said, reddening with irritation. Hermione always protected Harry, always made excuses for him, always ignored the fact that the Boy Who Lived had changed since their childhood. "One moment he's blowing cold, the next, he's blowing hot!"

Hermione put her fork down on her plate and looked Ron directly in the eye. "Be glad at least he's taking the initiative now, Ron."

"Sod his initiative," Ron shot back. Hermione glanced over his shoulder and he knew that she was concerned about what the others had heard. He turned to see Neville, Seamus, Dean, and Parvati surveying the two of them quizzically. He rose from the table and steered Hermione away from the other Gryffindors.

"Forget his initiative," Ron said, lowering his voice. "I'm asking for some semblance of sanity. All year he's been holed up in our dorms, wallowing in self-pity and misery. And now, all of a sudden, he's become the great leader of our division in the Order?"

"Remember, he has a different charge placed upon him than the rest of us," Hermione reminded him gravely.

"Oh, and it's only today that he's starting to take that up?" Why couldn't she see? Why did she always cover Harry's tracks?

"I don't understand you, Ronald Weasley," Hermione snapped, her brown eyes sparkling with indignation. "Why can't you be content with what you have? What would you do if you were in his shoes? Would you be willing to sacrifice all that he has had to give up this year?"

Ron longed to lash out at Hermione, an irrational wave of frustration and sense of injustice threatening to smother him. She had a point, but the illogical side of Ron protested against her inherent instinct to protect Harry. Harry, Harry, it was always Harry!

"It was his choice!" Ron growled. "He chose that path himself. You know that."

Hermione crumpled. "I don't know, Ron," she said in a defeated voice, "I just don't know." Her shoulders slumped. "But no matter how he's acting, it's our duty to support him. Even if...even if it isn't reciprocated."

Ron stepped back in surprise at the quaver he heard lying beneath Hermione's words. A cold chill washed over him.

"Hermione," Ron asked, placing his hand on her shoulder and peering into her face, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

She smiled tremblingly and gently shrugged his hand off. "What are you talking about? I'm fine."

Ron sighed. And they had come to a full circle: Hermione in her obstinate denial and Ron in his reluctant role as comforter. The futility of his frustration struck him full force. Bringing a smile to his face with effort, he reassured his best friend.

"Well, I suppose he can't skive off a meeting that he's called himself, eh?"

"Exactly," Hermione said.

To Ron, the word seemed fraught with irony.

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

Draco sat in the common room alone, gathering the air about him as if he were its sovereign. The letter remained in his lap, opened but face down. He stared into space, forgetting about the weight of words pressing upon him as the dream from the night before came rushing back. He closed his eyes, feeling heavy with unwanted emotion. He saw the abandoned field, the red horizon, the ruined cities...a forlorn vision of the future.

And yet, there was a sense of shame that lingered. Draco could not shake the feeling, nor did he understand it. The fallen cities were not his fault. Potter's----

He wrenched himself away from the slippery slope of his thoughts. A flash of irritation flared within him.

Potter.

What had happened last night? All he could remember was a whirl of colours and fists, cracked glasses and green eyes, an unbearable feeling of tightness, finally sending Potter away. His hands gripped the arms of the green overstuffed easy chair unconsciously. Draco cursed his own weakness. Damn Gryffindor hadn't even finished the chore that he had set out for him. Because Draco couldn't stand to be dominated by him.

Weakness. He detested it...and it afflicted him as surely as it did the others.

He was still lost in the feverish dreamscape when Pansy approached him from behind.

"So..." she purred, sliding her hands down from the top of the chair to rest on his shoulders. He tensed, waiting for her next move.

Draco hated Pansy the most when she attempted to be charming. He ignored her, pretending that he could not see her eyes focused greedily on the letter in his lap.

"Draco?"

He steeled himself against her invasive hands.

"Draco."

If nothing else, Pansy was very persistent.

"It did not mention you," he burst out spitefully at last. "You presume that my father even cares about you."

But her hands did not move from his chest. He could feel her smirk behind his head. "There is no need to get touchy, Draco. I am doing this for your own good."

"And to further your own ends, Parkinson."

"Nobody said a Slytherin did things entirely out of charity, Draco. You know things I don't know. I know things your father doesn't know."

The words I have nothing to hide died away in Draco's throat. He felt cold.

