"He's a git, Hermione." Ron tucked his hands lazily behind his head, lounging casually on the couch of Number 12 Grimmauld Place and sighing. "He's always been a git, he'll always be a git."

"I know," said Hermione, frowning. She brushed a bit of ash off her robes, frowning at the futility of the effort. She thumped down heavily on the couch next to Ron. "But he is helping us."

Maddened by nervous habit, Ron's hands flinched compulsively, itching to do something, anything useful. Something to help his friend. But there was nothing to be done. Nothing except sit, and wait, and try his best to look unperturbed, so as not to worry Hermione.

He was doing a rather good job of it, she observed, though she knew him well enough to know that he was about ready to explode, and perhaps ricochet around the room, gibbering and cursing Malfoy. Hermione couldn't compete with his level of nervousness anyway, though she was far from calm herself.

"Yeah," said Ron, hollowly. "What's in it for him, I wonder?"

Vengeance, I think, she thought quietly. But that's a start.

"He's not going to leave Harry to die, you know," she said. "At least I don't think so…" They both had sunk into the couch, exhausted, and were staring blankly up at the ceiling. They had been waiting for hours.

Ron chose to grumble rather than acknowledge that with an answer. It was rather magnanimous, she thought, for him to imply that she was right with mumbling rather than leap to his feet and scream that Malfoy was some manner of infectious, hairy rodent. However true it might be.

"Why are you defending him all of a sudden?" said Ron, irritated.

"I'm not," retorted Hermione immediately. "I'm just saying—"

"You hate him just as much as we all do!" Ron looked defensive.

"Ron—"

"You complain about him all the time! Remember when you slapped him across the face?" asked Ron. "Those were good times."

"Yes, of course, I do," she said impatiently, going a tad bit pink in the cheeks.

His silver eyes flashed, darkening. "You don't know anything about me."

"You are disgusting," she said, her voice an angry hiss. His hand continued to tighten around her wrist.

"Look, Ron," she said. "It's not that he isn't still nasty and rude, but—I think he's grown up a bit, honestly. He hasn't seen the things Harry has. Merlin, he hasn't even seen the things we have—he was awfully sheltered. Maybe—"

He buried his face in his hands. He was pale and cold, and blood oozed from beneath his torn sleeve, trickling down his arm. "For awhile, all I had was hate, and I thought I could live with that. Because it was easy, and it was simple, and familiar, and comfortable...And now—I can't even hate you properly anymore! And I feel empty…cold. I just want to feel…anything…I feel like I'm dead, already, it's just that for some reason I'm still walking around..."

She touched her hand to her cheek. "I think we should give him a chance."

Ron laughed, as close to a dark laugh as he could come without losing that indefinable quality that made him Ron. "You think it was shelter he got in that big, horrid house?" Hermione looked at him quizzically. He paused, then looked exasperated. "We have given him a chance. If we had opted not to give him a chance, he would be dead on your front lawn."

"Ron!" she said shrilly. Ron shrugged. Hermione sighed. It was true, she supposed. But…without him, they wouldn't have gotten this far. His house, his blood leading them towards the diary…her life…

Ron rolled his eyes. "He's evil," he said flatly.

Hermione sighed, exasperated. How could he be so simplistic, still? Honestly. "He's not evil, Ron. He's only 17. He hasn't actually succeeded in doing anything nastier than making first years cry. Don't be so juvenile."

Ron turned towards her and stared at her so intensely she almost shivered. In that instant, she remembered how well someone could know you, after spending six years as your best friend.

"I'm not being simplistic, Hermione," he said sharply. "He's a Malfoy. Evil is in that precious, pure blood he's so preoccupied with. There is a Dark Mark burned on his arm. And don't tell me," he said, his eyes narrowing, "that he didn't smile like it was Christmas when that thing was seared onto his skin."

She brushed her fingertips softly against his somewhat mangled forearm. "It's just a scar."

For a moment, she was speechless. "I—"

"You don't know him, Hermione," said Ron in a voice of rare seriousness, his eyes somewhat wider than normal and flickering with worry. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "No," he said. "You don't. The Malfoys and the Weasleys have been fighting for hundreds years, and with good reason. That family is very old, and very dark, and—just don't. Don't try to be his friend. Nothing good can come of it. He doesn't need that. What he really needs is a good strong curse to the head, but…well—I'm pretty sure I can't convince you or Harry to let him stop helping us…" Ron looked away finally, shaking his head. "There's a darkness in him, Hermione. I don't care if I'm the only who sees it."

It was soft, and warm as their lips pressed together, for the briefest of moments in the darkened passageway.

She had expected it to be cold.

But then again, she really hadn't expected anything at all.

He closed his eyes. "You can't save him, and he's a right little bastard anyway, so he's not worth it. He's not worth anything, Hermione. Just don't. That scumbag doesn't deserve pity from someone like you."

She suppressed a shiver, because somewhere in the back of her mind--she had to wonder if it was too late to escape...for both of them.

