Liquid Mercury: Look who updated! No, really, make a wild guess. YESS!!! WE updated! And it occurred to me that we didn't have a disclaimer, and ours' is in verse too, like the wonderful prologue. They come as a pair and you can get them at your local supermarket for the convenient price of $5.99, right down the aisle with the self-reproducing rotten tomatoes (see someone whose hair would look much better in a lovely shade of rotting red? Don't fret! Grab a can of Self-replicating Tomatoes, it's self-opening and self-throwing too, but do be cautious, dear boys and girls, because tomatoes tend to have a mind of their own.).
Elluxion: And look who's typing! *glances about happily* Yes, I'm back in business, my computer suffered nastily, but the weekend is beckoning, it's Friday night… and I AM IN A WRITING MOOD, so watch out, world! (Did that make sense? *blinks* All right…)
Disclaimer: And J.K. Rowling did say,
To me, one
day,
"Harry Potter is thine."
And I did reply "Sweet."
As she replied,
"Dude."
As sure as I claim Harry Potter mine.
Acknowledgements: Of course, to us, them esteemed authors, *mock bow*. Well, actually, no. To the reviewers-all of whom gave this story a chance, so let us be grateful and name them all. Tracy, nycgirl, BLoOiSHPiNk, Saturn-hime, Ravyn Nyte and Kerbi (Yeah, we'll email you… if we actually remember, which we will try to. Liquid mercury/G (me) has a very bad memory, so yesh.).
IMPORTANT NOTE: Since I'll be emailing one of the aforementioned reviewers when we update, does anyone want me to email them as well? If so, tell me in a review or drop me an email at 'ateyourhamster@hotmail.com'.
Chapter 1
It could be said that Draconis Nicholas Malfoy had changed drastically since his years in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Yet it could also stand true that he had not changed at all.
He still boasted platinum blonde locks, neatly placed upon his head. He still had steely gray orbs, and a frosty, unwavering gaze that seemed to penetrate even the boldest of souls. His features still chiseled from pure ice-beautiful, cold, all lines and sharp angles. The high, prominent cheekbones and the tilted chin, the elegant bone structure still stood with defiance. And perhaps the least or most disdainful, proud, willful trait was the soft, rose-petal lips that kept that memorable, distinctive face from seeming too stark. He also still walked with the same confident, relaxed and slightly mocking demeanor that screamed superiority, and paired up that sardonic smile. He still wore all black, as more of a lifestyle choice rather than a fashion statement, emphasizing again, the slightly nefarious air about him.
And yet it was the unseen changes that caused people to think that perhaps he was no longer that person. His skin my have been flawless, but his insides were deeply cut away from the five years since he'd been a teenager. Healed in flesh, but not in memory, he was an almost hollowed-out figure of everything feared about him at one point. He grew more jaded, more cynical, more torn, barely able to keep hold of the leashed anguish that bubbled just beneath the surface. In some places, he grew wise; he matured. And yet in others, he became more lost and confused. Sometimes he had difficulty separating the two apart.
After graduating, he'd flitted about the Ministry for a while, a lithe ghost that everyone came to respect. He'd gone to and from different departments, but failed to find something that really suited him, or satisfied him. For a few years he remained inactive from society, not attending parties or looking for different jobs, just living in a small flat located in central London.
However, life as an insignificant figure didn't suit him; anonymity was not his style. Draco had always loved attention, it having been bred into him by his bastard father, during his pursuit to mould the perfect Malfoy heir. Soon after, he was, once again, the center of the London social scene, and an influential speaker against the Dark Arts, much to his parents' chagrin and mortification.
The latter of his accomplishments caused many eyebrows to disappear into their hairline, as surprised and slightly suspicious expressions drifted across their faces. He was, after all, bred and born a Malfoy and they'd been known to dabble in the Dark Arts for generations. Some were doubtful of his true intentions, but most accepted him into their good graces almost immediately.
And then the war came.
