Two to Lead

Chapter 19: Imprisonment

"When the subject has refused allegiance, and the officer has resigned his office, then the revolution is accomplished."

---Henry David Thoreau, Civil Disobedience

*******

Draco finished his sprint across the room and leapt into the air, flinging out his arms and legs. He landed on his stomach on the bed and bounced a few times. Rolling over, he walked back across the room to do it again, this time with a somersault.

He knew it was a stupid thing to do, but he had too much energy, and something told him that his arm cramping up was probably a sign that he needed to leave his penis alone for a little while. The boredom was beginning to get to him. He'd done all of his homework. He'd come up with a thousand brilliant Quidditch moves that he couldn't try out. He'd spent an entire day pushing all of the furniture into the center of the room to make a fort so he could climb on top of it and declare himself King of Dracoland.

His parents had ordered the house elves to remove all outside reading material, up to and including the well-treasured copies of Playwizard under his bed that they usually pretended not to know about. He was dying to read something that wasn't a textbook.

He was also dying for the company of another person. Anybody. He had spent half the morning contemplating the purpose of house flies before it occurred to him to reflect on why he should care. Draco would welcome a conversation with Colin Creevey right now. If the kid had a copy of The Daily Prophet with him, Draco would kiss him.

Which meant the situation was getting very desperate, indeed.

His parents had locked him in here so that he might think about matters. And he had. He'd thought until the sound of his own voice in his head annoyed him. Draco had never thought it possible to get sick of yourself. He knew that he was skirting the edges of insanity. How else could he contemplate kissing Colin Creevey? Potter-worshipping Colin 'I came out of the womb backwards and nobody noticed' Creevey?

Then he backed up a few steps. How could he contemplate kissing a guy? Draco was past skirting the edges of insanity and quite well into it now, apparently.

Flopping down on his bed, he stared down one more sunset of imprisonment, feeling beautiful and forlorn, a storybook prince locked up in a tower waiting for a bevy of large-breasted young women to save him.

A house elf popped in. "Master Draco?" it peeped.

"Just leave the food on the table," he said dully.

"Er, but Master Draco?"

"What?" he roared, sitting up on his elbows and glaring at the cowering elf. "As you can see, I'm terribly busy right now."

"Your father would like to see you in his study," the elf said quickly, disappearing before there could be any repercussions for this order. Draco sighed. Sometimes kicking a house elf was the most satisfying feeling on the planet. Lousy little spies.

Crawling out of bed, he washed and dressed quickly. It was time for the 'so what have you learned from this?' discussion with his father.

Well, I learned that the sofa is a lot heavier than it looks. Also, hiding behind the bed and jumping out to scare the house elves when they bring food isn't as entertaining as it sounds, and a soak in the sink won't remove the crunchy residue on a masturbation sock.

It was the second of January, he knew. He'd be seventeen in two days, and in any other wizarding family, he would be a man. But his circumstances more or less negated that, didn't they? Draco couldn't imagine the Master-Servant relationship was vastly different from the traditional Malfoy Parent-Child one. Do what I say. Worship me, etcetera.

Finally groomed and ready, he trudged through the house to his father's study. Lucius called for him to enter when he knocked.

"Draco," his father gestured to a chair. "I trust your punishment has been suitable?"

"Yes, father, it has."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "So what have you learned from this?"

Draco uttered the words he knew his father wanted to hear, that he would have been perfectly happy to utter weeks ago, that he'd uttered millions of times in the past and could probably utter in his sleep. "I now understand the responsibilities of my position as a Malfoy and a pureblood and I will never act in such a manner again."

"Draco," his father said, "you have to understand the burdens of the Malfoy name." Draco groaned inwardly. Not the speech again. Not the fucking never ending speech.

"I do, father," Draco said desperately, knowing it wouldn't make any difference. Once Lucius Malfoy was bent on giving the speech, there was no stopping him.

"You see, son, our name is not merely a name, but also a symbol. We are held to a higher standard of behavior because we adhere to the rules of courtesy that have been trampled and sullied by the filth that has infiltrated our world..."

And so it went on: a day-by-day account of the Malfoy family beginning with Leveronicus Malfoy in 883, complete with illustrative family portraits and even a diagram at one point. Draco at least knew the speech well enough to nod at the right places, making sure to shake his head sadly at the uncouth antics of Great Great Great Uncle Pluvio, who had well earned the name Pluvio the Perverted, so his mind could wander. But that didn't keep his ass from growing numb on the hard chair, or the slow tightening in his lower back or the stiff neck or the falling darkness that meant they were only an hour into the speech, with six left to go. Draco prayed for a miracle, or a sudden family emergency. Anything, at all, whatsoever, that would make his father shut up.

Lucius's voice grew hoarse well into the third hour. He called for some tea, took a short break to soothe his throat, then went on.

"Which is why, in 1327..." Draco longed to be locked back up in his room for another week and a half. His mind pranced off to happy sex thoughts, but he dragged it back. Getting a hard-on in front of his father was a definite no-no.

The speech was like sitting through an extended period of Binns' class in which you couldn't sleep, covering material you'd already heard a hundred times. Draco lasted, but only barely. The sky outside was lightening as it concluded and he wasn't sure his legs would work properly. Draco pushed himself up from the chair with difficulty, his knees cracking and his feet pricked with a million needles as they woke up from their slumber.

"Thank you, father," he said obediently. "I understand much better now." He turned stiffly for the door, but his father stopped him. Draco thought for one brief, terrifying moment that his father didn't believe him, and was going to give the speech again.

Thankfully, he didn't. "The spell is coming along nicely. Goyle is next, then you. Once the bond is renewed, you will have power beyond even me."

"I'm glad, father," Draco said automatically.

Lucius fixed him with a penetrating stare. "If we obtain the last piece of the puzzle."

Draco blinked at him, uncomprehending. "Piece? Puzzle?"

His father smiled. "The fifth child, of course."

"There's a fifth child?" Draco asked, confused. "Who?"

His father paced in front of his desk. "Do you recall me telling you to keep an eye on Ginny Weasley?"

At the sound of her name from his father, Draco snapped wide awake. This was it. This was what his father wanted her for. Then the cold sensation began in his stomach.

