Chapter Thirty-Six

Snape very nearly blasted his idiotic godson's blond head off the boy's shoulders. For one wild, terrifying moment, he thought that it was Lucius who was calmly walking up towards him.

The gait was the same. The hair was the same silvery white in the early light. But Draco had yet to attain his father's girth and was noticeably lighter on his feet. There was also the small matter of Lucius not being caught dead wearing a t-shirt and old trainers.

"Back, I see," Snape said. He reached into his robes and pulled out a silver timepiece. "You are roughly five hours late, Mr. Malfoy. Your permission slip for your outing yesterday extended to eleven p.m. lock-down. I trust you have not forgotten how to tell time?" Snape's casual reprimand did not convey the slight panic endured by him and Hermione's Head of House, Professor McGonagall.

Three permission slips to Magical London had been signed the previous morning, and only Blaise Zabini had seen fit to return to Hogwarts before night-time curfew set it. McGonagall could only roll her eyes at Draco's disregard for curfews, but it was unusual for the Head Girl to be so careless.

Draco had never been one for pleasantries, no matter that his mother had attempted to drill the importance of manners into his skull. "I've just came from a second Dark Mark sighting in Knockturn Alley," he curtly informed.

Snape looked alarmed, but not overly so. He closed his timepiece with a sharp snap and replaced it inside his pocket. "We have only just been informed. Professor Lupin is due to assume patrol at the end of my shift. I would like very much to speak to you and Miss Granger before you turn in."

No scathing, verbal lashing. No menacing glowers and no threats of detentions well into Draco's twenties.

There was none of this. There was also an uncharacteristic mildness to Snape's voice that Draco did not notice.

Mostly, this was due to shock.

Draco's jaw had dropped to his chest at Snape's almost casual mention of Hermione. "You know about us."

"Yes, I know," Snape replied, annoyed. "It took a good deal of persuasion to dissuade Minerva McGonagall from sending an Owl to Miss Granger's parents to check on her whereabouts seeing as she too is conveniently late. Where is the girl, by the way? You did bring her back with you?"

Draco was insulted by the question. "Of course I brought her back. She's in the bushes," he said, as if this were an entirely normal place for Hermione to be, at that particular point in time.

With some disdain, Snape eyed the hedge of ferns in the distance, where there was currently a noticeable rustling noise. "Miss Granger," he called out.

Hermione stepped out from under a frond, looking sheepish and apprehensive. "Good morning, Professor."

"No, it's not," he snapped. "The two of you, wait in my quarters. Now."

**

"This is the first time I've been in here," Hermione whispered to Draco. She was standing in front of an enormous bookcase. The titles were extraordinary enough to make her fingers itch from want of touching.

"I should bloody well hope so, given that this is Professor Snape's personal quarters," Draco muttered.

Hermione looked over her shoulder at him. He was seated in an armchair beside the fireplace, one leg draped over the other, fingers drumming on the leather arm rest. He looked at home. Hermione could easily imagine him having sat through many a Snape-sermon, seated where he was now, giving her an and-now-what-are-you- going-to-say, kind of look.

It was odd being in Slytherin House, let alone in what was undisputedly, its heart.

School Captains were allowed anywhere, of course, but there had never been a need for her to visit the Slytherin Common Room or beyond, because Blaise naturally saw to most of the duties within his own House. Harry had of course been in Snape's quarters on quite a few occasions for Occlumency lessons, but he never went into much detail apart from complaining about said lessons.

Snape's living space were sparsely but pleasantly furnished. There looked to be three rooms. The main entrance from the Slytherin corridors opened into the sitting area and office. The adjoining rooms, separated by double doors on either end of the central room probably opened into sleeping quarters and Snape's private laboratory.

It was all very male, Hermione decided, and scholarly. That was expected.

There were mahogany bookcases laid into two of the stone walls, overloaded and practically groaning. The other furniture was also mahogany, except for a beautiful, claw-footed, rosewood and mother of pearl desk, which was kept relatively clutter-free. It didn't really match the rest of the furniture, but its placement and good condition attested to the esteem in which its owner held it.

