Chapter 19: Forboding

Disclaimer: Mmm? Mmmmmm… MmMmm. (Translation, for my father and all the other males out there who insist they can't understand when women speak in mmm-language: 'Mine? Hmmm…. Nope.'

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A/N: And I'm back!

With three exams taken. Latin translation, French oral, and Latin Literature, in that order. The translation was reassuringly easy, I think I did okay in my oral, but the literature was a bit evil – mainly because I didn't have long enough. Today's quote is actually taken from one of the poems I studied, and indeed I actually discussed the quote twice in my exam (it fitted as part of an answer to two different questions).

Next week I only have English Literature, so I should – if all things go to plan – update as usual next week. Especially since I'm now on study leave, which rocks.

May I add that my muses, as usual, are evil. They keep giving me too many ideas for one-shots and shorts… drives me mad. Mad, I tell you! Even going to Stratford and watching Macbeth gave me massive inspirations… (the production, by the way, was awesome. Romeo and Juliet was also good, but Macbeth was better.) Will just sit tight and wait for summer to come and bring me lots of writing time.

On another note, I'd like to ask one reviewer (liar): how on earth did you know I'm from Greater Manchester? (I'd also like to assure you that I didn't say my favourite sport was football. Wasn't asked about it, actually. I got the house-family-local area kind of questions.)

Still having some difficulties with my usual divider symbol, so It's going to be horizontal lines from now on. Damned QuickEdit...

That said, onto the belated chapter. Enjoy!

nesciaque humanis precibus manuscere corda (And hearts that do not know how to be moved by human prayers)

Vergil, "Orpheus and Eurydice"

'Signs – and you appreciate, my Lord, that at this stage the signs are subtle, mostly in the hearts and minds of the people – indicate that our propaganda is having an effect. The Daily Prophet is widely read, and though only a few reporters are allied with our cause, their comments are beginning to soak into people's minds, biasing their opinions. The Miggs comic especially…'

'Nott,' the Dark Lord interrupted in a voice like the first frosts of winter, 'do you have anything new to share, or are you merely going to repeat everything you have told us for the past month?'

The black-robed Death Eater bowed his head. 'I'm sorry, my Lord. Everything is proceeding according to plan… our propaganda is slowly increasing in frequency and bluntness, and we have five new recruits. Mainly in magazines, three of them work for Witch Weekly…'

Voldemort inclined his head in what passed for a nod. 'Recruit more people in the Daily Prophet,' he ordered. 'That newspaper is read by almost all of our kind. From now on, I want a minimum of one piece of propaganda per issue. Am I understood?'

'Yes, my Lord,' Nott muttered, stepping back into the circle with a glance towards his fellow Death Eaters.

The Death Eater meeting ended then, everything having been discussed, and the few weaker Death Eaters in the outer circles Disapparated quickly, relieved that no one had been tortured for failing Voldemort's plans, or asked to kill a Muggle to prove their loyalty, their fanaticism. Not that they would have flinched at the torture, or hesitated for a moment if asked to murder. That was the price they paid to share a little of Voldemort's power.

The others began Disapparating; Voldemort turned to where Lucius stood, his Death Eater's hood drawn up to hide his face. 'Walk with me,' said the Dark Lord impassively, a command rather than a request. Lucius obeyed immediately.

They left the small clearing in the wood where their meetings were held in silence, coming out by the old manor that Voldemort used as his centre of operations. No one knew of this place: it was Unplottable, warded with the strongest of spells against intruders, and every mention of the place in the past erased completely from both Ministry and Muggle records.

'What news of your son, Lucius?' Voldemort asked impassively, as soon as they reached the lifeless stone of the building and began to walk around it. Lucius paused a moment before replying.

'I am certain that he has become human,' he said. 'It is the only logical conclusion to draw, although I do not yet know how or why. I have written to him and told him to return, yet he has not yet replied. I do not expect that he shall.'

'We cannot afford to lose a half-Fallen.' Voldemort said. 'You know full well that he has far greater talent with the Dark Arts than any normal human. I have you in my service, with your talents at my disposal…'

'And your own.' Lucius interjected.

'Indeed. Yet such power is necessary, in as great a quantity as possible, if we are to win in battle. We must not lose sight of the fact that my loyal Death Eaters are in the minority compared to the number of able wizards…'

'Not for long. Our propaganda campaign will increase those numbers,' Lucius paused. 'Still, I agree that my son is a valuable asset that we should attempt to retain…'

They remained in silence for a moment. Then Voldemort spoke. 'Your Manor holds the greatest collection of writings on this topic. What do you believe will happen?'

