A Thousand Beautiful Things

Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend.

Chapter 1: Original Chapters 1-4

Chapter Text

A Thousand Beautiful Things

by Duinn Fionn (aka Geoviki)

Summary: Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend. HP/DM

This story was first published on May 25th, 2004, and was last updated on October 30th, 2012.

Many thanks to my betas: Isis, Aja, and Zionsstarfish. More author notes at end of chapter 9.

Chapter 1

Every day I write the list of reasons why I still believe they do exist (a thousand beautiful things).
A Thousand Beautiful Things - Annie Lennox

. . . . . . . .

"What's your earliest memory of me, Dean?"

Dean Thomas allowed a smile to ghost across his face. Seamus had reached that time of the evening when the balance between the late hour and just enough liquor made him mellow and introspective. It was a mood that meshed very well with his own.

"You already know. Our first time going up to Hogwarts, that first year. You gave me my first chocolate frog, and then told me stories about growing up in a wizarding family."

"Half-wizarding."

"Half-wizarding. Still, you got the important half. To someone like me, from Muggle East London, you were very impressive."

Seamus cracked a smile and took another long swallow of his drink. "To anyone, I was very impressive, mate."

"And we'd both just got our wands-"

"Willow, mermaid hair, ten inches-"

"Nine and three quarters," Dean reminded him.

Seamus moved to pull his wand out, but stopped himself before Dean could. "It's grown since then," he joked.

"Liar. Anyway, on the train, you showed me how to flip open girls' robes."

"Oh, man. Remember Susan Bones? She was so hacked off."

"Hell, yes! I thought she was going to turn you into a eunuch."

"That was you," Seamus said. "I was the one who talked her out of it."

Dean laughed. "And that sixth-year girl. You pervy sod."

"I was talented, wasn't I? I taught you everything you know. Everything important, anyway."

"Talented? The girls probably had another word for it." He caught the eye of the waiter and touched his empty glass, nodding at the mouthed question of refill. It had been his night to choose their watering hole, and tonight he'd opted for this trendy Muggle jazz club near King's Cross Station. Seamus never complained at their wanderings around town - Dean rarely settled on the same place twice - but when it was his turn, they always ended up at the same wizard pub near the Ministry.

"C'mon. All the girls loved me at school."

Dean nodded politely, though he had his doubts. "And you? Same question."

"You drew a picture for me that first week."

Dean didn't recall that. "Of you?"

"No. Of Neville, of all people. But I thought you were talented, even then."

He was touched at the simple memory - he'd expected some kind of sarcastic answer. "Thanks, Seamus."

"I wish I still had it - I could make a fortune for an early piece of Dean Thomas art."

"Nah. I'd have to be dead. And don't get any ideas, Seamus."

"Me? No fear. Who'd take me out drinking then?"

"So what happened to it?"

"Scabbers got hold of it. Chewed the shit out of it, and I threw it away. I hope it gave him diarrhea."

Accompanied by the soft piano, they continued to reminisce. Some of their odd stories reduced them to gales of laughter, but those happy memories were interrupted too often by reminders of what had followed, leaving Dean feeling melancholy over someone close who hadn't survived the war.

"The first time I saw the Weasley twins, they were trying out some kind of weird colorizing spell. Were you there that night?" Seamus asked.

"God, yes! Everyone in the common room had either red or yellow skin. It was disgusting."

"You were the only one who looked half-way normal. It didn't show up too well on you. Made you a bit bronzy, was all."

"I remember one time knocking over a huge stack of books onto Hermione."

"In Charms? I remember that. You practically flattened her," said Seamus.

"Yeah. She nearly hexed me for it, but Flitwick was watching."

"Do you remember the time Padma Patil tried to transfigure a pen into a pillow and instead came up with a dildo?"

Dean chuckled - he'd forgotten all about that. "The look on McGonagall's face when she saw it-"

"The look on Padma's face was worse."

"How about the morning Lavender knocked over her cauldron in Potions, and put everyone to sleep for the rest of the day?" Dean could still picture how odd everyone looked when they'd finally awakened - all slobbery and with strange lines on their faces from sleeping on books and quills.

Seamus snorted with amusement. "And Malfoy woke up with the worst case of bedhead I'd ever seen."

"Oh, right, I remember that! He looked worse then than he did that time Harry hexed him on the Hogwarts train home."

"Which time?"

Dean nodded. "Point."

"Sweet Mary and Joseph - Malfoy and his hair fetish. Shit, he's still prissy about it, don't you think?"

"I'm not about to bite the hand that feeds me." Dean grew serious. "I remember, though, after the last battle.... He wasn't worried about it, then. You didn't see him that day, but I-"

Seamus reached out a hand and settled it on Dean's arm. "Don't, mate. No war stories. Not tonight. You don't want to make an Irishman weepy, do you?"

Dean knew what he was really asking. "It's okay. I'm over it. Well, ninety-nine percent over it."

Seamus smiled. "When it's a hundred percent, could you let me know?"

"You'll be the first, I promise. No more secrets between us. I'm done with that." Dean returned the smile and felt better than he had in months. "So you can talk about Malfoy all you like."

"No war memories, though. And all my memories of Malfoy at school are nasty."

Dean was thoughtful for a minute. "I remember a nicer one."

Seamus pulled a long swallow from his bottle. "Spill, then."

"It was in sixth-year Potions, back when Snape started missing more and more classes."

"The spring before he left to join the Death Eaters?"

"Right. Pomfrey was filling in for him. But we didn't always have a Potions lesson when she was there. That day, she brought in something that looked like a Pensieve - we only used it once, and I can't even remember what it was called. Do you remember it?"

Seamus nodded. "Instead of liquid, it was filled with sand or something, wasn't that it?"

"Yeah. And Pomfrey wanted us to use it to draw out our most important memory, something we thought was at the center of our life. To focus on, when we needed something happy to make a Patronus. But I never did get it to work."

"Nor me, either." Seamus chuckled. "I mean, how old were we then? Sixteen? What kind of idea did we have about what was at the center of our life? Beyond Quidditch, skiving off homework, and girls? She should have known we were doomed to failure. None of us could make it work."

Dean frowned slightly. "No, don't you remember? Malfoy did. We all watched him recreate the one thing he thought was most important to him, there in the sand. He didn't even break a sweat to do it, it was so simple for him. But do you remember what it was?"

Seamus shook his head. "No, what? A pile of galleons? A set of designer robes? Maybe a pearl-inlaid comb?"

"No." He hesitated, then said, "It was Malfoy Manor. A perfect image of it, right there in Pomfrey's bowl of sand."

Seamus' smile faded and it took him a long time to answer. "That explains a lot, don't you think?"

"A lot. But not everything."

A hundred miles and a world away, the subject of their conversation was kicking forcefully with his expensively shod foot at his father's study door. The booming sound echoing down the corridors finally roused Sully, the Manor's house-elf.

"Is Master Draco wanting to go inside?" she managed to ask between the reverberations of his boot against the sealed door. Draco gave her a deliberate stare but didn't answer.

She took a last look at his face, fierce in its determination, and snapped her unnaturally long fingers. The door swung open, and he made himself walk in before he could change his mind. Sully trotted at his heels nervously. She didn't ask him anything else, but got down to the matter of preparing the room by lighting the torches and igniting the fire in the grate. He waited, motionless and silent, until she finished.

He'd put off visiting this room until tonight. He hadn't been inside it for months - when he'd sealed it off, it was with the hope that he'd never have to set foot in it again. But tonight - his last ever at Malfoy Manor - he needed to pay it one final visit.

He'd come with a vague notion of scouring the room for any last items he might want to take with him, but now that he was actually inside, he dismissed that idea as absurd. Bare shelves and niches marked the former locations of Dark artifacts now in the Ministry's possession. What was left after their sweep was of dubious value - things like a decorative hand mirror that, with a word, would speak the concealed thoughts of your friends, or an exquisite goblet that compelled you to endlessly refill and drain it, until you were utterly drunk.

Sully was waiting for him to show interest in any of the things here, as he'd done in the other rooms in the Manor. Then she'd prepare them to be moved to his new home. But nothing remaining had any importance to him. He wanted no reminders of this room or its former inhabitant. The Ministry were welcome to it all.

He found himself walking behind his father's richly carved desk and sitting down - something he couldn't recall ever doing before. Lucius' invisible presence cast such a possessive shadow, however, that Draco immediately stood up again. As he did, he noticed a familiar book resting on the desk, and he frowned. He thought he'd left it in his own room - Sully must have returned it to its original place.

He automatically picked it up and started leafing through it. Without a translation spell, he barely understood the words, but he didn't need to read them to know exactly what they said - he had burned them in his memory months ago.

No puedes hablar. No puedes escribir.

You may not speak. You may not write.

Puedes tocar. Puedes besar.

You may touch. You may kiss.

Abruptly, he could no longer suppress the overpowering memories of the last five years, and a violent anger surged through him. He shoved the book at Sully, then, grabbing a handful of papers, he strode over to the fire and flung them in. Instantly, they flared up. Satisfied at the result, he followed them with a clutch of books, which ignited with the same gratifying effect.

He was reckless with his labors now. Sully, for her part, grew more alarmed with every passing moment. "Master Draco, what is you doing? Please, sir, stop!"

But he was nowhere near to stopping. This was cathartic. It was exhilarating. With every object demolished, every reminder erased, every shadowy thing destroyed, his heart grew lighter and lighter until he was drunk with it.

He snatched a blazing stick out of the flames and with the burning end began to set fire to those things he couldn't hope to move. Sully was frantic now, wailing loudly and jerking at his arm with considerable force, but Draco wasn't about to be distracted from what had become his holy mission. The curtains, the books on the shelf, the plush sofa where he used to sit and watch Lucius work - all proved to be remarkably, dramatically flammable. Everything around him was being purified in flames.

"No, Master Draco! You is going to be killing yourself if you does not stop." He must have crossed beyond what his house-elf was prepared to allow him to do. She swiftly contained the flames to those things already alight, and soon the fires were dying all around them.

Draco began to cough from the smoke and ash that swirled around the damaged room. With a fearful glance at him, Sully cleared the air with another quick flick of her hand.

"You has ruined everything in Master Lucius' study," she cried, tearing at her rags in agitated distress. "What has you done?"

Something I needed to do a long time ago, he wanted to tell her. Something extraordinary.

He sat down in the only chair left untouched and looked around with enormous satisfaction. Sully dropped at his feet, her fingers gripping his book, and fixed her intense gaze on him, prepared to protect her master at any cost - even if it was from his own madness.

He took in the devastation around him and couldn't help remembering the last conversation he had had with his father in this room five years before. Back then, at sixteen, he had thought himself uncommonly perceptive. But at twenty-one, he knew that had never been the case.

First the thunder, then the storm...
In A Lifetime - Clannad/Bono

. . . . . . . .

Draco had special permission from Dumbledore to come home for the weekend - a privilege not often given to fifth-year students. He was stretched out in front of a dying fire in his father's study, nose buried in a book on Quidditch strategy. The relaxing warmth and the late hour conspired to make him pleasantly drowsy, and he half-heartedly struggled to focus on the words that seemed to lull him deeper into lethargy.

The sudden guttering and dousing of a nearby candle attracted his eye, and he lifted his head at the disruption. His movement, in turn, caught his father's attention, and the two smiled briefly at each other.

His father turned a page in his own book, then turned his head at an unexpected sound. "It's windy tonight," he said.

Draco, listening for the clattering scrape of branches against the far windows, pushed himself up on his elbows from his sprawled position on the floor. His father's attention had already returned to the heavy, ancient-looking book in front of him. Not long after, Sully appeared and silently replaced the spent candle with a new one, lighting it with a quick jerk of her hand. She disappeared as unobtrusively as she'd arrived.

When he was home from Hogwarts, as he was tonight, he often slipped into the study with his father. His own reading steered to the mundane, but the common activity made him feel a comfortable bond with his father, and he hoped his father felt the same way.

Father had an unusual love of knowledge, and most people who knew him didn't appreciate its depth. Most nights found his father here in the study, researching a single topic from copious stacks of books, jotting methodical notes with the faint scratching of his quill, or engrossed in thought over a single scroll for hours.

As Draco had grown older, Father had talked to him about some of the things he was reading. At first, the topics were innocuous, but as time went on, he had realized that Father was exploring types of magic that were never given attention at Hogwarts. And probably with good reason, he admitted. They were fascinating subjects, but more than a little frightening.

He heard his father murmuring what sounded like a spell of some kind. The language wasn't Latin, though, and again he raised his head curiously.

His father answered the unasked question in his eyes. "Spanish."

Draco rolled over on his side, welcoming the distraction. "What are you reading?" he asked politely.

Lucius shifted slightly in his chair to look at his son. "Iberian curses. Not something you'll ever learn from Flitwick, I'll warrant."

"Not even close. We're stuck on household charms this month," he said with a smirk. "For benefit of the Weasleys, I imagine." He slid his wand from his sleeve, pointed it at his father's empty brandy glass, and muttered a cleaning charm that left the goblet spotless. "So feel free to release the house elves. I'm obviously prepared to cope."

His father smiled in commiseration. "Not enchantments a Malfoy would have need of, I agree. Not that I'd expect you to have need of these Iberian curses, either."

Draco's interest was engaged, as he knew it was meant to be. "Why? What are they?"

"Ah. The Latin temperament...so much more volatile, you know, than ours. This spell, for example. Known in the vernacular as the Jilted Lover's Curse. Not that you have to be a jilted lover to cast it, of course, but it might come to mind in that unfortunate circumstance."

"Really? What does it do?"

"Like the Spanish, it's rather dramatic. It compels the victim to utter verbal abuse at anyone within earshot." His father's eyes scanned the page in front of him. "Lasting from sundown until...exhaustion, I suspect. Repeated daily."

"Verbal abuse doesn't sound too bad, actually," Draco volunteered.

"I wouldn't be so quick to judge that unless you've been at the receiving end of it." Lucius smiled with a ominous gleam that left him nervous, and he nodded at his father to acknowledge his mistake. "Especially when the curse also enriches the victim with some limited ability of Legilimens. Enough, I suspect, to give the curse's victim plenty of ammunition to use against friends. Which should ensure they'll become former friends. And let's see, what else?" His perfectly-manicured fingers traced along the page. "The victim can't be silenced...can't be bound...can't be left alone. And the spell-breaking is delightfully complex and self-sacrificial. They seem to have thought of everything."

"Why do they call it the Jilted Lover's Curse?"

"I suppose because this curse provides the perfect revenge. I can't imagine that any future relationship the victim cares to attempt would survive long under these conditions." At Draco's puzzled expression, he went on. "Let's say that Juan abandons Consuelo. Therefore, Consuelo curses Juan. Juan moves on to Estrella but makes her nights a living hell with abuse. Estrella, of course, is driven away in horror. To be followed by Maria, Carmina - even Pablo, if Juan swings that way, I suppose. The curse makes sure that Juan pays the price for his faithlessness. So simple. But effective."

Draco, with the benefit of sixteen years with no romantic entanglements to his credit, thought it all ridiculously complex. "I don't see the benefit myself. And I'd guess it's an Unforgiveable, too."

His father looked serious for a moment. "The laws differ in other cultures." Draco recognized that his father had slipped into full lecture mode, but the topic, at least, was interesting. He made a small noise of appreciation, and his father nodded and continued. "It's not an Unforgiveable, but it is highly illegal. At least in Spain. It doesn't seem to have gained any popularity here."

"So why would anyone risk it?"

"Ah, Draco, you are forgetting the emotional satisfaction of securing sweet revenge. Sometimes, nothing else comes close to satisfying that craving."

He considered that. Of course, after examining his views on revenge, the first person he thought of was Harry Potter. But that was different. He always wanted his own revenge to be immediate, concrete, and so direct that Potter knew where it had come from and, most significantly, why. This psychological nonsense had none of those qualities, and therefore, no real appeal to him. And he certainly wouldn't brave the punishment for performing an illegal curse to achieve it.

A sudden thought came to him. You-Know-Who would have found a curse like that intriguing. The Dark Lord hadn't feared punishment, and his craving for revenge against Potter was legendary. Just then, he suspected why his father was researching these curses, and he felt a chill settle over him.

Then he wondered exactly what other Dark curses the Spanish had come up with. The discussion suddenly seemed a lot less abstract. A unexpected and restive hammering against the farthest window made by branch tips caught by the wind worsened his jittery mood.

He didn't know what prompted him to ask, "Those other books. Are they about illegal curses, too?" Because he didn't need to hear his father's answer to know that they were.

In Draco's mind, Father's' studies were no longer the innocuous substance of late night reading sessions. With a jolt, he realized that these curses were meant to be used. Against somebody. And perhaps soon.

The look in his father's eye told him that he'd recognized the dangerous association that Draco had just made, but he seemed pleased by the revelation.

"Draco. What do you know about the night Harry Potter disappeared from the third task of the TriWizard Tournament?"

The abrupt change of topic unsettled him. He stumbled over his answer.

"You mean the night Cedric Diggory was killed?" He licked his lips nervously. "Potter says the Dark Lord came back and killed Diggory. The Daily Prophet says he's lying."

That comment triggered a stern look. "What the Daily Prophet says is unimportant."

"Um. Well, some of the students think Potter killed Diggory so he would win the Tournament. Last week, Professor Umbridge punished Potter for what he said about things that happened that night, and now no one is allowed to talk about it at school. Dumbledore believes Potter, but then, he would..."

His father's direct stare challenged him, as did his next question. "And what do you think, Draco?"

He wished he had more time to formulate some kind of thoughtful response. "I...I don't know. I don't know what to think." He hoped his father heard his unspoken plea - tell me what to think.

Lucius suddenly swung around in his chair so that he was directly facing him. "What I'm about to tell you, son, is for only you to know. For now, I'm asking you not to share this with anyone else." Draco pulled himself up from his slouch, thinking that he should assume a more formal, mature position - one more suited to hearing such an admission. He nodded back with his most serious expression.

"Lord Voldemort is indeed alive. Potter - against his will, I assure you - was instrumental in his resurrection. He is alive and powerful again, as we have hoped for these many years."

Lucius had always been an exceptional storyteller, and tonight's tale only reinforced that fact. The details he supplied as he continued to describe what happened were so graphic, vivid, and shocking that Draco could almost see the graveyard, hear the shouts of the Death Eaters, smell the hot smoke from curses shattering headstones and carving gouges in the turf.

A strange thing happened in his mind's eye during his father's narrative - as Lucius described the scene as he'd witnessed it, Draco changed its perspective so that it was Potter's. He could picture the Gryffindor enmeshed in the web created by the wands, and see the shadowy figures of the dead appear in the dome to support him. So clear was the image his father painted that he felt as though he'd watched how Potter threaded his way through the hexes sent after him, managing to reach Diggory and the portkey and escaping by the skin of his teeth.

As he listened to his father's familiar voice, now charged with an unfamiliar excitement, he tried to absorb the facts. But he found it hard to unravel the snarled emotions the tale evoked in him. Fear was the most obvious - fear so abrupt and strong he could almost smell it in the air around him like smoke - but why should this news cause such fear in him? Shouldn't he be pleased? Didn't purebloods want the Dark Lord to return and take up their cause? Didn't he want his father to resume his rightful place beside their leader, to bring more prestige on the Malfoy name, and to carry Draco with him to higher respect? Tell me what to think, he'd silently begged, but no one had told him what to feel.

And what he felt most strongly was dread.

Pai, afasta de mim este calice, de vinho tinto de sangue
[Father, take this chalice from me, of wine tinted with blood]
Calice - Gilberto Gil/Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

For Draco, the discussion in his father's study marked the beginning of an intense internal debate. Because even at sixteen, he knew, with utter conviction, that his father's vision was never going to succeed. Believing that, he knew he couldn't march blindly to await the defeat he saw ahead, clearer than any prophecy. Because he knew Potter, and he knew Dumbledore, and his father didn't.

He was observant enough to sense the changes coming to the wizarding world. Holier-than-thou Gryffindors uttered not-so-veiled warnings to each other as he passed them in the corridors. The Daily Prophet hinted at events - although what they didn't print was undoubtedly even more revealing. Father's visitors murmured their tidings in the halls of Malfoy Manor; snippets of conversation that were cut off by closing doors but that revealed just enough to give him an anxious flutter.

Draco had a fault common to most sixteen year olds: he assumed that what he knew and believed were what those closest to him knew and believed, too. But he failed to see that his life at Hogwarts gave him first-hand opportunity to observe the doings of the Dark Lord's opposition. He lived, after all, in the very heart of Dumbledore's realm, and very much under his influence. With that perspective, he had a hard time grasping why the Dark Lord kept making the same reckless mistakes when it came to Harry Potter. Maybe tasting defeat at the other boy's hands so frequently had made it ordinary for Draco, but he'd mistakenly thought the harsh knowledge of such defeat commonplace.

Several days after their talk in the study, his father arrived one afternoon at Hogwarts to watch a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch exhibition match - Draco refused to call it a friendly, as everyone else did. Thoughts of their recent conversation about You-Know-Who weighed heavily on him, making him feel strangely uncomfortable with his father. He hadn't been able to resolve any of his fear and dread about the subject - if anything, his mood had grown darker and his fears worse. All afternoon, he'd struggled to feign a show of normalcy; he hoped any nervousness he was unable to suppress would be written off to pre-game nerves.

The early autumn day was glorious - uncharacteristically warm, with an occasional burst of sun slipping from behind gentle clouds. The two of them had spent some time after lunch following the well-traveled path around the lake.

"Gryffindor's Beaters look smaller this year," Lucius said, as he controlled their steady pace along the footpath.

"That's because Slytherin's are bigger," Draco replied.

Lucius smiled. "Nothing ever changes, then." He seemed to be in a reminiscing mood. "Slytherin always has a deep field to choose from for strength."

More small talk was offered and returned regarding teams, conditions, and strategies, which Draco participated in but only partially heard.

As the hour grew late, Draco urged them back to the Quidditch pitch, choosing to lead them along a little-used trail leading up the slope. The path was too narrow for two to walk abreast, so he allowed his father most of the path. He made his way beside him through the late season grasses, already brittle and dry, that made a sibilant sound against his robes and resisted his progress.

"Have you heard any more talk about Potter? Or the Dark Lord?" His father's words sounded slightly breathless from their climb.

"Not really. Everyone's been worked up about this game, really."

"Ah. The first Quidditch match of the school year. I remember the excitement. Everyone is out to impress each other - and especially the first years - with how much they know about Quidditch. But then they open their mouths and destroy any illusion of insight."

Draco gave an appreciative snort but didn't reply.

"I know you're intelligent, Draco. You've worked out that things are on the move now. You must realize that any information that you discover at Hogwarts that can help our cause would not go unnoticed - or unrewarded."

He struggled to maintain his neutral demeanor, but the unexpected suggestion that he report on the people at Hogwarts, so casually dropped into their conversation, alarmed him more than their discussion in the study had. He kept his head bent, kicking at the ground as he walked.

"I'm not sure I'm in a position to hear much that's any use to anyone," he answered carefully. "It's mostly all about who's snogging who, or who's cheating in Herbology, or when the next trip to Hogsmeade will be. You know what school talk is like."

"I wouldn't expect you to realize the value of things you hear, son. That's for others to determine. But you are in a unique place to observe and listen."

"I thought Professor Snape-"

"His loyalty is in question these days. It would be wise not to trust him."

Draco allowed himself to focus on the steep part of the climb, paying close attention to his footing. His father seemed to take his silence for acquiescence.

"Clever as you are, I'm sure you can come up with ways to find yourself in places with people who might let the wrong information slip."

With growing alarm, he realized that he was being directed to become an active spy for the Death Eaters. His new companions of fear and dread made a sudden reappearance, and his stomach clenched. He needed to answer, to say something; his father was expecting a response.

"I...." He couldn't think of what to say. "I'm surprised." Well, that was true, if inadequate.

Lucius had slowed and turned around to study his son's demeanor. Seemingly satisfied that surprise was somehow a passable answer, he turned back to the path and continued climbing.

"Your friend Crabbe's father has been talking about sending Vincent to Durmstrang next year. I gather his wife is pressuring him to keep their son safe." He said the word as if it were a curse. "What about you, Draco? Do you have any interest in following Vincent to Durmstrang?"

"Of course not."

"Good. I do not condone the Crabbes' cowardice. Someone once wrote that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a time of great crisis, maintain their neutrality."

Draco, adept at interpreting his father's veiled language, translated that as you are expected to join the Death Eaters when you are called.

He kept his answer carefully abstract. "Slytherin won't be the same without Crabbe."

Lucius lightly rested a hand on Draco's neck for a moment as a reward for his apparent acquiescence. "I've come across a new book on Turkish curses," he said by way of changing the subject, but Draco was no longer listening. Right now, he just wanted to get himself to the locker room, maybe to shut himself off in a dark cubicle there, at least until the universe righted itself again. Blindly, he thrust his legs through the long grass beside the path. With each step he took, he noticed that countless leafhoppers, disturbed by the sudden intrusion, were springing away by the dozens. What must it be like, he thought suddenly, to be so unaware of what was about to happen, maybe quietly munching on a tasty leaf and thinking about not much of anything. When suddenly, wham! The world you knew was gone, and you didn't have the brains to work out what had happened.

Just like the unsuspecting residents of Hogwarts.

Still, had he honestly expected things to continue here as they always had? As dusty and unchanging, perhaps, as Binns? Why had he believed - why did they all seem to expect - that You-Know-Who was politely waiting until Potter finished his seventh year NEWTS before he made his move?

The hammer could fall any day now. And at Hogwarts - with Dumbledore and Potter here - he would find himself in the center of nasty events in a big hurry. In the middle of a war where he'd be discovered spying for the wrong side.

They were approaching the Quidditch pitch. The Slytherin and Gryffindor team members were converging on the locker rooms to dress for the game. His father was planning to observe from the Slytherin stands.

He noticed Harry Potter, alone, to their right. Potter's usual distracted look was his only expression. He'd not noticed either Malfoy, but Lucius had observed him, and Draco could feel him bristle beside him. He looked at his father carefully, betraying no emotion, saying nothing.

"Oh, look. The savior of the wizarding world," Lucius breathed. "Without his adoring sycophants, it would seem."

To his surprise, he noticed that his father was surreptitiously guiding his wand, hidden in the folds of his sleeve, towards the Gryffindor Seeker. He clutched frantically at his father's arm.

"What are you doing?" he sputtered. "They'll check him for spells before the game." He knew his father was well aware of the precautions taken on behalf of the players before any match. Hell, his father had played Quidditch here - the routine was the same; nothing had changed.

"Defending the Boy-Who-Lived, Draco? I didn't know you were so concerned," his father answered carelessly.

Hearing the dangerous undercurrent only partially disguised in the words, Draco knew that his answer should be circumspect. He forced his fists to relax.

"No, I don't care about him. But I care about our team. I'd hate to forfeit."

"That would presume discovery, however. Something that I wholly intend to avoid." Lucius turned his attention fully to his son. "But perhaps you've lost confidence in me?"

"No, of course not, Father," was his automatic response. He didn't have an honest answer to give.

"Thank you for that, then," his father coolly replied. He then spoke the words to the spell Draco had heard at their last meeting, letting the Spanish phrases trip off his tongue as though he were a native.

The Jilted Lover's Curse? He was even more shocked than his initial response. How the hell did his father expect no one to notice that? Shit! This wasn't some nondescript Hufflepuff in wand's range. This was Potter, the golden boy, Dumbledore's pet.

His horrified expression seemed only to amuse his father. "Calm yourself, Draco," he chided. "Nothing will happen. Yet." He continued his spell, this time reverting to Latin. Draco recognized a concealment spell, then something unfamiliar. "There. Hidden. And I've put a time trigger on it, to allow it to take effect at a more convenient time for the Malfoy family. At my death."

Confusion stormed through Draco. "But...why?"

