Ode

ODE

Chapter two: With wonderful deathless ditties

With wonderful deathless ditties,

We build up the world's great cities,

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empires glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Can go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song's measure,

Can trample an empire down.

~O'Shaughnessy

~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Once again things blur and shift insubstantially around the edges. Slowly, the sky changes color from black-- to grey-- to blue. The morning sunlight pierces sharp holes in the dense green canopies of forests, flowing languidly over the softened earth of fields and pastures. It seeps unhurried through the rough-edged cracks beneath windows and under doors, and gradually, one tiny part of the world awakes to find itself subject to a new master.

~*~

In his study, Draco Malfoy pours over various maps and charts of the countryside. His most recent conquest over the Averys has acquisitioned him an additional nine-hundred miles, which, unfortunately, are separated from the rest of his domain by property firmly in the control of to the Macnairs. His father had created an uneasy alliance with the old man, the beast killer. But Lucius is dead, and as the new Lord of Wiltshire, Draco feels no such loyalty nor is he bound by Lucius' arrangements. Macnair is feeble and fears death. He will surrender without a fight, and Draco knows it.

Still, there are plans to be made. Victories come easily. What will be more difficult is maintaining his power. Even among Death Eaters he is largely considered a traitor, thought to be making promises and systematically breaking them as soon as the opportunity arises. For months now, he has been living with a target painted on his back, and every triumph garners him more and more enemies.

~*~

He is rumored to be a favorite of the Dark Lord, though in truth, Draco has had little dealing with him. He is the closest living relative of Lord Voldemort's most esteemed follower, but this hardly matters, as he is also his father's son. Aunt Bellatrix, had taken her own life before admitting defeat, while the circumstances surrounding the death of Lucius Malfoy were far less dignified. It was said that she killed sixteen Aurors in the explosion that caused her untimely end. The only two who survived the blast were her own disinherited niece Nymphadora Tonks and a wholly unpromising young auror, one Neville Longbottom, who was only let into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement out of respect for his parents and a desperate need for expendable resources. Draco knew this and a great many other things because of his years working as an upper level Ministry executive, an endeavor which left him privy to a large amount of classified information.

The experience had left him disillusioned. Whatever hopes he once kept for a future worthy of his childhood dreams had been sapped away by the daily tedium of his position coupled with his many failures to find work elsewhere on his own merits. For years, he lived in resignation, a quiet, bitter acceptance of the world and his place in it, but then the world had begun to change, and that was where he first saw his chance. His father's passing had brought with it unexpected opportunities, and, in the time that followed, he assiduously cultivated a ruthlessness all of his own, one born of desperation and the frantic, dizzying need to prove that he could be far greater than he appeared.

A passing interest in muggle weaponry had grown into a bleak obsession with death and the many ways it could be brought about. This had then given way to an ever-growing collection of torture devices, and it was not long after that he started his experimenting. Weeks later, when he was given the chance to join the Dark Lord as an official member of his Death Eaters, Draco readily accepted.

~*~

Pushing aside a large tome of ancient Sumerian mythology, he picks up his quill and traces over the borders of his newest landholdings. This is his kingdom, and it is here that he has a future. At the ministry all he could wish to be was an unessential body with a once-reputable name, holding a title he was only given on the behest of his father's bribery. Here in this sordid world of ancient grudges and power struggles-- of secret vendettas and opulent facades-- here he is in his element, and here he remains strong enough not to be bothered by anyone's poor opinions.

Still, sometimes it feels wrong. In the early hours of morning when the first rays of the rising sun catch hold of the multifaceted crystals hanging loosely from the chandeliers and cast spinning rainbows about the darkened corridors, he can remember a time when magic was not so bound in blood-- when his greatest worries were over the changing of kitchenware into kittens and not the ruling an empire.

At night, when the moonlight takes on a bluish sheen, he lies in his oversized bed watching the spectral shadows as they dance slowly across the walls of his private chambers. They look like people sometimes-- the ones he killed, the ones he betrayed, used, tortured, the ones he left behind to become what he is now, and sometimes, in spite of everything, he has to keep reminding himself that he isn't actually being haunted, at least not by anything real. During the days, Draco is far to busy to think long on such trivial matters. There is, after all, so much to do.

~*~

Phineas, he notices peripherally, has returned to his frame after a few hours absence. His portrait is different than others in the mansion, far more talkative, for one, and, while most bore some relation to his father, Nigellus was an ancestor of his mother. The man had been a highly regarded wizard in his day, before distinctions between light magic and dark were so clearly defined. He had even served briefly as headmaster of Hogwarts, but that was a very long time ago. So far removed is he now that he seems only to pass information from one side to the other in equal measures. Draco, naturally, has been using this to his advantage.

Looking up he gives an imperceptible nod, but as usual, Phineas takes this as his cue to speak. "Well, Malfoy," he says, painted countenance twisting in a smug grin, "I'd say you can be expecting visitors sometime in the near future."

"Splendid." Draco smiles, beginning to dip his quill and start over on his graphs with these new developments in mind. "So, Macnair will come with his initial offers . . . I'll refuse of course."

"Macnair," Phineas says, giving him a reprimanding look, "knows nothing of your plans. I have not yet told him."

"But--" Draco stammers awkwardly as the ink bottle topples over, spilling its contents across his scattered papers. The ink drips slowly onto the antique Persian rugs below the table. He mutters a quick cleaning charm, which fails miserably, and then chooses to ignore the mess for the time being in hopes that the house elves will take care of it later. He looks back to the portrait who, he expects, will be laughing merrily at his latest fumble, but finds himself rather shocked to see Phineas' face set in an eerily grave glower. Involuntarily he begins to sputter again before being cut off. "I- I, b--"

"Honestly, Draco, do you think me stupid?" Phineas snorts indignantly before he is given the chance to reply. "I will not be used. Certainly not by the likes of you." Draco's mouth opens and closes but he seems, for once, inexplicably powerless to form coherent words. Things are most certainly not going according to plan. "You still have much to learn, young Malfoy." Draco somehow manages to cross his arms tightly over his chest and gives a resentful huff, but Phineas ignores it. "As I was saying, you should be preparing yourself for some company."

"Who?" he asks, still trying desperately to grab hold of some familiarity or at least figure out what Phineas is on about.

"Well," Phineas answers dutifully. "I was in the headmaster's office, you know, as I often am. It turns out that Potter boy was there as well, you know the one?" This question is rhetorical, of course, and purely mocking as every portrait, bust and porcelain vase in the mansion had at one time or another been subjected to one of Draco's triads on his utter loathing of the boy-who-lived.

Draco's features pinch slightly, though with him it is hard to tell, and he manages to keep his voice perfectly calm. "Yes," he answers with a polite nod. "I'm familiar with Potter . . . unfortunately."

"It seems," Phineas rejoins quickly, "that old Dumbledore is sending him on a mission of some sort."

"Of what sort?" He asks. Uncomfortable with his current lack of control, Draco finds the uncertainty is quickly becoming suffocating. Furthermore, he is not at all pleased with the direction this conversation seems to be taking. He doesn't like any direction that leads towards Potter.

"Well I don't know, do I?" Phineas replies. "The man really is an awful bore at times. I can hardly be expected to pay attention to all of his ramblings." He sighs heavily, leaning his back against the right side of his gilt-edged frame. "The point is that Potter is in need of a guide so, naturally, I recommended you for the position."

"YOU WHAT?!" Draco screams, all traces of obligatory politeness and haughty grace immediately cast aside. He tries to calm his breathing, standing stiffly with his fists clenched at his sides.

"I think," Phineas says, giving elegant flick of his hand, "it would be an excellent opportunity to teach you some responsibility."

"Some responsibility?" Draco asks quietly advancing on the portrait's place on the wall. "Some responsibility," he gasps, breathlessly grabbing hold of both sides of the frame and trying futilely too pull it down. Finding his efforts ineffective, Draco steps back and picks up an ink stained map from the table. "Some responsibility!" he screams waving it above his head. "I control almost half the country!"

"Yes." Phineas smiles as he takes in Draco's blotchy, tousled appearance, before turning away to examine his fingernails. "And a fine job you've been doing of it, I assure you." Draco suppresses a growl, and the portrait quirks an eyebrow at him. "I'll just leave you to it then."

"Oh no, you won't." Draco whispers coarsely, finding the words caught in his throat. "Why are you doing this anyway?"

"Because, Draco Malfoy," Phineas says, "you will soon be the last of my descendents, and I have sat idly by and watched you squander your existence for far too long. If you waste anymore time waiting to begin your life it will be too late . . . We were like royalty once."

"I am like royalty now," Draco says coolly. Finally coming back into himself, he jabs his finger at a map on the table. "I control this, all of it. Thirty-one-thousand square miles, and it's mine. No one comes or goes without me knowing of it." He pauses to swallow, but his tone remains even throughout. "You have no idea of the power I now possess, the minds that are mine to control, to break with a word." He sneers derisively at Phineas, lips twitching to withhold the malicious grin, struggling to break free. "And you were what? A glorified teacher? "

"There was nobility in that." Phineas eyes Draco in a discerning glare. "There was choice."

Draco leans back against the table. "Well, that doesn't really matter to me, does it?" he asks, smiling sardonically. "You're dead now-- just a memory, and I can live my life as I see fit. I will follow the Dark Lord. That is my choice."

Phineas shakes his head, looking almost remorseful. "You are a puppet, Draco and a fool. He'll turn on you too soon enough."

"AND WHAT WOULD I BE TO THEM?!" Draco screams back at him flailing his arms wildly and sending more scrolls and ink bottles crashing against the tile floor.

"WHAT ARE YOU NOW TO THAT-THAT THING YOU CALL MASTER?!" Phineas shouts, matching Draco's voice precisely in tone and pitch.

"He has power," Draco hisses furiously, "and he gives power. He makes me what I am, and I will be strong for him!"

"And you will fall to his sword." Phineas looks at him mildly, a blank cast falling over his painted eyes. "I would not have you lost in such a way."

"No!" Draco shouts, incensed. "No! You would have me become Potter's pawn!"

"I would have you become your own man." Phineas says, again fixing Draco in a piercing gaze as he stands shakily amidst the torrents of black ink and rumpled parchments spilling over the table ledge. "Not a slave and not a stupidly cruel child infatuated with death."

Draco notices himself shrinking back from the frame and cannot shake the incomprehensible feeling that the portrait is looking straight through him, sizing him up by examining the contents his mind and poking about in all the nasty, muddled bits of his subconscious. He wants to scream. He wants to yell, Get out of my head, but he can't find the voice to do it. At the very least, he hopes to shrug off the Phineas' stare and walk casually out of the room, but now, trying to move his feet, he finds himself too petrified to manage even that.

"But, as you say," Phineas continues, "it is your choice. If you wish to sell your life away for a cheap, temporary illusion of power then there's nothing I can do to stop you." Draco shivers visibly, and Phineas' glare seems to intensify. "I'm just a memory after all." He draws its eyes away and Draco instantly grabs hold of a nearby chair to keep from collapsing to the floor.

"I--" Draco sputters, once again finding his words fail him.

"Just listen," Phineas says with a hint of finality. "That's all I'll ask of you. Just hear what the boy has to say."

"Fine . . ." Draco answers, his voice sounding very small to his own ears.

"And remember, Draco," Phineas interrupts with an almost imperceptible smile beginning to form around the corners of his painted lips. "Real power comes not from controlling the minds of others, but from owning yourself-- to hold dominion over your own thoughts and feelings-- that will be the true test of character."

Unlike his stern, perfectly detailed face Phineas' robes are of a rougher style, though no less elegant, impressionistic perhaps, with each short brushstroke plainly visible--white on black on the hundreds of gray shades in-between--the interplay of darkness and light. It was probably done at his behest, Draco thinks, as in a grand swirl of contrasting tones and pigments, he disappears from view.

"What?" Draco whispers softly to the now vacated frame. Since when had his household portraits started spouting such ridiculous drivel? Could Phineas actually think he would accede to Potter's requests? The idea was laughable. Phineas certainly couldn't be so imprudent, know Draco so little, and yet, Phineas knew him better than he knew himself. How else was he able to draw forth those exact reactions just when he needed to? How else could he have captured him in a moment of vulnerability and left him trapped there indefinitely? How could he have fooled Draco into agreement? And most importantly why would he bother? Unless--

"I won't do it you know!" Draco screams across the empty room. "I won't go with him," he repeats flatly to himself turning to leave the mess of his study until the elves clean it properly. Then, standing in the doorway, Draco fixes the uninhabited portrait frame in a glare of his own. "I won't . . . "

Phineas, Draco thinks pacing erratically down his dimly-lit corridors and winding staircases, has been spending far too much time lounging about in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts. He appeared to be picking up some of the old man's more bothersome habits lately. Nevertheless, there are sayings about the word of a Malfoy and having been tricked into holding an audience with Potter, of all people, he can see no feasible way out of it. Dumbledore's ally or no, Phineas Nigellus is still Slytherin to the core.

Breath hitching slightly, and legs too weak to continue, Draco stops, finding himself lost in a part of the manor's basement he's never before seen. What once may have been someone's lower chamber is now a completely empty stone-fashioned room illuminated only by the sunlight that filters in from a slit window high above his head. With the raw smarting edges of his anger finally subsiding into the thick grey haze of abstraction Draco is suddenly very tired or for the first time aware of his perpetual fatigue. He allows himself to lean heavily against a chilled stone wall, before falling gracelessly to the dust-covered floor.