"I want to help you, Draco," she murmured, her voice soft and strangely vulnerable. "And in turn, you can help me. Help my father. Help my family."

He stood up sharply, overturning the chair in with his abrupt movements, sending it clattering against the stone floor of the Slytherin dungeon. He felt dozens of pairs of eyes focused on the two of them.

"Don't you get it, Pansy?" he shouted. "Nobody cares about you. Nobody. I suggest you stop wasting your time caring about yourself. And while you're at it, you can stop caring about me. I don't want you, Parkinson."

Her face faltered and Draco turned on his heel, walking away from her. Although he did not give Pansy a second glance, he did not need to see her to know that she was smiling at his retreating figure.

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

He wished the world would stop spinning.

Harry arrived at this dormitory, a bit breathless from having run up so many stairs, but grateful to be alone. He stumbled toward his unmade bed and sank into the pillows face down. He lay there for some time, wondering if he could stand to smother himself in his bed linen, but within a few minutes he turned himself over. He brought the letter to his face, feeling the weight of its message, the thick, official parchment in his hand. Suddenly, the letter felt unbearably heavy. Harry let his hand drop, feeling the missive slip from his numb fingertips onto the floor.

He curled himself into a fetal position and lay on his side, feeling as though he should at least shed tears for his erstwhile godfather, but his green eyes remained obstinately dry. Instead of loss, he felt only anger, a sick punch to his stomach that caused bile to rise up in his throat.

How dare they? How dare they send him that letter, filled with nothing, offering nothing but mere routine condolences?

Harry curled tighter into a ball on his bed, doubled over in defence against the angry blows raining on his head.

The fuckers.

How could they possibly treat this in such a blasé manner? They offered him another contact, a direct superior in hopes that this unknown man might substitute Sirius in his life.

Fuck that.

They knew nothing, those damn bastards.

At least Harry had Dumbledore then. His mentor reassured Harry that Sirius was still alive, but his contact with Harry would be severely restricted from that point on. But the twinkle no longer shone in Dumbledore's blue eyes, and Harry knew that the great wizard himself was worried.

Not a month after that conversation, Dumbledore himself became stricken with his mysterious illness.

The bile seared Harry's throat and he sat up abruptly. He wrestled with himself, the desire to mount a full-scale rescue mission struggling against his self-imposed depression. Harry closed his eyes. He knew it was a lost cause; not even his superiors knew the whereabouts of his godfather, yet the Boy Who Lived roared within him.

He slammed his fist into his pillow. He hated them, he hated them, he hated them. His mind flashed back to the night before, when he and Malfoy had fought on Rochester's classroom floor, and suddenly, his anger and frustration increased tenfold. He began pummeling the pillow in earnest, imagining Malfoy's voice taunting at his ear.

What are you going to do about it, Potter? St. Potter the Perfect, who can't even be bothered to save his own godfather. More like St. Potter the Pusillanimous---

"That's not true, Harry grunted between punches. "That's not true, that's not true, that's not true---"

The pillow exploded in a shower of feathers, covering Harry in a cloud of white. He continued to abuse the destroyed object, his fists landing wildly all over the bed, catching his knuckles on the headboard, the wall, the mattress...

Harry stopped when he realized that he was crying. He raised his bruised and bleeding hands to his face, gently touching the moisture on his cheeks in a reverent manner.

Are you happy now, Malfoy? he thought. Are you happy now?

Footsteps answered his unvoiced question.

Startled, Harry turned to the dormitory door, his heart thudding in his chest, his palms sweating as though the Head Boy himself was coming to answer his summons.

The door opened.

"Harry?"

"Ron," Harry said, his shoulders slumping. He suddenly felt exhausted and collapsed back onto his bed.

"Harry, can we talk?"

Harry didn't reply.

Disregarding the awkward silence that had fallen between the two boys, Ron forged on ahead. "I just want to talk about, well, you, Harry. You've been off lately. One minute you're social and things are like the way they were before..." Ron trailed off, but bravely continued on. "But the next, you're holing yourself away like some ferret afraid of being trod on." Harry turned over so that his back was to Ron and traced his fingers absentmindedly over the letter he had dropped to the floor earlier.

"We're supposed to help you, Harry, me and Hermione. But you'd rather sit up here and do nothing. You won't even talk to me anymore. And Herm's upset about something."

Harry stiffened.

