A/N: It took me several days to decide just how the plot was going to unfold, but this chapter is finally done. Several changes from canon are afoot and I think you're going to like them!


Sunset Whispers: I'm enjoying the development of Luna and Draco's friendship. I think her devotion to him is genuine, but being close to him is also a practical decision. If you could get on the good side of the Malfoys without becoming a dark witch yourself, you'd take that opportunity, wouldn't you? I'm not saying this is all a Machiavellian plot by Luna, but she certainly knows how to choose her friends.

Bartholomew Black: I liked writing Chapter 6 as much as you liked reading it, even though it didn't advance the plot very much. This one will! Time passes, relationships solidify, the relevance of Draco's nightmares will become clearer, we will finally meet Luna's father, and as for Lucius ... well, he'll still be terrified, but he brings a lot of this stuff on himself. Let's see if Draco can pull his butt out of the fire!

guest#3 (ch. 6): Thank you so much. For an anonymous reviewer you gave great feedback. I imagine that in Slytherin you have to learn fast, or better yet, think ahead. I wonder just how far ahead Luna was thinking on the day she met Draco. ;)


VII: Among Thieves

Draco's friendship with Luna did not go unnoticed in his house. Pansy and Blaise thought it was a riot and supported them wholeheartedly while Theodore despised Luna and drifted further away as the days went on; his Quidditch teammates welcomed her with open arms while Daphne and Sophie were put off by her idiosyncrasies; Gemma was encouraging while Selwyn was cold and seemingly indifferent. Other boys teased him at first about his "girlfriend" but he simply ignored them or threatened them with the nargles, which worked surprisingly well. The disappearance of his shoes, Perry Derrick's lucky green socks, and Bridget Holness' stash of cauldron cakes had many of his housemates looking over their shoulders. The Carrows and some of the other girls took to wearing enchanted cork necklaces beneath their robes, generously made by Luna—for a fee, of course. Draco suspected the girl was the cause of the very problem she was charging them money to solve, but she would never admit it and he wasn't bothered enough to force the issue. If anything he was proud of her ingenuity; it was the reason he'd approached her about stealing Ginny Weasley's diary.

Ahh, the diary. His plan seemed so simple at first, but two unexpected complications delayed any action on his part, requiring a series of excuses to be fed to his increasingly anxious father.

The first was Luna's lack of enthusiasm. Apparently she was closer with Ginny than Draco thought. When he revealed that her childhood friend's most cherished possession was their quarry, she had a sudden case of the wrackspurts and stopped paying attention to him. He continued to broach the subject now and again, when they had to run off some Gryffindors who were hexing Frye or when she woke him from one of his more horrible nightmares. She responded with a sudden change of subject or a cold stare. She stonewalled him in this manner for a week, changing her mind only when Draco squeezed enough information out of Lucius to infer that this book was potentially dangerous.

The second complication stemmed from Ginny being practically Epoximised to the dratted thing. It never left her side, as Luna learned through the grapevine; requests for information originated with Draco and were carefully passed on to her, then to Frye, then his friend Colin Creevey and finally nosy little Vicky Frobisher, who gossiped as naturally as she breathed and was therefore a valuable source. Ginny hid the thing beneath her robes all day long, bringing it out only in her dorm room or during a lull in class. As Luna discovered when she sat behind Ginny in Defence, her handwriting was small and gnarled like barbed wire, making it difficult to read from any distance. It didn't help that she turned the pages so rapidly, or ... in Luna's words the writing simply "went blanky-bye" but that was ridiculous, Draco thought. So was her insistence that Ginny was seeing something invisible to everyone else, when she looked at that blank page and her coarse Weasley face lit up as though she'd just received a Christmas present. (Assuming the Weasleys could even afford to buy their children Christmas presents. Draco took them for incurable re-gifters.)

"I have never known Ginny to spend so much time writing," Luna told him once. "It's practising spells she loves, and flying in her spare time. It's plain that something about this book has changed her. The other day in the corridor, I spied her hugging it to her chest as if it were a baby."

She and Draco waited in vain for a chance to snatch Ginny's "baby" from its cradle. September faded into October and a fearful chill descended on the campus. Heavy rain buffeted the castle for days. Luna's connections led to her being largely accepted by her housemates, and while Snape still disliked her he no longer handed down superfluous punishments. Draco and Millicent braved their Quidditch practises through bone-chilling wind and fields of mud, honing their teamwork and timing even as they cursed the rotten weather. Fortunately all the Slytherins were well versed in warming charms, and the dungeons were warded to keep out rising damp. Colds were going around; Blaise was hit especially hard, and as he preferred natural healing he stayed bedridden and hoarse for days. Regular visits from Theodore and Pansy seemed to cheer him, as did the newest issue of The Quibbler, which reported a minor meteorite impact near the island of Azkaban and concluded that the prison was now overrun with "moon frogs."

