A/N: A single comment before I let everyone get on with their reading. Only one because, except for the usual let me thank everyone for reading comment (which I do mean), I can't think of anything. And in answer to Chicklepea's question, "Will Draco have to repeat the year", the answer is no. The reason is that I have no interest in writing eight books.

Chapter Twelve: The Long and Winding Road

Once they were safely away, Sirius Black had Draco grab his arm. Seconds later, they had apparated to a familiar copse of trees.

"Whot? I'm back 'ere for real?" Draco asked.

"It's my choice where you go," Black answered brusquely. "Remember, your first choice is no longer an option."

Draco had taken three steps before he realized that Sirius Black had made a joke. He stared up at the man who only looked straight ahead. The man WAS acting strange.

The now familiar house came into view and Black stopped. Pulling out his wand, he tapped it on the gate that led into the yard. It was the wizard's version of ringing the doorbell.

Alastor Moody appeared in the doorway. Whether he was surprised or not, he didn't show it. He waved his hand and the gate opened. Everyone went inside without saying a word.

"Here he is, Alastor, if you still want him."

"Won't do me any good with everyone knowing."

"No one knows."

Moody looked at Black with both eyes. Draco, sensing it would take a while, sat in his old chair by the fireplace to watch the proceedings. Kingsley Shacklebolt, in the chair across, nodded to him then also turned to follow the conversation.

"Why?" Moody asked in a voice so low that almost no sound came out. Sirius Black's response was to grin, then start laughing after getting out the words, "I was asked to."

Moody shook his head in disbelief. "So now we're three."

"Four," Shacklebolt said. "The boy is now a player."

Draco understood the reference. For every thing that had happened with Saint Brutus, Draco wasn't the reason. He was the excuse. It was like Mick had said, the school was an accident waiting to happen and Draco just happened to be the proper sized spanner.

"So, where do we stand," Moody asked.

Black smiled for no reason. "I'll file my report in the morning. As far as the Ministry is concerned, he lost his memory as a result of the drugs and only regained it recently. I intercepted him when he tried to return to Grimauld Place."

Draco laughed. "An' 'ow you gonna explain all them cameras an' reporters talkin' to me."

Kingsley chuckled this time. "Laughter is infectious. And no one interviewed you, Draco Malfoy. They talked to Daniel Malone."

"Malloy," Draco corrected. "Yeah, I complained about that but no one cared." He paused. "Was I really that unimportant?"

Moody walked over and clapped his shoulder. "Yes and no. What happened there had been brewing for a long time. We were only trying to get you back in the public eye, as the Minister wanted."

"Let me explain," Kingsley offered. "Draco, the school did not care what it did as long as the government gave it money, and the government did not care as long as the school had an image of strength and purpose. The victims finally became numerous enough to rebel. We tried to use that to slip you back into everyday life, as far as everyone, wizard and muggle, were concerned. Do you follow me so far?" When Draco nodded, Kingsley continued. "Not every victim was victimized. Do you understand? It weren't only the children who went there, but their parents and friends. And there were other victims beside . . ."

"I know," Draco said. And he did know where the lecture was going. "Givens told me. 'e could do wit'out all the extra work."

Kingsley grinned at the remark. "Well put, indeed. What we did when we gave the government the information that we wanted them to have, was that we handed it to the victims within the government. Because of his connection to you, we used the muggle, Givens, as our contact."

Moody was grinning. "Kingsley, you should have seen your face when that truck came out of nowhere and rammed through those gates."

"I saw it," Draco told them and did his best impersonation.

After the laughter, Moody was again looking at Black. "You said you found him. And?"

"And . . . I'm keeping him under wraps until . . ." Sirius paused. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Until hell freezes over," Draco offered.

"Useful suggestions."

"Leave it at that," Kingsley suggested. "If anyone cares, they will ask."

"And now," Black said cheerfully, "Now that I'm part of the conspiracy, what is the conspiracy about?"

Moody went around and inspected all of his devices. Black found it amusing at first but lost his smile when he noticed Shacklebolt had stood up to help. Draco couldn't help himself. When Black glanced in his direction, Draco said, in a perfect imitation of Moody's accent, "Constant Vigilance".

