"Have you seen the new fics?" Blaise asks me as I walk into the main entry hall, sipping from my morning coffee. It's still hot and I wince.

Trying to smother a cough from the scorch down my throat, I ask, "I guess not, if I haven't heard about it. What have they come up with now?"

"They've added more of the castle and the Quidditch field. I heard they're working on recreating deeper parts of Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade next."

I raise my eyebrows, only partially interested. I'm surprised Blaise is bringing it up, to be honest. Blaise hasn't been much interested in the fics, either. "Why are you telling me?"

Slightly offended, he lifts his hands in surrender. "They're really getting into the… sport of it. I thought some of the new details might be more tempting for you, that's all. I love them."

We both bypass this lie, as it's not safe to say it openly. I can't help but needle him a little, though. Old habit. "Which details?"

"Which details do I love, or which details do I think you'll love?" He's grinning at me now, the wide one with the trademark Zabini teeth.

I'll humor him. "Both."

He lifts a brow and I realise for the first time I might be in trouble. "They've added some of the core classrooms and common areas. The Great Hall. The library." He eyes me with this one, waiting for a reaction.

I react more with Blaise than anyone else, but I give him nothing to work with. "Mm. I'm sure they're working hard."

"The more popular it is, the harder they work," he agrees, indirectly declining to press me any further. I appreciate it.

"Who's designed the new ones?" I'm honestly curious, and I sip my coffee again as we walk. It's a much better temperature.

Dolohov, Rowle, and Thicknesse had done the first batch. Their enthusiasm for the project was… unfortunate. Other 'consultants' have been brought in to diversify the offerings, but Dolohov has stayed in charge of the overall thing.

'Thing'… I ruminate. Not the right word. But neither is 'project,' or 'experience,' or 'abomination.' The last one is probably closest, though.

These thoughts are verging on hazardous. I take a quick glance around. Nobody in sight but us. I mask my features anyway, trying to loosen my tight jaw. I take another drink of coffee to force it.

"Flint," Blaise starts a list, "Pucey, Bletchley. Recent students. They needed their input for accuracy and detail – or so I was told."

He shrugs this off, and it makes sense. The consultants required for certain fics tended to vary. "I'm not sure who will be up for the design work on the Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade expansions."

I hope fervently it isn't me. Or for his sake, Blaise. We aren't exactly experts in those areas, but is anyone? I don't know why they're bothering anyway, as if anybody could be particularly driven to choose the apothecary off Diagon Alley. Who cares?

But the more options they can offer, the more interest they seem to get. It continues to spur Dolohov's unfortunate enthusiasm.

Blaise yanks me from this train of thought. "Carrow is asking if we'll stop by sometime this week, give a couple of the new fics a test before they roll them out to everybody else. Since you haven't seen them yet, I was sent to ask you to take a look."

I eye him warily and he adds with a deliberate touch of restraint I can't miss, "We can both go. Is after work best for you, or this weekend?"

We don't really have a choice. Our choice extends to when we'll go, not if we'll go. And our relative lack of interest will probably be remarked upon eventually. Maybe it already has, if Blaise was sent to find me for a specific opinion on the new designs.

If that's the case, sooner is better than later. "How's tomorrow after work?" I ask, taking another big drink of coffee as I open the door to the lift.

He nods and we fall into silence as other wizards and witches fill the lift. It begins to move, and I grab a hanging hand loop for support. A witch from the third floor brushes up against me and I don't think it's an accident. I shift my weight to the side, to my far leg, wishing this stupid bloody lift could be improved upon instead of Dolohov's fics.

At least my coffee is no longer in danger of scalding me – or this witch far too close to me in the lift - if it spills.

"Are you on your way to find anybody else this morning?" An innocent inquiry. I could be referring to anything at all.

Blaise catches my eye and says, "Nope. Just the two of us," with a perfectly manufactured confidence I know he doesn't feel.

That's not good. I can only hope people other than Blaise have been sent to find people other than me. But just in case, I need to prepare myself with a certain level of my own… enthusiasm.

I cringe internally at the word. I can't think of anything less appetising. I'm going to have to find something to latch onto, though.

Occlumency has brought me this far when faced with direct situations, but it seems like I'm going to need to show more proactive participation.

I'm also going to need the next day and a half to brace for it. I walk to my office and Blaise walks to his, casual work friends that we are. There's a stack of papers on my desk and my assistant, Ilse, asks if I can accommodate a request for a 9.30 meeting.

Ilse always asks this. She knows my calendar, so she must know it's open. But she always asks if I want to fill the slot anyway or keep it unclaimed, so I can get some work done for a change. At first this tendency irritated me, but I've grown used to it. I even appreciate it sometimes, and today is one of them.

I tell Ilse to leave it open and book the meeting request at the first open opportunity this afternoon instead.

I need to think, and to meditate. Clear my mind. To be ready for tomorrow, to show active participation tomorrow, will require focus and concentration today – and probably most of the next day.

I've never understood how Blaise handles these situations. These… stressors. I know he's a shite occlumens but he's obviously a better actor than I am. Well, more power to him, I think. We each have our own methods of coping, of fitting in.

