Two to Lead

Chapter 14: Sports

"Everyone is playing life like it's some stupid sport."

-Ani DiFranco, Egos Like Hairdos

*******

Terry Boot was no fool. He obviously didn't want a scene in the Great Hall, so he was waiting for Ginny outside the Gryffindor common room the next morning. Ginny noted with satisfaction that he looked guilty.

"Ginny, I'm really sorry about last night..."

"Sorry about what?" she asked blankly, unable to suppress the urge to make him suffer.

"About not showing up," he said, shuffling his feet with his hands in his pockets.

"What do you mean, not showing up?"

Terry was confused. "About not meeting you in the Room of Requirement," he explained slowly.

Ginny grinned and slapped him on the arm playfully. "Stop joking around, Terry. You were unbelievable last night."

His face went utterly slack. "Unh?"

"Don't be so modest. I've never seen that side of you, Terry. You were like an animal. A wild, uncontrollable jungle beast."

He paled. "A what?"

Ginny patted him on the cheek and sighed contentedly. "You've ruined me for any other boy, Terry Boot."

Terry's eyes were wide with horror. "Ginny, I wasn't there last night. I didn't come...I mean, I didn't go to the Room of Requirement."

"You didn't?"

He shook his head.

"Then who did I have sex with last night?"

Terry choked. "Sex...you...oh, shit." He sank down on his haunches and put his face in his hands. "Please tell me you're joking," he moaned.

Well, the fun was over. Or maybe it was just beginning. "I'm joking," Ginny said, crossing her arms. "Would you like to tell me where you were while I was running from Filch last night?"

Terry's hands fell from his face, but he remained squatting, staring at the floor. "I fell asleep," he said in a small voice.

"It's nice to know that snogging me is such an exciting prospect that you fell asleep," Ginny said coolly.

"I didn't mean to," he said, looking up at her with a pleading, puppy dog face. "I was really looking forward to it."

"I'll just bet you were."

He stood up. "Do you want me to kiss you again?" he asked tentatively.

Ginny gave him a look.

"Apparently not," he mumbled.

"Terry," Ginny said through gritted teeth. "You're an idiot. I mean, you're intelligent and everything, but when it comes to people, you're a big, huge fucking idiot."

He took a step back. "Ginny, I..."

"Don't talk," she interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. "The sound of your voice annoys me. In fact, everything about you annoys me. I don't even think I'm attracted to you."

"Er, Ginny?"

"What!?"

"Why did you kiss me, then?"

"That's entirely beside the point," she snapped.

"But why would you kiss somebody you weren't even attracted to?"

"Terry," she said pityingly. "Don't ask stupid questions."

"Why is that a stupid question?" he asked, bewildered.

"Honestly, if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you. Wait a second. When did this start being about me? This is supposed to be about you."

"Somehow, I'm not entirely certain that's the case."

"Shut up and let me finish, will you?" Ginny paused. "Where was I?"

"Let's see...I'm an idiot and you're not really attracted to me."

"Yes, exactly. I mean what kind of guy stays with a girl who treats him like utter rubbish?"

"I don't know," Terry said challengingly. "What kind of girl asks out a guy she's not even attracted to?"

"Once again, this is not about me!"

"Oh, really? Because I think it's completely about you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Michael Corner told me you were nuts, but I went out with you anyway, because I thought you were cute. That was my mistake. And maybe putting up with all of your crap was my mistake, too..."

"Yes, exactly," Ginny agreed.

"...but you've got problems, Ginny. I can't even begin to tell you what they are, but you have some serious problems."

It was pretty much the worst thing he could have said.

"I have problems?" Ginny asked heatedly, backing Terry up. "I have problems? You're living in a pretty skewed fucking reality, Terry Boot. I'm not an idiot about these things. Guys are perfectly willing to stay with a crazy bitch if they think it might be worth the effort in the long run, but I had to practically crawl up your shirt to even get you to kiss me!" Did I just call myself a crazy bitch?

"I didn't kiss you because I was afraid of getting my head bitten off!"

"That's the point, you moron! What spineless, dickless teenage boy is that scared of a teenage girl?"

"Someone who was a perfectly normal teenage boy until he had the misfortune of dating a bloody psychopath, that's who!" Terry exploded.

Ginny stopped and cocked her head at him. She'd never seen Terry meet her verbal abuse with anything more than a sort of 'what did I do to deserve this' martyrdom. "Where on earth has this been the whole time we've been going out?"

"I don't know!" he shouted, waving his arms. "I didn't even know it existed until right now!"

Ginny tugged on her ear and looked away. "Is it really, really messed up to find you attractive right now?"

"Yes!" he bellowed. "It's messed up! You're messed up! This whole relationship is messed up!" Having apparently released the whole of his carefully tethered rage, Terry slumped against the wall.

"Merlin," Ginny said in an awed voice. "You do have a personality."

"I think we should break up," Terry said weakly.

"Oh, don't say that. I think this could really work, you know," Ginny said soothingly, walking up to give him a hug.

Terry backed away, his hands up as if to defend himself. They stared at each other for a brief moment before he turned and sprinted away from her.

Damn, Ginny thought. Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.

*******

"Hey, Thera?" Draco asked from the bathroom. Her bathroom.

Thera put down her Charms textbook yet again. Draco seemed to have become a permanent fixture in her room, like a piece of furniture. A piece of furniture that required constant entertainment and his own shelf in the bathroom for hair products.

He claimed that there were too many people in his room. Thera was beginning to understand the feeling. And apparently he was spending the night. Again. Largely because she was letting him. Again.

"Yes, Draco?" she asked pleasantly.

Thera was hardly a pushover, but Draco had a way of insinuating himself into your life, listen patiently while you told him to get the fuck out of it, nod as if he understood, and then do whatever the hell he wanted to do anyway. It was like having a battle of wills with a toddler, and Thera had long ago given up any hope of winning.

"Why don't we just take out the Muggles?"

"What, like out to lunch?"

