Author's note: I'm sorry to all those people who reviewed: I won't have time to answer any of you until Sunday. -sighs- However, I do want to adress an issue that I think everyone brought up: Hermione slapping Harry. I agree, that was extreme, but it was also the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. That doesn't mean I aprove, and that will probably vanish during revision, but, for now, just keep letting me know what you like and don't like! I assure you, I will take your opinions into account when I revise this story. So if there's anything that you notice that could be improved, changed, or taken out, do not hesitate to let me know!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Realism, after all, is a virtue.
--Tamara

Twenty minutes later, Ginny was properly made up and dressed. She'd left her hair loose, loving the way it swung without frizzing, and had carefully braided two thin braids into the front. These didn't slip behind her ears like the rest, but swung alluringly over her chest. She grinned at her reflection. No longer was she Ginny Weasley the tomboy, youngest girl in a family of six boys. Now, she was just Ginny, adult, sophisticated, and surprisingly attractive. Emily nodded approvingly. "He will eat you up," she promised.

Ginny grimaced. "If he appreciates me, then that'll be enough," she said. "I'd rather survive to see next year."

Emily rolled her eyes. "You know exactly what I mean," she said.

Ginny grinned. "I do," she agreed. "But teasing you is so much more fun."

Emily sighed. "Well don't. Stick these in please?" She held out a palm full of bobby pins, which Ginny obligingly placed in the tower of hair that Emily had constructed. A quick binding spell reinforced the pins, and Emily tilted her head, studying her reflection.

Mira too had taken extra care with herself. She hadn't done anything with her hair –it was too thin to do anything with, and she despaired of ever thickening it with any kind of charm – but she'd carefully brushed it until it gleamed softly. Emily had done her makeup as well, and she too looked older than she was. She wore silver floor length dress robes, and matching shoes. It was tasteful and elegant, and it suited her perfectly. Emily, on the other hand, had gone all out. Her robes were a glory of red and gold, and she was in the act of carefully perching a tiara on the top of her tower of hair. All three girls wore jewelry, and Emily had done her nail alternating red and gold. She'd tried to convince Ginny to paint hers green, but Ginny had steadfastly refused. She hated painting her nails, and the thought of having Emily do it for her gave her the chills. The sight of Mira, who'd succumbed to peer pressure, undergoing the manicure only reinforced her horror.

As dances went, it was an unqualified success. Ginny danced with Harry and with Colin. She could care less about Colin, but she knew that he fancied her, and she wasn't cruel enough to just ignore him. She knew how much that hurt. Parvati breezed by to tell her that she was beautiful – a high compliment indeed from the Indian Witch – and even Lavender had to admit that she looked 'better.' Ginny ignored her. She didn't like Lavender.

The ball had been opened to any family members above the age of thirteen who wanted to come, and Hermione's sister had come the day before. She's dressed in Hermione's dormitory, and Ginny got her first good look at her as she entered the room with her sister. She was pretty, much more so than Hermione, and she'd obviously taken care to look good. Or at least, to look original. Her black hair was combed out to the middle of her back and left loose like Ginny's. A single blue streak went straight down the middle, and it managed never to get lost among the mass of black. She wasn't wearing a dress, but a skirt and top. Fishnet stockings covered her legs, and the skirt hardly passed the middle of her thighs. She wore what appeared to be simply a black strap around her upper body, albeit one that covered all the important bits. She'd done her makeup so as to make herself as vivid as possible, and it was working. Her lips were covered in black lipstick, which would have looked horrid on anyone but her. Her face was covered very slightly with powder, which made it appear a few shades lighter. She wore heavy mascara and electric blue eye shadow that matched the streak in her hair. One ear was adorned with a black rose, and the other with two pieces of a broken heart. She was certainly the most noticeable girl in the entire hall, muggle or not.

"The hair's dyed," Hermione confided, watching her sister flirt expertly with three boys at the same time. "I have no idea where she got those clothes, because mum and dad would throw a fit if they knew."

"Well she's certainly making an impression. Look, even Malfoy's impressed."

Belle had sidled up to the blond Slytherin, and they were holding a slightly hostile conversation. Neither showed any signs of leaving, though, and Ginny could only conclude that they enjoyed insulting each other.

"We met him over the summer. She seemed to think that he was worth baiting."

"Well he didn't kill her, so she must have done something right."

Harry rolled his eyes. "We were all amazed when she came back not only alive but totally unharmed!"

Ginny laughed. They watched Belle take her leave and glide over to the two of them. She grinned at Harry. "Fancy meeting you here," she said.

Harry laughed. "Have we met before? I'm sure I would have remembered!"

"Oh stop it! This is how I would dress every day, if my parents would let me. As it is… well, they don't know that I own these and unless any of you let it slip, they won't know."

"And how do you propose to hide them from your parents?"

"They live at my friend Carla's house. Her parents could care less, and she lets me keep them there for free. She was totally jealous when I told her that I was coming here."

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "You told her that you were coming here?" she asked angrily.

Belle looked at her in surprise. Then, understanding flashed across her face. "I keep forgetting. No, she doesn't know that I'm here. She just knows that I'm going to 'Mione's school for a Valentine's Day dance. I took a picture of Draco and me together, you understand."

Ginny felt her eyes go from narrowed to almost popping out. "You took a picture of you and Malfoy together?!"

Belle's eyes flashed with irritation. "He's not that bad, you know."

Ginny snorted. "I don't know how you do it. Trust me, if anyone else was to try to come up to him, he would just turn and stalk away."

"You're just prejudiced," Belle snapped.