"Damn."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The weeks to pass since Harry's return from his journey to Hogwarts had been tense to say the least. In truth, the anxiety has become so charged that it slices through the air in streaming rivulets of blinding white and shimmering gold-- scarcely visible currents of electric energy that Harry could just barely make out with his eyes unfocused and half closed, but they were there, and he could feel them prickling his skin and running up his spine and snaking their way through his hair, which had been looking messier than ever.

With all the overriding nervousness and conflicting magical signatures, the house had become a powder keg waiting to blow. All that was needed was a spark to light the ignition. The morning Ginny disappeared it was all he could do to brace himself and prepare for the explosion, but it never came. In fact, quite the opposite happened, all the sizzling power had slowly dissipated, eroded away into a low melancholy hum, leaving him feeling strangely bereft.

~*~

Mrs. Weasley is in the kitchen again taking out her frustrations on the morning's batch of potatoes which, it appeared they would be enjoying minced. As much as she said she loved him, and had never given him any reason to doubt her, he is sure that if he tries to approach her now she won't hesitate to sever his head with her large vegetable cleaver or, at the very least, impale him on a long, metal broiling skewer. Harry vaguely wonders when this new dimension of morbidity had crept unnoticed into his mundane day-to-day thoughts, but he decides that it is only natural in times like these. At any rate, it allowed for some amusing inner dialogue-- assuming he kept a very broad definition of the term amusing.

Harry watches her from the doorway. He notices that she's crying again, and murmuring softly to herself, but this is a fairly regular occurrence. Mr. Weasley has locked himself away in his garage amidst his batteries and sparkplugs. Charlie is frenetically digging a giant hole out in the yard for what he says will be a root cellar. Percy, for once, has stopped his self-important lecturing and wanders around the house looking completely lost with an oddly vacant expression on his normally perceptive face. The twins have been downright helpful and well behaved, which is positively eerie. And Ron--Ron is acting exactly as he has been. For him, at least, nothing's changed.

~*~

Harry had wanted things to be different when he first arrived back from Hogwarts. Both Hermione and Ron seemed genuinely concerned while they fussed over him and asked how things went. So he fed them some phony stories and they believed him, of course they had. Everyone needed something to put their trust in, a bit of proof that there was still some remote possibility that the world someday return to normal, and in the absence of anything real, false hope would have to suffice-- it seemed only Harry knew the difference.

The truth was that Snape was away on a secret assignment, while Professor Trelawney was missing and presumed dead. She had been considered a threat. Just one of her true prophesies could easily give away important information about Voldemort and, however unlikely that was, it was not a risk the Dark Lord was willing to take. So Harry had lied to his friends, and from that lie he was granted one last fond memory of the place he now thought to of as his home. He isn't ashamed, though a part of him still realizes he should be.

Afterwards, Ron had quickly retreated back into himself, and Hermione's condition had regressed so that she was again spending most of her time confined to bed. He reminds himself once more that he was a fool to expect anything else, but Gryffindors are notoriously imprudent, especially when it comes to matters of the heart which, pretty well explains all of their actions-- his outward stoicism, Hermione's blind faith, even Ron's brooding to a certain degree. The huge blow up never came, but Ginny's disappearance had started a slow, gradual collapse, and Harry knows that he has to leave now while he still has the chance.

Though he hasn't told anyone yet, this is going to be his last day spent at The Burrow. He will leave tomorrow. That morning he had gotten a letter of instructions from Dumbledore. He takes it out and reads it again, though the words have already been committed to memory:

Dear Harry,

I am pleased to inform you that we have created a way for you to reach your destination. Contained in the accompanying package is a type of muggle compass, polarized to point towards a transmitter placed in the vicinity of your intended location. Arthur Weasley will be able to assist you should you have any questions about the operational procedures of this device. Trust in us Harry and in yourself. This compass will lead the way.

Good luck,

~Albus

The headmaster has been very discreet about his true meanings, but Harry fears the intent of the letter would have been easy enough to decipher, had it been intercepted, and he is fully aware of the possibility that he could be walking into an enormous trap, though he can't any other options. There was a choice, of course, always his choice, and no one can truly blame him if he doesn't go--but still . . .

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun is brighter than usual. It glints spectacularly off the crushed gravel driveways, turning the stones silver and reflective-- like the shattered pieces of a thousand broken mirrors, secretly holding in them all the misfortune of the world. It shines down on the metallic finishes cars that line the narrow street, and catches the perfectly manicured lawns in its intense light, as if daring the grass and garden flowers to wither.

~*~

If you're the type who'll boldly rush to settle vast dissention,

In Gryffindor your daring feats will earn you great attention.

~*~

It is early afternoon, and somewhere in the world, there is a boy who lives in an attic or a basement or a cupboard under the stairs. He stays wherever the people he lives with can keep him hidden-- secret because they know he isn't like them. They know he's different, and deep down he knows it too. In his dreams he can be brave--braver than a child who hides himself away with moths and spiders has any right to claim. He creates worlds inside his head where he can do amazing things, and there are others like him. These are dreams too, he realizes, even though they don't come at night. All he has to do is close his eyes and he's loved and trusted, and he can fly. Though he can't explain exactly how, he knows that for people like him-- people who are different, some dreams are meant to come true.

~*~

There is a girl who doesn't fit in with the children at her school. It's not anyone's fault, really, that strange things are constantly happening around her or that she is always being blamed and punished. It is, after all, for safety's sake that she should be kept isolated. Sometimes when she gets especially lonely or scared, when she sits on the edge of the pavement because she's not allowed to play with the others, she hears a voice in her head. It always says the same thing, always-- Just wait. Just a little longer. Soon it won't be like this anymore. Soon you can go home.'

~*~

Far away, hundreds of children begin to see beyond the thinning shrouds of the realities woven about them and look into a world that they somehow know they are part of-- that they belong to, a world that is at once terrible and frightening and beautiful and much bigger than they could ever imagine.

Across the country, hundreds more wait impatiently for letters they know will come, and they talk of the day they will get their first wand, and take bets with their friends on which houses they'll be sorted into, listening excitedly as their siblings tell them about secret corridors and mysterious rooms that can turn into other rooms entirely with just a wish. They hear stories about the professors who will soon teach them and roll their eyes condescendingly, because Snape can't really be that nasty nor Flitwick that short nor Dumbledore that old, and McGonagall couldn't possibly give that much homework-- at least not to first years.

They make lofty plans of becoming great Aurors or healers or single-handedly winning the Quidditch World Cup, and despite the darkness that surrounds them, they know that this can still be possible because they still have magic. They have the same magic that allowed a baby to defeat the world's most powerful dark wizard, and with magic, there is always hope. In their world it's not really so important who's stronger or smarter. Most of the time it comes down to who wants it more, and in the style of stubborn children everywhere, they refuse to accept their inferiority-- not to their parents not to their teachers and certainly not to the Dark Lord.

*In his shared room Harry Potter lies uncomfortably in bed and thinks.*

Heat rises from the cement walkways, sending gentle waves of warmth into the cooling air. It is night. Somewhere, a boy looks up at the stars through a cracked, dust covered window and draws invisible lines between them with his finger creating pictures-- scenes that speak of change and loss, while a girl miles away sits outside listening to the soft calls of owls flying overhead and imagines they might be talking to her, telling her that soon she must be very careful, but in the end it will do little good. She remembers reading in school, while the others played, books of myths and legends, and she recalls that owls always spoke of death. For a while, she tries to pretend that she was just being silly, a foolish child as her teachers would say, because there is no way for a girl to understand owls, but then she knows she isn't like the other girls, and she also knows that in her stories the owls were always right.

~*~

All over the country children wake from dreams more real than any they have ever had before-- visions of death and destruction, blazing fires that are only flimsy points of light against the sharply penetrating coldness. They see flashes of monsoon rains, bringing floods and with them drownings. They feel a searing heat scorching the land leaving them weakened without food or water and icy blizzards trapping them under sheets of pure white, poisoning their minds with hope of a spring that will never come. There is no face they can hold responsible for this, at least not a human one. In the end, it is only themselves at the mercy of the elements. So they wake cursing their own frailty and ignorance. If only someone could explain . . . if only they could understand . . .

~*~

At Hogwarts inter-house relations had become rather strained. Gryffindors didn't trust Slytherins because of a thousand year old grudge. Slytherins didn't trust Ravenclaws because they could be far too clever for their own good, and Ravenclaws didn't trust Gryffindors because they were smart enough to know there had to be something stirring beneath that edgy façade of perfect courage.

Bored and seeking a break from the constant fighting, two Slytherin sixth years Dulicie Greengrass and Sheila Atwater devised a way to spy on the boy's dorms using a transparency potion on the walls. Unfortunately, their head of house, Professor Snape had noticed the shrivel figs missing from his supply cabinet. He gave a lengthy speech on the frivolity of their actions-- especially in a time when Slytherins are under so much suspicion, nevertheless, he looked over the perfectly clear wall of the seventh year boy's dormitory and gave a defeated sigh before congratulating them on NEWT level potions work, then wearily sent them away to Filch to be dealt with . . .

~*~

In times where rifts are being made a Hufflepuff seeks to mend;

For they are good, and true, and kind, and patient to the end.

~*~

Rubbish..

It was all complete Rubbish..

Dylan Andrews reclined indolently in an overstuffed, bright yellow chair in the Hufflepuff common room. With all the wariness passing about from one house to the next, Gryffindor to Slytherin to Ravenclaw then back again, he and his housemates had, for the most part passed under the radar completely unnoticed.

They weren't especially smart or brave or even particularly ambitious. They had no qualities strong enough to set them apart from the others, and no one had ever considered him sufficiently important to be a threat. No one had ever considered him at all. But, he vowed, they would soon see just how wrong they've been.

Sometimes, he wondered if he could have made Slytherin had it not been for his muggle parentage or Ravenclaw if he didn't care so little for homework, but he doubted it. He never felt like he fit into the muggle world and, since coming to Hogwarts, not much had changed. Soon enough, he was glad not to be affiliated with the other houses and their prejudices.

Incensed by the judgment of his peers and disgusted with his own laziness, he agilely clambered out of his chair, brushing past the second years playing gobstones and eating pepper imps by the fire, as he hopped through the mirror that lead out to the halls. Spring would mark his leaving, and he knew he had been biding his time for far too long. All that was left were the few remaining months of school to turn it all around. He just needed is a place to go . . .

*Draco Malfoy paces the floors of his Wiltshire mansion, wand clutched to his chest waiting for his signal. *

It is morning. Somewhere a boy wakes up with the inexplicable surety that something is terribly wrong. He tries to turn on the one naked bulb that hangs above his head by a thin wire but it refuses to light. Outside his door he hears the cacophony of voices screaming, 'nothing works,' as the people he lives with desperately try to get their toaster to come on. He stays where he is and hopes that in the confusion he's temporarily forgotten-- lest he be blamed.

~*~

A girl gets out of bed knowing she's going to die. She makes the slow, labored walk from her upstairs room to join her family in the kitchen for breakfast. They don't pay attention her as she sits at her usual place. Her mother complains that the phone is disconnected, and one of her brothers shrieks about his computer not coming on, while her father struggles to get his watch going again. Outside their neighbors have taken to the streets all screaming loudly at their cars, which have all gone dead overnight.

She slouches in her seat and her mother puts a bowl of cornflakes in front of her, telling her she better enjoy it because the refrigerator is broken and it could be a long time before they can get fresh milk again. She wonders if it could be the last chance she'll ever get to have milk or corn flakes, not that she particularly cares for either. She sinks further in her chair, refusing to eat, but no one notices.

~*~

In Filch's office, which was really nothing more than a supply closet, the two Slytherin girls stood waiting. The caretaker had talked to them briefly about their horribly unpleasant and downright frightening detention assignments before ambling away after Peeves, who had the nerve to throw stolen exploding snap cards in the direction Mrs. Norris.

After what felt like hours cramped in the small space Sheila stretched a stiff arm behind her back, knocking over a large stack of parchments precariously balanced on the small file cabinet between them. Instantly, they were both on their hands and knees scooping up armfuls of incident reports and confiscated test keys when, halfway through putting them back, one parchment caught their eyes, an unremarkable list of names, which could very well just be another list of rule-breakers sharing a single punishment except for the two words printed on the top Dumbledore's Army. . .

~*~

It was like magic, or it would have been in any other circumstances. Considering he was in a school of witchcraft and wizardry, Dylan could say with almost absolute certainty that it was magic that caused this, but he still couldn't begin to explain how. He needed someplace to go, to study and to practice. Then suddenly, he was there, exactly where he wanted to be-- well not exactly.

He had imagined a room to train using magic and he was in a room was full of muggle weapons and books on how to use them. It was a huge gymnasium with walls lined in swords of all sizes and styles, spears, crossbows, maces, and many implements that he didn't know by name or function. He went to the wall, picked up a sword and weighed it critically in his hands before swinging it experimentally once, and then again slowly at first, but soon faster and quickly he found himself involved in an imaginary duel, thrusting out enthusiastically towards an invisible opponent.

