"If you were born to honor, show it now;
If put upon you, make the judgment good
That thought you worthy of it."
-William Shakespeare

000

"It what?" asked Potter bleakly, his emerald eyes flashing in sudden alarm.

"Your mother's necklace," repeated the werewolf evenly. "It's rather distinctive. Turn it over." Potter spun the necklace in his hand, flipping it gingerly to reveal the tiny letters carved into the gold plating on the back.

"L. E. P."

"Merlin's wand and whiskers…" muttered Weasley.

It was a finely crafted necklace, in Draco's opinion. Perhaps even something too nice for the average well—Mudblood to be wearing. No matter how clever, or beautiful, or exceptionally talented she was…he stole a sidelong glance at Granger, who was staring fixedly at the necklace, and felt his face go slightly hot. What was going on? Maybe this 'civility' garbage was going to his head…

"So she gave that to him?" Granger asked the half-breed. Draco could almost see the gears spinning in her head as she watched the smooth pendant glitter in Potter's hand. "Voluntarily?"

"What?" said Weasley in horror.

"No!" Potter practically yelled in reply.

"Charm like that, mate," said the pink hair trollop, looking apologetically at Potter, whose eyes immediately bulged out. "It's likely that she did."

"WHY?" he cried.

"Maybe she…thought she could trust him…" offered Weasley. "He's tricked everyone before…" He said this slowly, as if it pained him—or perhaps it was just the agony of straining his single, lonely brain cell into producing something useful to say.

This seemed to give Potter hope, or at least he frowned gravely and looked thoughtful.

"Or maybe she was having an affair with him." Draco looked at him and smirked. "It's hard to resist that socially retarded, devastatingly greasy charm. Just think Potter—your real father could still be—"

In under three seconds, Potter had bounded over the table, knocked Draco to the ground in a flurry of clattering chairs, and wrapped his hands so tightly around Draco's white throat that he could only emit gurgling sounds in protest.

Draco's throat ached severely for several hours after the werewolf had pried them apart, but the look on Potter's face (which had at the time turned an interesting shade of magenta) was really more than worth it.

Draco pulled himself back into his chair, rasping and coughing. Weasley still hadn't stopped laughing hysterically; Granger was frowning and shaking her head, the pink haired girl (Tocks? Tak? Tink? Maybe it was Tink) was sniggering quietly, the werewolf looked exasperated, and Potter was gibbering out a string of incoherent, but hysterically upset psycho babble regarding his parentage.

"Yes, Harry," sighed the werewolf, forcing him down into a seat, where he continued to mutter and glare at Draco. "It's striking, how you look exactly like Snape—only you have your mother's eyes." Harry paused his muttering and stared up at the werewolf, who raised an eyebrow and gave him a small smile.

"Ah…" said Harry, looking at the ground, then back at the werewolf. "But—"

"Lily was a very kind person, and she cared for everyone regardless of who they were," said the half-breed seriously. "But she would have never, never, been unfaithful to James."

"Especially not with Snape," blurted out Tink, disgusted.

"Especially not with Snape," he agreed, nodding.

Potter finally nodded, some of the color returning to his sheet white face. "Lupin—so…what could they…possibly have…?" he asked.

The werewolf shook his head. "Harry, I couldn't pretend to have the slightest idea. Lily gave James a right earful when she saw his picking on Snape, but she did that when he was rude to anybody, no matter who they were…Snape never seemed to be terribly grateful for her intervention."

Potter didn't look pleased but this information. "Every time I move the slightest bit forward I get knocked back even farther behind. And now I can't even kill Snape without questioning him first." He stared glumly at the tabletop.

Ugh. What a whiner. The pick haired girl stood up and began offering Potter words of encouragement, while Weasley nodded in vehemently in agreement. The werewolf looked rather exhausted, but everyone else seemed too preoccupied to notice, and Draco was finding it difficult to care. (Was the full moon coming up? It was, wasn't it? Damn! When were they leaving? Was it soon? Soon would be preferable. Right this second would be even better.) Draco stole another glance at Granger, who was chewing on her lip, her eyes distant.

000

He tricked her—she owed him something. No. Not enough.

She asked him for something—he owed her something. But what? No—that couldn't be it. There was more to it. But how could they possibly reconstruct a past that no one alive or probably untrustworthy had witnessed?

She needed to get rid of the necklace, and he offered to hide it. But why? It was just a necklace.

He needed the necklace for something. For what? To match his earrings? It was still just a necklace.

It was a token of something. Friendship. Love. Hatred. They got into a desperate scuffle with Death Eaters, and, lacking a suitable offense, she threw it at Snape's head. She lost a bet, playing strip poker…Arg!

Hermione fought the urge to bang her head on the table. This was rather frustrating. There weren't many books written such subjects, unfortunately, because her first instinct was to dive into the nearest library and burrow into a stack of books.

Lily was secretly a Death Eater. No, that was ridiculous. But she did get a fleeting and rather comical mental picture of Harry's head spinning around and exploding all over the walls.

Lily and Snape were secretly lovers? No! Eww…plus Lupin didn't think so…she didn't know Harry's parents personally—but any two people who could produce a son with as much courage, kindness, and integrity as Harry couldn't have been anything less than wonderful.

There had to be more to these…things that they didn't know. But no secrets Snape was holding could be trusted, could they…?

"Hermione?" She snapped out of her daze and fixed her eyes on Ron, who was staring at her. "What do you think?"

Such a very simple question, with so many very complicated answers. She opened her mouth, but it took a moment for words to form. "I think…this complicates things quite a bit…" she said slowly.

"Genius," said Malfoy dryly. "Now we all know why you're at the top of our class."

She silenced him with a glare, which she was becoming disturbing adept at, and turned back to Harry. He did, didn't he…he listened to her. Life debt, perhaps? Or was the little berk finally starting to respect her? Not that it mattered…hmph. Jerk. "He obviously wanted your attention, Harry," she said.

"Which I'd say he got," piped up Tonks, folding her arms and giving them a quirked smile.

"Right," said Hermione. "He wants something more from you than just killing you would accomplish…which could be connotative of something even more horrible, though I don't know what…"

"You're like a walking ray of sunshine, Granger," Malfoy offered sarcastically. "That's what I like about all of you."