But Blaise never took the Mark. The probing eyes don't fall on him like they do on me, never the same intensity. Blaise never feels the same judgement, the same deep, assessing scrutiny of his commitment. His loyalty.

If I were smart, I'd have volunteered to spearhead the project myself back when the idea was first being floated to the Dark Lord. Dolohov suggested it, and if I'd been quick – clever – I could have gotten ahead of the whole thing.

But I've never been smart enough, it seems. In fact, I couldn't get far enough away from it, and now I might be paying the price. No – I will be paying the price if I can't focus and appear invested in what I'm going to see after work.

Blaise and I meet at 6.30 at the lifts, an unspoken arrangement. It's the same time we meet to get drinks after work with the team, or to double-date with whatever girls either of us is trying to take home that month.

Passing interests, for me. Blaise is actually trying with Daphne, I think, but he's got an uphill climb after dating her younger sister, Astoria, at school. Sometimes I wonder if the Greengrasses might put something in the pumpkin juice.

If they did, it never worked on me.

No, my schooltime girlfriend was Pansy Parkinson, and even she eventually ran from me when I took the Mark. She thought she wanted a Death Eater for a boyfriend. She liked the idea, thought she'd feel important by proximity, maybe.

She liked the reality less, when I was too stressed and gaunt and tense to avoid snapping at her, to avoid her touching my hand or my hair or my neck. Suddenly, our late-night trysts in the corridors weren't amounting to much anymore.

Briefly, I tried to pay her more attention to compensate for the fact that not enough was going to happen in my trousers most nights, despite her best efforts.

But that indignity eventually dug itself a little home, too, and after a while Pansy found someone who was happier to accommodate her groping.

As if I didn't hate the situation as much as she did. I wasn't in love with Pansy, but what teenage boy doesn't want his cock to work when he needs it to?

I manage better now, able to appreciate the casual flings as a necessary stress-release, if nothing else. My compartmentalising has come a long way since I was sixteen.

I'm going to need it now.

Blaise and I walk to the standard Apparition point to the park, which happens to be located adjacent to the Hogwarts castle grounds in Scotland. The castle was perfectly located for this, already unplottable with Muggle-Repelling Charms and the like surrounding the entire area. The Forbidden Forest to the left and north, Quidditch field to the east, and nothing but open land to the south.

Land that Dolohov has commandeered to an impressive extent and continues to expand upon. His ingenuity seems endless.

Sometimes I wonder how this works – the fic must be physical, I think, but how can they all operate at the same time, or even most of them? They must be able to if they're as popular as I hear, so Dolohov needs the expansion of the grounds as it grows.

But I also think there's no way magic can't have them overlap, so the mind of the person entering the park is his own. After all, what's to stop two participants from requesting the same fic, unless it's all in their mind?

Maybe that's a good question to ask tonight, to show an added level of interest. I need to do that. I'd better prepare beyond occlumency. It's time to act smarter than I was at the start of this whole… thing

(abomination)

even if I'm late to the party.

Blaise claps me on the shoulder, letting out a jovial laugh. "Ready, mate? Can't wait to see what they've got!"

I realise we're approaching the entry gates to the park and give a wide laugh myself. Time to act the part. I force my walls into place and wish I was as good an actor as Blaise.

Dolohov is brimming with self-satisfaction, and I force myself to shake his hand with a grin. "What have you done now, Dolohov?"

"You won't believe it when you see it," he boasts, "but I need you to test for weak spots. Push the details for me, yeah?"

"I'll do my best," I promise, rubbing my hands together in anticipation. "Where to first?"

"I'm going to send Zabini here to some of the classrooms. I want you to test out the Great Hall, the library, and the hospital wing."

That one throws me momentarily and I give him an incredulous look, pairing it with a smile. "The hospital wing? Is that really in demand?"

"You'd be surprised, Malfoy," he chortles, his disgusting teeth on display. "Lots of Healer fantasies in the feedback."

I'm not surprised, in fact, and I'm a little annoyed that my own occlumency prevented me from the imagination to guess where he was going.

"Let's get to it, then," I say. "I think I can see the appeal," and I add in a wink. I think he buys it.

Of course, he does. My occlumency is spectacular. My acting might need work, but he has no reason to suspect what's behind my eyes.

"Do you want a companion?" he asks, and I test that superb occlumency sooner than expected.

"Let me test for weak spots first," I decline with a suave smile, "then I'll enjoy myself when I can… focus."

He gives me a leering look of approval and I hope I've passed the test.

I think I did, but only until I can think of a suitable 'companion.'

My only consolation is that the fics are entirely private, held exclusively in one's own mind. The physical space may or may not be needed; do I go somewhere? I still don't know. But the rest is left only to the participant.

Dolohov directs me into a small, private cubicle and uses his wand to specify some directives onto a pad hung on the wall with a sticking charm.

I don't know which fic he's ordered up first, and as he shuts the door the air fills with a soothing scented mist. I breathe in deeply, sitting in the plain chair in the plain cube, letting the world around me change.