"The fifth child is Ginny Weasley?" he asked evenly.

"Yes. She's been far more useful to us than she could ever imagine."

The cold swirled and spread. "What do you mean, father?"

"We knew the Dark Lord wasn't really gone. The four bonds were completed on time. As ordered by the spell, we had the two to lead - you and..." Lucius' eyes rolled to the ceiling, "...Thera. We had two to obey in Crabbe and Goyle. But there was still the fifth child, the daughter of an enemy. She had to be a pureblood, born on a certain day, and time was running short. She had to be brought under the Dark Lord's influence before a certain point, but the Dark Lord was far away, without the means to possess anything better than a rat," his father's eyes glowed almost manically, "or a Weasley."

"The Chamber of Secrets," Draco said as he made the connection. "His diary."

"Exactly," his father said, as if impressed by his quick-wittedness. "She shed her blood for him. She did it unknowingly, of course; even now she doesn't know all of the actions she took on behalf of our cause. None of them do. She is our secret weapon, Draco, and when the time is right, she will give us the means to ensure our rule."

"That's comforting," Draco murmured.

"Comforting? Draco, this is everything to us. The key to our dominance in the wizarding world is one step away from the boy who's been a thorn in our side for years."

"Potter," Draco said, in the tone of voice he reserved for that particular word.

His father nodded. "It's rare that we're able to kill two birds with one stone, son, and when the chance comes along, we know better than to pass it up. Watch the girl. Watch Potter. Outside of your bond, you'll have an honored position with the Dark Lord."

Draco swallowed. His family's position in the magical world hinged on this. He tried to process that fact past the stinging, paralyzing sensation of fear. Not just fear for Red, but also fear at the responsibility he faced.

True, he hated his father. But the part of Draco that had sat in this room countless times before and worshiped him separated that from the sense of frightening exhilaration he felt. This challenge, placed into his hands...it was everything he'd ever dreamed of. His father telling him that he judged him to be worthy of the task. Draco could tell himself that it didn't matter, but it did. Even in his hatred, he'd wanted the man's respect.

How much was Draco willing to give up to keep it? He didn't know.

A knock sounded on the door and his mother walked in.

"Draco, I see your father's let you out," she said. "What are you two doing up this early?" Her eyes took in their tired appearances and she glared at her husband. "Lucius, how many times I have I told you not to start the Malfoy history after six o'clock?"

"The boy's fine, Narcissa," Lucius said patiently as Draco held his breath. There was a Black family speech, and it was just as long and just as boring as the Malfoy version, but his mother rarely gave it unless she'd had too much to drink. Luckily, she was in the mood to torture his father right now, and not him.

"You both look awful and we have Cornelius Fudge and his wife coming for dinner."

"Oh, yes," Lucius said heavily. "Fudge. I must be well-rested for that conversation."

"Campaign season's coming up and I want you to get Bella and that idiot exonerated so we can have our summer house back. I just know she's making a mess of the place."

Until he'd read an article about the grand Death Eater Azkaban break-out in The Daily Prophet, Draco had never known his uncle's real name. Within the confines of the Malfoy household, he was always referred to as 'that idiot.'

His father smiled tightly, the way he always did when his wife tried to start an argument in front of their son.

"I'll do my best, dear, even though I wasn't the one who offered it to them in the first place," he said with false sweetness.

"I figured it was the least we could to for my side of the family, considering all the effort we put into covering up for your father's little proclivities all those years." These proclivities came up quite often. Neither of his parents had ever explained them to Draco, which only fed his curiosity. It must be something really horrible, he figured, considering his grandfather's summary in the Malfoy speech consisted of 'he was a great statesman who spent his later years in seclusion.'

"Go to bed, Draco," his father said smoothly.

His mother studied Draco for a moment, taking hold of his chin and turning his head first one way, then the other. "Wear your dark blue silk robes tonight," she said finally.

"And act properly saddened and withdrawn," his father added.

Draco blinked. "Why?"

"Dark creature attack in Diagon Alley," his mother explained. "Thankfully nobody we know was there at the time, but it was still a terrible tragedy, of course."

He nodded, glad to leave. His parents' arguments consisted of thinly-veiled insults couched carefully in a civil tone, and generally brought up a whole host of misdeeds and shameful behavior that had nothing to do with him and was intended to be over his head. The pet names sneered at each other got sillier and sillier until his father generally ended the argument by saying something along the lines of 'Why don't you just go upstairs and frost your hair, shnooky-wookums, and let me handle it?'

Draco sometimes liked to think that when they sent him out of the room, they were intending on just beating the living shit out of each other as they'd longed to do since the vows were said, but he doubted it. Their time-tested method of ripping at each other was more enjoyable to both parties.

And it was a bad idea to get into a fistfight with a veela.

Trudging upstairs with a good deal less energy than he'd trudged down them, Draco slept like the dead from the moment his head hit the pillow until the house elf came to wake him at promptly six-thirty, giving him only an hour and a half to get ready.

He had to rush, not that it mattered. Draco wore his best mourning face, was introduced, and then ignored, which suited him fine. He had a lot to think about.

Starting with the Red situation. Draco liked this newfound protectiveness. She was like a project. He could work secretly behind the scenes and make things happen for her.

However, he didn't like her being mixed up in his bond with the Dark Lord. Using her to get to Potter was a run-of-the-mill Death Eater tactic, but Draco didn't know what her role in the spell was. Ritual sacrifice? Just another slave? He couldn't stop it unless he knew, and even then he probably couldn't stop it. He thought about telling her, then discarded the idea. He had a feeling she wouldn't take it very well. He couldn't even vaguely warn her, because she'd jump all over him for details.

He had to tell somebody, though, because it certainly wasn't within his power to do anything. But who? There was an obvious answer to the question that Draco staunchly tried to ignore. Fudge, maybe? I could take him aside and...oh, let's be honest. It's not only that he's incompetent, it's also that he'd hand her over to the Dark Lord in a heartbeat for a nice campaign donation. Dumbledore? Considering he gets Potter nearly killed on an annual basis, I don't think so. Face it, there's only one choice.

Saint Harry Scarhead Fucking Potter himself.