"She hasn't said anything, but I know. Harry, if you'd just talk to her, talk to me, you know, like the way things used to be..."

Harry picked up the letter and examined the seal.

He heard Ron sigh. It was full of sadness, regret, and resignation.

"You won't talk? Fine, I'll see you later, mate."

The door closed with a soft click and Harry felt something shut between himself and Ron. He traced the seal on the letter.

Seven stars.

Stars...

He got up. Harry contemplated running after Ron, but knew that was useless. The urge to cry to a friend had been burned out of him long ago.

Stars...

It was time to escape again.

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

Now, if someone wanted to hide something where it could not be easily found, where would then put it?

He scanned the room with a practiced eye, a slightly sinister twist gracing his lips.

Of course. How had he not seen it before?

"What are you doing?"

Rochester whirled around, caught off guard. Standing in the doorway was Professor Watson with a frown on his usually genial face.

"I might be asking you the same question, Daniel," he said. He surreptitiously palmed the small metallic sphere and concealed it within his robes.

"I was looking for Professor Flitwick," said the younger professor. "I told him that I needed a charm to cure warts. Isabella and I are going out on Monday."

Rochester raised an eyebrow.

"Are you now? Where to?"

Watson flushed. "No place in particular. I offered to take her around Hogsmeade and buy her some things she wanted."

"I see. Well, I was looking for Flitwick myself. He's not in here, boy. Why don't you and I head out into the corridors and find him? He may be in his office."

"Oh, well, you see, Professor Flitwick said that he might leave it on his desk----"

"There was nothing on his desk, Daniel. Why don't we just go?"

Watson complied, after one last bewildered look around the room. Rochester steered the young man out the door, giving Flitwick's room a quick once-over before leaving.

He had to be careful. He was almost caught this time. Rochester surveyed the young professor critically. Did he know? Could he have guessed? Or was it just coincidence that had brought Daniel Watson to Flitwick's room at that exact moment? He pushed it aside, now was not the time to ponder such things. He had a schedule to follow. His superiors were waiting for his reply.

He was conscious of the weight of the small object in his pocket as he and Watson walked side by side.

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

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of Draco's smart shoes echoed loudly in the empty corridors as he made his prefect rounds after supper.

Draco often wondered if prefect rounds were now merely a formality. He hardly ever saw anyone wandering about the grounds after the sun went down. An ominous air settled over the castle, an oppressive fog that chilled even Draco's bones. Students shuffled to and from classes, speaking in hushed voiced, avoiding his eyes, turning their heads away, as though they blamed him for the change in atmosphere.

Nothing is different, you fools, Draco thought. Nothing.

Nothing.

But everything was different. The power that his father had always backed him with had turned on him, a double-edged sword of both security and infamy. Classes were run as they always were. The Ministry only extended its hand deeper into the pockets of the school, digging out the dirt and lint that did not belong at Hogwarts.

Yet everything felt different. Professors encouraged their pupils to retire early to their common rooms, to travel in groups of three, to avoid being alone. What for? There was no reason to take such precautions, none at all. By some unspoken, unseen signal, the entire school had turned into an asylum, its wards locked by the foreboding in their eyes. What was it they feared so? It wasn't as it was in Draco's third year, when that criminal Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban. There had been real danger then.

Didn't they know?

His father was behind their prosperity, their safety. Draco was behind it all. His father and his father's men were responsible for the well-being of the wizard world.

Then why was there always hatred behind their eyes?

Composure marked the Malfoy family. They prided themselves on composure and comportment and other completely ridiculous words that were bred into each and every one of them since childhood. They held straight faces even when Agellius Malfoy was eaten by his own illegal Norwegian Ridgeback, when Nero Malfoy was condemned to die by the Consistorial Wizarding Court in 1057 for practicing the Dark Arts. They had a family name to protect, to look after, to uphold.

Then why did he feel so vulnerable? Draco felt unraveled; if someone could only see him the way he saw himself, they could just reach out and pull one of the hanging threads to leave him broken.

The sun was setting, sending its fiery rays through the ceiling-high westward facing windows in the hallway he was patrolling. Draco paused under their solemn arches, feeling the sun's wan warmth on his face and thinking it was strangely beautiful. It was like the end of the world, red light tinting his fair hair, pale skin and robes. It was like being bathed in a tide of blood. The red light...the dream. A swarm of bees raged in Draco's head as he fought against the resurgence of memory. He brought his hands to his temples, pressing them hard to drive dream from him. Draco rested his clammy forehead against the bloody-crimson windowpanes.

