"You're looking better," Quirrell said, when Harry walked into the library at Grimmauld; it had been vacated for the purpose of their Occlumency practice, though some of Hermione's work on parseltongue still covered the table.

"Thanks," Harry said, tugging his left sleeve down.

"Do you think it bothers me?" Quirrell asked.

"What?"

"Your hand… or lack thereof. You keep trying to hide it, but I assure you I've noticed and also don't care; we're dealing with the mental, not the physical." Quirrell waved a hand at the couch adjacent to his. "Sit."

Arm tucked against his chest, Harry did, not sure if he was offended or relieved.

"What am I here for today?"

"The door, again," Harry said. "And… maybe some actual Occlumency, too. If that's all right."

"I live to serve," Quirrell said, with a rather mocking half-bow. "Or, rather, I'll die if I don't—"

"I'm sorry," Harry said, grimacing.

"Yes, we've established your decency previously." Quirrell sounded a little amused. "Let me know when you're ready."

Harry shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He gave a short nod and then felt pressure on his mind as Quirrell entered it.

Lead the way, he said, and Harry drifted through inky black vastness that was scattered with thoughts and memories, searching, though he still wasn't very good at knowing what they were looking for; he'd seen the door before, but didn't really know how to find it any better now than he had a few months ago. Have you dreamed lately?

Two nights ago, Harry said. For the first time in weeks.

And it was definitely one of His?

Yeah. Harry said. A memory materialised around them; they were in a long, dark hallway, approaching a door—

This is the Department of Mysteries, Quirrell said, surprise colouring his mental voice.

Yep, Harry said; he'd recognised the general look of the corridors down near the Ministry's courtrooms from Padfoot's trial, and Padfoot had been quick to confirm where that particular hallway led. Voldemort wants something in there. That's how I know this came from him. At least, he was fairly sure it had; there was only another week until Harry was due to meet with Fudge, and they'd surely visit the Department of Mysteries, so it could have been his subconscious, but he didn't think so; Harry hadn't known where the Department of Mysteries was, and, since he was dreading his trip to the Ministry, the yearning he'd felt in the dream was very out of place.

Do you know what he wants?

Yep, Harry thought again. Quirrell made a thoughtful sound, but didn't press. I think it was an accident, though. I'm not sure he meant for me to see it. I think maybe it leaked through.

I see, Quirrell murmured. For a moment, they both stared at the memory—or rather, Quirrell did, while Harry stared at him and tried to figure out what he might be thinking. Follow it, if you can, Quirrell said at last. If it has in fact leaked through, then perhaps…

Perhaps what? Harry asked, even as he led the way down the corridor.

Corridors lead somewhere, Quirrell said. This one, as it so happens, leads to a door. As he spoke, the door became visible in the distance. Do you know what lies within the Department of Mysteries? Do you know what it looks like?

No, Harry said.

Excellent. Something in Harry's mind must have betrayed his confusion, or Quirrell might just have guessed that Harry didn't fully understand. You know that this isn't your memory and so you don't know what's on the other side, so if we follow it back to the place where it ends—the door—and then seek to see what's on the other side of it you will be seeking something that He knows that you don't—

You think it'll become the door, Harry said.

Perhaps, Quirrell said.

Perhaps, Harry thought to himself, and just like in the dream, he was filled with bubbling anticipation.

Neither he or Quirrell spoke again until they were standing properly before the door. Behind them, the corridor had melted away, and there was only the darkness of Harry's mind and an occasional bright flash of a thought or memory.

The door was plain, and didn't look or feel sinister, at least not to Harry, nor did it feel out of place; even though he was being careful to be unobtrusive, Harry was still very aware of Quirrell's presence, could feel the extra space he was taking up, but the door wasn't like that.

It belonged.

Should we open it? Harry asked.

No, Quirrell said, sounding strangled. Do not touch it.

Harry startled as Quirrell's presence grew a little heavier, a little more uncomfortable, pressed a little harder. He was struggling to do whatever it was he was trying to do— what was he trying to do? Appear more fully in his mind? But it was his mind, so surely he could just…

He materialised as himself, standing by the door. It was quiet in the boy's mind now— no, not the boy's mind; his mind. This was his mind, and he was alone in it; the boy had gone, but no, he was the boy, was Harry, so it was Quirrell who'd gone, but he had no recollection of him leaving. Surely he'd have felt it?

He always knew when he left.

