A/N: This story is rated T, and certain things that happen in this chapter will make it a higher 'T' than the others. I'm not going to spoil anything by telling you what to look out for; we're all big kids now. Just be prepared. I even cried a bit writing the newsroom scene later on. We're approaching a major turning point here.
brep: Thank you, brep! I'm glad I could make your finals week easier. My brother and my roommate are going through the same thing. Makes me glad that I'm done with school, at least for the forseeable future.
guest#11/Philkins27 (ch.13): I'm relieved that Chapter 13 was enjoyable for you. It was one of the tougher chapters to write, kind of like trying to squeeze toothpaste out of a frozen tube, and I hate to force my writing. I'm happy to say this one came much more easily to me. There was a particular scene here I dreaded having to write, but when the time came it was surprisingly easy.
HemlockAndy: Ahh, but how do we know Selwyn is the one using the diary? ;) We'll find out, though. Thanks for reading!
Sunset Whispers: Thanks! The main characters are all novices who haven't learned much yet, but I did what I could to make their talent shine through. As for who Selwyn's talking to, that will become clear ... but in the meantime, consider: what kind of person would have the most to gain from directing Selwyn's actions and facilitating the attacks?
Bartholomew Black: Great to see you again! It's taken Draco many steps to reach this point, but I suppose he is now a muggleborn sympathiser. Now we'll see if he has the strength to maintain that stance. As Lulu from Final Fantasy X said: "When weak people are driven, they can't go far before they break ... "
Qinlongfei: I replied to some parts of your outstanding review in a PM, but to highlight a few others: Draco's triumph in the Quidditch game was very cathartic for me as well, because until I wrote that paragraph I hadn't decided whether Slytherin would win! And while Ginevra was not possessed by Tom Riddle, she absorbed quite a bit of his philosophy at an impressionable age. If she discovers the truth about the diary, I can see her responding in ways that not even "Tom" could anticipate.
Chapter XIV: Unclean
Saturday was one of the coldest November days on record, and Snape's wards were wearing down too much to keep out the chill. It was bothersome enough that when Sophie suggested a second-year study session in the library, almost everyone came along just to get out of the common room while Snape redid the warming charms. Things were coming along rather quietly when Theodore Nott, who'd gone about all day with a menacing look in his eye, grabbed Draco by the arm at the shelves and regaled him with more of his brilliant observations.
"I do have to hand it to you, Malfoy. I never took you for a playboy, but you're doing awfully well for yourself this year."
Draco looked at the skinny boy as if lobsters were coming out his ears. "What in blazes are you on about, Theodore?"
"Come on, I'm not blind. All the time you're spending with that trashy Weasley girl, not to mention bringing mudblood Granger into our conference room, not to mention that crazy little blood traitor girlfriend of yours. Who's the next addition to the harem, I wonder?"
"You're rather lucky I don't care what you think, Theodore," Draco said levelly, meeting his eyes. "Because if I did, you'd have a broken jaw right now."
"So you think you can bully me like you do Potter and that pathetic squib Longbottom?" Theodore whispered. "Wrong. Just because you've got a lot of money and both your parents wrapped around your little finger doesn't mean you can do whatever you like in our house. You'll get what's coming to you, Malfoy, just you wait—"
Two huge, meaty hands clamped down on both of Theodore's shoulders. He looked up to see Crabbe and Goyle standing right behind him with highly unpleasant expressions.
"Don't threaten Malfoy, Nott," Goyle said crossly.
"It could be bad for your health," added Crabbe, squeezing the boy's shoulder harder. "What say, Malfoy? Want us to make him squeal?"
Draco smiled as he thought back to the good old days of strolling around with those two at his back. Everybody thought them mindless brutes but they were all right, really; close family friends and very loyal. Goyle wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer but a great cook, and while Crabbe had a mean streak he was mostly a quiet fellow who liked to keep things simple. But compared to Luna, Ginevra, and Hermione, he had to admit they weren't very stimulating company.
"Don't bother. Just a harmless little disagreement, I'm sure," Draco said pleasantly. "But call Hermione that word again, Theodore, and I won't be so lenient next time. Now get back to your seat."
Theodore retreated to the table, sitting as far away from Crabbe and Goyle as he could get. Draco returned to his place between Blaise and Pansy. Blaise looked as tired as he usually did these days, reading and jotting down notes in The Quibbler while nodding occasionally at a small diagram Pansy was drawing in her notebook. She wasn't as good an artist as Luna, so he wasn't quite sure what she was going for.
"What's that supposed to be, Pans?" he asked.
"A diagram of all the pipes in the castle. Well, not all of them of course, but the major ones that we know of. Blaise and I have been looking around—like you told us to, remember?"
Draco blinked. He'd almost forgotten all about that. "Oh, right. What did you find?"
"Well, every so often we've seen a puddle of water outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Not just on Halloween but two more times since, right Blaise?"
Blaise nodded wearily. "And she's dragged me away from the common room to look at it each time."
"Stop whinging. Anyway, I can't imagine it's a coincidence. Myrtle's a ghost and no living person uses that bathroom if they can help it, so who's tracking water in and out? Salazar's monster, I'll wager."
"Doesn't make sense," Blaise disagreed. "If it is the monster, how come no one else has been petrified since Halloween?"
Draco knew exactly why, but he couldn't risk telling anyone else until the whole situation was resolved. "Good question, mate."
