The cold November sun shone weakly through the tall windows in the Room of Hidden Things. Draco had been here since before sunrise and he took this moment to stretch and bask in the early morning light. Today was the first day of the Quidditch season, and for the first time since his second year, Draco wouldn't be playing. He felt a twinge of regret as he glanced out the window toward the Quidditch pitch but he forced it aside. His replacement during his "illness," Harper, was well-compensated and was a decent Seeker. Was he going to be able to beat Potter? Probably not, but there was nothing Draco could do about that.

Who knows, maybe letting the Boy Who Scored feel like a champion for a day will get him off my back.

Potter had taken to following him around everywhere when they weren't in class, apparently hoping to catch him in some secret wrongdoing. It was getting more and more difficult to give him the slip, which infuriated Draco to no end. He should have taken that stupid Invisibility Cloak when he had the chance on the train - he could only imagine how much easier it would be to sneak away for these assignments if he could turn invisible.

Something was going to have to give soon, though - he had skipped his Transfiguration homework twice in a row and McGonagall had landed him in detention last week, wasting valuable hours he could have spent working on the Vanishing Cabinet. It was a delicate balancing act that was getting harder and harder to manage. He had to do just enough school work to scrape by, do just enough not to rouse suspicion, but with the heavy workload of sixth year, even doing the minimum meant sacrificing hours and hours of time he could be spending in the Room of Hidden Things. But the longer he took to accomplish his assignments for the Dark Lord, the riskier the situation became and the less likely it was that he would even be around to worry about Transfiguration homework or Quidditch matches.

Draco had never spent much time thinking about death before, but it was an inescapable thought now. Not only because of the constant threat of his and his parents' imminent demise should he fail the Dark Lord, but because the Deathly Hallows seemed inextricably linked to the concept of death. Trelawney's prophecies both mentioned death in them, as did Beedle the Bard's tale about the three brothers. He couldn't tell if it was the lack of sleep or Blaise's unintentional validation, but he was increasingly sure that Luna Lovegood was right. Going against standard wizarding consensus, it appeared that Beedle's stories weren't just legends, but had been distorted over time and had lost their historical backing.

The Elder Wand, as Blaise had said, was fairly easy to trace through history once you knew what to look for. The Room of Hidden Things had supplied him with a large pile of books detailing powerful wands throughout wizarding history. Draco had decided to throw logic out the window for the moment and operate as though every wand he came across in these stories was the same one. It was highly unlikely, his logical brain argued, but so was everything he had learned so far.

Emeric the Evil and Egbert the Egregious were easy to account for, though the wand disappeared for about after a century after that, popping up with Godelot's conflict with Hereward. Then came the fearsome Barnabas Deverill, defeated by Loxias, owner of the renowned "Deathstick."

It got a little fuzzy here, frustratingly. Loxias had been such a polarizing force that about a dozen different wizards all claimed they had been the one to kill him, apparently looking for their own clout in the annals of history. However, none of them seemed to have lived particularly interesting lives after that point. Arcus or Livius seemed like the best candidates, but that was merely by process of elimination. That left the trail going cold in the mid-18th century.

Draco ran his hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh as he surveyed the books around him. The trail went cold more than a hundred years ago, and not a single one of these wizards' stories mentioned anything about a stone that could bring back the dead or a true invisibility cloak.

"Room, show me information about powerful wizards in the 19th and 20th centuries," he demanded, his voice sounding a bit raspy. He hadn't slept well the night before. The room brought forward a couple of books and a handful of newspaper articles, as well as a cup of tea. He smiled as he took a sip.

"You know, Room, sometimes I think you might be my only real friend."

The room was silent at that, though Draco liked to think that the atmosphere got a little cozier as he snuggled closer into his armchair to read. The room had given him half a dozen articles about the Dark Lord, which he belatedly realized he should have expected. Was it possible that the Dark Lord already had one of the Hallows in his possession?

