Draco Sinister

by vanellopetroo

A reupload of Cassandra Clare's work.

6. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Demons and Angels

There is a crack in everything; That's how the light gets in.

– Leonard Cohen

Draco poked at the food on his plate somewhat dispiritedly. It wasn't that the food wasn't good; to Draco's immense astonishment, Snape, amongst his other achievements, seemed to be able to produce a mean blueberry scone. But his stomach was tied in such tight knots that every bite was like swallowing a jagged chunk of metal.

It didn't help, of course, that Snape, sitting across from him at the table in the small, blue-painted kitchen, was staring at him with a piercing glare that Draco found very disconcerting. Draco had always thought that laceration by means of the eyes was a rather trite expression, but at the moment Snape's beetle-black gaze made him feel as if the Potions master could state right through his forehead to the back of his skull.

"So," said Snape, crumbling a bit of scone absently between his forefingers, "now that we've been over this several times, I am still unclear. You came to me because you thought I could help you, or because you knew I wouldn't tell Sirius Black that you're here?"

"Well," said Draco around a mouthful of scone, "you won't, will you?"

"Considering that I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire, that's an accurate assessment, yes. What do you care if he knows you're here?"

"He'll try to bring me home," said Draco, as if this was obvious. "He thinks he can help me, but he can't help me. None of them can help me. I still think you can, though."

Snape looked absently towards the little window set in the east wall.

Pale morning light streamed through the curtains. Draco looked away; he had discovered that lately, light hurt his eyes. "I don't mind not telling Sirius Black where you are. But it seems somehow immoral to keep the news of your whereabouts from your mother. Perhaps you should owl her and tell her why you don't feel you can go home?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "And say what? ''Lo, Mum, I can't come home because I think I'm going mad. Not just a little mad, but full-on banging-my-head-against-the-wall, frothing-at-the-mouth, homicidal-impulses barking. And by the way, send pocket money. Love, Draco.' "

"You're not going mad. Going mad would be a fairly simple issue to deal with. This is much more complicated. You are not an ordinary boy—"

"I know, thanks, my dad told me," said Draco, looking away. His mind didn't seem to be able to wrap itself around the idea that his father was dead, even though Snape had given him the details and shown him a copy of the Daily Prophet with a headline about Lucius' death. He wasn't sure what he felt—not grieved exactly, but certainly somewhat dazed. He remembered how blank Harry had looked after getting Hermione's letter back at school, remembered thinking that Harry was in

shock. He rather hoped his shock would last longer than Harry's, as he was not looking forward to what might happen when it wore off.

Snape was looking thoughtful. "I admit that I'm surprised that your father told you of the Dark Lord's original plans for you."

"Why?"

"Because your father was a liar. He lied to everyone, even when there was no benefit in it to himself. He lied because he loved it. I'm surprised he told the truth to you."

Draco didn't quite know how to respond. However he might feel about his father, family pride precluded him from insulting him in the presence of strangers, or near-strangers. He recalled having once told Harry that he hated Lucius, but that had been different because he'd been quite sure he was about to die at the time, and anyway, that had been Harry. Snape calling his father a liar was something else again. According to the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct (length: three hundred pages, containing 1,376 rules ranging from: "The Malfoy family dress robe colors are black, green and silver, except on state occasions when it is permissible to wear red, silver and black" to "Malfoys are expressly forbidden from practicing inappropriate Lust Charms on members of the animal kingdom, especially in the topiary garden; this means you, Uncle Hector") he should, to save the honor of his family, leap to his feet and hit Snape in the eye. But he didn't much feel like it, so he contented himself with glaring furiously at his half-empty teacup and muttering, "Milk."

"What was that?"

"Milk," said Draco again. "For my tea. I need some." "Get it yourself," said Snape shortly.

Draco got to his feet and padded over to the refrigerator. It looked like an ordinary enough fridge from the outside, but upon opening it he found that it was stocked with dozens of clear glass canisters, each one neatly labeled in Snape's crabbed, articulate handwriting: "Bat's blood", "salamander eyes", "dried mundwinkel", "lizard ears" and "tapioca pudding." The tapioca pudding looked a lot like the dried lizard ears. Draco shut the door hastily. "I didn't really want milk," he said, half to himself, and went back to the table.

Snape glared at him. "I thought you were getting milk." "I decided I didn't want any."

"Well, I want some."

Draco, who was feeling dizzy and didn't really want to get up again, glared right back at him, and raised his left arm. The fridge door slammed open, the glass canister of milk flying out. It spun towards Draco and smacked into his hand. He banged it down on the table and raised his eyes to see Snape glaring at him more than ever.

"Do not show off," the Potions master said coldly.

Draco opened his eyes wide. "Why not?" Bang!

Snape brought his hand down on the table with a force that made the silverware rattle. "You think you get all that power for free?" he snarled. "Nothing is free. Every time you use it, you lose a little piece of your own soul."

Draco shrank back against the back of his chair. He felt… scolded, in a way he had never really felt scolded before, not even by Sirius. It broke through a little of the hazy fog surrounding his brain, and he blinked at Snape in astonishment. "But I—"

"Shut up," said Snape briskly, and got to his feet, pushing his chair back. "Sit here," he said. "Don't move. If you use any magic at all while I'm gone, even to lift the tea-strainer, I'll force-feed you a potion that'll turn you into a gerbil."

"First a ferret, now a gerbil," said Draco irritably. "Why does everyone look at me and think 'rodent'?"

"Do you really want an answer to the question?"

"No. Where are you going?" Draco realized he sounded plaintive, and didn't care. He didn't want to be left alone, he'd been alone all day and it was enough, especially with his brain feeling as if it was about to shake itself into pieces like an old car driven too fast.

"To my workroom," said Snape. "I need to get something." "Let me come with you."

"You haven't eaten anything. I don't want you fainting all over the place. I have a lot of very fragile and valuable equipment in that room."

Draco grabbed up a the remains of his scone and shoved it into his mouth, barely bothering to chew. "Mmpph," he said, making a broad and expansive gesture with his arms that indicated he was done eating.

Snape looked at him, and Draco could have sworn he saw a brief flicker of amusement tug at the corner of his sour mouth. "All right. Come along."

Snape's workroom turned out to be far more of a laboratory than a workroom. Draco suspected that he probably just called it a workroom because he didn't want to sound like a mad scientist.

Nevertheless, the room would have done a mad scientist proud: it was high-ceilinged and dimly-lit, and everywhere there were cauldrons bubbling over low fires, tall glass beakers filled with substances that glowed, steamed and sizzled, labeled bags and packets filled with crushed herbs, beetle shells, shredded boomslang skin and other substances Draco couldn't have named. He walked from one table to another while Snape busied himself at a desk in the corner of the room, staring at the vials, flasks and clear philters full of multicolored liquids.

"What does that one do?" asked Draco, gazing at a beaker full of a bubbling lime-green liquid. "Gets rid of chest hair," said Snape.

"And that one?"

"Makes you grow chest hair all over your body." "Ugh."

"Some people want strange things." "Do you sell this stuff?"

"Sometimes," replied Snape. "You think anyone could live on the salary they pay us at Hogwarts? Most of us do outside consulting work. Now sit down on that stool over there and shut up for a minute."

Draco obediently sat down on the stool, which was next to a long low desk piled with various bits and pieces of discarded junk. Rolls of twine, small jars of newts' eyes past their expiry date, snapped quills, a piece of broken mirror. It had been rather a long time since he'd even looked at his own reflection, Draco thought, reaching down to pick up the bit of broken mirror. That in itself was cause for alarm concerning his mental state.

He held the bit of broken glass up and looked at his own reflected image in a state bordering on dismay. I look horrible. His summer tan seemed to have disappeared, and his skin looked as white and semi-translucent as paper. He must have lost weight, too, he could see the sharp blades of his collarbones sticking up above the loose collar of Charlie's too-large shirt. In his white face, his eyes, always pale silvery-gray, looked nearly black, the irises thinned to slender bands of silver around his enlarged pupils. No wonder the light in the kitchen had hurt his eyes. The shadows under his eyes were bruise-blue, and his hair-

Draco suddenly yelled and dropped the mirror.

Snape, who had been investigating the contents of a desk drawer, straightened up and hurried over to Draco, careful not to spill the contents of the flask he was holding. He looked alarmed, or at last as alarmed as he ever looked. "What is it? What's going on?"

"I've got a white hair!" said Draco, grabbing a handful of silvery strands and glaring upwards at them. "I'm only sixteen and I've got a white hair!"

Snape's look of alarm quickly changed to a look of disgusted amusement. "With the hair you've got, I don't see how you can tell."

"Of course I can tell. What's happening to me? Am I dying? You have to help me. Give me something—anything—"

"A packet of hair dye?" suggested Snape with a cold smile. "Your vanity is impressive, Mr. Malfoy, but I think your coiffure is the least of your problems. Here. Drink this," and he shoved the flask he

had been holding into Draco's right hand.

Draco glanced down. The flask was full of a thick-looking black liquid that bubbled and steamed and smelled vaguely like wet asphalt. "Er," he said. "And what's this when it's at home?"

The Potions master just looked at him. In the flickering light of the many fires in the workroom, Snape's face looked like a mask of itself, outlined in red shadows. It was odd, Draco thought, looking at him: Snape was the same age as Sirius, yet Sirius' face bore plainly the marks of the boy he had once been; Snape looked like someone who had never had a childhood. "Drink it," Snape said again. "It will help you."

Draco bit his lip. "Would you drink it," he said, glancing sideways at Snape, "if you were me?" "I have drunk it. It's a preparation I made especially for my own personal use, many years ago." Draco lowered the flask and stared. "Why?"

Snape sighed and leaned back against the wall, hunching his angular shoulders inside his black robes, his expression unreadable. Then he reached down and slowly pulled up his left sleeve. He held his arm out to Draco, palm up, so that Draco could clearly see the Dark Mark branded into his skin.

Draco stared, then raised his eyes to Snape. "Yes," he said slowly. "I know. My father has one. Had one," he corrected himself, hastily.

"This is not the only souvenir I ever carried of my association with the Dark Lord," said Snape, looking down at his own arm. "When we were his, we were tied to him, body, blood and brain. That's part of the reason nobody ever left his service. If he did not find you and kill you himself, madness was the usual and inevitable other result."

"But you left."

"I left. And I very nearly went mad. I took refuge with Dumbledore, and he protected me from bodily injury at the Dark Lord's hands.

But he could not save my mind. Everywhere I went, every day, ever hour, I heard the Dark Lord's voice in my head, promising that if I returned to his service, all would be forgiven. Dumbledore had made me part of his plans. The Dark Lord promised me that if I gave him news of those plans, he would give me clemency. His voice spoke in my ear every day, and all night in my dreams."

