Without Question

By Tien Riu

tien_riu@yahoo.com

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters belong to J.K. Rowlings. Plot (what little there is of it ^_^) and depiction of characters are mine. WARNING: The future of this piece of fiction contains slash/yaoi/shonen ai/homosexual relationships.

AUTHOR'S NOTE (18/01/03): Firstly – Happy New Year! Secondly - Yes, this chapter was out previously. No this chapter isn't an exact copy of what was posted previously. After much writing, both AsheFarley and I agreed that Chapter Twenty required more work. So here we are again – with 20% more Harry/Draco. ~grins~

Note – the promised Draco/Harry cookie (sponsored and in thanks to Gryph and CalMnLA) follows the Author's Note at the end of the chapter.

Author's note and response to reviews after chapter.

Much thanks to AsheFarley who helped make this chapter far better than it originally was. Anything you like was at her instigation, everything else is my fault. ^_^

TR

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Chapter Twenty: October the First - Morning

He was dreaming again - he had come to recognise the symptoms.

Where is he?

He was flying.

The horizon ahead; the never-ending patch of green below.

He had almost forgotten what it was like to loose himself in the wind. Flying had once been an escape - a true talent, one that required no additional training.

Now flying was for excellence, for winning, for honour and glory. Flying was just another required step to playing Quidditch - another way to prove himself. Another way to fail in his father's eyes.

He wasn't sure when flying had ceased to be important for itself.

Two years ago - a voice whispered in the rush of the breeze. Two years ago when another portrait was added to the collection.

Two years ago when you saw the garden and its clear skies reproduced in blurred paint.

But here - where his thoughts were safe, hidden beneath layers upon layers - he could admit the truth. Quidditch was an excuse to fly; flying was for enjoyment.

A Malfoy does nothing without reason.

His father need never know.

Where is he?!

In the dream, no matter how far he flew, nothing changed - though all around, the world blurred.

The wind ripping at his body - but there was no fear.

A mere thought, and he was hurtling downwards, eyes closed. He trusted sense alone to dictate when to yank at the broomstick beneath him. In the waking world, he could never do this. The payment of failure was too high for even a Malfoy (Especially a Malfoy): pride, position, reputation. His father's wrath. My life. A Malfoy did not die by such ignoble means. His father had never stated as such - he had always taken it was obvious.

The wind was gentle as he opened his eyes - so close to the ground, he could have reached out and plucked a white-spangled flower from between the green blades.

He dropped -

- rolling -

- falling -

- and landed.

The grass was soft; he turned onto his back and breathed in the sweet-green smell of crushed grass and mint.

Above, stars glared in greater brilliance than the moon. When had it become night?

He lay there, glaring at the stars.

Merlin's balls on a tripod! Where is he?

He did not dream for flight and broomsticks - the real world provided both.

He dreamed for touch. For sensation. For sex!

It started, as it always did - with a touch. Gentle - sensation conducted by proximity.

He was well trained by now - even in his dreams he recognised the start, arched into it.

"You again." A hint of humour - that had started several days ago, he wondered what sick part of his mind had stolen aspects he had never witnessed in the waking world, "I'm beginning to wonder why you keep dreaming of me - Malfoy?"

He did not answer; speech jarred him awake. It was as if actual conversation was beyond the ability of his dreaming mind to believe.

It is impossible to believe. Potters and Malfoys are as likely to converse calmly as Weasleys rolling in gold. Except for that morning -

But there were more important things to remember then that humiliating incident.

He wanted - something more than memories. Malfoys do not want. They take.

He took.

Potter pulled back, outlined in the not-quite-darkness by glowing stars high overhead. A smile quirked his lips - it was one he was familiar with, had seen over the years, usually from the Slytherin table during meals.

"Eager." Potter whispered, "Who said you could touch me?"

The Boy Who Lived pushed him back down, one hand holding his wrists over his head. He lay there, surprised. Aroused.

"You can't touch me." A breath of air against his ear, black hair feathering his cheeks, "You know the rules." a glimmer of emerald green could be spied 'tween black lashes.

" - yes -" he hadn't meant to speak.

The world wavered as if a hand had passed through the liquid of his dreaming mind.

Draco woke up gasping in the peculiar grey light that marked predawn. The room was silent (it always was). The dying embers of last night's fire glowed in the fireplace. He hadn't drawn the curtains last night.

Bloody hell. He shouldn't have spoken. Should have shut his mouth and lay there pretending that he was thinking of the greater glory of England. That - he had found - was the best way to prolong the dreams for as long as possible.

Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. If Father knew what you were doing to the Malfoy name in your head - he shuddered. He had already received five letters full of admonitions tailored to make him cringe for the debacle with the pegasus herd.

Draco glanced down at his body, pale skin wrapped by the twisted blankets. I hate cold showers. He untwisted the blankets, threw them to the floor and lay there, staring up at the top of the bed, shivering slightly from the cold air. After a while, he closed his eyes and, slowly and carefully, slid his hand down. Where was I?

The Quidditch Pitch. And Potter. And grass--and mint.

He didn't think about what he was doing - didn't care to even consider whom it was he was thinking about.

Touch me. Please - touch me.

Later, there would be Quidditch practice and breakfast. Later there would be classes. Later, there would be the humiliation of meals taken in isolation. Later - the world would intrude. Till then, in the silence and solitude of his cell, Draco Malfoy allowed himself to pretend that 'later' did not exist.

*

Ron was in the Common Room playing chess against Hermione.

"Hah!" he exclaimed as he nudged his queen into position and grinned smugly, "Checkmate."

Hermione blinked, "Oh."

"I win." Ron grinned, "That means you lose."

Hermione nodded, "I guess it does." She said, "I'll have to pay the forfeit."

Ron nodded, "No studying for a month or -" he leaned back and waited, "The other."

Hermione paused, then smiled as she stood, "Well then it'll have to be - the other." She said as she leaned down to pick up the edge of her robe, "You know how I love studying." And shimmied her shoulders enough that it was evident the buttons holding the robe were undone.

There was a pale flash of white as one shoulder slid clear of black material - Hang on what's going on here?

And with that, Ron woke up. What? Where did Hermione go?

He felt his cheeks go bright red as he realised he had been dreaming. About Hermione - and - oh -

Please Merlin - don't let me talk in my sleep. He prayed; the other boys would never let him forget it, and Harry might even tell Hermione and then he would be dead. Or a frog. Charlie said muggle-borns always transfigure you into a frog when they're really annoyed.

The birds were making a racket outside the window - Ron drew the edge of the curtains around his bed aside and stared blearily at the clock on the wall. It declared that the current time was 'Dawn'. Merlin. Waking up at dawn - got to be something wrong with that.

Ron let the curtain fall back into place and fell back onto the pillow with an inaudible groan as another thought struck him. It was Tuesday and Professor McGonogall had promised a Transfiguration test first thing. I probably should have studied more last night - he thought glumly.

