Chapter 5: The Meaning Of Morality

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I would be an incredibly rich, famous author. If I were an incredibly rich, famous author, I'd be living in a huge mansion with all my betas and other miscellaneous friends, indulging myself in eccentricity; with rooms I'd decorated myself that would put Lawrence Llewellen-Bowen of the ridiculous surname to shame, constant supplies of Dr. Pepper and marzipan, storerooms full of chicken kievs, chips and profiteroles, a massive swimming pool complete with waterslides, and a lot of other things that I'll leave out because it would take too long to describe them all.

However, I'm still living in a little house in an industrial suburb. Thus, we can deduce that I don't own Harry Potter.

Thanks for 109 reviews goes to: Saotoshi, jules37, mesmer (x2), Simpson-Girl, simrun, luckdragon, willowfairy, Beauty Full, Heather, Angel, Pheonix, girliedragon, heavengurl899, PinkTribeChick!

A/N: This was actually the most depressing week with regards to writing I've ever had.

Things pretty much started on Tuesday, when I took in the beta copy for the five betas at my school. One of my betas – whose usual method of betaing is 'crush it humorously into the ground' (which is usually incredibly useful, actually) decided to beta when she was in a bad mood, which resulted in severe crushing… On top of that, another beta, who's usually incredibly nice, decided to adopt a more crushing method.

Now I've never actually been very confident with writing – I still shy away from sharing it with anyone I know, though anonymous people in the Internet are fine. So the rather severe crushing, combined with the fact that I didn't get as many reviews as usual, combined with stress over my A-level choices (now changed to English Language, English Literature, Psychology and Biology) and an extremely determined Latin teacher who practically took to stalking me, combined with winter sore throat and sniffles, combined with a severely bruised and aching arm from my archery lesson… kind of led to a bit of a breakdown on Tuesday afternoon.

But don't worry; I'm pretty much better now, thanks to plot bunnies, reviewers, betas, extensive rewrites of one scene, and chocolate. And a massive thanks to all the reviewers of the last chapter – you really cheered me up when things were grim. I give you all chocolate.

Enough about me, anyway: I'm sure you're far more interested in this week's chapter! Which, after all that, has come out quite pleasingly. Oh! And before I forget to mention it; my Pi has given me the challenge of including a phrase of her choosing into every chapter. This week's was 'a severed hand'. I'm still arguing with her over next week's.

But back to this chapter: enjoy!

~*~

It is with our passions, as it is with fire and water, they are good servants but bad masters.

Aesop (620 BC - 560 BC)

~*~

A new and worrying trend has emerged among the medical staff employed at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the latest wizarding census reveals today. For the first time in centuries, the majority of employees at the renowned wizarding hospital are from Muggle backgrounds – leaving those from magical families in the minority.

A spokesman for the hospital informed the Prophet that 'St Mungos selects its employees based purely on their suitability for the demanding role of a Healer, and regards their parentage as unimportant.'

Yet statistics show that Pureblood witches and wizards achieve better results in their OWLs and NEWTs, and furthermore…  (continued on page 3)

Hermione folded the Daily Prophet in half with a sigh, dropped it down beside her plate, and frowned.

Most of the people sitting around the breakfast table that morning had read the article with similar frowns and grimaces, and followed it with worried discussions about the newspaper's attitude. The atmosphere was sombre and anxious, making everyone edgy.

It had been going on for quite some time, if you bothered to find back issues of the Prophet and read through them, combing carefully through the articles. It started over a year ago, shortly after the return of Voldemort, with carefully interwoven comments, jokes and observations. One of the newspaper's oldest comic strips – 'The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle' – had introduced a new character, a Muggleborn witch, in the previous October. The Muggleborn was a figure of fun: she had fallen in love with Martin, and kept attempting various spells to attract his attentions, which always went hilariously wrong.

Just an innocent comic strip? Hermione didn't think so.

You could see the comments growing in frequency and intensity as you tracked through the editions But now, they had thrown subtlety to the wind, publishing articles that never quite said, 'Muggleborns are inferior,' never quite stated anything solid, but implied it heavily all the same.