Draco stared at him, his mouth half-open. "Did you want to go back to him? Did you believe him?"

"Oh, yes, I wanted to. But no, I didn't believe his promised forgiveness. For that is the essence of cruelty like his; betray him, and no mercy will be shown to you."

"So what did you do?"

"I made that," said Snape shortly, pointing at the flask Draco held. "I had no idea at first if it would help me or if it would kill me. But I worked hard on it, and it was successful. It blocked the voices in

my head and gave me my own will back. I can only hope it will do the same for you." Draco looked back down at the potion, which was still swirling and bubbling.

"I added a Wakefulness Potion to the mixture," he heard Snape say, sounding very far away. "It will keep you from sleeping, and dreaming. At least for a few days."

Draco nodded. "Cheers," he muttered, and lifted the flask to his mouth. He tilted his head back and swallowed hard; despite its smell of asphalt, the potion really had very little taste. He felt it snake its way down the back of his throat, and hit his nearly-empty stomach, where it sizzled. A wave of heat struck him, nearly making him drop the flask, and then an alert and burning energy which swept over him like fever. It hurt, a little, but was also curiously warming, and he had been so cold the past few days…

"Oh," he said quietly, and leaned forward slowly until his head was resting on his folded arms on the desk. He felt Snape reach forward and pluck the flask out of his limp fingers. He suddenly missed Sirius, who would have put a hand on his shoulder, or stroked his hair, or something. He heard Snape's voice as if from very far away: "Are you all right, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yeah." He sat up, rubbed at his eyes. "I'm fine."

"It might burn your throat a little, but it won't hurt you. It should take an hour or so for its full effect to be felt. Would you like to go lie down?"

"I'm not tired."

"No. You wouldn't be. The Wakefulness potion works immediately."

Draco didn't say anything, just sat with the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. He could feel the potion spreading its heat outward from his stomach, winding through his veins, making his heart pound wildly. He took a deep shuddering breath and heard Snape say: "Yes, I know it hurts. Breathe through it, the pain won't last."

"I am breathing," snapped Draco irritably. "Like I'm going to stop breathing."

"Well, you never know what the side effects will be," said Snape, and Draco cut his eyes sideways, wonder if the Potions teacher was making a joke. He couldn't tell. "Look," Snape added stiffly. "You'll be all right. You've obviously got a very strong will of your own, or you wouldn't have made it this far. You were meant to give in. And you haven't given in, despite injuries and exhaustion. You should be proud."

"Injuries?" murmured Draco, taking his hands away from his eyes. "I haven't got any injuries, I haven't even got a scratch on me."

Snape leaned forward and pressed his fingers to Draco's temples. To Draco's surprise, he had no urge to pull away, despite the fact that he usually didn't much like being touched—the gesture was oddly fatherly. "I meant in here," said Snape, tapping Draco's left temple with a thin finger. "There are the war wounds of enchanters carried. I have them myself. You are fighting a battle, young Mr. Malfoy. Even if you don't quite know it yet."

"I don't quite understand," said Mrs. Weasley, as she rejoined Ron and Ginny at the breakfast table, bearing a plate of toast. It was nearly eleven o'clock and they were breakfasting late, but Mrs. Weasley had thought it advisable to let her exhausted daughter and youngest son get a little extra sleep after what they'd been through the past week. As a consequence, there were only three of them at the breakfast table, Mr. Weasley having already departed for a meeting at the Ministry. "What exactly is the situation with the Malfoy boy? Sirius said he was missing… ?"

"He's missing," agreed Ron blandly, reaching for the toast. "That's the situation."

"I remember seeing him at Flourish and Blott's several years ago, with his awful father," mused Mrs. Weasley, half to herself. "He looked a pale, underfed little thing…"

"He's grown a lot since then," said Ginny in what she hoped was a neutral tone, and reached for the jam.

"Is he at all like Lucius?" asked Mrs. Weasley. "Not to speak ill of the dead, but…" "Yes, he's just like him," said Ron, at the same time that Ginny said, "No! Not at all." Mrs. Weasley looked startled.

Ron rolled his eyes. "You'll have to forgive Ginny," he said to his mother in a world-weary tone. "She fancies him."

The jam spoon flew out of Ginny's hand. "Ron, be quiet," she said, glaring at her brother. "Well, you do," said Ron. "You fancy the pants off him. Admit it."

Ginny was conscious of her mother watching this exchange with a lively interest, and blushed bright red.

"I thought you fancied Harry," said Mrs. Weasley cheerfully. "I am behind the times."

"Harry's old news," said Ron, with a grin that was half malice, half mischief. "Discarded, kicked to the curb, The Boy Who Got Dumped. Not that you were ever going out," he added to Ginny, "but you know what I mean."

"Ron," said Mrs. Weasley in a quelling tone, although her eyes were dancing. "Leave your sister alone."

Ron turned to her, looking injured, "But Mum, he's a Malfoy!"

"So what?" said Mrs. Weasley. "Don't be so medieval, Ron." Ron goggled at his mother like a stranded goldfish while she reached serenely for the teapot. "You'll have to learn to get along with him, won't you?" she said to her son. "If he's going to be Harry's stepbrother."

Ron mumbled something that sounded like "Not if he never turns up again."

Ginny glared at him, and turned to her mother, "That's a good point, Mum. If Harry likes him—" Ron made an impatient noise. "Harry doesn't like him."

Mrs. Weasley looked curious. "Wouldn't you describe Draco as a friend of Harry's?" "No," said Ron. "I would describe him as a twat in pretentious trousers."

"That," said Mrs. Weasley, in a tone of voice that meant she was not to be argued with, "is not the impression I got."

"What, you're a fan of the leather trousers too, Mum?" Ron asked, misinterpreting her on purpose and grinning as he did so.

Mrs. Weasley looked surprised, then smiled. "Leather trousers? You know, Sirius used to have leather trousers back when he had his motorcycle. Before… well, you know. When he was doing his Auror training at the Ministry. Sometimes," she added, looking faintly misty, "he even wore them to work."

"MUM!" exclaimed Ron, looking appalled.

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat. "Never mind. Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes I had a question for you two. What do you think of Professor Lupin?"

This abrupt change of topic made both Ron and Ginny blink in surprise. Ron recovered first. "Lupin? He's great," he said. "Best teacher we ever had."

Ginny nodded agreement. "He always has chocolate. What's not to like?"

"He asked me the oddest question," said Mrs. Weasley. "He wanted to know if we had any Hufflepuff ancestors."

Ron and Ginny exchanged glances; Ron spoke first. "What'd you say, Mum?"

Mrs. Weasley turned a bit pink around the ears. "I didn't say anything. Luckily your father was talking to Sirius or he would have started going on and on about how the Weasley family weasel looks a lot like the Hufflepuff badger, and how the Burrow used to be a castle—"

"And the wine cellar used to be a dungeon," said Ron in a bored tone. "And the rock quarry out back used to be a moat. It's all nonsense, anyway."

"Well, there are manacles on the wall down in the wine cellar," Ginny pointed out.

"Yeah," said Ron, his voice dripping sarcasm, "because Fred and George put them there so they could chain up Percy when he was supposed to be babysitting."

Mrs. Weasley was horrified. "Fred and George chained up Percy?"

Ron looked as if he was aware he had said something he shouldn't. "Well, it was all in good fun and they never used the leg irons—"

Ron was saved further explanation as, with a soft *pop * Mr. Weasley Apparated into the kitchen.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley jumped up, startled by the sight of her husband. Ginny, too, looked at him curiously; she had never seen her father look so disheveled. His robes were creased and untidy, his red hair standing up every which way, his face crumpled into lines of strain and dismay. "Arthur," Mrs. Weasley said again, hurrying towards him. "What's the matter? What are you doing back from London so soon?"

"The meeting was over," said Mr. Weasley tonelessly. "They've chosen a new Minister of Magic." Ron swiveled around in his seat to stare at his father. "Who is it?"

Mr. Weasley swallowed visibly. "Well," he said slowly. "Me."

Hermione, Sirius and Lupin were eating breakfast in the library when Harry wandered in, tousle- haired and yawning. Hermione glanced up and smiled when she saw him, although her smile faded a bit when she realized how tired he looked. The indigo sweater he wore rather unhappily matched the blue shadows under his eyes.

"Hey," he said, glancing around in surprise, "how long have you guys been awake? How come nobody came and got me up?"

Sirius glanced up from the papers he was perusing. "We thought it was better to let you sleep."

"It must be three in the afternoon," said Harry irritably, came over to Hermione, kissed her rather perfunctorily on the ear, and threw himself down in a chair. "Where's Narcissa?"

"She had to go to the Ministry; there's an inquest into Lucius' death," Sirius replied.

"Don't they want to talk to you, too, Sirius? I mean you were actually in the cell where he…"

"Exploded?" Hermione finished for him, sweetly. She felt a bit guilty about not being more sorry that Lucius was dead, but couldn't shake the feeling that, assuming that they managed to get Draco back safely and in one piece, it was the best thing that could have happened for him.

"Don't remind me. Yes, I'll be going to the Ministry tomorrow." He flipped over a page, sighed irritably, and glared over at Lupin. "Are you sure this translation key you gave me is correct? I can't make any sense out of this spell…"

"You've got a translation key for the Parseltongue?" asked Harry curiously.

"I managed to take the Parseltongue spell off the book," said Lupin, pushing the diary towards Harry and Hermione. "The problem is that the most useful part of the book, which is where Slytherin listed all the spells he used, was doubly encoded… he was apparently very suspicious that someone might try to steal his spells. He wrote in Mermish, Trollish, French…"

"Too bad Fleur isn't here to help you," said Sirius and gave Lupin a huge, obnoxious smile.

"Giantish, Greek—shut up, Sirius—and something that looks a lot like mirror writing. Not, perhaps his best effort…"

Sirius, meanwhile, was staring cross-eyed at one of the pieces of parchment that had a spell in Mermish copied onto it. " 'Enliven the fearsome sex weevil'? That can't be right."

"Sirius…" Hermione made a face at him, reached forward, and took the parchment out of his hand. "It says fallax proefini… imago moli… it's Latin, not a spell I know, but it means something about projecting images…" She looked at Lupin. "Is this the Magid one?"

"What Magid one?" demanded Harry.

Lupin sighed. "There's a spell Slytherin claimed allowed him to find his Source—that would be Rowena—wherever she was, and project himself there."

"But Draco's not my Source," said Harry flatly.

"No, but the mental link you have is very much like what might exist if he were. It's worth a try anyway," said Sirius, raising his head. "I'll put a Locator Charm on you, and once we send you through to where Draco is, I'll follow right after you."

