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Where the Heart Moves the Stone
Verse IX of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc
By: Vain
10.7.2003 - 09.26.2004
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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. The lyrics to Dark Time belongs to October Project. All biblical quotes cited can be found in the King James Bible released by Thomas Nelson Publishers. I am not profiting from this.
Warnings: SS/HP slash.
Continuity: This is the sequel to Two Foot Palace and is Verse 9 of J. Alfred Prufrock Arc.
A thousand laurels to my beta ladydeathfarieBest Beta Ever. XD I love this woman; she makes me lucid!
Do not steal from me. Don't flame me.

Please review & enjoy!

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Chapter Four II
The Homage Due

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"Come take my body,
Come take my soul;
Come take me over,
I want to be whole.
Come take my body,
Come take my soul . . ."

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It was raining. Large, heavy drops of water fell from the iron gray sky and splattered messily on the muddy earth. It was strange to see when one really thought about it; a single drop made only the faintest noise, but a million drops together created a sound that drowned out even the thunder. There was always strength in numbers—even for something as small and finite as a single raindrop.

The lesson was not lost on the creature that was once a cocky young man named Tom Riddle. His red eyes stared out at the overrun, weather-beaten landscape of Riddle manor as he let the rain soothe away his headache. It was the boy, of course. He was distressed about something. Their connection only seemed to be getting stronger as time passed and the idea of killing the child—though still the most practical thing he could think of—was slowly but steadily losing its appeal. It would be like cutting out a part of himself. Of course, push come to shove, the Dark Lord had little problem with sacrificing a pound of flesh for his birthright. He had already given his mortality, had he not?

But there was such spirit in the boy! And such power. Waste had always disgusted Voldemort. Not that he thought that Harry Potter would join him . . . No. He was not such a fool as that. But the boy would make a lovely ornament if properly controlled . . .

Red eyes flickered from the window to the large, round sheet of glass on the table across the room. It was still covered, of course. Proper control . . . That would be the key. The child—because however phenomenal his luck, he was still a child—could then be disposed of at his leisure.

"Still," he hissed in parseltongue to the heedless rain, "there is something terribly romantic about a torn prince trapped in a tower for all eternity."

The Curse indeed . . . The thought flickered through his mind darkly and Voldemort hissed out a harsh laugh.

One hiss answered another as Nagini slithered out of the chair she'd been curled up in. 'Master . . .? '

He watched the snake with an expression that was as close to fondness as he could emote. "Just thinking of a joke I heard," he hissed, cruel mirth still evident in his voice.

The enormous green serpent slid across the moth-eaten carpet towards him. ' A joke . . .? And am I to be privy to this . . . joke? ' she hissed softly. 'Or is this still about your big water-glass? '

Voldemort's head swayed from side to side slightly. "Big water-glass, pet?"

'The glass that looks as though it is made from water,' his familiar explained.

The Dark Lord turned back to the window and watched the wind howl outside as the serpent pulled herself up off the ground to wrap around one of his legs and drag herself up his body. "That is a gift. But it is also part of the joke."

'Oh?'

He patted her triangular head as her coils adjusted around him more comfortably. "Yes . . . That 'water-glass' is going to kill two birds with one stone."

Nagini issued a sharp hiss of irritation. 'Stop being cryptic. You've found a way to deal with your traitor, I take it?'

"Yes . . . And I have managed to secure my very own spy in Gryffindor Tower. Well, . . . a spy after a fashion."

He sighed, a shadow of a smile warping his non-existent lips as he stared out at the rain. It was beginning to abate somewhat. "Revenge is so delicious . . ."

'I don't understand why you simply do not kill him,' Nagini hissed grumpily. She did not like the rain. It made her feel heavy and lethargic. 'If he merely goes back to the old man with news, he is a security risk. Would it not be wiser to torture him for information and then dispose of him?'

"Perhaps . . . Though it would be a good deal less fun. There are many ways to destroy a man, pet, and psychological pain can be far more effective than physical pain at times."

He stared out the window a bit more, apparently lost in thought. Finally he sighed and turned away to stride over to the table which held the glass. Nagini shifted and hissed happily as they drew closer to the blazing fire. Voldemort ignored her and reached out to run a long, white finger over the thick cloth that covered the glass.

"No . . ." he hissed at last. "I am well pleased with this plan . . . Whatever torrid little affair Severus has involved himself in with Potter is most amusing . . . and most advantageous." The cloth felt cool and smooth under his touch. "He will either place the boy precisely where I want him: helpless . . . desperate . . . Or he will kill him. Either way, Severus and the bumbling old fool lose, and I win."