The worst part of the entire newspaper, for Hermione, was the letters page. She never even looked at it any more. If letters of outrage at the Prophet's attitude were written, they were never published; instead came humorous agreements with the paper's point of view, making their own sly comments about Muggleborns, their own cruel jibes. Lucius Malfoy in particular had written one that made Hermione's blood boil to read it, so full was it of carefully crafted implications and subtexts…

Ginny prodded her in the ribs. 'Hello? Ginny Weasley to Hermione Granger; do we have a Floo connection?'

Hermione blinked, startled out of her thoughts and confused by Ginny's phrasing. 'What? Floo?'

Ginny shook her head. 'I meant are you with us? You were staring at your plate. Letting your food go cold too. Terrible waste.'

'Oh. Sorry, my mind just wandered off for a minute there…' she trailed off with a glance at the newspaper. Ginny gave her a smile.

'The article? Don't worry; no one's going to believe that rubbish. Mum knows someone who works in the census office, and you know, the difference between Purebloods and Muggleborns is only about ten employees. It's ridiculous! Besides, who cares if Muggleborns outnumber Purebloods?'

'The Purebloods.' Hermione replied simply, taking a bite of her toast. 'And then they become prejudiced and insult Muggleborns and then they start attacking us in the streets, and the next thing you know we're all in concentration camps…'

'What?' Ginny asked, confused. 'Concentration camps?'

Hermione took a breath, calming down. 'Sorry. You know about Hitler and the Nazis? Germany? Second World War?'

'Oh, those concentration camps.' Ginny realised, then snorted. 'You really think Muggleborns are going to end up being herded up and gassed to death? That would never happen.'

'Well, no one thought it would happen to the Jews either.' Hermione pointed out, fidgeting uncomfortably. 'And these methods of propaganda… influencing the media, things like comic strips for children, it's all the kind of thing the Nazis used. It scares me,' she admitted.

Ginny gave her a smile. 'It is kind of scary,' she agreed. 'But if anything like that happens, it's not going to be tomorrow. What's the use of worrying about it now? All we can do is try to stop people getting prejudiced and wait. In the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry.'

Hermione smiled, and took another slice of her sausage. 'Thanks, Ginny. You're right: there's no use in worrying yet,' she agreed.

Ginny grinned, then turned around to speak to Harry, who was ploughing through a large plate of breakfast under the watchful eyes of Ron and Mrs Weasley. Every so often, Harry would stop eating, distracted by thought, until one of the Weasleys gently brought him back to reality.

Harry. Another thing she had to worry about, Hermione thought as she nibbled at her toast. After running off the previous night following the little scene with Lupin (who wasn't at breakfast this morning; neither was Tonks), Hermione had fully expected her friend to explode in anger, grief or possibly self-hatred.

When they'd caught up with him in a dingy corridor, however, he had been leaning on the wall, breathing deeply, his face firm and set. Whatever they asked or said or did, he'd insisted that he was completely fine, that it had just been a momentary thing and it was all done with now. The edge his voice took on after a few questions had warned them not to carry on asking.

They'd met up with Ginny in one of the corridors, and the four of them had gone to Hermione's room – the largest and neatest – to talk. Hermione had been too anxious to say anything, fidgeting nervously, and although Ron kept trying to strike up conversations, he could never quite think of a topic. Harry had been worryingly silent and remote.

Ginny had been brilliant: acting bright, cheerful and talkative. She'd got them all playing Exploding Snap, and chattered non-stop about anything under the sun, until her friendly, warm and open air infected the others and they began to relax. Harry even smiled, and had laughed a little at one of Ron's ruder jokes. Though it had all been temporary, it seemed. Hermione hadn't expected anything different.

They'd told Harry everything they knew about recent events: the worrying portrayal of Muggleborns in the media, the actions and happenings of the Order, the arrival of Malfoy. He'd barely reacted. He appeared to be numb: no matter what happened he barely reacted, barely paid any attention. Except for that moment last night with Lupin. It worried Hermione: it couldn't be good for him.

Ginny poked her. 'You've drifted off again,' she scolded gently. 'And we've got to go now, Mum says. More cleaning.' She grimaced.

