Chapter 20

The boys were panting like puppies by the time they bounded up the stairs and ran down the halls to Draco's room. Harry admired it even to Draco's satisfaction, assuring him that yes, it was larger than his own; yes, he liked the color green; yes, the view of the Malfoy estate was wonderful; and yes, he had his own bathroom just as Draco did, only his was smaller.

It was a very grand room, though Harry still liked his own cozy space better. Draco's wide bed, carved and gilded, looked too big for comfort, and the satin bedding looked unsuited for lounging and sprawling. There were some playthings that Harry did not recognize, and some he did, like a large collection of plush animals kept in an ornate chest. Some of them, like a white winged horse and a piebald dragon, were worn with love and age. Draco informed Harry loftily that the plushies were for "babies. I only keep them about because sometimes young children visit us." Harry nodded gravely. He had often envied Dudley his plushies, but he was too old for them now. A grey wolf caught his eye and caused his heart an unaccountable pang. The chest's lid was shut and the boys looked out the broad, silk-draped windows again.

"That's the quidditch pitch," Draco said, pointing to the east of the rose garden. "Father enlarged it last year when he took over from Grandfather."

"Your grandfather-died-last year?" Harry asked. "I'm sorry."

Draco shook his head briskly. "No, he's not dead. He's just old and went a bit off his head. He has a suite in the other wing of the house. His room is warded and all, so you don't have to worry about him getting out."

"Do we need to be quiet?" Harry asked, lowering his voice. He was familiar with the concept of being very quiet and not bothering people.

"No-I told you-he's on the far side of the house, and he has silencing wards as well. He can't hear us and we can't hear him. The elves will let Father know if there's a problem."

Harry had overheard his classmates talking about things their grandparents had done for them, and had often longed for a kind grandfather or grandmother. It had seemed to him unfair that he should not only be an orphan, but have no grandparents, either. "I'm sorry your grandfather is sick, then."

"That's all right. He was always a bit-well-scary. Things are better now that Father is in charge. Anyway," he said, wanting to talk of other things, "As soon as they're done with their gossiping, we'll go to the pitch and try out the brooms. Flying is the best thing in the world. What have you got there?" he asked, seeing Harry bring out a box and tap it to its full size, using Snape's pre-set spell. The grey cubes rattled and shifted.

"Castle blocks," Harry told him, dumping the box's contents onto Draco's elegant study table. He held up a dark blue turret roof. "See? I wanted to show them to you. You can design all sorts of castles. I found a picture of Hogwarts, and I made a castle that looked like it, but I like to make up my own best." He showed how two wall blocks could fit together, leaving a narrow opening. "In the muggle world, these are called arrow slits, and archers would use them to shoot down on an enemy, but in The Path of Darkness, I read about the Siege of Tyre, and how the Tyrian sorcerers sheltered behind them to fire spells down on the army of Alexander the Great. Not that it did them much good."

"I know that story!" Draco chimed in, beginning to feel some interest in this strange assortment of shapes. "The Tyrians were really powerful wizards, and they thought no muggle could ever take their fortress."

"But Alexander the Great was not exactly a muggle," Harry declared. He pulled out a flat foundation and began thinking about what would look good.

"No," Draco agreed, snapping together a wall with high arched windows. "He wasn't exactly a wizard, either, even though his mother was a witch, but he had all sorts of wild talents. He was what Father calls a 'Child of Destiny' Father says that once in a great while very remarkable individuals appear, and normal wizarding society has to make allowances for them. He says the word 'demigod' fits fairly well, too. The Greeks thought the Tyrian wizards were Dark, and the Tyrians seemed to have thought the same about Alexander's ability to inspire his men. I guess they thought he had a natural gift for a kind of Imperius."

"Yeah, that's what my book said. It's great. I brought these, too." His lead figures of Arthur and his court, shrunk down to castle proportions, were duly displayed. Draco liked them, especially Morgan, whom he thought the best dressed of the lot. He decided that the figure of Guinevere was really Nimue, "a proper witch." He had no trouble accepting Sir Lancelot as worthy of his notice, however.

