Chapter 20: The Hungarian Hazard

Draco hadn't realized how well he'd come to know the twists and turns of the castle until he found himself standing outside it, a mere few minutes later, without any earthly idea how he'd gotten out. His feet had simply recognized his brain's inability to help them, and taken him there themselves. Now, however, it occurred to him that perhaps he oughtn't be in such a rush to reach the dragons' enclosure; after all, what if Luna Lovegood was right? He hadn't an earthly clue what he'd find there. The ragged cacophony reigning over the grounds was too far away to tell whether it was celebratory or mournful.

He slowed his pace and paused for a few seconds behind a large oak tree to quiet his breathing and collect his thoughts before daring to continue, but around the corner, what he saw made him stop cold; Bartemius Crouch and Igor Karkaroff stood crammed behind a pillar just outside the dragons' enclosure, and judging by their faces, Draco very much doubted they were having a friendly chat about the weather. Forgetting the task and Hermione for a second, he crept from his hiding place and, scarcely daring to breathe, made a break for the dragon enclosure. He slunk underneath the stands and, inch by inch, tiptoed around to where the two men stood. It took several moments to force his pounding heart out of his ears, and to his annoyance, Crouch and Karkaroff were speaking scarcely above a whisper. He sucked in as much breath as he dared and held it, straining to catch their words.

"...if you knew…an attempt…" Karkaroff was glancing over his shoulder every few seconds, making his harsh whisper all the more difficult to decipher.

"Impossible!" hissed Crouch. "I tell you, it is impossible. I shall hear–" Crouch froze. "Who's there?" Draco's heart stopped in his chest. He edged behind the nearest pillar as far as he could, but this was a grave mistake. Crouch took two quick, decisive steps away from Karkaroff and peered around him with such intensity Draco was sure he'd burst into flames if their eyes met. Don't look to your left, he thought frantically. Don't look, don't look, don't–

"You! Boy! Explain yourself!" Too late. He didn't burst into flames, but found himself fervently wishing he would.

"I…" remembering the excuse he'd given Pansy this morning, he straightened up and released his breath. "I left my wand. Went back to get it, and–"

"Enough!" Crouch wasn't whispering any longer, and now Karkaroff was behind him, eyes wide, jaw set in a snarl. "Whatever the reason, nothing gives a student the right to skulk about where he doesn't belong! Dumbledore shall be hearing about this, rest assured, Mr…?" Draco sighed.

"Malfoy. Sir." The color drained from Crouch's face as if someone below had turned on a tap; a muscle twitched in Karkaroff's cheek and his teeth ground together audibly.

"What did you say?" Karkaroff breathed. Draco looked from one man's face to the other, and gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug.

"My name's Malfoy, sir. Draco Malfoy."

"Get out of my sight." Crouch spoke sharply, but his finger trembled in midair as he pointed it toward the entrance to the stands. "Go. Go!" Draco didn't wait to be told once more. He darted past Crouch and Karkaroff, heart pounding anew, trying to work out what he'd just witnessed. He'd expected Crouch to react to his surname, that was obvious. But Karkaroff…for a man meeting the son of an old friend, he'd looked an awful lot like he'd seen a ghost.

Draco hadn't noticed, as he'd snuck up on Crouch and Karkaroff, that the stands had grown quiet. The crowd sat surrounding a patch of dirt with a few rocks in it, hardly an impressive stage for fighting a dragon. Dumbledore and Madame Maxime sat on a platform above the students, heads together, whispering. Ludo Bagman grinned stupidly about from the end of the platform, two empty seats between himself and the Headmasters. Draco was in no doubt as to who they belonged to.

The Gryffindor crowd was easy to spot, resplendent in the scarlet and gold they normally pulled out for Quidditch matches. Without pausing to apologize to anyone he knocked into, Draco slipped through the crowd until he found Hermione, sitting a bit apart from everyone else and wringing her hands in her lap.