And there was a door. Not older than he was, at fifteen, but older than any construct in his mind ought to be; babies didn't create mental structures like this, and he would have been a baby when this formed…

Or was placed here; if he hadn't made it, someone else must have, somehow. But then, how could they have, when it was his, felt like him…?

Quirrell would know. But where was Quirrell?

He called for him and he answered… or a voice in the back of his consciousness did, a reflex, nothing more but it was enough.

Pressure expanded in Harry's mind—from within Harry's mind—and then Quirrell was back and then gone again, though this time in the usual way.

Harry stirred where he'd slumping in his chair to find Quirrell staring at him.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked; Quirrell's scent was… rattled, and his expression was somewhere between frightened, pitying, and astonished. "Where did you go?"

"I…" Quirrell didn't seem able to manage the words, though. After a moment, he shook himself and got twitchily to his feet, hands smoothing his clothing down almost compulsively. "I n-need to go."

"What happened?" Harry asked. "Are you all right? Was it the door?"

Quirrell's tongue darted out to wet his lips:

"I have— I have ideas. But I need to be sure." He rocked on his heels. "Which means I need to go."

"What are the ideas?" Harry asked. Quirrell shook his head.

"Wrong, hopefully," Quirrell said, shook his head again, gave Harry one more anxious look, and fled the room.

"Nice to see you again, Draco." Those unnerving eyes studied Draco. "And you must be Hydrus? It was remiss of me to not introduce myself to you on my last visit."

Draco thought Hydrus might wet himself, but manners seemed to kick in and he gave a jerky bow:

"The pleasure's mine, my Lord," he said to the floor. From behind them, Mother seemed to start breathing again, at least until the Dark Lord raised a pale, spider-like hand in her direction. "Leave us."

"Of course, my Lord," she said, lowering her head. "Shall I fetch Lucius—?"

"If I wanted Lucius, he would be here already," the Dark Lord said.

"Of course," Mother said again. Her eyes moved from Hydrus to Draco, and then she swept from the room, head held high and back straight. Too straight, Draco thought; she was afraid.

"What can you tell me about Harry Potter?" The Dark Lord asked softly, as the door shut behind her.

Hydrus looked to Draco, eyes wide, though Draco didn't return the look; he saw it peripherally, and kept his own eyes on the Dark Lord.

"All sorts," Draco said calmly. Something shifted in his mind—the Dark Lord's presence, no doubt. "Was there something in particular you'd like to know?"

"What do you know about his summer so far?" the Dark Lord asked.

"He's spending it at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix," Draco said, shrugging. "The location of which is apparently concealed by a Fidelius Charm. I assume you know he lost his hand?"

"He what?" Hydrus breathed. "How?" His eyes flicked to the Dark Lord, a question in them that went unanswered.

"Naturally," the Dark Lord said.

"And the Mark is causing him some distress as well," Draco said. "Dumbledore's been looking into removing it, but he was having trouble figuring out how the magic anchoring it worked." The Dark Lord smiled at that, and Draco smiled back, grim; emphasis on the was—as he understood it, now that they'd figured out it was rooted in parseltongue and they had Granger working with them on it, they were making progress, though they'd not yet succeeded in removing it.

"And will he return to school in September?" The Dark Lord twirled his wand between long fingers.

"As far as I know," Draco said. "Have you heard otherwise?"

"No." The Dark Lord turned to Hydrus, who tensed. "Leave us." Hydrus shot Draco a terrified look, bowed, and slipped away, leaving Draco alone with the Dark Lord for what Draco hoped would be the first and last time.

The Dark Lord was silent and still considering him, but Draco felt the presence in his head coil like a spring, like a trap, waiting… Draco took a deep breath to calm himself, to ready himself. "And the prophecy?"

"Prophecy?" Draco managed to ask. He didn't hide his surprise, but rather let the Dark Lord feel it; why shouldn't he be surprised—the question was an unexpected one, and not one he'd ever thought he'd be on the receiving end of.

"A prophecy linking the Potter boy and myself," the Dark Lord said; Draco could feel him watching very carefully. "You have an appreciation for the power that comes with knowledge," the Dark Lord said softly. Either he'd believed the picture Draco's mind painted or ignored it entirely in favour of whatever conclusions his own mind had reached; Draco didn't have the first clue what those conclusions might be, but he was still alive, so clearly not the right ones. "And you know that I desire knowledge…" He paused. "You are familiar with it," the Dark Lord said, and he reached for a memory in Draco's mind. It was not a question. "Your mind betrays you—"

"The Order knows you want it," Draco blurted, even as the Dark Lord examined Draco's memory of a message from Weasley—with luck he would assume it was a letter and not one of Wormtail's parchments— about the Department of Mysteries.

