*****************************************************************

He ran.

The sounds of shouting and magically-induced explosions had faded into silence, which made his ragged breathing and slapping footsteps seem unbearably conspicuous. But as the echo of his sprint bounced eerily off of the great blocks of stone that comprised the Hogwarts corridor, he was distinctly aware that he was quite alone. His heart hammered violently inside his chest.

The stone floor stretched out ahead of him and then spiraled upwards in a foreboding flight of stairs. He paused at the first step—to catch his breath, he told himself—and found that he was trembling from head to foot. From far down the hall behind him came a crash; the battle was forcing its way to the tower. Aware and a little unnerved that his next actions would upset the wizarding world in the most extreme ways possible, he faltered.

Suddenly the fact that he was alone seemed less of an advantage than he would have thought. Yes, he thanked the gods that no one was present to witness his heinous deeds or attempt to foil them. The slightest opposition might have extinguished his resilience. However, the emptiness sent chills up his spine and he would have been grateful for a little support. For once there was no one breathing down his neck, no one threatening him to carry out his plans. He was, indeed, alone. And petrified.

Another explosion sounded—closer than the last. In a matter of minutes the battle would reach the stairwell, and what would the Death Eaters think to find their leader cowering in a corner? That knowledge was the best incentive he could muster, so with a deep breath he dashed up the steps two by two, finally crashing headlong into the tower and bellowing “Expelliarmus!”


********************************************


Harry stood, frozen beneath the invisibility cloak and watched the horrifying scene unfolding before him. Dumbledore was weak, wandless, and completely vulnerable in his position on the floor. Malfoy was towering—or quaking, rather—over him. His wand was pointed straight at Dumbledore’s chest and it was shaking violently.

A surprisingly composed conversation was taking place between Malfoy and the Headmaster. So far the pale-faced git had revealed his intentions, accomplishments, and methods without advancing upon the Dumbledore or flicking his wand. He was sweating and his hair, tinged with green from the glow of the dark mark, stuck to his furrowed brow. And the more Malfoy talked, well, the more he talked. He seemed to be saying things without thinking them through, his usual jeering drawl and biting sarcasm stripped away. He seemed afraid and unprepared, almost reckless. It was as if he were stalling.

A crash sounded from not far below; the battle was drawing nearer.

“Let us discuss your options, Draco,” suggested the headmaster calmly, as if he were drawing up a schedule for the next semester. What little color there was in Malfoy’s face drained instantly.

“I haven’t got any options!” he choked. “I’ve got to do it! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill my whole family!” Was that despair in his voice?

Dumbledore’s eyes were bright despite his weak state.

“Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely that you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother tonight to hide her likewise. Nobody would be surprised that you had died in your attempt to kill me—forgive me, but Lord Voldemort probably expects it. Nor would the Death Eaters be surprised that we had captured and killed your mother—it is what they would do themselves, after all. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban…. When the time comes, we can protect him too. Come over to the right side, Draco… you are not a killer….”

Malfoy stared at Dumbledore, turning over his words.

“But I got this far, didn’t I?” he said slowly, “They thought I’d die in the attempt, but I’m here… and you’re in my power…. I’m the one with the wand…. You’re at my mercy….”

“No, Draco,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.”

Malfoy’s hand shook and lowered a fraction. Echoes of footsteps drifted up the stairs and he turned toward them. For a moment he stood there, staring at the door and looking as if all the burdens and decisions of the whole world rested on his shaking shoulders. He spun back to Dumbledore.

“Help me,” he said in a small voice that sounded remarkably like a whimper, his pleading eyes devoid of any bravery, or for that matter, any evil at all.

“To your right, hurry,” Dumbledore ordered urgently, though his voice sounded somewhat huskier than usual. Harry thought he detected a wetness in the Headmaster’s eyes that hadn’t been there before as he sank a little lower on the wall.

Malfoy blindly scampered towards the corner, and to Harry’s alarm the invisibility cloak flapped away to expose him in his stationary state. At the sight of Harry, Malfoy balked.

“You—” he sputtered, but Dumbledore interrupted.

“There’s no time! Get under the cloak!”

Draco hesitated warily, but when a shout sounded from just outside the doorway he leapt to Harry’s side and the cloak swung back to cover both of them.