It was around this time that fate took a hand. Gemma, unlike her fellow prefects, was never too busy to spend time with younger students. She even took steps to groom those she saw as potential successors. Draco was thrilled when she approached him one chilly autumn day and asked for a little help patrolling the corridors after lights out. He jumped at the chance, eager to prove himself and put off his daily nightmare for a while longer.

As it was a Friday, there were quite a few stragglers to deal with around Hogwarts. Cormac McLaggen, an obnoxious and egotistical Gryffindor who was disliked even by his own house, had started a loud and profane insult war with young Andrew Kirke on the astronomy tower stairway; Gemma took five points from the lions for breaking curfew and another five for obscenity. They caught Ravenclaw prefect Penelope Clearwater wandering down the third floor corridor with a ditzy smile and slightly dissheveled hair, probably fresh off a romantic encounter with Percy Weasley; Draco nearly gagged at the thought. Some girls had no taste. Gemma tersely suggested that the bint return to her duties, and she nodded vaguely.

Their greatest catch, at least in Draco's estimation, was Hermione Granger. Only a true swot would be coming back late from the library on a Friday night. She froze the moment she saw them, guilt and dread written all over her face.

"Well now," Gemma announced. "What have we here?"

"I ... I was just heading back to my common room," the girl stammered. "I don't want any trouble."

Draco gave her his nastiest smirk. "Then you should have started thirty minutes earlier, shouldn't you?"

"You're not the prefect here, Malfoy!" the muggleborn said bossily. "Section Four, Clause Nine Point Three of the Hogwarts rule book expressly forbids prefects to deputise other students or delegate their responsibilities!"

"But there's certainly no rule stating we can't seek informal assistance or advice, is there, Granger? And seeing as my chosen assistant is in your year ... " Gemma turned to Draco and thumped him gently on the shoulder. "Any ideas, Malfoy?"

Draco considered his options. It wasn't carte blanche, but he could do something with this. He was tempted to suggest twenty points from Gryffindor (ten for lateness and ten for substandard lineage), but how often did he get a chance to talk to the mudblood without Potter and Weasley around? Opportunism trumped resentment for the moment, and he quickly took her aside.

"I've seen you reading our newsletter," he whispered.

"What about it?" she huffed. "Maybe I find it interesting."

He leaned closer to her. Strange ... Theodore's father had told him mudbloods were ugly and foul-smelling, with skin as coarse as old leather. Granger smelled like cinnamon-scented soap and old books, and her complexion looked fine. She wasn't that hard on the eyes either, he supposed. He would have to tell Blaise about it.

"Just an observation, Granger. It's good that you're taking interest in your superiors. Learn to show the proper respect for us and we might even get along."

"Why should I respect people who constantly insult me?"

Draco put a mocking finger to his chin. "Why, indeed? Could it be that we have something you want? Something you need, if you're going to have any chance of succeeding in this world? Something called knowledge? There are things we know that you'll never learn in class, Granger, no matter how closely you pay attention or how many little hearts you draw around Lockhart's notes ... "

"That is none of your business!" she cried.

" ... And I can tell you quite a few of them," he continued as though she hadn't spoken. "Eventually. For now let's see if you've sense enough to get yourself out of trouble ... though I realise that's asking a lot of a Gryffindor. I need you to research something, a snake. Huge, green, thirty or forty feet long with yellow eyes. I've heard such a thing may actually exist, and I'm ... curious. Look into it for me over the weekend and I'll call off Farley here."

Granger was already searching her vast memory for such a creature. She must have come up empty, because she scowled a little harder and became suspicious. "Why should I trust you?"

"I don't see that you have a choice in the matter. I could easily talk her into taking points, even feeding you to McGonagall if I tell her you offended me. So, do we have a deal?"

She grit her teeth and nodded slowly. "Fine."

"'Fine' won't do at all. You'll say 'thank you, Lord Malfoy'. Yes, I think that'll do nicely."

"No."

"Oh, my. I think you just offended me. And to think you could have got off scot-free just by doing some research and showing a little respect ... but, if that's the way you want it. Tell me, with McGonagall cracking down on lateness, where do you think you'll end up serving your detention? Snape's dungeon? The Black Lake? The Forbidden Forest? I'd tell you what I've seen in the depths of those places ... but it would probably haunt your nightmares."

Granger was seething. For a moment it seemed as though she would never relent, but fear and intellectual curiosity must have tilted the balance toward reason.

"Thank you," she ground out in an acid whisper. "Lord Malfoy."

A small tingle of pleasure shot up Draco's spine. That felt good.

"I knew you were smart." He nodded and sauntered triumphantly back to Gemma. "Prefect, ma'am? Granger here has explained the situation to my satisfaction. Perhaps, just this once, we could let her off with a warning."