"Good. You learned something," Black retorted. "Do you know what those words mean?"

"We're safe," Moody finally said to no one in particular. "Kingsley, do you have Draco's present for him?"

"I've been waiting for this moment," Kingsley answered. He picked up a wooden box from behind the chair he had been sitting in, not a large box, perhaps a quarter of a meter in any direction. He sat the box on Draco's lap and removed the top. "Have you ever had a pet before?"

Draco looked into the box as the three men watched him. Moody and Shacklebolt were eager to see his reaction, but Black was confused. Draco, however, was now interested in the contents of the box.

"Is it dangerous?" Draco asked as he looked a thin snake perhaps half a meter long.

"I doubt it," Moody said. "I found it in the garden."

"Foood," a voice hissed from inside the box.

Draco's eyes went wide. "It can talk?"

Moody and Shacklebolt were grinning ear to ear while Black seemed shocked. Draco could only conclude that talking snakes must be extremely rare and one certain boy clearly did not deserve one as a present.

"What did he say?" Moody asked, his smile never wavering.

"Food, 'e's 'ungry."

Moody held out his hand to reveal a moth and a beetle. "Ask him which one he wants."

Draco picked up the insects and showed them to the snake. "Pick one."

The snake edged its head upward and said, "bothhhh."

"Here you go," Draco said as he handed the beetle to the snake, which grabbed it from Draco's hand. He let the moth drop into the bottom of the box for after.

"'e'll need a name," Draco said, as he looked up. Sirius Black had a look of horror on his face. "Whot I do now?"

"Exactly what we hoped," Moody told him. "Draco, it is well past your bedtime." He took the box. "We'll name him in the morning."

Draco gave a concerned nod toward Sirius Black, but Moody's look told him not to worry. Draco obediently went upstairs to his bedroom and changed. His intention was to go out to the landing and listen in on the conversation downstairs, but that was a bad idea. He was more tired than he realized and ended up sleeping on the landing instead of the bed. And the only word he heard clearly was one he didn't understand. He would find out in the morning what Parselmouth meant.

Draco awoke on the landing, a blanket thrown over him and a pillow tucked under his head. Moody made it obvious that what Draco did was no surprise. He heard a noise and turned his head to look down the stair. Moody was there to tell him to get dressed.

When Draco arrived downstairs, clean and in fresh clothes, he made his way into the kitchen and stopped. Sirius Black was sitting at the table, glaring at Draco. Moody, his head inside the coldbox, said, "Don't worry, he won't bite you."

Draco tried to think of a response when Black said, "I'll have to take your word for it."

"I t'ought 'e was talkin' to me," Draco replied.

"Think all you want."

Something snapped inside of Draco. "WHOT'S WIFF YOU. ME DAD KILL YER MUM? WHOT?"

Moody was suddenly between them. "Sirius, perhaps Draco would act with more reason if we explained to him what is going on."

"As if he doesn't know."

"He doesn't," Moody said forcefully. "I made sure of that."

Draco looked from one man to the other. He was unsure about what to do. They looked ready to fight. A hand grabbed Draco's shoulder from behind. He screamed.

"Sorry," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, masterfully controlling his urge to laugh.

"Bloody 'ell. Ya nearly killed me."

"That's my job, Kingsley," Black said, trying to suppress a grin of his own. When he caught Draco's eye, he added, "I think I might be a little paranoid."

"Let's sit by the fireplace," Kingsley suggested. "I think it is time to lay out our plans, what we have of them."

Minutes later, Draco was in his usual chair, a plate with two ham and egg sandwiches in his lap. Moody let him finish the first sandwich.

"Draco, before Sirius shouted the word at the top of his lungs, did you ever hear the term, Parselmouth."

"No."

"A parselmouth is a person who can talk to snakes, in their own tongue."

"An' I can do that?" When Moody nodded, Draco added, "An' 'e 'ates it 'cause why?"

Black answered. "We only know one other person who can do that. And we do not mention his name."

Draco, unthinking, put a hand to his scar. "An' you think . . ."