"What's happened?" he hissed, slipping in beside her. "Why's everyone–" he broke off, suddenly cold. "He hasn't–I mean, he's still alive, isn't he?" Hermione's head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

"What're you on about?" she snapped. "He's next." She studied his face intently for a few moments, and gradually her eyes softened. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shook her head. "He's next," she whispered, and suddenly Draco didn't give half a damn about Crouch or Karkaroff. Slowly, gently, he parted her hands and took one in his. He focused as hard as he could on every time her steady hand and the warmth of her eyes had given him strength. It was his turn now, and whatever she'd given him, he was determined to return it tenfold. He gave her hand a squeeze, a light kiss, and their eyes met. She understood.

"And now," boomed Bagman's voice from the high platform, "the moment we've all been waiting for, the man of the hour, the youngest champion in Triwizard Tournament history…" a snarl split the air, louder and sharper than Draco would've imagined. Across the enclosure, a dragon lumbered in through an archway he hadn't noticed before, led by a man with red hair who looked no bigger than a toy soldier next to the enormous scaly beast. They stopped just over a clutch of eggs, all apparently real except for a large golden one gleaming in the center. The man scurried out of the enclosure, and then another door slid open.

"Here comes Mr. Potter!" cried Bagman. Hermione turned away, hiding her face in her hands as Harry Potter stepped into the enclosure. If the man before had resembled a toy soldier, Potter looked like scarcely more than a speck of dust. The dragon's tail thrashed violently, leaving great jagged marks in the hard ground behind it. Potter raised his wand.

"Accio Firebolt!" Draco felt his jaw drop of its own accord. Of course Potter had wanted to learn a Summoning Charm; on the ground he stood no chance against a ferocious monster a hundred times his size, but in the air…

Ten seconds went by. Twenty, thirty, and cold foreboding sunk Draco's heart like a stone. He hadn't done the charm properly. The broom wasn't coming, and any second now, Luna Lovegood's prediction would come true; Harry Potter would die in five seconds. Ten. Twenty.

Hermione buried her face in Draco's chest, hands squeezing his so tightly he feared she'd cut them off. And then he heard it, a sharp whoosh that could only foretell a narrow bit of wood flying through the air at high speed. The Firebolt soared over the edge of the enclosure, and in one smooth motion, Potter caught it and kicked off from the ground, avoiding a lash of the dragon's tail by mere inches. Bagman bellowed something from above, but he was all but drowned by the cacophony in the stands. All around, people screamed, applauded, stamped their feet. Draco shook Hermione's shoulders.

"Look!" he screamed. "It's all right, look!" Little by little, Hermione raised her head. She blinked, frowned as if she didn't understand what she was seeing. And then, so suddenly that he nearly jumped out of his skin, she leapt to her feet with an exhilarated yelp and turned, beaming, back to Draco.

"He's done it!" she cried, seizing his hands again and dragging him to his feet. "Look at him, he's done it!"

"I know! Watch!" And in spite of himself, Draco could do nothing else. He'd watched Potter play Quidditch before, of course, but found his skills to be little more than untempered bravado. Now, though, darting about dodging the attacks of an increasingly angry dragon, only an idiot could fail to be impressed.

"Great Scott, he can fly!" came Bagman's voice from the high platform. "Mr. Krum, are you watching this?"

Down in the enclosure, Potter had taken to circling the dragon's head. The beast fluffed her wings irritably, lashed her tail, fired jets of flame after him, but seemed reluctant to take off and leave her eggs vulnerable. Higher and higher he flew, spiraling about her great neck and systematically dodging her attempts to swat him out of the air. Potter reached the dragon's head and sat suspended for a few seconds; evidently he hadn't considered she would be so rooted to the ground.

"C'mon," muttered Hermione, grip tightening dangerously on Draco's hand again. "Come on…"

And then Potter began swaying back and forth, slow and tantalizing with the occasional jerk to avoid a fire blast. The dragon roared furiously and gnashed her teeth, but it was no use–he was too high. She let out a great tongue of flame, and when he dodged it she reared, spreading her great leathery wings and raising her front legs, preparing to spring. Potter dove. He shot toward the ground more steeply than Draco would've dared in a million years, seized the golden egg from among the real ones, and with a scarcely perceptible jerk of his broom he was off, soaring out of the dragon's reach once more. The dragon keeper rushed back into the enclosure to subdue the beast, and if the noise from the crowd had been loud before, now it was deafening.

