Draco Sinister

by vanellopetroo

A reupload of Cassandra Clare's work.

10. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve: The Persistence of Memory

Charlie was never actually sure exactly what it was that suddenly woke him up in the middle of that night. Later, he would think it was a vague feeling of uneasiness, the sense that all was not right with the world. More likely, it was a sudden craving for chocolate biscuits.

He got up and pulled on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, and headed downstairs to the kitchen, padding quietly on bare feet. He went through the living room into the kitchen, and lit the fire under the teapot on the stove with a flick of his wand and a muttered "incendius." Lazily, he Summoned a pack of biscuits from the cupboard and began eating them methodically, glancing absently at the clock on the wall as he did so. That it was late, or early depending on how one looked at it, he could tell from the lightening gray sky outside the window. It also looked like it was about to rain.

The kettle had begun to boil. He reached out and plucked it off the stove—then paused, and looked at the clock on the wall again.

Bang! The kettle hit the ground as Charlie's suddenly nerveless fingers released their grasp on the handle, and boiling water splashed his feet, but he barely noticed. He was already moving quickly across the room towards the wall where the gold-framed clock hung, leaning his head back, and staring at it with an incomprehension that bordered on shock.

There was each gold hand with the name of a Weasley child or parent etched on it—Percy's said 'work', Bill's 'home' and Fred and George seemed to be 'at a wild party. Don't wait up!' And there was his own hand, set firmly on 'visiting family'.

And then there were the hands that said Ron and Ginny. Neither of the hands was on 'home', or 'travelling', or even 'mortal peril'. Instead, they were doing something Charlie had never seen before—spinning in wild circular sweeps around the face of the clock, over and over, directionless and unceasing, as if wherever his little brother and sister had gone, it was somewhere so far that even the magic of the clock couldn't find them…

When Ginny turned the Time-Turner over, the world vanished from under Hermione's feet. It was like using the Time-Turner McGonagall had given her, and yet not like it, as if that feeling had been amplified a hundred times. She felt herself shot backward as if hurled from a cannon, everything spinning away behind her eyes into gray mist. She threw her hand out and caught at something— Ron's hand—she seized his fingers and gripped them with terrific force. She felt him grip her hand in return, and a desperate relief flooded through her—Ron was alive, he returned the clasp on her hand, she was not alone. She gasped in relief—or tried to.

There was no air. She gasped again, in disbelief, but her lungs strained at the vacuum. I'm dying, she thought, and a desperate fear raced through her veins. Beating it back, she thought of Harry. She could not die. She had to get to Harry, to protect him. Without her, Harry would die. That Harry had survived the second year of his life at all proved that it was possible to keep someone alive by loving them enough.

Her vision was suddenly split by shards of blue light, and for a split second she saw Harry, actually saw him, as clearly as if he stood before her. He sat with his back to a blue wall, his hands behind him, and his clothes were torn as if they had been shredded by the claws of some wild animal. His slender body sagged as if he were exhausted, and she couldn't see his face—his head was bowed, his face hidden by dark hair, and he was… covered in blood.

She threw herself forward, just as the vision vanished, the world sealing itself back up. She felt Ron's hand scrabble after hers, but their fingers slipped, barely touching now—and he was gone. No!

She flailed out towards Ron with her hand, but she could neither see nor feel anything beyond the heaving, freezing gray mist, and the chain of the Time-Turner was gone from her throat—

"Oh!" Hermione gasped out loud as the gray mist suddenly vanished and she pitched forward hard, slamming her hands into the ground. Her knees collapsed and for a moment she just lay still, catching her breath, her eyes screwed shut.

When she opened them, the first thing she saw was brilliant blue sky. This was disconcerting. Not, however, as disconcerting as the realization that she was no longer connected to Ron and Ginny via the chain of the Time-Turner.

She hurled herself into a sitting position and stared around wildly.

Rubble. She was sitting among a mass of rubble, the remnants of some huge structure which had suffered a massive bout of destruction: broken stone and smashed glass littered the churned earth, as did the trunks of trees ripped from the ground, their roots clawing the sky. The air carried a smell of burning wood: sticky pitch, sharp-burning cedar. Huge listing chunks of stone showed where there had once been walls: one was even adorned with a shredded remnant of tapestry, another sported a staircase that ended abruptly in midair.

Hermione's eyes saw all this as she scanned the scene, but she barely took it in. She was searching, her heart pounding…

There. A flash of red.

She leaped to her feet and raced forward, staggering over broken paving stones and twisted bits of metal that looked as if they had been melted in some great blast. Nearly tripping over a pile of smashed stones, she rounded a corner and saw Ron.

He was kneeling on a pile of broken stone, gazing around with a rueful expression. Hermione flew over to him and threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely before he had a second to react.

"Oww… gerroff Hermione. No need to shake me. I'm not a martini," he said, looking rather gratified anyway. "I'm okay. Landed just fine. For a second there I thought I'd dropped the Invisibility Cloak," he added, pulling the silvery Cloak out of his pocket briefly and showing it to her before tucking it back in. "Gave me a horrid turn."

She released him, and giggled—Ron was so covered in dust and ash that his flame-red hair was streaked with white, and he was indescribably filthy. He immediately seemed to know exactly why

she was laughing.

"You look just as bad as I do," he pointed out, rubbing his cheek with the back of his sleeve, which served to redistribute the dirt without actually removing any of it. "Don't think you don't."

But Hermione had quickly sobered. "Ginny—"

Ron paled under the layers of ash. "She's not with you?"

"I'm over here," came Ginny's voice. Hermione turned and saw the slender figure of Ginny clambering over an upended tree trunk. Like Ron, she was filthy, her face and hands streaked black with ash and dirt. "What happened here?" she demanded crossly, tossing back her flaming hair. "It looks like Fred and George set off the world's biggest Filibuster Firecracker."

"Aftermath of a magical battle," said Hermione briefly, and shivered. It was cold, despite the brilliance of the sun. She recognized the slant of it as winter sunlight. Which made sense—if a time turner could take them back to any year, surely it could take them back to any season of that year. She just wished she'd dressed more warmly.

"Must have been a hell of a battle," said Ron, looking impressed. "I've never seen anything so destroyed. At this point, a direct hit by a meteorite would count as gentrification."

"Mmm," agreed Hermione, not really listening.

Ron reached out and touched her cheek lightly. "What is it, Hermione?"

"I'm just wondering where everyone is. Why would the Turner be set to bring us back to a place where everything is destroyed? We must have arrived after the battle with Salazar…"

"Where are we?" demanded Ginny, glancing around.

"Just where we were," said Hermione. "The Time-Turner moves you in time, not place. So it looks like your father was right—the Burrow was a castle, once. Only it was razed down to the foundations. But there must be some survivors…"

"Survivors!"

For a moment, Hermione thought she was hearing an echo. Then, glancing up, she saw someone poised on a slant of overhanging rock above where she, Ron and Ginny were standing. Instinctively, she stepped back, trying to push Ron and Ginny behind her. The sunlight was behind the person standing above them, so she could see clearly only the outline of a robed wizard or witch, wand out, staring down at them. "Survivors!" the person shouted again—it was a boy's voice—and Hermione realized that he was talking about them. "Are you all right down there?" he called.

"We're fine," Hermione called up. "But we're not survivors… I mean, not literally. We—"

Apparently, the boy decided that this claim merited further investigation. In the space of a moment, he had leaped down from his rock and landed lightly on his feet in front of them, still holding his wand.

Hermione made a little gurgling sound in her throat, and stared. It was Harry.

Only it wasn't Harry as he was now, not the almost-seventeen-year old Harry who even now scared her a little with his grown-up-ness and the fact that occasionally (not that often) he needed to shave.

This was Harry as he had been the first time she'd seen him, small and skinny and eleven, with his dark green eyes the biggest feature of a face still round with the last vestiges of childhood. Only this boy's eyes weren't green; he wore no glasses, and his forehead was unmarked. Like a Gryffindor Quidditch player, his wizarding robes were scarlet, although of a very archaic cut. And perhaps the most surprising thing about him was that he regarded them with no surprise at all.

"You're the Heirs, aren't you?" he said, raising his eyebrows very slightly. "I've been waiting for you."

"Demons, Demons, Demons?" Narcissa said, pushing the heavy book back across the table to Sirius. "What a title."

"That's what I said," grinned Sirius. Narcissa smiled back at him. He looked ten years younger than he had that morning—still worried, the lines of strain around his mouth and eyes remained, and he repeatedly checked the bracelet around his wrist to make sure that the Vivicus charm was still glowing, but the hopeless look of the morning had gone from his eyes. She knew this was due to the fact that Lupin was all right, and was happy for him.

She touched the covering of the book he had brought upstairs lightly with the palm of her hand. "Where did you get this, anyway?"

"Snape," said Sirius, looked pleased with himself.

"You told him about the demon in the cellar?" Narcissa was surprised.

"Well, it came up in conversation. 'So, Sirius, how you doing? What's that you say? Minions from hell getting you down? Have I got the book for you.' "

"Somehow that doesn't sound like something Severus would say."

"Severus," mimicked Sirius good-humoredly. "Ikkle Sevvie. I haven't heard anyone call him Severus, except Dumbledore, for years. Not that I ever called him that—"

"No," said Lupin, appearing in the doorway, "if I recall, you used to call him 'Arse Face'."

"On good days," admitted Sirius amicably, swiveling around to greet his friend. Lupin had put on clean clothes to replace the ones he had torn during the Change, and although he by no means could be described as looking well-rested and relaxed, he did appear much improved.

"You ready to go?" he asked Sirius.

Sirius nodded.

"And where are you two off to?" Narcissa interjected with asperity.

"Godric's Hollow," replied Sirius, getting to his feet. "Remus has a theory that the box my Key fits is somewhere in the Hollow. And I think he's got a point."

"Godric's Hollow?" Narcissa looked up at Sirius. "Isn't that… ?" "Yes," he said shortly, pulling on his long gray travelling cloak.

Sirius' tone discouraged inquiry, so instead Narcissa got to her feet, put her hands on Sirius' shoulders, and kissed him good-bye.

"Come back soon."

"Will do. Owl me if you find anything interesting in that book."

"I will," she said, and waved at him as he Disapparated, along with Lupin.

Narcissa stood for a moment, looking at the spot Sirius had vanished from. Lately he had begun to seem less like a fiance and more like an infrequent houseguest. She knew he had no choice, and appreciated everything he was doing to help Draco; knowing he was worried about her son as well took some of the burden off her. Still, she missed him while he was away. Which, she had to admit, was a novel experience. She had never missed Lucius when he was gone. Sirius was a lot of things Lucius hadn't been—funny, warm, generous, and generally nonviolent.

And, of course, it didn't hurt that he was dead sexy.

Harry sat on the floor of the cell with his arms behind him. He didn't have much choice in the matter—he couldn't see his bindings, but his hands were manacled behind him and fastened via a length of chain to an adamantine hoop sunk deep into the floor.

He couldn't stand up, and couldn't move more than a foot away from the wall. It was not comfortable—he itched all over, his clothes were torn and stiff with blood. And his mind was spinning.

The cell looked just as it had before. The same clutter of awkward looking furniture, the same huge wardrobe. The guards who had dragged him in here had even tossed his sword into the corner of the room. He could vaguely see the glitter of the ruby-studded hilt from where he was sitting.

He heard Draco's voice in his head, amused, laughing. "It's not enough just to know how to pick up a sword, Potter. You have to know which end to poke into the enemy." And the same drawling voice, slightly different inflection. "Do what you want with him. It doesn't matter to me."

He shut his eyes, trying to block out of his mind the other things that voice had said. Things about his parents. The memory no longer made him angry, instead it opened up a black deep well of grief inside him that threatened to split his chest in half. He hadn't felt this bad about anything since…

well, since he had thought he'd lost Hermione forever, lost her to Draco through his own stupidity and blindness. He remembered standing outside Hogwarts in the pelting rain, holding Hermione's stupid fat cat, which was scratching and clawing at his chest, and seeing her and Draco running down the stairs. And hating them both. And had realized what the worst emotion that could ever be felt was: not sorrow or guilt or physical agony, but the pain of hating the person you loved most in the world.

He'd been wrong, though. He hadn't lost Hermione. Draco had, and he had loved her as much as Harry did. Or almost as much. And Harry knew, realizing this now, as he would have realized it before had he stopped to think about it, that if it had been him in Draco's place he would never have dealt with the loss of her with half the grace that the other boy had. Maybe pride wasn't always a flaw, when it gave you the strength to sacrifice what you loved.

A slight flicker of something akin to guilt flared and died under his ribs. He was still furious with Draco for what he had said about his parents. Much more furious with him for telling the truth than he would have been for some lie invented to make him angry. What gave him the right to conceal information like that? That he had met Harry's parents, talked to them? All right, not his real parents, only shadows of them, but still. Harry would have given anything just to see even the shadows of his parents as they had been when they were alive. There was a certain black irony in the fact that it had been Draco they talked to, but Harry was certainly in no mood to appreciate it.

Still there was a tiny nagging voice in the back of his head that said that Draco had only done what he had had to do. He hadn't looked particularly happy about doing it, either, in fact he had looked gutted. Much as Harry imaged he himself would look if he had to hurt Hermione, or Ron—

He jerked against his chains as his vision suddenly went black and the world peeled down the center like an orange. As if called up by his thoughts of them, he suddenly saw Ron, and Hermione as clearly as if they stood in front of him. He heard the screaming rattle of wind, saw that Hermione was gripping Ron's hand tightly and her eyes were searching, darting, looking—she seemed suddenly to see him; she wrenched her hand out of Ron's and screamed out his name, "Harry!"

The world closed itself back up. And Ron and Hermione were gone, vanished as if he had never seen them, and the only sound left in the room was his own ragged breathing and the rattle of the chains around his wrists. He blinked and shook his head hard. Tiny black diamonds of exhaustion flecked his vision, but otherwise he saw nothing unusual. The room was empty, as it had been moments ago.