"He thinks he needs to think about it some more." That was Moody. "Draco, you're a smart boy. Why do you think we told you about that?"

"Dunno. So I can be a waiter at the London Zoo?"

Moody muttered something under his breath which sounded strongly like 'dumbass'.

"You heard voices at the school. Voices that weren't human."

"Voice, singular," Draco said firmly.

"Remarkable vocabulary," Shacklebolt noted.

"He knows more words than we do," Sirius Black told him. "Smartest kid in his year."

"'at would be 'ermione."

"The voice?" Moody reminded them.

Draco frowned as he thought. "If it's a snake, it's a right big one."

"That narrows it down?" Kingsley said.

"Whot? You think it's a big snake?"

"Perhaps. We both suspect a basilisk. It fits most of the pattern."

Black nodded. "Of course. Peter mentioned Hagrid complaining about the roosters being killed."

"A cock's crow can kill it," Moody told Draco.

"An' it petrifies its victims?" Draco asked.

"No. To look a basilisk in the eye is to die. And only the first victim died."

"But Dumbledore 'imself said the cat was petrified."

Moody gave Draco his hard smile. "The cat was its second victim. We know Professor Binns told you about the Chamber of Secrets. The Daily Prophet even reported they found writing on the wall. 'The Chamber of Secrets has been reopened'. That means it was opened once before. Fifty years ago. A student was killed. A student that you know."

"Moaning Myrtle?"

"And that is why you are here instead of at Hogwarts. You bragged that you were going to talk to her. You told everyone, including the Heir of Slytherin. The last thing the Heir needed was for you to interview the one person who saw the killer."

"So, we talk wit' 'er an' find out who the killer is."

"Therein lies the problem," Kingsley told them. "The basilisk's look kills, not petrifies."

Draco pondered that thought as Moody suggested they discuss the other points. Black agreed, and turned to Draco as the boy was reaching for his glass of juice. "Let me start by apologizing."

"Whot?" Sirius Black was apologizing to him? Juice splashed on his hand as Draco dropped his glass in surprise. Everyone was laughing lightly at the incident but Draco wasn't paying attention. He was watching a drop of juice roll down his thumb and fall to the table.

"COR."

"Draco?" Moody was asking.

"Moanin' Myrtle died after lookin' right at the basilisk, right? What if no one else did? Look right at it, I mean."

Moody gave Draco a genuine smile. "Go on."

"When I foun' Mrs. Norris, I remember slippin' on the wa'er. Wha'if she only saw the reflection?"

Black was also grinning. "The Creevy boy tried to take a picture of it. He was holding a camera in front of his face. And Granger was found with a mirror in her hand."

"She probably figured out what she was up against." Moody looked at Draco, who was staring in surprise. "We didn't mean to surprise you like that. It happened yesterday. Sirius found out when he went to make his report. That's why we're all here."

"She was petrified," Black said. "Her and another student." He mentioned a name Draco didn't know. "They'll both be fine after the potion is prepared."

Moody caught Draco's attention. "We still need to explain Justin Finch-Fletchley."

"Yeah, I remember," Draco said tonelessly. "Coun't figure out whot 'appened at first, 'cause they laid 'im on 'is back. They said 'e smashed into a suit of armor . . . 'e was gettin' up when 'e saw its reflection."

"Good. That fills the last hole," Moody was saying. "Now, how do we get in?"

"I can take care of that." Black answered. "The question is: where do we go when we get in?" Black asked.

"It's obvious. Where did Myrtle die?"

"Do you think . . ."

"It didn't come down the hall and through the door. It must be using the plumbing. Even if I'm wrong, Draco had the right of it. We need to talk to her."

"I could ask Peter," Sirius suggested.

"You'd have to tell him why," Moody reminded him. "We didn't even want you as part of this. The fewer the better."

Sirius grinned. "I hope I never become as paranoid as you are."

Draco looked at Sirius Black. His words came out with the authority of an Oxford don. "It is the safest place to be. Trust no one. Not even your best friend. Unless you have to. And then pray to the god of your choice that you're lucky."

Sirius Black gave him a simple smile. "You're always more imposing when you use your fancy voice. Are you ready for my latest news?"