He was so caught up in his game that he didn't hear the door opening or the soft pattering of footsteps, nor did he stop until the giggling voices interrupted him. In the entryway stood two girls he had only ever seen in passing. One held a crumpled sheet of parchment and the other eyed him cynically before asking if he was in the army . . .

*Ronald Weasley walks down for breakfast stopping outside the door next to his, an arm stretches but his fingers never reach the handle, he turns away whispering 'goodbye.' *

~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Afterwards.

I've made it to a chair, thankfully.

I doubt I could get up if I tried, but that hardly matters, because I'm in no mind to attempt something so foolish for a few hours yet.

Everything worked, or so I'm told. Everything worked perfectly-- perfectly if you consider the barbed steel wires invisibly winding their way around my lungs. The pain of it still lingers.

It hurt. I hadn't expected it would hurt so much.

My wand lies on the floor, but I can't reach it from here, and I doubt it would make much difference healing spells were never my strong suit, though that wouldn't help matters now.

Magic is thick in air of the closed drawing room, probably thick over the whole of Wiltshire. I suppose I'm the cause of that. In a few days it will dissipate, but now it swirls violently, passing through my skin like ice and fire-- ghost shadows and phoenix trails.

I try to focus again, to draw it into myself, but some invisible barrier prevents me. Some of this was mine to give once. Now it belongs to the air and the earth and to the Dark Lord. Perhaps it has always been his anyway-- never really mine. I wonder what Phineas would say about that. It doesn't matter. I'll have everything back soon enough-- that and more.

And I'm told it worked perfectly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry stands beside Hermione's bed looking down at her as she examines the seemingly broken compass she's holding. It's a muggle object, clearly-- all sleek screens and tiny buttons. It gives off none of the effervescent, colorful sparks of energy he associates with the wizarding world-- with magic. For his particular task, he finds this perversely appropriate. "So?" he asks tapping her on the shoulder.

She clucks her tongue, admonishing his impatience and turns it over in her hands without looking up. He briefly wonders how she is so steady even now. Remembering a time when he had the flu, Harry is sure he was all cold sweats and hot shivers. He knows he couldn't lift his head without his vision fading in and out and his thoughts disappearing entirely. Whatever she has now is much worse, but she's still the same old Hermione, and this doesn't surprise him in the least. He's pulled forcefully out of his memories by her soft voice. "Just like at school . . . "

"What?"

She looks up at him and takes on her familiar professional tone. "The high levels of magical energy are preventing any muggle technology from working properly."

"Oh," he nods vaguely remembering having heard something along those lines.

"Voldemort and his minions must have released it purposely." She sighs brushing away a few wisps of hair with her free hand. "They must know."

"What? That's impossible." But Harry already knows it isn't. After all, the letter would have been easy enough to interpret, and the Death Eaters would be just sadistic enough to send it along anyway rather than keeping it for themselves.

"He has spies everywhere," Hermione says pointedly. "Why else. . ." Her breath hitches, bringing her to an abrupt halt. "He could be trying to weaken them!" she gasps, raising a hand to cover her mouth.

"Weaken who?" Harry asks, feeling slightly unnerved at her change in demeanor and awkward for interrupting.

"Muggles . . ." her voice suddenly becomes strained and disarmingly reedy. "Merlin, Harry!"

"Then this isn't just happening to us-- to the compass?"

"N-no," she stammers. "No there's no way. He couldn't possibly be that precise. He had to release high quantities of magic all over the place." Her eyes shut tightly, and she continues without opening them. "The muggles-- everyone-- they'll be helpless."

"No electricity."

"Not just that," she breathes. "No anything. Batteries, cars, power generators, nothing will work." She opens her eyes and meets his. "Harry, what'll you do?"

He shrugs back at her. "I'll go . . . I'll go, and I'll try to find him."

"But how?"

"I don't know yet," he answers, tumbling back to reality, and looking away at Fawkes, who has taken up residence on her bedpost. "Don't worry. I'll figure something out."

"Harry," Hermione replies, drawing his eyes back to her face and fixing him in a reproving stare. "You're not planning on doing this all on your own are you?"

"What choice do I have?" he asks, letting his shoulders fall. "It will probably be easier that way. Don't worry."

She looks like she's worrying quite a lot, but, instead of reprimanding him again, she takes his hand and gives it a light squeeze. "You know I'd go with you, if I could?" Her voice is warm and soft, but her words still cut him, bringing up memories of a home that was never truly his and another that he has to leave behind.

"Of course," he answers. There's little doubt that she would follow him anywhere, even against her better judgment. She certainly has before. Once again, he finds himself wondering how she is able to trust him so unconditionally. Hermione, of all people, should know that there is little truth to the legends of the mysterious boy who couldn't be killed-- not even by the darkest of wizards, and she certainly wasn't fed on such lies since childhood as even Ron was. She knows he can be careless and rash at times, and she knows that he can work himself into a dismal state and refuse to be consoled. Most importantly, she knows exactly what's being asked of him and just what his chances, but and she still trusts him. It's moments like these when her incredible control cracks and she is able to keep on believing in the impossible-- in him-- that Harry can see exactly why Hermione Granger was sorted into Gryffindor.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, catching him slightly off guard. After all, shouldn't he be the one asking her that?

"Fine...I'm fine," he answers tensing in the shoulders. She shoots a questioning look, which causes him to sputter a bit. "I-I'm just a little stressed, alright?"

"O-okay . . ." she replies in a disbelieving tone.

"And I've been getting these headaches," he continues as her stare intensifies, "but I'm fine . . . Just fine."

"Harry you can't go alone," she says, once again businesslike. "Promise you won't."

"What?" he asks, taken aback. "I thought--"

"You can't!" she whispers urgently.

"I have to, Hermione. I have to do this. You know that."

"Yes, but not all by yourself." Her grip on his hand tightens, and he winces upon hearing his finger joints crack. "You can't Harry . . . You won't make it."

He blinks.

Hermione has kept things from him before, quite a lot of things actually. Professor Lupin's lycanthropy came immediately to mind, followed by her time-tuner, she kept S.P.E.W. secret for awhile, she had once set up an interview with Rita Skeeter without his knowledge or permission, she left him completely in the dark about the Homer situation, and then there's Ron, and Harry's sure that there's a lot she isn't saying about him.

"What do you know?" he asks sharply.

She releases his hand and lets her arm fall limply to her side. Looking away, she swallows hard, making him regret his previous harshness, but she speaks before he has the chance to offer any apologies. "I had headaches too . . . at first," she says looking up at him, her eyes unguarded, shining with unshed tears and a hundred silent apologies all desperately pleading to be accepted. "Promise me." And what choice does he have? Could he actually turn his back on her-- on the world? What choice did he ever really have?

"Fine," he replies mechanically, head swimming with implications. "I won't be alone. I'll get a guide." He deems it best not to mention that his intended guide will be a Death Eater, but now, it seems, that he won't have very much to lose-- not that he ever did.

"Good," she says quietly, eyes falling to her lap, "good . . . be careful."

He gives a perfunctory nod. "I will."

Hermione looks up again giving him a watery smile. "Don't worry about me," she tells him. "I'll be okay." And he knows that she isn't talking about herself at all. She's talking about him, but saying so would make it far too real for the both of them, so he nods again.

"Of course you will."

"Is Ron out there, Harry?" she asks changing the subject as if on cue, and he marvels, once more, at how well they are able to read each other.

"I suppose," he answers tentatively. "He's been--"

"Yes, I know," she interrupts before Harry can give his less than stellar opinion on his erstwhile best-mate. "But he's always been closest to you. Let him know I want to talk," she whispers. "Tell him I'll wait for him."

"I will."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron sits in the attic. The ghoul is throwing about the remains of uncle Bilius' old collection of snow globes and watching as they shatter against the wall. Ron feels strangely compelled to join it, but instead leans his back against a large box of photo albums and seethes, feeling the heat rising off his skin and black dots spotting his vision. His mind stills, slowly being consumed by a furious hatred of the world around him and fierce longing for something so far beyond his grasp he can never quite identify it.

There are many ways such anger can manifest itself. Now the violent tantrums of his earlier years have subsided and given way to something more ominous. Though it hasn't been expressed yet, he knows its there crawling beneath the surface, progressively churning up all his fear and rage and uncertainty into one jumbled mess, making it impossible for him to understand his own thoughts-- let alone the others that plague him.

Another loud crash is heard and then another and then a hollow wooden thunk. Seconds later, small globe rolls across the dusty floor and stops, knocking gently against his foot. He picks it up, wiping away the dirt against the leg of his trousers. He studies it. There's a castle inside-- a wintertime Hogwarts under the night sky. He feels the cool air and the water under its glass surface as it courses beneath his fingertips, and he wonders if the swirling darkness it contains would spread if it were released-- perhaps that's why the glass has an unbreakable charm on it, but then, such charms have stopped working long ago. He sets it down in his lap and tries to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. If only it were as simple as a few nights missed sleep or the cramped discomfort of sharing his home with so many others, but it's more than that. He consoles himself with the fact that it won't last much longer.

He has an itch that goes down to his bones and, for a while, he wanted nothing more than to tear off his skin so he could scratch at it, to peel away layer upon layer until there was no longer anything of Ronald Weasley left. Because that was hardly an option, he had taken to playing his favorite game, which involves hiding silently and gauging how long it takes before anyone notices that he's gone-- if they noticed.

Ever since seeing Hermione up, and when she asked him-- him to come meet her later, he knew something had to give. If he hadn't already known, it he was sure now. There was nothing left but to get away, and he planned to. Unfortunately, if not surprisingly, his sister had beaten him to it. He remembers her first year of school and begins to wonder if she might also have something very different and not altogether human trying to possess her mind. If so, he reflects, she has hidden it very well until recently. The rest of his family are, as expected, horribly agitated. Whatever they may think of him, and he prefers not to know, Ron is nothing if not observant. They think she's dead or worse. They won't speak it, but that's what they think. He notices these things, even from his secret places. He knows what they're doing now, how they feel, and he also knows that Ginny is not dead.

He Presses his head closer to a vent and listens to the already distinct the sounds rising from the floors below. He hears feet stomping directly beneath him, in his room-- in what should be his room that he now shares with Charlie and Percy. The heavy footsteps must be Charlie's, and he's probably tracking dirt and mud all over the place. Ron would have cared about this. He would be upset about his lack of privacy and his brother's thoughtlessness. He would have been outraged at constantly being overlooked and underestimated, but it doesn't matter anymore, because he's already come to his decision, and soon he'll be far away from all of it. He hears his fathers hammer beating against something from the garage, and water boiling from the kitchen. "Ugh!" he mutters sticking out his tongue, "more bloody potatoes."

Suddenly he notices voices coming from below and slightly to the side.

"What'll you do?"

"I'll go . . . I'll go and I'll try to find him."

Ron suppresses a growl, Always the playing hero, that's you Harry. But he's sick of thinking about Harry-- Harry whose only flaw is being too brave, too noble, too perfect. If it had been his decision, the world or himself Ron has little doubt as to which he would choose, after all when the blood was spilt, when the trees withered and all that remained of buildings was their ashes, who left to question it?

He realizes that it won't ever be his decision. These things never come down to him. Harry is leaving, leaving to reassume whatever part he'll play in the ongoing drama, Ron really can't be bothered with that. All that matters to him is that Harry is leaving and that small detail has the potential to make his own plans for deflection infinitely simpler. The dim light flickers in the lantern overhead, and he suppresses a smile. After all, following behind Harry Potter is something he's always been exceptionally good at.

"Is Ron out there Harry?"

Ten points to Hermione, he thinks, hopping to his feet. The sudden motion jars the small sphere from its position on his leg and sends it crashing against the floorboards. The impact fractures the glass instantly, and then all background noises stop and the air becomes unusually still. The darkness from inside the globe seeps though the cracks, rising like a puff of black smoke, then dissipates slowly leaving behind no physical trace, except in the temperature, which has suddenly turned very cold and the lantern, which has burnt down to the quick, leaving the attic pitch black. Ron folds his arms against his chest and shivers.

"Damn."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The room is a complete mess. It always was, of course, so Harry shouldn't be surprised by this. He steps over a smoking caldron left abandoned in front of the doorway and an oily looking green puddle, as he makes his cumbersome way across the floor to his bed. Sharing a room with the twins had been quite an experience, which is to say he has no idea how Lee Jordan managed it for seven years-- six and three quarters, actually. Those final months must have been a shock, without all the jokes and fireworks. For a while it seemed that they were leading the rest of the Gryffindors through the year just by making them laugh, and their timely departure had given hope to the entire school-- letting them know them know they weren't really prisoners of the inquisition, that they could get out if they really needed to. Unfortunately, that didn't change the fact that Fred and George were both complete slobs with a tendency to blow holes in the wall and set people's hair on fire.

The sudden reduction in spell casting capabilities did nothing to stop their mischief, only now it wasn't directed at the Slytherins. Harry would have said it was annoying, he would have said it was childish and tell them that they should finally grow up and take things seriously-- Ginny certainly had often enough. But on some level, he knew they needed it. They needed the temporary distraction of one of their patented Hot Potatoes, which were just normal potatoes infused with ridiculous amounts of jalapeño powder. They usually avoided giving them to Ron, or maybe it was that Ron avoided them like he avoided his parents and Hermione and Harry, but everyone else was fair game, particularly each other. That was what it had been until now. Now Ginny was gone, and Fred and George had finally taken her advice, though they still hadn't cleaned their room.