The prefect looked startled, but agreeable. "I see. Well, considering her academic record ... I suppose that's fine. Run along then, Granger."

With one more hateful glance at Draco, she scurried off.

"You surprised me," Gemma said as they walked along the first floor corridor. "Are you sure you despise that girl as much as you say?"

"Of course I do," he said sourly. "She's a jumped-up mudblood."

"She may be jumped-up but she's done a rather good job of staying in the air, don't you think? And you've a lot more to learn about being a model Slytherin if you're still using that word in polite company. Remember what Snape said about keeping a civil tongue in your head. Got it?"

Draco grumbled an apology and the trip continued in silence. The corridors were empty now, and he rather hoped they were finished so he could get some sleep. Sure enough, Gemma halted momentarily and pointed in the direction of the dungeons, writing a permission slip for him as she talked.

"You were a big help tonight, Malfoy. Thank you. Go on back to the dungeons and get some shut-eye; I just have to go check on something."

"You mean you're going to meet Selwyn, right?" he sniggered, taking the note. "Don't know what you see in him. How do you carry on a romance with a bloke who never gets out of the prefects' bath? Well, I can think of a few ways, but—"

Gemma shook her head and smiled. "Get the hell out of here, Malfoy."

"If you want him to fall in love with you, just buy him some new deodorising soap," Draco called after her as she left. "He's probably gone through all fifty of the bars he brought from home!"

"I said sod off, you little rodent!" She playfully pointed her wand at him, then jogged around a corner and was gone.

Draco walked the opposite way and strolled leisurely across the empty Great Hall with his note in hand. She was all right, old Farley; rather like a big sister. He would miss having her around when she graduated in the spring. He was headed in the direction of the dungeons at a good clip when a very faint noise stopped him short. It was a distinctive whine coming from another corridor, one that was all too familiar since he'd begun spying on the girl who produced it.

Ginny Weasley.

His heartbeat quickened. He followed the voice, creeping through the hallways as quietly as possible. As it became more distinct he could tell she was arguing with someone.

" ... Not mum and dad, so I don't need you hovering over me! I've told you over and over again, I'm not sick!"

Another voice responded louder, pompous and overbearing. "Now Ginny, that's quite enough. You look peaked and downright exhausted. Just take one of Madam Pomfrey's pepper-ups and get some rest so I can stop worrying about you!"

"If I take it, will you leave me alone?!"

"Yes! Now come along!"

Draco recognised the boy's voice now. It was Percy Weasley, one of her brothers and the most unpopular prefect at Hogwarts. How rude of him, dragging his little sister out of their common room at night ... and how fortuitous. Draco stayed just out of sight as the two of them bickered all the way to the hospital wing. The lights were turned down due to the lateness of the hour, and it wasn't hard to slip in there after them and hide behind one of the unoccupied beds.

Madam Pomfrey bustled out of her office seconds later, fussing at the two Weasels to keep their voices down lest they disturb the patients. Another brief squabble between the three of them ended with the prat getting thrown out and some gentle chiding from Pomfrey.

"I promise it won't hurt at all, dear. Your brother just wants the best for you, you know, and you look like you need the rest. One pepper-up with a nice sedative, and you'll be right as rain. Wait here and I'll be right back."

Draco peeked out from behind the curtain as the nurse returned to her office. Ginny sat on one of the beds opposite him, looking pale and drawn. She fumbled inside her school robe and took out the diary, angrily scrawling something inside and then smiling as though she'd just gotten a reassuring answer. Bustling footsteps indicated Pomfrey was already on her way back, and Ginny quickly stuffed the book under her pillow.

"Here we are, Miss Weasley ... it's nice and hot of course ... take this and you'll feel much better in the morning."

She drank it in sips, further taxing Draco's endurance by whining about how spicy it was.

Only for you, father, he thought with a wince.

Finally the precious little weasel princess was finished with her potion and lay back on the cot with a sigh. Steam rose from her collar, her face, and even up through her wild red hair, which was sure to continue for at least twelve hours. Madam Pomfrey bustled about the wing for a while longer as her newest patient drifted off, but eventually she went back to her office.

Draco waited. Then, when the chamber was silent and Ginny's breathing became slow and steady, he slipped out from behind the empty bed and approached. Only a few other students were present tonight, also asleep; he knew one of them as Marietta Something-Or-Other, a dingbat from Ravenclaw with a shock of strawberry-blonde hair. It was no wonder she'd rubbed somebody the wrong way and ended up here. The third-year looked like a different person when unconscious. She really should stay that way.

With another furtive look around he advanced to Ginny's bedside. Despite the sedative, she was tossing a bit in her sleep. How typical of a Weasley; people who couldn't calm down and sit still could hardly be expected to take a good look at the world around them and appreciate their heritage. It was sad, really. Between her parents' delusions and her own fantasies of Saint Potter, it wasn't her fault she didn't realise her own potential. At what time did people stop being children and become truly accountable for their actions? In Draco's case, hopefully not tonight, because he was not relishing this task as much as he'd anticipated.