His marks had sunk since the start of semester - not enough to warrant howlers from his mother, but enough to make him miss Hermione's reminders about homework, and Harry's lacklustre (but far more constant than Ron's own attempts) study schedule. In previous years, with Hermione's prodding and Harry's determination to do work at least once a week, Ron had done fairly well. If Hermione's insistent warnings didn't spur him into action then just sitting around with Harry would ensure his homework was finished. Flobberworm pus - I wish Harry would stop flooing with the pixies and go back to being the Seeker. Then we could stop arguing.

Ron rolled over and punched his pillow. How can he not want to play Quidditch?

It was October the first - a full month after school had started, and although not much time had passed, Ron felt as if his best friend had changed completely. He doesn't want to fly or play Quidditch and he quit the team - just when I've got a chance to be on it. And we haven't planned any excursions out at night under the cloak or visited Hagrid's for tea once! What happened to him?

Ron scowled as he rolled over and glared at the curtains that shielded Harry's bed from his view. Nutters he's gone. Completely nutters.

He lay there and wondered how he had managed to sleep through the noise the birds were making every morning. Are they always this loud? Hermione probably knew. Hermione's probably already awake and studying or doing something for that extra class of hers.

Something smashed into the window with a muffled 'thump'. (You-Know-Who -!) Ron jerked upright, clawing for his wand.

"Sh't up alre'dy –" Dean Thomas demanded, his voice muffled and half asleep; the sentence ended in a loud snore.

It was a pillow. Ron's heart felt as if it was about to break through his chest and run down the aisle. He threw a pillow at the window. The birds stopped singing (for about four seconds, then started up again with increased fervour).

"Crap." The voice this time was Harry's; Ron turned - and wished he could see through the bed curtains, "I'm late."

There were several muffled sounds, as if Harry was pulling on clothes quickly and before Ron could decide whether or not he should speak out and tell Harry he was awake, the door of the dorm room opened and closed. Now where's he going?

Ron considered leaving his bed and following after his best friend - but he was warm, his heart had stopped pounding and his eyes were getting heavy again. Besides – Harry wasn't very talkative of late. He's gotten more secretive than a Slytherin lately. And Ron was still angry that Harry wasn't telling him (at least) why he had quit Quidditch.

Ron rolled over and glowered at the top of his bed – then sighed, feeling guilty for his anger. Some friend I'm being. Harry's got his reasons – he always does. And he'll probably tell me sooner or later. He rolled over again. I bet he's studying again. Harry had been doing that quite a bit lately (every time Ron had seen him in the past month the boy had been surrounded by books and parchment). I guess Hermione is contagious.

Ron grinned at the last thought and made a mental note to sneak in that joke at some point in the future. She'll probably hex me to kingdom come – but not before I get Colin Creevey to get a picture of the expression on her face. He slid back into sleep; the last thing he remembered thinking was: I wonder what Hermione was wearing under that robe -?

*

Harry stood in the shadow of the Gryffindor stand, watching the Slytherin team take to the air with muffled groans and grunts of displeasure. The Slytherin captain – some sixth year Harry vaguely recognised though had never spoken to – seemed to have stolen Oliver Wood's (the recently graduated Gryffindor Quidditch Captain) practise schedules if not ethics.

With grumbles that drifted on the still morning air, the Slytherin team began to execute warm up loops in the air. The flash of silver he noticed, Harry assured himself, came from the uniforms catching the light and not a preternatural awareness of - Something else.

Harry turned away, staring fixedly to the lake - the direction Hedwig would fly from. Nothing else matters but this. He told himself firmly. Remember that. Flying doesn't matter. Quidditch doesn't matter. Malfoy - doesn't even rate a mention on this list. There are more important things to think about.

The words were becoming a mantra.

A month had passed - and his search for a way to save his friends was no closer to success than it had been since he had begun. What happens if Sirius and Professor Lupin can't help me? What happens then?

Yet, Harry couldn't stop himself from watching the swoops and arches being formed. I wish Hedwig would hurry up.

When he had told Sirius and Professor Lupin to tell Hedwig to deliver their letters at this hour, he had assumed the pitch would be empty. And it was – usually. But the Slytherins were determined to get an early start – they had given Professor Hootch the details on their new team almost two weeks ago. The other houses – Gryffindor included – had yet to finish the selection process (Ron certainly had spent the past week on tenterhooks).

The breeze, light and cold, seemed too weak when memory insisted on replaying the sensation of ice and frost and a shrill wind that bit into every portion of exposed flesh as he flew – It doesn't matter.

It just – it just doesn't. He told himself. It just doesn't.

Harry dragged his gaze away; turning to stare out towards the great lake; a lazy tentacle broke the surface – he supposed the giant squid was doing morning stretches.

I wish Hedwig would hurry up.

*

Draco Malfoy frowned as he caught sight of a familiar profile half hidden by the bulk of the Gryffindor stands (Since when has Potter become familiar?). He shifted uncomfortably on the broom as remembered morning activities bubbled up from his subconscious. What's he doing here anyway? A tiny part of him wondered if perhaps Potter had figured out what Draco was doing to him in his dreams. Crazy – there's no way even famous Potty can sneak into somebody else's dreams. . . Right?

"Malfoy!" Anthony Vert – the Slytherin Captain – looped over Draco, quaffle in arm, "Care to join in the skirmishes?" he asked with mock politeness.

The Keeper - a fourth year Draco didn't know (or care to know) guffawed as he flew past overhead: "Leave off Vert - he's probably too busy ogling Potter down there -!"

Draco blinked, turned to yell at the Keeper for his audacity and ducked in time to avoid a bludger, "Go wake Goyle up!" He snarled at Vert, "Maybe if he was doing his job, I could do mine!"

Vert rolled his eyes; Draco glared, meeting his captain's gaze firmly. Eventually the older boy gained a stony expression and looped away to yell at the other two Chasers. Hah. Even in reduced social circumstances, he was still a Malfoy (A Malfoy is the cause of fear.). Draco smirked and turned his attention back to the figure standing in the lee of the Gryffindor stands.

He's probably just spying on me - Draco stopped, reconsidered his thought. Spying on us. He corrected. Yes - probably spying on us. I bet those rumours about him quitting as Gryffindor Seeker was so he could steal our training methods without being accused. Feeling smug, Draco shifted on his broom with the intent on dropping straight down at Potter (maybe making him scream like Longbottom – which would make excellent fodder for taunts) and nearly fell off his broom as a fluffy white speeding ball bludgeoned him upside the head.

"Slytherin's snake -!" He swore, "Goyle the point of being the sodding Beater is to hit the blasted things away from the team – not at them you idiot!"

Goyle, half way down the pitch, turned and looked confused. What a moron. Draco thought in exasperation, Can't even keep track of where two -

Hang on - that wasn't a bludger.