"Get out of my fucking head," he whispered softly.

As he struggled helplessly against the pressure behind his eyes, Draco heard a noise behind him, close. A swirl of black, a quick movement of the wrist, and Draco turned with his wand at the ready.

"Who's there?" Had someone seen him in his moment of weakness? "I heard you. You should be in your common room by now." A curious feeling of déjà senti overtook Draco. On an impulse, Draco brought his left hand around in a wide arc around him. The feel of something softer than silk and the sharp sound of an indrawn breath took him completely by surprise.

For a breathless moment, neither boy said a word.

For the second time in his life, Draco saw the disembodied head of Harry Potter floating before him.

Draco suddenly caught sight of the red-haired Weasel. His pale face split in a malevolent grin.

"What are you doing, Weasley?"

Draco looked up at the crumbling house behind Weasley.

"Suppose you'd love to live here, wouldn't you, Weasley? Dreaming about having your own bedroom? I heard your family all sleep in one room---is that true?" Draco took malicious pleasure in seeing that red-haired git turn crimson all over.

Weasley lunged forward as though he were going to attack Draco, but seemed checked by something. Draco frowned momentarily before continuing to taunt the other boy.

"We were just discussing your friend Hagrid," he said to Weasley. "Just trying to imagine what he's saying to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. D'you think he'll cry when they cut off his hippogriff's---"

SPLAT.

Draco's head jerked forward as something hit him; his silver-blond hair was suddenly dripping in muck.

"What the----?"

Weasley had to hold onto the fence to keep himself standing, he was laughing so hard. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle spun stupidly on the spot, staring wildly around, Draco trying to wipe his hair clean.

"What was that? Who did that?"

There was no one there.

"Very haunted up here, isn't it?" said Weasley, with the air of one commenting on the weather. Draco's hatred for the red-haired boy burned in his stomach.

Crabbe and Goyle were looking scared. Their bulging muscles were no use against ghosts. Draco was staring madly around at the deserted landscape.

SPLATTER.

Crabbe and Goyle caught some this time. Goyle hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of his small, dull eyes.

"It came from over there!" said Draco, wiping his face, and staring at an empty spot, but convinced that someone was there.

Crabbe blundered forward, his long arms outstretched like a zombie. A stick flew out of nowhere, striking him across the back. Draco became even more enraged as Crabbe did a kind of pirouette in midair, trying to see who had thrown it. Convinced it was Weasley who threw it, he ran towards him, but tripped. Suddenly, Harry Potter's head appeared out of nowhere, floating in midair.

For an instant, Draco met his eyes, before realizing just who it was who had thrown the mud at them.

"ARRRRRGH!" he yelled, pointing straight at Potter before vacating the scene. His father would be hearing about this. Who knew Potter had an Invisibility Cloak?

"What is it, Potter? Come to fling more mud at me?" Draco asked sharply.

But the space before him was empty and there was no answer.

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

Ron couldn't help fidgeting.

He eyed the slowly setting sun out of the corner of his eye, squirming uncomfortably as he and Hermione waited for Harry to arrive. Hermione was calmly, methodically working away at whatever it was that lay across her lap.

For the fifteenth time that night, Ron glanced at the huge grandfather clock that stood in the southwest corner of their common room. The hands had barely moved since he checked it last. Hurry up, Harry, he thought. But as Ron glanced at the sinking sun, a cold disappointment fell over him like the approaching night. Whether or not Harry showed, nothing was going to change. It was going to be like how it was now: Hermione working and studying, Ron sitting and waiting, and both of them fighting against the absence that was Harry.

Ron flicked his eyes to the one best friend that he felt he had left. Her face was set in an obstinate glower, fixed on some point in front of her. The silence pressed on him and Ron felt obligated to speak.

"Well, at least we know he can't skive off a meeting he called," Ron said, repeating his earlier words.

But who was he reassuring, Hermione or himself?

However, good ole Herm didn't answer him; instead, her fingers continued to absentmindedly dog-ear the various sheets of parchment in her lap. Ron cleared his throat uncomfortably, fidgeting slightly on the couch, glancing at the clock again.