With something approaching a smile, he remembered Ron's voice telling him, Hearing things that aren't there isn't a good sign, Harry, not even in the wizarding world.

It took the guards only an instant to drag Harry out of the room. It might have taken longer if he had fought them. But he didn't fight them. He let them take him, and he looked back at the door, looked back towards Draco but Draco didn't notice and Harry didn't seem to see Fleur looking at him, either. She wasn't sure that she would have wanted to catch his eye, either. She had a feeling she knew how he would look at her. With hate in every curve of his face, as he had looked at Draco…

She turned back to Draco and to her Master, the man she was linked to, who drew power out of her with every breath he took like a spool winding silver thread. Slytherin stood with his Heir over the dead body of the manticore. As she watched, he held out his hand and Draco allowed him to take the sword from his grasp. He raised it high overhead and brought it down, hard and swiftly, and it sliced through the manticore's armored belly as easily as a knife slicing a loaf of bread.

Fleur felt a tinny ringing beginning in her ears. She was tired, so tired. Salazar and Draco began to waver in front of her as if she was looking at them through wavy glass. Slytherin drew his sword arm back and the manticore's belly gaped open, blood pouring across the floor like a fountain and she saw Draco glance up and over at her as the blood ran towards her and then the world flipped upside down and the floor came at her, hard. And then there was blackness.

Fleur woke up slowly, swimming up out of unconsciousness towards light. She was lying on something soft, and by rolling sideways she realized it was a bed. Very slowly, she sat up, feeling prickling pains in her neck, back and shoulders as she did so.

She knew immediately where she was: the room she had slept in the night before, and the night before that, although the bed had been neatly made and she lay atop the covers, which were a heavy, velvety black material. Great swatches of the same dark material hung from the bedposts, and covered the windows, leaving the room lit only by the sputtering light of the torches that hung in metal brackets on the walls. Draco's silver and green sword stood propped against the wall. A tapestry that depicted a huge green serpent strangling a lion hung over the grate, in which a blazing fire billowed gold and red.

Sitting next to the fire, half-hidden in the depths of an enormous armchair, was Draco.

He had obviously had time to wash and clean himself up: his silver hair shone clean and bright and curled in damp tendrils against his temples, and he had washed the blood from his hands and face. He was very pale, his eyes dark and smudged underneath with blue shadows, but he looked composed. She remembered having seen him, that first time she had come to Hogwarts, sitting at the Slytherin table next to Viktor Krum. She hadn't told him when she had seen him again this summer that she remembered him, because he was so much changed as to be nearly unrecognizable. Not that he looked so very different but he simply was different, in some odd and inchoate way she couldn't quite define.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Awake, are you? That was quite a dramatic faint you accomplished. Well done."

She sat up, hugging her arms to herself, and shivered. "What are you doing 'ere, Draco?" "I was told this was my room."

"This is my room."

He grinned, a narrow grin like a knife blade. "Apparently we're meant to share. Isn't that sweet? I would have registered a complaint about the rooming situation, but I was too busy trying not to be killed by Dead Guy to get to it."

"Don't call him that."

Draco swung a leg up over the arm of the chair and leaned back.

The torchlight struck bright sparks off his silver hair. "I'll call him what I like." He slid his eyes sideways, past her, and he grinned unpleasantly. "Isn't that right?"

Fleur glanced where his gaze had gone, and saw, without surprise, one of the gray-robed servants of Slytherin standing in the corner of the room, silent, face hidden by his hood. They were always there, these servants, she had stopped noticing their presence.

Draco suddenly leaped out of his chair, a beautiful forward spring that took him to his feet and across the room within seconds. She had always admired how graceful he was, reminding her of some of her veela cousins who seemed to float rather than walking.

He approached the gray-robed servant, and cleared his throat. The servant looked up at him, his face still hidden in thick shadow under the folds of the robe, and said nothing.

"What are you?" asked Draco, with catlike curiosity. He ducked his head, trying to see under the hood. "Vampire? Shapeshifter? Sad little pathetic werewolf?" It raised its head, and this time its hood slid back and Fleur caught an unpleasant glimpse of scaly white skin and large pinkish-red eyes. It was looking at Draco apprehensively.

"Aha. Nasty creature, unknown origin. There seem to be a lot of you around these parts. Did you get Called here?" The creature was silent. "I implore you to share… no?" Draco took a few steps back, his look of consideration taking on a murderous edge. "Fine. Then get out."

The servant didn't move.

"I said get out," said Draco haughtily, all his years of having house-elves doting on his every whim rising up and spilling into his voice. "I'm the Heir of Slytherin, you know. I will command the armies of the Snake Lord. It might be wise to stay on my good side."

"Masster…" it began in a rather unappealing hissy voice.

"That's the spirit." Draco looked approving. "Now get out of here. Go run me an errand. Get me a Mai Tai."

The creature looked bewildered. "A Mai Tai?"

Draco nodded energetically. "A Mai Tai. With an umbrella. And don't come back until you've got one. I don't care if you have to go to London for it. I'm the Heir of Slytherin and my whims must be served." He reached out and jerked the door open, ushering the creature out with a wave of his free hand. It went slowly, looking very dubious. "That's right. Trot along now," said Draco, closing the door after its retreating back. Then he paused, and glanced back around the side of the door. "Don't forget the umbrella!" he howled. "And make sure it's a green umbrella!"

He slammed the door and turned back to Fleur. "Should I have ordered a drink for you? I could have, but you don't deserve it. Still, we're alone at last," and the look he gave her was unpleasantly speculative. "Aren't we?"

"You're never really alone, not here." Her heart was beating painfully fast. She took a deep breath, and it slowed slightly. "Draco…"

"What?" He was leaning against the doorframe, looking at her. His expression was not pleasant. "Were you serious about being the commander of his armies?"

Draco shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "So he said, right after you passed out, so I guess you don't remember. According to the prophecy, he and I are destined to rule the world together. I get to be a general with a neat little uniform. Otherwise known as Chief Guy In Charge of Executing People Slytherin Doesn't Like the Face Of. Although I hope he doesn't expect me to wear gray out of season."

"What else happened?" she said in a small voice. "After I fainted? He stabbed the manticore…"

"He cut it open," said Draco flatly. He unfolded his arms and went back to the armchair, throwing himself into it. "He cut it open and he took something out of its guts. And then he had his servants come and bring us back here. They carried you… wait a second," he added, his expression darkening, "shouldn't I be the one asking you questions? Am I supposed to believe that you don't know what's going on?" He shook his head, leaning back. "I don't owe you any information."

Slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and tested them.

They seemed to hold her. She got to her feet and went over to Draco and knelt down by the side of his chair. He seemed startled by her sudden proximity, but he didn't move away. There was a sort of wary stillness about him, a murderous calm that might have unsettled her under other circumstances, but she was too frightened by their situation to feel it. "I didn't know!" The words spilled from her lips before she could stop them. It had suddenly because monumentally important to her that he know the truth. "I didn't know—he told me he wanted you two to kill the monster, that is all, he never said anything about further plans, he never talked about Harry—"

"I don't believe you," snarled Draco. "I bet he told you exactly what was going to happen—" "No! I didn't—"

"And you dragged us through that maze and then you left us there with that manticore to die." His voice came out on an explosive hiss, his gray eyes blazing with fury.

"No—I didn't know what kind of monster was in there, I swear it."

"But you knew it was a monster, didn't you? And I'm sure you're telling the truth. Wait a minute, no you aren't. Because you're a lying bitch and you'd sell me for parts in Knockturn Alley if you could get enough Galleons for it."

Fleur resisted the urge to tell him that she suspected she'd get more Galleons for some of his parts than others.

Instead, she said, "It wasn't for me that I did what I did. It was for my little sister, for Gabrielle—"

"I don't want to hear any more of your lies," he snapped, cutting her off. "Give me useful information or get away from me. It's your choice."

Remotely, she wondered why she didn't want to slap his face. Was it because she was so tired, so tired she could barely stay upright? Or because she felt a need to do something, anything to expunge the memory of the look on Harry's face when the guards had surrounded him…

Useful information? She glanced up quickly at Draco. His face was thrown into shadow, the firelight glittering off the chain of the Epicyclical Charm so brightly that it seemed to burn at the hollow of his throat. "Draco, you must prepare yourself. He will come back for you soon, and then it will be… difficult."

"Difficult?"

"He will test you. Your strength. He will show you things… awful things, things you can't imagine."

"I can imagine some pretty bad things." Draco accomplished a one-shouldered shrug. "Come on, I've seen Severus Snape's pajamas. Nothing can terrify me."

Without thinking, she reached out and seized his wrist. "I'm serious."

"So am I." There was a feverish malicious amusement in his silver-black eyes as he looked at her. "Those pajamas, they had little hearts on them. It was horrible."

"These things are worse. They are so bad you could die from them."

Draco didn't reply for a moment. Then he leaned forward, so close she could feel his breath stirring her hair, and said evenly, "What do you care if I die?"

"I do care—"

"No you don't." His voice was calm, his eyes on her speculative. "I'm not usually wrong about people," he said. "I was wrong about you. I won't forgive you for that."

"I told you. This is not my fault."

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Not your fault? Okay, one of us has been drinking and I'm sad to say it isn't me."

She reached out again, caught at his sleeve. "Let me explain, let me tell you why—my sister—"

He cast her hand away from him so violently that it smacked against the edge of the table, sending a shooting pain up her arm. "Don't touch me."

"I know you feel lied to—"

"Yes, well, that would be because you lied to me. Funny how these things work."

A sudden white blaze of anger lit inside her, and she could feel her breath coming short. Of course, that was happening often, these days. "You are a fine one to talk about lies," she snarled. "After I

have just seen you turn your back on the only person in your life who was ever a friend to you."

Draco went white. She saw his hand go back and wondered for a moment if he was going to hit her, and resolved that if he did, she would hit him back. And then a voice cut through the buzzing of anger and exhaustion in her head, a voice that pinned them both in place, immobile as butterflies caught under glass.

"Children," said Salazar Slytherin from the doorway. "When you are done… fighting with each other, I require your attention."

* * * "Waiting for us?" Hermione echoed faintly, still staring.

The boy who looked like Harry nodded. "There's not much time. You'd better come with me right away."

"Not so fast," said Ron, trying to push Ginny and Hermione behind him. This was unsuccessful, since both of them resisted his efforts to be protective with indignant muttering noises. "Who are you? Why should we go anywhere with you?"

"Ron," interrupted Ginny, pushing at his arm. "Can't you see he looks just like Harry?"

"And that automatically makes him trustworthy? If he was a dead ringer for Professor Vector would you be following him home?"

The boy was looking at them as if they were mad. "Who do I look like?"

"A friend of ours," said Hermione, giving Ron's hand a warning rap with her knuckles. "Did you say you've been waiting here for us? How do you know who we are, and how did you know we would be here? And are you… you must be a Gryffindor. Aren't you?"

The boy's face tightened. "Godric Gryffindor was my father." He looked at the girls, and swept them a little bow. "My name is Benjamin."

Ginny looked impressed. "He bowed," she said, poking Hermione. "Guys never do that any more."

"I was raised to be polite to women," said Benjamin, glancing at them dubiously. "Even if they are dressed like Muggle men."

Ron was still looking at him suspiciously. "How do we know you are who you say you are?"

The boy sighed, and reached over his shoulder. He drew forth something that glimmered in the sharp sunlight—it was a long-bladed sword in a scabbard of marred, dark silver, engraved all over with brilliant designs of flowers and animals and leaves that flowed together intricately to form the word Gryffindor. The hilt of the sword was set with scarlet stones which formed the shape of a lion.

Ginny sucked in her breath, looking at the hilt. "Harry had that sword with him in the Chamber of Secrets. That's the sword of Gryffindor."

"Yes, it is," said Benjamin, and looked hard at her. "You're Helga's heir. You look like she must have when she was younger."

She nodded. "I'm Ginny."

"And you are the Heir of Ravenclaw," he went on, looking at Hermione. "She's been waiting for you." His gaze slid to Ron. "Are you… the Heir of Gryffindor? I didn't think you would be so…"

"Red-headed?" put in Ginny with a mischievous smile.

"I'm nobody's Heir," said Ron, looking long-suffering. "Just some git along for the ride, apparently."

Benjamin looked doubtful. Hermione put in quickly, "Did you mean it when you said we didn't have much time?"

"We don't." Benjamin's voice was short. "Rowena…" His voice trailed off. "You'll see when we get to her."

His voice was tight with unhappiness. He swept his red cloak around himself and set off without looking back. Pausing only to glance and shrug at the others, Hermione followed him, Ginny and Ron behind her.

Benjamin wended his way through the rubble as if it were a familiar landscape. Hermione scrambled to catch up and walk beside him. She was bursting with curiosity. "What happened here?"

He looked at her incredulously. Hermione couldn't repress a little shiver. It was bizarre to see such black eyes looking out of Harry's face. "The war," he said.

"Between who?" Hermione was fairly sure she knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say it.

Skidding down a slope of tumbled rock and broken bits of stone, Benjamin shook his head. "The Snake Lord raised an army," he said. "He marched against the House of Wizards and against those who were once his friends… don't you know all this? Isn't it like a history lesson for you?"

"Humor me," said Hermione.

The boy shrugged. "All right. The Snake Lord created an army of goblins, shapeshifters, and hybrid half-man creatures. The whole wizarding world was drawn into the battle. On our side, we had the giants, unicorns and the dwarves—"

"What about the dragons?" demanded Ginny, catching up to them.

Benjamin snorted. "Dragons don't choose sides usually. They watch. They have funny senses of humor, dragons. But Slytherin had some kind of control over them." He paused and glanced around him at the wreckage. "This was Hufflepuff Castle," he said. "What wasn't burned to the ground by dragonfire was destroyed in the aftermath of the curse."

"What curse?" Hermione demanded. She couldn't help thinking of the curse that Sirius had been accused of performing, that had had smashed apart a street and killed twelve Muggles. How much

stronger this curse must have been.