"Good time as any."

"The Minister for Magic has ordered Rubeus Hagrid to be arrested. Today."

Draco didn't think he could be hit any harder. Every friend he had was being taken from him one by one. "Why?" When Sirius declined to answer, he turned to Moody. "Why?"

"Because Hagrid was expelled from Hogwarts. Fifty years ago. For harbouring a monster."

"The basilisk?" Draco could feel the blood draining from his face. This was the last thing he expected.

"A spider," Moody said casually. "A big one. It occurs to me, Draco, that he may have been set up."

"Do you feel better?" Moody said, as Draco opened his eyes.

"Lots. You spiked me drink." He was lying on his bed.

"A calming potion. You've had a lot of things thrown at you the past couple of days."

"Anyone still 'ere?"

"No. We agreed that you didn't need to be a part of our plans. Yet. We need to lay the groundwork. Among other things, we need to get your wand from Dumbledore, which won't be half as hard as getting you back into Hogwarts. Especially with all the extra security. You can relax for a few weeks. And enjoy the next couple of days."

"You can get me wand that quick?"

"Not quite. Someone's been asking about you. One of the muggles. You're going to school right here in the village."

"Muggle school?"

"It will be good for you. Went to it, myself, in my younger days."

Draco had to laugh. "You? Why?"

"Because my parents were muggles."

Draco smiled. It explained a lot about Moody. About how he could be comfortable in both worlds, comfortably paranoid that is. "Could you tell me, why do you go to that pub?"

Moody smiled at a memory, or perhaps dozens of them, and his voice became a little less of a growl. "I drank my first pint, there. Sat back listening to the music, talking to my uncle, and sipping that wonderful amber brew. I was eight at the time."

Moody started laughing because Draco did not realize his last line was a joke.

"You're the new kid?" the taller boy asked. "Mad-Man Moody's nephew."

Draco nodded, and looked at the bus stop, hoping the school bus would come.

"My dad say's he lost it in the war."

"Naw, he lost it in bed . . ." Draco prided himself on his tact for omitting the last part. What he started to add was extremely insulting.

The other boy looked wide-eyed at him and snorted. "That was a good one. So, what does your uncle do?"

"Don't know. I do know a couple of men from the Ministry stopped by to see him late Friday night, shortly after I arrived."

"I believe that. What did they talk about?"

"I don't know. I was sent to bed." Draco glared at the road holding it responsible for the school bus not arriving.

"I believe that, too."

Draco lost his temper. He threw his prepared lunch on the ground and glared at the other boy. "Listen, you teenage prat . . ."

"I'm twelve," the boy said defensively.

"Righ'. You're still a prat. Make one more remark 'bout me Uncle an' you'll see Ollies comin' at your Chevy fer ten minutes. Unnerstan'?"

"Yes," the boy said, then added slowly, "Not really."

"What's all this then," The bus driver demanded.

"New boy," the boy said.

Draco withheld his tongue about what he thought of the bus driver showing up at that very moment.

"Get on board," the school bus driver demanded.

As Draco picked up his lunch, the boy said, "Look, sorry about your uncle."

Draco boarded the bus. He pulled out the cap that Moody had forced on him out of his lunch bag and put it on. He sat down in an empty seat and the boy sat next to him, staring in surprise when he saw the emblem on the cap.

"Manchester City? They beat Arsenal yesterday, 3 - 0," the boy said, staring at the cap. "I'm Ephram,"

"Drake," Draco told him, then added with a grin, "Sucks to be Arsenal."

"So," Ephram asked him, that weekend, as he finished giving Draco a tour of the village, "Did the Ministry really send people to your uncle's house."

"Yeah."

"And you have no idea what they talked about."

Draco smiled. "Snakes. Really big ones."

"Snakes?"

Draco nodded. "Yeah. I think those blokes were in charge of a zoo."

Ephram nodded to the approaching boy. "There's Mitchell." Mitchell was the third of the three boys in their class who caught the bus from that part of the village, which was really a small town.

"Hi, F, Dragon," the new boy said, grinning. "You said we'd talk about money."

