Chapter Thirty-Eight: You Fight, Potter

Pain.

Pain beyond anything you could ever imagine. There is nothing but the pain. The dark room you are lying in, the time of night outside these walls, the man standing mere feet away…none of that has space in your mind. For the only thought that exists as this wretched pain permeates your defenseless body through and through—make it stop. Oh Merlin, oh god in heaven, make it stop…

And there are the screams. Your own horrible wailing fills your ears as you think this one thought over and over and over again. The thought beats against your brain like a hammer—over and over—and the screams echo in your ears from somewhere far, far away. And oh, the pain…

Then it stops. Just as you think you shall go mad from it, the pain stops and sweet relief is felt, though you are shaking uncontrollably and you can hardly breathe; for your insides are all twisted and hurting. Your organs feel like rusty metal chunks, scraping against the walls of your body with the tiniest movement.

That, Draco Malfoy came to find out, is what it is like to be put under the Torture Curse.

With everyone gone to dinner, Draco sat in the empty Slytherin common room, in the dark, thinking. Thinking resentfully, thinking intensely, and thinking of the beginning of these confusing and unpleasant times in his life. Thinking of how strange it was—at the beginning of this year, he had very little to worry about. There was only a faint thrum in the back of his mind, a small little blip on his radar that times would be changing. He had no idea how dramatically, or how fast. There had only been curiosity about the potion his father gave him before he left at the end of the summer. Draco now remembered that day quite vividly.

Elder Malfoy had slipped a pear-shaped, smooth, dark blue bottle into his hands while he was packing his trunk.

"What's this?" Draco frowned at it, turning it over in his hands; it had no label.

"A little something I had made—a gift from your father." Lucius smiled slyly and checked to make sure the hall outside Draco's bedroom was empty before continuing with his voice lowered to a whisper: "If you take it once a week until it is gone, you might find yourself feeling a bit more…capable…physically, that is." When Draco's frown deepened, his father chuckled dismissively. "Do you think I'm the first parent who's helped his son along with his athletic development? Come, you do want that Cup this year, don't you?"

"Yes…"

"Good. Then accept my little push and say nothing to your mother or anyone else, understood?"

"Yes sir…" Draco eyed the bottle again for a moment and tucked it securely into his trunk. "Thank you, father."

What fifteen year old boy wouldn't want to be stronger? He thought it would benefit him in Quidditch, and his father did not rectify this assumption. But then the strange feelings for Angelina began…and the challenge from Potter. And Christmas break.

Christmas break…

Draco sat forward in the dark green armchair and stared into the empty fireplace; remembering now. Remembering how he found out what that potion was really for. In that dark little room below grounds at their estate. That dark little room...and his screams. And his father, the villain in the shadows, hurting his own son.

"Draco…" Lucius uttered very quietly; sadly. "Are you all right?"

He wanted to kill him, this man who called himself his father. Draco tried breathing, sweat pouring down his forehead, his white-blond hair hanging damply in his face. He whimpered, furious but so very hurt. He would not—he would not let his father see him cry. "Father…p-please…stop."

"My son, this is for your own good." Lucius spoke again, still lingering in the shadows of the dark room. "Your weakness has hindered you for too long. It's time to put an end to it, and this is the way."

Christmas had been approaching, and Draco had come home very afraid of what lay waiting for him. What punishment would his father inflict on him for messing up with Umbridge?

In the past, he had been humiliated with simple spells or verbal admonishment that hurt his pride far more than his body. Once his father sealed his mouth shut for speaking out of turn in front of company; there were things like his being whipped by fiery lashes from an invisible rod after he'd broken one of his mother's crystal goblets, being made to stand with a slumbering baby acromantula balanced on his head for hours after falling asleep during an important function of his father's. "If you drop it," Lucius had uttered from his armchair in the study, watching as the eight year old Draco struggled to stay awake, "It will wake up and eat you…" And of course there was the ever-effective cane to the chest. Things like that were commonplace with his father, but this…in the common room Draco grimaced at the memory of his father's tranquil voice.

"Once more…and then I think that's enough for tonight. Your mother is waiting."

"N-No…!"

"Crucio!"

But too late, the pain was upon him again. Blinding, crippling, relentless pain ran all through him. His arms and legs went stiff, his belly cramped viciously. His brain melted—Draco screamed. Oh god it hurt! He jerked and flopped all around, saliva oozing out of his mouth and down his chin. He heard his father make a small noise, like he felt sorry…to hell with him! Draco managed to open his eyes, he saw…Merlin he thought he saw Potter standing there, hungrily inflicting this awful pain on him.

And then it was over again. Draco's body slowly relaxed and he lay there. The tears were coming. He would not! He would not cry! He lay panting on the cold floor, totally exhausted and weak from what he had just endured. Lucius stepped forward, into the small pool of light, and knelt down beside his son.

"Draco, listen to me…" The boy's eyes slid open and he looked at his father. "This was but a taste of what the Dark Lord will do to you should you ever fail him. Make no mistake…I'm not doing this simply for the sake of seeing you suffer. You must learn your place. This experience, my son, will make you stronger!"

"No…more…please…" he managed though it hurt even to speak.

"Hush now. Come."

He felt himself being lifted, his insides scraping together horribly, into Lucius' arms. A second later the air around him closed in tightly, like he was being sucked down a tube barely big enough for his body. He couldn't breath, and it hurt, but it was over quickly and with a soft pop they had touched down in his bedroom. He was lowered onto his bed and then he felt his father's gloved hand brushing his damp hair out of his face. He held his eyes shut, trying to overcome the writhing pain inside him.

"Lucius!" a shrill, frightened whisper came. "What have you done to him?"

Draco's eyes, in the present, became unfocused as he stared at the same spot on the hearth, thinking now of his mother. It was hard for him not to find some small amount of resentment where she was concerned. Some small part of him agreed with his father that she was being weak and too emotional. If she truly wanted to put a stop to what was happening, she could have; suffer if she must but she could've saved her son this hell. But then…a larger part of him knew that there was nothing to be done really. That larger part understood what his father was trying to do.

"Narcissa, please." His father's breath, on that cold winter night, fluttered his hair and eyelashes, which were stuck together and damp. Draco did not open his eyes. "He'll be fine."

"Draco!" His mother rushed forth; he could hear her robes fluttering in the wind that her swift movements created. His father was shunted aside and the leather glove left Draco's hair abruptly. Seconds later his face was being covered with kisses. "What have you done to him?"

"Get a hold on yourself, will you? I said he is fine!" Lucius hissed impatiently. "He is weak right now, but he will recover."

"How?" Narcissa's voice took on its own hard edge. "Look at him! He is so very pale…he is shaking, Lucius."

"He needs the potion, that's all. I shall fetch it for him, and in the mean time, stop your incessant smothering."

His mother was rising to her feet again; he could see the shifting shadows on the backs of his eyelids. Draco could hardly move; his insides hurt him so. He wanted to simply fade away into cool, peaceful sleep and be done with them both.

"He is too young. Have you gone mad? You're torturing your own son!"

"Do you really think I enjoyed that, my love?" Lucius' voice was soft and calm, but his wife and son could both hear the menacing undertone it possessed. "I can assure you I did not. Narcissa, you know this has to be done. Have you forgotten already? Have those years of 'freedom' really deluded you so much? It was you! You brought this on us, and we made a promise that we cannot go back on, or there will be a much graver price to be paid than Draco's suffering right now." She gave a miserable shudder but said nothing as he continued, "The Dark Lord has taken an interest in him already; he has not forgotten either. You should be grateful our son still lives. Grateful that we are still alive."

"Is there no way…no way at all that we can stop this?"

"My darling, you know the answer to that. And indeed—I'm not sure I think it necessary to stop. You are too afraid; you are not thinking as I have been thinking. I have plans for our boy. I was blinded by your type of fear once before, but not now…oh no. Now I see clearly that this is an opportunity. Draco cannot—listen to me, Narcissa—he cannot make mistakes the way he did with Umbridge. If he can allow himself to be beaten so easily against Potter in a childish duel, then how can he hold his own in the company of the Dark Lord?"

Draco stood up from the armchair and began pacing the room, scowling at the thought of his father's belief that he'd failed with Potter in the so-called 'duel'. Had he failed, then? If failing meant he hadn't succeeded in killing the brat, then yes Draco supposed he had. Oh but it was just like his father to assume Draco was weaker than he actually was.

"Is that what made you do this? Harry Potter?" His mother had asked indignantly. Draco did open his eyes, and he could see through his damp lashes that his father was gripping his mother by the arms firmly. She was attempting to pull away from him but he did not let her. "Do you have so little faith in your own child?"

"If I didn't have faith in him, Narcissa, I wouldn't be doing this."

Draco remembered seeing his mother melt into tears and she slumped forward in her husband's grip; her shoulders shook as she sobbed. Lucius' features creased with disdain and he held her away from him, letting her go when the crying deepened. He turned his back on her. "I don't want my son to become a Death Eater!" she cried.

"I'm afraid that isn't your choice," Lucius responded almost whimsically. "If something happens to me-"

"Oh, Lucius…"

"If something happens," Lucius repeated, firmly this time, as he turned to face her again. "Draco will be called upon to take my place. No matter how young he is, he will be called. I taught him a lesson. I am teaching him a lesson. He will be stronger, and he will know what to expect going in. He will not ever make the same mistakes I did. He'll thank me for that, I promise you."

Narcissa gradually stopped her crying and took a deep, shuddering breath. When she spoke next, her voice was calm and steady. "You still haven't forgiven me, Lucius. That's what this is about, isn't it? My child…my only son…"

"Do not be foolish, Narcissa," Lucius took a step toward her, his eyes flashing dangerously under the white gleam of the falling snow outside Draco's window. "Perhaps you need to be reminded of your place as well?"

"I know my place. I am Draco's mother. And you are his father! It's our job to protect our son, not hurt him! Please…don't do this!"

"I have already put things into motion. If you want to help Draco, see to him now—but I warn you, do not try to resist the Dark Lord's will. You'll surely kill our son that way."

And without another word Draco's father had left them, his black robes billowing around him dramatically in the silence.

What had she done? Draco frowned as he stared into the black fireplace…the darkness in that area consumed his vision. What had she done to end her son up on the dirty stone floor of her husband's cellar, praying to god that he wouldn't die from the pain?

Draco stood up now in the common room by himself, waiting. He had received a letter from a coal-colored owl earlier that afternoon. He had never seen the bird before, and it landed on his windowsill, pecking its beak against the pane urgently. He was alone then; just as he was alone now; and he had the feeling the owl had waited for such a situation. The letter attached was definitely from his father, though it was not signed. It simply said 'do not go to dinner tonight; stay by the fireplace and make sure you are alone'.

Draco had almost told Snape about it when he'd gone to fetch his tonic, but the Potions Master was upset and at the end of the interview Draco didn't have the guts to betray his father.

"It shouldn't have been this way…" Professor Snape had said angrily under his breath as he mixed the tonic he'd been giving Draco for two days. Draco watched the smoke from the concoction waft up to the professor's face. "Lucius has no idea the damage he has caused!"

"Why are you so upset?" Draco asked curiously. "Did something happen? Did you talk to that Professor Tonks woman?"

"Not that it is any of your concern, Draco," Snape avoided his gaze as he dropped some twisted, greenish-looking root into the cauldron, causing the liquid swirling around inside to turn pitch black. "But I am only 'upset' with your father. And with you, I might add, for getting yourself into such a foolish position with Angelina Johnson."

"You didn't tell him about Angelina, did you, Uncle Severus?" Draco asked quietly. "He would kill me."

"He's already tried, hasn't he?" Severus snapped, bottling the black substance and thrusting it at the boy. "I am making you potions to treat the poisoning and the repeated torture he has inflicted on you, Draco, these are not cough remedies."

