A/N
Phew, another part is ready for you to read! I made myself promise I'd write longer ones, so hopefully this will be okay. Once again, a HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed. However, I can see how many people are reading the stories too, and statistically, not many of you are reviewing. So come on, even if you think it's a load of crap! Obviously, the brilliant Harry Potter series does not belong to me, though if I put my glasses on, I kinda look a bit like him. If I was eight years younger I could have auditioned to be in the movie. Damn! (stalks off in a huff). Anyway as you can see this is now a mystery story, so a thousand apologies if you found this by selecting only mystery stories in the little genre box, for the other parts, look in general, but enough of my rambling already ... here's Chapter 4.
Chapter 4. In which the partygoers go their separate ways, Harry and Hermione go to bed, and Draco passes a troubled night.
It was getting on for eleven thirty, and the Potter's pre-Christmas party was beginning to break up. Sated on Hermione's delicious chicken, Harry's stodgy pudding, received especially well by Fleur, and of course, on a selection of the finest wizard cheeses and cups of coffee, they bid their farewells, wished one and all a merry Christmas, and went their separate ways.
Harry and Hermione stood on the doorstep, watching the tail lights of Fred and George's battered old Volkswagen receding into the distance. It had dropped below freezing, and it looked like the promised snow would soon start falling. Hermione closed the door. Neville and Ginny were standing in the hall, already wearing their heavy doeskin overcoats, Neville holding two large leather suitcases, and Ginny, a bulky plastic bag containing her Christmas presents from Molly and Arthur. She and Neville would be spending Christmas in Paris, and their train left London the following morning.
"Are you sure you don't want to stop the night?" asked Hermione, her voice full of concern.
"We'd better not," said Neville, "we've got rooms booked at the station hotel, and we want to be at Waterloo early tomorrow."
"It's your choice," said Hermione.
"We'd better go," said Ginny, she gave Hermione a hug, "thanks for dinner. Have a lovely Christmas."
"You too. Paris is meant to be so romantic at this time of year. I almost wish I was going with you," said Hermione, "send me a postcard. And I want to hear absolutely everything when you get back."
Ginny nodded, "I'll send you a picture of the Eiffel Tower."
Neville shook Harry's hand, "Thanks for everything old chap," he said.
"No problem mate," smiled Harry, "always a pleasure, never a chore."
"We'll have to have you over in the New Year," said Ginny, "we've almost finished decorating the flat now."
"That'd be nice," said Harry, kissing Ginny on both cheeks, "well, see you guys."
"Bye," said Neville. He turned to Ginny, "Ready darling?"
"Ready," answered Ginny. The two of them withdrew their wands, and in a flash, had apparated.
"I think that's the last," said Harry, turning to Hermione, "shall we clear up now, or do you want to make the kids do it in the morning?"
"We'll leave it," yawned Hermione, "I simply cannot be arsed."
Harry yawned as well, "I think I'm going to bed," he said.
"Shall I bring you up a glass of milk?"
Harry nodded, "That would be brilliant."
"Go on then, you get first dibs on the bathroom."
Harry trudged wearily upstairs to the bathroom. He was totally frazzled. He had worked six whole months without a holiday, and the strain of his work was finally telling on him. There were nearly always heavy bags under his eyes, he had lost weight, which was hard for him to do, being as skinny as he was. The other morning he had noticed a grey hair, but he hadn't told Hermione about it.
He checked himself in the bathroom mirror, and muttered, "Jesus, you're a mess Harry."
"Too right," said the mirror, "and don't think Hermione hasn't noticed your grey hairs yet."
Harry ignored the mirror, and squeezed toothpaste onto his brush. Two whole weeks of freedom from tomorrow, he thought with pleasure. At long last he'd have some quality time to spend with William and Rebecca. Hell, William hadn't seen him since September, and Rebecca was never usually awake when he left for work, and was usually in bed when he got home. It was surprising either of his kids recognised him. All their lives they had been shunted to endless childminders, expensive private nurseries and day care schemes. They had even brought in an au pair, a Swedish witch from Uppsala, but she had not lasted long. So ruminating, Harry finished brushing his teeth, and spat into the washbasin. He could hear Hermione's footsteps coming upstairs.
"You okay Harry?" she asked, as he came into the bedroom, "you look a bit depressed."