" it's bread an' 'oney," Draco explained. "It's simple rhymin'. Lady Godiva is a fiver. (The way Draco pronounced it, they did rhyme.) A fifty is nifty, an' a Quid is Plymouth Sound."

"This is great. My mom's going to hate me for talking like that."

"What are you doing, now, Draco," Inspector Givens asked from behind.

"I thought your name was Drake," Ephram said.

"It's a term of affection," Givens said offhandedly. "Is there anything else they don't know about you, Drake - o?"

"You'll tell 'em. Always do."

Mitchell dared to ask. "Are you with the police?"

Givens smiled and showed his badge. "CID."

"'at's a promotion. Congrats, Inspector." Draco smiled. "Detective."

"Are you a friend of his family?" Ephram asked.

"In a sense."

Draco decided what the hell. "'e's me parole officer."

"Was," Givens corrected. "Which is why I'm here. It has been three full years without one official complaint on record. You are now a free man, more or less."

Draco was smiling. Ephram and Mitchell now liked their new friend that much more. In a small town, or big village, having a reputation as a bad boy could be fun.

"Am I allowed back in Harrod's then?"

"Never."

"What did you do?" Mitchell demanded.

"Got caught. Was only nine. Din't know any better."

Givens rolled his eyes. "Draco, you have this wonderful environment, free from all the hardships of London. Why don't you take advantage of it?" He noted the glint in Draco's eye. "Perhaps I should rephrase that."

Givens left Draco and his friends to their play and went to Alastor Moody's house for the final interview. Draco was not surprised that Givens noticed nothing unusual about the house. Moody had told him about the charms already in place. A wizard could have apparated directly in front of the detective and he would have seen a man who just walked into the room.

Meanwhile, Draco began to fit in. His reputation helped him with the other boys because it made him more interesting. One day a girl asked him if it was true. She had hair the same colour as Janice. And she smiled. He used his fancy voice to answer her.

"I saw some candy. I ate half of it before the clerk asked me how much money I had."

"You stole candy?"

"I was nine. I was too young to steal liquor."

And, inevitably, there was the bully who had to show off. He pushed Draco from behind and said, "I was told you were tough."

Draco picked himself up and turned around. "Name ain't Mikey, is it?"

The other boy laughed. "Why would it be Mikey."

Draco held his hands up, palms facing the boy."Listen, Wally, I'll be 'onest wit' ya. I'm puttin' me one an' two in your cobbler an' then I'll explain."

The boy stopped laughing and pulled his fist back. "Don't call me a Wally." As the boy stepped forward, so did Draco, his foot coming up between the other boy's legs. As Draco had warned him, his one and two (From the old children's song, 'one, two, buckle my shoe) went into the other boy's cobbler. The boy collapsed.

"Now, I'll explain 'bout Mikey," Draco said to the writhing boy. "This is where I got me t'rown outa me old school. I din't stop hittin' 'im."

"He attacked my son," the woman accused.

The school headmistress laughed in her face. "Two dozen witnesses called it self defense, and he was warned, in a manner of speaking. If you want anyone thrown out of this school it will have to be your son."

The woman left in disgust and the headmistress turned to Draco. "I know enough about cockneys to know what cobblers are. Perhaps it would be best if you no longer shared your local idioms with the rest of the students. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mrs. Bentham."

"And congratulations on winning your first fight."

"First?"

Mrs. Bentham gave him a smile that was not a smile. "You wanted to be a bad boy. Now you have to prove yourself to all of the other bad boys. He was only the first."

Draco nodded. He wasn't having as much fun anymore.

"Look, there he is," someone said, a boy in his mid teens. The other in the group smiled at the two boys in front of them. "Are you still as bad as they say?"

Draco sighed as Ephram suggested they walk away. Walking away rarely worked. Sometimes talking did, if you talked fast enough and used the right words.

"Was," Draco said with a shrug. "Ain't much reason any more."

"Ain't much reason?" one of the others asked in a mocking tone.

"Got me a roof an' three squares now."

There was a slight pause as everyone suddenly looked at Draco or away.

"Guess that's all you need," the leader said with a smile. He held out his fist and Draco hit it with his own as he walked away. Ephram was impressed in more ways than one. "Dragon? You lived on the streets? Literally? What was it like?"

