Two to Lead

Chapter 17: Doomed to Repeat

Fox was sprawled on her back on the bed in a t-shirt and underpants. Her head was hanging over the side, and she was amusing herself throwing daggers into the wall across the room when someone knocked on her door. Thinking it was either Amina or Gautham, she called out for the person to come in.

It was Professor Snape.

"Shit!" Fox yelled, sitting up, snatching the bedcovers and yanking them over herself. "What are you doing here?!"

Snape seemed amused. He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Why did you ask me to come in if you weren't dressed?"

"Because the only people who come here are my partners, and they wouldn't have minded," she said a bit snappishly, waving her hand. Instantly clad in a pair of jeans, she stood up from the bed.

"Oh, so you three really are that way. I guess that means Professor Vector wins the faculty pool."

Having regained a bit of her composure, Fox was able to find this amusing. "We don't have sex with each other, but when you spend a number of years in uncomfortably close quarters together, the normal niceties of clothing become irrelevant."

"So you just lie about in your underwear together?"

Fox shrugged. "If nobody else is around, why not be comfortable?"

"I see," he said smoothly, his eyes finding her entire collection of daggers, sticking out in a festive sunburst pattern from the back of the sofa. "So instead of pawing each other, you prefer to spend your free time in more...constructive pursuits, it seems."

Fox held out her hand and the daggers flew toward her - handles first. Another wave and the sofa repaired itself. "There's no permanent damage."

"If I were you, I wouldn't blithely go about performing wandless magic like that. It makes people nervous."

"Does it make you nervous?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why does it matter if I do it in front of you?" Just to make a point, Fox physically walked over to the holding case and put the daggers away.

"I just think you might want to be a little more careful."

"Careful is my middle name."

"If you only have one name, then how can you have a middle one?"

She turned from the case and put her hands on her hips. "Do you honestly think that I was born with only one name?"

"Truthfully, I never gave the issue much thought."

"Your people like to give their children a middle name. What is yours?"

"I have more than one. My people tend toward naming their children after every rich ancestor in family history."

"Well, what are they?"

His second eyebrow joined the one already sitting halfway up his forehead. "Why would I bother to list them for you when I don't know yours?"

"I don't have a middle name. I now realize that it must be because I have no rich ancestors."

"Where did you get the name Fox, if I may ask?"

"It was given to me."

"Not, I take it, by your parents?"

"No. Did you have something you needed to talk to me about?"

Snape stared at her for a moment and Fox was struck by the similarities and differences between them. His eyes were the same color as hers, but yet they appeared entirely different. His were cold, uninterested, whereas her own - or so men liked to tell her in bars - were exotic and mysterious. Of course, they were generally white men. One look at her skin and her hair and her cheekbones and everything about her was exotic and mysterious to them.

How must she appear to Snape? She couldn't say.

"Your training session with Potter last week caused him to miss my class. I haven't given him a detention this time," Professor Snape said, sounding as if he would have liked nothing better. "But the next time he misses my class, there will be repercussions. Are we understood?"

Fox balked at being spoken to like a student, but she tried to be civil. "Professor, I chose to keep Harry. He was having a difficult lesson, and I couldn't let him leave until he learned what he needed to learn. I know that his Potions studies are important, also. I won't keep him again if I can help it."

"You are not a professor at this institution," he commented nastily. "You do not teach courses, you simply teach Potter to throw a sword around and miss my my class."

Fox sensed that words were not going to work with this man. He used words only as weapons, as instruments of his own disdain for the world around him. Standing quickly, Fox withdrew her broadsword from the display and swung it around until the edge rested against the side of Professor Snape's throat.

He stiffened and paled considerably, and Fox knew that taking action had been the right decision.

"It is true that I'm not a professor," she said good-naturedly. "It is also true that you could not have stopped me from taking your head just now."

Professor Snape swallowed audibly, his eyes meeting hers with a great deal of rage and an equal amount of fear.

"My job at this school," Fox continued, "is to make sure that Harry never finds himself in the situation you face right now. I do not teach him how to throw a sword around, I teach him how to avoid one." Feeling she'd made her point, Fox drew down.

"You're insane!" Professor Snape spat at her. He recovered slightly, but couldn't keep himself from rubbing the side of his neck, as if making sure it was still in working order. "I don't know what possessed Dumbledore to bring you here."

"The same thing that possesses him to keep you around, I imagine," Fox said, putting the sword away. "He wants to defeat Voldemort."

The Professor looked disgruntled at this statement. He stared at her for a moment before he finally spoke. "How is Potter's training coming along?"

It wasn't his question, but the undercurrent of tension in his voice that she answered. Professor Snape believed that Harry's training would be tested soon. Fox could feel this.

"As well as can be expected."

Her answer seemed to anger him. "The Dark Lord is planning something, and any time he's planning something, it involves Potter. Is he ready?"

"Is he ready to face Voldemort? No, he's not."

"Well, that's unfortunate, because he very well may do so in the near future. And all you can tell me is that Potter doesn't have what it takes to fight?"

"I never said he doesn't have what it takes to fight. I said he's not ready to face Voldemort."

"Stop talking in circles!"

Fox sighed. "I need to make you understand, and I'm not certain how to do that."

"I've got an idea. How about you cease with the fortune-cookie lingo and just tell me what you're trying to say?"

Fox walked over to her weapons cabinet and picked up the Sword of Gestalfen. It was her biggest and meanest one, serrated along the striking edge in the style of the ancient magical warriors.

"Going to try and lop my head off again?" Snape asked mildly.

"No, I just think better with a sword in my hand."

The Professor muttered something under his breath that Fox chose to ignore.

"Harry's training isn't intended to make him into a warrior. It's intended to teach him that he's not one. He's the savior of the magical world. Saviors don't make good warriors." Fox glanced over at the very dubious Professor Snape. "Do you understand?"

"His job is to fight the Dark Lord and to win," he said flatly.

"Yes, it is," she said, running a light finger down the serrated edge of the blade, feeling its power and potential course through her. It seemed a shame that mortals could only experience that feeling through sex. "But you're wrong to assume that the battle will be won by the more accomplished warrior."

"Don't start talking to me about Potter's greatest strength and all of that."

"It's true. His greatest strength is not his technique and how he attacks and defends himself in a battle, it's how he wins the battle. How do you think he's managed to escape Voldemort so many times?"

"Luck."

Fox smiled, backing up and taking the sword through a set of attacks. "You can call it luck if you wish. Muggles often refer to luck when something happens in their favor that they cannot comprehend."

"Are you trying to tell me that Potter has managed to evade the Dark Lord through some sort of complex mystical dealings that are beyond the imaginings of my puny little brain?"

"You can understand it perfectly," Fox assured him, moving through some defensive blocks and parries. "You've watched Harry during his time at this school. You know what he's accomplished. I'm simply telling you that he hasn't been lucky; he's simply been more apt at controlling and manipulating the power that he shares with Voldemort."

"Stop that!" Snape roared, rising from the sofa. "You throw the Dark Lord's name around as if he were nothing but a mere inconvenience to you."