He rifles through his belongings, intermittently placing items into piles which signify varying levels of importance, and somewhere between the collapsible telescopes and thick winter cloaks, Harry realizes that he's completely unprepared for the journey. In addition to the fact that he has absolutely no idea where he's going beyond Wiltshire, he doesn't know how he'll manage to get there, especially now that muggle transportation is out of the question. Eighty miles to Malfoy Mansion will certainly prove tiring on foot, but at least it's possible. Voldemort could be anywhere.

He stops his mind from wandering before the word hopeless can weave its way into his thoughts and continues his mechanical sorting. He casts aside a broken pair of glasses, a watch that had once been Dudley's and then more-- gobstones, famous witches and wizards cards, Quidditch posters, whatever frivolous belongings he deems unessential for a mission to end a world. He wonders if a soul could be numbered among them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron has been waiting for twenty-three minuets outside Harry's room. His left shoulder leans heavily against the wall, while his right supports an overstuffed satchel full of Charlie's old camping supplies. He only hopes the twins don't show up anytime soon, but that seems unlikely. From what he's heard upstairs they're out de-gnoming the garden. At exactly twenty-eight minutes, Harry appears rushing out of the door with a large backpack of his own, only narrowly avoiding a head on collision. Ron, for his part, doesn't move.

"Ron?" Harry gasps, blinking curiously. "What are you doing here?" The surprise seems to have taken some of the usual venom from his voice, but his disappointment at seeing Ron is painted clearly on his face. His lips are drawn in a thin line, and Ron would almost find the pinched expression comical if he didn't have so much riding on this conversation.

"Coming with you," he says, indicating his bag. Harry tries to brush by, but Ron quickly moves to stand in his way.

Harry gives an incredulous snort, wrinkling his nose. "What?!"

Ron follows close behind. "I'm coming with you," he repeats blankly, trying not to be pulled in by Harry's apparent anger.

"B-but your family," he sputters, face still contorted in distaste, "Ginny... Hermione . . . She didn't put you up to this did she?"

"No!" Ron shouts-- all plans of control quickly abandoned. "She didn't, alright. Let's just go!" They reach a staircase. Harry quickens his steps, and Ron takes the stairs in twos to keep up.

"Aren't you going to at least say goodbye?!" Harry asks without turning to look him in the eye.

"No." Ron draws even and passes him. "No, I'm not-- Come on. I need to get out of here."

It's not until he reaches the bottom stair that he notices the footsteps behind him have ceased. He stops and turns around. Above him Harry looks small and dark in the dim light, baggy cloths hanging loose from his diminished frame. In the refraction of his glasses his eyes appear larger and oddly luminous. Like a house elf, Ron tells himself, the headmasters' servant-- No, he thinks, Harry's not the one who's like a house elf, not at all. He's more dignified. Ron turns again and hops off the bottom step continuing towards the front door. You were my friend first Harry, since we sat together on the train, before you became a hero, or were you being noble even then?

After spending his day first in the attic and then in the darkened hallway, the unexpected sharpness of actual sunlight assaults his eyes in painful bursts of pure white against the black of his closed lids and then color, every color at once, and after a few moments, just one. Once the splintering red fades from his vision he looks up at the sky, which is, again, as plain as an unpainted canvass-- the blank backdrop for a world that's still not quite complete. This, of course, indicates rain coming soon, but that doesn't matter. He's been through storms before. Ron doesn't hear Harry catch up with him, but later notices the door clicking shut for a second time and a harsh, agitated voice coming from behind him. "Why?"

His eyes lower from the sky, but he doesn't turn to face Harry. "Because," he sighs, shoulders falling, "sometimes there's no difference between having too much and not enough. And because sometimes you can be too big and too small for a place at the same time. And, sometimes, you can't fit no matter what you try."

Harry looks suitably uncomprehending, which hardly comes as a surprise. How could he explain that every breath was forced-- a conscious decision, an obligation, a promise. A promise to keep going, a promise to fight the good fight no matter how much he wanted to close his eyes and just let it end, a promise it wouldn't be his last even when the sharp onion- smelling air caught him by surprise and burned his lungs so that he wanted to hold his breath forever. But Ronald Weasley was dreadful at keeping his promises. He promised Ginny she could come to him if anything was ever wrong. He promised his mother he would be happy staying home when the rest of his siblings went out into the world, and he and Harry had pledged that they would always be friends, but that was a promise Harry broke too.

"And sometimes," Ron whispers, voice breaking, "sometimes it all crashes down on you, and it makes you want to stop breathing just so you have one less thing to worry about." Ron Looks up and gives a defeated sigh upon seeing the emptiness in Harry's eyes. He was a fool to think that Harry Potter could ever understand all this, sometimes Ron wasn't sure he understood it himself.

"What?!" comes Harry's disbelieving reply. "Ron you don't worry about anything!"

"Of course not," Ron shoots back turning away from him. "That's your job-- it always been your bloody prophesized duty to take responsibility for everything."

He's shocked by the hand which suddenly comes to rest on his shoulder and by the instant, aching sincerity in Harry's tone. "Ron, don't do this," Harry says with such genuine honesty that Ron involuntarily shifts to look at him. "I have to go but you don't." His face is, for once, open-- unguarded. He even gives a soft smile. "Stay, Ron." And for a moment, Ron wants nothing more than to appease him, to stay, to help, to be with Hermione, even at the cost of his own disintegration, but then he remembers what else is at stake.

Harry's voice is sand paper and water. It works on you gradually, so slow you often won't even notice, and if you let it, it can wear you down until there's nothing left. It can convince you of anything, despite its deceptive lack of customary persuasion. The only arguments Harry had ever needed were a desperate plea and a determined proclamation. With that alone, all the world would follow him, but there's not so much of Ron left anymore. Once he may have listened and done exactly as he was told. Once he would have been sick that Harry's voice had such power, that there were so many paths that only he could walk. Now he's just annoyed by his once-friend's irrepressible sense of duty. In a way, Harry's the most selfish person he's ever known.

"No, Harry." Ron almost smiles. "You haven't won. I'm coming with you."

Harry's face clouds over instantly, and Ron is unsure whether to be pleased that he wasn't fooled or insulted that Harry would think he could be so easily deceived. "What? I don't understand . . ." Harry stammers, trailing off.

"No, you wouldn't," Ron replies waving his arms to indicate the house and the yard. "Because this-- here, its just one stupid place, and I know you don't see it that way, but the world is bigger than this, Harry-- bigger than you'll ever realize." His hands fall limply to his sides before hiding themselves in the pockets of Bill's old jeans. "I won't stay caged up here." He looks down at the baked mud under his feet, and then in the direction of the forest. "I can't live like this anymore. I just can't I...I need to clear my head."

"What?!" Harry shouts. "It's your home-- your family!"

Ron doesn't turn his head to face him, he barely even listens. Harry's words flow like a river, but all he can think about is the soft rustling of fingers running through dried grass and the gentle sensation of a hand resting against his leg. This is it, he thinks to himself. The decision had already been made, but this was really it. After twenty-two years he is finally about to let go of it all, and for a few seconds, it's as if there's no ground beneath his feet, as if there's nothing tying him down. Unlike perfect, dutiful Harry he's never wanted there to be.

"You can't just run off because you need a bit of fresh air, Ron. That's not the way things work!" Harry rasps as a finale.

Ron only shrugs. Why not' he thinks, that's exactly how things worked for Ginny. He looks up at Harry's incredulous expression and smiles. You don't understand Harry. You couldn't ever understand, but he already tried to explain it, and any further efforts would prove futile. Maybe Harry truly loves it here. Maybe he really does feel responsible to them for treating him as family. Maybe he only pretends to care so he can savor the pain of being torn away from yet another home.

Ron blinks at Harry's beseeching expression then looks away. Part of him wants to tell Harry about what's happening lately with Hermione. Part of him wants to tell Harry what's been happening inside him for six years. Part of him wants to tell Harry what he sees in the world and why he knows it can never be the same, but all he says is, "I'm coming."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

What's it like to kill?

It's like playing a game that you know you'll lose.

For a while-- before, you want nothing more than for it not to happen. You find yourself wishing for an out-- an excuse. Sometimes you even create one. But then, once it starts you want it to never end, to seal yourself in that moment-- that in between phase, that's why you find yourself doing whatever you can to make it last longer, and in the end, that's all you remember-- not the dread or the nervous anxiety, not the incessant worry or the sick feeling that always comes along with it. That part dies when they do, and all that means anything afterwards is that while it happened you wanted it to last forever, and in a way, it does.

The killing curse has always been blessedly simple for me to perform. There are few things about which I remain indifferent now, and though many find it difficult to call forth the necessary emotions I've never seen it as a problem. There's a trick, though. You don't think about the person who'll die. You think of who you'll really hurt-- you think of the survivors.

Then it's easy.

Hating people by virtue of their being loved.

That's always been easy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The world should be alive this time of year-- should be but isn't. Dead grass, dead trees, dead flowers, whatever's not already dead is in the process of dying. Harry swallows hard. He really doesn't want to think about that right now, not when there's so much left to do.

The weather's changing, again. After three days of violent storms the winds are becoming increasingly cold--wintry even. It's not yet July, and already leaves are falling from the trees. Everything's so thoroughly drenched he can't even remember what it felt like to be dry. His fingers and toes seem permanently wrinkled from the dampness of the air around him and the earth under his feet, which soaks easily through the soles of his borrowed, hand-me-down boots.

The tent he made was nothing more than an old tarp and a pole that used to be the handle of George's old Comet 360. It does little to keep him warm. Ron has a similar lodging ,but that doesn't matter as much for him because he never sleeps, and eventually, he decides he'd rather be without food than go on eating nothing more than potatoes, but Harry keeps quiet about that too. At this point they both seem to subsist entirely on nervous energy. Paltry things such as food and shelter have become largely unnecessary. Harry attempts a drying charm and fails. His wand rarely works these days and, when it does, it can only manage simple charms and the effort exhausts him, but right now, the trade off would have been worth it just to be a little less wet.

Ron sits on a rotting log staring up at a small grove of trees and absently trailing his fingers down his arms. "Still east?" he asks without looking up at Harry, and Harry nods not particularly caring that he won't be able to see. Ron pushes himself to his feet without speaking and goes to gather his things.

~*~

They walk together, the oppressive silence punctuated only by the occasional squelching of mud beneath their feet, and the loud clapping sound of Ron's oversized boots smacking against the forest floor. The winds have calmed, finally, for which Harry is infinitely grateful, and after a few hours, he catches sight of a few crows flying overhead, the first sign of life he's seen in almost a week.

They have been walking for five days, and by his hastily made calculations, it's only seven miles to Wiltshire proper. Afterwards, he reasons, finding the mansion should prove easy enough. Assuming the magical cloaking shields are down, it'll stick out like a sore thumb-- a huge stone monolith against the gently rolling hills. Convincing its master to join them will, of course, be nearly impossible, but Harry decides not to dwell on that just yet. Just the thought of seeing Malfoy again is enough to make him decidedly ill.

A rough voice-- Ron's voice made hoarse from the chill of the air rips Harry from his thoughts, "Where are we going?"

"Wiltshire," he answers deadpan, hoping to avoid further conversation with his traveling companion.

Beside him Ron appears thoughtful. "Stonehenge?"

Harry gives an exasperated sigh. "Malfoy."

"What?!"

"Malfoy," Harry rakes a hand through his hair, wondering how much he should actually say. "We'll need him to give us passage out."

Ron seems surprisingly unaffected. "And you think he actually will?"

"Yes," Harry says, wondering if he can use this little discussion to as an avenue to convince Ron that going back home would be a good idea. "When I tell him we plan on delivering ourselves to Voldemort directly I doubt he'll have a problem with it."

"We plan on what?!"

Harry suppresses a smirk and remains impassive. "Going to Voldemort. Destroying Homer."

"Homer? Who? Harry, what are you talking about? " Ron now seems more genuinely confused than anything else. The sight of him so bewildered is somewhat unnerving.

"Merlin! You-you really don't know about any of this do you? I mean I would have thought your family . . . or at least Hermione would tell you about it . . ." Harry trails off, remembering they had all been sworn to secrecy, not that it can hurt much to tell him now.

"About what?"

"Homer," Harry answers rubbing his temples. "I-it's this thing-- this weapon that Voldemort has. He's using it to kill muggleborns." Ron nods, not looking at all surprised, and halfbloods, Harry thinks to himself. "You can go back. I have to do this because of my connection with Voldemort. I have to destroy it," he says . . . and everything else.

"Oh, okay then." Ron replies neutrally from a few steps ahead of him.

He quickens his pace to catch up. "Ron, you don't have to come."

"Yes," Ron says through clenched teeth. "I do. I told you before. I have to."

Once again, Harry feels the tension behind his eyes beginning to build and the familiar pressure on the back of his head. He decides it best not to try coercing Ron into turning back anymore, not now. If things go right, the meeting with Malfoy should accomplish that much at least. He had promised Hermione he would get a guide-- Hermione, who was lying in bed back at the burrow. She will be taken care of there, and she has Fawkes with her, of course. He tells himself for the hundredth time that she'll be alright, and he feels a sharp pang of guilt in his chest upon realizing what he truly means by it.

