[Disclaimer:] God I hate writing this part... Anyway, Draco doesn't belong to me.. *sniff* And so does the setting and the other characters.

Disclaimer: God I hate writing this part... Anyway, Draco doesn't belong to me... *Sniff* And so does the setting and the other characters. There are also plenty of quotes in here from one of my favourite books, 'I, Claudius', by Robert Graves. Caitlin Somers is from the book Summer Sisters by Judy Blume, which is a very delicious romance. Oh, and I put in a Death-Eater dinner, something similar to one Draco attended in Cassandra's Draco Dormiens (from which, by the way, I got Narcissa's last name). And no, I did not get 'Circle' from Lori's PoU and STNE… I wrote this part before I took the time to read her fabulous series.

A/N: Thanks for those who reviewed chapter one. Just to let you know—James Potter was the chaser for Gryffindor, never the seeker. Just a correction for something I had not edited in the previous instalment. Again this was roughly edited, and if you have any constructive comments to make, they would be greatly appreciated. To one of my reviewers: What do you mean, 'get to the point'? Do elaborate.

Dolce Far Niente

Chapter Two: Where Clandestine Lovers Lie

'Draco?'

Draco raised his head from a tangle of tear-streaked blankets and tiredly started towards his doors again. His father, he knew, was the one on the other side.

Sure enough, Lucius Malfoy stood there, his usual sneer in place.

'Good morning, Draco.'

'And good morning to you, father,' said Draco through gritted teeth. He knew better than to raise the subject of Caitlin, and besides, his heart hurt whenever he thought about her. Lucius stepped into the room and looked around. What he saw didn't seem to surprise him one bit -- the curtains, the draperies were torn and dishevelled. The furniture looked like it had been thrown around in near-insanity, which it had.

'We will have this fixed later on, Draco,' said Lucius, as carelessly as if it were a stuck-up hair. 'For now, I want to talk to you.' He took one of the chairs, this one not wrecked, and sat on it, facing Draco. He gestured to the bed, and Draco obediently sat.

'You do know, don't you, why I killed her?' At this, Draco flinched. He did not want to talk about Caitlin, and was indeed surprised his father did. But then maybe he should have expected it, after all, what he hated with a passion his father loved.

'No.'

'Of course you do -- if not, you would not have been hiding your 'fling' from me through all these years, would you?' Lucius sneered.

'Yes,' said Draco, trying to keep his expression as indifferent as possible, knowing that if he were to appear the least bit contemptuous severe punishments would ensue. He tilted his own chin defiantly. 'But I do not see why you had to dispose of her. And so quickly.'

Lucius stood up. 'Emotions, boy. Emotions. We are prohibited to have them, do you not remember? When we become part of the Circle, we are not allowed them more than ever.' Lucius covered the distance between him and his son and uncovered the latter's left forearm. Sure enough, the Dark Mark stared back at him, a horrible skull with a serpent protruding out of the mouth. Lucius smiled at it, his usual, sadistic, evil smile.

'You married mother,' grumbled Draco, snatching his arm back, visibly displeased to have been reminded of what he was. Lucius laughed.

'You think that was for love? It was never so. It was for power.'

Draco's eyebrows knitted in consternation. 'How so?'

'Your mother adored me, Draco, but I never her. But hers was one of the most prominent pureblood families, one of the few left. The Hardestys were rich and powerful, and it wouldn't hurt if she were my wife. Besides, boy, who will be heir to the Malfoy fortune?'

My, that stung! Draco goggled at him for a few seconds, but, knowing Lucius would not be too kind if he found his son questioning his decisions, quickly resumed his well practised his nonchalant air. 'Of course, father.' The thought I'm just an heir to him crossed his mind, but he pushed it away quickly, for fear of emotions overtaking him.

His father went on with the lecture. 'Caitlin Somers was a slave, Draco. A slave. A Squib. It was bad enough that you were doing things behind my back, but her being a slave made it much worse.'

'I get it, father,' said Draco, his eyes on the floor. He was tired of these speeches, ever so tired.

Lucius glared at his son. 'Promise me, boy, that you will never, ever do this again. If this reaches the Dark Lord's ears...'

Draco tried to look his words, at the same time wondering why the Dark Lord would care whom he consorted with. 'It won't, father. I promise.'

'Promise what, exactly, Draco?' said Lucius in that intimidating air of his.

Draco stood up, knees feeling like they would give way any moment, fighting the urge to plop back down and have to sit with Lucius hovering over him. 'That I will never do anything behind your back, and that I will never speak of this incident again.'

Lucius smiled approvingly. 'Very well, then. I shall go -- my colleagues will be coming here for dinner.' He checked his watch. 'I will see you at 6:30, sharp. Dress properly -- no Muggle clothing.'

Draco nodded like the obedient little heir he was expected to be. 'I will, Father.'

***

'We're going to London tomorrow?'

Arthur Weasley nodded at his youngest son then sipped the rest of his pumpkin juice.

'Cool!' said Fred and George, in unison. 'We do need to stock up at Gambol and Japes,' said Fred.

Harry looked out of the corner of his eye at Hermione. He was sorry he had yelled at her two days ago, since, after some contemplation, he had found that he had never really told her about Lavender. Harry truly wished he could just up and apologise, but his teenage-boy pride wouldn't let him. She had been pretty quiet for the whole meal, and was absentmindedly pushing her mashed potatoes around her plate with a fork. He did hope he could ask her what was wrong, but in the light of their previous misunderstanding, he couldn't stock up enough courage to do so. He was glad when Ron asked the question for him.

'Er – nothing's wrong,' she replied, with false cheerfulness. 'I guess I just don't have much of an appetite.' She directed her attention back to mutilating her food, assuming the interrogation done.

But Mrs. Weasley seemed to have spotted the same problem. 'Darling, come now, surely there's something wrong? No one has ever failed to devour my mashed potatoes.' Everyone, except Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, snorted into their dinner. Hermione looked up again with an obviously fake happy expression.

'No, really, I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley. Anyway, your potatoes still taste like Heaven.'

Ron shook his head amusedly. 'Not much of an actress, Hermione,' he addressed his family. He turned back to her. 'Now, really, what is it?

