Two

By dinner time, rumors concerning Malfoy's disappearance were flying throughout the school, with theories ranging from the mundane to outrageous. One hour, Malfoy was in the hospital wing with a bad cold, and the next he was in St. Mungo's, being the victim of a centaur mauling. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were on their way down to dinner when they discovered another, more sinister, theory.

"Um…Harry…Mr. Potter, sir," said a young Hufflepuff who had stopped them on a staircase.

"Yes?"

"I was just wondering if it's true."

Confusion etched itself onto Harry's face. "What are you talking about?"

The Hufflepuff began to look scared. "If it was true that you killed Malfoy."

Harry sighed. He hadn't really considered the possibility Malfoy may have been dead, but he should have figured with Malfoy being involved in something, his name would inevitably get dragged into it.

"Where did you hear this?"

"A friend of a friend who has a cousin in Slytherin."

Harry sighed. "Of course they're coming from Slytherin," he said, more or less to himself. "No, I didn't kill him. I didn't even know that he was dead."

The three of them watched him scamper off down the stairs.

"Come on," said Ron, after a moment. "This is nothing new from the Slytherins, let's get down to dinner."

Harry, Ron and Hermione entered the dimly lit Great Hall, surprised to find the walls covered with black hangings and candlelight obscured by a gauzy black material. The three looked confusedly at each other before making their way over to their customary seats at the Gryffindor table, keenly aware that the eyes of the entire school were upon them.

"Yes, well, now that everyone is here," said Dumbledore from his place at the head table, looking pointedly at the three of them, "I have some terrible news for all of you." He paused, taking a drink of water. "Draco Malfoy was murdered last night. We do not know who, but know this: no student in this school is a suspect at this time. Mr. Malfoy's murderer will be brought to justice, but distrust and alienation of each other will get us no closer to finding the killer." The sound in the hall, which had started out as a loud muttering, begin to reach a crescendo, when Dumbledore raised his hand, "If anyone has any information, any at all, that could possibly help us find Mr. Malfoy's assailant, the staff and myself will ensure your protection. But for now…"

He was interrupted by a frenzied shout that rang from the Slytherin table.

"Potter did it! I know it, you know it; we all know it."

Dumbledore sighed, looking over in Snape's direction. "Professor Snape, please escort Ms. Parkinson to the hospital wing. It appears that she could use a dose of Calming Draught."

Snape bowed his head. "Of course, Headmaster."

Dumbledore was silent as he, and the rest of the school, watched an exasperated looking Snape drag a protesting Pansy Parkinson from the Great Hall, her shouts continuing to echo even after she was gone.

"As you can plainly see, this is a trying time for all of Hogwarts, but it is no time for finger-pointing. Baseless accusations formed from enmity and suspicions do us no good. It is a time for us to come together as one and support each other through these difficult times." He cleared his throat. "But alas, the words of an old man can provide only limited reassurance and consolation; it is up to you to do that for each other. If you wish to talk to any of the Professors, including myself, we shall be here for you. Now, with that being said, I leave you all to your meal."

Dumbledore sat down amidst the silence of the student body. It was as if a spell had fallen across the Great Hall, preventing anyone from moving or making any noise whatsoever. The Professors had their heads bowed; most of the students were looking around aimlessly, unable to grasp the enormity of what had taken place in their beloved school. This went on until one intrepid soul was willing to speak out.

"So," said Ron, letting out a deep breath, "let's eat."

"How exactly can you be hungry? Dumbledore just announced that someone in Hogwarts is a murderer, and all you can think about is food? You do know what this means, don't you?" said Hermione, amidst the quiet clinking of plates and silverware.

"Malfoy's dead and now everyone thinks that Harry is a murderer. We go through a similar situation almost every year."

"How can you take this so lightly? It's…"

Harry cut her off. "He has a point, Hermione. There's something dangerous happening at school this year and it more likely than not revolves around me. The only difference to years past is that somebody is dead. It's nothing we haven't had to face before."

"But, Harry…"

"No, Hermione. Not now." Harry turned towards Ron. "Could you pass the potatoes?"

With Harry putting an end to all further conversation, the three of them settled down into an uneasy silence, listening to the low murmur of voices and the gentle noise of a quiet dinner filled the cavernous Great Hall. The eerie light given off by the covered candles served to heighten the tense atmosphere which had blanketed the school.