Hermione wrung her hands nervously in her lap. Not worth anything? He had to be wrong about that…didn't he? Maybe. She did hate him quite a bit, as she had for years. He was a nasty little brat, but underneath that, there was…something else there. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe it wasn't worth it anyway. He couldn't change.

Could he?

She felt the urge to berate Ron in a tirade of righteous indignation. How far gone could he possibly be—he was only 17! It felt so wrong to give up on anyone. But she didn't say a word.

Because deep down, she had been worried about exactly the same thing.

000

Draco was 13. He hurried down the large, ornate passageways of Malfoy Manor, robes fluttering behind him, trying to propel his significantly shorter legs to keep up with his father's much longer ones. He barely noticed his father had stopped abruptly before a vaulted, empty doorway and a set of long, winding stairs. That is, until he came dangerously close to crashing headlong into the head of his father's cane, extended across his path like a shining silver and black gate.

His father stood still, tall and regal, staring coolly down at the expanse of stone stairs before him. Draco stood next to him. The stairs were stone, and grey like the floor, and they seemed to curve and disappear abruptly into the vastness, shapeless dark of the room below.

Draco fidgeted. He did not like the basement. The basement was dark, cold, and he was fairly sure it must contain at least a several dozen dark and horrible creatures. OK, he knew for a fact that there were no dark creatures in the basement (at least none that were alive), but his imagination candidly informed him that if he walked down those stairs he would be ripped to shreds. He did not much fancy being ripped to shreds, he thought, unconsciously rubbing his hand where that wretched rogue beast had attacked it earlier. Stupid thing. And that stupid oaf of a teacher.

He hoped sincerely it would get executed. His father was already pulling strings to get such an event accomplished. He had even talked to McNair, an old friend of the family.

They were a very distinguished family.

He felt the cane pressing against his chest anyway. "Stand up straight," his father commanded, not looking at him. "Your posture is atrocious."

If he had bothered to look at him, Draco thought, scowling, his father would realize that he was standing as straight as he possibly could, as straight as he always did, and he often wondered if it was genetically impossible for him to slouch.

Don't slouch. Part of a very, very long list of things that comprised the unwritten laws of Pureblooded behavior.

Stand up straight. Family honor comes above all else. Treat every vow as Unbreakable—a Malfoy's word is his bond. Do not hit a woman, outside of armed combat.

The code was less specific, however, about screaming at them until they turned and swept silently out of the room, lips drawn tightly shut into a pale, pearly-pink line. Of course—there were always the occasions where Draco would walk in on his parents arguing, wands drawn, eyes blazing with both amusement and fury. He would, naturally, walk as quickly as possible in the opposite direction, for he wasn't entirely sure that the bangs, shouts, and moans that resulted from the altercation were hostile, and at he was quite sure they were not something he ever wanted to see.

At least, he might have to gauge his eyes out of he did. And vomit.

"Downstairs," said his father coolly, extending his cane down the stairs. Draco obeyed wordlessly.

He wielded that cane so imperiously, thought Draco. Like it was a scepter or something. It did look an awful lot like a scepter. He had probably had it specifically fashioned that way. 'All hail Lucius Malfoy, Lord and Reigning King of the Staircase! Supreme Overlord, with immaculate, shiny hair…' Draco smirked, only to be rewarded with a sharp crack across the shoulders with the cane.

"What are you smirking about?" snapped his father.

"Nothing, father," said Draco immediately. He did not appreciate being whacked with that cane, particularly since it happened with such frequency. His father did not beat him, not viciously; he never had. However, the frequent cracks he got were hardly gentle, though rarely quite hard enough to leave a bruise.

Bruises were unseemly, though easily healed.

Image had to be maintained. What did they have, if not reputation?

They made their way farther down the stone passageway. Blue-ish flames sprung to life on the mounted torches as they passed, bathing them both in pale, eerie light. His father finally paused as the passageway spilled out into a slightly wider cavern. Several cages, complete with heavy, wrought iron bars had been roughly hewn out of the walls. He turned, his cloak sweeping out dramatically behind him, and stood before Draco, head held haughtily high.

"Our family," he said, his gray eyes glittering in the gloom of the dungeons, "is very old and very powerful. And as such…our family has gathered many enemies."

It was cold, and his father's voice seemed to echo forever on the many rough angles of the walls. Draco nodded, almost eagerly. His father was so strong, infallible, cunning...

"We have been taking the necessary precautions to protect ourselves for the possibility of attack, from within," he stared very harshly at Draco. "Or without our family." Draco nodded again.

"One day it may prove necessary for you to make use of this particular room," he continued, gesturing around the dungeons. He strode over to one of the cells and tucked his cane under his arm, puffing his chest our importantly. He looked like a statue, Draco reflected, or white marble. Of diamond. Of ice.

"These locks are specifically calibrated to hold only those we wish to be held," explained Lucius. "They will become yours one day, with this house. You are my only heir; that is your blood right. These walls… will obey you."

His father paused then, and stared at him, as if willing him to test it out. Hesitating only slightly, he reached forward, his fingers meeting with the heavy iron lock.