For a moment Harry could hear Draco’s ragged breathing and sensed his trembling, but then the other boy became still and Harry knew that Dumbledore had silently hexed him as well. There was no time for further thought or even time to consider what had just happened as Harry gazed helplessly upon the four strangers that had bowled into the room.

A lumpy-looking man with an odd lopsided leer gave a wheezy giggle.

“Dumbledore cornered!” he said, and he turned to a stocky little woman who looked as though she could be his sister and who was grinning eagerly. “Dumbledore wandless, Dumbledore alone! But where’s Draco?”

“Good evening, Amycus,” said Dumbledore calmly, as though welcoming the man to a tea party. “And you’ve brought Alecto too . . . charming. As for your leader, I’m afraid he has been snuffed, to put it lightly. Though recent events have left me very weak indeed, and I must say he was stronger than I expected.”

“You mean, he’s d—dead?” Amycus stammered as Alecto’s jaw dropped.

“Yes, quite,” answered Dumbledore.

A large man with matted grey hair and whiskers stepped forward, his unusually long tongue flossing his sharp teeth.

“Where’s the body, then?” he growled in a rasping bark of a voice like none that Harry had every heard.

“Is that you, Fenrir?” asked Dumbledore.

“That’s right,” rasped the other, and then deviously, “where’s the body?”

“Oh, here and there,” said Dumbledore nonchalantly with a wave of his hand. “You know how messy these things can be.”

At precisely that moment the door again burst open and there stood Snape, his wand clutched in his hand as his black eyes swept the scene, from Dumbledore slumped against the wall to the roomful of dark witches and wizards.

“Where’s Draco?” he immediately snarled.

“Well that’s the problem, see,” said Amycus, “the boy seems to have been, erm, exterminated.”

Snape appeared stunned for only a second before tensing with grimness. He gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of his face.

“Right… shall I kill him, then?” Amycus asked, pushing the sleeves of his robes and pointing his wand at Dumbledore, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“No!” shouted Snape, much to everyone’s surprise, and Amycus was about to retort when someone else spoke Snape’s name quite softly.

“Severus…please…”

The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading.

Snape said nothing, but walked forward and pushed Amycus roughly out of the way. The Death Eaters fell back without a word, and even the werewolf seemed cowed. For an instant Snape and Dumbledore shared a look that in itself seemed to be a battle, and Harry could have sworn Snape’s eyes had flickered their direction right before he rose his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape’s wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Harry’s scream of horror never left him; silent an unmoving, he was forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted into the air. For a split second, he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining mark of the Dark Lord, and then he fell slowly backward, like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight.


*********************************************


As the Death Eaters vanished through the door, Harry realized he could move again. What was now holding him paralyzed against the wall was not magic, but horror and shock. Instinct kicked in and he threw the Invisibility Cloak aside as the brutal-faced Death Eater, last to leave the tower top, was disappearing through the door.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

The Death Eater buckled as though hit in the back with something solid and fell to the ground, rigid as a waxwork. Harry stumbled toward the door, but stopped when he remembered Malfoy.

He spun around, wand out, ready to defend himself or duel if necessary. But instead of winging a curse at Harry, Malfoy was collapsed on his hands and knees, shaking.

It took all of his restraint to keep from taking advantage of Malfoy’s vulnerable position and hex him into oblivion. Instead he gritted his teeth and thought of Dumbledore’s promise to protect the boy. He would decide later whether or not that decision had been as foolish as it seemed.

“C’mon,” he growled, yanking Malfoy to his feet by his robes.

Malfoy stumbled and stood, a good inch or two taller than Harry, but somehow he seemed smaller. His face was whiter than ever before and he looked at Harry with an expression of—fear?

“We need to hide you,” Harry said, his voice a touch softer. He gripped Malfoy’s forearm and nearly dragged him out of the tower, stepping over the unconscious death eater on the way down. Despite every instinct that screamed to chase after Snape and avenge Dumbledore, he ran straight for the Room of Requirements.

They reached the correct hallway and halfway to the door Malfoy stopped. Harry tensed, ready for a fight.

“It’s too late to change your mind,” he snarled, but Malfoy did not try to escape. Instead, he turned and vomited on the floor. Harry turned his head in disgust and waited until Malfoy was finished, then pulled him forward as the blonde panted and wiped his mouth.

They reached the door and Harry stomped past it three times, thinking, I need a holding cell for Malfoy, all the while in his head.

