Without Wand or Wire

It took a little time to sort out who would be on which of the impromptu Quidditch teams. When the "discussion" was finally complete, Oliver was both Captain and Keeper of the "Scarlet Eagles" (denoted by scarlet armbands), with Katie, Angelina, and Alicia as Chasers, Fred and George as Beaters, and Harry as Seeker. Ron was Captain and Keeper for the "Golden Lions" (bearing gold armbands, of course), with Ginny, Neville, and Fluer as Chasers, Percy and Bill as Beaters, and Charlie as Seeker. Ron tried not to think about how unevenly matched the teams were, determined to be the best Captain he could be -- lest McGonagall change her mind.

Ginny and Ron were both a little hurt over Harry's having agreed to be on the opposing team -- but they didn't fuss about it, understanding that this might be the last chance the old team ever had to play together. They did note with some concern, though, that Harry didn't really seem to care which team he was on -- didn't seem to even want to play, for that matter. But the siblings said nothing to each other about it, bearing their concerns alone.

The spectators, comprised of family, teachers, and other members of the Order -- everyone who was invited to the party and then some -- filled three of the skyboxes. The front row of the middle skybox was comprised of Viktor (whom Pomfrey had sternly forbidden to play), Hermione, Fae, Molly (who seemed, to Hermione, to be sniffing a little disdainfully over Viktor's presence), Arthur, Penelope, Kingsley, Moody, and a still-in-ferret-form Mundungus Fletcher. In the second row, starting behind Viktor, sat Madam Pomfrey (doubtless to keep an eye on her patient, as well as be on hand for the inevitable Quidditch injury), Augustus Longbottom, Arabella Figg (who had been relieved of her house-watching duty by a Polyjuiced Order member), Petunia, Remus, Tonks (who also had wanted to play, and likewise wasn't being allowed to), Sarah, and an extremely reluctant Draco Malfoy (who sat on the stairs, against the short wall, as far from everyone else as possible). In the remaining three rows sat mostly Hogwarts faculty. Lee and McGonagall took up their places in the announcer's box, and Madame Hooch kindly agreed to referee the game. A somewhat inebriated Hagrid and Madame Maxime kept Firenze company in the student stands.

Hermione wasn't sure what to do about Viktor. He was sweet, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings, but despite her having told him firmly -- numerous times -- that she just wanted to be friends, he seemed as interested in her as ever. She needed to do something about it, and quick -- but how? Should she just come right out and confront him? She had a sneaking suspicion Pomfrey might hex her for upsetting her patient!

Viktor's close proximity to Hermione didn't escape Ron's notice. Once again, he felt a surge of jealousy at the sight of them together. Oddly enough, this actually seemed to help his game; he'd started out the game a bit nervous, thanks to his new responsibilities, but now he was distracted enough from his own performance to make saves naturally. It seemed McGonagall had something with her "accidental wizard" theory. At one point Angelina gave him a smile and nod right after he'd made a stellar save off a goal she'd attempted to make; it meant a lot to him, that gesture of approval from his old Captain.

And yet the jealousy wasn't consuming him, either. Ronald Weasley had indeed matured over the summer -- and doubtless the words of his best friend and his sister had helped to put his heart at ease. He wouldn't let his anger rage out of control, or aim any of it at Krum -- how could he blame the older boy for finding Hermione irresistible? Besides, Hermione -- being the modern, forward-thinking girl he loved so well -- would neither appreciate nor be impressed by him challenging Krum over her anyway. No, Ron would just have to work hard and prove his worth to her. And right now, doing that meant playing the best damn Quidditch ever played!

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Trelawny blinked owlishly as she stopped short near the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Was this a vision or an omen? She wracked her brain, trying to think of just what the significance of a hippogriff trotting down a hall inside a school with a phoenix, a snowy owl, and the world's ugliest cat riding on its back, plus a tiny owl flying circles over its head like a halo, might be. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

She bet it meant that poor Potter boy would die a terrible death soon....

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"Leave me," Bellatrix ordered her husband and brother-in-law once she'd found her sister's rose garden.

A little afraid of what her grief might lead her to do, they only too gladly obeyed. Besides, there were still areas of the grounds left to be searched. They hadn't found Draco yet....

The grave wasn't hard to spot, a human-sized mound of earth among rose bushes that bore only a few roses, all of them black. There was an earth-covered spade nearby. She ignored it and clawed at the earth with shaking hands -- grieving, angry hands -- until the pale, dirt-smeared face of her sister was brought to light. No creature had dared to feast upon her flesh; aside from the dirt, Narcissa could have been asleep. It wasn't until Bellatrix had lifted her beloved sister from the ground and cradled Narcissa's cold form in her arms that she felt the damage beneath woman's white-gold mane, the break in the shell that had left the great pool of rusty red colour under Narcissa's bedroom window.

[Bella, lifting Narcissa from her grave ...]