She took a seat in a green damask armchair, opposite from Draco, and yawned. It was easy to forget how little sleep they had managed to squeeze in, over the past week.

"So how on earth does Snape know about our Fida Mia problem?"

Draco shrugged. He was definitely irritated by the fact. "How does he know most things? He just does. I'll find out, though."

Hermione noticed that he was looked a little peaked. He was resting his forehead on his palm. Granted, he was already as white a baby's bottom, but at the moment there was also a greyish cast to his complexion. Given that she had recently seen all there was to see of his skin, she thought she could spot the difference with some authority.

"Malfoy, are you feeling alright?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "My head's still killing me," he admitted and then managed to force out a lascivious expression from underneath his fingers. "I'm drained, is what I am."

Hermione did not approve of his leering under such serious circumstances. Only Malfoy could maintain his usual crudeness with kidnapped Aurors, Dark Marks flying over their heads and whatnot about to happen.

"Oh, stop that. Your godfather is going to walk through that door any second now."

"Ah yes, the look on your face when you found out." He sounded thoughtful. "I thought half the school at least had a clue by now."

"There's a lot I don't know about you with your clothes on," she said, quite primly.

He laughed, leaned back in his chair and regarded her with a fond expression. It could have been because he was tired and thus, too weary to be smarmy, but his gaze was genuinely warm. "Don't put too fine a point to your wit-"

There were footsteps approaching. Hermione glanced at the door. "Someone's coming."

"For fear it should get blunted," he added, waggling his eyebrows.

The door opened without even the tiniest creak - something that was practically unheard of in Hogwarts Castle when it came to doors - and Snape strode into the room. He barely looked at them before saying, "Be seated."

They were already seated. "As we were, then," Draco quipped.

"Your amusement is in bad taste, Mr. Malfoy."

"Sorry."

"Professor, has there been any word on Nymphadora Tonks or the other missing Auror?" Hermione asked. She felt wretched for not asking sooner.

"If there was, Miss Granger, I hardly think you'd be entitled to that information," came the cool reply.

Hermione immediately bristled. What nonsense! She was as much an Order member as he was!

Ah, but then Draco was not. Snape had remembered this fact, even if she hadn't. Hermione suddenly realised that she still had quite a few secrets from Draco (who was in the process of looking at her oddly). She rubbed her nose and turned her attention back to Snape.

"It's not looking good, is it?" Draco said to his Head of House. Hermione remembered then, that they were talking about his cousin, and the feeling of wretchedness increased.

Snape was markedly more polite in his reply to his godson. "The Headmaster takes personal issue with the fact that two members of Ministry Law Enforcement should go missing on school grounds. He is assisting Alastor Moody with the investigation."

"Dumbledore doesn't know about us, does he?" Hermione asked. Dumbledore knowing was almost as bad as Harry and Ron knowing.

"He does not," Snape confirmed. He looked at Draco. "Your father contacted me after you returned with Miss Granger from Malfoy Manor," he explained.

Draco was surprised. "You speak with him via Floo fire? I didn't realise he had that luxury."

"A luxury for him, to be sure. Not so much for me," Snape replied. Hermione thought there might have been amusement in his voice, but it was probably her imagination.

"Who else knows?" Draco asked, with a frown. That was going to be Hermione's next question.

Snape answered without hesitation. "Professor Lupin. As you are aware, his senses are considerably keener than the average human's. He was able to detect the workings of the spell on the both of you, during last Wednesday's lesson."

The thought that Lupin had quite literally 'sniffed them out', was alarming. "Would anyone else pick up on it that way?"

"I doubt it, Miss Granger."

"It was a foolish mistake, sir," Hermione said. "Believe me. Under normal circumstances-"

Snape's hand shot up into the air, in a pale blur. "I do not require or wish to endure an explanation. That is not why I asked to speak with you. Your documented, continuous disregard for rules attests to the fact that you both think you are old enough to get yourselves killed. Merlin knows you are foolish enough. My only concern is that you usually choose to exercise this disregard during school hours and that your recent outing to London just happened to coincide with a murder."

Draco swore. Snape let it slide.

"The Dark Mark in Knockturn Alley. Are you saying someone was actually killed this time?"