"And you've said nothing?"

"I thought I'd be wasting your time," Draco said, and wasn't feigning the shakiness in his voice. "Severus attends, and I know he gives you reports—"

"Do not presume to tell me what would be a waste of my time," the Dark Lord hissed.

"Yes, sir," Draco said, ducking his head in what he hoped looked like subservience, but was a chance to break eye contact. It wouldn't remove the Dark Lord from his mind—a true Legillimens didn't need eye contact, only proximity—but it weakened the connection a little, let Draco get his expression under control, and his mind. "It's true, then?" Draco asked. "You're after the prophecy?"

"As are you, now," the Dark Lord murmured. "I want to know what the Order knows about it, if only to verify Severus' reports."

"You don't trust Severus?" Draco asked, stilling.

"Not unconditionally." It went without saying that the same was true for Draco. "I want to know what the boy knows."

"Potter?" Draco asked, and received a flat look in return. "And if he doesn't know anything?"

"Then you will influence him to," the Dark Lord said coolly. "Harry Potter is curious, and if he believes Dumbledore is concealing information from him, he will uncover it. Either through Dumbledore directly, or through other means, and when he tells you, you will tell me."

Draco inclined his head to show he understood, and he did:

It was a test, there was no way he could miss that; a test of how much Potter trusted him, a test of how effectively Draco was able to leverage that trust, and a test of whether Draco would, of whether he was as loyal to the Dark Lord as he'd said he was willing to be.

"How should I report to you?" Draco asked. "Through Severus, or through my father…?"

"Severus is the obvious choice," the Dark Lord said, and it was not a lie, but it surprised Draco a little that the Dark Lord believed it was true. Another test, perhaps? There was something in the way he said it that made Draco uneasy. "Tell no one else." He watched Draco, predatory, and when Draco didn't ask anything more, looked at the door: "You are dismissed."

Draco gave a short bow and let himself out of the office. Mother and Father were standing by the stairs, having a murmured but rather strained sounding conversation. Both looked up sharply as the door opened:

"Draco," Mother said, but there was so much feeling in her voice that Draco couldn't tell what it actually was. Relief, perhaps, or fear? Father's hand brushed hers briefly but then pulled away, and they both straightened. Draco sensed rather than heard the Dark Lord behind him, and it was only that that stopped him from flinching when a pale hand placed itself on his shoulder. The Dark Lord did not grasp Draco and the touch was only light, but it had a cold weight to it all the same. Mother's expression didn't move, but something in it changed.

"Have Severus collect you," the Dark Lord said. Draco had to work not to react to that, but something in his chest lightened, despite the seriousness of the situation. If he wanted Draco elsewhere to carry out the task he'd been given, there was only one place he could mean for Draco to go… "Until next time, Draco," the Dark Lord said. He removed his hand and Draco felt immediately warmer. "Give my regards to your other son, Narcissa."

With that, the Dark Lord swept down the hall toward the Floo, Father in his wake.

"Collect you?" Mother asked. Her lips barely moved, and her voice was quiet, doubtless not wanting it to carry. "Where is he sending you? Draco—"

"The Dark Lord has given me a task," Draco said, and Mother's expression was once again unchanged, though her face paled a little. "I need to pack."

He left her there and felt a little guilty over her obvious worry and for the fact that he was… anything but worried himself. He only just turned away in time; emotion tugged at his mouth, mostly contained until he'd made it upstairs and into the safety of his bedroom.

There, it spread into a wide grin.

They were about halfway down the Malfoy's gravel driveway when Draco, entirely unprompted, asked:

"How much of the prophecy does the Dark Lord know?"

It was impossible to know whether it was a genuine question or one designed to elicit a response, or both, but it took significant effort on Severus' part to keep a smooth expression in the face of it. "So you already know about it," Draco mused. "I thought you must, if he was willing to let me mention it to you but not Father."

Severus shot Draco a look and Draco gave him a small, amused smile in return. Severus curled his lip and Draco's smile widened.

"What do you know?"

