Disclaimer: This is your left! That’s your left. This is your right! That’s your right. This is your right! You’re gonna die! --Scary muppet on Aqua Teen Hunger Force

" Wow." Malfoy huffed between pants, he released her to collapse back on his butt.

Shaking and awed, she carefully turned her hand over only to find the cut was clean, no sign of blood, only a line across one palm, pink and new, like a scar. She traced the mark lightly.

The Bangadh was an old and powerful spell. It was a celebration of inherent power, but everything Hermione had ever read about it said it was a spell not widely known, carefully guarded by the Pureblood families to be used among them and no one else. It was worse then scandalous for a Pureblood to perform it with a Mudblood, it was blasphemous.

It had probably been taught to Malfoy by his family when he was a young child but he'd most likely never seen it cast before…

She closed her fist and gave him a narrow suspicious look, " Did you even know what you were doing?"

He opened one eye, affecting blandness, " Well…yeah…I mean, not really…"

She gaped," You complete moron! You could have blown us to Kingdom Come. I can not believe you!"

He only smirked at her and, after a flabbergasted moment, she felt her lips twitch up in response.

Nothing was forgiven or forgotten, but their lives were now each other's responsibility, sealed with an ancient pact that was a common bond between them, and that was more then either of them had had that morning.

Maybe Malfoy had been right and this was the only way.

Chapter 18: Up in Arms

Oh, play the game so nicely
Oh, check, it's your move now
Yeah, we're standing in this jungle
Yeah, with some things I have found

Don't go looking for snakes you might find them
Don't send your eyes to the sun you might blind them
Haven't I seen you here before?
There ain't no heroes here

Excerpts from Metallica—Slither

oooo

They’ve crossed over.

A heavy mist shrouded the vast, ranging woodlands like a thick wool sweater. A pretty blanket of creeping fog thickening and thinning coyly through the trees and making it impossible to see very far in any direction, as if the world didn’t exist beyond those four or five feet. It was a cloud of illusion, a subtle and nasty trick of light and shadow, of wind and water, and everything under the dark trees looked exactly the same.

The mountains were cold and still, the birds quiet--perhaps in respect for the midmorning hush, or perhaps because every creature in the forest knew that someone who didn’t belong there had intruded on their home. Someone who had not been invited and who would not be welcomed when they were found out.

The distant ringing bay of a troll hound shattered the stillness, and a black-robed rider on a racing thestral crashed through the scrub at a fantastic speed, branches whipping over the animals body as it snorted clouds like smoke from its nostrils. The scaled beast looked reptilian, was swifter than any horse, and moved like a cat, so silent it was as if it rode the wind even when it wasn’t flying. Its feet barely disturbed the underbrush, barely touched the ground, as it galloped through the trees.

The thestral slowed from a canter to a trot as it left the thick depths of the forest to enter a circular ring of towering trees and the small clearing within. The rider shivered like throwing snow off his cloak for the simple clean chill of the air in the circle. The dark aura that had been haunting him since entering the woods, filling his lungs like smog, did not permeate here, unable to pass through the ring.

He looked again at the trees forming the circle and identified them.

Golden Elder. Powerful protection.

Good boy, Draco, the rider thought with satisfaction, reining in the restless thestral as two large troll hounds came bounding into the clearing noisily, wet noses to the ground, whining softly in excitement.

The rider dismounted and opened the large leather saddlebag, rechecking the host of spells and wards he’d set in preparation for this journey and frowned in disgust when he saw that half of them had worn off completely, their power banked under the sheer force of the forest’s magic. He hissed in vexation at the setback and muttered caustically for the hundredth time since he’d been handed a map and a thestral and wished good luck, that this wasn’t the type of mission he excelled at.

He was not an outdoorsmen (the saddle-sore alone might kill him). He was not a field scout. He was a strategist and a spy. His talents lay in steady, clever hands and a cleverer mind. Delicate, subtle work that required concentration and quick thinking and dark rooms with warm fires and good books for company, not troll hounds, bowie knives, nauseating potions against blood-sucking butterflies, and certainly not cold, wet, miserable gray mornings in the sloppy mud pit of ‘nature.’

The troll hounds saw him fishing in the saddlebag and went crazy with excitement, thinking food was imminent. He was forced to quickly extract a couple of treats and throw them across the clearing before the dogs tackled him in their enthusiasm. The troll hounds tore after the treats, mud flipping up under their paws. He grimaced, annoyed at how happy the stupid, slobbery beasts were. They snapped up their treats with doggy smiles and wagged their tails, ecstatic, apparently having the time of their lives and conveniently forgetting that they had seen signs on the way up of predators so wicked that the two dogs had tucked their tails between their legs and whimpered. That was rather alarming considering troll hounds were known for bawling down dragons.

He wasn’t much of a dog person himself. He rather preferred the company of the stoic and intelligent thestral. Kormac, named for an evil king, was sleek, dark, unpredictable, dangerous, and misunderstood. He smirked and patted the animal’s shiny hide. Kormac snorted and tossed his black mane at the dog’s crude display. Oh yes, they were on their way to a beautiful friendship.

Dogs taken care of, the rider sought out his canteen of Brigineys, a carefully brewed cocktail of different types of disillusion and disenchantment potions. He took a long swallow, grimacing at the awful syrupy taste, and the feeling of the potion was like cold sugar water down to his toes. He instantly felt more clear-headed and more aware of his surroundings. He was glad he had not waited the prescribed half hour to take the potion.

If the potion wore off, he would be vulnerable and subject to any of the Probable-thousands of natural enchantments in the forest. If he crossed paths with the wrong creature, he ran the risk of losing himself completely.

He patted Kormac again, and left the beast with a handful of raw meat to snack on while he walked about the clearing slowly, examining every patch of grass, finding meaning in the position of every stone, identifying every plant, insect, and animal with sharp eyes, expert eyes.

A seeker’s eyes, but no skill with a broom. Pity.

The trail was stale, over a month old, and in his opinion, it was foolish to expect any sign of the two children to still be in tact.

But he was wrong.

Campfire remains. Nearly completely gone, but the ring of rocks and the slight pit were unmistakable. And when he scooped a handful of dirt there was ash underneath. It flaked under his fingernails, but they were dirty already. He rubbed his fingers together, letting the ash flitter away on the icy wind, examining the black smears left on his slender hands. He’d been fastidiously clean as a child, but it seemed he’d spent his entire adulthood wallowing in the muck.

He stood and pulled his robes tighter.

Cold. It was getting colder every day. When it began to snow the children’s chance of survival would slim dramatically.

And why did he insist on thinking of them as children? They were well on their way to adulthood, or at least well on their way to the age when they would stomp their feet and insist they were adults. They were no longer the tottering first years he could still picture in his mind.

Seventeen, eighteen, ninety. Twenty was the worst. Twenty, and they stand around thinking they knew so damn much. Thinking, hey, look at me, I’m going to show everyone I’m not a skinny, stringy haired loser by getting this black mark permanently etched into my flesh in an excruciatingly painful manner.

Oh yes, where had commonsense been that bright sunny day?

Perhaps it wouldn’t have galled him so much if it was just that one single, tiny, damning, life-altering mistake (it’s too late for me kids, save yourselves) but he watched it happen over and over again like lemmings, suiciding over the edge of a cliff, (except that doesn’t really happen. The lemmings aren’t committing suicide. They don’t realize the repercussions of their actions even after witnessing what happened to all the lemmings before them. They don’t know they’re going to die. It’s not suicide!) like the worst moment of his life forever on instant-replay, like watching himself in so many different guises making the same exact mistakes over and over and over. . . .

What was the psychology behind that? Human self-destructive behavior, when you see the outcome of a series of actions and then tell yourself, ‘that won’t happen to me,’ when somewhere in the back of your mind, you must know that’s how it will end up, and somewhere in the back of your mind, that’s how you want it.

And if there was something wrong with all of them psychologically then maybe they deserved the Dark Lord as their king. It was amazing how exactly Tom Riddle fit the profile of a psychopath. With a honeyed-tongue, grandiose plans, and a god-like sense of self worth--and a total and complete lack of empathy.

But only on his good days.

And on his bad days, one would need several degrees in psychobabble, and several years of experiencing dementia for oneself, to be able to come anywhere close to diagnosing just what was wrong with the man.

He kicked something in the rushes and stooped down, feeling a small thrill go through him at his next find. A pile of books. Now damp and moldy and even chewed on but unmistakably books from Diagon Alley.

He picked up one of the soggy notebooks gingerly and searched for a readable page. Making a ‘hmph’ sound when he recognized the tiny, perfectionist handwriting and the know-it-all tone that had somehow managed to convey itself, even on paper.

Hermione Granger’s books.

He shrank them down and enfolded them in a handkerchief, pocketing them into his robes. It wasn’t much, but it was at least a concrete sign that the children had been here. That they existed.

He searched the ring again with more focus and then cursed the silly children soundly for not leaving him any kind of signs scratched into the trees, or notes on paper, or even spelled out with rocks. Brainless dunderheads, the both of them.

Out in the woods one of the troll hounds bawled, long and ringing, the sound echoing over the mountains, crying that it had found something to chase. He paused, waiting to see if there would be a fight but when the bawl came again, it was further away and he knew that whatever had caught the dog’s attention was running.

Still, it would not be wise to linger.

He drew his wand and charmed the weeds to grow over the obvious flat place in the grasses where Miss Granger’s books had lain and then erased all marks of the campfire. When he was sure that there were no signs of the children left, he renewed his wards and mounted Kormac again to head southeast, whistling for the dogs as he snapped the reins.

Southeast. Why southeast?

He didn’t understand. They should have headed west, even north and they would have made it to the Muggle villages long ago. Hell, had they gone straight south they would have eventually reached the outer edge of the woods. If southeast was a direction they had chosen at random, then they had chosen the absolute worst one.

They were heading deeper into the forest.

They’ve crossed over.

They’ve crossed over and the path became clear. Anyone else who is tracking them will now see as we see.

The Black Forest. Schwarzwald in Germany.

Get to them first!

Severus Snape grimaced.

At first glance it hadn’t seemed like much. Two thousand square miles of Muggle forest. Forest that was a known year-round tourist attraction, dotted with farms, cities, logging communities, castle motels, hot spring resorts, crisscrossed with roads and train tracks and hiking trails.

Baden-Baden to the north. Tübingen to the east. A whole host of towns from Balingen down to Freiburg in the south and Offenburg and everything in between to the west. There was no way the two children were so incompetent that they hadn’t stumbled onto a road or into a small village during the month they had been missing. Surely their combined brainpower added up to something.

Or was that giving them too much credit?

He had known that at least part of the forest was under wizard management and would be concealed from the Muggles, but he was unprepared to discover that there was almost fifteen thousand square miles of Wizard forest hidden at the center of Schwarzwald. The Muggle cities and villages only lay on the very outer edge of the forest and the whole wide range, the real forest, was hidden from them within. The Muggles could walk straight from one end of the forest to the other and find that it was as narrow as fourteen miles in some places, some very old spells seeming to pinch the land together, allowing them to skip right past the real forest.

Worse, there were very few Wizard villages inside the forest and most of them were near the edges, usually parallel to the Muggle villages. It seemed none of the local wizards outside the specialists liked to travel very far into the forest and even the specialist took extreme precautions.

Schwarzwald was very old and incredibly magical. Even the local Muggles could feel it, were aware that the area had a rich magical heritage, even accepted it as fact. Severus had spoken to several who swore that the forest was inhabited by all manner of magical folk, and indeed the Black Forest did have one of the greatest densities and diversities of fairies, pixies, elves, and trolls.

That was the least of anyone’s problems. ‘Big’ and ‘diverse’ didn’t bother anyone and ‘powerful’ and ‘temperamental’ didn’t do it justice.

He had been warned that the forest was ‘powerful’ and ‘temperamental’. He had not been warned that being inside it was crushing. Those first few steps inside sending him reeling. The forest had an aura unlike anything he had ever felt. It was overwhelming, like being a thousand feet below water. So much force pressing in on him from all sides that it was hard breath. And it was cold. It was cold in a way that made him think of sitting in a meat locker in the basement of Azkaban.

It was wild magic. Untamed power. Inhuman power.

This was the power of the earth, raw and primal, and it made him wonder how ancient wizards had survived long enough to claw their way to civilization, made him wonder if modern wizards had forgotten just what they were dealing with, if maybe they no longer respected their magic like they should.

He could barely stand it, and he had his wand and a hundred charms. The children had nothing. It was a sobering thought.

He continued tracking them for most of the day, wondering at how remarkably straight their course kept and vaguely proud of how far they seemed to have gone alone, even as he cursed them for not veering to the right or left.

There were few detours on their trail, and he traveled every single one looking for signs of them. He found campfires, bits of robes, remains of animals, (one of them was hunting, he realized in surprise) a crude fishing pole, knife marks on trees and sticks. He erased all signs of them but felt a sense of satisfaction with every trace he found showing that they had made it at least that far, that they had lived another day.

He began to hold his breath until he found the next trace and the next.

It was late afternoon when he found Hermione Granger’s book bag. It was stuffed with supplies that had even him marveling at her ingenuity. But the find disturbed him, and he quickly stowed the bag away and pushed onwards.

Then the trail ended.

The forest opened up into an oppressively barren field and the trail just disappeared into the center of a huge, dusty, and dry lakebed.

That didn’t make sense. The trail couldn’t just end because the children had to be at the end of the trail, and there weren’t any children here.

There had to be a mistake. Perhaps the trail picked up further out.

He trotted Kormac around, noticing how agitated the thestral was growing, and patted the animal’s bony neck absently before dismounting. He didn’t move at first. He held still, feeling the flickering intuition that he should be noticing something.

Several somethings, it turned out.

One was the complete absence of the dark aura he had been feeling. The presence was gone. But that didn’t seem right either. He would have felt the lifting of such an oppressive force. Perhaps it wasn’t gone, perhaps he’d just gotten used to it.

As soon as he realized that, he noticed the silence. The two troll hounds were nowhere to be seen. They had been right at his side in the forest. He whistled for them, but nothing moved out in the trees. The hounds never came.

Somewhere close by, a frog chirped.

Frowning, he began scouting the lakebed. There were large, square stone markings on the lakebed floor. Foundations. Several of them. There had been homes here at one time. A town.

Maybe it had all washed away when the lake appeared.

Another frog answered the first. High trilling chirps.

The most disturbing thing he noticed was a strange flickering shimmer at the corners of his eyes. At first, he thought it was heat waves coming off the cracked earth, but it wasn’t nearly hot enough for that.

More frogs picking up the chorus. A few long, deep croaks.

The shimmer was green tinged. Trees.

There were trees there when he wasn’t looking, he realized in astonishment.

He turned away from the shimmer to tear open the saddlebag and grope for his bottle, taking a deep swig of Brigineys.

The green mirage didn’t go away.

Wasn’t it too cold for frogs? And there wasn’t any water around here.

Keeping his eyes straightforward, Severus walked sideways to where the shimmering was occurring. He stretched his arm out to the side but touched nothing. Frustrated, he turned to look again and all he saw was empty lakebed, desolate field.