A few seconds of consideration later, he found it again.

'It' was a white owl - fluttering in the air several feet away, amber eyes searching the ground.

Isn't that Potter's familiar? Draco grimaced; Of course - what other owl would dare hit a wizard? It's always Potter. Below, the boy standing by the stands lifted an arm and glanced up at the owl; Draco was high enough that all he caught sight of was a flash of green amidst black. Bet you ordered it to hit me. He glared at the Gryffindor. After all - normal rules of etiquette don't apply to you, do they?

The owl circled, white wings catching the first rays of the sun as it rose over the great lake. Sodding Potter. Bet you think you can just go around like that for the rest of your freakishly charmed life don't you? Survive the killing curse. Get Dumbledore to make sure you always win the House Cup. Break all the school rules. Go traipsing through the Forbidden Forest as if it were your backyard. Be a twat and still get all the attention. Disrupt the Dark Lord's plans. Invade my dreams -

When isn't it going to be you Potter?

Draco's grip on his broom tightened till his fingers showed white against the wood. The bird landed with a flurry of feathers, nibbling at its master's ear cheerfully as it extended its foot.

I'll bet that owl isn't impervious to fire. The thought made him smirk. I'd just bet it isn't. . .

Draco floated closer. Burn. He thought. Burn. The pegasus colt had lost its feathers in seconds and that had been accidental – surely intent would speed the flames. Burn. Burn!

Potter deftly removed the parchment bound to his familiar's leg as he murmured something into its ear. (Come on you stupid bird. Burn already!) From above, Draco could make out a flash of white as the other boy smiled.

Smoke flickered on the wings. (Yes -!) Rising in a thin stream upwards into the air. The owl shrieked, shifting from foot to foot restlessly, wings flapping helplessly. (Burn – what makes you so special - burn - burn - burn - burn -!)

Potter – almost negligently – stroked the owl in a calming motion without once glancing up.

The smoke drifted on the light wind and dissipated; the owl chirped as it nuzzled Potter's face.

Draco stared. How did he -?

Potter suddenly stiffened – as if in shock – parchment tightly clenched in his hand. Hah! Finally noticed did you? Draco smirked as he waited for his enemy to notice the source of his problem. (Come on you stupid bird – burn!) Maybe if he concentrated a little bit more -

But Potter threw the bird up into the air and ran off instead, heading back towards the castle – and all without once looking up.

Draco felt his cheeks heat with embarrassed anger. Ignore me will you – and glared after the departing figure. Come on – just a small flash fire. A little bit of heat. A hot foot -

And was nearly unseated as a bludger smacked into the tail of his broom, "Goyle - you blasted flobberworm pus-born son of a Weasley -" Draco yelped as he searched for the new Slytherin Beater - but by then, it was too late.

*

"Sir?"

Severus Snape, head of Slytherin House, stopped one step into the Great Hall and glared down at Anthony Vert - the sixth year Slytherin who had interrupted him on his way to breakfast.

Anthony Vert was less than pleased that it was he and not some other (luckless idiot) informing Professor Snape on recent events. Given Professor Snape's known favouritism for his own House, Anthony's reaction might have seemed extreme. However, the 'Incident' had proven (not to mention underlined, emphasised and kicked in the head of anybody who disagreed) Severus Snape had neither the time, inclination or patience to deal with student created problems - and any students who called said 'problems' to his attention would be dealt with harshly. Regardless of House (though Slytherin had escaped without deducted marks since the 'Incident').

Given the current socio-political climate beyond Hogwarts' ward-protected grounds, the general topic of choice amongst the senior classes in Slytherin was the precise nature of the Dark Lord's task for their Head-of-House to cause such pain to all involved.

"Well?" Severus snapped impatiently, "Either speak, Mr Vert or sit and cease blocking the entrance." Anthony couldn't help it - he flinched.

If anything, that seemed to spur the murderous expression in his Head-of-House's eyes. Anthony averted his gaze as only a madman (or a Gryffindor) would have met the Professor's eyes at that point,

"Sir. It's about – Malfoy." There was a silence that had Anthony wondering if he should abandon Slytherin pride and adopt the sense of his aunt (Lillian Vert, Ravenclaw, class of 1965) and scurry before he ended up as potions ingredients, "Three of my team are in the Infirmary with severe burns."

Severus clenched his jaw - Anthony nearly cowered (but stopped himself - after all he wasn't a Hufflepuff).

"Return to your meal, Vert." the older wizard finally growled as he turned and stalked towards the dungeons, robes whirling around him.

"Sir?" Anthony called hesitantly, "What shall I tell the rest of my team?"

Severus paused but did not turn: "The position of Slytherin Seeker is empty."

I wonder if the rumours are true. Anthony thought as he made his way into the Great Hall. Did the Dark Lord actually gift Malfoy with the power of wandless fire? The possibility seemed - Absurd.

Admittedly, any wandless talent is a sign of great power - but to gift an uncontrollable ability? Why not set fire to the Ministry - or better yet, the Minister of Magic? It would certainly be less dangerous - not to mention advance the cause. As it stood, had his father not forewarned Anthony, he would have blamed the spate of fire-related problems inflicted on the Slytherins this year on yet another of the Weasley twins' practical jokes.

Perhaps Aunt Lillian was less insane than I thought when she questioned the Dark Lord's abilities. (Actually, what Lillian Vert had said was: "At his height, the Dark Lord was defeated by a baby. Power aside, it does not reflect well on his intelligence."). At the time, Anthony had agreed with his father that Aunt Lillian spent far too many hours breathing in book-dust. Given current circumstances (Five firebolts -!), Anthony was beginning to see the situation in a different light.

And Quidditch matches haven't even started yet. Anthony thought. There was a reason why Marcus Flint laughed when he told me I was his successor. Morosely, he took his seat.

*

A goblet cantered past (Lee Jordan) chased by several slices of toast (Fred Weasley) and a scroll (Seamus Finnigan's mispronounced charm). Hermione ignored the squeals from the first and second years, impatiently tapping the table with her fingers as she watched the owls swoop through the Great Hall.

"Expecting something, Hermi -" Ron paused to swallow and take another bite of egg and toast, " - 'e?" (Not for the first time Hermione cursed her parents for giving her a four syllable name - if only because of the many ways it could be mangled)

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Ron." Hermione said distractedly, still watching the ceiling, "And yes – I'm expecting a package from my parents today."

"Wh't?" Ron asked - swallowing mid-word.

More to avoid answering his question (Ron was slow, but he wasn't stupid) than out of real interest, Hermione turned from her perusal of the ceiling, "Nothing that important - where's Harry?"

Harry had been missing meals lately - Hermione knew for a fact (she had asked Dobby) that he was sneaking food from the kitchens. He usually attended breakfast however - if only because the second and third years (and by default, the first years) tended to panic and assume that You-Know-Who had attacked (again) if the Boy Who Lived missed every meal that day.