Well, it didn't have to be that bad. Draco could just write him a carefully worded and anonymous letter - Red was turning him into quite the correspondent - that let him know something was going on without going into details. But he'd have to wait and send the letter when he got back to school. Malfoy owls, even his own, were notorious finks.

*******

Christmas that year at the Burrow was subdued, largely because a hundred people had just been slaughtered in Diagon Alley. Nobody felt like pulling crackers, none of the presents exploded, and Molly wanted every single one of her children under her watchful eye every moment of the holiday, if not forever. She owled Ron daily at Hermione's house to check up. Whenever any of them left, Molly got a shifty-eyed, nervous look about her. Everything had changed, and they all knew it.

Bill, unable to return to Gringott's until Diagon Alley was secure, hung around quite a bit. He also seemed to be up to something. Owls came for him and he would make some lame excuse and disappear for a while, looking winded and excited when he returned.

At least Charlie had come home. Charlie had always been her most fun brother, at least of the variety of fun that didn't require constant vigilance against turning into an oversized rabbit. The twins were home, too, possibly for a while. Thankfully, their store had survived the attack, but they couldn't return until the Ministry opened the place up again. Both of them were more subdued than Ginny had ever seen them, and seemed to be quite wrapped up in getting some book from Harry to send to Ron.

She'd barely seen her father, who'd been running himself ragged with his job and his duties for the Order. She'd overheard the late-night conversations that included everybody in the house except for her. Muggles were disappearing. Attacks on Muggleborns were increasing, and her mother wanted Ron back home even though Hermione's house was probably more well-protected than the Burrow.

So when Fred and George proposed a visit to Hogsmeade to check out new property - "which'll probably be destroyed as soon as we finish it," Fred added sadly - all of the kids signed on. Their mother nearly blew off the roof of the place.

"Hogsmeade?!" she shrieked. "Right out in the open?! It's a miracle they didn't attack it right after! I know I can't stop all of you, but Ginny's not going!"

'I can't stop all of you, but Ginny's not (fill in the blank)' ought to be the family motto.

"The full moon's over, and they won't attack until the next one, Mum," she argued.

"You don't know that! If you think I'm letting you go to Hogsmeade when there are dark creatures under You-Know-Who's command running around killing people, then..."

"...you've got another think coming," they all chorused together.

"Exactly," her mother said firmly.

"Fine, then," Ginny hissed, staring her mother down. "Let's send all of the members of the Order who are useful out into danger and leave bloody useless Ginny here to rot. That's a really intelligent tactic. No wonder we're losing the war."

Her brothers and her mum all stared at her in surprise.

"I'm just saying..." Ginny began, but her mother cut her off.

"Go to your room," she said shakily.

"Like I'm any safer up there than I am in Hogsmeade?!" Ginny railed. "With everything this family does to fight against You-Know-Who?! Do you really think it matters?!"

"Go to your room," her mother repeated in a hard voice.

Ginny stomped up the stairs and threw herself on her bed. Stupid bed with a stupid pink quilt and all of the stupid fucking stuffed animals everywhere. It was her room, and yet is described her as if her maturation had stopped at the age of nine.

Opening the window with a sense of purpose, Ginny grabbed the closest bundle of blank-eyed, insipidly-grinning animals and tossed them out. And out they went, handful after handful until the only one left was Howie, the stuffed rabbit she'd drug around for most of her childhood by one ear. Howie, she felt, didn't deserve to be mixed up in all of this.

Howie was innocent.

But there was more work to do. Ripping down the silly pink curtains, Ginny tossed those out as well. Even aside from the fact that they'd graced her room since she was five, every redhead knew that pink was a color to be avoided at all costs.

Ginny's hands gripped the quilt on her bed. Unsurprisingly, it was also pink. But her grandmother had made it when she was little. A moment of uncertainty ensued before she tossed it out the window, feeling all the while as if something had been torn out of her. Well, nobody ever said that growing up was easy.

Sinking down on top of her bed, Ginny grabbed Howie, holding him tightly to her chest, then turned and threw him out the window also, shutting it in his wake.

A knock sounded on her door. Ginny ripped the pink sheets from her bed.

"Ginny? It's Mum," her mother's voice called from the hallway. As if she couldn't figure out who it was. Who else would be up here bothering her right now?

Ginny ignored the voice, reopening the window and throwing her sheets out.

Her mother opened the door and shut it quietly behind her, her eyes taking in the damage.

"Redecorating?" she asked lightly.

"I'm not a child," Ginny said firmly, picking up the cheesy figurines her brothers used as fall-back presents and tossing them out the window with the rest. "One of these days you all have to accept that. Treating me like one won't keep me that way."

"I know that," her mother said unevenly. "It's just...you're not ready for all of this. You're too young."

"Oh, right," Ginny scoffed. "Because it really matters. Because the Death Eaters we fought in the Department of Mysteries would have been swayed by that argument."

"Ginny," her mother said brokenly.

She spun around with a handful of figurines to go out the window, looking at her mother in her pre-emptive grief.

"Don't you see, Mum?" Ginny asked exasperatedly. "It's us. The war is us. Keeping me from visiting Hogsmeade with Bill and Charlie and the twins doesn't mean anything. Ron and I would follow Harry into the depths of hell if he asked us to. Making silly rules and owling Ron everyday won't keep us safe, because both of us have already made our choice, and we know the consequences that come with it."

Her mother shook her head. "You don't know. You don't."

"Harry's parents are dead!" Ginny shouted. "Michael Corner's brother was killed! Dean Thomas' parents were killed! Neville's grandmother was killed! Susan Bones got her soul sucked out by a dementor! Do you really think we don't know what it might cost?!"

Molly sank onto the bed, burying her face in her hands. Ginny immediately felt guilty.

"Mum, it's just...it's done already. We know what the risks are, but I don't think either of us could not do it," she said, sitting down next to her mother.

She was quickly seized in a tight embrace. "I couldn't stand it," her mother said harshly as Ginny felt her mother's tears wetting her cheek. "The others maybe...they're adults, and they know how to protect themselves...but you and Ron...if anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do..."