Hermione rose from her place. 'I told you, there's nothing wrong!' She yelled in an uncharacteristically spiteful tone. Everyone recoiled. Hermione turned pink. 'Oh, er, I'm sorry, everyone... There's just something wrong with me, don't know what. If you'll excuse me...' She hung her head and left her place.

'I had better see what's wrong,' said Ginny, making to stand up, but Harry beat her to it.

'No, I'll see what's wrong.' He excused himself and left the kitchen. The twins caught his eye and he shot them a very meaningful look. George stared after him before saying, 'Well, that was an enjoyable meal. Dessert, anyone?'

***

'Hermione, are you in here?' he asked, though knowing this was where Hermione would go.

Harry had reached Ginny's room and was knocking on the door, to no avail. 'Hermione?' He said, more loudly. The door creaked open and Hermione poked her head out. Harry was surprised to see her face tear-streaked. She looked rather disappointed to see him, and he made a draft of his apology in his mind and stuck the foot in the crack in the door, knowing she would close it in his face.

'Could you just leave me alone for a few seconds, Harry? I really, really need to be by myself for now. I'll see everyone on the morning, OK? Please tell them I said that.' Her voice quivered slightly as she spoke and Hermione looked like she was struggling for the look of composure. She made to close the door, but of course Harry's foot was in the way, and failed.

'Hermione, I know you're mad at me, but just let me apologise...' He forced the door open, much to Hermione's chagrin, and had managed to squeeze himself inside despite Hermione's pressing on the door to keep him out. He had never seen the inside of Ginny's room before. In fact, he had never seen the inside of any girl's room before. Ginny's room was nicely decorated, though smaller than Ron's was. The walls were painted bright, violent yellow (making Harry wonder if the Weasleys had a thing for eye-hurting colours), almost matching Ginny and Hermione's bed linens. Crookshanks lay on a small mauve rug with his whole body curled up, making him look like a large, furry ball. Harry turned his attention to Hermione, who was wringing the front of her oversized shirt and staring at her bare feet. 'Hermione?'

She looked up, obviously not willing to forgive him so easily. 'Harry, please leave.'

'No.' Though slightly put off that she wasn't going to pardon him, and wondering why his yelling at her, just once, would hurt her so much, whereas Ron did it all the time, Harry strode towards Hermione, who was standing near her mattress, and took her hand. 'Not until you let me say what I have to.' He stared into her hazel eyes. 'Look, I'm sorry,' he said, as sincerely as he could. Hermione took a breath, looked away, and let him go on.

'I was thinking. I didn't tell you about Lavender and me, and I thought I did, because I'm not used to keeping things from you. I guess I just forgot – I swear, there was even a draft of my letter to you for it.' He had said all this very fast, and Harry took a calming breath. 'I'm so stupid, I know, but...' He faltered, at a loss for words.

Hermione looked at him, a neutral expression on her face, not knowing if she'd forgiven him or not. Had he known what she felt, how hurt she was… 'Look, you really --', she began, but Harry had pulled her into a tight embrace, muffling her words. Hermione's heart pounded in her chest as Harry's arms encircled her waist, and could hear Harry's own steadily beating in his chest through his cotton shirt. He buried his face in her soft auburn hair. 'Damn, I'm sorry,' he murmured. Hermione nearly melted. How could she hate him? In her breast was a nearly intolerable powerful feeling for him, which quickly procured his pardon. Reluctantly she pulled back from his squeeze.

'It's okay.' She tilted her head to face him.

Harry's shoulders sagged in relief, and he smiled and squeezed her hand. 'All right, then. What do you want to do – do you want to go back downstairs, or stay here?'

'I'll stay here. I'm starting to feel sleepy. You go on down -- I don't think you want to miss Mrs. Weasley's home-made treacle pudding.' Hermione slipped her hand out of his. 'I'm fine, tell them not to worry. Oh, and Harry?' She asked as he turned around to leave.

'Yeah?'

'Thank you.' And, in a moment of boldness, she kissed him on the cheek. Harry turned slightly pink, but shook his head to conceal it.

'You're welcome.' In his haze he hadn't the presence of mind to wonder what Hermione was thanking him for – he was the one at fault, and was only correcting the wrong he'd done. He led himself out of the room. What was that about? He thought. Harry went back downstairs, his hand to his reddened face.

***

'Where is Narcissa, Lucius?'

Lucius Malfoy turned his head to face MacNair, one of his fellow Death-Eaters. 'She is not feeling well, I am afraid. Dragon Pox.' He brought his wineglass to his lips and drank deeply. 'It is quite a shame she didn't have it as a child.'

Draco squirmed in his seat. He was sitting in the Malfoy Manor dining hall, at one of his father's Circle dinners. Being around the rest of the Circle always made him uncomfortable, plus his father was strict about everything to do with his 'colleague dinners', from the food to clothing worn on the table. Draco had forced himself into black, heavy wizarding robes, and he was slightly choking in them.

Draco glanced around the table. There were about twelve Death-Eaters present, including him and his father. Even in a casual atmosphere, Voldemort's supporters wore hoods and masks, but Draco knew from either their builds or their voices who each was. Confident that Draco would not give them away, they conversed freely about their plans, none of which Draco was too interested in anyway. He found it a relief, too, rather than a disappointment, that none of his father's friends seemed to want to talk to him -- whenever they did, they always asked about how the Potions professor and Head of Slytherin House, Snape, was doing, then the rest of the conversation would be about plans to decapitate this particular Dumbledore supporter.

They got through the salmon and soup quite well, and everything was quite orderly, until Draco felt a burning sensation on his left forearm. He winced, and pulled back the sleeves of his arm. Sure enough, the Dark Mark was stinging, a sign that they should Apparate to their Master's side. Lucius Malfoy and the others had obviously felt the burning too, and the host stood up and cleared his throat, black eyes excited and… malicious.

'My fellow Death-Eaters, it appears as though our Master needs us. Shall we?'

The room was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks, and one by one, the Death-Eaters disappeared, except Lucius and Draco. The elder turned to his son.

'Can you do it this time, Draco?'

Draco nodded half-heartedly, eyes on his leather shoes. Apparating always left him utterly weak, as he was underage. Apparition was only taught to seventh-year students, but, as Lucius put it, Draco had already had masses of training in the Dark Arts, and it wouldn't hurt if Draco knew how before time -- the Death-Eaters were constantly Called by the Dark Lord (Lucius had managed to find an amulet that made the Ministry, which kept tabs on those who Apparated, unable to know he did it). Draco turned his eyes up to his father, and was surprised to see Lucius shaking his head.