"Yes!" screamed Hermione, pumping her fist in the air with such vigor that she narrowly missed breaking Draco's nose. She turned and threw her arms around Draco, soundly knocking the wind out of him. He didn't mind, though; he'd gladly suffer a few moments' pain if it meant seeing her this relieved and happy.

"You did this," she said fervently, releasing him just enough to look into his eyes. "If it hadn't been for you and the glasses…" she trailed off, shook her head, and took his hand in hers, much more softly this time.

"Thank you," she whispered. Draco opened his mouth to tell her–what? That she didn't have to thank him? That he'd do anything for her? But before he could speak, Ron Weasley appeared in his peripheral vision, hovering self-consciously a bit behind the two of them. Draco was visited by the strong urge to brush past Hermione and punch him, but settled with extreme difficulty for rolling his eyes. He should've expected this, after all.

"Er–Hermione?" She turned abruptly, startled. His eyes flitted briefly in Draco's direction, but he shook his head slightly and squared his shoulders. "Are…are you going to see Harry now?" Hermione gave a start, studied Weasley for a few moments, then nodded.

"Of course, let's…yes." She gave Draco a faint, apologetic look over her shoulder as they cut through the roiling crowd. He managed a smile through gritted teeth, and waved her on. Let her have her precious reunion; Pansy probably thought he'd died looking for his wand, and now that the task was over, he had a few questions about Igor Karkaroff and Barty Crouch.


Harry was in Madam Pomfrey's tent, and if the cut on his arm and the bed near the wall were anything to go on, he was supposed to be lying down. True to form, however, he was pacing back and forth, and Hermione suspected he didn't realize he was grinning from ear to ear. The sight made her heart soar, and she burst into the tent rather faster than she'd meant to.

"Oh, Harry, you were brilliant! You really were!" But Harry was looking at Ron, who stood still in the doorway, looking several inches smaller than usual.

"Harry," he said seriously. "Whoever it is that put your name in…I–I reckon they're trying to do you in!" There was a very tense moment, during which Harry might've embraced Ron, or punched him.

"Caught on, have you?" he said cooly instead. "Took you long enough." Hermione's breath caught in her chest and she risked a glance at Ron; the latter opened his mouth uncertainly, closed it again, and swallowed hard. Harry shook his head.

"Forget it," he said firmly. "Just…forget it." Another moment, and then, as if obeying some bizarre signal Hermione couldn't hear for herself, the boys were off, arm in arm, talking fast and hard as if they'd never spent a moment apart in their lives.

"Granger! What are you doing here?" Hermione jumped nearly a foot in the air, then scurried aside at once; Madam Pomfrey had burst in, an unconscious Cedric Diggory borne through the air before her and sporting a nasty-looking burn covering half his face. Legs slightly stiff and head fuzzy as if she'd just woken up, Hermione followed Harry and Ron's trajectory out of the tent and back up the grounds toward the school.

The following week, life returned to normal with such force that Hermione found herself wondering whether she'd spent the past month on another planet from everyone else. Harry and Ron showed no signs of their fight; overnight, Ron went from sidelong glances in the Great Hall and occasional sullen muttering to standing fiercely by Harry's side, threatening to punch anyone who suggested Harry had performed anything less than far and away the best at the first task. Harry, for his part, seemed almost reborn. He no longer ducked away from his classmates, no longer avoided the common room or Hogsmeade visits. He laughed again. Hermione was glad, of course she was. But on the other hand…

Well, it stung, didn't it? She'd spent every waking moment by his side ahead of the first task, worked herself into the ground, driven herself mad with worry for his safety. She'd borne his surly moods with grace and a smile, because, as her friend, he deserved nothing less. But a blink from Ron, and suddenly Harry was on top of the world.

"Am I not good enough?" she'd asked Draco, in a wild moment of weakness.

