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Sorry it took so long, school and work have started again. . .

Ch. 25: Day 12, Part I: Monsters

Harry collapsed on his cot almost immediately after dinner, despite the twins' assurances that the best fun to be had was still at night, even at a battle camp. Exhausted, he slept like a rock for several hours before waking a little before midnight: his tent was pitch black, like a starless sky, and the sound of wind blowing through frozen wasteland the only evidence of a world beyond the immediate nothingness. Muffled senses provoked the imagination to amplify the evidence of every misfiring neuron, causing the still emptiness to become suffocating, perception straining for any indication of what could have woken him.

There it was! A strange counter current to the whistling wind, low pitched and uneven. After a second it faded, but then Harry heard it again – lilting and suspiciously complex. Paranoia struck his heart and Harry grabbed for his wand and glasses, jumping out of bed and stalking to where he knew the tent flap to be. He felt out the zipper and quietly, slowly pulled it down: he couldn't see much, but the sky was so clear that the slim slit of the moon, the stars, and even the Milky Way offered a soft glow. He could vaguely make out the tents some distance in front of him. . . t

Then the faint whispering could be heard again – definitely coming from the Slytherin court to the left of his tent.

With a flare of irritation, Harry yanked on his boots and pulled his robe over his pajamas. Leave it to the Slytherins to be a pain in the ass in the middle of the night. Whatever their intentions, they certainly seemed to put effort into being dodgy.

He slipped silently out of his tent and squatted at the corner to study the darkness. . . Sure enough, there they were; probably all of them, sitting in a circle, as close together as possible. He was too far to hear what was being said, but it was hard not be a little apprehensive. The idea was daunting, but the Gryffindor in him knew what he had to do: he stood up and walked carefully towards them.

"What about . . . "

" . . . a distraction from the target. . ." That murmur might have been Draco.

". . . Polyjuice?" Nott maybe?

Harry felt himself pass through a weak sound dampening barrier.

He was close now and silence fell at once as all the Slytherins turned to look at him, almost as though everyone had noticed him simultaneously. In the darkness he could still make out a few distinct faces from under the robes, and Draco, of course, was obvious however obscured.

"Hey, what's going on, mates?" his words cool, but weighted.

A time stretched in which only the drag of the wind upon the ice could be heard, before finally a group decision was (cultishly) made without ever a word being exchanged. It was Pansy who gave the voice to the authorized truth, "We were just discussing our role in this side of the war."

"Is that a, uh, safe topic?" Harry asked, all the more suspicious for Pansy having answered instead of Draco.

"Why don't you stay and find out?" Draco taunted with a malicious sneer, starlight glinting off his pale skin.

Faced with a ring of stony expressions and piercing gazes, it was a rather daunting challenge; but he had gotten himself in this situation and it was too late back out now. "Where would I sit?" he asked tentatively.

Draco looked at his housemates – rather, his mates from a house that had transcended the walls of Hogwarts. It was clear from their expressions that several had arrived at the very same idea, obvious really to any educated wizard or witch from a traditional pureblood family (as most Slytherins were), who would have witnessed and participated in circle ceremonies. In such ceremonies, there was always a position in the center, generally reserved for the sacrifice, or for the judge.

With a toothy, carnivorous grin, Millicent Bulstrode purred disturbingly, "You can sit it the middle."

The rest grunted their agreement, and several laughed, then dozens of eyes rested expectantly on the Boy-Who-Lived. Reluctantly, Harry stepped over the knees of two Slytherins, then promptly sat cross-legged in the center, conspicuously facing Draco. Even in darkness, their eyes sought out an intense connection.

"Actually, we were discussing our role in any upcoming battle," Draco clarified ominously. Harry frowned: he was going to strangle that bastard if he was up to something treacherous, but he was rather willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Tor was just expressing his concerns that we would be a target during any battle, given the special. . . distaste the other side will have for us," Pansy stated matter-of-factly, though it was clear that her words were carefully considered.

After a growing silence, Nott took the opportunity to revisit his idea, venturing, "I suggested using Polyjuice so that we could avoid the added risk. . . I still think that is the best option. Even you, Malfoy, can't be too eager to face your Father, can you?"

