Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter. Any characters that you don't recognise are mine.


CHAPTER 6 - INTRODUCING A MYSTERY


The newest fifth year Slytherin student, Bran Greyson, sat huddled in his window seat, the curtains of deep, forest green velvet screening him from the rest of his dorm mates and their cold, knowing and far too calculating eyes.

Especially Malfoy's.

Draco Malfoy, eldest and only son of Lucius Malfoy, heir to an ancient title, a vast estate and more money than he could ever imagine...and with all that came power, influence, a certain cachet...and a mind that saw everything in terms of strength and weakness, of gains or losses. He lived and breathed the Game - the High Clan, Slytherin politics - no doubt it was so ingrained in him now that nothing he ever did was natural or spontaneous, every action, every word carried hidden meaning, and every person was either an ally or an enemy, sometimes changing roles due to circumstances.

He ruled Slytherin with an iron, velvet sheathed fist - even in the three hours of the Feast, Bran had learned that - every single Slytherin student walked warily around him, except for his right hand and companion, Nick de Sauvigny. Nick was...different. He seemed more suited to what he had heard of the Gryffindors than Slytherin. He was easy going, friendly and charming, without any of Draco's veiled intensity - but, underneath that charm, he sensed a hint of steel, a will and an intelligence that would not accept barriers or boundaries, or any master.

Save for Draco, who seemed to be his chosen lord...he had seen this before, when two extraordinary minds encountered each other, and the choice was between animosity and alliance - alliance allowed them to dominate, to rule, when animosity would only lead to weakness. So they joined forces, and were stronger for it.

And at the moment, it seemed that they had reserved judgement on his situation - a fifth year transfer student from an American school, his father had been sent by the American Ministry as a liaison for the American forces sent to help in the fight against You-Know-Who.

They'd politely, skillfully extracted the relevant information from him at the Feast - he was of old New England stock, his father could trace his lineage back to the Mayflower and they had been part of Boston society for nearly four hundred years. His mother was Muggle-born (he'd seen them all exchange glances at that) and was originally from England. Yes, she had gone to Hogwarts - her name was Katherine, and she had started school in 1971. She'd left just before taking her NEWTs - he didn't know why.

His mother had been the one to tell him about Hogwarts. "Hogwarts is like nowhere else I have ever seen," she had said, in her cool, calm voice. She was always cool, calm and composed - he had never once seen her ruffled.

"It's the place, probably the only place, where high, middle and even lower class wizards mingle together, all of them on an equal footing, none of them ranked above or below anyone else. Throw in the muggle borns like I was, and you have an absolute melting pot of culture, ideologies, religions, traditions, feuds and prejudices all living under one roof. How the headmaster controls that place I'll never know."

"They're all thrown in together and expected to co-operate and live together?" He'd been intrigued despite himself. God knew he hadn't been pleased at the thought of moving to England...but perhaps there might be something good about it.

"Yes. Prejudice - class, House and even racial - is rife but at the same time there's an unprecedented freedom at Hogwarts. Mudbloods," she said it so calmly, while he winced, "can fall in love with a prince of the highest High Clan..."

She'd described the Houses and their characteristics - golden Gryffindor, with its courage and chivalry, recklessness and joie de vivre; cool Ravenclaw, where the intellect was supreme and curiosity was rewarded; loyal, steadfast Hufflepuff, which was a joke to the rest of the school, but nevertheless an essential part of its whole. And Slytherin - ancient home of intrigue and ambition, of great leaders and even greater madmen - the Serpent House was the home of those who wanted to make their mark on the world, for good or for evil, for better or for worse.

He remembered thinking he would have liked to be in Gryffindor, with proud scarlet and gold on his robes and a brave, reckless light in his eyes...but it had all gone horribly, horribly wrong. The Death Eaters had attacked, and he'd been in the first carriage, watching in fascination when Professor Malfoy had so efficiently killed the two Death Eater guards, and later on, had learned for himself the terrible, seductive thrill of bringing a man down with two words, and the terrifying knowledge of how vulnerable life truly was...

He'd learned to hate, and he'd learned the true seductiveness of power. On that one train ride, in that short period of time, he'd changed from a relatively innocent, untried but brave and confident youth who'd thought himself worldly and cool - perfect Gryffindor material - to a still brave, but thoroughly shaken and suddenly all too mortal youth who knew that he was capable of killing, and secretly, shamefully, reveled in that fact. He'd learned to hate, and he'd learned of the power that came from hate; he'd learned of death, and how quickly it came, how indifferent it was to justice, or fairness, or human decency.

He'd learned to be Slytherin.