Ginny turned again, and he oh so delicately reached beneath her pillow. The book was there; his fingers closed around it ...

The girl twitched, shifted again, and Draco swallowed down a groan of fear. She was lying on his hand.

Move, damn you. Move!

His ears picked up the ominous sound of bustling in the immediate vicinity.

Oh no. Not now. Not Pomfrey—

She was humming an unfamiliar tune as she walked in on him. "Hmmm, mmm-mm mm-hmmm ... to rid the disease ... "

He was doomed.

Then Ginny reacted to the noise, rolling fitfully to the other side of the mattress. His hand was free. Dizzy with tension, he pulled the diary from beneath the pillow and cowered under the bed, praying that the dark and Pomfrey's exhaustion would keep her from discovering him.

The woman hummed on, going from one bed to the next and checking on all her patients. Her footsteps receded again, and Draco breathed out slowly. That had been far too close.

He thought back to his curiosity about the Hand of Glory in Borgin's shop. I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or plunderer, Borgin, his father said in that proud drawl Draco had inherited—and yet it was tonight, as a common crook, that he'd served the man best. It made him feel oddly empty and small. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes as he ducked out of the hospital wing and raced back to the dungeons. He met no one along the way. He gasped out this week's password at the entrance ("boomslang") and rushed into the common room hoping Luna would be there.

She was. A few other students were still hanging around, so he calmly went to the couch in the corner (their couch, now) and collapsed beside her, exhausted.

"I got the book," he whispered, opening the inner pocket of his robe to show her.

She didn't ask how. "You're not happy about it."

"No."

"It bothers you more than me," she mused after a moment. "I didn't expect that."

He just growled and fluffed his pillow.

Neither did I.


Another night, another dream ... another lovely jaunt through watery darkness with an apex predator. It had become quite predictable; while the fear was always there, its edge was wearing down. It penetrated his facade but no longer reached his heart. As a result, the inevitable demise did not always end the dream. Sometimes he remained on the floor, immobile but watching through the victim's eyes as the snake gloried in its victory, but that was the only variation.

Until now. This time, the snake loomed in front of him ... and did nothing. It was gazing fixedly to the side.

"What's going on?" he asked. It was his voice. He was himself, this time. "Why aren't you killing me? Finally got tired of it, did you?"

"She is being stubborn."

Draco surveyed the shadowed, dripping chamber. He saw no one.

"She is extremely difficult to tame. But then, that's just what her kind are bred for: pure savagery. Which makes them excellent weapons, if you can harness one ... and I shall, eventually. Then the hunt will begin. And no mudblooded barbarians will be spared. Their taint, their treachery ... gone forever."

He wasn't certain how to respond to that, so he remained silent. Killing all mudbloods? Wasn't that a tad extreme? Sure, they were wicked annoying, and it was a rather intriguing notion; the kind he tossed around with Vincent and Gregory all the time. But in reality ...

"Does that not please you?" the voice insisted.

"Perhaps you should be asking her that question," he evaded, indicating the sullen reptile before him. "Have you a name, sister snake?"

She lashed her tail in lazy acknowledgement; even that was enough to make the stones vibrate. Her voice—she had a voice—was cold enough to extinguish a heliopath. I wasss never given one. Sssister ... will do.

"A shame. I had hope for you when you didn't block out the dreams. But you're a coward after all, I see," the other voice said in disgust. It sounded quite young, not much older than he was.

He bristled. "Says the one who won't even show himself."

"Enough. Look at him and end the dream. He is not worthy of being in the Heir's presence!"

This was an order to the snake. She cowered and hissed mutinously.

Keeping his eyes on the floor, Draco walked up and touched her scales. When a gruesome end did not immediately follow, he spoke kindly to her.

"That a girl, Sister. Don't give in to him. Just between you and me, I think he's a right wanker."

A quavering hiss. She was laughing again, and this time he laughed with her. Then the rasps of her tongue began to form more words. Oh, that he isss, Dream Sssspeaker. That he isss.

"How dare you?!" the voice shrieked. "Begone!"

A livid face, brown-haired, handsome, with a glint of red about the eyes. Then darkness.

He woke up to an empty common room and a warm blanket draped across his legs. On the sofa nearby was Luna's necklace, something she wouldn't ordinarily leave behind. I am nearby, it said. I will be back. She might have been sleepwalking, which was common (and eerily indistinguishable from how she moved while awake), or simply using the lavatory.

Draco relaxed. He got up slowly to answer his own call of nature, and stepped over something hard and smooth.