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, the epitome of considerate patience, "unless you can think of some other product of murder?"

"Who was it?"

"The identity of the victim is not known as yet. Was your meeting with the Fida Mia expert fruitful?" The change in topics was swift, if not very smooth.

Snape didn't need to wait for an answer. The scowl on Draco's face and the pronounced blush on Hermione's, was answer enough.

"I see, that is indeed unfortunate." Snape sighed. Folded his arms, and then sighed once more. "There is…there is something else that I need to tell you."

They waited.

Draco was speechless. He had never seen his godfather stuck for words. He turned to glance at Hermione and noted that she too was staring at Snape as if the man had just announced his fondness for the colour pink.

"Draco," Snape began. "It's about your mother."

Something heavy and cold materialised, and then descended in Draco's stomach.

"What about her?"

"It was reported on the front page of yesterday's Daily Prophet, but I suppose you haven't had an opportunity to read the paper yet? No. No, of course you haven't." "Sir?" Draco prompted, when Snape didn't continue.

"Draco, I am truly sorry to be the one to tell you this. Sorrier than I can say."

"Tell me what?" Draco demanded.

"Your mother is dead." The announcement was delivered in a dispassionate, matter of fact tone. "She died some three months ago. The original finding was suicide, and there has been a lengthy investigation since that time. The details of the case have been kept closely guarded."

'Closely guarded' was an understatement. Hermione's hand came to her mouth. The shock was enormous, but the sudden tightness in her chest was what stole her breath away. She had experienced a similar sensation when Draco had been knocked unconscious by the rogue bludgers; except then, there had been a strange, cold void; an indicator that something untoward had happened to him. Now, she was picking up a torrent of dark emotions streaming from him.

She couldn't tell the hurt from the anger or the shock. For a few moments, her vision was a black, swirling mess. It was almost physically painful.

He didn't move, didn't speak. He just continued to stare at the carpet by the fireplace. She wanted to walk over to him and hold his hand, but she felt weighted down to her chair by the force of what she was feeling.

Snape was frowning. "Draco, did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. What would you like me to respond with? She left without a word of farewell and now she's permanently gone. I fail to see the difference."

"There is a difference!"

"How did she die?" Hermione whispered.

Snape transferred his intense, black gaze to her. "An overdose of opium, however-"

"Have you told my father yet?" Draco interrupted.

Snape actually looked pained as he said this. "Draco, your father knows. He's known for months, but he hasn't been able to tell you."

Hermione was beyond disgusted. "Lucius Malfoy has reached new levels of low, hasn't he?"

Draco looked up. Something like hope flashed across his face. "But the money that has been deposited into my Gringotts account each month… that was supposed to have come from Mo- Narcissa. How is that possible?"

Snape hesitated for a moment. "The money is from me. I'm afraid I've known as well. It was our plan to inform you at the right time."

"The right time being the news of her murder splashed all over the Daily Prophet!" Hermione scoffed. It was almost like she was speaking for Draco. Merlin knew she could feel his rage very clearly now. It all but obliterated the other emotions. "Rather, you decided that your only option was to tell him now before he found out on his own, in the worst possible way!"

Draco shot up to his feet, albeit a bit shakily. "Your plan?" he spat. "Yours and Lucius' you mean? You knew You both knew my mother was gone all this time and you never told me!" His voice caught. "I wrote letters to that woman for three months and all this while I assumed she was simply disinclined to write back."

"I assume full responsibility," was all Snape could or perhaps, would say, to the accusation being laid at his feet. "It was a lapse in judgement on my part, to not have told you sooner. It is imperative that you listen to me now, however. You are in danger. Both of you. You need to be exceedingly careful. The investigation has uncovered the fact that Narcissa didn't commit suicide as we had thought. She was murdered, Draco. For reasons I can only guess at, at this stage, I believe that the Death Eaters are making an example of your family. We had your best interests at heart when the decision was made not to tell you."

"Murdered?" Draco whispered hoarsely, his eyes narrowed into slits. "My mother was murdered?" The look of shock transformed into painful horror and then, there was nothing.

