POV: Draco

"Big Red? Hmmmm. That one's not half bad, Ferret," he says, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, "but stop trying to distract me from the Patronus lesson." I take careful note of his far-too-pleased reaction to the new moniker and vow to discover a more annoying nickname than Weasel for him. From my perch on the bench, I surreptitiously watch him go back to the door to drag in a heavy-looking trunk. "You know the drill by now, Malfoy. Start thinking of your happiest memory. Make it a powerful one."

With some irritation, I watch him slide an amused glance at me before he adds, "Hopefully you just made a really happy one."

I pointedly ignore his gibe and move to deftly pluck my wand from the air when he tosses it to me. Pulling myself up from the bench, I eye him as he kneels to place his hand on the chest's lock.

"I ran into your godfather in the hall while you were snogging Hermione," he says, his face upturned to catch my reaction.

I refuse to respond to his casual comment about Snape. Weasley shrugs when a reply from me is not forthcoming. "Snape asked after you. Do you want to know what he wants?"

I stare at Weasley, more unable than unwilling to give him an answer. He looks at me quizzically but continues to prattle on, absently waving his free hand at me. "We'll talk about it later. Anyway, he gave me this, said to use it during your training."

I move closer and kick it with the tip of my shoe.

"Oi! Malfoy, don't do that! You might accidentally open it! We don't want that, not unless we're ready with our wands!" I tilt my head at him, waiting for an explanation. He sighs heavily before giving instructions.

"Snape's put a spell on whatever's inside to make you think a dementor is attacking you," he pats the still-closed lid. Muttering half to himself he adds, "I should have unshrunk it after I got it in here, but I wanted to give you and Hermione a little more time. Besides, I was curious to see how it worked."

"And?" I ask with a purposefully bored drawl. Not wanting to draw Weasley's attention to my retreat, I move slowly, making sure each step I take increases the distance between me and the trunk.

"Damn if it didn't scare the piss out of me," Weasley admits ruefully while examining the chest's medieval locking device. "The bloody thing looked so real, it took me a few minutes to remember the proper incantation. I can see why that sadistic bastard wants us to use it. Makes it more realistic and all that." He stands suddenly and sees me several feet away. He raises an eyebrow, but only continues his teaching commentary, "Well, Ferret, you know what to do when I open it. You have to think of your happy memory and allow it to fill you up."

I nod, beginning to concentrate on the euphoria of my kiss with Hermione. Wand at the ready, but fully aware the room's exit is only a few feet away, I watch Weasley's freckled fingers slide the trunk's lock open and flip the lid.

Though expected, the true-to-life image of the foul, soulless creature whooshes out of the trunk, swooping at me from above. I hear Ron's sharp cry while I stand frozen by the menacing sight of it. Too many of these vile beings camped around the manor this summer. Too bloody many. Subconsciously, I brace for the onset of the cold emptiness that usually accompanies the sight of these things, an emptiness that is soon filled with images of my worst memories.

Dementors. Loathsome things.

The dark void will not come... The dark void will not come, I repeat this mantra to myself in an effort to ease my instant anxiety attack. This is NOT real. The sight of this conjured dementor, however, still manages to strike fear in my heart. I am terror-stricken. I see Weasley waving his arms at me, to snap me out of my abject panic. I am annoyed that he seems to have recovered nicely from the shock of what is very similar to Potter's boggart dementor, but the sight of Ron's dancing red hair behind the hovering dark vision grounds me, and all at once I remember exactly what to do.

"Expecto Patronum!" I shout, pinpointing my thoughts on the memory of Hermione's face, the pleased sounds she made when I kissed her, and the desirous look in her eyes when I pulled away. I am deeply disappointed and supremely shocked to see that nothing of great importance happens at the business end of my wand. Up until now, I have managed a few wisps of silver white light but not today it seems. The rapidly approaching creature causes bile to rise in my throat. I feel the onset of true horror grip me. Its wraith-like figure ventures ever nearer.