'No, I don't think you can do it. You could splinch yourself, you know -- you haven't had much practice at that Muggle-loving school.' He wrinkled his nose at the mere thought of Hogwarts. Lucius put a hand on his son's shoulder. 'I will tell you what the meeting is about. Now go tend to your mother -- she will need you right about now.' He then Disapparated, leaving his son alone in the dining hall.

Draco shivered. It wasn't really cold, but he felt chilly. He headed for his God-forsaken room, feeling no inclination at all to tend to his indifferent mother. Narcissa would just have to understand.

***

'Harry? Harry…'

Harry Potter woke up with a start. Unbelievable pain seared through his forehead, and he could only keep from screaming with sheer willpower. What was it, a lion, or an eagle? And a black-robed figure... The remaining details of the dream swirled through his head like fog.

Harry kneaded his forehead with his fingers, and could feel the raised mark through the tips of his digits. The pain was gone from his scar now, but he could still almost feel it. The details of his dream gradually escaped his reverie, no matter how hard he tried to cling to the vestiges of it. He looked around Ron's room to see if had gone and woken his best friend up. Fortunately, It was not so – Ron's tranquil breathing could still be heard in the chamber. He lay back on his mattress, watching the strips of moonlight, reflected by the creek, dance on the ceiling. They lulled him to sleep, and he welcomed the unconsciousness with open arms.

***

A Griffin. That was all it could be -- the head, wings and forelegs of an eagle, the body, hind legs and tail of a lion. It roared, or at least it looked like it did, as no sound escaped from its stretched jaws…

Hermione's eyes flew open. She sat up, the front and back of her night-dress sticking to her body with sweat, breath coming out in gasps, and heart beating in her chest as if she had just participated in a marathon. She lay back on her bed. It was just a dream -- it wasn't even frightening. Just a Griffin. She closed her eyes, but unconsciousness refused to accept her. She stood up and walked from her and Ginny's room. She wandered listlessly around the upper floors of the Burrow, and somehow found herself standing in front of Ron's room. The crooked words Ronald's Room glared down at her. She opened the door, not knowing if she should.

When she saw Harry, her heart plummeted to the floor. She tiptoed over Harry's bag and stopped to look at him. He looked kind of angelic when he was asleep. But then everyone was.

Oh, she thought, he forgot to remove his glasses. She knelt down on the floor beside his mattress and placed her hands on Harry's face, and took off his spectacles, carefully so that he didn't wake up. She set it down on Ron's night table so Harry wouldn't roll over and crush his glasses. He looked a lot younger without them, though Hermione didn't think it would be the same if he'd got contacts instead. He really was quite handsome, features illuminated in the moonlight. Realising she had not given him his good-night kiss, as she always did for him and Ron, sheepishly she leaned down to place a small peck on his cheek.

She instantly drew back, astonished. He was cold, freezing cold, and her lips burned from the feel of his icy skin. She touched his face gingerly, wanting to see if she had just imagined his frigidity. She must have, for when her fingers made contact with his face, she didn't feel the cold at all.

As she started to stretch from her crouched position, Harry's eyes fluttered open, and she froze and coloured.

'Hermione?' he said groggily. Hermione felt so embarrassed she wanted to die. She didn't know what to say, or what to do, so she just sat there, dumbstruck, as Harry sat up and felt around for his glasses.

'Hermione, what are you doing here?' his voice was not the least bit angry or accusing, and Hermione felt the muscles in her shoulder relax a bit. Harry slid his glasses up his nose.

'W-well, er, I was having a dream, and I couldn't sleep, so I went wandering around, and I just, er, found my self here.' She wished to kick herself for her inarticulateness.

'Oh.' Harry's expression suddenly turned serious. 'Hermione, what dream did you have?'

'Er, I don't really remember...' Hermione lied. Harry grabbed her arm and stared into her eyes.

'Please.'

'OK.' Hermione frowned thoughtfully, trying to recount what she remembered of her vision. She hadn't made an effort to keep the details in mind, for it hadn't meant anything to her. But it might to Harry, she thought.

'It was about a Griffin,' she said, at last able to come up with something.

'What's that?'

'You know, the Griffin. It's part lion, part eagle. Harry, what --'

'I had the same dream.'

Hermione paused. 'Excuse me?'

'I said I had the same dream.'

'But, er, that's not possible --'

'Why not?'

'Because then you and I would have to be subconsciously connected.'

'In layman's terms, that would be...?'

'It means we could be, er, I don't know, psychic or something.'

Harry leaned back. He was now sitting in an Indian-seat position, with is his hands on is bare feet. He looked thoughtfully at the sloping ceiling. Ron's posters of The Chudley Cannons were unseen in the dark, only lightly illuminated by the dim moonlight that danced upon them.

'Harry?'

'Go on to bed, Hermione,' he said distractedly, as if deep in thought.

Hermione began to feel a little nervous. Suddenly she was aware of where she was and who she was talking to and what little clothing either had on, he in worn pyjamas and her in a night-dress -- without a dressing gown. She was relieved it was dark, or the situation would have been more awkward than it already was.

'Harry, are you mad at me?'

Harry stared at her, then shook his head. 'No, of course not. I should ask that… I was being a daft git the other day.'

'Oh. Don't worry yourself about that anymore, it most probably just slipped your mind.'

Harry took her hand and squeezed it. 'I'm not mad at you. Now go back to bed -- Ron will throw a fit if he sees you here.'

Hermione stood up, relieved that Harry wasn't pressing for details. 'Why will Ron throw a fit?'

'Trust me, we're supposed to share a brain. Good night.'

She tiptoed, once more, across Harry and Ron's things, until she reached the door. When she did, she turned around and was surprised to see Harry in the same Indian-seat position, and still staring up at the ceiling.

'Aren't you going to bed, Harry?'

Harry looked at her strangely. She couldn't see his expression in the dark, and was feeling very curious as to what he was thinking. 'Hermione, was there a man in your dream?'

'No. Why?' She asked, wondering if Harry was asking if he himself was in her dreams, but then pushed the thought away.