Everyone knew it would happen, but they still seemed surprised when it actually did. It came like a torrent wave upon a stranded boat; swift, relentless, powerful and unforgiving. Voldemort came out of hiding, wand raised and followers poised to attack, to begin what would be known as "the final battle". The exact details were largely scattered through the few survivors on either side. The Death Eaters they did find that were still alive claimed the victory in the name of their Lord, unknowing that he had died. But the truth was the right side had won, and all seemed well.
Draco had received quite a few honors for his duties during the war. He'd trained as an Auror, and had saved the lives of many. Occasionally, he still did special trips, to check into a case on the few remaining Death Eaters. But only occasionally. He had apprehended many, and most had taken the well-trodden path leading into the gaping mouth of the darkened shadows of depravity.
He'd been raised to feel as little emotion as possible, and for the most part, he was fine with that. He had no qualms with feeling nothing; it didn't leave him disappointed or regretful as some people were. In fact, he thought it better that way. Not that he was completely emotionless - he was still human, after all. Yet after his brief fame as a war hero of sorts, he tired of the limelight for the first time in his life. A war hero devoid of personal glory or even the slightest interest in his performed courageous acts. He'd put it away, tossed it aside without the least twinge of regret. He rarely spoke of the battles he fought and the victories he won.
Draco had always been ironic.
He'd returned to his life of quiet seclusion to figure things out.
Like what he was to do now.
Now that war was over, he had no goals, no ambitions. He'd survived. That'd been his only real aim. He was twenty-three, handsome, smart, considered a brilliant hero and had absolutely no idea what to do with his life.
The only reason he'd become Governor of Hogwarts was because he had nothing else to do. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't been a big fan of the school when he'd it attended himself. But his father had once told him that to go back to his roots when he had gone astray. Not that the advice had done his father any good; the man was dead now. He had died defending his master - another senseless loss of life that could have been prevented if Lucius had allowed his logical wits to take in the changing environment around him; if he hadn't allowed his devotion to the Dark Lord blind him completely.
Yet he'd Apparated to Hogsmeade and walked to Hogwarts so that he could fill out an application. He'd made an appointment with Albus Dumbledore (really, he thought, the man must have been two hundred years old! How did he do it?) to interview for the job. He was even slightly nervous, truth be told. Going one on one with his former Headmaster could not be considered one of his favorite pastimes. The fact was that the ancient man intimidated him like no one else. The old kook had a way of looking at you like he could see your soul; a scary experience for someone like Draco Malfoy, who, at times, wasn't even sure he had one. As he entered the stone castle, a flood of memories rushed back to him. He passed a bustling first-year, who looked confusedly around in an attempt to find the dungeons for Potions class. It'd made him laugh, almost, and he pointed the lad in the right direction before heading for the Headmaster's office.
He approached the entrance, and spoke the password he'd been told (Ton Tongue Toffees; a Weasley Wizard Wheezes original product) and climbed the staircase to the room. He strode in somewhat nervously, surprised to find it empty. He glanced right and left quickly, spotting a bird (a phoenix, he realized) and some other random objects that held his attention for a few moments. The portraits - well, the ones that woke up - proffered quick glances and smiles; it vaguely occurred to him that they probably didn't even know about the war. Then, losing interest, he sat down in a chair and waited for the aging Headmaster. 'Just like him to be late,' he mused inwardly, feeling somewhat annoyed, as he sighed and leaned back into the chair.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in walked the very man. He was still quite a sight to behold- a little more weathered, perhaps, but still someone who commanded respect. Draco straightened in his chair, a natural reflex whenever he was in the Headmaster's presence. Dumbledore smiled kindly, before taking a seat behind his desk. He folded his hands before him, and gave an apologizing nod. "Excuse my tardiness," he spoke politely, then paused. "Ah, young Malfoy. How long has it been?"
Sinking back into the comfortable seat, feeling a bit more at ease, Draco replied, "Three years, sir."
Dumbledore shook his head, waving a hand in the air before him for emphasis. "Much too long! And please, don't call me 'sir'. It makes me feel old, and I try to avoid that as much as possible." He winked, a familiar twinkle residing in his eyes, and Draco felt himself smile without thinking. Then it seemed to dawn on the old man what they were there for. Glancing down at the application before him, he nodded seriously, "I see you have applied to be a Governor. Following in your father's footsteps, eh?"