"Rowena will explain that to you," said Benjamin as they came around a corner of broken wall and out into the sunlight and open spaces.

Hermione gasped. The landscape was barely recognizable as that which surrounded the Burrow and Ottery St. Catchpole. Open field stretched before them, as far as the eye could see, the blue sky arcing overhead. Dotting the field, in clusters and lines, were hundreds, possibly thousands of wizarding tents, both large and small, and all the colors of the rainbow. It was like the scene at the Quidditch World Cup, only a hundred times more so. Magical pennants snapped overhead in the brisk winter wind: she saw the scarlet of Gryffindor, the blue of Ravenclaw, the gold of Hufflepuff. The firefly spark of campfires glowed in between the tents, and she could see dozens of figures hurrying about, some clearly human, some clearly not.

"Blimey," exclaimed Ron from behind her, sounding impressed. "I've seen pictures of camps like these in textbooks, from the goblin rebellions. I never thought I'd see one in real life."

On the way to the camp, they passed over the remains of what had been a moat and would one day be the Weasleys' quarry. Stone steps led down into it, and a thin layer of dirty water covered the bottom. Hermione couldn't help staring as they crossed over it on a thin plank of wood. Somewhere down there lay incalculable treasure, not to mention the Time-Turner that would one day be Ginny's.

Close up, the camp made for an even more bizarre sight. Hermione, Ron and Ginny stuck close behind Benjamin as he wended his way through the tents, trying to ignore the odd looks they were getting.

Hermione supposed they did look bizarre—she wished she had worn something other than jeans and a jumper, but then she didn't have any thousand-year-old wizarding robes lying around. Anyway, the denizens of the camp were none too ordinary-looking themselves.

She began to wish she hadn't dropped Care of Magical Creatures after fifth year—there were all sorts of beasts and beast-people rushing to and fro, some which she recognized and some which she just wished she did. There were centaurs trotting purposefully and looking stern, pointy-eared, haughty women in long silky dresses who could only be elves, and a number of very short, very hairy, angry-looking creatures who sat around one of the campfires clanging brass tankards together and singing in off-key voices.

Benjamin paused, and with a muttered "Wait here," to Hermione and the others, ducked into a small blue tent.

Ron reached over and rubbed Hermione's arms. "You look cold."

"I am cold. It's freezing. And those little singing men are making me nervous."

"Dwarves," muttered Ron, into Hermione's ear. "Read about them in history class. Mean little buggers but good fighters. Get them drunk, they'll run around axing everyone's legs off at the knee."

"They're awfully hairy," put in Ginny, looking at the dwarves suspiciously.

"And gender does seem to be optional," observed Ron. As if they had heard him, the dwarves glanced over and glared at the three of them out of many pairs of little red eyes. A moment later, they had gone back to singing more loudly and raucously than before.

"The chimneys were dirty at Mrs. McFry's

And I'll grant they were worse down at Molly O'Clue's But the chimney sweep said, with a gleam in his eye 'I've got a great tool here for cleaning the fluuuuuues! For I may be a tiny chimney sweep

With a tiny grimy face

But I'm carrying a broom that makes strong girls weep Won't you let me up, up, up your fireplace?' "

Benjamin poked his head out of the tent. "She said she wants to see the Heirs," he said, looking at Hermione and Ginny. "Just the Heirs."

He looked at Ron. "You'll have to wait here."

"No." Hermione shook her head before Ron managed to say anything. "We won't go in without Ron."

Benjamin looked as if he didn't believe he had heard her correctly. "You won't what?" "We won't go in without Ron," Hermione repeated. "Can't you tell her that?" Benjamin stepped out of the tent, drawing the flap shut behind him.

"I don't think you understand," he said, his voice sharp with anger.

"She's dying. She's the greatest witch of our age, and she's dying. She gave everything she had in defeating the Snake Lord and it killed her. She's only kept herself alive this long because she wanted to see you. She was waiting for you. She's been like a mother to me my whole life and these past two days I've had to watch her suffer and wait for you, so I'm sorry if it seemed like I don't like you, but as far as I'm concerned you're the only reason she's still here and in pain, and—"

"Benjamin!" Hermione interrupted, shocked. "I'm sorry. We didn't know." He nodded, obviously ashamed of his outburst.

Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Ron and Ginny, who were both as obviously taken aback as she was. Not to mention that it was difficult to watch someone who looked so much like Harry be

angry and unhappy, even if they did know that it wasn't him. "I'll wait outside," said Ron quietly. "It's fine."

Benjamin nodded. The unhappy look around his eyes eased slightly.

"I'll wait with you." He turned back to the tent, and pulled the flap back open for Hermione and Ginny. Ginny hesitated a moment, then ducked through; Hermione paused at the entrance, and looked back at Ron. He returned her anxious glance, blue eyes bright under his sooty hair, and winked.

She bit her lip. "Ron, be careful. Don't go anywhere. And don't get in a fight with the dwarves. And—"

"And don't eat to much chocolate or I'll get sick. I'm not going to fight with the dwarves, Hermione. Get along with you."

"It's just that they look like they've been doing kind of a lot of… you know," said Hermione, miming the gesture of someone picking up a tankard and downing it.

"Thumb-sucking?" hazarded Ron, looking at her curiously. "Drinking," hissed Hermione in exasperation.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not the one who needs to brush up on her finger pantomime."

Hermione threw up her hands and glanced over at Benjamin. "Look after him," she said, ignoring Ron's glare and quite conscious of how silly it looked, telling a twelve-year old to look after a boy four years older. But she didn't care. With a last quelling glance at the both of them, she ducked into the blue tent after Ginny.

Because the wards around Lily and James old house prevented Apparating within a half-mile radius, Lupin and Sirius Apparated into Godric's Hollow High Street instead. Godric's Hollow was a small, inoffensive little wizarding town just on the Welsh side of the border with England.

"It's green, Remus, really green," Lupin remembered James having told him at school, and he had at first thought that James meant that the lush Welsh land around his hometown was green. But no, he had meant the town itself, which was indeed green—the shop fronts along the High Street were painted in shades ranging from emerald to lime, picked out with accents of blue, white and gold. A scarlet Welsh flag snapped in the stiff breeze overhead, its gold dragons fluttering above the words Y Ddraig Goch Ddyry Cychwyn.

Narrow little cobblestone streets wound through the shops and houses. In the distance, Lupin could see the rise of the hills behind the town, dark green and gray. Though it had been clear at the Manor, it was cloudy here; the sky was slate-colored and lowering. Lupin shivered and pulled the collar of his travelling cloak up around his ears.

If any of the inhabitants of Godric's Hollow had noticed the two wizards who had suddenly Apparated into their midst, they didn't show it. Nobody looked at Sirius or Lupin as they wended their way down the street that led out of town, past a candy shop with a display of Scrum! Chocolates in the window, (a glowering photograph of Viktor Krum loomed over the pile of gaily wrapped sweets. "Scrum! The new brand of candies personally endorsed by the famous Bulgarian Seeker.") and a pub called The Slug and Lettuce.

"James and I used to play darts there," said Sirius, as they passed under the sign, which seemed to be made out of a real leaf of lettuce, and out of which a small glowing slug was taking contented bites. "It was the only game I was better at than him."

"You might have been decent at Quidditch if they'd let you play on the motorcycle," Lupin grinned. "What happened to your bike, anyway?"

"Hagrid had it for a while. He gave it back to me after the acquittal, but I haven't had the heart to use it. The last place I ever flew on it was… well, here, and—anyway, I've got Buckbeak now."

"So where is it?"

"I had it stored in my vault at Gringott's. Why? You want to borrow it?" "Not really my favored mode of transport, but thank you."

"It's a girl magnet, that bike." "That's nice."

"Which reminds me. Are you bringing anyone to the wedding? Because Narcissa has this friend who doesn't have anyone to go with, and I thought you might be willing to do us a favor and be her escort. She used to be an Auror and she really likes dogs, so the wolf thing probably won't be a problem…"

Lupin paused in the middle of the street and looked at his friend with deep suspicion. "Are you trying to set me up, Sirius?"

"What? No," said Sirius, looking indescribably shifty. "Never…" "Sirius…"

Sirius abandoned all effort at pretense. "Oh, come on, Moony. You need to get out more. Meet someone. I always thought I would be the last bachelor, but you… well, aren't you bored?"

Lupin growled. "For your information, I lead a rich and varied social life."

"Oh, I know. Every night it's Wizard Jeopardy followed by reading all your back issues of Arithmancer's Weekly, and a cup of hot cocoa…"

"I am a werewolf, Sirius."

"And I'm a Gemini. We all have our cross to bear."

"You just want me in the same boat with you, oh About-To-Get-Married One. Which is going to happen when, anyway?"

"Narcissa had it scheduled for the fifteenth of August." "What do you mean, the fifteenth of August?"

"What I said. The fifteenth of August. Is that a problem?" Sirius turned and smiled at his friend, pushing back the dark hair the wind had whipped across his eyes. "Have you got plans? Or is it…"

Sirius' voice suddenly trailed off, his eyes widening. "It's not…"

"The full moon," said Lupin flatly. "I can't believe you scheduled your wedding for the full moon."

"Moony," exclaimed Sirius, stopping dead in his tracks in the middle of the road that led away from the High Street and up the hill towards the Potters' house. He looked like couldn't decide whether to laugh or look abashed. "I stopped keeping track of full moons after Hogwarts… you can still go to the wedding you know…"

"No," interrupted Lupin self-righteously, starting to walk again.

Sirius scurried after him. "I think I'll stay home and, oh, not eat the wedding party."

"I meant we would change the date." Sirius sounded aggrieved. "It's not like there's a wedding without you, I mean you're meant to be the best man. Moony, don't sulk."

"I'm not sulking." "You are."

"I'm not."

"You are. I can tell."

"Maybe," conceded Lupin, stopping dead in his tracks and turning, his hands in his pockets. "But it took your mind off where we were going, didn't it? We're here, by the way."

Sirius stopped too, all his nervous motion suddenly quelled into stillness as he looked past his friend's shoulder at the ruins just over the rise of the hill.

It had been burned to the foundations the last time Lupin had seen it and it had never been built back up. He doubted it could be seen by those who didn't already know it was there. It would look simply like a ruined or overgrown patch of ground: unpleasant and inhospitable. That was the way this kind of magic worked.

They went forward, Sirius first, and Lupin behind him, watching Sirius' shoulders stiffen as he took in the sight out of the ruined house—really just a grid of stones now, running along the earth, showing where the walls had been, the stone front steps, the door where he had last seen James and Lily standing, waving goodbye…

The cold wind picked up and whipped Lupin's hair into his eyes. He brushed it back, shivering, and raised the hood of his travelling cloak. He looked sideways at Sirius.

Sirius was staring at the house, well, not quite at it, but past it, towards the rising gray hills in the distance. The look of controlled disquiet was gone from his face and his eyes were filled with memory and pain.

"Sirius… you all right?"

"I'm fine." Sirius pulled his cloak tighter around him, and started off towards the house. Lupin followed, curiosity tempered with concern for Sirius. This, he knew, would be harder on his friend than it was on him. He knew James' house from the years after Lily and James were married, but Sirius knew it from summer holidays spent there in between Hogwarts terms; when Sirius had nowhere else to go, the Potters took him in. He had told Lupin once, not that long ago, that he had been glad that James' parents had died when he was twenty, that they had never lived to believe that he, Sirius Black, who they had treated as a son, had betrayed their every act of kindness in the worst of all possible ways.

They were standing now in what had been the Potters' back yard. It was not as overgrown as one might have expected: the spell that kept the house hidden had the side effect of keeping the property in a partial kind of stasis. The grass was long, reaching nearly to Lupin's knees as he trudged after Sirius, who was heading with some purpose towards a corner of the yard. He stopped at the base of a very tall evergreen tree, and stared at it.

Lupin came up behind him, shuffling his feet through the grass. The wind made a whispering sound through the leaves. He looked at the tree, which was quite ordinary-looking, although obviously hollow: there was a dark hole in the trunk about half a foot over his head.

"It's a tree, Sirius." "I know that."

"Does this tree have meaning for you, or is this just some kind of burgeoning interest in horticulture in general?"

In answer, Sirius took out his wand and pointed it at the opening in the trunk of the tree. "Accio," he said, and, like birds flying out of a dovecote, objects began hurtling out of the tree—small, irregularly shaped objects. Lupin ducked as a small box whizzed by his right ear, and turned to look inquiringly at Sirius.

"What the… ?"

Sirius stood looking thoughtful as the last object flew towards him, and he caught it in his hand. "James and I used to use this tree as a sort of… treasure chest. To keep things that we didn't want his parents to see. He once told me that this tree has been here for hundreds of years, and generations of Potters have used it as a hiding place. I thought…" his voice trailed off as he knelt down in the grass, and Lupin knelt down with him, to examine the pile that had collected at his feet.

Some of the objects were familiar. Lupin recognized, with a pang, the box of Zonko's Magical Reality Pencils 'Make your sketches come to life!' that had been used to draw the Marauder's Map. A stack of letters. He hadn't seen them before, but he recognized Lily's handwriting. Sirius brushed a hand over those, and set them aside. A bag of Bertie Botts' Every Flavor Beans emblazoned with rainbows. 'Flower Power Flavors!' said the side of the bag. Sirius picked that up and grinned. "I remember these. You weren't supposed to eat the purple ones because they were hallucinogenic, of course that was just a rumor…"

"Yes, and you and James tested the rumor by sneaking three of the purple ones into Snape's oatmeal at breakfast. That was the day he nearly drowned in the lake because he thought it was a magical gateway to the Land of the Candy People."

"Yeah, that was pretty funny," Sirius grinned. Then quickly sobered. "No it wasn't. It was very insensitive of us."

Lupin looked at him in disbelief. "Sirius, did you sneak a purple bean while I wasn't looking?"

Sirius grinned again and threw the beans aside. He picked up a wooden box and flipped back the lid. Lupin looked inside, and felt his heart skip a beat. A yellow-bound book. So You Want To Be A Wolverine: How To Become an Animagus in Twelve Difficult Steps.