'I'm not sure, but I think there was one in mine.'

'What did he look like?' Hermione leaned on the doorframe. She was glad Harry was telling her things. She had never really been a confidante to him, after all, since there was always Ron to talk to, and she didn't think Harry told even him about his dreams.

Harry shrugged. 'I don't know. There was a lot of fog.' He took of his glasses and set them on the floor beside the mattress. 'Good night, Hermione.'

'Good-night to you too.' She then tiptoed hurriedly out of the hall to her and Ginny's room, lest anyone catch her. Hermione hurled herself on her bed and closed her eyes, trying in vain to fall asleep. The contents of their conversation kept her tossing and turning. They didn't really have the same dream, since Harry said there was a man in his, but it was rather unsettling that Harry would be dreaming about a creature he didn't even know the name of and that the same beast would be in her vision.

Ah, well, she thought, she would ponder it in the morning. For the moment, she was to take Harry's advice and go to bed. Everything Harry had said was stored away, in her brain, into a small metal safe-box with a heart-shaped lock on it.

Somewhere far from there, another sixteen-year old sat up from sleep.

***

What was that about?

Draco Malfoy wiped at his brow. What a strange dream. He tried to remember it, tried to recall the details, but his head hurt when he tried. Draco stood up from his bed (recently fixed by the house-elf) and put on his slippers, then walked slowly to his large bay window. He sat down on the cushions, opened the windows. The night breeze felt cool on his silk pyjamas and milk-white skin. Draco then peered outside into the deep, dark, mess of wild trees that was Malfoy Manor's backyard. In its own weird way, the scene that greeted him was quite beautiful, though somewhat cruelly so, the numerous small ponds reflecting the silver moonlight.

Draco looked up at the velvet sky. There were no stars. Of course, he knew enough not to be scared by this -- once in a while, it seemed as though the god of night forgot to sprinkle his stars here and there.

It happened very suddenly. As Draco was scanning the sky, for perhaps an owl bringing him a letter, which in turn told him that Crabbe had caused another scandal in Muggle London by crushing a city bus with his bare hands, a set of golden sequins seemed to appear out of nowhere in the night sky. Stars, he realised. The twinkling beads formed a pattern against the heavens. Draco, gasping, realised what constellation it was called—Lucius had made him memorise all the names of star formations from an old book once—Draco. It was the constellation he was named after. Draco frantically searched the atmosphere for an explanation, perhaps all the stars had appeared at once, he thought, but no. Draco was the lone configuration.

Suddenly, the stars moved around and around, whirling in the firmament, until they had come to form another pattern -- this time familiar for reasons the boy did not especially like. The Dark Mark. The skull, that horrible, grinning skull, with a serpent for a tongue. It cast a ghostly green glow on the forest outside the window, and a chill went down Draco's spine.

In a few, swift moves, Draco had closed the window, pulled on the fabric blinds, and crossed the room to his bed where he lay, shivering in fright, until he drowned into unconsciousness.

***

'Harry? Oh, come on, Harry, wake up.'

Ron's voice echoed through his subconscious. Then Harry felt a tugging and woke up. 'What? Where's the fire?' He said stupidly. Then, more wakefully, 'Oh, er, sorry, Ron.'

His best friend was looming above him, shaking his head. 'Honestly, Harry, what did you do that made you sleep so late? We're supposed to go to London today!'

Harry jumped to his feet. 'That's right! I'd better get ready -- what time is it?'

Ron checked his watch. 'Eight fifteen. We're supposed to leave at eight thirty, so hurry.'

Harry nodded and left with his towel, heading for the hall bathroom. When he got there, it was occupied, so Harry waited patiently. He whistled to himself. What did he do that made him sleep so late? Then it struck him -- Hermione was in Ron's room last night. Harry had forgotten what her excuse was, all that he remembered was that Hermione told him she had a dream about a Griffin, whatever it was. Then he, Harry, had told her that he had the same dream. Then...

The sound of the bathroom door creaking open wrenched Harry sharply to attention. Harry straightened up from his leaning position on the wall, and was surprised to see the person who came out.

It was Hermione. She looked infernally pretty in her white cotton bathrobe, her hair spreading in damp waves down her back. She looked equally surprised as Harry felt. She smiled at him and said her good-morning, then hurried up the twisted stairs to Ginny's room.

Harry felt very stupid as he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He didn't even say 'good morning'. Harry scolded himself for that as he slipped his clothes over his head. He turned on the shower and let the running water drown his thoughts for a while.

***

Hermione's breakfast churned in her stomach. Floo travel had always made her feel awfully queasy, and today was no exception.

She, Harry, and the Weasley family were in Diagon Alley, looking for school supplies. Harry had not needed to visit Gringotts, as he had got excess money exactly one year ago. It was a good thing, Hermione thought, that she had worn a sleeveless top with tennis shorts, because she was practically baking in the sun. And maybe also, she thought sheepishly, because they showed off her tanned figure perfectly.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were standing in the former two's favourite store, Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ron was checking out a box of practice Snitches, which, unlike real ones, could be called back with a Summoning Spell (rather like the first Snidget of Quididitch). Real Snitches, as Hermione had read once, had all kinds of counter-spells, like anti-flame, anti-Summon, anti-Banish, and all others, to keep from unfairness in the game. Hermione turned her attention to Harry, who had his back to her, discussing the quality of the best Cleansweeps when compared with old Silver Arrows with the slightly chubby cashier, Herman. His countenance and build reminded Hermione slightly of Harry's Uncle Vernon, whom she had seen at King's Cross; only this man's face was friendly and good-humoured. She headed towards her friend and stopped a few inches away, not wishing to interrupt their exchange, but Herman had noticed her and smiled. Harry turned around and grinned at her, then motioned for her to come forward and introduced her to Herman.

'Aye, she your gal, Harry?' Said Herman, after Harry had done, an amused grin on his pudgy face. Harry turned brilliant red before muttering, 'No, why would you say that?'

The man shook his head, unaware of the discomfort he was causing the two youths. 'Aye, sorry, I just thought you'd make a handsome couple.'

