Thanks to my lovely reviewers: I raise a goblet of pumpkin juice to you.

By the way, this will probably end up Draco/Daphne.

"My Lord?"

Snape stood in the doorway of the Dark Lord's chambers, his shadow a black mass on the dark wooden floorboards. The sleeping Nagini was coiled on the ashes in the fireplace.

The Dark Lord did not turn from the window. The moon was not present over Grimmauld place that night, and with no lanterns lit in the room, Snape's vision was nearly absent.

"Severus . . . you've finally come to visit me . . ."

Snape's blood ran cold at the whispery voice of his "master". Dumbledore was not lying . . . something was horribly wrong. The Potions Master could no longer see the outline of the Dark Lord at the window, but he didn't dare cast the Lumos Charm.

"A faithful servant always returns to his master," Snape answered coolly. He desperately wished he could see where the most dangerous wizard was in the room ahead of him. It was how the ancient heroes he'd read about in his Hogwarts years must have felt, entering the cave of a terrible monster with wand sheathed. The only difference, he thought scathingly, is that I am no hero.

There was a snap, and silver flames sprang to life in the hearth. Nagini, undisturbed, hissed and took refuge under the black-draped bed. The new light source was enough to throw the outlines of everything in the chamber into sharp relief without actually revealing anything at all. Snape could now make out the Dark Lord's profile, though his features were lost, like a child running a hand over the surface of a lake. Nothing was distinct.

The whispering voice replied, "Do you believe in Hell, Severus?"

Snape's eyes widened. He'd never heard the Dark Lord speak of the afterlife, simply because Tom Riddle, Jr., had assured himself that he was immortal. It was what he coveted most.

"I do not, my Lord," said Snape through his teeth. "I believe there is nothing left for us when we pass on . . . not even . . . for the purest of souls . . . ." He swallowed thickly and waited for his Lord's answer.

"Really? Curious." The Dark Lord sat himself on a regal old chair. "Not even for her? Your precious Lily?"

"That Mudblood? She was merely a fling, my Lord." Snape curled his hands into vice-tight fists.

"Of course. A noble wizard like yourself could never dirty your hands with that . . . filth . . . ." He gasped for breath suddenly, overcome by some pain. Then he continued. "Why have you come, Severus?"

"The Order of the Phoenix reconvened in the castle earlier this evening," said Snape. "They suspect something is afoot. Are they wrong in doing so?"

There were several beats of silence. "You do not believe in Hell? Nor Heaven?"

"No, my Lord." Snape's palms were clammy. The insistence regarding the otherworld began to worry him.

"Angels and demons mean nothing to you?" When he shook his head no, the Dark Lord went on, "What of . . . something in between?"

"I . . . I do not follow, my Lord."

"Of course, of course . . ." The Dark Lord's mannerisms became more agitated; he stood from the chair and paced the floor. "Please, understand! Angels of Heaven, angels of Hell, mortal men, yes? But . . . if these beings were combined somehow, what would happen? Tell me, Severus!"

The Potions Master's black eyes widened. He was frightened by the turn of the conversation. "I know nothing of these things, my Lord. I am not religious ―"

"LOOK AT MY FACE!" the Dark Lord roared. The silver flames reared, then flared red, finally casting illumination over the room. Severus gasped and stumbled back.

The pale skin of the Dark Lord's body was now running with rivers of veins, purple and pulsing, pushing something darker than blood through him. It was grotesque and inhuman, and Snape felt like he'd taken the opposite of a Pepper-Up Potion, the Squirmy-Stomach Potion, an unpleasant brew he didn't teach to his classes.

The Dark Lord's livid red eyes glowed brightly. "This is what happens, Severus! This is the abomination, the wretched offspring of a demon and a mortal!"

Snape had no words. Nothing could express his disgust, or his horror.

"Don't you see, Severus? I have made ― a grave mistake ―" He screamed in pain and clutched at his heart. "The darkness, Severus! The darkness! You cannot love with this hateful poison inside of you, it is ― not ― done!"

"My Lord!" gasped Severus as the Dark Lord ripped his wand from inside his robes.