'The writings are vague. My son's case is rare, as you know. Some sources state that the Fallen half, being stronger than the human and more used to control, may eventually rise up and take control again. Others describe the turned half-Fallen living out the rest of their lives as normal humans. I have written to the sons and daughters of Death Eaters currently attending Hogwarts, asking them to report on anything unusual as regards my son. Hopefully we shall soon know.'

'Inform me as soon as you hear anything of interest,' Voldemort commanded. 'I assume that it is still possible to split the Fallen and human sides of your son into two separate brings?'

Lucius nodded. 'With the same effects. Death after approximately an hour of separation.'

'If he shows no signs of turning back, it may be beneficial to do so.' Voldemort said without emotion. 'Considering that in that hour's space he will have the full power of a Fallen, far more than he has currently.'

'He would be able to kill a large number of Mudbloods and Muggles,' Lucius noted. 'As many as a thousand have been recorded in earlier such separations. With the modern population both larger and packed into cities, I predict that number may be much higher.'

'We shall see how the situation unfolds,' Voldemort said firmly. 'You may leave now, Lucius.'

With a brief nod, Lucius Disapparated.

He felt an intrinsic sense of wrongness as he sat near the back of the Slytherin common room, a sense of not fitting; like two colours that clashed and made the eyes sore, and he was one colour and everything around him was the other. It was a jarring feeling like nails being dragged across a chalkboard, but what annoyed him most of all was the fact that he felt that way at all. He was a Slytherin, had always been one. Logic and cunning and calculation, as though life were a massive game of chess: these had always been his mainstays.

And yet they weren't there anymore, were they? He felt for logic, the foundation of what he was, and it wasn't there. Or it was, but cracked and crumbled and falling apart, weathered and eroded by senseless emotions.

Draco's grey eyes scanned the common room, frowning. None of the Slytherins allowed emotion to get in their way. None of them had felt the need to help Ellen, to stop the taunts and bullying. None of them had felt compassion, or if they had, they'd learned to ignore it. How? How did they ignore that feeling, the knowledge that someone else was in pain, the need to stop that happening?

He didn't know. But he did know that it was possible to ignore it, or not to feel it. He himself wasn't able to, but he knew it was possible. All that remained was to find out how, exactly, one went about it.

Unobserved, he stood silently and crossed to the exit, stepping out into the dim corridors, and headed towards the library.

Hermione, seeking to escape the clamour and chaos of the common room, had slipped away for an hour, as she usually did, to work for a while in the peaceful silence of the library. She liked it here, surrounded by towering shelves filled with ancient books, breathing air made dense with silence and parchment.

Ron had once complained that it was 'like a grave in here', but Hermione never found it so. Just old. Ands full of knowledge, spells and potions, history and theories, charms and Dark magic pinned carefully to pages like delicate butterflies, or dust in one of the cobwebs that softened the room's corners. That was another reason Ron disliked the library – spiders.

Smiling, she lovingly turned a page in the fat book of Arithmancy formulae, skimming down the page to find the information she needed, and was quite taken by surprise when the all-too-familiar blonde Slytherin slid into the seat opposite her with an irritated look.

'Why on earth are you working right at the back of the library where it's nearly impossible to find you? I've been looking for ten minutes,' he demanded, looking rather petulant. He was acting, Hermione realised, and of course he was good at it– his shoulder slouched just so, one eyebrow raised like that – but he seemingly hadn't learnt to hide what he really felt as well. Looking closer, he appeared flustered, perhaps a little nervous, and she knew he must have come to ask her something.

The question was: what? Their last conversation had ended in him storming off, exasperated at being unable to find a logical answer, and he'd certainly seemed unwilling to speak to her after Potions. What had changed his mind?

Stalling for a moment, she wrote down the end of her Arithmancy formula and replied nonchalantly, 'I like it here. It's more… private.'

'Secluded. Hidden. Impossible to find,' Draco suggested, carrying on his act of annoyance. It was well done, Hermione thought: if she hadn't known of his emotional problems and specifically looked for what he really felt, she probably wouldn't have noticed.

'Those too,' she agreed, closing her book. She could either wait for Draco to ask what he wanted, or go straight to the point and ask him; she decided on the latter. 'Did you want something?'

He paused for a moment, examining a knot in the wooden table, and Hermione suddenly felt very clearly just how strange this must be for him, how even everyday things such as asking a question or talking to someone were alien and distorted to his mind.