Hermione nodded, taking a final bite of her toast and chewing it slowly, a dismal, dreary feeling settling over her. At the other end of the table, a distinctly irate Malfoy was finishing his breakfast, scowling as he did so. Hermione looked between him and Harry, who was staring at the tablecloth with a desolate expression, and despaired. It would be impossible to keep Malfoy from snapping at Harry, completely impossible, with the mood he was in. She only hoped Harry could weather the storm.

~*~

The odour of decay was slowly giving way to one almost as foul: the artificial, acrid scent of the cleaning sprays. The air in the bathroom was thick with smells, heavy and sickeningly oppressive. Tension and anxiety held sway, as Gryffindor glared at Slytherin, friend worried over friend, enemy glowered at enemy.

Mrs Weasley broke the silence first, getting to her feet, stretching, checking her watch. She threw a glare at Malfoy, then turned to the Gryffindors and asked, 'Do you mind if I leave you for a while? Dumbledore's called a meeting of the Order, and I ought to be there.'

'How long will you be?' asked Ginny, with a meaningful glance at the corner where the Slytherin worked, alone.

'An hour at most, I'll try and get away before then, though. Behave yourselves,' she told them with a smile, and left.

The charged silence returned, expectant and heavy, hanging thickly over the room. In one corner was Malfoy, angrily scrubbing at a patch of mouldy floor, his grey eyes a mystery; hot and cold together, as though fire froze or ice burnt. Below, his lips were set in a thin line, straight and unyielding.

On the opposite side of the room, they were working on the walls. The atmosphere around them had a slightly different flavour: while just as charged with an impending fight, it was infused with something else, gentler, but by no means lesser than the antagonism it resided with. It was present in careful, fretful glances in the direction of Harry, where he worked seemingly without thinking, just blank repetition of a single process. Worried looks laced themselves through the air, until anxiety was in every breath they took.

It would take very little, now, for this atmosphere to snap, and release all its deadly charge in moments, in a lightening flash of fury.

Ten minutes after Mrs Weasley's departure, Malfoy dropped his empty spray bottle with a soft thunk, and a disgusted sneer crossed his lips as he surveyed the floor before him. Very little impression had been made on the mould, no matter how hard he tried to remove it.

Getting to his feet, he turned, eyeing the box of cleaning products that was dumped near the Gryffindors. There had to be something stronger than this rubbish in there, surely? Grabbing the empty bottle, he strode over, making strangely little sound on the hard tiles.

Kneeling down by the side of the box, he surveyed the bottles with a mixture of confusion and contempt. Contempt because this kind of work was for house elves, not Malfoys, and confusion for much the same reason. His exposure to cleaning solutions up to this point had been extremely limited. Looking through the bottles suspiciously, he began to read the product descriptions on the bright, eye-catching labels.

Five minutes later, just as he'd read the final bottle and decided on 'New and Improved Disapparate! For all your cleaning needs', he saw a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye. Pretending to read the description of a random bottle, he watched cautiously as Granger detached herself from her friends, crossed the few steps to the box, and knelt down on the opposite side to himself. Her eyes peered cautiously at him, a deep fiery brown, before turning to the box.

She didn't take long to choose. Within seconds, she had selected and retrieved from the box the exact same bottle that Malfoy had earlier decided on.

Quick as a snake's bite, he'd grabbed her wrist tightly, wrenching the bottle away from her with his free hand. 'I suggest you pick another one, Mudblood,' he spat, eyes narrowed, 'This one is mine.'

She gave him a defiant look, trying to grab the bottle back, but he held it well out of her reach. Finally, she resorted to insults. 'I'm surprised you even know how to clean, Malfoy. I'd expected you to run out screaming after the first five minutes and go crying to your daddy, because the mean nasty people made you do work for once in your life instead of lazing around and bullying everyone.'

He smirked. 'Oh, the temptation to run screaming from this place is overwhelming, I assure you. I'm surrounded by idiots and filthy freaks of nature such as yourself. But it should be obvious to you that I'd be capable of cleaning, Granger. After all, if the dirty Muggles can do it, a Pureblooded wizard like myself should find it child's play.'

'Stop insulting Hermione.' This was Ron, cutting into the argument sharply, already turning red with anger. He stood up, eyes flashing, and glared boldly at the Slytherin. 'Or you'll regret it.'