"Bite me, Malfoy," snapped Harry.

"That's it!" said Malfoy in a mocking tone, as if suddenly enlightened. "He wants you for your stunningly witty and cunningly original comebacks, Potter!"

Lupin cleared his throat loudly, and Malfoy and Harry both shut up. "Harry," he began, in his usual kind tones. "Whatever the mystery is, I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it. You always do. And don't forget, you have many wonderful resources around you." He looked between Ron and Hermione. Ron smiled, and Hermione blushed. "…whom I'm sure will be able to help you, no matter what the task…"

His eyes fell briefly on Malfoy, as if to silently question why on earth he was still here, or if he could be of any use. Malfoy opened his mouth as if to inform him, or possibly just insult him. Hermione kicked him hard under the table.

"OW!" yelped Ron.

"Sorry…" apologized Hermione swiftly, wincing at her mistake. The kick however, still had its desired effect, as Malfoy was now too busy cackling at Ron's pain to insult anyone.

"Anyway," continued Lupin, who looked as though he were desperately trying to hide his amusement, "as I said—I'm sure it will work out." His expression sobered slightly and he looked at his watch. "Tonks and I will always be here if you need anything—"

"As an Auror, I can get you an excellent deal on Fanged Frisbees, should you need a few particularly vicious ones to chuck at Snape's head," Tonks informed them, with an equally serious, though somewhat playful expression on her face.

"That is most assuredly not what I was referring to," protested Lupin.

Tonks smirked mischievously at him. "Yeah, yeah, you'd like everyone to think that, would you?"

Lupin rolled his eyes, the looked back at Harry.

"I'm sure Fred and George would be happy to donate to our cause," said Harry brightly.

"That's the spirit," said Tonks. Hermione wondered briefly if Lupin was ever going to finish what he was saying, but he went on ahead anyway.

"Harry, I believe it's your birthday in two days, is it not?" he inquired. Harry nodded, almost surprised. Hermione felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Had a month already flown by since they left school? Two days…well, one really—since it was a little past midnight. "I regret that I will be…preoccupied at that time—" Malfoy scooted his chair away from Lupin in alarm, as if he thought Lupin was going to suddenly sprout fangs and rip out his jugular at any moment. Huh. Not that he wouldn't deserve it! Bigoted git. Oh, that was a little harsh…

"—but we've brought you a present in advance."

Tonks pulled out a rather large wrapped package from nowhere and sat it on the table in front of Harry. "Happy Birthday!" she chirped.

"Wicked!" said Ron. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise, isn't it?" said Tonks, winking at him. "Don't open it until tomorrow! Well—we're on our way." She stood up, grabbing Lupin's arm.

"Goodbye," said Lupin as he was dragged out of the room. "Good luck. Contact us if you need anything."

"Bye!" called Tonks, from the other room, out of sight. Hermione heard a clink as the vase of Floo was taken off the mantle. "Come on," she said a lower voice, obviously talking to Lupin. "It's late. Let's get you into bed."

"But I still feel fine," said Lupin almost indignantly, as if she were insulting his obviously precarious health. "Just a little exhausted…I don't need bed rest for goodness sakes…"

"That is so not what I meant." Hermione could almost hear evidence of a smirk on her face.

Lupin coughed loudly into his hand. Tonks called out an address, and a crackling roar indicated they had both disappeared.

The look of disgust that appeared on Malfoy's face at Tonks's last remark still had not faded. "Those two," he informed them, "are absolutely revolting."

"I think it's cute…" protested Hermione fondly.

"He looks very happy with her," offered Harry in agreement.

Malfoy snorted. "You'd be happy too, if you were an old man shagging an attractive young woman 20 years your junior."

"She's Charlie's age, I think," said Ron, who was still staring at the package on the table, seemingly forgetting the fact that it was not actually his birthday at all.

"There—see? She's only thirteen years younger than him," snapped Hermione. "And he's not even that old! And you're a pig, Malfoy!"

"Are you going to open this?" Ron asked Harry.

"I think she said to wait until tomorrow," shrugged Harry. Ron looked crestfallen.

"I'm going to bed," said Hermione, irritated, and stormed up the stairs.

000

"Hermione…" Ron was down on one knee, clasping her hands warmly in his, gazing up at her with adoration. She barely concealed a smile, a flush of delight sweeping warmly across her face. "Hermione, I've loved you since before I even noticed girls. You're the most perfect woman I've ever known."

There was a soft breeze blowing somewhere. She was wearing white. They both were. It just seemed like the right color, for such an occasion. And they were standing on a beach, or at least she thought they were. It could have been any body of water, she supposed. Perhaps even the lake at Hogwarts…she would like that, probably…

Ron fished something out of his breast pocket, fumbling it slightly in his freckled hands before holding it aloft before her.

"I can't give you the world, but I know you don't want it." Sincerity sparkled in his eyes, and in the tiny diamond before her. "All I can give you is my love, forever…Hermione—" He sucked in a breath. "Will—will you—will you marry me?"

"Oh, Ron," she said, her eyes misty. "Of course I will!" She kissed him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck—when the scene suddenly froze.

Hermione sighed happily, and lifted the remote to pause the program she was watching. She looked quietly around the room, hoping she was alone, so she could watch it again—her favorite dream of all time. Over and over. It wasn't that large of a room, but it was cozy. She was sitting on the edge of a bed, watching a television mounted on the wall. The television was large and flat, and encapsulated in a gilded golden frame as though it were an aging portrait. She clicked the remote again.

"Hermione….Hermione, I've loved you since before I even noticed girls. You're the most perfect woman I've ever known…I can't give you the world, but I know you don't want it…All I can give you is my love, forever…Hermione—will—"

"How many times are you going to watch that drivel?" drawled an exasperated voice from behind her. She gasped and swiveled around in the bed, the remote flying from her hands. Draco Malfoy was standing on the opposite side of the bed, arms folded, staring at the now blank screen with an expression of disdain. He was wearing a crisply fitted pure white suit, which, in combination with the white walls and his pale features gave him an almost ghostlike effect.

"I—" She waited for her heart rate to decline. She scowled at him. "What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here."