"Don't know." Ron said, "Don't care neither."

"Either." Hermione corrected absentmindedly; Lee Jordan shouted in alarm as a slice of toast (Fred again) and a sausage (don't ask) leaped for his throat.

On the other side of Ron, Neville mentioned that Harry had been spotted on the Quidditch field earlier that morning just before the Slytherin team had come off practise. Ron turned eagerly – all traces of earlier disgruntlement gone. Hermione tuned him out after the first: "Do you think he's going to ask to get back onto the team then?"

As far as Hermione had been able to discern, Ron and Harry were arguing over Harry resigning as the Gryffindor Seeker. For the past three weeks, Ron had vacillated between not speaking to Harry and convincing him to take up the position again. (This being Ron, 'convincing' generally consisted of: "You can't not be the Seeker Harry! Nobody's better than you! And what happens if we loose to that ferret? We'll never hear the end of it - you have to play Harry!")

She had stopped trying to understand - or mediate - after the second week. Boys -! (Which really did say it all)

Four owls - each holding one corner of a large box - swooped low at that point to drop their burden onto the table in front of Hermione. It landed with a thump that nearly dislodged a jug of milk into Dean Thomas' lap. ("What is it with you loons? Can't I eat one meal without something being spilled on me? Did all of you learn your manners in a pigsty -" at which point he fell back asleep - judiciously aided by Seamus Finnigan's sleep charm and Neville Longbottom's elbow)

"'Cor Hermione – what your parents send you? The kitchen sink?" Ron muttered as he stared at the large box.

Hermione blinked, "It's only supposed to be a book." She said in shock as she picked up a butter knife and started cutting through the tape and string holding the box together.

"Hey – look! It's the ferret's owl." Ron exclaimed; Hermione glanced up just in time to catch sight of a large black-feathered owl flying out of the Great Hall, package dangling from its claws, "Another package of sweets from 'Mummy-dearest' I bet." He glared and added in a disgruntled mutter: "The prat can't even come down to breakfast like the rest of us to pick up his sweets – has to have them delivered to his bed."

Hermione rolled her eyes, "Really Ron – Malfoy hasn't spoken to us in over three weeks. Isn't the level of vitriol a bit much?" she said in exasperation as she ripped through the last of the tape and flipped open the cover.

And blinked in shock.

There were packets of dried fruits.

There were sugarless sweets.

There were dental hygiene products.

There were clothes. (Hermione's mother had never gotten used to the fact that students generally could only wear underwear beneath robes - although there were rumours about some of the Slytherins)

And (finally) half buried beneath packets of muesli was 'The Big Book of Old Fairy Tales'. Complete with (to her embarrassment) Bumpkin the Bear. (Honestly - does she think I'm still five?)

"Blimey." Ron muttered over her shoulder, "Would you look at that –" he paused, when bright red and looked away abruptly.

Hermione – on catching sight of what he had seen – slammed the lid of the box shut. There were probably worse fates than having one of your best friends see the new bra-and-panty sets your mother had sent you – however, at this point, Hermione could not think of one. Not even Bumpkin the Bear was as mortifying.

Meanwhile, Ron was trying to stifle the voice in his head saying: So that's what she's wearing under her robes. Wonder if they all have that little rose embroidery thing on the edges.

*

Once, when Draco had been much younger he had asked his father what would occur if he failed to fulfil the requirements of being a Malfoy. It had been a foolish question in a time when he had not learned better.

Draco still remembered the dismissal in his father's face as he had replied in a still, quiet voice: "There is no such thing as failure. A Malfoy does not fail. And if one does, then one is not a Malfoy."

And Draco had been returned to the portrait rooms. A Malfoy does not fail.

He was alone – the other students were at breakfast and Professor Snape had left.

The silence seemed to have a weight – surrounding him till it felt as if he was muffled. (Wrapped – absorbed – suffocated -)

It was only his imagination that filled the emptiness with sound; only his mind that made his ears ring with remembered voices.

"You cannot do this -!"

The Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook lay on the floor – pages ruffled and bent where it had landed. He had thrown it at the wall – at Professor Snape. In anger. It had been a symbol – a sign that he was angry. A socially accepted opening for the Professor to return – to take back everything that had been said.

Except – he doubted that Professor Snape had noticed. The door had already been shut. A Malfoy does not fear others.

"You will find, Mr Malfoy, that I can do anything I wish. Especially when it concerns your safety and that of your House-mates." Professor Snape said, voice soft, "More so when your reckless behaviour places the task the Dark Lord has given you at risk."

There was a mirror on the wall - the Defence textbook had nearly dislodged it.

He stared, automatically reaching to smooth down his clothes – to correct any signs of untidiness. (A Malfoy is perfect.)

"My Father -" and he had stopped - because he had known (Known!) that his father, like the Professor, would remind him that the Dark Lord's desires were far more important than any careless, childish whim.

He had lost the ability to fly.

Banned from flying lessons, removed from the team and warned to avoid matches. The – curse was too powerful. Or his control too weak. (A Malfoy is perfect.)

The pages of the Defence text fluttered uneasily; he realised he had been staring for far too long. He turned away, stared at the floor – and felt his hands clench into fists almost without conscious thought. This – this is – I hate this.

Hate for circumstance was not allowed. Hate was not – perfect. Malfoys dislike. Malfoys destroy. Malfoys earn hatred but they never hate.

He hated. Father must never know.

"What happens next – what happens if I can't – stop?" he had not meant the words to be so plaintive.

Professor Snape had drawn himself up, the unreachable scion of Snape Draco remembered from a childhood spent fighting to remain awake at dinner parties and formal occasions.

"You would do well to avoid such an eventuality, Mr Malfoy. The – end results would not be. . . to your liking. Or mine."

In the mirror, he saw his hands reach for the collar resting in the hollow of his collarbone. It was hidden beneath the thin silk of his robes.

In the mirror, he felt them tighten on the silver metal.

In the mirror, he watched the material crumple.

"What – what does that mean, Professor Snape?"

"It means, Mr Malfoy, that even I cannot stop Professor Dumbledore removing you from Hogwarts should he believe your continual attendance would endanger the lives of his precious Gryffindors." And Professor Snape had sneered – but the familiar taunt had been a warning.

The sound of fabric ripping made him stop.

In the mirror, a strip of material had been torn away.

In his hands, he could see the ruins of his robes.

For several minutes all that was heard in the room was Draco's harsh breathing.

Control - it had been his first lesson. He unclenched his teeth, forced his hands to his side.

A Malfoy was perfect.

"Bis peccare in bello non licet, Draco." Professor Snape had said finally, "Do not make the same mistake twice." And he had paused again and then he had shaken his head, "For the sake of yourself if not your family."

The silk lay – a puddle of black – on the bare stone floor.

So.