"Well, I still think that's it," Pansy said stubbornly. "But I've had Blaise check the bathroom half a dozen times ... "
"And get soaked by Myrtle every time," Blaise added.
" ... And there's nothing hiding in there. So where is the monster hiding?" Pansy gestured to her notebook. "In the plumbing, of course. It explains the water, and why no one's seen it yet. If you could disappear into any pipe, toilet, or faucet you wanted, you'd be almost impossible to catch."
Now that was something Draco hadn't thought of.
Blaise squinted. "Any water source ... sounds like a kelpie. A kelpie could be any puddle of water, couldn't it? Even the ones we were staring at."
"Ugh!" Pansy said, shivering. "You're right! It could've been staring right back at us."
Draco took a closer look at her diagram. She had crudely mapped out the plumbing system on all the floors of the castle, and a larger pipe with a question mark next to it led from the second-floor girl's bathroom to the letters "C.O.S."
"Chamber of Secrets," Pansy smiled proudly, following his eyes.
"I still think you're barmy," Blaise said. "There is no Chamber."
Many of the Slytherins retired soon after dinner, huddling together in the common room and swapping stories. Pansy said she was looking for a muggleborn adjutant of her own, all but declaring her support of Malfoy in the process. She gracefully held court in a corner of the room debating Blaise and Morag about how far blood purity should go. Those who didn't wish to discuss politics occupied themselves with dark rumours of the Scrawl being shut down. Sykes and Grimmett had charmed the entrance to the first-year boys' dorm to throw nasty spells at any non-Slytherin who tried to go in; Frye was drafting a series of letters asking for help and advice. Still other students gossiped about 'Parselmouth Potter' and their house's impressive showing in the Duelling Club. (The next meeting had already been scheduled for the following Thursday; Gilderoy Lockhart had declined to participate.)
Draco was laughing it up with Gemma Farley over mugs of hot cocoa as she went on about how crazy the prefects' meetings were these days; earlier that day Cyril Meakin tried to make teetotaler Sykes taste butterbeer, annoying her so badly she cast a hex at him; it missed and hit poultry enthusiast Damian Perriss, who spent the rest of the meeting squawking like a chicken while Gemma herself did nothing but argue with Grimmett about whether to allow any more muggleborns into the dungeons.
"Poor Richard was about to pull his hair out!" Gemma cried, taking another swig of her beverage that may or may not have been spiked with firewhisky. "We got nothing done, didn't even read last week's minutes. It was shambolic."
"I thought Selwyn already shaved his whole body anyway," Draco sniggered.
Gemma waggled her finger at him. "No comment. Hey! That reminds me, Malfoy. There was one thing the prefects all agreed on, and it was about you!"
He raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "What, I should shave my whole body? Hardly necessary, I assure you."
Gemma burst out laughing, pounding the arm of the sofa a few times. (It was definitely firewhisky.) "No, no! It's like this ... we don't all see eye to eye about what you're doing, you know, but we all like that you're stepping up as a leader. Salazar knows we needed one. We're still leading in house points even after the fifty you lost for that curfew incident, and a lot of that's down to you winning the Quidditch game, making the other little ones crack the books and all ... well, long story short, we agreed I should give you this."
She rooted around in several pockets (including her brassiere, while Draco turned pink and looked the other way) before extracting a crumpled green certificate.
Draco was gobsmacked as he examined it. "What?! Gemma, they never give these out!"
"Hey, I'm not Snape's student assistant for nothing. And the man really wants you to succeed, just doesn't quite know how to say it, does he? Lots of men are like that. But yeah, that's a real permission slip, it is. Now stop working so hard and go relax for an hour!" Gemma laughed again as Malfoy grinned and bolted out of the common room. "Look at him go! Still a kid after all."
"Salazar's beard," Draco said reverently, his voice ringing gently off the walls. "When I take over the Manor from dad, this is the first bloody thing I'm putting in there."
Flint had told him stories of how swell it was in the prefect's bathroom, but no description could do it justice. The cream-coloured stone walls and floor were so smooth and glossy he could see a vague reflection of himself in them; the bathtub itself was sunk into the floor, the size of a small swimming pool with sides of exotic imported tile. Siphons of every variety and shape were arranged along the sides. There was even a diving board at one end, if the prefects were feeling particularly energetic.
A gold chandelier and portrait of a beautiful mermaid on the far wall completed the tableau of elegance. Draco had seen some of the fanciest bathrooms in wizarding Britain firsthand, and none could compare to this. Christmas had come early, at least for an hour, and he intended to use every minute!
He whooped and shed his clothes as he rain, trailing garments all the way to the tub. Turning a faucet at random, he watched with delight as it poured frothy and sweet-smelling water. Despite the size of the bath, it filled with remarkable speed (magic really was a wonderful thing) and he wasted no time jumping in. Warmth surrounded him, and he leaned against the side of the tub with a long sigh. It was indescribable. All his cares floated away with the rising steam and were banished. He could worry later about what had become of the diary, whether the support of the students and the Board of Governors could save the newsletter, how they were going to find the Chamber and enter it without getting killed. This was the most relaxed he had been in weeks.