"Hopefully not." Draco responded.
Dumbledore chuckled, a shred of bitterness slightly evident. "Let's not dwell on matters past, shall we? Now, regarding your position… I'm inclined to accept you for the position, regarding your past experience and your strengths. Yes, you'll do."
"Thank you, Headmaster," Draco said calmly, not betraying the relief brimming in him. "I'll try to make the most of my position." A heartbeat's silence, then he allowed a little smile to glimmer on his face, and his tone was honest. "At the risk of sounding clichéd, I won't let you down."
Dumbledore leaned back with a friendly smile. "Welcome, Draco. Perhaps it might be time to introduce you to a school staff member who will bring you around Hogwarts so you can orient yourself again."
"Professor!"
Michael Weasley dashed through the crowded hallways, ducking and weaving with ease. Blessed with a tall, lanky frame and a shock of handsome auburn hair, it was easy to make out the first-year's progress. Brow creased in concentration, Michael ducked past a couple of shamelessly snogging fifth-years and called again.
"Professor!"
An elfin figure in front of him, clad in navy robes similar to the Hogwarts uniform, started and turned in surprise but recognition at the voice. Chocolate masses of hair tumbled down her back waywardly, having lost much of its frizz, but still retained its rueful untidiness. Cinnamon eyes were softly framed with long lashes a shade or two darker, sparkling with the same thoughtful expression that had graced them even during her days as a student. Her skin glowed healthily beneath a flawless complexion, tanned a light brown even under the winter sky. She walked with an erect posture and a head held high, intelligence etched on the childish face. Still somewhat gravitationally-challenged, Hermione Granger had been mistaken for a fifth- or sixth-year more than once, the illusion enhanced by the enchanting twinkle of innocence she somehow still held.
"What's the matter?" She tilted her head to one side, her brow dipping slightly.
"Professor Dumbledore wants you."
"Did he say why?" Hermione queried, falling into step with the Gryffindor that nearly matched her own height, though he was eleven. Height, she thought wryly, looking into the amiable blue eyes of her student and friend, will always be a Weasley trait.
"Nope. Only that he wants you quite urgently."
"Thank you, Michael. Please report into Gryffindor Common Room. Darting about like that is not suitable behavior for a Hogwarts student."
Michael tried to conceal a laugh at Hermione's attempt to sound formal and authoritative. He knew Hermione on a personal level, on first-name basis - her visits to the Weasley home were frequent and long.
"Of course, Professor Granger," he quipped, with a malicious, impish glint in his eyes but with a deadpan look on his face. Hermione restrained herself from playfully smacking him over the head with a book as she lingered in front of the entrance to Dumbledore's office. "Ton Tongue Toffees," she muttered under her breath, and the gargoyle emitted a lengthy death wail as it swung past to allow her entrance.
Hermione stepped lightly up the spiral staircase, marveling at the intricate carvings along the banisters as she did so. Her hand was resting on the handle to open Dumbledore's office door when the low murmur of voices penetrated her hearing.
Fearing that just barreling in would be considered rude; Hermione leant against the wall and waited. Bits and pieces of conversation drifted towards her, and she began to focus in on the conversation. It was evident that they were speaking about her.
"… a student, you know, like you - was a brilliant one, as well…"
"… help in the war? … perhaps I know her…"
"… trained as an Auror… preferred teaching, though…"
"… interesting…"
"… duties are to be…"
As she waited, Hermione glanced restlessly about the antechamber, her eyes flitting gaily like the proverbial social butterfly. Her gaze settled on the book she carried, and with one finger, she tenderly traced the cover of the book.
It was an odd symbol - a pentagon set again a wall of quivering flames. The symbol seemed to be carved into the thick hardcover; she could feel the ruts even as she admired the steady hand that had done so. The book itself was old; once an azure splendor, the cerulean sheen of the book had been dimmed by time and was now a shade of aging beryl.