His shoes. His best black dress shoes, the ones that had disappeared on the train. He knew he shouldn't feel grateful to her; that was manipulation, taking something and keeping it so long that it seemed like a favor when you finally returned it. Or was it her perverse way of trying to soothe his guilty conscience? Hard to say.

He put the shoes on and went to the bathroom. When he returned, Luna was back and already fast asleep on the couch. He reoccupied his favorite place slowly, so as not to wake her.

He couldn't fathom what went on in her mind, and maybe that was for the best. One thing was certain: he was glad she was on his side.


"Luna," he said breathlessly several hours later, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her from sleep. "Luna!"

She squinted and took hold of his wrists, short fingernails digging reproachfully into his flesh. The girl had a remarkable ability to convey different emotions without letting them show on her face or in her voice; he'd learned it was mainly in her body language. When she tilted her head back and cut her eyes at him, like now, it meant she was upset. "That's not how you should wake a lady, Draco Malfoy."

"But the diary—"

"We'll speak of nothing 'til you apologise."

"But I was only ... you don't understand ... life and death ... cats and dogs ... mass hysteria ... grrrrrrr!" he paced angrily back and forth and stamped his foot. "All right, all right. I apologise!"

She straightened her head to indicate forgiveness. "I accept. Now you may explain."

"The diary!" Draco hissed. He didn't want to make a scene as it was Saturday morning and the common room was rather crowded, but he was on the verge of nuclear meltdown. "It's gone! I just woke up and checked my pocket, and ... "

"I see." She got to her feet and brushed off her puffy nightgown.

"Who could have done it? What are we going to do? I never even got a good look inside it! I was going to send it back to father first thing this morning, and now—"

She squeezed his wrists to steady him. "Be calm, Malfoy. Remember what Flint told you. 'Flying around in a panic will do nothing to help us win and everything to encourage our opponents.' He was whacking you on the back of the neck with a broom handle when he said it, but I won't do that. Unless you want me to."

Draco struggled to relax and look casual. "This isn't a bloody Quidditch game."

"But we have an opponent all the same," she said lightly. "Someone in Slytherin, as no others could have entered our common room. Someone who dared to steal from one of the most powerful magical families in Britain."

"Someone other than you, you mean," he said carefully. Hope flickered. Maybe she had taken it just for a laugh! Maybe ...

"That was the nargles, remember?"

"Right. The nargles."

"I'm afraid I do not have the book. Best not to discuss it here, or where any other students might hear us. We should get dressed and meet in the kitchens."

His face twisted in disgust. "The kitchens! Now you listen to me, Luna. There is no way a Malfoy is going to take his breakfast in a loud, filthy kitchen with lowly house-elves!"


"Sugar?" she asked him.

He nodded with a faint groan.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Luna said, levitating the sugar bowl over to them. It was a charm she struggled with in class, but now that the pressure was off she performed it with aplomb.

They sat at the end of a rough wooden table. It was quite long and could easily seat thirty more people, provided they had no standards. Ginny and her brood would have been right at home; in fact he wouldn't be surprised if they booked the place for their next family reunion. Candles provided an intimate and flickering light, flames jumped merrily in the huge wall fireplace, and a few dozen house-elves scurried busily about the other side of the room. They labored tirelessly over stoves and ovens and sinks, ducking and jumping over each other as they apparated hot heaping platters of food to the Great Hall where Ginny Weasley was conspicuously absent.

If nothing else, the kitchen was warm and they were unlikely to be disturbed. Luna was easily the most colourful thing in the room; as it was the weekend she wore what for her was a casual outfit of blue and fuchsia paisley-print slacks, loud pink woolen robe with red stripes, red trainers with some special material that shone like aluminum foil, and of course her typical radish earrings and cork necklace. Draco morosely took a sip of his tea. To his surprise, Luna had learned enough about pure-blood etiquette to know she should prepare it for him. Who had taught her so well? Pansy and Morag, most likely.

"Now then, about the diary," he said, taking one of his notebooks from his expensive black satchel marked with the Malfoy family crest. "I suppose the first thing to do is draw up a list of suspects. Who should we start with?"

"Me, of course."

He looked at her inquiringly. "But you just said ... "

"I know what I said, but it stands to reason. I had the perfect chance last night. Besides, I never liked the idea of stealing Ginny's diary and as you haven't searched my belongings yet, all you have is my word that I didn't take it just to give back to her."

Uneasily, he wrote #1: Luna. "Not that I'm going to, but would you have a problem with me searching your, uh ... "

"Not at all, Malfoy. For the record, if I had taken the book, I'd have hidden it in my underwear drawer because it's the last place you would want to search."

Draco's face turned a brilliant shade of cherry tomato. "Right."

"Unless I've had the wrong idea about you for a while now."

"Yes, you do! I mean, no you don't! I mean ... I don't want to look at your knickers!" he cried, burying his face in his hands. "Now can we please move on?"