Hermione glanced up quickly. "Is this going to be dangerous for Harry?"

"No," said Lupin, a little absently, and put down the book he was holding. "He'll be fine, especially because—"

"But we don't even know if the mental link is working," Harry interrupted, shaking a lock of dark hair impatiently out of his eyes. "It's not like I know where he is…"

Lupin reached into his pocket and took his wand out. "Give me your hand, Harry—your right hand." Harry held his hand out and Lupin turned it over, palm-up, and laid the tip of his wand against the jagged scar that ran diagonally across Harry's palm. Harry shuddered, as if this pained him, and his eyes met Hermione's across the desk. "This scar connects you two," said Lupin, "just as the scar on your forehead connects you to Voldemort."

Harry nodded. "I know." "Hold still," Lupin said.

Draco wished he could sleep, but the Wakefulness potion didn't allow it. He had been grateful at first for the alert and burning energy it gave him, but now he felt weary of it. Not that he wanted to sleep and dream—he certainly didn't want that. But he was bored.

Snape had gone into his workroom to play with his potions, and Draco had been kicking aimlessly around the house. He'd discovered very little, except that Snape had peculiar musical taste and that, if what was folded on top of the washing machine was any indication to go by, he slept in blue flannel pajamas decorated with little red hearts. Yikes, Draco thought.

He thought again of the Daily Prophet with its article on his father's death, and determined to go ask Snape if he could have another look at it. He trudged down the hall to the Potion Master's workroom, and pushed the door open.

The cauldrons were still bubbling merrily away, but Snape, seated at his desk, appeared to be asleep, his head down on his arms, a quill drooping from his fingers. Seeing the Daily Prophet folded up on the edge of the desk, he reached out for it, and paused. A pad of paper lay about five inches from Snape's hand, and on it he saw written his own name.

It's a rare person who can see their own name written down by someone else, and not want to investigate. Moving quietly, Draco dragged the pad a little towards him across the desk, and turned it around to read what was written there in Snape's cramped handwriting… I gave the potion to the Malfoy boy and it did not hurt him, so he is not as far gone as I might have feared. Still, he has that look on him already, the presage of violent death. I am not sure how much I can or should tell him about the potion: that as with many drugs, with use its effects are dulled, becoming almost insignificant within a matter of months. If it had not been for the defeat of the Dark Lord, the potion could not have saved me… I wish that Dumbledore were here to advise me…

Draco pushed the pad away from him, turning away from the desk, a sick feeling in his stomach. He walked out of the room into the hall, turned blindly to the right, opened the door there and found himself standing on the porch in bright sunlight. The light stabbed at his eyes like knives and he sat down rather suddenly, his back against the wall of the house, drawing his knees up to his chest.

So the potion was just a stopgap, if that. Snape had sounded as if he wasn't sure at all how long it would continue to work. It was certainly working now, Draco could feel it, had felt it kick in not long ago. The change had been immediate. It was as if someone had dropped a heavy iron portcullis between him and the surge and clamor of the demands that had been his constant companions. The waking dreams were gone, the cloudy vision, the feeling that his ears were always ringing. He hadn't realized how quiet the world was, how still and how peaceful.

But gone, too, was the exhilaration, the knowledge that with the sword, he could do things he knew he would never otherwise have been able to do, even if he was a Magid. Inside the dragon pen, he had known he had the power inside him to hold all those dragons back and he had done it, raising his hands to ward them off as if they were no more than shadows, and he had felt powerful. The power drew on him like fire drawing oxygen, leaving only ashes behind. And it was a dark and exquisite pleasure to use it. So exquisite it hurt, and so dark that it was frightening.

When he closed his eyes, he could see the shadow of his dreams printed against his inner lids. What you want, his father had said, what you can have, and what could be. His father's explanation of his own birth and purpose had made some sense to him. If nothing else, it explained the yearning he felt when he held the sword in his hand, the nameless internal stretching towards something just out of reach. It's your destiny. It has you.

He had been offered more than power, more than whatever else it was he thought he might have wanted: Hermione and her love, glory, a place in the world. He had been offered something that Harry had that he had always envied: a purpose, a reason for living, a destiny. And the pull of it was strong; the pull of it was… intoxicating. No wonder Charlie had thought he was drugged.

"To have resisted this far you must have a strong will," Snape had said. "You were meant to give in. And you haven't given in."

But I know the truth, he thought bitterly. I'm not strong. If there is anything in me, in my mind or my soul, that fights the sword and its promises and the black dreams it brings, it isn't my own strength.

It's Harry. Whatever little bit of Harry he had managed to hold on to, whatever the Polyjuice Potion had left him, that speaking voice in the back of his brain that said this isn't right. Harry, who could fight the Imperius Curse—I could never do that. Harry, who was good without trying.

Harry, who he was supposed to kill. And would, if he got the chance.

Draco reached out and took hold of the sword, his thin fingers wrapping themselves around the smooth, familiar, slightly dented hilt. He drew it towards him and onto his lap, the green jewels in the hilt winking at him like knowing eyes. The pattern on the hilt was of snakes, the emeralds their eyes; one of the jewels, Draco saw, turning the sword over, was missing… he wondered why he had never noticed that before. The sword was heavy in his hand. I'm going to die, he had told Ginny. At least it's more warning than most people get.

He glanced up. It was late afternoon, the sky a hot metallic blue. He stood up quickly and decidedly, gripping the sword, and went back into the house, heading for the closet where he had left Charlie's clothes and his Firebolt.

Ginny looked disconsolately at her reflection in the hallway mirror.

Her hair wanted cutting, she thought; it spilled over her ears and down her back in flaming loops and ringlets, and amid all that color she thought her face looked too pale and small. Almost absently, she reached up and began to wind it into braids behind her head. She was worried, not just about Draco now, but also about her parents.

Far from being pleased by Mr. Weasley's sudden promotion, Mrs. Weasley had been terrified and furious. "Look what happened to Fudge!" she had raged at her husband. "They're just looking for someone they can set up, someone expendable! Don't accept, Arthur!"

Mr. Weasley hadn't agreed, and the argument had gone on for hours. Eventually her parents had decided to Apparate themselves to London to talk things over with Percy, whose Ministry connections had proven valuable before. And so they had gone, and Ginny and Ron were alone in the house.

Ginny finished braiding her hair, sighed, and decided to go upstairs and talk to Ron. She was still irritated with him for being so obnoxious at breakfast, but so what, she was bored and he might want to play Exploding Snap with her.

She was just crossing the living room on her way to the stairs when she heard the noise.

Whap!

Ginny stiffened at the sound: a dull glassy thump, as if a bird had flown into the living room window. She paused and stared, and heard it again, sharper this time: whap!

More curious than apprehensive, Ginny crossed the room to the window, drew the curtain back—and yelled out loud in surprise.

Draco Malfoy was standing just outside the half-open window, peering in. When she yelled, he jumped back, and waved frantically at her to be quiet. "Ginny! Shhhh!"

Ginny clapped her hand over her mouth, staring. It was Draco, very evidently Draco, looking much as she had seen him last, although now he looked vexed.

"Did you have to scream?" he hissed. "Did you have to scare me half to death?" Draco looked affronted. "I knocked!"

"Yeah, on the window!" she hissed. "Why couldn't you come to the door like a regular person?"

"I didn't want to see the rest of your family. I wanted to see you. I was waiting for you to be alone. Now are you going to let me in or not?"

Ginny looked at him uncertainly, but his words echoed in her ears: I wanted to see you. She reached out and pulled the window all the way up, allowing him to climb inside. He crawled over the sill and landed on his feet, straightening up slowly. Ginny stared at him in surprise. For someone who usually looked so neat, he was surprisingly disheveled, his hair messy, dirt and mud on the knees of his jeans. There was even a long rip across the front of his dragonhide jacket. And to top it all off, he had a cut lip and a black eye that was already beginning to turn five shades of the rainbow.

Ginny goggled at him. "What happened to your face? Did you get in a fight?"

Draco reached up and gingerly touched the corner of his eye. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," said Ginny.

Draco grinned and looked as if he were about to make a snide remark, when they both heard the sound of a step in the hallway, and Ron's voice calling: "Ginny?"

He heard me scream, she thought, turning to Draco—who reached out and seized her shoulder, and then there was a sudden whirl of movement and the next thing she knew she they had rolled under the enormous overstuffed sofa, and she was lying on her back with Draco on top of her, his legs intertwined with hers, his hand covering her mouth. He needn't have bothered; she was too astonished, and too winded from being thrown suddenly to the floor, to even think about making a noise. She could feel Draco's heart banging against hers. Her gaze flicked up, fastened on his: she saw anxiety as well as amusement in his eyes before he glanced away.

The living room door opened, and Ron came in. All she could see of her brother were his shoes, which crossed the room quickly to the open window. She could picture Ron looking at it, puzzled, wondering…

"Hey!" he called again. "Ginny! Where are you?"

Draco's body tensed against hers as Ron turned away from the window and came to stand in the middle of the room. He was standing so close to the sofa under which they were lying that Ginny could see where one of his shoelaces had been broken and retied.

Feeling suddenly guilty, she closed her eyes and turned her face into Draco's shoulder. She could smell the material of his jacket—it smelled unnervingly of Charlie—but under that, he smelled like soap and blood and cold night air. It was a very boy sort of smell, and it made her a little dizzy.

"Ginny!" Ron called again, sounding exasperated. "Look, I know you're around here, I heard you. Are you still hacked off at me about what I said at breakfast?"

A strand of Draco's silvery-fine hair fell across her face, tickling her mouth and nose, making her want to sneeze. She tensed, and Draco pulled back from her ever so slightly; she could see the corner of one gray eye now, the smooth plane of his cheek, and the glitter of gold chain against his throat that was the Epicyclical Charm.

"Ginny!" Ron called again, then sighed. "All right, fine, be that way," he snapped, and she saw his shoes moving away as he crossed the room into the kitchen. She began to move out from under the sofa, but Draco's grip tightened on her arm, and she heard him whisper,

"Wait."

A moment later came the familiar sound of the kitchen door slamming. Ron had gone out into the garden.

Ginny twisted her head to the side so that she could see Draco properly. He was looking down at her, his expression serious but his gray eyes dancing. "Now you can move," he said, not whispering but speaking softly. "If you want to."

All the little hairs on the back of her neck seemed to prickle, and she shivered all over, whether from the look on his face or simply from nerves, she wasn't sure. "Of course I want to move," she whispered back, "you're crushing me and your stupid belt buckle is digging into my leg."

Draco looked down at her with limpid, innocent eyes. "How do you know that's my belt buckle?"

