I've got today off so have another short chapter. I promise they will get longer once I get back into the swing of things. There's a lot of material to cover and I get sort of impatient to get to the good stuff. Hopefully things will sound less stuffy once there's more dialogue and interaction, plus I'm excited to play around with curricular material since those descriptions were some of my favorite parts in the books. Let me know what you think if you've got a moment. I do love reviews!

Petra


The manor was more silent than ever. That is, if you could ignore the gaggle of reporters that seemed to stay perpetually clustered by the front gates. His mother wouldn't look him in the eyes and the few Death Eaters he'd encountered in the halls only sniggered at "Lucius' little whelp" with expressions that belied their eagerness to see his family fall further from grace. So he'd stayed in his room, his thoughts rolling around and around in a sickened sort of panic.

Draco tugged on the sleeve of his robes as he watched the throng of reporters huddled beyond the property wards, wishing again that he'd spent more time mastering glamour charms. He'd always thought they were for petty witches who lacked the natural aristocratic features of most dignified purebloods, but the thought of Millicent or even Parkinson's face helped remind him otherwise. He'd given them marks for being born into the right families without ever looking too closely, preferring instead to mock the lower-borns. But even Granger, the mudblood who'd had teeth like a human beaver in first year and hair that could have housed the whole Hogwarts owlery on a humid day... even she had better placed features than his female cronies. Another lie he'd swallowed willingly, then.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. The know-it-all and her posse of nosy Gryffindor prats was the least of his concerns now. The task the Dark Lord had set him was another matter. Find a way to achieve the impossible and somehow sneak a whole band of Death Eaters into one of the most secure strongholds in all of Britain and then permanently eliminate the headmaster himself. He wasn't sure which feat was more daunting. There was no love lost between himself and Dumbledore. The ancient wizard had doted on Scarhead since day one and he'd always been a dotty old fool. But he was a dotty old fool with the magical capability of an army and if the Dark Lord himself hadn't been able to defeat the man, how in the name of Salazar's left testicle was Draco supposed to manage it?

And if he didn't manage it, the outcome was clear. He'd die slowly in whatever twisted way the Dark Lord decided would be most painful. He didn't want to explore the options. Even the supposed gift the Dark Lord had bestowed upon him burned. The mark hadn't taken well, raising welts that scraped painfully against even the softest robes. The skin prickled and no amount of salves the house elves gave him had helped soothe the irritation.

No, he didn't want to think about what his new Lord would do to him if he failed. He wondered briefly if it wouldn't be easier to just end his life now. Killing curse aside, he knew of plenty of artifacts in storage beneath the drawing room that would do the job. But his death would have consequences too. Who knew what level of rage his defiance would cause. His aunt had happily told him the gruesome stories of families who had betrayed her Lord's trust. It could end in bloodshed... his mother, father, all the relatives he'd been raised to protect and honor. Wiped out in a bloody smear on his family tapestry.

The room spun slightly. A cold sweat followed his nausea and he felt his stomach heave for the umpteenth time. He'd given up on food after seeing it come back up one too many times in the past few days. The gnawing hunger was gone now, replaced by a leaden knot of dread that wouldn't unravel any time soon.

So he would practice glamour charms until he could successfully hide the mark on his arm and then he would worry about the rest.


Hermione perused the list of ingredients for the third time. She frequently wished she could do magic outside of school. After a few accidental bouts of wordless magic at Hogwarts last year she had resolved to practice wand motions with an empty hand rather than get a warning howler from the ministry as Harry had done only a few years ago. When it came to cooking, however, she was more than happy to do it the muggle way. It was a lot like brewing a potion, but this was something she could enjoy with her parents. While she knew they were proud of her, she couldn't help but wonder what memories and experiences she'd missed by attending school so far from home. The kitchen was her favorite place to be over the summer holidays, helping her parents with dinner as they bantered or talked about the latest technological advances in the world of dentistry.

It was interesting to see her parents work their own sort of magic in the kitchen and she knew they'd have both excelled at potionmaking had they been born into the wizarding world. As much as they treated her academic achievements as though they were some kind of splendid miracle, Hermione knew better. Her parents were humble and kind but they could give any Ravenclaw a run for their money when logic was on the line. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to fool them into believing Hogwarts was truly safe. They loved her and only wanted the best for her, but the news of the Death Eaters attacks had spilled into the nightly news and they were clever enough to make the connection. As much as Hermione argued on behalf of her beloved school, she knew that Dumbledore's presence was the only reason she'd been given permission to return at all.

The decision was far from final, however, and she found herself worrying more and more over the coming weeks as the attacks on the muggle world reached every television program in the country by way of natural disasters and freakish architectural failures.

So she helped her parents in the kitchen and tried to muddle through, longing for the day she'd come of age and be able to actually do something to protect them... and convince them that she was strong enough to survive.

In her own mind, despite what she told her parents, she was scared. Well, who wouldn't be? The most feared wizard in history was back and his gang of homicidal maniacs were targeting families just like hers. Anyone with half a brain would be terrified, and her brain happened to be plenty more active than the average sixth year mind. She'd pulled every carefully alphabetized book off the shelves in her room as soon as she'd returned home and they now sat arranged by usefulness, their well-worn spines marked with simple muggle tags to indicate which would be best for defense, for healing potions, for destructive magics. She only hoped it was an unnecessary precaution.

She'd be leaving for the Burrow in a week's time and Godric help her, she was nervous about that too. She loved the Weasleys dearly but they were a target just as much as she was. They had wards and protection, but being around them reminded her of the time spent at Grimmauld Place last summer and the meetings she and her friends weren't yet allowed to attend. The Order of the Phoenix wasn't directly supported by the ministry. That was no shock when Fudge was too busy hiding his head in the sand to do anything worthwhile, but if anything happened to the Weasleys while the ministry looked the other way, she didn't know if she'd be able to bear it.

And then there was the matter of her friends. Ginny was always good company now that she'd gotten over her awkwardness around Harry. In fact, the girl had more fire in her than most witches she'd ever met. It was a Weasley trait. They'd become friends easily once Ginny realized Hermione felt nothing but sisterly love for the boy who lived. But Ron was another matter. Ron could twist her emotions around and around like a whisk as easily as smiling at her and then make her want to hit him over the head a second later. He was as infuriating as he was irresistible.

"All boys are like that given half the chance, Mione," Ginny had told her last year with a roll of her eyes. "I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to kill Harry myself for some of the things he's come out with. It's just that Ron is thick as pig shit when it comes to his own emotions. He'll come around."

But the thought of Ron waking up and smelling the coffee didn't seem very promising, given everything else they had to worry about now. So she pushed aside the thought and resolved to keep the butterflies to a minimum.