Fox thought a moment, lowering the sword to her side. "A prescient observation, and entirely correct."

"Oh? Truly?" he scoffed. "And who do you think you are that you should have no fear of the Dark Lord?"

Shifting her grip on the handle of the sword, Fox looked up at Snape and felt his fear. He didn't show it, but she felt it all the same, as if saying the word 'Voldemort' would invoke the dark wizard himself, or at least clue him in on Snape's true loyalties.

"Let me say this. Your Dark Lord fears only Dumbledore because he has not yet had occasion to meet with me," she explained.

"You think the Dark Lord should fear you? And the weight of your ego hasn't managed to bring the castle crashing down around our ears yet?"

"It isn't ego," Fox sighed. "It's the greater balance of his power."

Snape looked at her suspiciously. "Is this some sort of incubus-succubus thing?"

"Why are you so quick to assume that all of my inter-personal relationships involve some form of sexual depravity?" she asked curiously.

Snape stilled. "Because there's something odd about you," he said quietly, almost to himself. He was looking out the window, not at her.

"Yes," Fox answered, losing interest. "I get that a lot." She began going through a complex array of lightning fast feints and dodges, almost impossible to manage with a sword this heavy. She told herself that she was not doing it to show off.

Okay, she was doing it to show off. Or if not to show off, to at least show Snape what she truly was. The voice in her head that spoke of intentions and thoughts told her that this might be a good idea.

It did not seem to feel the need to tell her why.

"You're not human," he said flatly.

"I am entirely human. I am more human than humans could ever be," she answered, not pausing in her exercise. "I am simply not mortal."

"You're immortal?" he drawled sarcastically. "How original. Are you all demon or only half?"

"You misunderstand." In one swift move, Fox sliced the palm of her left hand, then held it up for him to watch the wound heal itself.

"A parlor trick," Snape yawned. "Vampire?"

Fox was growing tired of this. She put her sword back in the chest and crossed her arms. "Throw a curse at me."

"I really do have things to do. Is this going to take much longer?"

"No. Throw a curse at me. As nasty as you please."

Snape rolled his eyes dramatically. Taking out his wand he muttered, "Stupefy." Nothing happened. Snape blinked and tried a binding curse. Again nothing. As he went through everything from Tarantallegra to Legilimens, Fox studied her nails.

"Have I convinced you yet?"

Snape looked very pale, his eyes wild. "What the hell are you?"

"You know what I am, Professor Snape. You know the myths about us, and you know where Voldemort obtained the power that doesn't rightfully belong to him."

"I know fairy tales," Snape whispered, sinking down onto the sofa.

"The Guardians aren't fairy tales. If it makes you feel any better, Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy still don't exist." As always, the joke didn't go over well.

"So you're like Grindelwald." Snape spat the name out with a great deal of distaste.

"Well, he's not a particularly good example, but yes."

"Dumbledore, too. I always wondered..."

"Yes. Dumbledore was charged with the task of defeating Grindelwald, only Grindelwald found a back door. He transferred some of his powers to his young protégé. I'm the heir to those powers, and I'd like to have them back."

"Can't you just go and get them?"

"It's not that simple," Fox said, sitting down on the sofa next to Professor Snape. "I hope you're comfortable, Professor. I have a very complicated story to tell you."

*******

Ron and Hermione ambushed Harry as he was trudging through his Charms essay. They sat down as a unit across the table from him, fixing him with matching expectant stares.

"What is it?" he asked irritably. There was obviously an issue they wanted to discuss, and he wasn't in the mood. The knowledge he'd gained from Fox was still buzzing around his head, making everything around him seem distinctly strange. Harry had spent the time since his last training sessions wondering if that book fell off the table because of gravity or because he made it fall off, or if Hermione helped him with his Potions assignment because she really wanted to or because he'd made her do it with his freaky powers.

"We need to talk," Hermione said seriously.

"I'm busy."

"Don't be an ass, Harry," Ron cut in. "There's something you're not telling us."

"No, there isn't," Harry said firmly, going back to his essay.

"Harry, we know something's bothering you. You're awful at hiding it. So just talk to us," Hermione said.

"You always talked to us before," Ron added.

Harry gripped his quill tightly. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Oh really?" Hermione asked pointedly. "Then why did you turn all weird when Thera Castelar asked you about the prophecy?"

"And why have you been so moody lately?" Ron contributed.

Harry knew he should have told them by now. They were his best friends, the people he trusted more than anyone else in the world. And yet he hadn't, and it wasn't entirely because he wanted to spare their feelings. Some cowardly part of him also wanted to pretend that the prophecy and his powers didn't exist. He wanted to pretend that things were the way they always had been. He wanted to be with his friends without everything else hanging above their heads.

Taking off his glasses, Harry rubbed his eyes and realized this wasn't a realistic desire. But he still didn't want to tell them. He didn't even know how to tell them.

"We fought with you at the Department of Mysteries, Harry," Hermione said quietly. "And we'd do it again in a second."

"On the other hand, it'd be nice to know why," Ron said in his Ronnish way.

Leaving his glasses on the table, Harry squinted around to see if anybody was nearby. They seemed to be alone, so he leaned in towards them. Their blurry figures did the same.

"Dumbledore told me what the prophecy said after the Department of Mysteries."

Ron had an expression on his face that Harry couldn't read without his glasses. "What did it say?"

Harry sighed. It felt worse saying the words out loud somehow. "It said one of us has to kill the other one."

They seemed to digest that for a moment. "That was the exact wording?" Hermione asked. "It's just that prophecies tend to be pretty vague, don't they?"

"It said, 'either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.' Is that descriptive enough for you?" Harry's annoyance came through in his voice and Hermione held up her hands.

"Don't attack me, Harry. I'm just trying to understand."

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

"Wait," Ron said, shaking his head. "So you have to kill him or else he has to kill you?"

"Yes, Ron, that's what he just said," Hermione said, inheriting Harry's annoyance.

"Merlin, I'm just making sure. I mean, that's a pretty tall order."

Turning down an argument with Ron for once in her life, Hermione focused far too perceptive eyes on Harry. "That's not all of it, though. That can't be all of it."

"It's not," Harry said heavily. "The prophecy also said I would have 'a power the Dark Lord knows not.'"

There was a moment of silence. Then Ron snapped his fingers. "You can fly. That's why you're such a good Seeker."

Harry felt like banging his head on the table. "No, I can't fly."

"Ron, honestly," Hermione said, sounding decidedly aggravated. "Of course he can't fly. It's something that would help him when he's facing Voldemort. It's why Harry's escaped from him so many times."

"I don't know what it is," Harry said quickly, not wanting to tell them anything more. It wasn't entirely a lie, because he didn't entirely understand it himself.

Hermione seemed to be looking at him searchingly. It was hard to tell without his glasses, so Harry put them back on.

"Maybe you have a hidden escape mechanism," Ron suggested.

"I don't know," Harry said again, avoiding Hermione's eyes as he picked up his essay.