The frogs went silent.

“Hallo.”

Severus whipped around, wand at ready, pointed . . . at Draco Malfoy.

He blinked, his vision blurring slightly at the edges, then coming sharply into focus. Gray focus. Everything was gray, colorless. And the lakebed was gone. He found himself standing at the edge of a writhing tangle tree forest, clear and bright as day.

Draco Malfoy was standing just inside the trees, wearing heavy wool robes, his hair neat and slicked back, on the whole, looking remarkably clean, healthy and undamaged for someone who’d spent the last month roughing it in the woods.

“Malfoy get out of there this instant!” he demanded hoarsely, inarticulate in his panic. “The trees!”

Draco smiled slightly, it was a soft, almost pitying expression, one he’d never seen on the hard-faced boy’s countenance before, certainly not directed at him. “I’m okay.” The boy said gently. And indeed the trees didn’t seem to be bothering him.

Snape waited another moment to see if he’d have to rescue the boy, then relaxed when nothing happened, feeling utter relief that this whole wretched affair was coming to so speedy a close. “Well, come on then,” He said irritably, wanting to hurry and spirit the two home. “Where’s Miss Granger?”

Draco’s soft smile tilted slightly, like the Mad Hatter about to tell him why a raven was like a writing desk. “I killed her,” he murmured with satisfaction.

Snape went still. A great quiet hush inside him. “You . . . what?”

Draco gave an almost coy laugh. “I didn’t plan it very well,” He chortled, voice thick with amusement, like the words were honey on his tongue and he was tasting them. “I ended up having to make it look like we both disappeared. But I guess now you can say that you found me, and poor, stupid Granger had an accident out in the woods.”

Severus Snape was not a man to be dumbstruck. And indeed it wasn’t as if he had nothing to say or didn’t know what to say. It was simply that he couldn’t speak. The funny thing was that he had thought he was ready for this, had half expected it. He’d come fully prepared to find that Malfoy and inflicted some kind of lasting damage on the Granger girl. He’d come prepared to deal with it.

He’d expected it. He realized quite suddenly. He just hadn’t believed it.

Not with Draco. Please, Merlin, not Draco.

The boy hesitated. “Professor? Aren’t you pleased? I did it for you. You’ve been more of a father to me then Lucius ever has. I want to be just like you.”

Oh Merlin, this wasn’t happening.

“Draco. . . .” he managed to utter, taking a heavy step towards the boy.

Why was he so surprised? It wasn’t like the boy had ever had a chance. None of them had a chance. They were all doomed. Predestined from birth to be Voldemort’s dogs of war. Draco especially. Draco Voldemort wanted with a terrible greed.

“Lord Voldemort told me all about how great you were when you were younger. He told me about everything you did.” The boy smiled at him slyly. “I bet Dumbledore doesn’t know the half of it, does he? He’d never have forgiven you if he knew it all.”

Stupid know-it-all twenty-year-olds making grand stupid gestures which no one noticed anyways and realizing at the end, the lonely bitter, hopeless end, that they’d only done it because they were too cowardly not to take the easy way out.

He walked towards the boy like a zombie. Slow, shuffling steps.

He could hide the boy. His brain assured him wildly. He could take him and hide him from Lucius and from Voldemort and from Dumbledore and from the Aurors. Hide him and then beat some sense into him, just smash that awful smile right off his young, innocent face and strangle him until he came to his senses. They would say that Hermione Granger (poor girl--poor wretched girl) went off on her own and didn’t come back. He would have Draco take him to her body so he could make sure no one ever found it.

Oh Merlin, Draco.

“I fucked her good and proper first. Stupid Mudblood whore loved it. They’re all whores, aren’t they, Professor?” A knowing leer that struck something inside of him and shattered it. “Then I slit her open from throat to navel and her insides came pouring out,” he continued casually. “It was amazing how long she lasted. You should have seen it. Oh wait, you have seen it.” Another laugh and then he raised his eyes, and they were gleaming and excited. “I want to do it again.”

He felt old, so horribly old.

He didn’t want this child to spend his wretched life in Azkaban or face the Dementor’s kiss. He didn’t want this boy to grow up to be a monster like him and like Lucius. Draco would be a powerful weapon in Voldemort’s so capable clutches and he could not, more than anything else, at the cost of Draco’s life and his own, he could not allow the Dark Lord to become more powerful.

Maybe he’d always known this was how it would end. He had waited anyway, put off the inevitable to see what would come, what the boy would make of himself. And this was bad, but it wasn’t the worst.

He wouldn’t let it get to the worst.

He would hug the boy. He decided. A hug because he knew Lucius had never given the child an ounce of affection. He would hug the child . . . and then kill him. It would be a mercy. He didn’t want anyone else, especially someone who loathed the child, or worse, was indifferent to him, to kill him. He’d do it. He’d take the responsibility. He half wished someone had taken this particular responsibility to him when he was younger.

He would kill the boy and love him while he did it.

“Draco, come here.”

“Professor?” Draco asked just as Snape reached the trees, reached for the child.

A hand clamped on his arm from behind and he was wrenched violently backwards.

“Avada Kedavra!” roared a voice and a deadly jet of green exploded past him, searing his skin, shooting towards the boy but sputtering out and vanishing before reaching the trees.

Green. He was seeing color. He’d forgotten that he couldn’t.

Snape grabbed the arm holding him and looked up in shock to find Lucius Malfoy standing next to him, teeth bared, with an expression of rage on his face. Snape’s gaze snapped back to Draco. The boy hadn’t even flinched at the spell, only looked at Lucius in mild irritation.

Severus swallowed hard and gripped the hand tightly, furious, “Lucius. . . have you gone mad?” he spat.

“Don’t listen to what he says,” Lucius interrupted harshly. “That’s not my son.” He pointed his wand at the boy and roared, “You are NOT my son!”

The boy’s lip curled up. “So mean to me, Daddy. What would Mommy say? You know, I know your dirty little secret. I know what you did to Mommy. And I’m gonna get you for it.”

“You don’t fool me! Your eyes are wrong. They’re all wrong!” Lucius seemed absolutely ballistic. He was breathing hard, voice cracking, face beat red with fury. Snape had never seen him like this. “Where is Draco?” he barked. “Where is he, you little fucker?”

The boy just looked at him blankly and Snape was about to ask Lucius at just what point he had lost his mind when the boy made a delighted noise and the two men snapped their attention over to see that Kormac had wandered over to investigate the ruckus.

Blood draws thestrals. The thought, a disquieting hush, shot through Snape’s mind.

The thestral eyed the boy curiously and stretched out his neck.

“Kormac--” Snape started, a tinge of unease sparking through him. He might even have taken a step forward, but Lucius gripped his shoulder.

Draco reached out and gently touched the thestral’s nose. Kormac went rigid instantly, making a low whinny sound, and then it was like his already gaunt body was sucked inward. His scaly black hide with its midnight blue and forest green highlights turned winter white, frost white, death white.

The threstral teetered for a moment then toppled stiffly to the ground looking like a pile of sticks. Lucius cursed loudly and backed away.

Snape stared in horror at the dead thestral, then to the boy who was examining his kill with that sad sort-of-smile again. “I’d like to keep you around,” Draco said matter-of-factly, flexing his hand. “But the God has already been generous enough to give me two pretty playmates my own age. I don’t get to keep you.”

Lucius was shouting something, tugging him backwards, away from the apparently mad Malfoy child. Severus tried to hold his ground, wrenched against Lucius’ insistent pull, staring at the boy, trying to speak and finding that no words would leave his dry tongue. What was happening? How had Draco . . . how had. . . ?

The child watched him narrowly with vicious pleasure. “Come see the God. He’s our God. He’ll be your God too.”

How . . . how had this happened?

“Damnit, Severus. MOVE!”

Snape stumbled back a few paces and found that the ground squelched beneath his feet. He glanced down stupidly in time to have a rush of icy black, filthy water spill over his feet. The dry bed was filling up.

“Draw your wand! Apparate! Let’s go!” Lucius shouted as the ground began to tremble and the air to roar with the fury of an oncoming flash flood.

Draco smiled angelically at Lucius. “Re’loiuth Eedai Mevnox. Uuni Kau Malfoy. Induai Malfoy. Bele Nafran Malfoy.”

Lucius let out a horrendous scream and doubled over. Snape grabbed him and Apparated the both of them out of there.

oooo

When Harry and Ron headed downstairs to breakfast, Seamus and Dean fell into step behind them and Lavender and Parvati, who were waiting in the Common room, immediately joined them. It wasn’t really planned, it was just something that had become natural after the last week spent confined to their House and nights spent gathered together in the girls’ dorm room, planning and plotting.

The Slytherins had spent their time similarly. In this, Dumbledore’s punishment hadn’t been such a great idea. If anything, it had been a bit nearsighted. It was a punishment that didn’t consider things like secret passageways, invisibility cloaks and that, locked in their dorms, no one was really keeping an eye on them.

Preparations for battle were in full swing.

If the Headmaster had really wanted to punish them, he should have made them spend time together.

As it was, everyone was behaving themselves to avoid just such a fate. An unspoken truce, an understanding that the adults needed to be lulled and pacified into complacency, stilling the anger of the Gryffindors and the battle lust of the Slytherins. There was a mutual sense that from now on neither side could act carelessly, all cards had to played with utmost care because neither side wanted to be detected.

The outcome as the dust cleared after the Slytherins’ defeat and the uproar it caused, was a loss of support from the student population on both sides. There were many students who withdrew completely and refused to support anyone. It was unexpected, and cause for some alarm as Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw did outnumber them and, sufficiently provoked, would turn on them. It was another reason for more surreptitious courses of actions.

So there had been no fights, physical or otherwise, but that didn’t mean that nothing was happening. That didn’t mean the war was over. The opposite was actually true. Both Houses had regrouped within themselves and were preparing in a flurry of activity for the inevitable clash, strengthening their numbers, their defenses, planning their attacks, while maintaining their neutral public faces--the Gryffindors cold and silent, the Slytherins amused and wickedly polite.

With their hands tied by the threat of expulsion if they fought, the war had become an arms race. It was happening on two fronts. One was outside help. Harry and the others had begun sending owl posts to graduated students, older siblings, and friends, asking for advice, spells, and news. It had seemed like a long shot when they first started the campaign but the response had been amazing. Unfortunately, the Slytherins had somehow caught on to what the Gryffindors were doing and had started doing the same.

It was one of the things that infuriated Harry. The Gryffindors wracked their brains and spent hours planning and the Slytherins inevitably watched what they were doing and copied it. Always adding a nasty spin of their own, of course.

It was the same with the second front of the arms race, where Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were the weapons.

Ravenclaw brains were being viciously fought over. It had started out innocently, with Harry suggesting they get an opinion on a certain spell from a well-read Ravenclaw. But once they approached the Ravenclaw top student, Morag McDougal, with bribes and promises, the Slytherins immediately countered with threats and blackmailing.

Morag was not given a moment’s peace over the week until he nearly had a nervous breakdown and threatened to dropout of school if they didn’t leave him alone. The Gryffindors unwisely backed off to give him some space, and Idane saw his chance and snatched Morag up for a “private talk,” of which Morag came out of a staunch Slytherin supporter.

The Gryffindors were furious, but it worked out in the end anyway because Su Li, the fourth student from the top in Ravenclaw, turned out to be fourth from the top only because she was relaxed about her grades and disliked competition. She was at least Morag’s match, if not his better.

Su had a quick and clever mind, a proclivity towards studying and a gaggle of friends in both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff who were quite willing to help. She was also Besian Moon’s ex-girlfriend and therefore knew quite a bit about Slytherin. Harry and the other Gryffindors wrote up a contract to make it official and ensure Su’s loyalty, and she quickly became one of their top aids.

While the Ravenclaws began reading up on spells and tactical potions, the Hufflepuffs were being inducted as spies. It was simple really--Hufflepuffs were at the center of Hogwarts’ information superhighway. They spread news through the school at something like warp speed.

The week of punishment was almost over but the Gryffindors planned to stay on the defensive for another week. The next weekend was a Hogsmeade weekend and that was when they’d bring out the big guns.

They were going to break into Malfoy Mansion.

The sound of giggling girls snapped Harry out of his reverie and drew his attention to the landing below them where a knot of fourth year Gryffindor and Hufflepuff girls huddled together around. . . .

Harry hissed and nudged Ron.

The red-head followed his gaze and stilled momentarily. “Son of a bitch!”

Lavender and the others looked at them in confusion.

“Come on,” Harry muttered.

The group hurried downstairs.

“So then the cat is trying to get the birds, and Snape is trying to get the birds and stop the cat from eating them, and finally he starts trying to get the cat instead and. . . .” the young Slytherin boy with short dark curls, the one who’d been with Parkinson down Knockturn Alley, was saying in a grating drawl that made Harry think of Draco. The girls were listening with rapt attention, giggling delightedly.

“Hey!” Ron barked, making the youngsters start.

“What do you think you’re doing up here?” Harry growled menacingly at the boy, glaring one by one at the girls, furious that they would just stand there talking to the enemy. They were fully aware of what was going on. This was treason!

The Slytherin boy gave him a look of perfect innocent confusion. “I was just talking with my friends.” He gestured to the girls.

“Lets grab him, Harry,” Ron said darkly. “See what he knows.” He looked back at Dean. “This little prick was there when Malfoy took Hermione.” Dean’s expression darkened with understanding, and he and Seamus immediately moved up behind Ron, prepared to pounce.

Ron’s suggestion was tempting. Grab the little bastard and see what they could find out. He didn’t quite dare, there were too many witnesses.

“Hey,” one of the girls said uncertainly. “Sky was just saying hi.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t doing anything,” another girl put in.

Harry ignored them, searching the boy’s face as if he could find some clue in it. “So where is she, huh?” he asked with deceptive gentleness, stepping closer with the others flanking him. “You know where she is?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy said weakly.

“The hell you don’t.” Ron growled and suddenly made a grab for him. The kid was quicker, darting out of range.

“I didn’t do anything!” he yelped backing away, and Harry should have known something was up right then because the kid was looking at them with huge terrified eyes, his voice cracking with fear. “Leave me alone!”

“Stop it!” a girl with long black hair whined. “If you hurt Sky, I’ll tell the Headmaster and you’ll be expelled!”

“Celia, don’t!” Sky gasped, his eyes slid nervously to Harry. It was a beautiful performance. “You don’t want to get him mad at you. I’ll . . . I’ll just go, okay? Bye Celia.” He scampered quickly away.

“Sky, wait!” Celia cried. “Skyler!” She stared after his retreating form and then whirled on Harry and screeched, “You asshole! Sky’s been my friend since we were babies! Stop spreading lies about him!”

“THEY’RE NOT LIES!” Harry roared. “We were there. Malfoy took Hermione, and that little shit helped him! He’s dangerous! Stay away from him!” Seamus and the others froze at his outburst, the girls huddled together in fear.

Harry calmed instantly, seeing the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces, a little surprised himself at how violently angry he was. He was so furious, he was shaking.