She laughed heartily. "You're very funny when you get flustered, you know."

"Glad one of us is enjoying it," he replied stiffly.

"I suppose that brings us to our next suspect."

"Who?"

She raised her eyebrows and mimicked his usual smirk.

"Me?! Oh, come now! How could I steal the diary from myself?"

"Not from yourself, but from me, if you take my meaning. Perhaps you didn't like how I reacted when you showed it to me, or you didn't want to share the credit with me when you gave it back to your parents. So you just hid it in your room while I slept, then pretended it had been stolen the next morning. That would be quite the Slytherin thing to do, wouldn't it?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I ... suppose so. Fine. But it wasn't me, really! And I did want to share the credit with you."

"That's nice."

"Search my dorm too if you like. A bit more tea, please." Draco wrote #2: Me, adding the relevant notes underneath, and politely accepted the cup when she had refilled it. "Who's next?"

"Our next suspect should be some other Slytherin with a motive. Why would one of us, besides you or I, want Ginny Weasley's diary?"

"I'm completely foxed on that one," he said wearily. "I never told anyone else I had it, or that my parents wanted it. Someone else might have seen it when I showed it to you in the common room ... "

"True. All of my classmates in first year would have seen Ginny writing in it from time to time."

"Were any of them in the common room when I came in last night?"

"No. It was well past curfew and they had all gone to bed," Luna answered. She was lost in thought for a minute. "The hospital wing. Were there any other Slytherins around when you took the book?"

"No. Besides, all of the patients were sound asleep."

"Was the door to the hospital wing open or closed?"

He felt his heart sink. "I ... I think it was open. Halfway, at least."

"Then anyone who came along could see you take it from under Ginny's pillow and follow you back here, couldn't they? Can you be quite sure there was no one behind you when you returned?"

"No," he admitted. "I was in a hurry."

"And besides you, who were the only snakes cleared to be outside the common room after curfew?"

Draco jumped up from the table. "The prefects! Damn it! But if they thought I was up to no good, why not just talk to me and confiscate the diary? Why wait 'til I was asleep and take it from inside my robe?"

"They are Slytherins, you know."

"Even Slytherins have to go through official channels when they become prefects. Do things by the book, so to speak, or don't do them at all. Taking the cursed thing off my body while I'm asleep is anything but official." Draco shook his head. "Something's not right here, Luna. If it was a prefect, they wanted that diary for more than just disciplinary reasons. Didn't you say there was something strange about it?"

She nodded solemnly. "I did. The words she wrote disappeared. I know you don't believe me, but it's what I saw. And she's been acting rather strange ever since she came to school with it."

Luna took the notebook from him and turned it to a new page, scribbling several rather nice pictures (artistry, Draco predicted, might be in her future) to illustrate how the diary had changed hands.

"Quite a big journey for such a little book. It's now in the hands of a Slytherin prefect ... who took it from you ... who took it from Ginny ... who, in some way, got it from your father."

Draco opened his mouth to argue with her. "Now wait just a minute!"

"It's the only thing that makes sense. He knew exactly what the diary looked like, and he sounded quite afraid of what might happen if you didn't get it back."

"I certainly don't remember seeing that ratty old thing in our manor," he sniffed.

"Does your father make a habit of showing you all of his dark objects?"

Draco gave her a withering look, but he said nothing.

"No, of course not. If your father had it, and he never showed it to you, then maybe it is dangerous in some way. He would want to protect you from things like that."

He drained his teacup and put it back down on the table with an irritated thunk. "That's enough, do you hear? My father would not allow one of his artefacts to fall into the hands of a Weasley! Even if he did, when could such a thing ever have happened? Our families despise each other. We haven't even spoken to them since ... "

Draco trailed off. His mouth went slack for a moment, and his face was even whiter than normal.

Luna refilled his teacup again, waiting patiently.

"Since father and Mr. Weasley got into a fight ... in Diagon Alley—oh, Merlin! He had one of the girl's books that day ... gave it back to her after the ... " Draco paced the floor on the verge of hyperventilation, oblivious to the worried looks he was getting from the house-elves. He snatched the cup and drained it like a shot of firewhisky. "Luna, he couldn't have! A child would know better!"

He rushed over to his bag and whipped out a sheet of parchment, scrawling out a furious letter.

"I must see him and mother at once ... dragging me into an utter disaster ... I'm owed an explanation and I mean to get it!"

Luna rested her chin on her hands as she watched. "You're asking them to meet with you."

"With us, Luna. You remember me saying I wanted to share the credit? Well, perhaps we both can still get something out of this. Here's what we're going to do ... "


The magical world was full of deception.