He jumped back with a sharp intake of breath as the bolt on the door sent an angry shock through him. He clutched his hand, and looked at his father in surprise.

"Certain spells must be used to disarm it, first, of course," said his father lazily, his lips pursed into something that was not quite a smile.

He couldn't have just said that in the first place, thought Draco, his thoughts tinged with bitterness. He scolded himself. His father was a great man. Besides, Draco was foolish. It was the hidden lesson he had already learned this lesson again and again.

Trust was weakness. And pain was an excellent teacher.

000

Draco had, upon returning to school that year, had partaken in many glorious fantasies of locking Potter, and possibly his stupid friends, in his own private dungeons. He pictured himself slamming the door on their astonished, horrified faces, and then gliding away, smirking victoriously—knowing that once and for all, he had won. Perhaps in a week or so he would come back and offer them food and water.

Maybe, if he was feeling generous. And they asked him nicely.

Draco felt a prickle in the back of his neck. He turned to see Potter, sitting against the wall of the cell, staring at him. It was dark in the cell, and his green eyes seemed to glitter from beneath the tangle of messy hair. Potter raised an eyebrow.

"Wow, Malfoy, you look almost nostalgic. Time in the inside of a prison cell reminding you of your family?"

"Not particularly, Potter," he said curtly, mentally pushing away the ghosts of the past. "Though I do think of my father from time to time. He is after all, alive somewhere. Perhaps I should visit him."

Potter didn't respond, though something familiar flickered in his eyes. Draco tried to smile, but he felt rather unenthusiastic. Pain. How many times had he worked to elicit that exact response from his enemy? For the better part of six years, it seemed. And for what? It felt like a strangely hollow victory. Why bother? For years, it seemed his very happiness was contingent upon making Potter miserable. Now there were much bigger things in both of their worlds. Potter's misery was rather inconsequential—it wouldn't rebuild the world he was missing…

"Azkaban is rather a toothless werewolf, now that the Dementors have left. He must be terribly bored. It must have been unbearable for the morons stuck in there before, for all those years…"

Draco smiled in earnest at the look on Potter's face. Oh, well. He'd take what he could get, he supposed. Not that he had anything better to do. After all, it was entirely Potter's fault that he was locked in this fucking cage in the first place. He thought about kicking him again, but was well aware that he would probably be rewarded with a punch to the stomach, and decided against it. Potter tried, of course, to hide what he was feeling, but it was a futile effort; his face was like an open book. Honestly—Gryffindors. Potter shuffled to his feet.

"Can you—" Potter reached towards the lock on the door, and Draco instinctually reached out to stop him, snatching up his wrist.

"Really not a good idea, Potter," he said casually.

Potter retracted his hand, sighing. "Can you get us out or not? You said before—"

Draco smirked. "Why, I'm hurt, Potter. People have raved about the hospitality of the Malfoys for centuries."

"Really? Do the Malfoy's have a habit of getting their guests wildly drunk upon arrival, then?" retorted Potter dryly.

"Why?" said Draco lazily, loosening his cufflinks. "Are you interested? I bet I could have the house elf bring us up a bottle."

Potter rested his head on the stone wall with thud, which couldn't have been comfortable. "My god you're annoying, Malfoy."

"So I've heard. Though I can't imagine I'm any less unbearable that your usual company." He clinked his cufflinks against the bars, sending a dull ringing echo throughout the cave. He continued this for several minutes.

He could feel Potter's eyes boring into the back of his head. "I'm not going to ask."

"I'm starting a cufflink bell choir, Potter," he said, not bothering to repress a smirk. Potter grunted. "I know—I'm a man of many talents."

Finally, Draco was rewarded with the dull shuffling of tiny, ugly feet. A pair of large ears and round, watery eyes and popped into view. The house elf bobbed and weaved in the shadows of the dungeons, as if expecting invisible attack at any moment. Its tiny hands were clenched together.

"The Master rings, rings for Spuffy." The tiny elf raced forward and bowed before Draco. "What is it that the Master desires?" The house elf looked up and paused suddenly, its large eyes bemused. "Why is the Master in a cage?" it asked, bewildered.

Draco straightened up, trying to look as imperious as possible—though he was somewhat hindered by the fact that he was in a goddamn cage. He heard Potter snicker behind him and decided to ignore it.

"You will bring us our wands elf," barked Draco, now quite irritated. Being locked in a cell with Harry Potter was pretty much as the top of his list for 'Places That Would Provide Enough Impetus for Immediate Suicide.' "You will tell no one I have sent you. And you will not be seen." The elf looked terrified. "Well?" he snapped irritably. "Get going!" The elf nodded quickly and scampered away.

"You need that wand for disarming the cage?" asked Potter.

"No," said Draco, staring intently at the door.

In the late 1400's, Tiberius Anthony Malfoy had gone through seven wives in a spectacularly short amount of time. Naturally, he also collected a preponderance of bastard as well as legitimate children. Through constant bickering and the occasional poisoning, the 9 sons, 4 daughters, and their seven very irate (and decidedly unattractive) mothers finally managed join together and plot to overthrow their father and confiscate all his worldly possessions.