"It is her fault!" he screamed. The yew wand's tip shone briefly. "The indecision ― the pain ― I WILL KILL HER!"

The Dark Lord moved as if to charge past Snape, but then his demeanor shifted entirely; the wand slipped from between his pale fingers and dropped to the ground. He fell to his knees, a broken shell of a man, and gripped his scalp. "I cannot, Severus," he moaned. "I cannot harm her . . . ."

Snape shook with fright at the sight of the Dark Lord, not knowing whether or not to flee. The decision was made for him.

"Go, Severus. Go away from this place . . . ."

And Snape did.


Draco Malfoy did not like the feeling inside of him at that moment. The letter from his father was folded neatly and tucked into his perfectly pressed shirt pocket, and the common room was empty at the moment. It was just Draco and the eerie green light of the lake. He read the letter over again, trying to find a solution within its words.

Draco,

Stay at Hogwarts for the holidays this year. I cannot say why in this letter, and I cannot come to visit before that time. The Dark Lord is restless. Say nothing of this, and when you have read this letter, burn it and throw the ashes in the lake.

Your mother is safe. Aunt Bella forced her to go into hiding, though she did not tell us why. I am at the Manor by myself; I go to Grimmauld Place for meetings regularly. Uneasiness is stirring in the Underground.

Keep your head down, and if you see anything suspicious, write me immediately. The war is upon us. They will expect you to join us soon . . . I will not be able to refuse them. I hope that the battle will be over before then.

Your father, Lucius

Draco's face twisted. Something was happening out there, something too important or too dangerous for Father to write down, even with the enchantments placed on the parchment. Or maybe Father didn't even know.

The Dark Lord is restless. What did that mean? Draco had met the Dark Lord only once, at the start of the summer holidays. He had come to Malfoy Manor to congratulate Lucius and Narcissa, welcoming them back to the ranks. Draco remembered the fear he'd felt, merely being in his presence. He hated the feeling.

"And they want me to be like them," he whispered. "A Death Eater."

He groaned in frustration and took off his school robes, his green-and-silver tie, and his blazer. The common room's fluffy black couch greeted him. He stretched his arms across the back of the sofa and leaned his head back, eyes fixed on the low-hanging ceiling.

Draco should have been proud. Should have been honored. Since he was old enough to hear the stories about the glory of the Death Eaters, he'd wanted more than anything to become one. His father had always sighed and ruffled his hair. "You'd have to be a grown wizard, Draco. And besides, Harry Potter vanquished the Dark Lord years ago . . . ."

He'd hated Harry Potter from then on. In his mind, Harry Potter was a little devil-child with wickedly pointed teeth and red eyes. And then he'd met Potter in Madam Malkin's. The boy was normal, more normal than Draco. They'd almost become friends. But then, he hadn't known that boy was Potter.

First impressions stuck, though. Draco's young, naïve mind had decided to befriend Harry Potter, make him see sense. Maybe they could be Death Eaters one day. Potter had blown him off, and Draco had realized the world was a lot colder than he'd thought, and he had to get a little colder to catch up with it. . . .

For four years, he'd made Potter feel his anger. The anger that he might never be the son his father wanted, the proud follower of the Dark Lord. He wanted Potter to know that he'd destroyed the life he'd wanted before he'd had a chance to taste it.

And then he'd seen what Death Eaters were really like. They weren't a club of wise witches and wizards that stood up for Pure-bloods, but a cult that wanted to see all the Muggles and Mudbloods die at their feet. Draco swallowed his doubt and tried to make himself enjoy their company.

But the doubt lingered. It grew in the pit of his stomach, and on nights like this, in the deserted common room, it clawed its way up Draco's spine and settled in his mind. He hated it. He wanted to be what he was before the Dark Lord's return, and at the same time, he thought he'd kill himself if he did.

He folded his hands over his silver-gray eyes and groaned again. Suddenly, the door to one of the dormitories opened. He looked up, expecting Crabbe or Goyle, and saw Daphne Greengrass walk forward tentatively. She was wrapped in an oriental nightgown.