"Very amusing." Feeling herself blush, she broke their eye contact and wriggled out from under him, and then out from under the sofa. She stood up, brushing lint off her jeans, and glared as Draco crawled out after her—irritatingly, he managed to make even wriggling out from under an overstuffed sofa look both graceful and intentional. Although when he stood up, she was happy to see that quite a bit of lint had attached itself to his coat.

Looking at him sidelong, she said, "Do you want to come up to my bedroom? We can talk there."

"No," said Draco witheringly. "I want to stay here in the living room and wait for your six brothers to come home, find me with you, kill me, and make trendy yet tasteless beaded curtains out of my lower intestines."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "All my brothers except Ron aren't here anyway. And my parents are in London."

"Well, I wish you'd told me that before. If I'd known it was just Ron, I'd have snuck up behind him and whapped him over the head with my broomstick, and then we could have talked freely."

"You would not have—" Ginny began automatically, then shook her head. "Okay, it's you, so maybe you would have. But I don't want to think about it. Now be quiet and follow me."

To her surprise, Draco was obedient, following her silently up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom. Once inside, she shut the door quickly behind them and flipped the lock. "Luminesce," she whispered, and the dark room lit with a soft glow.

She turned and looked at Draco, who was glancing around, looking vaguely dumbfounded. "So," she said to him quickly, before an awkward silence could descend, "are you going to tell me what happened to your face, or not? You look horrible."

"You'll give me a big head, talking like that." "I'm serious. What happened?"

"Neville Longbottom," said Draco, enunciating very clearly, "hit me in the eye with his Remembrall." He rubbed at the aforementioned eye ruefully, then glanced over at her bed. "Can I sit down?" he asked, and proceeded to flop down on the flowered coverlet without waiting for her to answer. She had, she had to admit, had several fantasies which involved Draco being in her bedroom, but she had never stopped to consider how very out of place Draco in leather trousers actually looked against the backdrop of floral wallpaper, fuzzy white rug, and battered old stuffed animals.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I'm glad you think my black eye is amusing."

Ginny stopped smiling. "I don't. Well, maybe a little bit. Neville Longbottom? How on earth… ?"

"I got this idea in my head," said Draco, gesturing eloquently with one lazy hand. "That I should go around and sort of… apologize to the people I've wronged. I'm not sure why exactly. Sometimes I get these ideas and they always seem quite silly in retrospect, but anyway I got it in my head that I wanted to make amends. So I made a list of the people that I've wronged, and it was really, really long, so I threw it away and made a shorter list of people I've really wronged, who also happen to live not too far away. And Neville was first."

"So why did he hit you with the Remembrall? What did you do to him?"

Draco looked injured. "Nothing! I got to his house, rang the doorbell, Neville took one look at me and launched the Remembrall at my head. Hit me in the eye. I suppose I should just be happy he wasn't toting around a pair of hedge clippers or he'd have taken my ears off and kept them as a

trophy."

"Did you get a chance to apologize to him?"

"Nah, I just left, but you know, I get the impression Neville feels better now so it wasn't an entirely wasted afternoon." Draco looked pained. "Now, Hagrid was next on my list. He's a lot bigger than Longbottom," he added thoughtfully, "but I'm faster than him. I figure I should have just enough time to run up, apologize to him, and make a clean getaway before he gets the chance to stomp me into the consistency of instant porridge mix."

Ginny realized that she was struggling not to laugh. This is so unfair, she thought irritably. A year ago, if someone had asked her for three words that described Draco Malfoy, she would have chosen 'complete', 'utter' and 'bastard'. Now words like 'engaging' and 'funny' and even 'charming' kept popping into her head.

"What's wrong? You look like you're getting a headache," asked Draco.

"I just realized why you came here," she announced, putting her hands on her hips and fixing him with a glare that she didn't really mean. "You want me to fix your eye, don't you? Like I'm some sort of municipal Malfoy emergency room. I've already splinted your leg and fixed your bite marks and now—"

"That's not why I came," he interrupted her, amusement quickening his voice. "I told you. I'm trying to make amends."

That brought her up short. "You came here to apologize to me?"

Now he looked slightly abashed. "Well, no," he admitted. "Actually I thought you could tell Harry something for me."

Ginny shook her head, her braids snapping back and forth. "No way. Tell him yourself." "I can't," said Draco, a slight edge to his voice.

"Why not?"

"I can't. You'll just have to trust me on that." "No," said Ginny.

"What?"

"No," she said again, and went over to sit down next to him on the bed. He was still looking at her disbelievingly. "I don't trust you. Why should I? You've never given me any reason to. I like you, but I don't trust you. And after what you did yesterday, Mr. I'm-Going-To-Run-Off-By-Myself-And-Not- Even-Tell-Anyone-Where-I'm-Going—"

"Yeah," he interrupted her, with a faint smile, "you know, I'm just going by 'Draco' now."

Ginny pressed her mouth into a thin line. "Whatever. Look, I'm not going to tell Harry anything for

you. You should tell him yourself. He's worried about you, anyway. I bet he'd be glad to see you."

"He'll have a lot more to worry about if he does see me," said Draco, but seemed disinclined to elaborate. He leaned back against the wall. "I guess you wouldn't be inclined to tell Hermione anything for me either—"

"Certainly not." "Or Sirius?"

"I said no."

"This is proving to be an entirely unrewarding visit."

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. "You're a bastard sometimes, aren't you?"

He actually looked contrite. "Oh, God. Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way." He looked at her earnestly, or at least as earnestly as he ever looked. "It's been a very strange past few days," he said slowly. "I'm not thinking all that straight right now. My father—" he waved away her expression of sympathy "—No, don't look like that, I'm not sorry, why should you be? The whole love potion thing, and not being able to tell Harry, fighting with Sirius, lots of nightmares, two confusing snog sessions, you know it's all just very—" He broke off, seeming to realize that Ginny was staring at him with a very odd expression. "What?"

"Two confusing snog sessions? Did you snog Hermione again? Harry's going to kill you, you know." Draco actually flushed, the tops of his cheekbones turning dark red.

"No. I didn't snog Hermione again."

Ginny stared. "So it was somebody else? Draco, when did you find the time?"

Draco sighed and flopped backwards against the wall, looking at her guiltily. "It was Fleur Delacour."

"Fleur? Bill's girlfriend?"

"I'd forgotten about that… look, there were special circumstances. I had to."

"Had to?" Ginny stared at him in disbelief. "You're really just moral garbage, aren't you?" Draco looked wounded. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Ginny threw a pillow at him, which he made no move to block.

Instead he smiled, which was greatly annoying, because Ginny had always privately thought that he had a lovely smile. He was oddly like Harry in that when he smiled, he smiled with his whole face— not just his mouth but his eyes. Of course, he smiled much less frequently than Harry, but the resemblance was there. "Do you care what I do, one way or the other?"

"No," said Ginny, and then, "Well. Maybe." She sighed. "You're just so… fickle." "Fickle? I am not fickle."

"Yes, you are. You're meant to be pining for Hermione, but you flirt with me—yes, you do, don't deny it—and in the meantime you're snogging Fleur. You're fickle."

"I'm not fickle, I'm just a Malfoy. In the good old days, the head of the Malfoy household would have nine, ten wives maybe and I assure you he was most devoted to them all."

"Is there anything you don't joke about?"

Draco looked amused. "What makes you think I'm joking?" He reached over then, and gently touched one of her braids. "Your ribbon's coming undone," he said, deftly retied it, and sat back.

Ginny stared at him. It had been an oddly—well, brotherly wasn't really the word, as none of her brothers would have noticed something amiss with her hair—affectionate gesture. She sighed. "I just wish you'd be honest," she said.

Draco's eyes darkened. "I don't lie."

This gave Ginny momentary pause. He doesn't lie, she thought, does he… He didn't even lie about the love potion… just didn't mention it, and she was fairly sure that Hermione had made him promise to do that.

She bit her lip and was about to respond when there was a sharp knock on her door. "Ginny!" came Ron's sharp voice. "I know you're in there. I heard you."

"Go away, Ron!" Ginny yelled back.

"No," said Ron stubbornly. "I am not going away. I'm giving you one minute and then I'm going to knock the door down."

Ginny looked wildly at Draco, then grabbed his arm and dragged him over to her closet. She yanked the door open and pushed him inside. Standing on top of a pile of her shoes, he looked at her with doleful eyes. "This is really uncomfortable," he whined.

"You weren't complaining when you dragged me under the sofa."

"That was different. I had you for company." He gave her a sunny smile. "It's not the same as being shut in a closet alone."

"Time for you to learn to entertain yourself," said Ginny, about to shut the door.

His sunny smile turned devilish. "My mother always said that would make me go blind," he said. "Argh," replied Ginny, and slammed the closet shut.

She turned quickly, pointed her wand at her bedroom door, and said "Alohomora!"

The door burst open and Ron half-fell into the room. He recovered his footing quickly, straightened up, and glared at her. "What is your problem, Gin? Didn't you hear me calling you all over the house for the past half hour?"

"No," Ginny lied. "I was sleeping." "I heard you yelling."

"I was having a bad dream."

This piece of information had the opposite effect that Ginny had intended, as Ron immediately stepped farther into the room, looking concerned. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you want me to sit with you?"

"I'm fine," said Ginny irritably. "I'm not twelve any more, Ron."

"I know that. But you're really sensitive to Dark magic, and we've been around a lot of it lately. Don't tell me it hasn't upset you."

Ginny sighed, torn between the urge to shove Ron out of the room and the urge to sniffle and have him pat her head. Of all her brothers, Ron was her favorite. Fred and George made her laugh more, but Ron had an earnest sweetness that was very restful to be around.

"And look," added Ron, toeing the ground a bit, "I'm sorry about all the stuff I said about Malfoy at breakfast."

Ginny gaped at him in horror. "Ron, it's okay, I—"

"No," he said, holding up a hand. "Let me finish. I don't like Malfoy, I'm never going to like him, I still think he's a low-life, double-crossing sleazeball with all the charm of a week-old head of lettuce. But if you really like him all that much, I'll uh… I'll make an effort to find something worthwhile about him. And I won't downgrade him in front of Mum. Okay?"

"Ron, I—I mean, look, go ahead and downgrade him, really, it's all right, I don't mind."

Ron shook his head. "Yeah, whatever, Gin. You know, it sort of takes the fun out of mocking him when you're sitting there with drool all down your front."

Ginny emitted a small scream of horrified outrage. "Drool?"

"Look, it's nothing to be embarrassed about. Well, okay, it is, because it's Malfoy and it's gross, but you know, he's really, really lucky that you even like him and—"

Goggling in horror, Ginny cut her brother off in the midst of this extremely well-meant, if somewhat poorly worded speech, by spluttering: "Ron! Shut up!"