"F, I'll be honest with you. I had friends. And sometimes, I miss them so much that I wish they were living here with me. But I'll never missed them enough to want to go back there to live."

They walked quietly for a long time by twelve-year-old standards, almost half a minute.

Then conversation went back to normal things. How they did on the last test. Did Arsenal really have a chance this year what with the way they were playing. Did either of them really like Diane Bentham even though her mother ran the school. When they ran into Mitchell, he expressed his opinion. The smart money was on Manchester, they brought up some players from the youth club who looked good. He also stated that Diane liked him so it didn't matter what they thought.

It was too good to last. Moody would talk about the difficulties they were having but Draco didn't care. A part of him already wanted this life to last forever.

But it could not, and Draco did know that. He came home from school one Monday afternoon to find Shacklebolt and Black there. He had last seen Shacklebolt the weekend when the man showed up for the football match. Draco had been forced to join the local youth club through the most diabolical means possible. Ephram asked if he wanted to. He even said it would be fun.

What happened was that Draco was given number seven, and Mitchell's mum, who grew up in Manchester, kept telling him he had a lot to live up to. "After all, Eric Cantona . . ." Draco saved himself some grief by interrupting her and telling her he already cleared the first hurdle. He was born in France. As she hugged him, he mentally thanked Mitchell for talking about sports all the time.

It was the second match he played in. Draco had managed not to fall and to even run with the ball without losing it. That was when Moody appeared with Shacklebolt at his side. To bolster Draco's ego, Shacklebolt took out his camera when he caught the boy's eye to let him know he would be taking photographs. And Draco did have his moment of glory. The football came flying through the air in his direction, along with three of the opposing team. Draco jumped up and hit the ball away with his head. It went, purely by luck, straight at his own center who was in a perfect position. Draco received an assist and he was kept as a forward for ten more minutes until everyone realized it was a fluke.

But that was early March. No one else he knew showed for the weekly matches. Except for one occasion. It was two weeks after the game with the assist. Draco had even found his niche. He was very good at defense. Secretly, he liked the idea that it was permissible to run directly at people. The opposing center was charging and Draco came up behind him and kicked the ball away. He also tripped over the center's foot while doing this. As he picked himself up, he glanced at the crowd to see if Moody was there. He wasn't. But for one brief moment, Draco thought he saw a familiar old man with a long crooked nose. He had to turn his attention back to the match, and when he had the chance to look, the figure was no longer there.

And now it was a Monday in the middle of May. He heard Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice as he opened the front door.

" . . .And the Minister is looking at the pictures and asks, "what is football?" I told him it was Quidditch played without broomsticks."

"A close enough description," Moody admitted with a chuckle. "And here is our errant student. Draco, why don't you take a seat."

"Sure, Uncle Al." Draco set his books on a side table and took his usual seat. "Anything new?"

"Nothing at all."

"Are we giving up?"

"He's still using his fancy voice?" Sirius asked.

"His friends understand him better," Moody explained, "and no, we are not giving up. We are changing our approach. Next weekend, we are moving you to Hogsmeade. We can't get your wand, but we can get you into the school."

"But . . . you said all the secret passages were being guarded."

It was Black who answered. "There is one secret passage. I know the guard and I can get us past, but it only goes onto the grounds, not into the school."

"When?" Draco asked. He was not smiling.

"Sunday would be the best day," Moody said. "Everything will be quiet. We can leave easily enough."

Despite the words, every face Draco looked at said that statement was a lie. His frown let them know he saw the lie.

"Why Sunday?"

Moody held up his hand. "Things have been quiet. Too quiet for too long. Something is going to happen and we want to act fast."

"Then why wait?" Draco was angry and he knew he had no reason.

"We could leave right now, boy, but then I'd have to explain what happened to you. If we wait until the weekend, you can be the one to explain."

Kingsley reached over, his hand touching Draco's knee. "We have watched you grow, Draco Malfoy. We want to give you the chance to say goodbye to your friends. Because it will be goodbye. That is worth the extra time we are taking."