Bella kissed her sister goodbye, and laid her gently back into her bed of cool, soft earth. She carefully swept the dirt back into place, as if they were children again and she was tucking Cissy in for the night under a dark blanket. Her sad, loving smile grew into a wide grimace, and she began to tear at the surrounding bushes, the thorns leaving long cuts on her arms, her face. She shrieked wordlessly at the sky, and imagined it was her nephew, not the rose bushes, that she was attacking.

The little bastard would pay for killing her sister.

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"Oy! You're not up here to guard just Fleur, you know, Bill! You have two other Chasers that need watching -- stop making Percy do it all by himself!" Ron chastised the eldest Weasley boy. And under his breath, he added, "Especially since Percy makes a lousy Beater, and Fleur won't stop making bloody mooneyes at you long enough to make a bloody goal! ..."

A little thrown by his youngest brother having taken such a tone with him, Bill called back, "Take it easy, shrimp; this is just a friendly game, not the ruddy Quidditch Cup!"

Ron left off reprimanding the older Weasley a moment to block another goal. As the ball sailed towards the other end of the field, he picked the argument back up. "Friendly game or no, if you two'd rather snog than play, I can always switch you out for people who want to play Quidditch instead of tonsil-hockey!"

"Tonsil-whatzits?" Despite working in Diagon Alley, Bill hadn't been spending as much time in the nearby Muggle London as Ron had been.

"GET THE BLUDGER!" Ron shouted at him, pointing towards Neville, who was in the iron ball's path and didn't realise it.

Bill didn't waste a moment batting the ball away from Neville. As he breathed a sigh of relief that he'd hit it in time, he realised Ron had a good reason to be angry. The game might be friendly, but the Bludgers were not. They made Quidditch a dangerous sport -- one that required serious concentration on the part of the Beaters, for the safety of their fellow players. Bill suddenly had a new respect for the twins, who he believed could have played professionally if they'd wished. He'd never really considered them serious about anything before ... but they had to be serious sometimes in order to run such a successful business, didn't they? And he understood now just how serious they'd had to have been to be such good beaters.... Bill doubled his concentration, resolving to not give Ron another reason to yell at him. Who knew Ron could be so bossy? He must have picked it up from Hermione.

Charlie half-watched the whole exchange with amusement as he scanned for the snitch. He was feeling disappointed -- he'd spotted it a bit earlier, and started to fly for it, but Harry, who had been looking right in its direction, didn't seem to have noticed it at all! The snitch flew out of sight in the next instant, so Charlie slowed before he'd even reached Harry. Had the boy really not seen the Snitch? Or had he noticed it, but let it be so as not to end the game early? Did Harry think that Charlie was too out of practise to be of any concern as an opponent? (That possibility burned Charlie worse than a Horntail!)

Charlie took a break from looking for the Snitch for a moment to watch the younger Seeker. He flew slowly, pretending to look for the tiny golden ball, but snuck a glance towards Harry when he was in a position to see the boy's face. What he saw nearly made him fall off his broom. The boy's eyes were ... empty. There was none of the hawk-like focus that Charlie associated with Seekers, nor the flushed excitement that was the hallmark of Quidditch players in general. Harry looked entirely bored and disinterested. Charlie glanced towards his Captain, and saw Ron's eyes trailing after his friend, biting his lip with worry. So Ron had noticed it too.

Another quick glance told him that Ginny was no less aware -- nor less worried -- about Harry's state of being. Charlie was afraid for a moment that her obvious affection for The Boy Who Lived might prove distraction enough get her hurt by a Bludger -- until the next moment saw her steal the ball from Alicia and make a goal. No, he didn't need to worry about Ginny; she had a good head on her shoulders. He didn't acknowledge the nagging worry that he was substituting Quidditch for the war, and was really afraid that her feelings for Harry might get her killed....

Hell, he didn't want to acknowledge his fear that something terrible could happen to any of them, Harry included! He let the wind clear his mind (though riding dragonback was really much better for that sort of thing than riding a broom). He let his search for the snitch take precedence in his thoughts -- it wasn't like there was anything else he could do at the moment anyway, and worrying wouldn't do anything but give him an ulcer.

Alicia, Angelina, and Katie were too preoccupied with the game to notice anything off with their Seeker. Fred and George exchanged looks across the pitch, agreeing silently to keep an extra-watchful eye on the boy, who seemed so out of it that he probably wouldn't have seen a Bludger if it flew slow-motion in front of his face before wholloping him. At one point, when Harry flew near him, Oliver had asked him if he was all right. Harry answered in the affirmative, in a cheery voice that rang undeniably false. It was just as well that Oliver hadn't seen Harry miss the Snitch, or he might have even felt he had enough grounds to waste a time-out and give the lad a good talking too about focus.

If Lee Jordan had noted any listlessness to Harry's game, he kept his observations to himself. McGonagall seemed to watch The Boy more than any other player (save Ron), her lips pursed. Even Viktor Krum, who had never seen Potter play but knew Harry was supposed to be really good -- and knew how a Seeker ought to fly, being one himself -- asked Hermione if there was anything wrong with him. Hermione shook her head and said, mostly to herself, "I wish I knew."