He stared at her. "Shut up?" he echoed. "Why?"

"Because I never said anything about Draco—I never said anything about anything. Ever! I don't know what you're talking about! I've got a headache now and I think you should go!"

And with that, Ginny pushed her bewildered brother out into the hallway, slammed the door behind him, and leaned against it, covering her face with her hands. Her hope that maybe Draco hadn't heard her exchange with Ron was shattered as he stepped out of the closet and looked at her solemnly. "Drool, eh?" he said, with a mildly inquiring look.

"Oh, be quiet," said Ginny wearily, and to her surprise, he fell silent, hands in his pockets, looking at her from under his hair, which had gotten awfully long lately and which she kept having the urge to push back out of his eyes—

"I think you'd better go," she heard herself say.

Looking startled, Draco took his hands out of his pockets. "Yeah, okay, if you want me to," he said, a little stiffly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that being utterly humiliated tends to put a dampener on my mood."

"Ginny," he said, and he saw a flash of sympathy in his silver-black eyes, "Look—" "Don't," she said. "Just… come here for a minute."

He crossed the room to her and stood in front of her, looking inquiring. She looked up into his face, wondering how she could feel so drawn to someone she didn't trust at all, and then again, wondering why she didn't trust him. Maybe it was because she was drawn to him, or even because she found him attractive; after all, the best-looking boy she had ever known had been Tom Riddle.

Maybe she just didn't trust good-looking men. But she knew that wasn't it either; it was the coldness that surrounded him, an icy chill that she felt all the way down to her bones. She reached up, hardly thinking about what she was doing, and put her hand on his face, reaching into her pocket with her other hand and drawing out her wand as she did so.

His skin was so cold it burned her palm. He didn't move as she raised the wand and touched the tip lightly to his skin, "Asclepio," she said, and the bruising around his eye vanished.

She lowered her wand. "Is that better?"

Draco looked unusually subdued. "Yeah. Thank you."

"I don't know what's wrong with you, Draco," she said, finally saying what she'd been wanting to say all evening. "I don't know what it is that's in you, but there's something and it's something evil and dark. It's like poison in your blood. You have to go to Sirius or to someone and you have to get help or—"

He cut her off. "Or I'll die. Yeah. I know."

"Go home," she said. "Please don't try to do this by yourself." "I can't."

"Please," she said. "For me."

He looked astonished, as if this request had shocked him, and fast on the heels of his astonishment came a look of regret. "Ginny—" he reached out and took her by the upper arms. His hands were so cold it was like having two frozen metal bracelets clasped around her skin. "I'm sorry," he said, "I really am sorry," and suddenly the tension between them altered in a way she couldn't name; she saw his half-startled expression as she lifted up her face to his, saw his eyes close as he lowered his mouth to hers—she felt his hair brush her cheek, and then his cold mouth on her own—his lips were like ice at first, rapidly warming to the temperature of her own blood—

No. She pushed him away with such force that he actually made a little noise of surprise, a sort of cross between a gasp and an "oooph." He looked at her in astonishment.

She felt as if she couldn't catch her breath, but tried to speak normally. "Are you going to go home?"

"Ginny—" He sighed. "You know I'm not."

"Then you don't get to kiss me," she said, and crossed her arms over her chest. "It isn't fair. And don't expect me to be grateful, either. I'm not. Maybe I like you, but that doesn't make me stupid."

Draco just looked at her. Finally, he said, very coldly, "Yes, it does."

He hunched his shoulders inside his jacket as if he were suddenly cold. "And it makes me even stupider. And stupid for coming here."

"Draco—"

"Just forget it," he said, and crossed the room to the window. He leaned over the sill, reaching out a hand, and she heard him call:

"Accio Firebolt!"

A moment later, his broomstick was in his hand. Lifting it, he crawled out onto the sill, swung his legs over it, and without a further word to Ginny, disappeared into the darkness.

Hermione crossed the library to where Harry stood at the window, looking out. It was sunset now, the sun going down in a fiery ball against a sky the shade of blood and amber. In the rosy-bronze light, Harry looked grave and thoughtful, the shadows below his eyes darkened to the color of bruises.

"Harry," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Weird," he replied, turning to look at her. "Like someone switched a light on in the back of my head."

"You look a little different."

"Great. Am I starting to look like Malfoy all of a sudden? Wouldn't that be ironic."

"No, you don't look like him. You look… more yourself than you did before, actually, if that makes sense."

She was conscious of Lupin and Sirius sitting at the desk behind them, too far away to hear what they were saying, but she knew they were studying Harry anxiously. It had taken hours of attempts at getting the spell right before Harry had suddenly clapped his hands to his temple and said, "Stop. Stop. It's working." Then he had gotten abruptly to his feet, walked over to the window, and stared out.

"It doesn't make sense, but that's fine," he said, uncrossing his arms.

He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up, looking into her eyes. Hermione felt her stomach plummet—it was both pleasant and also frightening to be studied so closely, especially by Harry, who could read her every expression as easily as he could read Parseltongue. "You want me to tell you where he is," he said. "Don't you?"

Hermione said nothing, and Harry removed his hand from her chin.

"Well, I don't know where he is," he said. "I can tell you he isn't feeling very well, and I can tell you he's freezing cold, and I can tell you he's thinking about…" and he smiled suddenly, wryly. "Ginny. Well, isn't that interesting."

Hermione winced, only very slightly, but Harry saw it. He frowned. "You don't like hearing that, do you?"

She felt a cold tightening in her stomach. It was a familiar feeling, one she had gotten used to over the past few days, an icy sort of twisting. It was odd, she thought, the induced love for Draco that she felt didn't manifest itself in her head or her thoughts, but in her body, knotting her stomach muscles, tightening like a band around her heart. It was constant, as if someone had lodged a cold anchor in her stomach, so constant she had nearly gotten used to it, except for times like these, when it twinged. "Harry… you know…"

"I know," he said, and added abruptly, "and you know, don't you, that if we can't take this spell off you, there's no way that our relationship is going to last?"

Hermione looked at him, appalled. "But you said—"

"I know what I said. But let's be realistic. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life with someone who is always going to be in love with someone else. I deserve better than that, God, anyone would deserve better than that."

"Nobody said anything about the rest of your life," said Hermione, and instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry," she said, quickly. "It's just that," and her eyes widened, "you sound like him, like Draco, you sound just like him again…"

"What, and you don't like it?" he shot back, turned, and walked back towards Lupin and Sirius, throwing himself down in an armchair and stretching his legs out. Which, Hermione thought, was how Draco sat. Arggh.

She followed Harry over to the desk, and sat down next to him.

Sirius and Lupin, who had been in whispered conference, turned to look at them. "Let's do this," said Harry.

"Right now?" asked Lupin, laying down the papers he had been holding and looking at Harry over his glasses.

"Why not right now?" said Harry flatly. "You said he was in danger. He's not going to be in less danger in an hour, or two hours."

Lupin and Sirius exchanged looks. Hermione knew exactly what they were thinking: Harry's acting oddly, isn't he?

You bet he is, she thought darkly. Harry's harsh words back at the window had shaken her. She knew that when he was linked to Draco, as he had been under the Polyjuice potion, he tended to say things that were unpleasant.

He also tended to say things that were true.

"All right," said Sirius, coming around the desk to sit by Harry.

"We've worked the second stage of the spell out. It shouldn't be too difficult to do. Remus?" he added, glancing up at Lupin, who appeared to be lost in thought.

"Oh… yes," said Lupin, slowly gathering up some papers and coming around to Harry's side of the desk. When he took his wand out, Hermione saw to her surprise that his hand was shaking. She wondered if he was worried about Harry, and felt a sudden cold stab of fear at her heart.

He held the wand forward, and put the tip of it to Harry's forehead.

Harry looked up at him with steady green eyes. "All right," said Lupin, "now, Padfoot, you be ready too. Imago moli—" he began, paused, seemed to hesitate, and started again, "imago moli—"

There was a clatter as the wand tumbled out of Lupin's hand and he suddenly fell back, heavily, against the desk. Harry looked up in alarm. "Professor, why did you—"

Sirius interrupted him. "Remus?" He looked at his friend, the flicker of surprise on his face turning quickly into alarm. He set down the book he was holding and came to stand by Lupin, putting a hand on his arm. "Remus, are you-?"

Lupin raised his head, and looked at Sirius. "The Change," he said. "What, now?"

"It shouldn't be now, not by my calculations, not until tomorrow night. But I know what this is, Sirius." Lupin looked up, and Hermione could see the lines of tension at the corners of his eyes and mouth. "Take me downstairs and lock me up," he said.

Sirius hesitated.

"We talked about this," said Lupin, with an edge to his voice. "The dungeons…" "But it's too early—"

"Sirius."

Sirius, arrested in mid-speech, shut his mouth and looked at Lupin with worried, dark eyes. Lupin looked back, frowning, and stood up.

Hermione was reminded rather oddly of her parents when they didn't want to fight in front of her.

Sirius shrugged. "All right," he said. "All right—look, you two, I'll be back in ten minutes. Don't go anywhere."

"Can't we do the spell first?" asked Harry abruptly. "I think—"

"When I get back," said Sirius, an edge to his voice, and Harry fell silent. The moment they were gone, however, he turned to Hermione. She was taken aback by his expression—his eyes had an odd sort of light in them, and his jaw was set stubbornly. "I think we should do it," he said.

"What, right here on the desk?" asked Hermione with a wan smile. "You know Lupin said it wasn't very sturdy."

"Don't try to distract me," said Harry, but he almost smiled. "You know what I mean." "Do the spell? Send you through to where Draco is? Harry, that is not a good idea."

"You can do it, Hermione, I know you can. The complicated part of the spell is done already, all you have to do is say the words and send me through."

"I can send you through," she said. "But it'll take Sirius to bring you back." "Sirius will be back in ten minutes!"

"So why can't you wait?"

"Because I can't!" yelled Harry, and Hermione tensed; Harry almost never yelled at anyone. "It's important," he said, "and we're not just talking about anything here, we're talking about whether he lives or dies."

The cold anchor in Hermione stomach gave a wrenching twist.

"I trust you," said Harry. "I trust you even though lately you haven't given me much of a reason to trust you about anything. Why can't you trust me?"

Hermione hesitated, then slowly, and with a consuming sense of reluctance, reached for the parchment that Sirius had left on the desk.

He was back in the fencing-room at Malfoy Mansion, facing his father across the flagstones. They had been practicing already for an hour and he was deadly tired, sweat stinging his eyes, clothes drenched in it. His muscles felt like overextended rubber bands. His father, of course, seemed hardly to have tired at all, but then, Draco thought resentfully, his father wasn't a thirteen-year- old boy using a weapon far too large and heavy for him. I just want this over, Draco thought despairingly, but he knew his father wouldn't stop the practice until he had either disarmed his son or made him bleed.