"All the best Knights of the Round Table had some magical gifts, and Arthur was partly created by magic" He broke off crying, "I know!" and ran to the shelves where his own treasures were on view, coming back with a handful of small, exquisite dragon figurines. "We can build a castle, and the wizards and witches can defend it from the dragons."

"Those are amazing!" Harry admired them, listening to Draco's brief lecture on the different kinds. A Hungarian Horntail lay heavily in his hand, and suddenly fluttered its wings and puffed a brief, tiny flame. Harry nearly dropped it in his shock.

Draco laughed at him. "They're partly animated, so they do that if you hold them for more than a few seconds."

Harry set the little dragon down by the beginnings of their castle. "Maybe these witches and wizards are so powerful that these dragons are their familiars-"

A moment of blank incomprehension, and then Draco was swept up in the glorious idea. Their castle rose quickly, wall to tower to dizzying spire. Some green flats and trees decorated the outer keep. The witches were thoughtfully provided with a windowed solar in the highest tower, so they could enjoy the view. A Norwegian Ridgeback perched precariously above them, keeping watch.

By the time Lucius Malfoy came to fetch them-curious to see how the boys were getting on-a new universe had been invented; new names given to the figures; death-defying adventures imagined. The wizard stopped by his sons door, listening to the conversation.

"-and then Harco flies in on Viridius-"

"Why doesnt he apparate?"

"Apparition hasn't been invented in those days. Besides, it's more impressive to fly on a dragon."

"There is that. And he tells Queen Arachne, 'I have lost my greatest knight, but I do not return empty-handed.' He throws Princess Hydrangea at her feet and says, 'Do with her as you will!'"

"Hard luck on Hydrangea."

"She shouldn't have cursed the Queen's dragon."

"Well, if I were Dark Lord, I'd have done things differently-"

Lucius came into the room, rather alarmed. Hearing Harry Potter calmly discussing the prospects of becoming a Dark Lord made his scalp prickle. An impressive- if eccentric-model castle stood on Draco's play table. The Potter boy must have brought it with him. Lucius had not seen such a plaything at the shops in Diagon Alley. A muggle toy, then, but not unattractive. It was decorated with brightly painted little people and Draco's dragon collection.

He fixed a smile on his face. "I see the two of you have been enjoying yourselves."

Green eyes flicked to him, and the boy answered politely, "Yes, sir, very much."

"Father!" Draco beamed at him. "Do you like our castle? We built it ourselves with Harry's blocks."

As he was shown how the castle was comprised of a set of cleverly-designed building blocks that snapped together, Lucius studied the Potter boy. He seemed unnervingly normal for one bearing a sigil of power-and for an embryo Dark Lord. Perhaps it had just been a figure of speech...

"And this is the Wizard-King Harco, Dark Lord of the Sith," Draco was telling him. "Usually he's King Arthur, but we wanted to make up something different."

"Harco?" Lucius asked, raising a brow.

"Yes," Draco told him. "'Drarry' sounded ridiculous."

"I see. And the Wizard-King Harco rides a dragon."

"Yes, sir," Harry explained. "And sometimes Viridius carries messages for him, just like an owl. Only being a dragon, it can cause misunderstandings."

"I daresay." Lucius smiled slightly. "If you can tear yourselves away, we were all going out to the pitch. Are you interested in learning to fly, Harry?"

"I can hardly wait!"

Even the walk to the pitch was a pleasure for Harry. They trailed after the adults, trading ideas about other castles they could build, while Harry paused, staring at the undulating hedges that enclosed huge, fragrant rosebushes. The rose garden was in the shape of a five-pointed star. Surrounding it were shrubs trimmed into the likenesses of exotic animals. Harry recognized a unicorn and a sphinx, but many of the creatures were unknown to him. He wished that Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them had more and better illustrations. The thing with the head of an eagle and the body of a horse was what his book had called a hippogriff. The looming dark shapes made him uneasy. As he walked past, he felt as though they were watching him. Overhearing the adults talking, he caught at the word "topiary."

He repeated it to himself. Draco heard him.