Father and son were stopped in the path, ignoring Potter, who was walking away, innocent of what had just happened. The whole scene had taken on an air of unreality in Draco's racing mind. The expression on his father's face at that moment struck him as frighteningly intimate and so familiar - full of confidence, arrogance, self-possession - in so many ways typifying the unwritten Malfoy code.

"Why? Well, Draco, I suppose it's because I wanted to." He said it almost casually, as if he spoke of something as meaningless as his preference in wines, or cloaks, or music. Then Lucius' voice dropped and he almost whispered the next words, as though he were confiding a dark secret. "Because I can."

"Because I can." Never had words chilled Draco so thoroughly.

Coming as they did, as a dismissal of a Dark curse cast so indifferently against another student, they shook his perception of his father to his core.

Not that he particularly cared about Potter. Not really. Potter was an irritant, a threat, an unresolved and unresolvable problem. He was unmoved by anything affecting him.

But he recognized immediately that his father's attitude could also be applied to the rest of his conversation - the cavalier suggestion, which he knew at once was a poorly concealed command - that Draco begin service as a spy for the Dark Lord. He'd been ordered to put himself on the front line. Compelled. But never asked.

"Because I can."

The vision of his future as a trusted ally of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wasn't any great revelation. Not at all. Given his position as Lucius' son, as natural leader of his Slytherin classmates, it was all but assumed. Even the most obtuse Hufflepuff could have guessed the direction his life would take.

No, the concept wasn't a surprise. It was - what? He found himself dwelling on the issue for restless hours after the Quidditch game. Amazingly, he'd actually managed to beat Potter to the Snitch, and he was annoyed that it had only been an exhibition game and wouldn't count towards the Quidditch Cup. He chalked his victory up to luck; his mind certainly hadn't been focused on the game. But Potter had seemed even more distracted than Draco had been.

He was grateful for the win, because he couldn't have dealt with his father after a defeat. He managed to fake his pleasure at the game's outcome, acknowledged the praise from his teammates - good going, Malfoy, knew you could beat him - pretended interest through the post-game festivities, and received his father's congratulations and promise of a new broom to celebrate his victory. A well-earned reward, generously bestowed.

"Because I can."

That night in the common room, he sat in self-imposed isolation. His fellow Slytherins knew better than to bother him - 'Draco's in one of his moods,' they warned each other - and he let them believe it, because it suited his purpose. Goyle, as usual, set himself up as a personal guard, ready to intercept any disturbance, although after all this time it wasn't necessary.

But it was more than a mood, any passing irritation at life's iniquities, that sent him off into his own contemplations tonight. He was deep in unsettled thought. He had an ingrained habit of searching for hidden motivations of everyone around him - he was always formulating, deliberating, judging.

Tonight, he was aware that his assessments were more pivotal than they'd ever been.

Sacrifice. The more he worried over the events of the day, the more it came down to that one word. Now that someday had become today, could he sacrifice his future to the Dark Lord? And if he didn't, what then?

Was he really expected to become no more than a tool in his father's hands? Used for whatever purpose he decided, with little regard to Draco's own desires? Because I can?

When had his father crossed that line? When had his father stopped looking at him as who he was and begun to see him only for what he could do for his cause?

The look on his father's face that afternoon had told him, with stunning clarity, that the line had been crossed long ago. Draco, somehow not paying attention, somewhere lost in his own pastimes, preoccupied in Quidditch and studies and boyish pranks, had failed to notice it.

But now he realized that the sacrifice that his father proposed for him - a sacrifice that was demanded, pressured, coerced - wasn't a concession he was at all willing to make. Hidden deep within him, unexamined until their conversation abruptly forced him to address it, was a strong feeling that the destiny his father planned and the Dark Lord demanded without question - this unwilling sacrifice - was nothing more than a kind of treachery. He felt betrayed. And he was beginning to think that the basic difference between good and evil came down to this simple truth: those who embraced darkness sacrificed others. Those who did not, sacrificed only themselves.

Draco knew at that instant what he had to do. And why.

Because I can.

We never feel the power of our own hand, sense the danger late,
and only vaguely ever grasp the means of our sole salvation.
Sole Salvation - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

And so Draco's new life began.

Driven initially by fear, sustained by a deep desire not to become an unwilling sacrifice, governed by Snape's tutelage, under his demanding yet vigilant wing, Draco learned how to spy.

Eventually.

That night, slipping out of the common room under a thin excuse, he sought out Professor Snape. He suspected that the Head of Slytherin house would understand his reasons. And after all, a Head of house should offer guidance to the students under his care. He had never needed that kind of help before; now he felt as though his life depended on it.

Rumors had swirled around Slytherin House for years about Snape's undeclared loyalties. Of course, there was the Dark Mark as evidence of - well, really, of what? All it proved was that at one time, Snape had accepted the Dark Lord; well, so had Draco. He realized it said nothing about his professor's current loyalties.

Dumbledore continued to permit him to teach here at Hogwarts. Even the simplest first year could work out that if Snape were an active Death Eater, he'd have been given the boot long ago. So his very presence at the school was evidence - again, of what? That Dumbledore believed him to be neutral at the very minimum, and more likely a supporter.

He strongly suspected that Snape was a double agent. His father had suggested as much today. But only Snape - not Dumbledore and not the Dark Lord - could ever say for certain who held his underlying allegiance. Loyalty was not so black and white; maybe that delicate question was never truly answered with any certainty.

But he had to take a chance that Snape could be trusted. If he was wrong - well, he didn't want to think about that yet. But over the years, he thought he sensed a kindred spirit in Snape - someone who, like him, thought things over at great length and never blindly followed the expectations of others.

He threw the weight of his hopes behind that perception as he knocked on Snape's door.

"Mr. Malfoy," came the solemn greeting. Snape showed no surprise at the late interruption.

"Professor Snape. I need to talk to you. It's important."

Snape opened his door wide in invitation. Draco followed him into the dimly lit room, hearing the murmured words of a locking and then a silencing spell. It did nothing to calm his nerves.

"Please, sit."

He did. Now that he was here, though, his courage began failing him. What he had convinced himself of, in the abstract world of his own thoughts, was immensely harder to face in reality.

Snape noticed his unusual silence and moved to a small sideboard, pulling out two glasses and a bottle of something that Draco registered as whisky. He sank back further in his chair and let his gaze travel over the room - he'd been here before, but not often, and it always surprised him how unlike the potions lab this place was. Almost comfortable. Snape pressed a welcomed glass into his hand, and he took a grateful sip. Not as good as what was served at the Manor, naturally, but not bad.

"Congratulations on your win, today," Snape said. "Most fortunate, with your father in attendance."

He wasn't surprised that Snape made the connection between his father's appearance at Hogwarts this afternoon and his visit here tonight. By mentioning it now, obliquely, Snape was giving him tacit permission to speak about not only his father, but other related things.

And so he began.

Delicately, tentatively, he probed at the edges of his subject. What did Snape think were the prospects for immediate war? Where and how would he suppose the Dark Lord might begin? What would the students and staff do in response? He kept to the subject as passively as if they were discussing the benefits and detriments of today's Quidditch strategies, and Snape matched his tone and replied dispassionately.

With growing confidence, he began to touch on some of his more insistent questions. Who would be expected to join the Death Eaters? Was their cause really valid enough to justify the high cost of unquestioned loyalty it demanded? What were the Dark Lord's true chances for success?

Snape answered with the same abstract words he had kept to earlier, but then abruptly asked, "And what do you think, Draco?"

Hearing that question released some hidden lock inside him, and he began voicing his current fears. Everything he'd been dwelling on, all his doubts, his feelings of betrayal - he poured them out, still fearing Snape's reaction but ultimately relieved and grateful at having someone to share his burden.

Snape listened carefully, interjecting questions at times, but content to let Draco talk.

"Why did you come to me about these things?" he finally asked.

Draco looked at him directly. "I think you're spying for Dumbledore. That you aren't a Death Eater. I thought you could - well, I want to do that, too." There. It was finally out. Not eloquent, to be sure, but clear enough even for Snape.

"You want to spy on the Death Eaters?" he repeated with evident surprise.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Good question, thought Draco. "In my position, I think I could be useful," he answered.

"But you don't have to. I can understand not wanting to join the Death Eaters. But you could sit out the war; you don't have to go against your father. Stay neutral."

"No." He wondered why he felt the need to be so honest with Snape. Apparently, the whisky was loosening his tongue. "Neutrality won't save me from them; I know they'd come after me even for that. If I don't join them, the only way I can be sure of staying alive is to make sure they don't win."

Snape smiled at that. "Ah. A Slytherin answer. Enlightened self-interest."

"Maybe. There's more to it than that. I don't think I can explain it all. But I've given it enough thought to know this is what I want." He paused to concentrate on making his arguments persuasive. "I want to decide my own fate. I won't be anyone's tool. Not even Father's."

"No, I couldn't see you surrendering like that," Snape answered with a thoughtful expression. "But what you're proposing to take on is dangerous."

"I know. I plan to keep my head down as much as possible."

"So you're not out to fashion yourself an exotic persona? Perhaps live out some boyish fantasy of the secret life of a spy? You don't yearn to be admired by your compatriots and adored by women who throw themselves at your feet?"

"No. I don't even like women. I prefer men," he said nonchalantly. His eyes widened at what he'd just admitted, and he choked out, "You-. The whisky. You gave me Veritaserum!"

"Of course I did." Snape continued to stare at him solemnly, steepling his long fingers calmly before adding, "This is no mere game you're asking me to play, Draco. I have to know how serious you are. The most obvious reason for you to come to me would be to entrap me for your father. You should have known that."

Draco sighed, leaning back into the chair. "You're right."

"You do realize that a perfectly truthful person would never have recognized the Veritaserum." Snape gave another little smile, his voice relaxed with it. "But, in your favor, you only felt the need to lie about something unrelated to our conversation."

He felt a wave of alarm at knowing what he'd confessed, a fear that his admission would become a weapon used against him. "I've never told anyone about that. No one knows. I-"

Snape interrupted. "Then I apologize for the unwanted admission you had to make. It will go no further." He looked at his student meaningfully. "Although I can't say it comes as any great surprise to me."

He could feel the heat rise in his face. "What do you mean?"

"One of the most useful tools of a spy, Draco, is careful observation. With practice, you will learn that most people reveal much more about themselves than they are ever aware of. An alert eye will notice everything." Draco looked away in embarrassment - had he really been that obvious? "But we won't speak of it again."

"Thank you," he said in a low voice.

Snape grew more serious. "You are sincere about rejecting the Death Eaters?"

"Yes." Now that he was aware of the potion, he noticed how compelled he felt to answer Snape's question.

"You want to become a spy for those working against the Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

"And you came to me because you think I am doing the same?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand the risk you take by coming here and telling me these things?"

Draco tensed. "Yes."

"Did you tell anyone else you were coming here tonight? Your father, perhaps?"

"No. No one."

"Have you spoken to anyone else of your desires to spy against the Death Eaters?"

"No."

"Why did you not go directly to the headmaster and offer him your services?"

"Because I don't trust him. He's never been a friend to Slytherins. He's only concerned with Potter."

Snape looked at him carefully. "Are you jealous of Potter?"

An automatic answer didn't immediately form in his mind, and he was at a loss of how to answer. "I...I don't know. Sometimes I'm jealous of how easily things come to him. Like getting on the Quidditch team his first year. Getting chosen for the TriWizard Tournament. Winning the house cup nearly every year. But then, I suspect there's more to his life, somehow, that no one sees. Something I'm missing. All the rumors-"

"What rumors, Draco?"

He knew Snape was testing him - his teacher knew far more than he did about Potter, he was certain. "Well, about his relatives, for one. They say he was brought up treated like a house-elf. Living in a closet. He shows up at Hogwarts every year in old clothes that are far too big for him. I don't know if any of it's true...."

"It's true," Snape replied.

Draco's head snapped up at the terse answer, but Snape didn't elaborate. "And all the times he supposedly foiled the Dark Lord - just about every year since he's been here. The things they write about him in the Daily Prophet. Of course, he's their little pet, so I can't believe most of it...."

"Believe it."

He was confused. "Still, why are we talking about him - I mean, what does Potter have to do with anything I'm telling you?"

Snape patiently explained. "Potter is crucial to Dumbledore's plans. As such, protecting him is one of our highest priorities. Tell me, Draco, do you hate him?"

"No." He was surprised by how quickly the answer came to him. "I think he's an irritating git, too full of himself, pampered and spoilt, cocky-"

Snape gave a low chuckle. "I understand. Not your favorite person."

"No, sir. I don't need Veritaserum to tell you that."

"Well, I can't say I disagree with your assessment. Still, I need to know - could you work with him if you had to? Protect him if we asked you to?"

"I think so. If you asked me to." He knew he meant Snape when he said "you", but he hoped that his professor wouldn't question him too closely on it. The idea of being loyal to some larger group, with people he didn't particularly respect, was still too new. At least at first, he would have to rely on his personal loyalty to Snape. He pushed on with his plea. "Professor, I think you understand me. You're a Slytherin. And you know what my father is like." He paused, then added, "I think you can teach me what I need to know. I'd like you to."

Snape made no reply, but continued an intense scrutiny of his student.

"Please, sir."

Snape was staring so intently at him that Draco felt that he was almost trying to read his mind. He wanted badly to look away, but he didn't want to appear weak or hesitant about this decision. All his plans hinged on Snape's acceptance. The silence dragged out beyond measure.

Finally, Snape replied. "Very well. We will have to tell the headmaster, of course, but we will inform no one else unless we have to."

Draco nodded, feeling relief bubbling through him, bringing the first stirring of reassurance he'd felt in a long time. "I do have one favor to ask you."

"Already?" Snape said, but he seemed more amused than annoyed. "What is that?"

"I would like to propose a toast to our new association. But before we do that, could you pour me a new glass of whisky?"

To his surprise, Severus Snape found growing satisfaction in his new relationship with Draco. Their previous pattern of favorite teacher and pampered student allowed them to safely disguise the changes occurring in their day-to-day contact. In public, he encouraged the other students to believe that Draco was preparing someday to follow in his footsteps and become a Potions master, and this provided a perfect cover for the long evenings they spent together.

People being what they were - in short, gossiping busybodies - unsavory rumors were occasionally whispered about their growing connection. He knew that Draco, who was far more sensitive about the subject, privately seethed at the twisted innuendoes. Snape ignored them, but nonetheless, he was careful in public to maintain a prudent distance from Draco.

"Don't let it distract you, Draco," he counseled one evening. "But do pay attention to those doing most of the talking - there may be a reason behind it that turns out to be important."

"I know. But it's hard sometimes. I just want to snap their bloody necks, you know? They're so stupid."

"And you never gossiped?" He looked at his student in mock apprehension. "I'm sure you've grown far beyond such childish behaviors now, but perhaps when you were younger?"

Draco laughed at his teasing. "Never. As you know, I am the embodiment of decency and sincerity."

"Of course. I never doubted it for a minute."

He regarded the young man sprawled across his sofa, bared feet perched casually on its arm, warmed in the reflected heat of the fire. So young. Too young. Snape, while teaching him all that would be useful as a spy in the Dark Lord's lair, nevertheless counted on the hope that matters would never go so far. That the growing conflict would be resolved without Draco's participation. One reason he'd accepted Draco's proposition in the first place was to keep him safe from Lucius and his sinister plans. If Harry Potter could rely once again on his astounding blind luck and manage to fulfill his destiny quickly, Draco could be kept well out of things, safe. A disturbing thought came to him at that moment - if he were forced to chose between protecting Potter or Draco, would he put Potter first, as he must?

Draco must have been thinking about his future as well, because he asked, "When am I ever going to get an assignment from the almighty Order? Doesn't Dumbledore trust me?" The gleam from the fire reflected in the young man's face, making him appear to glow in anticipation.

"Don't be in too much in a hurry to leave your training, Draco."

"But I haven't done anything useful yet."

"On the contrary. You have continued to behave as you always have, deliberately allowing everyone to believe that you will be a loyal and dedicated servant of the Dark Lord when you are finally asked."

"And?"

"And building a convincing cover is the most important thing you will ever do as a spy. It's also the hardest thing to do, and often the most overlooked - but you will find it critical to any hope of your success."

Chapter 2

It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.
J.K. Rowling

. . . . . . . .

Professor Snape heard the first of the fifth-year Potions students begin to collect outside his dungeon door. Not one of them was ever eager to enter early; they tended to throng outside, postponing the eventual and chatting among themselves until they would finally break free in a mass and file in.

"Smith, what're you doing here?" the unmistakable voice of Seamus Finnigan hooted outside the door. "Blow up your potion, did you? Or just wanted to see how Gryffindors do it?"

"No, wasn't me. We chained yesterday."

Chaining was Hogwarts slang, from even before Snape's student days, for setting off a reaction of potion explosions. Some mixtures were fairly sensitive, and setting a reaction off through carelessness sometimes triggered cauldrons nearby, ruining them all. When that happened, those affected would have to repeat their work with the next class to meet - so today some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws would be joining the Slytherins and Gryffindors.

"Who did it?" Finnigan asked him, still loitering outside the open door.

"Terry Boot."

"How big?"

"Thirteen of us," Smith answered, and he laughed. "And we're all going to Hogsmeade tonight, so I hope he's saved his Sickles." Tradition held that the chain instigator would buy a round of Butterbeers for their victims to make up to them for the extra class time.

"Thirteen - man! Class is going to be full today."

He heard a new voice chime in. "I can't believe we're even here at all." That was Dean Thomas.

"No shit," Smith replied, marginally lowering his voice.

Finnigan also attempted to speak quietly, but missed the mark by a wide margin. "Trust that wanker Snape to make us show up for Potions after our OWLs. It's so sodding unfair. Dumbledore shouldn't let him get away with it."

"Yeah, no one else would even think to hold classes after OWLs are finished," Smith said. "And there's a good reason for that."

Finnigan affected a whiny tone that Snape realized was a dreadful imitation of his own voice. "'I will not have you fifth-year students roaming the halls interrupting the other students. I presume you are here at Hogwarts to learn. If you are only here to worry over a trivial mark on an exam, you may want to reconsider your education.'"

Laughter followed his mocking speech.

Thomas managed to keep his voice low, but Snape could still hear him clearly. "You didn't have to come, Seamus. Snape said anyone who was sure he flunked his Potions OWL would be excused." More laughter.

A snort, then Seamus said, "Yeah, yeah. Who'll admit to that? I notice you're here."

Smith added, "He'll take away house points if anyone's missing. You know he will."

Snape smiled. He was never without a workable threat to use on them.

Some undefined critical mass had built up in the hall, and the students drifted into the room under his impassive watch.

Few choices were available to his Potions students. They wore nearly the same school robes, carried the same drab book bags, and bore the same reserved and cautious expressions. As they settled into seats, they extracted identical books, pens, and ink bottles. In front of them, they placed a wand not of their choosing, for the wand chose the wizard. Obviously, the students didn't choose to be here today, and he knew they wouldn't have chosen him as its teacher - most of them despised him. By fifth year, they had learned the hard way that freedom of choice was best left to other subjects. Creating potions was an exacting matter, and straying from directions invariably led to calamity. So although no student in this room was aware of it, in other areas he intentionally allowed his students as much freedom of choice as he could.

If information conferred power, then Snape was a powerful man. He was a careful observer with a meticulous memory. Under his watchful eye, the most trivial choice was analyzed and fitted into the mental dossier he gathered on everyone who crossed his path. If he'd been a generous man, he might have shared his discoveries with his subjects - but he was not a generous man.

Still, he gave his students what choices he could, and watched.

He didn't assign seats, so where they chose to sit gave him some meager information. Those in the double class of Slytherin and Gryffindor weren't required to sit apart but had opted to early in their first month. It looked as though he'd carefully parted them with a comb.

Of course, by fifth year the students had such a rigid system that to sit in someone else's usual spot was as alarming as trying to usurp their bed. Some of them sat far in the back from their first day at Hogwarts - like Draco and his friends Crabbe and Goyle. This week's gossip - that Draco's father now called Azkaban home - had isolated them, and the class flatly avoided seats near them.

He saw with mild satisfaction that nearly all the seats were filled. Unlike most other Hogwarts teachers, he embraced the philosophy that it was better to be feared than loved.

"It was good of you to join me today for class. Apparently, some of you are still under the delusion that you passed your Potions OWL-" he deliberately focused attention on Longbottom, who was finding his quill unusually absorbing at the moment - "but you will be disabused of that notion soon enough."

He strode over to loom behind Finnigan's seat. "I know that some of you question the need to bother with classes today. You expect that I am under some obligation - perhaps imposed from the headmaster, hmm? - to permit you to wander the school aimlessly all week to do whatever you please. I assure you, in this you are mistaken."

He proceeded to Smith's table, and let his long fingers trail over the back of his chair. "You may wish to waste your time at Hogsmeade. However, I believe your time is better spent in learning. Silly of me, I know, but I was led to believe that is why you are at this school in the first place."

He moved to the empty table usually occupied by Granger and Weasley. "But I see that not everyone agrees. Ten points from each house for missing classmates."

He noted with satisfaction the shock on nearby faces.

"But Hermione and Ron are still in the hospital wing," Thomas muttered.

"Yes. I am aware of that. I am also aware that their injuries are due to their own hotheaded folly in leaving the school grounds without permission. They must deal with the consequences. Unless, perhaps, those rules do not apply to a favored few?" That earned him a glare from Finnigan, but no one dared speak up to challenge him. And Potter steadfastly refused to look up. Wallowing in guilt, no doubt.

Over the years, he'd watched tables adjoining Potter's empty and fill with the fall and rise of his popularity, when other students feared him, resented him, or ignored him. Today, the nearby tables were filled, which hadn't been the case for the better part of this year. But the public redemption of Potter two days ago had swayed his classmates in his favor once again. Judging from the abundant owls that had crowded Potter's table this morning, making a mess of breakfast in the Great Hall and bearing hastily scribbled goodwill messages from Daily Prophet readers, they were not alone.

"Today's lesson is on the board," he began. "This potion is intricate, so you will want to pay closer attention than is your usual low norm." That statement was anticlimactic. Today's extra students spoke to their risk of failure on a grand scale. He saw Terry Boot, yesterday's triggerman, look away nervously from his self-imposed exile at the far edge of the room.

"Ingredients are listed. Wasting them will detract from your mark." He placed the first ingredient, powdered pearl, directly in front of him. All valuable ingredients were handled this way to discourage the more entrepreneurial students. Sitting down, he gathered a bundle of scrolls toward him, and stifled a growl at the annoying sound of chairs scraping along the stone floor as the students stood up.

Lisa Turpin, as always, remained seated until she finally noticed the changed rhythm in the room. "Waiting for a personal invitation?" he asked her brusquely, and was gratified at her flustered start. Anxiously, she scooped powdered pearl into her vessel with obsessive precision, then she shifted to the far end of his desk to the tray that held the slugs.

Living slugs were not a particularly unusual ingredient in potions. Snape's approach to them was. Although he was not a generous man, he always provided far more than the class needed. The tray on which they lay, sedately waiting a fate far beyond their grasp, was also generous - several students at once could stand in front of it. None of the students fully appreciated the choice he'd contrived for them. While they were well aware of his attention as they poured and scraped pearl powder, they were equally unaware of him as he watched their hands at the tray nearby.

After years of observing, he could predict their choices in slugs almost as easily as their choices in seats. Weasley, for example, would always come up early, make a lightening-fast assessment, then snap up the biggest slug as if he feared that someone else was about to take them all and leave him without. Well, he was from a big family of small resources - his choice was too easy to decipher.

Granger, on the other hand, would select hers with excruciating care as if she was choosing a life partner. Whatever virtues made for slug perfection, Granger identified and weighed them. She would not be hurried, and her classmates had long ago stopped trying.

Thomas and Finnigan, best friends since their first week, strolled up to the tray together, talking easily, oblivious to his scrutiny. He didn't bother to turn his head - he didn't need to. He could see their hands at the tray, and after five years, he knew each pair of hands well. Finnigan, who was almost never still, always chose a moving slug. Thomas preferred his already dead. They made their choices and retreated to their desk, now including the slugs in their sociable conversation.

Ernie MacMillan and Padma Patil, best friends since last week, followed. He watched the boy pick up a large specimen and make a teasing attempt to drop it down her collar. She laughed nervously, a little too long and too breathily, and his hand backed away. She made a tentative attempt to lift one slug, although she'd never been squeamish before, and her admirer gallantly retrieved it for her and marched away, holding the two slugs ahead of him by the scruffs of their necks.

"Hurry up," he heard Crabbe mutter to the girl ahead of him, who was trying to lift a small slug using a scrap of paper. After five years, most of them didn't mind touching slugs barehanded, but several still resisted the slimy feel. Snape's generosity didn't extend to tongs.

"Just a minute,"she snapped back without looking up. Successful at last, she moved away, balancing the slug delicately on the paper.

Crabbe chose the slug farthest away from Snape, as if a closer approach was dangerous. Well, maybe for Crabbe, it was.

Goyle, next in line, was also a grab-and-go, never looking at the tray but watching Snape as warily as a shoplifter watches a detective.

Draco lingered until a Gryffindor student nervously came to stand beside him, then he targeted the slug that the hand next to his had dared to approach. He snatched it away nimbly using reflexes honed by Quidditch, and strode off with a victorious gleam, as if the slug were an elusive Snitch.

Over the years, he'd watched countless hands interact at the tray, alert to small movements sending stealthy messages between those who stood there. He noted their little gestures of camaraderie, aggressive actions carrying warnings, tentative touches like the soft flutter of birds' wings that signaled interest. He never let on that he saw the messages, but kept silent as he watched the wordless hands speak.

Potter finally headed toward the front of the room. He seemed to be somewhere else entirely: he heard little and said less. He stopped at the powdered pearl and began to measure without looking up. Snape watched Potter's hands steady the bottle and replace it on the desk, and he caught sight of the faint white scars, curving and coiling, that were carved into the otherwise smooth skin on the back of the boy's right hand. He'd discovered the newest addition to Potter's notorious scar collection a few months ago during one of their fruitless Occlumency sessions. When he had first seen the inscribed words, I will not tell lies, and saw their dark creation in the boy's memory, he was sickened. Potter had never told anyone in the Order, of course, probably imagining his secrecy was somehow brave and strong. The Gryffindor way of dealing with it. Snape thought it far more masochistic.

Then, just when he thought that the interaction at his desk would be uneventful, Potter looked up at him. The fierce stare that accosted him was so full of hatred that he unconsciously pulled away from it. It took all his will to choke back the words he wanted to shout as he realized that Potter blamed him - him - for the fiasco of a few nights ago and expected him to play the villain in this drama. Instead, he held the hostile gaze and returned nothing but contempt until Potter broke away and headed for the slugs.

Shaken, Snape kept his anger under control and his attention hidden.

Potter was notably fickle. If he had a favorite choice, Snape was unaware of it: he chose large slugs, small slugs, the quick and the dead. He didn't grab and run like Goyle, but he didn't agonize like Granger. As far as he could tell, Potter was waiting for a signal from that famous telepathic scar of his. He was frozen at the tray of slugs, his mind once again far away, until another student maneuvering beside him jostled him back to reality. Neither student acknowledged the other, but Snape hadn't expected them to. He watched with forced indifference as two pairs of hands began circling.

Just take one this time and get the hell away from me, Snape thought, as the delay became irritating. He was no longer in the mood for these petty games of observation. What difference could it make anymore? After this week's revelations, it was clear that everyone in the wizarding world faced far more serious choices - between Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, good or evil, life or death. Only those choices mattered now. These students were only a little younger than he'd been during the last war against the Dark Lord. He knew, and they didn't, what horrors they all faced.

Then he saw out of the corner of his eye, at the far end of the desk, those two pairs of hands moving. He saw the careful brush of skin against skin, a message sent and received that said, clearly and unmistakably, I've noticed you. I'm interested.

He was astonished, but not as much as Potter was. Harry's hand jumped back as if the slugs had transformed into snakes, then he seemed to recover enough to grab one before he fled.

Well. Apparently, even small and unimportant choices disclosed in Potions class still had some consequence. But even though he knew the who and when, he, as usual, couldn't begin to understand why.