"Well, at least we know this much now," Hermione said, sitting back. Harry could literally feel her eyes boring into the top of his head. "Do you need some help on your essay?"

Because he never turned down help on a homework assignment, Harry knew he couldn't say no. He shrugged.

"Fate of the world hanging in the balance and she's still obsessed with homework," Ron observed, stretching. "I'm going up to bed then."

"Goodnight, Ron," Harry chorused with Hermione.

Ron took a few steps, then turned back. "Whatever it is, Harry, it's gotten you this far, right?" Harry smiled thinly and nodded as Ron walked back over to them, his voice turning uncharacteristically serious. "Well, then it'll see you through. And you know either way, we'll be there with you. No matter what, mate." Ron patted him on the back heartily and went upstairs. Harry stared after him, wishing it meant more, wishing that he could take them with him to the end. He couldn't, though, and that was the worst part of it all. In the end, it would be him and Voldemort.

Fucking prophecy.

"So, Charms essay," Harry said with a great deal of false cheeriness.

"Harry, we both know I'm not here to help you with your essay," Hermione said resolutely. "Remember how I said you're awful at hiding it when something's bothering you?"

"Yes."

"Well that hasn't changed in the last five minutes. So what do you know about this power?"

"Charms essay," Harry insisted. "Charms. Essay. Due. Tomorrow."

"I'll give you mine to copy, for crying out loud, just tell me."

Fed up with her, Harry threw down his quill and turned the parchment around. "Finish it and then I'll tell you."

"Don't be childish, Harry."

"Childish?! How about this excuse: 'I'm sorry, Professor Flitwick, but I couldn't finish my assignment this week because Hermione just had to talk to me about something.' How's that for childish?"

Grabbing his quill, Hermione muttered something about leaving things for the last minute, then scribbled out the rest of his essay in an embarrassingly short period of time, tapping the parchment with her wand and using a spell she knew all too well to make her handwriting match his.

She slid the essay back to him and crossed her arms.

Having run out of obstacles, Harry told Hermione the story Fox had told him about Dumbeldore defeating Grindelwald and Grindelwald passing some of his power on to Voldemort and Fox being Grindelwald's heir and then Voldemort unintentionally passing some of the power on to Harry and the whole world getting all messed up because of it.

"So I can make things happen," he finished. "That's how I keep escaping from Voldemort."

Harry could see the wheels turning in Hermione's head.

"So what you're saying is that The Guardians are actually real - which, by the way, more or less negates the entire concept of free will - and that two of them are in Hogwarts right now. And through some zany series of events, both you and Voldemort seem to have obtained some of Grindelwald's power."

"Yes."

Hermione tilted her head. "But the prophecy said, 'a power the Dark Lord knows not,' right? So how can this be your power if Voldemort knows about it?"

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. "I don't know," he said finally.

"I mean, obviously it explains a lot, but..." Hermione trailed off and stared into space again.

"But what?"

"Dumbledore told you about the prophecy after the Department of Mysteries, right?"

"Yeah."

"And did you ask him about the power then?"

"Yeah. He said it was..." Harry felt stupid saying it. "He said it was love."

"Love?" Hermione asked skeptically.

"When Voldemort tried to possess me, he couldn't stay long. Dumbledore said he couldn't take it because there was too much love. And then he said love was the most powerful force on earth or something like that."

"Whereas Fox said that your power was from this whole Grindelwald-Voldemort fiasco," Hermione supplied.

"Well," Harry qualified, "she said love fit into it somehow, but she didn't explain how."

"But Dumbledore didn't tell you what the prophecy said until after you already knew it existed, and even then he didn't say anything about this business with The Guardians."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I think there's more to it than what you've been told so far."

Harry felt frustrated beyond endurance. "I'm sure there is!" he said sharply. "After all, every time I think I know the whole story, there's always something else that nobody bothers to tell me about until after it jumps up and bites me in the ass. Why should it be any different now?"

"They must have a good reason for not telling you," Hermione said, but there wasn't much force behind it.

"Oh, I'm sure they have a good reason," Harry answered sarcastically. "Just like Dumbledore had a good reason for not telling me about the prophecy. Of course, if I'd known about it before the Department of Mysteries, Sirius just might still be alive, but then that's all water under the bridge now, isn't it?"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said weakly, but he just kept going, standing up and pacing in front of the table.

"Why should that stop them from keeping the truth from me this time? I wonder how many people have to die for them to bother letting me know what the hell I have to do in order to save the bloody world!"

He'd more or less yelled the last part, but he didn't care. It was late and they were alone in the common room, but even if his voice carried up to the dormitories, he didn't care. Hell, he hoped it carried straight up to Dumbledore's office.

"Harry, I'm so sorry..." Hermione was crying now, standing up, wrapping her arms around him. "I didn't know. Why didn't you say anything? I'm so, so, sorry..."

Tears burned behind his eyes, but he ground his teeth together and fought them back. He hadn't meant to blow up at Hermione and she didn't deserve it. She always looked out for him, and he generally repaid her by taking out all of his frustrations on her. She was still crying and he felt hot, heavy guilt building up in his stomach.

He shushed her, stroking her back, stroking her hair, feeling like a complete and total bastard. She kept crying, and he was at a loss as to what to do and feeling worse by the second.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he whispered into her hair. "I didn't mean to yell at you." She only cried harder. Harry was frantic now to make everything better.

"Please stop crying. I'm sorry." He hugged her harder, then pressed kisses into her hair, pulling back to kiss the side of her face and still she cried. He pulled one hand in to lift her chin, drying her tears and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Hermione opened her eyes and he stroked his thumb across her cheek. Then he leaned down and kissed her on the mouth.

Hermione froze. Possessed by an urge he couldn't define, Harry deepened the kiss. Hermione disentangled herself and stepped back, looking horrified.

Harry realized that somewhere in his relationship with Hermione, there was a line that neither of them ever acknowledged, and that he had just taken a flying leap over it.

"Um, Harry?" she asked, her voice unsteady, her eyes still wide, wringing her hands.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Harry said, an embarrassed blush creeping up his neck to overtake his face.

"No, it's okay," she said shrilly. "I mean, you were upset and I was upset and...everything." Her eyes slid away from his and her hands came up to smooth her hair down compulsively.

"I don't even know why I did that," he said honestly, biting his lip and looking at the floor.

"It's just...I mean...Ron and I..."

"Yes, of course," Harry said quickly, nodding. "Wait. You and Ron?"

Hermione held her hands out in front of her and studied them at length. "We had a discussion today, and it started out being about you, but then we started talking about other things." She looked pained, smoothing her robes down. "And we kind of talked about us and how we feel about each other, and I think he's going to come visit during the Christmas holidays," she finished in a rush.

"Wow," Harry said, genuinely surprised. "Well, that's great. I'm glad."

"Are you?" she asked uncertainly in the direction of the fireplace.

Harry took a deep breath, remembering who they were and where they were and what was going on here.

"Yes, I am," he assured her. "I mean, it's about time, isn't it?"