He yanked the door opened and was satisfied to see a dark stone room with nothing but a cot against one wall and a toilet in the corner. Sitting on the cot was a heavy metal key.

“In!” Harry barked as he pushed Malfoy into the room, surprised that he had cooperated this far without so much as a backward glance.

“Are you coming back?” Malfoy asked quietly, weakly.

“We’ll see,” Harry retorted, pocketing the key and moving toward the door.

“You can’t just leave me here! He promised I’d be safe!” The panic was evident in Malfoy’s protest.

Harry stopped in the doorway and looked in utter contempt upon the prisoner that was his burden. Pure hatred heated his face and spewed out with his words.

“Safe, not comfortable. And thanks to you, he’s not even here to see to that,” he spat with as much malice as his character could muster, and slammed the door shut, locking it forcefully with the key.

They stood in the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey wailing and the rest of them immersed in the phoenix’s beautifully eerie lament. Bill lay mangled on a bed to the right, but that was barely more traumatizing to Harry than if it had been Dudley. Nothing registered in his overwrought mind—except that the attack was over, and even that thought brought no comfort. Dumbledore was dead, and Harry was numb, physically and emotionally. Or maybe, he thought idly, the intensity of his emotions was simply greater his capacity to feel them.

It was a long time that they all stood there, though not as long as it seemed. When the final note of the song quivered to a halt—the first moment of true silence since the invasion had begun—Harry remembered with a dull thud the predicament that was locked upstairs in a cold cell. For a moment he considered leaving Malfoy there to rot, but a reluctant sense of guilt told him that Dumbledore would not have wanted his mercy to be offered in vain.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley burst into the door, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, followed closely by Fleur and Professor McGonagall. Harry stood motionless as commotion and conversation swirled around him—Mrs. Weasley and Fleur reconciled in a tearful embrace, Tonks suddenly declared her love for Lupin, and everyone was somberly retelling their versions of the last few hours.

Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, Harry begun his story, and it was his that caused the most disturbance. It was difficult for him to know where to start without recounting the events in the cave, so he just began with the tower and with Malfoy’s reckless entrance.

“Malfoy!” Ron growled, gritting his teeth. “You were right about him all along Harry.”

Harry shook his head. “Not so right as it sounds, Ron,” he corrected, and then briefly recounted the conversation between the headmaster and the blonde, dutifully noting Dumbledore’s offer of protection and Malfoy’s feeble submission.

Everyone exchanged noncommittal glances, seemingly unsure of what to think about this new development.

“And he’s locked up at the present moment, you say?” Lupin asked contemplatively. Harry nodded.

“Thank you, Harry,” Professor McGonagall said, looking a bit troubled, “we will see to the boy from here.”

The hallways were unnaturally still and none of them spoke as, some time later, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny walked back to the Gryffindor wing. The silence was broken, however, (thankfully, thought Harry, for it was all but smothering him) by raucous sobs that grew louder as they neared the entrance to the common room. It was quite a ruckus, and Ron was particularly annoyed, muttering “bloody hell!” and screwing up his nose in revulsion. As they rounded the final corner they saw the source of the disturbance. The Fat Lady sat yowling in her frame, face smothered in a lacy handkerchief that shook like a leaf in the wind as she blubbered. The trio shuffled their feet uncomfortably and Harry cleared his throat loudly.

“Petrified Toadstools,” he croaked. The Fat Lady did not bother to say anything, but threw her hand to her forehead and gave a particularly excruciating wail as the portrait swung forth to admit the trio.

As soon as the portrait opened, dozens of heads snapped up from their bowed positions. Solemn, anxious faces stared up at them—faces that feared for their own safety, for their school. Their friends. Their eyes searched Harry’s for answers; the tension in the air could be physically felt. Dean Thomas stood and crossed feverishly to the four friends, the unspoken voice of the distressed group.

“Harry, what the bloody hell is going on?” he asked in low tones, eyes dark. We’ve heard terrible sounds for hours… explosions, yelling… and when I tried to leave the common room the Fat Lady wouldn’t budge.”

At that moment, Harry felt utterly exhausted. The tragedies of the last few hours weighed heavily on his spirit, and he found the task of narrating recent events a second time to be nearly unbearable. How could he possibly tell them that their beloved headmaster was dead—murdered at the hand of a trusted professor? The expectant looks on the faces of his peers suddenly seemed remarkably naïve, wretchedly innocent. They would not be half so eager to know the truth once they knew it—then they would wish they did not know, that they could live contentedly in their aloof ignorance.