'Yes,' he said eventually, looking up. 'You heard of… what happened with Ellen?'

'The Muggleborn girl? Yes,' she said, nodding and trying to guess what question he was going to ask her. Something about compassion, how to ignore it, perhaps, or…

'Why didn't the other Slytherins need to help her?'

That one surprised her slightly; she frowned. 'What? You mean… why didn't they feel compassion?'

He nodded shortly, absent-mindedly picking up her quill and toying with it. 'Or why they didn't act on it if they felt it.'

Hermione frowned and leant back in her chair, wondering what the best answer was, wondering how to explain it to him. 'Well… For a start, not all people feel the same things,' she began. 'Everyone feels the different ways in the same situation…'

'Why?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know… its psychology. Your environment, the way you've been brought up, the things you've been taught - even genes, partially. So… would I be right in thinking that many of the Slytherins were brought up to hate Muggleborns?'

A sudden thought struck her. 'One minute, weren't you brought up to hate Muggleborns too? Well… not hate, because… But to think we're, I don't know, evil or dirty or…'

Draco frowned suddenly, as though he'd just realised something that should have been obvious. 'No,' he said softly. 'Fallens… our instinct is to do wrong. To cause pain and harm, and evil. So I was taught that hating Mud… Muggleborns was wrong.'

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise; she hadn't expected that. 'So is that part of why you helped Ellen?' she asked. 'Because you knew it was…'

'I don't know,' he protested vehemently, almost angrily. Frowning, he leant forward so his arm was flat on the table, bent to make a pillow, and rested his head in the crux of his elbow. He brought his left hand - which still held her favourite midnight-black quill - up to his cheek, and sighed. He looked oddly childlike, Hermione thought, or perhaps the right word was vulnerable. His pale-grey eyes were dark with confusion and difficulty and the fear of that which is new and unusual and terrifying.

She half-smiled at him. 'So the others, those of them that were taught to hate Muggleborns, they wouldn't have felt compassion. And the others… maybe they're used to it, or they just ignore it.'

'So it is possible to ignore them,' he said distantly, then shook his head, sitting up straight. 'I don't want to talk about this any more,' he declared, dropping her quill onto the table. 'Talk to me about something else.'

Some way away from the library – ten minutes walk; five if you knew a shortcut and didn't run into Peeves – the rest of the Gryffindors were making the most of their Friday night, and there wasn't a single homework essay, textbook or page of notes to be seen in the whole of the common room. One of the fourth-years had crept down to the kitchens and come back with an armful of Butterbeer; consequently, one corner of the room was getting rather giggly.

Ginny, being a fifth-year and not being particularly close to anyone in the year below (who she'd once described to Hermione as, 'a load of snobbish toads') was not in the Butterbeer-drinking group, but was still managing to indulge herself in quite frequent bouts of laughter. The reason for this was a book she'd borrowed from a friend in Hufflepuff, One Hundred And One Quick And Easy Hair Charms.

'Oooh, here's a good one!' she grinned, her eyes glowing with the same sheer, evil delight that Fred and George displayed when watching someone eat a Canary Cream. She waved her wand with an elegant flick of the wrist. 'Crispa!'

Ron's hair immediately sprang into tight curls, and he gave a yell of horror, clapping a hand to his head to try to see what she'd done. 'Ginny!'

Harry grinned in amusement. 'I think it suits you,' he teased. 'The curly-haired Weasley.'

'Curls? Ginny, how could you…' Ron moaned, trying desperately to tug his rebellious hair straight. 'Argh. Stop laughing, Harry, you only got hit with that blue eye-stuff, you got off lightly…'

'Eyeshadow? Yeah, I guess I did, it came straight off…'

'And ruined my fun,' Ginny complained with a mock pout. 'At least Dean didn't get off so easily…

Dean had been the unfortunate recipient of a semi-permanent lipstick charm, and was currently in the bathrooms trying to turn his lips from crimson back to their normal colour.

Ron, however, was drawing some definite giggles from the Butterbeer-drinking fourth-years, and looked rather horrified at the idea of curly hair. 'Please tell me this charm comes off…' he begged, looking desperate.

'Don't worry, I wouldn't do something permanent. Unless you really annoyed me,' she added with a cheeky grin.

'Will you undo it now?' he pleaded. 'Come on, you've had your fun, and people are starting to notice.'

'Well…' Ginny considered.