Where was he? Harry had said, "After dinner." Well, it was well after supper in the Great Hall and their housemates had already gone up to retire for the night. He heaved a sigh and turned his attention to his other best friend. Hermione was now mechanically scanning through and underlining some passages in a few leaves of parchment. Ron decided to press his luck.

"What's that?" he asked, nudging her a bit playfully.

She didn't take up her cue.

"Research," she answered shortly.

"On what?"

"Something."

Ron frowned. First Harry, and now Hermione. Nobody wanted to talk anymore. What the fuck was happening to their inseparable Trio? Hermione's brown curls hid the expression on her face so he couldn't read her thoughts.

"Is it something that we should know about?" he asked her.

"I'll tell you when Harry gets here."

Ron suppressed the urge to shout out, "Sod Harry." He waited for the immediate guilty reaction that accompanied such mutinous thoughts and was surprised when none came.

"Listen," he ventured, trying anything to destroy the suffocating silence that was beginning to muffle even this thoughts, "You're not upset about this morning, are you? At breakfast you seemed a bit, I dunno, tired or something---"

"I'm fine," Hermione said tersely.

He shut up. Sometimes it was no use trying.

Ron glanced at the common room clock again, sighing and counting the minutes as they passed. Suddenly, there was a ripple in the air and in a moment, his absent friend emerged from thin air. Ron felt a slight jolt; it had been ages since he had seen Harry appear like that.

"Brought out the old cloak again, eh?" Ron said wryly, unable to hide the wistfully nostalgic tone in his voice.

"I needed it."

Harry spoke bluntly, almost angrily, cutting through the bandages Ron had wrapped around the wounds of their relationship, effectively ruining any attempt Ron could have made in beginning any sort of healing process. He bit his lip and fell back into the well-worn couches.

Sometimes it really wasn't worth trying.

Had it really come to this? Having pleasant memories soiled by Harry's moroseness? Ron frowned. Fine, if Harry wanted to be that way, he'd let him. He wasn't going to sit back and make excuses for him, unlike some other people he knew. Ron refrained from giving Hermione a sidelong glance.

No, he was going to give his oldest friend more credit than that.

"I don't expect either of you to understand the way things are," Harry began. Both boys noticed the tense set of Hermione's shoulders. Ron knew how much she wanted to say something, how much she wanted Harry to understand how he needed them. Ron frowned again; no, she wanted Harry to understand how much he needed her.

But she wouldn't say anything. To think she would was ridiculous.

"But..." Ron prompted when he saw that Hermione wasn't going to.

"But I need your opinions. Your help...I suppose," Harry finished.

Ron couldn't help but be taken aback. Taken aback at the surprising clarity in his old friend's expression, and the focused, almost fanatical energy behind his every movement. Ron supposed the same despondency that had pushed him and Hermione to the background of the epic tragedy called Harry Potter's Life was still there, but it had changed somehow. He studied his friend closely. Harry was no longer awash in insecurity and dazed melancholy. Mentally, Ron compared the boy he encountered earlier in their dorm to the man that stood before them now, tall with resolve. Were they indeed the same person? How long was this going to last?

"Help with what, Harry?" Hermione asked quietly. Harry looked at his feet, his eyebrows furrowed. Without seeing it, Ron knew that Harry's mouth would be set in a firm line. Hermione continued to dog-ear the pages of her research in her lap, over and over and over again.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron said, unable to take the tension between them any longer. "What is it?"

Ron half-expected a glare, but there was none forthcoming. Instead, Harry sat down in a chair across from him and Hermione and pulled a small envelope from his pocket. Hermione took in a sharp breath. Upon closer inspection, Ron realised that it was same envelope that Harry had received earlier that morning and had refused to show anyone. Harry handed it to Hermione, noting the slight quaking of his hands. Hermione gazed into Harry's hands, searching for something before taking the letter.

"Is everything all right, Harry?"

"Oh, everything's fantastic as always, Herm," Harry said, a slight bite in his words now. "Read the letter."

Ron fidgeted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to read over Hermione's shoulder. Instead, he watched Harry. He was full of nervous energy: absently picking at the threads on his thinning jumper, running his hands through his already messy hair, bring his hands to his face to push at his glasses. Ron noticed that Harry simply could not keep his hands still, running over his threadbare jumper, passing over the invisibility cloak still within his grasp, passing over his face. His green eyes were focused on some point in front of him. Ron had the prickly feeling that Harry was starting at something, something that was most definitely not in the room.

