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". . . and so, Lavender insists on playing your mother because she's writing the script but we thought nobody could play your father better than you could what do you think?" Parvati Patil finished in a nervous rush.

"Of course, if you don't want to participate," the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Theodoric Nixon, added gently, "that's certainly understandable."

Draco Malfoy thought privately that it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Harry Potter did not want to participate. Harry sighed, hesitating, and Malfoy snickered. He'd come to the classroom to ask Nixon a question, but this was much more fun.

He'd heard all about this newest venture of the student version of the DADA League - reconstructing the night of Voldemort's destruction. Something about getting a deeper understanding or whatever. Malfoy hadn't given it a second - or even a first - thought until about thirty seconds ago, when it had suddenly begun to seem very interesting.

After all, if it was something that was going to add aggravation to Potter's life . . . well, that was a whole different story.

". . . okay," Harry said reluctantly, clearly unable to find an excuse to get out of it that he liked. "I'll do it."

Parvati gave a huge smile, evidently relieved to be past that particularly awkward bit. "Great! Oh, thank you so much, Harry. There, that's two important parts filled, just one more . . ." It was her turn to sigh. "But I don't know if we'll even get someone. I mean, you can't really blame people for not wanting to play You-Know-Who."

Talk about an opportunity falling right from the sky. Malfoy let a moment pass, to give Potter time to think that he might actually get out of it, then spoke up from the doorway where he stood.

"I'll do it."

Three heads whipped around to stare at him.

"Mr Malfoy," Nixon acknowledged. "We didn't see you there."

Malfoy nodded to him absently, much more interested in the shocked expression on Potter's face than he was in the new teacher's pleasantries.

"Are you sure you want to?" Parvati asked, looking pleased and anxious at the same. "Some people are saying that it would just be asking for trouble -"

"They worry too much," Malfoy interrupted dismissively. He paused for dramatic effect, then added, "Just call me Voldemort." He usually observed the tradition of not speaking the name in public, but he couldn't let some mere Gryffindor get away with implying that he might be afraid of playing a part in some kidlet skit. Not without proving that he wasn't.

Harry deflated, giving up all hopes of squirming out of his promise. Nixon frowned, looking as though he wanted to say something about Malfoy's cavalier attitude but didn't quite dare.

Parvati flinched at the sound of the name, but said gamely - if somewhat doubtfully - "Well . . . thank you, Draco. We'll be doing it in two days, after Potions. The scripts'll be ready by then."

Malfoy smiled sweetly, looking directly at Potter and enjoying the sight of comprehension, followed by fury, creeping over the other boy's face. "I'm glad I can help, Parvati. I look forward to it." With that, he turned to leave - his question could wait and he had never been one to give up the opportunity for a good exit. As he walked out the door, he could almost feel three sets of distrustful eyes following him.

**********

Pansy Parkinson looked up eagerly as Malfoy entered the Slytherin common room a scant few hours later. "Is it true, Draco? Are you really going to play" - she lowered her voice - "You-Know-Who?"

Malfoy shrugged casually, affecting boredom. "Yes, I am." This was something that hadn't occurred to him in the midst of his glee about getting at Potter - that people might actually be impressed with him.

"Oh, Draco, that's so brave of you!" cried Pansy, eyelids a-flutter.

. . . of course, this was Pansy; Malfoy suppressed the desire to roll his eyes in annoyance. He liked Pansy well enough, but it would have been nice to be able - just once - to pass a day without her falling all over herself to flatter him in that disgusting saccharine tone of hers.

He was distracted from this train of thought, though, as he noticed that Pansy was furtively concealing something under the table, in her lap. Instantly sensing a way to get her to behave more like her normal self, he drawled,

"What've you got there, Pansy?"

Pansy glanced downwards, following his gaze. "Nothing," she said, far too quickly.

Jackpot. Malfoy pressed further. "Oh, come on, Pansy. It's just me. Let me see."

Pansy began to blush as it dawned on her that Malfoy was not going to let it drop. Better to just get it over with. Slowly, she raised the object in question into view, saying defensively, "It's not what it looks like."