"I think I might be," said Harry, "I'm missing my kids."
Hermione looked puzzled, "They're right next door, what's the problem?"
"I think I'm missing their whole lives," said Harry, "I feel guilty, that's all."
"You're not missing their whole lives," said Hermione, "you have nothing to feel guilty about. It's not your fault your work is so time consuming."
"It is though," said Harry, sitting down on the bed, and removing his shoes, "I didn't have to become an auror. I could have played quidditch."
Hermione shook her head, "We discussed this Harry. You couldn't possibly have gone on playing professionally. Not after your injury," she was referring to the serious tendon injury that Harry had received during his third season as seeker for the Guildford Griffins, and just two weeks after his first international game for England, a World Cup qualifier against Canada. It had been too unfair. All the medi-wizards at St Mungo's had been unable to help, and with great reluctance, and to the disappointment of his legions of fans, Harry had quit. His white and blue England robes were still hanging in his wardrobe.
"It's just too much," he said, "I think I'm going grey before my time."
"I hadn't noticed," lied Hermione, "hop into bed, I won't be a minute."
She left Harry to his mid-life misery, and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Harry was sitting up in bed when she got back, trimming his toenails. She undressed silently, pulled on her night-gown, and got into bed beside him. She put her arm around his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.
"Worry about that in the morning," she said, "are you really that depressed?"
Harry put down his penknife, "Really," he said. He removed his glasses, and placed them on the bedside table. As ever, Hermione was amazed how different he looked without them.
"Tell me about it, perhaps I can help," said Hermione.
"I already did. I think I'm getting old," said Harry.
"You've got years left in you," said Hermione, "you won't even be drawing a pension for another thirty years."
"That's just it Hermione, I already have a pension fund," said Harry.
"What else is bothering you?"
"Nothing really, I suppose it's just a lot of little things."
"Well, you can't argue with the little things," said Hermione.
"It was, seeing Dumbledore today."
"What about him?" asked Hermione, "He seemed very well didn't he?"
"Oh, come on Hermi. He's going senile ... he's got more bats in the belfry than Professor Trelawney. I think even he knows he's not long for this Earth."
"Don't say that Harry."
"He's hardly lucid anymore," said Harry, "and I remember him, all those years ago. He seemed strong then. It seemed he would always be there, hovering in the background. It was only when I left Hogwarts that I realised how, frail he'd always been, how small he seemed."
"Harry, anybody seems strong to an eleven year old, and he always has been strong for you. He was like a Father to you."
"I don't want to end up like that Hermi."
Hermione lay down, and fluffed up the feather duvet. She looked at Harry, "You don't have to."
"Why not?"
"You've got me," she said, "come on, someone needs cheering up big time, and I've got the ideal solution."
She turned off the light.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Draco's whole body still ached from the cruciatus curse as he relaxed in the giant bathtub in his room back at the Bull. He had poured in all the little sachets of bubble bath, and run the water until it was practically overflowing. He rearranged his inflatable bath pillow, and punched his rubber duck playfully on the nose. It was currently floating about somewhere in the region of his knees, which stuck up out of the water like two volcanic islands. That, thought Draco, was one major disadvantage of being so tall, you could never find a bath big enough.
He ran through the events of the evening. He had left the pub after finishing his pint, and headed straight back to the hotel. Whoever the stranger was, Draco did not intend to help him at all. True enough, he didn't like Ron Weasley ... at the end of the day, who did? But all the same, to deliver him into the hands of someone who was prepared to use the forbidden curses so lightly. Hell, even he wouldn't stoop that low.
The pain had been indescribable, he thought. It had been, so complete, so effective, that all he had wanted at that point was to curl up and die, for it to be no more. This unsettled Draco considerably. His father had always punished cowardice, so it had been his nature from an early age to stand up for himself, to never let down his guard for an instant, and, he reflected, it was probably this that had earned him his reputation at Hogwarts. Now he had seen how easy it was to writhe on the floor, begging for mercy, begging for it to stop. Now he had seen what that was like, he began to understand just how Voldemort's victims must have felt. The Potters, the Longbottoms, all the others, Cedric Diggory, Bertha Jorkins, even his own father, for it had been Voldemort who had got him in the end. Draco had never heard much of how his father died, although he had been told in Azkaban that it had been instant. That meant Avada Kedavra. There was no defence against that, no second chance, no parley. It was as final as what it was ... death.