"I got an invitation," he countered gleefully, holding aloft an envelope. "Besides…these things just—happen."

"Ha! I bet you invited yourself. Let me see that!" She bounded forward on the bed, snatching the envelope with a swipe of her hand. But, as she attempted to tear it open, it simply faded away to nothingness in her grasp.

"Aren't you sick of watching that by now?" demanded Draco, in an annoyed voice. "Why aren't you living it if it means that much to you?" His eyes fell on the sleeping boy in the bed. "Or at least imagining it properly."

Hermione followed his gaze. Ron was asleep in the bed behind her, curled up and breathing steadily on top of the perfectly undisturbed sheets. He looked surprisingly peaceful. It was an odd thing, watching someone sleep. Like being with them, and yet being quite undeniably alone at the same time.

"He's asleep," she informed him haughtily, as if it weren't obvious.

"He's a bit useless, isn't he, then?" said Draco, quirking his head slightly and raising an eyebrow at the motionless Ron.

"He'll wake up eventually!" countered Hermione defiantly. She moved her hand as if to touch his shoulder, but drew it back. Ron, naturally, did not notice at all.

"If you say so," Draco snorted, looking dubious. His eyes roved around the room. It was strikingly white, though the sheets of the bed were a deep crimson. It was completely devoid of furniture, though there were several portraits adorning the walls. Hermione looked at the pictures as well. They were arranged along the wall in a straight line, all different sizes, each one in an ornate golden frame.

To the far left there was a small boy with light hair, who continually threw terrified looks at Hermione. Next to him was a similarly sized portrait of Gilderoy Lockhart, who was continually preening and flashing blinding smiles at everyone who foolishly made eye contact with him. Next to him was a sullen portrait of Victor Krum, quite a bit larger than the other two. To the right of Krum's sulking self was an empty canvas, framed beautifully. It was staggeringly larger than the other portraits in the room, stretching almost from floor to ceiling.

"Who goes in that one?" he asked curiously, nodding his head towards it.

Hermione flushed, looking away from him and allowing her eyes to fall back on the sleeping Ron. "I haven't decided yet," she mumbled.

"It takes up an awful lot of space, doesn't it?" he observed.

"Well…he's—he's very important to me…" she answered quietly.

"Where's Potter?"

"He's in a different room," said Hermione, now irritated. She stood up, and slipped out the lone door, making her way down the hall. She turned when she heard footfalls behind her. "Why are you following me, Draco?" she demanded.

"I don't know," he shrugged, looking honestly bewildered. "That's the big question, isn't it?"

"Well—stop it!" She stomped her foot in frustration.

He stared up at her almost sadly, his eyes glittering pale and cold in the empty hall. "I can't," he said softly.

000

Draco was actually having a rather nice dream, thank you very much. He was back at the Manor, sitting idly on a gilded throne that had somehow miraculously appeared in the living room. Several scantily clad veela were clustered around him, feeding him grapes and giggling stupidly. With a seductive grin, one of them pulled a red hot poker from the roaring fireplace and pushed it hard into Draco's forearm.

"OW!" he yelped, struggling to free himself. "Stop that!"

The woman shrugged. "You know I'm not the one doing this," she said idly, pushing the poker harder against his arm, his skin hissing in protest.

No, that was true, he realized, as something resonated in the back of his mind, sweeping him away into a vortex of not so long forgotten memories.

Draco was dreaming of the past. As he moved forward, the shadowy figures beside crystallized into the presences of a recent memory, and the hallway around him spilled into a sickeningly familiar stone cavern. He drifted forward, detached, and knelt briefly before the Dark Lord's throne before shuffling backwards. His heart quickened in his chest. He had never been to this place before, and he had never stood in the presence of the Dark Lord without…his father.

School was out, in this moment in time. Fifth year had ended. It was late June. His mother stood beside him, in the front of the small crowd, with the other servants who had managed to escape. They seemed to number exactly one—Bellatrix Black. She looked shaken, and the mad gleam in her eyes was more pronounced than usual, a sort of hysterical desperation to cause pain that was so unique to her. A crowd of others stood clustered against the back wall.

The Dark Lord was speaking in an angry hiss, rattling off names that Draco couldn't seem to focus on. A list of the captured. But they didn't matter—they weren't here to bear his wrath. And furious he was indeed, seething raw and furious emotion that was pounding into Draco's skull almost like a physical force. Terror consumed Draco, but he did not move a single muscle, even though every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run.

"Lucius Malfoy," he finished, his burning red eyes boring into Draco and his mother. His mother grasped her cloak tightly in a white knuckled fist, but did not speak. "Lucius, whom I specifically charged with this task, Lucius whom I entrusted with a most vital responsibility—" His eyes narrowed. "Strung together like idiot children by that Muggle loving fool Albus Dumbledore and thrown in Azkaban like common thieves. All of my servants—useless to me!

"CRUCIO!" With a suddenness that made Draco jump, he flung his wand to the side, towards Bellatrix. For what was probably not the first time in several days, she was writhing on the floor and screaming. He withdrew his wand. All was silent, though her screeches echoed shrilly around the room, sending shivers up Draco's spine.

"My Lord, please, please forgive me…" she wailed bowing before him. "I was weak, I deserve it…" Draco fought hard not to curl his lip in disgust, despite the terror that enveloped him. How could she whimper at his feet, begging for mercy like a kicked dog? Where was her sense of dignity? Had she no pride in the blood she was fighting for?

"This is not your fault, Bella," said the Dark Lord. "Though your incompetence will not go unpunished. And Albus Dumbledore must be killed immediately. I will deal with later." He looked at Narcissa. "This—is Lucius's fault. Lucius has proven himself unworthy. He has cost me my servants, lost me an important battle, and humiliated me before my enemies." His crimson eyes flashed, his voice slowly building to a crescendo. He didn't have to scream to be terrifying. He was more terrible than anything else on earth.

"I have lost once more to that brat Potter, a mere child, the Prophecy has been irrevocably DESTROYED, and oh yes—my return has been announced rather publicly TO THE ENTIRE WIZARDING WORLD." His voice echoed in a screaming hiss around the cavern. He swiveled his head towards Draco's mother, twisting his neck like that of an angry cobra, his white nostrils flaring.