Annoyed, Draco replied directly, "No, I'm not eager. Your father's a torturing, killing, psychopathic monster, believe me I get it, but that's why our identities are of such strategic value. . ." He smiled frighteningly, and whispered in an eerie voice, "Monster bait."

The images provoked made Harry's stomach clench painfully with fear, and he felt a little ill; the Slytherins tensed and several leaned away from their leader.

"Don't do that, Malfoy," Clairden scolded, kicking some snow at him. "You'll scare the kids."

Indeed, most of the younger (as well as some of the older) Slytherins did look scared, despite their half-hearted attempts to hide it. They were the faces of children, and Draco's features softened as he searched eyes looking to him for strength and leadership.

Licking his lips, he leaned forward and began secretively, "Deep within Malfoy Manner, there are big libraries, with more books than most ever seen in their whole lives. Within one tome, there is a composition by Salazar Slytherin. . . a mindtwister."

Harry was a little astounded to glance around and see that all the Slytherins were leaning forward for what appeared to be story time; indeed, the quasi-fictional Adventures of Draco Malfoy and the Haunted Malfoy Manor had been entertaining the dungeon dwelling students of Hogwarts ever since Draco had been a pipsqueak first years.

"Merlin, I obsessed over this mindtwister for a whole week straight once, when I was maybe seven or eight. Father, of course, punished me for wasting my time with such brain rot, and usually I didn't find 'twisters that captivating, but this one. . . Father should have known better, nothing Salazar Slytherin ever did was a waste of time."

Harry was impressed: Draco had mad skillz. He shouldn't be so surprised, but he found it difficult to reconcile his courageous, responsible persona with his cruel, destructive alter ego.

"Finally I realized that something else was going on beyond the usual hypnosis, a purposeful magical content to the words that would put the thinker in a trance that protected them from pain and fear. . . Would you like to hear it?"

The Slytherins grunted their affirmative, and Draco leaned into the circle, closer to Harry, and their eyes met again. . . "Peace breeds martyrs and villains, war makes killers of men."

What the –

! BREAK !

The Slytherins gave the mindtwisters a try, sitting still and letting the phrases repeat in their minds, in every permeation of emphasis, until neurons fired and blood flowed to the very rhythms of word. . .

Harry had never experienced anything like it, and he disliked it immediately; quenching his panic, he used what little skills he'd learned from Snape to really concentrate

And like that, the trance passed. Harry looked around to see the Slytherins watching him through slightly glazed eyes, clearly still indulging in the mindtwister. What in Merlin's name were they getting out of it?

"Alright, Potter?" Draco inquired, sounding exhausted, but almost friendly.

"What's a bloody mindtwister?" Harry whispered, trying to keep his cool.

Draco's expression of surprise was suspiciously readable, and so barely believable; with a smirk the blonde explained. "Right, you wouldn't know, what with growing up muggle. . . Mindtwisters are. . . linguistic magical quirks, is the technical definition. Really, they are certain word and phrase combinations that demanded magical attention. Just by thinking them, you become a little obsessed, though the phrases are neither catchy nor memorable. . . it's easily breakable or avoidable with a little concentration. Rather a lame phenomenon, like rhyming, or double-entendre."

Harry smiled in amusement, then they shared a moment of silence fell to look around at the Slytherins trying to indulging the trance. Shortly, Zabini pushed the mindtwister out of his consciousness with a tired sigh, then mustered the energy to ask nervously, "You made up that hogwash about the mindtwister being special invention of Salazar Slytherin's, didn'tcha?"

"It'll never work if you don't believe," Draco deadpanned, though his response was somewhat cut off the end.

A couple recruits snickered, then Pansy offered, "It's almost midnight, maybe we should get some rest. We can discuss this tomorrow, when we've had more time to consider what was said here tongith."