There was no question of Draco disarming Lucius, of course, his reach wasn't great enough, and anyway every attack maneuver he had ever learned had been taught to him by his father.

But I could still try, he thought… he recalled an extremely fancy move he had learned from his father a year ago and had been practicing in secret, involving a beat, a feint in quarte, a feint in sixte, and a lunge veering off into an attack on the opponent's sword hand. He launched into the sequence and saw Lucius' eyes widen in surprise; felt as brief thrill of victory as the tip of his sword nicked Lucius' hand—before his father, swifter and with greater reach, lunged forward and slammed the flat of his weapon against Draco's wrist. Draco stared in dismay as his numb fingers released his blade.

It clattered to the flagstone as his father, pale and angry-looking, took hold of the front of his son's shirt and shoved him up against the wall. Draco's head hit the stone with enough force to blacken his vision. Lucius drew his arm back and placed the tip of his sword against the boy's throat.

"Try to use my own maneuver against me, will you?" he demanded, his voice sharp in Draco's ear. "That was stupid, very stupid. As if I would teach you a move I don't know the countermove to, you should know better. You were just showing off, weren't you, boy, it's your besetting sin. Just remember—" The sharp tip of Lucius' sword nicked his son's throat and Draco felt the blood begin to flow—"a smug scholar is only a fool, but a smug swordsman is a dead man."

Draco shut his eyes. "Yes, Father." "Yes, Father, what?"

"Yes, Father, I understand."

Lucius took the blade away, but the cold expression did not leave his eyes. "Do you?" he said. "I really wonder. Sometimes I even wonder if perhaps you want to die."

"No, Father. I don't want to die."

Draco opened his eyes and stared down at the black water fifteen feet below him. He was standing at the edge of the old rock quarry behind the Weasleys' house. He had discovered it quite by accident; flying over, he had seen the moonlight glint off the water and had descended to take a look. From the air, it had looked even more like the moat that Mr. Weasley claimed it was. Up close, it more closely resembled a long, cleft pit in the ground, falling away suddenly and sharply before his feet, studded with uneven rocks. The bottom of the quarry was flooded with water,

which gave back his own reflection, dim and cloudy, backlit by a full white moon. From this angle, thrown into relief, Draco thought that he looked like his father: tall, cold, remote…

"Going swimming, Malfoy?"

Draco spun around, nearly stumbling; regained his balance, and stared.

Harry stood about ten feet from him, near where Draco had left his Firebolt, under the shade of a cluster of trees. Draco had always thought that people who claimed that they couldn't believe their eyes were overstating, but at this moment he actually could not, did not want to, believe that he was really seeing Harry.

But he was. As Harry stepped out of the shade, the moonlight traced the hollow under his eyes, the shape of his face, his set, stubborn expression. He had his hands in his pockets, but his posture wasn't casual, he was glaring at Draco with a challenging expression in his eyes.

"Potter," said Draco wearily. "You again. And no, I'm not going swimming. I don't know how to swim, for starters, and Charlie's clothes weigh about a ton. What are you doing here, anyway?"

Harry didn't open his mouth, but Draco heard his voice echo inside his head. What do you think I'm doing here?

Draco's jaw dropped. "How did you do that?"

Harry looked pleased. Neat trick, isn't it? Lupin re-opened up that mental link we had from the Polyjuice potion… I suppose we could have done this all along if we'd bothered to try. Don't worry, he added, his mouth curling up at the corners, I can't read your mind any more than you can read mine.

"I wasn't worried," Draco lied.

Harry's mouth curled up even further. Yes, you were. But fear not, your fantasies about Professor Flitwick in a leather bikini are completely safe from me.

Draco snorted. Professor Flitwick?

See, there you go. You can do it too. It's a Magid thing, you know.

Draco sighed. "Yeah, I guess I can, but so what?" he said out loud, and saw a vaguely hurt expression cross Harry's face. "Listen to me, Potter. This is not a good place for you to be right now. Go Apparate yourself back home."

You think I don't know why you want me to go? You want to get on with drowning yourself in peace. Well, I won't leave.

"What I do doesn't concern you."

Damn right it concerns me-

"Dammit, Potter, talk out loud!" Draco yelled, his frayed temper snapping. "Get out of my head!"

Harry took a step back, now looking more than just vaguely hurt, but not a whit less stubborn. "Fine, but—"

"But nothing!" Draco shouted. "You know, it's a mystery to me how you've managed to stay alive all these years, walking blithely into horrible danger every chance you get. I bet you think it's charming and amusing and heroic. Well, it isn't. You're just stupid, is what you are. You're stupid, and you're going to die in a stupid, wasteful way—and if it wasn't for other people, you'd already be dead a hundred times over. And you know it. And that's what I can't believe. Because your life actually means something, Potter, you were put on this earth for a reason, and you just want to throw it all away. You make me sick."

Harry's eyes sparked angrily. "Me throwing my life away? That's rich, coming from you. There's no point being jealous of me when—"

"Who says I'm jealous of you?"

"You are," said Harry calmly. "Just like I'm jealous of you."

"Well, of course you're jealous of me," said Draco. "I dress well, I speak beautifully, I have a great sense of humor, I can dance, I'm introspective, fun, creative, playful, and passionate, plus I have a knowledge of fine wines and am a devastatingly handsome heir to millions."

Harry eyed him narrowly. "Thanks, but I'm already in a relationship." "Very funny," said Draco sourly.

"Can we talk about something else, Malfoy? Like the fact that your hands are shaking and you're thinking about killing yourself—"

"I wasn't going to do it," snapped Draco. "Everybody thinks about—" "I don't," said Harry firmly. "Not ever."

Draco looked at Harry, who had his hands stuffed in his pockets and was looking at him with the same sort of steady searching expression he sometimes got when looking for the Snitch. He opened his mouth to say something, when he felt a sudden bolt of cold shoot up his left arm and, glancing down, saw the sword twitch in his grasp. He glanced back up at Harry, his heart beating more rapidly now. "You're still stupid," he said harshly. "Walking into traps—"

Harry looked puzzled. "Walking into traps? What traps?"

"Me," said Draco, and the sword in his hand twitched hard against his hand, like metal drawn to a powerful magnet. "I'm the trap. I thought you knew that."

Harry took a step toward him. You wouldn't hurt me.

"Oh, yes," said Draco. The sword jerked again in his grasp, more insistently this time, like a dog wanting to be let off its leash. Draco glanced down at it, then back up at Harry as a cold certainty spread like poison through his veins. "Yes, I will. I don't want to, but I will. Get out of here, Potter.

I'm warning you."

"You're making a big fuss about nothing," said Harry, taking another step towards him. Draco couldn't quite believe how obtuse Harry was being. He wanted to cut and run, but his legs felt as if they had been filled with lead and there was a strange and increasingly terrible buzzing in his ears. It's the potion, he thought, Snape's potion, draining out of my blood. I'm losing it, losing my grip—

But his grip on the sword, at least, remained steady. He had the sudden wild feeling that it had welded itself to his hand and he couldn't have dropped it if he wanted to. Draco spoke rapidly, not looking at Harry. "Look, I know I haven't given you many reasons to trust me. But you have to believe me. Don't come any closer to me."

"Malfoy—"

"I'm begging you, Harry, and I don't beg, God, I don't even ask, but I'm begging you, please go away—"

He heard Harry laugh. "Hey. You actually said my name. That's a first, isn't it?"

Draco jerked his head up, staring at Harry, now standing less than a foot away from him, in disbelief—how could anyone be so stupid—

"Would you just stop blithering and get the hell out of here!" Draco yelled, but it was too late, he felt his arm, which had been tensed against his side, whip forward without any volition of his own, the sword grasped tightly in his fist. It was what he had feared and yet entirely unexpected—he felt his arm, utterly beyond his control, lunge forward, the sword cold in his grasp as the blade plunged squarely into the left side of Harry's chest.

They were halfway along the underground corridor that led to the dungeons when Sirius suddenly realized that he was walking alone.

Turning in confusion, he raised his wand, shedding its light along the dark corridor. "Remus?" he called.

"I'm here," came a faint voice.

Sirius raised his wand higher and saw Lupin standing very still in the middle of the corridor, bent forward slightly, his hands on his knees. Sirius went hastily to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," said Lupin, in a wondering tone. He coughed, and straightened up, looking at Sirius, who saw that his friend's usually steady gray eyes were lit with a muted sort of panic.

Sirius felt a cold fist of fear unfurl itself in his stomach. Lupin was rarely afraid, certainly almost never panicked. "Are you in pain?" he said. "From the Change?"

"Yes, but that's normal, you know that. This isn't the Change, Sirius. This is something else—" and

with that Lupin suddenly pitched forward, stumbling into Sirius and knocking his wand out of his hand. Sirius caught his friend around the shoulders as he fell; lowered him slowly to the ground and knelt down next to him.

Lupin's face was ashen, his breathing labored. His eyes searched Sirius' face, alert now with something more than panic. "Sirius—"

"Moony, what's going on?"

"I don't know—" Lupin tensed around a spasm of pain, eyes still wide.

"Something's happening—" He sucked in a breath, raised his hands and stared at them. Sirius looked too, knowing what he would see: Lupin's hands were always the first thing to change. They had already begun the process, the nails lengthening and becoming glassy, fingers buckling and curving. "Sirius-I don't know what's happening to me. It's the Change, but it isn't. You have to get me into a cell."

"And lock you up? Like this? No way." "Sirius-I think I'm being Called." "Called?" Sirius echoed blankly.

"The centaur," said Lupin breathlessly, "he told me that Slytherin would call all the creatures he made. He warned me—"

"Is that what's making you Change?" "Yes, I think so."

"But you're not a Dark creature—"

"I am, Sirius—" and Lupin suddenly arched his back and yelled out loud—almost a yell, and then again, almost a howl. He suddenly reached out and seized the collar of Sirius' shirt, his sharpened nails raking through the material, nearly grazing Sirius' throat.

Sirius reached out and caught at Lupin's hands. "Moony—" "Take me to the cell, Sirius! Do it!"

Sirius was suddenly reminded of the boy he had known at school, still terrified by his own ability to transform, still frightened by the agonizing process. He had shown Sirius, once, where he skin was scarred, along his arms and legs—"The Change breaks my bones and reforms them. If I thrash too much, sometimes the bones cut through the skin. My parents used to tie me up while I Changed. It helped a little." But that had been when Lupin was still a child, still growing; over the years the process had become easier. So why was he in such agony now?