"You're right, I am. With good reason, too. He hates my guts, in case you hadn't noticed."

Belle rolled her eyes and didn't answer. She breezed away to make contact with Luna. Ginny though a little cynically that the two of them should get along well together.

I tried to calm my racing pulse as I walked away from Harry, Hermione and Ginny. It wasn't their fault, at least not entirely. Draco certainly hadn't made any efforts to establish the connection, though I had a pretty good idea of why. After all, if what I thought I was seeing was true, then he would have a very good reason to want to hide it. I didn't know how the wizards handled the gay members of society, but I knew quite well what would happen in my school if he were found out, and I didn't care to think about it.

I drifted through the crowd, establishing links with most, if not all, of the boys in the room. I could sense the eyes that followed me, and allowed myself a small, slightly smug smile. Because I'd lied to Harry. Given the choice, I most certainly would not dress like this every day. The clothes weren't even mine: they belonged to Carla and I'd had to beg her to let me borrow them for the week. As a general rule, I don't approve of showing off. I'm smart, and moderately talented, but I don't like to show it. But when I found out that I was going to be one of the only muggles in a roomful of teenage magical people, I realize pretty quickly that I needed to make myself stand out. The clothes had been the way that I'd chosen to do it. Obviously it had worked.

I turned in surprise as someone slid into the space created by the departure of my latest conquest. I looked at him, frowning a little. I was sure I recognized him, but fitting a name to the face was something else entirely. Zacharias, maybe? Yes, that sounded right.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked sweetly, looking up into his pale blue eyes.

"Come with me," he said shortly, grabbing my wrist. I frowned, and tried to tug myself free.

"Where are we going?"

"Out." We passed through the door into the garden, and he let me rather forcefully behind an ornamental shrub. There, he let me go and stood over me, looking straight into my eyes. I tried to contain the shudder that passed through me at the look in those blue orbs.

"What do you want?" I asked him steadily, doing my best not to show fear. I knew that, if it came down to a fight, he would have me pinned down before I could scream. He had magic and I didn't. I began to feel suddenly just how vulnerable I really was. Maybe dressing like a slut hadn't been the best way to go about attracting attention after all.

"Don't try to tell me that you don't know what I want," he told me. "You've been asking for it all evening."

"I haven't asked you for anything," I shot back. Just keep him talking, Belle. Sooner or later someone will find you. Oh dear God, please let it be sooner!

"You've been watching me. You think I don't know what that means?"

"I haven't been watching you at all, Zacharias. Now let me go!" Oops. Using his first name seemed to have been a bad move. His eyes gleamed and he lowered his mouth to mine. I had a sudden, unwanted image on myself on top of his body, and quickly repressed it. Things would not get that far. I would kill him with my bare hands, magic or no, if he tried to force me.

"You don't want to do that," a cultured voice drawled nearby. My heart leapt as I twisted my head away from Zacharias' grip and saw Draco standing there casually holding his wand.

"What do you want with her, Malfoy?" Zacharias spat. He turned back to me, but Draco cleared his throat pointedly, drawing attention back to his wand.

"I want you to leave her alone," he said coldly. "Or I will fix you so that you can never catch any woman's eye ever again."

Zacharias slowly drew his own wand, but Draco had spoken some word before Zacharias had half finished and his wand flew up into the air. Draco caught it easily, and tossed it over his shoulder. I saw it roll off the path and into the flowers, and I knew that Zacharias had seen it as well. He backed away from me, keeping a wary eye on Draco. Draco turned to face me, his wand still trained on Zacharias, who was edging slowly around us, presumably to retrieve his wand. "How far did he get?"

I grinned, a little shakily. "He didn't, thanks to you. You arrived just in time."

"Making a conquest, Malfoy? I didn't think you'd lower yourself to muggles," Zacharias jeered from behind us. I supposed that he'd regained his wand: he didn't seem brave enough to try anything without it. Draco didn't turn away from me, only twisted his wrist sharply. There was a sharp blasting sound and Zacharias was blown into the bush.

"One more word out of you, Smith, and that will be a love tap," Draco promised, still not deigning to look at the unfortunate Zacharias. "I would suggest that you leave as quickly as you can."

"You are going to pay for this, Malfoy!" Zacharias snarled, scrambling up.

Draco shrugged, and said, "Silencio." Zacharias looked furious, but no sound was coming out of his mouth. Draco finally turned back to him. "Smith, I have been more than reasonable, don't you think? I warned you several times, and you chose to ignore those warnings. Now you are going to find out what happens to those who don't pay attention to me." He glanced in my direction. "Belle, you may want to leave now. It'll be ugly."

I shrugged. "I can handle that," I said, wondering if I could. I had no doubt as to Draco's character, and I knew very well that he was quite capable of beating a defenseless boy in cold blood. Not, of course, that Zacharias counted as defenseless.

"If you insist." He turned back to Zacharias, and began a series of quick and efficient spells. By the time he was done, Zacharias resembled nothing so much as a flesh colored slug. "I learned from what you did to me on the train last year," he told the shape. "And I don't forget. Madam Pomfrey should be able to sort you out."

I came out from behind the shrub, and surveyed Zacharias. "Impressive," I commented, forcing down the nausea that came at the sight of Draco's work.

"I do my best. Shall we get out of here?"

I nodded. "That might be the best idea." To my surprise, he led me, not back to the room, but farther into the garden. "I didn't let you save me just to let you try your luck," I warned.

"I promise you Belle, your virtue is safe in my hands."

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"Because we can't talk properly in there."

"What do you want to say?"