'I'd do what he says. He means it,' Ginny chimed in cheekily, looking at the scene from her place on the floor. On Ron's other side, Harry had paused in his cleaning to watch, green eyes almost blank but for a little worry, or anger, or hate.

Malfoy grinned, sensing an imminent exchange of insults building up. He shifted backwards from a kneeling position, crossing his legs, and smirking upwards at Ron.

'Ah, Weasley,' he grinned. 'Another one of those inferior beings whose sole purpose in life is work like this.' He indicated the bathroom with a sweeping gesture. 'Cleaning. Cooking. The kinds of things house elves do. Ideally, we should round you and all the Muggles up in cages, brand numbers into your flesh, and keep you as slaves. It's what your existence is all about. Admit it.'

He watched the effect his words had on the others with a soft, smug smile. Beautiful. The way you could make someone act a certain way, feel a certain thing, just by saying a few words! Granger was practically smoking at the ears – particularly incensed after reading this morning's article. Weasley was bright red with anger, and a grim-faced Ginny had grabbed tight hold of his hand, presumably to stop him lunging forward to fight. Weasley seemed to have gotten better at controlling his anger, Malfoy mused. Pity.

Then his eyes came to rest upon Potter, and frowned. Though Harry's eyes were narrowed, cold, there was still a passive glaze to them. He was irritated, but not fully angry: too detached from the world to be angry. Malfoy, however, knew just what had caused this – and how to break it.

'If you really believe that,' Granger began, her voice quivering, but Malfoy paid no attention, 'then you're a foul, imbecilic, idiotic, narrow-minded, intolerant prat! I can't believe…'

Malfoy cut across her rant. 'Not leaping to your little Mudblood friend's defence, Potter?' he asked. 'Strange, I thought you always did. You certainly leapt to your dear godfather's defence, didn't you?'

Harry froze: from the look in his eyes, Malfoy knew he'd hit the right nerve. 'Don't talk about that.' Harry commanded in a tight, tense voice. The air was charged, apprehensive.

Ron and Hermione had both frozen at Malfoy's change in tactics and were stood stock still, staring at Harry.  Ginny turned towards Malfoy. 'Leave Harry alone,' she began, but Malfoy was too quick for her.

'Of course, you just ended up getting him killed, didn't you?' he asked, relaxing in the furious expressions of those around him. This was something familiar in the midst of confusion, something he understood. 'You just went along and charged off recklessly, and got your dear Sirius Black killed. Of course, he was just as stupid as you. Running after you, straight into the line of fire, it's no wonder he got himself murdered. A perfect pair you make – or rather, made. Both as stupid as the other.'

There was a moment of pure, beautiful silence, the shock almost palpable, the disbelief that he could have said such a thing lacing the air – then Harry was on his feet, all detachedness vanished, eyes blazing with green flame, so hot and so angry that Malfoy started in surprise.

Ron and Ginny grabbed tight hold of Harry before he could move an inch, Ginny shrieking for him to calm down, Ron swearing foully at Malfoy. Hermione scrambled to her feet and raced over, putting a hand on the struggling Harry's shoulder, trying to soothe him.

Malfoy sat there, watching, his eyes locked on Harry's. He felt strangely alarmed, not by the fact that Potter was attempting to kill him, but more by the hate and the anger and the pure, boiling rage. All things he himself had felt, now. Or thought he'd felt. He still couldn't be completely sure…

And he had made Potter feel that way. Something he'd done many times before, but this time… this time he could understand it more, could grasp in some way what it must be like to be Potter, in this moment, with those burning, angry eyes. It was strange, unbearably strange, and he shuddered. All kinds of responses kept firing off, emotional things that he had no knowledge of, dizzying in their variety.

And then, the Weasleys and Granger finally got Potter to sit down, gasping in deep breaths as though he'd just been rescued from drowning, and leaving Malfoy more confused than ever.

Granger glanced up from her friend as the two Weasleys tried to ensure he was alright – already Harry was insisting forcibly that he was fine. But Granger's eyes flashed like lightening, and in a low tone she spat, 'I hope you're happy, you bastard.'

He smirked – playing his role again – and replied, 'Of course. I've insulted and hurt a bunch of Muggle-loving filth: what's not to be happy about?'

