Shit, shit, where the fuck is my badge? Draco thought frantically, patting his pockets and searching the room. I just had it, I know I did, what did I do with it?

"Anson," he said, barely containing the frustration in his voice, "do you know what I did with my badge?"

"Can't you remember anything?" Anson retorted. "I'm your Conscience, not your baby-sitter or your mother. I'm only supposed to know the things you do."

"But you know that's not true," cajoled Draco, fumbling through the piles of paperwork on his desk. "You know lots more than I do. Please?"

Anson sighed, clearly unwilling to help. "You left it on the counter after your shower last night," he said petulantly.

Draco smacked his forehead. "Of course! Thanks, Anson, you're a real pal," he said, rushing through the door marked "Head Boy Bathroom." He touched the silver shower head and slam! He was in the bathroom closet.

Draco grabbed the badge lying innocently on the counter and attempted to pin it quickly on his chest. "Shit," he growled as he stuck himself. Finally he managed to attach it, albeit crookedly, and rushed back to his study.

"You're late for that meeting," Anson said. "You promised not to be late and you are."

"I know!" yelled Draco. He looked wildly around the room at all the doors until his eyes came to light on "Professor McGonagall's Office." He pulled the door open violently and grabbed the silver lion's head mounted on the wall of the tiny closet. He rather liked the whole idea of not running through the corridors but instead popping up around the school wherever he needed to be. If only he'd known about these as a younger student, he felt he truly could have put them to good use.

Draco stumbled out of the transporter, as he had come to think of them, and almost tripped over the threshold of the door. "Sorry," he gasped, regaining his balance and his breath. "Couldn't find my badge –"

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, that will do," Professor McGonagall said smoothly. "You are only a couple minutes late, I think we can excuse you this time. Now, if you will take your seat I shall commence the meeting."

Draco was secretly horrified at the looks of concealed amusement in the faces of the prefects as he went to sit down. Something was nagging at the back of his mind... Where was Hermione? She was Head Girl, what if something had happened to her, is that why they were here? These thoughts tumbled through his head like socks in a washing machine, even if he didn't quite understand what a washing machine was.

Then he realized what he was thinking, and he remembered who he was. Who cared if the Mudblood couldn't take care of herself?

"You do," said Anson.

"Do not," Draco muttered inaudibly.

"Do too."

"No way," Draco whispered, louder this time. The prefects on either side of him looked at him strangely. They'd heard he was a bit weird, but not like this.

"Mr. Malfoy, do you have something you would like to say to the rest of us?" asked McGonagall, irritated at being interrupted.

"What?" Draco said, baffled.

"Please keep your objections to yourself, Mr. Malfoy, unless they are relevant to the topic at hand," she said frostily. Draco was surprised. He hadn't thought she had started talking yet.

Leave me alone, he thought meanly at Anson. Barrett Urien, a stuck up Ravenclaw fifth year on Draco's left, snickered at the face Draco was unintentionally making. Draco didn't notice. Bellona Swithin, a sixth year Slytherin who adored Draco, glared at Barrett. Draco didn't notice.

"Hey, genius," Anson said. "Try paying attention. Your teacher called this meeting for a reason." Draco snapped out of his trance, guiltily. He started paying attention, and became more and more dismayed with each bit of information he learned.

"As Prefects, you all must plan the social events this year will hold in store for yourselves and the rest of the student body. In the pasts, events have included Halloween, Yule, and end-of-school balls; organized field trips to various parts of the world, such as beaches, malls, and the like; concerts of famous and local wizarding musical groups, stand up comedians, and plays; open mic nights; Muggle movie nights, and much more."

Several students started whispering excitedly to each other. This earned them a stern look from McGonagall, who continued when they were silent again. "It is up to you to decide, and with the guidance of your loyal Head students, plan and execute fun and safe events for the rest of Hogwarts. Please note that you must propose your ideas to me before following through." The prefects gave a collected groan at this.

"It's not like they could possibly get away with half the things they think of," said Anson quietly. "You should have a look inside their heads, it's really rather amusing."