Stacks of parchment notecards, written all over in James' careful, boyish handwriting. Ingredients We Will Need: powdered snakeskin, dragon's blood, shredded boomslang skin, spine of newt… Note: ask Lily for key to Charms classroom so we can work in there… should be almost complete with the process by next full moon…

And Lupin had to shut his eyes because of the clarity of the image of James that flared up like lightning against his inner lids; James standing in the Forbidden Forest, waiting to change, face raised to the night sky, eyes full of wilderness and stars. Time compressed like an accordion, and he heard James laughing—Sirius had always laughed the longest, but James was the one who laughed first; he was, unlike Sirius, always ready to be happy, to be pleased. Lupin had always thought that that was because of the difference between Sirius' childhood and James' but then Harry, Harry with his awful childhood and his years spent locked under the stairs, still managed to be like James in that respect: he did not need much beyond his friends to make him happy. Whereas Draco was more like Sirius, in that it was hard to tell if happy was a word that could ever be appropriately applied to either one of them.

He heard Sirius clear his throat, shut the box, and lay it down at their feet. Lupin glanced around— there was another stack of letters, which, judging from the fact that most of them were decorated with little sparkling hearts and shooting stars and seemed to be from people named Ashley, Carole and Amy, were doubtless from Sirius' old girlfriends, and which Sirius hastily pushed aside. There was a stack of old Quidditch cards, including a Ludo Bagman who grinned and winked cheerily, and an Ivan Wronski which doubtless would be worth a sizeable amount of Galleons these days. Sirius set these aside. Lastly, there was a stack of wizard photographs held together with a ribbon that Sirius slid into a pocket. Finally, he sat back on his heels, dusting off his hands, and shook his head.

"Not what you wanted?" asked Lupin, raising his eyebrows.

"No," said Sirius slowly, "no, there was this box, James was telling me about. I could have sworn…" He suddenly hopped to his feet, snapping his fingers. "Of course," he exclaimed. "It's buried under the roots. Stand back a second, Moony."

With misgivings, Lupin did so. Sirius retrieved his wand from a pocket. "Accio shovel!" he intoned. Lupin's eyes popped open. "A shovel? From where, Sirius?"

"Wherever's nearest," deadpanned Sirius. "Oh, and duck," and Lupin ducked as a good-sized shovel whistled over his head and landed in Sirius' grasp. Lupin crossed his arms and watched in mingled exasperation and amusement as Sirius rolled up the sleeves of his robes and attacked the base of the tree with the shovel. He didn't even want to think about what the good citizens of Godric's Hollow might think about a flying shovel winging overhead.

Since Sirius' manner discouraged assistance, Lupin sat down on a tree stump and watched as his friend hacked at the very hard ground with the edge of the shovel. Eventually Sirius stripped off his wizarding robes and threw them on the ground, and then his sweater followed. Lupin considered offering a hand, but then thought better of it. Instead, he took a bar of Scrum! Chocolate out of his pocket and began to nibble on it in a resigned fashion. They were obviously going to be there a good long time.

Draco lowered his hand slowly and turned to look at Slytherin.

The Snake Lord stood in the doorway, and Draco could tell by the dark red border of blood at the bottom of his robes that he had not yet changed his clothes. His eyes were alight, feverish, and two spots of color burned high on his cheeks. He looked neither very alive nor any longer did he look dead, but somehow in between, reflexively animate.

Draco heard Fleur get to her feet beside him. The heavy sweet scent that clung about her hair and clothes seemed stronger, maybe from proximity to the fire. It made him a little dizzy.

"Master," said Fleur, and inclined her head.

Draco didn't move. Slytherin took a few more steps forward, until he stood in the center of the room. "Boy," he said to Draco. "You won't greet me?"

"I won't call you Master," said Draco evenly.

Slytherin seemed unruffled. "I would not expect you to."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What would you like me to call you?" "Soon enough," said Slytherin, "you will call me Father."

"Yeah, you know that word doesn't really have very good associations for me. Maybe I could call you something else? Like… Nigel? Something friendly."

Slytherin smiled. "After this evening, you may feel differently. Do you know what I have planned?"

"I was hoping for a night at the opera, dinner, maybe some flowers, then we take a walk under the stars… you make a move, I tell you I'm not that kind of guy…"

"I do not understand your sense of humor," said Slytherin.

"I had a feeling you were going to say that." Draco fought an insane urge to snicker. "I've got an idea. We could get sushi and not pay."

Beside Draco, Fleur gave a frightened little squeak. Slytherin smiled again. It was the same mirthless smile with no humor in it, a sort of reflexive muscle spasm rather than any expression of actual pleasure. "Come with me," he demanded, "both of you," and he walked out of the room.

Fleur dashed after him. Draco followed more slowly.

They went through a series of narrow hallways and eventually emerged into a much larger room, almost circular in shape, the walls cut from the same rough stone as the rest of the castle. The room was nearly empty save for a large circle chalked into the stone floor, and a set of intricately designed tall screens against the far wall. They looked to be carved out of dragonbone, for they were whiter than ivory, and the intricate designs which adorned them were set with chips of jade, silver and malachite. They were beautiful, and Draco immediately wondered what they were hiding.

This made him glance sideways at Fleur. She was pale and looked as if she might faint.

Slytherin walked forward into the center of the room, until he stood in the very center of the chalked circle. Then he held out his left hand to Draco.

"Come here," he said.

Very reluctantly, Draco followed him. He felt a shudder rip through him as he crossed the chalk line to stand in the circle with Salazar Slytherin. The air inside the circle seemed a good ten degrees colder than the air in the rest of the room. Draco found himself shivering, the chill seeming to come from somewhere deep inside.

"Now," said the Snake Lord. "Would you prefer to suffer standing up, or kneeling down?" Draco blinked, not wanting to believe that he had heard correctly. "Suffer?"

"It's your choice. I believe in nothing if not free will," said Slytherin, his voice dry and cool as snakeskin. His hand suddenly whipped out with the speed of a striking cobra, and seized the front of Draco's robes. "Do you think I trust you?" he demanded, pushing his face close to Draco's, black eyes staring into silver. "Your little charade earlier today notwithstanding, you have done nothing but fight me since the day I rose. Do not think I don't know you. I have taken your measure, seen your dreams, I know what you are capable of, and incapable of. Why do you think I let you go the first time we met? You were too strong then, you would have fought me too hard. Now you are weaker. The sword has drained you of your magic as surely as your battle with the manticore drained you of strength and that wound in your side drained you of blood. If I choose to make the charade truth now, you cannot stop me."

Draco's voice scraped his throat. "What makes you think it was a charade?"

Slytherin released his grip on Draco's robes. "What makes you think it matters?" he said, almost gently, and placed his hands on either side of Draco's face. Barbs ran through Draco's nerves where the cold fingers touched him, tracing the line of his cheekbones just under his eyes. "In your own way," said the Snake Lord, "you're rather innocent."

"Oh, no." Draco's voice was hard. "That's one thing I'm not."

"Really?" Slytherin dropped his hands from Draco's face. "What have you done? What has been done to you?"

"Everything."

Slytherin shook his head. "No. Not everything." He held out a hand. "Now give me your hand. Your left hand."

Numbly, Draco gave it to him. He felt as if he had left his body and was floating somewhere overhead, looking down at the circle and the two people standing in it.

"I'll ask you again," said the Snake Lord. "Would you prefer to suffer standing, or kneeling?" There was a silence. Finally, Draco said, "Standing."

"I thought you would say that," said Slytherin, and turned Draco's hand palm-up, pushing his sleeve up to his elbow as he did so, exposing the unmarked skin of his forearm, traced with tiny blue veins.

"Potestatem patris nostrae in tenebris invoco," hissed Slytherin, sounding almost like Harry speaking Parseltongue, and suddenly the chalk circle flared into flames, a ring of fire burning around them.

Slytherin grinned, and this time there was mirth in his smile, and a light in his eyes, although that could just have been the reflection of the fire. "Bruciatura!" he cried.

A white blade of pain shot through Draco as if Slytherin had driven a knife into his arm. He cried out, and much as he had wanted to stand, he found he couldn't—his knees went as if his legs had been kicked out from under him, and he hit the floor with his hands, Slytherin releasing his grip. He writhed and curled in on himself, conscious for those moments only of the pain that speared through his arm, raced up his veins, threatened to stop his heart. Bright white agonies burst behind his eyes: stars, constellations, exploding galaxies, painted silver on his inner lids.

It stopped.

Draco lay still, his eyes closed, waiting. When the pain did not return, he opened his eyes and sat up slowly, aching all over, his arm burning as if it had been held in a fire. He turned it palm up, knowing already what he would see, burned black and raw into the skin of his forearm. The skull with its grinning jaws, the snake, the same empty eye sockets mocking him now as they had mocked him from their place on his father's arm. Signo serpens.

The Dark Mark.

The inside of the blue tent, like the inside of many wizarding tents, was completely unlike the exterior. Hermione and Ginny found themselves in a beautifully appointed bedchamber with walls of stone. A fireplace, sunk into the north wall and surrounded by much carved stone, smoked and spat with red-gold fire. Tapestries and metal-bound chests all about caught the firelight and flared and faded in harmony. At the end of the room was a heavy-looking bed, curtains drawn back, and on the bed a woman lying amid the pillows. She was only a darkly outlined shadow as Hermione turned her face away from the fire, although she seemed to be moving, and sitting up. She spoke, then, out of the shadows.

"Come closer," she said.

Hermione took Ginny's hand and together they went towards the bed. As they approached, the shadows melted into clarity and Hermione was able to see the woman in the bed more clearly. She sat up against stacked pillows, wrapped in robes that somehow, rather wildly, reminded Hermione of the color she had chosen for her own set of dress robes: pale, periwinkle blue. She had the tumbled brown hair and peach-pale skin of her tapestried self back at Slytherin's castle, only without the ink stains on her cheek. She looked deathly tired as she leaned forward and reached out her hands towards the girls. "So there is another of me in the world now," she said, gently, and lightly touched the edge of Hermione's hair. Her eyes darkened with sadness as they moved to Ginny. "And another of Helga. Just as pretty as she was."

Hermione and Ginny were both speechless. Rowena seemed to understand this. "Please sit down," she said, and gestured them towards a low bench at the side of the bed, stacked with the same soft-looking pillows.

They sat. Hermione had been afraid, when Benjamin had said that Rowena was dying, that they would be ushered in to see a woman who was terribly wounded, or delirious, but Rowena only seemed very, very tired, her skin so pale Hermione thought she could see through it to the blood beneath.

"You look cold," said Rowena, glancing from Ginny to Hermione.

Hermione nodded. "It was summer where we where. When we were," she corrected herself.

Rowena smiled tiredly at her, reached out, and touched the Lycanthe on its chain around Hermione's throat. "I had been terrified this was destroyed," she said. "When Salazar went, he was holding it in his hand. It vanished along with him. I'm glad it found its way to you. Can I use it for a moment?"

"Of course. It's yours," said Hermione, and drew the chain over her head, handing to the older woman without the usual pang that accompanied giving it up even for a moment.

Holding it lightly in her left hand, Rowena extended her other hand towards the girls. "Pectogarmentius!" she said.

A slight tingling sensation ran over Hermione, followed by a feeling of surprising warmth. Glancing down, she saw that her light jeans and jumper had metamorphosed into long robes of soft, dark

blue wool over a wool dress. She glanced over at a surprised Ginny, who was now wearing similar clothes of dark green. Hermione was impressed. She had thought about using a warmth spell on their clothes earlier, but changing the substance and appearance of things at the same time was advanced Transfiguration and she wasn't sure she could have managed that.

"Thank you," said Rowena, as if Hermione had been the one to do her a favor, and handed back the Lycanthe. Hermione looked from the silver Lycanthe to the older witch.

"You're a Magid," she said. "You don't need this."

"But I'm dying," said Rowena, softly. "I expect Benjamin told you. I haven't got much strength left. No—it's all right. I wanted to do a little magic. I've missed it these past few days. And don't worry. The centaurs have made me a potion that will keep me alive as long as necessary to talk to you."

Hermione cleared her throat, but her voice still came out squeaky. "Benjamin," she said. "He's the first Heir of Gryffindor?"

Rowena nodded. "I can see by your expression that you recognized him. Is he as like to the Heir in your own time as he is to his father?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "He's very like Harry." Rowena blinked. "Henry? Like the King?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not short for anything. Just Harry. He looks a bit like Godric. But he's a Magid. Like you."

"I would have thought he would have come with you," said Rowena. "If you are here, that must mean Salazar has risen again. Where is Harry?"

Isn't that just what I wish I knew, Hermione thought miserably. Her throat seemed to have closed up. Ginny reached over and squeezed her hand.

"Slytherin took him," she said finally. "We don't know where…"

"He took him? Took Godric's Heir?" Rowena had paled even further, if that was possible. "Taken him where? And how?"

Hermione related very quickly the story of her own experience being kidnapped by Slytherin, and then their encounter with him at the Burrow. When she was done, Rowena exhaled softly.

"He must have found a Source," she said, turning to Hermione.

"When you first met him, he was weak. He had only just risen. He had no source of power. He must have found a Magid willing to be a Source for him."

"So he's strong again?" asked Ginny.

"Only temporarily," said Rowena. "A Source is meant to be used as an amplifier of power, a focusing device. A Source is not to be relied upon to provide the magic a wizard lacks. Such a

connection would drain the Source and kill them slowly. He will need another Source soon, and another, and another."

"Is that why he wants Harry?" Hermione demanded numbly.

"No. He would not waste the Heir of Gryffindor like that and besides, a Source must be willing. He knows it cannot last—he is propping up his powers for as long as he needs to find the Orb."

Ginny looked as bewildered as Hermione felt. "The Orb?"