This must be understood before anything else. Hidden agendas, parlour politics, tall tales accepted as common knowledge; these were the evils among which all wizards and witches must live, upon which "civilization" as they knew it was built. To abandon convenient illusions was to abandon gentility, wealth, and the company of anyone who couldn't stomach opinions different from their own. This last included an alarming majority of pure-bloods and half-bloods and not a few muggleborns—who had occupied a separate but curiously similar world, and emerged from it preaching a great deal more openness and tolerance than they were capable of practising. To many it might seem as though there was no escape from the lies.

But there was a place. Atop a hill at the edge of a rustic village stood a grey stone tower, cylindrical and stout like a great rook, with several windows overlooking green meadows and a babbling stream. It was surrounded by a ramshackle wood fence from which a great number of enchanted trinkets were hung; the surrounding garden, still intact but withered by the autumn chill, boasted a cacophany of plants that lacked both restraint and direction. Through the brush and between two small crab apple trees heavy with mistletoe ("pick your own but watch for nargles," a sign on the gate said helpfully) was the heavy iron-studded front door.

Through this door, past the kitchen and up an iron spiral staircase, was the sitting room of Xenophilius Lovegood. It was festooned with a smack of random furniture and unusual pictures painted by his daughter. But with her away at Hogwarts and no longer needing a place to sit on the premises, the rounded chamber had become essentially a publishing house and print shop all in one. Piles and sheaves of parchment rested on every surface, from tea tables to couch cushions to windowsills. A printing press stood proudly near the wall, ready and waiting to spit out monthly issues of The Quibbler. Last but not least, nearly buried in the labyrinthine mess, was the man himself: a tall and skinny wizard in his forties with piercing and slightly crossed blue eyes. His robes were made from several different materials skillfully but nonsensically sewn together. His preeminent purpose in life, second only to raising his daughter, was to help society discover the truth.

But the truth was an ever-elusive force, undiscriminating and equally dangerous to all. To appreciate truth when it was found, one must first find the beauty in myth. Legend. Anecdota. All of these he dealt in with only a few editorial restraints to confine them, and chief among these was: they must not be lies.

To be printed in his magazine, a story must be something in which the teller sincerely believed. Whether it be Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge amassing a private army of equine fire spirits or the moon frog infestation of Azkaban Prison that was jeopardizing inmate security and had even the dementors stymied, all of the theories he published must be the truth to somebody, pure and unfiltered. To ensure this, Xeno conducted extensive interviews and selected his sources carefully. Let the Daily Prophet spread intentionally misleading bunk, or malicious rumors that people chose to believe in only because they suited their prejudices.

The rejection of intentional untruth was a difficult and seldom taken path. It was a lifestyle he and his late wife had both worked hard to practise and instill in their daughter. To an extent he felt they had succeeded. But at the same time Luna was neither his child nor Pandora's; she was herself. While she resisted artifice in her behavior and her expressions, her mother's grievous demise had forced her to discover her own truth very early in life: one that involved compromise, subterfuge, and a protective shroud of ambiguity. She was an independent and sometimes distant young lady. When Luna felt strongly enough about something to write him a letter, it was a special occasion. For that reason, the bit of parchment he spread out on his desk and read with such eagerness was neither one of his own rough drafts nor someone else's obscure conspiracy theory, but his daughter's request for help.

To Daddy:

I have news. The idle blood of the Malfoys is stirring. They are upset and afraid, including my friend Draco whom I have told you so much about. It's a dark and mysterious business that could embarrass and even ruin them.

I have decided to stop this from happening if I can. If Draco and his family are ruined, there will be what my History Professor Binns calls a power vacuum at the top of magical Britain, and not the kind that muggles use to clean floors. This kind of vacuum will lead to much fighting and confusion and leave our society open to attack by the thing that we both fear. Minister Fudge and his heliopaths will be the least of our worries.

I am biassed. My friendship with Draco has something to do with this decision. Because of him most of my classmates accept me, and he has done some nice things, though he is not always a nice boy. I do not want anything bad to happen to him. You have often said that you wish we had more sources among dark wizards. His family has not been friendly with us in the past but that can change if we help them solve this problem.

I know you did not expect me to be a Slytherin, but you have been as loving and supportive as ever. If you are willing, let me know right away. I will tell you the whole story that I believe to be the truth, if you promise to tell no one else and write nothing of it in the magazine. I also ask that you destroy this message when you are finished reading it, just in case.

I will finish my very serious letter with a pun about snakes because I know how you enjoy them. Here it is.

Ssssssincerely,

Luna

Xeno intended to contemplate this for a few minutes. But time was a seductive and many-fingered thing, pulling his mind in directions unanticipated, and when he looked at the clock again it was near midnight.

Previous experiences had led him to somewhat dislike the Malfoys. Like many traditional pure-blood families they were political and secretive, and their thinking ran along dangerously narrow lines.