"He said it would make me stronger," Draco said simply, gazing at the potion with distaste. "Make me ready…"

Snape clenched his jaw and glared at Draco for a moment before returning to the cauldron, Vanishing the substance inside, and beginning a new potion. "It isn't my place to try to talk sense into him; you are his son, not mine…" Draco thought he heard a hint of regret in the man's voice. "But if he had only placed you under me…you could've been learning things other than the nonexistent endurance of the Cruciatus…"

"What would you have taught me? How can brewing potions protect me from You-Know-Who's anger?"

Snape looked at the boy sharply, mid-way through opening another bottle, this one containing thick knots of reddish-brown herbs. "There is more to the art of brewing potions, Draco, than your narrow-minded father will have you believe…" his voice rolled out the sentence with silky contempt, and Draco knew he had offended him. He hadn't meant to speak ill of the art—he himself appreciated it a great deal, but it was hard now to keep the bitterness over his current situation from seeping into his opinion on the matter.

As they waited for this potion to finish brewing, Professor Snape finished his examination of Draco's body. In the last couple of weeks, he had seen dramatic improvement in the areas where Draco had been affected most by the curse. Previously his body had been covered in certain areas by the trademark gruesome red and black bruises that indicated the application of the Cruciatus. The tonic he'd been giving Draco was designed to control the spasms that often attacked the ravaged insides. The spasms always came, and they always prolonged the healing process, and with the amount of torture that had been inflicted on the boy, it should have taken him several weeks yet for this amount of recovery to start showing.

"I thought you understood this, since you seem to pay attention at least half of the time in my classroom…"

He frowned as he carefully put pressure on one of Draco's ribs. It was certainly interesting…the Fermentum had indeed given him strength, and he was healing much faster than Snape expected. But there had been a price for that.

"I do…I mean, it's interesting, all the things you can do with potions…" Draco couldn't help referring, with his tone of voice, to what had been done to him. Snape nodded for him to put his shirt back on and turned to see to the potion.

"But that is not all I can teach you. I have managed to avoid being put under that curse many times in my years of service to the Dark Lord, and that is no small feat. Here…" he had finished stirring the root into the brew and was now scooping the potion into another vial. "This will help with your spasms. Take it once a day until it is gone."

"Thank you, sir…" Draco attempted to make amends for his earlier insult and took the vial obediently. He didn't mention that the spasms had pretty much stopped, and in fact he was feeling very healthy. There seemed to be a need in Snape to take care of him, and there was a small voice in the boy's head that told him he could use this to his advantage down the line.

"How are you feeling?"

"I feel…good. Different."

"No doubt your father would be glad to here that." Snape paused a moment, studying the boy, before placing a hand on Draco's head. "If you need anything else, do not hesitate to come, do you hear?"

"Yes sir."

As he was turning to leave the office, Snape beckoned for the young Slytherin to come back to him. "Draco…" He paused; his features were creased this time with what looked like worry, and he shook his head. "Do you know what this life is—the life as a servant to the Dark Lord?" Draco couldn't think of an answer, and Snape continued, "If it were to become your life now…do you think you would be ready for it?"

These questions had thrown the boy off guard. He had not ever thought about an actual choice—he had never even considered that he had one. The look on his godfather's face…the emotion that was visible in his eyes…it disturbed Draco. The answer to this question was not easy, and Professor Snape knew it. So why was he asking? He and Draco's father had been Death Eaters forever; the Malfoy family was immersed in that world…weren't they? Wasn't Professor Snape?

"What other choice have I? Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers have poisoned our world. Father says since his day there are more of them now, like a disease that's spreading…it's disgusting." He swallowed thickly, feeling his temples burning with nervous energy that was partially excitement and partially trepidation. "Something has to be done about it. I know what the life is, Uncle. My father made sure of that…"

"Are you afraid?"

Snape stared at him for a long time, and Draco stood near the door trying to look as mature and prepared as his father was trying to make him. He wanted to say yes…yes he felt the cold fear within him; he felt the dread. You are a Malfoy; act as such! But the words his father said to him stayed with him always. "No. I'm ready."

Snape looked as if he wanted to say so much more, but he nodded tersely and his features changed back into their usual sternness. "You remembered what I told you about staying away from that girl?"

"Yes…"

"I mean it, Draco. Take that potion—do not go near her again."

"But what if it's not working? I still can't get her out of my-"

"You have to! I don't care how you do it! If you have to stick yourself with a pin and let the pain remind you of yourself, you will do it or so help me…!" He had become upset, and Draco blanched at the sight of such anger. There was a kind of desperation behind it that the boy could not ignore. "The potion can only do so much, do you understand? The rest is up to you. It will be hard at first—you will go through a period of withdrawal that will be unpleasant and unpredictable. You will be confused and angry and you might even suffer physically, but you have to fight the desire, Draco. It is unhealthy. It will lead to your ruin…and she does not belong to you."

Draco felt the anger all over again as he paced in front of the fireplace. No…no she did not belong to him. She—belonged—to—Potter! He kicked a green cushion lying on the floor near his feet clear across the room. She belonged to that revolting, thick-headed, yelling, dirty, second-rate, ugly, ignorant, fucking arsehole Potter! Potter who would just—not—fucking—go—away! The dementors couldn't take care of him, the goddamned Ministry of Magic couldn't shut him up, Umbridge couldn't crush him, and no matter what Draco did he could not be rid of him! And he had some kind of…gigantic, brute force inside him pushing Draco back, blazing and angry…Draco had never seen Potter the way he'd been in the dungeons that once. He was afraid of it; damn it all, he was afraid…but breaking through this fear there was his strongest desire…"Angelina!" he moaned to the empty room. He sank again into the armchair and placed his head in his hands, suddenly getting an ache. "Angelina…"

Potter wasn't fit for her.

Draco's anger and resentment of her had long since given way to something else. It had mutated into something astonishing…he was sick with it…he had taken the tonic Snape gave him, but all it did was make him calm, and the calm allowed him to think. The more he thought…the more he realized that he wasn't really fit for her, either. Or was it the other way around? His father would have him thinking like that. Angelina was a pureblood, which counted in her favor, but she was a Muggle-lover; a blood-traitor, to be a bit more accurate. Her association with the likes of Potter and Granger and those awful Weasleys suggested that she was one of those who believed that pureblood magic was not the most superior way of life. And…she was not fair-skinned or blue-eyed or any of the things that the Malfoys appreciated as traits. He could not understand what—what?—drove him to her. He simply hated the thought that it was a stupid potion that produced such feelings in him. When he was around her…even when she was nowhere near, he thought about her constantly. It was maddening! Angelina was the addictive potion. She drove him to weakness, though he struggled mightily to appear strong in her presence. She thought him detestable and pathetic and it infuriated him. The only thing that made him feel better was having her helpless around him. The only times he felt sane were when she was struggling against him. The power he felt during those times was almost as addictive as she was. Marietta Edgecombe was a poor substitute.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by a flash of green light and a gust of same-colored smoke from the fireplace. Draco looked up sharply to see his father's head resting in the middle of the fireplace surrounded by the ghostly green flames. Elder Malfoy looked angry and put-upon. "Draco?"

"Father!" He stood up abruptly, wiping his damp face, and knelt before his father, whose eyes were darting all around them as if he could not trust his son to have made sure the coast was clear. "What's the matter?"

"There is a warrant out for my arrest," uttered the elder Malfoy in an angry hiss. He finally looked at his son once he was satisfied they were alone. "I have a connection or two at the Ministry and I wasn't tracked here, but there isn't much time…"

"What will you do? Are you going away…?" Draco felt panic mingling with outrage rising up within him. It was Potter's fault…his father was being hunted now by the Ministry and it was Potter's fault!

Lucius sneered, his eyes flashing with intent. "Fudge is a fool. He will regret not protecting me—the money and influence I provided there kept him in office!" Draco merely nodded, fuming silently. "The Dark Lord is furious; though thankfully I was able to remind him that this was Potter's doing. He has given us a chance, Draco." His father paused, watching his son with an appraising eye, before continuing in a malevolent tone: "This is an opportunity we cannot let pass. I shall need your help."

A chill rippled through the fifteen year old but he said nothing.

"What should I do?"

"You have a mission—I give you a task for our cause. Your first before you can take the oath. Are you ready?" Draco knew that this was not truly a question. He knew that whether he was ready or not, this task would be given to him, and he would have to carry it out or he would suffer for it. Unbidden, the last moment of the first night he was tortured came to him as he met his father's chilly expression.

He had watched his mother as she stared after her husband, her gray eyes growing large with fear and anguish. Then she turned her watery gaze on him, her son, and when she saw that he had been watching her she rushed to his side again.

"Draco…oh my boy…are you all right?"

He closed his eyes again as she descended upon him, her long white-blonde hair brushing against his face as her cool hands touched him all over, checking his body for any physical signs of the pain he'd endured. "Mother…" Draco uttered weakly as she kissed his eyelids, cheeks, and lips tenderly. "Mother, please…I'm fine."

"He hurt you…your father hurt you, my poor child."

"Mother, stop it." He had gathered his remaining strength to take hold of her by the wrists and push her gently away. He groaned deeply as a spasm of pain rippled through him and he had to curl up on the bed to cope with it. She whimpered and slipped her wrists out of his grip so she could hold him like a child. He resented this, and he tried to push her away again but he was too weak, and the pain was too much.

He felt the hot tears sting his eyes again and he fought them with all his might. But as Narcissa continued to hold him in her arms, rising to sit on the bed with him and whispering that everything would be all right, he could not help himself. The sob rolled up like a tidal wave and he made a horrible noise just as the tears overcame him. Draco buried his face in his mother's hair, shaking as he cried. She did not cry with him, but held him silently, stroking his damp cheek.

And this moment—here in this deserted common room on the brink of a real war—this would be the last time Draco felt like a child, he was sure of it. He was as sure now as he had been that night when he vowed he would never allow his mother to hold him that way again.

He nodded at his father slowly, not daring to breathe lest he start to shake. "Yes, father…"

Lucius smiled. "You will make me proud, son. I must leave you and your mother now, but if you do this right I will be able to return to our home. Potter will die and with our help the Dark Lord shall return to power again. Think of all the rewards you shall reap if you serve him well!"

Draco let his father's words wash over him. Perhaps…these rewards…perhaps if he did well and made the Dark Lord proud…he could have whatever he wanted. Perhaps he could have Angelina…

And his father spoke again, bringing him out of his fantasy.

"Draco, your task is simple. You must bring me the girl Angelina."

"Harry."
He opened his eyes.

Angelina was standing near his bed, her gaze blazing with determination. He frowned up at her, still fighting off the strong hold of drowsiness within him. He had not been sleeping, but trying to avoid succumbing to the dark abyss that would surely melt into another terrifying dream for hours now. Before she spoke his name, he had been losing the fight. Harry sat up in bed and sighed. "Angelina…you really shouldn't have come over here. Please, I can't…I need you to stay away for a little while."

She ignored his rejection and held out her free hand to him, her dark eyes glinting in the faint light from the quarter moon in the black sky. Hedwig hooted quietly as they stared at each other and Angelina parted her lips to whisper to him.

"Let's go for a ride."

Harry felt powerful desire rise up in him, a longing he had forgotten about until this very moment and those words. He looked to see that she was dressed in her nightgown, jeans, and her Quidditch boots. She held her broom with his in her other hand. He stared at the silver letters 'Firebolt' before his gaze rose again to meet hers.

"Get your cloak, come on."

Without saying anything, Harry got up as she asked and pulled on his jeans and a light sweater over his t-shirt. He took up his glasses from the nightstand and stuck his feet in his Chucks, bending over to lace them up. When he stood upright again, she was holding out his broom to him. "Where to; the pitch?" he breathed, taking it firmly and reaching down to retrieve his cloak from its usual spot under his mattress.