"There's a prophecy about Potter and the Dark Lord," Draco said, surprising Severus with his forthrightness. Draco glanced at a distant peacock and lowered his voice: "It says: The one with the power to—"

Severus hissed at him to be silent, with far more venom than he'd expected of himself, and clearly with more than Draco had either. Draco closed his mouth and studied Severus, a slight frown on his face.

"That prophecy being overheard is what started this entire mess fourteen years ago," Severus said. Draco considered that, expression inscrutable. "Where did you hear it?" Surely the Dark Lord had not confided in Draco so completely—

"Potter told me," Draco said.

"Potter—" Not the Dark Lord then, which meant: "In full?"

"Yes."

"Potter is a fool," Severus snarled. Draco lifted his pointy chin, disapproving, but continued as if he had not heard:

"And when he did, he said he doesn't even know that part in reference to the Dark Lord, which I assume means he knows some but not all of it. That's why he's after it now, surely."

Severus wanted to disparage Potter some more, and then Dumbledore or Black, because one of them was responsible for having told him in the first place, but he reined himself in with difficulty; what was done was done, it seemed.

"You would be correct in that assumption," Severus said stiffly. "The person who overheard the prophecy and then reported it back to the Dark Lord was disturbed and only heard the first two sentences. It was enough for the Dark Lord to target the Potters—" Severus felt a familiar twist of guilt and regret. "—but the rest is unknown to him."

"He's tasked me with learning it," Draco said.

"You concealed your knowledge of it?" Severus asked, feeling terrified, relieved, and impressed all at once.

"He wasn't really looking for it—I doubt he expected me to know it, and so when I slipped up, he assumed my familiarity with it was conceptual. I showed him a memory of correspondence with Weasley and he seemed to take it at face value."

"You got lucky," Severus said.

"I know." They'd reached the gate. Draco put a hand on it and it opened, allowing them, and the trunk of Draco's belongings that had been hovering after them, to pass through.

"What do you intend to do?" Severus asked after a moment.

"I haven't decided yet," Draco said, eyes taking in the misty country morning. He seemed in good spirits this—buoyed, no doubt, by the opportunity to escape the Manor for the rest of the summer, even if the circumstances were tricky—but as he turned, Severus got a better look at the shadows under his eyes and thought last night's conversation with the Dark Lord was weighing on him more than he cared to admit. Severus felt another twist of guilt and regret. "Giving the prophecy to him is the obvious option to secure his faith in my abilities as a spy, but at what cost?" He glanced up at Severus.

"When you do what we do, sometimes we must do what we must to protect ourselves so that we may protect others later," Severus said.

"Is it a matter of time until he gains access to the real thing anyway?"

"I don't know," Severus said honestly. "The Headmaster certainly does not intend for him to, and the Ministry are also on board with its protection. Not that they know what they're protecting, necessarily."

"And if he got it from me, would he give up on trying to get it from the Ministry?"

"I don't know that either." Perhaps he would, but the Dark Lord was mistrustful, would want some way to validate Draco's loyalty. Severus considered his godson. "Having heard it in full… would knowing its contents benefit him?"

"I don't know," Draco said. They were silent for a few moments, and then Severus offered Draco his arm.

"Failing him in this is not an option," Severus said, as Draco took hold of his trunk and Severus' forearm. His hand rested over the sleeve covering Severus' Mark, and Severus wondered if he realised it. "You do understand that much?"

"I understand." There was something in his expression that made Severus nervous.

"Draco."

"He has to believe I can be valuable," Draco said, a little too calmly. There was something in his voice that reminded Severus of Narcissa. "Which means I have to give him what he's after—a prophecy."

A prophecy. Draco's wording was not lost on Severus, who stilled.

"If he can verify—"

"He can't," Draco said. "You've just told me he only knows the first part. And if Dumbledore and the Ministry are going to keep him away from the real thing, then he'll have no way of knowing."

"Do not underestimate him, Draco. You are clever and you are talented, but allow me to disillusion you: you are not more clever or more talented than he is; wizards who believe they are tend to fare poorly. Perhaps he does know the prophecy in full and is merely testing you. Perhaps he has already plucked it from Potter's head and is waiting to find out whether you are truly loyal."

"I hadn't—"

"Thought of that?" Severus finished for him. "Clearly." He straightened, readying himself to apparate. "With the Dark Lord, each chance is your last chance. You must tread carefully."

With that, he spun on the spot, pulling Draco with him.