Hermione frowned in frustration. The symbol - it changed. Just a small adjustment, here and there, but sufficient so that she noticed, every morning, with a jolt of shock. Perhaps a corner was rounded or an angle was sharpened, but the pentagon sometimes didn't even remotely resemble a pentagon at all. It was an enigma, a mystery, one that no matter how hard she worked at, she couldn't untangle.
She had found the book last week, nestled away at the library, a thick volume with a curling golden decoration on its spine, like a kind of fidgety vine that couldn't decide which direction to go. It had intrigued her, and she had pulled it out of the shelf and flipped it open.
She could still remember her astonishment at the age of the book - it could have been there at the time of Godric Gryffindor. Then she had been amazed at the strange prophecy - a rhyme that told nothing and yet everything at once.
There must have been at least fifty thick, yellowed parchment pages in that book, but the other pages yielded nothing save the prophecy. Hermione puzzled over the book for over five days now and she was not even a step closer to the answer. The prophecy intrigued her to no end, brought back memories of her last days at Hogwarts, of three years which had dragged on and soared past at the same time.
The prophecy itself had a queer ring to it, like she had heard it before, or read the words penned in faded, crackled ink and it had imprinted itself indelibly into her soul. Standing outside her Headmaster's office, alone, Hermione opened the book slowly, fearing that it would disintegrate, and read the verses once more.
Beware, reader, of what you would seek,
By flipping the pages and
looking at me.
Thou have found an ancient tome of the old,
Memories shall
haunt you, never to flee.
A prophecy, this is, set to times of frost,
Of the numbers twenty, and
three.
Puzzling questions, rendering one lost,
Baffling creatures;
confusing mysteries.
Gryffindor and Slytherin, diverse are they,
Leaders in both, so clearly
plain,
But should the two lead alone,
It would evidently be in vain.
One with the colors of autumn,
Dark, golden, fiery flames,
The other,
the essence of winter,
Calm pools of stormy grays.
The sunlight is one's domain,
Bright, cheerful, sunny, pure.
The other
prefers adversaries slain,
In the misty shadows' lure.
One's personality opens like a flower.
Dancing, speaking, a ready
smile.
The other silent, yet will not cower,
His wrath one should not
rile.
This book shall help thou guide the way,
As a candlelight, a shining
star.
Help shall arrive, a gleaming ray,
But only when the battle is not
far.
Separate ends of the spectrum,
these valiant two shall be.
But in order
to survive --
They have to work with thee...
Hermione Serafina Granger had never been one to back down from a challenge, but even she would admit that she was at her wits' end. She had questioned everyone she knew, had pored through every book in the library, and had even flicked through pages of Muggle storybooks.
The answer, however, still stubbornly eluded her.
The rustle of robes alerted Hermione that they were approaching the doorway. She adjusted her robes and tugged without much avail at her hair, attempting to make herself look a tad more presentable. Clearly, the person was filling the empty position of Governor.
The door swung open and Hermione beamed automatically as the tall, spindly headmaster stepped out of his office. Dumbledore stepped aside to reveal a gray-eyed, fair-haired young man that looked as if he were a few years older than she was. Looked, but was not quite.
The striking presence he carried off calmly and the sable robes that he wore settled it. Hermione offered a dry grin. "Governor Malfoy. Welcome to Hogwarts."
G [aka Liquid Mercury]: Dun na na! A sort-of cliffhanger-ish type ending. Now for a brownie point thing. For fun. This question is on our bio section, but if anyone can tell me where the quote below came from, you get candy! Clues? It's from Shakespeare.
'Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing lady, not for such contempt.'
Taa! G ish going to sleep now, lest I fall asleep in church.
Aria/Elluxion: Later Note [31st December] -- 'Kay guys, I just edited the format so that the prophecy doesn't appear all wonky. I also discovered a note to my fellow authors that wasn't meant to be published -- the one referring to the prophecy. *growls* Bwah. ^^; I shall go and kick myself now, and maybe work on the other installments as well. *waves*