"Wherever you want…"

Together they snuck out of the Tower and walked very carefully through the halls, both breathing as quietly as possible. Neither of them said much as they walked. This wasn't just because talking would get them caught. It was because Harry knew what she was trying to do, and he had so much to say…he felt so much right then that he hadn't a clue how to explain himself. He had said some nasty things to her earlier that day; he had hurt her feelings. And not just hers of course. He yelled at Hermione and dismissed Ron. His silence as he followed her out of the castle had to do with him loving her so much, and him wanting to enjoy this moment the way he would if he didn't have to worry about Voldemort hurting her because of him.

Angelina sensed his apprehension—he held onto her waist as they moved along under the cloak and she could even feel in his short, tight breathing against her hair that he was thinking very hard about something. His face as she bade him come with her to fly was full of emotion…his eyes held that same fierceness they had when he was pacing in the common room the night Dumbledore left.

In the library earlier that day, Hermione had whispered her concerns and they matched Angelina's. "He's pushing us away…something happened. He's scared."

"Scared or just mental?" Ron griped, still upset about it though Hermione had apparently wiped away her tears and was now looking as unhurt as she had before it happened. Hermione gave him a squeeze on the hand and he sighed, relenting. "He did look kind of funny, I guess."

"He said something really terrible to me when the two of you left. It wasn't like him at all. And…" Angelina felt her heart go heavy with dread. "…he was rubbing his scar. It was hurting him. I should have stayed and forced him to talk to me."

"We can't force him, you heard," Ron said. "He doesn't want us around."

"Yes, but why?" Hermione looked at them both despairingly. "It was more than just being annoyed with me; more than being frustrated with Occlumency."

It was small comfort that Harry had declared he would find a way to master Occlumency on his own—it did little to squash the plain fact that if he hadn't yet mastered it with a tutor (even one as aggressive as Snape) then it was prudent to believe he didn't have a strong chance of doing it now.

She hadn't seen Harry at dinner, and heard from Ron and Hermione that he'd been sitting with Neville in all of their classes. Neville wasn't around at dinner, either, and neither was McGonagall or Tonks or Snape. Hermione pointed out that all three teachers were in the Order, and they guessed there was a meeting taking place somewhere. "They're probably confronting Snape about that memory," said Ron, staring at the empty spaces at the staff table. "I'll bet Harry's in there with them. I hope they kick Snape out on his greasy arse. And Malfoy along with him."

"But what will that mean for the Order?" Ginny asked quietly, causing Ron to make a face at her. "If you listen to mum and dad tell it, Ron, Snape has been a very valuable spy for our side."

"That's what he wants everyone to think." Ron maintained bitterly. "But I believe Harry."

No one added to this, but simply sat in silence the rest of the meal, and they had no idea that the tide would soon turn, both for the better and for the worse. And it would start in the Room of Requirement, where Harry and Neville would spend hours that night.

Harry hit the wall hard and fell down with only his forearms to brace him against the stone floor. Across the room, Neville stood panting; his eyes grew wide with fear that he had hurt Harry with the lasso spell he'd been working on for days. "You all right?"

Harry let out a grunt and nodded, slowly getting up. When he managed to shake off the pain that bounced through his whole body from the impact, he grinned and wiped his sweaty brow. "You finally got the hang of that one—good move."

"Yeah?" Neville beamed, also shining slightly from sweat. "I've been practicin' but it doesn't translate as well with no one else around. Just been using books and stuff. Wasn't sure I could pull it off."

Harry was sore, and so was Neville, but that was a minor thing the boys were prepared to deal with in light of what they had been discovering for the last hour and a half. Harry had gone up to the common room straight after he left McGonagall's office. He had been filled with anger, filled with fiery restlessness, and needing to expend this energy somehow. He found Neville and whispered, "Can we go now? Like, right now?"

"Eh…yeah sure."

"Good."

They both skipped dinner and headed up to the Room of Requirement. When they arrived, they hadn't really planned to be dueling for hours, but a quick chat in which Neville said it was better to show Harry what he could do rather than just talking about it made up their minds. Harry soon found after only a few minutes that everything he had learned—the stances, the battle charms, the meditation—it was only scratching the surface. What Neville had begun to discover during his lone sessions in the Room of Requirement was that he could be faster, more precise, more powerful in his execution, and that battle charms and jinxes and hexes could be combined in one or two quick moves that doubled the effect on the opponent. The stances helped; acting as a bridge between whatever two (or three if one had the skill to pull it off) attacks the duelist chose to use at a particular time.

"Neville, how long have you been coming up here by yourself?"

"I came up here every night if I could, but no one noticed…" Neville answered, and Harry realized this other boy had probably been feeling unnoticed his whole life, though this time he used that to his advantage. "I've been doing it since we started learnin' the meditation, and over break I snuck away when my Gran was taking her naps."

"But we're not allowed to use magic outside of school…"

"Oh no I just read and meditated. I know you need a release of power but I used my Gran's wand and did little stuff…nobody came. I was scared they'd catch me, but…nobody did."

Neville had been learning mostly by tinkering around randomly, but when he began to feel he was onto something, he made another discovery. It was a dusty book that was several hundred years old. It was called Master Duelist, Volume One. Neville found no other volumes, and when they longed for them in the Room, they did not appear. Harry could not recall coming across it when he was doing his hasty preparation for the duel on the pitch. What was in this book opened Harry's eyes to a whole new method of teaching. He had fooled himself through his anger into thinking that he had learned something, and so passed that knowledge onto the D.A. immediately. But in this book, Harry saw that he had been quite naïve.

"Where did you get this?" asked Harry, turning the pages carefully.

Neville paused, seemingly debating something with himself, before answering, "It was given to me."

"By who?"

"I don't know…does it matter?"

"Well," Harry frowned at it. He was certain now that he'd never seen in it the library. "Yeah, kind of. How was it given to you?"

"I got it a couple of days before Valentine's Day. I mean, it was a bit odd actually," he admitted. "I'd spent the whole Christmas break being really excited about learning to duel, and then one day I get this parcel from a post owl. There was a note but it wasn't signed."

"What did it say?"

" 'I see you've taken an interest, so please allow me to feed it. You will make your parents proud yet, Neville.' And it was signed 'a friend'. That's all."

Harry wondered who had been watching Neville so closely. He thought he knew of someone, and this confirmed something Snape had yelled at him during an explosive Occlumency lesson. You are not the center of Dumbledore's universe…

He didn't mention his theory to Neville, who seemed happy enough that he had the book and was learning something. He went on explaining things to Harry, and Harry listened, putting Dumbledore's curious actions aside.

"The meditation seems to open a lot up to you, but I didn't get faster till after a lot of tries."

Harry realized that he had not meditated that often. In fact, whenever they did D.A. meetings, people usually wanted to just get on with the dueling. Since there were so many of them, he agreed it would take too long to wait, and he liked to practice with them one by one most times. When he did do the exercise…well usually something explosive followed. Or something strange. In Umbridge's office…in Snape's…floating desk, Patronus...Voldemort.

Harry and Neville were not the same. Harry determined early on that the other boy's revelation had little to do with his own, so he kept quiet while Neville explained himself. Apparently, according to Neville, the more you did it, the easier it became, and the better you got. But of course having a limited knowledge of dueling itself hindered his progress, and having no one to test things out on proved problematic as well.

The book revealed eight more stances, each serving a different kind of spell. There was a set of stances for defensive spells like the shield charm and the deflector charm; a set for a wide range of offensive spells that sectioned off in categories that ranged from physical harm to the opponent to spells that affected the very environment around you in order to gain the upper hand. Common sense, beginner's stuff as it was—Harry had not yet begun to delve into the practical application of these methods and as exciting as it was, it was frustrating as all hell. Months…months of today we're learning Shield Charms…let's do Stinging Hexes tonight…oh hey guys you've finally managed to get these stances down, now let's see you actually throw spells at each other...

"Well, Neville why didn't you tell me? We could've been doing this in the D.A. the whole time."

Harry was more curious than angry. Obviously, Neville had waited until he could prove something to him before he revealed himself, and Harry wanted to understand why. It wouldn't have been a competition or a conflict if Neville had simply told Harry what was going on. Hell, some days Harry could have used the help teaching.

"I don't know," Neville said at first before faltering under Harry's gaze. "I mean—I've never been particularly good at anythin' my whole life. My Gran says I'm a mediocre wizard and that if I don't get a backbone…" he paused, swallowing his words. "When I got that letter, and I started comin' here by myself…I felt…" he didn't finish.

Harry felt a pang of empathy for Neville, and he remembered the expression on his fellow D.A. member's face in St. Mungo's.

"You're not mediocre, Neville."

"No…" Neville said, staring at his wand gravely. "I won't be anymore." He looked up at Harry again. "I kept it to myself for so long because I figured it couldn't hurt to let people keep thinking I'm rubbish. Malfoy and all those gits…if they mess with me again…I'll show them who's a fat slug!"

Harry took the time to appreciate Neville's anger, and he could definitely relate. He scoffed at himself. "I saw you were getting better—I thought I was helping." He laughed out loud. "Maybe you should be teaching the D.A. Neville."

"No, I-I couldn't. I just want to learn how to fight. I think I really need to keep doing this…it makes me feel really good…" he blushed furiously and avoided Harry's gaze as though extremely embarrassed to be feeling good about himself.

"Show me what you can do, then, yeah?" Harry changed the subject, smiling encouragingly.

Neville nodded enthusiastically; they rolled up their sleeves, bowed, and began.

Harry and Angelina made it outside and were almost down at the threshold of the pitch when he threw the cloak off of them and turned Angelina around by the arm to face him. The air outside was damp and still. The quarter moon was very bright. Harry felt the words rise up until they pressed painfully on his chest and he opened his mouth, whispering, "…I'm sorry…"
Angelina lifted her chin, her eyes pouring into his, and he reached an arm around her waist to hold her closer to him.

He needed to have her close to him…

"Angelina," he continued whispering, his eyes flickering urgently, "I have something to tell you. God, you have to listen to me because if anything happens…"

"If what happens, Harry?"

"I had a dream, and Voldemort was in it. It was really him. He told me…" the pressure rose up again but Harry swallowed it down. He knew what to call it, this intense tightness that he was experiencing in his heart and lungs. It was fear. Real, gut-wrenching fear and he held her even tighter as somewhere in the forest an owl hooted. "He said he's found me. Like he can…he can see me."

Angelina had placed her hand on his chest when he brought her to him, and now she drew her fingers into his shirt and her mouth came open slightly. His face was stricken with almost child-like panic and his grip on her was desperate. "What do you mean, he can see you?"

Harry swallowed again. "It was more than that. I felt his intentions; I felt his desire to hurt everyone I care about. He didn't say it, but I know he can see you too…all of you. He's waiting inside me-in my head. He's going to use me to hurt you."

"Harry-"

"Listen to me!" he raised his voice, his eyes burning. Angelina narrowed her own at him. His voice had changed again, and all traces of that 'child-like' panic had disappeared in an instant. Now he was looking at her gravely; so very intensely. Yes, Angelina decided, now was the time to listen because he was looking at her as though she were already lost to him—that was not good. She began to feel her own panic rising steadily. "Do you know why I said those things to you earlier? It was because I couldn't stop it—it was because of him! And tonight, he came again—it was really painful. I felt hatred…hatred…but it was his hatred for me! He's getting inside."

"Oh god…"

He wanted to tell her exactly what happened, but he just couldn't bring himself to scare her like that. He knew his own fear when it was going on, and if that was any indication, he could imagine how scared she would be; both for him and of him; if he told her.

"I should have tried harder but now it's too late. And the only thing I can do is prepare myself; and the D.A. needs to start preparing as well. Something is going on—some things are about to change, Angelina. But just to be safe, until I can figure out exactly what to do, you and the others have to-"

She cut him off abruptly, her eyes blazing with defiance. "No."

Harry shook his head slowly. "I'm not giving you the choice, Angelina."

"I will not let you push me away again, and that's the end of it, Harry."