Now Draco thought back to the lowest hours of his life ... that fateful day in London. He hadn't meant to kill the muggle, just scare him. The court hadn't seen it that way however. He could remember their jeering, how his mother had wept in the spectator's gallery as Minister Fudge had passed judgement. Azkaban. The Dementors had led him away. He could remember his own screams, his howls, his protests, but the Dementors had been impervious to it. After the second night had passed, he had stopped crying, and spent most of his time squatting on his haunches in the corner of the cell, rocking backwards and forwards.
He woke up. The bath water had cooled considerably, and most of the bubbles had gone. Slowly, for he was still in some pain, he hoisted himself out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around his slender frame.
The hotel room was still and quiet. Outside, the High Street was deserted, save for parked cars, and a black cat stalking down the pavement. Draco closed the curtains, and switched on the light.
Wave after wave of cold fear swept through his body. He knew he had to get out of there. First thing in the morning, he resolved to check out as soon as he could. Perhaps the further he got from this mysterious stranger, the safer he would be, even though in his heart he knew it was a vain hope. He dried himself, pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, and climbed into bed. He was shivering. He wrapped the duvet tight around himself, and lay down amidst the fluffy pillows. He was asleep within seconds. Yet his dreams were not pleasant ones.
"I know what you're thinking Draco," that voice again, the chalk on slate, scraping, pounding, inside his skull.
"You can't hide from me. I know your every thought, your every desire, hope, wish and dream. I have always been with you. Remember? When first..."
"I drew breath," said Draco, "you were there. Wherever I went ... there you were. Whenever, wherever, whatever."
"That's right Draco. So why do you think you can run away?"
"I ... don't know," admitted Draco.
"You can't, you can't run from me, and you can't hide from me. Because, you know I will always be with you. You'll have to kill me first, and I don't believe you have the guts."
"I know I have the guts," growled Draco.
The voice laughed, "Ah, but I know you don't. I know that when you took your father's beatings without flinching, you were crying inside. You were never anything but a stinking, coward, a stinking, pathetic little coward, who would run home to mummy bawling his head off, if another child dared so much as rebuke you. Your so called, tough persona. It was always an act. And you need to be taught a lesson, Draco Malfoy."
Draco stirred fitfully, "Father?" he called, "is that you?"
The stranger removed the hood of his cloak, the face that was revealed was not that of his father, which even in the knowledge of what that man had inflicted upon the boy Draco, he still found a source of comfort. Instead, he saw a face so hideous, so indescribably ugly, so horribly deformed, that Draco screamed. He opened his mouth wide, and let out a scream. It was as if all the rage of all his thirty five years was pouring out of his body, all the indignity, all the humiliation, all the bitterness. But yet, as he screamed, he became slowly aware that no sound was coming out of his mouth. Petrified, Draco put his hands to his throat, but could feel nothing there. Now the stranger was laughing, the cruellest, most mocking laugh he had ever heard. And now he spoke again.
"You're a pathetic, worthless turd Malfoy. You're a stinking, low life coward," this in Potter's voice, but at the same time, not Potter. Now his father, "A Malfoy looks pain straight in the eye Draco. He never flinches, he never winces, for such is the mark of a coward, and such are all cowards doomed to die," his father's face faded away, to be replaced by the grinning visage of Alastor Moody, shouting as he bounced Draco, whom he had turned into a ferret, repeatedly on the floor, and to Draco's horror, the others were looking on, and they were laughing. Potter, Weasley and Granger. They were all there. Each of them laughing. That same laugh.
"Coward," hissed Ron.
"Don't ... do ... that ... again," he heard Moody's voice, but as he repeated those words, the noise of the laughter was fading, fading fast.
A/N
Ow, blooming heck! How can I say I don't know where this is going? This has to be the darkest piece, I've ever written, and it wouldn't let me stop writing! I was going to wait till Sunday night to post this, but I just had to put it up straight away! I don't intend for Draco to get off lightly here. In my opinion, he has a lot of redeeming to do, despite being my favourite character. I'll try to end on an upbeat note though, by asking some more posers. Just what will Draco do next? What did Harry and Hermione get up to after she turned out the light? Who is the mysterious stranger, and is he mine, or JK's? I invite your guesses, and I also plead for reviews. Come on people!