Arabella and Augusta helped Petunia understand what was happening during the game. Like most wizards and witches (and squibs), they had a rudimentary understanding of Quidditch, but as they had never actually played it, they -- along with most of the people in the stands -- didn't notice anything off with Harry's performance. To them, seeking was simply a matter of keeping an eye out for the Snitch and diving for it. They seldom were ever able to see the Snitch themselves, and so had not noticed when Harry had let it fly practically right under his nose and yet made no move towards it.

Hermione heard Mrs. Longbottom let out a cheer when Neville made a goal, and wished Neville could hear it himself.

Petunia tried to pay polite attention to the women, remembering Remus' words about how there really was nothing she could do for her son until Voldemort gave them some clue as to the boy's whereabouts. That knowledge offered no comfort, and this strange wizard game did nothing to loosen the vise-like grip worry and grief each had on her heart. Remus gave her small smiles and patted her hand now and then in an attempt to comfort, but these gestures did more harm than good. Each touch reminded her of her teenage years, when Remus would accompany James, Sirius, and Peter to the Evans household.

Uncle Malcolm had disappeared when Petunia was about twelve -- when Lily had started school at Hogwarts. Without her uncle around, and with her parents constantly gushing over the fact that Lily would become a witch, Petunia's heart had been slowly hardening against her sister and the wizarding world. But when Petunia was seventeen, and Lily had begun to bring her beau and his friends around for dinners in the summer, Remus had begun to soften her heart again, for a little while. Unlike Peter, who hung on James' and Sirius' every word, or Sirius himself, who seemed to have a different chippie on his arm every time Petunia saw him, Remus had been sweet, polite, and actually seemed interested in what she had to say. He made those dinners with Lily and her beau actually bearable; they would talk to each other and ignore the rest of the table. It wasn't long before she had fallen for the kind-eyed, soft-spoken man, and, for a while, she believed the feeling was mutual. But you couldn't get to know a fellow well without eventually being able to tell where his heart really was.

Remus had given heart his to Sirius, whether the other boy had realised it or not.

Petunia had grown up in a day and age where being gay was not "normal". She hadn't really considered her stance on the issue, though, until the day she finally realised where her seeming-suitor's affections really lie. She confronted him, and he confirmed her fears. He told her that he wished he could love her the way she deserved -- had even gone so far to have taken love potions to help him to that end. He insisted that his love for Sirius would never amount to anything, seeing as the other boy was obviously enamoured of women. She told him that she had no interest in a false love. She washed her hands of the wizarding world, and her sister with it, refusing to accept even friendship from Remus. Meeting Vernon only served to set her firmly on a conservative path.

And now here she was, fully enveloped in the world she'd tried to close the door on, watching something like an airborne football or basketball game, her hand being held by a man she'd once loved, while her husband, a man who had despised magic and everything connected to it, had been murdered only a day ago, and her son was in mortal peril. She felt a traitor, thrice over. She wondered: if she pretended to need to find the watercloset and then threw herself off the high structure, would the wizards present be able to stop her? And even if they could, would they?

As if reading her mind, Remus tightened his grip on her hand, his eyes on the game. She followed his gaze, and found her nephew. She shook such foolish thoughts from her mind. Harry needed her -- or her blood at least -- and so did her son. If he lived.

Further down the row, Sarah watched the match in wonder, as her lover and Kingsley explained the nuances of the game. Before long, though, Arthur had moved to sit beside the Muggle, at the end of the row, to make it easier for himself to ask her questions that Hermione and Tonks had not been able to answer. Of course, Sarah wasn't able to answer most of them either, but that didn't discourage him from trying.

Still seated on the steps, Draco would have gladly retreated to the Slytherin dungeons, if not for Moody insisting upon his attendance. Though Draco knew now that it had not been the real Moody who had transfigured him into a ferret during his fourth year, the presence of a ferret in this Moody's hands when the creepy man had made his "request" ensured that Draco did not decline his "invitation". As it was, no one seemed to notice how often Draco peered over the edge of the wall, eyeing the ground as if trying to determine whether the fall would be enough to kill him. It never occurred to the young Malfoy that Moody was keeping watch on him with his magical eye.

With no one to talk to, Draco felt his grief and guilt come crashing back down on him like a tidal wave. The love and friendship evinced by everyone around him towards one another only served to magnify his loneliness and feeling of worthlessness. He would never belong with these people, yet he would never be able -- or want -- to return to his old world, either.

Even with his eyes open, he couldn't chase the nightmares from his sight: his mother, breathing her last in his arms; Pansy, helpless in the arms of the gigantic Muggle, a knife drawing a red, liquid line across her throat; his father, struck down by his Killing Curse; his father's ghost, rent asunder in the jaws of his Patronus.... Draco screwed his eyes shut tight against the images and the tears that burned them, to no avail against either. Knees drawn up to his chest, he rest his forehead against his arms, hiding his grimace of pain. The slight shaking of his shoulders was the only visible evidence of the silent sobbing that followed.