Snatching up the spray bottle of cleaning solution that lay, forgotten, by his side, he stood and crossed the room briskly, back to his corner. As he went back to grudgingly cleaning the tiles, he frowned.

Why had angering Potter felt so… wrong?

~*~

It was evening.

The sun was almost setting outside his window, the sky just beginning to colour with the shades of sunset. Draco knew that downstairs dinner would soon be ready. The smell of it was already creeping through the rooms, coiling under his door. Smells were so much stronger as a human. Idly, he wondered why.

It was, more than anything else, a way to distract himself from thinking about the earlier fight. It had been fun at first. Riling everyone up, watching their feelings flash across their faces, watching them react… But then, Potter.

Potter had been angry. No, no, it wasn't the anger, it was…the hurt. That was it. Potter had looked… tortured, even. Anguished. So what? What did he, a Malfoy, care about people feeling hurt? Especially Potter.

Except that obviously, it did mean something to him, because he couldn't get rid of the niggling feeling that he had done something wrong. And yet he didn't see why that had happened in one situation and not the others. He'd insulted all of them. Why feel worse about one than the others?

Because those insults had caused more hurt than the others. Hadn't they?

Draco sighed and crossed to the mirror, to examine his face. He'd come to realise that, often, he could better name the emotions when he read his facial expression. But this time, all he could see was confusion and puzzlement.

'Heya, gorgeous,' the mirror chimed in. 'Looking good. Why the long face?'

Draco shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said automatically, noticing a patch of messy hair and reaching up to straighten it. He paused. 'Do you… do mirrors feel emotions at all?'

It laughed. 'Course we don't have feelings, we're mirrors. We can, however, offer fashion advice, Agony Aunt services, and various other tricks. I do a brilliant impression of Celestina Warbeck, wanna hear?'

'No, thanks,' Draco replied, finishing with his hair. 'Only… you know when people feel… when people do something bad, then they get this feeling that it was wrong. Does that have a name?'

The mirror chuckled. 'Why, that's a conscience, sweetie.'

'Oh.' He frowned. Well, that could explain a lot… only why would insulting Potter make his, his conscience come into play? It made no sense whatsoever. 'Well, thanks.'

'Anytime,' the mirror replied. 'Oooh, before you go, do that trick with the wings? Please?'

'That trick with the wings?'

'Oh, go on, please!' it begged. 'I've never seen anyone with wings before. Well, you don't get many, do you, love? And they are gorgeous… all white and feathery…'

Draco gave the mirror a sceptical look, before giving in to its request. 'Alright then, but I'm not doing this every time you ask, okay? I'm not some performing animal.' Glancing sideways to make sure his door was shut, he pulled off his shirt, not wanting it to tear, and with a flicker of thought…

'Oooh!' went the mirror, sounding delighted. 'You should go around like that all the time, you look dead sexy with your top off and all the feathers…'

'Thanks,' Draco replied, feeling slightly bemused. 'I'll remember that in-'

A horrified gasp rang sharply from the doorway, cutting him off in mid-sentence. He swivelled, stomach twisting, turning back to human form with a brief thought…

And standing in the open doorway, eyes wide and staring, was Hermione Granger.

'W-wings!' she gasped. 'You had wings!'

There was a feeling, like a clammy fist had just clenched itself inside his chest, and inside his head he swore violently. What sick twist of fate had thrown this in his path? Damn it, why did she have to see this, why was it Granger of all people who had to wander in at that precise moment? The rising emotion – something hot and violent – alarmed him in its intensity, and Draco quickly tried to suppress it.

And Granger was still gaping.

He decided to react calmly, playing it cool. . 'Full marks for observation, Granger,' he drawled, leaning against the wall. 'Did you want something? Other than to ogle my god-like form, obviously.'

That seemed to snap her out of her shock; she spluttered, appearing extremely flustered. 'I was not ogling!' she protested.

'Really? It looked that way from here.'

'I would never ogle your scrawny, pale, ugly self if you paid me to do it!' To which Draco simply smirked, feeling somewhat back on safer ground. He was a Malfoy; he had an annoyed Gryffindor in his presence. That he could cope with.