Phew, another part is ready for you to read! I made myself promise I'd write longer ones, so hopefully this will be okay. Once again, a HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed. However, I can see how many people are reading the stories too, and statistically, not many of you are reviewing. So come on, even if you think it's a load of crap! Obviously, the brilliant Harry Potter series does not belong to me, though if I put my glasses on, I kinda look a bit like him. If I was eight years younger I could have auditioned to be in the movie. Damn! (stalks off in a huff). Anyway as you can see this is now a mystery story, so a thousand apologies if you found this by selecting only mystery stories in the little genre box, for the other parts, look in general, but enough of my rambling already ... here's Chapter 4.
Chapter 4. In which the partygoers go their separate ways, Harry and Hermione go to bed, and Draco passes a troubled night.
It was getting on for eleven thirty, and the Potter's pre-Christmas party was beginning to break up. Sated on Hermione's delicious chicken, Harry's stodgy pudding, received especially well by Fleur, and of course, on a selection of the finest wizard cheeses and cups of coffee, they bid their farewells, wished one and all a merry Christmas, and went their separate ways.
Harry and Hermione stood on the doorstep, watching the tail lights of Fred and George's battered old Volkswagen receding into the distance. It had dropped below freezing, and it looked like the promised snow would soon start falling. Hermione closed the door. Neville and Ginny were standing in the hall, already wearing their heavy doeskin overcoats, Neville holding two large leather suitcases, and Ginny, a bulky plastic bag containing her Christmas presents from Molly and Arthur. She and Neville would be spending Christmas in Paris, and their train left London the following morning.
"Are you sure you don't want to stop the night?" asked Hermione, her voice full of concern.
"We'd better not," said Neville, "we've got rooms booked at the station hotel, and we want to be at Waterloo early tomorrow."
"It's your choice," said Hermione.
"We'd better go," said Ginny, she gave Hermione a hug, "thanks for dinner. Have a lovely Christmas."
"You too. Paris is meant to be so romantic at this time of year. I almost wish I was going with you," said Hermione, "send me a postcard. And I want to hear absolutely everything when you get back."
Ginny nodded, "I'll send you a picture of the Eiffel Tower."
Neville shook Harry's hand, "Thanks for everything old chap," he said.
"No problem mate," smiled Harry, "always a pleasure, never a chore."
"We'll have to have you over in the New Year," said Ginny, "we've almost finished decorating the flat now."
"That'd be nice," said Harry, kissing Ginny on both cheeks, "well, see you guys."
"Bye," said Neville. He turned to Ginny, "Ready darling?"
"Ready," answered Ginny. The two of them withdrew their wands, and in a flash, had apparated.
"I think that's the last," said Harry, turning to Hermione, "shall we clear up now, or do you want to make the kids do it in the morning?"
"We'll leave it," yawned Hermione, "I simply cannot be arsed."
Harry yawned as well, "I think I'm going to bed," he said.
"Shall I bring you up a glass of milk?"
Harry nodded, "That would be brilliant."
"Go on then, you get first dibs on the bathroom."
Harry trudged wearily upstairs to the bathroom. He was totally frazzled. He had worked six whole months without a holiday, and the strain of his work was finally telling on him. There were nearly always heavy bags under his eyes, he had lost weight, which was hard for him to do, being as skinny as he was. The other morning he had noticed a grey hair, but he hadn't told Hermione about it.
He checked himself in the bathroom mirror, and muttered, "Jesus, you're a mess Harry."
"Too right," said the mirror, "and don't think Hermione hasn't noticed your grey hairs yet."
Harry ignored the mirror, and squeezed toothpaste onto his brush. Two whole weeks of freedom from tomorrow, he thought with pleasure. At long last he'd have some quality time to spend with William and Rebecca. Hell, William hadn't seen him since September, and Rebecca was never usually awake when he left for work, and was usually in bed when he got home. It was surprising either of his kids recognised him. All their lives they had been shunted to endless childminders, expensive private nurseries and day care schemes. They had even brought in an au pair, a Swedish witch from Uppsala, but she had not lasted long. So ruminating, Harry finished brushing his teeth, and spat into the washbasin. He could hear Hermione's footsteps coming upstairs.
"You okay Harry?" she asked, as he came into the bedroom, "you look a bit depressed."
"I think I might be," said Harry, "I'm missing my kids."