"Narcissa Malfoy," he said, as if her name was a foul taste upon his tongue. Draco could feel his mother shaking next to him, but she held herself with dignity. That was more than could be said of her mad whore of a sister, at least. Two catlike pupils focused on her regal form.

"Yes, my Lord?" Her voice was barely above a whisper as she knelt before his throne. Only her eyes betrayed her fear. Draco started forward instinctually but Bellatrix clamped a claw-like hand down in his arm, stopping him.

"I warned Lucius—" He slowly raised his wand. Draco could see the breath catch in her throat. "That the price would be terrible if he failed me." He aimed between her eyes, both misty blue and wide as galleons. "I'll let him know, if he ever escapes, that you died screaming. I think that will be a suitable deterrent against future failures. Assuming of course, that he survives captivity." Bella snickered softly, though looked at Narcissa with a kind of nostalgic sullenness.

"No, p—" Draco almost slipped. Malfoys do not beg. "I'll do it! I'll kill him." He strode forward out of Bella's grasp and stood in front of his mother. "My Lord, I'll do whatever you wish. Anything. Spare her life…"

The Dark Lord stared at him, as though not quite sure if he should be furious or amused. "How old are you, Young Master Malfoy?"

"Sixteen, my Lord." Since June. Not a very nice birthday, hearing your father has been arrested, but it served its purpose. One year older…

"Harry Potter's age, are you not?"

"I am, my Lord."

The Dark Lord leaned forward slightly on his throne. Some of the feeling returned to Draco's knees as his wand finally lowered slightly. "And you wish for the chance to restore your family's honor?"

"Yes, I will do anything my Lord," he said. He couldn't believe what he was saying. He felt like he was having difficulty breathing…

"It will not be a small task, young Master Malfoy. Your father has shamed himself and his blood deeply, and it will take, I think…" White lips curled into a smile. "A very great success to dismiss such an egregious offense."

Draco's mother made a whimpering noise, next to him. He did not look at her, but at the floor, bowing deeply before his lord. "I will do whatever is required of me, my Lord. Anything."

The Dark Lord paused. Then quietly, "You will kill Albus Dumbledore," he said lightly, as if he were requesting him to fetch a cup of tea. Narcissa Malfoy gasped, Draco could feel her wide eyes boring into him. "I think that shall be…sufficient."

Draco clenched his hands. He could feel his nails biting relentlessly into his palms.

"Something you would like to say, Draco?" Another mocking smile.

That was the first time he had used his name.

"No my Lord." He looks up at the Dark Lord, his grey eyes blazing. "It shall be done as you wish."

"You will enter my service, then." His eyes bored into Draco's, but Draco refused to look away. It was like some weight was crushing his head, his eyes, just as he felt close to blacking out…"Clear the unmarked from the room," he ordered. The pressure released, leaving Draco feeling dizzy.

Draco was not familiar with the small crowd of people in the back of the room. He could hear his mother from behind him, her breathing ragged. She let out a muted whimper as someone dragged her harshly out of the room, struggling vainly to catch another glimpse of Draco. The door slammed behind them.

"Come, Draco," he beckoned. Draco moved closer to the throne and bowed before him. "Give me your arm…"

Draco extended his arm. The Dark Lord bent forward and wrapped his long, white fingers around his forearm, gingerly pushing up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the soft underside of flesh above his fist. He ran a finger across it, smiling lovingly, as if her were an artist faced with a fresh, pure white canvas. A circle had formed around them, all wearing masks.

Draco smiled a little bit, as his arm was examined. He had imagined this moment for a long time. But…His grin faded…It wasn't like this…it wasn't desperation that drove him here. He wanted to own this moment, he wanted to choose it, at least…

The Dark Lord pulled out his wand and jabbed it onto the flesh of Draco's forearm. "Morsmordre," he hissed. First it was just a prickle…then stinging…then burning…the sensation consumed his entire arm, in a pain that drove him to his knees—but he did not cry out. Silver sparks danced in front of his eyes…the world seemed to contract violently for a moment…and then…

Silence. The world slid back into focus. The wand was drawn back, and Draco rose shakily to his feet. 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."

Nodding, dizzily, Draco backed away. His knees felt like rubber, and he was painfully aware of the burning sensation on his forearm, a sharp ache as though a knife had been driven into his flesh. Sweat was making his shirt cling to his neck.

The Dark Lord rose to his feet, and his servants immediately collapsed to the floor. Draco was actually rather grateful for that at this point. He strode forward, as words of veneration were murmured from all around him, and stopped in front of Draco. Draco leaned down and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. "Master…" He looked up at him.

"You are in my service now, until you die."

"Yes, my Lord."

"You will obey my wishes without question."

"Yes, my Lord."

"You will follow your brethren gathered around you, and all of their aid will be at your disposal as you attempt to fulfill your task."

"Yes, my Lord."

The Dark Lord smiled. "Good."

Draco was dismissed quickly, warned to tell no one of his mission. Bellatrix flashed him a rare (albeit depraved) smile as he left. He knew what she was grinning about. Congratulations, boy—now is your chance at honor. At glory.

She was right, he supposed. Honor, glory, a chance to restore the family name, he had looked forward to, he supposed. But there was also a tremendous burden—to placate the Dark Lord, so that she would have to pay the ultimate price…and his father—was he safe within the walls of Azkaban? Draco shuddered involuntarily. Nowhere. Nowhere was safe. The Dark Lord's power was boundless…

His mother was outside on a bench, shivering, though the warm air of midsummer was all around them. She whirled around when she saw Draco emerge from the chamber and raced to his side.

"Draco…" she murmured, her voice choked. She looked furious, and at the same time more heartbroken that he had ever seen her. "You should have let me take care of it…"

"Oh yes," snapped Draco, anger bubbling within him. He felt as though he were dangling by a dangerously frayed thread. "Your plan to die horribly for father's mistakes was absolutely brilliant! Inspired, really."

She dropped to her knees before him, shaking her head. "It should not have been you—why did you do that? Are you mad? You're still—still a child…"

He looked at her, dully, still rather unable to process just what had happened. His shirt was still rolled away from his arm, and her eyes were drawn to the black scar on his pale skin.

"I suppose I am not a child anymore," he said tonelessly.