Near the end of class, Crabbe's potion suddenly exploded and everyone in the room watched helplessly as, one by one, cauldron after cauldron followed until none was left untouched. In some strange way, he had expected it all along.

The next day, Snape watched the same students trudge back into Potions class, this time with the addition of Granger and Weasley, who'd been released from the hospital wing. The chain set off by Crabbe during the last class had set a new Hogwarts record. Overheard conversation told him that no one was happy about repeating the difficult potion, especially since Crabbe had never embraced the Butterbeer tradition at Hogsmeade. It was too late for that, anyway: term ended in two days.

Since being reunited, Granger and Weasley had doggedly shadowed Potter as though he was some Muggle film star bothered by persistent fans. At the moment, however, he saw that Potter's watchdogs were absorbed in a rambling dispute, bickering in their annoying way like a married couple, and Potter slipped away alone. While Potter spooned powdered pearl, Snape deliberately kept his eyes fixed on a scroll in front of him and would not give him the relief of eye contact. Potter could play martyr without him.

Potter's hands were back among the slugs, but they weren't alone for more than a moment. Again, a stir of hands and a brush of skin, but this time the contact was prolonged. I'm still interested. Snape fought and resisted the urge to turn his head toward the two students. He must have shown some reaction, however, because the girl pouring powder in front of him had nervously spilled some on his desk and muttered an anxious apology that he ignored.

He watched as this time Potter didn't jerk away. The boy's hand held steady, and then, to Snape's surprise, returned its own message with a small hesitation, then a firm touch, a reply without voice but clear intent.

Yes.

Hoje é o dia da graça
Hoje é o dia capa e do caçador

Today is the day of grace,
Today is the day of the hunt and the hunter.
Caçada - Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

Professor Snape wasn't the only one who had covertly observed Potter's interaction at the slug tray. Clear grey eyes widened in surprise as they watched the unexpected exchange between Potter and Zacharias Smith. Draco hadn't paid much attention to the Hufflepuff over the years, except to conclude he was quick-tempered and not particularly gifted. Potter was definitely out of Smith's league, but that had never stopped anyone before - Potter was continuously attracting attention from awe-struck school mates. No, to him the newsworthy detail was Potter's apparent return of Smith's interest. This bore investigation, he decided, and he planned his next move. He managed to persuade Gregory to finish up for him, and he slipped out to loiter in a secluded niche near the door.

He didn't have long to wait. Potter waved away Granger and the Weasel, and trailed behind the rest of the class. Smith easily caught up to him, and they lingered in the hall, unaware that they were being watched. Their voices were pitched too low for Draco to eavesdrop, so he cast a hearing enhancement spell that Snape had taught him.

"Potter," Smith said, and Draco got the impression that he was already nervous about the conversation.

The Gryffindor wore a troubled expression, but he seemed to be trying to cover it with a semblance of interest. "What?"

Smith closed the distance between them and rested a hand on Potter's arm. "Listen, I - I owe you a big apology. Shit, I've been such a pillock. I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time about everything this year. It was stupid and childish of me."

Potter looked surprised at the confession, and Draco wondered what had gone on between the two of them. Somehow there was bad blood between them.

"It's okay," Potter answered. "I understand. I get it a lot, actually," he added and laughed, but Draco heard no pleasure in it.

"No, it's not okay. Not at all. You were doing everything you could to help us, and I kicked you in the teeth." Smith looked up shyly. "To tell you the truth, I was jealous of you."

Potter snorted, then found his voice. "Jealous of me? Nothing here to be jealous of."

"Well, I disagree. You're really quite amazing, you know." Potter had the sense to look embarrassed at that gushing confession.

Smith took a deep breath. "Anyway, Ginny told me a little bit about what happened with You-Know-Who a few days ago at the Ministry. She said that she was there and someone was killed - someone close to you. And I wanted to say I'm sorry."

Draco listened, fascinated. He'd read the Daily Prophet about strange goings-on at the Ministry, and his father's sudden and shocking incarceration. For the first time, he had proof of his father's dark side - Lucius had revealed himself to be every bit as dangerous as Draco had imagined. His complicity against the Ministry must have been unquestionable, for them to move against him - he'd bought their silence for years. Still, in spite of everything, it was painful to think about his father at the mercy of dementors, sucking him dry.

The Prophet's rather sudden backpedaling on You-Know-Who's reappearance, and the news that his Aunt Bellatrix was somehow involved, had come as a surprise. Stupidly, he hadn't yet asked Snape for more information, even though he knew that the Prophet was notoriously unreliable. He hadn't heard that someone died, and he wondered who.

Potter didn't answer. He seemed to be struggling to keep his emotions in check, and meanwhile Smith had moved even closer. But Potter didn't back away; he was allowing the other boy to trail a comforting hand up and down his arm in what Draco considered a rather intimate way. Interesting.

"I'd like to start over if you'll let me," Smith said softly. "I was hoping you could forget that I was such a wanker all year and let me try again."

Potter looked up through his messy fringe, in the calculated way that made him look disarming, and gave the other boy a weak smile. "Yeah, you were a wanker, weren't you?" He chuckled briefly. "Okay. Clean slate time. My name is Harry Potter. It's nice to meet you."

Smith laughed, and stuck out his hand. "Zach Smith. I've heard a lot about you. It's nice to meet you, too, Harry."

"Zach." They shook hands solemnly. When they were done, however, neither let go. Draco found their offhand intimacy unexpected. Snape was right about the benefits of careful observation - he'd had recent suspicions about Smith. But Potter was another matter - he'd never considered him to be anything but wholeheartedly straight. When had the Hufflepuff picked up any signals to the contrary?

Smith looked at Potter, seemed to hesitate, then said, "Some of us are headed into Hogsmeade tonight. I was wondering if you'd like to come with me?"

Potter's eyes widened, and Draco struggled not to laugh at his barefaced astonishment. "You're asking me? Um. I mean, thanks. But, ah, right now things are pretty weird in my life, and I'm doing all I can just to get through the week. I know how that sounds. Dramatic. I don't mean to be. But I can't think about anything more right now." He looked concerned, turning his intense green eyes on the flustered Smith, then offered him a shy smile. "Um. Thanks, though."

So that was the famous Potter appeal, Draco thought wryly. Something he'd heard about but never got to see for himself, that was certain.

Smith looked resigned to his brush-off, but he hadn't backed away at all. "Okay, Harry. Maybe another time."

Potter nodded. "Tell you what. Ask me again when we come back in the fall, and I'll say yes." This time Potter's hand was doing most of the touching, to Draco's private amusement. Smith looked pretty pleased with himself, too. So, Harry Potter, poster boy for all that was wholesome and good, batted for the other team. As the two boys walked away, he could hear the sound of young girls' hearts breaking all over Hogwarts.

Snape looked up as Draco came back into the Potions classroom a scant five minutes after he'd left.

"Learn anything I hadn't already guessed?" He knew that Draco wouldn't be able to resist eavesdropping on Potter and his prospective paramour.

"Smith asked Potter for a date. He got turned down." Draco swung a chair around and sat across the desk from him. He folded his arms gracefully, leaning forward with interest. "Potter promised him a second chance at some undefined time in the future."

"Draco, you're turning into quite the little gossip."

Draco let out an indignant squawk. "I'm practicing, is all. You never know when you'll hear something of value. Plus, I managed to hear everything without them even knowing I was there."

He waved away the explanation. "By now that should be child's play for you."

Draco frowned, then belatedly caught on that it was meant as a backhanded compliment.

"Severus, tell me. What really happened at the Ministry? Why is Lucius in Azkaban?"

Snape, noting Draco's deliberate use of his father's first name, looked at him dispassionately. "It took you long enough to ask. I was beginning to worry at your alarming lack of curiosity."

"My mistake. I thought the Prophet reported the whole account."

He gave a short laugh. "When has that rag ever got the story right? Really, Draco. You make me think I've failed in my efforts to make a decent detective of you."

"Well, I'm asking now."

So Snape told him.

Draco looked astonished, and Snape could tell that he was trying to hide his other emotions. "So Father was one of the main players against Potter? I can't believe he would expose himself so blatantly. His style is to let his minions do the dirty work and have them take the fall."

"The stakes were too high. The Dark Lord was personally involved, so your father had to commit himself as well." He paused, thinking that, while Draco acted as though he no longer cared about his father, the truth might still be hard for him to hear. "You realize that the Ministry had to act quickly against him. You need to understand, Draco, that they'll try to make sure your father remains in Azkaban."

"I know." Draco didn't look at him as he answered. "But he chose that path. He's got to pay the price."

Snape saw that, as he expected, it wasn't easy for Draco to come to grips with his father's choice. His normal, easy grace was gone, replaced with nervous restlessness and terse conversation. Maybe he was only parroting what he thought Snape wanted to hear.

"That leaves your mother without Lucius to safeguard her. Although I believe that the Death Eaters will feel some obligation to extend their protection to her. To set a good example, you know."

Draco furrowed his brow. "I don't think she ever committed herself to the cause. Death Eater wives are usually left out of the loop - Aunt Bellatrix is unusual. The Ministry should leave her alone."

"What the Ministry should do and what it does are not always one and the same."

"Bastards," Draco muttered, flopping back into his chair with an exasperated huff.

"Still, they've shown no interest in her in the past, so I think for the moment she's safe from Lucius' taint. And so far, they've not bothered her."

"But now that the dementors have left Azkaban-"

"Lucius won't be far behind them. The Dark Lord needs him too much not to rescue him."

Draco shrugged, then said, "That's what my last fight with Potter was about, actually. For sending Lucius to Azkaban, I was threatening to have him." He chuckled. "Now I wonder how he took that."

"If his wand at your throat was any indication, I'd say he didn't read it as an invitation."

"No."

"And for your indiscretion, and incredibly lucky timing by Professor McGonagall, Gryffindor was gifted with 250 House points."

Draco frowned, looking decidedly put out. "This has been my week for it, then. I mean, a Bat-Bogey hex! It took me hours to find someone who could get rid of it. In the end, I had to go crawling to Flitwick. Literally."

Snape successfully restrained any show of amusement, which he was certain would only infuriate Draco. "Would you like to share how that happened?"

"Not really, no. It wasn't my finest hour. And Potter made a hash of everything, too, I gather, but somehow he ends up everyone's Golden Boy."

"Not everyone's."

Draco looked at him sharply. "No. But you know we'll be hearing about the remarkable Boy-Who-Lived for weeks and weeks."

He thought about his response carefully. The animosity between him and Potter was best kept private, even if Draco did share the feeling. "Perhaps this time, if we're lucky, Potter will eventually realize how little he deserves the adulation."

Draco gave him his best Malfoy smirk. "Well, it'll have to be your luck. It's obvious mine's a bit wonky this week."

Snape allowed Draco a tiny smile, then deliberately changed the subject. "At least we got rid of that Umbridge woman. What an utter disaster she turned out to be - not only for Hogwarts, but for the Ministry."

Sugar and stress, do everything at least twice;
Catch your fingers in your private vices.
Sugar and Stress - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

Draco loved being a Slytherin prefect. He loved the sense of authority it gave him. Not as though he didn't already have it; being a Malfoy, being wealthy, being the son of someone simmering with power. But that kind of reflected power didn't satisfy him, because he could always sense the resentment behind it, the unasked question - "We know what your father can do - but what about you?"

Now he had his own power, imparted to him by no less than the Hogwarts authorities. Hell, it even came with a bloody badge, a visible emblem of who he was and what that meant. Even if some students didn't respect him, they had to respect the symbol of power given to him by none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Admittedly, he also loved the perks that went along with the job. Rank did indeed have its privileges. Privileges like the use of the exclusive prefect's bathroom, which offered him a measure of extravagance and luxury he'd taken for granted at home. He developed a habit in his sixth year of retreating to its lavishness whenever he'd had a particularly stressful day. Like today.

Being a prefect hadn't saved him from an evening's detention after McGonagall caught him hexing a deluded fourth year who'd worked herself into an embarrassing crush on him. He wasn't sorry about the hex - it was necessary; the girl was behaving like an idiot, and his friends were goading him about it. He was sorry he got caught. Especially by that bitch McGonagall, who had a thing about humiliating him. She never had him copy scrolls, or alphabetize books, or any of the more dignified punishments she handed out to her suck-up Gryffindors - oh, no. For him it was always some demeaning house-elf shit, on his knees and the dirtier the better. The woman had a serious kink for humiliation.

Tired, sweaty, and dirty, he gathered his things and slipped into the bathroom for a late-night shower.

The water beat down on his tired skin, massaging away his tension with tiny needles of pressure. He lathered soap along his weary arms and legs, watching the white foam pool around his feet. Turning his back to the spray, he stroked shampoo through his hair and felt as well as heard the squeak as his hands slicked wetly through. Clean again, he let himself simply stand and feel the water pound all over his body.

It felt especially nice against his cock. He reached lazily for the soap and allowed his lubricated hand to heighten the water's power to arouse him. Excellent.

He didn't bother to stop when he heard the door open. Turning slightly, he caught sight of Joseph Flint, Marcus' younger brother and fifth year Slytherin prefect. Not someone he normally concerned himself with, as a rule. Flint had an appalling lack of influence - how he managed to make prefect at all was a mystery he'd never solved. He closed his eyes and returned to his more gratifying pursuit.

"Malfoy. What are you doing?" Flint asked, with surprise apparent in his high-pitched question.

Annoyed, he opened his eyes to glare meaningfully. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Flint began walking toward the shower, then abruptly stopped. "Um. I. Well."

Draco snarled his agreement. "Yes, well. The next question is what are you doing?"

"I, um, I wanted to take a shower."

"Then be my guest," he said and closed his eyes again. His hand kept its slow rhythm, stroking his erection in smooth, long strokes. "Stay or go."

He heard Flint plunk down his own supplies somewhere near him, the sound amplified in the large room. Draco smiled to himself at the thought of this unsophisticated schoolboy trying to appear unconcerned and worldly in the face of a wanking older prefect. Initially, he'd kept at it out of vexation, only because he couldn't be arsed to stop for the likes of Flint. But now he realized that he was intrigued by the idea of having an audience, and not a little aroused knowing he was being watched. This was something entirely new. It gave him a feeling of sexual power he'd never before experienced.

Flint cleared his throat. "Aren't you going to stop?"

"No."

"Are you some kind of perv, then?" Flint chuckled nervously.

He turned a full-powered Malfoy glare at the other boy and was satisfied to see him flinch in response. "Listen, Flint. Either stay or go. Ignore me or watch. It's all the same to me. It's your choice, not mine." Even a dim git like Flint would get that message.

Flint stayed. And Draco knew that he was watching. He heard the metallic clink of a belt as Flint's trousers hit the tiled floor. Draco looked over as the uneasy fifth-year turned on his shower, and the sound of hissing water was magnified in the room. Draco stared, expressionless, as Flint edged into the spray, his curly, dark hair turning black in the water. Flint peered back with nervous awe. He was blushing, the red stain creeping down his neck and chest, and he was already half hard.

"So who's the perv, then," Draco asked, with a pointed stare. Flint gave him a half smile, then started moving towards him. "Stop," he commanded, and the other boy looked startled but stopped immediately.

Draco growled, "Stay where you are. You can look, but you can't touch."

"I wasn't- "

He snorted in irritation. "Merlin, Flint, shut the fuck up. Too much talk. You're ruining the mood here." With that, he stepped back under the water, tipping his head back and letting the stream flow over his head and shoulders in a warm wave.

Whereas before he'd concentrated on getting the job done, now he was all about the show he was putting on for Flint. Not that he was even remotely interested in the other boy. This wasn't about Flint. It was about power and control. And it was hedonistic. And erotic. And stimulating as hell.

His hands wove seductive patterns across his pale, wet skin. He took a moment to add more soap to his palms, then allowed them to glide sensually across his shoulders and chest. His fingers circled his pink nipples, tugging them gently into arousal, before continuing their journey down, down, until his cock was back in the grip of his tightening hand. He sighed with unadulterated pleasure, one hand fondling his cock, while the other caressed his sac and entwined in the wet, silky hairs at the base. He heard a low moan from his audience, and he couldn't disguise a responding smirk.

He'd never fully appreciated the power that this kind of sexual display could command. He knew by observation, of course, that he was attractive to both girls and boys, and even to some of Father's friends. But he'd appreciated it solely in an abstract way - until now. Because this was intoxicating. Knowing that Flint was in thrall to him in these brief moments, the slack-jawed expression on the other boy's face attesting to the raw desire there - well.

All his life, he'd learned the crucial facts about gathering and using power from his father, but maybe his mother knew something about power, too - something he'd missed. He'd never analyzed it before, but she had a subtle yet genuine power of her own; men willingly yielded control to her as they responded to her sensuous manipulation. And suddenly, with his hand on his cock and Flint's eyes on him, he was feeling very much like his mother's son.

He was building towards orgasm, growing more excited than he'd ever been before by his own hand. So hard now that it was almost painful, he opened his eyes to stare at Flint, who was gaping with unrestrained hunger at the exhibition on display before him. Flint's own hands were on himself, but unmoving, as if the younger boy had forgotten himself altogether. Draco made himself focus on holding the other boy's eye, and then he was coming, uninhibited, furiously, extravagantly. His panting breath and strangled cries echoed around the cavernous room.

Draco leaned back against the wall until his heartbeat slowed and his legs felt as though they could bear his weight again. Then, after a final rinse under the shower, he shut off the water, toweled himself briskly, nonchalantly tossed on his robe, and without a word to his spectator, strode over to the door.

A surreptitious glance on his way out, however, showed him that Flint had finally remembered what his own hands were capable of.

In the locust wind, comes a rattle and hum;
Jacob wrestled the angel, and the angel was overcome.
Bullet the Blue Sky - U2

. . . . . . . .

Draco always enjoyed his clandestine evenings spent training with Snape, especially when it offered a break from studying for his NEWTS. Actually, his own preparation was going well, but Gregory's was not. He was quietly impressed that his friend had survived the rigorous course work of seventh year. Gregory, never a talented scholar, had only stuck it out at Hogwarts for Draco's sake. In unspoken gratitude, he felt obliged to help him whenever he could. Still, he looked forward to his evenings away from coaching his struggling friend.

He and Snape were working with Veritaserum, and Draco was never sure whether their sessions made him more intrigued or afraid. But the drug was a primary tool in espionage - both sides depended on it for interrogation.

"Veritaserum is the most widely used potion in the wizarding world," Snape told him.

He couldn't resist. "Not lubricant, then?"

Snape merely rolled his eyes at the impertinence.

"The Roman governor Pontius Pilate asked the famous question, What is truth?" he continued. "Everyone knows that Veritaserum compels the recipient to answer questions with the truth. But many truths can suffice to answer those questions. I am going to help you practice telling the least harmful truth you can."

He was fascinated. He'd never thought about the subtleties of answers given under the potion. "So it's possible to lie under Veritaserum?"

"You cannot lie, but as long as you believe yourself to be telling the truth, you can answer in various ways. So ask me a question and I'll demonstrate."

He considered the challenge, then smiled slyly. "Okay. Have you ever slept with anyone?"

Snape narrowed his eyes and snorted. "You seem to think that I didn't expect you to ask that particular question. But I've known you too long." He paused, but Draco wisely remained mute. "One way for me to answer is with a simple yes. Because your question has enough vague interpretations, I can say yes, because I have literally slept with someone. My mother, for example, when I was an infant. Roommates when I was a student - we were technically asleep in the same room, so in that case I believe the answer to be yes."

Draco had to give him credit for the subtlety of his answer. "So the question was flawed."

"Yes. Many questioners make the same mistake you did by asking a question that can be taken another way. Use that to your advantage if you can."

He knew that Snape wasn't going any further with his impudent question. "May I try another?"

Snape nodded.

"Are you a spy for Dumbledore?"

"Very good. Without training in resisting your question, I would feel compelled to answer yes. But I will take as much time as the potion will permit to look at different aspects of the question that I can answer without causing as much damage. So rather than answering yes, I might instead say that Dumbledore believes me to be a spy for him - which is true - and that his belief is necessary to my deception - also true. If my answer is elaborate enough, I can disguise the fact that I haven't really answered the question directly."

After weeks of this kind of preparation, Draco felt more confident in his ability to divert his answers under questioning. Even Snape had seemed pleased with his progress. Maybe being a Slytherin gave him a natural advantage, he thought, with the smug satisfaction born of a little experience. For the past three sessions, they'd practiced with actual Veritaserum. First, Draco would test his ability to divert a line of interrogation under its effects, then Snape would dose himself with the potion so that Draco could practice devising useful questions.

Snape handed him a tiny dose of the potion, blended in a small amount of whisky, and Draco lifted the glass and swallowed the liquid wordlessly. They waited a few minutes for it to take effect.

"Have you completed your homework this evening before coming here?" Snape always started the interrogation with a few innocent questions, designed to relax Draco and get him in the habit of answering directly. His goal was to deflect even these simple questions and set up a pattern of dissembling.

He waited as long as he was able before answering, but the pressure to speak built quickly, until he was forced to say, "Nothing prevented me from coming here tonight."

"Not even Mr. Goyle?"

"Gregory never tries to hinder me. He's a loyal friend."

Snape nodded his approval. "Are you adequately preparing for your NEWTs?"

He smiled. "Yes. And no." He'd latched onto the word adequately - subjective enough that he could interpret it as he would.

"Both? How is that possible?" Snape needled.

"I never know if my preparations are entirely adequate. It depends on the day you ask, I suppose."

"And just how many NEWTs do you think you'll manage?"

"All that I set my mind to."

"Do you have a number in mind?"

"Yes." He had to catch himself from giving the actual number, but he had not been asked for it directly. Snape smiled in satisfaction when he failed to offer it.

"Good, Draco. You've improved a great deal since your first trial. But answering these questions is like catching a stunned Snitch, wouldn't you say?"

Having never actually done that, he could only answer, "I don't know."

"It's time to move on. Most questions you will be asked under these conditions will have a large emotional component to them. It's far more difficult to answer them carefully while at the same time controlling your reactions."

Draco grew nervous at these words.

"So let's try this one: have you ever slept with anyone, Mr. Malfoy?"

He grinned, remembering asking Snape that impudent query just weeks ago.

"Of course, Professor."

"Meaning...."

"I've slept with my mother when I was an infant. My roommates in the dormitory."

Snape smiled coldly before asking, "Have you ever taken part in sexual relations with anyone to the point of orgasm?"

The grin faded from his face. "I...I... No." He hadn't been able to think of any alternate meaning to that question before the Veritaserum forced him to reply.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?"

"Yes." This time he didn't attempt to smile.

"Meaning...."

"My mother. My father. My grandparents. Half my relatives, actually."

"Have you kissed anyone in a sexually arousing manner?"

Again he felt trapped into answering. "Yes."

"Was this lucky person a girl?"

Draco hesitated. She could be conceivably be considered a woman now, not a girl. But what answer did he want to give - yes or no? The potion was nagging insistently at his brain, limiting his thinking. Not knowing which would benefit him, he settled on replying, "Maybe."

"Have you kissed any boys?"

That irritated him. But it was similar enough to the previous question that he could dodge it the same way. "Maybe."

"Any males?"

Nailed. "Yes."

"Who was it?"

Draco's anger flared, and he snapped. "Why are you asking me this? It's none of your business." But then he felt the pressure building in him to answer, and he heard himself say, "Zacharias Smith." It was embarrassing to admit dallying with someone they both knew was Potter's cast-off.

For his part, Snape seemed unaffected by his emotional outburst "As I said, Draco, this session is to help you devise answers while under emotional stress. Your answers make no difference to me."

"It's just.... Never mind." He trailed off, still annoyed.

"Did it occur more than once?"

He fought with the word it, looking for some nuance of meaning, but his composure was shaky. "Yes." But he refused to confess any more. A tiny victory.

"Are you still seeing Mr. Smith?"

Seeing, now there was a shaded word. "Yes. I see him every day, in class."

"Are you still sharing sexually rewarding kisses with Mr. Smith?"

This had to be more than a training exercise. "No."

"Why not?"

Would he never stop? "It's in the past." There, that was a little more vague.

"Why are you no longer romantically involved with Mr. Smith?"

Merlin. "It was weeks ago. It was never like that - romantic. It was just two blokes messing around."

"Do you miss him?"

"Severus. Enough. You said you'd never go any further. You know, about my sexuality. And no, I don't miss him, all right?"

Snape smiled. "It will never go any further than me. I did promise you that, and I intend to hold to it. I know you find this embarrassing, but try to overlook the nature of the questions and focus on our purpose. I am trying to teach you how to resist my questions."

"But I can't. There's no wiggle room."

"Exactly." Snape sat back with a satisfied air. "Not every question can be easily avoided. Some are so specific that you can't help but answer them. You must learn to accept that."

Draco gave a short harrumph and looked away.

"Are you sharing sexually rewarding kisses with anyone presently?"

He suppressed his growing vexation and thought carefully. Okay, not right this minute. "No."

"Within the past week?"

Draco looked smug. "No."

"Do you regret that state of affairs?"

He knew Snape was deliberately trying to rile him, and yet he could no longer contain his rising anger. "Yes. Bloody hell, I'm seventeen years old. Of course I'd like to be sharing sexually rewarding kisses with someone."

He realized his mistake immediately, and Snape moved in to exploit the opening he'd been handed.

"Who would that someone be, Draco?"

He tried to slow this down, so he'd have time to think. "Um. There are plenty of candidates. I think I'd start with the keeper of Puddlemere United, whose ... talents ... are disclosed on the recent cover of Witch Weekly. There's a clerk at Hogsmeade's branch of Flourish and Blotts who's definitely interesting. A few of my classmates." He felt like he had regained control of the conversation and relaxed a little.

"But is there one particular person you have in mind?"

Draco was grabbing at straws. "I have a lot of people in mind right now."

"But is there one person in your life that you would most like to be sharing those sexually rewarding kisses with?"

No. God, no. "Please, Severus. Please don't ask me. I can't...I don't want to tell you...." But the compelling force of the potion was too great. His voice ran down and he finally had to confess. "Because it's you." He lowered his head, feeling miserable and defeated. "Why did you... just ... I'm sorry."

He couldn't look at him. He was shattered. Why did Snape have to trap him into that admission - why? Had he suspected and couldn't let it rest until he knew?

The silence grew painful around them. Finally, Snape spoke. His voice had lost all of its antagonism, sounding almost gentle.

"I'm sorry that I forced you to tell me that. Believe me, I had no idea that you.... Well. I apologize."

Draco still couldn't look him in the eye. "I wasn't ever going to say anything. I know you're my professor, and it could get you sacked if anything happened between us. I know that."

"Please don't apologize. Had I known, I would never have asked you these questions."

He felt such overwhelming need to keep explaining - whether it was the potion or his awkward admission driving him, he couldn't say. His dignity was in shreds. Snape surely thought he was nothing but a hormone-driven adolescent with a schoolboy crush. Who was to say he wasn't right, but still....

"I'm not in love with you or anything," he admitted to the suddenly interesting floor. "It's just that I've got to know you these past three years. You're not who you let other people think you are. I find you interesting, that's all."

Snape was being patient with him, trying to gloss over his confession. "I understand. Don't think that you've offended me, Draco. It's flattering. But unrealistic. Now, say nothing more until the Veritaserum has worn off. I judge we have about five more minutes. Then you may return to your room, or we'll continue with our training."

He nodded. He could sense Snape moving off into another part of the study, leaving him in respectful solitude. After what seemed like an agonizing hour but that he judged was closer to ten minutes, he returned.

"Are you still angry with me?" Snape asked.

"I don't think I'll answer that, if you don't mind," he said, with a smirk. The Veritaserum had worn off.

"We can stop now if you'd like."

"Oh, no, I'd like my shot at you. Go ahead and drink your potion like a good Death Eater spy." He'd finally gathered enough courage to look at the other man, and was satisfied at the smile he received at his weak attempt at humor.

The Veritaserum was dispatched, in rather more whisky that Draco had been given.