I glance over at Weasley who has now calmly propped himself against the wall, arms folded, waiting expectantly. I try to think of Hermione again, the silent moments in the hospital wing, her gentle touch in the Room of Requirement as I pretended to sleep. Then, as has happened before, my mind settles on the image of her in the library, across the table from me. In my memory, I see her face and the ever present smudge of ink on the tip of her nose. For some reason, this memory has always been able to coax the strongest strands of white light from my wand. When little else happens to accompany this familiar feat, the terror in me rises again and my instinct to take flight threatens to take over. I take a few steps back, my other hand reaching behind me to find a non-existent door handle.

Despite this overwhelming desire to flee, I somehow convince myself to stay put. I know though that my immobilization has little to do with courage since I'm sick with fear and I cannot keep from staring at the dementor's outstretched, decrepit fingers. I scramble to keep one image of Hermione in my mind but I can't seem to gain traction on any of the regular ones that so often fill my head.

It seems Snape's doppleganger of the menacing creature comes equipped with the ability to suck some heat and light out of the room, making it all seem just real enough for me to fight the urge to shout out another curse, any curse, to keep the creature away. Perhaps a Ridikkulus might do the trick?

I have felt this internal terror before. The last time it washed over me was in the bathroom dueling Potter. This recollection allows me for the first time to consider that the memory of Hermione which helped me find calm in the midst of battle might also be the key to conjuring my Patronus. I never before associated the vision of Hermione's delight in the overabundance of flowers cascading from the cabinet as my own powerful happy thought. It is worth a try; after all there is nothing to lose in the attempt. I work to gather this memory of her and carefully hold it in the forefront of my mind. When I accomplish this, something shifts inside of me, and I wave my wand with renewed purpose toward the dark cloaked figure.

"Expecto Patronum!"

I keep my mind focused on the memory of her laughter, enchanted by the shower of white petals flowing out of the cabinet. I smile as silver light gushes from my wand tip like a geyser.

My incorporeal Patronus shoots out toward Weasley, who is screaming, "Fantastic, Malfoy! That's right! Keep it up! That must have been one helluva brilliant kiss!" His excitement has me remembering Hermione dancing in delight among the profusion of blossoms. "Look at them, Malfoy!" she'd exclaimed. "Isn't it the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? And the scent…" Lovely, I had answered. The loveliest thing I have ever seen. At this thought, a flurry of white lightning sparks from my wand, wavering, then holding a vague shimmery outline that rushes at the decoy Dementor, pushing it back into its trunk with a solid thunk. I am momentarily stunned. I had at last accomplished it! My wand hand lowers shakily to my side and all is quiet again.

"Blimey, it had fangs," Weasley's voice is hushed, his mouth agape, his eyes bulged out of their sockets as he quickly locks the chest again.

"What?" I ask, suddenly exhausted.

"Your Patronus! It has fangs, Malfoy, and an enormous mouth!" he breathes this, completely agog at what he had seen.

As far as I could tell from the opposite end of the wand, I managed to call forth a great deal of silver light and a smoky vision of something very large. The whole of it was much more than I have ever been able to conjure before. It was huge, whatever it was, and it had faced Weasley before disappearing into thin air. So if anyone would know if my Patronus had a mouth with fangs, Weasley would.

Sometime during this back and forth, it occurs to me that I do not know what Weasley's Patronus looks like. I turn to take in his gawping maw. He is still clearly shocked at the sight of whatever it was that came out of my wand.

"It hardly looked like anything," I intone indifferently, hiding my curiosity over what might alight from his wand at the Expecto Patronum incantation.

"A full-bodied Patronus is really hard to conjure," Weasley says in what can only be an unusually kind gesture to placate me. "Shield forms, like the one you conjured there, can be useful against dark opponents– just like this one," he says, motioning toward the trunk.

"I do not think I have the incantation and wand motions mastered yet, Weasley," I say drawing on a glum tone, making a show of shaking my head, pretending to be unhappy with my recent attempt so I can see his Patronus. "Care to show me what you do?"