I will not fail my first mission. A Malfoy is perfect – ergo, a Malfoy does not fail.

I won't return to the Manor.

I won't go back into the portraits.

The dark wood of his wand was smooth under his grasp. In the mirror, his face was pale – it was always pale. (A Malfoy is perfect.)

"Reparo." He murmured; the material floated up and sealed itself back, wrinkles smoothing away.

I will not fail. I am a Malfoy – and a Malfoy does not fail. A Malfoy is perfect.

Very carefully, he picked up his bag. There were classes.

Okay.

He would find a solution. A Malfoy was perfect – he would be perfect.

Okay.

*

"Harry Potter!" Irma Pince snapped, "Breakfast should be eaten in the Great Hall and not -" she stopped as she realised that the fifth year Gryffindor was not, as she had believed, eating a hasty breakfast behind the leather-bound tomes stacked on the table while he finished a last-minute essay.

"I - had some extra research for charms, Madam Pince." Harry said; his green eyes did not quite meet hers.

Madam Pince peered down at the boy, eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Very well. Just remember to be quiet - and be careful with the books." She cast her gaze at the books stacked around the wizard, "They're very fragile." With that, the librarian stalked away - all the while wondering why Filius Flitwick would assign an assignment on ancient protection charms to his fifth year class.

Harry rubbed his eyes and stared at the opened book before him - the words swam in and out of focus. Concentrate.

This matters.

Professor Lupin's suggestion had narrowed the search down to three books. He had managed to discard the first two based on the impossibility of meeting any of the criteria required for actual casting. The third and last book was the oldest and was a seemingly random collection of charms and ceremonies. It was also the closest Harry had come to a solution in over a month of searching. This matters. He stared at the worn, faded writing before him, forcing himself to concentrate.

It took him several minutes to realise the text was not so much incomprehensible as in a different language. He sighed. Latin, Greek or French? At least it wasn't pictograms (Egyptian hieroglyphics), or worse: swirls (where the possibilities ranged from one of the Asian languages to Oggham or really good stick figures - which, as far as he could tell, was some Ravenclaw's idea of a joke).

" - bien-être amité -" Harry muttered, "Looks French."

He was getting better at researching without Hermione - the dictionaries were already stacked and waiting by his elbow.

*

It was half past eight; Severus bypassed the corridor leading to the Great Hall, all interest in breakfast lost. The potions master swept through the corridors of Hogwarts, ignoring the frightened expressions on the students who caught sight of him (on any other day it might have amused him).

Severus wasn't sure whom he wished to curse more: the Dark Lord Voldemort - or Albus Dumbledore. It would be so much simpler if we could truly be evil bastards without an ounce of common sense. Much easier if we could sweep through the shadows and be human boggarts.

Draco Malfoy was very much Lucius Malfoy's son. It was something any sentient fool who had met both father and son could not miss. Had the resemblance been any clearer, and taken metaphorical form, it would have been the equivalent of a club with a nail in it.

Severus had never realised how that resemblance made it easier to forget that Draco Malfoy was merely fifteen years old: a child aping adults in his fervent recital of views and thoughts. (Too easy.)

The mask the boy wore (as all Malfoy children did) had slipped – briefly – that morning.

It had been a long time since something other than anger, disdain and pride had slipped through the mask Draco – like all Malfoy children – wore. Long enough that he wondered if it was Lucius he recalled rather than the son.

He had been shocked at the desperation that had briefly been evident before it was rapidly absorbed once more. The control Draco had used reminded him of Lucius Malfoy and all the Malfoy family. The intensity hiding behind the mask – that had not been from the Malfoy family. Severus had been forcefully reminded of an eleven year old Narcissa Du'Lér on the day she had been informed by the Ministry that her father was dead.

Failure had been not palatable – but at least acceptable - when he could stare at (identical) grey eyes and see a fifteen year old Lucius Malfoy brought forward in time.

He had regretted – as all purebloods might – the inevitable loss of the last Malfoy scion to the Dark Lord. After all, Draco was Lucius Malfoy's heir – already bound by his father's idiocy to the wrong side of the war. Failure had been inevitable – and he had already attempted to ease conscience with the reminder of how many other lives he would save amongst the boy's peers.

They should have made 'avito viret honore' Slytherin's motto. Severus lips twisted. And perhaps one day it will no longer mean death, destruction and inherited insanity. Perhaps one day, it might even be something that we can be proud of – or have learned enough to be ashamed.

And wasn't that the very root of a problem Albus could never understand? He envied Gryffindors their clear cut choices between absolutes. How, after all, did one explain that the good of the family - the future of the name - was not necessarily a good indicator of what step to take next? How did one explain that everything taught since birth might be wrong? How did one even begin to teach the relativity of 'light' and 'dark' - and the need to define those terms through experience?

How does one explain to Gryffindors that there is even a need?

Severus stared at the pile of unmarked scrolls sitting on his desk waiting for his attention. He could barely remember reaching his chambers or releasing the wards and locks. A cup of steaming tea waited beside his quill – the house elves knew his habits well.

The liquid scalded the roof of his mouth.

Give the child – born in servitude, bound in chains of unbreakable steel forged to diamond strength – a 'choice' and when he selects father, blood and family above the unknown – let him freeze with the dementors.

It was the only method Gryffindors knew.

It was almost amusing to realise that after all these years, he still expected life to provide some semblance of fairness. Fairness is a concept Ravenclaws create, Hufflepuffs believe in and Gryffindors uphold. Fairness has never been for Slytherins.

*

Blaise Zabini had left early for breakfast. Not because he was hungry (though he had been awake since dawn) but for some time to think. It was a habit of old; he had always found he thought clearest in the early hours of the morning. This time however, even the chill of predawn had not been enough to clear his mind. And now Blaise was late and no closer to an answer.

What do I do?

The Zabinis were old blood – not as pure as the Malfoys and the Parkinsons, but pure enough to almost be considered equals. Almost – but not quite. Never – quite.

There had been no question which House he would be sorted into. Zabinis had been Slytherins since Piero Zabini back in 1327. Well – mostly Slytherins. There had been a few Ravenclaws – and one Hufflepuff (much to the embarrassment of all involved) – way back up the family tree. Black sheep the lot of them – unfortunately, that was not the only dark secret the family kept.

What do I do?

He wished he was closer to Gregory Goyle. Then at least, he might have had somebody to talk to. But the Goyles were as pure and old magic as the Malfoys – reasons for why Blaise had kept distance from Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe and Draco Malfoy back in first year. It was all right to ally oneself with power after all, but to be friends with power – when one was a Zabini – that was something else entirely. There were reasons why his father was almost thirty years older than his mother – and had never been part of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle.

The Dark Lord's risen – damn Potter and his meddling anyway. The Dark Lord's awake – and the war is coming and – and –

It was foolish, Blaise knew, to base the entirety of his future on the simple desire to get laid (and perhaps even have children) one day. It's not as if I've been thinking about continuing the family name. I'm fifteen! But – I always thought – maybe one day. . .