"He'll—he could kill you—" Her hands clenched convulsively. "He's a doddering old fool—but—but—oh, no…"

"Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, mother," he hissed. "I'll do it! I will. And then—we'll be honored above the Dark Lord's other servants."

She shook her head, miserably. "You…you have no idea what you're getting into…and how could you? You've—you've never—this is—" His mother's expression finally cracked into a mask of desperate misery. She had put on such a brave façade for him when he returned from school, but he could tell how heartbroken this whole dreadful affair had made her. (The fact that he came home off the train looking more like a slug than a boy, oozing from a cadre of nasty jinxes, had not exactly helped.) "My son, my only son…" Her whole body shuddered and she pitched forward, throwing her arms around his midsection and gripping him tightly, her whole body shaking violently. Tears poured silently down her face. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and raised his arm blankly to get a better look.

A jet black scar. Skull and snake. He had doodled them in the margins of his Potions notebook for years. The pain had faded to a dull ache, though there was still a hint of red around the puckered edges. For what seemed like forever, he couldn't do anything but stare in silence, while his mother's shivering, mournful wails spilled forth and echoed around the room.

000

"YOU DID WHAT!" screamed Granger's voice, drifting up from the downstairs level of Grimmauld Place.

"Keep your voice down!" hissed Weasely in alarm. "This is supposed to be a surprise!"

Draco, now quite inexorably awake, stared in boredom at the ceiling, unconsciously rubbing his forearm. Bloody hell.

After a few moments of careful preening in the bathroom, he made his way downstairs. It was morbid curiosity really, that made him decide not to stay upstairs. Also, he was hungry—and there was the added bonus of watching Granger scream at Weasley. Heh. That was always worth the trip.

"THIS IS A BLATANT ABUSE OF ELF LABOR!" said Granger furiously, gesturing madly, as if words alone weren't enough to express her indignation. "I can't believe you!"

"He wanted to help!" countered Weasley. "You know him. He loves Harry. Bloody mad about him. It's right creepy sometimes."

"You're exploiting him!" she countered, point a finger accusingly in his freckled face. "Exploiter!"

"I am not explating him!" said Weasley defensively.

"She said, 'exploiting,' you dullard," said Draco. He was sitting at the table with his head resting on his chin, watching them lazily, is if they were a particularly hostile Quidditch match. They both jumped slightly when he spoke, whirling around to face him as if they had forgotten everything else in the world except screaming at each other. "What are you two on about anyway?"

"Ronald here—" Granger stared at him with narrowed eyes. "Decided to contract Dobby to make a birthday cake for Harry—completely exploiting his generosity and affinity for Harry! It's absolutely disgusting—"

"He wanted to help!" roared Weasley. "You are completely bonkers!"

Draco rolled his eyes theatrically. "Then why don't you pay the bloody wretch if that's what you're on about! Merlin, you're giving me a headache! How does Potter put up with this shit all day long?"

They both stared at him blankly, silent for a moment, and then looked at each other.

"Well, that's a good idea."

"Sounds fine to me!"

"Good. That would be fair."

"Fine! I will!"

"Fine!"

"Great!"

This was followed by more silence.

"Speaking of, where is Potter, anyway? I don't see how could have slept through the racket you two were making," asked Draco.

At that moment, Potter wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen, looking around at the assembled crowd. "Morning."

"Good morning," chirped Granger, as if she had been perfectly cheerful all day, and had not in fact been screaming like a mad banshee at Weasley a few minutes ago.

"Happy Birthday, mate," added Weasley.

"Thanks," said Potter, smiling.

"Good lord, Potter," said Draco, who had jumped back in alarm the moment Potter had entered the kitchen. "What the hell is on your head?"

Potter looked upwards. "My hair," he replied, staring at Draco as if he were quite mad.

Draco curled his lip in disgust. "Does it always look like that in the morning?" he asked in horror. The jet black, disheveled mass on Potter's head looked like flock of angry seagulls had all tried to nest in the same place, gotten into a terrific fight over it, and all flown away, leaving a mass of unruly, tangled devastation in their wake. The only thing the hair style was missing was several twigs sticking at odd angles.

"Stop staring at my head, Malfoy," grumbled Harry. Draco just shrugged, resolving not to look directly at Potter's head until he at least tried to comb his hair. The sight was liable to make him go blind.

"Do you want to open your presents, now?" asked Weasley, excitedly.

"I opened Lupin and Tonks's already," said Potter brightly. "It was wicked. Do you want to see?" He darted out of the room for a moment and returned with a box, the lid open and flapping in the air. He set it down in the table.

"You…opened it already?" asked Granger in a small voice, looking somewhat upset. "Without anyone there? On your birthday?"

Potter looked up at her, suddenly confused. He paused, as if it had never occurred to him not to. "Well—I—I mean—I always open my birthday presents alone…" he said slowly. "I'm very sorry—" he added, seeing the heartbroken look on her face. "I didn't really think about it…"

"Of course you didn't!" she said, with passionate sympathy, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. "Don't apologize! Oh Harry, Happy Birthday!" She continued to squeeze him, her eyes over-bright, until he protested in a strangled voice that he was starting to have significant difficulty breathing. Granger released him, and backed away. Draco mockingly pantomimed crying over Potter's lonely childhood from behind the table, but no one noticed.

"What's in the box?" asked Weasley, peering at it curiously. Potter reached in and began to pull things out, spreading them out on the table. There was a black dragonhide jacket, gloves, sunglasses, a rather dorky looking helmet, and a pair of silver keys. The last thing he pulled out was a letter, which Granger accepted and began reading, pausing occasionally to comment worriedly.