But he loved his daughter like the morning sunrise. Even objectively, he found her to be wise beyond her years. If there was something about this boy and his family that Luna found redeemable, then Xeno was willing to hear her out.

He rushed to his desk to write a favourable reply.


It was Sunday afternoon when Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy arrived at Hogwarts.

Casual visits from unenrolled family were rarely permitted. To enter the premises, Lucius used his political clout to cook up a pretence: namely, to recommend his wife as the future History of Magic professor when Binns eventually crossed over. She had, after all, managed to stay awake long enough to earn a N.E.W.T. in the subject during her days as a student.

As expected, Albus Dumbledore had very courteously shot this suggestion down in flames. It was almost as if previous experiences had made him skeptical of dark wizards happening on his doorstop and interviewing for jobs. Of course Lucius' own job on the school's Board of Governors meant there would be nepotism and an outrageous conflict of interest involved, but he liked to think it was his wife's funereal robes and theatrical leer as she promised to "teach these poor misguided children the true history of magic" that really sealed their doom. If failure was inevitable then they might as well fail with style.

On their way out of the castle, he and Narcissa "casually" stopped by the office of Severus Snape, who had no objection to giving them a private conference with Draco—though it was the two people accompanying Draco that sent him fleeing to his bedchamber with a case of severe heartburn.

Draco was cordial and firm. "Mother. Father."

"Son," Lucius replied, eyeing the boy like a black adder that might strike at any moment.

"Darling," Narcissa smiled graciously. "We ... received your last letter."

"Yes," Lucius agreed with forced joviality. "In which, with quite ... startling language, I must say ... you insisted that we find a way to drop in and have a discussion with you face to face. Pertaining to ... er, that is ... "

Draco stared the two of them down with bad intentions. They could almost see his tongue flicking out to taste their unease. "The diary."

"Yes! The diary! An irrelevant trifle, really," Lucius assured him. "You said certain complications had arisen that left you rather ... perturbed?"

"As I recall, 'perturbed' was not the word I used," his son said. "I wrote 'outraged and embarrassed,' which I most certainly am. Mother? Suppose you and father explain what you know. Then I'll explain what I know, and we'll talk over what to do."

Narcissa carefully lowered her nonchalant mask and bit her lip gently. "Yes, I think that would be best."

Fifteen minutes of tense conversation later, the three of them stood in mutual shock and apprehension. An artefact that had belonged to an "old friend" of Lucius. Dark magic that his father hoped had worn off. The likelihood that, if the diary were still absorbing words and even writing back, said magic was as potent as ever. The legend of the Chamber of Secrets holding a menace that no one knew the nature of. The risk of a massive political scandal for the Malfoys. The possibility that they had placed the school's entire muggleborn population in mortal danger. The matter of his dreams, which he'd never even told his parents about until now ...

It was a black day for the Malfoy clan, all things considered. And Draco, ever the conniving opportunist, was about to offer his parents a ray of light.

"Mother, father ... now that we're all on the same page, I think it's time I told you the other reason for your visit."

They looked up, instantly suspicious and intrigued.

"The nub is that our family's entire reputation is at stake all because of a cursed diary and its proximity to the daughter of our worst political enemies. Desperate measures may be needed to fix this. Is that more or less accurate?"

"It is," Narcissa admitted.

"With that in mind, wouldn't it be positively fetch," he continued flippantly, "to have a third party who could help us recover this diary and negotiate a bargain between us and the Weasleys if needed?"

"That would be serendipitous," Lucuis agreed, fidgeting with his cane.

Draco went in for the kill. "And with that in mind, you would not object if this third party were somewhat ... unorthodox?"

His parents exchanged very nervous glances.

"Perhaps not," Narcissa said cautiously.

"Splendid. Then allow me to introduce the only ones who can help salvage our reputation: the invaluable anonymous source I mentioned to you, and her highly influential father ... " Draco threw open the door of Snape's storage room where, when last he left them, one tall and one petite figure were gaily rummaging through the professor's potion ingredients.

They were gone. The room was empty.

Draco looked around in consternation. "I ... that is ... they were here just a moment ago ... "

"If this is meant to be some sort of joke, Draco," Lucius began testily, "I'm afraid I don't see the—"

"Hullo," said two dreamy voices in unison.

As the voices came from directly behind the Malfoys, all three of them jumped a foot.

Luna and Xeno stood there with twin congenial smiles and wondering eyes. Draco had convinced them to dress conservatively in dark robes, but nothing could suppress the aura of distinct dottiness exuded by both father and daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy regarded them with befuddlement. Draco glanced fearfully between the two parties as the silence grew oppressive. Someone had to break the ice, so it was just as well that Luna reached into her bag and generously produced several copies of a certain colourfully illustrated periodical.

"We're glad to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy," Luna said with a perfectly executed pure-blood curtsy, and offered them one of the magazines. "Quibbler?"