They could worry about murdering each other later, of course. Heartwarming, really. Probably the closest to family togetherness the Malfoys have ever come.

However, being a Malfoy as well, Tiberius was quite intent on not being strangled, suffocated, stabbed, cursed, or poisoned. In fact, all he really wanted to do was live in luxury with his mountains of galleons and new mistress, who was blonde, beautiful and twenty years younger than him. Quite understandable. He therefore immediately went to work renovating the dungeons below the house. Using a rather complex set of very old, dark magicks, he installed several cages furnished with goblin wrought iron.

No Malfoy, that is to say, none of legitimate family blood, could be imprisoned within the dungeons unless they had been specifically put there by someone else of legitimate family blood. This quite succinctly took care of the ex-wives, mistresses, and 6 bastard children, a valiant team effort that should have theoretically culminated in the sharing of the estate with the other 7 legitimate children.

As it turns out, those seven children were all mysteriously poisoned within a week of each other, and the estate went to the three sons he fathered with his new, very attractive wife—that, however, is a story for another time.

"I need something else," said Draco, rolling up his already loosened sleeves. "Have you got a knife on you Potter?"

"I left the sword at Grimmauld Place," he said, shrugging casually.

"Hmm…" said Draco dully. Ah, well. He would just have to make do with what he had. He unpinned the cloak pin from his neck and pulled back the silver pin.

"Are you going to pick the—" Potter stopped abruptly, wincing, as Draco jammed the pin into his thumb. "—lock," he finished, looking rather revolted.

Draco ignored him, continuing his task with a look of casual disinterest. Ow. He yanked the pin out of his thumb and squeezed a few drops of blood onto the lock. Dark Magic. Right good fun sometimes—but all that ritual bloodletting was something of a drag.

"Combibo cruentus mei et pateo." The lock clicked and the door swung open with a protesting shriek of metal against stone. Draco smiled and strode out, feeling rather accomplished. Potter walked out behind him, looking around the room. Draco turned to wipe the blood from the lock.

"What are you doing? We have to get out of here—" said Potter, huffily.

"You can't just leave bits of your blood lying about Potter—" He stopped suddenly, cursing under his breath. Draco heard the footfalls of someone coming down the passage. Both of them dashed sideways and flattened themselves against the wall.

"It only sounds like one person," said Potter, straining his head slightly around the corner.

"Very good Potter! And count with me—how many wands does it take to kill two unarmed wizards within 3 seconds?" Draco snapped sarcastically. "I suppose we could make a run for it…"

"We're going to have to run pretty fast for that plan to work."

"I don't have to run that fast, Potter," said Malfoy, smiling pleasantly. "I just have to outrun you."

Scowling, Potter shushed him. The lone figure had emerged in the dungeons. His face was obscured from view by a long, hooded cloak. He stared at the ajar door to the cell, He wiped some of the blood from the lock with a cloth and spread some of it on the tip of his wand, examining it carefully. Then, lazily, he muttered a spell, thrusting the tip of the wand forward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—

"OW!" yelped Draco in surprise. He doubled over, gasping for breath, feeling as though a particularly obese dragon had trampled his midsection. The noise bounced around the dungeons with a sharp, ringing echo. The figure's head snapped to their direction, a smile plastered on his lips.

"Dammit, Malfoy!" grumbled Potter, pulling him upright and slamming him against the wall, looking irritated. Draco coughed as the air rushed back into his lungs. Draco turned and glared at his idiotic compatriot.

"That," he wheezed, "is why one can't leave blood sitting around!"

"Admirable as your ploy to educate, Mr. Potter may be, Draco," said the figure, who was now standing between them and the exit to the dungeons, in a silky voice, "I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that all attempts to cure his indomitable ignorance are quite futile."

And, without even bothering to look at the figure, who had thrown back his hood, Draco had identified the voice.

Snape.

"It is with that attitude," said Draco in a mock reproachful voice, shrugging casually. He wasn't terribly pleased to see Snape. After last year's debacles, (in which, he might add, Snape had been extremely unhelpful) Draco had come to like his favorite teacher less and less. In fact, by the end of the year, he had rather hoped he would accidentally poison himself with a potions experiment.

That, however, was nothing compared to the look on Potter's face.

It wasn't the usual, sullen, rebellious dislike that had etched its way into Potter's face for the past six years in school, cross armed and hunched at the breakfast table and glaring, while Draco smirked from across the hall. There was a hardness gleaming in his eyes, a resolved and burning hatred. There were a great many things about Potter and his friends that confused the hell out of him—but here was something he could understand. It was that look—that look that burned and froze at the same time. He wanted to kill him. And he wanted to watch him die. He wanted vengeance for the death of his favorite teacher. It was justified. It was righteous, in his eyes.