He didn't respond right away, only breathed slowly, holding her close.

Angelina felt she should do something; she couldn't let him fade into whatever bleak world was eating away at him; alone and afraid. They studied each other's faces and touched their lips together. Harry savored the feel of her soft lips against his. When they pulled apart again, she sighed and frowned thoughtfully. Choosing her words carefully, she endeavored to pull him away from that darkness.

"You've been going through a lot. You feel like you don't know yourself anymore."

He nodded. "You have no idea…"

"Will you do something for me?" she said softly, her voice sweet and comforting. Harry closed his eyes and nodded again, bringing his forehead to rest on hers. "Will you please trust that I can take care of myself, and know that I know you'd never do anything to hurt me or your friends?"

He sighed. "I wish it were that simple."

"It is. It can be." He opened his eyes again to find her smiling. "Let's go. I know something that'll make you feel better."

Harry reluctantly allowed her to remove herself from his grip and she took him by the hand, leading him to the gate. They climbed over and Harry tied his cloak around one of the iron bars for safekeeping.

Suddenly Angelina broke into a run, sprinting across the pitch with her arms wide open and her hair swinging all around. "Come on!"

Harry's heart leapt, and though he still felt ill at ease, he ran after her. They met in the middle of the pitch and he breathed in the scent of the grass in the air, closed his eyes, and exhaled. He looked again to find her smiling at him brilliantly and before she could speak he leaned in and captured her mouth again, kissing her several times gratefully before peeling his lips away.

"I know what you're doing..."

"Is it working?"

Harry paused, and asked: "Why don't you just get as far away from me as possible? How can you put up will all of this…?"

"Because you're a tough little bean and great in the sack." He swatted at her and she ducked, laughing at him. Seconds later, though, her smile faded slightly and that…blazing determination…began again in her eyes. "I'm not going to pretend—I'm scared. But I'm not going anywhere."

Harry simply breathed; watching her and letting her words wash over him.

"I love you Harry."

He believed it with her looking at him like that. Yes…yes he could do it if she were there to support him. Harry's emotions were always so quick, sometimes thoughtless, but not where she was concerned in this moment. She produced a slow burn in him that made things seem clearer.

"Let's fly!"

They mounted their brooms, Harry's heart beat so fast, and he kicked off.

The sensation of his body lifting from the ground; that zoom of air in his ears; that dip in his stomach as he shot up and away; was far and beyond the grandest feeling he'd had in a long time. Goddamn it felt good to fly again! Harry looked around to see Angelina chasing him around the pitch, and he grinned as he sped up, ducking and coming up again and looping in a big circle until he was behind her. She turned and came towards him and when they met she made a silly face at him before they passed each other again. "Hahaaaah!" Harry yelled, accelerating as fast as he could to catch up with her as they circled around and around.

They chased each other and flew along side each other around the pitch until they came to a breathless pause in the middle, both grinning happily.

"How do you feel?" she panted, a lazy smile on her face.

"Brilliant." He said firmly. "You're brilliant, you know that?"

"I do…" He moved closer to her, leaned over, and gave her a sweaty peck on the mouth. She grabbed his sweater, pulling him precariously closer before giving him a deeper, more sensual kiss. "You see Harry I know who you are. You have to find things that make you happy. Flying makes you happy, right?"

"Yes…" he breathed, looking into her eyes. "You make me happy, too."

"Then as long as we stick together, it'll be fine. Stop pushing me away. I trust you, Harry. You trust me, now, okay?"

"Angelina I'll do anything for you…" Harry hadn't really expected to ever say this aloud, but he realized as he hovered in mid air with her hands on him that it was true. He had fallen butt-crazy, arse-over-elbows in love with her, Merlin help him. She responded by beaming beautifully and gesturing to the forest and lake beyond the pitch.

"Let's get some exercise."

"What do you call what we just did?"

"A warm up. Come on, let's go! Don't stop moving—don't stop or the world will end!"

She was off again, and he almost fell off his broom but righted himself just in time. Harry watched her go, squinting at her form in the moonlight, hoping against hope that she was right about everything being okay, before going after her. The wind whistled in his ears and whipped his hair all around. Harry watched the trees approaching; he saw the castle on his right looming dark and majestic.

The black surface of the lake showed two figures moving with incredible speed as he caught up with her. They skirted the lake daringly before propelling up just as they reached the net of trees beyond it. Side by side, they flew along the forest top, and Harry heard the music of his Firebolt slicing through the air.

He put all his balance in his legs and lifted his hands slowly, closing his eyes and letting the wind rush coolly over his face.

Angelina turned to watch him, feeling so very relieved that his intensity from before was extinguished for the moment. They flew lower so that they could almost see the bottom of the forest. Angelina watched Harry and Harry's eyes were closed in blissful meditation…

So when something came out of the forest and swiped at Angelina, she barely knew what was happing until she'd been struck hard and began the perilous fall.

Harry heard her let out a yelp and his eyes snapped open to find that she wasn't there. His heart exploding with burning panic, Harry looked down and saw that she was falling from the air. He had no time to react properly because whatever it was came up again and he felt himself being knocked forward hard. Harry began to fall as well, and as he did he yelled while the trees swallowed them both up.

"AH!" He hit a branch, which snapped under his weight. "Whoa-ah!" He slid down the side of the tree, the bark scraping his skin painfully and tearing at his sweater. "FUUUCK!" He bounced off another branch that did not break, and it knocked the wind right out of him. "Oof!" he rolled over off the branch and fell five or six more feet to the ground with a thud, causing him to bite his tongue.

When he was able to eek out some twitching semblance of movement, Harry opened his eyes and saw through his now cracked spectacles that Angelina was lying on the ground a few feet away next to a huge, lumpy rock. "Angelina…" he uttered. "Are you okay?"

She sat up slowly, but did not look over at Harry. Instead she raised her head to the treetops, her mouth dropping open as she stared at something resting there. Harry spit out the blood that was collecting in his mouth and winced as he propped himself up too.

"Hey…can you see what the hell that was?"

"Oh my god…" she whispered shakily, still gaping at something in those trees.

"What?" Harry couldn't quite muster the energy to crawl over to her just yet. "What do you see?"

What the hell had knocked them out of the sky? What had they hit that would…?

The lumpy rock moved. Harry blinked, thinking maybe he was imagining it. But no…it moved again; this time slowly and deliberately. And then the five lumps it possessed curled over slightly as it moved into the moonlight, and Harry could swear that this rock looked like a giant foot with five huge toes…

Angelina scrambled on her hands and butt as fast as she could backwards towards Harry, still staring up above them. A deep, rumbling, disturbing sound came from those trees. Harry followed Angelina's gaze to a pair of large, scary-looking eyes nestled in the shadows maybe twenty-five feet above them—and he realized then that the sound was words.

"If you come any closer…I will tear you apart, little birds."

Harry stood in form, the rigid positioning of his arms and his wand now practiced and familiar to him, his back straight, his gaze a steady line across the room at Neville, who stood just the same. There was silence; the air in the Room of Requirement was thick with the combined mixture of sweaty activity, hot breath from various grunting and yelling that escaped them, and the sheer adrenaline they were building up and exercising out as they went along. Sweat sprouted from the pores on Harry's forehead and ran down the side of his brow in a thin line until it was caught on the wire frame of his glasses as he waited for Neville to make a move. "Again…" he breathed. "Ready?" The other boy nodded gravely, his eyes squinting in concentration. Neville had lost the last duel—Harry got him by hitting him with a body bind because he left himself open. He followed that up by disarming his fellow D.A. member before he even hit the ground. He grinned now, unable to suppress the excitement he was feeling at the thought of Neville's retaliation. What would this kid pull out of his sleeve next, eh?
Didn't have time to guess.

Neville charged at him, and Harry propelled himself forward as well, the grin still leaving his face as a streak of red light blurred his vision. He twisted his body away on instinct, while at the same time incanting a deflector spell that sent Neville's charm right back at him. He was hit in the shoulder and stumbled back just as Harry hit the floor on his side, rolling over as fast as he could to avoid Neville's other spell that had followed the first one immediately—a combo that would have taken a chunk out of the floor had Harry not deflected the first one.

"This one's gonna hurt-!" Neville grunted from his position on his back on the ground as Harry jumped to his feet. Two more jets of same-colored light intended to both give a jolt of electric shock and burn wherever they landed erupted from his wand. Neville had done a fine job of coming up with spell combos from the lists in the second chapter. These spells were not particularly difficult to master—which was one of the reasons Harry was having a hard time accepting that there was only one volume of this handy little book. He had found the shock and burn among the lists of handy little offensive spells in the book and had shown them to Harry excitedly, explaining that when used together they would hurt like hell. Harry recognized the wrist movement almost too late.

"Whoa-WHOA!" Harry threw up a shield as Neville's spell combination came zooming towards him. Once they were absorbed and died away, Neville was already up and Harry had to react fast again, bidding his wand perform a spell he'd only just seen and memorized an hour ago. "Urgh-ah!" he lunged forward, unsure if he could pull it off, and grunted the incantation that twirled Neville around several times on his feet like a spinning top. The other boy stumbled as Harry ducked away and got behind him, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in focus, but Neville surprised him. He spun around once again on his own to meet Harry, and throwing his opponent off-guard, made the wrist movement Harry recognized as the one necessary to deliver an invisible fist slamming into his body. Still surprised, Harry didn't think fast enough, and he was struck with a blow to the groin. Potter fell to the floor, coughing and curling up in agony. He lay cradling his abused balls in his hands for a few moments while Neville apologized profusely for getting carried away. "Can you…" Harry swallowed down his pain and rolled over to get up again, "Just…take it easy on the groin, okay?"

"S-Sure Harry. Sorry."

"Neville," Harry rubbed sweat from his face and shook his head at the other boy. "Stop apologizing. I'm the one who feels like a prat. I missed the point of this whole thing before. I was in such a hurry then to cause some pain; I just didn't get it. No wonder I got my arm broken…"

"Eh?"

"Nothing…" Harry coughed again, saliva collecting in his mouth, before swallowing and blowing out the last of his pain through his lips. "Good move, really."

"Cheers." Neville watched Harry for a beat, probably trying to decide if he should apologize again, before tapping his wand in the palm of his free hand enthusiastically. "You see? It's like you told us before, only I didn't get the hang of it at first—you can already be getting your counter spell out before your enemy hits you." Neville's plump cheeks were red and shining. "And I've been trying to use those spells in the second chapter there but I didn't know if I was performing them properly until now. It's excitin' isn't it, Harry?"

"Hell yeah…"

They took a small breather and Harry thought. Progress…had they been making progress in the D.A.? Certainly…but no one could do this. He found his own one-spell, one-move-at-a-time method of learning and teaching dueling almost laughable when he experienced some of the firepower Neville had accumulated over his months of private brainstorming.

Harry remembered the first book he read. Had he completely misinterpreted it? It spoke of the wand, and how a wizard's wand was truly an extension of himself. How during a duel, a wizard could use his wand as a radar that tuned into his core of magic. How after a wizard locked onto his or her very core (using the meditation, fuck all, Harry really should have pushed that on them more), they could perform more easily and more accurately. Like Neville said—they were taking steps to grow to a point where all they had to do was think it, aim, and it would manifest itself. They would grow faster, more adept to other wizards' moves, and the longer they did this obviously the better they would become. The book he'd been given was so advanced that it diagramed all sorts of complicated moves and the meditation exercise was simply a given, mentioned only in the forward at the beginning. Neville had been studying these diagrams for weeks, and what he deciphered he showed Harry tonight.

Harry wondered how many countless hours Voldemort had spent before he became the Dark Lord sparring with people, dueling, meditating; tapping into his core. And Dumbledore…Harry imagined Dumbledore didn't even need any meditation; he imagined Dumbledore's instincts were so fine-tuned by now that he could defeat anyone he came up against…could he defeat Voldemort if they dueled?