He’d lost his temper again.

Celia backed away, tears pricking her angry eyes, her lower lip trembling. “Don’t think just because you’re popular that you can tell people what to do!” She turned on her heels and ran downstairs. The other girls were glaring at him.

He let out his breath. “Oh hell. Hey, I didn’t mean to shout. But it’s the truth. . . .” The girls just sniffed disbelievingly and gave him their backs, the troupe of them stomping downstairs.

He stared after them, realizing that he’d just alienated half of the Gryffindor fourth years. And there was no telling what spiteful little girls would do to get back at someone.

“Oops,” Dean said in the silence that followed.

“You were too hard on them,” Parvati said, softly disapproving.

“Damn,” Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead tiredly, the beginnings of a headache growing like a knot at the base of his skull. He’d botched it. It would be all over school by lunch. Harry Potter was a horrible ogre who screamed at little girls and ganged up on little boys. He hadn’t meant to yell at them.

Ron cursed suddenly. “Look!”

The kid, Sky, on one of the lower levels was looking up at them. The little bastard grinned wildly and flipped them off. “Not real bright, are you Potter?” he shouted, laughing as he pelted away.

They’d been set up. Harry realized in horror. The kid had known exactly how he would react to finding him trespassing. He’d walked right into it.

Seamus slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Nothing we can do right now. We’ll get ‘em back later.”

Harry nodded, tightlipped, and they headed downstairs.

The Great Hall was already full and bustling when they entered, and Harry saw Pansy and her court at the head of their table. The Slytherins ignored him as a unit, which was fine by him. Sky was already there and sitting beside Pansy, telling her something with a sly look on his face. Pansy noticed Harry and winked at him then leaned over to giggle with Sky.

He ignored her, his foul mood getting worse, only to have attention caught on Neville who was sitting a little apart from everyone else at the far end of the breakfast table. Neville glanced at him, then quickly away.

Harry set his jaw against the surge of guilt.

To be perfectly honest, Harry had had little time to worry about Neville. Between school, suspicious teachers, evil Slytherins, and leading the troops, he hardly had time to sleep. He certainly didn’t have the time, strength or inclination to try and cheer the other boy up. When he did think of Neville, it didn’t accomplish much except to make him feel angry or guilty so he couldn’t see the point of dwelling on it at all. It was just one more thing to weigh heavily on his mind.

He did feel badly about practically cutting the other boy off from all contact with them, but hell, he wasn’t going to compromise secret information to salvage Neville’s hurt feelings. Hermione was more important than that, and Neville just needed to get over it. He had chosen not to get involved, so . . . fine, Harry could accept that but that meant Neville just needed to stay out of it.

Harry would have apologized for the things he had said. He hadn’t meant for it to go that far. He’d just been . . . shocked. He understood that some people just weren’t meant for war. But Neville had taken him completely by surprise. He’d counted on Neville to back him up. He’d counted on Neville to believe him. He’d taken it for granted that he had Neville’s support.

When had that changed?

He wondered on a wave of exhaustion, if maybe Neville was just tired of fighting.

“I knew it!” Seamus was leering at Dean who was trying to ignore him. “You want to beat my eggs! You want to whip my cream! Come on. Churn my butter. Smile. See! You’re smiling! The thought of churning my butter makes you smile!”

“Oh-mi-gosh, Seamus!” Parvati squalled, throwing her fork down. “Shut up!”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Ron complained, burying his face in his hands.

Lavender leaned across the table and grabbed Seamus by the collar. “Stop hitting on my boyfriend!” she snarled.

“I can’t help it if he has dirty thoughts about me,” Seamus countered and made an all-encompassing gesture. “You all have dirty thoughts about me,” he said loudly and looked over at the fifth years. “I know you do.” He licked his lips at them, and all the little ones squealed in horror.

“You’re going to give them nightmares,” Ginny snapped, brandishing her banana at him, which only made him laugh harder.

“Potions has been canceled today.”

“What?” Harry looked over his shoulder to see Iona and two of her girlfriends hovering there.

The Gryffindors quieted, waiting.

“The word in Slytherin is that Snape left late last night and hasn’t been back since. Potions is cancelled.”

Harry and Ron exchanged glances, the same question in both their minds: Order business or Death Eater business? “You sure about this?” Harry asked.

She nodded, making a face as she handed Harry a note. “There’s a note on the classroom door. He left us a reading assignment. Are you going to ask Dumbledore about what’s going on?”

Harry frowned. “I’ll ask him but. . . .” He shrugged. Dumbledore had been aggravatingly close-lipped lately. All he would say, no matter what Harry asked, was to be patient and that Hermione was still alive. It was beginning to piss him off.

“They won’t tell Harry much,” Ginny said, buttering her toast. “They know if they give us any kind of a clue as to where she is, we’ll all be out there looking for her in a heartbeat. The only thing keeping us here is the promise of information.”

“Heads up,” A sixth year called, catching their attention.

Millicent Bulstrode was walking over to them and the Slytherin table had become oddly still. Harry knew they were watching Millicent, ready to leap to her defense, while pretending not to notice that she was going into enemy territory.

Iona looked nervous, probably afraid the Slytherins somehow knew they were being discussed. “I’ll see you later, Harry,” she whispered, and her and her friends hurried away.

The Gryffindors shifted in their seats, surreptitiously taking offensive positions.

“The Professors are watching,” Ginny said quietly, actually grabbing one of the Fifth Years by the wrist and twisting his arm until he yelped. “Hands on wands but don’t you dare draw.”

The Slytherin girl had nerve. She walked right up to him like she owned the place and put a hand on his shoulder. He started to tense to throw her off, but she hissed. “Make nice, Potter, everyone’s watching.”

He went still, fine tension thrumming through his body, jaw set, every nerve in his body aware of the hand on his shoulder. “What?” he snapped coldly.

“Pansy’s coming over to talk to you. She wants to discuss something. Make it look nice and friendly, okay?”

He thought about it for a second and finally nodded, not seeing much choice in the matter with the Professors watching. “Fine.”

“Good.” She straightened, releasing his shoulder, and moseyed off to parts unknown without so much as a backwards glance. Harry wondered why she wasn’t sticking around to defend her leader, or at least watch the show.

The Gryffindor table sat in tense silence, but Pansy took her time coming over. It seemed she wanted to at least pretend the two Slytherin visits were unrelated, which was ridiculous. No one was going to believe that random Slytherins were coming over to converse with him. On the other hand, she might just be relishing the opportunity to make him sit around and wait for her.

A group of Slytherins finally rose to leave, Pansy with them. The blond girl made a show of bidding them goodbye and practically skipped over to the Gryffindor table, coming to stand before him.

She gave him a dazzling smile. “Hi Harry,” she chirped sweetly, hands clasped together demurely in front of her. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he muttered while Parvati leaned forward with a pleasant smile and said, “You’re overdoing it, pug-face.”

“Arf-arf.” Lavender giggled.

Pansy shot her a freezing look but quickly relaxed. “I wanted to formally apologize for what happened in the . . . well, you know.” She fidgeted nervously. “This is awkward.” She took a breath, raising her eyes to smile at him again, a becoming pink tint to her cheeks. “I am really sorry about our misunderstanding. It was a terrible mix-up and it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t happen again?” he repeated incredulously.

A hint of something mischievous flashed through her eyes. “Well, that scenario as it happened, I can promise you won’t ever happen again.” She purred, waving a finely manicured hand dismissively.

“You mean me kicking your ass.” He stated coolly.

“Yeah that.” She agreed, perking up. “So. . . .” She clapped her hands together. “That’s it, apology accepted.” She stated as if they had forgiven her.

“What?” Seamus practically yelped in disbelief.

“You wish!” Lavender scoffed.

“Can I sit down?” she asked Harry, pointing to the bench.

“Er. . . .”

She glanced at Ron who was glaring murderously at her and whispered to Harry, “Can you get your boyfriend to skootch over?”

“Parkinson. . . .” Harry started, because the redhead looked like he was about to start yelling.

“That’s okay. I’ll sit in your lap.”

“NO!” Harry yelped and the Gryffindors--as one--jerked to their respective sides, making a clearing on the bench.

“Thank you,” she said primly and sat.

“Damnit, Parkinson, what do you want?” he snarled, face red and mentally berating himself for getting flustered. She wanted him off balance, it would make it easier for her to get whatever she was after.

“I heard what Sky did to you. Dirty little prank, but boys will be boys.” She sighed happily and selected a raspberry Danish. “You should really thank him though. The way you reacted to him this morning was just the type of thing that will get us all into more trouble. So next time you’ll know to hold your temper.”

“Is there a point in this somewhere?”

She smiled at him blindingly and propped her chin up on her palm, her voice lowering considerably. “Listen up, mother fucker, Monday our punishment is officially over but next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend. That is, if you assholes don’t do something to ruin it. So I’m proposing a truce until after Hogsmeade weekend.”

Harry stared at her. Hogsmeade weekend. She wanted to make sure it was still on. “No deal,” he said immediately, tight and clipped, and turned back to his plate.

If she knew what they had planned. . . .

It was quickly apparently that she didn’t because shock flashed across her face. “B-but Harry,” she stuttered, forcing a smile. “Surely, you’re not planning on cheating all of us out of our Hogsmeade weekend. . . .”

“Is it important to you?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Uh. . . .”

“Then, hell yes, that’s exactly what I plan.” He stated, praying she didn’t call his bluff, praying that Parvati, who was looking surprised and disappointed, would keep her mouth shut.

Pansy didn’t say anything for a long moment, and he refused to look at her, but he suspected she was altering her plan of attack. “Harry,” she began cajolingly.

“You heard him, Parkinson,” Ron cut her off. “Get out of here.”

“Yeah, Fido, go eat scraps under your own table,” Lavender spat.

The girl clenched her jaw but continued to ignore the others. “Alright, you son of a bitch,” Pansy hissed, face now red, eyes no longer sparkling prettily. “You want to play hardball. We’ll cut a deal.”

“How’s this for a deal, you don’t piss me off, and I don’t cancel Hogsmeade weekend.”

“What?” she asked sharply. He felt a rush of triumph at the look on her face.

He turned and lowered his head till they were eye level. “No truce. There’s no way in hell I’m giving you carte blanche to go wherever you want in Gryffindor territory. If this is so important to you then be a good little girl and don’t piss me off and maybe, just maybe, I won’t cancel Hogsmeade weekend.”

She stared at him like she wasn’t sure if she’d heard right, her mouth working silently. “You think you can just. . . .”

“I know I can ‘just’,” He cut her off harshly. “I don’t care about Hogsmeade weekend so you’d better think before you act. If you or anyone else puts even a toe out of line, I’ll make sure every single Hogsmeade weekend we have this year is canceled.”

“And that’s it?” She sounded disbelieving.

“My final word,” he finished coolly.

Pansy made a sound of absolute disgust and stood up jerkily, but Harry caught her wrist tightly.

“Hey! Stop it!” she yelped, then lowered her voice. “The Professors are watching you idiot! Don’t get us in trouble!”

He pulled her down till they were face to face, her eyes suddenly wide. “Remember, Pansy, we have unfinished business,” he whispered.

She gasped and jerked out of his grasp, rubbing her wrist and staring at him as if he’d suddenly grown another head before she stormed away, casting a wary glance back at him. The Gryffindors glared after her.

“That was beautiful, Harry,” Dean chuckled.

“I can’t stand the way she acts.” Lavender sniffed. “Like she owns the place.”

Harry sat back, letting the tension slip away. Pansy had underestimated him. She had approached him thinking, and rightly so, that he had big plans for Hogsmeade weekend, the same as she obviously did. Her little attack had a two-fold purpose; one was to tie his hands for another week. The second was to find out just how important Hogsmeade weekend was to him. If she came to the conclusion that it would be worth it, she would screw him over and make sure the weekend got canceled.

Only it hadn’t worked. Now her hands were tied, and his weren’t. Now it was him who would decide whether or not to cancel the weekend.

The Gryffindors abandoned breakfast and headed upstairs to grab their backpacks and make a few last minute adjustments to their schedule.

Several changes had been made to the House defenses. The human sentinels inside the Gryffindor common room had been replaced by a couple of new paintings who had volunteered to check the secondary passwords each kid had as they came in.

Su Li had managed to copy the Maurader’s Map. There were now three, one for Harry, one for Ron, and one that stayed inside the girls’ dorm and could be enlarged and projected onto the wall during their meetings. Over the last week the Gryffindors had tracked most of the Slytherin upperclassmen and now knew Pansy and Idane’s schedules by heart, had even charted a few of Slytherin’s secret rooms.

Su was currently working on a way to give the Gryffindors a sort of personal alarm system that would alert the other Gryffindors if they were attacked. She had pretty much taken over working on the Gryffindor defenses.

Harry and the seventh years were focused completely on their plan of attack.

Harry grabbed his book bag and followed the other boys out of the room. He hesitated at the door, wondering briefly if he should leave the magic booby traps he’d set up open in case Neville came back. The other boy’s homework was still lying scattered haphazardly over his bed.

“Harry!” Ginny said, flying up the stairs. “We just checked the map. Neville is with Millicent Bulstrode.”

Harry whipped around, face bloodless. “She’ll kill him! Where are they? Ron and I will. . . .”

“No, Harry,” Ginny said gently, pausing to catch her breath, “Drew says Neville followed her out of the Great Hall. He’s meeting with her in secret of his own free will. He’s been with her for the past fifteen minutes.”

Harry stood silently in the doorway letting that sink in.

“Harry?” Ginny asked, reaching for him with one hand but stopping.

He pivoted, raised his wand and made a slashing motion, arming all the traps.

“Harry. . . .” Ginny said again sympathetically.

“Come on,” He said sharply and turned violently to head downstairs, Ginny following.

oooo

It had been a week of reassuring calm at Hogwarts. Nothing at all out of the ordinary happened. The students had their meals, attended their classes and went back to their Houses and that was it. It was a little cramped, a problem which was eventually solved by the older students kicking the younger ones out of their Common Rooms and making them stay in their dorms. Boredom quickly became a problem, but really, boredom was a nice change of pace.

Everyone was still smarting a bit under the punishment they had received, but it was almost over, and as morale picked up, there were grumbles from the older students that, if the other Houses kept getting them into trouble, something was going to be done about it.

Slytherin and Gryffindor though, were behaving themselves quite well and everyone agreed that the worst was over. The importance of the House rivalry declined. Interest in the happenings of the summer waned.

So a couple of kids disappeared. So what? Life goes on.

A cheery mood picked up in the halls.

Hogwarts was back to normal.

Only it wasn’t, and Neville envied those unobservant enough to think it was from his seat far down at the end of the breakfast table, exiled to sit with the younger years. He watched the other seventh year Gryffindors walk in the door.

They always came to breakfast as a unit, and that just seemed like rubbing it in. It wasn’t enough that he was a pariah in his own House, Neville had been banished to sit with the Third Years during meals because Harry didn’t want him to overhear anything that might be discussed, and the Fifth and Sixth years were pissed and wanted nothing to do with him.