As they waited for the potion to take effect, he contemplated what questions he would ask. At Snape's nod, he began.

"When you asked me if there was someone I had in mind for - well, for romantic things - did you know what I would answer?"

Snape looked benignly at him. "No. I had no idea. If I'd suspected, I would not have pressed you as I did. I didn't intend to hurt you."

"Why did you ask me those questions in the first place?"

"As I said, to engage your emotions. I know that being gay is a sensitive subject for you, one that I was fairly certain would provoke you quickly."

"So you used that against me?"

"Not against you. Never against you. I wanted to use it to help you strengthen your skills. If you are ever questioned under Veritaserum by Death Eaters, they will be far harsher with you." Snape was making no attempt to avoid answering his questions fully and deliberately. He was making amends in the only way he knew how, Draco realized, by masking his words behind the nature of the potion he was under. He appreciated it.

"Are you gay, Severus?"

Snape exhaled slowly. "No. I am not. I prefer women. Although I admit, probably unsurprisingly, that my love life hasn't been as robust as it might be." He quirked an eyebrow at Draco. "I'm not exactly engaging in those sexually rewarding kisses, either. Even though I am no longer seventeen."

Draco looked away quickly before the amusement in his face became too apparent. "So I have no hope with you then?"

"None. Although if I were indeed so inclined, I would find it difficult to turn a blind eye to your charms, Mr. Malfoy."

He bowed his head in mock acceptance. "As well you should, Professor. I am a unique and special treasure, as my mother would certainly vouch for. Would you like to praise me in detail? I'm willing to listen, if you feel the need to unburden yourself."

"You have me at a disadvantage. So I will only state that I think I've said as much as is good for you and leave it at that."

He was just about to reply when the fireplace flared into abrupt illumination, and the headmaster's serious face appeared there. They both reacted quickly to his presence.

"Severus. Draco. Please forgive my interruption, but I felt it necessary to speak with you both. We've had word of increased Death Eater activity in the last few hours. Also, many of the students here who are children of known Voldemort supporters have been summoned home by their parents and have already begun to leave the school. In fact, Draco, I believe you will find an owl awaiting you in your room. As a result, I am calling an immediate meeting of the Order in my office."

Snape stood up abruptly. "I'll be right there, sir." Dumbledore disappeared, but Draco continued to stare into the empty flames in shock.

"I'd better get ready to leave, too," he said shakily, rising from his chair. "Father will have summoned me."

"No, Draco," Snape barked out. "I want you to stay here at Hogwarts."

He could only look at him in confusion. "What are you saying? I need to go. We've planned for this. We've-"

Snape reached out and grabbed him roughly by the forearms, holding him fast. "I don't think you should go yet. There must be some way you can delay. Tell your father you have to take your NEWTs. Tell him-"

"No. I can't. I don't understand why you're saying this. We've planned everything, expecting this to happen."

He could see that Snape was struggling against the Veritaserum still in his system, which forced him to answer truthfully. "I don't want you to go. I'm afraid for you, Draco. I want you to wait until I can be there to protect you."

"Oh, Severus. I'll be okay. In just a little while you'll be able to join me, and you know I can hold my own until you come. I promise not to do anything extraordinary. I'm no Gryffindor - you can trust me to keep my head down. You've taught me well."

"Draco." He'd never heard such raw emotion in Snape's voice before, and Draco closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

"I've got to go. If I don't, they'll be suspicious, you know that."

"Yes, I know that. But I wish it didn't have to happen like this. I hoped you wouldn't be summoned, that you could stay here until.... Well." He released Draco's arms, then he sighed. "You're right."

He was suddenly overcome by the awareness of what he was about to do and where he was headed. Hearing Snape express his honest fear had kindled the same fear in him, and he admitted for the first time that their alliance had been more than an abstract exercise. He was scared. Suddenly panicky, he threw himself into Snape's startled embrace, and they held each other close.

"Dumbledore will be waiting," Snape finally acknowledged.

"I'm ready," he replied, although he knew he wouldn't have been able to say that under the Veritaserum.

Snape held him back for a moment longer, though. "Draco, don't be sorry that you told me what you did earlier. I am not. I consider it an honor to be held in your regard. As you are held in mine." He pulled away as though he couldn't bear to admit any more. "We must go."

Make a cross, make amends to set the record straight,
We've never said the only things we should have ever bothered saying.
Sole Salvation - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

The evening had taken on such an air of unreality that Draco struggled to maintain his direction. Somehow, during the long months intimately spent with Severus, he'd allowed himself the luxury of forgetting - he'd forgotten exactly why he was training, what would have to happen next, where he must end up. But Severus had allowed him that. Tonight, he realized that his mentor had almost forgotten it himself.

His father's owl was waiting in the window of his bedroom. With shaking hands, it took him three attempts to free the scroll tightly bound to a sharp-clawed leg, disregarding the elegant bird's chill gaze. It was a very short message.

It is time. Come home immediately.

He needed to reply so that the family owl would return to the Manor, but words failed him. In the end, all he could muster was a terse, "Yes." He didn't even bother to sign his name.

Yes. It was time.

He was suddenly at a loss over what to pack and what to leave behind. Cursing himself for not mentally preparing himself at least this much, he rummaged through his trunk, snatching out a few essentials. Letters from Crabbe, written to him from Durmstrang. An unexpectedly elegant quill that Goyle had given him for his last birthday. A few clothes, some photos, his collection of Quidditch autographs. His broom.

He paused, undecided, over his school work. A few short hours ago, he'd worked diligently over the scroll on his desk, piecing together an Arithmancy proof, gratified when he'd pulled the threads together into one master diagram. And now - all pointless. He eyed the rest of his papers stacked neatly in piles, one organized batch for each class, ready for him to review as he prepared for his exams - all unneeded. There would be no more Arithmancy, no classes at all, no NEWTs. His life as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had come to an abrupt and unwelcome end.

For a brief instant, he wanted more than anything to make a dramatic statement by incinerating the whole tempting arrangement, and he drew out his wand. At the last minute, he gave up the notion - a childish urge, really - and instead used his wand to shrink his modest bag. He snatched it up and crammed it into his robes.

With one last, sorrowful look, he firmly pulled the door to his room closed behind him.

But once he allowed himself to think about the end of his life here at Hogwarts, he couldn't shake the overwhelming sadness that gripped him. He was mourning already- it was maudlin, pathetic, he told himself harshly; it wasn't how a Malfoy should rise to such an occasion. But every turn brought a new distraction - this is the last time I'll hear the common room door close behind me ... the last time I'll feel the chill dampness of the dungeon corridor ... the last time I'll see the portraits nodding at me as I rush past ... the last time I'll feel the cold stone walls under my hand ... the last time ...

He longed to be beyond the wards. The way to the gates had never seemed so far, and his heart ached with every step. If only his path weren't so terrifying, so uncertain, so solitary, he told himself, then he wouldn't have succumbed so thoroughly to this black melancholy. If only he'd better prepared himself....

He heard footsteps in the darkened hall behind him and nervously turned his head to see who followed in the shadows of the eerily wordless statues.

Potter.

He wasn't even surprised. All evening, ever since Dumbledore had called all the houses together and gave them the news of the onset of war, agitated conversation had reverberated in the Great Hall, and in the common rooms, and in the secret meeting places of Hogwarts. Draco had been acutely aware of Potter's presence, registered the sheer tension he gave off all around him like sparks, watched him pace and fidget and coil as if to pounce on anyone daring to make a move.

They both stopped, waiting. It felt like a duel.

"Malfoy."

"Potter." He resisted an irrational urge to follow the greeting with a formal bow, and allowed the other boy to approach without another word.

"Where are you going?" There was challenge in that voice.

He bit back the first retort that came to him, and the second and third. They both knew it was none of Potter's concern; he had as much right to be wandering the corridors as Potter did. This conversation was meaningless. Anything meaningful had already been said, all the nasty words, the challenges and threats. There were no words left. And he was tired, he had to admit he was afraid, and he wasn't going to play this game of theirs anymore. Not tonight. It was over.

So he said nothing.

"Why, Malfoy?" Potter didn't need to elaborate; they both knew what that question meant.

He couldn't even begin to explain, he realized unhappily, even if he had been free to answer.

"It's time for me to go."

Potter screwed up his face at that, even though he must have been expecting the reply or something very much like it. Draco watched his hands grip tightly into fists at his side. "It doesn't have to be like this. Everyone has a choice. Even you, Malfoy. You don't have to go to Voldemort just because your father did."

He recognized that, incredibly, Potter was going to give him the full-blown speech, using all the persuasive earnestness he owned, all the passionate fire and ardent conviction for his cause. He gave voice to his passion with the sincerity that so defined him. Draco was frankly amazed that he even made the effort; that apparently even Draco Malfoy was not so unsalvageable that Potter would let him go without a fight. Potter allowed his words to carry one last appeal, and Draco let him speak, thinking, this is the last time he and I will face each other.

In other circumstances, he could have allowed himself to be persuaded by Potter's entreaty. In some distant part of his mind, he wondered what that might have been like. What would Potter's reaction have been? Would he have given up his long-held animosity in the face of declared loyalty to the Order? Would they have put their anger and hatred behind them at last - maybe even become friends?

But Draco's path led in another direction, and he let his first words be his last. "It's time for me to go."

"You didn't answer me. I want to know. Why?"

Potter was tenacious, he had to admit. He supposed that being the savior of the wizarding world was something almost reflexive after all this time, something he couldn't seem to turn off.

"Potter, I don't owe you an explanation. I have my reasons." Why did he have to make this so hard?

"Malfoy-"

"Look, I'll find you someday when this is all over and explain it over drinks. The Leaky Cauldron okay with you?" Even as he said the words and imagined the two of them relaxing over firewhisky, he knew he'd never see that fantasy come true. They wouldn't both survive this war.

"No. Don't go, Malfoy. Please."

Looking back, he never did work out why he reacted the way he did - maybe it was a way to say goodbye to his childhood. Or it could have been a reaction to his earlier, humbling confession to Severus. It was all so cold, so final - the hall, the night, the words echoing around him. Everything was closing in on him, freezing him. Maybe he was only looking for warmth. Goodbye ... goodbye ... this is the last time....

But something in the tone of Potter's voice, something in his whispered plea, made him surrender to the impulse to draw close to his rival, to carefully rest his hands on his shoulders to steady him and to pull him close. He felt warm breath dancing on his cheek, suddenly faster and more erratic than during the speech, now intimate and tempting. He acted without wanting to think too hard about what he was doing - what they were both doing. He stilled Potter's gasp with his lips and felt the responding pressure as though it was a wave breaking over him. Drowning him. Goodbye.

And in this dark, empty corridor, where he stood balanced between two worlds - here between the past and the unknown future - he could pretend that this kiss was the only thing that mattered. Here, he allowed himself to imagine he was no longer Draco Malfoy, with every bit of history that name dragged with it, but just a lonely soldier headed off to war. And here, he could almost believe that Potter was different, too.

They both pulled away as reality slowly reasserted itself. His heart pounding, his breath unsteady, he reluctantly dropped his hands and took a single step back. He'd acted with recklessness, with no reason he could name, and his head was whirling. He certainly hadn't expected to relish or to take pleasure in their kiss quite like that - but he had.

"What - what was that for?" Potter managed to stammer.

He smiled without any effort. "For trying. And maybe for luck."

Potter's face took on a willful determination that Draco recognized from seven years of glares across the Great Hall, from wordless challenges in Potions classes, from altercations on the Quidditch pitch. The other boy closed the space between them and threaded his hands behind Draco's neck, massaging them roughly against the blond silk of his hair. He moved forward as if in slow motion, finally touching Draco's mouth again with his own, gentle at first, then suddenly fierce and unrestrained. Draco didn't refuse him, didn't deny him anything.

If their first spontaneous kiss had been a question - What am I to you? - then this kiss might be an answer. What was it?

Draco thought it might have been this: We made a difference in each other's lives. Until this moment, I didn't value that.

The unexpected thrill of Potter kissing him back engulfed him. If there was a name for what he was feeling, he didn't know it. The shift of control - from him to Potter - had changed everything in an instant, and what was left of his restraint vanished. He let one hand lightly brush Potter's neck, and the other rested against his chest where he could feel a quickening heartbeat. Potter was leaning in and hanging on, his fingers clutching Draco as if he'd never let go. And all the while, the kiss enveloped them, possessed them, and they were both breathless from its intensity. The cold chill that had surrounded Draco was gone.

Potter didn't smell like spices or remind Draco of seasons past; he smelled like soap and skin, just like any other boy. His mouth didn't taste of exotic wines or expensive sweets; he tasted no different than anyone else Draco had kissed. He didn't kiss with consummate skill or dazzling technique, but he did kiss with fire and passion, and Draco let it capture him completely.

If their first kiss had let him forget who he was, if only briefly, this kiss retrieved him. Awakened him.

With one final, intimate press of lips, they drew apart.

"For luck, then," Potter said, his voice sounding rough with suppressed emotion. "You'll need a hell of a lot of it where you're going."

Draco took one final look at him, committing to memory just how he appeared at that instant - disheveled and silent and resigned - and turned away. Goodbye.

But as he walked away, he felt curiously calmer, steadier, maybe even a little braver - and he wondered wryly whether kissing a Gryffindor could make a person courageous through some kind of strange magical transfer. With unexpected determination, he paced decisively through the halls, pushed forcefully through the heavy door of the school he knew he'd never again call home, hurried down the sloping hill beyond the wards, whispered a final goodbye to the life he'd known - to Severus and Gregory, to his Slytherin classmates and teachers, and yes, to Potter - and Apparated to wherever his sacrifice was leading him.

Chapter 3

And if I could save you, and if I could find a solution,
I would die a thousand times, to get you out of here.
Warsaw 1943 (I Never Betrayed The Revolution) - Johnny Clegg

. . . . . . . .

Dean Thomas woke abruptly at the wrong end of a hostile, unfaltering wand and instantly realized to his horror that he knew too many valuable things.

In the short moment between waking and wanting to react, he forced himself to remain immobile. At the same time, his thoughts were racing nineteen to the dozen, trying to grasp at any possible way out of this, to grab at his mental list of commands that all Order soldiers were required to memorize. Observe, was the first one, but in his terror he was certain he couldn't remember any of the rest...oh, shit. So he concentrated and tried to observe in the distant hope that the rest of the list would come to his panicked mind in due time. He observed that the hand that held the wand directed at his head belonged to one of the enemy's younger soldiers - no one he recognized.

"Davidson," the soldier barked loudly. "I found one."

He heard loud footsteps running in his direction, and it sounded like a group. Sure enough, three figures burst in through the shed door, wands drawn. He clamped down on his instinct to leap up and run, knowing instant death would be the logical result of that foolish move.

"Get his wand, then."

Hands grabbed roughly at him, one pair hauling him up to his feet, another pulling at his clothing. His wand was discovered in short order and passed to whom Dean judged to be the oldest Death Eater in the group of too-young men. The leader, then. Davidson? He tensed, anticipating that his wand would be snapped immediately, and was surprised when the leader pocketed it without comment. What could the DEs be doing with the wands? The Allies always eliminated enemy wands as soon as possible, to prevent their recapture.

His focus on observing was helping in some limited way to cool down some of his initial panic, and he could now remember the second command for capture - warn your teammates. In the few short minutes that had passed, he hadn't had a chance. Thanking whatever fortune had allowed most of their group to disperse only a few hours earlier, he considered who was left and where they were. Creevey - on patrol nearby. With any luck, he'd heard the earlier shout and sound of running; he'd be warned and gone by now. That left Diehl and Longbottom, in the abandoned tack room a short distance off. Seamus was scouting in the nearby town somewhere, presumably safe.

"What's your name?"

Before he could even attempt an answer, the question was followed with a sudden fist; Dean managed to turn and dip slightly just before impact so that it struck him full force in his shoulder rather than his solar plexus. Grateful for his captor's unwitting mistake, he responded with the loudest yell he could muster. There - Diehl was a light sleeper, at least; she certainly heard that. Warning given, then.

But now the DEs exacted the price he knew he'd have to pay for the outcry. He closed his eyes as fists slammed into him again and again. Making sport of him, mostly, taking turns among the four of them in a sadistic parody of a dance. He forced himself not to protect himself with his hands - god, not his hands - and the blows finally knocked him to the ground, where blunt-toed boots beat an ugly tattoo against his torso.

He knew, though, that unless his captors were unusually thick - which was by no means guaranteed - they'd make sure he was conscious and mostly intact. This - this was just to release the adrenalin they'd built up from the stalking and capture. He understood this. Nasty and brutish it may be - he could only hope for short - but the real horrors were still to come.

And that worried him enormously.

Veritaserum was a given. Both sides relied on it heavily to interrogate prisoners. Because of that constant threat, no one in the Order was permitted to have information for longer than they needed it to carry out their mission. After that, memory charms were called into play to erase any valuable details. Being on the front lines - at least what passed for front lines in a running battle where participants could Apparate and Disapparate at will - Dean was careful to keep a prudent balance of knowledge learned and forgotten. He had always been so careful to keep up steady contact with their unit's memory charm expert - Hermione in his case. He'd been so vigilant. Until now, when it mattered.

Because right now he knew where Harry Potter was.

And the third thing on the list, after observing and warning, was to protect that information at any cost.

Any cost.

The pain slamming through him from his very thorough beating at Death Eater hands was now matched with the emotional pain of accepting what he was about to do. His first line of defense was going to be his last. He would have to encourage these four thugs to kill him.

With any luck, he could provoke one of them to quick anger and a quicker Avada Kedavra.

Otherwise, he'd probably suffer the slow and painful way, being beaten to death. Trickier, because he could end up nearly dead and they'd heal him enough to strip the truth from him anyway.

Well. At least he knew the fastest way to piss off most men. He took a ragged breath, looked Davidson in the eye, and as clearly as he could despite what felt very much like a busted jaw, said, "Don't let your friends see you getting hard over me. They won't want to sleep near you any more."

That earned him, from the feel of it, a damaged kidney, but not from Davidson. Rolling into the pain, he turned to who he'd hoped was now the most frenzied of the DEs. Grimacing, he added to the younger man, "But maybe he'll let you have sloppy seconds."

C'mon, c'mon...you know you want to kill me now....

But it didn't happen.

The last thing he heard, before blissful unconsciousness, was Davidson's hissed command warning the others off, followed by a curt, "Stupefy."

When he came to, slowly and blearily, he was no longer in the dark shed. He was immobilized on the hard floor of some windowless cell. By the feel of things, they hadn't bothered with any healing, although he was certain they'd have checked him over for any life-threatening injuries before leaving him alone.

Observe.

Warn.

Protect his information.

Someone had noticed that he was awake, because there was a sharp noise at the door. Two men, not his original captors, came into his limited view. And - son of a bitch - one of them was his old schoolmate, Gregory Goyle. He wondered where his erstwhile twin, Vincent Crabbe, was, then remembered he'd scuttled off to Durmstrang before the war began. Smart guy. Smarter than Goyle - but then, that wasn't saying anything. He must not be near DE headquarters, if these two were the big guns sent to interrogate him. Dean began to have another idea, although his muzzy brain understandably wasn't working with any clarity at the moment.

"Gregory Goyle," he muttered. Well, he'd been wrong about the healing - someone had fixed his jaw, at least. The better to spill his guts, he concluded.

If he hadn't been probably the only black man Goyle had ever known, he doubted if the Death Eater could have recognized him with all his injuries.

"Shit. Dean Thomas." Dean waited for any clue as to how the recognition would be relevant.

"Yeah, Goyle. Long time no see, huh."

No answer.

"So where am I anyway?"

That jarred Goyle into answering, at least.

"I'll ask the questions." But he wasn't in much of a hurry, apparently, because his next comment was addressed to his companion. "This arsehole was at Hogwarts with me. A fucking Gryffindor, if you can believe that." They both laughed. "Damned house took anyone. Not like Slytherin."

Dean could have debated that point, given the example standing before him.

The other man spoke up for the first time. "Think he'll try to be brave then?"

"He'll try," Goyle replied. "Won't get him anywhere. Not when we give him Veritaserum."

He saw the opening he was hoping - praying - for. "You're too late, Goyle. It was already given. Your friends who captured me got a little overanxious."

Everything hung on his lie. Dean was counting on the bane of groups everywhere - piss-poor communication. Did his captors have time to give a report? Did Goyle or his partner even hear it? Would they believe this story without checking? Did Goyle remember, through his dense brain, that too much Veritaserum could damage their prisoner and leave him useless?

The long silence became almost unbearable.

Goyle's partner piped up. "So what did you tell them?"

Shit. Not even a decent question to get the ball rolling. Even with the effects of his beating taking an increasing toll on his thought process, he was still able to keep ahead of these two. Apparently this DE was every bit as stupid as Goyle, which was a blessing, he supposed, but it left him struggling to answer with something that sounded like it could be the truth.

"Everything," he answered, with a little snarl. "What do you think? Not like I could avoid it."

The two interrogators, if they could be graced with that name, shared smiles. Goyle said to his partner, "This'll be simple, Bryce." He turned to Dean. "Who were you with out there?"

Easy. "Colin Creevey. Neville Longbottom. Susan Diehl." All long escaped by now.

He heard the distinctive sound of quill on parchment, pegging it to a Quick-Quotes Quill set up somewhere. He didn't bother to look for it.

"What were you doing there?"

"Sleeping." God, had these two ever questioned anyone before?

Even Bryce seemed irritated by the lame question. "Why were you in the area, arsehole?

Better. "We had a report of DE activity in the area outside of town."

"Here in Wentworth?" Dean filed away the fact that they hadn't moved him far from the small town where he was captured. Where Seamus was scouting, in fact, and likely still unaware that things had gone pear-shaped.

"Yes."

"What were you looking for?" Bryce asked.

"We were looking for your unit - but they found me first."

"Maybe we knew you were there," Goyle boasted. Dean sincerely doubted it - otherwise the rest of his group would be relaxing here with him, enjoying the DE hospitality. Suddenly he was seized with fear that they had been captured after all, and were tucked away in cells of their own.

Those fears were quickly dismissed with Bryce's next question. "Where did your buddies go?"

"Don't know," he answered, truthfully. Far away, he suspected. Because item four for captured Order members was don't expect rescue.

The two seemed to have run out of questions. Goyle asked his partner, "What else should we ask?"

Bryce thought a bit - don't hurt yourself there, Dean thought caustically - and answered, "I don't know. Doesn't matter, does it? They'll do this again when the dose wears off. They'll give him more and ask all these questions again."

His stomach turned at those words. No way could he keep up this deception with another, presumably smarter interrogation team. Unless he came up with a compelling distraction.

At any cost.

Goyle looked bored. "Stupid Gryffindor. Didn't get you too far, all that bravery."

Bryce looked at him carefully. "Isn't Potter a Gryffindor?"

"Yeah. They were roommates." The obvious question hit them at the same time.

"So do you know where Potter is, then?"

Dean nearly sighed with relief. "No," he lied. He struggled against an abrupt and overwhelming surge of dizziness and fatigue - concussion, probably, he thought weakly.

"How about anyone else? Is anyone else running around nearby?"

He paused, looked like he was struggling not to answer, then muttered, "Yes."

At any cost.

"Who?"

"Seamus Finnigan."

"Where is he?"

At any cost.

The agony he felt relentlessly crushed him, as he heard himself deliberately betray the location of his best friend.

He awoke to the noise of the guards opening the door and leading in an immobilized Seamus Finnigan. They roughly shoved him down with a Finite incantatem, carelessly aimed, which also served to release Dean from his own invisible bonds.

"Dean. God, it's good to see you. Well, not here, of course. Shit, what did they do to you? You look bloody awful."

He fought back tears. "Hey, Seamus."

His friend noticed his distraught state, and began to comfort him, which made it even worse.

"Don't. I think I can work it out. Veritaserum."

He could only helplessly stare at Seamus. God, his makeshift plan had seemed rational just hours ago. Everything hinged on Dean avoiding Veritaserum, because if he couldn't, he'd be forced to tell the enemy about Potter and the Order's final plans. The only distraction he had been able to come up with in his panic was Seamus. His friend knew nothing he shouldn't, hadn't heard the final plans. He was safe to give up. If only the Death Eaters took that bait, maybe, just maybe, they'd forget about him and question Seamus.

And then they'd both die. But the Order would be safe.

But the reality was here, talking with him, joking with him in his inimitable way, blithely thinking Dean innocent of the betrayal that had brought him here.

He'd already decided, concretely and finally, that he wasn't going to go to his death letting Seamus think he was innocent. He had to confess. He needed Seamus to hate him for what he had done, because he hated himself for it.

He hadn't betrayed the Order. Instead, he'd betrayed his best friend. And deep down, hidden in the place where these things really mattered, he couldn't truthfully say that he hadn't needed Seamus to be here with him. Something in him craved Seamus, profoundly desired the final comfort of the one person who had meant so much to him all these years. He didn't want to die alone.

He crawled over to the other man, ignoring the pain from his earlier beating, ignoring the tears that were streaming down his face, and pulled himself into Seamus' arms. Together they held each other tightly, fear and desperation drawing them close. Finally, Dean drew back enough so that his lips were poised to whisper the venomed words he needed to say, hidden from any listening captors - to pour into Seamus' ear the poisonous truth of his betrayal.

Seamus sat in shocked silence, and his tears fell unhindered. Dean could only watch in misery, accepting any condemnation that Seamus wanted to utter, because he deserved it all, that and worse. His repeated whispers of "I'm so sorry" echoed again and again, but Seamus seemed incapable of hearing him.

They sat in silence for hours.

Loud boots woke them both from their stupor. Goyle and Bryce were back, yelling at them to stand up. Seamus unfolded himself from his crouch and slowly stood, but Dean, with his numerous injuries, wasn't able. Bryce yanked him roughly to his feet, and Dean fought to ignore the pain and not pass out.

Another confining spell was cast at them. He found himself thrown back against the wall and pinned there somehow, although his arms and legs were free to move. Seamus was similarly held next to him.

"Your turn, Finnigan," Goyle said darkly. He had a clear bottle in his hand. A short step, a forced twist of Seamus' jaw, and the Veritaserum was given. The Quick-Quotes Quill was back, too.

Dean was ignored.

The same questions were shot at Seamus - who, where, why - but Dean's guess had paid off: the other man knew nothing of any use.

"These two are pretty worthless," Goyle finally admitted, and Bryce agreed. "They won't be much of a loss to the Order, anyway. Didn't seem like they did anything important."

He could almost taste their deaths coming now. He had done what he had to; the information was safe. The cost had been enormous.

"Dean." A whispered name, the smallest of sounds, but his heart surged at the word.

He turned his by now aching head so that he could see Seamus, who was facing him as much as he could manage within the constraints of the binding spell. Slowly, ever so slowly, the other man raised his arm and stretched his hand out, towards Dean, closer and closer. In response, he lifted his own hand to meet him. Their hands touched tenuously, clasped tightly, almost painfully, but every moment they were connected was a sanctified interlude of release.

"Forgiven," Seamus finally said in a choked voice. "You are forgiven."

Dean's eyes closed in disbelief, but he wanted to see, to see that face, to bask in that look of redemption just once more, and if that was the last thing he would ever see on this earth, it was enough. It was enough.

Seamus smiled at him. "Number three."

Protect your information. With gratification, bathed in forgiveness, he relaxed. Seamus understood.

He replied, "Number four."

Expect no rescue.

There was no number five, but if he could add one right at that moment, it would be don't get your hopes up. Because just then, in the aftermath of their reconciliation, the cell door banged opened, and he recognized the two men who strode in. He knew instantly, with cold and deadly certainty, that his last-ditch game was over and he was well and truly fucked. And that Seamus had been sacrificed for nothing.

There stood Draco Malfoy. Followed, in all his magisterial dignity, by Severus Snape. Even Goyle and Bryce looked alarmed.

Malfoy made his way to the parchment and quill and perused it, holding back any caustic comments, although Dean could see he was struggling with his restraint. Wordlessly, he thrust the paper at Snape, who quickly scanned it.