There were several grunts and comments of agreement, and declarations of fatigue, as the Slytherins began getting to their feet and marching through the snow and wind to the welcoming (relative) warmth of their tents

"Alright, Draco?" Millicent asked; Draco nodded, then it was only him and Harry left sitting in the frozen darkness. Even the warming spells on their thick wool robes couldn't keep the chill from settling deep in the bone. . . But something kept him out in the frigid night, something that was drawn to these strange private moments with Potter, something that inexplicably wanted Potter to like him, to maybe even trust him.

"I'm not gonna start any trouble," he offered somewhat lamely, trying to find the right words to express the meaning of this night.

"Yeah, right," Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Malfoy, trouble's practically your middle name."

Draco smiled a little at what was, unfortunately, undeniable. Still, it needed to said out loud, "What I mean is. . . we're not plotting treason here, we're just. . . preparing for the worst, you know?"

As Draco continued, Harry could hear better than see the genuine strength and concern that he was saying, "Not all of us will live to face our mothers and fathers, but we'd like a couple tricks up our sleeves, should that ever arrive."

"Like Salazar Slytherin's mindtwister?" Harry retorted with a chuckle. Draco spun some good shit, wasn't a half-bad leader, but Harry was highly skeptical of any mythical potions or curses or 'magical quirks' that Draco brought to the table, especially considering how fabulously the last specimen had worked out.

Draco just shrugged, looking away nonchalantly; huddled for warmth, he suddenly appeared smaller and more tired than just minutes before. "You're right, of course," he admitted after a moment. "Salazar Slytherin had nothing to do with it, I composed it special when I was eight. It took weeks to get the right wording and calibration." Draco flinched slightly: Father had worked himself into quite a rage, but Draco hadn't been able tostop for the knowledge of how close he was to something important.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked with concern, leaning over to stare in the direction of Draco's vacant gaze.

Draco inhaled sharply and continued, "It does work though. Not because of any magic beyond the normal range of mindtwisters, but because of the specific distribution and meanings of the words. When the phrase is twisted down, the mind focuses on two parts, martyrs and villains, and killers of men. Additional magic is unnecessary, the repeating chant of the mindtwister linguistically affects of the subconscious in such ways that stimulate. . . awareness, readiness, and probably endurance, while numbing feeling. The words become the focus of the soul and heart, so that the mind and body can endure the unendurable."

Harry's expression was so unmoved, and slightly disbelieving (mostly because, once again, the situation was so bizarre), but Draco grew frustrated at himself for even trying.

"For fuck's sake, Potter!" he exclaimed, getting to his feet. "Just repeat, 'martyrs and villains, killer of men' about a million times, then believe me, you'll be ready to kill someone. The repetition is numbing and hypnotic. It's just a trick to provoke a protective subconscious reaction. . . Besides, as long as your mind's on the stupid words, it's not on your fear and guilt. It's just a . . . little trick," he finished defensively, turning to leave.

Harry jumped to his feet, anxious to counter Draco's flare of anger. "No, I get it. It's clever, I'm impressed."

He reached out and placed his hand on the rough wool of Draco's arm. Warily, the Slytherin turned towards him, and Harry smiled sincerely, willing him to not be angry, to be . . . happy, if even for a moment. Finally close enough to really make out the other's features in the starlight, they just looked at each other for a long moment, both having to reluctantly concede to themselves that they liked what they saw. Hesitantly, Draco offered his own small smile, adrenaline beating down his fear of intimacy: it was thrilling . . .

. . . and kinda suffocating.

"Thanks for letting me sit in on this," Harry said earnestly, his voice breathy and intimate. A shiver ran through Draco's body, provoking action.

"We should try to get some sleep," he replied, moving away and breaking the intensity between them.

As much as he wanted to continue the exchange, Harry knew he too was tired, and that Draco was right. "I suppose so."

"Later, then," Draco stated, before hurrying towards his tent.

Harry watched him disappear into the frozen dark, half-heartedly berating himself for always falling for the crazy ones.

! BREAK !

The next morning a shrill, loud siren woke everyone when there were still stars in the sky. Stiff, zombie-like recruits sleepwalked through breakfast and were running drills when the sun finally deigned to make an appearance. The biting cold clashed numbingly with aching, burning muscles. Then hour after hour of crash courses in silent casting, speed casting, and blocking spells; lunch came and went in a rushed blur, then more crash courses in basic medical diagnosis and spells, strategy, and unarmed combat, followed by general sparring.