They exchanged weak smiles and Harry cleared his throat.

"Hermione, I didn't mean to do...that. And I just don't want things to be weird and uncomfortable now because I did something stupid."

"Harry," she sighed. "It's okay. I mean, considering all this stuff you have to deal with I think you can be forgiven for a lot more than...that."

"Thanks, Hermione. And not just for this, but...you know, for everything." Harry wasn't one for heartfelt thanks, but he did his best.

She grinned. "Harry, you know I'd do anything for you, and as for the other thing...well, you do historically have a soft spot for crying girls."

He had to smile at that. "So we're okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Of course we are." Her eyes finally met his. "You're my best friend, Harry, and I love you because you're my best friend."

Harry nodded. "Likewise. I mean, I didn't mean to make you think it was..."

Hermione winced and held up a hand. "I think now would be a good time to start the whole not talking about it plan."

"Right," Harry agreed. There was a long and exquisitely painful moment of silence.

"Well, goodnight then," Hermione finally said with a false brightness.

"Goodnight," Harry answered automatically, turning his gaze to the fire as she made her way upstairs. He so desperately needed to get laid.

*******

Son,

Your mother and I were most displeased with your behavior at the Quidditch match. It ill befits a Malfoy to put on such a display in public, and we have agreed that as punishment, you will be confined to your rooms for the duration of the Christmas holiday, though we will still allow you to get your Apparation license. I expect you to use this time alone to reflect on your actions, and their possible repercussions. Your mother and I will not hesitate to exercise harsher penalties if you misbehave further.

I have also heard from several sources that you visit Thera quite frequently. I certainly hope you haven't forgotten our conversation prior to your departure for school this term. If you have, let this serve as a reminder.

You will notice that there are no sweets or cakes attached to this letter. Your mother wanted you to know that we are very serious about this.

Father

Pompous bastard. Draco couldn't care less about being locked in his room, providing there wasn't any full body binding or starvation involved. Probably not. Planned punishments in the Malfoy household weren't that bad. It was only when Lucius was working on the fly that he got creative.

Draco crumpled up the note and threw it in the fire, not necessarily because it angered him, but because that was standard procedure with Malfoy family communications. He renewed his hatred of his father, but the man had a point.

Most of the pureblood families either had a beef with the Malfoys or were trying to insinuate them into their circle of acquaintances, and purebloods were hardly above achieving these ends through their children. That's why he'd hung around Crabbe and Goyle in the first place. They were only capable of cunning when it involved obtaining food, and considering the house elves gave it away to anyone who asked, that wasn't saying much. But Thera was a different story. Why should she be more trustworthy than anyone else?

Draco glared into the fire. Life used to be easy. These were the people you could trust and these were the people you couldn't (but who generally deserved to live), and everybody else didn't deserve to live. When had everything gotten so fucking complicated?

Two shifty-looking fifth year boys walked by carrying what appeared to be an unconscious Hufflepuff partially wrapped in a sheet. Draco sneered at them and went back to brooding. He wasn't at it very long when the subject walked up to stand in front of him with her arms crossed.

"Sod off, Thera," he muttered.

"What did your father have to say?"

"How do you know I heard from my father?" he asked suspiciously.

In response, Thera pointed to Lucius' owl, which was currently perched on the back of the chair he was sitting in.

"I'm grounded over holidays for snogging you on the Quidditch pitch," he said accusingly.

"Don't blame me. I was just an innocent bystander. So what did he say?"

Draco stood up, towering over her. "Why are you so bloody interested?"

"Because I thought he might have something interesting to say, but apparently you're in no mood to tell me, so I've decided that I'm not in the mood to tell you what I just learned."

The only people who knew he'd been sleeping with her were the two of them, Crabbe and Goyle, Draco realized. The mystery of who had ratted him out was rather easily solved.

"Fuck you, Thera."

She looked around the common room, smiling. "What, right here?"

Draco glared at her and started towards the common room door. Then he changed his mind and went back up to the dormitories. He wanted to get out of this stinking castle, and it was cold outside.

Once he was properly bundled up, Draco made his way back downstairs. Thankfully, Thera was gone. Breezing by her little Asian first year buddy and a couple of his friends snickering among themselves while shaving Millicent Bulstrode's cat, Draco walked out of the castle, mournfully smashing his hat down on his head as the cold air met him. The hat would ruin his hair, but he couldn't bring himself to wear something as idiotic as earmuffs.

Walking over to the now frozen lake, Draco crossed his arms and settled in for a nice long brood.

*******

Walking back from Quidditch practice, Ginny noticed that there was a figure standing at the edge of the lake. It was tall and had silver-blonde hair. It was most certainly Draco Malfoy.

They hadn't talked since the incident behind the greenhouses. Hell, they hadn't even looked at each other. Making a decision, Ginny held back until the rest of the team was inside, then walked over to him. She could tell he heard her approach, because his shoulders tensed a bit. Nevertheless, he did not acknowledge her presence. Ginny edged a little closer, but he continued to ignore her.

"Malfoy?" she asked his back.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing, exactly?"

"I believe it's patently obvious that I'm staring at the lake and brooding," he explained.

"Ah. Of course."

There was a long silence. A strong wind blew through and Ginny shivered underneath her Quidditch robes.

"Can I ask why?" she inquired.

"Because lakes are good for staring at when one wants to brood, that's why."

"No, I meant why are you brooding?"

"Sometimes a person just wants to brood."

So he wasn't going to answer the question. "Okay. Do you want company?"

"No, I really don't," he replied coldly.

Sick of talking to his back, Ginny walked up to stand beside him. "Well, we don't always get what we want, do we?" She glanced up at him, but he still didn't look at her. His face seemed to have been carved out of stone.

"Apparently not," he said flatly.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, glancing at him again.

Something hardened even further in him. "Not with you, Weasley." He said her name as if it were an epithet. "Go inside."

"If you're trying to make me angry, it's not going to work," she informed him.

He finally looked at her, and Ginny almost jumped back at the fire burning behind his eyes. "I'm just trying to get you to leave me the fuck alone," he hissed at her.

Ginny hadn't been certain up until now what had brought Draco Malfoy out to brood at the lake. Was he upset? Depressed? Angry? Confused? But now she knew that he was angry. Definitely angry.

"Fine," she said easily, turning her gaze back to the lake. "I'll leave you alone. I'll just keep standing here and brooding, but I won't try to talk to you or anything. How's that?"

"Go inside," he said through gritted teeth.

"I'm afraid I can't," she sighed. "I've got a great deal to brood about, and you're the one who said that lakes are good for staring at when one wants to brood."

"Fine," he spat. "I'll go inside." He turned abruptly and started to walk away.

Without thinking, Ginny grabbed his arm, digging her heels in the ground to stop him. He tried to shake her off, but she just tightened her grip.

At which point he snapped. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he yelled. "Why do you feel the need to follow me around and get in my face all the time? Don't you have a fucking life, Weasley? Shouldn't you be getting Finnegan another detention for defending your honor or trying to paper-train your brother or some other useless crap?"