He wished Luna was here. Well, not at the same time as him, necessarily—but she deserved to enjoy herself this way. The bath at Malfoy Manor would have to suffice, when she finally visited. He supposed he would have to invite Hermione someday, too. Actually his father already had, which utterly confounded him. No muggleborn had crossed the threshold of Malfoy Manor in Draco's lifetime. His parents had a few adjutants before he was born, but sent them away for their own safety when the war broke out. They never returned, and Draco didn't even know their names. He did know the name of his Grandpa Cygnus and Grandma Druella's last adjutant: Edward Tonks. Thereupon hung a tale that he had too much respect for them to ever relate, but it left the Black family's prestige so badly damaged that his other aunt went off her nut and joined the Death Eaters, while his mother had to marry his father right out of school just to salvage her own reputation. It said a lot about her kindness that she supported Draco hiring an adjutant of his own. But he knew that lecture was coming one day, probably soon, and about forty minutes would boil down to four words: don't marry her, son. Which he would never do anyway. Honestly. Adults got such ridiculous ideas in their heads.
He rather wished it were possible to stay twelve forever. And his parents could stay thirty-something, and You-Know-Who could stay a bodiless phantom, and ...
"Nice, isn't it, Malfoy?"
The voice was moderately deep, every syllable resonating with barely controlled zeal. He didn't have to look to know who it was. The blood drained from Draco's face, the warmth of the bath no longer felt. He wanted to duck under the water and hide.
"Yes," he said, trying to sound casual. He was the scion of the richest wizarding family in Britain. He had no reason to fear this boy.
"I've spent many hours in here," Selwyn said behind him, his footsteps echoing gently on the floor as he advanced. "Trying to get clean. Trying to wash away the filth."
Draco's nerves buzzed in silent alarm as he forced himself to turn and face the prefect, who stopped halfway between him and the entrance. "I know, Richard."
"You can't know," the young man said. His eyes had a haunted look to them, one that Draco had seen more than once but never this close up. "Every time you pass them in the halls, every time they speak to you ... their taint, their stench rubs off on you. I thought you, of all people, would understand the need to keep them away. But no. Instead, you bring one of them among us. Soiling our chambers. Corrupting our youth. I can't allow that."
Draco rested his arms on the edge of the bath. "You forget yourself, Richard. Or you forget who my father is."
"Not at all, Malfoy. You'd be hard pressed to find one who respects your family's legacy, our house's legacy more than I. That's why I'm going to do for you what my father did for me." His face twisted into a grotesque mask of hate. He reached into the pocket of his robe and produced a large scrubbing brush. The bristles appeared metallic and extremely stiff. It wasn't at all the sort of thing that should be used on a person. "I'm going to wash her off of you."
He wasn't right, Draco realised now; something was twisted in him, and one might as well be talking to a portrait. His distorted views were framed and preserved long ago. Draco wondered how long it would have taken before the same thing happened to him. But mostly, he thought about real terror. The possessed Quirrell looking straight into his eyes, perhaps recognising him—that was fear, that was the most torturous moment in his life that seemed to go on forever, not what was about to happen to him now—
But he couldn't help it. When Selwyn's hand caught hold of his hair as he sprang into the bath without bothering to disrobe, and the first stripe of hot pain tore across his back, Draco began to scream.
Hermione was in the middle of a hushed conversation with Ginevra in the homey Gryffindor dormitories (Gryffindorms, Andrew Kirke had called them, and the name stuck) about what she'd been up to last night. The younger girl refused to say how she knew Hermione had been in the dungeons with a whole crowd of Slytherins when she was supposed to be studying in the library. Ginevra just seemed to know where everyone was at all times in the castle, including her. Luna mentioned something about a mysterious parchment the night they saved her life, but that only left Hermione with more questions.
"You know I've signed a contract with him," she explained carefully. "And so there are a lot of things I can't tell you. But I will say that Malfoy found a way to surprise me again."
Gathering from her tone that the meeting with all those Slytherins had been positive, Ginevra relaxed. "He does know how to keep a girl on her toes. But how did you ever start working for him? I still can't believe it."
"I can," Hermione said breathlessly, holding up a small green change purse that jingled with galleons. "He gave me all this just for last night! It's more money than I've ever had in my life, at least in the magical world. I had doubts at first—serious doubts—but all of my research supports his story. Muggleborns really do face an uphill battle here unless they apprentice themselves to a landed family and build a reputation."
Ginevra shrugged. "Sure. Didn't you ever wonder how they earned a place in wizardry to begin with? Mum told me one of the first things You-Know-Who wanted to do was outlaw adjutancy. And then dad said adjutancy was an 'outdated practise' that mostly dark wizards used and that's why we never took any, but I think it's really because we haven't got any money. I would hire you myself if I could."
"This is all so new to me! I can't believe Ron never told me. Well, on second thought maybe I can believe it. He thinks the whole pure-blood system Malfoy stands for is monstrous, and so did I until now. Do you know I stayed up all night before our agreement, inserting protective clauses in the contract so he couldn't ... well ... "
"Use you as a slave?" Ginevra finished, smirking.
"Yes! Or worse. But he hasn't tried anything of the sort. It's nothing like I thought it would be."
"Not to mention he saved your life."
She didn't know the half of it, Hermione thought. Draco had done something else that was just as important to her: he had opened her mind. Though she was a proud witch, her intellectual roots lay in the muggle world: a world that told her this must be a bigoted, sexist, and demeaning system, and she was selling herself out to it. And the bigotry was widespread, no question about it; stronger in some Slytherins than others, but the word 'mudblood' and its implications were never far below the surface. The rest of it, however ...