He sighed. "And I thought that you might want to yell at me. I'd rather not allow you to do that in public."

I started at him. "You want me to yell at you?"

"I didn't say that. I said that I thought you might want to. It's different."

"Why should I want to yell at you? You saved my skin!"

"Some people don't… approve of my methods."

I sighed. "I'm not going to say that it doesn't make me supremely nervous, but I don't think I have a right to yell at you. After all, as I've said at least twice now, you did rescue me."

He grinned suddenly, and I realized that it was the first genuine grin that I'd ever seen on his face. "How very sweet of you."

"Don't push your luck," I warned. "I can be nasty."

He paused for a moment and looked at me closely. "Belle," he said finally. "I don't want to disappoint you. I think that you are a very interesting person, but I'm not interested in being anything… more."

I shrugged. "I know that. Neither am I, come to think of it. I know that I'm not the one that you want."

"What do you mean?" his voice was sharp, and I wondered briefly if this was the right thing to be mentioning. After all, I had just had a rather obvious demonstration of what he was capable of. "What do you know?"

I sighed. I didn't really have a choice now. My big mouth would just have to get me out again. "I saw you watching us the first time we met. You weren't looking at me."

"And you told them?"

"Of course not! Honestly Draco, who do you think I am?"

"I have no idea. Every time I think I've figured you out, you show another level."

I grinned. "It's what I do best," I informed him. My face took on a more solemn cast. "But really Draco. Are you sure that you're content with what you have now?"

He grimaced. "It will do," he said. "We're good friends now, at least."

I looked at him sardonically. "Oh yeah? It doesn't look like it."

He shrugged. "It isn't supposed to. It makes it so much more entertaining to keep it a secret."

"Sure."

"It wasn't my idea."

"And you're not complaining?"

"Don't have much choice, do I?"

"You always have a choice."

"Not if I want to keep his friendship."

"Which you do?"

"Which I do," he agreed.

I sighed. "Guess you're right. Want me to talk to him for you?"

"No!"

"Fine. You don't have to get touchy about it. It was just a suggestion."

"Sorry. Just… don't, all right?"

"All right."

I glanced at my watch, and swore suddenly. "God! 'Mione will have my skin for staying out so late!"

He looked at his own. "It's not even midnight yet," he objected.

I grimaced. "Un-huh. But my curfew is officially eleven thirty."

"Harsh."

"Tell me about it. Still, if I expect her to keep her mouth shut about the outfit, I'd better skidadle back. Thanks again for saving me."

"My pleasure. Stay out of gardens with boys from now on."

"And what am I doing now?"

"Leaving."

I laughed, and ran back to the Great Hall.

In the days after the ball, everyone tried their hardest to go back to normal. Zacharias Smith had been found in the gardens, horribly disfigured, and the main gossip that flew around the castle was that he'd tried to force someone. No one came forward to say that it was them who'd cursed him, but I was coming to realize that Smith had a rather nasty reputation among Hufflepuff. I felt a slight glow of pride at my handiwork every time I heard the stories, and wondered when they would end. Belle had left the day after the ball, so she couldn't say anything, and no one even thought to ask me. It was well known that I don't usually consider Hufflepuffs worth looking at, much less cursing.

Of course, there were those who had their suspicions. Blaise cornered me the day after the ball, once he'd seen Smith, and made me confess. I swore him to secrecy, and demanded that he not tell Pansy. I knew her well enough to know that if he told her, then the entire school would know in a matter of weeks. That Harry would know. That was one of my nightmares: that Harry would find out and turn away from me. I doubted that he knew who I really was underneath, and I was afraid to show him. I didn't think that I could stand it if he turned away from me now.

Blaise heard my explanation, rolled his eyes, and said, "Don't you think that any others will put the pieces together? You have a rather distinctive style, you know."

I shrugged. "Then they won't bother saying anything," I said. "As I've made it obvious what happens to those who cross me. I know some really nasty combinations of curses that even Madam Pomfrey might not be able to sort out."

"You sure about that?"

"If you put enough layers on, then no one can unravel them." I'd learned that lesson the hard way. As a child, I'd had a dog. I hadn't really cared much about it, but my father used it to punish me. He would teach me a spell and make me cast it on the dog. I, obedient child that I was, did, and one afternoon he announced a review session. I don't even remember what I'd done to make him that mad at me, but it doesn't matter. I cast spell after spell on the poor animal and eventually it lay down and wouldn't get up. Nothing we could do would make it better, and eventually the weight of spells on it killed it. After that, my father started hitting me instead. I suppose he didn't want to buy me another pet.

He raised his eyebrows. "And you could do that?"

"Yes."

He didn't answer, only looked hard at me for a long time. Finally, he said, "Give me a warning if I make you mad, all right? I'd rather live long enough to die properly, if you don't mind."

"Don't make me mad and if you die early, it won't be my fault."

"I'll remember that." He nodded briefly at me, then walked away. I watched him go, then shook my head. I don't go around killing my friends. Call me a rebel.

I should have realized, of course, that Professor Dumbledore would have noted the deed and traced it back to me. To be perfectly honest, I was half-expecting the summons that arrived two days later, and the only real surprise was that it hadn't been earlier. I excused myself to Pansy and Blaise and walked down the corridor until I reached the statue of the gargoyle. We regarded each other steadily, and I said finally, "I don't know the password, but he wants me, so you may as well let me in."

It didn't move, and I sighed with exasperation, ignoring the building embarrassment at having a conversation with a gargoyle who couldn't even answer back. "Look!" I said, holding up the note. "I'm expected!"