Sirius put his arm around Lupin and lifted him to his feet. "All right. Let's go."

The blade went into Harry's chest—and then the hilt of the blade—and then Draco's arm followed, and his whole body, he fell through Harry and onto the ground, his knees striking painfully against the rocks, the sword clattering to the ground in front of him. He stared at it wildly, not wanting to turn around, not wanting to see what he had done, or hadn't done. He heard his own heart pounding in his ears like a locomotive engine; it was deafening. And then, as if from a very long way away, he heard someone behind him clear their throat.

"Um… Malfoy—"

Draco spun around on his knees, and stared.

Harry stood in front of him. He seemed unwounded, unruffled, even. If he looked anything, he looked faintly embarrassed. Then Draco realized something—he could, just barely, see through Harry, see the outline of the trees behind them through his shirt, see the faint pinpricks of the stars through his eyes. Draco's heart, which had been pounding like a locomotive, now felt as if it had disappeared entirely and there was a huge empty whistling space in his chest. He sucked in a gasping breath and heard himself whisper,

"Are you a ghost? Are you dead? Did I kill you?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I'm not dead, Malfoy. And I flatter myself that if you'd killed me, you'd know it."

Draco couldn't think of a single smart remark to make. He just kept staring at Harry. "You look dead."

"You've looked better yourself."

"You're transparent, Potter," said Draco in a voice that sounded wavey to his own ears. "If you're not dead, you'd better have a really good explanation as to why."

Harry ran a hand through his hair and smiled. "I'm an Apparition," he said. "That's not the word I might use…"

"I'm not really here," explained Harry. "There was a spell in Salazar Slytherin's book that explained how to do this and Lupin thought it would be a good idea. It's almost like Apparating, except that my body stays behind at the Mansion. You can see me here, I can walk and talk, but I can't touch anything and I don't have any substance. And I can't be killed." He held out a hand to Draco. "Here, take my hand."

Draco reached for Harry's hand and was only slightly startled when his fingers passed through Harry's as if Harry had no more substance that a cloud. Harry dropped his arm and Draco got to his feet. His legs felt a little bit like wobbly spaghetti, but they held him.

He looked at Harry. "I can't believe Sirius would let you do this, even if you can't be hurt."

Harry looked slightly more embarrassed. "Well, 'let' might not be the proper word… he was meant to come with me. But he wasn't there, and I heard what you were thinking…" He raised his chin,

gave Draco a stubborn look. "So I had Hermione do the spell and send me through."

"I could kill myself right now and there's not a damn thing you could do about it," Draco pointed out. "You're not even really here, Transparent Boy."

"Would you not call me that?"

"Sorry, it's a bit distracting talking to you when I can see through your head."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe Slytherin wants you to die?" said Harry abruptly. Draco looked at him. "No. He wants me alive."

"Young Master Malfoy is correct," said a voice from behind them.

Harry and Draco had been so absorbed in glaring at each other that neither of them had seen the black-robed figure approach. Draco spun around, his eyes widening as he saw the short, round man standing on the path leading to the quarry, his hood pulled down, the moonlight reflecting off his bald head, his glittering, silver hand…

Next to him, he heard Harry give a little gasp of surprise. "Wormtail."

Hermione glanced up as Harry suddenly jerked sideways, his head rolling back and forth for a moment before he subsided. She let the book on her lap slide to the floor as she went over and sat down next to him on the arm of his chair.

He was quiet again, as the spell had said he would be; he wasn't supposed to even be moving. He lay immobile, breathing very shallowly, but she could see his eyes darting back and forth between his closed eyelids as if he were dreaming. Where are you, Harry? she thought. What are you seeing? Have you found him? Is he all right?

That feeling was back again, that feeling as if someone had dropped a cold anchor right in the middle of her stomach, or as if she had swallowed jagged little bits of glass. It had different when Draco had been around, closer to her; then it had felt as if she had swallowed burning matches. But this was just as bad—she missed him with a terrible acute sort of ache, and at the same time, desperately didn't want to see him, because she knew what would happen if she did.

She reached forward and gently pushed the hair out of Harry's eyes.

He didn't move, didn't seem to feel her hand, but it gave her at least a momentary sense of ease just to touch him. It was torture to worry about Draco. It was worse torture to worry about Harry. But having to worry about both of them at the same time was the worst sort of torture she could have imagined. If this love potion was meant as a punishment, she thought, it's certainly working.

The cell door clanged shut behind Sirius, clicking as it locked. His arm around Lupin's shoulders, he half-carried, half-dragged him over to the low stone bench that ran along one wall and lowered him onto it.

Lupin rolled over onto his back, looked up at Sirius, and groaned.

"When I said take me to a cell and lock me in, I didn't mean you should lock yourself in with me, Sirius."

"I've sat with you before through the Change. I'll do it again. I can always transform if I have to."

"No…" Lupin struggled to sit up, and Sirius was freshly alarmed by how bad he looked. Pale and sweating, Lupin reached up, plucked off his glasses, and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. "I told you, this is different."

"He's right," said a voice behind them, and Sirius jumped, his heart slamming against his ribcage like an inexpertly hit Bludger. He spun around and saw a face pressed against the bars of the cell opposite—a gray, wrinkled face set with brilliant red eyes like coruscating jewels. The demon, he thought. Apparently it had recovered from having a wardrobe dropped on it. It looked as if it would have liked to reach a hand through the bars, but the wards Sirius had put up prevented it.

"What do you know about it?" he snapped.

"The werewolf is right," said the demon again, grinning maniacally. "He's being Called. Stay in that cell with him, he'll tear you apart trying to get out."

"Shut up," Sirius told it, and turned back to Lupin, who was lying flat on the bench, his hands over his face. Sirius shuddered. All around him the dungeon was deathly cold, and every shadow contained monsters.

"He's correct?" Harry echoed, glaring at Wormtail. "What do you mean he's correct? And how did you find us?"

Wormtail gave a cold smile. "Us?" he repeated. "That rather presupposes that I was looking for the both of you, doesn't it? And the sad fact is, young Mr. Potter, that I'm quite as surprised to see you as you are to see me. It was Draco I was looking for."

Harry glanced sideways at Draco, who had gone very pale, but didn't look surprised. "How," Draco said, in a tight voice, "did you find me?"

"At first, my Master watched you through that Portkey he gave you. Then you very unintelligently left it behind, and we lost you briefly. Fortunately," giggled Wormtail, and held up something in his metal hand that glittered like a tiny point of fire. The Epicyclical Charm. "Your father was kind enough to offer this to my Master in exchange for—"

"For being splattered all over his cell like a Jackson Pollock painting?" snapped Draco, his voice shaking. "Your Master doesn't drive a very fair bargain, does he?"

"He is eminently fair to those who serve him fairly," said Wormtail coolly.

Draco took a step back. Harry experienced an odd urge to reach out and put a hand on the other boy's shoulder, but didn't, since he knew his hand would go right through Draco—not a sensation he particularly enjoyed. It was very strange to be present and to feel real, and yet not to be able to affect his environment in any way. He wondered if this was what it was like to be a ghost.

"Give me the Charm," said Draco, looking steadily at Wormtail.

Wormtail looked at him steadily, then did something so bizarre that Harry thought at first he was imagining it. Moving slowly and awkwardly, Wormtail got down on his knees on the grass, still looking steadily at Draco as he did so.

Draco glanced sideways at Harry, and Harry heard Draco's voice in his head: What's he doing?

Harry shrugged mentally. I've no idea. Maybe he wants to play leapfrog?

Interesting theory, but I'm thinking no.

Harry felt Draco jump beside him, and looked up to see that a blazing circle of fire had suddenly sprung up around them, encircling the three of them inside a ring of burning grass. It didn't look like ordinary fire, either, but blazed bright gold and hurtful like the sun seen through glass. Harry saw Draco wince, and look away.

Wormtail spoke then, and his voice was his voice, but at the same time, it wasn't. "Draco Malfoy," he said, a faint buzzing undercutting his speech. "You are the Heir of Slytherin. The time has come for you to ascend to your proper place, which is yours by right of blood and inheritance. The time has come for you to accept your patrimony."

Draco looked alarmed. I don't have any children. I don't think I have any children. I'd remember something like that.

Patrimony, idiot, not palimony. It means your heritage, your destiny… look, whatever it is, you don't want it. Tell him no.

Draco turned back to Wormtail. "No."

Wormtail glared. The fire blazing all around them made him look frightening; Harry had never found him particularly frightening before. "My Master is prepared to offer you power beyond your wildest imaginings—"

"That's awfully vague," pointed out Draco. "How come it's always 'power beyond your wildest imaginings' and never anything specific, like top-box tickets to the Quidditch World Cup and a yearlong subscription to Playwizard magazine? I mean, how about something I could use?"

"-power over weather," Wormtail continued, glaring as if he disliked being interrupted, "over the minds of other men, over dragons and other Outside Powers…"

Dragons? Draco looked slightly wistful. Power over dragons… Malfoy!

Oh, all right.

"… Over life and death. He offers you a chance to share the Dark Throne with him and sit at his left hand."

"And all I have to do is what?" Draco snapped, a sharp edge to his voice. "Give up my soul?"

"Oh, no," said Wormtail. "You don't have to give up your soul. What would my Master want with your soul? Souls are useful only to demons, who have none of their own. No, my master wants your cooperation and your loyalty… that's all."

Draco turned to Harry, his arms crossed over his chest, and raised an eyebrow. "I'm just not finding this guy believable, Potter," he said. "Why do you think that is?"

Harry shrugged thoughtfully. "Well, he lacks credibility."

Draco turned back to Wormtail and smiled. It was the same creepy smile that had spooked Charlie the night before. Harry couldn't have known that, but he felt the back of his neck prickle as if something cold had touched him. "I'd have to say I agree with Potter," he said, his tone unpleasant. "I suggest you leave… and don't forget to let the door hit you in the ass on the way out of town. Of course, with a target that size…"

Wormtail looked stiff. "There's no reason to be insulting."

Draco snorted. "I think there's every reason to be insulting. You kidnapped a friend of mine and told her that unless she drank an illegal love potion, you would kill her. You as good as killed Harry's parents, tried to kill him, and oh, yes, not that long ago you tried to kill me as well. Now you tell me that either I go with you to serve your Master, or else—well, you won't say what else, but knowing you it's probably going to involve—big surprise here—killing. So far you have done nothing to endear yourself to me, and much that has annoyed me profoundly. In fact, the way I look at it, you can just sleep on the couch from now on, because I don't think this relationship has a future."

Wormtail's expression darkened. "Are you saying that you won't come willingly?"

Draco smiled politely. "I'm sorry, what part of 'sod off, you unspeakable fat git' didn't you understand?"