"Yes, everyone is impressed by the topiary animals. We have the largest topiary garden in England. I like that one best," he said, pointing at a menacing snake-like shape rearing up behind them. Harry looked in that direction and did a double take. The shrubbery was trimmed cunningly to suggest a plumed head. And with the huge size-

"A Basilisk," he shivered. "I guess this version is better than the real thing."

"I daresay," Draco shrugged. "As an old Slytherin family, we would be remiss without paying homage to the King of Serpents."

The adults were laughing quietly at something. Harry had missed it, and hoped they were not laughing at him. The path widened, and passed along a flat-roofed building, elegant with pillared arches and wide windows.

"That's the Orangerie," Draco told him. "We have parties there sometimes. Its very nice in summer, especially. The regular greenhouses are further to the east. Look! You can see the end of the pitch!"

The boys walked a little faster, and caught each other's eye, wishing they could tell the adults to get a move on. Said adults were dawdling unconscionably, chatting and smiling, not understanding the urgency of the situation. The boys were nearly treading on their heels, bursting with impatience. Narcissa noticed them, and kindly moved aside to let the boys run ahead.

"There's the broom shed! Come on, Harry!"

The brass-bound door was flung open, and Harry followed Draco into a sturdy stone structure that seemed too solid and spacious for the word "shed." Motes of dust danced in the light from long, narrow windows. Chests and wardrobes were scattered through the room. A rustic oak table occupied the center of the room, with benches on either side. A large fireplace, ancient in design and black with soot, was the room's principal feature.

"It's a nice place to sit and warm up in chilly weather. Sometimes, one doesn't want to wait to walk all the way back to the house." Draco was standing in front of a cupboard, prying at the latch. Hissing in annoyance, he gave up, and glanced around for his father. "The really good brooms are in here."

"So they are," drawled his father, entering the shed, "but for today, these will do." He opened a weathered chest of pale, carved wood, and pulled out one, two, three brooms. Looking up, he asked, "Are you sure you wont join us, Severus?"

"I really don't-" Snape began sourly, before catching the look of immense disappointment on Harry's face. "-wish to spoil your idle pastimes, Lucius. If I must, I must." He accepted Lucius sly smile and a fourth broom with ill grace.

Harry followed the others out of the shed, stumbling over the threshold as he examined this new wonder. He hoped he wouldn't make an utter fool of himself. They didn't look much like any brooms of Harry's previous acquaintance. Sleek, swept-back, and polished like fine furniture, these looked like they could fly by themselves.

Madam Malfoy was settled into a luxurious lawn chair, complete with cushions, flowered shawl, and a little table at her side, where a stemmed crystal goblet held something pale and cool. She smiled and waggled her long, bejeweled fingers at them, plainly thinking that she had made the better choice.

"Doesn't your mother fly?"

Draco lowered his voice, "She thinks it's silly. She teases Father about it all the time when she thinks I can't hear. She calls quidditch players 'overaged schoolboys with delusions of godhood.' It's sour grapes, I daresay. My friend Pansy's mother told her that before they were married, Father took Mother flying and she sicked up all over him."

Harry grimaced. "How romantic."

"I think it's awfully decent of him not to mention it when she's on one of her anti-quidditch rants."

"He must like her very much."

A shrug. "Of course."

The pitch was a huge open space, with three hoops of varying heights mounted perpendicular to the ground at either end. They looked like the things children used to blow bubbles, though Harry refrained from saying so. He had read a bit about quidditch in his father's dog-eared book, and knew something about quaffles and snitches. It would be nice to see the real thing, but for today, he would be satisfied with simply getting off the ground.

"Now, you two! Over here!" Mr Malfoy ordered. "Lay your brooms on the ground."

Hesitantly, Harry obeyed, looking quizzically at Professor Snape. He was rewarded with a smirk and a raised brow.

"I have done this before, Father," Draco whined.

"Harry, however, has not," Lucius reproved him. "It won't hurt for you to review the basics. You'll all start this way at Hogwarts, and I want your first flying lesson to go well." He looked around at Harry, who was waiting by his broom. "All right. Now put your hand over it and say 'Up!'"