"We'll be fine, Mum," Ginny said, hugging her mother back, wondering how true her assurance was. Ron was in far more danger than her; she was just a secondary character. "You always taught us to do what's right. How can you stop us from doing it?"

"I know," her mother said quietly. "And I'm proud of you. All of you, even P-P-Percy." A sob followed his name, as it usually did. "But I don't want a row of headstones and great stories about how bravely you fought. I want all of you, growing up and getting married and having lots of babies and growing old." Her mother sniffed and drew away, drawing the now ever-present handkerchief out of her sleeve and blowing her nose. "But I also know it can't happen with all of this going on, and I know our side needs you."

"I want to do all of those things, too, Mum. Aside from the lots of babies part."

Her mother chuckled hoarsely. "Oh, you'll come around. Just wait."

Ginny worried her hands in her lap, looking around at her bare room, feeling ashamed of what she'd done, silly and childish. Ripping one's room apart was hardly the way to prove one's maturity.

"I'm sorry I threw everything out the window," she said in a small voice.

"Well," her mother sighed. "I suppose this room is long overdue for a makeover. We can give your stuffed animals and figurines to St. Mungo's for the orphans of the attack, and if we dig grandmother's quilt and your other things out of the snow, I can change the color for you. Something more adult." Her mother reached out and brushed her hair away from her face, smiling. "What do you think?"

A secret smile stole across Ginny's face. "Can we make them green?"

*******

Potter took longer than she'd thought to knock on her door again. The Diagon Alley attack had messed everybody up pretty badly, including her. The Dark Lord was moving forward, and she'd be wrapped up in his plans soon. By spring he'd have the four of them, and the fifth child -- whoever she was - would surely follow soon after. Thera shuddered in disgust, as she did every time she thought about the fifth child. She just hoped the Dark Lord wouldn't want witnesses. Imagining the deed was bad enough.

For a split second after she opened the door, Thera thought nobody was there.

"It's Harry," somebody whispered in front of her. Thera stepped back to let him in, glad that he'd taken her message to heart. If he followed all of her dictates this faithfully, the two of them would get along famously.

"Feeling horny, are you?" she asked him brightly as he removed his cloak. He half-smiled at her. He looked nervous.

No, not nervous, she decided. Guilty.

He still hadn't said anything. Harry walked over and sat on her bed. Almost immediately, he got back up and wandered around the room. He picked up the box with her mother's ashes in it - which she'd wrapped up with Christmas paper so she could give it to Draco and see his face when he opened it - shook it, frowned and put it down.

Thera was riveted. It was like looking at pictures of some weird practice of some culture somewhere in National Geographic. The mating dance of the teenage male Gryffindor, ladies and gentlemen. If Draco had come here for sex, they'd be finished already.

"Harry," she said tentatively.

He was looking at the homework pile on her desk. "You have really neat handwriting."

"That's not my handwriting."

"But the homework has your name on it...ohhhh." Understanding dawned and he stopped wandering around, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

"So how've you been?" he asked conversationally.

It was patently obvious who was going to have to make the first move.

"Harry, do you remember when I said I was glad I didn't manage to seduce you, because you would have embarrassed us both by making some ridiculous gesture?"

"Yeah."

"Promise me you won't do that," she said, approaching him with her best 'fuck me' walk. And Thera knew her best was pretty damn good. She was, after all, bred to be a sex object. 'Men love you,' her father's voice echoed in her head. Thera thought that was an overstatement. They certainly loved fucking her, that was for sure.

"I won't."

"I detest half-assed, cheesy sentiment." She was standing right in front of him now. Harry's hands were still in his pockets, green eyes looking everywhere but at her. "I'd rather have no sentiment at all, if it's the same to you." Grabbing the front of his shirt, she pulled him into a kiss. Harry responded with a hunger that had either been extremely well hidden or nonexistent five seconds ago.

His hands slid up her back and Thera busied herself undoing his buttons, scratching her nails lightly down his chest, letting him know she was an open-minded girl. Merlin knows it would never occur to Harry Potter to engage in a spanking match.

But she wanted bad Harry, not good Harry. Ending the kiss, Thera stepped back. Harry looked dazed, his shirt open. He was thin and wiry, but he was starting to get some muscles. All in all, it wasn't too bad a sight.

"Harry," she said firmly. "I want you to throw me on the bed, rip my clothes off and fuck me like I'm the last fuck you'll ever get. Sound okay?"

"What about unzipping my pants with your teeth?"

"Some other time. Now attack me, tiger."

He started. "Attack you?"

Apparently she hadn't explained things well enough. "I'm not just going to let you do all of this, Harry. You're going to have to work for it."

"Is this like role-playing?" he asked, scratching his head.

Maybe he did have an imagination. "Sure. You be a swarthy pirate and...no, scratch that. You be a gladiator and I'll be an innocent slave girl that you ravish in order to satisfy your lurid desires." Thera was getting excited now. Opening the drawer on her bedside table, she got out her ropes and her well-prized riding crop.

"Would you rather tie me up or just hold me down?" she asked, frowning at the ropes. "I think holding me down is more brutish, don't you?" Looking up at Harry, she saw that his face was fixed in an expression of shock. Too much too fast, apparently.

"Are you saying that you want me to rape you?!" he asked, appalled.

Thera's hands tightened on the riding crop.

"It's pretend, Harry," she said, carefully keeping her voice level. "It's only pretend."

"So this," he said, gesturing to the ropes on the bed, "this is what you like?"

Switching tactics, Thera slapped the riding crop against her palm and gave him her filthiest smile. "Would you rather I play the gladiator? I'm really good at it."

"Why would I think getting tied up and beaten with a riding crop would be fun?" He seemed genuinely confused, and Thera regretted getting herself into this. She'd thought it would be novel to do dirty things with the foremost force of good in the wizarding world, sort of like having sex in a church. But if one of her tamer routines got this kind of reaction, the two of them had no business being in the same room together.

"Just go," she said, frustrated, tossing the riding crop on the bed, sitting down beside it. "Go back up to your tower and think your PG-13 thoughts and squeeze one off."

"Can't we just have sex like normal people? You know, I enjoy myself, you enjoy yourself, nobody gets welts or rope burns and everybody goes home happy?"