"No," he said, sounding annoyed. "I mean, why do we keep talking about destroying the Muggles and never actually do anything about it? I know we don't have enough people to take them over entirely right now, but we have enough to do something, right?" Draco walked out of the bathroom - Merlin knows what he had been doing in there all this time, considering he didn't look any different - slipped his robes off, dropped them onto her desk chair and walked back into the bathroom while unbuttoning his slacks.

"Because we're never going to destroy the Muggles, and we'd be stupid to try. It's just propaganda." Thera yawned, giving up on her homework and plopping down on the bed.

"Why would you say that?"

"Which part?"

"The part about never destroying the Muggles?" he asked, standing in the doorway wearing only a pair of boxers. Thera had to admit - in an objectively clinical way - that Draco Malfoy was very possibly the most beautiful teenage boy alive. Even lounging against a doorway standing in his boxer shorts, he seemed like he was posing for a photograph. Why? Why does he have to be such a schmuck? Is it to punish all women?

"If we were ever tried to destroy the Muggles, they'd blow ninety-nine percent of us to smithereens and treat the leftovers like lab rats."

He quirked an eyebrow. Why the hell couldn't she do that? "You're saying the Muggles would win?"

"Of course they would," Thera said, yawning again. "They have satellite imaging and smart bombs and nuclear warheads. We have wands and broomsticks. You make the call."

"They have what?"

Thera sat up at that, suddenly feeling very awake. "Are you telling me you know nothing about modern Muggle warfare?"

Draco shrugged. "What's there to know? They have guns they shoot at each other and they fly around in airplanes and make things explode and whatnot. Doesn't that pretty much sum it up?"

"Well it did until about fifty years ago when Muggles developed the capacity to destroy the planet."

He waved hand. "Blah blah pollution blah deforestation blah blah save the whales."

"I'm not talking about the long term, I'm talking about..." Thera sighed. "Draco, sit down and get a five-minute lesson on the ways in which Muggles have the power to utterly fuck us up."

"Is it really going to take five whole minutes?" He seemed amused.

"The timing depends less on the message than on how quickly you process information."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" he asked, walking over to sit next to her on the bed.

"Yes, and it's because I'm smarter than you. Now, have you ever heard of Nagasaki and Hiroshima?"

"No. Should I have?"

"They're cities in Japan. Each of them was wiped off the face of the planet by a nuclear bomb in 1945. It ended World War II. Well, for the Muggles, at least."

"They have big scary bombs," Draco said in a bored tone, studying his perfectly cared for nails. "Should I be hiding under the bed yet?"

"Draco, there was one bomb for each city. One bomb that destroyed pretty much everything and everyone in the city. Are we clear on that?"

"Sure."

"That was fifty years ago. Now they can destroy the world a million times over, and they don't need a plane to do it. They just press a button and we go boom."

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "They won't even know where we are."

"Which brings me to my second point: yes, they will know where we are. They have satellites up in space that can see you picking your nose while you're walking down the street and send a bomb to hit you directly in the ass. They have thermal imaging that allows them to see how many people are in a building and blow them to pieces. They have bombs that can blow up underground lairs. They have bombs that knock on your door and pretend to be your grandmother. They have bombs masquerading as chocolate eclairs."

"Really?"

"Well, if they don't already, they will soon," Thera hedged. "But the point is that Muggles are not to be trifled with. They're sick of bombing each other and they'd jump at the chance to bomb someone new and exciting, preferably with a moustache."

"A moustache?"

"Definitely. Historically, all truly evil Muggles have had a moustache. If the Dark Lord had a moustache, they wouldn't waste a second before bombing us to hell and back. But first they'd get confused, you see, because of the whole reptilian thing. It would buy us some time, because they'd think he just has a skin condition, like Noriega. Skin conditions aren't worth total annihilation. But if they ever realize that he exists and he's really, truly evil, well..."

"So we're never going to destroy the Muggles because they'd destroy us first," Draco said thoughtfully.

"Actually," she admitted, "the main reason the Death Eaters are never going to destroy the Muggles is because they outnumber us ten million to one, but there's no drama in that."

"Oh."

Considering he was already getting under the covers, Thera resigned herself to Draco's presence for the night. She turned down the lights and built up a reserve of covers, hoping to stave off the inevitable hogging from the Malfoy side of the bed.

And of course Draco being Draco, he waited until she was just on the edge of sleep before speaking again. "Thera?"

"What?" she said into her pillow.

"Is it really fucked up, once you renew your bond with the Dark Lord? Being where you and Crabbe are now?"

"Yes, it is. Tremendously fucked up. Now go to sleep."

"But what is it like when he has you do things? Is it like Imperius?"

Realizing he wasn't going to let this go, Thera rolled over on her back.

"It depends. Sometimes it's like Imperius, but sometimes you just do something you didn't know you could do, or you do something that you didn't know you wanted to do, and even when you do it, you're not sure you really wanted to."

"So if you really think about it, it's not all that different from my life right now," Draco summarized.

"No, I guess not," Thera agreed, recalling him standing at attention every time his father walked in the room that summer.

"So is it really that bad, then?"

"I don't know. I guess it depends on how much you like your life right now."

There was a long pause. "Well, we don't have any choice anyway, so what does it matter?" Draco muttered.

Thera had a mini-argument with herself about speaking again. She'd met with Dumbledore that morning, and he'd spouted all kinds of crap about choices and difficulties at her until Thera was half-convinced that she'd much rather have lifelong slavery, thank you, if the alternative was a constant barrage of simplistic greeting card emotionality.

If all she wanted out of life was cheap sentiment, she could just watch American prime time television.

On the other hand, Thera felt she should be encouraging Draco to question his position and the course of his life, not necessarily so that he would follow in her footsteps, but that he would at least understand what was going on here.

Hold on a second. Thera took a mental step back and asked herself why it mattered. Well, she needed allies, as many as she could get. Fine. Understandable. And maybe a small part of her possibly cared about Draco and what happened to him, which was odd considering she generally found him annoying. Although she had to admit that on occasion, he could be amusing. Really, she couldn't pin down why she was bothering with him, but she seemed to be bothering nonetheless.

"Draco?" she asked carefully.

"Yes?"

"I think maybe it does matter." There, she'd said it.

"What matters? And why?"