Nagini loosened her coils around her master so that she could slide to the floor. 'And how do you know that his attachment to the Potter is such that he will care whether or not the boy lives or dies?'

The man looked down at his familiar once more, fondness again shining in his crimson eyes. "Because, though my treacherous little serpent is a passionate man, he is not a man given to indulging in passions. For Ssseverus to have fallen so far, so fast . . . and at such a great risk to himself . . .? No. I doubt that even he truly knows how deeply he is already in by now. And by the time my plan unfolds, he will have nowhere to turn. Besides, he takes back nothing of great use to the old fool. Better the enemy that you know to the one you do not. I control what Dumbledore hears now. And Dumbledore does not even know it. If Severus thinks he can be Potter's Knight, I'll not begrudge him of that. He is, after all, a Slytherin—and we have never been long in the habit of denying ourselves our . . . amusements. But he will pay the price for such audacity. The boy will fall into my web—he'll not be able to help himself. But he will soon grow weary of shadows and turn to Severus, and then . . ." He trailed off, one finger still running up and down the cloth.

Nagini watched him for a moment with sharp black eyes. Finally she nodded. 'A pity, though,' she hissed as she curled up at the fire. 'I rather enjoyed Snape's . . . spirit . . .'

Voldemort turned back to the covered glass and hummed something under his breath. "Perhaps my little serpent will surprise us yet . . . Severus has always managed to surprise us. If he chooses not to let Potter die, neither of them will be fit to stand against me. " The stroking hand made a fist. "The Light will crumble and the wizarding world will fall at my feet like a rotten fruit."

'And the boy?'

This time when Voldemort smiled, it displayed all of his fearsome teeth. It was a macabre expression, devoid of pleasure or humanity. "He is a bothersome thing, is he not? But he is a part of me and I am a part of him, though he remains unaware. After all, is not this summer proof of that? I at least waited until I left Hogwarts to dispose of my family. He and Severus both have such . . . ample spirits. They would be quite lovely together. Tragically beautiful, I suppose. And their ruin right under Dumbledore's nose would be a delightful display of my powers."

The snake let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. ' Your torn princes in the Tower, then?'

"Perhaps." Voldemort's eyes flared ominously. "After all, I always was a romantic at heart."

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Narcissa Lenora Black Malfoy kicked an errant House Elf that did not have the sense to move out of her way as she strode down the hall to her husband's study. The Elf squeaked in pain as it bounced off the wall, knocking into a table and sending an ancient Egyptian vase crashing to the ground. Another Elf immediately appeared with a crack and repaired the vase before dragging off its unconscious fellow.

Narcissa did not notice.

Lucius had refused to tell her what had transpired at the last Death Eater meeting, instead choosing to lock himself in his study for the past three days. "I don't want to worry you," he had once told her when she pressured him for answers. It was his way of saying "none of your business."

So now, naturally, all she could do was worry. Draco had not yet replied to her last letter and she was beginning to fear that he would make no headway with Severus. Threatening to reveal the Potion Master's position as a spy was always an option, but doing so would burn a bridge that their family might yet need.

She could only hope that they had taught their son well enough to maintain his equilibrium in this little game. Draco had inherited far more of her spirit and far less of his father political sense than she would have liked. If he became too impatient, there was no telling what he might do. He still had not forgiven Potter for rejecting his offer of friendship, even after six years, and the rivalry that formed as a direct result of his little temper tantrum was now an immense stumbling block. If he had been a bit wiser and attempted to approach Potter once again later, perhaps they would not be in this situation. Draco's problem was that he did not consider the long term plan. Even a Weasley and a mudblood could be tolerated for the sake of getting closer to Harry Potter. Narcissa knew that if Snape scorned Draco's entreaties, then the boy was liable to do something rash once more.

All in all, it wasn't something that she was willing to risk. And Lucius's recent behavior had done nothing to put her fears to rest. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he still seemed to believe that the Dark Lord was their best chance of survival. That Draco and Narcissa both seemed to wholeheartedly disagree did not appear to factor into his logic—if he was even basing his decision on logic.

Lucius's stay in Azkaban prison had affected him in a terrible way. Although he'd seemed to be recovering at that end of the summer, now his condition seemed to be deteriorating. He had "good times" and "bad times." During the good times, he was the man she married: ruthless, brilliant, and devious—a shocking mix of gentlemanly blue-blooded British kindness and cold, merciless ambition. But during his "bad times . . ." He was dreamy, childish, and apathetic. He became ghost-like . . . It was as though he wasn't really all there. She couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him in that hellish prison, but every time the word was even mention, Lucius would simply shut down. Literally.