"I stripped Slytherin of his powers before I imprisoned him," said Rowena, a little breathless. "Because of the sword, he could not be killed. So I did the next best thing; I imprisoned him in stasis, hid his body away in his castle which is likewise hidden from all save those who already know it is there. His powers I drained into an Orb, and because I could not destroy it I hid it away where it would be protected by the fiercest monster Salazar himself had ever created, so if he were to rise again, he would be weak and powerless. Unless," she added, "he can get the Orb back. It cannot be smashed or destroyed, but it can be opened. Should he succeed in doing that…" She shook her head. "But he could not kill the manticore. Not weakened as he is. It is far too deadly."

Hermione suddenly flashed back to the creature engraved on the box that had held Ginny's Time- Turner. "A manticore?"

Rowena nodded. "It is hidden inside the manticore, which is itself immortal and impervious to most types of magical harm. It would have to be killed for someone to retrieve the Orb from it."

"But if he did," said Hermione. "If he did kill the manticore, and if he had the Orb—then what?"

"The Orb can only be opened in the presence of all four Heirs. Each must touch it, and speak an Opening Charm, and they must do so by choice. Words spoken under the Imperius Curse would be ineffective."

"Does Slytherin know that?"

"No. But he is clever. He knows me, as well. He heard the Charm I spoke that imprisoned him in the first place. Given time, he could work it out."

"So he won't hurt Harry," said Hermione, her shoulders sagging in relief. "He can't—he still needs him."

Rowena looked at her, and Hermione realized who her blue eyes reminded her of. Dumbledore. They were so steady and calm, so piercing. "You love him," she said.

"Yes," said Hermione, feeling unable to lie. "More than anything else in the world." "What about Salazar's Heir?" Rowena said softly. "What of him?"

For a moment Hermione thought Rowena was asking if she loved Draco as well, and she simply stared. It was Ginny who answered.

"There in an Heir of Slytherin, if that's what you mean."

"And has he joined with Salazar?"

"No. He was kidnapped, along with Harry, otherwise he would be with us. He wouldn't join with Slytherin, though. He just wouldn't."

"Perhaps he has not joined with him yet," said Rowena gently. "But that is what the prophecy has said will happen. It was foretold. I'm sorry, if he's a friend of yours."

Ginny shook her head in denial.

Hermione agreed, "Draco wouldn't do that." Rowena flinched. "Is that his name?"

Hermione was taken aback. "Yes," she said slowly. "Draco Malfoy."

"Malfoy," echoed the woman in the bed. "That sounds like Salazar's idea of a joke, that name. Mal fait, a bad deed. And creating an Heir was the worst of his." Rowena was looking off towards the window. "I wish I could believe in his goodness, for your sakes." She turned to Hermione. "But you love him. Don't you?"

Hermione goggled, and said nothing. Beside her, Ginny tensed slightly.

"Love is a blinding force," said Rowena. "If he is truly Salazar's Heir, then in his blood runs dark wizardry. By the time Salazar created the veela who bore his children, he was so far gone into the Dark Arts that when he was cut, he bled not blood but fire. And I knew this and still I did not believe he would hurt me until it was too late." She raised her eyes to Hermione and Ginny. "It is possible to be so mistaken in someone you have loved that you think you can never trust yourself again. I hope, for your sakes, that that will not happen. Could you kill him, if it came to that?"

Hermione felt the shocked blood surge through her veins. "Kill Draco?" She closed her eyes, pictured him against her inner lids, smiling as he did only at her, his gray eyes darkening into slate, mouth curling up at the corners. She couldn't imagine killing anyone, much less a friend, much less Draco. It was a ridiculous impossibility. "Of course not."

Ginny's whole body was vibrating with tension beside her. "None of us could hurt him. None of us would. We want to know how to stop Slytherin, not Draco. He's not like that. I've seen him do good things, heroic things. He's saved Harry's life, and Hermione's. He might have dark wizardry in his blood, but in the end it's his choice, isn't it?"

"Salazar has a way," said Rowena, "of not leaving much of any choice. What matters to him—to Draco? What's the most important thing in the world to him?" she asked Hermione.

Hermione almost smiled. "Besides himself?" She thought for a moment. "Harry." Tears suddenly prickled the backs of her eyelids. Resolutely, she stared them away. In a halting voice, she said, "I have to tell you something. When we used the Turner, when we were in-between Time, I thought I saw him, saw Harry. Just for a second. He was in a blue room, his arms were chained behind his back. It wasn't any place I've ever seen before."

And I didn't see Draco with him, she thought, but pushed the thought down. Be quiet. It means nothing.

"I know where he must be," said Rowena, sitting up. "If he is a Magid, there is one prison on this earth that could hold him. Salazar built it himself. He meant to keep me in it. And adamantine, in great enough quantities, is blue." She bit her lip, looking distracted.

Hermione's head was spinning. "Harry is in an adamantine cell? Doesn't that mean it would be impossible to get to him?"

"I could tell you how to get into the cell now," said Rowena thoughtfully. "In the future, though… Salazar may have changed the wards."

"Well, if I go there now, and use the Time-Turner," said Hermione eagerly, "it should bring us forward in time… to Harry."

She sat back. "Touch it and say mobiliarus, and it will act as a Portkey which will bring you to his castle. Take Benjamin with you. He can let you into the cell, and Portkey back—"

There was a rustle at the tent flap. Benjamin poked his head in. "Did you call for me?" "Eavesdropping, Ben?" Rowena smiled. Then her smile faded slightly. "Is there someone with you?" "Well, yes but I wasn't going to—"

"No." Rowena straightened up. "Let him come in."

With a puzzled glance, Ben stepped into the tent and held the flap open for Ron to follow him. It looked as if it had started snowing, there were little white flakes caught in Ron's scarlet hair. He looked curiously around the inside of the tent, taking in the elaborate furnishings and the collection of weaponry hanging on the wall.

"Come here," said Rowena to him, and held out a hand.

Looking even more curious, he obeyed. Hermione watched as he crossed the room to the bed, his hands shoved in his pockets, eyebrows raised.

"You're a Diviner," said Rowena, without preamble, looking closely at him. "A seventh son." Ron jerked his hands out of his pockets in astonishment. "A what?"

"A Diviner. Are they not common in your time?"

Hermione felt her mouth drop open. "But Ron hates Divination!"

"He must not have had the proper teaching, then," said Rowena serenely.

"Ain't that the truth," grinned Ron, who looked surprised, but not altogether displeased to have been credited with an unexpected talent.

"Let me look at you," said Rowena, and Ron took another step closer to her. Suddenly, she reached up, drew his head down and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Be very careful," she said. "Swear that you will."

Looking very alarmed, Ron straightened up. "I, uh, I will. I promise."

Rowena nodded. "Thank you." She sat back against the pillows. "You can go now." Ron nodded uneasily. "Right. I… should go."

He backed up, nearly stumbling into Benjamin, who took his arm and steered him out of the tent, while Ron stared back over his shoulder until the tent flap closed behind them.

Ginny had a puzzled expression on her face. "Why should he be careful? Is he in danger?"

"Being a seventh son and a diviner is a gift, and like all gifts, it is a double-edged blade. It seems he has not been trained at all, but with some training, he could be powerful. And power attracts danger."

"Don't we know it," said Ginny, with conviction. Rowena closed her eyes as if exhausted.

"We should go," said Hermione gently. She got to her feet, and impulsively leaned forward to take Rowena's hand. "Is there anything you want to ask us, anything about the future?"

Rowena shook her head. "It is best if I don't know, I think." She smiled gently at them. "The future cannot be too bad, can it, if it produced you two, and your Diviner friend. And your Harry."

"And Draco," said Ginny staunchly.

"And him too," said Rowena with the same gentleness. She looked towards the window. "You had better go."

Ginny reached forward and squeezed Rowena's hand, looking as if she might cry. Then she turned and fled.

Hermione glanced after Ginny and hesitated. There was something pressing on her mind. "Rowena…" she began.

"Yes?"

"In the past… I mean, your past… did Helga and Salazar… did they… did they ever…" Her voice trailed off. Feeling very stupid, she knew her ears were turning pink. "You know."

Rowena's blue eyes sparkled through her tiredness. She leaned forward, and in a conspiratorial whisper, said, "You know, I always wondered that myself. We all grew up together, and Helga… Helga was very pretty, and she always healed him when he got into scrapes… I always suspected there was something, but I never had any proof. I'll tell you one thing, though," and for the first time, Rowena actually grinned. "She was the only person in the world who could ever tell him what

to do."

A little, hopeless sobbing sound broke the silence. For a horrified moment, Draco thought it had come from him. Then he realized it had been Fleur. Twisting around, he saw her face—she was paper-white, and tears were flooding down her cheeks.

Slytherin let out an impatient sigh. "Fleur, if you cannot control yourself, please go. Go, and lie down. You need to gather your strength."

With a brief, miserable nod, Fleur raced out of the room. "But she can't, can she?" Draco demanded, raising his head. "She can't what?"

"Gather her strength. She's dying." It wasn't a question. "Isn't she."

"We are all dying." Slytherin looked neither moved nor unmoved by this turn of conversation, nor by the fact that he was holding it with a boy sprawled out at his feet as if he might never get up again. "She is just dying a little more rapidly than most. Rest assured she will live as long as she needs to do what I require of her."

"And I think I know what that is," said Draco. "Both of us in one room, one bed… what are you trying to do? We're not cocker spaniels, you know. You can't just go around mating us."

"But it would amuse me to do so," said Slytherin. "Of course, it would also amuse me to hang you both headfirst over a scorpion pit."

"Mating it is," said Draco hastily. His mind was only half on the conversation: the rest of it was mainly taken up with the immense effort it seemed to be taking to sit up, and the rather pressing thought, it hurts. "I'll just run along then, and see if Fleur—"

"You will stay right here." Slytherin's voice lashed at him like a whip. "I have not finished with you. I have only just begun."

Slytherin made a flicking gesture with his left hand, and Draco found himself propelled to his feet. His legs held him, just barely. He could feel cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck, stinging and icy.

"I need your loyalty," said the Snake Lord, "your obedience. I need you. But, just because I need you I will not allow you to rule me. I rule you. Mine is the greater power."

"I was told you were weak," said Draco. Concealing his knowledge no longer seemed of much importance. "And if you are so strong, why did you need us to fight the manticore?"

"Clever question." Slytherin looked not the least bit discomposed. "I do not have my powers now, it is true. Which is why I have been using Fleur. But she is nearly drained, no longer of much use to me. And when I open the Orb, all my powers will be returned to me."

"Well, then what are you waiting for?" Draco snapped. He assumed that the Orb was the shining object that Slytherin had taken from the manticore's body. "Open it."

"First," said Slytherin, "the Gryffindor boy must die."

Harry. Draco felt as if someone had balled up all the misery and tension in the room, and jammed it hard into his solar plexus. Then he remembered the look on Harry's face when he had said, "Do what you like with him, it doesn't matter to me." And the look on his face when he had told him about his parents. Harry hated him now. That was all there was to it.

"What does Harry dying have to do with anything?"

"As long as the Orb is not opened, I do not have my powers. As long as I do not have my powers, I am not really myself, and the demons cannot find me to extract the payment I cheated them of long ago. They do not see as people do; they sense the essence of a person, their life-spark—and mine is in that Orb. First I must appease the demons with blood, the blood of an Heir of mine who is also a Magid. Then my powers can be returned to me, the sword retained. And Hell will be satisfied."

Hell is now satisfied. What the demons in Draco's dream had said to him, upon giving him the sword. The dream that was reality—not his own memory, but Slytherin's, of making that deadly bargain.

"You can't kill Harry," he protested.

Slytherin's smile narrowed. "You defend him still?"

"I'm not defending him." Draco straightened up. "Don't you know his history? He defeated the most powerful, immortal Dark wizard of our time when he was a baby. His life is charmed, literally. There's some protection on him. I'm not sure it would be such a good idea for you to just Avada Kedavra him. The last guy who tried that spent thirteen years eking out life as a banana slug in Bulgaria before he got his body back."

"Fleur told me," said Slytherin, looking thoughtful. "She also told me that your Dark Lord managed to return himself to power, and attack Harry. Therefore he must have evaded this charm somehow."

"Well, you ought to know," snapped Draco. "Wormtail told Hermione you killed him. Voldemort, I mean."

Slytherin snorted. "Not at all. We have never met, in fact. I simply told Wormtail that to convince him to enter my service. Not," he added, "that I won't kill him, when I have my powers back."

"No honor among thieves?" inquired Draco.

"No use for a spare Dark wizard cluttering up the playing field," said Slytherin. "You'll learn." He smiled coldly. "What you have just reminded me of is very interesting. I would simply have Fleur try the Killing Curse on your friend, but alas, for the purposes of the ritual it must be my hand that takes his life. A simple Sanguinus Charm should suffice to ensure that I can harm him without

repercussions."

Draco shut his eyes. There was a buzzing in his ears and his arm throbbed as if it had been torn at by savage wolves.

"You are in pain," said Slytherin, sounding abstractly curious. "Aren't you?" "Yes," said Draco through clenched teeth. "You know I am."

"Surely you know some simple charm against pain. Why do you not use your magic? Are you not a Magid? Are you not my Heir? You could heal yourself with a thought, if you let me show you how."

Draco shook his head. "Never mind. It doesn't hurt. Except in that way of being really painful. But no, I'm not interested."

"Draco," said the Snake Lord, and Draco jumped a little. It was rare that Slytherin spoke his given name. "You cannot resist using your power. You fear losing your soul, your identity. But what identity do you have? That given you by your father, forced on you by those you call friends. You don't even understand yourself. You see the world too simply, as evil and good."

"I've seen both," said Draco. "Evil and goodness. I know they exist."

"Of course they exist. The covenant that holds the world together calls for opposites: the dark and the light, uniformity and chaos, bodied and disembodied. Each half needs the other to survive. Without demons, there would be no angels. Without Slytherin, there would be no Gryffindor. Without Draco Malfoy…"

"No Harry Potter," said Draco flatly. "I get it. I'm not stupid."

"Then don't behave as if you are. You have powers many would kill to possess. Use them. Do what you like with them."