Granger took a breath, trying to calm herself. 'I was sent to tell you it's time for tea,' she informed him. 'And before you tell me off for coming in without knocking, all the rooms round here are soundproofed, they were used as guest rooms a few decades ago. And I do not ogle. Now that's out of the way, would you mind explaining exactly why you had wings? You obviously didn't Transfigure yourself, as there's a distinct lack of Ministry owls bearing warnings.' Her eyes narrowed.

'I don't appear to owe you any explanations, Granger. What I do is my own private business,' he said smoothly.

'I could tell Dumbledore-'

'He knows.' Draco interrupted. 'And obviously, had he deemed it necessary for you to know, he would have informed you. You're slipping, Granger – seems like there's information Dumbledore doesn't trust you with. And here I was thinking you had all the staff wrapped round your little finger…'

'What on earth are you drivelling about, Malfoy?' she snapped crossly.

'Why, I thought you were the teacher's pet. The perfect one they trusted implicitly, the prefect, Head-Girl to be…' he trailed off. 'Yet Dumbledore doesn't see fit to inform you of things like this?'

She shook her head. 'No, the… No one who isn't an Order member can be told important information pertaining to the war, and we're still too young to join,' she said, adding swiftly, 'But I'm going to join as soon as I'm old enough.'

'Of course, I would have expected nothing less from Little Miss Perfect,' he said silkily. 'Now leave, if you'd be so kind as to remove your filthy Mudblood self from my room.'

She glared. 'Don't you dare call me that, Malfoy!' she spat. 'Don't you dare.'

'Threatening me?' he asked with a cheeky smile. 'And what will you do to me, exactly, Granger? We can't use magic here.'

She gave a hard smile. 'Oh, I'm sure I can think of something, or have you forgotten that time I slapped you in third year? And, in case you've forgotten, I still want an explanation.'

'Tough. You don't always get what you want, Granger. Mudblood.' He savoured the word in his mouth like rich chocolate or a fine red wine, letting it slide off his tongue, delighting in the look on Granger's face as her eyes narrowed and cheeks tinged, her stance became more rigid, tense.

'I said not to call me that, Malfoy.'

'Why not, Mudblood?'

'Because its wrong!' she half shouted, eyes suddenly bright, face contorting with… pain? 'It's wrong, and cruel, and horrible, and it just makes people prejudiced against Muggleborns without thinking, because they hear someone else call us rude words and they get the idea it's alright and…' She ran out of steam, gulping down a deep breath, quivering slightly.

Draco frowned. Of course it was wrong, that was the whole point of doing it… when he'd been Fallen. And as a human? He didn't know, but that part of him the mirror had identified as a conscience was speaking up again, suggesting things, making him feel… guilt, regret, what? And he hated it.

'Just go already!' he snapped. 'Leave! Get out of here! I'm sick of the sight of you.'

She crossed her arms defiantly. 'Why? Because of my parents?'

'Because I hate you. Because you're the most infuriatingly brainless freak of nature I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Go!'

She stood her ground, opening her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out Draco crossed the room to her in three swift strides. With lightening speed, he grabbed her right hand and twisted it round, forcing her arm up against her back, almost at breaking point. She cried out as he spun her round and practically threw her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

He turned back to the room, leaning on the door, simmering inside with residual feelings. Draco didn't attempt to analyse them, knowing it would do no good; instead, he waited a minute until the heated, burning, powerful sensation subsided.

It was replaced by other things. A weight settled in his stomach, heavy and burdensome, making him fidget and squirm. It felt as though it were curled around his intestines, coiling everything into weird and uncomfortable shapes.

'Looks like you're suffering conscience troubles again, sweetheart,' the mirror said in a low tone. 'Gosh, that was explosive…'

He ignored it. On a sudden impulse, he wrenched the door open and stepped outside, looking for Granger. He didn't know why, or what he wanted with her. But it didn't matter anyway, for she was gone.

He leant beside an old portrait – one of the Black ancestors holding what looked disturbingly like a severed hand – and frowned in confusion. Why on earth did feelings have to be so difficult?

~*~

A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Now, please, please review? Think of the poor writer's weak, fragile confidence. Cyropi's confidence needs YOU!