Hermione had kept her senses on high alert for the sexism, and it simply wasn't there. Draco had never treated her differently, touched her improperly, told her she must do this and not that because she was a girl. Her less prestigious status lent her a sort of freedom she had never expected. She had time to ask a few questions herself last night, and thus had learned a good deal about the pure and half-blood girls in Slytherin. Though all were expected to marry and produce heirs, the system didn't rush them into it; they were encouraged to pursue careers and do more or less whatever they wanted. Bullstrode wanted to be a Quidditch player, Parkinson a professional duellist, Greengrass a columnist, Roper a librarian ... most of them had prospects, or at least dreams. And as for being demeaned, if anything the Slytherin heirs and heiresses treated her much better since they learned of her employment. There were no face-to-face insults, no hexes; a few dirty looks but that was all. Some of them actually seemed jealous that Draco had the idea to hire her before they did.
Overall Hermione was forced to come to terms with a situation where she had been wrong, and that wasn't easy. To her, parting with an old opinion was like the aftermath of a romantic break-up; she'd been gloomy and preoccupied throughout the day as she realised how mistaken she had been, allowing her house's bias against Slytherin to cloud her own perception. But talking with Ginevra had lifted her spirits, helped her to make sense of it all.
She was steering the conversation back towards the youngest Weasley and how well she was getting along with Draco when the redhead suddenly sat up on the side of Parvati Patil's bed.
"What is it?"
"My wand," she said curiously. "It sort of jumped in my pocket."
She took it out to see a familiar light shining from the end. Both girls jumped to their feet.
"Is it another attack?" Hermione said, shivering.
"Close your eyes and plug your ears while I find out," Ginevra commanded her.
"Really, Ginevra, I—"
"Do it."
The redhead gave her a look not unlike the one she shot at Draco in Flourish and Blott's, and Hermione quickly obeyed. She could see now why all the other first-years were afraid of this girl, who gloried in Slytherin victories and made friends with homicidal ghosts. Moments later, Ginevra tapped her on the shoulder and tucked something back into her robe. "Selwyn's got Malfoy cornered in the prefect's bath."
"How would Malfoy even get in there? Well, they're both Slytherins anyway. Surely Selwyn wouldn't ... "
Ginevra jumped up. "Only one way to find out. Come on!"
They left through the Tower as inconspicuously as possible, and no sooner were they out of the Fat Lady's earshot than the striking visage of the Bloody Baron came gliding out of the wall on their left side. Hermione yelped and jumped back while Ginevra hardly blinked. "Baron?"
"He is in great danger, Ginevra, and the door has been warded shut behind them. I suggest you get help immediately."
The Gryffindors raced down to the dungeons to find Luna already stepping out from the sliding section of wall that led to the Slytherins' quarters. Her wand glowed lucent behind her left ear and right behind her, pale and shaken, came Gemma Farley.
"Selwyn," Ginevra said, and without another word they all dashed down the corridor.
Draco had stopped struggling. It wasn't doing any good. His strength was nothing next to the prefect's. When he begged, Selwyn ignored him. When he fought back, Selwyn plunged his head under the water. And all the while the brush came again, and again. It seemed endless. His body was a miasma of pain and he just wanted it to end.
"This is hurting me even more than it's hurting you, Malfoy," the mad voice said in his ear. "But it doesn't have to. We can go on just as if this never happened. All you have to do is renounce the mudbloods and traitors you call friends."
"Why?" Malfoy sobbed, turning his back and cringing in the corner of the bath. "So you can kill them?"
Selwyn chuckled sadly. "I don't know whether you're brave or stupid, Malfoy. But don't fret. I can scrub that off, too."
He raised the brush again.
The entire tub gave a sudden, shuddering jolt.
Selwyn nearly lost his footing. Moments later it happened again, then a third time. Some terrible force far beneath them had suddenly stirred and was trying to rend the room asunder. He would have presumed an earthquake, except that Hogwarts was warded against all natural disasters and the school was not located near any fault lines. He fell back against the other end of the bath as tiles throbbed and faucets came loose from the crumbling stone. The water churned around them, and the confusion in his eyes turned to dread as he realised what was happening.
Its gargantuan form surged forth, the elongated head breaching the surface between them. Water poured from its scales as it reared up before Selwyn, and—
Draco reached out with two trembling, bleeding hands and covered her eyes.
She seemed to understand. The great serpent held still, hissing threateningly at the prefect who cowered mere metres away. Her bared fangs glistened with lethal venom and her gaze, if ever the boy dropped his hands, would be death.
The brush fell from Selwyn's hand with a splash. He stood paralyzed against the stone, jagged metal shards from a broken faucet digging into the small of his back.
"There, there, Sister," Draco said soothingly for Selwyn's benefit, as the snake likely couldn't understand a word. He drew himself up, though he was hurt and frightened and hoarse from screaming. "You look as if you recognise her, Richard. I shouldn't wonder. Though she does seem to prefer my company, doesn't she?"
"It can't be," Selwyn whimpered.
Draco sneered. Opportunism, as always, was his salvation. He felt the pain and the trauma fade slightly as the gears in his mind began to turn again, seeing a chance to threaten and manipulate. "Clearly it is. The Malfoys have friends everywhere. I tried to warn you but you didn't listen."
"You ... you're the Heir of Slytherin?"
