The room proved to be perfect for the job- when they needed to have targets, they had targets, when they needed padding to soften their falls, they had padding. When they needed to hide from Filch, he couldn't get in. The room met their every need and surpassed every expectation. Delighted at the success of the first meeting of the DA, Draco went to bed happy and woke up feeling much the same. It was his discovery that had made it all possible. Draco's elation soon turned ot frustration when the next morning's Prophet arrived.

Minister changes Voldemort position.

The Minister for Magic has announced today that it shall be the official position of the government that there are no Dark Lords currently active in Britain. "The previous position was based upon inaccurate reports which have not been substantiated after a considerably period of time has now passed, thus showing there to be no such wizard operational in this country today." A Ministry spokeswizard said in a press briefing.

Prophet readers will remember how the original reports were given to the Ministry by Albus Dumbledore as an explanation for how Cedric Diggory died in the Triwizard tournament. If this claim has been disproved as the Ministry claims then surely there must be doubts as to the veracity of the venerable headmaster's other statements. When asked about this, a senior Ministry official said that the Ministry had every confidence in Albus Dumbledore.

Every confidence. They were going to get rid of Dumbledore. Draco knew it the moment he read those words, how could it be otherwise? Those words were only ever used when somebody was about to be gotten rid of. The ministry couldn't just fire him, for a headmaster as popular as Dumbledore there would have to be a reason, and a very good reason at that. He was safe from the staff inspections - he didn't teach – and he was safe from the paranoia of Fudge- to get rid of Dumbledore would look too much like politics - so there had to be a further plan underway to dispose of him. What could it be? Draco had to confess that he couldn't think of anything, no matter how much he tried.

The quidditch season proceeded with Gryffindor doing well, but the threat of Umbridge sticking Harry into detention just before the start of a critical match loomed large over the team. So far, Harry had managed to restrain himself after her instant willingness to disbelieve him about the return of Voldemort following the Ministry's change of policy had nearly landed him in detention. The Gryffindor team had won their first match against Hufflepuff and their chances of keeping the cup looked good.

As the Christmas holiday approached the first snow came. It started one evening, and by the time they awoke it covered the land in a thick covering of white. The snow prevented all outside lessons and made the inside of the castle strangely cold, it did disappear at long last into thick brown slush, just in time for the school to leave for the holidays. Draco stayed behind, his uncle didn't have time to look after him, he had written-apparently he was still busy finishing the important project he'd begun over the summer. That suited Draco- he could concentrate on working for his OWLs, and with the mountain of work that his teachers had set him, access to the school's library couldn't possibly hurt.

The break was proving to be largely uneventful and Draco had settled into a standard routine, up early and down to breakfast. Two sausages, one rasher of bacon, sauté potatoes, fried mushrooms, baked beans and toast. Wash breakfast down with pumpkin juice. Head upstairs and get quill and ink. Head to library and work on the essay of the day. Work until lunch. Lunch. Head back to the library and continue work on the essay. Stop at two hours past sunset. Head back to the common room. One game of gobstones with Harry. Two games of chess with Ron. Exploding snap with Hermione. Dinner. Common room. Talk. Poke the fire. Talk. Bed. Repeat.

On this particular day, Draco was working on a transfiguration essay. Finally fed up with the work and noticing it was dark, Draco headed back to the common room and went about the rest of his evening as usual. He had just settled down in bed between crisp sheets when he left his bed-clothes, but freshly warm, woken by a vigorous shaking. It was a frightened Harry.

'What is it?' Draco uttered sleepily.

'I've had another dream.'

'A dream? You wake me for a dream?'

'It was like that one I had before the cup. I was a snake, and I attacked someone. Ron's dad. What should I do?'

'Tell someone.'

'About a dream. Who?'

'There's only one person. Dumbledore.'

'But how do we see him?'

'Ask McGonagall.'

'What, me?'

'You had the dream. Wake Ron, we'll go with you.'

'Alright.'

McGonagall was disturbed, and initially felt that Harry had had a nightmare, but Draco and Ron insisted that they should go to Dumbledore, and she yielded. Sweeping through the corridors of the cold and empty castle in their nightclothes they approached the office of the venerable headmaster. Professor McGonagall spoke the password and they climbed the tall stair to the office, where the old man lay in wait.