Why? She wasn't even sure about the why. There was revenge involved. Revenge was understandable. She could deal with that. But there were other reasons, too. Not just Dumbledore's babbling about making the right decisions, but her own desire to not just take the path of least resistance, to at least do something about what was coming, even if it wasn't much.

"Maybe even if we don't have any choice in most of it, that means the choices we make when we do have choices mean something, or something along those lines," Thera finally said vaguely. The moment she said it, she wished she hadn't. Not only because it didn't make any bloody sense, but because...

"That sounds like something Dumbledore would say," Draco said disgustedly, and presciently.

"Well, the Dark Lord's afraid of him," Thera responded in a sorry attempt at defending herself. "Maybe the old man knows what he's doing."

"Thera," Draco said condescendingly, "Dumbledore's been sacked twice since I've been here, once by a Ministry who I don't even think have gotten around to properly filing my birth certificate. If he lasts out the school year, it'll be a miracle."

"But it doesn't matter, not if he's the only real threat to the Dark Lord," Thera argued.

"The only threat? What about Potter?"

Thera sat straight up at that. "Potter? Some messed up something or other that nobody can even define leads him to defeat the Dark Lord the first time, and you automatically assume that he can do it again? Draco, Potter's an historical side-note."

"People worship Potter. You haven't seen it. And he just...does things. Without even thinking about it. First year...oh, it's too long a story to go into right now, but Potter always just somehow has what he needs to get by."

"Wow, that's really frightening," Thera said sarcastically. "Let us all fear him more than the fully grown wizard who might be realistically capable of tossing the Dark Lord's salad."

"Tossing his salad?" Draco laughed.

"It's a euphemism for prison rape, you sheltered asshole."

"Oh! I can see that actually," Draco said. Then he giggled.

"The serious discussion is long over, isn't it?" Thera asked.

"I think so. Let's have sex."

"Malfoy, if you can jump from prison rape to 'let's have sex' that quickly, you need somebody larger and hairier than I am."

He thought about that for a moment. "Oh, it's not worth the effort anyway. Not when my pillow's so comfy."

"Don't you mean my pillow?"

"Thera, you really get way too caught up in details, you know," he advised her.

Thera yawned. "Well, goodnight then, you Oedipus complex ignoring waste of oxygen."

"Goodnight, baglady fashion maven Muggle whore," he said, patting her on the head.

*******

"Get up, you pussy," Fox ordered.

"No."

Fox sighed. "Listen, I'm really not in the mood for your shit right now. We've got a schedule here. Now get up."

"Why should I? I'm just going to knocked down again," he whined.

"Gautham," Fox hissed. "You're wasting time and you're embarrassing me in front of the kid. Now would you please get up already?"

"No," Gautham said, spreading his arms and legs so that he looked like a human 'X'. "Consider me a casualty."

Amina came over to join in the fun. "Want mommy to kiss it and make it better?"

"I am dead," Gautham said dramatically. "The dead do not speak."

"And yet they have no qualms about whining," Fox commented.

Amina shrugged. "If he wants to be dead, let him be dead." Raising her sword to the heavens, she planted a foot on Gautham's stomach, eliciting a grunt. "I shall avenge the death of my cowardly brethren against you, Potter!" she declared.

What had begun as a two-on-two battle was now two against one: Amina and Fox against Potter. Fox held back, letting Amina take the lead, mainly because Amina was only a slightly better sword fighter than Gautham.

Which wasn't saying much.

The Potter boy was improving his physical abilities, even if his mental ones seemed to be lagging behind. He quickly disarmed Amina and turned his attentions to Fox. She knew it was time to push him, so she played around for a few minutes before going in for the kill. No matter what she did, he still consistently left his weak side open. Fox attacked from the right because he was right handed and it let him build up some ego, but the moment she switched to her left hand, he was done.

She degraded him: Debbie, Melanie, Felicia. Potter seemed unconcerned. Frustrated, Fox went to kick Gautham into starting another round.

"I must be improving then," Potter said, smiling shyly as Fox threatened Gautham with the loss of a rather important body part if he didn't get his chiquita ass up and join in.

"Improving? Don't get ahead of yourself, Martha."

"Well, I just mean, that's the first time you've called me a girl's name all day."

Amina and Gautham looked understandably puzzled as Fox turned to face the Potter boy, the beginnings of a smile on her face.

"So you didn't hear the others?" she asked, speaking to him aloud for the first time since she'd first held a sword to his throat.

"Others?"

Gautham squinted at her. "When did you call him a girl's name?"

Potter put down his sword and looked utterly confused. Taking pity on him, Fox approached, holding out her hand. The boy stared at it, then up at her, still not understanding.

"I was waiting to introduce myself until we could meet on more equal terms," Fox explained.

"Equal terms?"

"I've been insulting you all day. In fact, I've been screwing with your mind since the moment I met you. This is the first time you've been able to block me out. Congratulations."

It took Potter several seconds to put all of this together. "Hang on...all of that...everything... are you telling me that was in my head?"

Fox shrugged. "I told you from the beginning you were easily manipulated." Then she added, "Abigail."

Potter shifted his sword to his other hand, shaking hers with a half-smile. "Nice to meet you, Fox."

"Nice to meet you, Harry," Fox said, before yanking him off balance and putting the tip of her sword under his chin.

"Lesson Number Two," Harry said glumly, extricating himself, "Don't be so gullible."

"Well, it only took you eight weeks to learn the first lesson," Fox said brightly. "The second shouldn't be much harder. Let's go again, shall we? Amina?"

"Yeah?"

"Gautham?"

A faint, 'screw you,' issued from the other side of the room.

"Another round!" Fox announced, waving her hand. Gautham was launched from the floor to stand next to Potter. He only barely managed to steady himself before she attacked.

*******

Having never played with Ron in a game in which he performed well, Harry wasn't entirely sure what sort of shape the boy needed to be in to succeed.

But he doubted it was pale and shaky.

"He's a mess," Ginny said to him hopelessly, watching Ron put his robes on backward, study them for a moment, then attempt to put them on backward two more times before getting it right.