He shook his head and then swallowed audibly. "I…I'm sorry, Professor," Draco began, his voice dripping with ice, "but somehow I don't think this school, or the Ministry, or my father, it would seem, has ever had my best interests at heart. I am going to demand some answers, rest assured, but they won't be from you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed."

He took a step, stumbled, and then held out his hand to Hermione. The look in his eyes was a naked plea for her to aid him before he keeled over altogether. Hermione was there in an instant.

Snape frowned deeply. He stood. "Miss Granger, I believe you will need my assistance."

The unfairness of it all made Hermione want to hit something. All the nasty, unkind things she had ever thought about Snape over the years, condensed into one, chilling look. She anchored her arm around Draco's narrow waist and together, they made their way to the door.

"Thank you, Professor, but I think I can manage."

She just about slammed the door in his face.

**

Snape stood, staring at the closed door for many minutes. Absently, he looked down at his hand and sighed when he saw that it was shaking.

He made a fist. The shaking stopped.

In the end, he was no better than Lucius. There were so many opportunities, so many previous chances to sit the boy down and tell him, but he hadn't.

Of all the many responsibilities and duties that were his, there had always been one that he had genuinely enjoyed.

Draco.

It was both a pain and a pleasure to watch the boy grow into manhood. Snape was a poor choice for a godfather. He was an old, hardened, bitter, former Death Eater; a former spy with a list of enemies as long as his right arm. But then Lucius was hardly parent-material himself. A pity that children could not dictate which families they were born into.

What was, simply had to be endured.

As much as he cared for the boy, when the time came to finally prove it, Snape had failed dismally. Twice he had failed Draco. First, when he had stood by when Ministry had given the boy the preposterous and futile task of spying and then, again, when he could have been forthcoming about Narcissa's death. It had been old sentiment for Lucius that had held him back.

He had needed the girl to be there, to catch Draco. And Granger had done just that, with a coolness that he would have applauded if the circumstances had not been so tragic.

Snape recalled what Draco had said in Dumbledore's office, on the afternoon of the first Dark Mark citing outside of Hogsmeade. The boy was correct. The Ministry did not reward heroes. It used them.

This was a world that had thought nothing of placing the weight of their freedom on the shoulders of an eleven-year old boy. That had been Harry Potter's introduction to the Wizarding World. Dumbledore was as guilty of this as the average wizard in the street. The community was also just as quick to condemn and mutter when the slightest of their suspicions were piqued.

Draco was wise to this hypocrisy. There were more shades of grey than there was Dark or Light. A young Snape had known this too, but instead of turning his back on expectations, as Draco had eventually done, Snape did the opposite. He had picked a side. And that old mistake echoed in everything that he did today.

He would do right by the boy. He would have to, if only to inject some balance into the world. He was going to have a long talk with Albus and Arthur Weasley. They might play the Hand of God with Harry Potter, but they were not going to do the same with his godson.

**

As it turned out, Snape had been right. Draco wasn't at all well and Hermione did end up requiring some assistance.

Draco stopped suddenly, slumping against a wall. His breathing became short and shallow. He raised a hand and pressed his palm against his forehead where beads of perspiration were appearing.

Afraid he was going to pass out from hyperventilation, Hermione took his hands, put them around her shoulders and asked him to use her for support. He hadn't said anything since they walked out of Snape's office. Draco held her to him for a few minutes, his face buried in her hair.

Eventually, his breathing slowed to match hers.

"It's going to be fine," she said, almost gritting her teeth to keep her chin from wobbling. "You're going to be fine." It hardly mattered what Narcissa had been to the rest of the world. She had been Draco's mother and must have surely loved him.

Hermione endured the phantom hurts of Draco's grief. She discovered that second-hand grief did not lose its sharp edge.

"Everything I touch turns to dust," he whispered into her hair. The agony in his voice was heart-wrenching. "Everything that has any meaning. This life is wasted. My family is cursed."

She shook her head vigorously and pulled back to stare at him. "That's not true, Draco."

His expression was bleak, tired, defeated. It was scaring her. He gently tucked a curl behind her ear and regarded her with a very grave expression. If he had the strength, Hermione was certain he would have shaken her by the shoulders.