So even he doesn't know who the Heir is, Draco thought. Dear Merlin. He's setting this thing loose and he doesn't even know who's commanding it?
"Of course I'm not, you bloody lunatic. I'm far more than that. I'm the heir of all pure-blood society. What our legacy was supposed to be, before the biggest lunatic of all came along and mucked things up! That's what I am. And I'm here to clean up the mess you made. Now give me back the diary. I think Sister here is getting agitated."
"P-please. I ... I don't have it anymore."
"I save your life and you repay me with lies?"
Selwyn hid his face in the crook of his arm and reached out, trying to defend himself. "It's true, I swear it! He said it was too dangerous!"
"Then who has it, Richard?"
There was a great pounding on the door, then the muffled sound of someone shouting a password. It didn't open.
Sensing the possibility of discovery, Sister dove back into the water, shrinking until she was small enough to retreat through the drain. So that was how she got around the school so efficiently, Draco realised. Pansy was right. It was the pipes.
Selwyn had the presence of mind to fumble his wand out of his sodden robes. Desperate to cast a healing spell or glamour charm and hide the evidence, he failed to secure his grip well enough and Draco slapped it out of his hand. Selwyn retaliated with a punch that sent him reeling back into the water and rolled out of the bath, crawling frantically after the wand, trying to avoid the ultimate Slytherin sin of getting caught.
Then a low, sinister voice shouted, "Bombarda!"
A terrific explosion sent the door tumbling from its hinges. Head of House Severus Snape strode in flanked by Gemma Farley. Close behind them came Luna, Ginevra, and Hermione who beheld the scene in disbelief: Draco with his skin scraped raw and bleeding, Selwyn staring back at them wide-eyed with his hand on his wand, and the prefect's bath in shambles.
Farley stared at her boyfriend accusingly with tears in her eyes; her throat had closed up, and she couldn't speak.
Snape's eyes were alight with cold fury. "Mr. Selwyn, I would suggest that you drop your wand."
Selwyn had sense enough to calculate his chances of escape. Three furious younger students with their wands drawn, a fellow prefect, and a former Death Eater who knew every dark spell under the moon. He sagged back onto the floor.
"Accio Selwyn's wand," Hermione said, her voice trembling. It jumped from the floor into her hand. He looked at her in helpless revulsion.
The potions master was approaching the bath with an expression that bordered on outright sympathy. Draco looked away from it, snatching his undertunic from the floor and covering himself quickly. He would not show weakness. To Luna perhaps, but to his godfather, his adjutant, and Weasley's little sister ... never.
"Just a little in-house disagreement, Professor," he said mildly, hating how raw and shaky his voice sounded.
What little Snape had seen of the damage was enough to rekindle his anger. "You display an unexpected gift for understatement, Mr. Malfoy. I think it best that your friends escort you to the infirmary while Professor Dumbledore and I deal with Mr. Selwyn."
The rest of the evening went by in a haze. He knew he was in the hospital wing because he smelled healing potions and heard Madam Pomfrey bustling worriedly around his bed. But he lost all sense of time for a while, and the other voices swirling about him were only vaguely familiar. It was nearly pitch dark when he opened his eyes again, feeling warm breath on his neck. It was Luna, lying faithfully beside him on the cot. The curtains were drawn against prying eyes.
He drew his arms about her shoulders and held her close. Draco, she called him now.
He'd spent twelve years learning how to be a Malfoy, and was just now discovering who "Draco" was. A Malfoy did not make reforms, befriend girls, or suffer for his beliefs. "Draco" had done all these things.
Was this what Harry Potter felt when he went gallivanting around on wild goose chases, tromping all over wizarding traditions? That was what made all of Britain so crazy about him: that he sacrificed, that he suffered. And he thought his suffering was so great.
Luna's eyes had opened.
"You are awake," she said. "How do you feel?"
"Better, with you here."
"Madam Pomfrey said you'll have to stay in here for a few days."
"I'm not surprised. How are you?"
"Angry," she said calmly. "I nearly lost control when I drew my wand. But I thought of my father, and I managed. As for the others ... Granger is impressed, and grateful, as well she should be. Ginevra is more upset than I. Dumbledore wanted to question you, do you remember?"
He felt a mild rush of panic. "No."
"You were rather in shock, Snape said. I think Dumbledore wanted to get you alone. Ginevra stood between you and him while Snape told him Slytherins can handle Slytherin affairs. Then Madam Pomfrey threw everyone out except me."
"Thank Herpo for small favors. Dumbledore ... think of the man! What could be so urgent that he wants to poke around in my brain when I'm half off the planet?"
"At first I thought it might be the wrackspurts ganging up on him, owing to his advanced age. Now I think he wants to know what you know, so that he can plan accordingly."
Draco grimaced. "What sort of plan? Something to do with his precious protégé, I'll be bound."
"Not as tightly as they are binding Selwyn tonight, I'm sure."
He chuckled a bit, but stopped with a gasp. It hurt too much. "Luna, all this foolish risk-taking, all these ... different ideas of how things should be. Am I turning into Potter?"
She pushed up on her elbows and looked at him. Her hair fell across his chest and tickled his neck.
"No, Draco. You should never believe that, not for a moment. Harry Potter's thoughts are not his own. He sees what he is told to see rather than what is in front of him, and he makes enemies easily. He would never consider working with someone from his rival house, as we are doing with Ginevra and Granger. You are a pure and proper wizard, and you are taking your own path."