"I don't understand it," Harry said in a low voice. "He's been okay all week, hasn't he?"

Ginny shrugged. "More or less. But I think he's upset about Hermione."

"Hermione?"

"He said she didn't tell him good luck this morning. I think it's undermining his confidence," Ginny explained as Ron put his left glove on his right hand and his right glove on his left hand.

"I have never known two dumber people in my entire life," Harry said honestly.

"Yes, well, they're certainly not going to work things out in the next ten minutes," Ginny responded tensely. "So what do we do?"

"You're his sister," Harry muttered. "Talk to him."

"You're his best friend," she muttered back. "It'll mean more coming from you."

"I haven't the faintest idea what to say."

"I do, but he'll just ignore it because it's coming from me."

"Then tell me what to say," Harry sighed, watching painfully as Ron sat down on the bench for second, got up and paced for a while, then repeated the movement, growing paler and shakier all the while.

"Talk to him about the Ravenclaw game."

"I didn't see the Ravenclaw game!" Harry said urgently.

"You don't need details, just talk about him making saves and keeping his head in the game. Tell him some crap about Hermione wanting him to do well, and about how much winning the game will impress her," Ginny said quickly, under her breath.

"Okay," Harry said, bracing himself. He got up and sat next to Ron. "How do you feel?" he asked, trying to sound cheerful.

"Nervous," Ron said, compulsively adjusting his gloves.

"Ron," Harry said calmly, "you've done this before. Just think about that. Think about Hermione up there in the stands and how much she wants to see you do well. But most of all, think about the quaffle."

"Yeah, sure," Ron said glumly.

"Hermione wants to see you win, Ron," Harry said in a stronger tone. "So do I. So does everybody out there cheering for us. So let's win!" Harry said enthusiastically, rising from the bench. "Let's go out there and kick some Slytherin ass! Woo-hoo! Who's with me?!"

Ron looked pained and the rest of the team just stared at him. The only thing the silence lacked was the sound of a lone cricket.

"Woo-hoo! Yay! Let's go Gryffindor!" Ginny attempted a few beats too late. The rest of the team looked at them in various stages of hopelessness and apathy.

Finally Katie Bell stood up. "See? Now that's the spirit," she commended the two of them. "If we go out there thinking we're going to lose, we've already lost." Harry and Ginny quickly and gratefully yielded the floor to their captain.

"Now I don't know about you," Katie said, sounding more captainish by the second, "but I didn't join this team so I could lose. Did you?" she asked, pointing suddenly at Ron.

"No," he croaked, scooting back from her accusing finger.

"How about you, MacDonald?"

Natalie MacDonald stared at Katie in shock. "Er, no?"

"Of course not!" Katie bellowed, raising her hands to the sky. "None of us came here to lose, and none of us is willing to leave here having gone down to Slytherin! So are we going to lose?"

"No!" Harry said, trying to be supportive.

"Is Harry alone in thinking we're not going to lose?" Katie asked threateningly.

"No!" the rest of the team responded quickly.

"That doesn't sound like you mean it!"

"NO!" the team shouted with a good deal more sentiment.

Katie was shrieking now. "That's more like it! That's the Gryffindor spirit! Now tell me you're ready!"

"We're ready!" they shouted wholeheartedly.

"Tell me you're ready!"

"WE'RE READY!"

"That's it! Now, tell me we're gonna win!"

Natalie MacDonald ripped off her earmuffs and swung them around her head. The rest of the team joined her in a moment of preemptive celebration.

"WE'RE GONNA WIN!!!!" Cheering and hooting and hollering, the Gryffindor team lined up to take the field.

"Well, that's a lot better than Angelina begging us not to embarrass her," Ginny whispered to Harry a split second before they were called out onto the field.

*******

Draco had never realized before that there was an art to commentating a Quidditch match, nor would he have thought much about the absence of talent in commentating, had someone not taken it into their head to use Lee Jordan's departure as an opportunity to foster inter-house cooperation.

Colin Creevey was bad enough. Colin Creevey providing color commentary to Millicent Bulstrode's play-by-play analysis was like listening to nails scrape down a chalkboard. The kid had memorized every second of every game Harry Potter had ever played in, which was impressive considering the kid hadn't been at Hogwarts for Potter's first season and had been petrified the majority of his second.

Pity they found a cure for that.

And considering Millicent had the reaction time of a stunned turtle, her play-by-play tended to run a few minutes behind the actual game. If he didn't want to rip out Creevey's windpipe so badly, Draco would have found the situation amusing.

As it was, he now unwittingly knew Harry Potter's shoe size and favorite color. He did not, however, know the bloody score of the bloody Quidditch match, which was, after all, the whole bloody point of them all being here in the first place.

Potter flew by him, circling the pitch. Draco tagged him for a bit, then pulled back to scan the field for the snitch. But his attention was again caught by the bloodbath going on below him. Draco had a decent crop of Chasers to work with. Quick, with good hands. They were all looking the worse for wear, but the Gryffindor side didn't look any better.

Bell had taken a bludger to the stomach and had only barely managed to stay on her broom, and MacDonald's left sleeve was trailing behind her as she flew. Only Red seemed unscathed. Draco noted that she wasn't a great chaser and her aim was thrown off by her odd way of gripping the quaffle - something a decent captain would have corrected immediately, Draco felt - but she was slippery and elusive.

Turning his attention back to searching for the snitch, Draco saw Potter circling higher, trying to get a better view. Draco stayed low, knowing that Potter would most likely see the snitch before he did.

Hearing Creevey go on about Potter's supposedly unjust removal from the Gryffindor team the year before, Draco gripped his broom and gritted his teeth. Why did everybody think Potter was so bloody great? How on earth could anybody respect someone who not only fell for the oldest trick in the book, but did it time and time again, well beyond the age when it would have been excusable?

Was he imagining things, or was Creevey's description of Potter's physique getting a little personal?

Draco imagined Potter's demise quite often. In his mind, the most plausible scenario involved the Dark Lord yelling, 'look out behind you!'

And people worshiped this idiot.