Harry wanted to be that powerful. He needed to be. He didn't understand why Dumbledore couldn't see this about him. Occlumency wasn't what he needed—it was skills like this. Skills that could turn him into the kind of wizard who wouldn't hide from Voldemort before being forced to duel with him. No, he no longer wanted to hide. He wanted to fight, just as much as Neville, if not more so.

Neville was right—it was bloody exciting. It was more involved and more intense. It was the same amount of adrenaline as his glimpse of this on the pitch, but there was more to it than simply wanting to beat the shit out of an enemy. He was trying to learn these things because they were tools that could serve him, and serve him well, down the line…when he would need them. When he would truly need them. Neville knew this and understood this. He had been operating with this attitude for months by himself.

It had been the driving force behind the D.A. that somehow got deluded in Marietta's complaining and Harry's relationship problems—they needed to learn the skills necessary to defend themselves in any (from the simplest to the gravest) situation and they weren't getting that in Umbridge's classroom. Fighting in this room with his dorm mate for going on three hours had reinvigorated that ideal for him tenfold.

Harry came out of his thoughts and nodded to Neville, hungry to take in as much as possible. "Again. Let's go again."

"All right, mate." Neville grinned, readying himself.

They went on for an hour more—ducking and dodging and throwing spells at each other zealously. They got angry, they got frustrated with themselves and each other—more than once Harry cursed under his breath when he was bested by Neville, catching himself in the disbelieve that this plump boy could out-maneuver him. Then there were more times than that where Harry's excellent Seeker reflexes and actual confidence in his abilities thwarted Neville's efforts to gain the upper hand. The other boy lost his confidence frequently, allowing Harry to catch him off guard and surprise him. In fact, it was only in retaliation from these moments that Neville really showed himself—his need to prove himself to Harry seemed great, and Harry was amazed at the other boy's skill level. If not for his lack of confidence, Neville's skill level alone would make him a better duelist than Harry. That's not to say that Harry wasn't pretty good himself. He was better than Neville because of his confidence and his ability to adapt quickly to his opponent's tactics. He picked up on Neville's way of working out the stances the book taught them as though he were trying to be one of those diagrams—he was fast, yes, and he knew what he was doing but he was too afraid to let go and know he could do it without second-guessing himself. Still…they were both learning a lot from each other, and that was why they were there.

At the end of the hour, Neville got him with a combination of the Accio and the Trip Jinx. Harry was knocked off his feet and then found himself being pulled forward on the ground with speedy force towards his opponent, who quick as a flash disarmed him by sending his wand crashing into the wall across the room. "That's how many for me now?" Neville breathed, sounding a bit unlike himself. Harry smiled and allowed himself to be hoisted up. Neville handed him his wand and they took another break. "Not that I'm counting or anythin'…"

Harry grinned and rolled his eyes. "Of course you're not. Just give me a minute; I'll get you for that last one."

Neville suggested they do their meditation again. "It's really great for focus, you know? I mean, I know in a real duel you won't just be able to take a break and go off into a corner, but like you said…the more you practice it, the more centered you become until it's like breathing. You're just there."

Harry shook his head and sighed. "I've kind of been using the meditation for something else…uh…other than…dueling."

Neville stared at him with a confused expression on his red, sweaty face. "What other?" he asked through intakes of breath.

Harry winced at the lingering ache in his nethers from earlier and resolved to do a bit of confessing. They asked the room for water, sitting on the floor to catch their breath. "Do you remember that night I beat the snot out of Malfoy in the dungeons?"

Neville nodded. "Yeah. That was strange…"

"It was. But that's not all." Harry told Neville about his power, about the things he had done, and the reasons behind his situation. He told Neville of Voldemort's hold on him, about his dreams, even about Occlumency. He felt no need to hide these things anymore; there was something about Neville right then…something about what they had been doing for nearly three hours…that simply washed away all pretense, all denial. Harry found the more he talked, the more he wanted to share—all the little things he'd been keeping to himself spilled from his mouth and Neville didn't say a word. He didn't ask any questions and he didn't interrupt with his own theories. He simply listened.

When Harry had finished: "Whatever it is, it just comes out whenever it feels like it—which is usually when I'm so angry I can't see straight. If I could just use it the way I want to use it…"

"I think you can." Neville said simply.

Harry shook his head. "Not at the rate I'm going…"

"Well…if I can do this," he gestured around them at nothing in particular, meaning the dueling, "then I know you can do that, Harry. Wandless magic like that doesn't come 'round often, according to my Dad…only really, really powerful wizards can do what you're doing…"

"Yeah, but…I'm no match for Voldemort."

Neville swallowed thickly upon hearing that name, and Harry shook his head apologetically. The other boy paused for a moment, allowing the color to fill his face again as he let the chill from hearing Voldemort's name pass, before adding: "None of us are…but like you said—it doesn't matter. We'll still have to fight."

"Yeah…" Harry sighed heavily. "I don't bloody know, Neville. At this rate I'm starting not to care," he joked bitterly, knowing full well that he did care a great deal. "Maybe if he comes again, he'll get comfortable and he can dispose of a few people for me…" Harry sat staring darkly at a spot on the floor, unwilling to take back what he said. He lingered there in sourness, allowing his hatred of Malfoy and Snape to marinate within him until Neville spoke up.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that, Harry. You don't really mean it…do you?"

Harry looked up at him, paused, and shook his head again before standing up. "No I don't really mean that. Sorry…"

Neville stood up too, continuing, "Because…if you want to get rid of them you can do it yourself. Or I can help you. You-Know-Who wouldn't see it coming at all, would he? I'll bet that would change his mind about you, wouldn't it?"

Harry did not answer.

To move on from the awkward silence befalling them, he suggested they spar again for a little while longer. Neville was all for it.

They stood at the ready, waiting for someone to make the first move, and then Harry acted—throwing a spell with a lightening-fast flick of his wrist. The red light hit Neville head on. The shield the other boy threw up shattered apart and Neville was struck in the face by Harry's blow, caught off guard, and stumbled back, dropping his defensive stance. Harry's eyebrows came up in surprise and he watched as gashes opened up and blood ran from Neville's nose and mouth. "Oh…fuck…Neville, I'm…"

Neville touched his fingers to his bleeding lips and looked at the crimson stuff for a second. Silently, he leaned over to spit some of it out before he looked back up at Harry. His expression was, for perhaps the first time since Harry had known him, unreadable. Harry was stuck for what to do for a moment—he hadn't meant to draw blood. Well…yes he had, because that was exactly the purpose of the particular hex he had used. It was designed to open a wound wherever it hit; to spill blood; to inflict pain. He didn't know why he did that, but it didn't seem to matter. Neville said nothing, only raised his wand in the air and whipped it down hard. Harry saw the fiery yellow lash of magic coming out of its tip and reacted by meeting it with his own, reddish orange one. The two magic whips latched onto each other and both boys yanked as hard as they could. Neville's whip won out, and Harry found himself being pulled almost off his feet as he flew towards his opponent.

He tried to twist away, but he only gave Neville the opportunity to wrap the whip of magic around his throat—Harry felt it near his skin warm and stinging a little like many pins sticking him at once before it tightened and cut off his air supply. He stumbled backward, now grunting for the lack of air to breathe and the stinging of Neville's whip—his own had snapped away and died out once Neville got him by the neck. Neville heaved and then Harry was being physically dragged. He tried to aim his wand backwards, shooting Stunners and Disarmers blindly before the whip tightened and the pin-prick pain grew more intense so that he choked and sputtered out Neville's name.

"Get out of it, Harry. Don't just try and Stun me…" Neville said in a strange voice as he pulled harder until Harry was kicking all about on his bum at Longbottom's feet. Anger rose up from his breathless fighting and Harry reached up, making a slicing motion across the rope-like strands of glowing magic with his wand. The whip was severed and Harry fell to his back, but didn't even allow the air to completely fill his lungs again before he landed another spell that sent the slightly plump boy flying into the wall behind him, just as a harsh clapping sound rang out in the room. Harry looked up from where he lay, his wand drawn, to find Mad Eye Moody standing by the door. He clapped hard and slow, his magical eye electric blue and staring right along with his normal one at Harry and Neville.

"Hey…" Neville breathed, climbing up from the floor behind Harry and spitting out more blood. "Are you…?"

"Mad Eye Moody," Harry said quietly, lowering his wand as the ex-Auror stopped clapping and moved into the dim light from the lamps hanging overhead. "The real one."

"Evening, Potter. And who's this?" His magical eye shifted to look at Neville while his other stayed on Harry.

Neville held the back of his hand up to his bleeding face, his eyes narrowed at the elder wizard; extreme curiosity about Moody's presence evident in them. Harry felt the same curiosity filling him as he got up from the ground, and Neville answered, "Neville Longbottom, sir. Fifth year with Harry in Gryffindor." Harry noticed, even with the other boy's words muffled by his hand , that Neville did not stutter.

"Longbottom, eh? I knew your parents, boy."

"I know, sir." Neville said, standing up straight and wiping blood from his face. "You still do. They're not dead."

Mad Eye scoffed but inclined his head respectfully. "No…they aren't are they?"

"What's going on?" Harry asked, causing the magical eye to land on his face once again. "Are we in trouble?"

"I was just passing by," he gestured to the door as the eye rolled around once in its socket. "And I saw you two in here." Harry remembered that Mad Eye could see through walls, though he doubted the ex-Auror had only been 'passing by'. "I've been watching you for a bit-" he sniffed and clasped his hands behind his back. "-and I liked what I saw."

"Neville was just showing me some stuff. We're gonna teach it in the D.A." Harry told him, totally unafraid of his reaction.

Mad Eye nodded his approval and walked further into the room. He smiled at them sourly. "Good idea, Potter. Though I wonder what good that will do."

Harry bristled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Mad Eye's mad eye burrowed into him, gleaming and unusual, "…are you prepared to put some real work in? Are you prepared to do away with childish jinxes and start learning some real fighting? Some real magic? Are you prepared…to put what you're learning to use?"

Harry's heart snuck away from even beating and steadily climbed towards excited hammering in his sweaty chest. He knew that Neville was probably feeling about the same right then. "Well you said you were watching us…" came his answer without hesitation. "What do you think?"

Moody's smile grew wider, and more electric. "And what about this D.A. of yours? Are they prepared as well?"

"I've already spoken to them about it, sir. They know the war is coming."

"Do they, now?"

"We do, sir." Neville spoke up, coming to stand beside Harry, his wand at his side.

Moody considered them for a bit, and then removed his wand from his worn, brown leather holster. "Show me what you can do, then."

Harry's eyes flickered at the man, trying to gauge just how serious he was, and just where all this had come from. What was he even doing in the castle this time of night? And had he come here specifically to find Harry and tell him all this stuff about learning 'real magic' and putting it to 'use'? Before Harry could ask these questions, Neville spoke again; the blood on his mouth and nose now clotted and dry. "Both of us, sir?"

The ex-Auror nodded gruffly. "If you think you're up to it."

"Does Professor McGonagall know you're here?" Harry asked as he and Neville raised their wands. They moved to either side of him and got themselves ready as Moody let out a raspy chuckle.

"You gonna keep asking me questions, Potter, or are you gonna fight?"

Harry smiled, too. "Okay then."

Before he even got his mouth closed, a streak of silver light was flying towards him.

The eyes were the color of the burnt horizon just before sundown.
The black depths of the irises gleamed down at Harry and Angelina, who sat crouched on the floor of the forest, frozen in place. Harry swallowed a thick knot of apprehension down and with it his gaze moved lower, trying to make out what those eyes were attached to. There was a neck thicker than the thickest trunk of the biggest tree Harry had seen in the forest. The shoulders were broad and wide and heaving; they sloped down to a massive chest rising and falling in shadow. Then the torso, the legs, the hands that Harry was sure were easily the size of Hagrid's cabin …

The feet that had looked like lumpy boulders.