And then, abruptly, his demeanor changed and he smirked at her. "Or are you hoping to continue what we started behind the greenhouses?" He pulled her roughly into his arms, pressing her intimately up against his groin. "Is that what you want, Red? Is that why you won't leave me alone?"

Ginny's hands automatically braced against his chest, expecting him to try and kiss her. But he didn't. Instead, he stayed right where he was, as if waiting for her to make the first move. Ginny was suddenly aware of the fact that they were the only two people out here and she didn't have her wand with her. Bad Ginny wanted to wrestle him down into the snow and see what the thing pressing against her thigh looked like in the flesh. Good Ginny wanted to be safe in the Gryffindor common room warming up by the fire. Good Ginny also wanted to know why Bad Ginny seemed to be running things around here lately.

"You're a fucking tease, Weasley," Malfoy finally said disgustedly, letting go of her so abruptly that she almost fell over. "Go inside and come back when you're ready to put out."

And that's when some combination of Good Ginny and Bad Ginny shoved him with all her strength. The caught him by surprise, and Draco stumbled and landed flat on his ass in the snow.

Ginny had a feeling she'd just taken the fight up a notch. Malfoy's face clouded over with anger and hatred as he stood and brushed himself off, his glare never leaving her.

"You're going to die for that, Red," he said softly, his fists clenching.

"You wanted a fight. I'm right here." Ginny knew she was testing him, seeing how far she could push him. Once and for all, she needed to know. If he did what anyone would think Draco Malfoy would do right now, she could walk away and never think about him again. But she believed he wouldn't.

Well, she really hoped he wouldn't.

When had Suicidal Ginny joined the party, anyway?

Neither of them moved. Snow collected on top of their hats and on their shoulders, and still neither of them moved. The only sound was the ice on the lake cracking and their breathing. It was a standoff and they both knew it.

To her horror, Ginny felt her nose start to run. She tried to breathe in harder to keep it at bay, but it kept coming. She sniffed exaggeratedly, drawing a smirk from Malfoy. Finally she had no other choice but to reach up and wipe her nose as discreetly as possible on her sleeve. At that movement, Malfoy's hands unclenched.

"Go inside, Red," he advised her, "before you snot all over yourself."

Not sure which one of them had lost, Ginny stood her ground.

"Red? Can you hear me? It's that big building right behind you. I can give you more detailed directions if necessary."

"Why didn't you do anything?" Ginny asked him.

"Because I'm not stupid enough to do anything to you when I know I'll be caught," he answered smoothly. "Have no fear, Red. I'll get you back in due course."

Ginny suddenly knew why she'd pushed him. Because now she could see him, see when he was lying and when he was telling the truth - which wasn't often, but it happened - and she was beginning to see what made him tick. He wasn't Tom and he certainly wasn't Harry, but he interested her nonetheless. Draco Malfoy was an interesting book waiting to be written. Nothing about him was final, and nothing about him was easy.

Impatient with her silence, Draco continued. "Alright, listen carefully. I know you're a Weasley, but do try to keep up. Turn around," he said, as if instructing a small child. "Walk straight until you hit the big castle..."

"Stop it, Draco," Ginny said, walking up to him.

Looking amusingly flummoxed for a moment, he quickly recovered. "See, you weren't listening. I said turn around first..."

Ginny wrapped her arms around his waist and lay her head against his shoulder.

"Red?" he asked uncertainly. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hugging you," she explained.

"Er, why?" He was still in the same position: one arm outstretched to point at the school, the other at his side.

"Because I feel like it. Now hug me back."

"Why should I?" He sounded genuinely confused.

Ginny's patience was running thin. "Because it's a bloody pleasant thing to do," she said exasperatedly.

His arms encircled her tentatively. "I don't see what purpose this serves," he said doubtfully.

"If you'd shut up and just enjoy it, maybe you'd find out." Ginny nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his cologne, and the underlying scent that was uniquely his.

"I'm just saying..." he continued.

"You're so fucking difficult," Ginny growled, raising her head to meet Draco's amused half-smile.

"Ready to put out now, Red?"

"You're an asshole," she whispered as he leaned down to kiss her.

"You're an idiot," he whispered back, sealing his lips to hers.

And they were both right.

*******

Thera rolled over and blinked her eyes a few times. Somebody was knocking at her outside door. Grumbling, she got out of bed and opened it.

Professor Snape stopped mid-knock and took in her pajamas, his mouth tightening.

"Professor Wellbourne would like to see you in her office," he said flatly. "Now."

"What time is it?" she yawned.

"Nine o'clock."

Leaning against the door, Thera sighed. "Can I change first?" She was wearing an oversize Motley Crue t-shirt and nothing else.

Snape directed his gaze to the ceiling. "Please do."

Shutting the door, Thera put on a pair of jeans and some trainers. She thought about putting on some robes, then decided that if they were going to wake her up at nine o'clock on the weekend, then they would just have to take what they could get.

"Ready," she trilled, striding out of her room. Snape walked in front of her, his robes billowing out in the dramatic fashion he preferred. When they reached Professor Wellbourne's office, he knocked, then opened the door.

"Thera Castelar for you," he announced. Then he turned abruptly and walked away. Thera proceeded into the room uncertainly. Professor Wellbourne was a relatively unknown entity to her. She'd met with all of the professors before the start of term to map out her curriculum, but their conversations had largely revolved around what she didn't know. That being quite a lot, there hadn't been much time for socializing.

But Thera remembered the office, and the remembered the Auror badge pinned to the cork bulletin board. She wasn't entirely sure of Professor Wellbourne's opinion of her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

"Miss Castelar," the Professor greeted her, raising her head from a stack of papers. "Please, sit." Thera did.

"You wanted to speak to me, Professor?" she asked politely.

The woman sighed. "Yes, I did. I was hoping you might be able to help me with a project I've been working on."

Thera sat back. She hadn't been expecting anything like this. She'd half convinced herself that Professor Wellbourne had caught on to the fact that Archibald Nott wrote all of her Defense Against the Dark Arts essays.

"Of course," Thera said genially. "What do you need me to do?"

In response, Professor Wellbourne took a huge book from the corner of her desk, turned to a marked page and slid it in front of her.

"Can you read this?" she asked.

Thera looked at her for a second, then down at the text. It was a collection of squiggles and symbols and lines that she recognized immediately. It was the language she'd read when she'd renewed her bond with the Dark Lord.

Instinctively, Thera sat back again. "I don't think this is a good idea," she said.

"Please," Professor Wellbourne said. "I think this is the spell Voldemort is using on you and the other children and it's taking me forever to translate. Knowing what the spell says may help us stop him."

Thera took a deep breath and looked once again at the spell. The words formed in her mouth as if bypassing her brain, as they had at the ceremony.

"Stop, stop," Professor Wellbourne said, looking flustered. "You're speaking it, but nobody's heard it spoken for thousands of years. Can you translate what you just said into English? I mean, do you know what you just said?"