Normal people? In Thera's experience, this was how normal people did things. Why would she want to just have sex? She'd just had sex plenty of times.

"Come back when you have some experience, schoolboy. Then we'll talk."

Thera had thought he would leave, either stomping out angrily with one last shot over his shoulder, or slinking out with his tail between his legs, but Potter did neither. Instead he came over to sit beside her, tossing the ropes and the riding crop on the floor. Thera turned to look at him as he lifted a section of her hair behind her shoulder.

"Lay back," he said softly.

"What? Why?"

He rolled his eyes. "Just lay back on the bed. If you don't like it, I'll leave."

"Oh, alright," Thera said grudgingly, flopping backward on the bed. Harry sat and looked at her for a moment. "I'm not entertained yet," she said warningly.

"Give me a chance," he said, reaching one hand down to fan out her hair. It moved down to stroke her neck, then moved farther, down the center of her chest and stomach to slide underneath her t-shirt. His hand was warm and soft, and his eyes heated as he moved it back up, whispering over her skin in a nice, pleasant way, 'nice' being the operative word. He was miles away from turning her on.

As his hand came up to cup one of her breasts, Harry leaned down to kiss her. They spent a bit of time exchanging tongues. His mouth moved over to pay a bit of attention to the spot just below her ear at the same time his thumb slid over her nipple.

"This isn't doing anything for me," she sighed.

"Shhh," was his only answer as he shifted above her, sliding his other hand up to attend to her right breast. He did his duty, then sat back, taking both of her hands and pressing them flat against his chest, issuing an invitation.

Pedestrian sex was better than no sex at all. Thera grazed his chest and abdomen with her knuckles, undoing the button on his jeans and raising her eyebrows.

Grinning widely, Harry nodded. Pulling herself up into a sitting position, Thera gripped the zipper between her teeth, sliding her body slowly off the bed between his legs.

"You're right," he commented. "That is impressive."

"That's nothing," Thera answered, standing him up from behind and removing his shirt and jeans. He was wearing boxers with little teddy bears all over them.

"Sorry, forgot I was wearing those." He was blushing.

"Please tell me you didn't buy them yourself," she said, walking around him again to lie back down on the bed.

"I needed some, so Ron's mum bought them for me. For Christmas."

"How jolly. Does she know you're not six?"

He grimaced. "Maybe we shouldn't talk anymore."

"Fine with me," Thera said. He tore off his boxers and hurriedly crawled on top of her.

"Embarrassed about something?" she asked dryly.

"Didn't we agree not to talk?"

"I'm still clothed, you know."

Making a short growling sound in his throat, Harry quickly removed her shirt, jeans and knickers, gazing down at her with a vague smile on his face.

Reaching up, Thera stroked one palm down the length of him, pausing to give the end a nice squeeze. Harry stiffened and let out a strangled moan. At this rate, he was going to last about fifteen seconds.

This was apparently Potter's grand plan. Why was she here again?

"Hold on," he said harshly, pulling away.

"What are you doing?" she asked, resting on her elbows.

Instead of answering, Harry kneeled on the floor between her legs. Without being asked. Maybe there was something to be said for the good ones.

Nobody could say he was talented, but he followed directions well and she could tell that he'd at least tried it before.

Less than a minute later, Thera yanked on the hair on top of his head.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Forget it," she said harshly. It was getting there, it was close, but it wasn't going to happen, not unless he did what she told him to do.

"What? But it's not finished."

"Come up here now," she bit out. Obediently, he scrambled on top of her.

His hand slid down between them to guide himself into her. He paused.

Then he scrambled off of her. Her near-orgasm was waning, and he was screwing around with his clothes.

"What the hell are you doing?! Get up here!" she yelled.

He finally came into view, trying desperately to rip open a condom packet.

Fucking Muggle-raised moron. "You don't need that," she said irritably.

"I don't?"

"We're both magical. I'll explain later."

He glanced down at the packet worriedly. "Are you sure?"

"I'm a pureblood, Potter. Of course I'm sure," she said loudly.

"Oh. Well, great, then," he said excitedly. "I've never done it without one."

"Why don't you see what it's like?" she said, fighting back the urge to strangle him.

That was apparently enough urging, because he dove right in. He stopped for a second, allowing her to stretch and accommodate him.

"Don't stop," she ground out.

He started moving with more eagerness than skill. Thera didn't care. That wasn't the part she was interested in.

"Hold me down," she said, desperate now, her orgasm slipping farther and farther away.

"I told you," he huffed, "I don't do that."

Ready to scream with frustration, Thera went to her last resort and smacked him.

He stopped, looking down at her in shock. "What was that for?"

"For not holding me down. I'll keep smacking you unless you stop me," she informed him. The shock was turning to fear as she went to smack him again. Putting all his weight on one hand, he snatched her hand before it reached his face and pinned it to the bed. Fear turned to anger and the coming orgasm that Thera thought was gone returned with a vengeance. Now this is more like it.

Her other hand twitched and got the same treatment. Thera smiled up at him playfully.

He closed his eyes and hung his head, then shook it back and forth. Leaning up as far as she could, Thera whispered to him. "Come on. I promise you'll like it. We both will."

He didn't raise his head as he started moving again. Thera struggled a little bit, but he didn't let go and the familiar thrill shot through her. Harry's hands tightened around her wrists and she jumped up to a whole new plateau. Then he collapsed on top of her, pulling her hands above her head and burying his face in her neck and as if she'd taken a portkey, Thera's body went over the edge, stiffening and gasping. She held onto the moment as long as she could before it slipped away into sated and relaxed.

Harry was lying limply on top of her. "That is the weirdest thing I've ever done," he said into her hair.

"Yadidagoodjob," Thera slurred, still riding the wave. She counted out ten seconds for him to recover, then pushed him away.

Obeying in a rather uncoordinated fashion, Harry rolled over, still breathing heavy, his body slick with sweat. Thera sat up and began putting her clothes back on.

*******

Harry lay on his back, trying to catch his breath after what he honestly had to admit was the worst week of his life. Worse than the week after Sirius had died, or the week after Voldemort had returned, or even any of the weeks when people had thought he was the Heir of Slytherin or thought him crazy or his detentions with Umbridge.