He breathed out slowly and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Luna. I was worried there for a moment."
"If ever you need someone to remind you that you are not Harry Potter," she said playfully, "I shall be here."
"De-wrackspurting kit in hand, I trust."
She held up the painted ear horn in front of him. "Always."
They breathed together until she fell back asleep. Draco looked up at the ceiling.
"I need you," he said in a voice that was less than a whisper. "Don't ever leave me."
Frye walked tentatively into the first-year boys' dorm the next morning and saw most of his fellow reporters waiting at the desk. He was holding their meetings early rather than late since Draco began sleeping in the room. He knew that Luna was using it too, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that. His sharp reporter's eye had witnessed enough moments between those two to know they had a very deep friendship, and he knew better than to do anything that would anger one of the most powerful students in his house.
And, speaking of Draco ... this was going to be a tough issue.
He sat down at his customary place directly behind the desk and got the ball rolling. "Morning, everyone. So what do you lot think? Are we really going to report this?"
"I say no," Nicolas Grimmett said flatly. "It's Sunday morning and we don't have time. Besides, this is a case of two snakes disagreeing over the direction of the house. I do think Selwyn went too far, but crying about it to the other houses won't accomplish anything."
Sykes nodded agreement. "It's not their business, Frye. Snape said we have to present a united front to the rest of the school and I see no reason to change that now."
Daphne, who was in Draco's year and had never really minded muggleborns, sat up in her chair in outrage. "We can't just cover this up! Granger and Weasley saw it! Salazar knows what sort of rumours are floating round Gryffindor already. We have to tell them something before they make up their own version of what happened."
"Greengrass is right," said Terence Higgs. His brown eyes were passionate under a mop of similarly coloured spiky hair. "'Sides, this is way too good a chance to pass up!"
"A chance at what, Terence?" said Sykes.
"Good publicity! 'Malfoy Heir Attacked for Support of Muggleborn Rights.' Talk about a headline that'll knock the school on its ass. We owe it to Malfoy to tell everyone."
Grimmett was unmoved. "We don't owe the little weasel a thing. He took it on his own initiative to bring that girl into our territory and he paid the price. Nobody held a wand to his head."
"Malfoy's father paid for the brooms that helped us beat Gryffindor! His donations fixed up our bathrooms last year! And you have the nerve to say we don't owe him anything?"
"All right, maybe we do, but he doesn't own Slytherin," Sykes said stubbornly.
Terence jumped on her defensive reaction. "His family is the horse that pulls the cart. Even a firstie knows that, right Frye?"
"Besides, the conference room was recognised as neutral ground a long time ago. The other houses rent it out all the time and Nearly Headless Nick threw a party there just last month," said Daphne.
"That's not the point, Greengrass!" Grimmett snapped. "We're talking about letting in a mudblood! In there, and in our common room if Malfoy meant what he said."
Higgs threw up his hands. "So you still believe that after all we saw and heard Friday night, she's just another one of those degenerates?"
"They come in all shapes and sizes, Terence, I'll admit that; but one's as filthy as another in my book. If Malfoy wants to mix with them and spend his holiday hung upside-down by his ankles in his father's cellar, that's his business. I'll have no part of it! Does no one else have any standards in here? Adjutancy was done away with for a reason: because mudbloods are treacherous and can't be trusted, and if you can't see that you're not the Slytherin I thought you were!"
Even Sykes took exception to this. "You-Know-Who did away with adjutancy because it didn't suit his politics, Nic, and that's the only reason."
"You'll call him the Dark Lord, Alex!"
"Enough!" Frye pounded the table with his fist, scattering papers. The rest of the staff obeyed out of shock as much as anything else, for no one had ever seen the normally cheerful boy upset before. "This is my newsletter. That man's time is over and we don't need to talk about him right now. And we shouldn't waste time arguing about who's better and who's worse, either. If I wanted that I'd be in Ravenclaw like my dad. And I know not all muggleborns are bad because I grew up just like them, Grimmett!"
The tall, gaunt prefect looked back at Frye in disbelief. No first-year had spoken to him that way in a long time.
"Now let's all take a long deep breath here, cousins."
There was a pause while everyone regained their composure. The silence was broken by odd hiccuping from Daphne who, when the others looked up, was staring blankly at the desk and gripping her elbows. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"They're just people, Nicolas," she said shakily.
Much of the tension in the room drained away as the other reporters tried to comfort Daphne. Sykes sat next to her and hugged her while Grimmett shuffled his feet on the floor.
"Look, Frye, Greengrass," he said uneasily, "I'm not saying what I'm saying to hurt your feelings. But you're still young, and ... you don't see. These people are dangerous. Of all the security risks in magical Britain they're by far the most dire."
"So we just wipe them out?" Sykes said quietly. "Forget it. Let our parents sit around and wait for another Dark Lord if they want to, but we know too much to go along with that anymore. Muggleborns had a place in our society before the war, and it's time we gave it back to them. If we make their success dependent upon ours, don't you think that makes them less dangerous? Even a little?"
Grimmett bit his lip. "It's ... possible," he said grudgingly.
"I like Granger," Daphne wept into Sykes' chest. "I don't want her to die."