When I open my eyes, I'm in Hogwarts' Great Hall. I'm not surprised by this and turn slowly in place to take in my surroundings. The details are perfect. Dolohov has hired fantastic designers. I don't know who is doing the grunt work on these, but they're excellent.

The ceiling is bewitched to reflect a night sky – whether it's tonight's sky or not is immaterial, so long as it changes fic by fic to look distinct to each occasion. The house tables are in place, and so is the head table for professors.

In this testing version, there are no people at all. There aren't supposed to be. I'm to test the accuracy of the vision, the location itself – if it's real. But what is 'real'? I question myself, and then shut it down.

It doesn't matter. If it feels real, isn't it real? What's the difference to the mind?

I move to throw open the doors to the Great Hall and see the perfect entry hall outside it with its suits of armour, the corridors reaching to both sides, the moving portraits on the walls.

Yes, Dolohov's people have done a very good job.

I walk around the Great Hall, poking and prodding as I go. It wouldn't do to give only a cursory glance and I test everything. The benches at the tables, the candles on them. I sit at one and think, 'I'm at dinner,' and the table fills with platters of food.

Can I eat it? I honestly wonder. I've never pushed a fic to this level of detail. I reach forward and spoon potatoes onto the plate in front of me. There's suddenly silverware beside it and I scoop some up, bringing it to my mouth in true curiosity.

The potatoes are smooth and creamy, delicious and warm. I swallow and feel them go down as I scoop up another bite.

Amazing.

I can't imagine it actually provides nutrition – does it? I suppose it depends on whether I'm actually in a 'Great Hall' eating 'potatoes' or if I'm in an expertly crafted hallucination in my mind.

Either way, this could be dangerous. Someone could spend hours, days, in here. Weeks? If it held their interest long enough, why not? But they could starve to death eating this pretend food.

I'm astounded at what Dolohov's teams have done since I've been here last.

I look up and say clearly, "Bring me out," the only phrase that will trigger an exit. It's specific enough to not occur by accident in a conversation, unlike something as generic as "I'm done."

I reappear in my little private cubicle and wonder, again, if I went anywhere. Dolohov appears as if I conjured him personally, thick eyebrows raised for a review.

"It's incredible, Dolohov," I say honestly. "I don't know how you've done it, but I didn't find a thing."

He beams with pride, a strange look on his grizzled face. I wonder how many things he's had to be proud of in his life and mentally shake myself. I don't give a fuck about Dolohov's self-esteem.

"Next up, then," he gestures, and I turn back around. I hear him scrabbling at the notepad on the wall again and he shuts the door. The mist seeps into the cubical and I inhale deeply, as I am supposed to.

When I open my eyes, I'm in the Hogwarts library, right at the entrance. It's dim; not quite nighttime, but close.

This one is… harder for me. Harder, but better, too. I spent a lot of time here in school. I spent a lot of time in the Great Hall also, yes, but more time to myself here. I take my time walking slowly through the aisles. I'm almost nostalgic. I know where everything is.

I know the best tables for the best lighting, the best tables for privacy, the best ones for team projects that were least likely to be shushed by Madam Pince.

I know where the Potions books are, and the Astronomy tomes, and where the Aquatic Herbology section is tucked away from everything else.

I know the Restricted Section, even though it never held a candle to the inventory of my own library at Malfoy Manor.

There's my personal favourite table, the one close enough to a window to get good evening lighting after classes, but also allowing me to have my back to the wall and see everyone else from a relatively secluded position. I spent hours and hours there.

Hours and hours studying, studying many things.

I force myself to peruse the aisles, already confident I won't find lapses in the details. But this is so much more incredible than the configuration of the Great Hall. Every book I take from a shelf I could read; I flip them open and find text. There are thousands, maybe ten thousand books.

If I delved deeply enough it might fall apart, but they hold up to several minutes of scrutiny each.

And really, who is requesting a library fic to come read the books? I wouldn't.

Not with the Manor's library at my fingertips.

I give it another twelve or fifteen minutes of nostalgic exploration before requesting to be brought out again. I'm shaking my head in amazement as Dolohov confronts me.

"Good?" His tense anxiety is palpable. This is a big deal for him, maybe bigger than most of his expansions.

"Great," I say truthfully. "Felt just like the real thing."

He nods in what I now identify as relief. Is something happening here? I don't have time to consider it before he's motioning back to the chair.

"How's Blaise doing? Just as well?" I can't stop the question from escaping.

"Yeah, yeah, he's done three classrooms so far. Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms."

"No faults?"

"None," Dolohov exhales and I realise he's been on tenterhooks all evening. Something big is riding on this. I can work with that.

"Alright then," I say with purpose. "Let me have a companion for the last one, yeah?"

Dolohov's eyes light up and I know I've done the right thing. "Anything you like. Who do you want?"

He's trying to focus on his little pet project, but I can't miss the salacious leer in his eyes. I swallow hard, grateful he won't be able to watch.

"Give me… Lovegood."