Whether or not he would actually do it was the question. And, as he pondered it, Draco realized that he really, in essence, did not know the boy standing next to him at all. Draco thought he could—and Potter couldn't—and that was the difference between them. Well—that theory didn't run out quite the way he planned on his end.

Snape stared back at him, yellow teeth bared, a look of hate on his face that he seemed to have, over the years, reserved specifically for Potter. Potter stared at him, expression icy, posture rigid, as though tensed to spring at any moment and tear Snape apart limb from limb.

Well, this is fun, thought Draco, crossing his arms. Hmm—maybe if these two killed each other he could escape unscathed…

"If you are going to kill us," spat Potter, through clenched teeth. "Just do it."

"Us?" blurted out Draco. "Going to kill 'us'? Hey now—"

Snape looked as though he were struggling internally, though he was so externally frozen it came off looking merely as though he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "Dumbledore—"

"DON'T—" interrupted Potter, his expression livid, "you DARE say his name, you murdering piece of SHIT!" His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, the skin of his knuckles stretched and white. "You don't deserve to. If you say his name again, I will kill you."

"Brash," he spat, his black eyes flashing distastefully in Potter's direction. "Arrogant, idiotic, self-righteous—" Snape raised his wand, pointing at Potter's throat. Potter didn't even flinch. He glared at him, his eyes blazing. Hatred poured off of him in crashing, suffocating waves. "Uncooperative and obstinate, foolish child. You haven't changed a bit. Unarmed, you would dare to threaten me?"

"That wasn't a threat," he said, without a hint of fear in his voice. "It was a promise."

Draco would have laughed, if this situation weren't so desperately unfortunate. Potter was no more likely to kill Snape in his current position that he was to escape from the dungeons without being killed—or for that matter—coming up with a plan that was actually well thought out. He had calculated his odds of survival, and they really weren't comforting. Besides—he had already thrown in his lot with Potter. If Wonder-Boy went down—he was going down too. And he might as well get used to that.

"Oh, stuff it, Potter," said Draco harshly, "before you drown in righteous indignation." Potter turned to him, irritated.

"You stuff it, Malfoy," he snapped.

"I can't say much for your choice in company, Draco," said Snape, who much to Draco's relief, still had his wand trained on Potter.

"Me neither," said Draco mournfully. "Though I have to say it's something of an improvement—he hasn't tried to kill me yet."

"Oh, yes," said Potter sarcastically. "We're becoming fast friends."

"Shut up, both of you!" hissed Snape, looking frustrated. "I have no time to waste with your foolishness."

"Why?" Potter glared at him. "Wasting time? Why don't you just get it over with and—"

"Potter, I swear—if you tell him to kill us one more time I am going to beat the shit out of you—"

"WHY NOT?" he screamed, a sort of pained desperation flickering in his eyes for a moment. "It's what he's good at! Once he's done with us, he can get back to torturing and killing Muggles—how does it feel to kill your own kind, your majesty?"

Draco gaped at him. Snape—a half-blood? His father had always spoken so highly of him… Then again, Snape wasn't exactly an old wizarding surname. "Are you?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

"Shut up, Potter," growled Snape, ignoring him and thrusting the tip of the wand closer to Potter's throat. Majesty? It was hard to imagine Snape as King of anything…well—perhaps somewhere extremely greasy…

"He is," said Potter in a satisfied tone, his eyes glittering malevolently. "So is Voldemort, for that matter." (Draco and Snape both flinched as though physically struck.) He turned back towards Snape. "Did you two bond over that? He told me once—'very disappointing fathers.' Talk about how much you hate your fathers while killing off people and small, furry animals?"

"Perhaps you could have hated your father as well, Potter, if he had lived past your first birthday. No doubt he would have proven to be a disappointment."

Potter smirked. "Oh, I do know him." (Draco made a mental note—definitely insane.) "Not as well as I'd like—something else I can thank you for, I suppose." Potter was smiling, but it was a pained sort of almost hysterical grimace. There was a venom in his voice that Draco had never heard before—and pissing Potter off had been his pastime for the past six years. He seemed to have a special hate and rage hidden away somewhere that Draco could never reach—not that he hadn't tried of course. "Oddly enough, nothing about him inspired me to become a cold, bitter, ugly, murderous bastard—"

Snape was looking progressively more and more furious. Draco had to give Potter credit—at least it was distracting him somewhat. Draco marveled silently at how Potter seems to have the upper hand in the conversation, whereas the mere mention of Potter's father seems unfailingly reduce Snape to an indignant thirteen year old. He was stalling. Where was that fucking elf with their wands? He pondered whether or not he should kick it when it got back in retribution for its tardiness. However, he thought of the indignant look on Granger's face and decided against it. Goddammit—what was Granger doing in his head again?

"He was a weak, Muggle fool," snarled Snape. "And I am not—" He stopped, his mouth becoming a very thin white line on his sallow face.

"Oh, do say it," said Potter, his face twisting into a wicked, spiteful grin.