It was only then that I noticed the smaller writing on the back. The password is Marble Cake. I rolled my eyes, and said, "All right. Fine. Have it your way. Marble cake." The gargoyle shuddered and moved aside. I stepped through the resulting opening and stepped onto the moving staircase. It took a short moment to reach Dumbledore's office, and I took a deep breath as I waited. It was all very well to be expecting the summons, but it was still a little nerve-wracking. I'd never been here before – most of my lectures had happened in Professor Snape's office – and I wondered what to expect. Harry had never gotten around to describing it for me, and my fertile imagination was allowed to run free.

Finally, the staircase reached the top. I stepped off and gathered my courage before knocking on the door.

"Come in." I pushed the door open and stepped into the room, closing it behind me. I glanced around swiftly, taking in all the gadgets and bare spots on the shelf. He saw me looking, and smiled a little. "I am afraid that a student had a bit of a temper tantrum last term. I haven't gotten around to replacing all of the items yet. Do take a seat, Mr. Malfoy. Lemon drop?"

I shook my head at the proffered sweet and dropped into one of the chairs. He folded his hands over his desk and regarded me over the top of his half-moon spectacles. I refused to break eye contact, and finally he said, "Mr. Malfoy, I am sure that you heard about the incident concerning Mr. Smith at the ball."

I shrugged. "The entire school has heard by now, Professor Dumbledore. It doesn't really matter to me."

"Doesn't it?"

He knew. I knew that he knew, and he knew that I knew that he knew. It didn't matter what I said, then. "He deserved it."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you tell me the story. Mr. Smith has already offered his version."

"What did he say?"

"Why don't you tell me your story."

"What did he say?"

"I'm afraid that I'm not at liberty to reveal the nature of the interview."

"Except to the lawyers?"

"There will be no lawyers."

"Oh? So you won't use whatever I say against me?"

"I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, whatever you say to me remains with me."

"You're sure?"

"I am. Now why don't you stop delaying and tell me what happened."

"I found him trying to force a muggle girl. I stopped him."

"Is that all that happened?"

"Yes."

"You have no feelings for the girl in question?"

"She's a casual friend. We met this summer."

"What was her name?"

"Her name is Belladonna."

He sighed, and looked hard at me. "Mr. Malfoy, please be honest with me. Is that the only reason that you attacked Mr. Smith?"

"What are you implying, Professor?"

"I had heard rumors that you were attempting to… hide the evidence."

I snorted. I'd heard those as well. "What exactly do you mean, hide the evidence?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

I shrugged. "Since it's not true, then there's nothing to say. I cursed him because he was annoying a friend of mine and I don't like him."

He regarded me sadly. "Is that a reason to exercise such force?"

"I wasn't being overly forceful."

"Mr. Malfoy, as I am sure you are aware, it took Poppy several hours to unwind all the spells that you placed on Mr. Smith. He will never look the same, you know."

I told him what I'd told Blaise. He seemed to consider this for a long moment. "So you believe that you exercised restraint?"

I nodded. "I could have killed him," I said bluntly. "I could also have sent him to St. Mungo's. I could have put him in a coma for the rest of his life. Compared to that, a few hours in the hospital wing and a limp are nothing."

He studied me thoughtfully. I tried to hold his gaze, but the power in those blue eyes was too much in the end, and I dropped my own down to my lap. "Mr. Malfoy, do you have any idea how rare it is for a person to feel no guilt at all for an action like this?"

I sighed. I have heard this many times before, and the answer is always the same. "I'm not like most people."

"No. You are not. You have gone through evil and it has not left you untainted."

I found the strength in anger to meet his eyes again. "Should it have?" I asked bitterly. "Do you expect me to be a Ginny Weasley and come out of evil unscarred?"

"Not even Miss Weasley is unscarred," he told me gently. "I suppose that your father explained it to you?"

I didn't answer, and after a moment, he continued. "It is impossible to come out of something like that unmarked. But it is possible to get rid of those marks."

"And what if I don't want to?" It came out more a challenge than a question.

"Then you may be poisoning you soul unnecessarily."

I stared at him, unwilling to believe what he was hearing. Was he utterly mad? Anger, hatred, and power were the only reasons that I was still alive. He wanted me to get rid of those? Didn't he realize that, without anger and hatred I wouldn't last much longer in my house? "You are an optimist," I told him bluntly. "There's no way I can let go, and I don't want to."

"Why not?"

I didn't answer, and he asked quietly. "Is it because you would feel powerless without the strength of your hatred?"

I looked at him for a long moment, then stood up angrily. "Professor, if you are going to punish me, then please get on with it. I didn't come here to be cross-examined and asked to confess my soul."

"A detention with Poppy, I think," he said thoughtfully. "For as long as she wishes, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps it's best that you see the effects of your actions up close."

I nodded, and strode out of the office.

Poppy knocked a little shakily on Albus' door. Without waiting for an answer, she walked in. She sat down heavily and looked at the three assembled in front of her. "That boy is not human," she said without preamble.

Albus looked at her curiously. "Please explain yourself, Poppy."

She took a deep breath, trying to compose her thoughts. Severus watched her carefully, noting that she'd been breathing hard from more than just the climb to the office. He noted too that Minerva was looking as carefully as he himself was. She watched Poppy for a moment longer, then said quietly, "Is this about young Mr. Malfoy?"

She nodded briefly.

"What happened?"

She shrugged helplessly. "It wasn't that he was rude. On the contrary, he was quite manageable, far more than I had expected, if a little reserved. It was just that nothing I did had any effect on him. The horror stories, the patients themselves… he took it all and absorbed it."