I had headaches too . . . at first.

~*~

Coming out of the forest is like stepping into another world entirely. The thin trail they've been following leads over soft green meadows and through quiet provincial towns. They walk slowly past a small churchyard cemetery and a great white horse carved into a chalk hillside. Closing his eyes, Harry concentrates on the unexpected feeling of the sun prickling his skin, gently drawling away the residual moisture and notices a faint tingling sensation blowing up from the ground. Magic, he thinks. There's still magic here.

Harry takes a sodden map out of his back pocket and unfolds it carefully, trying not to cause a tear. He squints hard to make out proper directions through the badly smeared ink then crosses to a different path and leaving Ron jogging to catch up with him. They climb another hill and walk past a small circle of stones. Then, as expected, there it is-- Malfoy Mansion.

Harry wonders if a building could be carved entirely of onyx because that's certainly how it looks from where he stands-- all black rock, slick and smooth as polished glass. It must be ten stories high, he thinks, maybe more, with spires and turrets stretching as far into the sky as any of the Hogwarts towers ever did, but unlike the towers of Hogwarts they don't rise gently-- huge steeples stand like knives balanced on the hilt, piercing the upper air and giving an eerily reddish tint to the surrounding clouds. He looks down at his feet as he steps through the opened gates with Ron following close behind.

They look up at the fanged gargoyles and extravagant rain spouts carved to resemble open-mouthed serpents. Beside him Ron releases a breath muttering, "Bloody hell." Which, Harry thinks, is probably a spectacularly accurate description of what it's like inside. He says nothing and nods in agreement before remembering he's supposed to be ignoring Ron.

The cobbled path is long and Harry can imagine that elegant carriages must have once ran along it to the smaller outbuildings, but now coarse grasses and dandelions peek out between the rounded stones. He smiles involuntarily. This is hope. Reaching the ironwork doorway, he looks for a knocker or a handle. Finding nothing, he settles on giving it a strong kick.

Harry doesn't know exactly why he expects the door to be opened by a house elf. It would seem natural considering where he is, and Dobby certainly couldn't have been the Malfoy's only servant-- not in a house of this size. He is, therefore, surprised to find himself staring down expectantly at a polished pair of very dark shoes, and then up to a very pale, pointed face.

"Hullo."

"Malfoy?"

"Potter." Malfoy nods expressionless.

"Malfoy we need to talk."

The quick forward flick of one colorless finger motions them to follow Malfoy inside. Ron does so without hesitation, mirroring their host's upright posture, but it is with a considerable amount of trepidation that Harry finally sets his foot over the threshold and into the entrance hall. He finds himself starring up at the huge fresco on the domed ceiling above him. The slowly moving scene is of snakes and angels. To the untrained eye it would surely appear as religious piece on the triumph of good over evil. While Harry is not well versed in the arts, he is quick to recognize the true meaning of its allegory. A sandaled foot tramples a silver snake, and a pair of gleaming fangs sink deep into marbleized skin leaving the clouds below soaked in blood.

Most would think it's the blood of the snake, but Harry knows otherwise. As he leaves for another larger hall, a part of him wants to smile at such a strangely appropriate display of Slytherin sentiment, but he stops himself halfway through with only the left side of his mouth curving sharply upwards. The painting is a warning, after all, and one he knows he must take to heart should he actually convince Malfoy to join him-- even underfoot, serpents can still bite.

Now it's Harry who finds himself lagging behind the others. A few weeks ago he refused to come here. Now he doesn't have so much to lose, but there is still a natural level of unease that comes with such a situation. His temples throb painfully in time with the accelerating rhythm of his heart, and he rushes to catch up as they turn into another room. Left, right, left, left, left-- he hopes he'll be able to find his way out as Malfoy doesn't seem the type to give another personal escort. Harry tries to tell himself that Malfoy will leave with him, but that's not exactly a realistic outcome, and in any case, the thought of sharing Malfoy's company on a regular basis is hardly comforting.

Spider webs hang from the low ceiling of the passageway like tattered curtains, and Harry notices that Ron doesn't seem at all bothered by this, nor is he as obviously annoyed as Harry at the invisible strands being caught in his hair and on his skin, in fact, he looks almost impressed. Rounding a final corner, they enter another room, smaller than the front halls and somehow very familiar, as if he'd seen it before somewhere. Why did Malfoy lead them here? Why did he let them in at all?

There is something of this place that reminds him of Hogwarts, not the Hogwarts of his recent visit, not the cold lonely castle full of dust and sadness so thick it could be tasted it in the air. It reminds him of Hogwarts from when he was a student, though he can't discern exactly why. Despite the fire flickering low in the corner this room was anything but cozy-- bare stone walls, a plain wood paneled floor, spotted with high backed chairs and short side tables, lit only by the pale glow of plain white candles. It is by far more modest than he would have expected, perhaps that's why they're here Malfoy certainly wouldn't want them to contaminate the nicer rooms, but then why not just turn them away at the doorstep?

Though it's not especially cold, something of the atmosphere makes him want to shiver as invisible fingers brush his neck and set his hair on end. From his side Ron scoffs audibly. Harry looks from Ron's amused expression to Malfoy's smug detachment and studies him briefly. Malfoy is the same as ever-- taller than he had been, perhaps, but otherwise just the same. It had not yet been a year since they last saw each other, and in those months, everyone else he knew had changed drastically, but not Malfoy. He's as pestilent as always, and strangely, Harry finds the familiarity almost comforting.

While still as thin as he ever was, Malfoy, at least, has the reasonably healthy appearance of someone who hadn't been rationing their food intake to two hard biscuits and three boiled potatoes a day, as the Weasley's had been doing. Harry decides that, whether or not he can enlist any aid, it will still be a small victory if he is able to steal some food from of the kitchens.

"You never needed to talk to me before, Potter," Malfoy says. He produces his wand from somewhere in his voluminous robes and twirls it easily between his fingers. "What is it you're really here for?"

Harry realizes quickly that he has no actual plan for convincing Malfoy to join him, and at the same moment, realizes why this room looks so familiar. He has seen it before, hundreds of times in The Daily Prophet, more than that in Ministry reports. Ghostly hands run down the length of his spine, and this time, he does shiver. He's stupidly followed Malfoy straight into his family's infamous drawing room. No wonder it looks so unassuming, the whole thing's a ruse. They're standing on a landmine of dark artifacts, with magic so thick in the air he can almost hear its faint crackling-- that's what reminded him of Hogwarts, certainly not the homey atmosphere. Trust Ron to find this funny. Harry swallows hard. "We need you, Malfoy."

"No." Malfoy slaps his wand against the palm of his free hand and doesn't bother to look up at Harry. "No, you need to get to the Dark Lord, and you plan on doing it through me."

"No we ne--"

"No, you don't." Harry watches Malfoy's thin lips curl upwards before shooting a few pale sparks from his wand. "You need my magic, is what you mean. It's stronger than yours now, isn't it? Because of your blood. Do you feel him, Potter? Do you feel him taking it from you?"

"He'll take it from you too, Malfoy." Harry's voice stays deceptively calm. "He's already begun."

"You're lying." Malfoy smiles as he casts an incendo charm at his fireplace causing the softly flickering flames to flare wildly, shooting upwards in a blazing column of white.

Harry stares at him unimpressed. Malfoy can create light perhaps, but it's a light without heat, and within seconds, the fire's burnt itself out completely. "Am I?"

"I am loyal to him," Malfoy answers returning his wand to his robes. "I am loyal to his cause. I will be granted eternal life as reward for my services. If you think you can challenge him, then go. You won't be stopped. If you leave now you'll be able to get as far as you please."

"Good. We will."

Harry gapes at Ron, who has just spoken, realizing he will soon be walking a very thin line by trying to persuade Malfoy, while concealing the whole truth from Ron. "No," Harry says to no one in particular. "We're not going yet."

"What!?" Beside him color of Ron's face is changing rapidly from pale to almost puce. "Harry, what are you doing? He said we can get through the barriers. Let's go!"

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "You should listen to your pet weasel, Potter."

Harry's forces his lips to close and says nothing.

"Shut it Malfoy!" Ron screams. He looks as jittery as he had before leaving the Burrow, and Harry finds himself longing for the days of his silent apathy. "Come on, Harry. Let's get out of here--"

"Where to, Ron?" Harry shrugs. "Do you have any idea where it is we should be going?" This is a stupid question, he realizes seconds after having asked it, because Ron doesn't care where they go, nor is he even fully aware of what they'll be doing should they make it to HOMER.

"We'll figure it out," he whispers urgently as if it would prevent Malfoy from hearing. "We don't need him."

"Lost without that mudblood Granger, are you?" Malfoy's face contorts in what could be considered a smile were it not for his clear displeasure at the situation. "Oh, she isn't dead is she?

"No." Harry keeps his hands clenched at his sides, resisting the urge to rub his temples.

Malfoy gives an overly dramatic pout. "Pity, that," he says before shrugging and grinning again. "Ah well, it'll happen soon enough, I suppose--"

Malfoy stops when a long candlestick slaps hard against his blonde head.

Harry feels his jaw drop, but can't think of how he can possibly mediate the situation effectively so stays silent. To his right, Ron's breath comes in short bursts. In his hand he clutches a candle broken in two and held together only by the thin rope of the wick.

Malfoy turns to Harry with an indecipherable expression. "I won't be continuing this until you remove that piece of filth from my home." His face is colorless save for a thick red stripe running diagonally across his forehead. He points to Ron and then to the door. "Get out."

"How dare you!" Ron screams. "I don't have to follow your orders. Do you understand that? You can't tell me what to do. Nobody can!"

"Go." Harry pleads, before setting his jaw firmly and jerking his head to indicate Malfoy. "I'll deal with him."

"Fine, Harry," Ron whispers in a harsh, gravelly voice, "you always know better than everyone, don't you?"

"No I--"

"You haven't won, Harry." He says before turning away and stomping out the door.

"That's right!" Malfoy calls after him. "Run along now, Weasel!"

~*~

As much as Harry doesn't want to admit it, he knows Malfoy can be right from time to time. After all, Harry wouldn't be there now if he hadn't been right about HOMER back at the ministry. Eight years ago Malfoy told Harry he picked the losing side, and he was right then too, right about Cedric's death being his fault, right about muggleborns being the first attacked, and right about making Harry pay. Harry winces in pain as the pressure behind his eyes increases.

He is paying.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron looks around, trying not to seem impressed.

The room is filled with weapons and suits of armor-- swords, and shields, each emblazoned with a different coat of arms, lances, daggers, even a crown. At the center is a large table covered with maps and spilt ink, slick black puddles spotting the mahogany surface. He trails his fingertips almost reverently across its smooth finish. On the wall hangs a familiar family tree titled The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, complemented by one beside labeled, The Malfoys: A Lineage of Distinction. Both are elaborate, old, printed on thick yellowing parchment, which curls at the corners. Both have several spots bunt out where sons and daughters have been disinherited, and both come to a point at a single name Draco.

A ledger beside his hand lists the Malfoy landholdings and all the foreign banks that keep their fortunes stored away-- two-billion in Gringotts alone, more invested in China, Egypt, South Africa, stores of jewels in Spain, Italy, France and Switzerland, and that wasn't even taking into account what must be hidden away in this very house. That's what it is to be a Malfoy, Ron supposes, and he can see the whole of what that means better than almost anyone. He can see it all because he's looking on from so far away.

And what did his family have? A garage full of spark plugs to be split seven ways, his father's rusty treasures littering the ground of the shed until it looked more like a muggle garbage dump than anything else, whatever no one wanted anymore, things no one else could make any sense of. Why would a duck be made of rubber? Or a pig be used to hold money? Why would a soldier be cast in tin? Or a horse be made to rock back and forth? And why would a boy be given such long arms and such a short reach?

He can imagine his own inheritance. He can see himself being bequeathed a burnt out car battery or a broken transistor radio. These days, he feels like he's fallen into the wrong life, as if someone else already made all the decisions and he's left to keep it going, pretending everything's alright even though it's actually stopped working--as if it's been unnoticeably broken since he got it.

A smooth voice cuts into his thoughts. "You're a Weasley."

Turning around, he sees the portrait of a dark-haired man in equally dark robes looking down on him. Ron glares back at him, silently daring the painted man to try kicking him out of the mansion. "So what?"

"I thought so. You've been sent to my old office before, at Hogwarts." Ron waits for it to come, waits for him to say, You're Harry Potter's friend, as if Harry owned him-- Harry's wand, Harry's cloak, Harry's firebolt, Harry's map, and Harry's Weasley or Wheezy, as Dobby called him, but the point of it was the same, and he'd only ever seen the headmaster when he was with Harry. So Ron waits, staring straight back as the portrait continues his discerning once-over, and at the end of it, the former headmaster only nods leaning an arm against the side of his frame. "I also recognized you from Grimmauld place."

"Oh?" Unsure how to respond, Ron's defiant gaze relents, and his eyes drift slowly back to the table, to the map and to the photograph of an ancient manor labeled 'Macnair.' The map shows tactics for the movement of troops. So Malfoy has an army or at least the resources to build one. Not that it would do him much good. Looking over the papers, Ron notices his strategy would result in them being trapped between the outer wall of the main building and a steep cliff. "Bleeding idiot," he mutters to himself. "What was he doing here?"