Something shuffled in the corner of Draco's vision, tentative, shuffling, and frightened. Merlin. The little beast was always frightened. His father hadn't beaten the elves that often. Actually—he usually relied on them punishing themselves—he had a talent for that sort of thing.

Draco inched ever so slightly sideways. The elf was cowering behind the wall they had squatted behind moments before. He just needed to get his wand…

Snape's eyes, still clouded with fury, flickered towards him. "Mr. Malfoy—" he said sharply, tilting his wand ever so slightly towards Draco. "I don't recall giving you permission to—"

WHAM.

Draco gaped. Snape staggered backward, a thin trickle of blood trickling down his pallid face. Potter withdrew his balled fist, not bothering to wipe the blood off of it. He looked fleetingly triumphant, though there was not a trace of happiness in his face.

Snape made a slashing motion in the air, and Potter flew backwards, slamming into the wall with a loud crack. Draco dove for his wand. The terrified house elf let out a squeak of dismay and dropped the wands, disappearing with a faint pop. Potter struggled to his feet, back braced against the wall. Draco snatched up both wands and flung one to Potter, who caught it rather effortlessly. Potter attempted to throw a curse at Snape, but he blocked it almost lazily.

Having his wand back made Draco feel immediately better—although he was far from relieved. The glint of light from the fine grained surface of his wand was interrupted. Fingerprints. It desperately needed polishing. Usually he polished it once a week—he loved the way it gleamed in the light, its thin wooden surface pale and smooth. Twelve inches. Hawthorne and dragon heartstring. Inflexible.

They pointed their wands towards Snape, who glared at them, eventually opting to turn his wand on Potter. Figures, he thought, irritated for no reason at all. Fine. Idiot.

"Two against one, Potter?" hissed Snape, his eyes narrowing. "Those were your father's favorite odds as well."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," cried Draco, exasperated and quite thoroughly miserable. He was cold, filthy, in desperate need of a shower and a non-wrinkled set of clothes, and annoyed. "Would you give up with 'his father' already? 'Potter's father' this, and 'Potter's father' that! Bloody hell. He's DEAD! He's been dead for 16 years! It's time to move on."

They both stared at him. Snape blinked, as though no one had ever dared saying something like that to him before. Potter looked indignant. Draco really couldn't care less.

Potter turned back to Snape. "You want me to drink a vat of poison and snap my wand in half first?" he asked coldly. Draco could see a response fighting to burst from Snape's lips. Or at least—his mouth twitched slightly. "Because those are the odds you seem to favor."

Snape opened his mouth to respond. Draco had had quite enough. Snape was working for the Dark Lord. Potter was fighting the Dark Lord. It just so happened, that at the moment, the Dark Lord was not on Draco's list of favorite people, having murdered his blood-kin and disgraced his family name. Not that he believed it would make a difference in the end—but of course, Draco firmly believed that one should live for the moment.

"Corripio claudo!" he yelled, jabbing his wand in several complicated patterns, still aiming at Snape. The bars of the ajar cell door next to him shivered, flowing like mercury, and warped, reaching out in one liquid motion to seize Snape and throw him bodily into the cage. Snape bellowed in surprise. The cell bars immediately reformed, snapping shut with a satisfying clink. Snape looked livid.

Potter disarmed him, catching his wand and twirling it in satisfaction before hurling it across the dungeons like an errant Quaffle. It clattered out of sight in a distant corner.

"Have a nice night," said Potter in a sort of deranged, yet cheerful voice, "—sir." Draco was impressed at Potter's ability to articulate the last word with such a rebellious disdain—he may as well have said, 'Worthless heap of dragon dung.'

"Porta Aevum."

Draco had half turned to leave, but he froze.

Potter looked suspiciously at Snape, as if he thought this was some thus far undiscovered curse. "What?" he asked, confused, but suspicious.

"Bella was the one who sealed the oaths, but—" Snape added quietly. Draco had gone rigid, his face pale—but he shook it off. "If you desire, you may—"

He turned around and walked away, not looking at Snape. Potter hurried after him. Bellatrix. Sealed the oaths. That was his duty. No—that was his father's. Bastard. Damn him. Damn all of them.

Draco felt like screaming. This was all his own fault. He couldn't protect her…

"Malfoy," said Potter, staring in confusion at the blank expression on Draco's pale face. "What the hell—"

"It doesn't matter," he said dully, not slowing his pace. "Aperforis." A section of stone wall folded onto itself, sliding aside to reveal a passage out of the dungeons—a long stone staircase leading outside. "Don't concern yourself." A cool breeze greeted them as they ascended. It was just before dawn. The stars had faded, and tendrils of pastel colored clouds were tugging at the edges of the darkness.

"I think my life has taken a significant turn for the worse," muttered Draco.

"That's interesting," said Potter peevishly. He was stomping along as though on a personal vendetta to crush every offensive blade of grass. They walked across the grounds, nearing the edge of the forest. "I always thought that once you've hit 'scum of the earth' there's really nowhere left to go but up."