"Up!" Draco commanded, rolling his eyes.

"Up!" Harry echoed.

To everyone's surprise, the double sound of broom handles smacking into small hands sounded nearly as one. Draco smirked at his own success, and then called out, "Look, Father! Harry did it, too!"

Lucius paused to take a closer look at the smiling dark-haired boy. "So he has. Well done."

"I did it my first time, too," Draco boasted to Harry. "I expect you'll be a very good flyer like me."

"Very well done, indeed," Snape offered his quieter praise to Harry. "Not many succeed so quickly." I certainly didn't, he remembered sourly. I can only hope the boy wont become a quidditch hooligan like his father!

Lucius gave the two boys another considering look, and said, "Next, grip the broom in both hands and swing a leg over. And don't go haring off, Draco!" he added.

There followed a brief inspection, in which Harry was taught how not to slide off the end of his broom. His hands were arranged in the proper position. Then, Mr. Malfoy went over to Draco, and with a stern look, adjusted his son's grip, muttering, "I've told you about this! If Hooch is worth anything at all, she won't let you get away with it. Now remember!"

Draco nearly heaved a great sigh, but seeing his father's expression, stopped instantly.

Satisfied with their preparation, Lucius stepped back. "Now, push off from the ground firmly, then hover. Next, gently, tilt your handle toward the ground and descend again. Go!"

Harry thought that magic had ceased to surprise him. The following few seconds taught him how wrong he was. He was up in the air, moving slowly, looking down at the ground. He found that he could make the broom stop and go, merely with small changes in his posture. It was amazing. It was even better than his red bicycle. Seeing them all watching him, he dipped his broomstick to the ground, and drifted down lazily. Draco was dismounted and leaning on his broom, so Harry followed suit.

He could hardly hear Mr Malfoy's measured approval, or Draco's excited remarks. His head was spinning with joy. He could fly! With a broom, he could go-anywhere! He could soar with the birds, visit mountain peaks, cross the English Channel. It was the greatest experience of his life. He stared at the broomstick, eyes huge, blood pumping in his ears.

"Harry!"

"Sir?" Harry looked up to see Snape looming over him, smirking.

"We were waiting to see if you wanted to fly around the gardens."

"Oh, yes! Sorry!"

Everyone was waiting for him. Mr Malfoy had drawn on some smooth black leather gloves. Harry remembered vaguely that some expert flyers always wore them. He forced the goofy grin off his face, and tried to pay attention to his host.

"I'll lead. Draco, you're next, and Harry-follow Draco. Don't press too close behind him. Try to keep two broom lengths between the two of you at all times. Severus, you go last and keep an eye on the boys." With easy grace, he was on his broom and up in the air, curving smoothly toward a maze of hedges. Instantly Draco was after him, fumbling with his grip for a moment.

Harry was so flustered that he tripped over his broom. Glad that the Malfoy males had not seen it, he glanced back apologetically at Snape, who gestured him skyward. A push against the ground and he was aloft, leaning forward to catch Draco up, easing back when he was the proper distance. He looked over his shoulder, and was reassured to see Professor Snape following him, a black shape stark against the bright blue sky, robes billowing like storm clouds.

They started out at a mild pace, swaying slightly as they curved around the marble steps leading down to a reflecting pool dotted with waterlilies. Harry glanced down and saw a shimmering likeness of himself briefly flash past. A green fragrance filled the air, and they were over the herb garden, looking straight down at an ancient sundial, green with age, guarded by spears of larkspur. Picking up speed, they twisted over an intricate knot garden, and then were back among the topiaries. Draco looked back and grinned at him. Harry grinned back and dared to put out a hand, fingers brushing the basilisk's plume. Below, a white peacock shrieked in alarm.

"Hands on the broom, Potter!" called Snape.

Harry nodded, and obediently resumed the grip Mr Malfoy had shown him.

But Lucius had no such reservations himself. He dropped suddenly over a field of wildflowers, and plucked a handful of rose madders and purple loosestrife, blue cornflowers, and snowy meadowsweet. Draco dove after him and managed a rather bedraggled bunch of yellow goatsbeard. Harry gulped and followed, yanking up a tall pink cosmos, roots and all. Embarrassed, he thumped the plant against the broom handle, shaking off clumps of dirt.