No, he would know... He had been bewildered by Trelawney's first prophecy. If he had any inkling about the Hallows, he wouldn't have sent me on this quest in the first place.

Looking back a little further, he saw a couple of articles from the 1940s detailing Dumbledore's defeat over Gellert Grindelwald. Now that was interesting... Grindelwald had been a veritable predecessor to the Dark Lord, paving the way for blood purity and magical supremacy to have lasting political power in Britain. Draco's eyes lingered on the photograph showing the duel. Grindelwald cast a huge circle of flames that a much younger Dumbledore was barely able to block. He certainly seemed powerful... but Dumbledore had won in the end. Could *Dumbledore* have the Elder Wand?

"Hmm," he said, taking another sip of tea. It was all speculation, throwing things at the wall and hoping something would stick. He had no way to know that any of this was right, and the stakes were impossibly high.

"I suppose I don't have to find who has the wand now," he said to the room. "I already know it can be found where death has been weakened, whatever the bloody hell that means."

He stood up and walked to the window, where he could see distant figures flying around on their brooms. The match had begun. He imagined he could hear distant cheers and booing. Crabbe and Goyle were out there beating Bludgers toward the Gryffindors (and hopefully missing a certain redhead).

"Maybe I'm thinking about this too much like a Slytherin," he said, leaning his head against the window frame. "How would a Ravenclaw answer this? Where death has been weakened. If we think about death as a force, it's something many have tried to avoid through magical means, like through drinking unicorn blood or by using alchemy like the Sorcerer's Stone. But that doesn't really weaken death... the person just avoids it for a while."

He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the cool stone against his cheek. So many thoughts were swimming in his mind at any given time, it was a wonder he had room to contain them all. He had begun daily practice with Snape after the start of term, recognizing that no matter how much practice he had on his own, it wouldn't matter if he couldn't defend against an opponent. They met late in the evenings, after everyone else had gone to bed. That combined with rising early to avoid Potter on his way to the Room of Hidden Things had left him absolutely exhausted. He knew that his eyes had started to look sunken in, that his skin had lost its healthy tone. He was so tired.

None of it matters. I can sleep forever when this is done if I want to. Mother needs me now.

"Okay," he said, forcing himself to stand up and slapping himself lightly on the cheek to wake up. "Ravenclaws have to answer riddles every damn day, and how do they do it? They question assumptions. So what assumptions are there? We're already looking at weakened, but what about death? What could the riddle mean when referring to death?"

His head had started to pound. What did death really even mean, anyway? Beedle couldn't even explain it, he had to personify it as some mystical figure...

Draco's eyes snapped open. "That's it, Room!" He whirled away from the window and snatched up the battered copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard off the coffee table, sending newspaper strips flying. "Death as a force can't be weakened, but if it's an entity, a person? Of course it can."

Death had been weakened when it - he? - had been made to give up the Deathly Hallows. Beedle had even described the story as the brothers' desire to humiliate Death further. "If the three men in the tale are real... could Death be real as well? Not just dying, but actually...Death?"

It was a disturbing thought, but Draco didn't have time to dwell on it. He had been looking in the wrong direction in history all this time. He didn't need to know who had the wand last. He needed to know who had the wand first.

"Room, show me information on powerful wizards in Britain before Emeric the Evil."

He expected the room to rustle around deep toward the back - after all, the information he was after was centuries old, wasn't it? - but to his surprise, one of the stacks very near the front unearthed a book that he remembered seeing in the Slytherin common room. It glided slowly onto the coffee table, its gold lettering glinting in the sunlight.

Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.

Draco frowned. They had a copy of this book at home too - it just detailed the British pureblood families' family trees and notable accomplishments.

"Maybe I should have been more specific," he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Show me information on wizards with powerful wands before Emeric the Evil."

The book bounced on the coffee table, its pages flapping, and then the room fell silent.

Draco couldn't help but let out a frustrated groan. He sank into his seat and buried his face in his hands.

After a moment, he said, "I never took you for a blood supremacist, Room," and found himself laughing through his fingers.