Unfortunately, the "bad times" were beginning to happen more and more frequently. Narcissa was at her wit's end. It was happening at home, at the Ministry, and—worse still—at Meetings. Fudge's faith in the Malfoy family had already been shaken by that escapade in the Ministry as it was; Lucius's behavior was only serving to encourage the Minister to further distance himself from the pureblood family. This had to stop. It was becoming more and more apparent to everyone but Lucius himself that he was no longer fit to make the decisions required—especially now that everything was so uncertain.

Something was going to have to give. And, though Narcissa's heart was breaking and she desperately wanted her husband back more than anything in the world, she was also a Slytherin. A survivor. And she would protect her line—no matter what.

The ice blonde stopped in front of the heavy oak doors that barred the study from entry, her rich blue silk robes swirling about her ankles. With a wave of her wand and a muttered counter-curse, the door swung open a crack and she carefully stuck her head in. "Lucius? I am coming in."

When she received no response, the stately woman cautiously pushed the doors all the way open and slowly entered the room. She did not put it past her husband to hex her should the mood so take him; it had happened before. "Lucius?" The doors swung silently shut behind her. "Luc?"

The heavy velvet curtains in the large room were drawn tight, blocking out the sunlight trying to fight its way through the eastern gallery windows. Rows of books lined the walls of both the first and second levels and a narrow spiral staircase lead the way from the richly carpeted floor to the balcony level that spanned across three walls. A large oak desk was set in front of the windows, facing the door so that whoever sat behind it would be backlit by the morning sun, and two heavy chairs with a matching marble-top table were facing the desk. The fireplace was directly across from there, the hearth cold. The scents of carbon, rum, and cold cinders hung in the air, mingling with the usual smells of ink and parchment and giving the room a burnt-out aftertaste that stung the nose. A few potted plants were strategically placed, along with a few bits of elegantly idle furniture, in a moderately successful effort to make the room look not quite so enormous. A frieze was painted on the high ceiling depicting some ancient Malfoy heir in a duel with a nameless opponent, the Malfoy crest of arms set on the tequila sunset backdrop between the two combatants. The scattered Black and Malfoy portraits in the room watched her impassively as she strode across the emerald carpet to the black, low-backed chaise in a far corner next to the fern.

A glitter on the desk caught her eye as she passed and the woman paused, her attention arrested by a large ring of keys setting on the desk. It was her husband's set of the Master Keys for the Manor.

She gripped her wand's handle tightly in her pocket. "Accio," she whispered under her breath. The key ring jingled slightly as it floated over to her, but the man across the room did not stir. She quietly pocketed the key ring before resuming her course.

Lucius was sprawled indolently across the chaise, an empty bottle of rum in one hand and the porcelain Death Eater's mask still clutched in the other. The black robes she'd last seen him in were still draped over his slender frame and were extremely rumpled. A very faint sour odor hovered about him. It was obvious that he had not moved more than necessary since his return three nights ago. His eyes were closed. "Go away, Narcissa."

His wife ignored him and settled herself gingerly on a free spot beside him on the chaise. She reached down with a dark frown and pried the bottle of alcohol out of his hand. "You're drunk." Her tone was cold and disapproving.

"I failed him. Again." A slight tremor moved through his limbs. "He does not tolerate failure."

Narcissa stared silently at the bottle in her hand, unsure what to say. After a moment she set the rum on the floor and let out a quiet sigh. "Tell me what happened."

He reported the events of the Death Eater meeting in cold, dispassionate words, slightly slurred by alcohol. His wife listened to the events in silence, trying to glean any and all useful information from his tale. When he finally stopped, Narcissa remained silent for several moments, her green eyes staring down at her tightly clasped hands. She wished that she knew what he was thinking—whether or not this was a "bad time."

"What word from Draco?" Lucius asked quietly. He almost sounded like himself.

Narcissa started suddenly at the familiar echoes in his voice before turning her face from him and smoothing her skirts unnecessarily. "Nothing." Her voice was flat with displeasure. "Nothing yet, at least. I am going to write him again tonight." She turned to look back at him, but his eyes were still closed so he could not see the hard expression in her eyes. "You cannot keep doing this to yourself."

Lucius opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. All he could see way the dark overhang of the balcony above them. "I will do as I please."

"Then he will kill you!" the woman at his side hissed. "Don't you even care!"

His eyes did not move away from the ceiling. "Tell Draco I want him to stay out of this. This is not his battle. And I want you to go out to the country. Go see my mother. She will take care—"

Narcissa's face suddenly appeared in his line of vision, her delicate features twisted in anger. "Shut up! Can you not hear yourself? This is Draco's fight; your bungling has made it his fight! And I will not hide behind your mother's skirts! I warned you that it might come to this, but you never listened to me. Was your Lord," she spat the word with disgust, "really worth your House? Our son!"