"Yes," Thera said carefully. The meanings were in her head, she just needed to say them aloud.

"Okay. Just give me a second here," the professor said, pulling out a drawer in her desk and rummaging through it until she managed to produce a blank piece of parchment and a dictating quill.

"Alright," she said at last.

Thera looked down at the text in front of her, reading the words and speaking the English translation out loud. It was more difficult than she'd initially thought. Sometimes she came up with two or three different turns of phrase for the same statement, uncertain which one fit the best. With every statement she put forward, Thera had a feeling there were meanings that were lost, or not very well described on her part.

She barely registered what she was actually reading. The description of the spell wasn't terribly surprising: do these things and you'll obtain domination over the territory or the area for the duration of your line. Thera wasn't sure what exactly the spell entailed. She could tell it was a lot, but what was the geographic area, and what exactly was classified by 'your line?' Did it mean that Voldemort would stick around until the four children and their progeny died off? Did it mean he would rule all of Britain?

Glancing at Professor Wellbourne, Thera noticed that she looked just as worried. The spell's wording was too vague to figure out what it really did.

There were the wordings of the incantations the children were to read - Crabbe's and Goyle's were the same, she noticed, as were hers and Draco's - and some blah blah about the left hand and the right hand that she already knew about, followed by a bunch of astrological nonsense.

Trooper that she was, Thera read on. "And then the fifth child shall..." she trailed off. "Fifth child? What fifth child?"

The professor looked grave. "Read on."

There's a fifth child. It was the only thought running through Thera's head as she looked down at the alien language in front of her. Dread came on its heels.

Thera cleared her throat and read. "And then the fifth child shall shed her blood for him before she sheds the blood of her womb. Well, that's awfully disgusting, isn't it? Anyway, renewing his control over or re-stablishing his dominance or there's something about obtaining the loyalty of the four infants in the stages prior to their adulthood as dictated by the planets, the caster must plant his seed within the fifth child before she is realized by the stars..." Thera faltered as the disgustingness factor rose to a whole new level.

"Miss Castelar?" Professor Wellbourne asked.

"Plant his seed?" Thera asked, feeling nauseous. "Plant his seed?!"

Professor Wellbourne didn't look much better. "Just go on, if you can."

Fighting back the abhorrence she felt at the thought of the Dark Lord planting his seed in anything, ever, Thera swallowed and read further.

"Ummmm..." she said, finding her place and bracing herself. "And he shall then fulfill the requirements and assure his place in the world or rule or dominance or whatever. His power cannot be threatened so long as he has the power of two to lead, two to obey them, and the daughter of an enemy, who shall carry the seed of the next generation and preserve his essence forever."

Thera put down the book as if it were something slimy, reflecting that the words 'seed,' 'essence' and 'Dark Lord' should never exist in the same thought.

"Well, then," Professor Wellbourne said, taking the book back and closing it, her eyes looking slightly glazed. "I suppose that's that."

Thera stood, but didn't make any movement towards the door. She was full of questions. Professor Wellbourne looked up at her.

Thera opened her mouth, wanting to ask about the fifth child, who it might be, what they thought was going on. Being one of the other children involved in the spell, she probably had a right to know. But she could sense that Professor Wellbourne wouldn't tell her. In a war, trust was a valuable commodity, and Thera didn't warrant much from either side.

Changing tactics, she gestured to the Auror's badge. "I never would have pegged you as an Auror."

The Professor smiled thinly. "Well, at the time the Ministry was recruiting anybody who could hold a wand. A lot of people joined up because of the war."

Thera nodded, wondering whether or not it was wise to ask her next question. She could sense now that Professor Wellbourne was soft-hearted, the sort of woman Thera had targeted plenty of times, because they couldn't resist her. Bringing up her father might not be a smart move, but the woman in front of her was nonetheless a relatively respected member of Dumbledore's inner circle, if she'd been given a task so important as translating the spell itself. Thera could see the benefit of playing to the woman's sympathies, but she needed to make sure of something first.

"Were you there when they took down my father?" Thera asked, carefully not looking at her. Let the Professor decide whether it was out of shame or accusation.

Professor Wellbourne was taken aback by the question. "I...no, I wasn't."

"Oh," Thera said sounding disappointed.

"Why do you ask?"

Thera chose her words carefully. "I've heard a lot of things, but I don't know if they're true or not."

"What have you heard?"

She looked away again, pained this time. "I heard he killed four Aurors before they got him. I also heard he wet himself and begged for mercy, but I'm not sure how trustworthy the source of that one is."

Professor Wellbourne seemed to size her up before she answered. "Well, the first part is true. As for the second part, it seems a bit out of character from what I know of your father."

"Did you know them?"

"Who?"

"The four Aurors."

The professor shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, I did." Thera didn't react to that, but she could tell Professor Wellbourne didn't feel like talking about it. "If you'd like to know more about it, you can look up the Daily Prophets from that time. There were plenty of articles."

It was a dismissal, and a pretty blatant one at that.

"Thank you, Professor. I'm glad I could help," Thera said, turning towards the door.

"Miss Castelar?" the woman called out, and Thera knew it had worked.

She stopped with her hand on the knob and turned around, looking innocently expectant.

Professor Wellbourne took a deep breath and let it out. "You're not responsible for who your parents were or what they did."

Thera couldn't help a wry smile and an honest answer. "Of course I am. You know that as well as I do." Something for the woman to think on. However much Dumbledore trusted or mistrusted her, Thera felt, was in direct proportion to where she'd come from, and who.

And yet Thera couldn't help but feel a chill as she saw the whole truth. A fifth child, but what did it mean, and who was it? In all honesty, she didn't know the Dark Lord's enemies well enough to make a guess.

Her first instinct was to seek out Draco. She found him in the common room, but he seemed to be in a tragic, doomed prince sort of mood she didn't have the energy to indulge. Reaching the door to her room, Thera yawned. She'd gotten to bed late last night, but still she was surprised at how exhausted she felt. She wondered if it had something to do with the ancient language; the last time she'd spoken it, she'd also been wiped out, falling asleep in her clothes.

This time, she managed to get them off, but she was out the moment her head hit the pillow.

And then almost immediately, she was dreaming. Thera knew she was dreaming. She always did.

She was at Shirag Castle, but it was free from dust, the marble floors shining, spotless. It was still dark and depressing, but at least it was clean. A sound was coming from her left. Music.

It got louder as she followed it, past the sparkling chandeliers of the ballroom and the now un-musty drawing room. It was coming from the library, and Thera paused for a moment, afraid. Stupid to be afraid, though. Nothing could hurt you in a dream.

It was Mozart's Jupiter Symphony, but she only knew it because it was a well-known piece. Thera was hardly a connoisseur of classical music. Walking into the library, she saw her father sitting in one of the leather chairs by the fire, his eyes closed, directing the symphony like a conductor.

Thera had no idea why she was dreaming about her father, but it was hardly a dream she wanted to pursue. She willed herself awake.

"It won't work," her father said, his eyes still closed, still conducting.

"It always works," she said irritably, willing harder.