"Now-this is a test of accuracy!" shouted Lucius. He led them faster now, back toward the pitch. Harry wondered how he would throw his ungainly stalk of flowers through a hoop. Instead, they went up, up, and then quickly down, down, toward the silken, cushioned comfort of Narcissa Malfoy. Harry wondered what was coming next.

Draco glanced back and shouted, "Come on, Harry! My mother likes flowers!"

Faintly, Harry heard Snape protest, "I think this is a really bad id-"

The air pressed against Harry's ears and they swooped low over their resigned target. Lucius was only two yards away when he threw his missile. A rustic bouquet exploded over Narcissa, and she managed a game smile, brushing petals out of her hair. Lucius pulled up and Draco dove in, not nearly as close. Yellow blossoms bounced around her. She flinched as one splashed into her wineglass, and another fell down into the front of her robes. Then Draco was gone, leaving Harry to follow.

"Sorry, Madam Malfoy!" he shouted, and rather gently threw the cosmos plant her way. She caught it and waved, still fumbling with her neckline, and Harry pulled up so sharply he nearly did a roll. Straightening, he flew after Draco. Professor Snape called something down to the hapless victim, and she called something back, but Harry was already too far away to hear. At least she didn't sound angry.

One, two, three, four, they sped away from the pitch and toward the orchard. Ancient apple trees, gnarled and grotesque, seemed to reach out to catch at them. Instead of flying over them, Lucius led them in a twisting path around thick trunks and past knotty branches. In the dappled light, it was harder to see where he was going. Up ahead, boughs swayed and rustled. Lucius had something red and round in his hand. Draco grabbed at a branch and missed, and then grabbed again a little further on. A brief tussle and a parting, and a fan of leaves swung back, brushing the top of Harry's head. And apple? Could he pick one on the fly?

More glad than ever for his new contacts, he focused on the way before him, trying to spot the flashes of red among the dark foliage. Then there was a tempting glimpse of yellow nearby, and Harry snatched at it, feeling a smooth shape in his hand. Yes! An apple: a Golden Delicious. Harry had always liked them-when he could get them.

Very pleased with himself, he flew after Draco, not daring to look behind him to see how the Professor was faring.

I hope were not going to throw these at Madam Malfoy!

Behind Harry, Snape was preceding rather more sedately. He flew to a promising tree, found a decent specimen, and picked it carefully. Polishing it absently on his robes, he flew after Harry, hoping that Lucius would grow bored with his game. It was a decent enough way to teach flying, he supposed, briefly amusing himself by imagining the career of Lucius Malfoy, Hogwarts Flying Instructor.

A pity 'Malfoy's don't work', he thought, remembering Lucius' odious father's contemptuous remarks when he heard Snape's future plans. If Lucius had been allowed a proper career, or if he hadn't been so disgustingly rich, he might never have gotten himself involved with the Dark Lord. And at that, it had been largely Abraxas Malfoy's doing. I wonder if Lucius was ever allowed to think what he might like to do with his life? It seemed unlikely. In Snape's experience, rich purebloods had their futures mapped out minutely from the day of their birth. Lucius' interest in a quidditch career had been ruthlessly quashed by his father, who had chosen his son's associates, politics-and even his wife. Only if they threw everything over in an act of rebellion, like Sirius Black, could purebloods strike out on their own. And look how Sirius Black had turned out!

Flying conscientiously, Snape let his mind drift to Harry's father. In a way, James Potter had defied convention, too. If Potter's parents had not died untimely and left him master of his fate, would he have dared to marry a muggleborn? Snape rather doubted it. The Potters had the reputation of being pleasant people, and would not have threatened death or disinheritance, but they would have had many means of persuasion at their disposal if they felt their heir was in danger of an unsuitable alliance. Potter had never pursued Lily seriously until after the death of his father. If Guy Potter had been a trifle more careful with that cursed music box...