For a while, Moody said nothing, shifting with a discomfort that had nothing to do with his seat. He wanted to hate the boy. He had every right to hate the boy. Everyone in the stands that day did! So why did the lad have to go and look so miserable like that? Of course, even if Moody had liked the boy, Mad Eye was not the kind of man to offer comfort to anyone. He puzzled about it for a moment. The kid's crying was really starting to bother him. Then he noticed one of the Weasley twins fly by, going to the left, and it gave him an idea.

"Arthur, which of your boys was that?" he asked, pointing. "I can never tell who is who." Which, with his magical eye, wasn't actually true, but that was besides the point.

Having exhausted his store of Muggle questions for the moment, Arthur followed Moody's finger. "Oh! That's George! Er, wait, no ..." He peered closer. "You know, Alastor, even for Molly and I, it's sometimes hard to tell them apart -- especially at this distance!"

As he watched his son fly slowly onward, Arthur caught sight of Draco out of the corner of his eye. Unfortunately, he misread the shaking shoulders. "What's so bloody funny, Malfoy?"

Startled, Draco raised his head towards the sound of Mr. Weasley's voice, face flushed and his red-rimmed eyes bright with tears of misery, not mirth. "W-what?" he asked, dazed.

Arthur didn't know what to say for a moment. Like Moody, he definitely would have put himself down on the "I hate the Malfoys" club charter, but how could you look a boy in the eye when he was in such misery and not feel even a little sorry for him? And Draco was just a boy, after all, the same age as Arthur's youngest son. While the idea of Lucius being kind to Ron was laughable at best, it's still what Arthur would hope for if Ron were in a state such as this. And if Arthur was a better man than Lucius had been, then that meant he had to show Malfoy that measure of compassion -- even if Lucius most certainly wouldn't have.

"Er ... you all right, lad?" he finally asked.

He'd waited to long to speak, had looked Draco in the eye a moment more than he should have. Draco, unable to bear Mr. Weasley's scrutiny, leapt to his feet and dashed to the back of the box, where he raced down the stairs. Not quite as quick on his feet, Arthur nonetheless made the effort to follow.

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After waking from the Pensieve, Severus had gone to Albus' office and recited for the man as much of the encounter as he was able, especially Harry's recent thoughts and feelings. James might have told him not to reveal more than was necessary, but as far as Severus was concerned, everything concerning Harry was something Dumbledore needed to know. Besides, much of it was only confirmation of things Albus had already suspected.

Together they set off for the Quidditch pitch, which was where Ginerva Weasley's birthday party was relocating to, according to Minerva.

Fawkes and his own gathering of animals, meanwhile, not being privy to this information, and after confirming that no one was present in the Great Hall or the Gryffindor Common Room, had set out for the front door, thinking to find everyone gathered at the lake.

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By the time Arthur reached the end of the stair, Draco was racing, fleet-footed, towards the Forbidden Forest. Arthur tried following, but was quickly winded, and had to stop. He called after the boy, but the wind carried the sound of his voice in the opposite direction.

Up in the student stands, Firenze heard the cry, and spun around. He saw Draco's pale head moving towards the centaur's old home. Without hesitation, he leapt from the platform to the grass below, stumbling a little from the fall but quickly regaining his footing. In just three strides, he was at Arthur's side.

"Get on!" he told the man, kneeling.

He didn't share his bretheren's disdain for being ridden, seeing it as one being offering help to another in need -- especially if he was the one doing the offering, rather than the human demanding. After Arthur was settled on his back (and holding on for dear life), Firenze raced after the tow-headed lad, catching up to him easily, then circling around in front of him.

Blinded by tears, Draco ran smack into Firenze's side, then fell flat on his back. Arthur slid awkwardly off the tall centaur, then knelt beside the young Malfoy, helping him sit up. Draco winced, one hand cupping the back of his head, where it had hit the ground.

"You all right?" Arthur asked him.

Draco shrank from the touch of Mr. Weasley's hand on his shoulder, "What do you care? Why did you have to follow me, anyway?" he muttered.

"Well, we couldn't let you run off into the Forbidden Forest, now could we?" Arthur offered with an uncomfortable laugh.

"And why not? Oh, wait, I know -- so I wouldn't go rushing off to report to the Dark Lord, right?"

"It is very unlikely that you would have made it out of the forest alive," Firenze told the boy matter-of-factly. "Even if the centaurs spared you, there are still many things within that could have killed you. If escape was your intention, you picked a very poor route."

"So I am a prisoner, then."

Firenze and Arthur blinked in surprise, but before either could deny the claim, Malfoy spoke again.

"If you believe I would have died in the forest, then why not let me go? You'd be rid of me! In my book, the likelihood of death makes the Forbidden Forest a very good path for escape -- you can't 'escape' much more than that!"

Arthur wasn't entirely sure what Draco meant by that, but it gave him a shiver. "Look here, now! You're not a prisoner, Malfoy--"

"Then let me go!" he demanded, struggling to his feet.

"--but you are under Snape's guardianship," Mr. Weasley continued, standing himself. His wife had filled him in on Malfoy's circumstances. He still didn't trust the boy exactly, but he did trust Dumbledore's judgment. "It's up to him whether you can leave or not. In the meantime, so long as you're here, we intend to keep you safe."