I said leave me alone, thought Draco, but he didn't mean it. He actually had gotten used to Anson, after spending a whole three weeks with him commenting on everything Draco did. He'd even heard Hermione's Conscience once or twice, but not very often. Hermione seemed to be already perfect, untouchable. Practically nothing she ever did deserved rebuke. He was sort of .. no, scratch that. He was extremely jealous of her. She had always been a teacher's pet, a know-it-all, part of the Golden Trio; he yearned to be her superior in one thing, just one thing.

Coming back to reality with a jolt, he looked around and saw that everyone else had already left. Professor McGonagall had turned her attention to a collection of essays from her third years. Draco stood, and walked up to her desk. He paused, awkwardly.

"Umm.." he began. The professor looked up.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" she said crisply, not unkindly. Her voice softened. "Miss Granger is fine," she said. Draco gaped.

Anson sighed. "No, she can't read minds."

Professor McGonagall continued. "She is in the infirmary having her scar checked out by Madam Pomfrey. We still do not know the spell that was cast, and until we can find out more about it, we are taking every precaution."

"It looked like the Intersapienta curse," blurted Draco, and then looked horrified.

"Ahh, good for you," said Anson approvingly. "I didn't even have to suggest that to you. You're getting better at this sort of thing, you know."

Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses and looked closer at the boy. "Is there, perhaps, anything you would like to share, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked carefully.

Draco bristled. "Are you suggesting –" he was cut off by Anson.

"Don't start a fight, you idiot, she's concerned. You have nothing to hide anyway," his Conscience growled. "Trust me on that one."

"I apologize," Draco said. "From what I could see, all signs point to the Intersapienta curse. We learned about that last year in Extra Charms," he added quickly. The Intersapienta curse was black magic, and very complicated. He didn't think any student could possibly pull it off.

Then again, he knew for a fact that some of the older Slytherin students had joined the ranks of the Dark Lord a couple years ago, before the final war, and his father had returned home with amazing stories of the power of young people these days, won't it be wonderful when Draco can join too, we'll show those Mudbloods… Draco had made a good show out of agreeing with his father, but deep down inside he wasn't sure if what his father was doing was right. He had always had unshakeable faith in his father, but ever since he came to Hogwarts, vague doubts had begun to riddle his mind.

He flopped down on his bed, not even noticing that he had just walked out of the professor's office without a word. He focused his eyes on the ceiling. "How did I get here?" he wondered out loud.

Anson said, "You walked."

Unpinning his badge, he began to play with it. He rubbed his name, Draco James Malfoy, engraved on the backside of it. Not for the first time, he wished his life had turned out differently. He remembered the stories his father used to tell him when he was young, about the good times he used to have with James Potter, until he'd been backstabbed by Potter, betrayed. Draco often wondered what had actually happened between the two. He definitely didn't believe his father's account of the story, which had become more and more twisted as Draco got older. Draco had never dared ask anyone. Potter probably doesn't even know, he thought. Why would he want to know that his father and the father of his childhood rival were best friends?

Was there anyone who would know? Someone had to. Involuntarily, his thoughts turned to the one person that always knew everything.

Draco groaned. "I haven't seen her at all in the past three weeks," he said. "Where does she hide? I barely see her in class."

"Maybe she doesn't want people to mock her," Anson suggested.

"Why would they do that?" Draco wrinkled his nose. He rolled over onto his wand. "Ow! Who the fuck left that there?" he yelled, extracting the wand from his side.

"You –" Anson began.

"Don't even say it!" Draco yelled. "I know I left it there," he said, in a more normal tone. "What were we talking about?"

"You asked why Hermione is scared of people mocking her," Anson said.

"Oh yeah," Draco said thoughtfully.

"Maybe it's-" Anson was cut off again.

"That's a big scar, too," Draco said, seemingly ignoring his Conscience. "It's not a little job like what Potter's got. It covers practically half of the side of her head." He yawned.

"Yes, but –" Anson attempted.

"I'm glad I don't have one," Draco said sleepily. He kicked off his shoes.

"Maybeshe'shidingbecausepeoplelikeyoumakefunofherlikeonthetrain," Anson said in one breath.

"Mm," murmured Draco. Anson sighed. Draco had fallen asleep.