"Did it occur to you that he might be hiding his true emotions? Draco is very proud." Severus' sharp voice cut across the conversation, drawing attention to his shadowed figure.

Poppy nodded. "I thought of that, and it's possible, but I don't really think so. I've known a good many proud students. They all crack sooner or later. It might be subtle, but I've learned to recognize the signs. He showed nothing." She stopped, and suddenly laughed bitterly. "The irony is that he would make a remarkable Healer. Knowing how to close yourself off from your emotions is a vital skill. I've never seen any trained Healer better able to do it than that child."

Severus didn't say anything, but he remembered the nights watching Draco cry himself to sleep. Draco certainly had emotions, and the fact that he chose not to show them had nothing to do with his circumstances and everything to do with his upbringing. Draco, of course, knew nothing of Severus' promise to Narcissa, and Severus had no intention of telling him. He would undoubtedly blow up at the news, and Severus had been properly impressed by the boy's abilities.

Albus seemed to catch his thoughts, or at least his mood, because he said quietly, "Mr. Malfoy has spent his life learning to hide his emotions, Poppy. Are you sure that he felt nothing?"

She shook her head helplessly. "I don't know, Albus. I'd like to think that he's just learned to hide them well, but… I don't know."

"Are you sure that he was hiding them, Albus?" Minerva asked suddenly. "Maybe Poppy's right, and the boy simply doesn't care."

Severus prayed that Albus would just ignore him and answer the question himself. If it hadn't been for the fact that Draco was in Severus' House, then the Potions teacher wouldn't have been at this meeting to save his life. He had no desire to talk about Draco to Albus, and he certainly didn't want to discuss him with Minerva.

Albus shrugged. "I don't know, Minerva." He turned to Severus, and Severus knew with a deep sinking feeling that his prayers hadn't been answered. "Severus? The boy is in your House."

Severus sighed. "I don't know either, Headmaster," he said shortly. "Just because Draco is in my House does not mean that he views me as his personal confessor."

Minerva rolled her eyes. "Severus, we know perfectly well what kind of relationship you have with your students." Her tone made it clear that she disapproved of Severus' methods. Severus knew perfectly well what she thought of his methods, and he didn't care.

"Then you know that I encourage them to talk amongst themselves," he shot back.

"Severus, Minerva," Albus cut in wearily. "This is not the time to be bickering. We are here to discuss Mr. Malfoy, not your individual teaching styles. Please remember that."

Severus nodded stiffly. After a moment, Minerva did the same.

"Now, Severus. Please tell us what you know about Mr. Malfoy's upbringing. It may help unravel some of the mysteries here."

Severus shrugged. "There isn't much to tell, Headmaster. He was brought up by Lucius Malfoy, and that alone should be enough to make one able to hide one's emotions and thoughts far better than the general public. Add to that a Mother who's a fool, plus a nasty family reputation, and you have a recipe which turned out the boy that we know."

"So you're saying that it's not the boy's fault?" Minerva demanded, frowning.

"I'm saying that it's not entirely Draco's fault," Severus corrected. "Though he didn't go to any lengths to escape his training when he left that place."

"He is proud of his ability to hate," Albus commented mildly. "Poppy, I don't remember if I told you, but we spoke before I sent him down to you. It was… educational, to say the least. I hadn't realized just how deeply his upbringing had scarred him."

Severus snorted rather loudly. They all turned to look at him. "What did you expect, Headmaster? Did you think that he would just waltz in here and be magically cured? As I recall, it was you, in fact, who made that impossible. When you decided to try to convince Narcissa to take him out of this school, he was listening to every word. I must say, it was that more than anything that made him proud of his ability to hate."

Minerva's eyes widened in shock, and Poppy stared from Severus to Albus. Severus caught the old man's gaze and held it, refusing to yield. Finally, Albus looked away. "It was foolish of me, I know," he said quietly. "I thought, in the heat of the moment, that it was the best thing to do. We've already discussed this, if you recall, Severus."

"I remember quite well," Severus said stiffly.

"That is not what we're here to discuss," Minerva reminded them sharply. "We're here to talk about the present and near future."

"Does he have any true friends?" Poppy asked suddenly. "I can't say that I know the boy very well, but he seems fairly lonely."

Once again, they all turned to Severus. "Draco has friends," he said shortly.

Minerva nodded. "He and Mr. Potter have, surprisingly, become quite… close."

Poppy's eyebrows skyrocketed. "He and Mr. Potter?" she asked. "Surely that's not possible!"

"I saw them, Poppy," Minerva countered. "They're not at all obvious about it, but I put them in detention together at the beginning of the year. It's far more noticeable then."

"And you spy on them?" Poppy demanded.

Minerva shrugged, looking very slightly embarrassed. "Not often. But there are times when I am… worried."

Severus nodded mentally. In Minerva's shoes, he would have done exactly the same thing, though he wouldn't have admitted to it. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he wasn't in Minerva's shoes. If he had been, he never would have put them in detention together in the first place.

"And do you think that this friendship has done any good?" Albus asked curiously.

"No," Severus cut in definitively. "No, Albus, I do not approve at all."

"Are you speaking through your own prejudices?" Minerva snapped.

"No I am not!" Severus countered. "While I may personally have some… problems with Mr. Potter, this is strictly to do with the two boys."

"Why do you believe that this friendship is a bad thing?" Albus asked, looking steadily at Severus.

"Potter will undoubtedly get bored with his new playmate," Severus said, knowing full well that he was being unfair and not caring. "When that happens, the effects on Draco will be far worse than if Potter had simply continued to ignore him."