"Harry?"

He turned towards the source of the voice. "What is it, Ginny?"

She seemed unsure of what she wanted to say, stumbling over her words several times. "I just wanted to say that I…that I don't think you're a murderer."

"Thanks, Ginny. That means a lot to me," said Harry, giving her a small smile, which she returned.

Glad for her support, Harry returned to his meal. It was only a matter of time before he would be at odds with the majority of the school, he thought, and the fewer people he had to convince to believe his side of the story would be a welcome change from most years. If Draco only would have had the good grace to have died a slow death, with enough time to identify his killer, a lot of trouble would have been saved; even in death Malfoy continued to be a thorn in his side.

"Come on, Harry. We can't sit here all night," said Ron, breaking Harry from his reverie. "Fancy a game of chess or something?"

Harry looked up from his still mostly full plate. "Sure, Ron," he said, standing up from the table. "Nothing takes my mind off of something like a good trouncing."

The two of them walked out of the hall, giving Hermione a small wave, as she was engrossed in discussion with Padma Patil about some Arithmancy equation, a conversation that could go on for hours. Idle chatter passed between the two of them on the way back to Gryffindor Tower, trying to stay as far away from the issue of Malfoy's murder as they could for the moment. Despite their best efforts, this proved to be impossible.

"Harry? Mr. Potter, sir?" said a small voice from behind them.

They turned, eyeing the speaker, a small boy in robes with a Hufflepuff crest. "And who would you be?" asked Ron in an accusatory tone.

"My name is Isaac. Isaac Brock. I just wanted to say that I know that Mr. Potter didn't kill Malfoy."

Ron snorted. "I think that much was obvious."

"Hold on, Ron," said Harry. "Why do you think that?"

He looked around, nervously. "Trust me, I know you aren't the one who killed him."

"What do you mean?"

He fidgeted. "I can't talk here, he might be watching. Here," he said, handing a piece of parchment to Harry. "Meet me there at that time and I'll tell you what I know."

"Alright," said Harry. "I'll be there."

The boy nodded and sprinted away down the stairs.

"Well that was odd," said Ron. "What do you think?"

Harry opened the piece of parchment, noted the place and time, and slipped it into his robes. "I think we go and meet him."


Pansy was left to lay in the hospital wing alone while Snape returned to dinner, trapped in the muddled haze that were her thoughts due to the Calming Draught that she had reluctantly imbibed. She was not quite sure what had provoked the outburst in the Great Hall, but the more she thought about it, the more she regretted having allowed herself such an open display of emotion. A campaign to permanently sully Potter's reputation would be all the more difficult now that all suspicion would be immediately directed towards her. Any further musings were interrupted by an all too familiar presence entering the room.

"Hello, Professor Snape."

Snape pulled up a chair next to her bedside. "What exactly were you thinking, publicly accusing Potter? You should know better than that by now."

"I know, Professor. But…"

"But nothing," Snape said, standing to pace in front of Pansy's bed. "Your outburst must be turned to our advantage, lest we allow it to become an encumbrance that could have easily been avoided."

"Professor?"

"I think we need to let the school know of some of the relationship between you and Draco."

Pansy gasped. "Surely you can't be serious, Professor. You know how important it was to Draco to keep that a secret."

"I know, Pansy, but we have no other choice, unless you prefer having no recourse while Potter runs roughshod over the school. Releasing this information makes you appear not as consumed with blind hatred of Potter and more of a grieving widow."

"But, Professor, we weren't…"

"I know perfectly well you weren't married, but that doesn't mean the death of your once prospective husband wouldn't evoke sympathy from the student body. It may not accomplish much, but it should at least mitigate some of the damage your comments caused."

"I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just go along with it, otherwise you will have no hope of containing the influence of Potter and his friends. That is what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes, Professor." Pansy paused, unsure what to say next. "What do we do about the Dark Lord's plan now that Draco is dead?"

Snape looked around the Hospital Wing, turning to glare at Pansy. "Shut up, you foolish girl. We are in the Hospital Wing, anybody could be listening. I will summon you in the coming days once I have my directives from the Dark Lord. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now is there anything else you wish to discuss? I have an appointment with the Headmaster."

"That old…"

"It would do you good to respect Dumbledore. He may be a doddering old fool in his ideals, but he is still an intelligent wizard whose power rivals the Dark Lord. His methods may be less violent, but he can deal you just as much harm."