Narcissa pulled away from him and, against his will, Lucius found his eyes following the petite woman as she stood. Her eyes, he noted, were colder than he'd ever seen them before—green ice. He pushed himself upright and the motion made his head swim. "'Ciss . . ." He reached out blindly for her, only to grasp air as she took a step back. He blinked rapidly, suddenly aware that she'd gotten hold of his wand. When had that happened? He reached out for it again, but she took another step away from him and raised her own wand threateningly. "Narcissa . . ."

"You are no longer fit, Lucius." She slid her husband's wand into her pocket beside his key ring, still keeping her eyes and wand trained on the man with whom she was bound to spend her life as she began to rapidly back away. "You are no longer fit to decide your own fate, let alone my own and that of our son. I am relieving you of your duties as the Head of our House."

Lucius stared at her blankly and tried to push himself up to his feet. His body immediately rebelled and he fell to his knees as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He grasped at the chaise to steady himself and stared at his wife, a sneer disfiguring his waxy face. "Narcissa, give me back my wand." He held out his hand, unaware of the tremors moving up and down his arm. "Give me back my wand and I will forget this ever happened."

Narcissa raised her own wand slightly in warning. "No, husband. I have allowed this to continue for too long already. You can no longer lead this family; it is time you stepped down."

Lucius pushed himself shakily to his feet, unable to overcome the effects of the alcohol he'd been drinking. "And who will take over then?" he sneered. He staggered forward a step. "You?"

Narcissa's heel hit the door and she stopped, her voice still steady. "Yes. Me."

"Woman, give me my wand!" Lucius's legs gave way and he fell to the floor and retched. The acrid scent of bile and partially digested alcohol immediately filled the dry air.

One hand wrapped around the door handle as she watched her husband shudder while his body expelled the excess alcohol from his system. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight and revulsion turned her stomach. "I love you, Luc."

She dashed out the door before her husband could recover, slamming it behind her. She fumbled in her pocket for his keys, shoved the proper key in the lock and turned it until she heard the dull click that meant the bolt had slid. Then jerked the key out again before resting her head against the wood. Her body trembled at the groan of outrage Lucius emitted on the other side of the door.

"Lucius . . ."

Narcissa rested there a moment, strangely exhausted and unable to block out the curses and cries that traveled through the wood. There was a shriek followed immediately by the sound of shattering glass somewhere in the study. The woman pushed herself up with a quiet sigh.

"I'll do whatever I have to do to protect us all, Lucius," she whispered to the wood, but there was only silence from the other side. "All of us."

The matriarch pushed herself away from the door and turned, her skirts billowing around her. "Quipple!"

A House Elf immediately appeared next to her with a crack. The tiny creature had to run to keep up with his mistress's long strides. "Yes, Mistress? You is calling for Quipple?"

She did not look down. "I will be taking care of Household affairs once more, Quipple. You are to be charged with the care of Master Malfoy again. The same rules apply now that applied this summer. He is to have any and everything he desires, short of his wand or a means of escape. He is not to receive any papers or post and under no circumstances is he to be allowed out of the study." The human stopped and fixed the Elf with a hard stare. "Do you understand?"

The creature wilted under the imposing gaze. "Yessum."

Narcissa nodded once and resumed her stride. "Go to the study now and see to my husband."

"Yessum." The Elf vanished with another crack.

A delicate hand rose and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Lucius would have to be moved back to the basement when he passed out—at least until things were a bit more manageable. For now he was too disoriented to even think of escaping the study, but he'd be furious with her once he sobered up. The basement was also far safer than any other room in the Mansion. For everyone. And she'd have to write to Draco again—he was taking far, far too long to arrange things on his end. If push came to shove, she would have to go to Dumbledore for help and the very thought of doing that left an acrid taste in her mouth. It was probably best not to let Draco know what had happened with his father, though; he had more than enough to worry about at the moment.

Narcissa pushed open the doors to the bedroom she had shared with her husband for the past seventeen years. She immediately went to her makeup table and unlocked the top drawer where her stationary equipment was located. She paused suddenly, staring at her hands. Small tremors were running through them. Narcissa's gaze slowly rose from her hand to look at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was stern and cold—emotionless. It would have been a perfect mask if not for the tears in her eyes.