"Ah yes, Draco's plan of attack, lucky he never actually had to use it." Ron starts, unaware that the man in the portrait was still listening.

Looking back at the Malfoy's notes, Ron realizes his army was to be made of muggles, meaning they wouldn't even have been able to use broomsticks-- not that anyone could anymore. "Moron."

"I know he's an odd sort, but he grows on you."

"Like a parasite," Ron mumbles still looking over the map, then dipping a quill from the table into the one inkbottle that has not yet been overturned. After thinking for a few moments, he changes the direction of the campaign from north to northeast and east. This would result in a movement through a forest, and one river crossing, but lead them to the side house elf entrance rather than the more obvious backdoor. If Ron knows one thing about people like the Malfoys and the Macnairs, it is that they greatly underestimate those they consider below them, and pay no attention to the goings on in the quarters of their staff. Entire armies could be hiding in their kitchens and they would never know it. Ron smiles, vaguely pleased with himself.

"I daresay, you'd be a good bit better at that type of thing than he ever would. Draco's just not made for it, though you'd never get him to admit as much."

He turns to the painted man, who is also looking over the recently modified map. The man looks familiar, but with all the new thoughts swirling about in Ron's head, old memories have been roughly pushed aside. "Who are you?"

"Phineas Nigellus."

The name's familiar as well, in fact he's seen it moments before on the Black family tree. "You were Sirius' grandfather?"

"To the power of two, yes." Phineas looks almost remorseful. "He was a bit of an odd sort too, really, but people aren't always meant to take the role they're born into." His pointed gaze tells Ron that he's not just talking about Sirius, or even Malfoy.

"Yeah well--"

"Look at Potter."

"Harry he's--"

"He's done a fine job so far, I suppose, and he's been quite honorable about the whole thing. But it isn't what he really wants, is it?"

"Yes," Ron says, quite sure of himself on this matter. "It always has to be him. That's the way he sees it."

"That's the way he's been taught to see it. You can blame Albus for that."

"Dumbledore?"

"Oh, yes." Phineas doesn't conceal his bitterness on the subject, and Ron is thankful for it. After five days of being brushed aside by Harry and that last amused lilt in Malfoy's voice as Ron left, he's fairly sure condescension coming from a memory kept in paint on canvass would be enough to break him. Phineas gives a humorless smile. "Albus has been grooming his little hero for years, since he's been born, really."

"Well that at least explains the blatant favoritism." Ron says, hoping it doesn't come off too childish.

"Draco has always been quite vocal about that, yes. I suppose it was harder for you-- having to be measured side by side, not from a distance."

Ron shrugs. "Not really, not once I got used to it." For some reason, he wants to keep this man's approval, even if he's been dead for over a hundred years, even if he's clearly opposed to Dumbledore, even if he's related to Malfoy. That doesn't particularly matter to him anymore-- not much does, really. The voices in his head disagree with that. But here, he finds it surprisingly easy to quash their arguments.

"If he had the choice, Potter wouldn't have wanted that either. He'd rather be normal?"

"I guess." Ron knows this is true. Harry was jealous of him, in a way, of his family and his house, though Ron never could figure out what exactly there was to be jealous of.

"And you want this." Ron starts at Phineas' bluntness, but the portrait only waves his arm indicating the wall of swords and shields and the table covered in maps and charts. His lips stretch to form a thin smile. "You want this, Weasley. Don't lie. I can see that you do."

"I suppose," Ron says, shrugging, "that it'd be nice to have a house that doesn't moan and fall apart all the time."

"That's not what I mean." The portrait is sterner now, almost demanding. "Weasley, you want this."

"So?!" Ron snaps back, inwardly cursing himself for the loss of control.

Phineas is still staring at him, but now the smile is one of acceptance. "There's nothing wrong with ambition, you know."

Ron's mask of apathy slides easily back into place. "Uh-huh"

The painted eyes narrow slightly, but the smile remains. "Well you have a good bit, though you're trying to hide it-- strange that you ended up in Gryffindor."

"That's where my family goes," Ron answers without inflection, "and Harry was there already."

"Loyal as well, you would be much better suited for doing this than Draco. The boy sees no use in having allies-- doesn't understand the value of equality."

Ron doesn't think Malfoy even knows the meaning of equality, but then again he's no expert either. Even Fred and George looked down on him, Hermione acted more as a mother than anything else, Ginny was fairly dismissive, and Harry-- Harry wanted to live in his perfect world where even house elves were equal, but he didn't believe in it-- not really. When Ron received his prefect badge fifth year he saw the look on Harry's face, and why? Their grades had been even, so had their disciplinary records-- but no. It always had to be Harry, and it always was. After two years of long meetings and even longer patrols and forever putting up with Malfoy's nonsense, Harry had been assigned head boy. To be honest, Ron would rather have had it been Malfoy, though, from the look of his study, he would have been bloody incompetent. Even his own great- great- great grandfather admitted he made a terrible mess of things. Ron looks back at the portrait. "You don't seem to think very highly of him."

"He has potential," Phineas says lightly, "and this was never what he really wanted, no matter how much he pretends."

Ron can't stop the anger from flooding his voice. "People don't get what they want."

"No," Phineas sighs. "No they don't, but some handle it better than others." Ron can't exactly tell whether he is being insulted or praised. He figures the portrait is still going on about Malfoy, so he's slightly shocked to find himself on the receiving end of a pointed glare. "There are always exceptions," he says soberly. "Who are you, Weasley?"

"I don't know." Ron says deciding to go with the truth, as Phineas doesn't seem the type to be easily taken in by lies. "I don't have a bloody clue."

"Good answer." He nods, leaning an arm against his frame. "Honest, at least. No one really knows. The only thing they do is spout off silly titles and designations, but you're different, Weasley. There's more to you than they expect."

Ron shrugs. That's certainly one way of putting it, another would be that his mind no longer belongs to him alone.

He isn't left to think long, as Phineas continues. "There's very little in the world humans can truly have power over," he says, "even with magic, and often the ones who seek to control others do so only because they can't properly control themselves." He tilts his head forward, indicating Malfoy's desk, and, in spite of himself, Ron feels almost like laughing. "You should be careful, if I'm to believe what's being said about you."

"What?" He thinks for a second he must have heard wrong. "Me?"

"Not just you, of course, Potter and--"

"Fine," Ron answers blankly, not wanting to hear anymore. "How the bloody hell do I get out of here?"

Phineas looks almost concerned, but all he does is point to the door Ron slammed on his way in. "Down the stairs, Weasley"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco watches Potter rubbing at his eyes and forces down his desire to do the same. He feels stretched and worn and terribly brittle standing there in the drawing room surrounded by all the fading magic released earlier that week. It had taken everything he had to summon the fire, and now, with all his cards played, he will have nothing but his own talents to rely on for talking Potter into leaving.

At least, he had successfully managed to get the screaming weasel out of the way. How fitting that the two of them should be doing this together-- the poor youngest son, and the orphan. All that was left was the brilliant and lovely daughter to round out the sickening trio of fairy-tale-hero clichés, but she would soon be dead, and for that Draco allows himself a smile.

"What was that?" he asks Potter, indicating Weasley's recent outburst.

Potter moves his hand from his nose and looks past Draco or through him. He can't quite tell. "This won't work, Malfoy," Potter says. "I'm not leaving."

"So," Draco let's his smile extend bit further, "the mudbloods are dead, and the halfbloods are dying. You'll be soon to follow, won't you, Potter? After all, your mother--"

"Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?" Potter interrupts calmly.

Draco crosses his arms over his chest, hoping this will be enough to unbalance him. "Do I need to? I already know how you came to arrive at my home. I'm more interested to find out what you would have me do?"

"Voldemort's weapon-- Homer-- it needs to be destroyed."

"Ahhh yes, the one you were guarding." Draco unfolds his arms and claps his hands lightly as he speaks. "Well done there, Potter, though you still haven't explained what this has to do with me."

"Y-you can take us there," Potter stammers, though he still manages to sound quite sure of himself considering the circumstances.

"Can, but won't." Draco feigns interest in an invisible piece of lint on the hem of his sleeve. "I fail to see why I should be concerned."

"Because," Potter speaks with enough self righteous determination to make Draco nearly ill. "When Voldemort's done killing the muggleborns and the halfbloods, he'll kill you too. He'll kill everything because it doesn't matter to him. He doesn't understand life anymore."

He knows he shouldn't find this funny, but, in a sense, it is. Phineas had called him a puppet, but at least taking the Dark Mark was his decision, at least keeping the Dark Lords favor had benefits attached to it, and at least he is smart enough to realize when he's being used. "Apparently, Potter," Draco says with a composure that belies his amusement, "he's not the only one."

Potter furrows his brow, looking confused. His hand rises to his forehead for a few seconds before dropping to his side. "What does that mean?"

Draco shrugs, hoping to get Potter on his way sooner, rather than later. "Whatever you want it to. So you need to get rid of this weapon, go play the hero. I already said I wouldn't stop you."

"It's not as simple as that, Malfoy."

"No," Draco sighs, bringing his hand to his temple and is shocked to notice Potter's done the same. "I suppose not," he says almost sincerely. "Things never have been simple for either of us. What else is it then?

"Homer, it controls all magic--"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Yes, I suspected as much."

"LISTEN, MALFOY!" Potter screams, surprising Draco with his sudden loss of control. "When-- if I actually destroy it, then that's all." He draws in a ragged breath and sways slightly on his feet. "That's the end."

"Yes," he shrugs in dismissal of Potter's theatrics. "The reign of the Dark Lord ends, and I'll likely be put in Azkaban for crimes against humanity." He highly doubts Potter can defeat the Dark Lord now. He doesn't think Potter will get very far at all. In fact, Potter's looking very much like he's about to topple over at any moment

Potter's hands clench at his sides, and when he speaks next, Draco has to strain to hear him. "No, Malfoy," he whispers, "the end of Magic."

"What!?" The word slips past his lips of its own accord and comes out as a hiss. But he can hardly be bothered with being impressive in the face of Potter's ridiculous claims. He pauses to think for a few moments, finding it doesn't take long for him to convince himself of the absurdity of Potter's statement. "No," he says coolly. "I don't believe you."

"It's true," Potter says, straightening himself. "You know it's true. It's already begun. He's taking it all for himself even you must have noticed."

Draco doesn't believe Potter-- he doesn't. He won't let himself, but there's anger now, not the subdued fury that he has been stoking for the past months, but something wild and unfocused. How dare Potter come into his home and make these outlandish claims.

The magic in the air shoots through him snapping against his skin. He can feel it on his tongue like carbonation and then like needles. Behind the closed lids of his eyes he sees pure white and then spiraling black. He imagines he can sense the earth spinning beneath his feet, and feel its rhythm beating in time with his heart. In the space between seconds he watches stars dance and burn out and explode. Planets and moons orbit the sun in nonsensical patterns that can only be perceived properly by looking down from above, and at the center of it all, stands Potter telling him that the world will end. That life will end. That magic will end.

"No," is all he can find voice to say, and even that comes out as a hoarse whisper.

"Nothing works." Potter answers before Draco has a chance to find his bearings.

"That's not true," he retorts more out of habit than anything else. He needs something familiar, something comfortable, a pattern he can let himself fall into.

"There's ink on your hands."

Draco wonders briefly if he missed something a while back which initiated this change of topic. Absently bringing his hand level with his eyes, he sees that it is indeed true. His fingernails are outlined in black and large spots cover the thumb and index finger of his left hand. "So?"

Potter looks irritatingly smug. "All quills are made with anti-splattering charms."

Draco inconspicuously brushes his hand against the side of his robes. "I fail to see how this pertains to anything at all relevant."

"What about chess pieces?"

Potter's logic seems faulty at best. Draco knows he must hear him out but wishes that he would just get to the point. "What of them? In case it passed your notice, I haven't been lounging about playing games." This isn't true, of course, Draco had been doing nothing but playing games, everything was a game even this-- especially this, and, despite his clear advantages, Draco's track record in games against Potter is decidedly poor. He wonders if the topic changes are intended by Potter to throw him off balance, but then decides that would be giving Potter far too much credit.

"Your carriage path is looking rather shabby, too. Shouldn't it have charms to keep the weeds out?"

"I don't use it anymore."

"Why do you think you can't fly?"

Because of you--

Draco doesn't say this. He doesn't say anything. He had given up flying years ago. He couldn't stand the taste of open sky or the heady lightness of mid-atmosphere. It seemed horribly incongruent that the man he's become once held such fragile dreams, and it was fitting that the final victory had been Potter's, even if he would never know it. It gave everything a grim sense of closure so Draco no longer has to think of it now, and for that at least, he is thankful.

The schedule of tryouts seemed to stretch infinitely once. Thirteen teams in need of a seeker, he was even willing to take a reserve post if necessary-- anything to get out of spending his life as a parchment-pusher, but there was only one seeker out of Hogwarts that year that anyone was interested in, and it wasn't Draco Malfoy. They would shake his hand afterwards, telling him to pass word along to Potter if he ever saw him. Three fingers of the Chudley captain's right hand shattered under his grasp. That was the last tryout he went to.