"Nice try," Draco said bitterly. "You can't do good with powers that come from Hell."

"Why not? There are angels of death, as there are angels of destruction. And all demons were angels once, and will be again some day. Perhaps you are neither one thing nor the other, neither angel nor demon, purely evil nor purely good, but you are the Heir of Slytherin and you belong to me. You have powers. Use them."

"Why?" Draco demanded. He could feel his face flush with angry blood. "So I can be like you? Why, when it gives me no pleasure to use them? Maybe you like calling up the powers of Hell, but I don't. I wouldn't be happy, being what you are. Did that occur to you?"

"And are you happy now?" Slytherin's voice had dropped several octaves, turned silky and quiet. "I could make her love you," he said, and Draco flinched. "The love potion was unsatisfactory, I know, since she knew its falsity. It was meant as a punishment, after all. But I could make her love you and know no difference."

Draco closed his eyes, seeing Hermione in her red dress as she had come to him in the clearing at

the dragon camp, recalling the look on her face, misery twisted with longing, and the traitorous elation he had felt knowing that emotion was for him, those tears for him, not for Harry this time.

"No." He opened his eyes, blinking away the memory of Hermione. "There is a price," he said, "for happiness such as that."

"There is a price for everything," said Slytherin. "For every advantage given to you, you will pay. For your looks, a price. For your talents, a price. For your strength, a price. For that second gift of life which returned you from death, a price. You are in debt to the balance of things, Draco Malfoy. You have been given more than you deserve. You were meant to pay that debt out in service. Service to me. It is what you were destined for. Fight it, and you will pay another and a worse way. What do you think will happen to the gifts you've been given, Draco, if you don't use them?"

Draco heard his father's voice in his mind. What happens to a clock if you wind it backwards? It breaks.

"Shut up!" Draco heard his own voice as if it came from far away, forced out through chattering teeth. "I don't want to hear any more."

"Then don't hear any more," said Slytherin coldly. "See."

He turned and pointed his hand at the far wall where the heavy carved screens stood, their brilliant designs of writhing dragons so bright it hurt Draco's eyes, the backs of which felt as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper.

A spark shot from Slytherin's hand, and the screens ratcheted back, folding outward to reveal what had been hidden behind them.

It was a mirror. Draco took a few steps forward, gazing in curiosity.

As he approached it, the mirror seemed to grow both in size and familiarity. It was as tall as he was, shaped like an upright diamond and thickly framed in gold, and stood on two large clawed feet. A great deal of artistry had gone into the carving of the frame, which was alive with the shapes of leaves and animals. Above the peak of the mirror were three carved words: Nosce Te Ipsum.

It seemed, he realized, very similar to the Mirror of Erised—at which he had only glanced when he had seen it that once at Hogwarts, knowing what it was and what he would see in it, and what Hermione wouldn't. But the image of it was burned into his brain.

How, he wondered, could this be a torture device?

"You know, there's this thing about me, I actually like looking in mirrors. Call me insane, but—"

"You are not insane. Just very, very irritating." Slytherin reached out and grasped Draco by the arm, dragging him forward so that he stood in front of the mirror, staring down at his feet.

"This is not the Mirror you are thinking of," said Slytherin, behind him, his cold breath on Draco's neck making him shudder. "This is not the Mirror of Desire, that shows men the wish of their hearts. This mirror was made at the same time as that mirror, to be its opposite. This mirror does not show

you what you want. Quite the contrary." His hand slid around Draco's neck to clasp his chin, and force his head up. "This mirror is called the Mirror of Judgement. It shows you what you really are."

What you really are.

A shudder like a bolt of lightning went through Draco, and he tried to twist away, but Slytherin held him hard in a grip like iron, his arm across Draco's throat. "No. I won't look."

"You will." "I won't."

"Open your eyes," hissed the Snake Lord, and shook Draco hard. Draco's eyes flew open.

And he looked.

Stepping out of Rowena's tent, the icy brilliance of the cold blue sky stung Ginny's eyes. She glanced around uneasily for Ron, and saw him almost immediately—as always, his flame-red hair marked him out like a beacon. He was sitting on a long wooden bench, talking animatedly to a large group of—

"Veelas?" said Ginny, widening her eyes in surprise. "Here?"

"They've been hanging around since the Snake Lord was defeated," said Benjamin, who had come up behind them silently. There were flakes of white snow caught in his black hair. "No one can seem to get them to go away."

Hermione stepped out of the tent behind Ginny, snapping the flap shut. She must have caught Benjamin's last remark, because she snorted. "Doesn't look like Ron's trying too hard," she snapped. "Does it?"

Ginny was inclined to agree. Ron looked as if he were having the time of his life, surrounded by beautiful girls who were all looking at him admiringly. His cheeks were bright red with cold and he was gesturing animatedly as he talked, describing elaborate parabolas in the air with his freckled hands. "He's probably telling them that he invented punctuation," Hermione added irritably. "Or the wheel. Or—"

Benjamin widened his dark eyes. "You mean he isn't really the youngest Minister of Magic ever in your time?"

Ginny chortled while Hermione sputtered indignantly. "What! Ron? Honestly!" "Oh come on, Hermione, it's harmless," Ginny grinned.

"It is not," Hermione exclaimed, and poked Benjamin in the shoulder. "Go… retrieve him, would you?"

Giving her a very 'Why me?' look, Benjamin trudged off towards Ron.

Ginny giggled, but stopped when she realized that Hermione was still bristling all over like an angry cat. "Hermione, really," she said, as diplomatically as she could. "You can't fly off the handle every time any girl so much as looks at one of your guys, you know. Well, unless it's Harry."

"I do not," Hermione began indignantly, then stopped, and smiled ruefully. "Oh, all right. I know what you mean. It's just that… well, it's Ron. And he's my best friend, and he deserves better than some empty-headed veela trollop." She grinned. "Not that they're necessarily all trollops, but you know… I just want him to have somebody as wonderful as he is. I want him to have the best."

"Oh." Ginny felt a burst of affection for Hermione. With all their bickering, it was sometimes hard to remember how much Ron and Hermione really cared for each other. But they did. "Does that extend to Draco, too?"

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, and Ginny turned to look at her. Her dark eyelashes were fringed with whiteness: ash, and snow, and her luminous pale skin glowed in the brilliant sunlight. The Lycanthe glinted silver against her throat. She looked very pretty, and very in control.

Ginny bit her lip and plowed on. "Well, it's just that I mean, me and Draco… if there was a me and Draco… and I'm not saying there is… but if there was…"

"Ginny," said Hermione firmly, leaned forward, and kissed her on the forehead. "You are the best."

"Did I miss something?" said Ron, skidding up with Benjamin at his heels. "Is everybody getting kissed? Do I get kissed too?"

"Only if Benjamin wants to kiss you," said Hermione severely.

Benjamin looked horrified. Apparently he had not realized that, as the Heir of Gryffindor, he would be called upon to make such extreme sacrifices.

"I'm surprised you didn't get one of them to kiss you," grinned Ginny, jerking her chin towards the veela.

Ron looked miffed. "I was just explaining Quidditch…"

"You told them you invented Quidditch," put in Benjamin dolefully.

"Yes, well…" Ron was now red with rather more that cold. "I didn't want to say anything before, but what are you two wearing, anyway?"

Ginny glanced down at herself. Hermione did the same. They were both wearing the winter robes Rowena had created for them. Ginny, for one, had been very glad to have something to wear besides her ash-covered, flimsy summer pajamas. The robes were made of a silky thin wool, and she was sure that they were enchanted not to be scratchy or prickly, but rather soft and clinging. She loved the deep green color of hers, too.

"I think they're very pretty," said Hermione, tossing her hair.

"You look great," said Ron to her, and turned a severe glance on Ginny. "Yours are too tight. Couldn't she have given you anything… looser?"

"This is the way they're cut," sniffed Ginny. "You're just jealous that you didn't get anything to wear."

Ron snorted derisively. "Like what? Tights, or whatever they wear here?" Benjamin glared at him.

"Not that there's anything wrong with tights," Ron added hastily.

"That's enough." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Everyone hold on to me," she announced, "now," and Ginny reached out hastily to clutch at Hermione's arm, seeing Ron and Benjamin doing the same.

Hermione touched the Lycanthe at her neck. "Mobiliarus," she said, and the world around them spun away into darkness.

Fleur glanced up as the door to the bedroom slammed open, and Draco came in. He looked different.

Not in any clearly obvious physical way. But there was a wildness in his eyes, and a deathly pallor to his skin. He looked like someone who had had a number of terrible nightmares in quick succession and who still was not sure he had entirely woken up.

"That creature brought you your drinks," she said in a small voice, gesturing with her chin towards the low table by the fire on which sat, rather incredibly, a row of tall glasses filled with alcohol and topped with little green umbrellas. The glasses had clearly been charmed so the ice cubes would stay fresh.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Draco, staring. Then he laughed. "Literally, too," he added, strode over to the fire, seized a glass, tossed the umbrella aside, and drained it.

Fleur sat up, staring at him. "Draco, what are you doing?"

"Getting drunk," he said, and slammed the glass back down on the table. "What does it look like?" "Is that a good idea?"

" 'Is zat a good idea?' " he echoed, narrowing his eyes at her. "What, you don't think I deserve a couple moments of fun? It would so nicely break up the moments of death and mayhem."

"He showed you the Mirror, didn't he?" asked Fleur, looking at him hard.

Draco laughed. It had a brittle, explosive sound. "What Mirror? I don't know what you're talking about. He burned a hole in my arm, then he dragged me off to show me the army I'll be commanding. Dementors, werewolves, vampires, icky things with horns sticking out of their ears…

It's like a dating club for archfiends. 'Where the lonely and the slimy connect'." "Draco… are you feeling all right?"

"Like I was hit by lightning after the Hogwarts Express ran me over. But let me drink a few more of these, and I'll be feeling great."

He downed another Mai Tai.

Fleur bit her lip, and held out her hand. "Please… come sit down."

"Next to you?" Draco sudden threw the now-empty glass at the fireplace. It shattered, and the fire hissed as the dregs of alcohol splashed the burning logs. "I don't think so. I'd rather kiss a dementor. And the way things are going, it looks like I might have to, 'cos that's who I'll be hanging around with for the next millenium."

"Millenium?"

"Yeah. I'm going to live forever. Didn't you hear? I get to live forever with Slytherin. Which I guess he thinks some kind of big prize, but since I've only known him a week and already I can't stand him, I'm less than excited. I don't exactly want eternity with the guy. But hey, at least my new uniform isn't gray. You like it?"

He threw his arms wide. Fleur, who hadn't even noticed he was wearing anything different, looked at him listlessly. "It is black. Everything you wear is black. You look the same."

"Well, aren't you determined to be difficult." He dropped his arms and walked over to her. She could see herself reflected in the dilated pupils of his eyes. He lifted his hand and put his fingers under her chin, urging her head up. He smelled of alcohol and anger, and his hands were shaking so violently that after a moment, he let her go.

"If you were wondering if you get to live forever," he said with quiet malevolence, "you don't." She felt tears sting the back of her eyes. "I know that."

"Good. I'd hate for you to get a nasty surprise."

She closed her eyes and felt two tears scald their way down her cheeks. Normally she would have been ashamed to cry in front of someone else, but she was too tired to care.

He dropped his hand from her chin. "Cheer up," he said, in a tone that made her think of an iron fist wrapped in a silk glove.

"Mariposus," he whispered under his breath, and she glanced up, her eyes widening, to see a stream of multicolored light burst from his fingers. The light resolved itself into a hundred brilliant butterflies, fluttering and dipping, and she craned her head back to see them, remembering how Draco had come into her room at school and the butterflies she had conjured had landed on his shoulders and hands.

She looked at him hard, trying to gauge if he remembered, too, but his eyes were black and

unreadable. "Incindio," he whispered. Fleur stiffened in horror as the dozens of colorful butterflies burst into tiny flames, like miniscule, burning stars. Draco looked down at her, the reflected sparks swarming in his eyes.

"That was horrible," she said shortly, as the last flames died.

"Look who's talking." His cloak had become unfastened. He stepped back and reclosed the clasp, which was bronze, and worked into the shape of two serpents with linked tails. He gave her a cold smile.

"And with that pleasant memory to warm you up, I'll be leaving you."

"Leave? Where are you going?" She was astonished at the desperation in her own voice. Malevolent as Draco was currently being, she did not want to be alone.

"Paying a little visit to Harry. Collecting some blood. Your Master needs it for a spell. Some people collect coins, he collects blood samples from helpless prisoners." Finished with his cloak, he dropped his hands. "Now there's a guy who really knows how to make his own fun."

"Don't go," she whispered, without really knowing what she was saying. Exhaustion made it difficult to focus her eyes properly.

"Stay? With you? How sweet." Crossing to the door, he paused beside her, leaned forward, and swept her hair away from her ear, brushing her cheek gently with the icy tips of his fingers. She felt his breath against her neck as he bent to her ear and whispered, "The blood I'm about to collect… it's on your hands, too."

She shuddered without speaking as he took his hand away, turned, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Demons! turned out to be a book so long, detailed and nearly incomprehensible that Narcissa soon despaired of making any sort of useful sense out of it. It was five o?lock and she was only on Abbadon, King of the Abyss. Abaddon is the chief of the demons of the seventh hierarchy, the king of the grasshoppers, or demon insects (described as having the bodies of winged war-horses and the poisonous curved tails of scorpions). As described in Revelations, Abbadon opens the gates of the abyss and unleashes upon the earth his swarms of demon locusts…

Narcissa banged her head on the table. Why not? There was no one around to see her. "Demon locusts," she groaned. "Give me a break."

"Demon locusts are no joke," came a dry voice from behind her. "They can really ruin a picnic."

She spun around, her hand at her throat, and saw a familiar head and shoulders floating in the fireplace. Dark eyes regarded her narrowly.

"Severus," she said. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry." Snape inclined his head. He had always possessed a almost archaic set of courtly mannerisms, she remembered this from the time he and Lucius had been close. He wasn't the hand- kissing type, but he would bow, and stand up for women when they entered a room. It had always struck her as at odds with his otherwise very severe demeanor. "I was looking for…"

"Sirius?"