Ultimately, the need for sleep won out. Once the words in the genealogy book began to blur together, Draco knew he needed to rest. He could have had the room conjure a bed for him, but he felt like he was starting to get a little stir crazy. Everyone would be down at the Quidditch pitch for the game anyway - he could have the Slytherin dorm all to himself for a while and take a well-deserved nap. He had made what he hoped was good progress on the Deathly Hallows riddle, and while the Vanishing Cabinet was still giving him trouble, making any progress at all felt like a win at this point. Maybe he could even take the afternoon off...

He stumbled down the many flights of stairs, barely taking in his surroundings. As he predicted, the castle was deserted. He passed a gaggle of ghosts on the fourth floor landing, and he was pretty sure he heard Peeves banging around in the trophy room, but he was otherwise undisturbed on his way down to the dungeons.

"Sanctimonia," he said in a weary voice, and the door to the common room eased open. It was mercifully empty. Draco usually enjoyed sitting by the large windows looking out on the depths of the Black Lake, but he knew he would fall asleep as soon as he sat down. He trudged down the hallway leading to the boys' dorms.

A nap, and then maybe some food...then probably Potions homework, ugh.

He opened the door to his dorm and blinked in surprise. Pansy Parkinson was sitting on his bed.

Oh no.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, too tired to sound agreeable. Pansy didn't seem to mind. She looked pensive, fiddling with a loose thread on Draco's comforter, but didn't react to his harsh tone.

"I figured I would wait for you here, since you weren't at the game. I knew you weren't sick."

"Pansy, I'm tired-"

"Draco, I'm worried about you," she said at the same time. She looked up at him and he was startled to see her eyes were shining. She wasn't crying, not exactly, but this was a rare display of emotion for her. "Won't you come sit down?"

Warily, he moved into the room and sat near the end of his bed. The mattress beckoned him like a siren, promising deep, dreamless sleep. Pansy put her hand on his knee and he allowed the contact, figuring that the path of least resistance was best here.

"I know you can't talk about your assignments," she said, her voice a little shaky, "but I want to help you. Please tell me what I can do to help you."

"There's nothing you can do to help," Draco said in a monotone. "I just need to relax for a bit."

"Then let me help you relax," Pansy said, the slightest bit of desperation creeping into her voice. Draco looked up at her. Was she asking what he thought she was asking?

She maintained eye contact with him. "I can help you," she said in a soft voice, and leaned in to kiss him. He held still against her, her full lips warm against his. It wasn't that he disliked Pansy, exactly. If he was honest with himself, she was actually quite attractive; he had seen her in casual clothing often enough to know that she hid an impressive figure beneath her house robes. She just wasn't-

No. Enough of this. Enough pining.

He began kissing her back earnestly, which was all the encouragement Pansy needed. In an instant her fingers were unbuttoning his robes and Draco's stomach did a backflip. This was moving at a faster pace than he had expected, but he wasn't exactly complaining. His cock hardened between his legs as Pansy slipped off his robes, pushing him gently but firmly back onto the bed.

"This doesn't have to mean anything," she whispered in his ear. "Just let me take care of you." She dropped her robes in one fluid movement, exposing milky white skin and a lacy green bra. Draco reached down to unbuckle his pants, his eyes mesmerized by Pansy's breasts straining against the lacy fabric as she disrobed completely. He had never seen a witch naked before, but he didn't want to clue Pansy into that fact, though part of him figured she probably knew anyway. His imagination hadn't been lying - she did have a beautiful figure. He bit his lip, reaching down to stroke himself.

Pansy stilled his hand before straddling him.

"I said let me," she said in what he couldn't deny was a sultry whisper. She guided his hands to her breasts and Draco closed his eyes, part of him wondering if he was so sleep-deprived that he was having a very realistic sexual fantasy.