The next day he sat in his eight-floor office carving various curse words into his desk with a jade and silver letter opener. He hardy ever thought about that chapter of his life anymore, so steeped in disappointment and rejection-- all stemming from that first rejection eleven years ago, but he never let himself think of that either.

Draco narrows his eyes and clears his throat, silently willing Potter to leave. "The inability of broomsticks to function properly is the result of muggles polluting our air."

"No, that's not true." Potter looks incredulous, but Draco only shrugs. "You must have noticed something. Spells-- they don't work the same, most don't work at all."

Draco once again feels his lips curve upwards in a humorless smile. "Prove it Potter."

"Kill me." Potter speaks instantly, and for a second, Draco's sure he must have misheard.

"What?"

"Kill me." Potter says smoothly, leaving him more confused than before.

"What's the catch?"

"You have to use your wand . . . magic, but then it would be beneath a pureblood like you to resort to other methods." Draco shoots him a wicked glare. Potter, of all people, should know that when it comes down to it there are very few things that Draco considers beneath him.

"And, if I don't succeed, I'll have to join you, I expect?"

"No, if you fail, you can try again as many times as you'd like." Potter raises an eyebrow and fiddles with his glasses. "What are you waiting for?"

He seems a bit too eager for Draco's taste. "No thanks."

"What? Isn't this what you want?"

"Oh, I'd love to see you dead and all, Potter. I just don't fancy giving you a new scar only to be forced out of my body. That is what happened to the Dark Lord when he first tried it?"

"That was a long time ago, Malfoy. I was protected then. I was innocent."

Draco is distracted briefly, wondering what Potter has done so that he no longer considers himself innocent, not that it could be very drastic. In truth, Potter seems much the same as ever. "This isn't a trick?"

"No trick."

"You really want to die?"

"I want you to try to kill me."

"Why?"

"Scared, Malfoy? You have done this before haven't you? I wouldn't expect that Voldemort would allow you into his services if you hadn't."

Draco pulls his wand from his robes smiling as the wood heats beneath his fingers. "Of course I have."

"Then do it," Potter says evenly, lowering his hands to his sides to show that he's unarmed. "You do want me dead, don't you? This should be rather easy for you."

The last thing a parent teaches their child is how to die. In Potter's case death was the only example his parents could leave him to follow, a life for a life, and he learned his lesson well, just as Draco had been taught by Lucius.

Draco studies Potter with greater scrutiny now. He un-focuses his eyes and searches Potter's aura for signs of protection spells, but finds nothing. He's more upset at Potter than he would have been if it was a trick-- whether out of bravery or foolishness or some concealed invulnerability, the-boy-who-lived is not afraid to die. Draco wonders why he's so surprised. He's known for years what Potter is, but that had been before he'd seen death himself-- before he caused it, and it sickens him to the core that Potter can be so vulnerable and at the same time so inhumanly calm. Hate comes easily after that. Hate's always been there, but he gives himself free reign to it now, and lets it course through his body and beat against the insides of his fingertips-- strong and white and as sharp as heated knives.

With his wand trained on Potter's chest, he lets his eyes fall shut. He doesn't need to scream. Screaming would make it less, somehow. So he whispers. He whispers the two words he's said hundreds of times before, "Avada Kadavra."

The world dissolves into nothingness, and behind the lids of his tightly shut eyes Draco watches the swirl of galaxies made plain in the chaotic movement of spiraling electrons and the even smaller particles of magical dust, blown through the air by his short, sporadic breaths. Here he stands at the center of the universe, where all decisions are his to make and never be questioned. Here he is circled by suns and planets. Here he is everywhere and he is nowhere and nothing-- the largest and the smallest. Here all lines lead to him and away from him, and like before, he wants this moment to last forever, but it never does, and it never can, and it never will.

His eyes open at the sound of a sharp cough, and he looks up to see Potter, alive and giving the first genuine smile Draco's seen from him in years. "What was that Malfoy?"

He tries again, and again, his wand warms at his touch, and again, he feels the acute pain, and the invigorating release, and then the few bittersweet seconds of complete freedom crashing down upon him. In the end he looks up again, and again, he sees Potter's smiling face, and again, he realizes how bound and constrained he truly is, and the hatred grows. It grows beyond him and beyond Potter. It grows beyond a simple wish to cause death or insanity or pain, and right then, all he wants is to make Potter feel exactly as he does.

Again.

Frantic.

Again.

Dizzy.

Again.

Desperate.

The same two words again and again and again.

And the same smile flashing in front his eyes before he forces them shut again and again and again.

And after the fifth try his wand goes cold and rigid like a dead thing, awkwardly clammy against his skin. He wants to drop it in disgust, though he tells himself to hold on. Just a little longer, he urges silently, just one more go at it, but his fingers revolt, or have become too exhausted to maintain their grip and slowly uncurl, letting it fall away, leaving his hands trembling and empty. Its solid impact echoes with unexpected volume against the wood floor and the stone walls.

In front of him Potter crosses his arms over his chest. "So?"

"W-what happened? What are you doing to me?"

"Nothing."

Draco lowers himself to the ground, and his trembling hands struggle to pick his wand up from the floor. For a second, Potter looks about to bend over and help him with his fumblings. Thankfully, he stays where he is, and turning away, Draco can feel the heat of Potter's gaze on the back of his neck and feel Potter's words piercing his skin despite the unexpected softness of his voice.

"Looks like your magic isn't as strong as you thought, huh, Malfoy?"

Still hunched over on the floor, grasping for his wand, Draco doesn't look up to speak. "What's going on, Potter? What did you do to me?"

"Nothing," Potter says, again. "There's only one person in the world who can still use the unforgivables, and he stopped being a person years ago." Draco grips his wand and shoves it hastily into a side pocket before bringing himself level with Potter. "He wants it all," Potter spits angrily, but the anger is towards the Dark Lord not Draco himself, and that makes it even worse. "It doesn't matter that you're loyal to him. He'll kill you too, just like the rest of us."

"No," Draco says with all the surety of the well practiced. "I will be granted etern--"

"If he lets you live at all, it won't be real! You've seen what it is to drink the blood of a unicorn. Even you wouldn't do that!"

Draco's fingers itch to find his wand again. Maybe not Avada Kadavra. Maybe Cruciatus or Imperius. Even Furunculous for old time's sake, would be somewhat amusing, or perhaps, a simple knife through Potter's chest. His voice is clean and smooth in sharp contrast to Potter's sudden anger. "You have no idea what I would and wouldn't do."

"You're right, Malfoy. I don't." Still appearing shaken, Potter manages a smile. "All I know is that you can't do the killing curse."

Resilience is bound to the ability to become pliant when necessary. And it certainly isn't as if he'll be ruining any winning streaks, should he concede. After all, everything is to be done with another purpose in mind, as always. "Fine Potter, you've won. That is what you wanted isn't it? I admit defeat." Even though Draco doesn't truly mean them the words taste sour leaving his mouth. "You were right. You were right about everything. Now be the noble little Gryffindor and leave."

"No."

"What?"

Potter's infuriating smile returns fully. "We need you Malfoy--"

"Oh yes, I'm sure."

"We do."

"You came here because you wanted free passage, and I granted it. Now go!"

"No, that's not why I'm here. We need you Malfoy!"

"No." Draco feels the emotion draining from him. "You don't."

"You can show us the way." Potter attempts a beseeching tone. "We don't know where."

"And I do?"

"You have his mark you should be able to feel something, some sort of pull from it."

Draco sighs at Potter's complete ignorance. "Only if he wants me to . . . It's far more complicated than you realize."

"Take us there."

"Why should I?" Draco snaps, relived at the detached rage flooding back into his system. "Why do you even want me to? What Possible good could I do for you and the bloody weasel?"

"More than you might think." Potter looks genuinely pleased. "You can help us, Malfoy."

Draco pauses briefly to wonder at Potter's mental state. His powers of persuasion are severely lacking if he honestly thinks appealing to Draco's altruistic nature will prove fruitful. He almost has to suppress a smile of his own. "And why would I want to?"

Potter loses all hints of amusement. "Because Voldemort isn't above killing his own followers." Draco winces involuntarily. Could Potter have heard about his father? Luckily, he doesn't seem to notice Draco's reaction, or if he does, he likely thinks the name of the Dark Lord is the reason for his discomfort. "As soon as he's through with the rest of us it'll be your turn, and I highly doubt anyone will be left to stick up for you."

"I really don't think you want this."

Potter's voice drops several notches as if he's trying to keep someone from hearing. "You have proven helpful in the past." Draco sincerely hopes he only imagined Potter winking at him.

"Oh yes, I'm sure, and after my stunning display back there . . . I can't even work levitating charms anymore"

"So, you knew?"

Draco feels his mouth twisting into a scowl. "Of course I knew. Can't you feel it?"

"You're more than that." Potter's sincerity is almost as irritating as his stubbornness, but, at the same time odd, because it's honest, either that or Potter's a much better actor than anyone's ever given him credit for. "We need you."

"Merlin, but you are pathetic. You're not lying! No, of course not, the golden children never could lie properly-- especially you." He points at the faded scars on Potter's right hand, but if he makes the connection Potter shows no sign of it. "So, you say you need me?"

Potter's hands have been balled into fists and they stay clenched rigidly at his sides. "You can get us there."

"But I already told you. I don't know the way."

"We--"

"You do need me, Potter," Draco smirks slightly, cutting him off. "Weasley couldn't care less-- but you, you're different"

"I--"

"I know why." Potter's mouth stays opened slightly, and, once more, he's beginning to look unsteady on his feet. "You need me because I'm not stupid enough to get myself killed-- because you know I won't die for you."

Potter seems confused for a few moments before shouting, "Of course not!"

"See!"

"Malfoy, what? I hardly expected--"

"You're right about that. I won't die for you, Potter, but I won't serve you either." Draco jerks his head in the direction of the door. "Go."

Potter still looks incredulous, but, slowly, his grimace begins to fade. "How did you know at the old ministry building?" He asks. "How did you know there was nothing behind the door?"

Draco bites hard on his bottom lip to keep his jaw from dropping. He hasn't thought about that conversation for so long he'd almost managed to convince himself it'd never happened, besides he's not about to admit to hearing voices--certainly not to Potter. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"That's crap, Malfoy. Every spell I've ever done has worn off long before now including that memory charm. Besides you already admitted to knowing what I was guarding."

Well that at least explained why he couldn't recall it properly, though Potter must realize that such an admission will do little to earn Draco's favor. "I don't know anything Potter. I'm sure I was just bothering you, and you, apparently, were stupid enough to fall for it."

Potter's nose wrinkles. "I don't believe you."

"Well," Draco sighs impatiently, knowing all he needs to do is get Potter out of his house. "Generally that would be a good outlook to have concerning me, but let me assure you that I most certainly wasn't trying to help you."

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"And I wouldn't want your help either!"

This is it. Soon Potter will be away for good, and the Dark Lord can finish him off for good, and Draco can go on to living his life as he has chosen. "Fine!"

"It is fine!"

"That's what I bloody said, Potter!"

The left side of Potter's face dimples, though his mouth remains set in a thin line. "And I'm certainly not asking anything like that of you now."

"Fine," Draco says. If you're not asking anything then go.

"Fine?"

"Whatever, Potter."

There's a definite shift in the atmosphere of the room, which Draco senses immediately. The magic swirls wildly through the air, and some fading embers in the fireplace spark, starting the blaze anew. He notices Potter is now standing a bit straighter and his lips are curving slightly upwards. "Fine?" he says. "You know, Malfoy, in some circles that could be construed as an agreement."

The bottom of Draco's stomach drops. "I was agreeing that I would never do anything to purposely help you."

"Not purposely, no." Potter's arms cross over his chest. "But then, I hardly care whether or not you come willingly."

"I didn't consent to anything." Draco is unsure whether this is exactly true, but he won't be held to any agreement if Potter leaves of his own accord.

"Yes, you did." Potter says still grinning. "You said, 'Fine,' I made reference to my mission, and you accepted."

Draco gives another bored sigh. "Sod off, Potter."

"No, don't think I will." Potter strides over to the room's exit. "It would be such a shame for a Malfoy such as yourself to back out of an agreement."

Draco walks to the door and stands in front of him. Too drained to do any more magic, he takes out his wand and jabs it into Potter's chest. "You'll pay for this, Potter."

Potter looks down at the wand disdainfully, and then at Draco's face with the same expression. "I'm not afraid of you."

"How do you know I won't try to kill you in your sleep?"

"Actually, I'm rather expecting you will." With one quick motion of his hand Potter smacks the wand out of Draco's grasp and sends it clattering against the floor for the second time that day. "Like I said, I'm not afraid. Go pack." He stands there, looking like he might laugh, for a few moments before striding purposefully out the door.

~*~

Draco had put many people under the Imperious curse, back when it was still possible. He wonders now, if this is what it's like-- to urge your body to stop walking, only to have your legs involuntarily increase their length of stride. To think that you will continue in a straight line only to find yourself trudging up a winding staircase. To tell yourself you won't go anywhere and to go all the same.

I don't want to do this. He wills his body to stop moving. I don't want to! but he is. He's in his study, and he's packing, just like Potter said.

He puts a heavy velvet cloak in his rucksack.

I won't do it, you know.

He takes a polished silver crown out from behind its glass case.

I won't go with Potter.