"Harry, Happy Birthday, from both of us. I know some of these objects may seem rather odd, but I assure you they all serve a purpose. Sirius brought it to my attention several times whilst we were staying at Grimmauld Place that there was a perfectly good flying motorbike gathering dust in the attic—'Oh, no, please tell me he didn't'—and no one was using it to wreak havoc on the wizarding world. He seemed adamant that you should receive it. (Naturally, I tended to blame this aspiration on cabin fever, but I digress.) Now that you are of age, you can freely ride (within reason) anywhere you wish without Ministry restriction. The clothing included also belonged to Sirius—he insisted that no self-respecting cyclist should be without a good leather jacket (and I assure you, the girls at school had no objections), so I imagine he intended for you to wear them in conjunction with the motorbike, should you choose to accept it. I have included the helmet that goes with the bike, though Tonks assures me that there is 'no way in hell' any teenage boy in their right mind would wear it—I felt it prudent to at least include the option. 'You really ought to wear it, Harry.' So, in conclusion, we wish you the very happiest of birthdays and hope that you enjoy your present, 'Someone wrote "as responsibly as possible," and it looks like someone else scratched it out—' Sincerely, Remus and Tonks."

"It really is up in the attic," said Potter in satisfaction. "I just checked."

"Wicked," said Weasley, clapping his hands together, his eyes alight. Draco's mind briefly formulated a plan to convince Weasley to ride the flying bike into the side of a building, but he dismissed it.

"Oh, Harry," said Granger nervously. "Are you really going to use the bike? It's probably so dangerous…"

"That's the point of it, isn't it?" said Weasley, as if it were obvious.

"Are you at least going to wear the helmet?" she asked in an almost pleading voice. Potter looked at her guiltily.

"I'll—er—think about it," he offered. Weasley made a face. Granger looked a little bit relieved.

"Are you going to wear this?" asked Weasley, picking up the jacket and examining it. "This is a nice jacket! Must be dragonhide. Fred and George just bought a pair…"

"Ginny would probably appreciate it," said Granger, with a slightly twisted smile. Potter and Weasley reddened. The female Weasel. Wasn't Potter dating her? Most people in Slytherin seemed convinced she was some sort of mad little tart. Plus those skirts she wore were a bit too short for her propriety to remain wholly intact. Not that he ever noticed her, of course.

Draco sneered. "The famous Harry Potter, covered head to toe in leather? I'm sure gaggles of girls will chase you right down the street…"

"Well, the ensemble wouldn't be complete unless I borrowed those dashing leather trousers you were wearing earlier, Malfoy," he retorted. Weasley snickered. "Though I imagine you destroyed them the first chance you got."

Draco leaned backwards casually in his chair and folded his arms. "Actually they're upstairs." Weasley goggled at him.

"You kept them?" squeaked Granger, who had gone beet red.

To be honest, Draco had considered destroying them, as a sign of the humiliation Granger had put him through. However, he was unable to reconcile wiping the trousers from the face of earth with how gorgeous they made his arse look, and kept them. "If you're quite done fantasizing about me in leather trousers, you can borrow them sometime, Potter," he smirked unabashedly.

000

Malfoy…wearing leather trousers…NO! Malfoy wearing leather trousers is repulsive, she scolded herself.

"Here—" said Hermione brightly, racing to the side of the kitchen and picking up a package. She sat it down next to the biker ensemble. "Happy Birthday!"

"How many times do all of you have to say 'Happy Birthday' in the span of five minutes? I think he gets it," sighed Malfoy. Everyone ignored him. It was his birthday, after all.

Ron disappeared from the room for a moment and quickly returned, placing another box next to Hermione's. Harry, after a bit of encouragement, and still looking slightly bashful, opened them. Hermione had bought him a book. She knew of course, that Harry did not read quite as…often as she did, but she stubbornly believed that anyone could appreciate the gift of literature, so long as they received the right book. She had bought him Grindewald Defeated, and Legacy of Greatness: The Life and Times of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

She had actually read both books cover to cover while standing in the store and debating whether or not to buy them. The Dumbledore biography had come out practically the moment his funeral ended. She recognized the author, Melvin Remington, as the keynote speaker from the funeral. The book was an interesting read, of course. Dumbledore had lived a fascinating life, but the book lacked fundamentally the qualities of warmth and…enlightenment that the Headmaster possessed. It was a shame, because in Hermione's opinion, those were the qualities that had made him truly great. What she had really regretted was that Dumbledore had left behind no written memoirs, no autobiography for the ages to remember him by.

"He didn't seem like the type to write things down," observed Ron. He had been in the bookstore with her as she complained about this particular issue, trying to discreetly hide the copy of Wicked Witches in Short Skirts! he was looking at. "He left behind his actions for everybody to remember. That was his 'Legacy of Greatness', or whatever is in that book."

Ron had bought him a set of fingerless Quidditch gloves, (No More Slipping Off Your Broomstick, No Matter what the Weather, Guaranteed!) made from black leather and trimmed with a thin line of gold. They would compliment his uniform rather nicely, in Hermione's opinion. Harry seemed genuinely grateful for both gifts, but Hermione rather regretted that neither of them had managed to buy him something really amazing, like a shield that could repel curses or a nice wristwatch that would make him invincible. You know. Something practical.

Malfoy was looking boredly at them. "Finally, someone else noticed how often Potter goes tumbling off his bloody broomstick."

Harry glared at him. Malfoy stared back at him. "You can stop staring at me Potter," he said smoothly. "I didn't get you anything."

"If you would just shut the hell up," said Harry, "it would be the best present ever."

"Fine," said Malfoy. "For ten minutes, I won't say anything nasty."

They looked at him, slightly bewildered for a moment, before continuing their conversation.

"Thank you for the presents guys," said Harry sincerely. "They're brilliant, really."

"I hope Quidditch starts up again," sighed Ron. "I'm going to miss the games…"

"It figures Weasley, that the only thing you miss about academia is 'sports'," snorted Malfoy.

"That was definitely not 10 minutes, Malfoy," Harry informed him. "That was more like two."

"You just can't stand not to be the center of attention, can you?" snapped Hermione.

"I said I wouldn't say anything nasty," he clarified. "I didn't say I would stop saying things that were true." They all stared at him. "Well—" He looked around at their indignant faces. "If I wanted to be nasty I would tell Weasley that his face looks like a—"

"Go—read—" Hermione cut him off jerkily. She picked up a book and slapped it against his chest. "Somewhere else!"

Grumbling about sappy Gryffindor gits, Malfoy slunk off into the living room.

"We need to get rid of him," said Ron, frowning.

"You mean kill him?" asked Harry, his eyes widening.

"No, I don't mean kill him," countered Ron. He seemed to ponder this for a moment. "But, since you brought it up, I mean—"

"We can't kill him," pointed out Hermione, feeling, as usual, like the only sane person in the room. "It would be unethical."