This idiot who was currently going into a dive. Draco responded in an instant, seeing the snitch fluttering a few feet off of the ground at mid-field. He had the advantage, because though he was farther away, Potter had to either weave through the players or go around them to catch it.

And yet even as he felt a surge of triumph, one of the Gryffindors intercepted the quaffle, moving the players to the other side of the pitch and leaving Potter a clear shot at the snitch, as if a giant invisible hand had reached down from the sky and moved the game out of Potter's way.

"Take him out!" Draco shouted, putting his head down and willing his broom to move even faster, to beat Potter just this one time. Just once. It was all he needed.

Goyle heard his shout and hit a bludger at Potter, who had to swerve to avoid it, but not enough to give Draco much of an advantage.

"Take him out!" Draco yelled louder. Couldn't they hear him? This was the game, dammit. Why were they screwing around with the quaffle when this was the game, right here? Draco leaned down further, his hand outstretched. Potter was coming from his right side and Draco's eyes darted between him and the snitch as he leaned forward dangerously, Potter doing the same thing, both of them nearly unbalanced, a millimeter away from pitching forward.

They were going to collide and it was going to be messy. Both of them were going as fast as they possibly could, the distance narrowing, and it wasn't going to be about one of them getting there first, because both of them were going to get there at the same time.

Draco braced himself and saw Potter doing the same, a grim look on his face as he stared down the snitch, which was making little darting movements away from both of them, but not fleeing.

Later, Draco could have sworn that both of them touched the snitch at the exact same moment. But it didn't matter who touched it. It mattered who caught it. Draco's hand grazed over the back of Potter's as the boy's hand tightened over the snitch.

And then, unfortunately, they rammed into each other. Their heads bonked and Potter's shoulder caught Draco in the sternum. The collision threw both of them from their brooms, turning the world briefly into a painful topsy-turvy of grass and sky and bleachers. Both of them took it well, having learned long ago that the ability to roll without killing yourself ranked only slightly lower than good eyesight as a useful quality for a Seeker to have.

Once he came to a stop, Draco lay still for a moment, listening to the crowd cheer, not wanting to get up quite yet. Funny, he should be used to it by now, shouldn't he? Losing to Potter. Losing to Potter again and again.

Turning his head, Draco could see the boy waving the snitch at the stands while Creevey had a verbal orgasm over the loudspeaker. Years ago, Draco would have had that moment, that 'why isn't that me?' or 'why can't I do that?' moment.

But that was years ago.

Now it just seemed like time to face the facts. He couldn't beat Potter at Quidditch. He didn't have more O.W.L.s than the Mudblood. The only member of the Potter Squad he could feel superior to was Weasley, which wasn't exactly reassuring. A sharp-minded Labrador Retriever might well feel superior to Weasley.

Draco walked away from the playing field, his eyes searching the crowd for his parents. He knew they were here. Weren't they always? Wouldn't Lucius have to throw himself off a bridge if Draco embarrassed himself and he weren't there to witness it and properly rub it in?

"Draco," a cold voice said from behind him as he made his way through the crowd.

Draco turned, impassive. "Father."

"Unfortunate how the game turned out, isn't it?"

"Yes, father, it is."

"Don't worry," Lucius said, smiling falsely. "I'm quite used to it now."

"I imagine you are," Draco muttered, glancing over at Potter. Realizing the kid was watching him through his crowd of admirers, Draco sent a sneer in his direction. It wasn't much. In fact, it wasn't anything. Both of them knew who had gotten the snitch.

"He's got great instincts, doesn't he?" Thera's voice sounded from over his shoulder. Knowing that Potter was watching them and feeling the need to prove something, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Rather carnally. I've got something to fuck tonight Potter. How about you? How good does winning feel now?

Drawing back, Thera shook her head at him before turning to his father, who was watching him pityingly. Draco had never been able to hide anything from him.

"Cousin Lucius."

"Thera."

"Draco Malfoy, what on earth?" his mother hissed, having just located them in the crowd.

"Just kissing my girlfriend, mother," he explained innocently. Thera sent him death glare at the girlfriend insinuation, but he ignored it. Unfortunately, this only encouraged her.

"Yes, we're boyfriend and girlfriend now," she said sweetly. "He bought me a huge diamond ring and everything." Looking down at her hand, Thera faked surprise. "Oh, dear, I must have left it in my room. But I'll show it to you at Christmas, won't I, Draco?"

Draco made a mental note to never again use Thera as an excuse. "Of course," he said, forcing a smile and gripping her arm very tightly.

"I have a meeting to attend," his father said blithely, smoothing out his hair before sending Draco a significant glance. "We'll talk later."

"Yes, father."

"In all truth, I'd rather have earrings, but I suppose the decision's made, isn't it?" Thera sighed as she watched his parents walk away.

"Just pick out the fucking ring, will you?" Draco snapped, turning on his heel and making his way out of the crowd. Too much, too close, and he basically elbowed his way out of things at the end, needing to get away from all of the fawning admirers of Potter, especially Creevey, who was getting creepier by the second in his obsession.

Maybe that was why Potter didn't date much. Too afraid Creevey would shove her off the Astronomy Tower out of jealousy.

"Malfoy!" a girlish voice called.

"What?!" he roared, spinning around. It was Red, her hair a tangled mess, looking out of place in her Quidditch robes, a small smile playing about her face.

She put her broom in her left hand and held out her right. "Good game."

Draco kept both hands on his broom. "Your hands are too small to palm the quaffle. Your passes would be more accurate if you spread your fingers out and passed it sidearm." As soon as he said it, he shut his mouth tightly. He hadn't meant to say that. He'd meant to say something insulting, like...well, he just needed a second...he'd think of something...any minute now...

Red stared at her right hand in surprise, turning it over and studying it. "Funny, but I think you're right," she laughed. "All this time learning Quidditch by watching my brothers and I never even really thought about it. Thanks."

"I didn't tell you so I could help you," Draco said, wondering why she would even think this was the case.

Looking up from her hand, she blinked at him. "Well, why did you, then?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer before his brain stepped in to edit. Thankfully, it managed to accomplish the job before he actually said something out loud that could only be followed up with an honorable suicide.