Harry turned even redder, if that was even possible and led Hermione away from Herman. Assumptions like that were part of the reason he and Lavender had broken up, and he was displeased of being reminded so when he was in such a good humour. Also, he was used to having people assume that he was Hermione's beau, but having someone say it in so forward a way, and within Hermione's earshot, embarrassed him. He looked over at their other friend, who looked like he was enjoying himself immensely in his quest for a broom. 'I think Ron's staying here -- he wants a new broom, and knowing him, he'll be taking long.'

'He's buying a broom?', asked Hermione, trying to sound as indifferent about Herman's taunt as Harry seemed. If only what that man had said was true…

'Yeah. Since Fred and George are gone, he's going to try to fill in.' He wiped at his sweaty brow. 'You want to go somewhere?' asked he.

'Like where?'

'I was thinking, you know, since you don't like Quidditch that much, we could leave Ron to his brooms and look for something you want to see.' Amusement spread over his countenance. 'Like another Gilderoy Lockhart book-signing, for example.'

'Harry!' Hermione felt truly embarrassed, being reminded of her stupid childhood crush. 'I was twelve...' She pinched Harry's arm as hard as she could. Harry jumped back a few steps.

'Ow!' Harry exclaimed, rubbing his arm where Hermione had pinched it. But he was still smiling, assuring her he was still silently laughing. 'Come on, Hermione, I was only kidding...'

Hermione grabbed his arm playfully and dragged him out of the store, saying over her shoulder, 'Ron! We'll see you later, at Florean Fortescue's, all right?' Ron nodded in the distance, his freckles bouncing. Hermione pulled Harry out to the middle of the street. Harry looked at her.

'I was only joking...'

Hermione shook her head. 'I know, stupid. Now, where do you want to go?'

Harry grabbed her arm. 'Anywhere, just out of this heat.' He felt his dark hair with his free hand. 'It's scorching hot, my hair's all warm…'

Hermione frowned—of course Harry did not share her interests, and for once she thought that maybe she would spare him the torture of having to stand in a bookshop. 'Er, I wanted to pass by a bookstore, but you wouldn't want to go there --'

'Yeah I would. Besides, we haven't got our books yet.' Harry took out his booklists and unfolded it. 'Let's see -- The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six, and Advanced Arithmancy.' He smiled and put it back in his jeans' pocket.

In some surprise at his easy acquiescence Hermione nodded, wiped a tendril of damp hair from her eyes, and headed to Flourish and Blotts' with Harry.

'Have I mentioned how glad I am that you quit Divination and got Arithmancy?' Asked Hermione when they had purchased their books and left the bookstore about a half-hour later. They sat down, looking forward to cold refreshments, at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.

'Yes. Many times.' Harry took out Advanced Arithmancy and flipped through it, much like he had done with Quidditch at Hogwarts. He grimaced at the sight of so many numbers and closed the book. Setting it down he looked at Hermione. 'Well, I always figured you'd be able to help me with it -- anything, except maybe Potions, would be better than Professor Trelawney's drawling.' Hermione laughed.

The two of them got their ice cream cones (pistachio-raspberry with almonds, Harry's favourite) and polished them off quickly. Harry was starting to wonder about Ron.

'Where is Ron? He's taking too long...' He said uncertainly. Hermione looked up from their booklists -- she had been checking if they had got everything.

'I don't know, Harry... Maybe we should check.' The two picked up their packages and headed off to Quality Quidditch Supplies. Just as they were at the door, a jubilant-looking Ron greeted them, holding a long package wrapped in brown paper.

'Hi, guys! Where've you been?'

'Waiting for you,' said Hermione, panting. She had not been able to restrain herself from buying three extra books for 'light' reading, and her package weighted what felt like a ton. Harry stared at her, and automatically switched their purchases in one quick move. Hermione was amazed -- Harry had only three books, all of which she of course had purchased as well, and she couldn't believe how her other three added to the weight. This one she could carry easily. She looked up at Harry; he wasn't staggering under hers.

'Why, aren't you two a nice-looking couple,' said Ron sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Harry rolled his in some sort of response to their adolescent-guy language and asked, 'So, what broomstick did you get?' In response Ron held up his package proudly.

'You are looking, lady and gentleman, at the new Nimbus Two Thousand and Four!' He exclaimed happily.

'Really?' Asked Hermione. 'I didn't know that was out -- there wasn't any sign up front.' Harry nodded in agreement, while Ron grinned even wider.

'That's why I'm so happy -- this is the proto-type! Herman just got it, and it's been tested, of course. This is the first to be sold anywhere. Isn't it great?'

Hermione didn't see what was so special about having a prototype of any broom, so she kept quiet. Harry seemed to think the same way.

'I don't know, Ron -- I haven't really seen it yet,' said Harry. 'Anyway, I'm sure it'll be great on the field.' He looked at his watch, which had been previously fixed. 'Let's head off, shall we? The others are waiting for us at The Leaky Cauldron, I think.'

The three lugged their packages to the famous pub, where, sure enough, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were waiting, drinking butterbeers. Hermione dropped Harry's books on a table, procuring a small noise, and asked, 'Where's Ginny?' Mrs. Weasley shrugged.

'I don't know, really -- she said she would meet us here, so here we are.' She smiled at Ron's package. 'What model is that?' She asked. Hermione was a tad startled -- Mrs. Weasley didn't strike her to be the type interested in Quidditch, much less broomsticks. Ron glanced at his parcel proudly.

'Nimbus Two Thousand and Four, Mum,' he said, grinning. At that exact moment, Ginny slid in The Leaky Cauldron, a couple of brown paper-wrapped packages in her arms. She looked flushed, and, Harry thought, it was certainly not from the heat.

'Hullo, everyone,' said Ginny brightly. 'Ready to go?' The others stared.

'Ginny, where have you been?' Her mother asked. 'We've been waiting for you.'

Ginny, surprisingly, rolled her brown eyes. 'I don't see what's the big deal, Mum,' she said coolly. 'I was only a few minutes late.' She tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. 'So, are we going or what?'

Mrs. Weasley looked quite as taken aback as Harry felt at Ginny's behaviour. Sure, this was to be expected from a teen, but never their shy (especially around Harry Potter), gentle Ginny Weasley.

Gathering their wits and choosing to forgive Ginny this one instance of impoliteness, the other Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione strode to the fireplace to travel home by Floo powder, nearly forgetting their parcels.