Ron jumped slightly when Hermione spoke at last.

"I have no idea who this 'V' is that they are talking about, Harry," she said, frowning and setting the letter on the table. "I don't recognize this particular seal either. It is not the one the Order normally uses."

"Normal," Harry said, derision putting an edge to his already tight voice. "I don't think it's 'normal' for them to communicate with me in this way, Herm. A vague letter. With a mysterious correspondent. I mean, we know the people in the Order!"

Ron picked up the parchment from the table. He scanned it quickly. Harry's anger and withdrawn behaviour was understandable now; after all, the same sadness and inevitability of Sirius had touched them all. Yet it didn't seem the same. He looked at Harry, still fingering the invisibility cloak. There was a tense expression on his face that seemed out of place and suddenly Ron felt miles away from his best friend. The gulf between then had been widening ever since their fifth year, but it was only now Ron realised truly how large it was. There was something in Harry's face that Ron didn't recognise and something that he could never know.

"We don't know everyone, Harry," Ron reminded him. "My parents mentioned there being others, other people than those at Siriu---12 Grimmauld, I mean."

Harry sighed and dropped the cloak. "They want something from me," he said hoarsely, raising deadened eyes to Ron.

They want you to step up to your responsibilities against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Ron thought.

A silence fell over the trio as the weight of Harry's words was felt by all.

"I'll keep the letter for now," Hermione said, breaking the tension. She picked up the parchment from the table and put it with her other papers. She composed herself and continued. "I will look up the star seal and see where it comes from. In the meantime, I suggest that we simply look out for more letters from V."

"From a guy we don't know, who uses a symbol we've never seen before?" Ron was suspicious. "Sounds awfully dodgy to me."

Silence fell over the trio once more. Ron fidgeted again. There was a time when words flew between them quickly and easily, but those days seemed long gone. They sat in the uncomfortable silence a few minutes longer, each waiting for the other to say something, to transport them back into a better time.

"We're all so busy," said Hermione finally. Ron laughed, a harsh, bitter sound in the dead air of the common room.

"Herm, you're the only busy one of us here," he said, wondering if he envied her productivity or not. "They've cancelled Quidditch and all those things Harry and I used to do, and the only class he attends is detention." Ron couldn't disguise the anger in his voice. He cleared his throat. "Where have you been anyway? I don't even think I see you in the library anymore."

Hermione turned to him with perfect composure. "I am still working on that research project."

A ripple of revulsion curled through Ron's body. "Ugh... with Snape," he muttered, but stopped when Hermione glared at him.

"Is there even any hope?" Harry said, his voice hollow and monotonous. "Or are you spending hours in the dungeon finding a cure for someone who has already left us?"

"We are doing our best, Harry," Hermione replied. After a slight paused, she continued. "Professor Snape is doing his best, and he is our greatest asset right now."

Ron made retching motions in the background; Snape was just so filthy, so slimy. That greasy-haired git had made their lives miserable since their first year. The few hours a week he spent in Potions were more than he could stand. How could Hermione spend so much time down there? Unbidden, a mental image of Hermione sprang into his head, lank and sallow-skinned like Snape after years brewing Potions.

Hermione shot him another death glare. "I had my mum look into a few things at home on Muggle medicine for me," she explained to Harry, "and I think I may have a few more insights on Dumbledore's condition. It's not a Muggle malady, per sé, but it does bear remarkable similarities to a basic Muggle stroke. It is possible---possible that someone used a curse that mocks the symptoms of an illness resulting from age to throw us off track."

"The Ministry."

Harry could not have said those two words with more force if he had pummeled the table with his fist. Even Hermione looked startled.

"Harry...that's not wise...after Neville's letter this morning---"

"Fuck the Ministry," Harry retorted, "So what if they are listening? If all they are going to do is send out little notices in matching stationary we've seen worse."

"Harry," Hermione said firmly. "Caution is never misplaced. We would be wise not to make assumptions we can't prove."

"Harry doesn't need proof, Hermione, remember?" Ron surprised even himself with his sarcasm. Both Harry and Hermione turned towards him, shock and surprise dancing in their eyes.

He gazed at Harry for a long while, looking at his famous green eyes, still filled that emotion he did not recognise.