I don't want to be like Father. I don't want to wait thirty years before I can have sex! And I hate potions and research – which means I'll probably end up working with Crabbe and Goyle. What happens if the Aurors catch me? I'm the last of the Zabinis. . .

Blaise made his way slowly through the empty corridors; most of the other students were already at breakfast. The Dark Lord fell once – and once defeated is as good as twice defeated.

But – Father says he is very powerful. . .

His father had followed in Lucius Malfoy's footsteps during the summer – and though Michael Zabini was not part of the inner circle he was fairly well placed. The Dark Lord had been forgiving despite the fact that the Zabini head of family (And isn't that the problem? Hah.) had disobeyed him. After all, Michael Zabini had produced only one child – a wizard – and the family was extremely wealthy.

There is safety in the shadows – isn't that what Mother has always said? And this isn't like Great-Grandfather and Great-Aunt Athena. There isn't anybody who has to die to make sure the family survives. What use is power after all if I die fighting for the wrong side? Besides – what if Potter doesn't get to work and defeat the Dark Lord again?

Blaise had plans. He was going to join the Ministry and with his father pulling strings he would be guaranteed a position in the Department of Trade and Foreign Policy – definitely a good place to be if one wanted to become an ambassador. I was going to have as much power as Draco Malfoy. Have children who would be proud to be Zabini. Get a place in the history books –

But the Dark Lord was alive – and now, all he could hope for was survival. Damn you to the seven circles of hell, Potter – why did you have to meddle?

"Ah, Mr Zabini – running a little late this morning?"

Blaise jerked and realised he was standing stock still in the middle of the corridor – and in front of the Headmaster no less. The boy blanched.

"Ah –" and found himself speechless; in four years at Hogwarts, Blaise had managed to avoid attracting the complete attention of Professor Dumbledore. Oh buggery.

"I can sympathise." Professor Dumbledore said with a smile, "Although I have found that a lemon drop often aids in energising my mental prowess after a disturbed night." The older wizard pulled out a small velvet bag and proffered its contents to the stunned student, "Lemon drop?"

Blaise took one – it was impolite (and potentially dangerous) to refuse the offerings of powerful wizards, "Thank you sir."

Professor Dumbledore smiled, then tilted his head to one side, staring at Blaise thoughtfully, "Is there – something you wish to discuss with me, Mr Zabini?"

Can he read minds? Blaise stared, swallowed and shook his head, "N-no sir. Nothing at all." He said, and added hastily: "Sir."

"Ah." Professor Dumbledore smiled again, "Well, if you do – feel free to visit me. The password is 'ice mice'." He added in a conspiratorial whisper before walking away – leaving a faint scent of sweet-lemon trailing in the corridor behind him.

Blaise stared after the Headmaster. They say even the Dark Lord was afraid of Albus Dumbledore.

*

"Severus."

It would seem that Monday would remain - as per tradition - a day of unpleasant interruptions for one Severus Snape. The Potions professor glanced at the fireplace in his study - flames now gaily burning a brilliant green that clashed with the red and yellow hat perched on the head bobbing within it.

"What is it, Albus?" Severus snapped.

Albus Dumbledore's head serenely ignored the Potions master's habitual bad mood, "How did your conversation with young Draco Malfoy go?"

Severus had ceased being surprised at how quickly the headmaster caught up with gossip.

"As well as possible."

The head nodded thoughtfully, "That badly then?" eyes twinkled beneath gold-rimmed glasses, "I have always found lemon drops very conducive to good humour."

"Albus. Was there a point to this - dialogue?" Severus bit out.

The head shook sagely, "Always cutting to the point, Severus. Truly - the social graces lends much more to civilisation than you would believe. Any fool after all, can lead an army that conquers the world -"

"But only an enlightened fool would think to do so politely." Severus finished impatiently, "I have read Ravenclaw's memoirs." He said with as much patience as he could dredged up, "Albus - the point."

The head smiled, "In which case, please visit my office before lunch – the item you requested for your research has come into my possession."

Severus stilled, hands flat on the table. Finally. Stiffly, he nodded, "I'll be there shortly."

The head nodded sagely and vanished with a pop. Several seconds later, the flames ceased to burn green.

In the silence of his chambers, Severus stared at the flames.

It was October the first.

*

Breakfast was almost over, with the first class of the day (Divinations) due to begin in five minutes, before Harry realised he was running late. He cursed mentally as he stared down at the text he had been slowly translating. It seemed on the edge of divulging something of use. For several moments, he was tempted to skip Divinations and remain in the library - before common sense (and that his absence would spark rumours of his 'prophesied death') returned.

"Can I take out these books, Madam Pince?" Harry asked quietly.

Madam Pince looked up from where she had been reading through several scrolls and glanced at the books, "Two weeks. Be careful. If they come back damaged, you will have detention for a month." She snapped as she pulled out her wand and tapped both books once, murmuring a spell under her breath.

Harry stared across the library - several of the older Ravenclaws were already perusing through the stacks - and caught sight of a flash of silver-blond. What's Malfoy doing in the library?

Harry had known (and hated) Draco Malfoy for four years; that morning, three weeks ago, he had finally managed to delegate the Slytherin to an annoyance - one easily ignored. Then the 'incident' (a word much overused at Hogwarts of late) had occurred.

He kissed me. And although Harry did not have much in the way to compare the kiss with, he was fairly sure it had been a good one. Or something like that. . .

Frankly, Harry hadn't thought of the kiss overly much. Between avoiding Fred and George (Quidditch), Hermione (O.W.L.s revision) and Ron (Quidditch - and complaining about having to avoid Hufflepuff girls with pictures for some odd reason), Draco Malfoy was fairly low on his list of priorities. Frankly, I don't want to think about it. He wasn't even sure if it was 'right' for boys to kiss other boys. Flitwick didn't cover this last year - at least I'm fairly sure he didn't. Then again, after the bit about the 'contraceptive flobberworms' we were all laughing too hard to pay attention.

He had fallen back on the failsafe method of avoidance. Given that the Gryffindors and Slytherins shared almost every class together (including, for some strange reason, both Defence against the Dark Arts and Divinations - both single-House classes in lower years), physically avoiding Draco Malfoy was impossible (except in Divinations - which the Slytherin did not take - and Arithmancy - which, despite two years of Hermione's pleading, Harry still refused to attempt). But since Malfoy seemed to have adopted the same approach, Harry had happily sat on the opposite end of any classroom he had to share with the Slytherin, and together, they avoided any actual direct interaction.

Besides, there had been more important things to keep him occupied then Malfoy - Like making sure Ron and Hermione stay safe. Compared to that, nothing else mattered; Harry had almost forgotten about the - kiss.