At least, Harry added, she wasn't acting as shy as she usually was around him. He realised his shoulders were tense, and relaxed as he took a fistful of glittering Floo Powder from the flowerpot that Tom, the barman, was holding up. Face scrunched up in disdain he braced himself for another sickening journey on the Floo express.

***

Draco lugged his heavy trunk to the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten. He got through easily, avoiding hitting the stupid Muggles as he passed the ticket barrier.

After stowing away his trunk in the luggage compartment, he looked up and down the train for an empty cabin, and found one near the back. Draco sighed and sat down, then glanced at his Rolex. Ten fifty-five -- five minutes to go until their departure. Draco took off his robes, which his father had persuaded him to change into, despite the heat. His silvery-blonde hair was starting to get sweaty, and he wiped it with his black scarf, which had encircled his neck. As he untied the scarf, something cold and silver touched his hand. He glanced at it, knowing what it was. Caitlin's cross shone brightly in the sunlight which filtered through the fabric blinds on the window. Ad infinitum. Ad infinitum. Ad infinitum. The Latin phrase swirled in his head. He had forgotten what that meant. Caitlin had told him once, when he asked. He remembered when that was -- the first time he had ever seen Caitlin Somers.

As a little boy, Draco had never been exposed to the slaves, house-elves, yes, as they were called upon to shine his shoes sometimes, but never slaves. As his father had feared that 'they might rub off on him', the Squib servants were expected not to show their faces to the masters of the house.

At the age of thirteen, Draco actually formed an acquaintance with one.

~ It was a normal summer's day, the day after his birthday, June 17. Draco was just lolling around the Manor -- his father was at The Daily Prophet to straighten out a few things about the Sirius Black incident. As he sat in his father's study, reading Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, the boy heard a voice. It was the loveliest sound he had ever heard, like the ringing of thousands of silver bells at Christmas. And it was singing and humming, simultaneously, to a low, mournful tune, the kind he had never heard before. Draco stood up and dropped the book, mesmerised, and was led out of the study by the beautiful voice.

'The rosy-fingered goddess then,

Will roll away the night of the stars...'

Draco had suddenly found himself outside the house, in the forest, in fact. The sound was getting ever closer. Not knowing if he should, Draco followed the chant. Closer... Closer... That was it -- behind a bush -- the voice came from behind the bush. Draco hesitated before drawing aside the bush, to reveal a small, brown-haired figure wearing a blue dress, washing clothes by a pond. Who was that? Draco wondered. He had never seen her before. He, in fact, had seen no human, other than his Mother and Father and old Mrs. Blume, the cook, at the Manor before. The person had her back to him, still humming the song as she knelt by the pool; unaware Draco was watching her.

'Soft but cohesive let my offerings flow,

Not roughly swift, nor impudently slow...'

Draco, still slightly mesmerised by her voice, went over the bush and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder.

'Oh!' She had shouted in surprise, jumping to her feet and knocking a pile of clothes into the water. The girl turned swiftly around to face him, her face a mixture of anger, vigilance, and fear. 'Who are you?'

Draco blinked out of his trance. What had he just done? 'Er, I'm Draco Malfoy,' he said, sounding rather disoriented as the remnants of the trance he'd been in slowly escaped him. 'Who are you?' he asked with genuine curiosity.

The girl, appearing to be about his age, breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps because by introducing himself Draco had proved he wasn't a madman on the warpath. But afterwards, she looked at him, a scared look in her huge coffee-coloured eyes. 'I'm Caitlin Somers, sir.' She said, curtsying politely, but quite cautiously. Draco stared.

'Why did you curtsy? You act like this is the 1800's.' Said Draco. 'Why haven't I seen you before? And what's with the "sir" thing?'

Caitlin Somers stared at her shoes. 'Well, you are a Malfoy, aren't you? The Malfoys are our masters,' she explained, her gaze still on the ground.

'Masters?' Asked Draco, puzzled. He took Caitlin's arm and led her to a nearby weeping willow, and sat her down. Caitlin obeyed as if she had no choice. She avoided looking Draco in the eye, her eyes directed to her hands, which were locked across her lap. Draco sat down with her. She looked both vulnerable and dignified at the same time, her dress lying in folds around her and her feet stretched out in front of her like those of a girl's china doll.

'How do you mean?' He asked. Caitlin kept her eyes on her hands, and spoke in a neutral voice.

'Have you not heard? The Somerses have been your servants for centuries. OK, er...' She tucked her hair behind her ear, 'Decades...' She smiled at him. 'Well, good day, Master Malfoy -- I suppose you want to leave now.'

Draco pretended to look hurt. 'You're saying you want me to leave?' He said. Caitlin laughed and nudged him with her arm.

'No, I just don't think you want to hear a bunch of sob-stories about some girl you don't even know.' Ah, good, he thought, she was actually using language fit for the nineteen hundreds.

'You're right, I don't,' said Draco thoughtfully. 'Perhaps you can tell me what this means.' He reached for the silver cross that hung on Caitlin's neck. He turned it around, seeing Ad Infinitum glitter up at him.

'I thought your father had tutors teach you Latin,' she said. 'I heard mother talk about it once.'

'He did, but that was aeons ago.' It was fact, of course – each tutor had quit, saying Draco was being 'too stubborn'. He shuddered as what punishments he'd had to endure for that, then decided that such depressing thoughts were not to be courted at a time that gave him opposite sentiments. He looked at her. She was beautiful, he had to admit, rather pleased at having the indulgence of being around such a seemingly perfect person. Her wavy brown hair, which at the time she had worn in a braid, stretched to her waist, her posture, like his, was perfectly straight. 'So, what does this mean?' He asked absently. Her beauty was as mesmerising as her lovely voice. Caitlin smiled.

'But it's so simple,' she said in a singsong voice. 'It just means 'endlessly', or something like that. "To infinity", I think.' She laid her head on Draco's shoulder, and he was taken aback. But he let that go and asked, 'What song were you singing, Caitlin?' Caitlin jerked her head back and stared at him.

'It was a song my Mum used to sing to me.' She said slowly. 'Why do you ask?'

Draco shrugged, wondering why someone's mother would sing a song with passions so clearly suggested in the lyrics. 'It was nice, I guess. See, I was inside and your voice kind of... Led me out here.' He shifted position ever so slightly so that his arm was pushed up against hers. In want of something else to say about the previous topic, he sought out another. 'Guess what yesterday was.'