Frye cleared his throat. "All right, people, I can see it will take a while to agree on the muggleborn issue. But it's Sunday morning and I think we need to add something about Malfoy and Selwyn to the paper. Not a full story; we don't have time for that anyway. But I agree with Terence. We can get good publicity out of this without making Slytherin look like ... well ... "
"A house divided?" Terence said glumly.
"Right, that. Just a matter of using the right words and all." Frye scratched the back of his neck and sighed deeply.
He moved next to Sykes, as he often did when writing so that she could advise him or correct his mistakes. But before he could grab a fresh scroll and write a single word, there was a burst of purple sparks and an ominous-looking notice appeared on the inside of the door.
Given the recent controversy and the ongoing Ministry investigation, everyone was afraid to read it. Finally it was Grimmett who shoved back his chair and went to look at the parchment.
"From the Headmaster's office," he said dully. Frye started to stand up, but Grimmett held out his hand. "No, mate, you'd better sit down to hear this. It's an academic censure. They ... they're forbidding us to publish the Scrawl."
Word of the ban, and of Selwyn assaulting Draco, spread quickly at the morning meal. Draco and Luna's absence didn't help the mood. The Slytherin table resembled a funeral reception. For the first time anyone could remember, Head of House Severus Snape sat with the students and took breakfast there rather than eat at the same table as Dumbledore. He said nothing to his charges, except when he asked Farley to pass him the teapot, but they all understood.
With the ever-present psychological divide between Slytherin and everyone else, none of the other houses protested. That didn't stop some of their members, as well as every snake, from signing a petition by Sykes and Grimmett to withdraw the censure. But there was no one with the courage or authority to stand up for Slytherin, because standing up for them would mean standing against the Headmaster. For the first time Snape began to question his isolationist policy. If his house continued to be cowed by its recent history, resentfully cloistering itself away as the students' wealthy parents were doing from the rest of society, one could hardly expect the other houses to identify with the injustice they suffered. And if he knew Albus Dumbledore, which he had for many years, the old man was counting on it.
He also knew it wouldn't be long before he was summoned to answer for his mutinous gesture, and sure enough the note was waiting on his desk when he returned to the dungeons.
The Headmaster was refilling the dish of lemon drops on his ostentatious desk when Snape entered. "Ahh, Severus! Do make yourself comfortable."
Snape remained standing. The old man pretended not to notice. "I must prepare my ingredients for tomorrow's classes, Albus. What do you want of me?"
"Merely to satisfy my curiosity," Dumbledore said, stroking the feathers of his pet phoenix as it trilled and alighted upon his shoulder. "While your house's newsletter has been a most amusing exercise in amateur journalism, I am sure you understand the dangers of scurrilous allegations being spread by overexcited students. I admit I had expected you to bear the news more ... gracefully."
This argument was obviously specious. The rumour mill had always been active at Hogwarts, Scrawl or no Scrawl; his boss had never shown any concern about it until the rumours were about him.
"I was surprised, Headmaster. I had expected you to be far too busy addressing the MLE investigation prompted by the letters to bother with the publication that gave them voice."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Then we surprise each other, Severus. I do wonder how long you've suspected me of harbouring such a vindictive nature."
"I would hardly dare to guess at your nature, Albus. But for my part, I wonder how much longer you expect me to tolerate this treatment of my house. Treatment which I am ashamed to say I was an accomplice to."
"Accomplice," Dumbledore repeated softly. "My dear boy, you make the redressing of the balance here after the war sound criminal."
"We were the finest house at Hogwarts until the war. Until the Dark Lord's fate became a cudgel for certain parties to hold over our heads, with your consent."
"I will not deny that my duty to protect Hogwarts compels me to make decisions that those unused to such responsibility would find morally questionable. However, I dare say that the wizarding world would take just as much interest in your unedited history as mine—in the unfortunate event that both were to come to light."
"You need not remind me, Albus," Snape said with deathly calm, "that I was compelled to choose between Hogwarts and Azkaban. Indeed, I am reminded of it daily."
The Headmaster inclined his head agreeably. "Then I trust that in the future, you will tend to this matter with the discretion I have come to expect from you. If that is all ... "
"You are directly infringing on the liberties of my students," Snape said, risking tremendously by interrupting him. "That was not the agreement we made when I was appointed a professor."
"They are my students, I do assure you." Dumbledore was untroubled as he stroked the phoenix's feathers. "And time advances so much more ruthlessly when one is old ... that my memories of that agreement seem to grow dimmer all the time. Good day, Severus."
Snape practically vibrated as he left the office. Over a decade's worth of blackmail and indentured servitude had robbed him of his independence, perhaps even his spirit, but not his bitterness. That unique quality, which up to now had been channeled in all the wrong directions, drove him to make his next move.
"And when, exactly," Lucius Malfoy snarled, "did Dumbledore plan to tell me of this?"
He stood stock-still before his sitting room fireplace, fists clenched so tightly around his serpent's-head cane that his knuckles were white. His wife placed a delicate hand on his shoulder, to hold herself up as well as calm him down.
"In his own good time, I expect," replied the voice of Severus Snape. The leaping flames looked downright bizarre as magic twisted them into the shape of his face. "Under the circumstances, I thought you should hear it from me. The attack on your son was barbaric and most uncalled for."
"My own flesh and blood assaulted, abused." Lucius was wild-eyed, every breath seething with ill intent. The regression from cultured politician to bloodthirsty Death Eater did not occur often, but when his son was threatened all bets were off. "This is how Albus Dumbledore protects his students? When I am through with him, he'll be mopping the floors of Hogwarts with his own beard!"
