Lucinda Weasley sat in the abandoned Dungeon Five, doing what she always did, studying. Why did she study so much? Her cousin Kayla had asked her that once, and she'd replied that it was a security thing. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. She just did it, that was all, because she wasn't good at anything else. She couldn't draw, couldn't sing, all she could do was get good grades. That might help her in the real world, but in Hogwarts, it just prevented her from having friends. It had never really bothered her in early years, but this was her seventh year at Hogwarts and the idea that she would be leaving without any sort of legacy behind her was very depressing, even for a practical girl like Lucinda. She was already angry enough for allowing herself to become like this.

She had a ton of relatives, being a member of the Weasley clan, but most of them were younger than her or in different Houses. Her own brother was in Slytherin, for Christ's sake. She'd been at Hogwarts for seven years, seven, and she still didn't really have anyone to talk to or hang out with. It wasn't her fault she was a loner. She sighed...it was, though, and she couldn't deny that. She had never made an effort to get out there and make some friends. She was as introverted as they came. If she hadn't been so afraid of being completely rejected by the student body of Hogwarts, she could have found someone to share her life with.

This is probably how Mum would have ended up if she hadn't become friends with Dad and Uncle Harry, Lucinda thought bitterly. Not only was she leaving Hogwarts, but she had no friends! Though, that wasn't entirely true. She did have Jane. Jane Tessyir was a girl in her class and the one person who had come up to Lucinda with something other than an insult on her lips. She was very grateful to have Jane...but somehow it wasn't enough, and Lucinda felt incredibly greedy and selfish for that.

That was something else...Lucinda didn't have anyone to love. All her life she'd been a single little bookworm that no guys took notice of, unless they were Slytherins and were tormenting her, usually with her brother at the head of the game. If she bothered to look in a mirror, she might have noticed that she really wasn't bad-looking at all, with soft white-blonde curls, big blue eyes and a complexion to die for, but in her mind it was too late anyway. Even if a guy should begin to express interest in her, she wouldn't know what the hell to do. She was just too inexperienced when it came to the "social scene."

She sighed and pointed her wand angrily at a moldy shelf on the wall, causing it to fall and splinter. Lucinda flinched and looked around, though she knew she was alone. After a brief moment, that knowledge began to sink in, and she sighed again, slowly and mournfully buryingher head in her hands.

Alone...


Heavy footsteps echoed through the damp, cool air of the dungeons. They reverberated from the thick walls of roughly-hewn stone, from the uneven dark flagstones of the floor and the low celing above. The sound carried for a long distance, the labrinth of tunnels and catacombs catching it, amplifying it and twisting it in their own different ways. Down here in the dank, ancient depths of Hogwarts, any sound could become a cacaphony, any footstep symphony of pure noise. It gave the place an unsettling edge the feeling that you were never quite alone, despite the fact that this was the most isolated place in the castle. Depending on your frame of mind the sensation could be reassuring and comforting... or it could be simply terrifying. It was heightened even further if you happened to know a little bit about these dungeons. Most students who ventured into them stuck to the well known and often trodden passages and rooms. Very few knew how to find the other corridors, masked from from plain sight, subtly disguised, or simply hidden away entirely.

Damien was one of the few who did, but only because of his own explorations and wanderings duiring his earlier years at school. By now they were like old friends, the dark, unlit corridors; the rooms no-one had touched or used in hundreds of years.. and yet there were some areas even he avoided. The passages and tunnels that led down further still. The ones with warnings marked out on the stones, or the ones hewn roughly out of the very bedrock itself. Likely no-one knew where they led any more, and the Slytherin wasn't overly keen on finding out. He was no coward, but at the same time there was no sense in unnecessary risk. These days however, the boy rarely visited the vast forgotten depths of the dungeons. But at times like this, when thought was needed, there was no better place. Many assumed that because he surrounded himself with friends, with cronies and lackeys, that it somehow meant he was incapable of living without being the centre of attention. Far from it. While Malfoys always led from the front, Damien was perfectly at home with solitude, indeed he required it now and then.

However, its was solitude of a sort that formed one of several problems that were currently the main focus of his attention. More precisely, romantic solitude. 'Romantic' being in inverted commas of course, there was hardly a great deal of traditional romance in the Slytherin's relationships. He posessed the ideal combination of looks and charm - or apparent charm. Simply, he could get almost any girl he set his mind to. It may take a while for some, but in the end he would charm and manipulate them to his own ends, before discarding them once he'd had his fun. Oh he'd tried to hang onto one or two for longer, form some sort of real bond, but he frankly got bored too quickly. No, to Damien girls were there to be used. Unfortunately that habit also got a bit addictive, and after an unsuccessful summer the first thing on Malfoy's agenda was finding a suitable female. Or just a female in general to be honest.

The other major problem would be considered an odd one by most people, at least if attributed to someone like himself. Grades. His grades in Transfiguration were slipping, and he was sure that old hag McGonagall took some kind of vindictive pleasure in seeing Lucius Malfoy's grandson fail. Now the majority of people simply wouldn't have thought that someone in Damien's position would even care about grades. He was never going to need a job after all, the family had enough money to see him through the rest of his life comfortably. All he would be required to do was to learn the family trade - pulling strings and influencing those in high places. Essentially the boy's life after Hogwarts was going to be training for the day he became head of the Malfoy family. But his grades were a matter of pride. A Malfoy should always be the best. And Damien took pride in his intelligence, he wanted to excell because he simply knew he could. But when it came to Transfiguration.. well he needed help. And it pained him to admit it.

The Slytherin was making his way through the more public areas of the dungeons when a loud clatter and crash reached his ears, the sound having carried down the empty stretch of corridor. Quickening his pace a little, Damien found the dying echoes of the sound eminating from one of the unused rooms not too far from the Slytherin common room. And sitting there in plain view, head in her hands, was the unmistakable form of another seventh year - Lucinda Weasley. Malfoy found it hard to keep up with the entire Weasley clan - they bred like rabbits it seemed, there were Weasleys crawling all over the place - but he knew a little more about this one in particular. Daughter of Ron and Hermione Weasley, the two former schoolmates of his father he had heard so many venomous comments about. She appeared to have been studying, though that was hardly unusual, the girl was a reclusive bookworm if memory served... And there, in his mind, the basic tenets of an idea began to form. If Damien played this just right, he might be able to solve both problems in one go. It would be tricky of course... but oh so worth it if it worked.

"Weasley?" he asked neutrally, stepping into the room to stand a little way behind her before turning his attention briefly to the collapsed, splintered shelf and arching an eyebrow.