A sudden crash made Narcissa jump and she turned in her seat to stare down at the keys lying on the floor. Lucius's keys, she realized hazily. They must have fallen out of her pocket. For a moment Narcissa looked down at the key ring. Then she turned back around, laid her head down on the rich oak finish of her makeup table, and began to sob silently.

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"Okay. Let's look at this objectively." Hermione ran a hand back through her hair in frustration and looked down at the scroll rolled out in front of her.

Ron was once more perched on one of the sinks behind her and peering over her shoulder. Hermione was seated on the floor which—oddly enough—was not flooded. Another odd thing was that there was no sign of Moaning Myrtle. It was unlike her to be so quiet, but neither Gryffindor was quite willing to look a gift ghost in the mouth. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was the only place they could meet without fear of being overheard and the only time they really felt free to have their so-called "Harry Chats" was when they were certain that Harry was firmly ensconced in the Headmaster's office for tea.

The couple did not feel up to interrogating Harry about what was going on since such a course of action invariably led to the green-eyed boy clamming up, or just flat out ignoring them. Hermione and Ron were almost a little bit afraid to rock the boat. Because of this, most of their interaction was limited to small, silly things. Quidditch, school work, gossip, and occasionally trying to figure out what was wrong with Malfoy occupied most of the Trio's time. Harry was still unusually quiet though.

"What's that?" Ron asked, indicating the parchment at which Hermione was scowling.

"A list of our suspects. It's fair to say that most of this started when Harry came to Headquarters, right?"

Ron grunted and the girl pointed with her quill to the name at the top of the list. "Well, Headmaster Dumbledore knows what happened at the Dursleys'. I think that that has a lot to do with whatever is bothering Harry. And there's always their weekly tea sessions . . . He has to know something about whatever is going on in Harry's head. Not a whole lot happens at Hogwarts without his knowledge." She pointed to the next name. "Then there's Professor Snape. He was really quiet at the start of the term. In fact, he almost seemed to be avoiding Harry. But now he and Harry are constantly at each other's throats. I had really thought that maybe they had worked something out this summer, but something had to have set the two of them at one another again. We just need to figure out what. He also spent a whole week alone with Harry at Headquarters in July when Professor Lupin was away for the full moon."

"We should have been able to visit," Ron groused. "At least for his birthday,"

Hermione sighed. This was an old topic and she didn't feel like arguing over it anymore. Instead she pointed to the next name: Alastor Moody. "Moody was the one who went to get Harry from the Dursleys', so he must know something about what happened there, too. On top of that, he spies almost as much as Professor Snape. If something's going on, then he'd know." She tapped the scroll with quill again. "Then there's Malfoy. He's been acting very oddly this year. He may have done something to Harry, or he could be plotting something. He can't be trusted at all."

Ron looked over the list pensively from a moment, chewing on a fingernail. Suddenly he straightened. "Hang on, what about Professor Lupin?"

The muggle-born frowned down at the parchment, the quill in her hand hovering over it in indecision. "Why the Professor?"

He shrugged. "They were alone for most of August. He had to have seen or heard something. It's not like they just sat in their rooms crying all month and didn't talk to each other."

Hermione beamed up at him and wrote down the werewolf's name in her clean, precise handwriting. "Good thinking. But where does that leave us now?"

"Mmmm . . ." Ron began to tick the names off on his fingers. "Dumbledore, Snape, Moody, and Lupin."

"And Malfoy," 'Mione added absently.

"And Malfoy," he agreed with a frown. "But if whatever's wrong with Harry started this summer, what would the Ferret have to do with it?"

The muggle-born frowned down at the parchment. "True, but I would rather keep an eye on him than not."

Ron nodded and tugged lightly at his tie. "Alright, but let's ignore him for the moment. Other than the fact they're all professors and Order members, what do any of that lot have in common?"

"They were all alone with Harry at some point right after he reached Headquarters."

Ron slid off the edge of the sink to plop down next to his girlfriend. "So were right back were we started."

"The Dursleys." She looked over at him, agitation plainly written on her. "When he told you he knew about us . . . Did he say anything else? Anything at all?"

The boy shook his head. "Not a peep. But he wanted to, I think. He wants to tell us, but for some reason he won't." He scowled. "It's like he doesn't trust us anymore."

A gentle hand rested on his tightly clenched fist and he looked up, suddenly startled by Hermione's proximity. She smiled at him gently. "Or he's trying to protect us."

He snorted and leaned back. "That does sound more like him. But we don't need his protection. We're his friends; we're supposed to be helping him."

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "I don't know if we can help him, Ron. After what happened to Snuffles, I don't even think he wants us to try."

"Well, we have to do something!"