Snape came closer to Dean, and the attention of everyone in the room was focused on the imposing man. Still, no one spoke. He held Snape's steady gaze, waiting for a word, a question, a blow - nothing. Just that piercing stare. Unbidden, all of Dean's unspeakable secrets came to him one by one: the lie about Veritaserum given to him, the whereabouts of Harry Potter, what he knew about the Order's plans for the final battle. And still Snape remained silent through long anxious minutes.

Abruptly, Snape turned and walked to the door. "Draco," he barked. Malfoy moved to follow him without hesitation. Before leaving, Snape tossed out the order, "Wait," to Goyle and Bryce, then the two senior Death Eaters were gone.

Dean couldn't begin to fathom what had just happened, and judging from their reaction, neither could Goyle and Bryce.

"Wait for what?" Goyle complained.

Bryce mumbled, "For someone to come back, I reckon."

Dean reckoned, too. And he wasn't looking forward to it. They all settled in and waited. He exchanged nervous glances with Seamus.

Finally, the door reopened; this time only Malfoy came in. If Dean thought the last exchange was the strangest event he'd experienced so far, he was about to be proven wrong. Dramatically wrong.

Malfoy had lost his calm facade sometime between leaving and returning, and Dean could feel the tension radiating from him in waves. When he spoke, Malfoy's voice was almost hoarse with stress. "Dean Thomas."

To Dean's utter amazement, Malfoy walked up to him, leaned in, took his face in his slender, pale hands, and kissed him deeply.

He couldn't make sense of Malfoy's behavior. In shock, he found his lips responding automatically, but the only thing in his head was one word: Judas. Betraying his friend with a kiss.

Malfoy broke the shocked silence. "I'm sorry that you're here, Dean. Even given what we were to each other, everything we did together - none of that can save you. You joined the wrong side."

What in hell was he talking about?

"Even though I loved you, Dean, and you said you loved me, it doesn't matter anymore. You and your Gryffindor friend are going to die."

He struggled not to look at Seamus for help. Whatever was going on here, he had to pay attention, because so far, things weren't making any sense. Had Malfoy gone round the twist?

The sound of the quill was the only noise in the room.

"I wish things could have been different," Malfoy continued. He leaned in for another kiss, and Dean could only give it to him. "I still love you, you know."

He heard Bryce, contempt evident in his voice, mutter, "Shit, Malfoy, get a room."

Malfoy ignored the taunt and continued to caress and kiss a bewildered Dean. To his embarrassment, his body was beginning to respond to the bizarre attention.

Malfoy looked at him sharply, but his voice was deceptively soft. "I'll always love you."

His disorientation had grown to such a staggering intensity that he no longer felt connected to anything in this world. He stole a look at Seamus, but his friend's expression showed him that he was every bit as floored by the strange display. Malfoy was fawning over him now in a disturbing pantomime of obsession, but hidden just below the surface, Dean thought he recognized intense anger and something like despair. But he was spared from digging for an answer when Malfoy gently placed his index finger across his lips.

"Don't say anything. Nothing you can say would help at all right now."

Was his confused brain conjecturing some kind of message in that?

With one final kiss, Malfoy backed slowly away and drew out his wand. "You don't know how sorry I am for this. Goodbye."

He couldn't watch. Closing his eyes, he waited to hear the words of the killing curse, hoping he'd be hit first so that he wouldn't have to hear Seamus being murdered. He wondered if he'd see the green light through his closed lids or feel the pain for very long.

"Stupefy."

He jerked his eyes open fast enough to see Goyle and Bryce hit the floor, stunned.

"Finite incantatem."

The binding spell ended, and he and Seamus lurched forward. With his injuries unhealed, he couldn't brace himself fast enough, but Malfoy caught him before he hit the floor.

"Darling." The word was tender but the tone was chilling. "I couldn't kill you. But there's no time. We've got to get out of here now. We can't Apparate from this building, though. We'll have to Floo." Malfoy was snapping out instructions as though he hadn't just declared undying passion to his prisoner, as though he hadn't just stunned his two compatriots, as though any of this made sense.

"Can you walk? No? Finnigan, hang on to him, then. You're too awake for mobilicorpus, and I don't want to knock you out, lover. How about a mild levitation spell?" He muttered a word of a spell Dean had never heard before. He felt himself grow inexplicably lighter, and Seamus was able to bear his weight easily.

"Okay, now comes the tricky part. We've got to get to the Floo from a room down the hall, sweetheart, so I'm taking you out at wandpoint. Do exactly what I say and don't fuck up, and we may just make it out of here alive. If we don't, well...I reckon we've already kissed goodbye." He laughed mirthlessly, and his customary cynical tone was back. "Ready?"

My back to the wall, a victim of laughing chance.
Deacon Blues - Steely Dan

. . . . . . . .

They ended up tumbling out of the Floo into a nondescript room in an apparently empty house. Dean couldn't begin to guess their location beyond that.

Seamus finally found his voice. "Draco Malfoy. A spy for the Order?"

And there, finally, was that familiar sneer, that caustic tone, that he remembered from school, and the world began to right itself at last. "Ten fucking points to Gryffindor. Brilliant, Finnigan. Do you lay awake nights coming up with these amazing revelations, then?"

Beneath that icy exterior, Dean could tell he was still angry - furious, in fact.

Seamus, predictably, responded to the ridicule. "Damn you, Malfoy, just answer the question. What's going on?"

Malfoy rounded on Seamus, and he thought they were going to come to blows. "What's going on is that I just saved your sorry arses from the Death Eaters. I thought that much was obvious, even to you."

He interceded quickly, before the situation got even more out of hand. "Sorry, Malfoy. You'll have to forgive us. We've had a bad day." He spread his hands with mute appeal in what he hoped was his best conciliatory manner. "But thanks."

Malfoy didn't answer, although his anger was still apparent.

"So the big question I have then, is why? Why did you save us?"

Malfoy turned that anger on him like a torch. "Because you knew too fucking much. That's why." He was nearly panting now with emotion. "Because for some stupid reason you were captured knowing too fucking much, Thomas, and you know it." He was shouting. "You fucking know it, too, don't you?"

He could only agree. "Yes."

Malfoy was on a rant and wasn't going to be stopped. "And did you know that, Finnigan? He had to sell you out for that? He was willing to have you killed, too, to cover up his own stupidity. Some friend."

Dean couldn't look at Seamus right then, even knowing that his friend knew all this and had forgiven him anyway. He couldn't face that again - but he had to.

But Seamus spoke up first. "I know it, Malfoy. I know it. He told me already, okay? He needed to know all that shit, and he got caught before he could be memory charmed. It's done. Anyway, that's not your business, is it?"

"I wish it weren't my business. Fuck." He sputtered into silence.

Something was still bothering Dean, though. "How do you know what I know, Malfoy?"

Something in his question made Malfoy sit down heavily on a tattered armchair nearby. He tipped his head back with something approaching exhaustion, ran a hand roughly through his hair. "From Snape. Snape's a Legilimens. He read your thoughts. When he realized what you knew, he came up with a plan to get you the hell out of there. You couldn't be questioned again under Veritaserum. Too much was at stake."

At any cost, then, he thought wearily.

Draco wasn't finished. "But what we didn't work out was how you managed to keep the information secret the first time you were hit with the Veritaserum."

Dean smiled for the first time in what seemed like ages. "They never gave it to me. I told Bryce that they already had, and he fell for it."

That surprised both Malfoy and Seamus. "Bloody clever," Seamus said, and Malfoy added, "Bryce is a brainless wanker. There's one good thing out of this - I won't have to put up with his stupidity any more." He noticed that Malfoy left Goyle out of his censure - he supposed out of loyalty for his long-time friend. He could understand that kind of loyalty, even if he couldn't seem to practice it.

"Why not?" Seamus blurted out.

That enraged Malfoy again. "Why not? Why the fuck do you think, arsehole?" He glared at Seamus as though he'd like nothing more than to have him under Cruciatus right then. "Think I can waltz back to Death-Eater-Land after what I just pulled? Helping two prisoners escape? Like I should just scurry back now, all sorry-don't-know-what-got-into-me?" He flung his head back again in disgust. "And I though Bryce was stupid."

That explained the depth of Malfoy's anger. He'd disgraced himself in the eyes of the Death Eater - permanently - to free them. Things were starting to make more sense.

One more question, though. "And the kissing and, um..."

"Ah. Got off on that, did you?" Malfoy's face was twisted into a parody of a smile. "Sorry to disappoint you, Thomas. All an act." He laughed humorlessly. "Finnigan looks relieved, anyway."

"But what-"

"Cover for Snape, of course. Senseless to sacrifice both of us. Obviously his little Malfoy protege has a secret passion for one of the prisoners and helped them escape. All got down by that Quick-Quotes Quill and witnessed by two loyal henchmen, of course. Snape won't be held responsible." He eyed Seamus with a gleam. "You had a fifty-fifty chance at carnal delight, Finnigan. But I reckoned that Thomas here wouldn't scream the bloody place down. I wasn't so sure about you."

Seamus, in a far more respectful tone than he'd yet been able to muster, asked quietly, "How long have you been a spy, then?"

Malfoy sighed. "Since fifth year. So then, three years. All wasted now, of course." He raised an eyebrow at Seamus, then Dean. "Surprised? Don't be. I learned lying and deceit from the best."

"From Snape."

"From Snape," Malfoy agreed. "Although Father began the lessons. You might say I was born to it, really."

Suddenly, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, and he stretched back with a hiss. "And now what?" he breathed.

"Now I get to send you on your way. Lucky you."

"Any chance you might muster up some healing charms first?" he managed to ask. "Our wands are gone."

"Oh, nearly forgot. I've been a little busy, forgive me," Malfoy said, pulling out their missing wands and tossing them out with an elegant flick. "Nice of the night patrol not to have destroyed them, wouldn't you say?"

"A surprise," he agreed. "One of many, actually."

Malfoy, calmer than he'd been since their first meeting today, spent a few minutes repairing the worst of Dean's injuries. "That should get you where you're going."

"And where are we going?" Seamus asked.

Malfoy gave him a sardonic look. "Where would you like to go? Some lovely vacation spot? Paris, perhaps? Tahiti?" They were standing now. "Or just back to the daily grind?"

Dean made a decision. "Grimmauld Place."

"Of course. Always popular with our vacationers this time of year."

"Are you coming with us?"

"I think not. Although I'm not sure where I'm headed. To tell you the truth, I didn't wake up this morning expecting to be outed before lunch. So much for me having a long shelf life. Right now, Tahiti is sounding better and better."

Dean made a quick decision and thrust out his hand. Malfoy accepted it with apparent surprise. "Thanks, Malfoy. For everything. I'm sorry how it turned out for you. We owe you, big time, you know."

Malfoy nodded slightly. "Too bad you'll only remember the favor for, oh about 10 more seconds." Dean jerked his head up nervously at the other man's words. "Come on, Thomas, you don't think I'm prepared to let you keep this memory? Not after everything else?"

He shook his head in resignation. "No."

Malfoy grimaced. "Okay, then." He raised his wand to Seamus. "Obliviate." A toss of floo powder, then "Twelve Grimmauld Place." Seamus disappeared. Dean's eyes flickered in the dim light from the fire, and he willingly stepped forward. The last things he experienced were the words of the memory charm and the sadness of pale, grey eyes.

"Good lord. Where did you come from, then?" The surprised greeting was blunt. Dean lurched with less grace than usual into the sitting room of what he recognized as 12 Grimmauld Place. He turned automatically to the voice, which turned out to be that of Remus Lupin. Seamus had apparently just Flooed in before him, and his friend seemed as confused as he felt.

"Not sure," he answered. "I remember-" The last thing he remembered was betraying the location of Seamus to the Death Eaters, but he wasn't prepared to go into that. What the hell had happened? How did he escape? "I was captured. I don't know how I got away."

At those words, Lupin abruptly stood up.

Seamus added, "I was in Wentworth, asleep. I don't know how I ended up here."

Dean had the presence of mind to look at his hands just then. A simple Order trick - if you're about to be Obliviated, for whatever reason, use the alphabet created by deaf Muggles to leave yourself a clue.

Each of his hands had formed a letter. Two letters. D. M.

Seamus turned his own gaze down. His hands formed the same letters. D. M.

Acordei de um sonho estranho
um gosto de vidro e corte
Um sabor de chocolate no corpo e na cidad
Um sabor de vida e morte ...Com sabor de vidro e corte
As horas não se contavam,
e o que era negro anoiteceu
Enquanto acontecia, Eu estava em San Vicente

[I woke up from a strange dream
in a place of glass and wounds
A taste of chocolate in the body and the town
A taste of life and death ... A taste of glass and wounds
Hours that couldn't be counted
and what was black became night.
While it happened I was in St. Vincent]
San Vicente - Milton Nascimento (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

There were rumors that the Order's final battle plan took months to prepare. The first six weeks alone were spent debating over whether it could even be pulled off successfully, but Dean didn't hear the details until much later.

The key element, the one detail that couldn't be ignored, was that the climax of the battle had to be a confrontation between Harry Potter and Voldemort. Reasons for that were a closely-kept secret; Dean was not privy to it, nor did he want to be.

Like any good battle plan, this one depended on several good spies within the enemy's inner circle. Snape was one - he couldn't believe that his former Potions master was still buried in the Dark Lord's ranks after nearly two years. No one in the Order had seen him these last nine months; it took three long weeks and seven connections to get the plans to him at all. He heard rumors of another hidden spy - one to watch Snape, he supposed - but that name, too, was closely guarded. The war had dragged on long enough that dissatisfaction was no doubt festering in one or two of their own troops. Traitors could exist in their midst as well. So preparations were made in great secrecy and with much misleading groundwork. One week, he and his squad practiced Quidditch - never really one of his favorite activities. The next week followed with a flurry of potions, first prepared and then imbibed, to his stomach's misfortune. They faltered through exercises in holding a position for hours, deliberate disorientation of their sleep cycles, night-time prowling, close-quarter fighting, micro-Apparating - all or none of which might come in to play.

After two years with the Death Eaters, Severus Snape had lost none of the elegant yet icy demeanor he'd shown as a Hogwarts professor, sweeping into the temporary council room and bowing low to the imposing figure seated there.

"My Lord," he intoned, with as much deference he could summon. "Harry Potter has been located."

Nothing he could announce, he knew, excited as much interest from their commander as that name. It had been nearly their sole focus for the past month, causing the Death Eaters to neglect far more important strategic targets in the off-chance of somehow coming upon the young man unaware and unprotected. Snape wasn't the only one to know it was a serious weakness; others among the top echelon of Death Eaters doubted the wisdom of focusing on such a seemingly personal target. But Snape knew the prophecy - Potter was key to ending the war, for good or ill.

He had the Dark Lord's full attention.

"What news?" was the response from - man or creature, Snape never knew from one moment to the next. Even Lucius was distracted enough from his court intrigues to turn to listen, though his compatriot couldn't erase the distaste on his face. There was no love lost between them since Snape's return to the Dark Lord's service. More recently, he had carefully manipulated the blame for Draco's defection so that it fell far more heavily against Lucius than against him. Lucius bore him great hatred for that. No matter, thought Snape. I don't trust him either, and he is wise not to trust me. Let's hope he never knows why.

He brought every acting skill he had to bear on this pronouncement, critical as it was for the final battle. One last chance, one thin window of opportunity. If this plan failed, he was sure he would be killed.

"Potter has been run to ground outside a small town called St. Vincent. Dumbledore has been tracked to the Ministry, and Potter is lightly guarded - a patrol at most. Our surveillance team found him early this morning and has been watching him for the past three hours. They report that he seems to be settling in there for at least a night." Snape withdrew a scroll of parchment and passed it over, making certain that his hand betrayed no tremble to disclose his nerves.

Voldemort read the report dispassionately, then handed it wordlessly to Lucius. Snape watched in silence as Malfoy scanned the scroll with his usual scowl. He was careful to make no further comment - his task here was only to bear the information. Any further attempt to encourage action on their part would be more than unwelcome - it would be suspicious. Others would plan any attack without his help. All he could do was wait.

But the time dragged out interminably.

"And so, we have him now," Voldemort finally said, and Snape was careful not to show his relief. "Prepare the attack, as we have planned. Our men have practiced for this opportunity. It is time to unleash them."

The men around Voldemort moved swiftly into action, dispatching commands with the rough assurance of those used to being instantly obeyed. Most of them left for duties they were only too glad to perform - or too fearful of failing to perform. Snape remained quietly at Voldemort's side.

"Severus. We've waited too long for this moment. Soon, Harry Potter will be no more than a bad memory. With their boy icon defeated, the rest of Dumbledore's shabby Muggle-lovers will collapse like a riverbank under flood. Washed away. And we'll be victorious at last."

"Victorious at last," Snape echoed, and believed every word.

"Carmichael, David?"

The man nodded in response, and his hand reached out automatically to receive the package from the taciturn supply sergeant. Orders barked out earlier had made clear that they were to hold and not open the small bundle, and he wasn't even tempted to disobey, although he sensed that he was in the minority. Weeks of preparations for something had everyone generally on edge, but he alone, it seemed, sensed its immediacy in the air this morning.

"Franklin says it'll be hand-to-hand combat practice," the man next to him muttered, but he didn't put any faith in the ubiquitous rumors of an army at war. No one had yet managed to predict any of the exercises they'd run through to date; today would be no different. He didn't even bother to answer.

In the past three weeks he'd been with this company of soldiers, he'd managed to stay alive by keeping his head down and his mouth shut. It was a pattern he'd grown used to in the past year of the war as he skipped from unit to unit, blending in, but never staying for long in one place. True, he had no friends in these ranks, but he had no enemies either, and he counted that far more to his credit.

This morning they'd risen early, gotten a rather decent breakfast for the conditions, heard a few limited commands, and had settled into the hurry-up-and-wait that was so common to life during wartime. He'd managed to find and settle up against a thin tree, which offered a tiny dry spot in the general dampness of a wet morning, content to wait and appreciate the quiet.

Lucy Gallestino, their squad leader, strode over - if it could be called that; the woman was decidedly short - with last-minute instructions to pass on.

"Everyone's got their packets issued, right?" she asked brusquely.

"What's in it?" came back from someone in the back, but she didn't even bother looking up.

"Okay, now I need you to bare your stomachs and left legs," she barked, in a tone that brooked no more stupid questions, as though the order made perfect sense. And for an army at war, it probably did.

Brinkley, usually the commander of rear security, had a scroll and something else in his hand that was too fat for a wand.

Lucy was still talking. "Everyone gets a number. Like this." Brinkley checked something on the scroll, then took the thing in his hand and wrote a number on her stomach and leg that stood out in bold black relief on her skin. She was doubly marked in this fashion with the number 87.

The usual bantering comments, silly innuendos, and nervous remarks accompanied Brinkley as he proceeded to number everyone in the squad. He deliberately avoided looking at Brinkley as he was marked with a sloppy 114 in both places, but he felt a sudden chill at the implication.

"Okay, cover it up, then. I've seen enough of your bare skin for so early in the morning," Lucy declared. "And come over here by me, and I'll tell you what's happening today. In a very short time, we expect to be engaged in the pivotal battle of the War, so pay attention."

The banter and muttered asides stopped as suddenly as if she'd cast a silencing charm. Farther off, the other groups were all similarly transfixed.

"A trap has been set to draw in the Death Eater elite - all the way to the top." Although the Order's army had been encouraged to use Voldemort's name, some still found it impossible after years of avoidance. "The bait has successfully lured the enemy. We believe they're preparing to walk into the trap, and we'll be ready."

What followed were the nuts and bolts of any battle plan - how the details applied to them in particular. How they'd get in, and more importantly, how they'd get out. Where everyone else was supposed to be, and what to do in case they weren't. How the current orders were to be passed on, and how to stop the rumors. And what to do if everything went to hell in a hurry.

"For most of the battle, we hope to keep you up on your brooms, because the DEs have shown their real weakness in the air. It's like they can't think three-dimensionally the way we can. Looks like the side of Light ended up with all the Quidditch players," she joked, and a few appreciative laughs came back at that. "Okay, now comes the twist you've been waiting for. Go ahead and open your bundles."

All around him, hands were ripping into packages. He pulled out each item slowly, identifying what he could as he did. Nondescript clothing and shoes. A large unbreakable flask, heavy and full, filled with a dark, opaque potion that he recognized immediately - Polyjuice. And at the bottom, a carefully protected item, which he carefully unwrapped and held in his hands with sudden recognition: a pair of glasses that were only slightly less identifiable than their famous wearer.

He almost laughed out loud at the irony. He was going to Polyjuice into Harry Potter. They all were - a whole bloody army of Potters.

"Listen up, folks. You've had enough training with Polyjuice, so you should be able to choke the shit down, at least. I think you've cottoned on as to who you're going to end up as. And the glasses aren't only for looks - you'll need them to see properly, so be careful with them. If you lose yours, find me or another squad leader for another pair."

All around him, the glasses were proving to be a major fascination. No one else seemed to be able to resist trying them on. "I can't see," came a petulant voice.

"Don't be such an imbecile," Lucy shot back. "You won't be able to see until you've turned into Potter." She muttered under her breath, "Idiot."

The offender squeaked an apology.

She continued, unfazed. "As you know, Potter is an excellent natural flyer, so you'll find that's a real advantage in the air. And for Merlin's sake, don't forget to take another dose every hour." She held up the flask for emphasis. "Remind each other."

A tentative hand went up from the woman beside him. "Why are we all supposed to become Harry Potter, though? Not that I mind, of course. Can you tell us that?"

"Yes, I can. For undisclosed reasons, Potter has become the Death Eater's main target. They've been tracking him for months, and they think they're closing in on him now. We're there to confuse the issue and at the same time break the DE army."

So Potter was the bait for their trap. Or was he? Would they risk the real Boy-Who-Lived? Or more likely, was it actually Dumbledore waiting there, Polyjuiced to appear as Potter? As their most powerful wizard, he would be a more formidable surprise to attacking Death Eaters. If, as Lucy had said, this battle was pivotal, that could only mean they expected the Dark Lord to show up. The side of Light would bring out the big guns, not some 19-year-old mascot with a streak of good luck.

"We'll have about twenty minutes to get used to Potter's body. You'll want to put on his clothes before you make the change, unless you want to ruin your own." The group politely turned their backs on each other and studiously avoided getting caught checking anyone out. "Everyone ready? Bottoms up."

He managed to down the potion without the grimaces that his colleagues made. Stoically, he suffered through the dizziness and painful transfiguration into a body not his own. No matter how many times he'd practiced, he never became accustomed to the horrible shock of changing into someone else, but now he was especially glad that no one had a mirror. He noticed his blurred vision wasn't clearing, then belatedly remembered to put on the glasses. There - better.

"Fifteen minutes. Check for your wands. Go get your brooms, then come back here. We'll Portkey in groups."

"Hey, who are you?" he heard in a voice from the distant past, and looked up with alarm. The sight of a dozen Harry Potters surrounding him was jarring and unreal.

"I'm Carmichael," he answered in the same familiar voice. "Who are you?"

"I'm Bevell," was the reply. "This is bizarre, isn't it?"

"No shit."

"So this explains the numbers," Bevell said. "So we can tell who's who. But really, it seems silly. We can always just ask each other, you know?"

Bevell really was thick. "Not if we're dead," he snapped.

Bevell visibly paled, but apparently didn't have the sense to shut up. "Oh, yeah." He shrugged it off. "This must be really weird for the women. You know, getting all new equipment, so to speak. I can't stand it myself. I mean, if I just take a piss, there I am with my hands on someone else's dick. Makes me feel like a bloody fag."

He didn't have the tiniest desire right now to talk to a Harry Potter look-alike about anything, let alone the obvious topics that were always brought up by someone - usually Bevell - about the sexual aspect of changing into someone else. He was not going to check out his new equipment unless he had to. Turning away, he rummaged for the trainers and shoved his now slightly larger feet into them.

Potter's body wasn't a whole lot different than his own - a little more awkward, although maybe that was just the initial disconnect caused by transformation. He practiced reaching, kneeling, turning - nothing too disorienting so far.

And flying in this body, on his stripped down, scuffed up Firebolt was pure pleasure.

If Dean hadn't been standing next to Seamus when the Polyjuice took effect, he would have never known him.

"Mary and all the saints, Dean. Look at you."

"Look at yourself, Seamus."

"I feel like I went to sleep and woke up at a Harry Potter convention. It's the oddest thing I've ever seen." He looked around with an expression of wonder on his borrowed face.

Dean flexed his arms and shook out his legs after the painful transformation. "So this is what it's like."

"Fuck. I've never been a Potter wanna-be in my whole life. This isn't likely to change my mind, you know what I'm saying?" Seamus laughed, and it wasn't Seamus' laugh at all, but Harry's. "Now for someone like Draco Malfoy, who always wanted to be Harry, it'd be like a wet dream come true."

He thought of something. "Listen, Seamus, how are we supposed to recognize each other? In the heat of battle, you know?"

Seamus looked concerned. "Well, I'm not about to flash you my bloody number every few minutes, you pervert. Let's come up with a code word."

"Playing at spies again? All right. What should we use?"

"How about the neighborhoods we grew up in? That's something the DEs wouldn't know or understand."

"Okay. Then I'm Barking and you're Finglas."

"Right."

They spent the next twenty minutes becoming accustomed to Harry's body, until Dean began to feel more comfortable with its abilities. Most disconcerting was the difference in height - he was usually the tallest person in any group, even beating out Ron Weasley. He'd once vowed never to travel to America where he'd undoubtedly be badgered with basketball references - he'd heard enough about that even in Britain. He'd always thought of Harry as short, but with everyone around him the same height - hell, the same everything - his frame of reference had vanished.

It was all too strange.

Their unit leader rounded them up and held out a Portkey - a rather ratty-looking Ravenclaw scarf, long enough to offer them all a handhold on it.

"See you on the other side, Dean," he heard, before the tugging feeling overcame him.

Bayeza abafana bancane wema,
Baphethe iqwasha, baphethe bazooka
Bathi "Sangena savuma thina,
Lapha abazange bengena abazali bethu, Nabadala..."

[The young boys are coming,
They carry homemade weapons and a bazooka.
They say "We have agreed to enter a place
that has never been entered before
by our parents or our ancestors, and they cry for us..."]
One Man, One Vote - Johnny Clegg (Zulu lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

Dean had gone through his share of reading battle scenes in books, and he was spoiled. In telling a war story, the author always made sure that the basic plans and strategies, the important movements, the actions of leaders and other key players, the ebb and flow of positions taken and retaken, and the glorious and triumphant conclusion were all laid out in a reasonably logical fashion.

Being in an actual battle was chaos.

If I live through this, I'll have to read the book, he thought in frustration. He felt as if he was flipping through images and understanding very little of any of it. Everything was too fast and too frantic to allow time enough for meaning to seep in. There were snatches of commands, dizzying pursuits and retreats, flashes of the enemy falling or charging, killing or being killed. Sometimes, he was alone for long minutes, only to be engulfed in a thundercloud of frenetic activity sweeping him in, then rolling past.

He paused long enough to gulp down a renewing dose of Polyjuice.

He lost track of Seamus after the first half-hour. He'd repeated Barking to so many ersatz Harry Potters and received the same dumbfounded looks in return that he felt like he was barking, and finally stopped. He should have caught on to Seamus' prank when he'd suggested using neighborhoods. He'd have to give him shit about it when this was over.

He didn't let himself think about Seamus not returning from this cacophony of noise and heat. He barely had time to think at all.

Fatigue was setting in when first one, and then more and more Harry Potters soared past with the news. "Have you heard? Potter's killed Voldemort. The DEs are cutting and running."

Not all the Death Eaters, unfortunately. Dean and his group were careful to allow an exit for the small patrol of DEs they'd engaged - no one fights as desperately as someone who thinks he's surrounded - but the imbeciles didn't catch on. His opponent nearly pinned him in a small stand of trees. One of the other Potters cottoned on to his predicament, but he was a bit too late. Dean slipped off his broom, felt his knee twist in a way that knees were not supposed to twist, and then give beneath his weight. The last thing he was aware of was a Stunning curse aimed at him.