Draco rolled his eyes. The sight of Snape seemed to have reminded Potter how much he disliked Draco, who had been nothing but helpful so far, albeit him being disagreeable, rude, sarcastic, and stubborn for the past few weeks. Draco would not have forgotten something that easily. Honestly. The boy had the memory span of a goldfish.

"Malfoy—" Potter looking agitated. "What is Porta Aevum?"

"Nothing." Draco clenched his hands. "None of your damn business." Potter grabbed the front of his dress robes, and pulled him around. Ah well. They were wrinkled beyond redemption anyway.

"Anything passing between you and that bastard is most definitely my business, Malfoy," he growled.

"You don't trust me, Potter?" snapped Draco sarcastically. "Gosh, I'm hurt." Potter narrowed his eyes. Draco felt a wave of cold pass over him. He inhaled sharply, but the warmth of the summer air had disappeared, and the icy air he was breathing seemed to freeze him from the inside out.

"Potter—" Draco's teeth were chattering.

"Shut up."

Potter had released him; he was looking around in alarm—his wand drawn. The light of dawn seemed to fade, and darkness descended upon them like a heavy, velvet curtain.

"STOP! STOP! STOP!" screamed his mother, her eyes wide, sparkling with tears.

Draco clenched his hands, but he couldn't stop them from shaking. Potter looked pale but determined.

The Dark Lord drew his wand back, and Draco rose shakily to his feet, his arm burning as though knifes had been driven through it. The Dark Lord leaned in, close to his ear. "If you fail, young Malfoy," he hissed, without a touch of amusement in his voice, "I will kill both of them. There is nowhere you can hide from me."

"—entors—them. Malfoy—ow to—atronus?" Potter was talking to him, but he could barely hear it over the desperate wails of his mother screaming in his ears.

Her eyes were open. He touched her cheek with a trembling hand. Blood poured down his arm. Her face was cold.

"What?" His voice was a mere whisper.

"Stop crying," growled his father. "You are disgracing yourself and your family. You must learn to do these things. You told me you thought yourself ready. Well?"

Draco raised his wand again, hiccupping, his eyes blurred, aiming for the creature on the ground. "C—cr—crucio—"

It was screaming. They were all screaming, in his head. Potter was screaming something else, but he couldn't hear it. Something silver was tearing through the darkness. Warmth slowly returned to his lungs. Potter's green eyes swam back into his field of vision. Draco realized that he had fallen to his knees. He struggled shakily back onto his feet, disgusted with himself, refusing Potter's offer help him stand up.

"Do you feel up to apparating, Malfoy?" Potter asked. His voice sounded distant in his ringing ears. "We can go to Diagon Alley and find a Floo Portal…"

"Yes," lied Draco hostilely. Potter looked dubious, but shrugged.

"Fine." They both disappeared with a pair of loud cracks.

000

"Oh, no—" said Ron, throwing his hands out defensively. "You tell him."

"You tell him," countered Hermione obstinately. "I always have to tell him everything."

"That's because you figure it out first," pointed out Ron. "Congratulations. You should be proud. You can tell him."

"It's your turn, isn't it?" She pointed at him accusingly.

"No, it's not. We don't take turns. Since when have we ever taken turns?"

"That's what you say when it's your turn to tell him something!" She pushed the Horcrux into his hands. "You tell him."

"No, you tell him!" he retorted Ron stubbornly. "It's—" The fire flared suddenly, and two figures tumbled forth onto the carpet from its roaring depths. Harry stood up, his glasses soot covered and hopeless askew.

"Hullo," he said cheerfully.

"Harry!" cried Hermione. "Oh thank goodness." She wrapped him a fierce hug.

"Are you two alright?" he asked them. She and Ron nodded. Malfoy coughed loudly, looking rather ragged. He picked himself up off the floor and stared at them, then huffily flung himself onto the couch, looking sullen.

"We're fine, mate," said Ron reassuringly. "What about you?"

Harry shrugged. "We got locked in the dungeons, then we got out—then Snape showed up—" Ron swore loudly. "then we ran into a bunch of dementors—then we escaped—and came here."

"Snape?" said Hermione, in a small voice. "Did you—I mean—is he—"

"He's alive," said Harry, his expression darkening. "Malfoy locked him in one of the cells." His tone actually sounded approving.

"Potter punched him across the face," piped up Malfoy, his voice flat.

"Did you?" said Hermione, in surprise.

"Yes," said Harry, not looking remotely abashed.

"Wicked!" said Ron, grinning broadly. Harry grinned as well.

"Well—it was all worth it, wasn't it?" said Harry in a satisfied tone. Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

"Er—" said Ron. "Well—see—about that, mate—"

"It's—" Hermione pulled the golden cup in his hands. "I ran a check on it, and I don't think…it's—well—it's—"

Harry stared at the cup in his hands. His face was blank, but his eye was twitching ever so slightly. Hermione had seen that look on his face more than once. The expression which stated very clearly—'What do you mean my Nimbus has been reduced to splinters by the Whomping Willow?' or 'What do you mean Dumbledore didn't let you write letters to me while I was locked up all alone during the summer?' or 'What do you mean I have to have extra lessons with Snape?'