“It’s nothing personal, Neville,” Harry had mumbled. “Its just. . . .”

Just that we can’t trust you, traitor.

It didn’t have to be said.

What. The. Hell.

Did Harry honestly think he was going to tell somebody what he had heard? Or maybe Harry thought he would try to stop them.

It was insulting.

Harry had been nice and chose the Seventh Year girl’s dorms as his main base of operations. Neville laid awake at night in the empty room and listened to the rest of them sneak in later and try to whisper about their plans low enough so the traitor wouldn’t overhear. Or maybe they wanted him to overhear. Maybe they were going to try and use him to spread rumors or test his loyalty by seeing if anything he overheard spread to the rest of the Hogwarts population.

Sometimes he came in, and they were all gathered together in the Common Room and they would stop talking and stare at him until he plodded up the stairs to his dorm, beet-red and knowing that they all thought he was a coward who didn’t care what happened to Hermione. He couldn’t even hide in the library like he wanted to because of Dumbledore’s punishment.

He hated it.

Most of the Seventh Years were still speaking to him. Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati were still kind to him and didn’t seem to be holding a grudge. But even they wouldn’t tell him what was going on.

Harry had been giving him looks the past couple of days that were half-angry and half-regretful. Neville was sure Harry wanted to at least apologize and try to mend things between them, (They were war-buddies! They’d fought alongside each other against Death Eaters! Couldn’t Harry just respect Neville’s opinion? Maybe even consider it?) but Harry kept stopping himself. He couldn’t accept Neville’s decision, and there was silence between them.

Ron, on the other hand, didn’t seem the least inclined towards forgiveness. There was a black fury in Ron’s eyes whenever he looked at Neville. And Neville knew Ron took his passive stance on the ‘battle of Hogwarts’ as unforgivable betrayal. He made sure to steer clear from the red-head.

Ginny was a little sharp and clipped with him, but she seemed to understand where he was coming from and kept the Sixth and Fifth Years off his back.

All in all, it was incredibly lonely and incredibly frustrating.

There was this restlessness inside him. He believed whole-heartedly in the stand he’d taken. He didn’t think war on the Slytherins was the answer, that hurting each other wasn’t going to get them anywhere. But so far, all he’d been doing was sitting the war-thing out.

When his righteous anger wore off, he realized he wasn’t exactly accomplishing anything. Sure, he wasn’t helping the war along but he certainly wasn’t doing anything to stop it either. He was just sitting on his ass watching the other students hurt each other. Wasn’t inaction just as bad as the action itself?

A ripple went through the Gryffindors and Neville looked up curiously to see Millicent Bulstrode approaching the head of the table. The Seventh Years had gone stiff and still, like hunting dogs. Neville watched Millicent lazily lean in and say something quietly to Harry.

Harry’s face darkened, but he nodded sharply, and Millicent looked satisfied and sauntered away. Neville caught her eyes as she passed, and she glared at him blackly.

“What are you looking at, you big dumb horse’s ass?” she spat.

Which, of course, was her bashful way of saying, “Hi Neville! How are you doing this beautiful morning?”

“What are you smiling at, fucktard?” Her voice rose slightly, promising pain and suffering if he didn’t at least pretend to be terrified. He looked down at his breakfast, pushing his eggs around on his plate. She moved on, muttering.

He flicked a glance to make sure she wasn’t looking, and, when he knew it was safe, rolled his eyes.

She was mad at him, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. She’d been extra caustic to him since that night she . . . er, helped him out, and then punched him in the gut.

But at least she noticed him. That was something considering she usually didn’t seem to know he existed.

That was his fault.

He’d been best friends with her, Terry Boot and Crabbe (when Crabbe wasn’t running with Goyle and Draco and picking on him) when they were younger. Best friends until that stupid Sorting Hat had put them in different Houses and effectively ended their friendship.

To be fair, the Hat had started it, but he, like the terminal screw-up he was, had helped it along. He’d been frightened and uncomfortable with Milly and Crabbe being Slytherins. He had started distancing himself from them immediately, something made easy by the fact that he hardly ever saw them, now that he was safe and secure in his new House.

To him, being Slytherin was equivalent to admitting to being a Death Eater in training. Like it was some sort of prerequisite to getting the mark. And he didn’t want to hang around with people like that. He was a Gryffindor after all, and Gryffindors fight Slytherins and Gryffindors fight Death Eaters and, well, if they were going to be Death Eaters then he’d fight them too.

What arrogance. What a stupid, arrogant coward.

It was one of the reasons he identified with, and recognized, Harry’s hatred of Slytherins. Neville hated the people who had hurt his parents, and they were Death Eaters and Slytherins. His family and general society had raised him with the belief that most Death Eaters were Slytherins, and most Slytherins were young Death Eaters. It was the same with Harry. Harry came to the Wizarding world from a Muggle life, and everything bad that had happened to him since then, happened because of Slytherins and Death Eaters. Snape, Draco, Lucius, Voldemort, the Lestranges. Slytherins and Death Eaters.

But Neville was wizard born, and it was easier for him, as he grew older, to separate Slytherins from Death Eaters, to realize that most of the Slytherins were defensive and angry because everyone looked at them like they were young Death Eaters just waiting to pounce. Some of them were even pushed into it, seeming to think that it was what was expected of them.

Separating Slytherins and Death Eaters was a concept that seemed harder for Harry to grasp, partly because he had little evidence to support such a divide and partly because he had grown up with Muggles and really had never been out in the real Wizarding world. He didn’t know that Paulo Geffen, who owned a bakery shop in Hogsmeade and who was a perfectly decent human being, had been a Slytherin. He didn’t know that Jill Orion, who was an amazing seamstress and who always sent Neville a birthday card and who hated the Death Eaters with every fiber of her being, had been a Slytherin.

Hogwarts was Harry’s whole world. He had yet to understand that House had very little to do with life after school. He was basically a foreigner, and there were certain underlying cultural nuances that he didn’t have, and would never have.

Cultural nuances or not, Harry needed to get over it.

You can’t just hate people and expect the world to get better.

He glanced at Harry and glumly thought, of course you can’t just sit on your fat ass and expect the world to get better either.

When he was younger, he’d been too scared of the other Slytherins to try and keep up his relationship with Milly and Vince. He had let it come between them as if it meant something. He even wondered if Milly and Vince had sensed his misgivings about them. He wondered now, had he ever brushed them off? Had they ever done something to approach him only to have him look away and pretend they didn’t exist? Did they start believing the things he thought about Slytherins and Death Eaters to be true? It would be irony indeed if it was his fault that the two of them joined Voldemort.

Terry, separated from all of them, had picked up friends in his new House and forgot they even existed except for the occasional polite meaningless, ‘hi,’ in the hallways. It was only later that he learned that Terry started hanging out with Milly and Vince quite often again in their third year. Once again, he was the odd man out. It seemed like he was always the one who got overlooked, and it was always his own fault.

It was Fourth Year when he started mooning over Millicent, even though most of the time he was too afraid to even look in her direction for too long. He’d watched her shyly, tried to get her attention in little ways but she never noticed. He almost asked her to the dance Fourth Year, but he was pretty sure, even now, that she would have just done something particularly painful and inventive to him. And why shouldn’t she? What had he done to deserve any sort of friendliness from her? She’d gone through some major shit over the years, and he hadn’t been around because he thought he was too good for her.

Last year, he’d felt brave enough to try and start to mend their relationship, only to find out she was dating Crabbe. And it wasn’t like when she was dating Derrick, which only lasted two months, or when she dated that Ravenclaw friend of Terry’s, and they fought so much that he wasn’t worried. Crabbe and Milly were serious.

He knew when he saw Crabbe--pacing back and forth in front of a flower shop during a Hogsmeade weekend, staring at the flowers like they were dangerous animals that were going to devour him whole if he approached them wrong--that it was serious.

Milly laughing happily. “I asked him if he was trying to tell me something, and he just looks at me like a lump, and I had to break it to him that he’d bought me pansies.”

He knew when he saw Crabbe, big, bumbling, clueless Crabbe, kiss her on the cheek, gentle and sweet as spring rain, that it was very serious.

And that was funny because Crabbe was the one man Neville was certain he could outmaneuver in the dating department. A rock wearing a tie was probably more suave then Crabbe would ever be.

Millicent and Crabbe had since ended the relationship, and Neville wasn’t about to let this chance slip by. It could be his last chance. He didn’t know where Millicent was going or what she was doing after Hogwarts. Maybe she was all signed up to join Voldemort. One way or the other he couldn’t just let it go without knowing.

He set his fork down, got up and followed her out of the Great Hall.

She turned down a corridor he knew would eventually take her to the dungeons and gulped, worrying so much about how to approach her without anyone else seeing, and without getting his ass kicked, that he was completely unprepared when he turned a corner and found her waiting for him, arms crossed over her chest and her mouth set in an angry line.

Neville started, squeaking in an embarrassing and completely unmanly way.

Her eyebrows rose. “Was that your idea of stealth? Because it needs work.”

“I . . . sorry, it’s just . . . erm.” He realized he was making stupid fluttery hand gestures that were utterly failing to explain what his lack of eloquence was not saying and flushed even more, wrenching his arms to his sides.

“Did somebody up and smack you with a stupid-charm?” she asked seriously.

At least ‘stupid’ was nicer than ‘fucktard’. Maybe she was in a good mood.

“Er . . . I need to talk to you.”

She blinked, looking completely unsurprised. “Okay.” She shrugged, reached into her robes and pulled out a glittering switchblade with a black handle and a small but sharp-looking three-inch blade. “Start talking, little boy, but the toll is a cut for every two minutes.”

The blood drained from his face and he backed away, hands raised, palms forward, stuttering. “Hey. I don’t . . . I don’t. . . .”

Pain. Torture. Crucio.

“You don’t need to talk that badly?” she asked silkily, running the flat over her palm and stalking him. “I understand.”

Anger spiked through him and gave him courage. He stopped retreating and took a breath. “Just a cut?” he asked sharply, retaking his ground. “Do I get to choose where?”

And he had the satisfaction of seeing Milly startled. Finally, she tilted her head at him and looked interested. “Alright.” She glanced down the hallway. “But not here. Follow me. There’s an empty classroom over here.”

Oh great, seclusion with the knife-wielding Slytherin. This had to be his best idea ever.

The classroom had obviously not been used in a long time. It was dark and dusty, the windows shuttered. Millicent wandered up to the head of the class and hefted herself up to sit on the Professor’s table facing him, crossing her ankles. He idled by one of the wooden desks, noticing that “MF KB” had been etched inside of a heart on the desktop.

“Well?” Millicent barked irritably when he didn’t say anything. “You’re being timed.”

“I. . . .” He looked up and realized he had no idea what he was going to say to her. “I guess . . . I guess, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” she asked incredulously. “O—kay. What wonderfully worthless information. Thank you for sharing.”

He kept his eyes on his toes and ignored her. “For the way I’ve treated you. I owe you a really big apology. You and Crabbe.”

A small pause, maybe an indrawn breath. “What are you talking about?”

“When we came to Hogwarts, we stopped being friends. Because of me. Because I didn’t like that you were a Slytherin. I thought it mattered. It shouldn’t be like that.”

“Oh, Merlin, what is this, a confession? Do you really think I give a damn about what you think?”

He hesitated, slightly deflated. “I want to apologize for abandoning you guys. And I want to try . . . I want us to be friends again.” He looked up at her, wanting her to see that he was serious.

His expression fell when he saw the cruel grin on her face, the laughter in her eyes. “Oooh, I get it,” she chuckled. “This is rich. Honestly, Longbottom, did you have to choose one right from the Slytherin playbook?”

“What?” he asked quietly, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Her smirk widened. “The rumor that Potter’s kicked you out is all over school. Now suddenly you come to me, wanting to be best friends, wanting me to share all kinds of information with you. Aw, how incredibly transparent of you.”

He flushed, struggling to defend himself. “It’s not like that!”

“No?” she asked sweetly.

“NO! I’m not going to help Harry. What he’s doing is wrong. And you’re wrong too.”

“Really?” she purred.

“Yes. Think about it! You’re smart, you’d know if you just stopped to think for a moment that none of this adds up. It doesn’t make sense! None of it makes sense. Tell me, Milly.” he stepped towards her, head high, eyes fierce. “Tell me the truth. Do you really believe Hermione kidnapped Malfoy?”

She actually hesitated, going very still and then she clucked her tongue at him. “The truth, Longbottom, is that I don’t care one way or the other. I’m just following Pansy’s orders.”

“But that’s just it! They’re dangerous orders! We’re going to tear Hogwarts apart from the inside. It’s like every year we get closer and closer to the edge. Harry and the others are going to be expelled. Pansy and you are going to hurt people. Dumbledore’s going to get fired. Who benefits from that, Milly? WHO?”

She stared at him.

“Did you know Umbridge tried to kill Harry,” he asked her. “Did you know that? First they took away our right to defend ourselves and then they tried to turn this school into a giant brainwashing hamster cage, and those who didn’t conform were turned into prisoners. If they oust Dumbledore, the Ministry will own us, Lucius Malfoy will own us. They’re out to get us, Milly! Hogwarts needs to be protected!”

“Great conspiracy theory, hon. And let me guess, you’re going to save us?” she asked snidely, but he could see the laughter was gone from her face.

“I refuse to believe you don’t care. Harry was right about one thing--I can’t sit around and do nothing. We need to find out the truth. We need to show everyone what’s really happening.”

“What’s really happening? Tell me, if you’re so clever, what is really happening?” she mocked.

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” She sneered.

“Truthfully, Milly, does Pansy really believe that Harry and Hermione took Draco?”

Millicent nodded without hesitation and then slyly said, “Are you telling me that there is absolutely no chance that Potter did?”

Neville hesitated. He thought of Harry and of his hatred for Slytherin and for just an instant, he doubted. But then he shook his head. “There are men who would. There’s a war going on and the sacrifice of one kid would be worth it in their eyes. But not Harry’s.”

Her eyelashes lowered. “What about Dumbledore’s?”

Neville gave her a lopsided smile. “The only reason Dumbledore would kidnap Draco would be to protect him.”

Uncertainty flashed behind her eyes, and he nearly crowed in delight. She shook her head. “You’re misplaced faith in them is not proof. Besides, what if you’re right? What if Draco took Granger? What if he’s killed her?”

“That changes nothing,” Neville whispered. “I’ll fight him, not Hogwarts.”

She sat back, eyes hooded, tongue briefly touching her lips as whatever devious little thoughts in her head were sorted and calculated and brought to their conclusion. “And you’ll fight me.”

Neville felt his mouth twist. “Yes. If you side with him. If you become a Death Eater.”

“Alright.” She hopped down from the desk. “This little chat is over.” She glanced at the clock. “You’ve wasted twenty minutes of my precious limited youth. That’s ten cuts, oh my.”

“Twenty minutes?” he sputtered. “How do you figure twenty. . . .” His eyes locked on the blade and he drew himself up, breathing in sharply as she advanced on him.

“Not going to run?” she asked him darkly, stopping in front of him. “My wand isn’t drawn. You had plenty of time to run.”