"Funny you should ask," he'd replied, slammed his Transfiguration book shut and swept from the library with their work scarcely a third finished. So, sooner or later, she'd need to deal with that.

And then, there was the looming reality only she seemed to recognize, that there were three tasks in the Triwizard Tournament. The second task would take place on February the twenty-fourth, a measly three months which might've been sufficient time to prepare…if Harry knew what he was preparing for.

"Right little ray of sunsine, aren't you?" scoffed Ron, when she pointed this out. "You and Professor Trelawney should get together sometime."

Well, if Harry was going to pretend the second task didn't exist, then so was Hermione. Though the first task had occupied her every waking moment (and more than a few sleeping ones) for what felt like a lifetime, she hadn't forgotten her other pursuit: justice for House-Elves. Rallying the support of her friends had been a dismal failure, so Sunday morning instead found her heading to the library on her own. True, she'd tried learning about House-Elves from the library before with sub-par results, but she realized now that she and Draco had been looking in the wrong place. Obviously, the history of Hogwarts House-Elves would be limited–she needed to broaden her search. And so, in a library deserted aside from the usual watchful eye of Madam Pince, she began with renewed hope in the same place Draco had done last year researching for Buckbeak's case: old Wizarding law, and cases heard by the Wizengamot.

Three hours later, however, her hope was dwindling. There was no mention of House-Elves in The Department of Magical Law and Enforcement, nor did Magical Misdemeanors and the Modern Law contain anything of use. Her heart leapt as she stumbled upon Legal Loopholes and Leprechauns–at least it was about a magical creature–but this proved similarly useless. It was nearly lunchtime and she was on the point of discarding this avenue entirely when she stumbled upon her first promising tidbit, a passing anecdote in a book on laws governing the division of rich old wizards' estates following their death. In 1957, a woman named Hepzibah Smith had left behind a large collection of valuable old artifacts, mainly put up for auction and scattered about Wizarding museums as she had no children or family to speak of. Rich men's squabbles over shiny objects didn't interest Hermione in the slightest, but at the end of Hepzibah's story, something else caught her eye. The old woman had dropped dead suddenly one afternoon, a rare and potent poison found in her cup of cocoa. When investigations yielded no explanation, the woman's elderly House-Elf had suddenly remembered putting the mysterious substance into her mistress's cup, believing it to be sugar. Infuriatingly, the passage ended there, with no mention of the House-Elf's fate or the circumstances surrounding her confession. Hermione flipped through the next few pages without much hope, and sure enough, all she found was more lists of old rich family artifacts and self-important quotations from Ministry officials on estate law. She sighed and bit her lip. Muggle history was riddled with barbaric tales of servants bearing the consequences for their masters' behavior. If she could find out what became of that old House-Elf…hang on. How long did House-Elves live?

She tore open her bag and pulled out her old copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and leafed feverishly through it, and this time, she found what she was looking for. The average life expectancy of a House-Elf was nearly two hundred years. She shut the book with a snap and looked up for the first time all morning, heartbeat quickening with anticipation. Hepzibah Smith's death wasn't even forty years ago. If her old House-Elf was still alive, and Hermione could find her…perhaps she was sitting on a breakthrough beyond her wildest dreams.

"Please tell me that's the Arithmancy homework." Draco threw himself down beside her, wearing Quidditch robes and a world-weary expression. Too excited to be startled, she shoved the old book under his nose.

"Look at this," she told him. "I think I've found something!" Draco raised an eyebrow.

"So it isn't the Arithmancy homework?" Hermione shook her head impatiently.

"Just look."

"But–"

"Look!" With an enormous sigh, Draco began to read, but almost at once he looked up and frowned at her.

"Why're you reading about the Minister's mother-in-law's tea set?" Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Not that, this!" Draco read silently for a few minutes, but when he finished he looked more confused than ever.

"I don't–" he paused and bit his lip. "Hermione, it sounds like this woman was murdered."

"Yes, it does," she agreed. "But look at the bit at the end, there, about her House-Elf."

"You think her House-Elf murdered her?"