"But I don't have to like it."

"No," Snape said, a ghost of a smile crossing his face, "You don't have to like it." He looked at his watch. "I really must be off. You can spend the night here, but when you get down to breakfast tomorrow morning; begin to spread what we just discussed in whichever way that you see fit. Goodnight, Pansy."

Snape left the hospital wing, leaving Pansy alone in the silent room, the only sound coming from the ticking of a clock on the wall. It was a bold move, Pansy thought, leaking that kind of information about herself to the school, especially after being taught almost all her life that the more secrets she kept about herself, the safer she would be. Potter killing Draco had been a bold move, though, and it would take an equally bold move on her part to put Potter in a position where he would have to pay for what he did. It was only a matter of time.


Pansy walked down to breakfast the next day, trying to avoid the eyes of the school that she knew were upon her. She spotted Daphne in their usual spot at the table, and settled down next to her, immediately reaching for the plate of eggs that lay in front of her.

"Hungry, are we?" asked Daphne.

"Famished."

They ate in silence. Pansy knew it was only a matter of time before she would have to talk to Daphne about her outburst, but she chewed her food as slowly as possible, hoping to prolong that conversation until a later date.

"Alright, Pansy, enough. What happened last night?"

"Nothing. I was just a little upset."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "A little upset? Come on, Pansy, don't be ridiculous. I'm your best friend, you can tell me."

"Yes, Parkinson, please enlighten us," said the smug voice of Blaise Zabini, who was sitting a few seats down and across the table from the two of them.

"Damn it, Zabini, why are you always hanging around? Get out of here," said Pansy, glaring across the table at Zabini's unwelcome visage.

"I don't know, Parkinson. Perhaps it's your vehement dislike for someone who has never done anything to you? I'm not particularly fond of Potter, but it's not as if I hate him," he paused, pretending to inspect his nails. "Do you blame him for the loss of Malfoy?"

"Draco and I…"

"Now it's Draco? You've come a long way since fourth year, Parkinson." He made a show of checking his watch. "But alas, I'm afraid I must bring this to a close. It was a pleasure, Parkinson."

He stood from the bench, and after an over exaggerated bow, he left.

"Pansy?" asked Daphne. "What was that about?"

It had been a long time since her clash with Draco after the Yule Ball. She had been unable to tolerate his grandstanding and inattention to her despite them both knowing that it was only a matter of time before their fathers struck a deal for their eventual engagement. They had both been young, immature, and unable to grasp what exactly an agreement of that nature would mean.

"Pansy?"

"It's a long story, Daphne. Not exactly one we have time for at the moment. I'll tell you later, ok?"

She looked suspicious. "I'm only letting you off the hook now because we really do need to get to class. You will tell me later though, right?"

"Promise."


"Harry? What are you looking at?" asked Ron between bites of sausage.

"The Slytherins."

"Give it up, Harry. Malfoy is dead. Anybody left isn't going to pose any real threat to you. Nobody in that house has proven themselves competent enough to be able to seek revenge beyond a few jinxes."

"What about Parkinson? She seemed pretty bent on revenge last night."

"Malfoy ran Slytherin, and even then was never really a serious concern to us. If Malfoy wasn't dangerous, how can you expect his minions to be?"

"I don't know, Ron, but I still have a bad feeling about this," said Harry, returning his gaze to the Slytherin table and taking in the sight of Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass speaking with Blaise Zabini. "Right now, Parkinson, Greengrass, and Zabini could be plotting to poison the two of you and take me to Voldemort."

"Or they could be discussing the weather," said Hermione, looking up from her newspaper to join their conversation. "Really, Harry, you need to relax. At the rate you're going, you'll give yourself a heart attack before You-Know-Who has a chance to make his move."

"Come on, mate. Eat some breakfast and forget about it for now. If Parkinson does get it into her head that she needs to avenge Malfoy's death, I'm sure we'll hear about it and be able to stop it before anything serious happens."

"But Ron…"

"No, Harry," said Hermione. "Malfoy is gone. There are no other impending threats within the school at the moment."

"Except whoever killed Malfoy, that is," amended Ron, stabbing another sausage with cheerful unconcern.

"What do you mean, 'Whoever killed Malfoy?'" asked Harry.