One unfortunate side effect of Polyjuice Potion was that its duration could be counted on only if the drinker was conscious. If not, the transfigured appearance was extended for as much as a day, depending on when the stuff had been swallowed. Which meant that, by and large, Hermione and the medivac group had been recovering victim after victim who looked like Harry Potter. It was a psychological nightmare, not knowing who was injured, or who was dead - every victim looked like Harry.

By the time Dean woke up, though, nearly everyone, including him, was back in his or her own form.

From his vantage point, in a camp bed near the door, he watched the recovery team checking their patients, the tension around them so thick you could rupture it with the wrong word. One by one, body by body, Hermione's hands reached out, lifted a shirt to reveal the number and froze there until the corresponding name was announced - would it be a stranger or a friend? Dumbledore? Or even the real Harry?

"Number 114," Hermione reported to a young man toting a very Muggle clipboard.

"David Carmichael."

They all relaxed slightly, but then Dean felt a ripple of guilt at the brisk dismissal. Carmichael was someone he had fought beside for the past three weeks or so. He was a nondescript young man - he sounded like a Somerset native - with dirty-blond hair and dark, angry eyes. He rarely said much, didn't socialize, never mentioned any family, and was generally considered a loner and a misfit. But he had a good eye for observation, never backed away from a fight, and hated Voldemort more than nearly anyone he knew. Almost as much as Harry.

Poor sod.

"Dead?"

Hermione looked up at him, and smiled briefly in recognition. "Dean. I didn't notice you there. No, he's just knocked out. You know him?"

"Kind of. He's in our unit, anyway. Bit of an oddball. Glad he'll make it, though."

"How about you - are you doing okay?"

He returned the smile. "Yeah. I fell off my broom near the end, there, and messed up my knee. That's probably why I'm not playing for the Chudley Cannons." A poor joke, but she took it as the offering it was.

"But that wasn't really you - you can blame it on Harry, you know," she teased quietly.

"Right. A bit strange, that. Takes some getting used to, being that small. Not to mention keeping those glasses on the whole time. Hell, no wonder he's always smashing the bloody things." He grew somber. "Hermione - anyone I know here?"

Her mouth tightened at the question. "A few, Dean. I guess we should be grateful our losses were light, but yes. A few."

Her orders must have been to keep it quiet; he'd have to wait to see who they were, then, but he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Seamus?"

She relaxed slightly. "No. I saw him poke his nose in a while ago, looking for you, I think."

Her associate was looking at them impatiently, and Hermione turned back to her bleak duty with a final nod. "See you later, if I can."

He settled back against his pillow, trying to absorb details from the general confusion like the artist he was. Although he'd never draw this scene.

The Harry Potter that was Carmichael was stirring beside him, changing gradually back to himself. With growing curiosity, he focused on the other man, becoming immersed in watching the process as the Polyjuice ran its course. Skin began to bubble and alter, looking as though repulsive insects were crawling and feeding beneath it. He felt a little sick but couldn't look away. The dark hair began to lighten and grow, the features were settling down and becoming more recognizable. But something was wrong. The chin, the nose, the cheekbones - none of these were familiar from his nights patrolling with Carmichael. They were too pronounced, too angular, the hair was not the dark honey he knew it should be. He was on the verge of calling out to Hermione, to tell her she'd made a mistake, that she must have misread the number. But that urge abruptly vanished.

"Holy shit." The man next to him was no longer Harry Potter, but he wasn't David Carmichael, either. Eyes fluttered open at his outburst and fixed on him. "My god. Draco Malfoy."

For a strange instant, the face he'd just identified wavered, growing more and more like that of Carmichael, so that he had the unsettling perception that he was looking at two people at once. Then suddenly the pretense faded, and he was once again looking at his old Hogwarts schoolmate.

"I'm too weak," Malfoy muttered. "Can't maintain it any more."

Dean realized what he meant. "Some kind of glamour spell, then?"

"Yeah. What the hell happened to me out there? I feel like shit."

"I don't know."

"And the battle? What about-

"Voldemort's dead. It's over."

Malfoy's eyes closed, whether from outrage or relief, Dean didn't dare assume. Then he tentatively reopened them and gave him a thoughtful look.

"So. You're not screaming the place down, Thomas. Why is that?"

"No. I'm shocked, is all."

"Isn't it your duty to report a Death Eater spy?"

He took a long moment before answering, with Malfoy watching him like a hawk the whole time. "If you were a Death Eater spy, I'd report you, yes. But I'm not sure that's what you are. I don't know what you're doing here, but I- well. Anyone else would be screaming the place down, I suppose." He was slowly returning to solid ground. "But I know something they don't."

Malfoy didn't say anything, although his gaze continued to be intense.

"I don't know how, and I sure as hell don't know why, but somehow you rescued me and Seamus the night we were captured by DEs. We don't remember what happened. But it was you, I'm sure of it."

"You don't remember, but you think I saved you? What a bloody Gryffindor you are."

Dean knew that sarcasm for the defense it was. "Yeah, I am. A Gryffindor who knows who my friends are. But it sounds like you still aren't going to tell me what happened, are you?" He looked at the other man sharply, but got no reply. "You have your reasons, I suppose. Maybe someday that'll change. But I know what I know."

Malfoy let out a short huff of irritation. "What you know - well, I wouldn't put money on it."

"Do I know Carmichael? Or was there ever such a person?"

"No Carmichael. Only me."

Intrigued, Dean swung his legs around on his camp bed so he was facing Malfoy. "How did you manage to fool everyone?"

"You were the hardest - you knew me. Glamours only go so far. They're draining to keep up. I was careful never to be around you much. Only at night when the light was bad. Other times - well, let's just say I helped you believe what you wanted to believe. It's an old DE trick."

"You messed with my mind?"

Malfoy didn't answer.

"How long have you been at this? You've been with our group a couple of weeks-"

"Long enough. I move around."

"Why, though? Why are you here? Why the disguise?"

Malfoy glared at him. "Are you going to tell me I'd have been welcomed with open arms? Me? Son of Lucius Malfoy? Get real, Thomas."

Dean noticed that Malfoy had avoided the question of why he'd come in the first place, but he let it slide. Odds were he wouldn't have heard the truth.

"What will you do now?"

"Don't know." Malfoy managed a faint echo of his school-boy smirk before he closed his eyes one last time, turned on his side with a restrained groan, and faded back into unconsciousness.

He regarded him for a long moment. Then he reached over quietly and tugged the thin blanket higher, covering the other man's face and distinctively pale hair, and let him sleep.

Melhor seria ser filho da outra
Outra realidade menos morta
Tanta mentira, tanta força bruta

It would be better to be the son of another,
Another reality, one that's less dead
So many lies, so much brute force.
Calice - Gilberto Gil/Chico Buarque (Portuguese lyrics)

. . . . . . . .

What do you wear to your father's trial and probable execution?, Draco wondered, as he looked over his extensive wardrobe with a careworn eye.

Probably something that would also lend itself to a polite funeral appearance, he supposed, and he certainly had plenty of those robes to choose from. In the past weeks, he'd made an unwilling spectacle of himself, arriving unannounced at memorial services for members of the Order, earning himself stares and rude snubs from family members and friends who hadn't quite accepted the claims that he was one of the secret spies who had turned the war around.

Showing up at funerals had become, in part, another act of defiance, and, in part, a show of support for Severus. Draco was determined not to let their contributions to the victory pass unnoticed. He hadn't asked for his role any more than Potter had; he would be damned if he'd let the wizarding world forget it.

The worst, of course, was Dumbledore's funeral, an immense spectacle attended, it appeared, by everyone on the planet. After the first five minutes of glares and not-quite-muttered slurs, he'd stuck to Severus like a burr. Dumbledore, polyjuiced as Potter as he'd guessed, had struck the killing blow against Voldemort but by doing so had sacrificed his own life. Apparently there'd been some cryptic prophecy predicting that only Potter could kill the Dark Lord; in the ironic manner of prophecies, the disguised Dumbledore somehow fulfilled the condition.

The real Harry Potter had survived. Draco surprised himself by being grateful for it. Yet he'd fled Dumbledore's funeral before the elite Gryffindor collective escorting Potter had made an appearance.

He deftly thumbed through his closet. His mother would want him to appear respectful, despite the fact that he felt nothing remotely approaching that. His inclination was to show up at the door of the Ministry courtroom wearing Hufflepuff robes, or loud Muggle clothing, or maybe even pauper's rags. Anything to declare formally to the world that he and Lucius were not of the same lineage, the same family. The same universe.

He pushed aside a black linen robe - that would wrinkle too badly and the trial promised to be long - in favor of a dignified navy blue wool. For a brief moment, he toyed with wearing his Order of Merlin, but rejected that idea as pompous. No one watching him would know what to make of that gesture, anyway.

"Master Draco is visiting his mother before he is going?" Sully asked.

"Of course," he replied, not bothering to turn around.

His mother's new-found neutrality and Slytherin flexibility had come to her aid after Voldemort's defeat. Once Lucius was gone, she had let go of any visible affinity for the defeated side with amazing ease. Her pragmatic nature allowed the two of them to live together in studied politeness, if not true affection.

But her grief over Lucius was real enough.

He slipped in to his mother's bedroom, and his eyes slowly adjusted to its dimness. Narcissa wasn't sleeping; she waited quietly in the near-darkness, watching him approach her bed with pale, unblinking eyes. Everyone had agreed that her presence was uncalled-for at the trial - even without considering that she'd been spending days on end under the effects of some kind of potion that Severus had pressed upon her days ago. It seemed to calm her as nothing else - including her son - had.

"Good morning, Mother," he said, as he lightly kissed her thin, pallid cheek.

"Lumos," she said in response, causing the lights to gradually glow brighter. He almost wished she'd left the room dim, because he hated to see her so despondent. "You look very nice."

He didn't respond to the compliment. "I'll be gone all day. Redmund will owl you as soon as anything is decided." He pretended for her sake that the outcome wasn't already certain. As though the only decision left to be made wasn't between immediate death or a dementor's kiss.

"Desiree Crabbe has promised to come and wait with me this afternoon if she could get away."

He hoped for her sake that her sometime friend would make the effort, which was by no means guaranteed. Mrs. Crabbe faced the same situation herself next week when her husband would have his own trial, and she'd find herself needing the same support. Still, he'd heard from Sully that the other woman wasn't often sober by afternoon.

"I'd better be going. The Floo network at the Ministry will be overloaded if I wait any longer."

She nodded slowly but didn't say anything.

He hesitated, not wanting to draw this out but feeling like he should tell her something comforting. What that might be remained elusive - false reassurance was out of the question. "It will be over soon."

Her head lifted slightly. "And you won't be called to testify?"

"No." More than enough informants longed to bear witness against Lucius, and the Aurors were feeling uncharacteristically generous with him.

"That's good, then." She looked away, and he gave her ice-cold hand a final squeeze in parting.

He noticed the house-elf lingering around the door. "Watch over her today," he ordered quietly as he passed.

Sully replied, "I is, Master Draco. You don't worry. Sully is bringing tea for Mistress Malfoy, and Sully knows where Mr. Snape is leaving the potion."

Draco had been to the Ministry headquarters to give testimony so often in the past weeks that the guard recognized him and waved him through. Already, crowds were forming in the futile hope of getting into the gallery for what promised to be one of the biggest trials of the decade. Even after expanding the courtroom to accommodate the surviving families of Lucius' victims, a lottery had had to be held for the hundreds of rubberneckers anxious to snap up the few remaining seats.

He took a moment to step into a quiet corner and cast a quick glamour on himself. It had been weeks since he'd posed as David Carmichael, and even after months of wearing the disguise before the war ended he found it odd and discomforting. Still, for his own safety, he thought it prudent not to be seen as himself in halls packed with wizards and witches who might not put too fine a point on the difference between Lucius Malfoy and his son.

Crowds bunched together at the lifts, so he decided to forgo the queue and take the stairs. He descended without anybody noticing, glad for the opportunity to stretch his legs before what promised to be a long day of sitting. He was already too tense, and he expected no respite.

The noise of many voices guided him to the lowest level of the Ministry headquarters and the heavy wooden door of Courtroom 8. He found himself in a line queuing along the hall.

Security had been significantly beefed up. He was surprised to find that wands were not allowed into the courtroom for this trial, and a phalanx of Aurors was on hand to oversee their surrender and safekeeping. As he approached the makeshift station, the wizard on his left was arguing loudly against letting the Auror take possession of his wand.

"Is this really necessary?" he heard the man ask in a thin, aggrieved voice.

"No wands permitted," the Auror replied tersely, and Draco could sense that the man had repeated that phrase far more than he'd cared to already. Still, confiscating a wand was rare enough, and the indignant wizard's resistance was unsurprising.

"This wand hasn't been out of my possession for sixty-three years," he insisted.

"If the gentleman doesn't want to surrender it, there are plenty of other visitors who would be glad to take his seat in the courtroom." The Auror looked at him steadily. Finally, the recalcitrant wizard handed over his wand without another word.

After Draco passed his wand to an alert-looking witch, he found his hand being firmly pressed onto a piece of soft vellum, which wrapped itself comfortably around his palm and fingers, molding itself to conform to his grip like a second skin. At the witch's command, the vellum fell gently to the table, and she placed his wand on top.

"Name?" she asked.

He tried to keep his voice low. "Draco Malfoy."

Instantly, the vellum loosely encircled the wand, and the package soared through a shimmering ward to a niche behind her, where even more Aurors secured them. Now, only a hand that matched the vellum's imprint could retrieve the wand from their guardianship.

He'd managed to break the routine of the witch's morning, he noticed. She was staring at him as though he was some kind of prohibited animal, but at least she hadn't reached for her own wand. He supposed he should be grateful.

"Am I finished here?" he eventually had to ask, and she jerked herself back into something approaching an expression of pretended passivity before nodding briefly.

He took a moment after entering the courtroom, keeping his back to the crowd and feigning to study a picture of the Earl of Duncastle, to allow his glamour to dissipate. With everyone wandless, he decided his safety was ensured - well, that was unless someone decided to attack him with fists - and he didn't care to expend the energy on maintaining this faÃ§ade all day. The Earl, privy to his transformation, muttered, "Good show, old man," and Draco gave him a lifted eyebrow and a smirk in his best Malfoy style.

Severus had been keeping watch on the door and caught his eye as he turned around. Draco nodded his recognition and threaded his way around a rather large witch who, from the sound of her excited blathering, was anticipating the outcome of the trial with visible enthusiasm.

"Avada's too good for the likes of him," she was saying, gesturing dramatically and nearly knocking Draco down with one wildly flailing arm. He managed at the last second to dodge around her, but she fortunately didn't pay any attention to him, so caught up in her diatribe was she. "He murdered my son and his wife - she was Muggle-born. They were having an early tea when it happened...."

He realized that he didn't even remember which family it could have been. There were too many; they blended together into one unholy recollection. A Muggle family missing here, a brother and sister orphaned there, a soldier caught out and tortured, an inn burned to the ground. All in a day's work for Lucius Malfoy, the frightfully efficient Death Eater.

But if Draco couldn't remember, this courtroom overflowed with those who could - every detail, every callous action, every ruthless death - because Lucius Malfoy had utterly ruined their lives. They were here today to bear witness and to make sure the Wizengamot did the same for him.

With a sigh, he slipped into the seat next to Snape's in a conspicuously empty section. "Severus," he said in way of a greeting. How could he have said, "Good morning?" They both knew it was far from that.

"Draco. How is your mother today?"

"As expected." That exhausted any conversation.

The sound of the crowd surged perceptibly, drawing his attention to a group just entering. Severus also noticed the change in the room, and they exchanged glances. Neither needed confirmation as to whom the excitement was for.

Potter.

He was flanked by his usual Gryffindor crowd - Granger, Longbottom, Thomas, Finnigan, and a bright flock of Weasleys. His entourage surrounded him as though they were bodyguards, which wasn't far from the truth. People in the crowd near him pressed closer to the new arrivals, as if Potter were a magnet and they were made of iron.

Potter had been such a part of everyone's thoughts and conversation for so long, both during the war and in the weeks since the last battle, that Draco realized with a start that he hadn't actually seen him in person - ignoring the hundreds of polyjuiced Potters fighting the last battle - since his last night at Hogwarts. The night they'd kissed. In the years since, he'd convinced himself that his inappropriate behavior was only a ridiculous attempt to hold on to the last scraps of his schoolboy innocence. He hadn't allowed himself to wonder why Potter had kissed him back. But if that was true, then why was his brain sending him anxious signals at the sight of his former adversary? Why was he feeling so uncomfortably unnerved at the mere sight of him?

"Let's kill the fatted calf," Severus said, for Draco's ears only, in a tone laced with heavy sarcasm. "The golden boy has arrived."

After everything that had happened to him since leaving Hogwarts, Draco found that his blazing animosity towards Potter had faded considerably. He'd moved past childish anger without even being aware of it, and he assumed everyone else had, too, so he was surprised to hear the bitterness in Severus' remark.

Potter looked much the same as he had that night; perhaps a little broader in the shoulder, a few more muscles developed from a physically grueling war. The most striking difference was the too-serious look in his eye and his weary expression.

The group forged through the crowded room, until Draco belatedly realized they were heading towards their otherwise empty section. Potter stepped ahead of his protectors to stand directly in front of him. Feeling distinctly at a disadvantage, he quickly rose to meet him eye to eye and was curiously pleased to find he was slightly taller than the other man. Not by much, but enough.

Potter reached out a hand to him and said, "Malfoy."

Draco was distantly aware of a cluster of photographers poised nearby, ready to capture this historic occasion. Feeling self-conscious in the extreme, he responded in the only way possible, hoping that his own hand wasn't sweaty with nerves. "Potter."

Beside him, Severus gasped.

Potter didn't pull away as fast as Draco thought he would, instead lingering in their touch for a long moment. He wondered if it was entirely for the benefit of the photographers.

"I'm sorry," was all Potter said, although what he was sorry for - the attention of the crowd concentrated on them with naked curiosity, or the trauma of his father's trial, or maybe their whole ugly history - he didn't clarify.

"I know," he replied, although he hadn't intended to say that at all.

Potter led his group down the row of seats, stopping to offer Severus a brief handshake as well. Severus didn't bother to stand. Dean Thomas settled into the chair next to Draco's, and gave him an unexpectedly warm greeting.

His response was cut off by the loud echo of the courtroom door slamming shut, which caught the attention of everyone in the room and brought the noise down to a low murmur. At the same time, two doors - one to the left of the raised platform and one to the right - swung open. From the first door, the elegantly robed members of the Wizengamot filed out, silent and serious, taking their seats behind richly carved tables. There were noticeable gaps in their ranks - he saw that those members killed in the war had not yet been replaced, possibly as an unspoken statement as to why they were assembled here today.

From the other door, he saw four Aurors array themselves around the tall figure of his father; they marched slowly into the center of the room and stopped below the judges. His private attorneys followed. Draco felt as if everyone in the room could hear his heartbeat, so affected was he at his first sight in months of his father. But the audience's attention was firmly fixed on Lucius, and they reacted with various hisses and low rumbles, until a louder voice was heard.

"Murdering Death Eater scum."

That lone voice was loudly echoed by another, then another, until shouts rang out all around. His father, frozen in place between his guards, didn't show any signs of hearing them.

"Silence," came a loud command from the most conspicuous wizard, obviously the new head of the Wizengamot. Draco dug through his memory for the name - Eurybiades Tabernash. Draco remembered him from a few Ministry debriefings he'd had, although he hadn't been aware of his position at the time.

Lucius was led to an isolated chair in the center of the room. As his father sat down, Draco watched strong leather straps wind themselves tightly around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the seat. He'd told himself he wasn't going to look at Lucius, but now he couldn't look at anything else. The last time he'd seen him was the morning of his own defection, and they'd never had an opportunity to say goodbye. Fate had made sure that they would never have that chance now.

One of the Wizengamot - a witch with a melodious voice - began reading the Ministry's charges against his father. The length of the scroll in her hand let him know that she would be reading for some time. The sheer volume of offenses was boggling. Some of them Draco had witnessed, some he'd only heard of, and some were new. Each offense alone was worthy of conviction and capital punishment.

His father didn't stand a chance.

The witch finally finished, and Tabernash addressed his father directly. "You are Lucius Malfoy?"

There was a long pause, intended to provoke, he was sure. "Yes."

"Do you have anything to say regarding the charges against you?"

No answer. His father's solicitor, Lysander Redmund, stood up from where he was seated a little behind Lucius, and spoke. "Mr. Malfoy does not wish to testify on his own behalf."

"Very well," Tabernash said, with ill-concealed relief. His refusal made the trial that much easier, although probably not a lot briefer.

A tiny wizard came forward to pull back the drape from a nearby table. Draco recognized the contents - bottle after bottle of Veritaserum, one tiny dose for each witness. It promised to be a long day.

The Ministry had chosen to start with testimony from what few survivors Lucius had left behind, intermixed with the loved ones of those who'd not been so lucky. The witnesses had apparently been picked as the more articulate representatives, but even then, after several hours, the words began to have a horrific sameness to them.

"Before we could get down, he aimed a killing curse at my husband and I saw the green light..."

"...and then he pointed his wand at me and I heard him say, 'Crucio'..."

"...he shouted, 'Incendio', and the whole room went up in flames, and I barely got out alive..."

"...after he murdered all ten of them in their sleep..."

"...then he tortured me for what seemed like hours, and then he was..."

"...smiling the whole time, like he enjoyed it..."

"...there was blood everywhere..."

"..and they were just children, but he..."

The only other sound was the opening and closing of the courtroom door after one onlooker after another discovered that the images were far too graphic for their stomachs and chose a discreet departure.

Potter was the next witness, to the unspoken delight of the crowd. Under Veritaserum, he dispassionately recounted Lucius' role in the resurrection of Voldemort and his activities at the Ministry when Sirius Black was killed, two accounts that Draco had never heard from the Order's perspective. Potter had grown more articulate over the past few years, and his chilling testimony had the audience on the edges of their seats. After nearly an hour of spellbinding narration, he was dismissed, but Draco reckoned that the Daily Prophet would be retelling his hair-raising words for weeks to come.

"The Ministry invites Severus Snape to give his testimony."

For the first time that day, Lucius reacted to a witness, giving Severus a look of unrelieved disgust and pronouncing him, "Blood traitor." Severus didn't react, didn't even look at his father. He downed his Veritaserum wordlessly.

"What was your assignment for the Order of the Phoenix?" Tabernash asked him.

"I was an embedded spy among the Death Eaters. I was fortunate to remain undetected until the final battle."

"Was the Order aware of your actions on its behalf?"

"Yes, of course. I reported to them on Death Eater activities as frequently as I could."

"And you helped set up the trap that led to the final battle between Harry Potter and Voldemort?"

"I played a part, yes."

"And for your service to the Ministry you were awarded the Order of Merlin, correct?"

"Yes."

Tabernash led him through some of the earlier testimony, looking for and usually finding confirmation of the offenses charged against Lucius. Draco's attention began to wander, until he heard Tabernash ask, "Were you aware of other spies among the Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"The first was Lucius Malfoy's son, Draco."

His heart beat faster, and he wished he'd been paying closer attention. What had led the Wizengamot to ask about other Order spies? He'd hoped - in vain, it would seem - that anything related to his service wouldn't be mentioned. Heads turned his way.

"When did Draco Malfoy begin working for the Order?"

"He came to me while he was still my student at Hogwarts. He was barely sixteen at the time. I worked with him and trained him for several years before his father called him to become a Death Eater, just before the war broke out."

Draco was conscious of the growing scrutiny he was under from the row of surprised Gryffindors, but he refused to turn his head to let them catch his eye.

"Draco was able to remain with the Death Eaters for about a year," Severus added. "We served together at Death Eater headquarters."

"Why did he leave?"

"It was a decision I asked him to make. Two members of the Order were captured, and one of them had information that would have led to the capture of Harry Potter. Draco helped them escape before they could be questioned, which exposed him as an Order spy. For his work against the Death Eaters, the Ministry awarded him an Order of Merlin."

Severus was being remarkably long-winded with his answers, counter to their earlier training under Veritaserum. Apparently, he didn't think Potter's public acknowledgment good enough to hammer home the idea that Draco wasn't Lucius. Not that his testimony was of much use - Severus' reputation was only marginally better than Draco's.

Meanwhile, Dean Thomas was burning a hole in him with the intensity of his stare, but Draco refused to turn his head to look at him.

"Were there others with the Death Eaters who were working for the Order?'

"One other. Gregory Goyle."

It was Draco's turn to be surprised - hadn't Gregory been a Death Eater all along?

Apparently not. "Goyle came to see me after Draco left. He'd worked out that Draco had been working for the Order and was determined to replace him as best he could."

"Where is he now?"

"He's dead. He had no training at deception and wasn't very good at it. He was discovered not long before the final battle. His father killed him."

Draco felt an irrepressible surge of anger well up inside him, and it took all of his self-control to remain impassive. His fists clenched in his lap and he felt the bite of his nails cutting into his palms. His violent emotion should be directed at the Death Eaters - he knew that - but instead it spilled out over everyone else - anger at Severus for not telling him about Gregory before today, anger at Dumbledore for not forcing Gregory to remain at Hogwarts, and especially undiminished anger at himself for his inability to protect his long-time friend, the boy who only wanted to be like Draco, and who paid for his loyalty with death at his own father's hands.

Just at that moment, Lucius turned his head and stared directly at him with a calculating, brutal smile. He was grateful at that instant that his wand had been taken away, because he could have killed him in a heartbeat where he sat with not a trace of remorse.

But he would have to be content to let the Ministry do it for him - that is, if they were feeling merciful. Otherwise, they would transport him to Azkaban and let the dementors have him.

The Wizengamot took only five minutes to return their verdict against the notorious Death Eater Lucius Malfoy. They were not in a merciful mood. His father was condemned to live out the rest of his hopefully short days as an empty shell, stripped of his despicable soul. Kissed.

Draco took advantage of the resulting celebration to make a dash for the door, reclaim his wand, and escape the Ministry three steps ahead of the reporters, the crowds, and Harry Potter, who was inexplicably trying to catch up with him.

He didn't know why he bypassed the Floo network, instead allowing his mad dash to carry him through the Ministry door and into the street. He'd managed to lose Potter, but, knowing his tenacious nature, probably not for long. He felt the need to keep moving - anything to shake off the hours of inactivity and the shock of the verdict.

The sight of a messenger owl pursuing him as he strode away brought him up short. It was exceedingly rare for an owl to go in search of its intended recipient on a public street, and he reached for the message with genuine trepidation.

We will not let your treachery pass unpunished. Narcissa and Lucius will not be parted long.

Numbness overcame him. For countless moments, he could only stand and stare at nothing, ignorant of the curious stares from passers by.

Potter had caught up to him at some point - had he just arrived or had he been standing here a long time, his eyes sympathetic and curious behind his ridiculous glasses? Wordlessly, he handed the note to him and Apparated away, back to the Manor where he knew without question that he would be too late.

Sully - not dead but only stunned, he quickly ascertained - was sprawled in the hallway outside his mother's room, and he left her there for the moment.

Throwing the door open, he managed to take a few steps into the room before his strength left him.

Narcissa was dead, that much was clear.

It was a message carried out in unmistakable Death Eater style. Her murder had been planned to cause the least amount of suffering to the victim - he could tell she'd died instantly, and for that he was thankful - and the most amount of anguish to the one who found her.

Utterly predictable. They hadn't intended to punish Narcissa, of course. They undoubtedly had no particular animosity towards her; they'd probably even enjoyed her hospitality here at one time or another during social Death Eater evenings. She was merely a convenient tool, a talent she'd perfected during her marriage to Lucius; a blank slate in the eyes of her murderers on which they could inscribe their gruesome message to him.

He staggered into the bathroom and vomited into the sink.