'I don't know.' She gazed at the pond, which was reflecting the light of the burning sun. 'The day of the Allia disaster in Ancient Rome?'

Draco frowned – he'd known that, of course, and was startled someone else would and stick with the information so easily. Immediately this brought her forward in brilliancy before him, increasing his regard and endearing her to him. Sense was, above all things, most important to him in a girl, and to find that he had met one who possessed both was pleasing. 'My birthday.'

'Oh. Happy Birthday, then.'

Draco turned to her. 'You could sing me that song as a birthday present,' said he suggestively.

'You really want to hear it?' She asked. Draco nodded. She scrupled before saying, 'All right then.'

She began to sing. It was the same song, all right.

'And where clandestine lovers lie

Entangled in sweet passion's toils...'

Draco could feel himself being lulled into a soft sleep. ~

Draco suddenly heard a knock on the compartment door, which brought him harshly back to reality, then looked up to see it slide open. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle walked in. They could hardly fit through the door, what with bodies the size of boulders. Draco looked pointedly at them, trying to hint that he wanted to be alone. Of course, Crabbe and Goyle were so thick that they didn't get what he was attempting to express until Draco said loudly; 'Could you guys get out of here for now?' No need to elaborate – they wouldn't dare question him. Crabbe and Goyle were too doltish, too, to actually be hurt by the statement. They obeyed, of course. Draco didn't care in the least where they went -- besides, they could actually get a new compartment just by scaring away the old occupants.

He was so preoccupied to notice that the train had already gone from the station, and that the Hogwarts Express was rolling past fields and pastures full of cattle. Draco turned his thoughts to Caitlin again.

~ When he woke up, Draco was still sitting with his back against the weeping willow in front of the pond. He looked down and saw that Caitlin had fallen asleep, her head on his lap, body curled up on the ground. He peered more closely at her milk-white face. She looked so peaceful when she was asleep, her eyes and rose mouth very partially open. Her right hand clutched his left arm possessively, like a child's teddy bear. Slowly, she began to wake up. She let go of Draco to stretch her arms above her head. Draco stayed silent, not wanting to disturb her. When she caught sight of him, she smiled sleepily and looked up at the sky. They must have been asleep for at least three hours, because it obviously wasn't noontime anymore -- the sun vanished from its overhead position, settling behind a few trees in the far west.

Draco suddenly remembered where he was supposed to be -- in his room, diligently reading Father's new book, like a good little Malfoy. He stood up wordlessly, and offered a hand to the still slightly sleepy Caitlin. She took it, getting groggily to her dainty feet.

'What's wrong?' She asked. Draco smiled and said, 'Well, I have to get back to the Manor now. My father will have a cow if he doesn't see me there.' This was characteristic of him to say.

'All right then.' Her eyes crinkled into a small smile. 'Oh, and Draco?' She asked as Draco turned to go.

'Yes?'

'Don't tell your father about this, all right?' She asked, her eyes pleading with him for something. Draco couldn't see why, and asked, 'How come?'

Caitlin scoffed. 'You know as well as I do that if your father sees me with you that he would have a fit.'

This unpleasant reminder of what his father would disapprove of broke into his euphoria. 'Oh, right. Well, I promise I won't. I'll see you around...?'

Caitlin rolled her pretty eyes. 'Of course I'll see you around -- you think I can go around here not seeing you when I know how good-looking you are?' She laughed. 'Just kidding.'

'What, about the good-looking part?' Draco smirked.

'Well, er, no, er, yes. Actually, I don't know.' Her gaze turned to the pond, where the clothes she was washing were still floating around. 'Oh, no! Mother will kill me!' Caitlin exclaimed. At least for her 'kill' was just a manner of speaking. She sighed and turned to Draco. 'You had better go now. Good-bye,' she said with a jaunty wave.

Draco set off, his robes getting tangled with a few bushes here and there, but finally managing to get to Malfoy Manor's front doors without much trouble. He called for a house-elf -- he never cared to find out what their names were -- to ask if the Master was home. Fortunately, the elf shook its little tea-cozied head no. Draco breathed a smile of relief and hurried up the winding, marble staircase to his huge bedroom. ~

Draco sighed. Memories... The song popped into his head and he swatted it away. Draco missed her so much it was like having a constant stomach-ache. Still, upon recalling what happened that day, he was astounded at how friendly Caitlin had been. Not every girl would just let herself fall asleep on his arm like that. It was as if the two had known each other for years.

He hated himself for letting her die. Perhaps he would have been able to persuade Lucius not to, had he been a little more clever. He hated himself, too, for having let the two of them get caught together in the first place. And, he thought, anger coursing through his veins, he hated himself for being a Malfoy, for being the son of the man that the Somerses were indebted to.

Most of all, he hated himself for never having ever told Caitlin that he loved her. If one could imagine, Draco was reluctant to ever express what he felt through words, and Caitlin had had to contend with a kiss in place of an I-Love-You.

Draco shook his head—forget about it. His eyes filled involuntarily with tears and he wiped those away too. Looking outside, it was past noon, and not as hot. He slipped on his school robes, thinking that he might not have time to do so later. Standing up from his seat, Draco thought he might as well see what Potty, Weasel, and the Mudblood were doing. It was a yearly ritual for him to go bug them at the start of the school year. The boy swept down the corridor, his robes billowing behind him.

Draco hesitated with his hand on the door. Was he going to be all right? Firstly, Crabbe and Goyle weren't there to hold Weasley off if he tried to get at Draco again. Second, nothing would stop the trio from hexing him like they had done at the end of fourth year. I'll be all right, he thought, gripping his wand tighter in his pocket. He heard the Weasel's voice, and was sure it was his cue to come in. He slid open the cabin door, taking a very deep breath in the process.

He looked in, and Weasley stopped his rambling. Sure enough, Harry Potter and his sidekicks were there, Weasley staring at him, Granger with her nose in a book, along with the Longbottom boy and a fair-haired one whose name Draco forgot. Shame-us, was it? Draco plastered a smirk on his face.

'Look who it is,' he drawled, assuming a bored tone. 'The Potty, Weasel and Mudblood.'