By dinner, well after sunset, it was difficult to muster even the energy to converse. Cho had been following Harry around all day (much to the aggravation of the twins), but had run out of wind during unarmed combat, and was now silently propped up on her elbow, head bowed. George and Fred were discussing how to use delayed transfiguration spells to infiltrate or sabotage enemy territory, while Harry pretended to understand.

At the Slytherin table, Clairden said, "It's too bad the real battle can't be hand to hand. I'd kick the shite outta You-Know-Who."

Pansy snorted. "Easy for you to say, you've got more muscle than magic. . . If it's one thing I learned today, it's never be parted from your wand."

"I wonder what happens to the wands of the dead?" Theodore Nott asked rather seedily. "Could we pick them up and use them?"

"At your own risk," Zara murmured, speaking up for the first time since leaving Hogwarts, her eyes on her bowl of mush. Pansy looked at her in surprise, and with her attention came the notice of her other housemates – even Draco took time from his own private musing to glance her way.

Slightly embarrassed, she cleared her throat and continued, "I tried to use my mother's wand, once, before Hogwarts. . . I'm not really sure what happened, but it felt like . . . being struck by the Cruciatus or something. I fell to the ground and, uh, you know, convulsed and vomited and stuff. . . then I passed out. The house elves said later, after I woke up at St. Mungo's, that it had only lasted a dozen seconds, but it felt a lot longer than that."

Tor, another seventh year, frowned and commented bitterly, "Sounds like a curse was placed on it."

"Interminor Attrecto. No wizard or witch with half a brain would leave themselves vulnerable to being attacked with their own wand," Draco replied reflexively, perfectly parroting what his father had once said to him.

His words were greeted with the familiar expressions of concern, distaste, and interest that dark arts topics always invoked.

"Let me guess. . . black magic?" Pansy queried sarcastically.

"But of course," Draco returned. A series of meaningful glances passed between various Slytherins: this topic would be revisited in a more private setting. None were exactly comfortable with the use of the dark arts, but neither were the exactly uncomfortable. . .

A conspicuous, heavy silence fell on the table, for which Draco felt largely responsible; he took the opportunity to loudly voice an idea that had been festering in the recesses of his mind since the speed casting session. "We could request to be issued muggle firearms."

At the next table, Harry and several others turned to hear the seemingly unbelievable words of the Malfoy heir, but the Slytherins looked even more astounded: after all, his housemates were here because they hated and feared Voldemort, not because they felt any love for muggles, and for a long time Draco had been the house's most vocal opponent of any and all things muggle.

"You're kidding," Blaise blurted for the second time in less than twenty four hours.

Pleased that the possibly incriminating topic of dark arts had been left behind, Draco smirked, but lowered his voice so that other tables would have to strain to hear. "Serious as Avada Kadavra. . . I dislike muggles as much as any of you, but muggles can do some things without magic that we can't even do with magic. And war just so happens to be one of their primary specialties. A man can kill faster with a gun than a wand. A bullet travels faster than a spell, hard to ward against, definitely harder to dodge. Some guns can shoot off a spray of bullets, so that it's almost impossible to miss. With an AK-47 I could level everyone in this tent in under a minute. Less if I didn't have to avoid curses."

"How'd you know so much about guns?" Tia asked timidly, though she had smiled at Draco several times since the incident at the toilets the night before.

Of course, the incredible answer to her question was that the underground racing scene in London could be very rough; it hadn't usually involved guns, but Dragon Maloy had come across his fair share during his life as a racer and an urchin. Draco himself had decided that he rather disliked guns – they were an unoriginal, disrespectful, and dehumanizing method of bringing death – but when there are monsters after you, monstrous weaponry might be in order.

Despite his thoughts, Draco glanced arrogantly at his housemate and just said, "I just know a lot about weapons."

! CHAPTER END !

It's coming, it's coming. . .

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