"Hermione, I'm not playing anymore. I can't keep you. What we're doing now, Snape is right, it's dangerous. That discussion in Dumbledore's office was about an assignment, you see? The Ministry wants me to report on the other Slytherins. They want me to do this over the summer and who knows for how much longer after."

Spying! So that was what they had asked him to do, and no doubt they were dangling a very large axe over his head, disguised as a carrot.

"They can't ask that of you! Especially not now!"

"They ask as much of Potter," was all he said. His expression did not change. "There's a Death Eater Recruitment underway and if I'm not mistaken, someone is trying to send me a message." He threaded his fingers through hers.

The look he gave her made her want to openly weep. "I can't watch over you all the time, especially over the summer. You'll stay at Weaselby's place, won't you? Please, you'll be safe there."

"I'm not listening to this," she insisted, vehemently. "What they're forcing you to do is illegal! You can't be made to agree. They may have your father's life in their hands, but not yours."

"I signed an agreement. It's legal and binding." He braced more of his weight against the wall and shut his eyes. "Granger, I…I really think I need to lie down. My head hurts." There was such raw honesty in his voice that Hermione was instantly alarmed.

Malfoy was not one to blurt out that he wasn't feeling well. He looked positively green. How could she have forgotten that he had been in bed, recovering from a concussion not two days ago?

"Where is your room?" she whispered. It seemed shameful that she didn't know where he slept. It was a tiny, personal detail she ought to have known. He didn't respond. He licked his lips and looked like he was about to be sick. She touched his pale cheek.

"Draco?"

"It's over here," answered a soft voice. "I'll show you."

It was Pansy. She was standing in the darkness, wearing white satin pyjamas, matching, quilted bedroom slippers and holding a lit wand.

"Snape's told him, then?" she stated, and then nodded before Hermione could respond. "Goyle and I only found out yesterday evening, in the paper."

Hermione was actually glad to see her. Slytherin House was foreign territory and she was less than comfortable navigating its dark corridors. "He's not feeling well," she said, running the back of her hand under her running nose. "I think we should get Madam Pomfrey."

If Draco passed out now, there was no way the two of them could lift him without Leviosa. Hermione knew he'd hate it if she resorted to asking Snape for assistance.

It would have to be Parkinson.

Pansy shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. "I'll help. We don't need the nurse." She stepped forward, took hold of his arm and pried him, slowly, off the wall. He acted as if they'd dropped a bag of bricks over his head. He winced. Hermione was worried enough that she was about to run to fetch Madam Pomfrey after all, when Draco spoke.

"Panse," he murmured. "My mum's dead." The heavy emotion and familiarity in his voice caused Hermione to experience a twinge of jealousy, but she quickly squashed it, appalled at her selfish thoughts.

"I know, darling."

"It's fucked, Pansy."

"I know. Hush now, we're taking you to bed."

The situation would have been awkward if it weren't so sad. He allowed them to loop and arm each over their shoulders. It helped that both girls were the same height. His room was at the end of the corridor, or so it seemed. Hermione had walked right past it with Draco, earlier.

She knew Pansy could have found her way there in the dark quite easily, and was thankful that the girl kept her wand lit, for Hermione's benefit.

The door to Draco's room was locked and it took Pansy a combination of Alohomora, passwords and old fashion doorknob jiggling to finally get the thing open.

"He's paranoid about security," she said, catching Hermione's look.

Once inside, candles on the wall flared to life. The room was exactly the same as Hermione's, if a little smaller. The ceiling was lower, too. His bed was not beneath a window, seeing as the dungeons did not open to the outside. It sat facing the door. His trunk was against the wall to the left, beside his desk.

The room was absolutely spotless, which was itself a surprise. There was a new, broomstick servicing kit sitting on the desk and a fortune in Quidditch gear hanging from brass hooks on the wall.

They took the few necessary steps to the bed and there, he collapsed. He put a hand over his eyes, rolled to his side and then didn't move a muscle. The light was probably bothering him. Hermione blew out the candles and then bent down to pull his shoes off.

Pansy let her do that, but stopped her when she went to his trunk to look for a night shirt.