How the Weasel could get even more colorful than the red on his head is still a complete mystery to me, but he manages to look like a ripe tomato as he mumbles something about me getting it just about right and all I had to do was concentrate on my happy thought some more. I smirk at him. His reluctance to show me his Patronus makes me even more interested to know just what would appear out of his wand.

"Does yours have fangs, too?" I ask with feigned innocence.

He narrows his gaze suspiciously. "Y-yes," he stutters.

I lift an eyebrow.

"It does, Malfoy!"

I hold up my hands in surrender, wondering how much more I can push him.

"Little fangs?" I inquire with a bemused chuckle, "A kitten, maybe?"

"Oi! It's a dog!" he announces indignantly.

"A large canine?"

"It's a hunting dog," he replies huffily, effectively avoiding my question.

I nod, duly impressed. "So, let us see it then."

"No."

"Perhaps the puppy is too little to put on a show?"

"Size doesn't matter, Ferret," Weasley argues. "And, it's a full-grown dog!"

"I am sure it is," I reply with amused agreement. "Is it a toy poodle or one of those yappy ankle-biters?"

"No!" he shouts, exasperated. "It's a Jack Russell Terrier, OK? Happy now?"

"Immensely!" I reply with a genuine laugh. "Perhaps this new happy memory of your utter embarrassment will help me conjure a full-bodied Patronus the next time around."

"You're hilarious, Ferret," he grouches. "Bloody hilarious."

Now in even higher spirits, I return to the bench, ready to talk to Weasley about what my godfather might have said to him. Perhaps he might actually have a plan.

POV: Ron

"So, pray tell, what did my official guardian want, Red?"

I watch the smug prat settle himself on the one and only bench in the room. He's tapping his wand against his thigh. I find this fidgeting from him to be quite odd considering how he's usually controlled and deliberate with all of his movements.

"I rather liked the "Big," Malfoy, why'd you take it out?" I say grumpily, taking a seat on the floor. His annoyingly slimy smirk tells me he's thinking of quite another adjective to compliment the new nickname.

The blond shrugs. "Weasel, the 'Big' causes you to be unbearably pleased with yourself, and clearly your Patronus also agrees that the word is far too generous, so I took it out," he answers matter-of-factly.

I stifle a growl.

"Snape wants you and me to meet him and Dumbledore in the Headmaster's office," I say. "Do you know what they're about?"

He stares at his wand, lost in thought for a while before answering.

"Did my godfather happen to tell you when he expects us?"

"He gave me the password to the Headmaster's office. Acid Pops. Seems they want to see us tonight, if we're up to it, Blondie." I respond. Hey, I can try too!

He sends me a mocking look.

"Alright, you're right, Blondie's no good," I say on a harrumph. A resigned sigh escapes him, and I know the defeated sound has nothing to do with my lame attempts at finding him a new nickname. "Hey, what the professor and headmaster have to say– it can't be all that bad, Malfoy. Right?"

"Oh, I fail to see why it would be good, Weasel. Define bad, exactly," he snaps. "I never wanted any part of this trying to defeat Voldemort rubbish! I would much rather leave the lot of it to Potter. He is the one with the death wish and the blasted scar everyone worships! Apparently, he is far better equipped at this slaying the Dark Lord thing than the three of us put together. At least that's what our grizzled excuse of a Headmaster seems to believe. I cannot imagine what they want of me... you... us. It's bad enough Granger cannot seem to understand the danger she wants to put herself through, and all of it's for nothing, I say!"

"Calm down, Draco!"

The sound of his name coming from me seems to shock him out of his outrage, which is a good thing since I need a moment to think and his panicked yammering was getting in the way.

"What has Hermione told you, Ferret?"

He grimaces. "Same as she has told you, I imagine. Damn near nothing. Only that she wants to be close to Potty so she can work against He Who Must Not Be Named in order to keep the Boy Wonder safe. All for naught, I say, since Potter is so set on going off to gain the glory of killing the offending dark wizard to impress the girl. If you ask me, she will get herself killed within the first fifteen minutes of the meeting, dragging you and me along with her as she attempts to selflessly, and stupidly, save Potter."