Malfoy stared. "What it looks like," he said flatly, "is a half-finished baby booty stuck on Muggle knitting needles." He switched his stare from the booty to Pansy's red face. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

Pansy blushed harder. "No! It's just part of my detention with Sprout last night. They're for the new Mandrakes. She's making me knit about five million of them by hand and I only got half of them done last night," she finished resentfully.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow and drove the final nail home. "And is the green butterfly pattern part of the requirement?"

She was saved from replying, much to Malfoy's disappointment, by the entrance of a fellow fifth year, Blaise Zabini. Blaise lost no time in exclaiming, in his customary too-loud voice,

"Malfoy! Is it true? You're playing You-Know-Who in the League's stupid little skit?"

"Yes, yes," Malfoy replied, hiding his pride in the recognition under casual, so-what airs. "They did need help rather desperately."

"Right," Blaise snorted. "And I just bet you're doing it out of the kindness of your heart."

"Of course!" Malfoy replied in mock indignation. Then he added in pretend thoughtfulness, "Of course, if it were to happen to bring up a few unpleasant memories for Potter, well . . ." he trailed off with a wicked smirk, an anticipatory sparkle coming to his eyes.

**********

The next two days were some of the best Draco Malfoy had ever experienced at Hogwarts. The majority of the students - excepting, of course, the Gryffindors - held various degrees of admiration for his "courage" in taking on the role of Lord Voldemort, especially now that the Dark Lord wasn't just a vague phantom from the past anymore. As incredibly silly as he found this - really, it was just a little student play - he couldn't help drinking it up. Who could resist? He even enjoyed the nasty glares he got from the Gryffindors loyal to Potter; far from diminishing his enjoyment, they merely enhanced it.

He was almost disappointed when Friday's Potions class drew to a close. Almost, but not quite, because the bit he'd been looking forward to since the whole thing began was almost here. He couldn't wait to rub this in Potter's face. Malfoy jammed his books hastily into his bag and was ready to leave when the bell rang. He was almost to the door when -

"Not so fast, Mr Malfoy." Snape spoke sharply. Malfoy gave vent to an exasperated sigh, but stayed where he was. Snape waited until the room was empty before continuing further.

He was blunt. "I hope you realize, Mr Malfoy, how potentially stupid you're being."

Malfoy blinked in shock. Out of all the things he could have imagined Snape saying to him, this was not one of them. And from his own House head! "I - I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sure," Snape said evenly, "that you, out of all of my students, are particularly aware of Voldemort's resurrection."

Malfoy frowned, reading between the lines. "Your point being?" he inquired acidly. The last thing he needed was a lecture about the Dark Lord from a traitor.

Snape chose to ignore his tone. "Doing anything to attract his attention now is extraordinarily foolish. I've attempted to speak to Nixon but he'll hear none of it." He gave Malfoy a piercing stare. "Do not think yourself to be out of harm's way simply because you are Lucius Malfoy's son."

Malfoy's expression hardened. "Do you have something to say about my father, Professor?" he asked, in a hard, cold tone that would have done Lucius proud.

Snape made no reply, but simply continued to give Malfoy that same intent stare. Malfoy's anger heightened. How dare someone who had turned on Voldemort presume to lecture him as if he knew anything of the workings of the Dark Lord? Teacher or no, House head or no, it could not be tolerated. Unable to keep silent any longer, he spit, "My father told me that you were a traitorous coward. I never dreamed you'd prove him right." Malfoy turned on his heel and stalked out of the dungeon.

**********

Malfoy was still stewing when he reached the side of the lake, where he had been told the re-enactment would take place. He tried to put it out of his mind, though, to focus on the scene before him.

There was a group of students sitting on the shore, apparently there as an audience. It seemed, though, that Snape wasn't the only one indulging in paranoia - the group was much smaller than might have been expected, given the amount of gossip that had circulated through the school about the re-enactment. It consisted mainly of Gryffindors, there to cheer on Harry and Lavender; Slytherins, who were there, Malfoy suspected, more to make sure that they didn't miss anything interesting than to support him; and a few of the braver or more practical Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. The large black dog that had been hanging around all year was curled up at the foot of a tree, eyes alert and watchful. Several teachers - McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Hagrid - stood off to the side; as Malfoy watched, Snape approached them, looking grimmer than usual. Malfoy gave him a disdainful look and headed over to the small clump of DADA League students.