It was a useless supposition. After all, he himself was hardly living his dream. Never in his youth had he considered teaching. He had liked studying potions, yes, and he and Lily had discussed going away together as apprentices after Hogwarts, but once she had cast him out, he was free to admit that his favorite subject was actually Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had topped it every year without fail. The werewolf had been considered the best of the Gryffindors in the subject, but Snape could say with perfect honesty that Lupin was no real competition.

As a child he, Snape, had seen the red-clad Aurors in Diagon Alley, and he had admired them and wished to emulate them. And yet, somehow once he was actually at Hogwarts, Snape had found himself more and more marginalized and pigeonholed as a future dark wizard. In his sixth year, he came to understand that those in the positions of power, the ones who admitted candidates to Auror training, were the very sort of people whose children and grandchildren despised him and spread ugly rumors about him. A few unfortunate meetings had made it clear that his chances of a Ministry career as an Auror were next to nil. It was a bitter disappointment, but he had had a fallback plan: he would apply to Gringotts as a cursebreaker. He would have done well at it, he was certain, but all these schemes were flung into chaos by his dunderheaded pledge of allegiance to the Dark Lord, who needed a potions expert and a spy.

Dumbledore-well-Dumbledore had needed exactly the same thing. Snape's panic-stricken confession to the Headmaster had led to years teaching a difficult and subtle art to thick-headed and recalcitrant children. Snape eventually discovered that he did not so much hate teaching, so much as he hated teaching classes. Tutoring a gifted student could be rewarding, but potions class was simply an exercise in crisis management. He was convinced that teaching Defense could not possibly be so nerve-racking. Must his punishment for a mistake made at the age of sixteen be a life sentence?

And yet, here he was, the Potions Master of Hogwarts, chained for life to the position like a galley slave, it sometimes seemed. He understood about the curse on the Defense chair, and mourned it. Indeed, one of the chief reasons that Dumbledore had believed that the Dark Lord was not entirely destroyed was because the curse still lingered. Snape had been somewhat skeptical, but it was true that Hogwarts had not had a Defense instructor last more than one year since the retirement of the famed Professor Merrythought. Snape sneered to himself. Harry's scar was new evidence that something of the Dark Lord still lingered. If he could find a way to exorcise the Dark Magic from Harry's scar, it might well destroy that monster for good and all. Perhaps then Snape would have a chance at the subject closest to his heart. And then-perhaps then-teaching might not be such a burden.

"It must be different, living out here with nobody else for miles."

Draco shrugged, and took another bite of his apple. The boys sat under a chestnut tree, far enough from the adults to have a private conversation. Their own tea was spread before them: sandwiches and slices of treacle tart and a clear carafe of ginger wine, sweating with coolness.

"We have lots of employees, of course. They don't live here. They come and go, taking care of the gardens and the crops and the stock. Back in my great-grandfather's time, there was a whole wizarding village of workers and their families past the Great Barns. Greater Spellcombe, it was called. That was before the Floo network was so widespread, you know. The family grimoire is full of stories of the heirs having adventures with children of the dependents." His voice grew a little wistful. "Sometimes they were quite loyal friends-for people of that sort, you know," he added hurriedly. "My grandfather Abraxas cleared them all out when he inherited. He wanted a bigger park for the flying horses. It all belonged to him, you see, and he had the right to do as he liked."

"It must have been sad, all the same, when all those people were split up and had to go their separate ways."

"I suppose so."

For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by the munching of apples and the wind in the leaves. Now and then, a laugh or a retort floated over to them from the three adults seated in the shade of an arbour.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the horses," Harry told him. "I've never visited a farm before. I'd like to see everything."

"No, you wouldn't!" laughed Draco, tossing his apple core at Harry. "You don't want to see the pigs! Or smell them. Sheep stink too."

Harry tossed his own apple core at Draco. "Yes, I would. It's all really interesting. I got to go to the zoo once, but this is better."

The boys applied themselves to the sandwiches and the ginger wine, eating and drinking in comfortable silence.

After awhile, Draco remarked, "You did quite well at two-on-two quidditch. I hope you're sorted into Slytherin. If we were both on the house team, we'd win the Quidditch Cup for sure."