Draco gave him a look of total disbelief. Arthur expected the boy to say something derisive about their ability to protect anyone. Draco surprised him again.

"What is it with you lot? You were quick enough to incarcerate my father in Azkaban, and all he did was try to take something out of the ministry! I ki*choke*kill my father, and you don't even put m-manacles on me!" Draco fell to his knees and doubled over, sobbing. Why couldn't he bloody stop crying? He was amazed he had any tears left at this point. "How can I hate him and miss him at the same time?" Draco asked miserably.

Arthur shared a helpless glance with Firenze. What could they say? That, as far as the Order was concerned, Draco had done them a favor in taking out his father? That if he were ever brought to trial, those who were at the battle would say Draco had done it in defense of Pansy, whether they actually saw it happen or not? That if he hadn't killed Lucius, someone else likely would have?

Would I have done it? Arthur wondered. He'd hated Lucius, maybe even more than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -- he'd encountered Lucius fairly often but had never met You-Know-Who. To Arthur Weasley, the "Dark Lord" was less a man and more a symbol for the worst a wizard could become. But Lucius Malfoy was a living. breathing, tangible wretch of a human being -- and until this day, Arthur had believed Draco Malfoy to be nothing more than a pale imitation of his father. Hell, it seemed Draco believed the same thing of himself -- still believed, even.

"Did you ever beat your sons?" Draco asked him hollowly, eyes closed, one hand pressed tiredly to his forhead, the other drapped across his knee.

Arthur's brow furrowed. "A spanking now and again when they were little, I suppose, but if you mean with a switch, no. Did your father beat you, Draco?"

The boy nodded absently, casting his eyes on the ground. "If he was only mildly annoyed, he'd just used the back of his fist. You know that cane of his, with the silver snake's head? He'd use that when I did something that needed a more ... lasting reminder."

Draco lift his shirt, baring his back. Traces of faint, pink lines crisscrossed his back. Arthur hissed at the sight, and felt that familiar surge of hatred for Lucius. It seemed surreal, feeling it on behalf of the evil man's own son. He was almost sorry the bastard was dead, because it meant he wouldn't get a chance to make Lucius suffer any for his sins.

Firenze shuffled his hooves in barely restrained anger. It was humans like this Lucius Malfoy -- a man who would brutally beat his own foal -- that gave his centaur brethren fodder for the human-hating fire in their hearts!

Draco lowered his shirt. "I was about five or six when he first used Cruciatus on me," he admitted.

Arthur felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He dropped weakly to sit beside the young Malfoy. Merlin! Using the Cruciatus on a child! The man's own child, no less! Arthur would never have imagined anyone capable of such a thing!

"You never did that to any of your children, did you, Weasley?" Draco asked, moving his head slightly towards the man for a moment, but not meeting his eyes, before casting his gaze at the ground again. "Loving fathers don't do that," he told the grass, bitterly. "But I didn't know ..." he whispered. "I thought he did it because he loved me. That's what he kept telling me, afterwards ... but ... he lied. Didn't he." It wasn't a question.

Arthur dropped to the ground beside Malfoy, and put a comforting arm around the boy's shoulders, cautiously. Draco stiffened, but didn't pull away, and relaxed a little.

"I'm ... I'm not really sure if your father knew what love was himself, son," Arthur told him. "It's ... very likely that his father did those same things to him. But never believe you deserved it, Draco. There's nothing you could have possibly done -- at five or six, no less! -- to warrant such a punishment. Nothing."

Draco nodded, but didn't seem entirely convinced.

Arthur took the boy's left arm and turned it skyward, revealing the Mark. "Answer me honestly, Draco: did you want this?"

"I did once," he admitted, "when I wanted to be just like my father. And then I heard he'd died in Azkaban, and I realised that if I lived like him, I would die like him, too. And my friend -- well, maybe friend's a strong word, but the Dark Lord murdered Vincent Crabbe and his entire family, as an 'example' to the other Death Eaters. It hit me then that no one is Voldemort's ally. He sees all people, no matter what their bloodline, as objects, to use and throw away as he pleases. Everything he promises is a lie. Everything in my world, my whole life, is a lie.

"All my life I'd been told that wizarding power is weakened by Muggle blood, that Mud--er, Muggleborns were half animal, and threatened our very existence. That if we weren't careful, magic would disappear because of them. I never thought to ask how that can possibly be true when Granger, the best witch in my year, is a Muggleborn. Somewhere along the line I guess I forgot the reason why Muggleborns are hated, and just ... hated them. I hated the idea that someone I'd always been taught was my inferior was actually better than me, so I kept telling myself she was inferior until I could believe it. And then Father would hear that she was at the head of the class, and I would hate her for giving him a reason to hit me, to be ashamed of me. I never took responsibility for my own failures. I know that now. For what little it's worth ... I'm sorry."