"Why," Draco asked when he found himself alone with Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Hogwarts Express rolling lazily through the countryside.

"Which Why?" Kingsley asked in return.

"The secrecy. Why not tell the Minister?"

"To tell the Minister is to tell other people as well. Draco, you told everyone you were going to talk to Moaning Myrtle. Did you ever talk to her?"

"No"

"Someone heard and stopped you. If we tell, someone might stop us. And we do not know who it is we should not tell. For the time being, Draco Malfoy is a schoolboy in a muggle school. The Minister even has pictures as proof. No one knows to stop you from talking to Moaning Myrtle. This time, no one will stop you." He smiled. "What is your next why?"

"I guess it's why are you helping me?"

Kingsley gave Draco a broad grin. "We are not helping you, Draco Malfoy. We are helping the world. What has been haunting Hogwarts is clearly of ancient origin. Its return at this time is the work of someone evil whom we know now is seeking to return. His hand is in this, I am sure. To let him win is to let everything I hold dear to be crushed into dust and lost forever. As for you, Draco Malfoy, you are the key to our plan. You have the very skill we need if we are to succeed. You are a parselmouth. One of only two that we know of."

"So, that extra week was a bribe."

"No. Not a bribe. We agreed to give you that extra week with your friends because you are twelve years old."

Draco nodded. He was being used again. But, this time at least, they asked him.

Moody came back after a while and sat down. He told Draco there were things they needed to talk about, but Kingsley said it had already been taken care of.

Draco, sitting there wearing his fake glasses and his hair magicked black, said he did have one more question. "Why'd you make me look like a Potter?"

Moody's smiled told him that, since they had to disguise him, they could at least have some fun.

The three departed the train once they reached their destination. It was then that Kingsley showed his skills. As Black had done with muggles, Shacklebolt was doing with wizards. They walked down the main street of Hogsmeade with no one paying the slightest attention to them. They turned down a side street and the evening crowds grew less. After passing a rundown pub, they were almost alone. As they reached a clearing, they turned and walked overland to a small deserted building. The Shrieking Shack. It was supposed to be the most haunted place in the country. Sirius Black, though, assured them they had nothing to worry about. He gave them his personal guarantee.

And there was where Draco slept, in a makeshift bed in a boarded up bedroom with weird scratches on all the walls and doors. Even the wooden floors boards had gouges in them. The only thing that made him feel better was that his hair was back to its normal colour.

In the morning, he awoke to find himself alone. There were food and a note from Moody to make sure he wasn't seen. There was also yesterday's edition of the Daily Prophet so that He at least had something to read to pass the time.

The main story was about Hogwarts and whether the monster was really gone. The Minister pointed out to the press that since the arrest of the caretaker, Hagrid, there have been no attacks, no disturbances or any suspicious activities on any scale. One of the reader comments scared Draco. The reader suggested that Hagrid knew how to summon the monster and that the government should use any means necessary to make him reveal how he does it. Then the monster could be deliberately summoned so that it can be destroyed once and for all.

Draco sat the paper down. Only a week before he was sitting in history class, not with an old ghost, but a lively young teacher who really tried to get them all interested in . . . something or other. His friends were there. They had won their match over the weekend, and planned to win the next one . . ."

And now he was in an empty shack near Hogwarts. Where people hated him. Where someone had tried to kill him, and may try again. Where every minute of every day he is reminded that his parents were evil. He hated the place and everyone in it. He should just leave and let them all rot. "It's not like any of my friends are really hurt." Draco used his snootiest accent to say that. And it was true. Justin and Hermione would be cured. Even the cat. That article talked about closing the school. Draco didn't care. He didn't want to go there anymore. Everyone else could go home too. Justin and Hermione and . . . Hagrid would stay in prison.

All the other things came back to him. The monster would still be loose. And Voldemort would be in control of it. If Draco did nothing and went back to middle school, it would only be a matter of time before the Dark Lord came after him. Such a man would want to wipe out all of his enemies.

Draco slumped down on the dusty floor and leaned against the wall, wiping tears of frustration from his eyes. He had no real choice. He could either face the trouble and hope for the best, or hide from it as long as possible.