“Gryffindors don’t run. I agreed to this.” He swallowed hard.

She looked disgusted. “You really are a dumbass. Where do you want it?” The blade flashed under his nose in a deadly arc, and he flinched.

He thought quickly and drew the sleeve of his robe up, exposing his upper arm. Lots of muscle, less damage. “Right here.”

She looked at his arm, the pale smooth skin, and snapped, “You sure? Want to rethink that? You get to choose where.”

“Right there,” he repeated firmly and gasped when the blade sliced like cold fire through his skin. Blood welled up and poured down his arm. It wasn’t a deep cut.

“Where?” she snarled, blade raised. She looked furious.

“Another there,” he said hoarsely, trying not to panic at the blood, wondering how much he would lose from ten cuts.

“You get to choose where,” she repeated through clenched teeth. “Are you sure this is where you want it?”

“Yes,” And then he hissed as the blade struck again, crossing the other cut, making an ‘x’.

“You deserved that just for being a retard! Now where?”

He let his sleeve down and pulled up the other one.

“What the fuck!” And he was startled by her outburst. “Why don’t you run?”

He looked away, jaw set. “My parents suffered much worse than this. More than I could ever imagine. I can bear a little pain.”

Her fists clenched, and she took a deep breath. “Longbottom.” She said like she was trying not to scream at him. “I said the price was ten cuts. You asked if you got to choose where, and I said yes. You get to choose where. Anywhere. Do you understand me, dumb fuck? ANYWHERE.”

He stared at her, her words finally sinking in. “Anywhere?”

“Isn’t that what I just SAID?” She did yell at him now.

His sleeve dropped. “Like, like if I said, I wanted the other eight cuts on . . . on this desk?”

“Then I would say ‘oh darn, you’ve outsmarted me, I guess I didn’t notice that GIANT FUCKING LOOPHOLE’.”

“I want the rest of the cuts on the desk.” He said quickly, squeakily, pointing to make sure.

“Get out of here. You deserved the two you got.”

“Thanks Milly.” And he knew better than to stick around after saying that. He scrambled for the door before she could react and paused there, watching her begin to scratch something into the desktop with the blade point. She seemed to be taking a lot more than eight cuts but he didn’t mind.

He wondered what she wrote there and doubted it was what he wanted it to be, but allowed himself to dream anyway. Maybe he’d even come back here one day and look.

He fled.

oooo

Dreams of Hermione.

They came and went like hummingbirds through his mind, a flash of color, ephemeral. He could never quite catch them, and he wasn’t always certain they had been there to begin with. He would glimpse honey curls, a flicker of brown eyes, hear a distant laughing voice calling his name, “Harry!” But when he turned, only the strange landscapes of his mind were there to greet him, and she was gone far away. It was like a badly tuned radio station, fading in and out, sometimes so clear that he could reach out and touch her cheek and sometimes as if they were connected only by the meanest thread.

She was often there running about in the background, not really part of his dream, not really obtainable, lost in a world that he could see but not touch, a world that had little to do with his own. His own dreams became mazes, as if every one was a room full of ominous doors, and if he was lucky maybe one of them would lead him to her, and he would almost reach her before she faded away.

Lucidity came in varying degrees. Most of the time, it didn’t even register in his mind that there was anything significant in her appearance there. He sometimes forgot that she was lost. Other times he was happy to see her, bursting with the vague, half-formed idea that seeing her was something to be excited about, but he couldn’t always remember why it was so important that he talk to her, why he felt so sad and why he sometimes had the terrible feeling that, though she stood before him smiling, she would soon be gone far beyond his reach.

He was never fully aware, never completely rational, but sometimes he was clear-headed enough to realize he was dreaming. Only there was no guarantee that Hermione would be in the same state. He might ask her the most desperate of questions, only to find that her mind was too deeply buried in slumber to understand.

“Where are you, Hermione? Tell me where you are! Where is Malfoy? Where did he take you?”

“What do you mean, Harry? I’m right here.”

“But you’re not here! He kidnapped you!”

She shook her head. “I have to find the secret thing, and the wolf doesn’t know where it is. The others do, but they’re not talking. I thought the unicorn might, but it doesn’t know either. The frogs know. They know where to find the secret thing but I can’t understand what they’re saying.”

She spoke in riddles, rambling on about nonsensical things.

“I just realized it’s all the same. North and South and I could be home. I could be home right now but I’d walk right through you. Its like layers so thin they’re right on top of each other, but you don’t see them.”

“Hermione, what are you talking about?”

She looked up at him earnestly. “We’re blind, Harry, every one of us. We’re blind.”

She said the most terrifying things.

“I met a God,” She told him dreamily. “I met a God, and It ate me. It swallowed me whole, sucked my dreams away like marrow from my bones.”

“Hermione. . . .” he groaned, holding her dream-self by the shoulders, urging her to, for lack of a better word, wake up.

“No.” She frowned, looking thoughtful. “It wasn’t me. It was someone else. There’re three of them, and they’re all together but all alone. The God loves them.” She started to cry.

Other times it was she who spoke to him with rapid urgency and palpable frustration, and he knew the words were terribly important, but they were muddled or quickly forgotten in his sleep-fogged mind, fading just as they reached his ears.

If only he could remember. . . .

“Harry, we’re in a forest! I don’t know where. There was a portkey, a portkey brought us here, but I don’t know what it looks like, I never saw it.”

“There’s something here with us, Harry. Something terrible. I thought we were alone, but we’re not.”

“It has to do with the Malfoy name. If only I could find the link. . . .”

“Oh Harry, listen to me! Try to listen!”

And rarely, very rarely, they came together in a maddeningly not-quite-conscious state that allowed them to exchange a brief few words.

They stood together, side by side, in a room full of people. It seemed like some sort of nightclub. It was dark, everyone was dancing, strobe lights were flashing and they could both feel the pound of the base thrumming through their bodies, but the music was strangely muffled, distant. In each corner of the room there was a large slumbering lion and a tall brass torch.

Harry stepped up beside her. “Am I dreaming of you . . . or are you dreaming of me?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

“You missed Snape’s pop quiz.”

“Did I? I wonder why? Where was I?”

“I think you were off looking for more books. But you’d better stop missing class or you’ll get detention.”

“Yeah.” All of the lions sat up, heaving themselves up, tails lashing, and the people filed from the room.

He hesitated. “There’s something really important we’re forgetting. . . .”

She sighed. “I know. I can never remember until it’s too late.”

He caught her by the shoulder, sensing somehow that time was short. “I love you, Hermione. I wanted to tell you before, but I was too scared. Now it’s too late.”

“I love you too, Harry.” She told him simply, smiling a little.

“There are a lot of things I never told you. I knew you’d think badly of me.”

She flicked his dark bangs out of his face. “It’s trivial now. It doesn’t mean anything. The only thing that matters is that we find each other again. You can’t do this alone, so I’ll come home. I promise.”

And he knew then, clearer than he would ever know it again. “But you’re not coming home to me, are you?” The lions reared up on their hind legs and became statues. “Hermione?”

“ . . . No. I’m sorry.”

Malfoy had become much more common in Harry’s dreams as well, and he was royally disgusted with his subconscious for daring to conjure up the ferret.

Luckily, Malfoy wasn’t as frequent a visitor as Hermione, nor did he interact with Harry that often. Most of the time he was off in the distance alone, absorbed in some strange task. Once Harry had seen him, dressed in tattered mockery of royal clothes, riding what looked like a shaggy, crippled unicorn with its back legs bent at strange angles. Another time, Harry found himself following Hermione, walking on the surface of a giant oily lake, and when he looked down he saw Malfoy struggling deep down beneath the water.

Although Hermione often appeared alone, Malfoy only appeared when Hermione was in the dream as well. Malfoy only interacted with Harry when both he and Hermione were close by. Then it was always a fight. Malfoy always drove him away, screaming at him angrily to leave, shoving, punching and shouting obscenities until Harry jerked awake.

Then one night Malfoy appeared alone.

He was standing in a forest, an exquisitely detailed forest, not fogged in the least by his sleepy mind. He could feel the cold, wet breeze on his face and make out the shape of the leaves on the trees and every twig and branch on the ground, only it was all gray, colorless--lifeless. There were animals walking around, weird stick-like creatures that stumbled about with wide, sightless, soulless eyes, and slack, drooling mouths.

He held very still but one of them saw him, teetered towards him, blank white eyes fixed on his face, its throat working as if it was trying to make some sound, and the others around it followed. He jerked away in repulsion, tripping backwards in his haste. The creatures neither sped up nor slowed down, just kept coming slowly, inescapably. The one’s throat worked so hard that white bubbles leaked from its open mouth and black fluid seeped like tears from another’s eyes and they closed in on him and . . .

“What are you doing?” Asked someone curiously.

Harry whipped around to find Malfoy standing behind him. Malfoy, colorless as everything else, wearing heavy cotton robes, his hair slicked back neatly. Malfoy looked at him oddly, almost fiercely and without a shred of recognition. There was something--off--about him, something that raised the hair on Harry’s arms, as if he wasn’t looking at a person, but a dangerous animal.

“Malfoy!” he hissed, finding his voice, glancing around quickly and realizing that the strange animals were gone.

The other boy’s expression flickered. “Who are you?” he asked, faint surprise coloring his voice.

Harry hesitated. “W-where’s Hermione?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated Harry. “You don’t belong here,” he said, and his expression darkened with dawning realization and something like fear. He drew back a step. “You came here on your own,” he accused, mouth twisting into an angry snarl.

“Malfoy, what. . . ?”

“Goodbye.”

Something huge rose up behind Malfoy. It rose up and up, and it was so huge that it blocked out the sun. It was so huge, it blocked out the world, it became the world. Harry looked, unable to help himself. It was the most beautiful and terrible thing he had ever seen, and it was the only blurry thing in his dream because, and he knew this somehow, his tiny, feeble mind could not comprehend it. He was insignificant. He was nothing.

How could a mortal comprehend a God?

And then it spoke to him, and its words were like the death of a star, so huge and crashing and unfathomable. A sound, a feeling, an experience no mortal should bear. And as the world shook apart, he remembered that a Mandrake’s cry was fatal, and that the eyes of a Basilisk would kill, and he covered his ears but he heard anyway, he could see the sound, like shock waves, and his body went rigid as his insides solidified. Every living, breathing ounce of warmth and life in his body was sucked out.

He froze to death on the spot.

He became a pillar of ice.

Harry woke in full convulsions, his heart stuttering in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he struggled to stay conscious, his lips blue, mouth foaming. His jerking body flailed clumsily and fell out of bed. The painful jolt of hitting the ground, forehead slamming into the cold floor, seemed to jump-start his lungs, and the air was like razor blades in his dry lungs. He wheezed it in and screamed it out, numb fingers clawing and tearing at the floor against the pain, ripping his fingernails, blood smearing across the stone.

His heart seized once more, and he arched up off the floor but the pressure suddenly released, like a clamp opening, and the failing organ began pounding like a sledgehammer in his chest, strong and steady. He coughed violently and slumped against the floor, blood staining his lips, shuddering and weak, only distantly able to hear Ron and the others, hollering for help.

In the midst of that chaos he had a brief moment of clarity, a brief moment to realize that the dreams were more than just his rambling mind.

Because he had nearly died.

Somehow Draco Malfoy had tried to kill him.

oooo

Severus Snape strode with swift steps down the corridors of Hogwarts towards the infirmary, every crack of his heels on the stone floor radiating his fury.

It was six in the morning, and he had barely had time to return his personal effects to his room and catch four hours of much-needed sleep after making his report to the Headmaster, when he was summoned once again, the ghost messenger informing him fretfully with wringing hands and a positively revolting display of anxiety, that young Harry Potter had taken ill.

His lip curled, a torch on the wall flickering wildly as he stormed past, robes snapping.

Nightmares.

Poor Harry Potter had nightmares. Sound the alarm! Rouse the troops! Adorn sackcloth and anoint yourself with ashes, the mighty hero has been robbed of his beauty sleep.

What utter rubbish! He could not understand why the Headmaster continued to condone this obvious and gratuitous cosseting of a boy who, by legal rights, was an adult. It was ridiculous! Shielding him from the real world would not allow him to learn the skills to survive. Jumping at his every whim and showering him with attention every time he scraped his knee was not only spoiling him but inflating that already oversized sense of self-importance along with that infuriating ‘woe is me’ attitude the whelp carried around like a funeral shroud.

Well, if they expected him to coddle the little ingrate, they had another thing coming. Life was tough. Deal with it.

He wasn’t feeling all that wonderful himself. The expedition had been tougher on him then expected and left him feeling cold, weak--drained.

After fleeing the forest, he had briefly considered taking an unconscious Lucius Malfoy to St. Mungo’s but decided he’d rather not chance the publicity. That left him with two choices, either take Lucius to an Order member or to the Dark Lord. Both options left him cringing and in the end he’d taken Lucius back to Malfoy mansion, basically throwing him at Narcissa and wishing him the best.

But Lucius, it turned out, wasn’t all that ill, and he had his own private healer besides. Problem solved. Severus had wanted to leave immediately to report back to the Headmaster but Lucius was awake enough to demand he stay and threatened to go straight to the Dark Lord if Severus didn’t. Rather than deal with that particular barrel of fun, Snape had opted to stay.

He and Lucius had a rather interesting discussion, and then Lucius shut himself up in a room downstairs for a few hours. Severus had passed the time stalking about the mansion and then in an even more interesting talk with Serge Lestrange. It was midnight when Lucius came searching for him and demanded to accompany him to see the Headmaster. He hadn’t liked it, but figured he could satisfy Lucius and then have a real talk with Dumbledore later.

It turned out that there really wasn’t anything to hide. He had presented everything he had found on his expedition and everything he had experienced, had explained that the memory of the dark presence in the forest was still so fresh he could feel it pounding in his skull, taste it like something bitter in the back of his mouth.

Dumbledore had become graver and more solemn with every word. Severus could almost see the wheels in his head spinning as he placed every word, no doubt with astonishing accuracy, into the giant puzzle that was slowly filling out before them. He knew better than to expect the Headmaster’s input immediately, Dumbledore would meditate on what was said before revealing his own insights.

Lucius had offered little to the meeting, choosing to remain silent for the most part and explaining away his presence by saying only that he had Apparated to Draco’s most recent location once the clouding auras that shielded the children had cleared away. That suggested that Malfoy had been within the forest for most of the day, but the blond man simply refused to enlighten them as to just how he had occupied those hours.

The only time Lucius spoke without being asked a direct question was when the subject of Draco came up. Lucius had sworn adamantly that the boy they had encountered in the forest was not Draco, and had become angry when Severus argued with him. Snape figured this was his way of covering for his son after the boy’s blatant admission to murder.

Except Hermione Granger was still alive.

Dumbledore had assured him of this repeatedly. So unless the Headmaster had somehow been fooled, which was possible but unlikely, the boy had lied for one reason or another. Really there was no point in trying to surmise the ‘why’, any number of reasons came to mind, each as unlikely as the next.

“What has happened?”