Yes. You just keep saying that, maybe it'll come true. A voice (that sounded remarkably like Ron at his worse) muttered in the back of his head. Harry shifted uncomfortably. Leave it to Malfoy to make everything hard just by being around. He thought, then flushed and ducked his head as he heard his own thoughts.

"Mr Potter." Madam Pince repeated; Harry looked up, "Your books." She said, "And remember - two weeks."
Harry nodded, gathered the books and left hastily, suddenly eager to get to Divinations.

Draco Malfoy watched Harry Potter leave the library in silence.

Potter. It was always Potter.

*

Severus Snape stalked through the corridors of Hogwarts, robes flaring behind him as he made his way to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle standing guard stared back at him impassively – and Severus knew that assigning smugness to the blank, stone stare was anthropomorphology at its worse. Dealing with Gryffindors always brought out his more illogical tendencies.

It would have been better if Slytherins truly had no honour. Severus thought grimly, 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori'. . . And now - for a trait we are reviled for being without, we die, generation by generation. And all for loyalty to a vision twisted and warped.

The bitterness might have stolen his voice had he any remaining after so many years. Draco Malfoy is going to die. And there is nothing I can do to halt the inevitable.

Yet, he was reminded as he stood before the gargoyle that Lucius Malfoy had never shown as much passion in his life as Draco did for flying. It had been Narcissa Du'Lér who had the intensity that brought out true genius rather than mere intelligence.

Is that enough?

The potions master was not sure – perhaps that was all that could be asked.

The grandfather clock that stood at the end of the corridor chimed the luncheon hour.

The password to enter the Headmaster's office was 'ice mice'.

=====================================================================

Author's Note (18/01/03): If you found it irritating to read Chapter Twenty all over again just to get the extra parts – imagine how AsheFarley felt when I dumped her with 61 pages (Chapters twenty, twenty-one and twenty-two respectively). In any case, I still stand by what I said in the last author's note (below) – Chapter Twenty, without doubt, was the hardest chapter to write thus far. Why? Well – read Chapter Twenty-One and Chapter Twenty-Two when they appear, and you'll understand why.

Once more: thanks to AsheFarley (wonderful, wonderful beta) who worked tirelessly (and through Christmas no less 0_0) to beta. So if you enjoyed the Draco dream scene, the Harry moments and almost all of the Severus Snape thoughts - then you should thank her. They're there because she noted that beta copy #1 was slightly less than what it could be. (And then worked with me to make sure beta copy #8, #9 and #10 produced this)^_^

Note – as always: anybody who can translate the French and Latin in this chapter will receive an early post of Chapter Twenty-One. But – that's for later. By the way – I've noticed that some people hate having a response to reviews. So – as the response to reviews are meant for the readers, do you want me to continue including a response at the end of each chapter?

In any case, response to reviews:

Artanis, bthatcher2002, Caty, Deso, northen_star_light, Newbie, LanaMariah, Lizza, Lostgirl, JaneyLane: thanks for the review. Much appreciated. ^_^

Terra - Harry actually didn't know what 'plural' meant. Do remember that there aren't any English classes at Hogwarts - and it has been five years since he was in primary school.

Then again - maybe he just wanted to exasperate Hermione. ^_^

CalMnLa and Gryph – as promised, the Draco/Harry cookie. It follows the author's notes. Hope you enjoy it. ^_^

For those who are interested: rainshadow effect is "where precipitation amounts drop significantly on the leeward side of a mountain" (CalMnLa) and Gryph created an interesting metaphor, matching the definition to events in Chapter Twenty – especially in regards to Draco and his situation.

Congratulations to blue, kbk and mjwhittker for getting the Latin and French correct - in fact, as per normal (-_-;) blue's response made me realise I had gotten the French wrong. So much for four years learning the language. -_-; mjwittker - apologies for not sending you an early version of the chapter – I couldn't find your email.

"dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" is (as kbk noticed) a direct quote from 'Dulce et Decorum Est', a poem by Wilfred Owen, a poet during WWI. The line was a maxim indoctrinated into English schoolboys during that period and the generic translation stands as: "it is good and proper to die for one's country". Owen used the line in the following manner: "The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est/ Pro patria mori". If anybody wants to read the poem, it can be found here:

http://www.skyehawke.com/owen.html

Don't mind the counter – I'm just sort of curious to see how many people actually read "Without Question".

Kate - (as I recall from the previous version of Chapter Twenty) Snape was refering to Slytherin as the homeland of all Slytherins and he was responding to the quotation not actually translating it. ^_^

Sammy: ~grins~ That's the exact sensation I was going for. The war is out there, but the children are strangely disconnected to it - they can see the shadow, they can hear of it or even hear it, but the "rain" (so to speak) has not started yet. However, Chapter Twenty is the turn point of everything so expect a gradual darkening and more plot-intensive scenes in the future.

Gryph: at the moment, Harry isn't so much in denial as feeling that there are more important things than his rivalry with Draco.

Mistkasumi: Thanks for the review and I look forward to finding out you managed to be the first to review it (again -_-;). ^_^

MiniMe: ~laughter~ Discworld meets Hogwarts round 1. Meanwhile - with the amount of potential melodrama floating around in the story, if the characters didn't have a sense of the absurd (or at least were occasionally absurd) we'd either all be in tears constantly reading (and writing) the story or everybody would loose interest. After all, melodrama isn't THAT interesting is it? ^-^

Meanwhile - maybe you should write a Discword/Harry Potter crossover. ~grins~ The little exerpt in the reviews is fantastic.

bluevanilla: What is the UofA? I go to a university in Australia if that's what you meant and - well... Basically, an honours student walked into class with several semi-automatics and opened fire. He was stopped when the tutor and a man from outside the class jumped him and held him down. It was - not a good thing. Australia is - peaceful. We haven't had this sort of thing happen before - and my university isn't in a city, we're in a relatively peaceful outer-city suburb. The students go there to study and occasionally go up to the city to protest some new occurence. Things like this don't happen - and. . . Yes. Didn't help that it was the last week before assignments and exams either.

Death: hopefully Chapter Twenty-One, Twenty-Two and Twenty-Three will whet your appetite. Appetisers, so to speak. ^_^

tnf: Narcissa will be reappearing in Chapter Twenty-Two. Promise. ^_^

As always, anybody who can (correctly ^_^) translate Latin (or French - for this chapter) phrases used in this chapter will receive Chapter Twenty-One early. Your choice if you want to receive the beta-copies or the actual final copy of the draft.