He chuckled. "By all means, keep trying if you wish. I'm certainly not in any hurry." She would have imagined him sounding like Lucius Malfoy, but he didn't. His voice was deeper, slow and methodical, almost friendly.

Thera sighed and figured she might as well play along. "So what is this all about? Is it that time in my teenage development when I work out my daddy issues? Are we going to have a Hallmark moment?"

"In a manner of speaking." He held a hand up, and the music stopped. His eyes opened and focused on her and Thera felt that surge of fear again. The resemblance between them was astonishing, even more so now that she was seeing him in the flesh. She had a feeling the look on his face was one she'd worn thousands of times before, when she was reeling somebody into a trap of her own design.

"I think I'm going to wake up now. No offense, dad." Thera willed it again, and again it didn't happen.

"You won't wake up until I let you, so you might as well give it a rest."

Thera looked down at herself suddenly. She was wearing a white flowing dress. She could actually feel it, the cuffs of the sleeves at her wrists, the silky material that she ran her hands over, the prim neckline, the scratchy underskirts.

It was a wedding dress. Thera put a hand to her head. Complete with a veil.

"I'm having a nightmare," Thera said to herself. "A Freudian nightmare."

"Innocence and purity," her father mused, standing up. "Or at least the veneer of them. Men love you, Thera. I gave you that. They love you because I wanted them to."

He approached her, and Thera backed up, clumsy in her voluminous skirts. "You gave me shit, then."

He looked pained. "Don't sound like your mother, Thera. It won't win you any points with me."

"Do you really think I care what you think? I'm more like her than I am like you," Thera shot back, stopping her retreat.

Her father kept coming. Thera braced herself, not sure what to expect from him. But he just ran a hand over her veil, her hair. "Of course you aren't. I should know. I made you."

"No, you didn't. You let the Dark Lord do that," Thera said cattily.

"I needed his power to do it. I'll grant you that much. But you look like me because I wanted you to. You're cunning and intelligent because I wanted you to be. You belong to him because I wanted you to." He said all of this as if it were a wonderful secret he was sharing with her.

Thera opened her mouth, closed it, thought for second, then spoke. "I'm doing everything I can to stop him. I translated the spell today..."

He smiled knowingly. "Well, you translated one of them, to the best of your ability. Not that it matters. They can't stop him anyway."

"Of course they can," Thera said uncertainly. One of them? One of how many? And shouldn't he be angry with her? Wasn't she going against everything he believed in?

"Did you know that you can't die so long as his spirit remains on earth? That's how we knew he wasn't truly gone. I dropped you off the balcony time and time again, but you always lived."

The statement explained a lot, and not just her fear of heights.

Thera considered herself a well-grounded individual. She did not skip about with flowery dreams of sitcom happiness, imagining that her mother looked down on her from heaven or any of that crap. So far as she was concerned, when people died they died, end of story. But this...

This was really starting to fuck with her.

He took her by the shoulders. "There's no point in fighting it, you know," he said softly. "Nothing you've done and nothing you could do will erase it." His hands released her, and Thera knew she needed to do something drastic, to make this end, shake it up.

"Oh, dream dad," she said, patting him on the cheek condescendingly. "Sorry, but your opinion just doesn't mean shit to me. Especially since you only exist in my head."

Her father smiled at her lovingly. Then he knocked her feet out from under her. As soon as she hit the floor, he wrapped a hand around her throat, choking her.

Thera clawed at his hands, fighting for air.

"I'm sorry," he said mildly. "Could you repeat that last statement?"

Thera pulled every defensive maneuver she knew, from hitting the weak spots to knocking his hands away to kneeing him in the balls. Nothing worked, and his grip became tighter. The edges of the room grew dark and she dug her fingernails into his hands with no response on his part. The darkness grew, creeping up on his face. He didn't even look angry, just patient, and Thera felt a familiar panic. Sometimes there was just nothing you could do. Sometimes no matter how hard you fought, it wasn't enough.

She tried to speak, to give in, but she couldn't. Abruptly and for no apparent reason other than to stop short of killing her, he let go. Thera turned on her side, gulping huge breaths of air, painful as they moved down her damaged windpipe.

"So," he said conversationally as he stood, "have we established that I exist?"

Still curled up on herself, Thera could only cough. She was oddly relieved. If she was going to buy into the fact that this was really her father, this is what she'd expect from him.

"You spent too much time with your mother," he said disappointedly. "She filled your head with all kinds of nonsense. That never would have happened if I were alive."

"Too bad you weren't," Thera ground out, her voice sounding hoarse, trying to summon up the strength to stand up.

"Yes, it was too bad." He stepped back, not bothering to help her stand. Not that she really expected him to. "It didn't matter, though, did it?" He smiled a little. "Her little maneuvers couldn't change what you are."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"Me," he said simply. "Only better."

"I'm not you, but I am better."

He smiled in a menacingly and disturbing manner. Thera suddenly understood why her father had been so feared among Death Eaters and resisters alike. There was no humanity in that smile. Her heart beat faster. Nothing good, she sensed, could follow behind that smile.

"You tell yourself that, don't you?" He didn't wait for her to answer before responding. "It's easy to imagine that you only enjoy the screams, enjoy knowing that you caused them because the Dark Lord does, isn't it? It's easy for you to deny your true nature. That doesn't mean it's not your true nature, Thera."

She couldn't bring herself to look away from him. "What else did you do?"

He grinned boyishly. "You wouldn't like it if I told you. I was a man, so I couldn't do all of it, you understand. I had to bring Bellatrix in to finish it up, to make you the right kind of girl." He backed up, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "You might need to kill her one of these days. She's standing in your way."

"You fucking monster," Thera said in a low voice, backing away from him.

He sighed heavily. "I told you not to act like your mother, Thera." A blade appeared in his left hand.

Thera gasped, trying to manage past her underskirts to get to the door. She twisted the handle, frantic as he advanced upon her with a slow, steady gait, like a killer in a slasher movie. It was locked and she had no wand.

"Fucking open!" she screamed, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the exact moment her father stabbed her from behind. Thera cried out, staring down at the blade protruding from the front of her body stupidly. Getting more and more Freudian by the second.

"Don't worry," her father said amiably. "Like I said before, it can't kill you." He yanked the sword out and Thera sank to the floor, still grasping for the doorknob. "Such a fighter." He laughed softly as she pressed her hands to the wound in her chest, trying to hold back the external blood flow as her lungs filled up with the internal portion.

Finally kneeling down beside her, he stroked the hair out of her face, almost gentle in his mannerisms. "There's no point fighting against it when you can't win," he murmured. Struggling for air, Thera tried to push him away as his hands moved down to stroke her face. "You only hurt yourself."

Using the last of her strength, Thera took hold of his wrists, pulling them away from her. There was a terrible pounding in her head. Her father looked amused at her feeble attempts at self-defense

"I enjoyed seeing you again, Thera. Unfortunately, I think it's time to let you go," he said. And then Thera woke up, gasping and coughing, the pounding splitting her head in half. She promptly fell out of bed in a tangle of sheets, fighting them off, frantic.