"You can't pretend to know Harry's motives in all this, Malfoy," I charge, standing up for my best mate. I examine him and his ugly expression for a minute and incredulously add, "You're just jealous!"

He is silent, taking in my accusation. Then on a scoff, he retorts, "Hardly, Weasel. I am simply speaking the truth. Tell me that Potter has not revealed his undying love for her." He looks at me expectantly then sneers when he sees me shift uncomfortably under the weight of his stare. "As I suspected. Tell me his motives are selfless and I will tell you you are feeding me a load," Malfoy says nastily. "You can even attempt to waste your breath trying to convince me he is making something of himself the way saints and martyrs do, but I know that this is all really about Potter wanting to please Hermione as well as himself."

"You're a right git, Ferret," I say, scoffing at his shallow suggestion.

"Really, Weasel, try for more originality. Your unbearably mule-headed friend has been calling me that all day." Malfoy is tiredly rubbing at his face and it's hard to make out his words. I watch his long fingers ball into a fist then loosen to run through his silver blonde hair which no longer resembles the slick, hard helmet he wore last term.

"You aren't listening to Hermione when she says she's trying to protect all of us, Ferret," I say, accusing him of belittling her real desire to protect him. "I agree she's nutters for thinking this is a good way of doing it, but from everything she's told me, she thinks it's the right way to go about helping you."

"I never asked her to do anything for me," his voice starts to grow angry again. "That Know-It-All thinks she can do near everything! Her book knowledge does not mean she is always right!" His roar echoes in the near empty room. I raise an eyebrow at his show of emotion. Seems he's knackered, too.

"Malfoy, stop talking like the dim-witted, pure-blooded prick you were last term," I demand calmly. "I've had enough of watching you struggle with your feelings for her. Set that confusion aside for now. Just tell me where you think all of this will lead if we agree to her meeting Voldemort. I need to know what to expect."

"I thought you just agreed to her terms, Weasley." His beastly attitude is starting to grate. My lip twitches toward an annoyed scowl. He notices. I watch him stop to think, thankful to see him straighten and decide to do this my way.

"So, you want me to go through the strategic moves like we are playing some sort of life-sized version of Wizard's Chess?" he asks huffily, awaiting my yes.

He sniffs when I give him my nod and he begins his explanation. "Opening move: Granger will speak to Voldemort, attempting to convince him that she is the female heir of Slytherin and a very valuable weapon He needs against Potter." Malfoy stares at me as he speaks so slowly I itch to punch him. His overly drawn out speech emphasizes his momentary belief that I am severely mentally challenged. I impatiently move my hands to indicate he should continue and quickly. He lets out a belabored breath before going on. I struggle not to strangle him, all the while wondering how different his reaction to Hermione's ideas would be if he knew the truth about her.

"If she wins His trust, she better have a good plan to suggest to Voldemort because He is likely to have her do something unspeakable to make her prove herself worthy of joining his side."

I watch Malfoy shudder at the thought of the sort of hazing she might have to undergo to prove she is Slytherin's heir. A cold shiver runs through me as well.

"It has occurred to me that His second move may be to Imperius her to make sure she does not waver in her actions."

"He didn't Imperius you," I observe.

"No," he replies quietly. "But, he also wants me to die."

I flinch and remain quiet. I don't know what to say because he's said as much before.

"Will you be with her?" I ask.

"I plan to be," he says, his voice absent of its usual swagger. His lack of confidence sends a surprising chill up my spine. I work to convince myself that Malfoy's usual arrogance is lost because he's too tired and not because he's afraid. Really afraid.

"My job, according to her," he says, his voice growing more sure, "is to produce the prophecy and corroborate her story. It might be the only thing I can do at that point to save myself since it appears Snape will not allow me to complete the primary task of killing Dumbledore. In any case, Granger does not know it yet, but I also plan on asking Voldemort to let me be her... I don't know the correct term–"

The term sex slave jumps to my mind before I have a chance to shove it away.