"You and your 'ethics'," muttered Ron.

"Look—" sighed Hermione. "Let's not worry about what to do with him now. Today should be…fun. I know we've hit a bit of a sticking point…but it's not really a dead end—and we'll never give up, will we? So…maybe for one day we can forget that there's a piece of Voldemort's soul and a diary full of Dark Magic hidden in the living room next to a former Death Eater and just…I don't know. Do something fun."

"Hermione," said Ron, in a mock scolding tone. "How very unpractical of you."

"Ha ha," she countered dryly.

"You called him a 'former' Death Eater," said Harry softly. Hermione looked up in surprise. "Do you really think that's true?"

Hermione twisted her hands. "I don't know," she said truthfully. "Since when did I become the expert on Malfoy?"

"You did save his worthless life," pointed out Ron.

"Come on, Hermione," said Harry, throwing her a small smile. "You know everything."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know…not everything is written in books." They were all quiet for a moment.

"We don't technically need him anymore," said Ron. "We got what we needed out of the diary, didn't we?" He looked from Harry to Hermione.

"I think we did," she said.

"But he knows what we're doing," said Harry, with a touch of urgency in his voice. "What if he goes running back to Voldemort and spills his ferret guts to him?"

"I don't think he will," Hermione said. "He's not exactly pleased with the way Voldemort treated his family, and all that bullocks about 'Pureblood family honor' is all he talks about. It's really quite annoying."

"So he hates Voldemort more than he hates us right now, is that it?" asked Ron.

"Basically—yes. I think so."

"Huh," said Ron contemplatively. "That's a new one. But that doesn't change who he is."

"I never said that it did," she responded evenly.

"But he would sell us out if he felt threatened," said Harry harshly, staring at Hermione as if he expected her to disagree.

"Perhaps," she said fairly. "So I think if we are going to separate from him, we have to find him some place to hide." Ron made an exasperated, huffing noise. "I think we owe him at least that."

"We don't owe him anything," growled Ron.

"Yes we do," snapped Hermione. "How else would we have gotten into Malfoy Manor for goodness sakes? He's an ass, but he's been helpful, and it's not fair to him to leave him to get blown to bits by the same people we are trying to fight."

Ron and Hermione both looked Harry, as if he could cast the deciding vote. Harry raised an eyebrow at both of them. "Fine," he said after a pause. "We'll find him a place to stay. That sounds fair. But we have to make sure he doesn't start spilling our secrets to the wrong people."

000

Granger, the mad bint, had given him a book of Muggle psychology. It was thick and ugly and smelled like chemicals. Muggle books always smelled odd. So did Muggles, for that matter, in his opinion.

Draco slammed the book shut on a full page detailed picture of a human brain. It looked…squishy. Despite the strange renovations that had seemingly been perpetrated on the house, he still felt more at home here than he did elsewhere. It was an old wizards house, and the fact that it might in some remote way belong to him was rather comforting.

He sunk further into his chair and sighed. Much as he was loathe to admit it, Draco often did feel like his life was spinning out of control. He realized, with some degree of astonishment, that the world he had lived in for the past 17 years was not in fact anything at all like the world he was currently living in.

He felt as though he had missed something. Had he really been that…sheltered? The events of this past year had more or less thrust him to the brink—no privileges, no help, no nothing. Just cold threats. It made his head spin. He could barely reconcile this chilly, current reality with his perception. He felt as though he should be able to tap someone on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me, are you sure this is the real world? Because it seems to be broken. Is there anyone I could talk to about fixing it? I am, after all, a Malfoy, and thusly am entitled to certain special privileges."

Draco was still wallowing in self pity when a loud pop sounded in front of him. Startled he whirled around in the chair, wand out.

"Happy Birthday, Harry Potter sir!" squeaked a disturbingly familiar voice. Draco gaped. It was a house-elf, and not just any house-elf—his old house-elf. And that wasn't all—the elf was surrounded by floating cakes, twisting and bobbing in the air around him. Draco continued to stare blankly at the elf, who finally caught sight of him in return and shrieked as though he had been trodden on.

"Master Draco!" squealed the elf in alarm. Without missing a beat, the elf began running in panicked circles, wailing and banging his head against things.

"Stop shrieking, you little worm," said Draco, annoyed. The elf looked at him as if conflicted.

"Master Draco cannot order Dobby around anymore," said the elf defiantly, his voice trembling slightly. He spread his skinny arms wide. "Dobby is free." He sounded pleased with himself.

"If what you do with your freedom is run around shrieking and banging into walls, it's little wonder that you're all enslaved, is it?" Draco replied lazily.

The elf stared at him, slightly abashed. "Dobby enjoys his freedom. Dobby can do as he pleases."

At least he had stopped shrieking. "I really don't care what you do," said Draco honestly.

"Dobby is looking for Harry Potter sir." The elf still had trouble looking directly at Draco.

Draco sighed. "He's in the kitchen." Draco stood up and left the living room, pausing at the door of the kitchen to listen in.

"Fine," Potter was saying. "We'll find him a place to stay. That sounds fair. But we have to make sure he doesn't start spilling our secrets to the wrong people."

"I can give you my word," said Draco. They all whirled around to stare at him. "That's plenty."

"Must you eavesdrop all the time?" said Granger exasperatedly.

"There's a mad house-elf in the living room," Draco informed them, folding his arms. "He's very annoying."

"Dobby!" said Weasley brightly. "Dobby come in here!" He called loudly. Granger cleared her throat loudly. "…please."

A moment later, the elf appeared in the doorway, still surrounded by the floating cakes that jostled against the doorframe. "Dobby has baked 17 cakes for Harry Potter, sir!" he squeaked excitedly. "One for every year."

"You know…" said Granger, staring weakly at the cakes, which floated down and crowded onto the tabletop. "Candles usually suffice…"

"You only baked me one cake on my birthdays," huffed Draco. One cake. Never mind the fact that it was three feet tall and iced with several dozen tiny serpants…

"That's because Master Draco was mean," said the elf shrilly, its tiny eyes bulging.

"You little—" said Draco, advancing on the elf. It squeaked and scampered behind Potter's legs.