'You don't have your cronies with you -- that's a real miracle,' the Weasel spat angrily. 'What do YOU want, you slimy git?'

'Well, you wouldn't want me to break our annual ritual, would you?' Asked Draco coolly. He couldn't help but be proud, at least a little, that he was most able to face these matters with cool composure, most unlike Ronald Weasley. Noticing the other four hadn't said anything yet, he shifted his gaze to Potter and Granger -- and his jaw dropped open at the sight of her.

'Caitlin?'

***

Hermione sighed heavily. She was sitting in their usual compartment in the Hogwarts Express, situated, as always, between Harry and Ron. The boys, who included Neville and Seamus (who had joined them earlier), were talking on and on about Quidditch and Ron's new broomstick.

And unwittingly boring Hermione out if her skull.

'Yes, wasn't that game fantastic? I almost didn't go, my Gram wouldn't let me at first, but Great Uncle Algie convinced her...'

'Prototype? Great! You know, I've been thinking about trying out for the team, too...'

'Well, I'm scheduling the try-outs a month or so before Quidditch season, so you can tell me if you want to go through with it...'

'Blimey, Harry, I think we should start earlier, see if I can get the feel of this broom...'

Harry, taking his attentions from Quidditch for a moment, glanced at Hermione. 'Something wrong?' Hermione nearly swooned. Why did he have to be so sweet? And did he never tire of asking that question?

'As usual, nothing.' Hermione took out Advanced Arithmancy from her carry-on. She waved a hand dismissively at Harry. 'Go on, I'm all right -- besides, I have to review Chapter 15 of this.' Harry shook his head.

'As you wish.' And he returned to his ramblings with Neville, Seamus and Ron. Just as the redhead was recounting the last game of the Previous year, in which Gryffindor, with Harry as captain, had won the Quidditch cup, someone far less welcome than the food-cart witch slid open the compartment door.

Draco Malfoy stood there, his usual smirk in place. Hermione buried her face in her book -- she was tired of meddling with these arguments, had had enough of telling Harry and Ron that they would get in trouble. She tried to concentrate on the words on the page, but in her anger, agitation and annoyance, could not.

'Well, look who it is. The Potty, Weasel, and Mudblood.' Hermione didn't want to tell off Malfoy for saying that dirty word, either. Besides, she was used to him calling her that; the word meant nothing to her. It was after all just an epithet used by pathetic, prejudiced wizards such as Draco Malfoy. For a moment the irony amused her, that a wizard who doubtless practised the Dark Arts and lacked common sense enough to be biased so towards a Muggle-born would think her lower than him. She felt Harry sigh heavily beside her and was gratified at the knowledge that Harry was tired of these encounters as well.

'You don't have your cronies with you -- that's a real miracle. What do you want, you slimy git?' said Ron. Hermione exasperatedly blew air through her teeth, but kept her eyes on her book.

'You wouldn't want me to break our yearly ritual, would you?' Came Malfoy's drawl. He paused, and Hermione looked up, just in case she and Harry had to hold Ron off. When she did, her gaze met Malfoy's. Suddenly the smirk was wiped off his handsome face, to be replaced by one Hermione couldn't decipher. He was looking at her strangely, with his silver eyes as wide as saucers and his mouth open in an undignified way, as if he had seen a ghost. Hermione shook off the cliché (remembering, too, that that wasn't how Draco looked at the Bloody Baron). Suddenly, Malfoy uttered wildly:

'Caitlin?'

Hermione frowned at him. 'What are you talking about, Malfoy?' She said angrily. She just wanted him to GO AWAY. 'This is Granger. You know, the MUDBLOOD?' she said, rather louder than she'd wanted, but not caring at all. Malfoy flinched at her last word.

'B-but you look so much like her—Caitlin—' he muttered in a voice most unlike his sneering one. Harry, Neville, Seamus and Ron stared at him; Ron too astonished to make fun of this otherwise very comical moment. They had never heard Malfoy talk that way, so discomposed, before. Suddenly, Malfoy seemed to come to his senses and regained his composure.

'Sorry,' he said with what Hermione would have termed utmost civility if it had not been Malfoy. 'You just look so much like her...' This came out a perturbed mumble, and his pale cheeks turned as pink as when Mad-Eye Moody had bounced him up and down.

'Well I'm not her.' Hermione's eyes narrowed. 'What are you, Malfoy, suffering from a mental disease or something?'

'That wouldn't be new, if he is.' Harry had found his voice. His fists clenched, he rose from his place beside the window and glared, most obviously annoyed, at the fair-haired boy. 'Get out of here, Malfoy.'

Malfoy seemed not to hear him. Distractedly he frowned to himself, then, with eyes dazed unfocused, swept out of the compartment wordlessly. The sliding door closed behind him with a dull thud.

An uncomfortable silence ensued, which was broken hesitantly by Neville Longbottom. 'What was that about?' he asked. Seamus shrugged disinterestedly.

'Must have a few screws loose,' he said, biting into a Cauldron Cake. As he chewed, he looked over at Harry and Ron, who were still staring off thoughtfully into space. 'What's wrong with you?' Seamus asked through a mouthful of pasty. Harry and Ron seemed to jerk out of trances.

'Nothing,' said Ron. 'Just thinking.'

'Yeah,' said Harry, 'who was that Kate person he kept garbling anyway?'

'Caitlin,' Hermione corrected automatically. Harry stared at her.

'Wait -- you haven't been going down to Malfoy Manor over the summer pretending to be a Caitlin-person, have you?'

Hermione choked on thin air. 'Harry!' she exclaimed. 'That's absurd! Honestly, you don't think --'

'No, really, have you been pretending to be someone?' His countenance was joking and his eyes amused, and Hermione knew and was gratified that he wasn't serious.

'No, really.' She accepted the pastry Seamus handed her and slowly unwrapped it. 'And at Malfoy Manor, too -- that horrible place. I've heard all sorts of strange rumours about it.'

'All right, then.' Harry bit into a Cauldron Cake that Neville offered him. He still looked thoughtful.

Hermione sighed, then, as she 'read' Advanced Arithmancy, pondered Harry's tone. He didn't sound too indifferent when Draco had, for once, spoken to her in a non-nasty way. She couldn't suppress a veiled little smile -- maybe Harry wasn't so uninterested after all.