Then it sank in that she was in her room at Hogwarts and somebody was knocking at the door. The innocuous nature of the situation jarred her. It was just a dream, she assured herself. Sick twisted dream, but just a dream.

Just to make sure, Thera lifted her shirt, running her hand over the unmarked skin as proof that it hadn't really happened. Pulling her shirt down, she grumbled, getting up to answer the outer door. If it was Snape again, she swore she was going to kill him.

Ready to snap at whoever it was, Thera was surprised to find herself face-to-face with Harry Potter.

*******

Vivian sat for a long time looking at the translated spell that held the lives of five children within it. She knew she should go straight to Dumbledore, go find Severus and tell them what it said, but she couldn't. She thought of Ginny Weasley, blissfully unknowing, breathless as she rushed into her classroom, running late as usual. Draco Malfoy expertly handling Cho Chang at the Dueling Match. Thera Castelar standing in her doorway, asking about the Aurors her father had killed. Crabbe and Goyle...well, surely they had some redeeming qualities. Deep down.

Sometimes Vivian looked at the young faces of her students and felt an awful, clenching fear. The veterans wouldn't bear the brunt of this war. Her students would, and nothing she taught them in class or in the Dueling Club could save all of them. She wondered how many of them would live to be her age, and how many wouldn't.

Vivian wished she had stayed in California. She wasn't cut out for this shit.

Feeling a nervous sort of energy, she wandered around her office. She should have just slept with Balder. Some of her tension, Vivian had a feeling, stemmed from the fact that she hadn't gone this long without sex since she'd started having sex.

That brought up the idea of going to Number Twelve to see Remus. She negated it immediately, then brought it back into play. She could use a conversation, if nothing else, and if one thing led to another...

As she stepped into the fireplace, Vivian knew she was far too old to be doing this for all the wrong reasons. But she needed to get away from all of this right now, and the best way to do that was to pretend to be some other person in some other time when all of this shit didn't exist. Remus, unfortunately, seemed to be the best way to do it.

She found him in the upstairs parlor, reading. He smiled when she came in, rising to greet her.

"Remus," she said shortly.

He looked wary, as well he should. "Vivian? Are you alright?"

In response, Vivian kissed him. She didn't even just kiss him. She kissed him with the promise of a lot more to come. Her hands slid into his robes, wrapping around his waist. Without breaking contact, she led him over to the couch.

"Vivian, wait. Are you sure you want to do this?" Remus asked, pulling away slightly, ready to stop things if there was the slightest indication she wanted him to. But his gaze was hot. He was hardly averse to the situation.

"Yes, I am," Vivian said, pulling his shirt over his head. Remus and his stupid questions. No wonder he hadn't gotten laid in years. She ran her hands lightly across his torso. So many more scars in the years that had passed. The fact that he'd suffered since he'd thrown her out should have made her feel vindicated somehow, but it just saddened her even more. Remus would always hurt himself more than he hurt anyone else.

"What happened? Where did this come from?" he asked weakly, trying to make an argument for stopping and failing as she yanked his trousers off.

"Remus," she finally said, because she knew he'd been sideswiped by this entire encounter. "I'm not just using you. I need this. You need it even more. So let's just do it already."

He looked at her for a second, then blinked. "Okay then." He lay her down on the couch and slid her pants off, then unbuttoned her blouse, kissing the skin as it was revealed to him. Slowly, he slid the shirt off, then removed her bra.

Vivian made an impatient sound and Remus grinned up at her wolfishly. Her breasts were fuller now, largely because she was fatter now. Remus had always, always been a breast man. Left to his own devices, he would gladly play with them for hours. Not wanting to spend the rest of the day here on her back while Remus indulged himself, Vivian reached down to stroke his penis.

And he was still going, not showing any signs of stopping. Pulling his head up, Vivian flipped him over on his back. Of course, they were on a couch and there's no such thing as just flipping someone over, and it involved a bit of disentangling and making sure not to put one's knee down on anything important, but they finally managed.

Vivian buried her hands in his chest hair and kissed her way down his belly. She stopped for a moment to pay some attention to his navel before starting into the blow job, incorporating the patented Black Sisters tongue-swirling motion that she hadn't used since Hogwarts.

After all, she and David had had great sex, but it had been great married sex.

Vivian pulled out just about every trick in the book she remembered, Remus stroking her hair gratefully. Once she ran out of ideas and her neck started getting sore, Vivian rose up and guided him inside her, stopping a moment to kiss him on the nose before sinking down.

She had just gotten into a decent rhythm when Remus turned them over. Again, it being on a couch, there were a few sharp joints that met soft muscle and it was awkward as anything, but finally they assumed the correct missionary-style position.

"Okay, here we go," Remus said as much to her as he did to himself. He found his own rhythm, Vivian lifting her legs higher and cupping his face, coaching him to the spot that would push her over the edge. Once he located it, she locked her hands around his buttocks like a pair of vices.

It was close as to who came when. Vivian didn't really care, so long as she achieved the eye-rolling, couch-cushion-clutching, gasping climax she'd been searching for.

That was definitely worth it, she decided.

Remus lay on top of her like he used to, breathing hard into her ear, his face buried in her hair as deeply as he was still buried in her body, clinging to her as if she were the only thing on earth that mattered to him, and Vivian forgave her younger self a bit for falling in love with him. Who couldn't, when he held you like this, or when he went to a party and all of his best friends were there, and yet he acted as if you were the only person in the room, his gaze following you the entire night? What woman could resist that?

When he pulled out of her, it allowed reality to come crashing down to the ground. All of the obstacles in their way. Voldemort was so many steps ahead of them. Like the last war, they'd just be cleaning up his messes for a while, trying to beat him, trying to get a leg up, when the Ministry now was even more clueless than the Ministry before. They were just repeating the past. Even her.

"Vivian?" Remus asked weakly as she sat up on the edge of the couch, gathering her clothing together. She wanted to leave now. She'd gotten what she came for. And yet it hurt to know that this had happened with Remus. This sort of thing shouldn't happen with somebody you cared about.

"I have to go," she said softly, not looking at him. "I have to get back."

She heard him move. "Okay," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Vivian couldn't say she was proud of what she'd just done. She'd never considered herself a cynical person, but it seemed cynical to take their former relationship and use it like this. It seemed cheap. It made her seem cheap.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, not even certain what she was sorry about anymore or how many offenses she was supposed to be apologizing for. It was cowardly of her not to look at him as she got dressed.

"Vivian?" he asked as her hand touched the doorknob.

"Remus, don't," she pleaded. She wasn't like him. She was no Gryffindor.

"Was this because you needed it, or because you wanted revenge on me?"

Vivian's hand tightened on the doorknob, a reminder of how close she'd come to getting away scot-free.

"I don't know," she said honestly, wanting to be honest with him. She supposed she owed him that much.

He didn't answer, and eventually Vivian turned the handle and left the room, fleeing Number Twelve as quickly as she could.