"Draco," she said quietly. "You need to sleep."

"Can't sleep," he mumbled.

She pushed strands of red-blonde hair back and sat next to him with her head on his chest. He wasn't bothered by the close contact. The Greengrass family lived in a manor much like his own, just down the lane. He'd known Daphne for several years before coming to Hogwarts.

"What's wrong?"

Draco rolled his head away from her prying blue eyes and breathed deeply. "My father wrote me."

She frowned. "What's that have to do with it?"

"He said things are bad back home," he answered. "Really bad. Bad enough that he wants me to stay here during the holidays."

"Is it about Him?" she whispered.

He nodded. She patted his knee in understanding. Daphne was well aware of Draco's struggles, and his shame. Her own father was in the circle of Death Eaters, though he didn't expect her to become involved like they did Draco.

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "It was always coming to this. I'm Lucius Malfoy's son ― I was born into this life . . . ."

Daphne sat up and crossed her arms. "You don't have to be like them, if you don't want to. I don't want to, and Father said that's fine."

"It's different. The Dark Lord knows my family, he's met me. He's waiting for me to ask for the Dark Mark."

"Then run away! I don't want you to be one of them, you're not supposed to be a Death Eater!" She felt tears brimming in her eyes, but she blinked them away, because proud, Slytherin girls didn't cry.

His jaw locked. "They'll find me, no matter where I go. My father would spend every dime he had to find me. And I couldn't do that to my mother."

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry it has to be this way, Draco."

"It doesn't." He sat up determinedly. "I'll find a way."

Daphne took that as a dismissal and moved to stand up, but the sight of Draco's face, pale and decided, made her heart hurt. She brushed his cheek with her lips and disappeared up the stairs to the girls' dormitory before he could say anything.

Draco's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. He cupped a hand to the spot where she'd kissed and slowly picked up his discarded garments, drifting up the boys' stairs. His mind whirled. He stayed awake for a while longer that night, thinking about why in the world she had done that, and whether she'd do it again.


Harry grinned broadly as he bounced down the marble staircase, the Firebolt over one shoulder. His spirits were high whenever he headed down to the Quidditch pitch. Wood's techniques were really working, and he was anxious to play Slytherin in a few days. The snakes didn't even know what was coming for them.

The whole team had assembled on the pitch. He carefully avoided Ron's eye and kicked off, enjoying the wind rushing through his hair.

"FRED! GEORGE! Get over here!"

The twins zoomed over to where their captain was hovering. "Dopplebeater Defense. Get in position."

Fred and George grinned and flew off, bats poised. Angelina released the Impedimenta Jinx she'd placed on the Bludger. Harry paused to watch the twins. The Dopplebeater Defense was always a treat to see, and he knew the crowd would go wild over it.

The Bludger roared forward. Fred and George spaced their brooms a few feet and faced it, laughing. The Bludger neared ever closer and when it was feet away, Fred and George swung their bats and slammed them into the leather ball. The force of two bats had an amazing effect. The Bludger rocketed down the pitch and hit a tree in the Forbidden Forest, hard enough that the roots of the tree were unearthed and it leaned over at a forty-five degree angle.

The Gryffindor team cheered. Fred and George raised their bats like kings and began parading around, thanking the team graciously. Harry noticed Hermione walk onto the pitch and sit down in the stands to watch the practice.

Angelina called the team around her. "Alright, alright. The twins are amazing. But this practice isn't over yet. Potter, I want to see that Wronski Feint!"

Harry's face fell. He had managed to master the Plumpton Pass in their third practice, but the Wronski Feint was more of a challenge. He couldn't help it; no matter his natural ability as a flyer, he couldn't shake the horrible feeling in his gut when he shot to the ground. Every time, he backed out of the dive.

He turned the broom handle up and climbed until he was high above the pitch. He prepared for the one-hundred-and-eighty degree drop, breathing deeply. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something shining brightly in the stands.

A surprised laugh escaped his lips when he saw Hermione's poster. A little golden lion was bewitched onto the surface, and it pranced around and roared now and then. In blinking red letters, the poster said,

YOU CAN DO IT, HARRY! SHOW THAT WONKY-FAINT OR WHATEVER IT'S CALLED WHO'S BOSS!