"Try using words, Malfoy," I say testily. "You've got a mess of 'em. Almost as many as Hermione."

He narrows his eyes at me for that poke, exhaling loudly before going on.

"Well, something like her handler, I suppose. A bit like what Snape is doing for me with this whole having to kill Dumbledore debacle. I expect that Voldemort will be furious with my inability to kill the Headmaster and that he'll want me punished... severely." Malfoy pauses and squirms in his seat. I wonder what such punishment might entail. Based on the look on Draco's face, he seems to be wondering the same thing, too.

He swipes at his eyes with shaky fingers before going on.

"I will have to ingratiate myself, beg for His mercy, that sort of thing, and claim to want to restore my family name by doing his bidding." He stops to hatefully mutter something to himself that sounds a lot like, "Worthless as my family's bloody name is."

For a wizard who is known for his elegant stillness, Malfoy seems unable to keep from tapping his wand against his thigh, running a finger up and down the length of it at every ten taps. I imagine it's a way he can pace without getting up to do it. In any case, he seems somewhat calmed by the regularity of the rhythm.

"Of course, I'll be asked to prove my worth by convincing Him that I am willing and capable of helping Hermione complete the tasks He assigns to her," he continues, voice suddenly flat. "The evil bastard will look into her, Weasel, and he'll see that she lacks the conviction to assist in bringing about Potter's death. He will look into me and will know how I feel. He will discover my undiluted hatred of Potter and its opposing twin emotion..." he pauses meaningfully. Quickly averting his eyes he quietly adds, "I don't think I can hide either from Him."

Having grown used to his nervous movements, I become alarmed at how still Malfoy's become. He seems stuck in a trance as his monotone continues to describe what seems to be his premonition about his ultimate fate. It's like watching Lavender and Parvati gazing into a crystal ball in Trelawny's class. Disturbing, to say the least.

"Maybe you shouldn't try to hide how you feel," I suggest. "It might be just the evidence He'll need to believe that you mean to do as you say."

"The vindictive, twisted soul that He is might just grant me my wish to stay with her, if only to have the last laugh at how she will lose all her faith in me as I work to fulfill my promise to Him," he continues, as though I hadn't spoken, "In the end, she'll hate me. It's inevitable."

I marvel at how he so effortlessly gives in to despair. It seems no wonder that he can't manage a happy thought without the aid of my friend's kiss.

He clears his throat and his voice strengthens, "But through the worst of it, Weasley, I can probably convince Him that I should be at her side. In that way, I will be able to keep her safe through whatever it is He asks of her."

I am oddly touched, and a bit disturbed, at his un-Slytherin-like vow.

"What are you planning on promising Voldemort, Malfoy?"

Malfoy's clear grey eyes meet mine. He speaks the answer without a stutter.

"I will promise to finish anything that Granger might not be able to accomplish on her own, li–"

"–like fulfilling His greatest wish," I finish hollowly, understanding now why Malfoy resists Hermione's request so wholeheartedly. "Voldemort will expect you to bring Harry to Him. And as much as you hate Harry, you don't want to be the one who betrays Hermione."

He nods, eyes downcast, looking completely done over.

"Any chance there's another way?" I wonder aloud.

He looks over at me, focusing on something past my shoulder before answering.

"The only way out of this," he replies morosely, "the only way that will keep her somewhat safe... is for me to kill Dumbledore as I first set out to do and accept my fate as my father's son. Long live his legacy." He places a hand over his heart in mock salute, a wry smile on his face.

I shake my head.

"Not acceptable, Malfoy."

He sighs again then barks a mirthless laugh before resting the back of his head on the wall behind him. In frustrated response, I rub my hand down my face and swear colorfully, finding myself thinking back to the conversation between Harry and me the night before.

An idea strikes.

"Oi! Malfoy, do you know anything about horcruxes? They're really dark magic, I think."