"I'll end up where I end up."

"In Slytherin you won't have to put up with riff-raff."

"Draco-I am riff-raff-according to some people."

"It's not like youre a mu-mu-muggleborn."

Very seriously, Harry sat forward and blurted out what was on his mind. "Draco, you know I can't listen to anything against muggleborn students. You know I can't. My mother was muggleborn. Do you believe she should never have been allowed at Hogwarts? I would never have been born. She was a great witch, and she gave her life to protect me. I can't listen to anything against her. How would you feel if someone said something nasty about your mother?"

Feeling harassed and out of his depth, Draco snapped, "Leave my mother out of this!"

Reasonably, Harry said, "I'm not saying anything against your mother. I think she's really pretty and really nice. I wish I had such a nice mother. That's not the point. If someone insulted her, you'd stand up to them, wouldn't you?"

"Of course, but-"

"It's just the same. I can't let people criticise my mother. When people sneer at muggleborns, they're sneering at my mother. What do you think should be done with muggleborn wizards and witches? If they don't learn to control their magic at Hogwarts, muggles are sure to find out about us, and then we'd really be in trouble."

"It's not safe," Draco objected. "Who knows who they're telling about magic?"

"There are laws-"

"And even if the muggleborn students follow all the rules, who's to say that their families would? How do we know who they're talking to?"

"Okay. That's a real problem. I don't know much about it, but we should find out. Maybe the families could be charmed so they couldn't tell anyone else."

"Dumbledore would never allow it. The man's such a muggle-lover. Father says he's the worst thing that ever happened to Hogwarts."

"I've never met him, so I don't know. Professor Snape told me about some things that seem pretty odd. You know our History teacher is a ghost? Professor Snape says his classes are really dull and pointless. And I looked at the Muggle Studies book. It's all wrong and out of date."

"Who cares about stupid muggles?"

"Not all muggles are stupid, Draco. Some are really smart, and there are a lot of muggles. And they've got incredibly powerful weapons. They could blow up all of London with just one bomb. What if they found out about us, and dropped a bomb like that on Hogwarts?"

"They do not! I refuse to believe that stupid muggles could blow up all of London."

"If you dont believe me, ask Professor Snape. He knows about atomic bombs. The Americans used them in the Second World War and destroyed a whole city in Japan with just one bomb. And muggles have security cameras hidden everywhere. What if a wizard apparated in front of one? If we don't know what the muggles can do, we can't protect ourselves. I think muggle studies is really important, but the book I saw doesn't have anything important in it." He took a deep breath. "We can't have it both ways, Draco. If the muggles are stupid and weak, we shouldn't have to bother with secrecy. If they're dangerous, we should recognize that and learn all we can about them."

He helped himself to the treacle tart. It was very good.

"I don't see why we should bother with a class, though," Draco complained. "The Ministry must have some muggle experts. Let them keep an eye on the wretched muggles. I wouldn't want to for anything. I don't hear you going on about how wonderful it is in the muggle world."

Sensing that Draco was hoping for sensational tales of evil muggles, Harry thought about telling him about Dudley and "Harry-hunting." But no-it would make him look pitiful. "There are some nice things, like films."

Then he had to explain what a film was, and tell Draco about James Bond and The Terminator and Star Wars and Indiana Jones. It was tricky, since he hadn't seen much of any of them, but had heard them all repeatedly through the wall of his cupboard. Draco allowed that seeing a play was good fun.

"We always go to the Theatre des Sortilèges when we're in Paris," he bragged. "It's a pity we haven't anything like that in England."

"Why don't we?" Harry asked. "That would be neat. I'll bet a lot of people would like it. If there were a theatre-even a little one-people could put on plays or give talks or play music. It could even be set up to show good muggle films sometimes. I know witches and wizards get together for quidditch games, but it would be nice if there were other things, too."

"There's a batty old wizard named Beery who runs a place in Upper Flagley that he calls the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts, but there's no real theatre." Draco laughed, and suggested. "Maybe that's something you should do with all that Potter money!"