He could not tell them. He could not force such burdens upon them, though he knew that very soon they would all be inevitably exposed to the same sort of horrors that he had experienced that night. No, he could not tell them. Because he also knew, with their questioning faces staring up at him, that they would never truly understand. And that thought wearied him.

“Harry?” Dean was looking at him exasperatedly.

Suddenly feeling very overwhelmed, Harry brushed past Dean and, without a backward glance, retreated to his dormitory. He collapsed onto his bed and didn’t look at Ron as he followed into the room. Neither boy spoke and neither bothered to undress as they laid on their separate beds and pulled the curtains. Harry thought he could never have slept after such a night, but eventually his breathing slowed and he felt sleep creeping up on him like a dark veil, exhaustion setting into his bones. It wasn’t until morning that he again felt the dull ache of hurt and loss.

******************************************************************

He shivered in the dark. Without his wand (which Harry had immediately snatched and pocketed), Draco had no source of light and no means to warm himself. He was completely and utterly alone. It was fortunate that he didn’t mind small spaces—in fact, he often felt safer in a confined area than in big open spaces. Still, as his quiet breathing echoed in the still silence, he found himself feeling desperately exposed, and he wished the walls would close in just a little further to hide him.

And he was hiding, though no longer from Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. No more would he be skirting around Professors and wards and seeking moments of pathetic, indulgent refuge in girls’ restrooms. His enemies were now much darker, much more dangerous. He knew that because he knew them.

He had converted, he thought with a rush of fear and shock that nearly made him giddy. He had endured months, stressful and lonely months, of pressure, demands, and punishment. His resolve and confidence had weakened as a result, and so it was here that he found himself—prisoner in the beginnings of a war he wanted nothing to do with, and weak.

With a shudder he realized that, indeed, he was a prisoner. He envisioned himself perpetually trapped in the taunting, dungeon-like cell, blindly eating leftovers that were apparated to him by filthy house elves. His savior, ironically the man he had been striving to kill, was dead, and Draco felt an odd pang with that knowledge. It was more a pang of panic than anything (for who would take pity upon him now?), but it was mixed with a sense of sorrow, which was strange considering that he had never truly liked the wizard. Still, he had respected him, and that had to count for something.

He raked a shaky hand through his hair, which was sticky with sweat. He wondered if he were suffering an anxiety attack. Questions and thoughts pounded in syncopation with his rapid heartbeat, each one shaking him more than the last. What if Potter never came back? What if he were tortured for information? What if he were sent to Azkaban? What if—he gulped—he were turned loose to the Dark Lord? What if—

There was a resounding bang as the door to his cell slid open, bathing him in light and making him blink stupidly at the dark silhouettes of two tall, thin people. There was a moment of silence as the duo observed him.

“Mr. Malfoy,” a tight, thin voice clipped, “you will come with us.”

Restrainedly obedient, Draco tried to stand and found his legs to be quite unsteady, but he was on the defensive and was determined not to make his weakness obvious. The sudden light and the presence of other human beings countered his nervous despair, and he felt a (very slight) surge of renewed sense.

As he walked forward to meet his captors, a deeper, more masculine voice muttered an incantation and his hands flew behind the small of his back, magically binding at the wrists. He moved into the hallway and the two figures fell into step beside him, one on his left and one on his right. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the torches, he found himself to be flanked by Professor McGonagall and the werewolf Lupin. The flames of the torches licked at the stone walls and cast shadows on the grim faces of his captors. As he glanced sideways at Lupin he remembered the hungry eyes of Fenrir and felt uneasy.

They led him, not speaking, down a series of corridors, to a door that he knew opened into Professor McGonagall’s office—or old office, he thought, for she was undoubtedly the new Headmistress and would in time sit at Dumbledore’s old desk. She flicked her wand at the handle and the door swung forth to admit the threesome. Without looking at him, McGonagall moved behind her desk, sat in the plush armchair behind it, and stood again restlessly, leaning forward with her fists on the desk and looking down. She motioned for Draco to sit in the seat facing her as Lupin leaned against the wall to his left.

Lupin spoke first. “Harry has informed us of tonight’s events,” said Lupin in a voice that was less harsh that Draco had been anticipating, “but we want to hear it from your perspective.”

“Start from the beginning,” McGonagall ordered, “and leave nothing out.”