Hermione looked puzzled, "They're right next door, what's the problem?"
"I think I'm missing their whole lives," said Harry, "I feel guilty, that's all."
"You're not missing their whole lives," said Hermione, "you have nothing to feel guilty about. It's not your fault your work is so time consuming."
"It is though," said Harry, sitting down on the bed, and removing his shoes, "I didn't have to become an auror. I could have played quidditch."
Hermione shook her head, "We discussed this Harry. You couldn't possibly have gone on playing professionally. Not after your injury," she was referring to the serious tendon injury that Harry had received during his third season as seeker for the Guildford Griffins, and just two weeks after his first international game for England, a World Cup qualifier against Canada. It had been too unfair. All the medi-wizards at St Mungo's had been unable to help, and with great reluctance, and to the disappointment of his legions of fans, Harry had quit. His white and blue England robes were still hanging in his wardrobe.
"It's just too much," he said, "I think I'm going grey before my time."
"I hadn't noticed," lied Hermione, "hop into bed, I won't be a minute."
She left Harry to his mid-life misery, and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed.
Harry was sitting up in bed when she got back, trimming his toenails. She undressed silently, pulled on her night-gown, and got into bed beside him. She put her arm around his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.
"Worry about that in the morning," she said, "are you really that depressed?"
Harry put down his penknife, "Really," he said. He removed his glasses, and placed them on the bedside table. As ever, Hermione was amazed how different he looked without them.
"Tell me about it, perhaps I can help," said Hermione.
"I already did. I think I'm getting old," said Harry.
"You've got years left in you," said Hermione, "you won't even be drawing a pension for another thirty years."
"That's just it Hermione, I already have a pension fund," said Harry.
"What else is bothering you?"
"Nothing really, I suppose it's just a lot of little things."
"Well, you can't argue with the little things," said Hermione.
"It was, seeing Dumbledore today."
"What about him?" asked Hermione, "He seemed very well didn't he?"
"Oh, come on Hermi. He's going senile ... he's got more bats in the belfry than Professor Trelawney. I think even he knows he's not long for this Earth."
"Don't say that Harry."
"He's hardly lucid anymore," said Harry, "and I remember him, all those years ago. He seemed strong then. It seemed he would always be there, hovering in the background. It was only when I left Hogwarts that I realised how, frail he'd always been, how small he seemed."
"Harry, anybody seems strong to an eleven year old, and he always has been strong for you. He was like a Father to you."
"I don't want to end up like that Hermi."
Hermione lay down, and fluffed up the feather duvet. She looked at Harry, "You don't have to."
"Why not?"
"You've got me," she said, "come on, someone needs cheering up big time, and I've got the ideal solution."
She turned off the light.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Draco's whole body still ached from the cruciatus curse as he relaxed in the giant bathtub in his room back at the Bull. He had poured in all the little sachets of bubble bath, and run the water until it was practically overflowing. He rearranged his inflatable bath pillow, and punched his rubber duck playfully on the nose. It was currently floating about somewhere in the region of his knees, which stuck up out of the water like two volcanic islands. That, thought Draco, was one major disadvantage of being so tall, you could never find a bath big enough.
He ran through the events of the evening. He had left the pub after finishing his pint, and headed straight back to the hotel. Whoever the stranger was, Draco did not intend to help him at all. True enough, he didn't like Ron Weasley ... at the end of the day, who did? But all the same, to deliver him into the hands of someone who was prepared to use the forbidden curses so lightly. Hell, even he wouldn't stoop that low.
The pain had been indescribable, he thought. It had been, so complete, so effective, that all he had wanted at that point was to curl up and die, for it to be no more. This unsettled Draco considerably. His father had always punished cowardice, so it had been his nature from an early age to stand up for himself, to never let down his guard for an instant, and, he reflected, it was probably this that had earned him his reputation at Hogwarts. Now he had seen how easy it was to writhe on the floor, begging for mercy, begging for it to stop. Now he had seen what that was like, he began to understand just how Voldemort's victims must have felt. The Potters, the Longbottoms, all the others, Cedric Diggory, Bertha Jorkins, even his own father, for it had been Voldemort who had got him in the end. Draco had never heard much of how his father died, although he had been told in Azkaban that it had been instant. That meant Avada Kedavra. There was no defence against that, no second chance, no parley. It was as final as what it was ... death.