"Because I can't stand to watch people play Quidditch like crap, that's why," he said icily, remembering the expression on her face when she'd called him a Hufflepuff, too much like the expression his father always wore. Disappointment. He knew it well enough by now to be able to recognize it.

Her mouth opened as if to reply, but he was already turning away. Draco strode back to the Slytherin dormitories and stretched out on his bed without even taking his pads off, his muddied trainers messing up the covers. He shut the curtains. Nobody would disturb him tonight. Nobody would dare.

*******

Harry hadn't been watching Draco at all, in fact. He had been watching the black-haired girl, who - considering the fact that Malfoy was now on a first-name basis with her tonsils - was apparently his girlfriend. Something about the Castelar girl bothered him as he watched her stand with Malfoy, talking to his parents. She reminded him of somebody.

In the midst of all of the back-slapping and later at the celebration watching Ron watch Hermione, who was ignoring them all, nearly invisible behind a stack of books, Harry couldn't pinpoint exactly who it was. It was only later, when he lay in bed for the first time in weeks without his scar prickling, without fearing sleep, that he finally put it all together.

She reminded him of Bellatrix Lestrange.

*******

Avery Aviary and Beast Sanctuary

"Leprechauns?!" Lucius half-shouted.

"For better or worse," Avery said heavily. "Bloody rainbows shooting out all over the place."

"I cannot deal with this," Lucius said with a dramatic hair flip. "Not now. Not with the Dark Lord set to arrive in the next few minutes. Just put them in a parlor or something."

Avery winced. "They'll turn everything to gold."

"And?"

"Well, you see, my wife just spent all of this money on an interior decorator and it's not like leprechaun magic is reversible..."

"Then put them somewhere else," Lucius said tightly.

"I can't!" Avery protested, throwing his hands up. "All of the pens are occupied, the werewolves are running around the grounds peeing on everything they don't eat, the veela have to be separated from everybody else and require all female guards, and don't even get me started on the dementors..."

"Just deal with it!"

"Fine, fine," Avery sighed. "But I think I ought to get some compensation for what the werewolves did to my flangorn bushes...Master!" he simpered, his demeanor changing immediately.

"Avery," the Dark Lord greeted him as he glided into the room.

"Milord," Lucius said obediently, bowing.

"Lucius, arise," the Dark Lord said grandly. "Let me meet this vampire you speak of."

"He will arrive shortly," Lucius answered, glaring at Avery, who backed out of the room.

"So I am to understand that this vampire is connected to Dumbledore's followers in some way?"

"That is his claim, milord."

"Does he have information for us?"

"I think he has a contact, milord."

"That could be useful."

"Of course, milord, but we must not forget that he is a vampire," Lucius said tentatively. "Dumbledore's followers are trusting, but I am doubtful that he will be able to supply us with any sort of crucial information."

"Information isn't everything, Lucius. You above all should know that. Sometimes it is simply a matter of knowing the right people."

"It is certainly worth a try, milord."

"We shall see, Lucius. We shall see."

The long silence following this statement was finally interrupted by a brief knock, followed by the entrance of the dark-haired vampire and Marcus Aurelius, still wearing his stupid Dracula cape.

"Dark Master," the vampire leader greeted Voldemort, bowing just enough for respectability. "May I present my servant, David Lynes." He gestured to the younger vampire grandly.

"Mr. Lynes," the Dark Lord greeted the vampire coldly as the man bowed deeply. "I am led to believe you have contact with a member of Dumbledore's inner circle."

"Yes, milord," the young man answered simply.

Voldemort's red eyes glowed brighter for a moment. "Who?"

The vampire smiled pleasantly. "Shall we discuss the details of our agreement, then?"

Lucius expected the Dark Lord to be angered by this little power play, but instead the man sat, an infinitely patient look on his reptilian face. Of course, it could have been boredom. Or murderous rage, for that matter. Hard to tell with the Dark Lord.

"You desire power, I am told," Voldemort said lightly, his freakishly long fingers picking at a spot on his robes. "What sort of power?"

"Oh, I imagine we can work out a sliding scale depending on how well I perform," David Lynes answered smoothly. "Though initially it would help our cause a great deal if I were capable of mesmerism."

"Mesmerism?" the Dark Lord laughed. "So you can turn it against my own servants? I think not."

"I have no desire to turn my powers against your servants, milord, only against my prey, be they Muggle or magical," the vampire answered quickly.

"Tell me your source and I will give you the power to ensnare them."

"My intentions are to turn this person into a servant of the dark, milord," the vampire said carefully, "not to use them as prey."

"And they shall not be," the Dark Lord said impatiently.

David Lynes held up his hands in entreaty and smiled sheepishly. "I seek only to clarify, milord."

The Dark Lord arose. "This is your decision then, young vampire?"

"Yes, milord," he answered, straightening up in his seat, his eyes alighting with the promise of power. Lucius had seen it before and found it tiresome. Damned grasping dark creatures, too cowardly to take any action on their own. Would it always be up to the wizards to lead them?

Voldemort studied the vampire for a moment, his red eyes boring into the young man, making him squirm. "I will give you this power," he said finally.

"Thank you, milord. I will serve you well," the vampire said, visibly relieved.

"Yes, you will," the Dark Lord said as he stood. Then, with an agility he rarely showed, he bent over, ripped a leg off of his chair and stabbed Marcus Aurelius through the heart with it in one swift movement. The falsely accented vampire gasped and twitched for a second before exploding in a cloud of dust.

The young vampire jumped back out of shock at the sudden entrance of pointy wooden objects into the field of play. Lucius jumped back to avoid having his cloak covered in rotting-corpse-smelling dust. Why did vampires have to do that when they died? He had to pinch his nose with a handkerchief to keep from sneezing. Even still, the dust floated about his head, probably making his hair stink of an old grave, and he couldn't even wash it again tonight because it would dry out.

Fucking vampires.

"You are now the leader of the vampires. Feel free to inform them that you have been appointed by me, personally," the Dark Lord announced.

Still staring distastefully at the spot where his leader's body had been seconds earlier, the young vampire nodded.

"Yes, milord," he gasped, waving a cloud of corpsy dust away.