Draco drew a deep breath, and let it out, shakily. "So to answer your question, no, I didn't want The Mark when the Dark Lord actually came to my house to give it to me. My mother begged him to leave me be, and was tortured with the Cruciatus for her trouble. He used it on me, too -- and it was far worse than when Father had ever done it. I knew I wasn't strong enough to stop the Dark Lord, and I was scared to death, so I just let him do as he liked. I let him burn this ... thing into me." His hand shook as he traced the shape on his skin.

Arthur thought about his next words a moment, not sure if it would help or hurt Draco to speak candidly to him about his father. Remembering Draco's words about his life being a lie, he decided to opt for the truth. "We all get scared, Draco -- there's a reason no one ever says You-Know-Who's name. But I'd say the fact that you no longer wanted The Mark when he came calling makes you a better man than your father, who took The Mark voluntarily. So does the fact that you're sorry for how you've treated Hermione and other Muggleborns. You said that your father only tried to take something from the ministry, but ... well, I think you know as well as I do what other things he's done in the name of his master. There's no doubt in my mind that he would have killed my children and their friends at the Ministry if he could have. Your father wrote his death warrant the day he hooked up with Voldemort, and he did it of his own free will. Nobody blames you for having killed him, Draco, so please don't blame yourself. We're in a war; you did what you had to in order to protect your friend Pansy. And thanks to you, there's a chance she's still alive! So why are you so keen to ... well, you know... I mean, don't you want to be around to welcome her home?"

"And if that Muggle's killed her?" Draco asked hoarsely. "What have I got left then, 'ey? Friends? Gee, one of them's dead, isn't he? And for all I know, Goyle's bit it, too. Even if he hasn't, there's not a one of my so-called mates that I would want to associate with anymore -- much less trust my life with! So who does that leave? An aunt who's nuttier than a fruitcake and ten times as evil? And the there's Snape -- he better hate me now, or I'll lose all respect for him! I killed my father, and my mother took her own life! So who does that leave me with? If you don't think I'm evil enough to execute, then thi--*choke*--think of it as an act of mercy!" Draco leanded his head on one hand, his eyes screwed tight again with silent tears.

Arthur felt his blood go cold with Draco's request. Before he could collect his thoughts enough to respond, he noticed Dumbledore and Snape standing a bit of a ways off, though they were probably close enough to have heard the conversation. Dumbledore put a finger to his lips, letting Arthur and Firenze know that they shouldn't alert Draco to their presence. Snape looked as white as a sheet.

Draco composed himself, and went on. "Your lot will never like me, never trust me -- they have every reason not to! For years I've been nothing but a miniature Lucius -- and I wasn't even all that great at being that!" Arthur felt a surge of guilt. Had his thoughts been so plain on his face? "Even if Pansy's still alive, she'd be better off without me! So you tell me, why shouldn't I ... I don't know, feed myself to a werewolf, or throw myself from the Astronomy Tower or something?"

Arthur wanted to scream in his frustration. Less than twenty-four hours ago, if someone had said "Draco Malfoy is dead", he would have said "Good riddance!" He would have justified the sentiment by adding that Draco would have grow up to be a murdering Death Eater, just like his father, and his death was in the best interest of wizards and Muggles alike. He would have been glad that the youth couldn't cause any more trouble for Ron, Ginny, Hermione, or Harry. And now here Draco was, sitting next to him with the Dark Mark clear as a bell on his arm, and having indeed become a killer -- and Arthur was trying to comfort the boy.

As if having your house blown up wasn't enough to make your world go topsy-turvy.

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

Percy noticed the Bludger almost too late.

He'd concentrated mostly on defending Ginny; he'd always been very protective of his only little sister, so why shouldn't he be doubly so during a dangerous game like Quidditch? Besides, while it was true he could have been more protective of Fleur and Neville (especially Neville, as Bill seemed to have Fleur covered), it hadn't occurred to him that the stands would need defending, especially since the twins were not known for such underhanded tactics as Bumphing.

And the truth of the matter was, the twins did not stoop to such maneuvers. Fred had just hit the Bludger a bit harder than he'd intended, and was a bit closer to the stands than he'd realised. So when Percy did spot the Bludger, it was headed at top speed straight toward Penelope -- who just happened to have her face turned towards Molly at that moment.

No one would have imagined Percy could move that quickly, but he did, using his body to shield his beloved from the flying hunk of cloth-covered metal -- there simply wasn't time to get the bat in line to strike. The Bludger hit Percy solidly in the stomach, knocking him back a foot or two, far enough so that, when he slid from his broom, it was to land on Penelope and Molly's laps. The Bludger flew off in search of other victims, leaving Percy gasping, pain lancing through his abdomen with the effort.

Pomfrey didn't waste a moment going to the young man's aid, once again muttering about the dangers of the sport. Petunia and Arabella helped Molly right herself, while Lupin struggled to restrain a distraught Penny, chiding the young woman into letting Pomfrey do her job. The rest of the players flocked to the scene, floating as near the stands as their brooms allowed. A few spells later, Percy was healed, but still a bit sore, enough for Pomfrey to forbid him to play any longer. Percy didn't care much about that, though.