"Of course not! Her House-Elf was framed, though, and listen–" she paused here and rifled once more through Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them for the passage on House-Elves. "They live over two hundred years, and it never says what happened to her, does it? Draco, she might still be alive!" Draco stared, then shook his head slightly.

"I'm sorry," he began, and to her extreme annoyance, she could see him fighting a smirk into submission with limited success. "A woman was murdered, yeah? And you're concerned about what happened to her House-Elf?" Hermione slammed Fantastic Beasts shut in frustration.

"I'm concerned she was punished for a crime she didn't commit!" Across the room Madam Pince raised a disapproving eyebrow, and Hermione felt her face grow hot. She leaned in and lowered her voice, so only Draco could hear. "But if I could find her, maybe even speak to her–"

"If I'm ever murdered," Draco interrupted, now openly smirking, "I don't want you in charge of the investigation, all right?"

"I'm serious!" Draco studied her for a few moments, and his face cleared.

"Sorry," he told her, in an entirely different tone. "The thing is, even if she is alive, and even if you can find her…I'm not saying you can't," he added hastily, as Hermione opened her mouth to interrupt. "I'm just saying I wouldn't have a clue where to look, but if you did find her, she probably wouldn't talk to you. Probably can't." Hermione frowned.

"Why on earth not?" Draco bit his lip.

"Well…obviously when a House-Elf is freed, they're no longer bound to their master," he said slowly. "If their master dies, though, I'm not sure what happens. Normally they'd be passed down through the family–"

"Yes, I'm aware of what happens to slaves," Hermione interjected.

"But since this Smith woman didn't have any family," Draco went on, raising a hand to subdue her, "there's no telling who she's bound to. Maybe the murderer, for all we know." Admittedly, Hermione hadn't thought of this.

"She might be free, though," she countered. "Meaning she could talk to whoever she likes." Draco shrugged slightly and pulled the book closer, scanning the page once more.

"She had quite a collection," he mused. "Maybe that's why she was murdered."


"...knew they were a bunch of gits, but honestly, how d'you stand it? I've got half a mind to resign tomorrow."

"My god, don't, I can't win games on my own."

"Actually, you're sort of the one player who can." It was a Thursday evening, and Draco and Ruby were crossing the grounds after spending yet another Quidditch practice listening to Flint shouting himself hoarse, today because Warrington and Montague had taken to showing their distaste for another girl on the team by pretending Ruby was one of the balls–attempting to throw her through goal hoops and brandishing Beater's clubs at her until she cracked and punched Montague square in the nose. Draco had to admit he'd enjoyed the last bit; he'd never have dared, but she'd scarcely broken a sweat.

"They'll both be gone the year after next," he said now, with a sigh. Ruby grinned.

"Oh, I'd come back," she told him. "I expect you'll be Captain by then, and I'd want all the favoritism I could get." Draco fully choked on a mouthful of air.

"I'm not going to be Captain," he said at once. People like Ginny became Quidditch Captain. Ruby snorted.

"Unless you expect Marcus to fail his N.E.W.T.s twice, there's really no one else," she said matter-of-factly. "Besides, you'd be better than he is. He's all right, but you're brilliant, and besides that, you're nice." Now thoroughly disconcerted and more embarrassed than he could remember feeling in his life, Draco turned slightly away. No one had called him nice before, for fucking certain.

"You're only saying that because of the night you've just had," he muttered.

"And you're only saying that because you'd look like an ass if you agreed with me," Ruby retorted. "Don't worry. If I resigned now, they'd think they've won, and I'd rather die."

Suddenly, a sharp yank on the back of Draco's robes nearly tore his feet out from under him. Thinking he'd caught a rogue tree branch, he swore under his breath and glanced over his shoulder, but at that moment a hand dug past the flesh of his arm and straight into the bone. An almighty tug rendered his feet useless, his vision blurred as if the assailant had left his eyes behind on the path and they needed a moment to catch up; he was being pulled into the trees at the edge of the grounds now, Ruby was screaming his name from somewhere off left and he tried to scream back, but breath forced into his body refused to leave. There was a hand over his mouth, rough and dry as if he'd swallowed a firstful of sand from the lake shore. His back hit the trunk of a tree, properly knocking the wind out of him, and a worse-for-wear mouthful of teeth leered at him out of the darkness.