Lavender was sitting in the midst of them writing frantically. Parvati, who had been looking on with a mixture of exasperation and disgust, glanced up as Malfoy walked over.

"Hi, Draco," she said tightly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "We're going to be a little held up because Lavender hasn't finished writing the script yet."

"No! Wait! I'm almost done!" Lavender cried before Malfoy could reply. "Just another minute!"

True to her word, Lavender wrote "the end" with a flourish just a moment later. "There!" she exclaimed. "Now to make copies . . ." she aimed her wand at the fresh document.

"Wait," Parvati said quickly. "Shouldn't Harry get final approval? I mean, this is his story and everything," she explained, glancing at Nixon for support. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"No, that's okay," Harry said quickly, clearly just wanting to get this whole thing over with. "Really."

Malfoy grabbed the opportunity. "But don't you want it to be as accurate as possible, Potter?"

Harry gave him a sharp look. "I'm sure it's fine," he said shortly.

"If you're sure . . ." Parvati conceded doubtfully.

"I'm sure. Really."

Malfoy smirked.

"Okay," Lavender said, sounding relieved that she wouldn't have to do a rewrite. She raised her wand once more. "Tri-replicate!" There was a spark of blue light, then three copies of the script lay on the flat rock she'd been using for a desk. She took one for herself and handed the others to Malfoy and Harry.

A moment into the reading, Malfoy thought privately that maybe Potter should have taken that final approval after all. A glance at the other boy told him that Potter was thinking the same thing.

"Now, Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter, Miss Brown," Nixon said briskly, "there's no need to try and memorize the script. This is a simple re-enactment, not Shakespeare."

"Not what?" Lavender interrupted blankly.

"A talented Muggle playwright," Nixon explained quickly. Malfoy snorted. Even Lavender's rubbish had to be better than anything any Muggle could come up with.

Nixon kept talking, but the only cast member still listening was Lavender. Malfoy was watching Potter, who was shaking his head over the script and muttering. Malfoy sidled closer to listen.

" . . . all wrong, what is she thinking . . ."

"And I suppose you remember it?" Malfoy hissed. Harry glanced up and glared coldly; Malfoy smirked and returned his attention to his own script.

A moment later, that particular piece of parchment had found its way to the ground. Malfoy had decided that the part should come naturally to him. After all, his own father was one of Voldemort's staunchest supporters. Besides, all he really had to do was be evil, pretend to kill a couple of people he didn't like much anyway, then threaten a doll and fake getting blown up. What kind of moron would need a script to pull that off?

"Of course," Nixon said dryly, looking directly at him, "you may feel free to improvise."

Harry immediately dropped his script as well, saying sincerely,

"Sorry, Lav."

"That's okay," Lavender sighed, although it clearly wasn't, then continued graciously, "I suppose you would know your characters better than I would anyway. Both of you," she added with a pointed glare at Malfoy.

Malfoy was distracted from the biting reply he was preparing by a sudden buzzing, stinging sensation at the back of his head. "Ow," and he slapped at it, giving Nixon time to interpose -

"That's enough, Miss Brown. Let's get started, shall we?"

The feeling didn't go away, but Malfoy figured it could wait ten minutes while they played out the re-enactment. He swept past Potter and headed up to the "stage", noticing absently that Harry was rubbing uneasily at his scar.

The stage consisted of a raised, polished hardwood platform conjured for the occasion. In the center of it was a cradle holding the doll that represented baby Harry Potter; other than that, it was bare. Nixon strode onto the stage and began to speak. It seemed to be an introduction, but Malfoy couldn't listen. The sensation was getting stronger, becoming painful. He bit his lip, pressing his hand over the spot, then let it drop in disgust. What did he think, that he could keep it from spreading? He made a mental note to get to the medical wing as soon as this was over.