Turning away from Harry, he looked Hermione, whose grave brown eyes considered him solemnly. Ron closed his own eyes and sighed. No matter how hard they tried, they kept pushing each other away. All three of them were guilty.

"I'm going to bed," he said, knowing the announcement was abrupt, but unable to take the mental pressure any longer. Hermione and Harry weren't fooling him. They didn't ask his opinions; they didn't need him there to argue with each other. Let them have their conversation without him; he had better things to do.

As he ran up the stairs to the dormitory, he didn't hear the silence behind him through the rush in his own head.

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

He knew that the fourth floor corridor was clear, but Draco couldn't help but cross the stone hallway one last time. He chuckled sardonically; who exactly was he expecting to catch at this hour?

Draco had often been called a sadistic bastard by many others, but now he had the sneaking suspicion that he might also be a masochist. Why else would he be patrolling these abandoned corridors for the fleeting glimpse of Harry Potter? The bastard was gone, he had fled from him swathed in his comfortable invisibility, no doubt back in his common room by now. Probably sulking about, imagining having his face plastered on all the Death Eater's Most Wanted posters. Yet the masochistic side of Draco's nature reared its perverse head as the Head Boy walked through the silent halls, hoping he could catch Potter, this time engaged in some illicit, preferably illegal activity.

He scoffed at himself.

"Why?"

The word echoed in the empty hall and a thousand broken pieces of his voice hurled themselves back at him, taunting his feverish state of mind. Why indeed? Finding Potter would only serve to throw them back together, with Potter serving some mundane chore as he watched on, torn between boredom and hatred.

Draco clenched his fists, digging his nails into he palm of his hands. He lingered in their sharp pain, which served to cast thoughts of Potter out of his head. Draco could still see him, his eyes, those green eyes full of something other than blank acceptance in those brief moments they had faced each other in this very corridor. He dug his nails harder into his palm, thinking of blood, of a blood-red sky, of crumbled ruins, of Harry's eyes---

Draco released his hands. He brought his hands up towards his face, gazing at the crescent indentations that punctured the smooth ivory-fine lines of his palms with red fury.

Pain is my pleasure, he thought, smirking slightly.

The red on his hands faded, and the horrific dream vision that had flooded his senses slowly bled away, yet the pool of disturbed emotions remained. Pain became pleasure, adoration became distaste, hatred became obsession.

A soft rustle caressed his year and he turned swiftly, thinking to catch a glimpse of a shimmering cloak, a ripple in the hallway, something that would betray Potter's presence.

But the corridor was barren, and Draco continued on his nightly scour of Hogwarts. The tap of his footsteps became more and more impatient as he opened classroom doors. The more he sped his footsteps, the louder his shoes beat on the flagstones, the clearer the vision of Harry in his mind became. One by one, Draco shut each door with a resounding finality, ending his futile efforts with a cacophony of sound.

He came on the Astronomy room and placed his hand upon the handle, but hesitated to open it. Draco's mind flashed back to the encounter with Rochester the night before: the furtive look upon the professor's face and his brusque manner. With some trepidation, Draco pushed open the door.

It was unlocked.

Draco ventured inside a few paces and sat at Potter's desk. What was it like being the famous Harry Potter? Draco settled further into Harry's chair, imagining himself to be the Boy Who Lived. What was it like to be loved instead of hated, admired instead of hated wherever he went? To have no destiny, no family, no honour to uphold? A wave of envy washed over Draco; Potter's life was a blank slate, upon which he could write his future whilst Draco's was graven in stone by the hands of generations past.

He rubbed idly at an inkstain on Potter's desk. Draco knew how to be feared, how to command awe, how to be a Malfoy. He knew duty, and honour, and privilege.

He had all that he could ask for.

All but what he wanted most.

He wanted whatever indefinable aura that Harry possessed, to bathe and bask in it, to make that ethereal quality his own, the ability to be admired, esteemed...loved.

He wanted to be loved.

The Astronomy room was dark, illuminated only by the silvery light of the moon cutting through the shadows that loomed over Draco's head. The Astronomy tower was one of the most unusual at Hogwarts in terms of its architecture; the east wall was lined with tall, thin windows that stretched from ceiling to floor, casting striped shadows across the floor whilst the other three walls jutted in at strange angles to accommodate the partially open-aired ceiling and midnight snoggers. Draco cast his eyes about the room, recalling the pairs he found in years past during his prefect rounds, uncompromising tangles of naked limbs, rumpled clothing, and sweaty faces. He closed his eyes and conjured visions of soft lips, rough hands, feathery hair, green eyes...