"Say nothing," hissed a familiar voice. "I mean no harm." A face loomed into view to go with the teeth, and Draco felt his veins fill with ice.

"Right this way," said Igor Karkaroff. "We won't be going far." Another jerk on Draco's arm bore them further into the trees, and though his brain screamed at him to run, fight, do something, his body refused to cooperate as he was conveyed through the bit of forest reserved for Care of Magical Creatures lessons, and down toward the lake. At the edge of the water Karkaroff paused, and with a graceful flick of his wrist a narrow wooden plank rose out of the depths of the lake, leading up to the highest point of the Durmstrang ship. Karkaroff didn't speak, but gave Draco a jab in the back which soundly knocked the wind out of him. A few minutes' harrowing journey up the plank, and Draco found himself being shoved through a hatch, down a set of steep and narrow stairs into a small, rounded cabin, made entirely of dark wood except for a few large windows Draco was sure yielded a spectacular view in the daytime. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace on the far wall, giving the room a warm glow utterly at odds with Draco's sense of foreboding. Karkaroff released him at long last, and the shock of having his feet properly under him again sent him stumbling into the center of the room, heart thudding as if he'd just run a mile. Karkaroff arranged his face into what technically must be called a smile, but there was something off about it, as though he'd stolen each of its components from a different stranger's face and pasted them over his own.

"I must apologize," he said after a moment, and Draco recognized the oily, solicitous tone he'd used to greet Dumbledore the day he arrived. "Typically, when I have visitors, they are formally invited." Draco tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to have taken refuge somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes. Besides, what on earth was he supposed to say?

Unbothered, Karkaroff crossed the room and flicked his wand toward the fireplace. The flames rose slightly and let off a few enthusiastic pops.

"Do make yourself at home," Karkaroff went on, now pulling dark wood shutters over the windows. "I assure you that no harm shall befall you here. I simply thought it was time we had a little…chat." He settled into a cracked leather armchair across the room, and Draco found his tongue.

"Why?" Karkaroff gave him another peculiar smile, and this one reminded him of old Mr. Penrose and his ilk at his father's soirees. Draco had to admit, however, that he'd never quite seen that hungry glint in Mr. Penrose's eye. He jabbed his wand at the fire again; it had been passably warm before, but the cabin suddenly put him in mind of his parents' conservatory on a July afternoon.

"I consider your father one of my oldest friends," said Karkaroff warmly. "He considered sending you to my school, did you know?" Of course. Not that he'd paid much attention to his parents' squabbles in those days.

"Mother wouldn't let him."

"Ah, yes. Nothing quite like a mother's love, is there?" It was an innocent phrase, but it made his skin crawl.

"I don't think that was it." Karkaroff's smile faltered, now tinged with something Draco couldn't quite read.

"Nevertheless." He paused. "Are you warm enough? It does get chilly out here on the lake."
When had Karkaroff taken off his cloak?

"I…er, yeah." Karkaroff looked him up and down, lip curling ever so slightly.

"You can take that off, you know. Viktor has told me how Quidditch robes hold heat." Draco had never thought one way or another about this, but suddenly, the outermost layer of his robes was sticking to his skin. It always came back to a Quidditch locker room, didn't it? He grit his teeth and clutched his robes tighter against him, as though this would quell the sweltering ache tearing its way through every inch of him.

"I–I'm fine," he choked, hoping with everything in him that his face didn't look as hot as it felt. Karkaroff, however, wasn't looking at his face. His eyes were cast downard and slightly to the left, but before Draco could work out what he was looking at, he righted himself with another peculiar smile.

"Your father entertained myself and a few…ah…associates this summer," he said conversationally, now pacing in slow, meandering circles around the room. He fanned the fire for a third time, then recoiled ever so slightly as a few tongues of flame threatened to escape the grate. He righted himself in half a second, but Draco knew what he'd seen; was Karkaroff nervous about something other than burning down his cabin?