Snape looked every so slightly shifty. "Yes."

"Well, he isn't here. And I don't know when he'll be back. Can I give him a message?"

Snape hesitated for a moment, then nodded curtly. "I thought he might want to know that I translated the fire-letters on the wall of the cell where…" His voice trailed off.

"Where Lucius died? You can say it, Severus."

"Where he was murdered." Snape held up a folded piece of parchment. "It's a demon-banishing incantation."

"You mean a demon-summoning incantation."

"No, I mean what I said. I think he must have called something up, not liked what he saw, and tried to banish it. To no avail. I believe the banishing curse is demon-specific as well, but since Sirius borrowed my demonology text, I can't do a match."

"Ah," said Narcissa. "Well." She held out her hand for the parchment, and after a moment of hesitation, Snape relinquished it.

"I'll give it to Sirius when he returns."

"Very well." Snape nodded curtly, and vanished.

Narcissa sat for a moment, staring at the parchment in her hand.

Then she rose to her feet, went into the drawing-room, and with a quick "Alohomora!" opened the trap door that led to the dungeons.

She had never much liked the corridors under Malfoy Manor, and they were even worse when she was alone and in the tense state she was in currently. She held her wand high, trying to spread its illumination. She took a deep breath when she reached the dungeon gate before pushing it open. It gave a rusty scream which sent shivers up her spine.

The demon was awake, as she had expected. She rather doubted that such creatures slept at all. It regarded her with whirling red eyes as she approached its cell.

Without preamble, she stopped dead in front of it and said: "Demon. What do you want?" Its whirling eyes widened. "What does any prisoner want? To go free."

"I can't set you free. But I can send you back to Hell."

Its twisted little face reflected its doubt. "You would do that? Why?"

"Because I want to make a bargain with you. I'll send you back to Hell, in exchange for a favor from you."

The demon's face stretched into an ugly rictus-like grin. "A bargain, eh? Tell me more… I'm all ears."

The trip forward in time was much like the trip back had been.

The Portkey deposited Ron, Ginny, Hermione and Benjamin on the front steps of Slytherin's castle. Hermione and Ron stumbled forward, but kept their feet; Benjamin and Ginny landed more gracefully, lightly as cats.

Once inside, the castle had a still, Sleeping-Beauty sort of feel to it, as if it were trapped outside of time. No breath of wind stirred the tapestries as they hurried after Benjamin along the narrow stone corridors, no sound of birds came through the open, glassless windows. There was no need for any wards on the adamantine prison to be taken down: the door was open.

They went into the cell and Hermione almost cried out: the walls were exactly the color blue she had seen in her vision of Harry. She barely saw the tumble of odd heavy furnishings everywhere, the shimmering tapestries. The idea that she might be standing only feet from Harry in space, although a thousand years away in time, made her desperate. She pulled Ron and Ginny towards her, linking arms with them, nearly forgetting to say goodbye to Benjamin. It was Ginny who drew him towards her and kissed him on the cheek in the thanks. He turned bright pink, and then Ginny flipped the Time-Turner over and the room, the tapestries, the glowing walls, and the blushing Heir of Gryffindor vanished into the gray mist.

It wasn't so bad this time—cold and airless and intense, but Hermione kept tight hold of Ron and Ginny. When the world finally righted itself again, she was still on her feet, her arms linked with theirs. She opened her eyes.

The room was the same. Blue walls. The tapestries the same, dulled by age and years now. The same furniture. And there, against the far wall, sat Harry.

He looked exactly as he had in her vision: arms chained behind him, covered in blood, torn and scratched. But he was alive, and staring at them in astonishment. She flew across the room and flung herself at him, throwing her arms around him. His shirt was torn, stiff with blood, and scratched her fingers. She felt the muscles in his back contract as he struggled to move his hands forward, to get his arms around her, and his chest hitched under hers. His face was pressed against her hair. "Hermione," he said, his voice cracking with disbelief and astonishment. "Hermione…"

"It's me," she said, holding him more tightly. She could see, over his shoulder, the bindings that held him: two clear cuffs around his wrist attached to a thick chain which was itself attached to what looked like a large adamantine staple driven into the floor. The sight panicked her. She wanted, more than anything else in the world, to be able to free him, and couldn't imagine how it could possibly be done. Trying not to think about it, she drew back and kissed his face fiercely,

striped with blood and grime though it was, and stroked his hair. "It's me… you must have known I would find you."

"I hoped you would," he said, his voice dry and strained, muffled in her hair. "I missed you so much. I thought I heard your voice this morning, saying my name, and I thought it meant I must be dying, and hearing what I most wanted to hear before I—"

"Shh." She kissed his mouth shut. "Harry, I love you." "I know. I love you too."

They sat locked together like that for a long moment, Hermione's arms tight around him. Finally, she let go and sat back.

"About time you let the poor guy get some air," said Ron's voice from behind her.

Hermione looked up; so did Harry. A huge smile spread across his face as he saw Ron and Ginny. He looked as if he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I cannot believe you guys are here," he said.

"Come on, you knew we'd come after you," said Ron amicably, grinning at Harry. "We're your friends. We wouldn't let anything happen to you. Well," he added, taking in Harry's undeniably gory state, "aside from the imprisonment and the horrible injuries, of course."

Harry shook his head. "It's not my blood."

"Well, I'd hate to see the state of the other guy," said Ron, looking impressed. "What'd you do— peel him?" He grinned. "Was it Malfoy?"

Harry's smile vanished as if it had been wiped off his face.

Ron looked worried. "You didn't kill Malfoy, did you? That's gonna be hard to explain when we get back home. You'll get detention for sure."

"Where is Draco?" asked Ginny, kneeling down on the other side of Harry and touching his shoulder lightly.

"He's probably just in another cell, right?" said Hermione, feeling uneasiness prickle under her ribs. "Right, Harry?"

Harry sighed, and leaned his head back. "I didn't kill Malfoy," he said, a touch bitterly.

Then he launched into the story of what had happened over the past two days, from waking up in the adamantine cell to Fleur coming to rescue them, at which point he was interrupted by both Ginny and Hermione making spluttering hissing noises. "Fleur? But… she's… she's such a…" Hermione began.

"A what?" demanded Ron, looking highly entertained.

"A tramp!" announced Ginny, pink around the ears. "Well, she is," she added defensively, catching Ron's amused look. "Draco told me that she practically kidnapped him and begged him for sex

and…" she trailed off, realizing how this sounded.

"That's his story," snorted Ron. "Begged him for sex… yeah, right!" "She's evil," said Harry.

They all turned and looked at him. "What?" said Ron.

"She's evil," said Harry, and went on to explain to them about the trip through the maze, the shape-changing guards, and what lay beyond the adamantine door. When he got to the fight with the manticore, Hermione went ashen and felt as if she was going to be sick, remembering the picture from the Magical Bestiary of the animal with its two rows of razored teeth, its deadly sting. "She was in league with Slytherin. It was all a trick to get us to kill the manticore for him. Once it was dead, the two of them showed up together and Slytherin told the guards to drag me off."

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. If the manticore was dead, then Slytherin had the Orb. And if he had the Orb…

"I can't believe Fleur would do that!" Ginny exclaimed. "I mean, I would have thought even she must have some scruples. Although, apparently not."

Ron looked equally shocked. "Oh, man. I wish I could get my hands on her. Not in that way, either," he protested hastily, at Hermione's look.

"What about Draco?" Ginny demanded. "Is he in another cell? Did Slytherin hurt him?" Harry lowered his gaze. "Not exactly."

There was a short silence. Something's wrong, Hermione thought.

Shed leaned forward and put her hand on Harry's cheek, gently turning his head to face her. "Harry, love, what is it?"

"It's about Malfoy," said Harry. "He—" Creak.

A suddenly rattling sound split the air in the cell. Hermione glanced quickly towards the sound, and saw a large dark square beginning to appear in the far wall.

"Oh, hell." Harry had gone white. "Someone's coming. You've got to get out of here."

Ginny stood up and reached for the Time-Turner, but Ron leaped to his feet after her and seized her hand.

"No. We can't leave Harry."

"The Invisibility Cloak," said Hermione, desperately. "Ron—"

But Ron had already taken out the cloak. Hermione leaped to her feet as Ron backed against the

wall. She and Ginny huddled close to him and he swept it around the three of them just as the dark space in the far wall opened to its fullest extension and Slytherin came in, dressed in the robes of green and black that she remembered from their first meeting. And after him came two guards, wrapped in gray robes.

And after them, Draco.

Several hours had gone by, and Lupin was bored. He had eaten all his chocolate, and played several games of noughts-and-crosses with himself by scribbling on the empty candy wrappers. And meanwhile, Sirius was getting nowhere with his shovel. Being Sirius, of course, he wouldn't admit it.

Finally, Lupin threw aside the stick he had been using to draw rude and amusing pictures in the dirt, and stood up. "Sirius!" he yelled. "This is getting ridiculous. Would you let me help?"

Sirius dropped the shovel irritably crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine. Go ahead."

Lupin got to his feet. With grave deliberation he unfastened the gray travelling cloak he was wearing, laid it on the ground, walked over to the tree, and braced his hands against the sides of the trunk.

And pushed. Rrrrip.

The tree tore out of the ground as easily as if it had been a turnip Lupin was uprooting. Breathing hard, he pushed it sideways, and it fell to the ground with a loud whooshing noise, its trunk coming to rest on top of the wall. The roots of the tree poked up like reaching hands, and the dark space beneath was revealed.

Lupin turned around, dusting off his hands, to see Sirius glaring, and muttering under his breath. Lupin, with his sensitive hearing, was able to distinguish several words clearly: showoff, git, and superhuman werewolf strength my—

"Ahem," he interrupted. "Aren't we short on time?" He grinned. "Or just short on temper?"

Sirius returned the grin, then knelt down. The hollow space under the tree had obviously been engineered by men: it was shallow and lined with stone to keep out the damp. As Lupin approached, he caught the sharp glint of light off the side of something metal inside the hollow. It was a long casket of some sort, which Sirius picked up and held up to the light. Too transparent to be adamantine, Lupin suspected it was made of some kind of adamant derivative. An anxious expression flicked across Sirius' face as he turned the box over, running his thumb across the smooth material, and stopped with his thumb on a dark, irregularly shaped keyhole. Reaching into his pocket, Sirius drew out the silver key set with red stones, and slid the end of the key into the lock.

The box clicked open as readily as if it had been locked only yesterday. Setting it down, Sirius ratcheted back the lid, and lifted out the object that lay inside. It was long, as long as his arm, and made of silver. The scabbard to a sword, engraved all over with brilliant designs of flowers and animals and leaves that flowed together intricately to form the word Gryffindor.

Draco looked the same, and not the same.

His clothes were different, although that wasn't it, not exactly. He wore black as usual: black shirt and trousers, black boots, black cloak, although the cloak was lined in white-silver, and held across the chest by crossed chains of bronze in the shape of serpents. The white of the cloak lining contrasted with the black clothes and combined to make him look unreal, like a chess piece rather than a person. In fact, he looked as if he had been refined down to his most essential elements, as if everything unnecessary had been burned away. White skin, black eyes, silver hair, and the gold chain of the Epicyclical Charm glittering at his throat.

He stood shoulder to shoulder with the Snake Lord, and in his boots, they were nearly the same height. Slytherin reached out put his hand on Draco's shoulder, and Hermione, who remembered suffering that agonizing touch, wanted to cry out to him, but didn't.

"Draco," he said. "I will leave this to you. You know what to do."

Draco inclined his head and started forward, crossing the room to Harry. The guards trailed him as silently as ghosts. Harry raised his head as Draco approached, looking at him steadily, and did not change expression as Draco got gracefully down on his knees in front of him, so that their gazes were level. His face was pale and set, but his eyes were alive; they met and held Harry's: green eyes and silver, the Snake Lord's colors.

"Well, Potter," he said at last, and the drawling tone of his voice sent arrows of cold fire shooting through Hermione's veins. "It looks like you've gotten yourself into a fine fix here."

"I didn't get myself into this, Malfoy," said Harry evenly. "You did."

"You shouldn't have killed that basilisk back in second year," said Draco, in the same conversational tone, as if Harry hadn't spoken. "You really hacked old Slythie off. If you hadn't done that, maybe he'd let you live, but now…" Draco grinned as Harry made an involuntary movement towards him, and the adamant cuffs rattled.

"Let's just say I wouldn't want to be in your chains."

"Yesterday you were in my chains," said Harry evenly. "But I guess you figured a way out, didn't you, Malfoy? You backstabbing bastard," he added, without expression, as if he had just said, "Good morning."

"Don't tell me you're feeling betrayed, Potter," Draco grinned. "That's adorable."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Look, could we skip the obligatory taunting and just cut swiftly to the point of this little visit?"

"Maybe taunting is the point of this visit," said Draco equably. "It's certainly the fun part. Although possibly not from where you're sitting. Tell me a little more about how betrayed you feel, why don't you? The radiant bonds of our friendship shattered, and all that. Tell me how much you'll miss me."

"I can't," Harry said. "I don't get to the part of Arithmancy where we cover numbers so small they don't exist until next year."

"That is," Draco said, "assuming that for you, there is a next year. Or even a next week. Let's face it, Potter, even the concept of tonight isn't looking like one you're going to be having any close acquaintance with."

Harry's chains rattled as he leaned back against the wall with an exasperated sigh. "Look, what do you want, Malfoy?"

"What do I want? World peace, Potter. A suede coat that won't get ruined in the rain. A broomstick that'll do Mach Two. Oh, and some of your blood."

"My blood?"

Draco turned and looked over the shoulder at one of the faceless gray-robed guards. "Unchain his wrist," he said, and as the guard reached forward towards Harry, Draco grinned again. "His left wrist."