Nixon was apparently finished; Lavender and Harry trooped onstage, Lavender looking eager, Harry looking resigned and incredibly nervous. He paused to scan the audience carefully before he joined Lavender next to the cradle.

The pain was getting worse by the second, but Malfoy set his jaw and entered stage left. Like hell was he going to let a headache get the better of him in front of this particular audience.

Harry looked up from pretending to admire the doll, and the alarm on his face seemed very real. Malfoy heard himself speak through the haze that the pain was beginning to cast around his mind.

"Yes, Potter, your turn has finally come."

Hey, he hadn't known he was going to say that - and then something was terribly wrong, he could feel someone pushing at the back of his head, trying to get inside, and he dropped to his knees and an explosion of pain and it pushed through so violently that he tried to reach up to feel if the base of his skull was still intact

and he couldn't.

Because someone else was there, had his body, and he knew exactly who it was even as he was shoved back into a corner of his own mind.

Voldemort's mental voice spoke, cold, brief, and to the point. //For your father's loyalty - and your cooperation in this matter - I will not kill you when I am through with you.\\ Then he dismissively turned his attention outwards. Malfoy found immediately that he could still see and hear, and though Voldemort directed what was looked at, Malfoy could still hear whatever he chose, perhaps because hearing is the most passive of the senses.

He became aware that Lavender was shaking them frantically, and there was terror in her voice.

"Draco! Are you all right? Draco, answer me!"

"Someone get an ambulance!" a member of the audience called.

Voldemort rose smoothly and sinuously. His gaze fell upon Harry, who was clutching his scar in pain, and Malfoy found himself urging Potter silently to figure it out. But Harry wasn't looking at Malfoy/Voldemort; he was instead searching the crowd, trying to find his enemy amongst them.

Sensing Malfoy's urgency, Voldemort remarked silently, //I think we're going to have to get his attention.\\

Malfoy barely had time to think, oh, that can't be good before Voldemort casually drew Malfoy's wand and pointed it at Lavender.

"Draco, what -"

"Avada Kedavra." Malfoy cringed in horror at the sound of his own voice killing his schoolmate, watching helplessly as Lavender's body collapsed to the stage. He heard several students scream as the realization hit: the play was no longer a play. Lavender was dead.

Harry gave Lavender's body one look that said everything in his mind - shock, dread, horror, a sickening sense of, "No, not again." Then, grimly, he turned to face Voldemort, raising his wand.

Malfoy could feel the amusement radiating from the Dark Lord.

"Well, Harry?" Voldemort inquired. "What do you intend to do against me with that? Is it really worth hurting your schoolmate to inflict temporary damage on me?"

Somehow - perhaps from the close proximity to Voldemort - Malfoy knew that there was a fallacy in this argument somewhere. Somehow, his own presence could be worked around . . . but Voldemort would not let him close enough to discover how.

Not that it really mattered, of course, with him stuck here and no way to get past Voldemort's rigid control. Nothing at all to do except watch and listen. This he returned to doing avidly, in time to see a dark blur streak past the stage. It was the dog. Malfoy couldn't really blame it for getting out while the getting was good.

For some reason, this appeared to dishearten Harry, who let his wand droop to his side. Voldemort turned dismissively away, and Malfoy realized with a start that it wasn't really Harry he was interested in this time around.

Turning around revealed that McGonagall and Snape were advancing toward him, while the other four teachers stationed themselves protectively among the terrified students. Far from surprised, Voldemort held out Malfoy's arms in greeting.

"Minerva! Severus! Thank you for this lovely invitation. Particularly you, Severus," he added darkly, dropping the jovial pose. Snape's jaw tightened.

Voldemort cast a glance at McGonagall.

"If you'll excuse us, Professor," he said courteously and, with a casual flick of Malfoy's wand, sent the Gryffindor head flying into the lake.

In a flash of grim humor, Malfoy hoped she could swim.

Voldemort took a couple of steps to one side, positioning Malfoy's body so that he could keep an eye on Harry while he spoke to Snape.