Wormtail looked as if he hadn't heard this. He was staring at Draco, and there was a look in his eyes that Harry didn't like at all. "You are the Heir," he said to Draco. "There is none other like you. As such, you are entitled to certain… special treatment."

Draco looked both fascinated and repelled. "What sort of special treatment?"

"Three times I must ask you," Wormtail he said, as if this were something he had learned by rote. "Three times I must ask you if you will come willingly before I can use force against you. For the

last time: will you come with me to serve my Master?"

Draco looked at Harry, and then back at Wormtail, and shook his head. "No, I won't." Wormtail's mouth curled into an ugly smile. "Then I will have to force you."

"Force me?" Draco's face took on the tense, slightly maniacal look that Harry knew meant he was now not just very but extremely angry. He held out his left hand and the sword flew from the grass and landed in his grasp. He swung it forward, the blade toward Wormtail. "Come anywhere near me, and I'll introduce you to the pointy end of Clarence."

"Clarence?" Wormtail said, blinking. "You named your sword?" Harry said. "So?" said Draco.

"You named it Clarence?"

"Well, it was either that or give it a really overwrought name like Durendal or Greyswandir or Drynwyn and why are we talking about this right now?"

Wormtail was chuckling. "Ah, yes," he said. "The Living Blade. Made of demon metal, by demons. Rather a large weapon for a youngster like yourself, don't you think, young Draco? Wouldn't you prefer a slingshot?"

Harry's glanced at Draco, and saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes. He's just bluffing you, Harry thought. Stall him. Sirius should be here any minute. He's supposed to come through after me.

Wormtail was still smiling as, slowly, he got to his feet. The fire about them died as suddenly as it had sprung up and Harry shivered—not from real cold, since he could feel neither cold nor heat in the state he was in, but from apprehension.

"You might know," Wormtail said, "that there have been three Living Blades throughout history. Yours, that was once my master's. Godric Gryffindor had one, although his was not demonic in origin. And there was a third. It no longer exists. It was melted down by the Dark Lord to make another weapon." He raised his right hand, and Harry saw the moonlight gleam off the polished surface of his metal hand. "This weapon," said Wormtail, and suddenly his hand shot forward, the fingers lengthening swiftly, braiding themselves together, melting and reforming into a razor-edged, glittering, living blade, almost an exact image of the sword Draco held, although its hilt was Wormtail's wrist.

Harry felt his eyes widen, and shot a glance toward Draco, who looked equally astonished, but remained very still, his eyes fixed on Wormtail. "If you wanted to kill me," he said tightly, "you could just crush the Charm. Slytherin wants me alive. You won't kill me."

Wormtail shrugged, brandishing his elongated sword-arm, which gleamed like the carapace of a metallic insect. "He wants you alive," he agreed. "But he never said anything about wanting you intact. You'll serve his purpose just as well missing your arms or your legs. Or so I have been given

to understand."

Draco didn't look afraid, just furious. "Fine," he said. "Come and get me then."

Wormtail lunged towards him just as Draco raised his sword, and the two blades hissed more than clanged as they struck against each other. Harry saw Draco's eyes flick towards him quickly, saw him give an infinitesimal rueful smile, as if to say don't worry about it, before he turned back to the fight.

Goddamn it, Harry raged inwardly, I feel like a complete useless berk. Sirius, where are you? And then, as he watched, his eyes widened in amazement… Sirius… you should see this… you wouldn't believe it…

Harry suddenly remembered the fencing-room back at Malfoy Mansion, its walls lined with terrifying weapons, and Lucius Malfoy tossing him a sword. Let's test your mettle, boy. He hated to admit it, but apparently Lucius' training of his son had shown results.

Draco could fight. Harry knew very little about sword fighting, it had never interested him particularly, but Quidditch had given him a good eye for skill, and Draco had skill. He moved faster than Harry would have thought it possible for him to move, and as far as Harry could tell, he looked like he was having a good time doing it.

Wormtail, quite obviously, couldn't fight, but it didn't seem to matter. His sword-hand was doing all the work for him, leaping, cutting, thrusting and lunging with an eye-dazzling swiftness.

Wormtail followed along after the sword's direction like a hapless tin can tied to a car bumper. His eyes widened as the sword made a wide sweeping swing towards Draco—which was blocked—then nearly tripped as the blade cut at Draco's legs. Draco jumped up and over the blade and turned to face Wormtail, holding Slytherin's sword in front of him. "You're pathetic," he hissed. "And you're going to get tired first. Then what? Is your arm going to rip itself off and come after me?"

Wormtail's eyes widened as if this hadn't occurred to him.

"Let's find out," said Draco, and slashed at him hard with Slytherin's sword. Wormtail yelled and jumped back, bleeding from a cut on his shoulder. He appeared to be trying to back away, but the sword wouldn't let him; it leaped forward, cutting at Draco with renewed vigor. Draco ducked, but not quite quickly enough to miss the blow entirely, and the tip of Wormtail's blade opened a wide gash along his cheekbone. Blood splattered down onto his white shirt.

Are you all right? Harry thought at him quickly. Can you do this?

I can do it for a while. He can't fight, but that sword can. Where's Sirius?

Harry tried to keep the despair out of his tone. I don't know.

Wormtail had landed another blow, this time on Draco's arm. It hadn't pierced through the thick leather of his jacket, but Draco looked irritated anyway. "Bastard," he hissed under his breath, and swung his sword down hard. Wormtail rolled aside, missing the blow by inches. He was drenched in sweat now, his bald head glistening, his pudgy little eyes bulging with fear. He looked as if he would

have liked to be anywhere else, but the Living Blade wouldn't let him go. Harry watched in amazement as Wormtail was wrenched to his feet and hurled again towards Draco, eyes screwed nearly shut in terror. Draco made a movement with his sword that seemed to Harry both incredibly tiny and incredibly quick, and Wormtail jerked back, bleeding from the wrist. They was standing nearly at the edge of the quarry now. Be careful, Harry thought at Draco.

I'm always careful-

Draco's thought broke off as Wormtail lunged at him again, arm outstretched. Draco struck at his blade and the thrust went high and wide; Wormtail half-fell forward, the point of his blade jamming itself in a crack between two rocks. Harry saw him heave back with his shoulders, and it took a moment for him to realize that Wormtail's Living Blade was stuck fast, and that he couldn't move.

Draco turned, saw what had happened, and raised his sword, the bright blade glinting like moonlight seen in a mirror. Wormtail made a strangled sound of terror; he was gripping his right wrist with his left hand, pulling hard, but to no avail.

Draco looked up at Harry and Harry saw that he was very white in the dim light. His eyes asked a question, and Harry answered it, keeping his gaze steady: Finish him.

Harry could sense Draco's uneasiness when he replied: You mean kill him? Yes.

I've never killed anyone before. You haven't?

A bright flash of Draco's irritation popped like a flashbulb behind Harry's eyes. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Potter. No, I've never killed anyone!

Sorry…

Draco raised the sword again, and Wormtail screamed out loud.

Harry saw Draco wince and step back a little, and Wormtail, seeing his movement, jerked hard on his caught arm—and with a rending sound, it freed itself. Released, Wormtail stumbled backward, throwing out his hands-Malfoy, watch out! Harry thought sharply—but it was too late, one of Wormtail's flailing hands caught Draco in the stomach. With a surprised 'ooph' he stumbled backward—and lost his footing on the edge of the rock.

Paralyzed with shock and horror, Harry saw Draco's eyes widen in surprise, his hands flying up, the sword tumbling out of his hand as he fell backwards and out of view.

A moment later, Harry heard the splash as he struck the water. He heard Draco's voice in his head. I can't swim, for starters.

Harry began to run. He was barely conscious of Wormtail, his face contorted with horror at what he had done, Disapparating; was utterly unconscious that there were footsteps behind him, someone

running nearly as fast as he was. He was conscious only of the steady light in the back of his head, which was no longer steady but had begun to flicker like a blown candleflame.

This can't be happening.

He reached the edge of the quarry, flung himself down, and gazed down at the still and unmoving black water. There was no sign of anything, of any life, not even a ripple on the surface.

"Malfoy!" he yelled, knowing it was useless, hearing only silence. "Malfoy!" He tipped his head back despairingly, looked up at the stars—"Sirius, where are you?"

In the bedroom back at Malfoy Mansion, Hermione suddenly felt Harry's hand tighten convulsively on hers, his fingers gripping her wrist so tightly it was agony. "Harry," she whispered, leaning towards him, "Harry—"

His muscles tensed abruptly, his back arcing up off the bed, his hand tearing out of hers. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Harry—what's going on—?" She dropped down next to him, tried to take him by the shoulders, but he wrenched away from her, flailing out with his arms. She caught at one of his hands, clutching it tightly, and reached out with her other hand to push the sweaty black hair out of his eyes. Where is he? What's happening to him?

"It's all right, Harry," she whispered. "You're fine, nothing can hurt you—"

Harry wrenched his head to the side, and shouted—the first sound she had heard him make since he'd been put him under the spell—

"Sirius, where are you?"

Hermione looked around wildly. Sirius—I have to get Sirius, she thought. But I don't want to leave Harry—She got to her feet, letting go of Harry's hand reluctantly, and backed away from the bed, her eyes fixed on Harry. He was still twitching as if he were having a nightmare. Oh, God, is he all right? Nothing can hurt him; Lupin said nothing could hurt him—

She hesitated, staring at him—and then she felt it vanish.

It. That feeling in the pit of her stomach, the cold anchor that had lodged itself there, that feeling that had been there every second of every minute of every day since she had swallowed the potion Wormtail had given her.

It was gone.

Gone.

Hermione clutched at her stomach for a moment, not daring to believe it. It's gone, she thought wildly, the spell's off me. And then, more slowly. It's gone. The spell's off me.

Draco…

She bolted towards the bedroom door, flinging it open with such force that she heard the hinges creak, and tore out into the hallway, screaming at the top of her lungs, screaming for Sirius, even though she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if the spell was off her, it was already too late.

References

1) "Yeah," he interrupted her, with a faint smile, "you know, I'm just going by 'Draco' now." – Buffy.

2) A beat, a feint in quarte, a feint in sixte, and a lunge veering off into an attack on the opponent's sword hand. – This is very famously Prince Corwin's classic disarming move in Nine Princes in Amber, by Roger Zelazny.

3) A smug scholar is only a fool, but a smug swordsman is a dead man. – I haven't the faintest. It seems to be a saying. If you know its origin, let me know.

4) Durendal, Greyswandir, Dyrnwyn – Durendal is the sword of Roland in the Chanson de Roland; Greyswandir belongs to Nine Princes in Amber; and Dyrnwyn was one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain collected by Merlin.