Yes, this fucking week definitely took the cake.

If only he could grow harder towards it all, less able to care. But he couldn't. He knew that now, because he'd tried his damnedest and it hadn't worked, not a bit.

Every day in the paper there were more names listed. People who'd died in the Diagon Alley attack. They couldn't even post them all at once because so many of the bodies were difficult to identify. The same plea went out to the readers to report any long-term disappearances to the Ministry with a description so that the remaining victims could be given back to their families. Susan Bones was soulless in St. Mungo's. Dean Thomas' parents were dead, and Neville's grandmother. He had arrived at Hogwarts the day after the attack looking pale and dazed, trying to deal with the world without his grandmother in it. It wasn't even that she was gone, it was that she was gone horribly. Neville's uncle had identified her, then come home and drunk firewhisky until the sun came up.

Harry had talked to Dumbledore, wanting a go-ahead. There was one person who could put a stop to all of this, and it was him.

"I want to go after him," Harry announced.

"You can't defeat him, Harry. You're not ready yet. I have to ask you to wait."

"Well, Charms and Potions and Transfiguration aren't going to help me!" Harry said, his voice growing louder with every syllable. "I'd be happy to lay off classes and train full-time if it meant I could do it sooner!" He hadn't felt it this time. His scar had betrayed none of Voldemort's feelings. Harry couldn't help but feel there might have been some warning if he had. He shouldn't have blocked it out. He could've stopped it.

"It's difficult to stand on the sidelines when you know you're the deciding factor in the war, Harry," Dumbledore said, looking older than he ever had before. "I know you want to end this, but it isn't time. Not yet. Please trust me on this, Harry."

"Just tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it," Harry said harshly.

"You need to continue your training with Fox. I know you don't feel you've been making much progress, Harry, but you have. Faster progress than I'd expected, even of you. But if you face Voldemort now..." Dumbledore trailed off and sighed.

"If I face him now, then what?"

Dumbledore studied his desk as he spoke. "You may be able to escape again. But you cannot defeat him. Not now. Not yet."

"What do I need to do to defeat him?" Harry asked carefully, finally touching on the mystery of his power.

Dumbledore's eyes fell upon him gravely. "You will know when the time comes, Harry, and that is all I can tell you, I'm afraid."

Harry couldn't hold back a sarcastic laugh. "Sure."

"If I told you, it might endanger you, Harry. I would only withhold knowledge from you for your own safety, and for the safety of all of us."

"Because withholding knowledge from me has been so useful," Harry said viciously.

"Harry," Dumbledore said raggedly, nearly pleading. "I wish Fox hadn't told you what she did, but I must ask you to trust me on this. The questions you ask me are not questions you want answers to right now. We are dealing with forces here that even I can barely comprehend at times."

"You have to understand," Dumbledore continued in an urgent tone, "there are tipping points in time, moments in which a choice is made between one of a thousand paths into the future. Your eventual battle with Voldemort is such a choice."

Harry crossed his arms, scowling. "Funny, I never looked at murder as a choice before."

"Voldemort's been trying to kill you for fifteen years; I think anything you do to him can certainly be viewed as self-defense."

Harry was not in the mood for humor. "I'm not going to let people die, not like this, not when I can stop it."

"You can't stop it, Harry. When you are ready, you will. But chasing down Voldemort right now will only lead you into danger. You must not forget that he has no qualms at all about murdering you."

And now Harry watched a girl he barely knew get dressed, a girl he'd just had sex with, who had tried to talk him into tying her up and beating her with a riding crop. Whatever her issues were, he couldn't understand why somebody would enjoy that. There was enough ugliness and violence in the world without bringing it into the bedroom.

Beyond that, he couldn't get past what he'd just done. Not just complying with her wishes, but enjoying it. And he had enjoyed it. Bending another person to his will, holding the power...in the moment, he'd needed it more than anything. It hadn't mattered that the other person was a five-foot, ninety pound girl. But it mattered now.

She liked it. That's how she wanted it. She forced you into doing it. Harry tried to assuage his conscience and couldn't, because her motivations weren't the issue here. His were. It was enough to feel guilty about using a girl for sexual gratification. It went beyond what Harry could stand to know that when he'd pinned her down and seen the same flat, blankness he'd seen when she'd grabbed his crotch in front of Hermione, he'd ignored it. And he felt vile for doing it. Harry sensed that something very bad was behind it all, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd only made it worse.

"Are you okay?" he asked the ceiling as she finished getting dressed.

"Fantastic. Gladiator and slave girl tomorrow?"

"No," Harry said, sitting up, fumbling around on the floor for his clothes.

"No tomorrow, or no gladiator and slave girl?"

Harry put all of his clothes on before answering. "No anything. Ever again."

"Taking the Gryffindor's way out, are you?"

He turned, forcing himself to look at her. "I'm sorry for what I did. This isn't for me."

"Sorry for what?"

"For all of it," Harry said, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. He was interrupted by Thera shoving him. Off balance, and coming close to poking out both of his eyes, Harry fell backwards onto the bed, his glasses flying over the back of his head, out of reach.

"What the...?" Her hands were clamped on his elbows, her knees trapping his thighs.

"As if you wouldn't do it again in a second," Thera said, smirking. "What did you think you were going to get when you walked through the door, Harry? Cuddly movie sex on a bed of roses? Some Barry White makin' love?" The flatness in her eyes was back.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he spat up at her.

She raised her eyebrows. "Wrong with me? Merlin, you've lived a sheltered life."

"So what is your plan now? Want to drip hot candle wax on each other?"

"Well, at least you had cable TV, apparently."

"Get off of me," Harry said, a clear note of warning in his voice, his guilt forgotten. He was not about to put up with her shit right now, not when it came out like this. If she wanted him to throw her on the floor, then he'd bloody well throw her on the floor.

She smiled that psychotic smile once more. "Now that's the Harry I wanted."

The ends of her hair were tickling his cheek. She smelled like sex and the unique girlish scent that belonged to her. This was her weakness, he realized. Even in the midst of some sado-masochist fantasy, there was an air of innocence about her. He could only imagine she hated it, shunning any action that might take that innocence into account.