'What brings you here?'

'I had a dream, sir. Like that one I had last summer. I was a snake, sliding through somewhere, I don't know where, and then I saw Arthur Weasley. I, the snake that is, attacked him. I think he is in danger.'

'That may be.'

Dumbledore swept into action, marshalling portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses to his will. Away they swept, delivering messages to the living, to prevent the ranks of thedead being swelled by Arthur Weasley. Not only the long dead were sent to action; Minerva McGonagall was sent to fetch the other Weasley children, whereas Harry, Ron and Draco were sent to fetch clothes, such as they might not be in their bedclothes. When they returned, fully clad in warm robes and thick socks they found Dumbledore in grave mood.

'He's alive, but only just. Arthur is in St Mungo's, and you are to go, all of you, to Headquarters there to wait Mrs Weasley. I shall come with you.'

He stepped into the broad and ancient fireplace that adorned one wall of the headmaster's office. Its brick arch was high enough to contain a man, and its width was sufficient to hold a crowd of ten full grown men. Inside the fireplace the Weasleys stood, accompanied by Dumbledore, Harry and Draco, but not for long, for with a flourish Dumbledore threw down floo powder enough to transport them all, and before long Draco found himself in a place he had never been before. The fireplace was twice as large as the one into which they had just left and it led out onto a great room, all in marble and sandstone.

Over the doors were ornate carvings of a great bird wreathed in flames, which Draco soon saw made out the pillars of the door frames. Every door was alike in size, dignity and stature and led out into similar chambers beyond. Dumbledore led them through one of these great doors through the chamber outside it and into a long corridor. The floors were black and white and the walls wood-panelled. Along the corridor Dumbledore strode, with the rest of them trying to keep up.

Dumbledore rounded the corner, rushed down the carpeted steps and turned into the largest kitchen Draco had ever seen. They sat down at the table and waited.

'What's happening?' Fred asked.

'Your father's been attacked. They've got him in St Mungo's and we're waiting for your mother to turn up, so you can go and see him.'

That seemed to answer all of the questions the Weasleys had, so for a while they sat in silence.

'What's happened to him.' Ginny asked.

'He's suffering from a snake bite. He was in a critical condition, but I understand that he's been transferred to the recovery ward, which implies that he is doing well.'

Another terrible silence filled the room.

'Sir, where are we?' Draco asked at length.

'This, is the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. It's nearly finished, but I believe the builders are still in. I shouldn't be surprised if he was going to appear to prepare the tea for his tea-break soon.'

'Sir, what's this order thingy?'

'The Order of the Phoenix is a group of witches and wizards who are willing to fight against Voldemort whilst the Ministry dithers.'

'So, Sir, could...'

'No, only overage witches and wizards can join.' Dumbledore headed Draco off before he could finish his question. Once more silence filled the room. After what felt like hours, a man walked into the room, put the kettle on and walked out again. Draco didn't see his face until he returned, to take the kettle off the heat.

'Uncle Noctifer! What are you doing here?'

'This and that. What are you doing here?'

'Professor Dumbledore brought me.'

'I see. Well, tea's brewed, so I best get back to work. See you later kiddo.' And with that his uncle left. The next person to enter the room was Molly Weasley, who then left with Harry and the other Weasleys to visit their father. Harry had said that he wasn't sure he could go, but Mrs Weasley had insisted, after all, it was Harry's dream that had saved her husband.

When they had gone, Draco found himself alone, save for the company of Albus Dumbledore.

'Well, Draco, is there anything you want to talk about?'

'Not particularly, Sir. Actually, yes, you used to teach transfiguration, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

'Well, Sir, I was doing an essay on Gamp's Laws earlier today, well, I suppose it's yesterday now, and I was wondering about the first exception to his law.'

'You were wondering about food?'

'Yes, and how the fact that it is an exception can be reconciled with muggle atomic theory- one of them must be wrong.'

'I didn't have you down as one to read about muggle theories. What's that one about again?'

'Well, basically everything is made of smaller things which are all the same or something like that, I don't really understand it, but shouldn't it be possible to get these things and combine them to make food?'Dumbledore seemed impressed and sat, wiggling his long fingers silently for a moment before giving his answer.