"Wh—"

A sudden giggling from one of the stalls interrupted her and Hermione stood abruptly, her wand drawn. "Myrtle! Is that you?"

There was another giggle, confirming that it was the ghost, and Ron also rose with a scowl. Hermione's gaze flickered to him in warning as the girl tried to smother her irritation. She turned back to the stalls. "Well, come out then. How long have you been skulking about down there?"

There came a sudden flushing sound in the third stall to the right, immediately followed by a tremendous gush of water that shot straight up into the air. Hermione quickly grabbed her bag off the ground and set it on the sink as the floor was flooded. As it was, both Ron and Hermione both got spritzed with falling water as the dead Hufflepuff emerged to hover over the toilet, a petulant scowl on her translucent features. "I wasn't skulking anywhere," Myrtle whined, oblivious to the flood she'd caused. "This is my bathroom. YOU'RE the ones who don't belong here!" she snarled at the end.

Ron jumped slightly despite himself. It never failed to disturb him to hear her voice go from sugary sweet to rabid dog in the space of two words. "What do you want, you great floating—Ow!"

Hermione trod on his foot and shot him a dark look as he started hopping up and down in pain. The ghost's eyes watched the two of them in a blatantly calculating manner.

Hermione smiled at the other girl sweetly and pocketed her wand. "Myrtle . . . did you have something to tell us."

The spirit drifted down towards them slowly, sniffling melodramatically. "I don't know if I want to tell you." Her eyes flickered from Hermione to Ron behind her vaporous glasses and her face contorted unpleasantly. "Especially HIM—nasty little boy."

Ron growled and took a menacing step towards Myrtle, only to be stopped by Hermione's arm.

"Nonsense," the living girl replied, still smiling earnestly. "Ron's just . . . He just doesn't know how to tell you he likes you." Myrtle frowned, obviously not liking to be told that her opinions were nonsense, while Ron immediately began making choking noises behind Hermione, earning himself a subtle kick in the shin.

"We're here to help Harry," Hermione continued, still smiling. "You remember Harry, don't you?"

At the word 'Harry,' Myrtle's cheeks immediately turned a less ghastly shade of silver and her large eyes widened. "Ooooh! I like Harry." She batted her eyelashes at them with an expression that was most likely supposed to be coy. "I've invited him to share my toilet."

Hermione's cheeks were beginning to ache from holding onto her smile. "How . . . nice . . . of you, Myrtle."

"That's what he said," the ghost gushed happily. Ron was making a strange wheezing noise behind Hermione by this point in time. Myrtle glared at him spitefully. "He's such a nice boy. Unlike SOME people!"

Ron snorted.

"We're trying to help him," Hermione repeated, ignoring her boyfriend. "He's been acting a bit queer lately. Do you know anything that can help us?"

Myrtle smirked. "Maybe . . ."

Hermione was practically chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Do you want to help us?"

The phantom's eyes lit up again. "You mean like a club? A secret club? I've never been part of a club before . . ."

"I wonder why," Ron muttered.

Hermione trod on the boy's foot again and hissed at him to be silent, but thankfully, Myrtle was so enamored with the idea of a club that she didn't hear him. She turned back to the spirit. "Exactly like a club," she confirmed, still smiling.

Myrtle's eyes suddenly narrowed and she swooped down so that she was right in front of the pair. "This isn't some dirty little trick, is it?"

"No!" the Gryffindor girl rushed to assure her. "Really!"

Myrtle shoved her face directly at Ron, catching him off guard. "And you? What about you?"

"Err . . ." The redhead leaned back in an attempt to escape the girl looming before him. "Good to have you aboard, mate . . .?"

Myrtle did not seem to notice his obvious lack of enthusiasm because she immediately beamed. "Okay." She pulled back and smirked. "The first night of term I was in the dungeons trying to find the Baron. Peeves was picking me again." Her eyes suddenly seemed to glow. "He said I had SPOTS!"

"Er . . . Myrtle?" Ron coaxed in an attempt to get her back on topic.

She frowned at him, but resumed her story, her ghostly hands smoothing down her robes as she spoke. "Anyway, I was down in the dungeons when the door to Professor Snape's workroom burst open and Harry came running out. He didn't even see me. He ran right into some little First Year who was lurking heading up the stairs—knocked the poor girl into one of the empty classrooms, he was going so fast. He looked . . . upset. Then Professor Snape came out of the door and looked after. He looked upset too. For a minute, it looked like he was going to go after Harry, but instead he said a very naughty word and hit the door frame with his hand. Then he went back in the workroom."

Ron immediately pulled away and let loose a low growl that sounded remarkably like the words "mangy, greasy, slimy git," but Myrtle still wasn't done.