Draco blinked.

"Get out of my head, Potter," he said to the darkened corner.

But only mocking silence answered him.

Turning back to Potter's desk, Draco swept his hand lightly across its surface and then examined his hands. The inkstain had bled crimson onto his palms. He rubbed his fingers against his palm, trying to rub out the images within his mind, to have the crimson within his head fade alongside the red on his hands. Scrubbing Potter from his pores.

But the mark Potter had left on him seemed indelible. He stopped cleaning his hands. Did he really want to cast the Boy Who Lived away from him?

"Of course I do," he said aloud to the empty classroom. "Of course I do," he repeated softly.

Draco tried to fathom a world without his nemesis. Yet try as he might, Draco could not conjure up that elusive Paradise, a world without Harry Potter, a world without confused feelings. What was it exactly that Potter aroused in Draco? Was it hatred? Or pity? What was it that made Draco want to cover hillsides in flame when he walked by?

No, it wasn't pity. Potter had gotten what was coming to him. It was just and fair that he should have suffering in his life, that the "Hero" of their world learned that not everyone was going to bow before him.

He fingered the tender bruises on his face, hidden by magic, but there beneath the surface. He could feel the smarting places where Potter had hit him, although that entire evening was a blur to him.

He should have never let Potter touch him. Never in a million years should he have let him get so close. Draco's resistance crumbled and withered under the pain of what he was remembering, the coarse fabric of Potter's robes, Potter's arm wrapped around his neck in a headlock, feeling the other boys sweat and skin while clawing at his jumper. He wanted to forget, promised himself that it would never happen again. He would find someone else to do the detentions... someone else could deal with it and he would never look back.

Draco knew he would never say those words aloud, and he laughed bitterly to himself. There was nothing he looked forward to more than those afternoons making Potter bend to his will, nothing that excited him more than the prospect of seeing his old enemy laid low.

He stopped for a moment to look briefly out of a window, out into the black skies. His father's letter had brought his duty careening down out of the distant future into now, into the year he had been expecting to linger over. He had gotten everything he wanted, but now he wished to avoid paying the price for it. It was not to be helped, his father would be paid for the expense of an heir and Draco knew it. Somehow though, he found his victory hollow, knowing that the spirit of Harry Potter, his only real adversary for so long was already broken.

Harry Potter was part of him, and he didn't want that to change. For without Potter, Draco would not exist, would have no purpose.

It was more than that, it was more than his anger, but Draco pushed it aside again. Now was not the time, what with invisible Potters wandering the corridors and all. It was not the time to be tempted by feelings better repressed. Even as he repressed himself, though, he knew it.

Harry Potter was more than just an enemy.

Shame engulfed him and he changed his direction away from the dungeon level. He couldn't go back yet. He needed time to become himself again, and to convince himself he could hide this.

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

The four metal spheres rested carelessly atop his desk, scarcely isolated from the general messiness elsewhere.

It was the last of them; the last set of receptors he had to send to the Ministry. Voices murmured and whispered, filling the smoky darkness with muffled sound. He folded a paper around them and sealed it quickly. He did not like to hear the disembodied voices as they wove delicately about. It troubled him, vaguely.

At least the job was done. Finally, finally, he could rest, and wait for his glorious return, for he would be rewarded handsomely for his betrayal. The Ministry paid its informants well, or so he had been told. It was nothing to him who lived or died. This school meant nothing to him. Perhaps not nothing... he thought quickly, glancing at the surly portrait over the smoking fire. The old man was always sleeping... but one had to be sure.

Caution. That is what his post demanded. He had been almost caught that day, and any failure would not be acceptable. Not in something as large as this. Not when futures hung upon his every footstep. He brought up a quill to hastily address the package. There could be no record... no one could find out. If anyone ever knew his secret thoughts, the fires, the glory written in silver and gold, he would be shamed.

They would kill him. His hands shook as the logs crumbled and sent bright sparks flying into the room. There was no turning back, though death might wait at the end. Sometimes he wondered if that was all both futures, both paths, could offer him.

He laughed in fear, in glory, in hope. It was done, and he was alone.

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