He slings the bag over his shoulder.

I won't.

Above him, Phineas gives Draco a questioning look. "Had your meeting?"

"Shut up!" Draco snaps, managing to wipe the smug look from the portraits face. His painted features remain blank for a few seconds and are then replaced by an expression Draco can't rightly describe.

"Yours is a family of stars, Draco," he says in a half whisper. "The most brilliant are often left unseen until night becomes its darkest."

"What?!" Draco shouts, kicking a table leg. "What in Merlin's name is that supposed to mean?!"

Phineas gives an innocent shrug, which makes him appear incredibly guilty. "I thought you said you weren't going with him."

"I'll kill him!" Draco hisses, pulling a small dagger from its decorative mounting on the wall. "I'll kill you!"

"MALFOY!"

Snapping his head around, Draco sees Potter leaning against the doorframe surrounded by several burlap sacks, overflowing with what appears to be the entire contents of the Mansion's three kitchens. He flinches reflexively and opens his mouth without making a sound.

"As much as I'd love to see your ancestors murdered, we really should get going." Potter nods politely to Phineas who returns the gesture, leaving Draco to glance incredulously between the two. "Besides," he says, grinning triumphantly. "It's a little too late for that, now. You've already been born."

Draco tosses the dagger back and forth between his hands, each time catching it by the hilt. He shoves Potter roughly out of his way as he heads for the door. "Watch your back, Potter. I'm only with you until you die."

Tearing down the spiraling staircase, Draco has not yet made it around the first curve when curiosity gets the better of him, and he turns to look back at Potter standing in the doorway above. The light of the study shines from behind leaving him little more than a thin backlit silhouette with oversized clothes and messy hair. Draco winces unable to see his disdainful expression through the sharp contrast of light against Potter's skin and the dark shadow that has fallen across his own face-- Potter's shadow.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun is forced into hiding beneath a flattened sky and wrapped away in giant sheets of cloud-- cold and white and shallow. It's afternoon again. The mists of the morning have finally dissipated, leaving the small buildings in plain view from the emptied streets, which wind past forests of leaf-less trees and rain- soaked fields.

Somewhere a boy cowers in a corner, while the large man whose house he shares stomps across the floor in an angry huff, saying that he can't believe his horrible run of bad luck, but the boy can. He felt it coming long ago like the cool winds that carry storm in from the sea-- swift breezes laced with sparkling electricity. He senses the current lull serves only in belying the true tempest that is yet to come, but there's nothing he can do to change it, and warning the people he lives with would only result in his punishment. So he stays in the corner, and he listens.

"Such misfortune, and after everything I've done!" screams the man. "I certainly don't deserve this rubbish. I'll tell you that!"

No, the boy thinks, shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw. You do deserve it. A cold gust whips through to room, causing picture frames to rattle sharply against the walls. You deserve every bit of it.

~*~

If you're sure of mind, perhaps, in Ravenclaw you'll stay,

To learn of the world before your eyes, and others far away.

~*~

A girl sits on the floor of her living room watching TV. The TV isn't on, of course. It's been days since it worked properly-- since anything worked properly. She looks at her reflection on the darkened screen, and she questions how so much could change in the world and in herself without at all changing how things appear. She wonders if she should tell her family that she'll die soon.

Its not that she doubts her parent's love. They had believed her before. They never questioned it when she lost things because they moved on their own. They didn't punish her when her desk caught fire after her teacher told her that her myths were just foolish stories or when the two boys who called her a freak found themselves, inexplicably, hanging from a light fixture. They didn't tell her to stop staying outside in the yard so long after dark, and they never said anything when she began to collect owl pellets and store them in her room, but somehow, she knows this is different.

~*~

The rumors are kept far away from adults. Whenever the children gather together, they always begin by whispering in hushed tones, hiding their secret words from the prying ears of parents and older siblings still drunk on the hope of the ignorant. At first was only gossip. Then it became something more-- promises, accusations, oaths. Like thunderheads slowly building in the distance-- their volume increases as their declarations become bolder, more intrepid-- low rumbles giving way to charged outbursts of emotion.

They notice what the others don't, and they know that the magic of their once incredible world is weakening. The grownups will never admit to their own failings, after all, but they can already tell which spells no longer work and which have been diluted. Sometimes it's the smallest eyes that see things most clearly.

"The Dark Lord isn't evil at all. It's Dumbledore, who's been lying to us, he's jealous of the Dark Lord's power . . ."

"His followers are free to do whatever they want . . ."

"He's creating a sorcerer's stone and when he's finished he'll give them the secret to eternal life . . ."

"Muggles want to kill us. They hate us because we're better than them . . ."

"I've heard they use the mudbloods to spy into our world . . ."

"The Dark lord will show them."

"We'll join him one day won't we?"

"Become Death Eaters?"

"Of course!"

*In his small tent Harry Potter lies uncomfortably on the ground and thinks.*

Outside the sun sets quickly over a distant horizon. The sudden lack of light doesn't darken the world so much suck away any lingering traces of color, leaving the landscape cast only in monotones, all variants of grey. It is night, again, and from his small space a boy wonders what the new day will bring for the world and for himself. He has spent his entire life under the dubious protection of those who hate him for what he is, but what securities can they offer now? What can anyone offer? And why should he stay trapped here when the world is so much bigger than what he's been confined to? Bigger than an attic or a basement or a cupboard under the stairs.

~*~

She doesn't want to hear the owls tonight, but that's no reason to stay inside. Without air conditioning or fans the house is uncomfortably stuffy. Out in the yard there is at least a breeze. She wears the headphones of her personal stereo, which too is broken, and she taps her foot in tune with the music she imagines would be playing. She really doesn't want to hear the owls tonight. She already knows what they'll tell her.

She let her parents know she wasn't feeling well, though she's not sure they were truly listening at the time. At least they didn't tell her she was being foolish, or that her stories were lies. Who's to say what death isn't measured in silken strands? Or that a beautiful song doesn't have any power-- even in the underworld? Who's to say that phoenixes can't die and then be reborn from the ashes-- that they don't exist at all? Who's to tell her what's true, especially now that all logical reasoning fails to explain what's happening to the world? Who's to say that the owls aren't calling her name?

~*~

Elevated night terrors have been common for a certain group of the country's children, children whose names were written into a secret book by a magic quill right after they were born, a book that's kept locked away in a castle no one can see unless they already know its there. Many have been feeling sick lately. Many more are just tired. Some others don't notice the subtle changes at all, and are only concerned that their video games and microwaves no longer work, but such things don't concern them in their sleep-- not when they wade through rivers of blood and know that it's their own, or when they walk across fields of hair and teeth to another castle, that's not really a castle at all but carved of bone. There they meet a man who isn't a man at anymore, but once was. He has a voice that crackles as dry as the skin of a snake, or the crinkling of rice paper. 'The bones of broken children,' he says smiling through his non-lips as he points up at his fortress. 'On which all empires are built.' Silted red eyes blaze out at them. 'Humans can't make their kingdoms last forever.' He hisses. 'But mine will, and you'll help me.'

'Promise You'll help me.'

~*~

As was the case most evenings, Dylan had been practicing in the room of requirement with Dulcie and Shelia. It was hard to understand how the three of them came to be working together at first Nevertheless, as far as sparring partners went Dylan assumed it could have been much worse. He hardly cared about either of them, which was a reasonable attitude to have towards the people you threw knives at on a daily basis. Over their short time together they had grown to trust each other implicitly, though none would ever admit it. They knew each other's strengths and weaknesses as well as they knew their own. He put down the book he was holding and picked up his sword-- the one he'd been using since he first found himself there, the one with his initials emblazoned in the hilt and a broad blade-- sharp and undecorated. Sometimes, he reasoned, requirement has little to do with your own desires. Sometimes all that mattered was what the world required of you.

*Draco Malfoy paces the ground beside the fire, knife clutched to his chest, waiting for his chance*

Outside raindrops fall like tears trickling down silently in their slow measured patterns, dripping rhythmically from tree branches stained black by the water and side awnings groaning under its weight, until it falls again to collect in dreary puddles on the ground below. The sky shows no signs of stopping, as if it plans to keep going until everything is finally washed away so it can start clean. This isn't the sudden violent storm the world had been expecting. This is patience. This is fierce persistence, strained endurance and quiet intensity.

This is much worse.

~*~

A thin stream of grey light filters through a small window. It is morning and somewhere in the world a boy wakes up with a medium sized spider slowly creeping up the side his neck trailing silken strands across his skin. He catches it in one hand, and with the other gently brushes away the tiny threads from his hair and shirt. "It'll take more than these little ropes to strangle me, you know?" He says bringing it level with his eyes. "Especially when I've been living here for so long." He puts on his shoes with one hand and closes the door behind him. Every morning he would go out to get the post, but it's stopped coming now. He places the spider on a bed of daffodils at the end of the slick cement pathway, letting it scramble away between the flowers, and he keeps walking. He doesn't take anything with him, and he doesn't look back once.

~*~

A girl lies in bed feeling tired and weak. In a few hours her parents will wonder why she hasn't gotten up for breakfast, hopefully then she'll be able to explain things-- as well as things can be explained, anyway. In the strange shifting world where you can still dream when not yet asleep the voice comes back to her-- the voice she was sure weren't real, the part of herself she wondered if she'd only imagined. Just wait, it says, Just a little longer. Soon it won't be like this anymore. Soon you can go home.

~*~

Or perchance in Slytherin you'll get your education,

Where power is sought, and kept, and wrought with grave determination.

~*~

Nine AM divination wasn't anyone's favorite class. Dulcie and Shelia were only taking it because of a certain good looking centaur who shared teaching responsibilities. Firenze, unfortunately, had been sent on a diplomatic mission into the forbidden forest, meaning the sixth year Slytherins were casting bones with Trelawney.

Neither girl could concentrate properly, Dylan was in the infirmary again, and though they would never say as much, they were both worried about him. He and a second year Gryffindor girl were the last mudbloods still going to Hogwarts, the rest thought it safer to remain in muggle schools, or were too sick to stay.

The professor's bangles clinked louder as her hands began to tremble, and most of the students alternated between boredom and slight amusement. She had been on edge since the incident with the forth years and the goblin vodka. Shelia's head was resting on her copy of Unfogging the Future, while Dulcie pretended to be reading and taking notes as an excuse to avoid touching the wooden box filled with bones sitting in front of her.

Trelawney tapped her wand on the table under them, causing Shelia to look up blearily and blink multiple times before proclaiming that she was having a prophetic dream. Trelawney looked unusually perceptive and informed her that she foresaw them discussing it after class. She then informed Dulcie that the fates indicated she would be failing her exams should she not practice the reading of bones.

Waiting until Trelawney floated back to the front of the room, Dulcie gave the box a look of ill disguised revulsion before upturning it and letting the tangled bones fall in a solid mass to the table below. Somehow, it looked like a castle.

Afterwards Shelia found herself alone in the classroom with the task of putting the bones back in their boxes. It would have gone by quite quickly if she hadn't insisted on picking them up one at a time between her thumb and index finger and wiping her hand on her robe after each one fell haphazardly into its container.

At her desk Trelawney's eyes went glassy. At first, Shelia wondered if she was talking at all because her voice had become low and sharp, completely unlike her usual misty tones. "The Dark Lord shall soon wield all power, and every magic he will claim, but even his great might can cower to one who's trapped inside a name. Losing faith, will think he's been neglected, as with the Master he will duel, and find he hasn't been rejected, for the exception proves the rule." Trelawney didn't blink, but her eyes seemed to focus, pupils shrinking until they were all but lost behind the strange fog that swirled beneath the frames of her over-large glasses. She was looking at Sheila, then, and whatever smart, witty retort Sheila was thinking of died unnoticed on the tip of her tongue. "When the world seems to be most cruel, find what's still left you should defend, and cut the threads left on the spool. In winning we secure our end." The divination professor stared out unblinking for a few moments before shutting her eyes tightly, and looking up at the girl in front of her with a perplexed expression. "What are you doing still here, child?"

"You wanted to give Slytherin twenty house points for my work today with the . . . bones."

"Yes, yes . . . quite right. I knew that you would do well with them as soon as you came in today." Her eyes misted over slightly. "You must be careful. I see a dangerous path laid out before you."

Shelia rolled her eyes and suppressed a laugh.

Outside the trap door, she found Dulcie waiting for her, and naturally, bragged a bit about pulling one over on the old cow before her friend asked her if Trelawney said anything else. In a hushed voice she recounted their professor's failed attempt at rhyming verse, and both girls snickered again, but there was an edge to Sheila's laughter that hadn't been there before.

In the frames above them Violet took a sip from her pink painted teacup before trotting off to tell the fat lady, and Sir Cadogan urged his horse gallantly forward towards the suits of armor.

~*~

*From outside his rain-soaked tent Ronald Weasley looks back in the direction of his home, which now seems very far away. He harshly brushes the hair away from his forehead and whispers 'Miss you Hermione.' *

~*~

With all the changes that had taken place in such rapid succession everything seems to have suddenly gone very still. The sun rises unseen over streams and rivers that continue filling with rain until they swell and flow out onto their banks, but even this happens slowly. There's no sound-- no birdsong, no cars pulling out onto the streets. Even the raindrops are silent. The winds die down, the clouds hang low in the sky, and the world continues to sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~