(Previous response to reviews)

J - Ron is most definitely doing something - it's just not very obvious at the moment. ^_^

Fanny-chan, Sabrina, Lady Ron, BThatcher2002, kbk, Artanis - thanks for reviewing! ^_^ More specifically: (kbk) It's amazing the insights fairy tales, mythology and urban legends lend to our idea of humanity. Also, long before I started reading HP fanfics, I use to cringe slightly at how Harry and company saw, treated and stereotyped the Slytherins. Being seen as evil simply because of where you're 'sorted' (or born, or raised, or taught or even wear, eat and sound) strikes me as too prejudiced. Considering that all the books thus far have attempted to reinforce the thought: 'he who is beautiful and nice is not necessarily good, and he who is ugly, horrible and sarcastic is not necessarily evil', I wouldn't be surprised if Rowlings writes a mental-bender at some point in the next three books. (Lady Ron) was that enough snogging for you? ~grins~ (Fanny-chan) Apologies for how long Chapter Twenty took, exams were a killer this year. -_-;

Sildstr/Deso: I provoke blind loyalty? Awesome! (inner-Draco says: 'Bwahahah! Onwards evil minions!' ~grins~)

Kandra: Harry is going out of his way to play a low profile of late isn't he? Attending meals and classes to make sure 'rumours of his death/kidnapping by Lord Voldemort' be greatly exaggerated. And if I ever do put up the uncensored version of the dream sequences, I will email you, promise. ^_-

mjwhittker: ~grins~ Thanks for the compliment. And yes, Harry has been a tad too depressed/depressing of late. That changes (though Harry won't actually notice ^_^) though teenagers as a whole I've found seem to find it far too easy to angst for a very long time (~-_-;;~ -- speaks from far too much experience).

Maya: [blink blink] If you happen to be *the* Maya of 'Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ... rat?' and 'Underwater Light' fame I'll be forced to do my 'worship the author' dance again. ^_^ In the meantime, thanks for reviewing. I agree - 'Omega' (prologue) keeps irking my fingers to rewrite (except every time I do, it gets worse). Ah well, maybe AsheFarley can help here ^_^.

MiniMe: Heh - writing Severus Snape is both fun and nerve-wracking. Occasionally I hit upon the most wonderful balance of snarkiness, sarcasm and biting humour that create the perfect one-liners. And then, sometimes I don't. Figures that the one character I have the most problems staying in character for is the one I have to write through so often. ^-^

I'm glad that you found yourself urged to write - you're right, it's the best compliment a writer can receive. (Well other than being published and offered money and screaming fanboys... Alright, I'd settle for the fanboys - but only if they were over the age of eighteen, over six foot and unlikely to throw items of underwear at me ^_^).

And: yes! A fellow Pratchet fan! I'd say something funny at this point, but my mind just went blank. ~argh~ ^_^

Mistykasumi - Thanks for the 'wow'. ^_^ And yes, there was a shooting at my university campus the Monday I posted 'Interlude'.

If I missed anybody, apologies. I'm still having a little trouble keeping track of where I left off responding. ^_^

And now – the cookie.

=====================================================================

The scenario: Draco and Harry, with Hermione and Ron, are currently living in muggle London because of a reason related closely to Voldemort's return. News has just trickled through that Sirius Black is missing in action - presumed dead. Hermione and Ron haven't been able to get Harry to stop being depressed (after all, they were only the first friends he ever had - what does that count next to a boyfriend/lover who was his enemy for the past four and a half years?). It is currently Draco's turn to attempt 'something'. Continue for parody-fluff.

[The Cookie Files]: It's a Magical Life

Draco found him sitting in the dusty, ash-blackened square of concrete, grass and one stunted tree that served as a garden. Walking swiftly - still unused to the unfamiliar rustle of denim - Draco stood over the Boy Who Lived for several seconds before sliding down beside him. The trunk of the tree was rough through the cotton of his shirt - it was probably going to leave dirt tracks on his back.

They sat in a silence broken only by the rumble of trucks as they roared past beyond the brick wall and the occasional 'clang clang ding' of the trains as it passed.

"Don't you dare say that it wasn't my fault." Harry whispered harshly, "Don't you of all of them say that I shouldn't blame myself." He spat out.

Draco leaned back, staring thoughtfully at the grass between his legs before he spoke, "Of course it's your fault."

"Because it - what?" Harry jerked, staring wide eyed at Draco.

"Of course it's your fault." Draco repeated calmly, "Let's face it - without you, Cedric Diggory would be alive right now. Probably stuck in the same situation as everybody else, but alive. And Sirius Black - he'd probably still be a wanted criminal - but he'd be alive. In Azkaban most like, but alive. And Snape - well, he'd probably still be your favourite greasy git, but he'd be feeling healthier about it." Draco went on calmly; Harry was shocked into silence, Draco didn't look at the other boy, plucking at the grass as if there was nothing more important to do.

"How - but -"

"Did you expect me to be sympathetic?" Draco asked, lifting his head and casting an amused glance at the dark haired boy, "You don't need sympathy - everybody in your life is giving it to you in spades. Oh, look - poor Harry Potter. An orphan don't you know. Forced to live with muggles you know. No parents. Have the most evil wizard this side of Grindelwald after him. Such a pity. Probably die young saving the world. Let's all fawn over him." he continued mockingly, "Truth is - it's all your fault. Diggory wouldn't be dead. Your godfather wouldn't be dead and Snape wouldn't be suffering under Madam Pomfrey's care. Of course, if you hadn't done what you did Voldemort would have been in control these past fifteen years. After all, the distinction between being a sane tyrant and an insane meglomaniac is rather slim anyway."

"Are you supposed to be cheering me up?" Harry asked finally, exasperated, "Because with this sort of cheering -"

"You aren't depressed and thinking over Black's death any more are you?" Draco retorted, "If you want to laugh go watch the clowns. Malfoys don't do jokes." he rose, turning as if to walk away - a slender boy whose hair seemed impossibly white even in the cold, grey light.

"Draco - wait." Harry said, "I -" he stopped.

Draco stood there, staring down at Harry for several seconds, when he next spoke, his voice was low - flippancy missing for the first time since Harry had convinced him there really was nowhere else to run, "Anything they - or I - can say changes nothing, Potter. Diggory is dead. Black is dead." Harry flinched and Draco continued mercilessly, "Voldemort is alive - and insane. And Snape - will always be the potions master you all love to hate. Magic can't bring back the dead - it can't change the past."

"I know."

"Then shut up about it. Nothing you do or say will ever change what has happened. Any other sensible normal twat would have gotten over it by now. I'm sure Black didn't run around like a headless chook these past few years because he wanted the exercise." Draco snapped, at Harry's stare he elucidated: "Make it bloody. Make it include gore. Let there be much misery and gnashing of teeth. In other words, stop being such a melodramatic prat and go get revenge you idiot." He added with a sardonic grin, "Or we are living in positively primitive circumstances for nothing."

"Still can't figure out how to use the stereo system?"

"Shut up. Malfoys don't use remote controls."

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A/N: Review? Please? If only to point out plot holes? Or out-of-characterisation? Or if not tell me how much you loved it (this last because Sildtsr told me to stop asking for 'it sucks' messages ^_^)