"Yes," he said slowly. "Before the World Cup." Karkaroff gave him an approving nod as though he'd just shown off a particularly ambitious piece of homework.

"Ah, the World Cup. Thrilling match, I'm told." Draco frowned.

"You didn't see it?"

"I was, regrettably…called away." The air was now so hot inside the cabin that it filled Draco's chest with cotton and tripled the weight of his head, bearing down until simply standing upright became a battle. Sweat slicked his forehead and filled the roots of his hair and he brushed it away irritably, without thinking. Karkaroff smirked.

"You can take that off," he repeated. "If it's too warm." To hell with it. Draco started to throw off his robe, but almost at once something gave him pause. Karkaroff's left eye had nearly doubled in size and was twitching as he stared rabidly…once again, down and slightly to the left. The fire wasn't an accident, he wanted Draco to take off his robes, and whatever the reason, it was the sole purpose of this bizarre meeting. He shrugged and tightened his robes around him.

"I'm fine." This time, he had no trouble keeping his voice level. Karkaroff's lips twisted into something dangerously close to a snarl.

"Suit yourself." He paced back and forth a few times and came to a stop near the front of the cabin, staring pensively out the window into the inky depths of the lake. "I understand your father was also unable to attend the World Cup," he went on at length. "So unfortunate, to work so hard and be unable to enjoy all that life has to offer." His tone was the one adults use when trying to trick children into revealing information without tipping them off, but what did Karkaroff want him to reveal? He gave a light shrug, and paused to arrange his face into a placid sort of half-smile.

"Father's business is his own. I'm not supposed to ask questions." Karkaroff didn't turn, but his fist clenched over the dark window sill, and his white knuckles brought Draco's heartbeat into his throat. What was he prepared to do, if Draco failed to provide the information he wanted?

"In my day," barked Karkaroff, and his voice was about as far from oily and solicitous now as it could get, "we passed down our work to the younger generation. My father brought me to the shipyard for the first time at the age of six. I learned the value of a day's work. I suppose that has somewhat fallen out of fashion." Draco hadn't a clue what to say to this, but he was spared the trouble. Karkaroff had scarcely finished speaking when the hatch burst open above, and a few thunderous footsteps announced a new entrant into the cabin. Karkaroff whipped around as if something beyond the windowpane had burned him, and seeing who had joined them, Draco wasn't sure whether he should be less frightened or more. Snape stood just below the steps, jaw rigid, lips pursed to rival Professor McGonagall, eyes blazing–furious, in short, beyond anything Draco had seen or imagined. For a few horrible moments, no one spoke or moved.

"It is customary, Karkaroff," Snape began, and Draco recognized his smooth hiss of apoplectic rage, "for me to address Slytherin students in their common room toward the end of the month. If one fails to attend, it does not escape notice." He paused, eyes flitting over Draco so intently that he worried he might vanish from existence when Snape looked away.

"Imagine my surprise," Snape went on, now taking a few slow, measured steps into the cabin, "when Miss Adler volunteered that Mr. Malfoy was apprehended en route from Quidditch practice by a mysterious attacker dragging him in the direction of the lake." Snape drew level with Karkaroff, and a few moments' taut silence filled the air as each fought to draw himself up an inch higher. Finally, Karkaroff shrank almost imperceptibly and glanced toward the fireplace.

"I merely thought it prudent to introduce myself to the son of an old friend." His oily tone was back, but something rough lurked, ill-concealed in the timber of his voice.

"How extraordinarily gracious of you." On Snape's lips, gracious sounded like a disgusting swear word. "Tell me, Karkaroff. Have you forgotten our last meeting?" Karkaroff's jaw twitched, and his eyes rose once again to meet Snape's.

"Our last meeting–"

"–was my final word!" snarled Snape. "You are to leave this sordid nonsense untouched whilst you remain here, or I shall inform Lucius Malfoy–"

"Yes, write to Lucius!" Karkaroff raised his voice for the first time, and Draco jumped. "He'd be fascinated, I'm sure, to hear what is happening under your upturned nose as you lounge about having brandy with Albus Dumbledore!"