The thing moved again, and Angelina caught Harry's arm in a death grip, causing him to wince.

"Amusing…watching you fall…better than the others." The breath that rumbled out of this thing's nostrils swayed the branches; it echoed in Harry's bones; those eyes peered down at them, totally unkind, and bizarrely intelligent.

Harry felt more blood collecting in his mouth and he swallowed that, too, momentarily disgusted by the taste, before meeting the giant's eyes again. "We're not birds," he spoke very carefully. "We're students. Harry," he touched himself on the chest, "and Angelina." He touched her on the arm. She squeezed him tighter.

The eyes moved from his face to hers and then were draped in darkness as it blinked slowly. "And what, little students, are you doing flying like birds over the forest at such a late hour?"

Harry warily eyed the giant fists that he could just make out through what little moonlight poked through the net of trees. "We didn't know you were here," he responded, his heart racing painfully. "We didn't mean any harm."

He inched his free hand closer to his pocket, thinking of his wand that rested inside. He didn't know what spell in his repertoire could possibly take down a giant, but he figured anything was worth a try.

There was a long, uneasy pause, and then it moved again, this time raising its frightening hand up to its chest and saying, "I am Grawp."

Harry very slowly removed his arm from Angelina's grip and stood up. His hand still in his pocket, he nodded at the huge thing. "Grawp? Uh…how did you get here?" He figured if he could keep Grawp talking, and maybe steer the conversation away from any further thoughts on tearing anyone apart, he and Angelina could make a run for it.

Grawp's head moved slowly, tilting like a chunk of mountainside about to roll off, and puffed out a gust of breath that smelled like burning earth. The branches swayed, a few birds flew off, and the giant answered him. "Hagrid brought me from the mountains."

The eyes narrowed until the lights of the horizon shrank to slits. Harry tensed up—why the hell would Hagrid bring a brutal giant with him back from his journey to the mountains? This thing looked about ready to crush Harry and Angelina—those massive fists were balling very slowly. He decided to keep his voice as calm and steady as possible. Angelina rose up slowly, standing just behind him. "He brought you all the way here? How did he manage it?"

"He tricked me..." Rumbling, brick-over-concrete agitation. "He promised me a different life here—one better than in those mountains. He lied to me."

Harry paused, feeling really uneasy now. He looked to Angelina briefly before tightening his grip on his wand. "Why would he lie to you? Hagrid isn't like that.""

"We giants are not brainless, like the wizards think. We anger easily, yes, and we savor the thrill of killing. But that life I led, crowded in among the last remaining few of us, fighting for food…when they killed Golgomath, I saw my chance to escape…and here I find myself crouching in a forest with blood-thirsty Centaurs circling me at all times…with invisible walls shutting me in on all sides…" This next movement, fueled by anger, shook the very earth they were standing on, and the trees swayed and the last remaining birds escaped as Grawp balled his fists and leaned into a patch of moonlight, exposing his terrifying face. His features were twisted grotesquely in a mask of volatile emotion and his tinted eyes loomed above them like their own menacing entities. "He brought me here with a promise of freedom, but all I find are trees…and you."

Grawp growled. Angelina tugged on Harry's arm. "Harry…he's upset. Let's make a run for it…" she whispered. "…now!"

"Listen," Harry licked his lips, easing his wand out of his pocket and holding it at his side. "We didn't mean to bother you, okay? So we're just gonna go now…"

"Go? You cannot go. The Centaurs will kill you if they see you've been here with me." A gruesome smile revealing massive, cracked teeth cut into the rock-like surface of his features. "They despise me…the only reason they have not killed Hagrid is because he has been good to the creatures of this forest for so long. He is weak. I cannot stand looking at the kindness in his eyes…"

"Is that why you hurt him? Because he's a good person? He's half-giant you know!"

"Yes, yes, little Harry, I know! He is my brother, and that is the only reason I have not murdered him. He talks to me day in and day out of the Light, and the wizard Dumbledore, but I care for none of it!"

"You said you didn't like living with the other giants. You said you wanted to escape. You trusted him enough to come with him, why do you hate him so much now?" Harry couldn't help himself. Hagrid looked bloody awful, and Harry could not for the life of him understand why he had brought this thing back with him—why he continued to keep it hidden here so close to the castle full of 'little students' when it was obviously very dangerous. Had Hagrid really taken Dumbledore's mission to bring back giants to serve the Light so gravely that he would risk releasing this unholy beast on them?

Grawp shifted and the treetops shook apart for a split second—as they did Harry saw the full sight of the enormous being. He gaped at the sheer size of Grawp, and the magnitude of the carnality in those eyes…

He felt Angelina tugging at him again.

Harry fully and quite heavily understood Firenze's warning now, oh yes he did, as Grawp snarled and reached out for them both. He reacted on instinct and fired a hex at the thing. It hit him on the finger just as he was about to grab hold of Angelina. Grawp roared again, but by then they had summoned their brooms and ran as fast as they could, passing whatever wards were surrounding the area and sprinting into the thick foliage ahead of them. Despite the mention of these 'invisible walls', however, Harry fully expected to hear booming footsteps or feel the quake of the earth from Grawp chasing after them, but he only heard branches snapping and leaves swaying loudly.

And so it went in the five or so minutes that they dueled: no matter what Harry and Neville did, Moody had a ready answer for it.
The silver light did not hit Harry physically, which caught him off guard—it instead exploded in his face and when he blinked the whole room was shrouded in darkness. He could see the figures of Moody and Neville moving about before him like eerie white-skinned phantoms, but the rest of it was just a bluish-black blur. Harry lost his concentration and the next thing he knew he was hit with another spell, this one lifting him up into the air and swinging him around until he crashed into the bookshelf near the pile of cushions. The hard frame smashed into his back, causing him to curse loudly as he fell to the ground again; a shower of books coming down on him. He could barely make out Neville trying to hit Moody with spell after spell—and spell after spell went clattering away to the walls and ceiling and floor. "Come onnn, Long bottom! You can do better than that!" Moody cackled madly, not a bit unlike the fake version of himself that taught Defense Against the Dark Arts the year before.

Harry picked up a fallen book, tossing it into the air and banishing it forward with as much force as he could with his wand. He picked up another and another and another, trying to at least distract Moody long enough for Neville to get a blow in. Moody sent the books away easily, but Harry's plan worked somewhat—Neville got him around the shoulders with his whip. Harry saw it catch Moody and he let loose his own, getting the old man around the wand arm. Both boys pulled as hard as they could, trying to get him on his knees. Through the purplish darkness the silver spell inflicted on him, Harry saw Moody smile roughly and reach up to take hold of Neville's whip with his free hand. He pulled, grunting with the strain, and Neville was being pulled slowly towards him. Harry pulled his own whip harder, and Moody faltered, almost dropping to one knee. With effort, Moody was able to aim his wand at Harry, and before the boy knew it he was being thrown into Neville bodily.

The boys were knocked together like two sacks of potatoes and crashed in a heap to the floor.

They were up on their feet again in a flash, leaping back into the fight.

Neville incanted another combo; two jets of green and then yellow light flew out of his wand right for Moody. Harry had to throw up a shield when he realized that Moody had sent Neville's spells towards him. The blackness veiling his vision was really bothering him, and he had to strain extra hard to catch the lights, but at him they came-they knocked him back a couple of steps but died away as his shield took the brunt. "Stop second-guessing yourself Longbottom-!" Moody was shouting while Harry raised both arms above his head, aimed his wand blindly at the bookshelf he'd just crashed into and levitated it up and over…it hit its intended target against the wall right at Moody's back. Neville went to disarm their opponent, but Moody disappeared before the incantation even escaped his lips.

The boys whirled around, wands at the ready—Moody reappeared right behind Neville, grabbed the boy by the neck and shoved him in front of Harry's instantly thrown spell combo. Neville was hit by a jolt of electric shock and then his whole body went stiff as a board before he fell to the ground. "Ha! Whoops!" Moody disappeared again as an angry Harry freed his companion from his body bind. The fifth year whipped around to be met with chunks of the shattered bookshelf as they began flying towards him—he sent them crashing away whilst Neville tried to keep track of the disappearing Moody as more things came flying at them.

"How the bloody hell is he doing that?" Neville growled, sending a book flying away from him across the room.

"I don't know—you can't Apaparate on-!" Harry Transfigured a heavy book that he let slip past his banishing net into a flower just as Moody appeared again in front of him, seeming to pull something out of thin air—the next thing the fifth year knew, there was a blade sitting inches from his throat and his wand had been banished clear across the room.

The real Mad Eye Moody seemed a bit crazier (in a menacing, unpredictably dangerous sort of way) than the fake one.

Harry peered at him through the darkness of the spell still affecting his vision, having gotten the point, and waited until the man lowered the weapon. Before their eyes, he did away with it—it Vanished and he summoned Harry's wand. Harry relaxed a little, taking a step back as Moody held his wand out to him. Silently, he took it. A couple of muttered incantations later and both boys were relieved of the nasty purple-bluish darkness that hindered them the entire fight. Harry had not even known that Neville was under the same affliction of sight.

"That wasn't fair…" Harry muttered under his breath, his cheeks hot with the sting of the loss. "I couldn't see and neither could Neville."

"No…it wasn't. But no Death Eater or beast or killer for hire you come up against will fight fair, boy." Moody waited until Harry met his eyes again before he continued, "That teaches you to be prepared for anything; to keep your guard up because something you trust to help you defend yourself-your vision-has been taken away from you. Hones your instincts, get it? Besides, how else was I to fool you into thinking I was Apparating if you could see properly?"

"What exactly does that spell do?" Neville asked curiously.

"Blinds you when I need you to be blind. When I move out of the direct path of light, you can't see me at all. Bet that wasn't in your book, now was it?"

Both boys shook their heads stupidly. There was a pause, and then the ex-Auror and Order Member turned to Harry.

"You see Potter…" Moody uttered gravely, though he was smiling sourly again. "There is a great deal more to dueling than simple diagrams in a book. This will be war—and in war you don't duel for fun, or to settle some childish score, boy." Harry felt his nostrils flaring yet again at the memory of his affair with Malfoy on the pitch. Moody paused, his eye rolling over in Neville's direction briefly before landing on Harry again. "The wizard on the other side of the fight will more than likely be trying to kill you—you duel to keep from dying. Let that be your first lesson."

Harry heard these last words and he nodded slowly. Indeed…this was the kind of thing he needed to be learning. Neville looked as hungry for that knowledge as Harry felt. Moody holstered his wand and ran a hand through his damp hair; for he was perspiring a little from the exercise.

"Will you come back to one of our meetings? Can you teach the D.A. what you just did?" Harry asked as the gruff older wizard turned to walk from the Room.

Moody paused with his back to them, and turned just slightly, his magical eye observing the two young men. His scarred face looked damned menacing under the lamp light. "Keep reading that book. You've still got a hell of a lot to learn."

"But Neville's read the whole thing. Why can't you teach us?" Harry breathed, tingling all over with the kind of excitement he hadn't felt since he first picked up a broom, his loss to the older wizard now forgotten.

Moody turned again and continued his walk to the door. "You and Longbottom did pretty well, for kids. But you haven't mastered that Volume yet. Keep studying. When you've got the hang of that one, I'll come back."

"But there aren't any other volumes…" Neville piped up.

Moody didn't turn around. "Sure there are."

He left them standing there staring after him. Harry considered doing what he usually did—accepting that he would not get a straight answer from yet another frustratingly mysterious adult—but tonight he had been pushed around like that just a little too much. He decided not to let Moody get away with it; not this time. He grabbed up his cloak and holstered his wand and ran after him. Neville followed, too.

"Hey! Hey, Moody come back here!"