"Leave it," the Slytherin girl said. "He either falls into bed with what he's got on, or he doesn't wear anything at all."

Hermione didn't know what to make of that, so she didn't say anything. There was a chair at his desk, she started to walk toward it, but found Pansy standing in her path.

"You can't stay here, Granger. We don't do that. We never do that."

By 'we', Hermione assumed Pansy meant Slytherins. "The hell I can't," she snapped.

Pansy shook her head, but there was nothing but earnestness in her expression. "I'm serious. Some things, you don't muck about with. It's not done. He'll be cross with himself if either of us stays here tonight."

Hermione sniffled loudly. She had had a gutful of stubborn Slytherins, but a part of her knew Pansy was being correct, rather than vindictive.

There was some sort of Slytherin code. Thou shalt not cry in public, thou shalt not date Hufflepuffs, and the like.

"I'm not doing this to be difficult. It's what he'd prefer. I'll check in on him before breakfast. After that, he's all yours."

Feeling numb, Hermione stroked the hair off Draco's forehead, not caring that Pansy watched. It was good that he slept, if only because Hermione didn't know how else to help him. She felt useless. "I'll come and find you first thing in the morning," she told him. Her voice caught at the end. "I promise."

After she had a very long talk with Harry.

And made some very firm plans.

"Come on, I'll show you out," Pansy said, softly.

With effort, Hermione tore her eyes away from her sleeping husband, and followed Pansy out of the room. It was a sombre procession. The door clicked shut behind them.

"You and I need to stop running into each other like this, Granger," Pansy remarked, dryly. It was as about as tastefully humorous as was possible, given the situation.

They walked quickly down the corridor, arriving once more in the Slytherin Common Room. Pansy pushed open the doors and Hermione stared for a moment, out into the darkness of the lower ground hallway.

There was a steadily building pressure at the back of her throat, the product of suppressing her tears. Pansy, in contrast, was very collected. Hermione knew she had been close to crying earlier, but the girl's nose wasn't even red.

"How long have you felt this way about him?" Hermione asked.

"Since I was ten," Pansy replied, without any embarrassment. "Don't give me that sceptical look, Granger. I know exactly what he is most of the time. And I also think you know that what he is sometimes isn't always something to complain about. We would have been good together."

Hermione was almost inclined to agree.

Pansy sighed. It was a dainty noise. "Narcissa was a bitch and really screwed up as far as mothering went, but she did have a way about her." She fingered the brass handle of the Common Room doors. "He gets his grace from her, you know. And those cheekbones, of course."

"Thank you, Pansy," Hermione said. It just needed to be said.

The other girl shrugged. "Don't look so depressed. There are only a few of us left at school now and we're all leaving for good tomorrow. I doubt things can get much worse."

**

Pansy made her way back to her own room. It was in the middle of the corridor and the nearest to the lounge area. She really was going to miss it. The placement of the room and the acoustics of the dungeon meant that she often - unwittingly, of course - overheard common room conversation.

She placed her hand on the knob to turn it, and was startled when the door swung open from the inside.

"Is he back, then? Did you tell him? What did Granger have to say?" Goyle asked, impatiently. There was a fair sized depression on the edge of the mattress from where he had been sitting and waiting for her. They had been doing that most of the night, given that Draco was supposed to have returned to Hogwarts by eleven o'clock the previous evening.

Pansy frowned, pushed past him and didn't speak until the door was shut. "Lower your voice! They're back, yes. Turns out we didn't need to break the news to him. Professor Snape did it himself."

Goyle shifted his considerable weight from right foot to left foot. "How is he?"

"Could be better," Pansy sighed. "He's a bit ill at the moment, which is expected given the news." She kicked off her bedroom slippers and sat on the bed.

There was a yellow, stuffed elephant lying in between two, cream-coloured cushions with brocade piping. She grabbed the elephant and hugged it to her.

There was a very pregnant pause.

"Seeing as it's done now, you should try and get some sleep. It's past sunrise."

She didn't immediately reply, but continued to worry the elephant's ears between her fingers. "Did you see Blaise yesterday?" she asked Goyle, without looking up.

"No."