Because Dumbledore wasn't in the room at the moment, Harry focused his hatred on her. It was easy to flip them over so that he was on top. She obviously expected him to do something to her, to punish or to fuck or some combination of the two.

Instead, Harry leaned down and kissed her softly, giving her the gentleness she detested.

She tried to make it more, make it carnal, but he rejected her, moving his lips slightly, cautiously. He kissed his way up her cheek, then up her other cheek, finally placing a kiss on her forehead before drawing away to locate his glasses. She could hate it all she wanted, but this was the way things should be between them.

"Harry," she said softly. Something flashed in her eyes and he suddenly understood how Thera Castelar could be a Death Eater. "Tell anyone about this, and I'll take your little Mudblood girlfriend to meet the Dark Lord. I think he'd have a lot of fun with her."

Harry sighed. Slytherins will be Slytherins.

*******

"January what?!" Vivian cried.

"The tenth, or thereabouts. Do you want a boring explanation about it all, or should we actually try to keep Goyle away from Him?" Severus looked displeased, as usual.

"So it's going to be Goyle?"

"Of course. Malfoy's the big event and the Dark Lord knows to save the best for last."

Vivian put her head in her hands. Five days, maybe less, and she was going blind with all of the Arithmancy she'd been doing to try to figure out how to undo the spell. Considering it contained blood magic, numerological magic, astrology, spoken incantations, and the use of ancient artifacts in the bonding ceremonies themselves, it was at the very least a tall order. At the very worst, it was impossible.

"Well, we knew it was coming. The other two ceremonies were three months apart. It only makes sense that there's a pattern to be followed," she said.

"Yes, there is, but again, the larger problem is how to keep Goyle away from him."

"Can we?" Vivian asked bleakly.

"You're the bloody expert; you tell me."

"I don't know," Vivian groaned. "What a fucking mess."

"He got to be planning more attacks, because the members of the inner circle are all acting like giggly little girls."

"Well, that's a frightening thought. Where's the next target?"

"Hogsmeade, probably. It's close enough to Hogwarts to make all the mummies and daddies worry about Dumbledore's ability to keep their precious little angels safe."

"But The Cardinal's people have Hogsmeade covered," Vivian argued.

Severus looked at her pityingly. "The Cardinal's people are here to keep Potter alive. Their job is not to fight the war for us."

"Could we persuade them to fight the war for us?" Vivian asked hopefully.

"If we pooled all of our money, sold Hogwarts and hired out the students for labor, we could." Severus said this in a way that indicated he thought it was a brilliant idea.

"And lose your tenure? Anyway, about Goyle...how many people know about the spell?" If they'd be endangering Severus by locking up Goyle, she wanted to know.

"Giving me away is certainly secondary to breaking the spell," Severus said flatly.

"That's the problem, though," she said worriedly. "I don't know if we can, and if we can't and he finds out that we know and are trying to stop it, then it's too much to risk."

Severus turned piercing eyes on her. "We could kill them."

"I'm not sure that's possible," Vivian said uncomfortably.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a lot of life force flying around between them and Voldemort. All of them are connected. If we tried to kill one, I think there would be compensation from the rest."

Severus raised an eyebrow, "Compensation?"

"As in, the kid wouldn't die."

He let out a long breath. "There are far too many immortal beings in this school."

"Well, it's not really immortality. I imagine it's tied up with Voldemort. If he died, then..." Actually, she wasn't entirely sure what would happen. It was possible that all of the children would die with him, or maybe just the ones he'd reinitiated. Or the children would just lose the part of them that belonged to Voldemort, which actually brought up an interesting question regarding the formation of personality...

"Then what?!" Severus said loudly.

She jumped, shaking herself out of her thoughts. "At the very least, they won't be immortal any longer. They might be nicer, too."

"Nicer?" he sneered.

"You never know. Anyway, I think Goyle is a lost cause, Severus. Dumbledore would agree with me. When's Malfoy's date? Do you know yet?"

He nodded. "On or near April twentieth."

"Well, then I'll have to get my ass in gear, won't I?"

"Do you need help?"

She looked at him. "I didn't know you took Arithmancy."

"I didn't. But your furry boyfriend did, and it's not as if he has anything better to do."

Vivian opened her mouth to disagree, then realized he was right. Remus' Arithmancy wasn't as advanced as hers, but he was certainly better with languages, and he was at least familiar enough with ancient cultures to know what was a useful resource and what was a collection of beauty charms. Maybe she could take Harry along, to cheer him up.

"Good idea, Severus. Merlin knows time is of the essence."

He waved a hand and made to leave. "Just don't spend the entire time shagging."

"We're not shagging!" she yelled as the door closed. Smarmy little git. She sent an owl to Harry, then plodded through some more a few more lines of the spell, mapping out its structure, noting the key points that would need to be addressed to undo it.

Harry was prompt. She opened the door and invited him in. He must have been practicing Quidditch, because he looked windblown and cold.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go with me to Grimmauld Place. I know Remus would like to see you."

"I..." he looked uncertain. "Sure," he said finally, smiling halfheartedly.

Vivian could understand his reluctance. After her parents had been killed, she'd only spent enough time in their house to collect their important belongings, then she'd immediately sold the place with everything else in it.

They flooed to Number Twelve, finally locating Remus in the upstairs parlor, wrapped in a blanket, reading and sipping hot chocolate. He looked like shit. When he saw Harry, his face lit up and he stood to wrap him in a hug. Harry looked surprised at this gesture of affection, not entirely comfortable with it.

"How are you? Doing okay? Did you get my gift?"

"Yeah, I did. Thanks."

Vivian couldn't watch Remus fuss over Harry, so she went over to the large table in the center of the room and began setting up. How is it that people could have children and sell them out to Voldemort, and someone who deserved children couldn't have any?

Remus dashed off to make them up some sandwiches. Harry wandered over to the table.

"What's all this?" he asked curiously, picking up Blood Rituals and You.

Vivian wasn't sure how much the kid knew, or how much she was allowed to tell him. "Voldemort did a spell. We're trying to figure out how to undo it."

"What sort of spell?"

"A spell that preserves his power," she said carefully.