Every living member of the Order who'd known Draco, no matter how distantly - and some he'd never even met - attended his mother's funeral. He supposed he had Severus to thank for that deliberate and public show of support, but he wasn't about to mention it. Severus would not want him to.

Chapter 4

Sharing the same cold cell, betrayer and betrayed,
an island with two frightened castaways.
Warsaw 1943 (I Never Betrayed The Revolution) - Johnny Clegg

. . . . . . . .

Dean had found the perfect flat. Well, maybe perfect was too generous to describe it, but the room he planned to turn into a studio - that was perfect.

It was tucked away in a nondescript neighborhood of Muggle London. Not that Dean had anything against Diagon Alley, but the wizarding district in London was too small to accommodate everyone who wanted to live there. And rent was a little cheaper on the wrong side of the Cauldron, although it was still going to make a dent in his tiny savings. Most of his friends also lived around Greater London and blended in - going native, they called it.

Plus, he hoped to make his mark on the London Muggle art scene, and a non-magical address was pretty much a requirement.

He'd enlisted Seamus to help him move. Not that they planned to do much heavy lifting - mostly he needed Seamus to keep a sharp eye out while Dean secretly levitated his furniture and boxes into the new flat.

"Think I can risk an Impervio?" he asked Seamus, as they both peered out into the wet street from the back of a borrowed lorry. "I'd hate for my stuff to get soaked. Why the hell did it have to rain today of all days?"

Seamus nodded. "Probably safe. I doubt anyone will watch us between here and the door. In case we have a mind to ask them to lend a hand."

Dean nodded and cast the waterproofing spell on the lorry's contents. "Sorry we can't do it to ourselves. That would look odd - two dry blokes in a downpour."

They didn't carry so much as guide the boxes across the pavement and into the building. Several of his new neighbors were scuttling through the halls, so they had to at least appear to be moving the Muggle way. But they'd gotten good at faking a move-in over the past few years - Dean tried to count between them how many times they'd moved since the war. Seven or eight, he thought, the last one when Seamus broke down his fiancee's resistance and moved in with her. Seamus had to promise a firm wedding date for that, and the extensive planning for the big day was sending him into fits.

"Did Lydia settle on the invitations yet?" he asked politely.

"After three trips to the engravers, yes, finally," he heard Seamus say from behind the cushions he was carrying. "Take my advice, Dean, and elope if you can."

"Why don't you, then?"

Seamus laughed. "I picked the wrong family to marry into. Lydia's mum would kill us if we didn't get married in the church."

"Oh, and like she won't kill you if she ever finds out you're living together."

Seamus make a quick anti-hex sign with his hands, allowing the cushions to hover in mid-air. "Don't even say that out loud. If she ever found out, I'd be begging for a merciful death."

Dean nudged him on from where he was blocking the door into his new flat. "So why risk it?"

"Because she's worth it, mate." He stopped in mid-stride. "Shit, Dean, could this place be any smaller? Where to?"

"Bedroom. There."

Seamus dropped his cushions unceremoniously. "So what happened to that lass you were seeing? Debby? Dana?"

Dean rolled his eyes. He never saw Seamus without being grilled about his love life. "Daria. Haven't seen her in a while."

"You heart-breaker. You go through more women than anyone I've ever met. So what was wrong with this one, then?"

"Nothing."

Seamus frowned at him, and Dean prepared himself for their peculiar, shorthand form of twenty questions. "Was she fit?"

"Yes."

"Muggle, then?" Meaning, does she know about the war?

"No. American, though." She knows, but she wasn't a part of it.

"Dean, when will you learn? See, that's why me and Lydia are so suited. We can talk about things that happened to us. On our first date, we were on about where we were during the last battle. Great way to break the ice, mate."

Just like that, the relaxed camaraderie Dean had struggled to project was gone, leaving him with the cold guilt he always felt around his best friend. Seamus could be offhand about what happened to him during the war, because his worst memory had been wiped clean. If he really knew what had happened, it was a sure bet he wouldn't be here with Dean.

For the thousandth time, he regretted his partial memories of the night they were captured. He never knew which was worse - the things he remembered, or the things he imagined had been stripped away. He replayed the scene nightly, hearing himself utter the words that condemned Seamus to death with him. Following that, he would agonize over his hidden crimes, the ones that he didn't know - what else must he have done to betray his best friend?

And how had they escaped?

Seamus was still nattering on about girls. "...find someone you have something in common with."

"You know, I really don't want to discuss this," he said, more harshly than he'd intended.

The hurt in Seamus' eyes let him know he'd gone too far, but it was too late to make amends. "You know, Dean, we used to be able to talk about anything. Best friends, remember?"

Dean made an effort to ignore the great distance that had sprung up between them. "Sorry." And he was. He would be sorry forever, but he couldn't even begin to tell Seamus why.

"S'okay," Seamus answered, but he sounded unusually quiet.

"Ready for another load?"

"Yeah."

Dean waited for Seamus' usual witticism, some sharp wisecrack or funny observation that would ease the tension between them. It never came.

Two dozen other stupid reasons why we should suffer for this,
Don't bother trying to explain them,
just hold my hand while I come to a decision on it.
Save It For Later - English Beat

. . . . . . . .

With dismay, Draco cursed the business that brought him to Diagon Alley today of all days - the streets were thronged with children, teenagers, and families on their annual shopping excursion in anticipation of the coming Hogwarts school year. He tried to suppress the sharp memories of his own excited trips here, the excitement he had felt at the smell of new textbooks from Flourish and Blotts, the little treats from the sweet shop his mother would buy for him, the lush, rich feel of new robes tailored just for him.

And his own appearance today did not go unremarked. Sharp stares from older students, open-mouthed gapes from the younger ones, quick hands snatching at children to draw them closer and away from this sinister figure in their midst. He didn't need to read the Daily Prophet to recognize what was going through the minds of the wizarding hoi polloi - Draco Malfoy was someone whose path you did not want to cross.

In irritation, he almost decided to Apparate back to the Manor to await a better day, but his business was too urgent. Instead, he picked up his steady pace, allowing the crowds to scatter before him as though they were peasants removing themselves from the formidable presence of their vassal lord. He was careful not to meet their eyes.

His first destination was Gringotts. The door to the eminent goblin financial institution opened invisibly at his approach before his hand could even reach for the door. There he was greeted and bustled through the public foyer into a richly appointed room, where the Malfoy family banker, Royashk, welcomed him with respect.

Respect that only a great deal of money could produce.

He relaxed slightly. To be honest, he wasn't certain of his financial status at this point. He was fairly sure that the Black accounts were freely available to him as his mother's undeniable heir. But the Malfoy millions were entirely another matter - his standing was still legally unresolved.

Royashk was as cautious and circumspect about the Malfoy fortune as he was.

"Mr. Malfoy. We have discussed the matter you've enquired about, and are unable to come to a definite conclusion. The wizard attorneys have come nowhere close to a resolution of this matter as of yet."

Of course not - Lucius was still legally alive. He'd expected problems to come out of it. He matched the formality of his banker's language in his response.

"I am on my way to see my solicitor after our business is concluded."

"Of course," the goblin answered. He was running a smooth, deliberate forefinger over the numerous rings he wore. Draco watched him carefully, knowing that he was in the presence of an extremely calculating mind.

Royashk continued. "You have full access to the Black accounts for your immediate use. Therefore, unless circumstances arise that necessitate you gaining additional funds, we at Gringotts prefer to hold the Malfoy accounts in restriction at this time. If you find yourself in need of these accounts, however, please contact me and we may reconsider this position."

Draco acknowledged this statement with a nod. Gringotts was playing him very carefully - they couldn't afford to alienate him if, as he expected, he came into his inheritance. On the other hand, they had to consider the Ministry, which already had sent their first shot across the bow over his father's money. Not surprisingly, revenge-bent wizards at the Ministry had no intention of stopping with the dementor's kiss. Not with such a tempting target as the Malfoy estate in their greedy sights.

He got through the tedious task of transferring the Black accounts to his name and soon found himself back on the sun-drenched street outside Gringotts. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He'd been more ill at ease than he'd realized during his visit, and the fresh air and warm sun lightened his mood. Unexpectedly, he noticed a bold girl, maybe a seventh-year, give him a knowing and deliberate eye. Ah, the lure of the bad boy, he thought, and suppressed a smile. Sorry, darling, you're not really my type, he reflected with amusement, but do you have an older brother somewhere?

He headed up the street to Redmund, Hall, and Strongfellows. As he passed the latest model brooms lovingly arranged in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, he couldn't resist a long, slow look. Merlin, was it only a few short years ago he'd stood here with his nose pressed up against the window like these students did today? Suddenly, he felt old far beyond his age.

Lysander Redmund, the senior partner, seemed to have already mustered the legal troops for pitched battle. Draco didn't recognize the other two wizards in their conference, introduced to him as Fontinelle Green and William Wolcott.

"The Ministry owled to us this morning their official intent to pursue the forfeiture of the Malfoy estate," Redmund began.

Even though his solicitor had warned him of this earlier, it still hurt to hear it. "Bastards," he muttered, and could have said much, much more, but why waste words? For once, the wizards in this room were all battling on his side.

Fontinelle Green, a small, bob-haired woman of considerable age - and, he hoped, experience - spoke up. "The legal status of the victims of the dementor's kiss is still ambiguous, Mr. Malfoy. Specifically in your case, the issue remains: are you able to inherit at this point?"

He could tell she was walking a fine line between presenting the facts and sparing his feelings, and he was unexpectedly moved by her finesse. What she was driving at, in truth, was the blunt question: is Lucius Malfoy alive or, for all practical and legal purposes, dead?"

She continued. "The fact is, the Ministry's, ah, relationship with the dementors is so new as to create a legal vacuum. I believe you got a taste of this after your father's trial."

Oh, yes. A bitter taste. In their rush to prosecute former Death Eaters and administer this new but not quite deadly form of punishment - and wasn't the notion of being kissed into oblivion poetic? - the Ministry had created more than one problem for itself. In the first place, these unfortunate walking shells had to be warehoused somewhere. But after several newsworthy and distressing reunions, families of the victims were strictly forbidden to even see them again. However, those who were kissed continued to require the basic necessities of life - food, shelter, maintenance - and letting them die untended, starving to death, was viewed as too barbaric for the so-called side of Light. Definitely bad PR. So the Ministry shunted them off to an institution somewhere near Bath, in a little wizarding town called Wellow - out of sight and out of mind.

Draco forcibly returned his attention to Wolcott, who was itemizing exactly what the Ministry was after. "The Gringotts accounts, of course. The properties in Sussex and abroad, the mansion flat in London, the warehouses in Hogsmeade. The Manor."

He froze as he recognized his mistake. Up until this point, he'd allowed himself to concentrate on the Gringotts's accounts. Why had he blindly overlooked the likelihood that they would go after the Manor? Was it wishful thinking or just stupidity? Naturally, that would be the first thing they'd attack - the visible symbol of the formerly powerful Malfoy family.

Redmund apparently noticed his shocked response, because he was quick to interject, "Of course what the Ministry wants and what it will get are two entirely different things. We do not intend to allow the Ministry to succeed. Even though they are careful to point out that they are proceeding against Lucius and not against you, the fact remains that only you are harmed by their actions. Forgive me for saying this, but your father is beyond further punishment. He alone was the Death Eater, whereas you are a decorated veteran of the Order and fought against your father. We propose to remind them of this in as many venues as possible. Sometimes, public opinion is persuasive in swaying the Ministry."

He thought about the unfriendly faces he'd seen outside on the street, and wished his team the best of luck. The hard reality of it was that no one likes a traitor, even when the traitor is on your side. Any thanks he'd ever had from the official wizarding world, he was sure, was mere lip service.

Fontinelle Green withdrew a parchment from the imposing pile in front of her. "I've made an initial list of Order members who know of your service to them and consequently to the Ministry. Our plan is to ask them for public support to preserve your inheritance from unreasonable and unpatriotic seizure."

He looked at her with interest. Whose names had she managed to come up with?

She began to read. "Severus Snape. Dean Thomas. Seamus Finnigan. Hermione Granger. Ronald Weasley." Draco suppressed a snort at that name - hell would definitely freeze over before Weasley would agree to testify on his behalf. She paused, looked at him with no expression, then said, "Harry Potter."

Potter? He opened his mouth to object, but Redmund cut him off.

"We haven't got room for niceties, Mr. Malfoy. The positive testimony of Harry Potter would be an enormous benefit to your case."

If only it were positive, he thought sardonically. Could he let himself believe that Potter had buried their years of animosity because of events during the War, when they'd worked for the same outcome? Was Potter even aware of the things he'd done for the Order during that time? Yes, Potter had publically acknowledged him at Lucius' trial, and had expressed some words of sorrow at his mother's funeral that seemed sincere. But what did it come down to? Would Potter help him now? Or would he be convinced that anything the Ministry could do against Lucius was justified?

And did Draco have the guts to ask him for this?

The others in the room were looking at him with expectation. He made up his mind, as he knew he would, as he knew he had to. "Do whatever you need to do. I don't care about the money. Or any of the rest. It's just - I can't give up the Manor. I-" He couldn't finish.

That seemed to be taken as marching orders, because Redmund and the others gathered their papers together and stood up.

"We'll be informing you of our progress by daily owls, Mr. Malfoy. Let us know of any other information you think we need to fight this."

Draco Malfoy was back at war.

Beneath the trees we slumbered; and in the wings of Azrael, slowly, we faded to black.
Scarlet Seraph

. . . . . . . .

Draco slowly leafed through the morning's missive from his solicitors as he crossed his marbled foyer on his way to the study. At the onset of their by-now-substantial correspondence he'd been irritated and questioned just why his lawyers plagued him with all these endless details - wasn't that why he paid them, and generously, at that? As weeks passed and he viewed how his case was being constructed argument by argument, he'd grown at first curious and then fully absorbed into their craftsmanship at clarifying his position, laying out his strong and weak arguments. Sometimes he even thought he could identify a glimmer of the possible outcome. If it hadn't mattered so very much, he could easily have become fascinated by the carefully constructed positions, the cerebral arguments, the ideas logically presented so that this must necessary follow that, leading to satisfactory judgment.

Nothing was certain. There remained a very real possibility that he still would lose everything to the Ministry - they were stubbornly digging in for a long fight. However, contrary to his Slytherin tendencies, and because it did matter so very much, he still preferred to hope.

He was distracted from his passage by a bright expanse of sunlight illuminating the third tread of the grand staircase. He was familiar enough with the manor to appreciate that this solar intrusion only occurred at this particular time of year. Sunlight as recurrent and predictable as the seasons, stretching back in time to when the manor was first built, and reaching into the future until after he would no longer be there to appreciate it. He paused, then moved to the warmly lit spot and sat down, feeling the rays quickly warm his black trousers and shirt.

Instantly, he was whisked back to a long-ago moment - the first time he remembered meeting Gregory Goyle.

His first image of Gregory was of a shy boy peering from behind his mountain of a father. Goyle Sr. was bellowing his greetings to Lucius and stamping off the trace amounts of ash he'd tromped in from the fireplace. Draco could only stare - he'd not met many other children except Pansy Parkinson, who was his best friend - and Gregory had shifted nervously under that direct scrutiny. He remembered enjoying the feeling of power that Gregory's discomfort had given him. Watching them closely, Lucius had taken it upon himself to make their initial introduction. Then the two men had rapidly headed off to the study, wordlessly making clear that the two boys were to entertain themselves elsewhere.

He took Gregory's too-small sleeve and tugged at him insistently, saying only "Come on, you." He wasn't surprised - maybe he should have been - when Gregory readily trotted beside him, as if the transition between following his father's directives and Draco's was a natural and inborn talent. Draco was heading for one of the ground level rooms - even then he'd jealously guarded the sanctity of his bedroom from strangers - when he noticed the sunlight on the staircase and diverted them. Gregory, caught by his unexpected change in course, nearly stumbled, but Draco felt him recover his balance while at the same time trying to hide his momentary awkwardness. As though pleasing Draco's whims were second nature. As though Draco's desires superceded his own.

He liked this new boy already.

He settled himself on the third step, feeling the sun quickly warming his pale skin, even more quickly heating his black clothing. Gregory hesitated, then plopped down beside him, not too close, intentionally careful not to block any sunlight from reaching Draco. If he turned his head slightly, he could see Gregory watching him, his mouth slightly open, his hands twisting his sleeve uncertainly. Draco slitted his eyes against the sun, feeling the heat of the rays from the window, feeling the gaze of the boy at his side, feeling the tentative bond between them. He was happy knowing that he might now have a male friend, just as his father did. The idea was remarkably comforting. He closed his eyes.

The boy next to him coughed, stuttered, then finally blurted out, "Are you an angel?"

He turned, surprised. "What?"

"Are you an angel?" Gregory repeated, a little less forcefully, as if he'd realized he had said something unusual, perhaps something that may unwittingly have offended.

He didn't have any idea of how to answer, so he remained silent, eyes wide at the unexpected question. To be honest, he didn't really know what an angel was. He recalled one picture he'd seen of a fair creature in white, with enormous wings, surrounded by shining rays of light. But that angel had been a woman, not a small, grey-eyed boy resting on a stone stair in his everyday robes.

Gregory squirmed as if he knew he'd said something unsettling, but continued. "You're so pretty. You're shining. I've seen angels before, and they look just like you. Shining."

"Where?" Gregory looked as if he couldn't connect that question to what he'd just said, so he tried again. "Where have you seen angels?"

"Oh. We have a window, at our house, a colored window. You know, the kind that makes a picture. And there are angels in it."

"Angels are girls."

"Ours are girls and boys. Boys can be angels."

"With wings?" He'd already forgotten that Gregory wasn't as quick as he was, so he elaborated. "Do the angels in your window have wings?"

"Yes. Wings. Yes."

"Well, I don't have wings."

"No, Draco." He could see the other boy check to be sure. "Not yet."

Did Gregory expect him to grow wings, then? He grew more excited as he thought about it. He might enjoy - no, he would definitely enjoy - a pair of strong wings. He knew that dragons had wings - he'd had countless pictures of dragons bestowed on him, and he'd often imagined himself, like his namesake, taking to the skies at will and soaring freely as far as he wanted. His parents had never told him he was going to grow wings, but then, he knew that his parents kept many secrets from him. Maybe this was another one.

But if it was a secret, he shouldn't tell Gregory. Not right away. Maybe when they were best friends, then he could. He supposed wings like that would be hard to hide, anyway.

Gregory was staring at him as if he expected him to grow wings right then, to push them out from some secret place and unfurl them as he watched. He looked as if he wanted to touch him, but Draco already knew that he wouldn't dare, that he had already intuitively registered his boundaries.

Gregory made one last attempt at the conversation. "My father told me, before he would let me come, that I have to be very careful around you. He said that you are a special boy."

Oh. He'd heard that himself, from his own father, from his mother, from other Malfoys. He didn't think that everyone else knew it, too, and he felt suddenly warm with the recognition.

Eventually, Draco reluctantly gave up the idea that he was somehow an incognito angel. But for the entire time he knew Gregory, he doubted that the other boy had ever done so. Not from that day until the day he was killed. Gregory had always treated him as if he were some unearthly creature, someone from beyond their known world, even beyond wizard magic. He never understood it, could never seem to disabuse him of it, took advantage of it at times, but respected it anyway. It seemed to give Gregory comfort, that his best friend was an angel, even if no one else recognized it. Gregory knew it - a simple belief for a simple boy - and that was enough.

Enough to follow his friend, his angel, into the Dark Lord's service. And later, into the Order's service. Because that's where his angel had guided him.

Where Draco left him behind. He hadn't even tried to bring him out - he'd left him behind to be killed. He couldn't even risk coming back to see him properly buried, and oh, how he regretted that.

In the end, he thought bitterly, Gregory had been uncannily right. He pushed himself up from the step and down the staircase, shivering at the sudden chill as he moved out of the warmth of the sunlight. He had been Gregory's angel all along. The fucking Angel of Death.

Am I the witness or am I the crime,
A victim of history or just a sign of the times?
Woman Be My Country - Johnny Clegg

. . . . . . . .

Dean knew that things had finally come to a head. For months he'd tried to deal with the night he betrayed Seamus, but every time they met, he was again reduced to uncomfortable silence. Seamus was beginning to notice that something was seriously wrong between them, and Dean knew he suspected it had to do with their capture and inexplicable escape. And without knowing what had happened, Dean couldn't talk about it or reassure him in the least.

But it ate away at him.

He knew that Draco Malfoy held the key. He avoided thinking of Malfoy, even though he felt that one day, he'd be unable to ignore him any longer and would have to seek him out, if only to confirm his worst fears.

He'd betrayed Seamus, his best friend, and Seamus didn't remember any of it. A lesser man would have thanked his lucky stars and pretended that everything was fine. But that wasn't Dean.

He was haunted by nightmares. His days were filled with regret. He couldn't bear to carry his own guilt anymore, to accept the kind of person he really was. That unblemished image of himself before the war - the myth that he was worthy of belonging to Gryffindor - had been a pretense, untested and unchallenged. Because when he'd finally faced his worst fears, he didn't have enough moral courage to hold out. To save his own skin, he cowardly threw away the one person he should have protected. He was no better than a Death Eater himself.

He withdrew from friends, threw himself into his drawing, tried to forget even more than he knew had been erased. To no avail.

So here he was, turning up his collar against a stiff breeze on a cold March morning in Wiltshire, Apparating to the gates of Malfoy Manor after his tentative owl request had been followed by a taciturn invitation.

The black iron gates opened to him and he trudged up the gravel lane. Morning birds heralded his arrival as though he were some noteworthy celebrity. Reaching the door, he lifted the ornate knocker and let it fall with a hollow thud.

Instantly, the door opened and he was immediately received by a deferential house-elf.

"Mr. Thomas,' the voice squeaked. "You is welcome here, sir. Please come."

He shrugged out of his coat, which was quickly dispatched, and followed the elf into a study. Malfoy was already there; the slight figure leaned forward to shake his hand and asked, "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger, perhaps?"

"Tea is fine." As Malfoy gave instructions to the house-elf, Dean allowed himself to look around the room. He'd always imagined his schoolmate living in luxury, and he wasn't disappointed. But he had limited experience with wealth and wasn't prepared for the awe-inspiring scale of it. Everything he'd seen so far was elegant and beautiful, to an intimidating degree. The artist in him appreciated it; the boy from East London felt awkward and unnerved.

After social niceties were handled, Dean got to the point.

"Malfoy," he began in a serious tone that he'd practiced before his arrival. "I have a great favor to ask you."

Malfoy looked intrigued; his eyebrows went up, signaling him to continue.

"I want - that is, I am asking you to end the memory charm you put on me."

Malfoy feigned innocence, as Dean suspected he might. He wouldn't be dissuaded. Not now. After all this time, he didn't have the stomach for Malfoy's polished pretense.

"I remember enough," he continued. "Enough to know that you helped us escape. Snape said as much at your father's trial." Not seeing any denial of his account, he plunged on. "I know I betrayed Seamus that night. I know that. I accept that. But I need to know what happened afterwards." He was pleading now, his words low and intense. "I can't live with myself anymore without knowing it. Can you understand that?"

"Why are you so sure I had anything to do with the memory charm?" The patrician voice was cool and distant.

"I know. Seamus and I both know. Seamus doesn't remember anything except what little we pieced together. But I do. I do."

He could see Malfoy's resistance crumbling, but he remained wordless.

"The war is over. Does it really matter now?" He struggled to keep his voice from becoming too emotional. "I ...I really need to know. Malfoy. Please." He had said all he could. "Please."

"I understand."

"No, I don't think you can understand. About betrayal, I mean. How could you? You never-"

The polite veneer was gone in an instant, replaced with anger and outrage. "How dare you tell me what I do or do not understand? Do you think you're somehow special, Thomas? That no one else's failings can ever come close to matching yours?"

Flustered, he managed to stammer, "No. I didn't mean that."

Malfoy was looking at him coldly. "How can you say that to me, of all people? It's not as though you don't know what I was. What I did. How clean do you imagine my hands are?"

Belatedly, he realized how offensive his words had seemed. "I'm sorry. I didn't think before I said that."

His apology seemed to appease Malfoy somewhat. "Thomas, we are all of us just one step from betraying everyone near and dear. We like to think we're noble, but until something happens to challenge that illusion, we never see our own ugliness. Most people never have that chance."

"Tell me" he said quietly.

"Why should I?"

He took a steadying breath. "Because I was wrong. You do understand me."

Malfoy looked at him without saying anything for a long time, then he let out a short breath. "There's no reason not to tell you, I suppose. You remember Gregory Goyle?"

Dean nodded. Goyle had been one of his interrogators that night.

"Gregory was my best friend, for years, even before Hogwarts. Oh, I know you Gryffindors thought he was just one of my hired thugs at school. But everyone always sold Gregory short. He wasn't the best student at Hogwarts, or the brightest. But I'd have to say he was the most loyal." Malfoy was speaking to the far corner of the room, not looking at Dean but focused somewhere else.

"I never really knew Goyle, except to see him in class. I knew he hung around with you," Dean admitted.

"He had only a few friends, but I was one of them. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do for me. And when I joined the Death Eaters, he followed me there. Not for any great loyalty to the Dark Lord or support for the cause. Not at all. Gregory wasn't that way - he didn't have a lot of use for abstract ideals."

Dean had never seen Malfoy fidget before, but now he was nervously tracing his fingers around the edges of his tea cup.

"Gregory never knew anything about me being a spy for the Order, and I could never risk my neck to tell him. I was too busy saving my own skin. I didn't even try to talk to him about what he might have wanted. When I defected, I had to leave him behind."

"But he chose to be there-" he began, but he was curtly interrupted.

"No, he didn't choose to be there. He chose to be with me, and I abandoned him. There's a difference." Malfoy's face was stony. "But it gets worse. After I left, Gregory pieced together some of the things I had done against the Death Eaters. He finally took what he knew to Severus, who decided to trust him. Gregory worked against the Death Eaters from then on. But I never knew."

Now Dean understood why Malfoy had looked so shocked at Lucius' trial, after Snape had said that Goyle had been a spy. "I never would have suspected him."

"Well, too bad you weren't a Death Eater, then. Because eventually they caught on to him. He never had the training I did, and he wasn't clever. Severus managed to get wind of the rumors just in time. Things were shaky because I left anyway - Severus just squeaked out of being blamed for that whole fiasco. But he deflected the paranoia over my defection to someone more ... deserving."

"He was lucky."

"No, he was opportunistic. He convinced everyone that my father was more at fault, and he was the one who ended up under Cruciatus. How's that for ironic justice?"

Dean didn't answer. There wasn't anything he could say.

"By that point, Gregory was lost no matter what anyone did. And Severus couldn't afford to have two Order spies uncovered in his circle. So he did the only thing he could do in the circumstances - he denounced him first."

"So Snape had to betray him. It wasn't you."

Malfoy frowned and shook his head. "Gregory was only there because of me. He became a spy for the Order because of me. If not for me, his mother would have shipped him off to Durmstrang before seventh year with Vincent Crabbe, and he'd have been out of the whole mess. Severus betrayed him, but I did it first."

Dean wanted to reassure him; he'd only done what he had to do. But his own situation told him that answers were never that easy. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. For Gregory. But he wasn't the only one I had to betray. I'd done a lot worse before then." He stood up. "Let me show you."

Dean followed Malfoy out of the study. Neither man spoke as the traversed the hall, their footsteps echoing loudly around them. Malfoy stopped short before a closed door, uttering something quietly to unlock it. They continued inside.

He found himself in a large, windowless ballroom of some kind, and from appearances, this room was never used. Darkness radiated from every corner; the only light came from Malfoy's extended wand.

"Lumos," he heard, and sconces lit up along each wall, illuminating the heavy furniture and gloomy draperies.

From the center of the room, he could see a gallery of wizard portraits - Malfoys as far as the eye could see. The figures were apparently unused to being disturbed, and there was a distant muttering at first as they were roused from their slumber. The words were at first indistinct, then he began to distinguish some of what they were saying. The noise grew louder.