He crossed the threshold of the Room, caught sight of Moody in his peripheral vision, and buckled under the intense pressure of a small bomb going off in his brain. He hit the ground on his knees hard and fell forward to the cold marble floor, his vision nearly gone from the terrible pain. Die! You—will—die-! Harry saw light beating against his eyesight; he heard the white noise, rolling, electric and deafening. His mouth oozed and he curled up into the fetal position on the smooth surface of the floor. Through the rolling noise there were echoes of Moody's voice and Neville's.

"Harry?" Neville knelt down beside his friend, reaching out cautiously as Moody ran back towards them, sliding to his knees and taking hold of the writhing boy. It looked as if he were having a seizure—it looked as if he was being put under the Torture Curse. His eyes were rolling back in his head and his face was twisted horribly in a mask of rage and pain. Two forces battled inside him, two voices pushed through his gritting teeth. Moody recognized Potter's, and the other; the one using Potter to speak; he recognized too…

"Potter! Fight it, do you hear me? You fight!"

Harry was lifted into a pair of strong arms and shaken roughly. I am going to kill you…and after I kill you I will kill everyone who loves you, everyone you love! I am going to drink their blood, crush them and torture them, make them scream! You have cost me enough; you have hindered me ENOUGH! DIE! DIEEEEEE!

When Voldemort stopped shouting through Harry's mouth, he took in rapid, short breaths and tried to climb up from the choking grip of his enemy in his mind. Breathe—be—still—find…Harry panted. Find—quiet—breathe! Get out…GET OUT!

"That's right Potter…" Moody held the boy and looked into his struggling, sweaty face as they three crouched on the floor in the hallway near the wall. "You fight…" The dark corridor was empty but for the three of them; throughout the castle there was quiet and all were oblivious to the silent war going on here. The space around them swelled and pushed outward from the boy wizard's balled-up frame—energy and magic filling up the atmosphere kinetically. The sphere of Harry's magic pulsed outward, inching wider and wider as he struggled. Moody and Neville shut their eyes as they were touched by this awesome force, and as the boy writhed in the older man's arms, Alastor came to a decision that would change the course of things to come, for them all.

Harry's breathing began to slow. His own voice became clearer as he grunted and guided himself up through the pain. He felt Voldemort squeezing the dear life out of him, willing him to die right there on the floor in Alastor Moody's arms. He did as he was told and he fought it with every ounce of strength or emotion or magic he had in him. The noise died down very slowly…the crushing grip of Voldemort's murderous fury began to recede. The sphere of magical energy created by this clashing of wills began to shrink as well. Darkness enveloped him, blotting out the throbbing light against his vision before Moody's battle-ravaged face appeared above him. His head feeling like a ripe melon, Harry's body slowly went limp and the rest of it slipped away. He felt nothing more. It was gone.

They all panted together; Neville from concern, Mad Eye from astonishment, and Harry from the ordeal.

Silence now. All of the torches lining the hall had gone out except one.

After a few minutes, Moody released Harry and the young man sat up slowly. He reached over and picked up his glasses that fell off from the floor, putting them back on his face. Moody stared at him, his face full of what looked like a renewed sense of purpose, before uttering hoarsely: "Potter, right now there is a gathering being called for." Harry sat still, calm and almost detached, listening as Moody's rough voice spelled out the future for him quietly. "There are people in the Order that do not agree with Dumbledore's treatment of you. They—we—believe something else must be done." A pause. "I was…on the fence…when I came here tonight. But after what I've just seen…"

They sat in silence again for a beat.

"I'm not worried about myself," Harry spoke, his heart thick with so much dread. "I just want Angelina and the others to be safe."

"They won't be safe Potter. Not ever as long as Voldemort is alive." Moody said gravely with Neville looking on and taking in every single word spoken. "There is a gathering; one of like minds with a common belief: that you must be taught to fight him. Mentally, physically, and with whatever it is that you have buried in there…"

He touched Harry's forehead lightly before standing up and offering a hand.

Harry took it and stood up too, along with Neville. "Who are these people, sir?"

"Professor McGonagall—it was her idea—and Remus Lupin; they called me here. Tonks is on board. There are others—some you know and some you don't."

"What about Dumbledore? He wanted me to learn Occlumency. But I can't…it's too late."

"Potter…if you leave it to us…you won't need Occlumency. That's the gist of what's going on here." He paused, looking at each boy's face, before touching Harry on the head. "You asked me if I would teach you…so did Minerva. Before just now I was going to turn you both down. Before I saw this I was going to side with Dumbledore; he thinks you're too young; he thinks you're not ready to begin the kind of training I'd put you through."

The young man closed his eyes…Dumbledore…why didn't he have any faith in Harry? Moody continued after a moment, causing Harry to open his eyes again as the heavy hand lifted from his damp ebony hair. Neville stood not breathing, staring at the two of them intensely; his round face shadowed with anticipation.

"But I don't think Voldemort cares how old you are—and the sooner you start the better. He's got his claws in you, there's no doubt about it, and if he finds out about this…thing…"

"My power…" Harry muttered, feeling a little woozy from the ordeal his poor head had just been through. "Can you help me? Can you help me learn to control it? So I can use it?"

Moody frowned thoughtfully. "I can try. But I warn you—it won't be easy Potter."

"I don't care. I want to do it."

"What about the D.A.?" Neville spoke finally, allowing himself to breathe. "Will you teach us as well?"

"I don't know that I could spare the energy, having two full-time apprentices along with my duties for the Order…"

Both Harry and Neville exchanged looks, and Neville whispered excitedly: "Two…?"

Another one of his gruff nods, and Moody smiled a little, his magical eye trained on Harry still while his real one observed Longbottom. "Hmm…tell you what: the both of you will train with me, and you pass on what I teach you to the D.A. That'll save me some time and energy."

"Oh wow…!" Neville's face lost all of its apprehension and he beamed at Harry, who gave a weary but enthusiastic smile in return. "Mr. Moody, sir you have no idea how much we appreciate it, right Harry?"

Harry nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet; training with me ain't gonna be fun. There is more you need to know but I'm not the one to tell you. Wait, just a little bit longer. I promise you, you won't go unheard again Potter."

Moody told them to turn in, and Harry to be vigilant, before leaving them alone again. On the way back to the common room, Harry willed himself to feel better, forcing the wooziness from the attack to leave him as they walked and talked.

"We need to change some things about the D.A., Neville…"

"What do you mean?"

Harry frowned and shook his head slowly, watching his shoes take each step down to their floor. "I'm not quite sure yet…I need to think…"

"All right…" Just before they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, Harry stopped Neville and told him not to say anything to anyone about either Moody's visit or his attack. "I promise I won't."

Harry and Neville shook on it, and Harry promised to try and have something figured out before the next meeting. That settled, the two boys headed for bed.

They ran.
As fast as they could; through thick knots of foliage and trees and vines with branches slapping them in the face and beating them about their bodies. Harry and Angelina blasted the bushes and vines away with cutting and Reductor spells as they hauled ass through the forest. Oh Harry felt the wind in his hair, all right, but this wind came from his effort to avoid being torn limb from limb by a bloodthirsty giant.

And then Harry heard the fleeting, hollow whistle of an arrow flying past him. He looked, and through the blur of the trees they passed, he saw shadows thumping along with them. He saw eyes gleaming angry in their direction. He saw muscular arms being raised in the moonlight.

"Protego!" he erected a shield around Angelina as two arrows flew out of the darkness towards her chest and face. They fell to the ground and she faltered, stumbling to her knees. "Get up! Angelina, keep moving!"

He stooped to bring her to her feet again and as he did, three more arrows narrowly missed catching him in the skull and landed in a tree next to them. Harry hauled Angelina up and they continued on, the sound of hoofs stomping against the forest floor closer and closer. "Why are they shooting arrows—ah!—at us?" she screamed as they protected themselves from still more arrows that plunked sharp and deadly into the tree trunks around them. Harry let his broom go when he saw the clearing Hagrid used to teach sometimes ahead of them. Angelina saw it too and did the same.

"GO!" he bellowed, and they hopped onto their brooms just as they reached the clearing, angling up and away across the twenty five yard open space towards the black sky. Harry chanced a look down as he swerved to avoid another arrow flying up at him, and saw at least eight Centaurs jaunting into the clearing after them, looking angry as all hell. He never felt so confused or threatened coming out of this forest, not even when he and Ron had narrowly escaped being eaten by giant spiders.

"What the fuck—was that?" Angelina yelled behind her as they swung away towards the grounds.

"Hagrid has some bloody explaining to do!" Harry answered to the wind, and he wondered how much more in this year he could take. When there wasn't an evil dark lord crawling into his brain and trying to kill him, there was a crazy Slytherin attacking his girlfriend, and now…there was a giant in the forest surrounded by once-neutral Centaurs who now seemed hell bent on killing something.

He guided them towards Hagrid's cabin and they touched down.

Harry marched right up to the door and knocked hard, not caring if he woke anybody at all. Fang barked loudly and they could hear the beast scrambling towards the door. Harry knocked louder; harder. "Hagrid! Open up!"

"Shhh, not so loud!" hissed Angelina, looking around to see that the lights in the castle were still out.

"What in bleedin' hippogriffs-?"

They could finally hear Hagrid's annoyed voice behind the door, and a light blinked on through the curtained window near them. Harry knocked a final few times, his lungs still on fire from the running and the panic of moments ago. Seconds later, the cabin door swung open and both students were bathed in light before being blocked by Hagrid's enormous frame. He looked a mess, and for once Harry could connect his abused appearance to the menace in the forest.

"Harry? Angelina? What're you two doin' up at this hour?" Asked the gamekeeper gruffly, wiping the slumber out of his puffy and bruised eyes.

"We've nearly been killed in the Forest," said Harry bluntly, vaguely aware that his tongue was still bleeding a little.

Hagrid's black eyes went wide and he stepped aside to let the two of them in. He sputtered something indistinct while closing the door and as Harry was pushed into an armchair by Fang, he finally got his words out. "Harry, what were you two doing in the forest?"

"We weren't in the forest at first," Angelina answered, leaning her broom against a wall. Harry saw in the firelight that she was glistening with sweat and that she had a gash on her forehead near the hairline. He didn't know how she got that. "We were flying. A giant knocked us out of the sky and tried to eat us."

More sputtering from Hagrid. "What? B-But…oh no…really? Are you all right? Did he hurt ya?"

"We're fine," Harry assured him, gently pushing Fang away. "But what the hell is that thing doing here, Hagrid?"

Hagrid stood in the middle of the cabin, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head. He closed his eyes, huffing as if on the verge of tears, before answering thickly: "He's me brother! I couldn't leave him in the mountains with those bloodthirsty-!"

"He's the bloodthirsty one," Angelina piped up resentfully. "Hagrid, if it weren't for those wards, he'd have torn us both apart!"

"But I've kept him restrained—McGongall's got good solid binds on that area, and why do ya think I haven't takin' ya any further into the forest than the clearing this year?"

"But, Hagrid-"

"He wouldn't harm ya; I've been talking to him, see. It's in his nature, that's all, he can't help himself!" Harry made a face, despite himself, at Hagrid's blubbering. His bruises took on an unpleasant, sticky gleam as the tears ran over them down his face and into his beard.

"That much was plain," Harry told him. "Firenze was right, Hagrid. I don't think you're making much headway. Talking to him doesn't seem to be working that well."

Hagrid honked his runny nose on a large handkerchief and waved a dismissive hand at them both. "Firenze an' those bloody Centaurs don't know what they're talkin' about! I put me life on the line to get my brother back here and I'm not givin' up on him just because they think he's some sort of monster!"

"But Hagrid…he is a monster!" Angelina whispered in disbelief. "Do you understand; he told us himself he thinks you're weak for being kind, and he admitted to enjoying the 'thrill of killing'!"

Hagrid blinked at her in disbelief for a moment, and Harry suppressed a groan. Angelina looked as if she realized perhaps she shouldn't have used those words exactly. "He…h-he said that? That he thinks I'm weak?"