As Pansy eased herself down onto his length and took his virginity, Draco gasped at the intensity of the sensation. She felt so good, so deliciously warm and wet. It was better than anything he had ever imagined. He slid his hands down her sides, landing on her curvy hips, and moaned as she began to move.

Maybe this can be enough, he thought. Maybe he could lose himself in countless little moments just like this and never come up for air again. He would please the Dark Lord, save his parents, earn a name for himself... all of it was possible if he could just stay in this feeling, just stay in this moment forever. In this moment, he was invincible.

A thousand leagues below the surface, a pirate's chest rattled, a faint golden light shining at its edges.

The Gryffindor common room was awash in raucous cheers and applause. Ron had Ginny on his shoulders and he was bouncing her along in time to an energetic chorus of "Weasley is Our King," which the Gryffindors had reclaimed.

It had been a spectacular match. Between Vaisey and Malfoy both being out, Gryffindor had wiped the floor with Slytherin. The final score had been 210 to 50, with Ginny scoring four out of the six goals for Gryffindor. Ron had kept his head during the game, blocking some truly difficult throws that Ginny was sure he would have fumbled over the summer. It had been nothing short of miraculous, truly.

Ginny was nearly knocked off Ron's shoulders with the force of Lavender Brown colliding with him, lips first.

"Bloody hell!" she exclaimed, windmilling her arms in order to not topple backwards. Lavender pulled back from a dazed Ron and giggled.

"Sorry, Gin Gin," she said.

"Don't call me that, that's disgusting," Ginny said but her words went unheard as Ron guided her off his shoulders, his eyes never leaving Lavender's face. She opened her mouth to berate Ron but stopped upon catching sight of Hermione furiously knitting in a corner. Ginny's righteous anger evaporated immediately and she cautiously made her way over to sit down next to Hermione.

"He's a total hypocrite," she whispered to Hermione, whose eyes were intently focused on her knitting. "Just the other week he was berating me for snogging in the locker room and now look at him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said in a shrill voice, her needles clacking against each other. "He's perfectly entitled to snog whoever he likes. I might have assumed we would go to Slughorn's Christmas party together, but he clearly has other priorities, which is just fine with me, I-"

Ginny listened as Hermione rambled, her hand resting on the other girl's shoulder. She had forgotten about Slughorn's Christmas party. Her eyes roamed the crowd before finally alighting on Harry laughing with Seamus and Dean. He caught her eye and his smile widened as he kept talking to Seamus. Ginny's cheeks ached from smiling so much. She couldn't remember the last time she had been so happy.

She should have known it was too good to last.

As the hour grew later, people slowly filtered out of the common room. The floor was strewn with confetti, half open bottles of drinks littering the tables. The house elves would have quite a mess to clean up after the day's festivities. After a couple of very tired second years meandered up the stairs, Ginny was left alone with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry moved to sit next to Hermione, while Ron (perhaps wisely) kept his distance. Harry opened his mouth to speak but stopped at the sight of Ginny.

"Sorry, Ginny," he said. "We need to discuss some Order stuff. Straight from Dumbledore. Why don't you head on up to bed and we can all have breakfast together tomorrow morning?"

Ginny stared at the trio for a moment, who stared right back at her. She clenched and unclenched her fists.

"Right," she said. "Okay. Good night then."

"Good night," Harry said softly.

"Night, Gin," Ron said, avoiding Hermione's gaze.

"Good night Ginny," Hermione said in a frosty tone, her eyes on Ron.

Ginny awkwardly turned around and headed up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. She made herself take a deep breath with each step.

Maybe this can be enough, she thought. Maybe she could share in Harry's joys, his little triumphs, and allow him to shelter her from his pain. Maybe she could close her eyes and pretend there was nothing wrong anywhere in the world, nothing more serious than Quidditch. She could play Quidditch, go to fancy Christmas parties, and lose herself in the bliss of Harry's mouth on hers.

Who was she kidding? In this moment, she was invisible.

She looked out the stairwell window to the clear night sky where the stars twinkled merrily and wished more than anything that she was among them.