"We've no quarrel with the Selwyns!" Narcissa cried, her face ashen. "We just saw them at the Midsummer's Ball. How could their boy do this to Draco?"
Snape answered with the slightest moment's hesitation. "We've been able to get little sense out of the young man. He rants on about dirty blood without answering any questions. At least Draco was more forthcoming."
Lucius suddenly looked rather ill. "Questions? You don't mean to say Dumbledore ... "
"No. I was able to dissuade him from attempting legilimency this time, thank Merlin. The act itself is a violation of student rights, particularly when one goes about it so blatantly. I don't know whether it's old age finally getting the better of him, or his arrogance is such that he doesn't bother to hide what he's doing anymore. Whatever the case, your family secrets are safe from the Headmaster."
"If indeed we had any," Lucius said with a shrug, now looking much better.
"Quite. According to your son and Miss Weasley, Mr. Selwyn took great objection to your son's association with Miss Granger of Gryffindor."
"The girl is merely running his errands, Severus!" Narcissa protested.
"At least, she had better be," muttered Lucius.
"He inherited the right to take an adjutant at age twelve and he exercised it! The Selwyns have always been hardliners, but this is simply beyond the pale. If Draco is going to be in this much danger, Lucius, I think it best that he spend the holidays with us after all."
Lucius frowned. "We are due for another Ministry raid any week now, darling. Suppose it occurs while he is with us?"
"He has dealt with that before, the poor boy. Whatever may occur, at least he shall be here where we can protect him. Our wards, unlike Dumbledore's, are very much in working order. But then how could they not be, with a wizard of your skill to tend them?"
He smiled before turning back to the professor. "Severus, we must see Draco. Face to face."
"That will be difficult. Not even house-elves may apparate in and out of the school anymore."
Narcissa folded her arms and glowered. "Of course. And yet trolls, possessed professors, and the Heir of Slytherin may stroll in and out at their leisure, if half the rumours are to be believed."
"Yes. If," Snape answered mysteriously. "Lucius, Narcissa ... we've always got on rather well, have we not?"
"Certainly."
"And if, in the tragic event that our beloved Headmaster was forced to step down and I no longer had his protection from the Ministry ... you would be obligated to testify in my defense, would you not?"
Lucius became quite still, though not from anger this time. He nodded slowly. "As you did for me."
"A debt we have owed you for eleven years." Narcissa's eyes sparkled. "However ... forgive me, Severus, but you've been one of Dumbledore's staunchest supporters since the light won the War. What makes you so eager to get out from under him now?"
The face in the fire curled its lip. "The War has never been over for me, Narcissa. It has been hanging over my head for far too long. Are you content to let Albus Dumbledore continue muzzling our newsletter, shunning our house, putting your son in danger, and pressuring the Ministry to raid your home?"
"No," Lucius said resolutely. "We are not."
"And suppose—hypothetically—that the Dark Lord or some remnant of him still survives. If you could obtain all the power he once promised you by bloodless and legal means, before he ever had a chance to return ... would you be disposed to simply hand over wizarding Britain to a man who would torture your children for fun?"
Husband and wife hesitated. In the days of the War, the very idea of treason could be detected via legilimency and punished mercilessly. This had conditioned them to block out any thoughts of disloyalty to the Dark Lord's cause, and it was a difficult habit to break.
"I should say not," Lucius said, finally.
"If we had that sort of power, there would be no need for ... " Narcissa stopped and winced as if in pain.
Her husband reached out to grasp her hand. "No need for a Dark Lord at all."
"Take a few days to ponder these possibilities, if you will," Snape said. "And I shall see what circumstances might allow for your son to visit you, perhaps as soon as next weekend."
A decision on Selwyn was swiftly reached. Neither he nor Draco had given away any compromising information to Snape, and therefore the attack was written off as an act of anti-muggleborn hatred. The prefect was quietly removed from the castle Sunday afternoon and escorted back to his family's ancestral home, where he would finish the rest of his fall term. This ignominious exit, combined with a sensational account of the attack in the Daily Prophet, tarnished a sterling academic record and did considerable damage to his reputation.
Snape's comments to the house on Monday morning were surprisingly candid, and everyone knew the situation. With his recovery aided by regular visits from the girls and several of his housemates, Draco returned to his common room that evening to widespread applause. Many embraced him warmly, and even Theodore seemed glad to have him back. Gemma was not present; she took to her bed after the attack and had not left the seventh-year dorm since.
"I guess your reasons weren't brilliant enough for Richard, hmm?" Pansy said, touching his arm with what little sympathy she possessed.
"There was no reasoning with Richard, Pans," he told her. "Just as well that he's out of our way for a while."
She looked more closely at him. Something in his eyes seemed different. Older, perhaps.
"He really hurt you, didn't he?"
"Yes," Draco admitted in a quieter voice.
"And you're still going through with ... all this?"
"I have to. Things are different now. I can't just go back to the way things were before. I know some of us think I'm doing this to rebel against my family. I'm doing it to help my family, and my house."
Pansy looked at him oddly. "That sounded almost noble, Malfoy. Are you sure you're quite all right yet?"
That old smirk slowly crept back onto his face. "Also, I'm looking forward to making Hermione press my robes."
Pansy threw back her head and laughed.