"If you threaten him again, I'm going to turn you into a slug!" said Granger, a glint of hysteria in her eyes. She pulled her wand out and pointed it at him.

"You're all completely mad." Draco threw up his hands and backed away from the elf.

"There are 18 cakes here, Dobby," said Weasley.

"Wow, Weasley, I didn't know you could count," said Draco, sounding impressed.

"The last cake is from Kreacher." The elf looked uneasy. "Dobby told him he should make his master a cake on his birthday, but Dobby is not sure what Kreacher put in the cake…"

Weasley poked the cake on the end of the table with his wand. It was frosted jet black, and the surface squirmed and pulsed slightly as if the inside were full of something writhing and slimy.

"Let me guess," said Weasley, floating the cake into the rubbish bin with a disgusted grimace, "Kreacher's maggot surprise…"

"Eww…" said Potter.

"He's just a little unbalanced," said Granger worriedly. "He's old."

Draco stared blankly at her. "He put maggots in a cake. That's not unbalanced. That's purposefully disgusting."

Crazy bint.

000

Poor Kreacher. Hermione glared at Malfoy. He was just old and senile. And bitter. He had been exposed to a lifetime of abuse and forced labor! It wasn't his fault.

"Dobby must be going, if Harry Potter does not mind," piped up Dobby, staring up at Harry.

"Of course Dobby," said Harry kindly. "Thank you for the cakes."

Dobby's wide eyes brimmed with tears. "Harry Potter is so kind!" he cried in a wobbly voice. He threw a pair of tiny arms around Harry's legs and hugged him. "Dobby hopes Harry Potter has the very Happiest of Birthdays!" He backed up, still sniffling with emotion, and disappeared. "Goodbye!"

After a moment's pause, the general consensus seemed to be that they should dig into the cakes. Hermione helped herself to a slice of strawberry torte, and found herself slightly traumatized at the sight of three teenage boys consuming cake as if they had survived a several year famine. Well—two at least. Harry ate about two-thirds of a cheesecake and Ron finished off an entire carrot cake. Malfoy ate about half of a chocolate layer cake before he started to look bored and pushed it away.

Watching Ron eat cake was a very distinct sight. She had no idea how someone so skinny could eat so much so quickly. It was one of the mysteries of the universe, she supposed. Harry ate the way he always did when he was consuming something delicious, particularly anything with sugar in it. Quietly, looking around everyone and awhile as if he expected someone to come scream at him and snatch it away. Malfoy ate very slowly, with dignity, as if were some sort of important, preoccupied foreign dignitary.

"Bill and Fleur's wedding is in two days," said Hermione, breaking the silence associated with stuffing cake in one's mouth.

"Mum will murder you if you don't show," said Ron to Harry, very matter-of-factly.

"I was planning on going, you know," said Harry, shrugging.

"She's expecting us to stay over the night before," added Hermione pointedly.

Harry looked at Malfoy. "Malfoy…"

He raised an eyebrow, arms folded. "Yes, Potter?"

"We're leaving here soon, for a few days. We won't force you to leave—no, if you say anything stupid right now I am going to punch you—you can stay here if you'd like. You need somewhere to lie low for awhile, we understand. You could have walked away from us a dozen times, but you didn't. But now I want assurance that you aren't going to tell the Death Eaters what you know."

"Bullshit," hissed Ron. "Can't we just modify his memory?"

"It's not enough. If he wants to betray us he will," said Harry flatly. "Well Malfoy?"

"I really don't like you, Potter," said Malfoy. He and Harry were both standing now.

"I can't exactly claim to be fond of your stupid arse, either, Malfoy," replied Harry.

"But I give you my word," he extended his hand forward and Harry took it. "By my honor as a wizard, I will keep your confidences…" His eyes roamed away from Harry and he locked gazes with Hermione. "…if you will keep mine."

Ron's mouth was shut very tightly. He clearly did not agree with Harry, but he was not about to disagree with his friend when he had made up his mind.

In Ron's eyes, Hermione knew, Malfoy had no honor. But she had learned over the course of time that there were different types of honor, and—odd as it seemed—Draco was likely to throw himself off of a cliff before dishonoring a vow.

Even if he was still a rude, smarmy little git.

000

AN: Ah, yes. I love Lupin, but every time I try to bring him into the story, he runs away. Dammit! Now I know why he's always at the fringes of the story…(though that doesn't mean I'm not disappointed…) Here's how it usually goes:

Authoress: Lupin, Harry needs your help.

Lupin: OK. (shows up, helps Harry in a wise, friendly, mentoring capacity, and is generally adorable) Done! Well, I'll best be off then. Call me if you need anything else, Harry!

Authoress: Dammit, where do you think you're going? Get back here!

Lupin: Sorry, I have to go be broody and aloof, and yet still remain steadfast in my commitments, and have an excellent sense of humor about it.

Authoress: No brooding! Get back here and interact with the other characters!

Lupin: Sorry. I have werewolf stuff to do.

Authoress: You do not! There's only a full moon once a month! What the hell do you do with the rest of your time?

Lupin: Ha! Don't you and every other rabid fangirl want to know! Well…usually I read meaningful works of literature and contemplate them. Then I brood about the fact that my life is a swirling vortex of doom in which everyone I love is taken away from me in a tragic, tragic way, while society shuns me like a particularly contagious leper.

Authoress: Aww…do you need a hug?

Lupin: Ok, ok, fine. I have to go shag Tonks. Are you happy now?

Tonks: Well, I'm happy!

Authoress: Yeah…I guess. But I'm dragging your tragically heroic ass back here sometime soon, so get used to it!

Yeah. It's exactly like that. Hehehe…Wow, that flashback was so angsty. Draco torture! Ah well…he'll have to share that little story with Hermione eventually. Won't that be interesting?

Sorry there wasn't a lot of action in this chapter. Just a lot of chatter. Hopefully it was amusing chatter. (PS: This is the longest chapter I have written so far. So much for the 'shorter chapters' thing. I just couldn't find the right place to end it.)

Next time: Draco is bored, everyone eats more cake, horrible doom looms in the distance, families are united and reunited, there is more dancing, and Ginny and Hermione discuss 'boys.' Heh heh.