"Explain yourself, Severus," Minerva said dangerously. "What makes you believe that Mr. Potter will tire of Mr. Malfoy? The impression I received would be that the danger would be to Mr. Potter instead."

Severus rolled his eyes subtly. "Minerva, Potter has a history of throwing potentially fruitful friendships away. What about the infamous Miss Chang last year?"

"They weren't ready, either of them, and she was foolish enough to bring up sensitive topics before it was time," Minerva told him frankly.

"If he can't bear to hear what she has to say, Minerva, then how do you expect him to sit through what Draco has to confess?"

"He already has."

Severus frowned. "Elaborate."

Minerva recounted the little scene she had witnessed in October. Severus ground his teeth together. He itched to go and knock some sense into Draco's lovesick head. What had he been thinking? Why would he open himself up, make himself so vulnerable to a boy who hated him? Because Potter did hate Draco, Severus was sure of it. Even if the fool believed that he didn't, it would eventually come back to hit him in the face, and he would turn away from Draco without blinking. The effects on Draco could be catastrophic, and Severus didn't even care to imagine them. Why in the name of anything holy had Minerva put them in that detention together? Didn't she realize that it was better for everyone if Draco and Potter hated each other?

Poppy was looking thoughtful. "Maybe I was too hasty in judging him," she said slowly. "It seems that he has some emotion after all."

Severus' temper snapped. "Of course he has feelings," he snarled. "Honestly, if you would all just pay attention to anything other than what directly concerns your little worlds, then you would realize it. Would you like the straight facts? Well here they are: Draco is in love with Potter. I'm sorry if that offends any of your sensibilities, but it's true. He has been since the boys were eleven, and Potter did the most intelligent thing he's ever done and refused Draco's friendship. It broke Draco's heart and kept Potter out of harm. It would have stayed that way forever but for your cursed meddling, Minerva. Now, you've endangered both of them, and you are in the process of breaking Draco's heart yet again. What do you think will happen what Potter turns away? I don't know about you, but I personally am not looking forward to the reaction. Headmaster." Severus nodded curtly to Albus, and strode out of the office, breathing a little heavily. He knew that he'd left a shocked silence behind him, and he didn't care. It had needed saying, and he felt a considerable burden lift from his shoulders and he stalked down the stairs and out into the hall. He was still in a murderous mood, though, and God protect any student who was unlucky enough to fall across his path for the next several hours if not days.

Harry was far less oblivious to the facts that Draco believed. He had no concrete evidence, other than the fact that the girl that Zacharias had tried to attack was Belle, but that was more than enough, when combined with how Zacharias had looked when he was found. Harry knew that, if he'd had time, he would have been able to identify every single spell that the attacker had put on the unfortunate Zacharias. And he had his suspicions as to who the attacker had been. He'd studied Draco's style far more in depthly than the other boy realized, and he could see the blond Slytherin's signature spells. Everyone had a signature spell, Harry was learning, one that they favored above all others. Ginny had her bat-bogey hex, and Ron was very fond of Stupefy. Harry himself knew quite well that his trademark was the disarming charm, and he did nothing to stop the word from spreading. He had a vague notion of his enemies expecting him to disarm them, and so not be ready for, say, a stunning spell. But that wasn't the point. The point was that Harry knew Draco's style, and the layered curses basically screamed Draco's name.

Not that he would ever tell Draco what he suspected. If his suspicions were wrong, and Harry supposed that they might well be, then Draco would be furious at the accusation, and if they weren't, Draco might try something on Harry to keep him silent. Harry had been highly impressed by the precision that the attacker (he would give Draco the benefit of the doubt, after all) had shown with the attack on Zacharias, and he had no wish to show up at Madam Pomfrey's in a similar condition. Not to mention the fact that he thought Dumbledore might have a stroke. There were times when blatant favoritism wasn't necessarily the best thing in the world.

He didn't tell anyone what he suspected, though, and gradually, as Zacharias recovered and no one else was attacked, people forgot about it and moved on with their lives. Draco didn't act any differently, and even Harry began to have his doubts after a while. But soon, there came an event that was the undeniable proof that he'd been unconsciously avoiding.

He was walking back from the Astronomy tower, unconsciously replotting his star charts in his head, when he suddenly stopped cold. It was Draco's voice that he heard, but Draco's voice in a way he hadn't heard all year. It was cold and hard, the voice, not of Draco, but of Malfoy. Harry listened despite himself, wondering just what was going on.

"You are going to regret that," Draco was saying. "I'm not very nice to people who lie about me or my family."

Obviously, whoever he was talking to answered, but Harry couldn't hear the voice. He edged closer, straining his ears to make it all out.

"No, I am not going to leave you alone," Draco snapped. "You insulted me, and I will not stand for that."

Harry still couldn't hear the reply, but he was afraid to get any closer. Draco would notice him if he moved in more, and he desperately wanted to know how this scene played out. He wasn't sure why he had to know, but something in him, something that formed part of the very core of his being, told him that he had to know what was about to happen. He didn't move.

"I am giving you one last chance," Draco snarled. "Apologize to me now, and pay a price. Otherwise, I will kill you." The words were said coldly, with no hint of emotion. Harry believed that Draco would do it, and so apparently did the person that Draco was talking to.

"Excellent," Draco said. "Now, this will almost certainly hurt."

There was presumably some sort of protest from the accused party.

"I told you there would be a price to pay," Draco told him lazily. "The more you snivel about it, the more it will hurt."