"It's what?" asked Harry, in a decidedly calm voice.

"It's not a Horcrux," said Hermione a small voice.

"Oh," said Harry, gripping the cup very tightly in his hands. His jaw was clenched tightly shut. "What is it then?" His eyes was twitching rather impressively now.

"Something transfigured…" She bit her lip. "I—I imagine they just wanted to get your attention…" She waved her wand, and the cup warped, reforming itself to its original state, a rolled up piece of parchment, covered in cramped, black writing. Harry unfurled it slowly.

Potter,

Tomorrow. 8'oclock. Spinners End. I'd tell you to come alone, but it would be futile wouldn't it?

-S.S.

Harry crumbled the letter in his fist, not saying a word.

"Harry," said Hermione tentatively. "I'm really sorry, but—"

"No," said Harry, through gritted teeth, not looking at either of them. "It's fine." The letter burst into flames in his hand.

"Erm—" said Ron, but thought better of it. The ashes of the letter sifted through Harry's hand and floated to the floor. "Nevermind…" Hermione jumped as a glass vase on the mantle place exploded.

"Excuse me for a moment," said Harry evenly, striding out of the room and disappearing. Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

"AAARG!" screamed a voice from the other room. "FUCK!"

CRASH.

BANG.

There were a few moments of silence.

Hermoine looked at Malfoy, who was still on the couch, trying vainly to fix his hair in the reflection from the glass cabinets. She didn't know what he was bothered about. He still managed to look absolutely gorgeous no matter how filthy or disheveled his clothes were, the bastard. Then again, he always was sure to have immaculate hair and neat, expensive clothes. Hmph. Narcissistic prat.

"There are showers upstairs, Malfoy," sighed Hermione. Malfoy looked up at her for a moment, as if formulating a retort, but was silent.

"Thanks," said shortly. He fled the room, his need to be clean and neat apparently outweighing his need to be a git.

Harry returned to the room, looking a bit less angry, but no less stressed. He sank down onto the couch. Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of him. Dumbledore was right. He shouldn't be alone in his. Ron clapped his shoulder reassuringly, and Hermione squeezed his hand. He smiled tiredly at them. They sat quietly for a few moments.

"Where's Malfoy?" asked Harry finally.

"He went to get cleaned off," said Hermione.

"Merlin, he's such a fucking girl," grumbled Ron. Harry sniggered.

"Oh," said Harry suddenly. "Hermione—have you ever heard of—er—what was it—'Portus Av—' something, dammit—'Porta Avem'?"

"No…" Hermione frowned, racking her brain.

"'Porta Aevum'?" said Ron. Harry nodded.

"Yeah! What is it? Snape said something to Malfoy about sealing oaths or something—"

"Porta Aevum—'The Gates of Heaven,'" translated Ron. "It's the oldest wizarding cemetery in Britain, very exclusive—ancient family plots only. 'Sealing the oaths' is an outdated funeral rite. I'm not exactly sure what it does, something about the blood-kin remaining behind and honoring the memory of the departed…"

"Oh…" said Harry. "Has someone he knows…"

"His mother…" said Hermione quietly. "Voldemort killed her the night he ran away." Harry looked shocked.

"He didn't say anything," said Ron, frowning. "How did you know—?"

""I saw it in his memories," said Hermione, suddenly defensive, though she wasn't sure why, "when we were looking for the diary…"

"Why didn't you say anything?" asked Ron, looking at her with a face full of concern.

"It's really not my place, Ron," she said, shaking her head. "It's not the sort of thing you go blabbing all over the place. I mean—would you have said anything, if you were him?"

Harry looked away. "No," he answered softly. "I don't suppose I would have either."

000

AN: I assigned Malfoy a wand, just for fun. It fits with the whole HPLexicon-birthday wand assignment thing. Here's what a random website had to say about hawthorne wood:

"Its gender type is Masculine. Its planet ruler is Mars. Its associated element is Fire. It is used to attract the powers needed for: Health, Fertility, Chastity, Weddings, Protection and Death. Astrologically hawthorn people are stubborn but loving people and tend to be very beautiful in youth. They bring out the worst in their friends but not in a bad way, more as a way of helping them to root out bad habits and attitudes. They are supportive and protective of all they consider to be family. They can be tough to work with and have a single-minded attitude. They attend only to the business at hand, which makes them very shrewd business people. They are very dependable and stable, and won't go back on their words."

I think that's Malfoy, more or less.

PS: Finals! Aah! DOOM! Enjoy this extra large economy chapter. Early Christmas present I suppose.

PPS: Lucius and Narcissa's relationship is something I've never been really sure of. I really can't see he sticking around if he was physically abusing her or Draco—but I imagine most of their scars run a little deeper than that…Lucius is still a crazy bastard…

Next Chapter: In which chocolate is consumed, the heroes pay a visit to Spinner's End, Snape is a jerk, Harry sticks it to the Ministry, and Draco and Hermione discuss…stuff...