"Dumbledore never really said what killed him, now did he? And then there was that kid last night."

Harry realized Ron was right, Dumbledore hadn't told the school how Malfoy had died. That would explain Parkinson's outburst and the strange behavior of Isaac last night. The thought of a murderer inside of Hogwarts' was ludicrous though. Dumbledore would never allow someone, or something, capable of doing harm to the student body to have run of his school. Harry couldn't stop himself from thinking that perhaps the Headmaster had started to grow old, and when he turned to look up at Dumbledore eating breakfast and talking with Flitwick at the staff table, rather than calming his fears, one look at his blackened hand only served to reinforce his doubts.

"Harry?" came Hermione's voice, rousing him from his thoughts.

"But who could have murdered a student under Dumbledore's nose? A Death Eater?"

"As bold as Voldemort can be, I don't see him trying to plant a Death Enter right under Dumbledore's nose," said Hermione, and taking in Harry's look of disbelief she added, "And no, Harry, Malfoy was not a Death Eater."

Ron cut off Harry before he had a chance to start another argument. "Dumbledore didn't know about the basilisk or the Chamber of Secrets."

Hermione looked skeptical. "Are you saying there's another basilisk running amok in the school, Ron?"

"No. All I'm saying is it's possible for things to go on in this place without Dumbledore knowing about them."

"Ron…"

Harry was interrupted by Hermione. "Look at the time! Transfiguration starts in ten minutes and you both know how McGonagall gets when we stride into the classroom right on time."

With only a minimum of grumbling, Ron and Harry stood to follow Hermione out of the Great Hall. Walking towards the exit, a familiar face appeared.

"Hello, Isaac," said Hermione.

Isaac, instead of answering, let out a strangled shriek and scampered off, quickly blending into the mass of students making their way to class.

"What are you doing, Hermione? Are you trying to get him killed?" asked Harry, exasperated.

"Nobody is going to kill anybody."

"Then why is Draco Malfoy dead? Why are there second years we don't know approaching us with information? Do you think this is some kind of hoax? Dumbledore's idea of a midterm joke?"

"No, Harry, of course not…"

He watched Isaac turn a corner and disappear. He was baffled by the boy's reaction to Hermione's greeting. He had figured that the meeting with the boy would be little more than him telling a story about how he heard a thump and a scream or something equally vague, but the way the boy scampered away from them had piqued Harry's interest. Hopefully, Harry's mention of the possibility of Isaac's death was only a fantasy.

Harry blew a breath out of his nose. "Whatever. It's over now. Let's go."

The day that followed was a typical one, almost if nobody had been murdered at all. McGonagall, just as Hermione had predicted, was none too pleased about their late arrival. There was the normal amount of muttering during lunch. The walk out to Hagrid's cabin for Care of Magical Creatures was a pleasant respite from the confines of the suddenly suffocating aura of the castle, but on the walk back, the apparent return to normalcy was spoiled by a familiar face.

"…that's why he has to die," said Pansy Parkinson, as her and Daphne Greengrass hurried past the three of them.

Harry turned to the others. "Please tell me I wasn't the only one to hear that."

Hermione sighed. "No, Harry, you weren't."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Harry walked off, trying to catch up with them.

"Are you suggesting with Malfoy dead, we need to start following another Slytherin?" asked Ron, hurrying to follow Harry. "This better be worth it."

"She said someone had to die. Isn't that reason enough? Now shut up before you attract their attention."

The three of them trailed a safe distance behind Pansy and Daphne as they walked swiftly across the Hogwarts grounds, moving towards the lake. When they reached the lake and started along the path around it, with Harry, Ron, and Hermione not far behind, they ducked into a small copse of underbrush not far off the path. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, slowed their pace and hoping for the continued ignorance of their presence by Pansy and Daphne, walked past them, trying to catch a few snatches of the conversation.

"The Dark Lord sent me a message…where Draco left off." Some of Pansy's words were inaudible over the sound of the trees in the autumn wind.

"….what?" They could only hear the end of Daphne's response due to the noise.

There was a pause. "I'm supposed to kill Dumbledore and Potter."

They all stopped to look at each other, and then quickly turned to make their way back towards the castle, trying to avoid being seen. Once they had emerged from the trees at the edge of the lake and were at safe distance from Pansy and Daphne, Hermione turned to the two of them, eyes wide, and said, "When are you supposed to meet Isaac?"