"Tell me who your source is," the Dark Lord said, whipping out his new, improved, unrelated-to-anything-having-to-do-with-Harry-Potter-because-we-don't-want-a-repeat-of-the-graveyard-incident wand.

David Lynes looked at the wand warily. "And then I shall have the powers I desire?"

"Of course," the Dark Lord said, his red eyes glowing once more.

"My wife, milord. She teaches at Hogwarts and works for Dumbledore. She also has a lover who happens to be a werewolf, if you think that's relevant."

Voldemort lowered his wand a tad and smiled. "There is nothing like a good, old-fashioned cuckolding, is there?"

The vampire took this jibe with a mere tightening of his fists.

"And my powers milord?"

"Of course, my blood-sucking friend," the Dark Lord said amicably, waving his wand in a complicated pattern and saying some words in a language Lucius belatedly recognized. Ratha, of course, the language of the ancients, the language in which dark creatures had been created and defined and controlled for the first time in human history.

The words made Lucius feel almost nostalgic. He hadn't heard them since the first war. Ah, what fun they'd had then...

"It is done," the Dark Lord proclaimed.

"I am capable of mesmerism, then?" the young vampire asked, looking at his hands and feet in a sort of physical check-up.

"With respect to your source," Voldemort said, turning to leave. "And only your source, until you bring me more information."

David Lynes looked up. "But, milord..." It was useless. The Dark Lord was gone. He swore loudly, kicking the desk.

"Calm yourself," Lucius ordered him. There was still a ranking here, and he was still a superior officer, so to speak. "You're the leader of the vampires, after all."

The vampire regained control of his temper and smiled. "Yes, I suppose I am, aren't I?"

"Which reminds me. I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you," Lucius said slyly.

"Oh? What's that?"

"I have an assignment for you. I need you to handle a rather grave situation that has just arisen," Lucius answered, laughing to himself, relieved that the leprechauns were soon to be somebody else's responsibility.

*******

The owl arrived just as Vivian was walking out the door to leave for the Quidditch match. It dropped a package on her desk and promptly flew away. Vivian stood for an indecisive moment in her doorway before walking over to open the package, which was obviously a book.

And not just any book. The Sanguinitio. Vivian knew that very few magical people on the planet would have missed a Quidditch match in order to explore an ancient text. She just happened to be one of them.

It took her a while to work through, the languages rusty in her mind, unused for so many years. Many of them she couldn't even identify with certainty

Vivian had thought up a few spells that could have been modified by Voldemort to achieve the ends he desired, but they were all tied to the passing down of property in ways that Vivian couldn't see alternatives to. The people who created these spells were agricultural people, after all. A modern individual with a firm grasp of ancient spell creation techniques and an in-depth understanding of arithmancy could transform them into potentially useful spells, but not something on par with what Voldemort was doing.

No, Vivian felt that Voldemort was using was a direct interpretation. It was just too specific and it had too many earmarks of an ancient ceremony - the blood ritual, the mind control and servitude - to be a modern creation.

In the hours spent poring over the text, the cheers from the Quidditch match faded and the sky grew dark, but Vivian didn't notice. In the end, Vivian stumbled across the spell entirely by chance. Having looked up all of the references and the spells she knew, she had begun flipping through the book in the hopes of uncovering something she recognized.

And then she had seen it, and she had known within the first few lines that it was the one Voldemort had used. All of the rules were there, all of the dates, the centrality of the number five, even the caster's role in the whole scheme of things. Vivian noted all of this quickly and probably imperfectly, the language being one she didn't know well.

But the language was the key, because less than three lines into it, she knew that Voldemort could not have completed it, not without making a mistake or two. He may have gotten this far, but who could say he had done everything right, that he had followed the directions correctly?

Knowing she was right and feeling somewhat smug about it, Vivian slammed the book shut and went up to Dumbledore's office.

"Nosebleed Nougat," she murmured quietly at the statue, sighing at Dumbledore's choice of passwords. Once the staircase reached his door, she knocked and was admitted.

"I have your answer regarding the spell," Vivian burst out as she walked in. She froze upon seeing Professor Snape sitting across from the Headmaster. She hadn't been expecting anyone else to be there.

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Ah, so you received the book. Please, sit."

Vivian sat down in the chair next to Snape, still fiddling with the huge, ancient tome. She cleared her throat before speaking. "I can't see how he could have performed the spell correctly. It's impossible."

Dumbledore seemed interested. "How so?"

"It's in High Argorathic."

"I'm sorry?" Snape interrupted.

Vivian turned to him, a bit put out by his presence. "High Argorathic was once believed to be the actual language of the Greek gods, though it has since been found to be a mix of Aramaic, an unknown older language often referred to as Language 4.27 and what was once considered to be the one true language of dark magic, known to magical historical linguists as Ratha."

"Then why could Voldemort have not performed the spell?" Dumbledore asked.

"Because there isn't a person on the planet alive today capable of either reading or speaking High Argorathic. Most linguistics scholars don't even believe it existed."

"Then how, may I ask, do you even know that the language of the spell is High Argorathic?" Snape asked pointedly.

"I'm sorry," Vivian apologized. "I meant anyone but me."

"Anyone but you?" Dumbledore seemed surprised.

"Well," Vivian hedged, "the structure of the language is such that it's entirely symbolic. There are written words, but their meanings are so inextricably tied up with what is essentially the lost history of those who once spoke it that even if the words themselves are translated, they appear to be gibberish."

"If they appear to be gibberish, then how can you claim to know what they mean?" Snape sneered.

"Because my father spent most of his life researching and translating High Argorathic," Vivian sneered in response. "I have all of his notes, but he never published anything about his research. To my knowledge, there's no other source for translating it. I guarantee you that I am the only human being on the planet with a chance of giving even a rough interpretation of this spell, much less an accurate one."

"Are you absolutely certain of that?" Dumbledore asked carefully. "I do not doubt your claim, Vivian. I simply want to be sure."

"I'm certain. I helped my father with his research quite a bit, and the only sources we were able to come by were sketchy and thousands of years old. Even when he told his colleagues about what he was working on, they didn't know what he was talking about."