There was a pause, and then Harry heard Draco begin to dole out the punishment. Harry finally heard the other boy, his cries and piteous moans loud enough at last. Draco didn't stop until five minutes of moans and gasps had passed. Then, he sheathed his wand and turned away. As he walked out of the corner, his eyes met Harry's. The storm-cloud gray orbs held both an apology and a challenge, and he held Harry's gaze for a long moment. Then, he turned and strode away, his shoes clicking softly on the ground as he walked, mapping his passage out of the corridor and out of sight.

Ron was determined to find out who Hermione was writing to. If it really was that idiot Krum, he swore that he would throw all of the letters into the fire and pull all of his hair out in frustration. Didn't she realize that she was better than that? Why did she have to pin herself on some athletic jerk? Krum wasn't that good looking, anyway! She'd actually said that she was writing to him, for Merlin's sake. But, then again, if she wasn't writing to him, wouldn't she just say that she was to make him mad? It frustrated Ron to know that she cared so little for him. Sure, she was his friend and all, but didn't she realize that he might want to be more? Of course, there were days when Ron himself didn't know what he wanted, so he supposed that he should go easier on her. But still, Krum?!

The letters came faithfully every week. She would never open them in front of him or Harry, but would tuck them away, presumably to read them in private. Ron knew that she answered them all, because she always came out of her dormitory looking pleasantly drained, and nothing made Hermione look like that but a very long scroll of parchment freshly completed. Sometimes, Ron could swear that Hermione even liked writing essays. Of course, he'd always known that she was mental that way.

Finally, he couldn't bear it any longer. He intercepted her on her way to the dormitory, and said, "All right, Hermione. Just tell me who you're writing to!"

She looked at him in irritation. "It's none of your business who I write to, Ron. Let me through."

He shook his head. "Tell me!"

She glared, and he could see her shifting into fighting mode. Hermione had more than her fair share of stubbornness, and she was awakening all of it. "It is none of your business, Ronald. Let me through, or I will hex you. I promise."

"I have a wand too," he reminded her. "And I was in the DA last year, same as you were. I know all the hexes you do."

"But can you do them as fast as I can?"

"Do you want to find out?"

"No, but if you don't move this instant, I will, whether I want to or not!"

Instead of answering her, Ron reached over and gripped the scroll. She gave a little shriek, which made him want to know even more. Who was so important? Who was it that she was so desperate he not know about? His curiosity was piqued, as well as his temper, and he pulled harder. She moved to set down her books to get a firmer grip on the scroll, and in the instant that her attention shifted, Ron pulled it out with an exclamation of triumph.

"Give that back!" she shouted, oblivious to the stares that they were attracting. Harry, who'd slipped in after them, dropped into a chair and watched the scene impassively. Hermione's tone had taken on a desperate note, and Ron almost wanted to relent. But he'd come so far, and his fierce Weasley pride forced him to continue. He slipped the ribbon off the scroll, and began to unroll it. He noted the precise handwriting, and the regularity of the letters. Whoever had written this had had a good education as a child, and they had taken pains to keep up with it. His own writing, though he'd been taught as a child, had taken on the almost illegible scrawl of most boys his age. The style of this writing made him think that it was a girl who'd written it, but something in the lettering and angularity of the letters told him that it was a boy.

And then, he reached the signature, and his heart froze. Surely not even Hermione could do this! Surely it was just a joke! He scanned the letter desperately, trying to find a clue as to the letter's true author. But there was nothing to tell him that it was not who it said it was. Everything from the use of her last name to the dry sarcasm and pointed insults spoke of the name at the bottom. The person that Ron hated almost more than anyone else. He looked up, his hands shaking with rage. "You're writing to Malfoy?!" he shouted.

She refused to meet his eyes. "What about it?" she asked, but her voice was shaking very slightly.

"What about it?!" he spluttered. "You're giving secrets to the enemy!"

"The enemy?" she retorted, and she was angry enough for the tremble to have left her voice. That made him feel better, and gave him courage. Anger, he could deal with. Anger didn't make him feel like an insensitive jerk.

"Yeah, the enemy!" he shouted back. "Who do you think he is? Who do you think his parents are? You-Know-Who's most loyal supporters, that's who!"

"That doesn't mean anything!" her own voice had risen, and she was shouting at the same volume as he was. "He's not a Death Eater!"

"Oh yeah?! Then how do you explain the fact that he won't ever roll up his sleeves? Do you just think that that Dark Mark that he's trying to hide is a stylish tattoo?"

"He doesn't have a Dark Mark! And it's none of your business, Ronald Billius Weasley! Just because you're a prejudiced bigot doesn't mean that I have to be! I'm allowed to have other friends! You aren't the only person in the world, you know!"

Ron had no idea how to retort; he just knew that he had to do something. Very deliberately, he began to rip the letter. It was long, and there was absolute silence as he yanked it into pieces. When it had finally been reduced to scraps, he threw them onto the floor. "If you're going to be his friend," he told Hermione coldly, looking directly at her. "Then you can't be mine. Make a choice." He stalked past her and through the crowds of silent Gryffindors, running up the stairs and throwing himself onto his four-poster bed. He pulled the curtains around the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. How could she do this to him? This was the worst kind of betrayal. He knew that they would never go back to what they had been after this. It was too personal, too irreversible. He refused to admit that he was terrified of hearing her choice.