"Would it be too much to hope that he's taken a wrong turn somewhere, fallen off a cliff and died?" Her voice was flat.

"Pansy-"

"You're an idiot if you think he'll just let you quit after a few years. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, Goyle."

Goyle shook his head. "I'm not going the same way as my dad. Trust me. I'll find a way to leave, and then I'll set you and your family up. You won't have to worry about anything. Just wait for me. That's all I ask."

She eyed him good and long, letting her intense disappointment show. "In the entire sordid history of Death Eaters, you have to be the only one who wants to join because it's your early retirement plan."

That wasn't true. Plenty of people joined for equally dubious reasons. Fame, fortune, glory…love of torture.

Actually, he was joining because Pansy's bankrupt father had forbidden him to make an offer for her unless he amassed a small fortune in a short space of time. The Goyles had never been obscenely wealthy to begin with and what money they had, had gone the same way as the Malfoy fortune.

Blaise, who was already comfortably well off by his own admission, had painted a very profitable picture indeed.

Evil, megalomaniacal overlords required capital to fund their activities. After all, a Dark Lord still needed a roof over his head, and if gossip was true, Voldemort's tastes ran to the gothically extravagant. There were quite a few illegal enterprises covertly operated by Voldemort supporters. Trade in illicit substances and restricted artefacts were prime examples. Blaise had also mentioned that a fledgling potions lab had been set up with the intent of manufacturing illegal drugs for sale on the Muggle market.

While the more senior Death Eaters seemed concerned with vendetta and in pursuing Voldemort's end-game, a new generation of followers like Blaise saw the movement as more than just a vehicle to drive Voldemort's ideas about blood purity. Muscle was always needed to keep such operations running. Goyle may not have been the brightest spark, but he knew how to be intimidating, he knew how to be back-up, how to flank and protect.

He had been doing that all his life.

There was money to be made, power and influence to be gained. Goyle was not so ambitious. He just wanted a head start. With his family name already hopelessly blackened and a dismal academic record, career options were scarce.

"Draco would have joined, if things had worked out differently." He thought he should point that out to Pansy, who was Unofficial President of the Draco Malfoy Fan Club.

Pansy snorted. "Probably, but you're not Draco. You'll be on your own if you join. He won't be there to watch out for you."

"I don't need him there!" he said, a bit too loudly, because her blue eyes widened.

Goyle wanted to thump something.

He was making a right mess of things. All he had wanted to do, before he left Hogwarts, was to set things right with Draco, to offer a few words of sympathy about Narcissa, and then say farewell to Pansy. He had thought about writing a letter to Millicent, but Pansy had advised against it. Just in case. It was just as well, because Goyle was crap at writing letters.

He was crap at a lot of things, apparently. With a heavy heart, he took a step toward the door, paused and then turned to glare at Pansy.

"I'm going now," he said, pointedly.

The elephant was having the life squeezed out of it. "Good. Go."

Goyle made a sound. If Male Frustration had a noise, this was that noise. "I probably won't be able to see you again for a year or so."

"Fine. Whatever."

She was such a cow. He had no idea why he loved her so much. "For Merlin's sake, Pansy! Are you going to say goodbye to me or not!"

Pansy threw the stuffed elephant onto her bed and stood up, her brief nose in the air.

"Goodbye, Gregory. I hope that the death you will surely meet in the next month or so will be quick and relatively painless."

He stared at her, incredulous. "Relatively?" She waved him off. "I have given up trying to change your mind. You're a fool. Go and be a Death Eater. I'll probably forget all about you after a week."

It was a small room. One step brought him to her. Another step brought her into his arms. He then proceeded to kiss her like he'd been dying to do for three years. She struggled at first, and smacked him on his right bicep, but he had the element of surprise on his side.

There was also the fact that he had nothing more to lose at that moment. This gave him the kind of bravado that had so far been lacking in his courtship of Pansy.

After a minute or so, he deposited her on her bed, breathless and pink-cheeked. She absently reached for the elephant again.

"You'll remember that," he mumbled gruffly, and then he was out the door and out of her life.

Pansy spent the next two hours crying into her elephant. Goyle had given it to her for her twelfth birthday.