And that was why he was avoiding the other boys' eyes - they were far too knowing, could see into his heart and his thoughts and his mind...they knew what he was, because they were like him too - they'd been where he was, and they'd long ago gone past it. And he didn't want to follow them to where they were now. But he feared he had no choice.

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The rest of the fifth year Slytherin boys sat and watched the curtained window seat, eyes as cool and calculating as Bran had imagined. The newest member of their group, which had been more or less fixed since their first ride on the Hogwarts Express, or perhaps even since they had first met long before starting school, had proven to be a rather interesting puzzle. If his mother was a Mudblood, as he claimed, then for the Hat to even think of admitting him into Slytherin, his father must be very, very old blood - but the Greysons, although they were old blood in America, only went back four hundred years - not nearly old enough to be High Clan. Someone was lying.

Blaise Zabini had already met the esteemed Benjamin Greyson - apparently he was fair haired, blue eyed and rather ordinary, with a certain presence, an air of confidence, wealth and trustworthiness, but not the unmistakable air of an intriguer and a politician. He seemed to be exactly what he claimed to be - an honest man. A Gryffindor.

But Bran, his son and heir - Bran was dark haired, and grey eyed, and while he did have an air of recklessness, of bravado, and a disconcerting honesty, somewhere someone had taught him how to be High Clan. His body language was a study in contradiction. He spoke like an American with a British mother, but had knowledge of High Clan manners and used them properly. He held himself with all the pride of a High Clan scion, but behaved like an undisciplined American adolescent. He knew the very basic ideas of the Game, but held it in contempt and refused to play, and his eyes were as innocent as a first year Hufflepuff's.

But somehow he had been sorted into Slytherin.

No doubt that was because of what happened on the train - Draco had caught a glimpse of him before the attack, when he'd been going around playing bully, and had immediately labeled him Gryffindor - although he had noted the odd contradictions, he'd looked into his eyes and seen red and gold. The attack had changed everything - he'd seen the world as the Slytherins did, for one terrifying moment, and his mysterious mentor's teachings, if they hadn't been believed before, had now been punched home.

Not for the first time, Draco wondered who had taught him about Slytherin, and why they weren't influential enough that Bran hadn't completely believed or understood the teaching...it had definitely not been his father, but could it have been his mother?

She had been at Hogwarts in 1971 - a mudblood named Katherine. Perhaps it was worth looking her up...

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The full moon rose in the sky above Hogwarts, illuminating the grounds that Bran Greyson looked out upon, that Dumbledore watched and protected as if it were his own domain, and that countless students had once called a home away from home. The light flooded into the infirmary window, outlining the room in stark black and white and eerie blue-black, and it turned Luc Malfoy's features into a study of carved shadows and planes, white, white skin and black hair, shadowed eyes and cheekbones...he, too, stood at the window and looked out at the grounds, remembering a night, some twenty years ago, when he had stood vigil like this.

There was something shadowed about that memory, something he should remember but didn't, couldn't...something important. Before, ever since that night, he had refused to even try to remember because it hurt so much, but now...in his dreams, in his memories, he remembered her voice, and he remembered there was something...wrong.

Perhaps he should have invested in a Remember-all, like Mr. Longbottom...

But there were more other, more immediate things to think about than a twenty-year old mystery. Such as Voldemort, and his unprecedented attack on Hogwarts. Such as Lucius, who had gone back to the Dark Lord, and who would undoubtedly be sent against him, because Voldemort knew Luc would be more than reluctant to destroy his own brother. Such as Draco, who would now be torn in two directions, between him and his father, between the Light and the Dark - Voldemort or Dumbledore?

And Harry Potter. Harry Potter, Lily's son with her green eyes, with Kate's green eyes - and, also, James' face, body and temperament...he wondered, idly, what children he might have had, if Kate had survived. Would they have had green eyes, like Harry? Or the Malfoy eyes - silver-blue-grey.

He'd marked Harry, extended to him the protection he'd given Kate - fifteen long years he'd secretly watched over him from afar, forbidden from interfering directly by Dumbledore's edict. And now, for the first time since he was an infant and Lily himself allowed him to hold the child, Harry was under his direct protection. He would have to keep them all safe, somehow. Especially the American child, Greyson's son, who looked nothing at all like his father; it wouldn't do for such an important man to lose faith in Hogwarts. All the same, there was something very curious about that boy...

He shrugged, and turned his thoughts to the staff meeting tomorrow evening. There they would decide what to do, now that Hogwarts had been directly threatened, the world was slowly tearing itself apart again, and the Ministry still denied that Voldemort had even returned to life. It seemed that he had committed himself to Dumbledore. How strange, the way he had somehow come back to where he had been twenty years ago, but only on the other side of the fence. For the first time, he understood something of what his teachers must have felt, when they watched the students slipping away from them and the world going to hell around them.

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