"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing, you great pillock?!" Percy spat at his brother, wincing and cradling his slightly-bruised stomach. "You could have seriously hurt Penny!"

Fred dropped an inch or two in the sky, his features ashen. He already felt horrible over his error, but he'd never heard his prim and proper elder brother swear like that before, much less speak in such venomous tones.

"Percy, please, don't yell like that!" Penny begged him, grabbing one of his arms. "You're scaring me!"

Percy immediately looked contrite, cupping her cheek tenderly. "Are you all right? You should have Madam Pomfrey look at you, make sure the baby's okay!"

Penny's eye's flew wide; she shushed him, but it was too late.

"Did you say baby?!” Molly demanded. “A baby? Oh Percy! Why didn't you tell us? Did you hear that Poppy?" Poppy smiled and nodded, already at work at the preliminary diagnostic. "I'm going to be a grandmother!" Molly squealed in delight.

Nervous laughter gave way to joyous cries among the Weasley siblings. Fred was crying when he landed his broom in the stands and hugged Percy, apologising profusely.

Percy softened, returning the hug. "It's all right, Fred, I'm sorry I over-reacted. I guess I'm just ... tense, you know. Over everything."

Fred drew back, nodding and sniffling a little as he patted Percy's shoulder. "I know, mate. I know."

George landed beside them, and gathered Percy and his twin in a hug. It quickly became apparent that the stands were a bit too crowded for this sort of thing, though.

"Here, now, let's finish the game," Bill teased, "and then we can all have a nice big group hug afterwards, if that's what you want, a'ight?"

"Why bother? Without Percy, we're pretty handicapped" Ginny pointed out.

"Oy! The rules say we play on, even if we lose a player!" Ron reminded her. "The game only ends if either the snitch is caught, or both captains agree to end it!" At the moment they were only 20 points down -- he wasn't about to give up yet!

"And like Bill said earlier, it's not like this is the Quidditch Cup, either!" Ginny protested.

"Tell you what, Ginny," Oliver offered, "Since this is just a friendly game, how about we let you break the 'no substitution' rule and replace Percy? Consider it a birthday present."

Ginny beamed at him. "Now you're talking!"

"But who are we gonna get to replace him?" Ron asked, torn between his dislike of messing with the rules and his desire to do anything to keep playing -- and win.

"Well maybe dad would like to have a go?" Charlie suggested.

"Oh! But where is your father?" Molly asked, looking about.

"Arthur went after Draco," Mad-Eye told them.

"'Went after?"" Molly asked, alarmed. "What happened that he needed to go after him??"

A great many people in the crowd exchanged wary glances.

For his part, Moody looked uncomfortable. "Er, well, the boy seemed a bit ... out of sorts. When Arthur asked him if he was all right, he ran off, crying, and Arthur went to make sure he didn't do anything foolish."

Ron felt like the ground was tugging at him suddenly, his guilt like a lead weight. He'd never even considered whether Malfoy might want to play. He thought for a moment what it must be like for the boy, stuck at a party full of people who had been his enemies only a day ago, people having a good time while he was drowning in grief.

Ron looked at Hermione and remembered what he had felt when he'd thought she was dead. There was a good chance that Pansy really was dead, and while he didn't like the girl, he could imagine what Draco must be going through. Like his father, he was having a hard time holding onto his animosity in the wake of his own sense of pity. And compassion was supposed to be part of what put him on the "side of light," wasn't it?

"Toss me Percy's broom, and I'll go look for them," Ron announced. George tossed the magic-laden besom to him, and he flew around the skybox, towards the forest.

Ron noticed Ginny and Harry follow him, his sister nodding encouragingly while his best friend's face remained eerily blank.

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

Buckbeak had simply soared for a little while, his avian companions (save Fawkes) hard-pressed to keep up. Crookshanks yowled from the bank of the lake, as if to reprimand them for lollygagging. But Buckbeak had been cooped up for so long; he desperately needed to stretch his wings. As it was, his muscles were weak from disuse; it wasn't long before he was forced to land.

But he didn't let that stop him from enjoying the fresh air. If he couldn't fly fast, then he would run.

Alas, his legs weren't much stronger than his wings, but they were hale enough to see him around the castle, to the place where he remembered Hagrid's hut to be. His keen ears picked up the sounds of familiar voices. His eagle-eyes spotted the source, and he veered off to where one of the older red-haired humans sat with the fair-haired youngling he had befriended the night before. And then the hippogriff saw something he'd missed at first: a centaur. He paused, suddenly wary.

"Is that hippogriff a friend of yours?" Firenze asked his human companions, tensing. He bore no ill will towards the breed, but he knew they could be very dangerous.

Draco looked up and smiled. "It's Buckbeak!" Smiling and brushing his tears aside, he bowed -- not with arrogance, as he had the first time, or fear, as he had the second, but a true sense of friendship.