The ghost leaned forward again conspiratorially and smirked. "Then, about a week ago in the evening, I saw him go down to the lab again. He left the door open just a crack, so I peeked in. They were arguing. Harry wanted the Professor to do something, but the Professor said that it wasn't allowed and he'd get sacked. Harry called him a coward and the Professor ended up slapping him."

Hermione gasped and Myrtle made no effort to hide her excitement at being able to share such gossip.

"Harry fell down onto the floor holding his cheek and the Professor rushed over to him and scooped him up and held him for a moment." She pulled back and sighed. "I don't know what happened after that. I heard someone coming and left. But they looked close." Her eyes gleamed. "Very close, if you get my meaning."

Hermione looked away from the vulture-like expression on the ghost's face and felt slightly sick. Ron remained very, very quiet. The muggle-born turned to face her boyfriend. "Ron . . .? You don't think—"

"If it is . . ." Ron's voice sounded scratchy and weak, "If it is . . . like that . . . and they—I mean, if Harry didn't want to . . ." He turned to look at her and his eyes were dark. "He'd have told us, right?"

"Harry and Snape hate each other," the girl murmured helplessly.

Ron wordlessly pulled Hermione into a hug. Myrtle watched the couple pensively.

After a moment, Hermione pulled out of the embrace and turned to the spirit. "Myrtle, have you told anyone else this?"

"No." The dead girl looked affronted. "Why?"

Hermione's eyes were steely. "This is a secret club, Myrtle, and we are the only members, so you mustn't tell anyone else, alright? You have to keep this a secret."

The ghost pouted but acquiesced after a moment. "Alright. But only if you tell Harry to come visit me in my toilet. It gets so lonely in here." She cast them a backwards glance before zooming back to her U-bend without a waiting for a reply, sensing perhaps that they needed space to deal with what they'd just learned.

The chime sounded, warning that it was almost curfew, and Hermione began to gather her things. Ron watched her in silence for a moment.

When he spoke, he sounded oddly distant. They hadn't had much cause for laughter this year, it seemed. "'Mione . . . If they were—"

"Myrtle might be mistaken."

He frowned down at her. "Maybe. But if they were . . . And Harry wanted it . . . What do we do then? Do we tell? Or . . . or . . . what?"

Hermione stared blankly down at the ground, her hands limp on draw strings of her bag. "I don't know, Ron." She bit her lower lip and watched her reflection blur as ripples moved through the water that covered the floor. "I really don't know."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

My dearest Dragon,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I understand that your dear friends have been ill and I hope that whatever they have has not been catching. Your father sends his love. He has been away at business meetings quite often of late and I worry that our close friend may be working him too hard. His headaches, I fear, have not improved.

Also, he worries over your grades, particularly in Potions. He knows that you have been having difficulty in Severus's class of late. I know that you have told Severus of the circumstances imparted to you in one of my previous letters, but you have yet to notify me as to his reply. Though he and your father were never truly close, he has always seemed to hold a certain fondness for you. I hope that he will take this into account, as well as the extra-credit I know you have been working on, when tallying your final marks.

But surely all this dull news and chiding bores you. Tell me, have you made any new friends? I know how important it is to you to expand your horizons. Your father is still set against such things, but I can only see advantages in the possibilities.

All of our friends are doing well, although your aunt's migraines seem to have become worse. Our dearest friend is most pleased with himself. It seems that he has bought, through foreign contacts, a new mirror. It appears to be magical, but we do not know its purpose. He has mentioned that it may be something his little cousin would be enamored with and has proposed sending it to him. Personally, I do not think his cousin will care for it and suggest you buy him something to make up for the shoddy gift. It is important to use such opportunities to your advantage, gift of my heart, when they arise. Perhaps your dear Potions Master will be able to help you select something. As history has shown, he has impeccable taste where that darling child is concerned. It is wise to accept help when one can.

Otherwise, though, poppet, there is little news to report from home. Work has been as dull for your father as ever and I have suggested a change in careers. This damp air is not good for his health and I am in favor of all of us taking a holiday in Australia or the Americas if his health does not soon improve. The Minister, bless his heart, also seems concerned with your beloved father's health, as does our old friend. I fear that one or both of them may insist that he visit Saint Mungo's until he is well enough to resume his duties. My heart shudders at the thought of being without its guiding light. I could perish from loneliness. But hearing from you heartens your father.

Despite what he may do or say, he truly loves you, little Dragon. You are his pride and the joy of my heart. Please write back and know that we are always thinking of you and I eagerly await your letters.