Now Draco thought back to the lowest hours of his life ... that fateful day in London. He hadn't meant to kill the muggle, just scare him. The court hadn't seen it that way however. He could remember their jeering, how his mother had wept in the spectator's gallery as Minister Fudge had passed judgement. Azkaban. The Dementors had led him away. He could remember his own screams, his howls, his protests, but the Dementors had been impervious to it. After the second night had passed, he had stopped crying, and spent most of his time squatting on his haunches in the corner of the cell, rocking backwards and forwards.
He woke up. The bath water had cooled considerably, and most of the bubbles had gone. Slowly, for he was still in some pain, he hoisted himself out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around his slender frame.
The hotel room was still and quiet. Outside, the High Street was deserted, save for parked cars, and a black cat stalking down the pavement. Draco closed the curtains, and switched on the light.
Wave after wave of cold fear swept through his body. He knew he had to get out of there. First thing in the morning, he resolved to check out as soon as he could. Perhaps the further he got from this mysterious stranger, the safer he would be, even though in his heart he knew it was a vain hope. He dried himself, pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, and climbed into bed. He was shivering. He wrapped the duvet tight around himself, and lay down amidst the fluffy pillows. He was asleep within seconds. Yet his dreams were not pleasant ones.
"I know what you're thinking Draco," that voice again, the chalk on slate, scraping, pounding, inside his skull.
"You can't hide from me. I know your every thought, your every desire, hope, wish and dream. I have always been with you. Remember? When first..."
"I drew breath," said Draco, "you were there. Wherever I went ... there you were. Whenever, wherever, whatever."
"That's right Draco. So why do you think you can run away?"
"I ... don't know," admitted Draco.
"You can't, you can't run from me, and you can't hide from me. Because, you know I will always be with you. You'll have to kill me first, and I don't believe you have the guts."
"I know I have the guts," growled Draco.
The voice laughed, "Ah, but I know you don't. I know that when you took your father's beatings without flinching, you were crying inside. You were never anything but a stinking, coward, a stinking, pathetic little coward, who would run home to mummy bawling his head off, if another child dared so much as rebuke you. Your so called, tough persona. It was always an act. And you need to be taught a lesson, Draco Malfoy."
Draco stirred fitfully, "Father?" he called, "is that you?"
The stranger removed the hood of his cloak, the face that was revealed was not that of his father, which even in the knowledge of what that man had inflicted upon the boy Draco, he still found a source of comfort. Instead, he saw a face so hideous, so indescribably ugly, so horribly deformed, that Draco screamed. He opened his mouth wide, and let out a scream. It was as if all the rage of all his thirty five years was pouring out of his body, all the indignity, all the humiliation, all the bitterness. But yet, as he screamed, he became slowly aware that no sound was coming out of his mouth. Petrified, Draco put his hands to his throat, but could feel nothing there. Now the stranger was laughing, the cruellest, most mocking laugh he had ever heard. And now he spoke again.
"You're a pathetic, worthless turd Malfoy. You're a stinking, low life coward," this in Potter's voice, but at the same time, not Potter. Now his father, "A Malfoy looks pain straight in the eye Draco. He never flinches, he never winces, for such is the mark of a coward, and such are all cowards doomed to die," his father's face faded away, to be replaced by the grinning visage of Alastor Moody, shouting as he bounced Draco, whom he had turned into a ferret, repeatedly on the floor, and to Draco's horror, the others were looking on, and they were laughing. Potter, Weasley and Granger. They were all there. Each of them laughing. That same laugh.
"Coward," hissed Ron.
"Don't ... do ... that ... again," he heard Moody's voice, but as he repeated those words, the noise of the laughter was fading, fading fast.
A/N
Ow, blooming heck! How can I say I don't know where this is going? This has to be the darkest piece, I've ever written, and it wouldn't let me stop writing! I was going to wait till Sunday night to post this, but I just had to put it up straight away! I don't intend for Draco to get off lightly here. In my opinion, he has a lot of redeeming to do, despite being my favourite character. I'll try to end on an upbeat note though, by asking some more posers. Just what will Draco do next? What did Harry and Hermione get up to after she turned out the light? Who is the mysterious stranger, and is he mine, or JK's? I invite your guesses, and I also plead for reviews. Come on people!