"Enough!" roared Snape. He strode across the cabin and snatched Draco's arm in a grip he was sure would bruise him. "I shall warn you once more, Karkaroff. Should any more of my students go missing, it won't be me who comes to call." The cabin swirled sickeningly before Draco's eyes as Snape all but hurled him toward the hatch. Karkaroff's twisted, crimson face loomed above him one last time, and then an almighty slam ensconced him firmly in the cool night air.

Nothing in the world would've compelled Draco to experience Karkaroff's unruly grip on his head again, but at the moment he'd have taken it in a heartbeat over Snape's making mince meat out of his left arm. He knew that whatever Snape planned to do to him would be a hundred times worse if he cried out in pain on the way up to the castle, but by the time they reached the oak front doors, it was a close thing. Hands couldn't cut through flesh, rationally he knew, but he could feel the sensation of blood gushing from a wound above his elbow, and below that, nothing. Reaching the staircase off the entrance hall that led to the dungeons, Snape released him so suddenly that it was all he could do to stop himself falling down the stairs. He paused for a split second as the corridor tilted sickeningly in front of him, left hand burning as though filled with a thousand white-hot needles.

"Hurry up," barked Snape, and a light shove sent him all but plummeting down the staircase. He caught himself at the bottom just before his nose smashed into the dungeon floor and sprang up at once, terrified of what might happen if he remained on the ground. The moment he righted himself Snape seized the back of his robes and, to Draco's absolute shock, slammed him violently into the stone wall.

"Fuck!" he cried involuntarily, and regretted it at once. Snape's lip curled.

"Very charming," he hissed. "What did he say to you?" Draco swallowed hard and scanned Snape's face for signs of what might happen next. Predictably, he found nothing.

"Nothing. I mean," he added hastily, for Snape's right eye had twitched alarmingly at the word nothing, "he said…that he's an old friend of my father…and that…" Draco would never understand the moments his mind chose to go blank. "That Father almost sent me to Durmstrang–"

"Both useless," snapped Snape. "What else?"

"Nothing," gasped Draco. "Started going on about his father working on ships, and that's when you walked in." Snape's eyes peered into his with such intensity that his head hurt, but after a few seconds he shook his head and tore Draco roughly away from the wall.

"Very well. Come along, you're late enough as it is." Draco had assumed addressing the students was a lie, but indeed, when Snape shoved him into the Slytherin common room the whole house was assembled in their usual spots as if Snape had made them wait there this whole time. Draco supposed he probably had.

Lacking any earthly clue what else to do, he put on his best air of nonchalance and crossed the room to Blaise and Theo, both of whom looked stunned. Toward the front of the group, Ruby caught his eye.

"Are you okay?" she mouthed. He'd seen her brow furrow in concentration on the Quidditch pitch, but never in concern. It didn't suit her.

"Fine," he mouthed back, and turned away.

"Now that Mr. Malfoy has been so kind as to join us," said Snape pointedly, and at once all murmurs and fidgeting stopped. "The Headmaster wishes to convey that this year at the holidays, another important tradition shall take place associated with the Triwizard Tournament. The Yule Ball will be held on Christmas night in the Great Hall. The Ball shall be open only to students fourth year and above, but you may bring a younger student if, for some reason, you wish to do so." He paused here as if determined to glower at each of them individually, then curled his lip and continued. "I myself wish to put to bed the impression that this…event shall in any way relax the standards of behavior expected from Slytherin students. Should any of you embarrass yourselves, me, or the school, I shall be most seriously displeased. Speaking of which…" as Snape went into his summary of this month's misbehavior, attention began to wane as usual. Eyes fixed firmly up front, Blaise leaned forward ever so slightly and poked Draco in the ribs.

"Oy," he hissed. "What's going on?" Draco glanced from Blaise's concerned frown to the quiet, calculating glint in Theo's eye, and turned away almost at once. What's going on, Blaise wanted to know. Well, that made two of them.