Confused by my sudden change of topic, he shifts uncomfortably and silently settles back onto the bench, eyeing me cautiously.

I continue to stare at him. "Well?" I prod. "Do you know anything about horcruxes?"

"Why is it that you two Gryffindors seem to think dark magic is my sole specialty these days?" His voice is cold and sneering. "Oh, I don't know, Weasley. Let's see, why don't I try to Accio! the information out of the huge vault in my overtaxed brain." His irate reply is somewhat comforting, much better than his despair.

tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap

His wand beats a faster cadence against his leg.

Though he might sound like a right prick, seems he's thinking about my question. I exercise some of my newly won self-control as I wait for him to speak. At last, he seems to have snagged on some forgotten memory. He lights up, reminding me some of Hermione. She seems to shine when she's made some sort of discovery in one of her many books.

"I think there is something about horcruxes in my father's book, the one I am using to help train Granger. Why?"

"Well, it seems Dumbledore wants to take Harry on some sort of scavenger hunt to find these horcrux things. I'm not totally sure what they are, but they're supposed to help Harry defeat Voldemort. Harry says he doesn't know when he'll have to leave to do this, and he isn't completely sure where to start. Or what to do when he gathers them..."

"Sounds promising, Carrot Top. Why don't you let me know when you get to the part about this having anything... remotely.. TO DO WITH ME!"

"For Merlin's sake, Malfoy, calm the bloody hell down! And stop calling me that. Red was better. Anyway, just listen," I huff. "Harry's hoping Dumbledore will give him this information soon."

The Slytherin rolls his eyes and shuts them, bouncing the back of his head against the wall twice, clearly of the opinion that getting answers from the Headmaster is much like asking a goblin to hand over gold. While I tend to agree, I ignore his pessimism and continue with my idea.

"Harry figures that if Dumbledore has to stay at Hogwarts during this hunt, or if something worse happens to the Headmaster," I stop to stare pointedly at Malfoy who returns my observation with a scowl. "Well, Harry asked if I would go with him, leaving Hermione and Ginny behind. So, what if–"

I suddenly realize I'm getting ahead of myself with this suggestion. After all, I still haven't completely decided if I want to reveal everything Harry's confided in me to Malfoy.

"What if what, Weasley?" he snaps. I can feel his desperate need to grasp onto something... anything...

"Well, what if I let Hermione know I'm going on this hunt with Harry. She'll want to come. She always wants to come, and she especially hates it when we pull any macho stuff on her about it being unsafe for girls."

I watch a smirk form on Malfoy's mouth at my accurate description of our brainy friend. "So, I was thinking, maybe the idea of going away with Harry and me will stop her from wanting to visit Voldemort."

All too quickly Malfoy's smirk is gone, replaced by something far more stormy.

"You mean, go away... with you and... Potter?" His silver eyes turn cobalt, his tone testy. "Potter and Hermione, alone? Together?"

"I'll be there, of course. But yeah, that's the idea."

He shakes his head forcefully.

"No. I don't like it," he pronounces, as princely as you please.

Selfish prat. I almost feel sorry for him.

"They're barely speaking as it is," I say offering him some comfort without putting a name to his emotion. "Think about it, Malfoy, at least she won't face What's His Name."

"I'm not sure which option is worse, Weasel," he says, suddenly glum, "my imminent death or losing her to Potter. It is altogether likely that she will lose all faith in me either way."

I think about accusing him of jealousy again but decide against it.

"Look, she's barely giving him the time of day," I say, trying to ease his worry. "Harry's groveling at her feet and she's still not really speaking to him. She's still mad as hell about what he did to you."

I catch Malfoy's sharp look.

Right. Yeah, well, come to think of it, I'd still be pretty mad too, if Harry sliced into me and left me to bleed to death.

"It was just a suggestion, mate," I say good-naturedly, doing the unthinkable and clapping my hand on his shoulder. "Maybe there are other options. Let's go see what Snape and Dumbledore want. Hey, maybe they'll have some ideas."