"How dare you show your face to us," he heard. "Blood traitor."

"You aren't worthy to present yourself to us. Be gone from this house."

"Treacherous filth."

"Murderer. You as good as killed your father. Your mother died paying for your betrayal."

"You are unworthy of the name Malfoy."

"We disown you."

"Betrayer."

"Betrayer."

Dean stood in silent shock as the noise grew so loud around them that he was tempted to cover his ears. Each of Malfoy's ancestors rained down vitriol upon their lone living descendent. For his part, Malfoy stood impassively, head held up, apparently unaffected, but Dean knew that was pretense - how could he bear to listen to that naked hatred without feeling it in every fiber? Even Dean, who knew none of these witches and wizards, sensed the ugly, raw emotion flooding everything. Suddenly, it was too much.

He tugged at Malfoy. "Come on. Let's go." For a moment, he felt Malfoy resist his pull, then to his relief Malfoy relented, and they headed out of the room. Just before the door, they paused in front of a large portrait - Dean recognized Lucius and Narcissa. The couple were spitting out the same epithet as the rest of their compatriots - betrayer, betrayer, betrayer - and Dean watched Malfoy nod slightly and close his eyes. Then, thankfully, finally, they were back in the hall. Malfoy shut the door behind them with a soft click, cutting off the voices in mid-rant.

Dean was still too stunned to speak.

Malfoy turned to him with a blank expression. "So you see, if I ever have any doubts about who I am or what I've done, I always have a ready reminder."

He couldn't believe Malfoy willingly listened to that poison. "That's not who you are. They don't know the truth - how could they know?"

"They know I betrayed Lucius. That's a fact, Thomas - I did. I thought I had to, but it doesn't change things. Not for them."

They'd returned to the study, where Dean gratefully collapsed back into his chair. "Can I ask you something?"

Malfoy looked at him with a distant smile. "It seems to be the afternoon for confessions. Go ahead."

"Why do you stay here? Why live here all alone? Doesn't it have too many bad memories? I mean, the Death Eater meetings, and your mother..." He didn't want to be insensitive by mentioning her murder in one of these rooms. "And that crowd back there...."

"Well, I don't visit them all that often, to tell you the truth."

"So why do you stay here at all?"

Malfoy's serious look had an unusual air of perplexity. "Why wouldn't I stay here? It's my home."

"Yes, but there must be other places you could live. This can't be the only property you own."

"No, of course it's not. There's a flat in Belgravia and a cottage in Marseilles. A manor outside of Prague. A dacha in St. Petersburg, I think. A yurt in Mongolia."

"You're joking."

"Well, yes, actually. But only about the yurt." Malfoy gave him a teasing smirk. "What did you think it meant to be terribly rich? All the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans I want and a servant dedicated solely to picking out all the bad ones for me?"

Dean laughed. "I reckon I never thought about it at all. Being that it's not something I have to deal with myself."

"More's the pity, then. Well, let me tell you, corruption is a very lucrative pursuit. And the Malfoys have been at it for generations." He frowned slightly. "And then there were the Blacks...."

"Sirius' family?"

Malfoy nodded. "My mother's family as well. Didn't Potter ever tell you? Oh, well, I suppose he's ashamed of the connection. But come to mention it, if Sirius Black hadn't willed Grimmauld Place to Potter, I'd own that, too. Oh, well, I can't have everything, I suppose." His face grew more serious. "But Malfoy Manor is where I belong. It's where I grew up. I love it here."

"Do you?" Dean found it incomprehensible, but of course he hadn't been raised as part of the wizarding aristocracy. He had no burning affection for any of the countless places he'd called home. "To me, people always made it a home. The building, the rooms - none of that matters much."

"I know you think me shallow, Thomas, but I can't help but feel affection for this place - my heritage, my traditions, my memories - and yes, I actually do have some pleasant memories of the Manor." His stiff reply made Dean aware that he had offended his host with his remark, and he tried to make amends.

"I've never been in a more beautiful home, Malfoy. You know I grew up in a poor, segregated neighborhood - or maybe you didn't know. We didn't even have the Every Flavor Beans, let alone the servant. It's just different. I didn't mean to suggest it was bad."

Malfoy looked at him curiously. "Segregated? How did the Muggles know you were a wizard?"

He chuckled at Malfoy's confusion. "No, not like that. Of course they didn't know that. We lived in a neighborhood with other immigrants. A black neighborhood."

Malfoy didn't look any more enlightened. "A black neighborhood?"

"Yeah. I'm black. Didn't you notice?" He laughed nervously, then it suddenly struck him: "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

The other man shook his head.

Dean found himself in the strange position of explaining racism to someone he'd always thought was the most racist wizard he'd ever known. Malfoy absorbed his explanation wordlessly.

"So it's just like the pure-blood and Muggle thing that the DEs believed," he finished.

"But skin color? That's just odd. It has no bearing on what kind of a wizard you are."

"No. But being born pureblood or not doesn't, either, does it? Once you're a wizard, you're either talented at it or you aren't. The rest is just a circumstance of birth. Like being black."

"I don't know."

Dean looked at him sharply. "Well, from my point of view, I haven't noticed any difference between being hated for being Muggle-born or being hated for being black."

Malfoy nodded, apparently trying to take that on board, and they lapsed into a brief silence. After a moment, Dean returned to his original topic.

"We both agree that it's important not to bury the past. I think you can understand why I'm asking you to take off the memory charm."

He watched the last vestiges of resistance fade. "All right. I suppose I'm not surprised by your request. And you're right - it doesn't matter anymore. I did it to protect Severus, but the war's over. So they tell me." Without any more hesitation, Malfoy slid his hand elegantly to his concealed wand, withdrew it, and spoke the words Dean had longed for: Finite incantatem.

He closed his eyes and felt his memory unfold, opening up and finally releasing his buried history. He saw, as if for the first time, the chain of events leading up to his escape: the artless questioning by Goyle and Bryce, Snape's silent observation, Malfoy's deceptive kisses - quite a surprise, that - their hasty escape, the disclosures and admissions.

And at last, after months of trying and failing to come to grips with betraying Seamus, he could finally remember the feeling of warm fingers pressed against his own as they stood pinned against the rough cell wall, the whispered words Seamus had spoken to him, the forgiveness freely offered and gratefully accepted.

He should have known. The feelings of doubt and guilt he'd carried with him for months fell away, replaced by a welcomed lightness, a transcending joy.

He'd been expecting to regain the chronicle of their escape, but what he also learned, what was totally unexpected, was the detailed revelation of Malfoy's actions as he'd risked his own safety and became their deliverer.

He sat in silence for a long time, absorbing the information, trying to make sense of it. Finally he spoke. "Thank you. I see that I owe you my life. But why did you bother to hide this from us even after the war ended?"

Malfoy gave a delicate shrug. "Who knows? It seemed like a good idea at the time, you know?"

He could only laugh. "I suppose. I mean, none of us expected any of it to happen in the first place. It was damn bad luck that caught me knowing what I knew that night. One more day, I'd have erased the stuff I wasn't supposed to know and none of it would have ever happened."

"Kismet," Malfoy muttered softly. "Meant to occur, I think."

"Mmm. So where did you go anyway? After you saw us off."

"Greece, believe it or not - oh, I forgot, we have a villa in Thessalonica - but just for a short time. Then I had to come back." He looked at Dean severely. "On the side of the angels, of course. I never could go back to the Death Eaters after that spectacular turn of events."

"Of course, Carmichael."

Malfoy looked away in embarrassment, "Yeah, okay. At that point I needed to be back in the thick of things. And to tell you the truth, I didn't regret for very long leaving the Death Eaters, although I was pretty pissed off at you at the time. Death Eater Land wasn't exactly the nicest - or safest - place to be. Even for a Malfoy."

Dean smiled with genuine empathy. There was clearly more to Malfoy than what he'd let people think all those years ago at Hogwarts. He wouldn't make the mistake of short-changing him again.

"You know what - if your offer's still open, I think I'd like that something stronger after all."

Malfoy looked at him with ill-concealed surprise. "Sure thing, Thomas."

He followed up on it. "Hey. Call me Dean. I think after kissing me down to my tonsils, you're entitled."

Before the afternoon was over, they'd imbibed far more than he suspected either of them was used to. The conversation had warmed with each passing moment, encouraged by what he recognized as expensive intoxicants, pent-up isolation, and their tentatively growing affinity towards each other. By the end of their private party, he had exacted a promise from Draco - Draco, imagine that, he reflected hazily - to sit for him in his studio the next day. But not too early in the morning - they were in perfect accord on that.

Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be,
as a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy.
Come as You Are - Nirvana

. . . . . . . .

A single dose of hangover potion wasn't doing the trick this morning, Dean realized. It was a wonder he hadn't splinched himself Apparating from Malfoy Manor. And Malfoy - Draco, he mentally corrected - had promised to sit for him today. He wondered if he would even show up, or whether it was a liquor-induced promise, meant to be politely excused.

He mentally prepared for the arrival anyway.

Surprisingly, a firm knock interrupted his pre-lunch reveries, and the door opened to his response. Draco tentatively poked his head around the door - no house-elves here - and offered a quiet greeting.

"Hey, Draco," he replied, pleased that he remembered to use the other man's first name. "Come on in."

Dean's flat was an unbalanced compromise between decent living space and great studio illumination, and the lighting had won. He was all the more aware of its inadequacies after spending time at Draco's home the day before. The entire flat could have been dropped into the Malfoy Manor portrait room with plenty of room to spare.

Belatedly wishing that he'd seen fit to straighten up a little, he kicked away a pile of unfolded laundry and made a path to the sofa. "I've got coffee on. Would you like some?"

"Yes, thank you." Draco hesitated just an instant, then moved aside a stack of art magazines, and sat down, but he didn't look relaxed. His back was a little too straight, his hands plucked at some invisible imperfection on his cuff, and his eyes jumped around the room, looking everywhere but at Dean.

"Be right back." A few strides took him to the door of his tiny kitchen, one more to span it. As he fished out two clean mugs from the dish rack, he tried to get a grip on his own nerves. He was momentarily tempted to break out the liquor again, to try to resurrect their drink-induced camaraderie of yesterday, but his stomach revolted at the idea. Even the smell of coffee didn't have its usual appeal.

"How do you like yours?" he called.

"White, please."

He pulled out the milk, frowning at the expiration date and taking a tentative sniff. Seemed okay. He splashed some into both mugs. At the last minute, he grabbed a box of biscuits and the coffee, then stopped. He couldn't just shove the box at his guest and expect him to dig around in it - they needed to be on a plate. Setting everything down again, he rummaged around for his nicest plate, spending more time arranging the biscuits on it so they didn't look quite so haphazard. Except now, he was going to have a hard time carrying both coffee and plate. Did he even own a serving tray?

Turning around too quickly to check, he banged his head on the door he'd left ajar while digging out the plate.

"Shit."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I just-" Just gave myself a wake-up call. What was he thinking, trying to impress someone like Draco Malfoy with a cup of cheap, bitter coffee and a few store-bought treats? He was every bit the struggling artist, and he should stop acting as though he wasn't. He didn't have delicate pastries on an heirloom platter, he didn't have a devoted house-elf to serve them, and he sure as hell didn't have a posh manor study to enjoy them in.

But then again, he didn't have a room full of ancestral portraits that despised him.

He precariously managed to hold both mugs in one hand and the plate in the other, sighed, and went back into the living room.

"Let's take these into the studio, all right?"

His studio was the centerpiece of his flat, and he kept it far tidier than the rest of his space. He felt tension slipping away as he looked around, comfortable at last.

Draco walked around slowly, looking at the splash of drawings, mostly uncompleted, that were pinned up on the walls. "These are good," he said, and chuckled. "To be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect."

"But I drew at school."

"Mmm, so I heard. But I never saw anything you'd done."

"Dumbledore arranged for me have a show for the students, though, the last month of school. Didn't you-"

"Must have been after I left," Draco said quietly, and Dean felt like an idiot.

"Right. Sorry."

"I mean, I didn't expect puppies and kittens, but it occurred to me after you left last night that I had no idea whether you were serious about drawing. Good to know I'm in competent hands."

"Thank you."

"I have to confess, though. I've never done anything like this before. This is totally new, so you'll have to tell me what to do."

"Not a problem. All of my models are amateurs."

Draco turned to look at the drawing closest to him, something Dean was working on of his landlord's youngest daughter, meant as rent payment. "They don't move."

Dean smiled. "No. I only draw Muggle portraits. When I draw, I like to capture just one moment, and I need to define that moment. It's more...I don't know, honest, maybe. Wizard portraits change too much; to me it seems like the subjects have too much power. I don't like that. As an artist, I want to be the one in control."

Draco's mouth quirked up. "I wish the artists who've painted the Malfoys felt the same way."

"I can imagine. Well, I can guarantee that this is one Malfoy portrait that will never have the last word."

Draco laughed, and Dean noticed that he'd finally stopped looking so uneasy.

"Come sit down." He put his hand on Draco's shoulder, a first touch which almost always caused his models to flinch, but there was no reaction. Good.

He led him to a spot where the light was diffuse. "This is the part where everyone gets a little self-conscious. I'm going to look at you for a while from different angles. What I'm looking for is the way the light falls, the positions that seem most expressive, ideas about what I want to show with this drawing."

"All right."

"Feel free to talk. Scratch your nose, stretch when you need to. I'll warn you if I'm working on some part that needs to be still, but that won't come up for a while." He took both of Draco's hands in his and shook his arms lightly to relax the shoulders.

"Are you going to draw all of me or just my head?"

"I don't know yet. Let me see what comes to mind. Turn your head to your left...yeah, there."

Dean could never look at another person without automatically imagining how he would draw them. How he'd arrange their features, their posture, their expression to evoke a mood. When he could get away with it, he'd stare as long as he could. But he'd never allowed himself to stare at Draco this way, ever. When they were both younger, he'd let himself be intimidated by the way Draco was - all challenge and spite. People didn't dare get caught staring at him for fear of being roughed up by his minions. Dean had watched from a careful distance, knowing that Draco was far out of his league.

"Move your head slowly from left to right, then up and down. Hey, that's great."

He realized immediately that Draco was an artist's dream. The way the light defined his face with pale luminescence and contrasting shadow - the sharp angles of his cheeks, his pointed chin and heavy-lidded eyes, his full mouth - made Dean's fingers itch for a pencil. Each turn of Draco's head revealed another subtle nuance, another persona. He could feel his excitement grow at the prospect of capturing even a few of them, and he had to force himself to continue his usual evaluation.

"What do you see when I move like this?" Draco asked him.

"I'm watching highlights and shadows, mostly. And how your features change from one angle to the next."

"Is there enough light on me for that?"

"For starters, yes. But let me try something." He took a nearby shadeless lamp and switched it on. "I can really bring out things like this. When I move it here -" he positioned the bulb near the floor "- I can make you look sinister and creepy. Up here from above, you look angelic. Even more so if I backlight you, like this...the light shines through your hair and you look positively ethereal."

Draco laughed. "That would be a first."

Dean set the lamp down and switched it off. "Come over to this bench and we'll see what the sun does to you."

"Bad things. Sunburn, freckles. Give me a nice dungeon any day." He stood up gracefully and walked to the bench. Dean would have been satisfied just to watch him walk - he had a natural grace and elegance when he moved. Most people took hours to shake off their awkwardness, but Draco carried himself with innate confidence.

"Now I'm going to see what your body looks like in natural light." He put Draco through another series of exercises, and Draco asked him questions about what he was doing and why. All signs of his nervousness had disappeared.

"Sit sideways, lean forward, and wrap your hands around your knees. Good, yes. Rest your head on your knees. Uh huh. Now turn and look at me. Close your eyes."

After a minute, Draco said, "I'm going to fall asleep like this. I think last night is catching up to me."

"Okay, then. Up. Up!" Draco stood, waiting for the next instruction. "I've got just the thing to keep you awake."

He looked around the studio and caught sight of a straight-edge propped against his drafting table. That would do. He took out his wand and transformed it into a serviceable sword, passing it to Draco with a little bow. "Here. En garde."

Draco looked at the sword, them him, with distaste. "Philistine. This won't do." Pulling out his own wand, he changed the plain, flat-bladed sword into a fencing foil. "Now this is a proper weapon. En garde." He struck an exaggerated pose.

Dean couldn't help laughing. "Go ahead. Have fun."

"I don't have an opponent." He looked expectantly at Dean.

"Oh, no. No way. I'm horrible with sharp, pointy objects. You'll just have to imagine it."

So Draco did. He lunged and parried against an invisible foe, turning and twisting with genuine intensity and fire, while Dean watched in amazement. Finally, panting and glowing with perspiration, Draco called a halt to his solitary battle.

Dean summoned a glass of water for him.

"Thanks," Draco said, still breathing heavily. "I didn't know being a model was going to be so active."

"It's not. I made a special exception for you."

Draco lowered his glass and looked up with a smirk. "Payback for school? And here I thought we were friends."

"I'll try to go easy on you, then," he said, both surprised and pleased at Draco's casual remark.

Draco nodded. "You can start by moving me out of this bloody sunlight."

"Sure thing. I'd like you back in the chair you started in." Draco collapsed in it with pretended exhaustion, and Dean took pity on him and cast a cooling charm in his direction.

Draco closed his eyes and sighed as the chilly air embraced him. "Mmmm. Thanks."

"I'm ready to start drawing. You can stay just like that." His mind was as active as Draco had been moments ago. For today, a relaxed brow, a closed eye, a cheek. He started in.

They spent the next part of the afternoon in idle chatter - who'd married whom, where everyone ended up, what they were doing now - interrupted by Dean's short instructions and Draco's subsequent questions.

Finally, Dean stopped. "At ease, soldier." At Draco's questioning look, he said, "I'm finished for today."

"May I see?"

"Of course." He turned the tablet so that Draco could see his work and tried not to worry about what he'd say.

"Oh. It's nice. I never see myself from the side. Do I really look like that?"

"Yeah. You look different from different angles. More so than anyone I've ever drawn, actually."

"Is that good?"

"Very good. It means I have a lot of ways I could draw you." He'd been about to describe some of the ideas he had, until he realized that Draco had only promised him today.

"Will you finish this one first?"

He nodded, pleased that Draco had suggested it. "If you can come back and sit, I will."

Draco looked up with surprise. "Oh. I assumed you'd want me to. Do you?"

Dean grinned. "Absolutely. I was afraid you wouldn't want to."

"No, it's interesting. Learning how it's done, I mean."

"It's interesting that we're doing this together at all. Who would have predicted it?"

"Well, we live in interesting times."

Dean had been putting away his pencils, but stopped to look up. "Funny you should put it that way."

Draco's eyebrows lifted in an unspoken question.

"That's a Chinese Muggle curse...may you live in interesting times."

Draco smiled slightly. "I didn't know Muggles had curses."

"Oh, sure they do. They just don't have any power to make them happen."

"Hmm. I suppose that's a good thing. I think I've had my fill of living in interesting times. After the past few years, I'm ready for a long spell of boredom."

Maybe, Dean thought, Draco was simply craving a different kind of curse.

So I live, that's about all I can say; I breathe nearly every day.
I Live - The Fixx

. . . . . . . .

Draco loved the labyrinth at the Manor; it was one of his favorite places to relax. Amid the antiquities of the rest of the estate, the labyrinth was fairly new, built under his mother's guidance. It occupied a generally low-lying spot surrounded by fragrant cedars. Diminutive boxwoods edged its brick-lined path, not to suggest confinement, but to guide where human feet should tread. The path wound in and around itself again and again, folding and unfolding quietly to its center. It was designed for peaceful contemplation.

Today it made the perfect place to walk off his unsettled emotions. He stoically disregarded the soft rain that had begun to fall, simply drawing his wool cloak a little closer. The labyrinth's connection to his mother helped to calm him - only a scant month had passed since her murder. No suspects had yet been identified, but he wasn't surprised. He knew who her killers were - which Death Eater had dirtied his hands didn't matter.

They hadn't been after her, of course; not particularly. Nothing his mother did had been of remote interest to the Death Eaters. She was a creature focused solely on material pleasures - on sights, scents, touches, tastes. This labyrinth was pure Narcissa - a civilized luxury away from the atmosphere of Death Eater chaos she had ignored so adeptly.

No, their real victim was actually Draco. With Lucius unable to protect her, Narcissa had become expendable. The Death Eaters simply saw a way to get at Draco and exploited it. The wards at the Manor weren't set to keep Lucius' friends out; Draco had recognized too late that the entry was wide open to his enemies.

And he missed his mother, more than he would have predicted given their history. The only portrait of her in the Manor was the one of her with Lucius, and he refused to visit it. He thought that there was another of her alone at Grimmauld Place - from time to time he'd thought about asking Potter for it, but hadn't gathered the courage. He didn't want to have the conversation with Potter that his request would surely trigger.

As he walked, he was struck at how much his life had become like this labyrinth. Round and round, in and out, wandering alone until he reached the center - a false destination, because nothing awaited him at the end of the path. He could only turn back and retrace his increasingly purposeless steps.

"Draco." He lifted his head at the unexpected call, to see Severus walking towards him just beyond a break in the cedars.

He paused in the path and watched his visitor descend the wet grass that carpeted the slope until he reached the paved surround of the maze.

"Severus." His former teacher was not as successful at ignoring the rain as he was; he'd already started to look bedraggled, and his shoes had passed beyond dampness.

Severus regarded him with a droll expression. "I thought only Gryffindors didn't have enough sense to come in out of the rain."

He smiled. "And I thought Slytherins had enough sense to wear waterproof cloaks in this weather." He broke his stride, crossing over the low boxwoods and out of the labyrinth. "Shall we head up to the house for some tea?"

Severus looked distastefully at the climb back up to the Manor.

He noticed the dismay, and laughed softly. "Don't worry, Severus, we can Apparate from here."

Sully brought the tea into the east sitting room, where a fire was dying into flickering orange embers. Both wing chairs had been drawn up close to the hearth, and the two men gazed silently for some time into the licking flames, allowing the warmth to drive the chill dampness from their clothing.

"Have the goblins at Gringotts reconsidered your inheritance?" Severus asked. Draco had been owling him news as he saw fit, not dwelling on details but asking for advice when he felt the need.

"There's no reason they can see to reconsider. To tell you the truth, I think they like the ambivalence. And until there's a grave I can spit on, there's nothing I can do."

Silence.

"Just come out with it. You were always terrible at small talk."

Severus frowned at him. "Maybe that's because I'm never allowed to practice it."

He laughed. "Spare me! I know you didn't come down from Hogwarts to chat me up about the details of my inheritance. And I'm positive you didn't come here to discuss goblin politics."

"Of course not. Can't a friend come round for a visit without being grilled at the door? Or have you already laced my tea with Veritaserum, and you're merely waiting for it to take effect?"

He appreciated the casual way Severus reminded him of their fateful talks while under the effect of the potion. He could even laugh - now - at his embarrassing admission about wanting to snog him - fortunately, they'd gone beyond his schoolboy crush to a more fruitful friendship, based on mutual temperaments and common, if horrific, experiences.

"Of course I have. Veritaserum, as a wise old professor once told me, is the most common potion in the wizarding world."

"Old?"

"Well, wise, anyway. Maybe not so old, now that I think about it."

"With that revised description, I think I know the professor, then."

"Of course you do." He allowed a sly smirk to play across his face. "Now, tell me everything about your clandestine love life, Severus. The gossip never seems to make it this far south. Except that I hear there's a new Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts. A very single, unattached professor. So they say."

Severus frowned. "Who, as far as I am concerned, will remain that way. And how is your love life these days, Draco?"

"Astonishingly nonexistent."

"You surprise me. An attractive, rich prospect like you?"

"It's really not so hard to understand. First, there's that troublesome business of being gay. Tends to reduce the dating pool dramatically. Then there's the son-of-a-despicable-Death-Eater reputation I seem to have acquired. Followed closely by the nefarious-spy-of-undetermined-loyalty reputation I invented myself. So any candidate for chivalrous suitor has been scared right out of the water."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But the pond is pretty small in Wiltshire to begin with. Perhaps you ought to be trolling in larger waters."

"Severus, really. Next you'll be posting anonymous ads in the Daily Prophet on my behalf. Lonely wizard looking to meet same. Of terrible and shocking repute, no prospect for improvement."

"And are you lonely here?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "I see. So you've come here to share my hospitality while actually planning to uncover my deepest secrets? Are you spying on the spy? I'll remind you, I learned from the best."

Severus tipped his cup in acknowledgment. "I'm glad to hear you admit it."

He changed tack. "Not that I'm not glad for your company, but why are you here?"

Severus set down his cup carefully before answering. "I'm here to talk you into coming up to Hogwarts for a visit."

He hid his surprise at the proposal, and made his reply deliberately neutral. "Hogwarts? Why?"

"I though you might like to get away from this place for a time."

Draco, unprepared for the suggestion, didn't answer. Severus was probably the last person he would have expected to voice concern about his state of mind.

"You're surrounded by old memories and ghosts here, with only owls from your lawyers for company. It's not healthy for a young man."

"It's my home," he said quietly.

"It's a bloody vertical coffin, Draco!"

He finally let his irritation show. "Then what is Hogwarts? Just a trip into the past. Tell me which is worse."

"Then go to London. Or Paris. Or bloody Timbuktu. It doesn't matter." Severus leaned forward, his look intense. "Just don't let yourself turn into one of the ghosts here. We've seen too many wasted lives already from the war. Don't let yourself become another casualty by staying here and watching life pass you by."

He didn't know what to say in his own defense; he felt as though he'd lost the argument before it had even started. "I'm not-"

"You are. I see it. What do you do with your days? You don't see anyone, you live here in this massive, empty house like a hermit. Do you while away the hours conversing with the portraits? Play solitaire and drink scotch? Think up ways to irritate your house elf-"

"I get the point."

"Do you?" Severus's bare-faced stare was too unsettling for him to look at for long.

"What would you have me say?" He sat back in his chair, defeated. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now. I never even finished school. And to be frank, there's not much call for an out-of-work spy. Consider yourself lucky you already had a day job." He smiled faintly. "So let me have your best career advice, Severus. I'm all ears."

Severus allowed him some comfort by responding to his poor attempt at humor. "Just like a Malfoy. Looking for a sycophant to do your heavy lifting." He relaxed and sat back into the soft upholstery, seemingly satisfied with making his point. "Even my youngest Muggle-born student would look at you here and tell you to get a life, as they so quaintly put it."

"I have a life. Just not much of one at the moment." Draco allowed his frustration to color his voice. "And you're one to talk. You live in a bloody dungeon. Since when have you become such an expert in how to lead a full and active social life?"

"Sheathe your claws, Draco. I'm trying to help you."

"Yeah. Thanks ever so." Draco's lips were pursed together in exasperation, and he finally looked up. Something about their argument abruptly struck him as funny - the blind leading the blind - and his mouth quirked up in an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"Draco, don't worry so much. It doesn't especially matter what you do next. Shelve books at Flourish and Blotts. Scoop ice cream at Fortescue's. Sweep out the Owlery at the Ministry. Just so long as you do something. Preferably away from here."

"I- I'll think about it."

"Do. Then act. And sooner than later."

"All right." He hoped that would be enough.

"Honestly, I don't think anyone in your generation ever had a chance to be a mindless adolescent ninny. How could you? Look at you - raised with nothing but years of Voldemort's influence over your household, then forced to go off to war before you were eighteen." Severus sat forward, pressing his point. "This may sound odd coming from me, but you need to learn how to be childish and silly, while you're still young. My God, Draco, you're only twenty-one. You live as if you're eighty."

He hesitated, and Draco wondered after that undiplomatic speech what he could add that would make him at all uncomfortable to bring up. "You know, it was no coincidence that the members of the Order showed up for your mother's funeral. There are people who care about you. Let them show you. Don't make the mistake of thinking that you're all alone in the world." His voice lowered so that Draco could barely hear his next remark. "Don't make the mistakes I did."

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