The beginning. Draco felt very agitated, and he wished that his hands were free to tap his fingers or smooth his hair. Which beginning? The beginning of tonight? Of his assignment? Of his involvement with the Death Eaters?

“Mr. Malfoy—” McGonagall sounded more exhausted than angry “—I assure you, we will not hesitate to use Veritaserum should you refuse to talk.”

He almost felt relieved at her words—a threat was something he knew how to handle. He lifted his chin in what he hoped appeared to be a defiant manner and said, “You can’t make me take it.”

Lupin stepped in. “Oh, but there are a number of ways that we could. It would only take one hex to force your jaw open. Or we could always charm it into a vapor and force you to inhale. Of course,” he added, eyes narrowing, “there are less pleasant methods if you prefer those.”

Malfoy knew he was defeated, but tried not to let it show on his face.

He failed miserably.

“I would advise you to cooperate, Draco,” suggested Lupin diplomatically, and Draco was taken aback by the former professor’s use of his first name.

“From this point,” McGonagall added, “it will only be to your benefit if you are working with us and not against us. I am aware that Dumbledore”—Draco inwardly wondered at the strength with which she uttered the name of the late schoolmaster—“has offered you protection, and we are prepared to make good by his promise. However, you must understand our difficult position as well, and you must be willing to compromise.”

Her eyes softened and she seemed to recede a bit.

“Draco,” she sighed, “this decision to join forces with the Order cannot have been easy for you, and judging from what I’ve heard and what little I have observed of your recent behavior and health, I would venture to say that the last few months have been a struggle as well. You may rest assured that the worst of it is over. We are willing to work with you and offer you security in exchange for your loyalty and any information you are able to give us. This could be a good thing for everyone involved, or a bad thing. It’s up to you to decide.”

Weariness and a sudden, irrepressible urge to relinquish his burdens made Draco bow his head and nod slightly. He was in a tough spot indeed, but this woman was offering him a vision of a peace and rest that he had not known for years. Granted, it was an ideal that he knew would not be fully realized in the light of the dawning war, but it was all he had to cling to.

He swallowed. “Ok,” he said, “what do you want to know?”

*********************************************************

******************************************************

She watched as the students trooped away from the castle, professors in the front, rear, and on the sides. Like an undersized army they huddled together as they walked, fearful of the openness of the outdoors. They were perfectly safe, of course, with both professors and Order members at full alert, but everyone’s confidence had waned since the attack. The security they had felt in the authority of the Headmaster had been stripped away.

A gust of cool air lifted her hair from her neck and she shivered as it whipped behind her, making a hollow rushing sound in the open entranceway behind her. That’s how all of Hogwarts will be now, she thought. Empty. Cold. It would be enough to sustain her to have her family and closest friends with her, but Hogwarts just wouldn’t be the comforting fortress it once was without the usual bustle of students, the chatter in the great hall, the crowded classes.

But then again, nothing would ever really be the same after this—war was upon them, and it would be a long while until order was restored. A knot settled in her stomach.

“Gin, let’s go,” Ron said gently, tugging at the sleeve of her robe. Harry and Hermione stood behind him, waiting. With one last glance at the departing clump of students, she closed the door, silently bidding farewell to her classmates and all that she knew.

The Gryffindor common room was mercifully warm. With nothing to presently obligate their time, the four friends settled into the plush furniture surrounding the fireplace, Ginny and Harry choosing armchairs on opposite sides of the couch. Things were a bit awkward between them since they had separated—not to the point of being conspicuously uncomfortable, but enough to warrant a certain amount of physical distance. At least for a while. Besides, the couch was only comfortable for two, and Ginny and Harry grinned devilishly as Hermione and Ron blushingly arranged themselves on it side by side.

Since the funeral, it had become known that Ron and Hermione were a couple—at least to those who were acquainted with them. At first Ginny thought they refrained from public displays of affection out of consideration for her and Harry’s situation. But several days had passed and they still would hardly touch. Perhaps, she thought with relief, they wouldn’t be such a lovey-dovey couple after all, what with Hermione being such a practical person and Ron’s ears turning scarlet if she even just looked at him.

“I s’pose mum and the rest of the family will be here soon,” Ron commented.

“They’re all coming, then?” Harry asked.

“All of them but Percy,” Ron said darkly. “Dad said it would be safer not to tell him… you never know what he’ll say to the ministry. Besides, it’s not like he would notice the Burrow being empty anyway.”