Harry heard the team cheering and laughing below. He smiled and waved to her, then gripped the Firebolt tightly. They believe in you. Just do it.

He threw himself forward and placed all of his weight on the broom. The world blurred as he hit unimaginable speeds, his hair and his robes flapping behind him. They would have been hanging limply if not for the wind force.

The ground came closer and closer, but he didn't budge. Hermione's sign was still blinking in his field of vision. It spurred him on like a war drum. He could now see the short grass of the pitch rippling in his wind, and he felt the unbearable instinct to pull up. The lion on the sign roared again.

Now! Harry left the dive at the very last second. He was so close to smashing into the ground that he felt his heels brush the grass, but he'd survived. The Gryffindor team cheered again.

He laughed in triumph and soared back to them. "Well done, Harry!" Alicia Spinnet yelled.

They all patted him on the back, even Ron. The redhead's awe was enough to put aside his feelings for a moment. "Bloody hell!"

Harry smiled at them all and suddenly, he couldn't wait for the Slytherin-Gryffindor match: not because he knew Gryffindor was a sure-fire win, but because he wanted to pull the Wronski Feint on Malfoy more than anything.


Hermione chose the most secluded corner of the library to continue her research. It was late in the afternoon, and the Gryffindor team (after applauding her for inspiring their Seeker) had hit the showers. She'd slipped away up the drive back to the castle. If what she was trying to accomplish was going to work at all, she needed to invest more time.

Madam Pince had eyed her when Hermione had shown her Professor McGonagall's note. I, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Teacher, grant Miss Granger permission to enter and check out materials from the Restricted Section.

Hermione wasn't offended by the scrutiny. She, along with Harry and Ron, had given every staff member in the school every reason to be suspicious. They were notorious ― after finding the Philosopher's Stone in their first year, brewing Polyjuice Potion in their second year, helping convicts escape in their third year, and the Triwizard Tournament business in their fourth year, she'd be reluctant to give any of the three Gryffindors any tools for mischief such as this as well.

Which makes me wonder . . . what we'll get into this year.

"Only God knows," she murmured to herself as Madam Pince unlocked the gates of the Restricted Section. There were no lanterns or windows in the dim section of the library, forcing her to cast the Lumos Charm.

She walked slowly between the tall shelves with wand aloft. She was expecting something to jump out at her any minute, because the Restricted Section housed horrible books that enjoyed scaring children.

Hermione made it to the Alchemy section without being too frightened (though a mouse scuttling along a shelf had made her jump a foot in the air). Very few books on Alchemy were featured. She took the book Professor McGonagall had recommended (Alchemy: The Artwork) and then kept searching the titles. The Transfiguration professor had warned her that advanced Alchemy was not to be meddled with, and it took many years to master the intermediate Alchemy she was studying now. She ignored the warning.

Under other circumstances, Hermione would have obediently strayed away from more challenging texts. But she saw potential in Alchemy. Very, very few wizards knew anything about it. The Ministry of Magic, some six hundred years ago, had always had a Head Alchemist. Then there'd been a decline in the subject and in her day and age, there were literally no skilled Alchemists on the planet.

That was why she was interested. It was almost a secret weapon, because quite honestly, she doubted Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters knew anything about Alchemy. And if she could possibly manage to ―

She cut herself off. She didn't exactly want to think about that particular idea, the secret she'd been keeping from Harry, because it seemed near impossible. Hermione usually prided herself in believing anything was possible, but this was different. Until she was at least forty percent sure it could work, she wasn't going to mention anything.

Hermione pulled Alchemy: An Artwork and carefully stowed two much, much older tomes in her bag. Madam Pince would never notice they were gone.

So, we got a little look at Hermione's "secret". I liked the Draco and Daphne bit, too. Voldie's being a creeper as usual . . . Poor Snape. Anyway, review! Or I'll sic Snape on you!

Snape: Ten points from Ravenclaw.

(Jerk! Go Smart Kids)