Speak of the Devil and He shall appear.

Abruptly and full of questions apparently.

Severus started as Lucius Malfoy melted from the darkness like the vile creature he was. Malfoy was supposed to have left school grounds after his private talk with Dumbledore, however many hours ago that had been. The fact that he was still slinking around infuriated Snape anew.

Wasn’t anybody paying attention to these things? Shouldn’t somebody have checked to make sure murderous Head Death Eaters had actually departed, or was there someone about with a real desire to wake up to a room full of slaughtered school children? Why not just hand them to him on a silver platter?

Lucius watched him expectantly, cane planted in the stone floor. He looked relaxed. Snape wasn’t fooled.

“Well?” Malfoy demanded.

“The Potter brat,” Severus muttered grudgingly, taking a single wary step back, hand on his wand. The two of them might have been briefly united during their foray, but they were back on home turf now and there was no telling what Lucius was about. “It appears he has taken ill.”

One pale eyebrow rose. “And this requires half the castle to be roused and an emergency staff meeting to be called? Shall I ring up the Ministry, as well?”

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he barred his teeth slightly, relishing the brief and rare opportunity to commune with another Potter-hater. And then severing that link with the all the abruptness of an axe to the neck, “Perhaps if some people were a bit subtler in their frequent, reoccurring, repeated attempts to snuff the little bastard, the staff wouldn’t keep him tucked beneath their aprons.”

Lucius’ fingers stroked the head of his cane idly, the corners of his mouth curling unpleasantly and responded in kind. “Yes, well, perhaps such ventures would be unnecessary if someone on the inside had at least attempted to do his job once in the last six years. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult. I’m certain it would only take one good go at it to get the little bugger.” Lucius stepped towards him and Snape stiffened. “But I suppose you’ve been too busy saving his life.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort.” Snape rebuked sharply. “I’ve merely kept up appearances.”

“Hmph.” A sound that could have meant anything or nothing except this was Lucius Malfoy and the sound could be accurately interpreted as ‘I know you’re lying but I’ll play along for now and the first chance I get, I’m going to inflict excruciating pain upon your person. Bonzai!’

Lucius’ lack of response disturbed him, and he hesitated, loath to take his eyes from his adversary. But he couldn’t just stand there, and Lucius wasn’t moving so he straightened his spine and strode towards the door. Lucius raised a hand as he passed and Severus flinched automatically, then had to grit his teeth in humiliation when Malfoy merely tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind one ear. He smirked at Snape knowingly, gloating. Severus hunched his shoulders and hurried on, Lucius falling into step behind him.

He and Malfoy had once been on much friendlier terms. Lucius, though several years older then he, and one of the most malicious Slytherins Hogwarts had ever seen, had always treated Severus with a measure of dignity when they were in school together. As adults, Lucius had been cordial, even sociable. But now Malfoy suspected he was a traitor and hated him for it, not because he was disloyal but because he was one step closer to freedom.

Lucius also greatly disliked the leeway Severus received as a ‘spy for the Dark Lord’. He saw it as favoritism or was jealous of the decisions Severus was allowed to make for himself that would otherwise be entirely up to the Dark Lord. And he especially didn’t like that Severus was not his to bully around as the other Death Eaters were, and so Snape found himself the recipient of a special sort of spite that Lucius held all for him.

He rapt on the door to the infirmary sharply and entered without waiting for acknowledgment. Dumbledore was seated beside Harry Potter’s bed, and Madame Pomfrey was bent over the ailing boy helping him drink something that must have tasted foul from the expression on the boy’s face. Potter was shivering, curled up in a mound of blankets with the steaming mug clenched in his bloody, clawed fingers. He looked awful, nearly white. Bags sagged under his eyes, emphasizing the dark circles there. His blue lips trembled and his usually wild hair was completely out of control.

What in the world had the brat done to himself this time?

Irritated, he hoped it didn’t involve stolen potions from his cupboard . . . or maybe he did, because then he would be able to insist on expulsion once and for all.

“Ah, Severus, perfect timing.” Dumbledore said quietly, gesturing to a chair on the other side of the cot. “Take a seat . . . oh, and Mr. Malfoy, come in.”

The Potter brat’s head snapped around, green eyes going wide and then narrowing in snarling rage at the sight of Lucius, but he was either too weak or too smart (and Snape was betting on too weak) to lunge at the man, and stayed reclining in his bed though he exchanged cold looks with Malfoy.

The two men sat, Lucius with a graceful flourish and a mockingly benevolent smile at the sick boy that Dumbledore either ignored or did not notice. Snape maneuvered his chair discreetly and adopted a better angle with which to intercept Malfoy should he try anything.

“Come on, drink up,” Pomfrey urged briskly, helping him finish the cup. “There now.” She clucked, straightening and glared at the men. “I’m allowing this only because it’s you, Headmaster, but the child needs his rest and if I believe you’re doing him more harm then good,” she wagged a finger at him sternly, “Headmaster or no, you will be leaving.”

“Thank you, Poppy,” was all Dumbledore said, but she sniffed as if he’d acquiesced in a sullen manner and bustled out the door. Dumbledore waited for the door to close then addressed Potter quietly. “Do you feel well enough to speak awhile longer, Harry?”

The boy nodded lethargically, and Snape noted uncharitably that a subdued, half-dead Potter was an almost tolerable Potter.

Dumbledore seemed to weigh Potter’s answer and finally sat back, looking exhausted. “Mr. Potter was brought to the infirmary on the brink of cardiac arrest, also experiencing a disturbing and unusual set of symptoms. He has been . . . rather viciously attacked.”

Severus didn’t even attempt to hide his reaction and stared pointedly at Lucius.

Malfoy shifted in his seat and Snape wondered if it was a sign of guilt or excitement. Probably excitement. Lucius didn’t know what guilt was and was, most certainly, orgasmic at the idea of Potter killing over.

“What a terrible shame!” Lucius cooed and everyone in the room heard the unspoken ‘that he didn’t die’. Malfoy glanced at Snape, noting the accusing glare and frowned. “Oh come now, Severus, surely you don’t think I had something to do with this. I am a gentleman, I haven’t a violent bone in my body.”

“No violent bones,” Potter rasped weakly. “Just violent everything else.”

Lucius gave the boy a narrow disapproving look, which Potter returned candidly, and finally shrugged. “Touché.”

Merlin, this was disturbing, the two of them were having a moment.

“And who, or what, was the culprit?” Snape asked quickly, figuring whomever it was had probably been apprehended already or else the castle would have been on full alert.

“Tell them, Harry. Tell them what you told me,” Dumbledore urged gently.

Potter took a deep breath, as if gathering his strength. “It was Draco Malfoy,” he whispered hoarsely, his breathing still weak as he returned to glaring at Lucius whose full attention he had now. “I was dreaming . . . it was a dream. I was in a forest, a gray forest, there was no color. There were these animals. They were like stick-animals walking around, colorless, their bodies were shriveled and their fur was white. Malfoy was there. He was angry. He said I didn’t belong there. There was something else, it was. . . .” Potter hesitated, eyes becoming dazed and unfocused as he remembered. And when he spoke it was almost like he, himself, didn’t quite understand what he was trying to say. “It was . . . it was like the sun, only dark. I couldn’t look at it or my eyes would burn away. I couldn’t stand in it too long or my skin would melt. It spoke to me. It told me it was a God. And I believed. It told me . . . it told me to die.” The speech seemed to wear the boy out and he ended in a slur and sank down against his pillows, eyes closed.

Lucius was silent, his lips parted slightly in shock.

Snape tried to find his voice and settled for shaking his head. “It must be a coincidence. Or he overheard! You know as well as I how he sneaks about.”

“No coincidence.” Dumbledore said, solemnly. “It makes sense.”

“Just how does this make sense? Why would Mr. Potter dream of that. . .” he struggled for a word that wouldn’t give Potter any more information then he already had, “thing we saw? He is in no way connected to that place.”

“But he is connected to Miss Granger,” Dumbledore pointed out.

“Tell me more about the boy,” Lucius demanded sharply of Potter. “What was he wearing? What did he look like?”

Potter’s eyes cracked open. “Thick robes,” he mumbled. “Hair slicked back. His eyes . . . his eyes. . . .”

“Were not Draco’s,” Lucius finished angrily, triumphantly. “As I stated before, whatever this thing is, it is not my son.”

“I hope you are right, Lucius,” Dumbledore answered gravely. “Because if you are not, then we are too late.” Both men fell silent. “Tell me, Harry, have you been dreaming of Hermione lately?” Dumbledore asked. “Strong dreams. Vivid dreams.”

“Yes,” Potter husked after seeming to think over his answer carefully. “All the time. She . . . I think she tries to tell me things.” He wet his lips. “I think the dreams might be real. But they’re not. . . .” he hesitated, his eyes skimming to Lucius, apparently Severus wasn’t the only one trying not to give away too much information. He touched his scar. “They aren’t like my other dreams. I’m not connected to Hermione. How could I dream of her?”

“I’m afraid you are incorrect, Harry,” Dumbledore answered gently. “Miss Granger is connected to you through your love and friendship.” Lucius made a rude noise, which everyone ignored. “She is reaching out to you. You dream of her because that is where she is closest to you. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that Mr. Weasley and Miss Weasley dream of her as well.”

“I don’t understand. Where is she?” Potter asked faintly. And Snape was certain those feverish, glazed eyes and delirious tones were at least partially faked.

Potter wanted information, and figured he would get more by acting as though he were too weak to act on it or too delirious to remember it. Severus was certain Dumbledore wasn’t rash enough to give Potter too much information, and he was proved right when the Headmaster rose heavily to his feet in a swish of robes.

“I’m afraid nothing is for certain yet, Mr. Potter. It would be best for now if you were too rest. Tomorrow you and I shall talk privately on the matter.”

Potter looked vaguely disappointed but his eyes flicked briefly to Lucius, and he nodded tiredly, settling back on his cot. “Yes sir.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” Dumbledore said affectionately and Lucius and Severus stood to follow him.

“Until next time, Potter,” Lucius inclined his head mockingly, and Snape saw Potter flip him off when Dumbledore’s back was turned. “How uncouth,” the blond man muttered haughtily and followed Dumbledore out the door.

The walk to Dumbledore’s office was silent. Lucius, who under any normal circumstances, would have been either badgering Dumbledore with threats and accusations or going on about his evil plans for the Ministry, was uncharacteristically quiet. Snape kept an eye on him, noting the thoughtful scowl on the man’s face. They had just reached the office when he suddenly understood what Lucius was brooding about.

“You haven’t dreamed of Draco, have you?” he stated gleefully. Lucius stopped short. “Potter dreams of his little girlfriend every night, but your own son doesn’t look to you for help, not even subconsciously.”

“Severus, that is enough,” Dumbledore cut in quietly.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed. “Oh, it’s quite alright,” he assured easily in that silky smooth voice he always adopted just before someone died. “I know enough of poor Severus’ inferiority complex to understand he needs these little victories to keep him going.”

“Please, Mr. Malfoy. . . .” Dumbledore started in warning tones.

Lucius continued as if Dumbledore weren’t speaking, “There now, Sev, you got me. You’ve won.” He made a conceding gesture, giving a little bow, before fingers came to rest on his chin thoughtfully. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised that you’ve been dreaming of my son.”

“That’s not what I. . . .” Snape sputtered, but Lucius only smiled unpleasantly.

“Of course I’m certain that’s nothing new for you, Severus, you’ve always had a taste for the young ones. But I must warn you, my friend, if it goes beyond dreaming, you will answer to me.”

“That’s enough!” the Headmaster barked.

“The plundering of innocence is your forte, Lucius, not mine!” Snape shouted, face burning with mortification. “Just ask Narcissa!”

And Lucius was just suddenly in his face. Snape started to jerk back but Lucius gripped his upper arm like a crushing vice. Severus stabbed his wand against the other man’s chest with his free hand.

“Another move and we’ll see the inside of your chest cavity,” Snape hissed.

Lucius’ expression didn’t change. “I wonder, what would she say?” he whispered.

“Severus, lower your wand,” Dumbledore boomed. The old man looked furious, probably seconds away from drawing down on both of them, and heaven help them if it came to that. “Step away from him, Lucius.”

Lucius released Severus but immediately slung his arm across Severus’ shoulders. “Pish posh, Headmaster,” He chided jovially. “Surely you don’t think I mean him harm. Such nonsense. Come now, we have much to discuss.” He gestured his cane for the office door and fairly dragged Severus inside while the Potion’s Master struggled and demanded to be released.

Once inside, Severus was able to wrench himself free of Lucius’ grip and was promptly ignored as the other man took a seat in one of the plush high-backed chairs and folded white-gloved hands in his lap. Snape stood fuming, opening his mouth for another scathing comment, but a warning look from Dumbledore silenced him and he took a seat stiffly at the far end of the room, away from Lucius. The Headmaster, who normally would have started a meeting by offering both parties candy, sat heavily in his chair with a tired sigh.

“So,” he began, opening the large map on his desk, eyes skimming the glowing marks, in particular the two gold marks that stood side by side near the center. “We have located the children.”

“Oh yes, we’ve located them,” Lucius agreed, amiably, and knocked the head of his cane on the tabletop rather violently. All the marks on the map vanished. “We are just unable to find them. Imagine that. Every spell and enchantment within our ability tells us that my son and the Muggle-born girl are within that forest and yet we go there and find absolutely nothing.”

“We have found something,” Dumbledore said softly, rolling the map closed. “Traces. Echoes.”

“Headmaster?” asked Severus.

“I’m afraid that Miss Granger and young Master Malfoy may be well and truly lost.”

“Why do you say that?” Lucius asked, softly, dangerously.

“As you’ve seen for yourselves, the children are in the Black Forest area. They just aren’t in the Black Forest. I believe they have passed through a gate of sorts. That is why we cannot find them, that is why the auras that shielded them have cleared away. They passed through a gate, have traveled beyond our reach, and therefore there is no longer any reason to guard them from us. They have crossed over . . . or rather, they were taken.”

Severus shook his head, not understanding. “You mentioned that before, that there were two powers shielding the children from us.”

“And if we know nothing else, we now know what those powers are.” Dumbledore said with a trace of satisfaction.

“We do?” Lucius asked sarcastically.

“You spoke of a presence, Severus, an all-consuming presence that radiated throughout the forest . . . a malevolent force that seemed to disappear before it attacked you. Perhaps it did not disappear, perhaps it tried to take you into itself before it struck.”

Snape swallowed hard at the implications. “It is still with me,” he admitted. “Not as though it followed me, but as if it is even now residing within me. I was going to suggest Lucius and I undergo some purification spells. I can still feel it.”

“Like blackened rot in the back of my brain,” Lucius murmured almost to himself. “A God. I do not believe in such things.”

“I have reason to believe that this power is one of the forces that has been shielding the children, probably the one that has withdrawn. And from all accounts it is the one that invaded Mr. Potter’s mind and attempted to murder him.”

Lucius scoffed, crossing one leg over the other. “That is ridiculous. Why Potter? Even if Severus and I have somehow brought a piece of this thing back with us, why Potter?”