"For nearly a decade and a half, I have been biding my time, thinking of all the things I would do when I regained my strength. There have been two things foremost in my mind - destroying that boy . . . and destroying my betrayers." He reached out with Malfoy's wand and trailed the end over Snape's chest, almost seductively. "You had the temerity to leave me while I was still in power, Severus," he breathed. "For that, you will pay first."

The moment was perfect, and Malfoy knew what he would have done in Snape's place: knocked the wand away and hit Voldemort with the Avada, regardless of whose body it was. He braced himself.

But Snape did nothing, save meet Voldemort's gaze defiantly, and Malfoy realized in disbelief that Snape, just like any other teacher at Hogwarts, would lose his life before he would seriously harm a student.

"Perfect," Voldemort laughed. "I knew I could count upon you to refuse to fight a student. Draco," he added casually - and Malfoy found himself flinching at the sound of his name spoken by the Dark Lord - "do remind me to reward your father for informing me of this unique opportunity. I couldn't have done it without your concentration on me giving me the opening."

Malfoy reeled, stunned. His father had sold him out to Voldemort? His own father handed him right over to Voldemort, so casually . . . ?

His thoughts were shattered as Harry suddenly spoke up, voice loud enough to rival Blaise at his most excited. "Don't listen to him, Malfoy! He's just trying to throw you off!"

Voldemort whirled on him. Harry was kneeling next to Lavender's body, glaring up at his enemy.

"Shut up, boy!" Voldemort hissed. "I have plans for you yet. You are merely making things worse for yourself."

Harry ignored him and kept yelling. "He's trying to keep you from focussing, Malfoy! He knows you can kick him out of you try!"

Right. Kind of like the way he could kick a dementor out of Azkaban. What the hell was Potter playing at? Had he finally popped his lid? Even he wasn't this stupid -

Then an epiphany hit Malfoy.

Distraction.

Harry was trying to distract Voldemort from something.

And if he realized this, it was only a matter of seconds before Voldemort picked it out of his thoughts - and he lost his chance to get his body back.

Immediately, hoping Voldemort would think he'd been inspired by Potter's little speech, Malfoy launched his mental self at the intruder to buy a little more time for whatever it was Potter knew and they didn't.

It got him maybe three seconds. Voldemort blocked him with a violent crash of power that left him dazed, and he never would be able to clearly recall anything that happened directly after those three seconds.

There was a brief glimpse of the dog returning, followed by Dumbledore - a cry from Voldemort as he caught sight, too late, of his old enemy - a battle of powers - a wrenching lift - a howl of fury - emptiness -

And his body was his own again, and Malfoy collapsed to the stage in sheer exhaustion.

He had a vague awareness of being lifted gently by someone large - Hagrid? It must be, for there was his voice murmuring nearby.

"Poor little sod."

Malfoy roused himself at this - who did Hagrid, the half-giant groundskeeper, think he was to pity him?

"I'm fine," he said, rather thickly. "Put me down."

"Mr Malfoy, you need to go to the medical wing immediately." It was McGonagall, returned from the lake, still dripping.

"I can bloody well walk," Malfoy muttered, struggling weakly against Hagrid's firm grip.

"It's all right, Rubeus," Dumbledore said mildly. "Put him down."

Hagrid set Malfoy down carefully, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder until he was satisfied that Malfoy had regained his balance, then withdrew.

Malfoy looked around. Apparently, he had passed out for a bit - either that, or he had simply not noticed the exodus of students. The shore was empty save for himself, Dumbledore, Hagrid, Snape, McGonagall, Harry, and Lavender.

Lavender. Someone had covered her with a large black cloak. Harry still knelt next to her, clearly unwilling to leave her until he was bodily removed.

Next to them lay Malfoy's wand.

He stared at it, and knew immediately that he would never be able to use it again. Not after this. Not after it had killed Lavender. After, for all intents and purposes, he had killed Lavender.

Harry looked up at him. The animosity that usually filled the green eyes was gone; in its place was a quiet kindredship. Not sympathy; Harry knew better. "You okay?" he asked softly.

Malfoy opened his mouth, intending to give a typically rude reply. Instead, what came out surprised him by being the truth.

"No."