"Um…uh…well, n-not exactly."

Harry stood up from the armchair, ushering Fang away from his crotch, and put a hand on Hagrid's massive shoulder. "You have to tell someone about this."

"I did…Professor McGonagall is pretty angry with me, but she said there's no way we can move him out now, not with so many students here. We'll hafta wait until the school year is over and try to remove him then…that's why she put the wards up. I had him bound in rope before, but he kept breakin' through them. I had to get her involved…" his lip quivered and he began to wheeze with tears again. Harry patted him on the shoulder, standing slightly on the tips of his toes, until the fit passed. Angelina came over and offered her hand as well. Hagrid nodded his thanks, sniffed loudly, and gestured for the two of them to sit down. "Tea?"

"Sure…" Harry sat next to her at the little table near the window and they exchanged looks when Hagrid turned his back to set the kettle over the fire. "Can I ask…" he searched for a way to phrase the question first, "…did he do that to you? Or was it the Centaurs?"

Hagrid scoffed and poured them both steaming cups before filling his own big wooden goblet. "They gave me a pretty good tellin' off when Grawp first arrived. But they didn't lay hands on me till I tried ter help Firenze after Dumbledore asked him to teach you guys."

"Why are they so angry?" Angelina asked, sipping her tea gingerly.

Hagrid sank a towel into the hot water in the kettle and fished it out again. He pulled a little cup from his mantle and stuck his thick fingers inside. They watched, waiting for his answer, as he took out some fine rust-colored powder. It looked like herbs that he had grinded. He sprinkled it onto the steaming towel and sat it down in front of Angelina. "This'll mend that gash up fine, Angelina."

She took it, careful not to hurt herself from the heat, and pressed it to her forehead where she'd been cut. After a moment she nodded in relief, indicating that the medicine was working.

Hagrid sighed. "They're mad because they consider it a serious insult to their people, Firenze agreein' to help Dumbledore teach Divination. They believe their kind too great and noble and all that to go mixin' with uncivilized humans. Wizard folk they call us," he grunted. "After all I've done fer them! I've defended them time and again—this forest is a home to them and it remains so because of Dumbledore, but do they admit it, oh-ho no!"

"Why do you let your brother beat up on you like that, Hagrid?" Harry asked passionately, not liking it one bit.

"Well he doesn't know his own strength," the depressed gamekeeper sighed into his goblet. "He just gets mad, that's all. Sometimes I do get carried away when I'm tellin' him about things. I just want him to know what good people ya all are…"

They exchanged glances again, really feeling sorry for him then.

Harry and Angelina listened to Hagrid's side of things. He told them of how bringing Grawp into the forest might have been a mistake, and he could see now that it wasn't the place to try and convert a thirty-foot giant prone to killing at will to serve the Light. He hoped that McGonagall might help him find such a place, and he vehemently swore to them he wasn't going to give up. He said it was something he needed to do. Grawp was his family—the only family he had left. He had to do this. If he could get Grawp on their side, it would be something he had accomplished for the Light, for Dumbledore, and for his mother and father.

"The thoughtless killing ends here, I tell ya!" he proclaimed. "I'm gonna get Grawp to see some sense, so help me."

He asked them not to tell anybody about Grawp. Not even Ron and Hermione. Professor McGonagall wanted to keep things as quiet as possible, and besides them and Firenze she was the only person who knew about him. They reluctantly promised him that they wouldn't, though Harry decided he would talk to McGonagall himself later on. He didn't have the heart to tell Hagrid, but in his opinion Grawp needed to be sent back to the mountains as soon as the year was up. He was too dangerous to be trusted at all, and he didn't see any way of 'converting' him to the Light.

As the whole of Hogwarts' student body save three ate in the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy sat on his haunches in the Slytherin common room and let his father's words wash over him. He didn't speak, and his eyes narrowed past his father's face into his own thoughts…dread seized him, and defiance. He hardly knew what to do with these emotions as his father instructed him that he must put in harm's way the person he had so bizarrely come to…fall in love with…?
Yes. Draco's heart beat: yes-yes-yes-yes…I am in love with Angelina Johnson.

"Draco?" came his father's voice again, cutting across his thoughts mercilessly. "Are you listening to me, boy?"

"Yes sir…"

Draco's eyes focused on Lucius Malfoy's face again, bringing him back to reality. The elder Malfoy studied his son intensely before speaking again—his tone this time was low and deliberate and fierce. He spoke slowly; clearly. His tone this time told his son that this would be done, and there would be no mistakes, or there would be severe consequences. School time was over. Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater, now—a servant of the Dark Lord. There was no turning back.

"There is another Hogsmeade weekend at the end of your exams, correct?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now I have planned this very carefully with the others, but your part is key." Lucius paused, turning his head lightly as if listening for something (or someone), before bringing his gaze back to his pale and silent son. "McNair has told me he has reason to believe there is a giant hidden in the Forbidden Forest."

Draco started, his eyes going wide with fear and astonishment. "A giant? That's impossible!"

"There are many things that you have yet to learn, my ignorant son," Lucius admonished sternly, his brow creasing with disdain. "The giants might well prove to be our most important allies, along with the dragon riders we've been secretly rallying. This hasn't come easy—a lot of men died this winter. But that is not your concern at the moment."

Draco swallowed his fear and nodded shortly. "I'm sorry. A giant in the forest…go on."

"Yes. McNair suspected that oaf Hagrid left at roughly the same time he did for the mountains, and ended up there ahead. He didn't win their support for Dumbledore, but he did manage to bring one back."

"And you think it's hiding in the Forbidden Forest."

Lucius smiled patiently and Draco felt a pang of resentment. He wasn't stupid—surely his father could see that? He would have to prove it then. He would have to pay attention and get this done. Prove that he was no ignorant boy hanging from his father's coattails. He was a young man and he was capable! He sat up sill straighter in his sitting position and nodded gravely for Lucius to continue, the green flame flickering eerily across his porcelain face.

"Yes…probably trapped there, but Hagrid couldn't do it alone. I'm sure someone helped him by creating wards to keep the giant in—perhaps Dumbledore himself. But either way you'll need to watch the forest. Watch it for any strange comings and goings—anyone powerful enough to create wards around a giant."

"Like McGonagall or someone?"

"Yes. She is the most powerful here since the old man fled, but she might not have made them herself. You make it your duty to find out all you can, Draco. We need to know who created the wards so that we can know how to remove them as quickly and quietly as possible."

He explained quickly that if Dumbledore had created the wards, he would've used some sort of environmental magical source by pulling energy from the creatures living in the forest or even the trees surrounding the giant; or both. If someone like McGonagall, she would create runes, several of them, each serving a purpose: "…one to weaken the creature, one to silence his presence, one to disillusion him, several probably to close him in…each of these layered on top of the other, such is her method. Dumbledore is sentimental; he believes he is clever. McGonagall is cold and precise; methodical. We would have an easier time breaking through her more traditional wards than his; the old fool always has a trick under his sleeve." Draco didn't see how he would be able to recognize these things from watching the 'comings and goings' in the forest. "You shall need to go into the forest, Draco, and you will be watching for that opportunity. Find the giant. Observe the area where it is hidden. If you see carvings on the trees…symbols…then it's safe to say those are runes made by McGonagall or someone of her ilk."

Draco's heart sped up and thumped painfully in his chest at the thought. Go into the forest? With unseen, dangerous creatures, angry Centaurs, and a bloody giant?

Lucius continued, "If you question the giant, perhaps…"

"Question it?" the young man interrupted before he could stop himself. "Before or after it rips my head from my shoulders?"

"Courage, Draco…you cannot refuse this mission. They will be a lot harder down the line…showing weakness now will surely bring down the Dark Lord's wrath."

At these words, Draco blanched and closed his mouth. He was much more afraid of You-Know-Who than he was of a giant. He could run; he was fast and good at that. If the thing tried to have him he would run past the wards and not stop until he was safe beyond the threshold of the forest. "All right. Go into the forest, find the giant, and question it. Find out about the wards. I can do that."

A wider smile from his father. "Good. We will need that giant free for this plan to work."

"Free?" Draco tried not to let his voice tremble. "You want to release it?"

"Indeed-"Lucius paused, again turning to listen for some unseen interruption. After a longer moment than the last one, he turned back to his son and began to speak more urgently. "On Hogsmeade weekend, once your exams are over, everyone will glad in the much-needed break from school. The night before, you shall assist a few fellow Death Eaters in gaining entry to the grounds."

Draco licked his lips and nodded, hanging on his father's every word.

"The next morning, I'm sure Potter and his friends will rise early to escape the castle for the village below. You watch them; you make sure you know where they end up once they are inside. The girl, Angelina should be with them. Do you understand?"

"Yes…" Draco's fists began to clench on their own. He squeezed them tight until the blood flooded out of his knuckles. "The giant is meant as a distraction."

"Exactly." Lucius' smile now held no disdain or impatience. He looked at his son with the smallest hint of pride, but it was enough. "You will bring her to me, and Potter will follow you…his lust for that tramp will drive him towards us blindly, and we'll be waiting for him."

"But father…what if there is no giant?"

"McNair is almost completely positive that there is one…but if by some chance there isn't we shall have to regroup."

There was a slight pause, and then: "She isn't a tramp…" Draco, despite himself, allowed the words to fall ever-so-quietly out of his mouth as he lowered his gaze to his knees, his fists clenched to pain. He felt conflicted by the need to prove himself to his father and the overwhelming sense of affection churning inside him for Angelina.

"I beg your pardon?" uttered elder Malfoy forbiddingly, the proud smile vanishing.

"Angelina—she isn't…" Draco faltered, and his father chuckled, causing the boy's eyes to rise to meet his.

"Ahhh…I see. So Severus was right, then. You have developed feelings for that girl, haven't you son?"

"What do you mean, 'Severus was right'?"

Lucius glared at Draco for a beat before answering, "I hate to twist the dagger, Draco, but your 'feelings' for Angelina Johnson are no more than a mere side-effect of the potion I gave you."

"The potion you lied to me about?" Draco raised his voice, his chest heaving with defiance. Lucius did not react in anger, but his eyes swam with some kind of emotion the young man hadn't yet seen in his father.

Lucius nodded. "Yes…I lied to you. And I tortured you. And the potion I gave you…has poisoned your mind…tricked you into thinking that you feel something for her that isn't real."

"It is real…I…I love her."

"You do not!" The green flames surged for a moment, making Malfoy's face seem explosively menacing as he berated his son. "You must do away with childhood fancy and become a man in this war, do you understand me Draco? I have toiled tirelessly—I have suffered with my own guilt over what I did to you, but it was for your own good! I will not see you die from weakness!"

Draco's own eyes grew wide with anger—he was furious. He shook with rage, his skin bleaching white as his blood went cold. When he spoke, he spoke with spine…perhaps for the first time in his young life…for this small moment he was genuinely unafraid of the man whose head was sitting in his common room fireplace.

"I am not weak. You saw to that, didn't you? So now you've built me up, I will do anything you ask. Are you happy? Father…" slowly he unclenched his fists as he glared at his father, his eyes dampening with angry tears, "…are you satisfied?"

"You'll bring her to me…" the man seemed to be asking rather than telling. "As I've planned."

"I'll deliver you Potter. I'll make you proud."

"That's all I ask..." Lucius opened his mouth to say more, but he stopped and turned for a third time to listen. After a second he shook his head and cursed under his breath. "I must go; I've run out of time. I will contact you again, though I don't know when-"

"Go..." Lucius hesitated, but only received a cold stare from his son, before disappearing from the fireplace. The green flames died away as Draco turned his back on them. He stood staring into the darkness surrounding him, grimacing at nothing, feeling consumed with anger. What, now, he asked himself. And he parted his lips in answer: "You'll go down into the forest like he told you, and you'll find out about those runes…and Potter will get what he deserves."

And Angelina? Draco knew what to do with her…