You loving mother,
Narcissa Malfoy

The wind blew Draco's hair in his eyes as they flickered back and forth from word to word. He couldn't make sense of it. Oh, the coding of the letter was simple enough to decipher, but he felt as though he were missing great chunks of information. What message? He honestly could not recall giving Snape any message of any type. Not this term at least . . .

Silvery blue eyes rose from the parchment to stare at the lake. The sunlight sparkled over the water almost playfully, but the boy was in no mood to savor nature. Something had to have happened to him. Something was missing. He tried desperately to think back over the past few weeks, but could not solidly remember any real interaction with Snape outside of classes. His brow contorted in confusion. There were faint images of Snape quarters . . . An argument of some sort . . .

The memories slipped away from him like silverfish, gone before he could even really focus in on them. It was giving him a headache.

At his side, his sleek eagle owl hooted softly in concern, the proud creature nipping his sleeve lightly in a bid for his attention. Acutely aware of how bewildered he must look, the Malfoy heir frowned and gently rubbed his familiar's head.

"I don't know," he told the owl, frustration evident in his voice. "It's like the memories are there, but—"

Abruptly Draco paled and stopped talking. The answer came to him in a rush and the realization terrified him. He was alone, without allies, and hopelessly exposed. And worse yet, he didn't even know what was going on anymore.

Someone had Obliviated him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

She stood in front of the mirror in the Girl's Dormitory and frowned at her reflection. It was her nose—definitely her nose. That's why he didn't look at her.

Or maybe it was her eyes. Brown was a terribly boring color.

Ronald Weasley's eyes were ice blue. Hermione Granger's, a foresty, marble-like hazel. Even his eyes were the brightest, deepest green she had ever seen. She had spent hours staring at photos of his eyes. Everyone he loved had remarkable eyes.

Even that greasy old man. Snape's eyes were black. Black was a non-color, the result of a surface absorbing all light rays and never giving anything back. She had learned that in art class. She was a good artist—one of the best in her primary school before she got her Letter.

Yes. It was her eyes. Her plain, ordinary, brown eyes.

Nothing about him was ordinary. Nothing was what one expected. She had thought he'd be taller, but somehow it made sense that he wasn't. She had thought he'd be bigger, but there was something to be said for his willowy frame. She had thought he'd be louder—bolder, but his relaxed, down-to-earth-ness was beautiful. He was beautiful. And brilliant.

And so much better than Snape.

The man had obviously bewitched him.

Perhaps if she got contacts he would stop looking at Snape and look at her.

He didn't even see her. Not at the meals, not between classes, not in the common room. He didn't care. Even when he had knocked her down that night in the dungeons, he didn't see her.

But she saw him. She saw Snape assault him that night. She saw the way he looked at the man sometimes.

Watching Harry Potter was an art, and she had always been a very good artist.

She would get contacts over Christmas holiday. Black ones. Maybe then he would see her.

He had to see her soon. After all, she was so much better than Snape. Than a teacher. Than a man. Her family would be so proud when they started dating. Their children would have his eyes, of course, and her smile. She had a pretty smile.

He would see her and realize that they were obviously meant to be together. He would see her—really SEE her—and love her just as much as she loved him. She'd heard about him for four years straight. Every letter home, every photograph, every adventure and exploit. She knew him, knew him better than she knew herself. She knew his favorite food, his favorite color, his favorite tea. She knew that he was afraid of Dementors and the werewolf Remus Lupin was a friend of his parents. She knew that he didn't eat Hagrid's treacle fudge and he didn't talk about his muggle relatives. She knew that, just like her, he was from the muggle world.

And she knew that he was having an affair with that monster Snape. She had seen it.

But that wasn't his fault. No. Because Harry Potter did not have affairs with Severus Snape. Snape was a creep. He was unfair and picked on them all. Snape got his kicks from tormenting little children. Snape was wicked.

Everyone knew that.

Snape had seduced Harry—forced himself on the poor boy. She shuddered to think of what her beloved must have endured. Everyone knew that Harry hated Snape. And everyone knew that Harry Potter as most certainly NOT gay, or homosexual, or whatever those people called themselves nowadays.

Harry was just confused. This was all Snape's fault.

But she would help him; she had to—no one else could. They had a bond—a deep soulful connection. He would see her and realize that.

She would make him realize that.

The girl stared into the mirror for a moment longer, picturing herself with black eyes. She would be beautiful.

Yes. Everything would be perfect. She'd be loved by Harry and accepted by everyone: the students, the staff, the Headmaster, the Weasleys—everyone. She would save Harry and everyone would see how marvelous she was, especially Harry.

Because she loved him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o