'Please?'

'Alright, alright. Naturalis Crinis.' She muttered, and Ron's hair, to his great relief, returned to normal. Ginny settled back in her chair. 'I'll just imagine Dean with his beautiful crimson lipstick,' she grinned.

Ron was still rather irritable. 'I think, as a Prefect, I should confiscate that book.' He threatened.

'And as a Prefect, I should confiscate it right back,' she said, sticking her tongue out at him and eliciting a snort from Harry. 'Besides, it's only a bit of harmless fun. Less harmful than Fred and George's stuff, and you never stopped them using any of those…'

'Well they never turned my hair curly,' Ron pointed out, still running a hand absently through his hair. 'You'd better not…'

They never found out what Ginny had better not do, because Dean chose that moment to throw himself into the seat beside Ginny, a distinctly disgruntled look on his face. His lips were still faintly crimson.

'I still can't get this bloody spell off,' he spat, glaring darkly at Ginny. 'Take it off. Now.'

She frowned at him. 'Don't be so prickly, it's only a bit of fun…'

'Take it off!'

He looked distinctly upset; Ginny sighed and muttered the counter spell. 'There. You're back to normal. Are you happy?'

'No.' He slouched down in the seat. 'I'm still mad at you for doing it in the first place…'

Sighing, she twisted round on the sofa, sitting cross-legged on the plush cushions with her back to the rest of the room so she could see him better. 'It was only a joke,' she said softly. 'Come on, don't tell me you can't see the funny side.'

She tried to touch his shoulder consolingly, but he shrugged her off, and she bit back an irritated remark and said, in the voice she used to get her brothers wrapped round her little finger, 'Dean! It's not like it was some huge thing you'll never be able to get rid of. It's gone now. If you were that mad about it, you could have asked me to take it off instead of running off like that…'

He remained stubbornly silent, not looking at her. Harry chimed in. 'She turned Ron's hair curly,' he offered, pointing out that Dean wasn't the only victim of Ginny's wand. 'It looked ridiculous.'

'And the fourth years were laughing at me,' Ron muttered.

When Dean still didn't speak, Ginny bravely refrained from giving an exasperated sigh, then leant in and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, which caused Ron to splutter.

'Ginny!' he protested, the tips of his ears going bright red. 'You… Dean… eurgh,' he shook his head violently as if trying to shake the image out through his ears.

Dean, meanwhile, seemed pleasantly surprised. 'What was that for?'

'Never heard the phrase, 'kiss it better'?' asked Ginny, a wide grin on her face. 'Do you forgive me now?'

'Alright, I suppose so,' Dean agreed with a long-suffering sigh, and Ginny, still beaming, swivelled round to sit properly again.

There could have been an awkward moment, but Ginny skilfully brought up a new topic of conversation. 'Do you know how many people have signed up for the DA yet, Harry?' she asked.

'Er… no, I'm not sure. There's lots from Gryffindor…'

'Hermione said about forty so far, and twenty more in the first three years.' Ron put in. There was a short silence.

'That many?' Dean asked, amazed. 'Wow. How are you going to teach us all?'

Harry shrugged. 'Same way I did last year, I guess. Sixty people…'

'More, probably, not everyone's signed up yet,' Ginny pointed out. 'Merlin. Two DA clubs, Quidditch practice, homework… it's going to be a busy year.'

'You'd better make sure you have time for me,' Dean told her with a mock-serious expression.

She pretended to think. 'Well, I can fit you in at one o'clock on Saturdays and nine o'clock Wednesday evenings…'

He poked her in the ribs, and she laughed, the good humour restored once again. The conversation continued well into the evening, until twilight turned to night and the fires burnt low.

Midnight held the Slytherin dormitories firmly in the grip of darkness: the waning moon shrouded in a cloak of ominous clouds, the stars stifled. Buried beneath heavy blankets, hidden away behind bed hangings as thick and ominous as the deepest shadow of Tartarus, Draco slept.

And within his unguarded, slumbering mind, he felt the light brush of feathers against the back of his skull. For an instant, a pair of grey eyes glanced towards him emotionlessly, and a hand as cold as glass seemed to close on his, to pull him forward…

Draco frowned and shifted in his sleep. In the morning, he would not remember.

A/N: Draco's future is definitely not looking very good, is it?

And now I shall go and write out plots I want to work on over summer and write some other things and revise Literature and all the other things I need to do.

Review, or I'll stab you with my trusty fondue fork. Blunt enough for you?