Snape's voice was sharp. "He told his colleagues about his research into High Argorathic?"

"Of course he did. That's what scholarly colleagues do."

"When was he conducting this research?"

"Well, he never did it full time. It was just a hobby, but I guess he started around the time that I came to Hogwarts, and he continued until his death..." Vivian's voice trailed off. Her own words were coming back to haunt her: I can't see how he could have performed the spell correctly. It's impossible. But would it have been impossible for her father? "No," she whispered in denial, "no, he wouldn't have done that."

"Are you sure?" Snape persisted.

"Of course I'm sure! He was my father!" She turned to Dumbledore. "You knew him. He would never have translated a spell like this for Voldemort."

Dumbledore looked grim. "Under normal circumstances, he certainly would not have. But if those he loved were threatened..." The Headmaster let that thought hang in the air, like a bomb waiting to be dropped.

Vivian sat back in the chair as the bomb finally fell. Both her parents had been well-respected pureblood scholars who had renounced Voldemort. She had never really analyzed Voldemort's reasons for torturing her mother into insanity and eventually killing her father. It was just what Voldemort did to people who refused to join him.

But what if it had been more sinister than that? What if Voldemort had needed her father's expertise? What if he had used whatever means necessary to gain her father's help in translating and performing the spell? And what if her father had actually done it? And he must have, because Voldemort had performed the spell and it seemed to be working so far. That could only have happened with her father's help.

The wounds of her father's death had healed long ago, or so she'd thought. They were being ripped open anew right now. Especially if he'd been complicit in something this awful, something that went against everything he'd ever believed in.

"Vivian?" Dumbledore's voice was gentle. She looked up at him, knowing that he was really trying very nicely to clue her in on the truth.

"You know, I stopped visiting my mother after the first few years," she told him, amazed at how calm her voice sounded. "She didn't recognize me. She didn't even seem to know I was there. She just stared off into space. She still does. That's what it took to get him to do this." It seemed important somehow for Dumbledore to understand this, to understand the price her parents had paid for their complicity.

"Your father was an honorable man, Vivian," Dumbledore answered.

Snape had apparently grown tired of their little memorial service, for his voice was impatient when he spoke. "The question now is how to undo the spell, if indeed it can even be undone."

Vivian just shook her head, oddly grateful to Snape for dragging her mind back to the situation at hand. "I don't think it can. Spells like this don't come with back doors."

"So there's nothing we can do, then?"

"Well, we have two initiation dates now. One for Thera Castelar and one for Vincent Crabbe. Considering my father's note-taking techniques and the structure of the language...well, I'd say we're much more likely to predict the next two initiation dates before I can give you a functional wording of the spell."

"So," Snape supplied, "if we could predict when the other two would be taken, we could prevent it."

"If we even have the ability to prevent it," Vivian qualified, looking at Dumbledore. "The blood ritual performed on them as infants allows Voldemort to locate each of the children, and assuming he only has a few days or so in which to renew the bond, he's certainly going to come out in full force to get the other two when their times come."

"Vivian, I need you to do whatever you can to translate the spell," Dumbledore said. She nodded. "And Severus," he continued, "an approximation of the next two childrens' rituals would be helpful." Snape also nodded. "Exact dates are of utmost importance. If you can supply those, then we may be able to keep the remaining children from Voldemort's reach."

"But how?" Vivian asked.

"Any way we can," Dumbledore said tiredly. "If we can, that is."

Vivian and Snape nodded, rising from their chairs, but Vivian paused just before they reached the doorway, turning back to Dumbledore.

"Sir, you never told me who your two candidates were for the fifth child. Now that we know the spell, don't you think it would be useful..."

"Ah, yes. July 25," he said, a certain heaviness in his voice.

"Two candidates?" Snape asked.

"Yes. Once I heard the date, I realized why none of the astrology seemed to be working out correctly. We were using the wrong birthdate, you see. July 25 is the day I defeated Grindelwald. If you look at it in a certain way, it is the day Voldemort became his own master. His birthdate."

"But then who's the other candidate?" Vivian asked.

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were directed over their heads. "Ginny Weasley."

"Ginny Weasley?!" Severus echoed. "But that's impossible. He never even had access to her. She would have been all of three months old when he was defeated; surely Molly and Arthur would have noticed if she'd gone missing."

"I don't believe that's what happened."

"Are you referring to the Chamber of Secrets?"

"The what?" Vivian half-laughed. "The Chamber of Secrets is a myth. Everybody knows that."

"We thought so too. Then Voldemort used a diary to get Ginny Weasley to open it." Severus explained.

"Oh. Well how do you like that?" Vivian scratched her chin, processing this information. "So what was the monster?"

"Basilisk. Potter killed it."

"A basilisk. It seems rather uncreative, doesn't it?"

"Supremely. Now to get back to the point, how could a diary that the Dark Lord kept as a teenager have forged a blood bond between them when he didn't get his body back until two years later?"

"I'm not sure," Dumbledore said honestly. "I can't even say that she truly is the fifth child with any certainty. At this point, I can only say that she is the only child at this school born on July 25 and that she had a previous experience with Voldemort."

"So we won't know for sure until I translate the spell," Vivian finished.

Dumbledore nodded.

"Then I'll start in right away."

But when Vivian got back to her quarters, she didn't start translating the spell. There was an owl waiting for her with a letter. She read it through once, then once more. Then she had to sit down on the bed and laugh.

Her father had helped Voldemort translate a spell that for all they knew might make him utterly invincible, her job now was to dig through ten years worth of his notes in order to try to piece together a translation, the fifth child in the spell may very well be the daughter of one of their allies, the Chamber of Secrets was real, she may or may not be starting anew her relationship with Remus even though their breakup had once run over her like an eighteen-wheeler Muggle truck and now Balder Astragand wanted to take her out to dinner.

Beyond that, she had thrown her career in the toilet to wallow in the scholarly wasteland of teaching schoolchildren how to spot redcaps and ward off banshees and her ex-husband was probably biting someone's neck somewhere halfway across the world.

Her mother had always said, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

Suddenly, Vivian found the memory damn funny.