"Friday evening."

"Three days from now," said Hermione, mostly to herself. "That should give us enough time."

"For what?" asked Ron.

"You'll find out soon enough."


"Gogol is a terrible keeper and is the reason the Russian National Team doesn't stand a chance in international play. That's why he has to die."

Daphne shook her head. "I still don't understand why you root for Russia. You're English."

"So what? At least Russia wins, unlike England."

"Whatever." Daphne glanced behind them. "Potter and his friends are following us."

"I know," said Pansy. "Let's head over to that little clearing on the shore of the lake I showed you last year."

"But won't they over hear us?"

"I want them to."

The two of them walked in the direction of the lake, careful to make sure they stayed in sight of their pursuers. They hurried to the spot Pansy had mentioned earlier, carefully ducking under a tangle of brush to find a small open clearing obscured by low hanging branches in front of them and a thick copse of trees behind. Despite the slightly eerie feeling of being enclosed in the darkness and enveloped by the almost constant rustling of leaves, it had served Pansy well the last few years.

"Can you see them?" Pansy whispered to Daphne.

"They're just coming around the bend now. So what's the deal with…"

"The Dark Lord sent me a message last night. I'm supposed to take up where Draco left off," Pansy said, louder than she needed to.

"Pansy, what?"

"Yeah, I'm supposed to kill Dumbledore and bring Potter to our Lord," Pansy said in that same loud voice, but this time with a significant glance at Daphne.

Recognition dawned on Daphne's face. "How does he want you to do that?

"I'm not sure yet. He said he'd send further instructions in the coming days. Whatever our Lord comes up with is sure to accomplish the job though."

"What about his friends?"

"I don't…" Pansy trailed off, looking out onto the path. "Alright, they're gone. Do you think they bought it?"

"Without a doubt," said Daphne, chuckling. "Potter will believe anything that has to do with Malfoy being in the Dark Lord's service." She paused. "That wasn't actually true, was it?"

"No, not at all. Just wanted to scare them a little bit."

They sat in silence for a moment. Neither wanted to speak first, but both had something to say.

"So, Pansy, what was the deal with you and Draco? He was good-looking, rich, and influential, but he was kind of a prick."

"I suppose he did come off as a prick sometimes," Pansy said, mostly to herself. She took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. "We were supposed to marry each other. Our fathers saw it as a suitable match, bringing together wealth and power. Draco and I were pretty upset to begin with, but as the date grew nearer and the inevitability of the union grew more persuasive, we resolved to make the best of it. I wouldn't say we were in love, but I feel confident saying we were cautiously optimistic in what the future had in store for us."

"Wow."

Pansy looked away, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye. Daphne stepped closer to Pansy, resting a hand on her shoulder. After a moment, Pansy stepped fully into her embrace, letting herself go. Her tears were those of pain and loss, grief and longing; of remembrance and fondness, for days gone by and days that would never be. For the first time since she was ten, she allowed sorrow to consume her. Daphne held her, giving her friend what support she could. They stood there, long after Pansy's tears had stopped, the ecstasy of emotion overwhelming the two Slytherins. The encroaching darkness accompanied by the whispering of the wind in the tree branches and the slow descent of the last few autumn leaves played the perfect accompaniment to the sadness of the two: Pansy for Draco's loss, Daphne for the future Pansy would never have. Twilight engulfed them by the time they had collected themselves.

"Feel better?" asked Daphne, handing her friend a handkerchief she produced from the inside of her robes.

"Much," said Pansy, wiping her face and eyes, eyes that refused to meet Daphne's.

"It's alright, Pansy. I'd imagine that if I had lost someone like Draco was to you, I'd be in a similar state. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Pansy gave Daphne a weak smile, one that Daphne returned. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Thanks, Daphne."

"What are friends for?" said Daphne. "Let's start our way back to the castle, Potter and his friends are long gone, and I'm hungry. I suppose we missed dinner, so we'll have to see if we have any snacks stashed in our trunks."

"Why don't we just go down to the kitchens?" At Daphne's look, Pansy laughed and said, "What? Potter and his friends aren't the only ones who know how to get into there."

Daphne shook her head. "Whatever. As long as there's hot food and drink I don't care if we have to murder a mountain troll. Lead the way," Daphne said, gesturing towards the castle.