'Well, I must confess I'm not perfectly sure, but I imagine it would be possible when you put it like that, but it would probably fall foul of Waffling's Complexity Law in the end.'

'I've not heard of that one, Sir.'

'Well, I'm not surprised. We don't even teach it at NEWT level anymore, haven't done for years. It fell out of fashion - a pity really, it was a really good thing to be able to blame failures on, but it did have a solid theoretical basis, or so Waffling claimed. He never showed anyone his working for it, just jotted it down in a margin in a treatise on the fundamental laws and said he had a proof somewhere.'

'Oh yes?'

'Yes, there's a prize fund of a million sickles for anyone who can find the proof. Personally I reckon Waffling had an intuition, but couldn't prove it. But I suppose you want to know what it says. Well, the textbook summary is as the number of distinct object upon which a spell must perform increases, its feasibility increases proportional to of this factor.'

'Feasibility, Sir?'

'Yes, it's a measure of the practicality of the spell, you'd have done that with Professor Flitwick, surely.'

'Yes, that one we've done. Thank you Sir. Sir? What's my uncle doing here?'

'Well, I said that we still had the builders in , didn't I? Well, he's the builder. Being working here over the summer. I'm surprised he didn't tell you.'

'He said he wasn't allowed.'

'Well, I suppose I told him he wasn't, but I would have thought he'd have told you. Well. Ther you go.'

'And what's he doing here in the middle of the night?'

'I think he wants to get the job done. He's also installing most of the security charms, and some of them need to be cast at night, and since its new moon tonight, that could well explain it.'

In the distance an owl hooted and the screeching of mating foxes filled the air. Draco shivered, despite the warmth of the room, where the range was always burning.

'Fancy some cocoa? I always find it helps me relax.'

'I shouldn't say no, Sir.'

'Well, the kettle's over there and the cocoa's in a jar behind it. You know what to do, I'm sure.'

Draco didn't, but made a good attempt earlier, and Dumbledore's timely instructions prevented him from making too many mistakes. In the end the cocoa was nearly undrinkable, but it did have the singular merit of being, as Dumbledore put it, warm and wet.

'I always like a good cocoa.' Dumbledore began.

'Shame that's nothing like a good cocoa.' Draco said, bringing a smile to both of their faces.

'Well, I've had worse.' Dumbledore said.

'I don't think I've had cocoa before, so I can't say the same.'

'Pity, cocoa's always good before bed.'

'Are you about to send me to bed then?'

'No. I was wondering if you wanted to talk about things.'

'What things?'

'This, that the other. Your parents, the war yet to break, anything at all.'

'I'm alright, Sir.'

'Are you?'

'As well as can be expected considering...'

'Considering what?'

'Considering my Father hates me, my Mother died giving birth to a sister who's also dead and I didn't get invited to the funeral, I'm getting on quite well. Quite well.' Draco wasn't sure he wanted to say all this, but somehow it just came out. 'I don't want ot tell anyone about it, but I can't help feeling it's all my fault. They knew they couldn't have any more children-it's a miracle she survived giving birth to me, and well, if I hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor, he never would have needed to have another child as heir and she'd still be alive.'

'It's a terrible thing to have the death of a loved one on one's conscience, Draco, but know this, it wasn't your fault. Your Father could have done a thousand and one other things. He could have adopted an heir from some other family. He could have not disinherited you, he could...'

'He couldn't.'

'What?'

'He couldn't have not disinherited me, it's in Grandfather's will.'

'Will's can be ignored, if they're sufficiently, unusual.'

'Father would never ignore Grandfather's will. Not until the portraits stop talking, anyway.'

'Anything for a quiet life, you're saying?'

'Regrettably, yes.'

'Never mind, Draco. With the upcoming war, you're probably best off having been sorted into Gryffindor.'

'What do you mean?'

'Your father's more than just permanent secretary to the Minister, Draco.'

'What do you mean?'

'He's, well, how to put it, a friend to all parties in the forthcoming war.'

'What? You mean. No. He's a Death Eater?'

'Yes.' Dumbledore said simply.