He looked away, his face hardening. "So you're not allowed to tell me."

"I'm sorry, Harry. It's not my decision to make."

He was silent. Remus came up with a tray of sandwiches and some more chocolate.

"Did the office clutter finally force you to find new digs?" he asked her casually.

"Actually, I was hoping you could help me." There was coolness towards her that Vivian couldn't seem to dispel, and frankly, deserved.

"Anything for the Order. Have a sandwich, Harry." The boy had been watching their exchange as if it were a tennis match, and Vivian had a feeling he'd caught more than they'd intended. He turned to Remus.

"What does the spell do?"

Remus sighed. "Have a sandwich, Harry."

"So you're not going to tell me, either."

"No, I am going to tell you. I just need Professor Wellbourne's help to do it. She knows far more about it than I do."

"Remus, Dumbledore..." Vivian said warningly.

"Never specifically said not to tell Harry about the spell," he interrupted.

"Well, if he gets hacked off at me about it, I'm sending him directly to you, then."

He smiled faintly. "By all means, go right ahead." He sat down and seemed to put his thoughts in order. Harry sat across from him, eager for information. "Before you defeated him the first time, Voldemort managed to create a bond with four children of his closest followers. The bond allowed him to locate them, and it also gave him some degree of control over them." Remus glanced at Vivian for confirmation and she nodded.

"Last summer, Voldemort began the second phase of the spell, reinitiating the children, making the bond stronger, giving them some of his power and bringing them entirely under his control. He was able to locate one of the children halfway across the world, and he had her brought back and reinitiated."

"Who is she?" Harry broke in. His gaze was focused on his knees and he looked pale.

Remus looked over at her. "Thera Castelar," she supplied. "You might remember her from the Sorting. She was the one who obviously wasn't a first year."

Harry's jaw tightened. "Who are the other three?"

"Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle," she answered.

"The usual suspects," Remus said dryly.

"And he controls them," Harry reiterated.

"He can control them, "Vivian clarified. "He can't do it all the time. I imagine it takes quite a bit out of him. And he certainly can't at Hogwarts, if that's what you're worried about. It's too far away, and there are too many protections against that sort of thing."

"That doesn't mean you wouldn't be well-advised to stay as far away from them as possible," Remus added. "When they are under his control, they're mindless robots who will do whatever he says, no matter what."

"Thankfully, he doesn't have all of them yet. Only Crabbe and the Castelar girl have been reinitiated. He won't have all of them until the spring. Unless we stop it, of course," Vivian said, realizing that there was a tacit agreement between Remus and herself to not say a word about Ginny Weasley. Dumbledore was waiting to tell her until she returned from the holidays, which meant that he was putting it off as long as possible. Vivian could relate. How do you look a young girl in the face and inform her that one of these days, Voldemort's going to try to impregnate her and that we're working on it really hard, but right now we don't know how to stop it?

How do you even begin? 'So, Ginny, what are your feelings about snakes?'

"Can you stop it?" Harry asked, taking in the mountain of books on the table.

"We'll stop it," Remus said firmly. Vivian wished she had his optimism.

*******

Harry Potter was a chicken. Literally.

Waving a hand, Fox changed him back. He looked dazed and pained.

"That's really not a pleasant experience," he noted.

"It's not intended to be. That's why you're supposed to block it," she advised him.

"Can I turn myself into things?" She could see visions of becoming a big, nasty dragon dancing in his head.

"Eventually. Trust me when I say learning how to stop yourself from turning into things is far more useful."

Harry nodded and readied himself, wand out and ready.

Fox waved a hand, throwing him a softball stupefication curse. His face screwed up in concentration, he managed to get his shield up in time. It wasn't at his full power when the curse hit it, so he got knocked back a few steps, but he stayed conscious, on his feet.

"Better," she said crisply. "You need to stop thinking. Just block me with everything you've got. This is about focusing your magic, not drawing up a nice, textbook shield."

He readied himself again, looking more determined than she'd ever seen him. Fox sent him a nasty stabbing curse, wanting to see how determined he really was.

He held back the curse as well as could be expected. Only part of it got through, grazing his shoulder. Harry glanced down at the wound quickly.

Then he merely gripped his wand tightly and readied himself again. Fox had to hold back a smile. The kid was learning. Gone were the temper tantrums and the tendency to be caught by surprise. The attack on Diagon Alley had had one positive outcome: it had focused Harry Potter into a lean, mean, fighting machine.

She could feel the urgency in him. He wanted to go after Voldemort, and he wanted to win. It was still a hot-headed reaction to the situation, but at least he understood that he couldn't defeat Voldemort right now. Not a chance.

Fox sent him a couple more easy ones, and when he managed to block them fully, she built up to darker curses. He managed to block the majority of those, but she hadn't sent anything truly awful at him yet, and he was definitely looking the worse for wear. Fox went after his endurance and sent a quick succession of easy curses, not giving him time to recover in between. He blocked the first three, but the last one, a jelly-legs, broke through his shield and hit him full-force. He looked utterly worn out as she waved a hand to remove the curse. Gasping and sweating, Harry assumed the ready position.

Fox had to give it to him. The kid just never gave up. There was no need to push him any farther; Harry Potter had proven several times that he'd get back up again no matter how many times he got knocked down.

"That's enough for today," she said.

He looked like a condemned prisoner who'd just been given a last-second reprieve.

"So am I getting anywhere?" he asked breathlessly.

"Sure you are," Fox said, unable to go into any more description without sounding like Yoda. Though it had been done for the betterment of humanity, all Guardians missed being worshiped. So they had their little jokes, like Planet of the Apes and Star Wars. They could have managed better scripts, in Fox's mind.

He turned to the door, wiping the sweat off of his face. "How long, d'you think?"

"The more your mind is focused on your training and not on the war outside, the quicker you'll be ready." Apparently sounding like Yoda was unavoidable.

He spun back around to face her. "I'll do whatever you want me to do. Extra training, whatever."

Fox shook her head. "I can't push you any farther than I push you already, Harry. Just keep your mind on what you need to do, and not on what you can't change."

He nodded once more and left, and Fox knew for a fact that she'd just given him an impossible request.