“Well Mr. Malfoy, I suppose it is most easily explained by simply reminding you that Mr. Potter has been contacted several times by Hermione Granger. But there is more to it than this, I assure you.” He smiled and continued quite cheerfully, “You see, Harry Potter is also remarkably disciplined mentally. Muggle-raised wizards usually are, as they must maintain constant control over the powers that, in their world, supposedly do not exist. Mr. Potter also has several years of experience controlling and maintaining his ‘special’ mental links. Add to that Mr. Potters advanced training in Occlumency, Patronus summoning, Defense Against the Dark Arts and his quite admirable ability to cast several spells without actual contact with his wand, and you will understand that it was a very small thing for Mr. Potter’s slumbering mind to use his link to Miss Granger to attempt to seek her out without first waiting for her to contact him. The trouble came when, instead of Miss Granger, he stumbled across the entity that holds her captive.”

Lucius made a face like someone choking on a particularly bitter pill and then his attention snapped on the last word. “Captive. My son is being held captive?”

“That is why we were unable to locate the children until a few days ago, Lucius. The presence that shielded them from us has had them under its control from the beginning, from the very moment they set foot into that forest.”

“If that is true, then it is a wonder the children are even still alive,” Severus whispered. “It probably could have killed them or taken them through the gate at any moment it chose.”

“Very true.”

Lucius looked angry. “You’re suggesting this thing, whatever it is, was powerful enough to open some kind of gate and snatch them from Diagon Alley?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I do not believe it took them from Diagon Alley. I believe other powers may have intervened on that matter.”

“And the other?” Severus prompted. “The second power that still shields them?”

“Indeed. The second . . . well, perhaps Lucius should explain for himself.” Dumbledore looked at the other man expectantly.

Severus had the rare opportunity to see Lucius looking completely blank, and then the man’s brain must have caught up with the conversation because he visibly balked. “I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to.”

“Come now, Lucius,” Dumbledore said with some of his old twinkle. “This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition. We are all working here for a common purpose.”

Lucius coughed lightly and straightened haughtily. “I’m afraid I still can’t recall what you mean.”

“Shall I bring out the copy of the receipt of sale I acquired from Borgins and Burkes?”

The blond man went rigid. “If you are referring to my recent purchase, then I will have you know that it was obtained through wholly legal means and I was simply to hold it until it could be transferred to a safe location where it would be. . . .”

“That is quite alright, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore interrupted firmly. “I do not care at the moment where or how it was purchased, I only care that you confirm my suspicions.”

“What?” Snape asked, looking between the two. “What is it?”

Lucius sighed gustily, and leaned back in his chair, finally replying in a bored manner, “An uncharged Base.” He continued on blithely ignoring Snape’s shout of disbelief. “But I do not see what that has to do with anything. Draco was ordered not to touch it and he knows the consequences that would befall him should he disobey me.”

“Lucius, you fool!” Snape roared, remembering the blade marks he’d found all across the forest with new horror. “Draco drew the blade! It was probably the first thing he did! How could he resist? How could you let that impulsive, irresponsible brat of yours handle an uncharged Base? Are you insane!”

Lucius had gone white. “He. . . ? No, it’s not possible. He lives still, and the blade would have killed him the instant he laid hands upon it! He is just a boy. He wouldn’t have survived!”

“Perhaps he didn’t, Lucius. Did you ever think of that?” Severus mocked harshly. “Perhaps that thing we saw in the woods was the ghost of your son! That blade. . . .”

“May very well have saved both their lives.” The soft statement cut Snape off mid-rant.

He turned to stare at the Headmaster, dumbfounded. “What?”

“For whatever reason, Draco survived the first draw of the Base and the children have managed thus far to keep the blade alive. The Base is the second power that hid them from us. The children are the blade’s main source of energy, it will protect them as long as they are its key providers, and that may be the only reason they are still alive.”

“They? You mean that filthy little Mudblood tramp touched MY knife?” Lucius exploded. “Then Draco is as good as dead! An Uncharged Base is extremely delicate, it is only a matter of time before her filthy blood taints it completely and it fails. If that little bitch kills my son. . . .”

“Do you believe your son could have carried the burden alone?” Snape shouted back. “You know how horribly unpredictable a Base is! Even if they are treated with utmost care they may still rebel at any time and kill their handlers or try to take over them! Were Draco to keep the blade in his possession for too long, the blade would devour him whole, body and mind!”

“Do not overreact, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore pacified. “The children are obviously doing something right. But you are correct that a Base is extremely delicate and extremely unpredictable. It is within our best interests to find the children as soon as possible. That being said, I assume you had some other purpose for the blade. You must have acquired it on Voldemort’s orders, did you not?”

Both Lucius and Snape hissed, flinching at the name.

Dumbledore looked unimpressed and continued,“He must have arranged a plan for raising the Base to majority, and you must have assumed that he would go about it the way others before him have: through the accounts of the Perfect Flame. Those accounts are very detailed, from the first Drawing of the Base, to Sir Garth Horis’ sacrifice of his own life to forge it into a Subtle Knife. The accounts are indeed detailed but they are only actions. They do not contain the secrets to perfecting a Subtle Knife. Voldemort knows this only too well.” Dumbledore paused. “You see, our children were very lucky. They were somehow transported to a forest rich in magic. The animals, plants and even the air are all so powerfully magical that it supplements the energy the knife would otherwise have to take entirely from the children. Anywhere else on this planet and the Base would certainly have killed them by now. Isn’t that a wonderful coincidence? Then of course, there is the astonishing luck that the Base accepted Draco immediately instead of killing him. And the strange matter of it keeping both children hidden from the rest of us.”

Lucius had gone very still. “Just what are you saying?”

Dumbledore looked him right in the eye. “Only that young Master Malfoy has everything he would ever need to raise the Base to majority . . . including the sacrifice, a muggle-born girl child, to fix the blade into its final form.”

Lucius was silent for nearly half a minute. “Impossible,” He whispered. “The Dark Lord would never entrust such a mission to my son. Not without. . . .”

“Not without telling you?” Snape finished for him with nasty glee. “Now, Lucius, don’t be simple. You must have realized that it was all a matter of time before Draco toppled you from your throne. He’s been nipping at your heels for quite some time.”

“No, my son is . . . he is too important to the. . . . He wouldn’t be risked. He is. . . .” Realization drew Lucius’s eyebrows together, started a tick at the corner of his mouth while a slow crimson flush of rage streaked up his pale skin from his throat to stain his cheeks. “Impossible,” he repeated harshly. “I do not believe it.” He was suddenly on his feet, lips peeled back in a snarl, “It’s all much too convenient for you, Dumbledore.”

“Mr. Malfoy. . . .” Dumbledore started but Lucius stalked to the door and wrenched it open.

“I must hand it to you, it is an extremely convincing tale. But not convincing enough.” And slammed it on the way out.

Snape stared at the door. “He must be extremely angry if that was his parting shot,” he drawled. “Will someone see him out for certain this time?”

“Of course, Severus. Moody is awaiting him at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Hmph. He’s going to love that.” Another pause. “ Do you really believe that Draco was given a mission by the Dark Lord, Headmaster?” Snape asked, thinking of the homicidal Draco he’d met in the forest.”

“It is possible. It is also entirely possible that Mr. Malfoy was given the mission without ever knowing it. He may have been handed the blade and thrown into the wilderness to do or die. Or perhaps the mission was meant for someone else and Mr. Malfoy somehow became involved. In any case, I think I would be very happy to discount all of those theories as soon as possible.”

“I believe . . . I believe those theories are unlikely. The Dark Lord was very angry when Draco disappeared. And what Lucius said was true, Draco seems to be much too important to be used as the Dark Lord uses the rest of us.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard, troubled. “Explain, Severus.”

“I have mentioned it to you before, how the Dark Lord favors Draco. His Death Eaters are merely his tools, to be used and cast aside as he sees fit. An endless supply of slaves. Draco may represent the next generation, but he is still just a tool with no inherent value over any of the others. Yet the Dark Lord seems to have taken a personal interest in him. He enquires after Draco’s health quite often, sends the boy gifts. He insists the Death Eaters treat the boy with utmost respect, and, even more damningly, he has told us quite literally to treat Draco as we would him. I was unable to make sense of it, especially considering how Draco has never attended any meetings, and has only a paltry interest in the Death Eaters at best.”

“And you have discovered the purpose?”

“Lucius asked me some rather pointed questions last night. I hadn’t the slightest clue as to what he was fishing for but the questions themselves were rather enlightening. I also had a rather long talk with Rodolphus Lestrange yesterday before returning to the castle.”

“Lestrange?” The Headmaster sat up. “They are with the Malfoy’s then? What did he say?”

Severus made a disgusted noise. “Unsurprisingly, he raved on like a lunatic. When I steered the conversation to Draco, he became especially excited. He ranted about how Draco was his young Lord, and how Draco would lead them all into a new era. I said I couldn’t see the Dark Lord giving up his position to a teenager and Rodolphus was polite enough to explain, with much shrieking and flailing, that Draco is not the Dark Lord’s heir, he is the Dark Lord’s vessel. It seems He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does not want Draco. He wants Draco’s body. Or, more precisely, he wants to be Draco Malfoy. That is why he doesn’t care about Draco’s poor attendance or lack of enthusiasm. He means to supplant Draco’s soul with his own in due time.”

Dumbledore stared at him in horror. “I had known that Voldemort was returned to his original body and that it was in the poor condition he left it in. He has grown old and he has done terrible things to his body to gain power. He mutilated and deformed himself, has aged himself more then thirty years beyond his actual age. It is only a matter of time before his abused body fails. And death has always been his greatest fear . . . but, to supplant a soul . . . I never imagined he would have the means to do such a thing. There are easier ways. Why like this?”

Severus smirked wryly. “It has a sense of poetry, doesn’t it? Draco Malfoy is everything Tom Riddle isn’t. Draco Malfoy is everything Tom Riddle wishes to be: young, pure-blooded, rich, powerful, popular, influential.”

“It is worse than that, Severus. As he is now, the Dark Lord cannot travel in public, can barely stand the light of day, but Draco Malfoy is untainted. Imagine what Riddle could do in a brand new body. No one would suspect who he truly was, he would be able to move about unchecked in society, in the Ministry. He would use the Malfoy name and wealth to take the Wizarding world by storm overnight.”

Severus followed his train of thought. “So he teaches the Death Eaters to fear and respect the boy now because someday he will turn his leadership over to ‘Draco’ and when the time comes the Death Eaters must be too terrified of the boy to revolt against him.”

“It is rather brilliant,” The Headmaster murmured. “Who else knows about this?”

“If anyone beyond the Lestranges knows, they are keeping it very quiet. Draco most certainly does not know. Lucius has suspicions but he obviously does not know the full extent of the plan. He would never stand for it.”

Dumbledore looked surprised. “Do you believe Lucius would attempt to protect his son? If Lucius rebelled, Voldemort would lose a great deal of money and influence.”

Severus laughed bitterly. “Lucius? Protect Draco? Do not misunderstand me, Headmaster. I am merely uncertain as to which of them Draco is in more danger from. Lucius is an extremely jealous man. He fears Draco will one day overthrow him. He has systematically blocked Draco from any and all Death Eater activities because of this fear, and he says nothing except how useless and inept his son is. If Lucius finds out how the Dark Lord means to use his son, I fear he may just decide to break his toys before anyone else can play with them. He will kill Draco himself.”

oooo

Deep beneath a rather fine mansion where a certain Dark Lord was even now practicing his favorite curses on some unfortunate subordinates, there was a nearly pitch black room, a ladies washroom that had, over the past year, been turned into an impromptu darkroom.

The man inside moved about the room with the blind ease that came from longtime use and the knowledge of precisely where everything inside sat. He hummed to himself patiently as he slipped the seemingly blank eight-by-ten sheet of glossy paper into the shallow tray of developer and gently let the liquids slosh back and forth. The only light came from a small glowing red sphere that hovered in the air above his shoulder and, brightening or winking out at the appropriate times.

Rodolphus Lestrange was the only son of a man who had too many brothers and a father without enough fortune to make all of them very rich. They say the blood-madness, the madness that comes from breeding too closely within a family, ran strong in that family but Rodolphus' uncle Marrik was stone cold sane when he murdered two of his brothers in an attempt to increase his own inheritance. It didn’t help him much in the end because he died five years later of a Muggle disease while on tour of South America. Two more Uncles died fighting against Voldemort in the first war. That left only Uncle Piotr and Rodolphus' father. Uncle Piotr still lived in the family home and worked as an ambassador with an emphasis on boundaries and real estate. Rodolphus' father had left when Rodolphus was sixteen to roam endlessly and become Euro-trash. Rodolphus liked to think he was still alive out there somewhere.

Rodolphus was born and raised in Switzerland at the family estate with a horde of cousins and Aunts running around and the constant chaos an extended family often entails. Everyone knew by the time Rodolphus was five that there was something wrong with him, they even knew it was the blood-madness. They knew from history and experience that he would be unpredictable and perhaps dangerous when he grew older and there was talk of putting him down. But Uncle Marrik wasn’t around to do the dirty work and as long as it wasn’t their problem no one else saw why they should have to do it. So Rodolphus continued to be pampered and spoiled within his tide of relatives, and for the most part, he was a calm and happy child.

And when he wasn’t a calm and happy child, the family stayed the hell out of his way.

With a low laugh, the man carefully charmed the paper out of the developer, letting the sheet hang in the air and drain for a moment, eyes averted because he didn’t want to see his lovely photo yet, before sliding it into the tray of stop bath.

Rodolphus transferred to Hogwarts at the beginning of his sixth school year after his father left and his mother went to stay with some relatives of her own for awhile. He was pleased when the Sorting Hat put him in Hufflepuff, his mother had been a Hufflepuff. He did not enjoy school though. He had attended Durmstrang all his life because his father had always said Hogwarts was full of Muggles and Muggle-lovers.

Muggles were dirty, everyone knew that. They contaminated Wizard society like the rats he’d seen in the back alleyways on the poor side of town. He’d once seen pictures of his Uncle Marrik’s ravaged body after he’d died of his Muggle disease. He knew perfectly well what association with Muggles did to a person. Now he was surrounded by them. He couldn’t get away from them.

He went about his days at Hogwarts in constant paranoia of accidentally touching a Muggle-born. He washed his hands between every class, at meals he would never eat anything after a Muggle-born had touched the dish or the spoon, and he made sure no one in his dorm touched anything that belonged to him.

There was this one boy, Christopher Conrad, a Mudblood who didn’t even try to pretend he was a normal wizard with a broomstick and a pocket full of Bertie Bott’s. Instead he yapped on about “television” and “baseball cards” and Rodolphus could only stare at his face, pockmarked with acne, and the silver fillings gleaming unnaturally in his teeth.

Rodolphus was terrified of Chris, hated him like no one else, watched him whenever he was in the room like the Muggle-born was a rabid dog that would attack any second. He wondered what kinds of diseases Chris carried. He wondered what would happen if his own pale, naked skin ever touched anything Chris had contaminated. He wondered what the contamination looked like as it crawled over Chris’ body. If only he could see the filth, so he could avoid it.