Hermione felt her heart sink down into her stomach. That smile… she hadn't seen that kind of smile on Draco's face in months. It was a nasty sort of childish, amused smile, the same smile he had smiled third year when he'd stopped in the hall to tell her that her teeth were so big, the Druids could have used them for places of worship, and all the Slytherins had laughed.

She wondered if they would laugh now. Probably.

She couldn't imagine how Harry retained such an indifferent expression as the guard reached forward and none too gently, did something to his left wrist that freed it from the cuff. If it were her, she would have screamed at Draco, kicked at him with her feet. She wanted to do that now, just as she wanted to rush over and put her hands on his shoulders and force him to promise her that he was only pretending.

As the guards unfastened Harry, Draco reached forward and slid his hand into Harry's shirt pocket. When he removed it, he was holding Harry's pocketknife. He glanced over at the guard, and the guard handed over Harry's now-freed wrist as impersonally as if it were a pencil. Harry didn't struggle or try to get away, just watched Draco through narrowed green eyes as Draco flicked the blade of the knife open and tested its edge with a finger.

Beside her, Hermione felt Ron tense, and she gripped his arm hard.

Draco turned Harry's hand over in his grip so that it rested palm-up, and placed the edge of the

blade against the inside of Harry's wrist. "Do you remember," he said, still conversationally, "when you sliced open my hand with this?"

"I did it to save your life," said Harry. He didn't move, but Hermione, so close to him she could see the blood pounding in the pulse at his throat, felt a slow and sickening fear sweep over her. How could Harry be so still, so self-possessed? She knew he wasn't calm—she could see the sweat darkening the back of his shirt, plastering his dark hair to his neck. But he didn't change expression. He learned that from Draco, she thought.

Draco glanced down, and she saw his eyes flash. "Which you would have done for anyone." "I wouldn't share my blood with just anyone."

"Oh, really?" Draco's voice dripped sarcasm and something else. "I bet you wish you'd let me die when you had the chance."

"No," said Harry, quietly but with conviction. "No. I'd do the same thing again." Draco's hand where it held the knife jerked almost imperceptibly.

Hermione, trying desperately not to move, saw his hands, and her heart skipped a beat. Draco's hands had always been immaculate, well-groomed, the nails perfect half-moons. Now they were bitten down to the bloody quick and there were deep indents on his palm where, perhaps, his nails had been driven in. What has he done? What has been done to him?

Draco recovered himself. "Nice try, Potter, but it's a little too late to suck up to me. Anyway, I thought you had more spine than that."

"Drop dead, Malfoy." "Already have done, mate."

"If at first you don't succeed," said Harry shortly, "try again."

Draco pursed his lips and whistled. "Nice comeback. Taking lessons from those more clever than you, Potter? Sirius giving you pointers?"

Harry laughed. It was such an unexpected sound that Hermione nearly jumped. Draco's eyes flew wide. "What's so funny, Potter?"

"I was just wondering," said Harry, "what Sirius would say if he knew what you were doing with his knife right now."

This time, Draco did jump, and the edge of the knife bit down into Harry's arm. Draco yanked the knife back as blood sprang up around the edges of the cut, and spilled over, splattering the floor.

One of the gray-robed servants darted forward and pressed a square of cloth over the bleeding cut. Within a moment, it was soaked in scarlet. The cloth was retracted, and the servant retreated, backing towards Slytherin, who held out a hand for it.

Hermione averted her gaze, nauseated. What is he going to do with Harry's blood?

Harry apparently had no such concerns. He was ignoring his bleeding arm, looking at Draco instead, and the look on his face was awful. Hermione thought that if Harry ever looked at her like that, she would want to die.

Draco meanwhile was very white and looked a bit as if he were going to be sick. He flicked the knife shut, and dropped it back into Harry's pocket. There was blood on his hands now and blood on the white lining of his cloak.

"Malfoy," said Harry, so quietly Hermione had to strain to hear him. "You don't have to do this."

"I'll die if I don't." Draco's voice was a monotone, and Hermione was struck by his choice of words—not he'll kill me if I don't, but I'll die. As if it was quite out of his control.

"There are worse things than dying. I guess you should know that." A little of the old wicked sparkle shot across Draco's expression.

"You and your friends brought me back," he pointed out coolly. "I guess you underestimated me, Potter."

"No. I overestimated you. And now we'll all pay for it."

"Everything has to be paid for," said Draco, in an absent voice, as if he were reciting something he had learned off by rote.

"And what am I paying for?"

"What you've done to me," said Draco flatly.

Harry looked incredulous. "What I've done to you? I haven't done anything to you other than save your bloody life, and stick up for you, and trust you! I let you hang around my girlfriend even though I know how you feel about her—"

"My life never would have needed saving if it hadn't been for you!"

Draco shouted. Scarlet spots of rage dotted his cheekbones. "If it hadn't been for you, I would have been a loyal servant of Voldemort's and my father's. I never would have fought them, never would have known what it was to want to fight them, to want to be any different," and he spat out different as if it were a terrible word. "My father would be alive, if it wasn't for you."

Harry blanched, shock and indignation darkening his expression.

Hermione knew exactly how he was feeling. She knew how Draco felt about Harry. How could he say these things?

And yet he was saying them. The anger in his eyes was real; they seemed to be spitting silver sparks. "I guess you know what it's like to have a destiny, don't you, Potter?" he snarled. "But do you know what it's like to turn it away? To fight it and fight it every second of every day until

there's nothing left of you but ragged shreds and all you want is to die and get some peace? And then you show up, playing the hero, telling me you've never wished you could die. 'Not me. Never.' Well, of course you haven't. I don't live in your head the way you live in mine. I don't know why that happened, it just did. I haven't changed you. You've changed me. And you've made my life intolerable—"

Shock sped across Harry's face, followed by rage; he was struggling to get to his feet, and had thrown himself forward so far that the chain that bound him was drawn out to its fullest extension.

Hermione could see the bands of metal cutting into his wrist. "It's not my fault those things happened!" he shouted at Draco. "I never chose any of them! I can't change what I am!"

"And neither can I!" Draco shouted back, and yanked his left sleeve up suddenly, extending his arm, showing it to Harry. He drew it back quickly, but not before Hermione saw, as Harry must have seen, the black brand of the Dark Mark seared into the skin of his forearm.

And Harry was silent. He leaned back, and the chain rattled as it struck the stones. He no longer looked angry, just stunned. "So that's the way it is," he said, slowly.

"That's the way it's always been," said Draco flatly. "Really, we're no different, you and I—we're both what we were born to be. We're just on opposite sides of the divide, that's all. I'm sorry for it, Potter. And sorry for you."

He did sound sorry. Hermione felt her heart beating very slowly, as if her blood had thickened to the consistency of taffy. This isn't happening.

"Bollocks to that," said Harry firmly. "It's about choices, Malfoy. It's your choice to make." "I made my choice a long time ago," said Draco.

"Live with it, then," said Harry. "Since you value your life so much."

Draco got to his feet. "I intend to. Me living with it—that's sort of the point." Harry craned his head back and looked up at Draco, who slid his eyes away.

"At least tell me how I'm going to die," he said, quietly. "You owe me that much."

Draco looked at him for a long moment. His eyes were dark, nearly expressionless: they were only human eyes, the eyes of a boy, and yet they had death in them.

"When it comes," he said. "It will be quick." And he walked back towards Slytherin.

"So that's your bargain?" said the demon, looking narrowly at Narcissa. "You will send me back to Hell, in exchange for that information?"

"I know Slytherin will try to kill one of them. Either Harry, or my son. To keep from fulfilling the bargain he made with you. I want to know if there's any way that can be prevented, that you can be forced to take him instead—"

"The powers of Hell cannot be forced." The demon's eyes spun in concentric circles of red and gold.

"How can the end of this bargain be accomplished? How is it consummated? Explain." The demon shook its head. "Take the wards off the cell."

"Explain first."

The demon shook its head. "I am bound by the bargain we make, it is unbreakable for me. That is my nature. It is not your nature. Humans are liars. Take the wards off the cell and speak the Banishing charm, and then I will tell you what you want to know."

"Swear first," she said. "Swear that you won't harm me when I release you. And swear that there is a way that Slytherin can be taken, instead of my son or Harry."

"I swear it," said the demon, and Narcissa stepped towards the bars of the cell, and, as Sirius had showed her, dismantled the wards.

That accomplished, she pointed her wand at the Demon and read off the piece of paper in her hand the words of the Banishing Charm. She was none too happy to be using a charm Lucius had used, especially not one that had (possibly) resulted in his messy death. But she didn't see that she had much choice.

As she reached the end of the incantation, a bust of flame leaped up and circled the demon. It laughed, throwing back its head, reaching out its hands to the fire.

Narcissa threw down the parchment she was holding. "Now tell me!" she shouted, over the crackling of the fire and the sound of the demon's laughter. "Tell me what I want to know!"

The demon stopped laughing, and looked straight at her. "In the original bargain, Slytherin promised us a Magid heir of his own blood, and that is what we will take. Unless the Snake Lord can be persuaded to offer up the sword to us willingly with his own hand, in which case we will take him instead."

"With his own hand?" Narcissa echoed faintly. The demon nodded.

"But he'll never do that!" she cried furiously, and flung herself towards the bars, but the fire had made them red-hot, and she jumped back. "He'll never do that!"

"Really not my problem," the demon replied, and vanished with a wink in a burst of flame.

The black opening in the wall was just closing itself up after Slytherin and his entourage, when Hermione ducked out from under the invisibility cloak and dashed towards Harry, Ron at her heels.

Harry was sitting as he had when Draco had stood up: staring at his bleeding arm with a very, very strange expression. Hermione fell to her knees beside him. "Harry. Are you all right?"

He nodded. There was a distant look in his eyes, as if he had gone to some very dark place. She put her arm around his shoulders and gently stroked the back of his neck. He didn't react.

"He was acting, Harry," she said. "He was just acting." "I wouldn't be so sure," said Ron.

She flipped her gaze irritably to him. "He was. Of course he was."

" 'I'm Draco Malfoy, and this is my impression of a Completely Bonkers Psychopath,' " said Ron, in a rather squeaky imitation of Draco's voice. "I don't think so, Hermione. Come on, he was totally evil. Did you see his outfit?"

"His outfit? Ron, if you haven't got anything useful to say—"

"All I've got to say, is that if he was acting, it was amazingly convincing."

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. "He's a good actor. We all know that about him." "He's a miserable little twonk, we know that about him too," pointed out Ron.

"He would never hurt Harry," said Hermione, her voice coming out on an angry hiss. "He cut him, Hermione," said Ron, starting to look angry.

"He must have had to!" she snapped, turning back to Harry. "He was trying to tell you something, Harry, I could tell—"

"By stabbing him in the arm?" Ron shook his head. "Some say it with flowers," he deadpanned, "Malfoy says it with knives."

Hermione tilted her chin up and looked at Ron squarely. "Do you still hate him so much?"

Ron's expression softened. "No. But Hermione—he might not have a choice. You know that, right? He could have been under the Imperius curse. Not everyone can fight that off like Harry. That sword might have finally gotten to him—"

"Ron," said Harry, speaking up for the first time.

"—Lupin said it was really powerful. Maybe Slytherin threatened him with something. Maybe he ran out of that Will-Strengthening Potion thing. Maybe—"

"RON," said Harry more firmly. "Where is your sister?"

Ron paused in mid-gesture, and turned to where he, Hermione and Ginny had been standing a few minutes before. "Ginny?" he said, edgily. "Come out from under the Cloak, will you?"

There was no answer.

"Ginny?" said Ron again, more faintly this time.

Nothing. Going very white, Ron leaned back against the wall as if his legs had given out.

"Oh my God," said Hermione, her hand going to her mouth. "She went after them. The door was still open—she went after Draco."

Ron slid down the wall and collapsed on the floor. "She wouldn't have," he said numbly. "She couldn't do something so stupid."

"If it had been Hermione," said Harry softly, "I'd go after her." "But she's not in love with Malfoy," said Ron blankly. "Is she?" Hermione just looked at him.

"Fuck," he said, and covered his face with his hands.

Harry looked at Hermione. She nodded, got up, and went to kneel by Ron. "Ron," she said softly, gently touching his shoulder. "She's got the cloak and the Time-Turner. She can get away. She'll be fine."

Ron didn't move. Hermione could hardly blame him. She had no sisters and brothers herself, Ron was the closest thing she had to a brother, and the idea of anything happening to him was too horrible to contemplate.

"I can't believe she went after Malfoy," said Ron, finally, in a dry voice. "Well, I guess we'll find out pretty soon whether or not he's trustworthy, won't we?"

"Don't say that," Hermione began desperately, when a sudden and explosive gasp of surprise from Harry interrupted her. She turned in surprise to see what Harry was looking at.

He appeared to be staring down at his own shirt front. Hermione wrinkled her brow in confusion. "Harry?"

"Hermione, come here," he said urgently.

She got up and walked back over to Harry, followed by Ron.

"The knife," said Harry, still staring down at his shirt. "Take it out of my pocket." She bent to touch Harry's cheek, and then leaned over and reached into his pocket. She lifted out the knife.

And paused, staring.

The knife looked much as it had. Closed, the dull edge of the blade glimmered a dull silver. The bone handle was etched with Harry's initials: HJP. There was a faint smear of blood on the side of the blade. But none of those things were what caused Hermione, Ron, and Harry to stare.

Wound around and around the knife, like a vine wrapping the trunk of a tree and glittering pale gold in the blue light of the room, was Draco's Epicyclical charm on its thin gold chain.

References

The song the dwarves were singing was "I May Be A Tiny Chimney Sweep But I've Got An Enormous Broom" by Rave.

1) "Minions from hell getting you down?" – Angel.

2) "Don't look at me like that. I'm not the one who needs to brush up on her finger pantomime." – Angel.

3) "We could get sushi and not pay." – Man.

4) "The covenant that holds the world together calls for opposites: the dark and the light, uniformity and chaos, bodied and disembodied." – Books of Magic, Neil Gaiman.

5) "Let's just say I wouldn't want to be in your chains." – Angel.