Firenze and Arthur bowed as well. Buckbeak bowed back to Draco, then twice more, warily, to the boy's companions. Formalities over, Draco laughed as he ran up to the hippogriff, throwing his arms around the beast's feathery neck. Buckbeak nudged the boy and trilled affectionately. Crookshanks, who had hitched another ride on the eagle-horse, hopped down and greeted Draco, then Firenze and Arthur.

In the sky above, Pigwidgeon flew happy circles around the descending Ron and Ginny's heads, hooting madly. Ron cursed and swatted at the bird, who kept flying right in front of his eyes.

Hedwig greeted her own human bondmate with quite a bit more reserve, content to fly alongside him and hoot a hello. When they finally landed, he held his arm out for her, and she climbed to his shoulder, grooming his hair and nipping his ear lightly.

Fawkes alighted on Dumbledore's shoulder. It was only then that Draco noticed the Headmaster -- and his godfather. He wondered how long they had been standing there, and how much they'd heard. He nodded to the two men. Dumbledore smiled back encouragingly; Snape made and attempt to do the same, but it didn't really suit him. Draco turned back to the hippogriff, trying not to laugh at his godfather's efforts, afraid that if he did, it might turn hysterical very quickly.

Pig stayed airborn, greeting Arthur and Firenze, then Draco.

"What the hell?" Draco yelped, not knowing what Pig actually was at first.

"PIG!" Ron snapped. He caught sight of Draco's face and the look of indignation growing there. "Sorry, I didn't mean you; that's my owl's name! Pig!"

"His name is PIGWIDGEON!" Ginny reminded Ron for the billionth time.

Caught off-guard, Harry couldn't help but grin. Ron and Ginny caught his smile, and laughed off their spat, relieved to see a bit of life in their friend. Even Draco chuckled at the siblings (and managed not to sound insane in the process).

"What are you all doing out here?" Arthur asked. "Is the game over already?"

"Er, not exactly," Ron began.

Before he could say anything further, Ginny blurted, "Penelope's pregnant!"

Firenze clapped Arthur on the back in congratulations, and Arthur promptly toppled forward, in a faint.

"Guess that means he's not going to fill in for Percy," Ginny quipped, as she and Ron turned their father onto his back.

"Oh geez, I wasn't going to ask him anyway," Ron informed her.

She dropped her father. "What?"

"Don't get me wrong, Gin, I mean, I love Dad, but ... well, he's not played Quidditch in years."

"Well who the hell were you going to ask, then?" she asked, hands on hips.

Ron was struck by how much she resembled their mother just then, and hoped Harry hadn't noticed. Thankfully, he found Harry staring at him, as puzzled as Ginny.

He shrugged. "Malfoy," he told them, as if it should be obvious.

Draco had been listening to the entire exchange, and still jumped at the sound of his name. "What? You had two full teams last I looked, what do you need me for?"

"Percy got hit by a Bludger, and now Pomfrey won't let him play," Ginny explained, still eyeing her brother suspiciously, clearly wondering if it was really him and not a Polyjuiced Hermione or something.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Draco wasn't snippy, just puzzled. "You're not supposed to replace players...."

"Wood's letting us as a birthday present to Ginny," Ron explained. "So you in or what?"

Draco looked to Snape and Dumbledore. Neither man made a move, but somehow he found encouragement in each of them anyway. "Yeah, why not," Draco replied, his eyes on Buckbeak as he scratched the animal just above the beak.

"Well then, let us go to the pitch!" Dumbledore suggested cheerfully. Despite a protest from Snape, the Headmaster grabbed hold of the former Potions Master's wrist and had Fawkes fly them both to the student stands.

Ron, Ginny, and Draco snickered at the sound of Snape's helpless screams, and even Harry cracked a small smile. He, Ron, and Ginny all knew what it was like to fly by phoenix tail.

Once the kids managed to wake Arthur, Firenze gave him a lift back to the student stands as well, and Molly, Percy, Penelope, and Fae came down from their skybox to meet them. They watched the game with Hagrid and Madame Maxime. Fae pretended that nothing had happened between her and Snape that afternoon, when he had yelled at her. He seemed relieved, but there was an underlying awkwardness to their company now, as neither seemed to know how to proceed.

Draco found it a great stress-reliever, being a Beater. Now that he was forced to watch the goings-on within the game, though (rather than wallow in self-pity), he couldn't help but notice what the other players had seen already: namely, that Potter was not playing his best. I bet I could actually beat him now, if I were playing Seeker. Which wasn't really a cheery thought, thinking he could only beat Potter if the boy was distracted. No, Draco was definitely fine with playing Beater this time. Weasley's not a bad Captain, either. He's made some good calls -- I'm going to have my work cut out for me when Slytherin next plays Gryffindor.... For there was little doubt in Draco's mind that Snape would name him Captain.

The fact that Draco was actually thinking of the future, a future he had seriously considering giving up not half an hour gone, escaped his notice. If Buckbeak could befriend him, if the Weasleys could welcome him, if Potter could trust him enough to return his wand to him (which he had, right after Ron Weasley had handed him the school broom Percy had been using), then, somewhere in the back of his mind, maybe there was hope for the future after all.