And then, after awhile, if he stared hard enough, something in his vision changed.

He could see it.

He could see the filth like an aura around the other boy. He remembered the first time it happened, how horrified he was, how it seemed to stain everything around the boy, smeared across his bed and his clothes and his books. Soon Rodolphus could see it everywhere, not just on Chris but on every Mudblood in the school, on everything they touched! But Chris was the worst of all, on Chris he could almost see it seeping from the boy’s pores. He could even smell it, smell the muddy blood.

The man gave a delicate shiver. From the stop bath the glossy paper went into the fixer and then the wash. The finished photo was carefully pinned up to dry alongside several others. He still didn’t look at them as he went back to the enlarger to do another print. He could do it all without looking, without touching if he wanted. But he liked the rhythm of the work and he enjoyed being able to say that he did his prints by hand.

In triumph, young Rodolphus tried to expose Chris’ secret. He told everyone about the disgusting taint. But no one would listen. He didn’t understand what he was going on. Why couldn’t anyone else see it? Why didn’t anyone else understand? He was alone. He was all alone, surrounded by them, and now they knew that he knew, and they glared at him in hate.

He might have done something horribly drastic then, but she came to him. Bellatrix Black. There had been Queens before in Slytherin, but they called her a Goddess. She understood him, this Goddess. She saved him.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered to him through long feathery black hair, her lips brushing his cheek. She glowed. She glowed with purity. She was like an angel, so slender and tall and willowy she might have seemed frail but for the dark, vibrant violet of her eyes. “They can’t hurt you. The pollution can’t touch you unless you let it in. Don’t be afraid.”

She took him to her Master, and the Master, in Rodolphus' vision, burned like a glorious torch. The Master told him everything, explained that there were many people who saw what he saw, felt what he felt, but they were afraid to say anything because of the tainted-ones and those who loved the tainted-ones. But the Master wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid and he knew how to destroy the filth.

He showed Rodolphus how to do it. They brought Chris to him, showed him how to cut the flesh and let all that horrible muddy blood come pouring out. And as he stared in awe and glorious euphoria at Chris’ torn body, he saw the taint begin to fade with every stroke of the blade, with every scream. Until it vanished completely. He blinked his eyes again and again but it was really gone.

He couldn’t believe it.

They had done it!

They had destroyed the taint! They had saved Chris!

Bellatrix stood before him smiling secretly, pretty school girl in her pretty cotton sundress drenched in blood. Behind her the Master held out his hand in invitation. Rodolphus had never been so happy in his life. He fell before the Dark Lord and wept with joy, pledging his life, his soul, his love, to them both. He loved them both. The shining bloody angel and her beautiful Master. They gave him purpose. He suddenly knew why he’d been born.

To destroy the taint. To save the world.

The memory was bitter sweet.

Several of the prints across the room were dry now and Rodolphus collected them into a small stack that he clutched to his chest so he wouldn’t see them as he carried them to the next room. His favorite room.

It was a small square room, given to him by his Master, bare except for a small tattered mattress on the floor in one corner and newspapers clippings, chopped negatives and other things blanketed over the carpet. A couple of tall candles lent light to the room, showed what covered the walls like sheets and sheets of wallpaper.

It was a montage, a collage of photographs, papering nearly every inch of bare wall. All of them he had taken and developed himself.

All of them were of Draco Malfoy.

Draco at home. Draco at school. Draco playing Quidditch. Draco out with his friends. Draco sleeping. Draco doing homework. Draco sitting quietly before the fireplace. Large, small, close ups, distance views. Some of them he had developed in black and white, but most were in color. Sometimes he used a special fixer solution to develop still photos and others he liked to watch move. There was a whole section of the wall devoted to Draco as an infant and young toddler, the photos going yellow with age around the edges and there was no doubt that, had he not been placed in Azkaban, Rodolphus' collection would have spanned Draco’s entire life.

Rodolphus finally pulled his new photos away from his chest and shuffled through them, eyeing the wall with artistic discretion as he decided just where to place each one to best suit his vision.

It had been planned from the boy’s birth. The Malfoy family being the richest, purest, most honorable of bloodlines. Rodolphus had known from the first time he laid eyes on the fair-haired infant that the Dark Lord would choose him.

Draco Malfoy was perhaps the most beautiful human being to ever exist. He showed his perfection in everything he did, it was in his intelligence and every refined movement and even in his rage. In Rodolphus' vision, he shown like the sun, just like his Master, and so it was befitting that Draco and the Dark Lord should become one. The Dark Lord’s perfect soul and Draco’s perfect body and the combining, compounding, of their magical abilities to create the most perfect human being that ever lived.

And the most powerful wizard that would ever walk the earth.

Rodolphus couldn’t wait. He was determined that he and Bellatrix would be there to guide and protect their new young Lord. Little Lord Draco would be their son. Rodolphus already felt a great love for Draco and hated Luicus for having fathered him and yet never fathering him. Had Draco been his, he would have raised him much better. Draco should have been his!

Draco would be his.

He raised one of the portraits of Draco to his lips and pressed loving kisses to it before carefully centering it on the wall and fastening it in place. Perfect.

He shuffled through his photographs again and paused on the last two with a small smile of delight. He’d forgotten he had these in there. These two photos were not of Draco. They were not even pictures he had taken himself. They were reprints of photographs he had searched long and hard for this past month to add into his new collection.

The back right corner of the room was the only place not dedicated to Draco. Though in a way he supposed it was. He knelt down in front of the small alter he had placed there and the photographs, only a dozen currently, that were pasted onto the wall, or propped loosely against the wood of the alter.

It had started out as a hatred. He had wanted a picture just so he could hate it. Then he’d wanted another picture and another. He had to have more. He had to hate her. Hate, hate, hate her. The nasty creature that was alone with his Draco. Every morning and night he wished for her death, her sudden, immediate and painful death. He became more and more hysterical with every day that passed.

And then he stumbled upon one of his old negatives. A newspaper clipping from the Quidditch World Cup just before Draco’s fourth year. The photo showed Draco and that Mudblood standing almost beside each other. And something about it was repulsively fascinating. He’d studied it for hours.

He’d searched madly through is collection and then through other sources until he found another photo. A yearbook photo of Draco and the Crabbe boy in fifth year and that Mudblood passing by.

The fascination had grown into fixation.

He took a huge risk and ransacked Draco’s room until he found what he knew he’d find. Buried in a trunk with a pile of papers and socks and broken gadgets and forgotten Quidditch magazines was a photograph of her. Old and wrinkled and creased down the center from where it had been folded but it was there.

He had wept and laughed for joy, finally understanding what it was he was seeing.

His fears were for nothing. Draco’s light was too bright for the Mudblood to tarnish. In fact, when she was around him, her taint diminished and she started to glow. He finally understood and he began wishing and hoping excitedly that she would return alive with Draco.

Because it was clear now that she was meant for Draco. It was so obvious now.

She was his first kill.

Still alive and breathing and ready and ripe for her destiny. She was Draco’s beautiful and special one. The first one he would save. The one that would make him into a man.

Rodolphus found that he loved her.

And he wanted to be there. He wanted to be there when Draco made his first kill. He wanted to show Draco, as Bellatrix had shown him, how to cut her open, how to let her blood come splashing out, how lovely she was on the inside, how to destroy her awful taint and set her free. He wanted to taste her bloody lips before she died and tell her how beautiful she was. He wanted to kiss Draco while the boy was saturated with her blood, hold him while he shook from the gloriousness of what he’d done.

Rodolphus kissed the photographs of Hermione Granger with sweet relish and set both down against her small shrine.

The little red orb that had followed him from the darkroom let out a sharp ringing sound and flashed once. Rodolphus glanced at it and held up his hand. The orb extinguished its light and flew into his grasp. He pocketed it and rose to his feet.

Lucius had apparently returned from Hogwarts. There would be no more time for his private hobbies this night.

Malfoy had suddenly vanished two days ago, much to Rodolphus' rage and frustration. He’d searched like mad for the missing man but had finally been reduced to settling back to wait for his return. He’d overheard some of what had happened when Severus Snape had arrived at the mansion with an ill Lucius and his own private talk with Snape had been fruitful. But now he needed to speak with Lucius and then Snape again and see just how he could play the two against each other.

He knew quite well that neither one of them would tell him everything that had happened, but he was determined to find out as much as he could.

He had purposely let slip his Lord’s plans for Draco to the traitor Snape, who obviously thought he’d done so without thinking. Snape never had understood that he was mad, not stupid. Now that Lucius was suspicious it was within the Dark Lord’s best interest to slay anyone who might give up the secret. Hopefully once word got back that Snape knew, the traitor would be destroyed like he deserved. He couldn’t understand why his Master insisted on keeping the bastard around in the first place.

Malfoy Mansion was dark and quiet when Rodolphus floo’d back. He wasn’t sure where Lucius might be hiding, and started automatically for the bedroom, hoping to catch him before he retired. Halfway there he ran into Lucius’ two Egyptian silver jackals, Anubis and Set. The two were big, sleek animals with muscles knotted under short, wiry silver fur, gracefully long necks, pointed noses and sharp pointed ears. The jackals bared their teeth at him soundlessly, stalk still as they waited for him to either provoke them or retreat.

He turned to leave.

If Anubis and Set were guarding the bedroom that meant Narcissa was there and Lucius wasn’t. The two jackals were always set to guard Narcissa in Lucius’ absence. Lucius didn’t seem to trust Rodolphus alone with his wife.

He was right not to. Rodolphus couldn’t stand the vapid bitch.

Rodolphus eventually located Lucius in a room he’d never seen before behind Lucius’ study. Rodolphus paused in the doorway, realizing with dark delight that Lucius had opened a hidden doorway but left the study door unlocked on accident. Whatever he was doing inside had to be very secret.

Lucius knelt before a low table, a set of small wooden bowls filled with herbs and liquids and different ingredients scattered over the table. In the center was a small golden pedestal that must have cost a bleeding fortune, inscribed with runes. Hovering over the pedestal was a clear, multi-faceted crystal that was glowing steadily from the inside.

Rodolphus went still in horror.

He recognized this spell. It must have been how Lucius was tracking Draco but it was more than that. Much more. The crystal was a literal representation of Draco’s life force. As long as the crystal glowed, the caster knew that Draco was still alive.

And if the caster wanted--if he were very wicked--he could crush that life force, smash it into a million pieces.

Before Rodolphus' stunned eyes, Lucius reached for the crystal.

“NO!” He was across the room and snatching Lucius’ wrist back, tearing his hand away. Lucius froze in surprise, eyes flashing with rage. Rodolphus kept his grip on the other man. “Do not touch him, Lucius. Don’t ever touch him!”

Lucius rose to his feet, to his full considerable height, and flung his arm back, knocking Rodolphus away from him hard. Rodolphus smashed into the wall and hunched over as several picture frames, a shelf and a decorative blade came tumbling down, crashing to the floor at his feet.

Lucius looked fit to tear his throat out. “Get out.”

“If you harm Draco, the Dark Lord will know it!” Rodolphus screamed at him. “You may be his second but you haven’t seen the things I have seen. You will live through what he does to you but you’ll wish you could die!”

“If it is anything like what I’m about to do to you, then it must be terrible indeed,” Lucius said softly, hungrily, ready to fight, ready to kill.

“You’ve been warned!” Rodolphus cried, slinking backwards, stabbing a finger accusingly at the other man. “Harm Draco and you will suffer. I’ll make sure your little wife knows what you did, too. Then I’ll kill the bitch.”

Lucius’ wand was out. “Avada Kedavra.”

Rodolphus almost didn’t make it out. He slammed the door, backing away as it rattled with the force of the spell.

He had to warn his Lord immediately.

-finis-

Next time: Hogsmeade weekend. Narcissa Malfoy meets Harry Potter. Ron Weasley kisses the wrong girl. Idane Cinder won’t take no for an answer. And Rodolphus Lestrange makes a new friend and it’s not a sock puppet.

A/N: Troll Hounds are a shout out to Anita Blake. "MF KB" is a shout out to "The Last Man on Earth" by AureliaFlint

oooo

Optional Amendment Scene: in response to reviewers annoying fixation on body hair. . . .

Amendment Scene:

Young Hermione sits at the edge of a stream, shoes off, basking in the weak sunlight of early afternoon. Draco finds her there.

Draco: “Hey animal-lover.”

Hermione: “Don’t call me that.”

He squats down next to her, watching her kick her legs in the stream, “How come you're not all fuzzy?”

Hermione looks at him sideways, sensing insult is imminent: “I beg your pardon?”

Draco cracks a grin, “You should be all wolf-girl yourself by now. I mean, we’ve gone au natural for a month now. . . .”

Hermone looks pissed and replies . . ..

--Surreal:

“My appearance now is what we Muggles call ‘residual self image’. It is the mental projection of my digital self.”

“Uh…I’d like to take this opportunity to say ‘what the fuck’?

“There is no spoon.”

“Stop it, you’re freaking me out!”

“Goodbye, Mr. Anderson. . . .”

“Hey! What are you doing! Wait! ACK!”

--Farfetched:

“Its all a matter of will power. Harry once told me that he kept his hair shaggy by wishing it. Well it works on leg hair too. There was no way in hell I was going to walk around with hairy legs”

“You mean if I wish hard enough I can have the goatee I’ve always wanted?”

“Meh-eh-eh-eh.”

“Shut up.”

--Still kind of farfetched:

“You know that sap I used to seal your wounds, I cut up one of your robes and waxed with it.”

“WHAT! That was my last one! What the fuck am I supposed to wear now?”

“HA! Naked Jungle-boy.”

--Believable:

“I use WixinWax-cream from Beryl’s Beautyshop. It’s like Nair on steroids. You should know, Pansy uses it.” she lifts one leg to show him and smirks, “No hair for at least six months or your money back.” Smacks his hand, “ Keep your paws to yourself.”

“Leeeegs . . . Heh.”

--And we have a winner:

“I’ve had laser-treatment you bastard. I’m as smooth as butta.”

“Quwah?”

Ignoring the fact that that isn’t even a word she replies,“My mom and dad are dentists and…”

“Dent-tists…” He repeats with an adorably blank yet incredibly ponderous look on his face.

“Yes, do you know what a dentist does?”

“Uh, they . . . fix dents?”

Long stare, “Very good Draco, yes they fix dents. All kinds of dents, they’re masters at it.”

He smiles, all proud of himself.

“Anyway, in the same building complex there’s a laser hair removal place. The woman who runs the whole place is my mum’s best friend so I get free treatments of just about anything I want.”

He’s hanging on every word, “ Wow, that’s amazing . . . all that and they still can’t fix the hair on your head?”

“Boot to the head!”

“AUGH!”

End scene--

Moral: Hermione has had laser hair-removal treatment. In this she has proven that Muggles are indeed superior to Wizards. Therefore strike all thoughts of body hair from your minds, you fiends, and instead focus on the fact that she hasn’t brushed her teeth in a month.