Harry shook his head, not sure why Draco thought he was so rich. "I wouldn't want to wait until I'm of age. It sounds more like a job for your father!" He peered over at the adults. "It looks like they're done with their tea. Couldn't we go see the horses now?"

"Yes! Let's!"

Harry stared at the plate before him with some suspicion. The sorrel soup had been delicious, and the table setting magnificent, but now to eat-

"Peafowl, Harry," Draco told him. "The peahens really taste better. Peacocks can be a bit tough."

Snape cleared his throat discreetly, and Harry glared at him. The plate seemed innocent enough...

Actually, it was very appealing, with the aromatic sauce and the artfully arranged vegetables. He took a wary bite.

"This is fantastic!"

Narcissa smiled at him warmly. Lucius did not smile, but his face relaxed into an expression of benign satisfaction. The light conversation about flying and brooms and horses resumed.

Harry ate happily, content to listen and think about his day, still half in the air in his thoughts. He had to have a broom.

Of course, the Aethonians were magnificent: all glossy chestnut coats and gentle dark eyes and enormous wingspans. Mr Malfoy had been very generous to help him onto the back of one. It was not like a broom at all. Between his legs, he could feel the warmth and aliveness of the creature. Aethonians were spirited and full of independence.

"Philona here is the best-tempered of them," Mr Malfoy had said. "She's not prone to bite or strike out."

"She's the one Im learning to ride," Draco broke in. "May I show Harry, Father? Please?"

So, too soon, Harry had been eased from the wondrous creatures' back, and Draco took his place. The first powerful downward beat of the mighty wings made him start, but in a moment Draco was aloft for a brief, enchanting display.

"Not too long," Mr Malfoy told him. "She'll be edgy with strangers about." He told Harry, "Perhaps once she comes to know you better, it will be safe for you to try to fly her."

"I hope so, sir," Harry said feelingly. "She's amazing."

Harry dutifully ate his excellent vegetables. Professor Snape was very strict about vegetables. Philona was a lovely creature, but a broom-

Yes, a broom! Flying horses were super, but they were something splendid and out of reach. He could hardly keep Philona in the back garden at Number Four, Privet Drive, after all. He could see it would take a lot of training simply to learn to care for a horse, flying or not. And Hedwig might be jealous of the time and attention a winged horse would demand.

But a broom was easy! Harry had taken to it right away. He could keep his broom down in the storage space with his bicycle, or even in a corner of his room, ready to go at a moment's notice. A broom had no need for food and water and careful training. A bit of polish, and there you are!

He smiled dreamily to himself, picturing Little Whinging far below him as he zoomed at his own free will over England. He'd stow some grub in his backpack, and take off on his own, stopping where he liked, seeing the sights. As soon as he learned how to-what was it?-yes!-Disillusion himself, he was all set. He could go anywhere, and Hedwig could fly along with him!

Imagining his future adventures, he hardly noticed the next course, rousing himself only for the dessert, which Madam Malfoy called Floating Islands. He smiled at her through the radiance of candles and gleaming silver and the glittering refractions of crystal. He smiled at the plate before him, imagining himself rushing through the air, a cloud-capped island far below, set in a wine-dark sea...

"I love magic," he whispered.

N.A. My unkind dismissal of Herbert Beery and the W.A.D.A. is due to the fact that we never hear of it except in passing in Beedle the Bard. In the seven books, no one ever mentions them, which suggests that the theatre school is not a very successful venture. Compare the silence on Beery and the W.A.D.A. to the many references to quidditch and the wizarding wireless in canon. Theatre is expensive, though, and maybe all Beery needs is a large infusion of cash. Certainly the small size of the wizarding world would indicate that theatre is not a viable career for more than a handful of people, at the most. In fact, I suspect that the Wyrd Sisters have day jobs. How many gigs could they possible have in a year? Hogwarts doesn't even have a yearly dance!

A number of you had questions about rune lore. Please check out my author profile for my website fanfiction page. A link there will take you to a page about The Best Revenge. Included on the page there is a link to a runic site that you might enjoy.

And yes, at long last-in the next chapter Harry finally makes it to Hogwarts!