'I don't care!' he told himself fiercely. 'I can find someone better! Someone who's not muggle born!' The last thought shocked him to the core, and he sat up, numb at what he'd just thought. He didn't care about Hermione's parents! He didn't! He wasn't some kind of prejudiced git like she'd said! It was just an emotional reaction! He'd just been thinking like Malfoy, that was all. But the thought had been voiced, and now he could never take it back. It didn't matter that she would never know. He would know, and whenever he looked at her, he would remember just how much of a bigot he really was.

Overcome with self-hatred and anger, Ronald Weasley allowed silent tears to carry him away into slumber.

Hermione ran up to her own dormitory once Ron had left, and sat down on her bed. She hadn't even picked up the pieces of the letter. It would forever remain unread, and she fought the urge to throw the rest of the letters that she'd received onto the fire. She had every right to have other friends! Ron didn't rule her world! But the urge was still there, and she was finding it very hard to resist.

To her immense gratitude, Parvati and Lavender hadn't been in the common room earlier. Of course, everyone else in Gryffindor House had been, so the two girls would know the moment they came back into the common room, but it made her feel marginally better to know that they wouldn't have witnessed it firsthand. Pity from Lavender Brown was more than she could handle at this point. She flipped open her diary, looking at the pages of neat, precise handwriting. She'd chosen this diary in a muggle shop, making absolutely sure that it had no magic in it at all. She didn't like opening up to people, and the only way she could bear to release her emotions was in a place where she knew that no one, not even a magical presence, would be reading her entries. She hadn't even named the diary like so many girls did. That would give it a personality, and at Hogwarts, there was no telling what kind of magic would bring the diary to life.

I hate Ron! He's a prejudiced bastard! I mean, who says that I can't write to anyone that I want to? Not him! He's just a bigot who doesn't know the first thing about true friendship. He only likes me because I do his homework for him. Well, he can forget that! I'm not writing any more essays for him, and his charms practice can be as horrible as Neville's for all the attention I'll give it.

And what about Harry? He could have defended me! He's Malfoy's friend, or he says he is. But he'll let Ron insult Malfoy in the worst way imaginable, and not even say anything! I feel sorry for Malfoy now. It's obvious that Malfoy loves Harry. I wish that he could find someone better. I respect Malfoy, something I thought I'd never say, and he deserves someone who's willing to break the rules to be with him. I know that Harry says that they're best friends, but what kind of friend lets his friend be called a Death Eater? Because Malfoy's not! It's obvious that he's not. Or at least, obvious to anyone who even tries to get to know him.

But who does? Who gets to know a Malfoy? No one, that's who. You could just see it at the beginning of the year. He was lonely. Crabbe and Goyle didn't pass any OWLs, so they're not allowed back. They weren't even his friends. They were basically his servants. The whole evil bully act was a self-defense mechanism that none of us were smart enough to see through.

But what am I doing? Why am I making excuses for him? Because he hates Ron. I want to hate Ron, but I don't. It would be so much easier if I could hate Ron. Then, I could keep writing to Malfoy and not care what he thought. But I can't. I have to tell Malfoy that we have to stop corresponding. I still care about Ron, and Ron was first. He's a git, but he was first. And I care about Harry too. Harry doesn't like the two of us fighting, and I know we make an effort for his sake. Or at least, I do. Harry has enough on his mind without us fighting all the time.

I wish I knew what to do. I mean, I want to keep writing, but I don't want to lose Ron's friendship permanently. Because that's what he said. "If you're going to be his friend, you can't be mine." Those were his exact words. He meant it, too. I could see that he meant it, even if he says that he didn't. He's too much of a Gryffindor to accept that I could be friends with a Slytherin. Is that why Harry didn't say anything? Does he value Ron's friendship over Malfoy's? I don't know if that's a good thing or not. Ron's been through so much with Harry, after all. Both of us have. He's said that we're his biggest supporters. That sounds really conceited on my part, but it's the truth. Malfoy's new. None of us will accept him wholeheartedly, not even me. There's too much bad blood between us to do that.

She reread her entry, noting how her handwriting had calmed down. She had found that it was an incredible release of tension to write big, angry letters full of words that she didn't use in everyday conversation. Her writing and language had calmed down as she went, ending with almost normal letters. She wondered how people could keep electronic journals. To Hermione, the physical release of writing was just as important as what was said. She couldn't even contemplate writing the things that she did on a computer.

The door to the dormitory opened, and Parvati burst in. She took one look at Hermione's face, and dropped her books onto her bed. She moved across the room, magically locking the door as she did so, and sat down on Hermione's bed. "I heard what happened," she said without preamble.

"And do you think that I'm a traitor to the house as well?" Hermione asked bitterly. Apparently her journal scribbles hadn't bled out all the poison after all.

Parvati shook her head firmly. "No. I think that Ron's an idiot. You have as much right to friends as he does."

Hermione looked carefully at Parvati. "You know, don't you?" she asked.

Parvati nodded, and Hermione reflected that she didn't even have to ask what Hermione was talking about. Parvati always knew. "I've always known," Parvati said simply, echoing Hermione's thoughts exactly.

"And?"

"And?"

"Are you going to do anything? You're the supreme matchmaker of the House, after all."

Parvati looked at Hermione pityingly. "Hermione, I am the supreme matchmaker of the school. But that doesn't mean that I can do everyone. Some people have to work it out on their own."

"Does Lavender know?"

Parvati shrugged. "If she pays attention she does. I've never told her."

"Why not?"

"It's not my secret to tell." There was a knocking on the door, and Parvati rose gracefully. "That would be Lavender," she added, unlocking the door with a lazy swish of her wand. Hermione watched her move off, reflecting that there was much more to Parvati Patil than anyone realized. It didn't occur to her that Parvati had struggled hard to make sure of that.