“Now Ron, don’t underestimate the power of the war,” Ginny said dryly, “you know that Mum’s hoping Percy comes running home the minute the ministry realizes they’ve lost control.”

Ron snorted. “I think Mum’s underestimating the power of Percy’s ego.”

It really was remarkable that any of them had much to say—grief and recent commotion might have killed their desire for company—but as they sat in the common room, four friends who knew each other, conversation came easily. Until, without warning, the porthole slid open and McGonagall entered.

The Professor smiled thinly in greeting and stepped to where the foursome was seated. Ginny thought she looked more tired than she had ever seen her. And older. For the first time, Ginny considered how much of a burden had recently been placed upon the
New Headmistress.

“There is a small matter I would like to discuss with the lot of you,” McGonagall said, though Ginny thought the she sounded rather uneager.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Professor?”

“First of all, I must inform you that a great deal of trust is being placed in you by allowing you to remain at Hogwarts with the Order.”

They nodded. They were well aware of their privilege. After spending the previous summer at Grimmauld Place, Ginny understood the security and secrecy that was required for the Order of the Pheonix, and had been more than a little surprised when she, as well as Ron, Hermione, and Harry, had been told they were allowed to stay at the Order’s new headquarters. Of course, she suspected it was only because of her family’s prominent involvement—what would she and Ron have done at home with their parents at Hogwarts? And Harry, of course, was an honorary member of the Weasley family. Hermione… well, everyone knew that the trio would not be separated, and so she was permitted to stay as well. Her Muggle parents had been oblivious enough to agree to the arrangement.

McGonagall continued. “And I would like to thank you for your loyalty and enthusiasm. We are coming upon very difficult times, and it is indeed encouraging to know that there are young witches and wizards who are dedicated to the Order. Please understand that you are being treated as near-adults, and so you are also expected to act with equal maturity.”

Her eyes narrowed and the quartet exchanged glances. Ginny sensed that something unpleasant was coming.

“As you well know, Draco Malfoy has pledged his allegiance to the Order in exchange for protection. I am aware of your past history with the boy, but in light of recent events, I would ask you to put aside any of your old prejudices and start afresh… I’m sure he intends to do the same.”

Harry appeared skeptical, Hermione cocked her head, and Ron looked like he’d gotten the rotten end of a box of Bertie Botts. Ginny was only mildly interested.

“The boy has been through a lot—much more than you know—and I expect he has rough times ahead of him as well. His situation is very delicate indeed, and I foresee that he could have a difficult time adjusting to it. I trust that you will not make it any more difficult for him than necessary.”

“His mother, Professor?” Harry cut in. “Dumbledore promised her protection, too…”

Ginny felt a surge of appreciation for Harry—the first since he had broken up with her. Sometimes his compassion surprised her, especially now, when it was being bestowed upon an undeserving enemy.

McGonagall sighed. “I am afraid she couldn’t be located. Of course, the Order immediately Apparated to Malfoy Manor, but she was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she has gone into hiding on her own accord, or has joined full ranks with the Death Eaters. In either case, it is doubtful she even knows that Draco is not dead—and at this point it could be dangerous for her to know otherwise. Of course,” she hesitated, “it is also possible that the Dark Lord has seen fit to punish her for Draco’s failure.”

Harry nodded, looking oddly troubled at this bit of news. “Does Malfoy know?”

“He does, and I presume he will not be inclined to discuss it. At any rate, I expect you all to be civil with one another, and I implore you to give the boy a chance. I expect that he is in need of support and a few good friends. So given the situation—Harry, Ron—I’m sure that you will not object to him sharing your dormitory.”

Harry simply looked stunned, but Ron’s protest was both loud and instant. “But—what?! Share our dormitory?! Professor—you can’t possibly—I mean, he… it’s Malfoy!” He went on, spluttering about Death Eaters and Slytherin scum and arrogant prats, and when Hermione put her hand on his arm to try to shush him he grew all the more flustered.

“Professor,” Harry said warily, “are you sure this is such a good idea? After all he’s done?”

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said firmly but not unkindly, “I assure you that my judgment is not unsound. I am very aware of Malfoy’s offenses, but I also have more knowledge about the situation than you have, and I believe the boy to be essentially harmless. The members of the Order and I have discussed it at length. Of course, we will still take extra security precautions with him. And I’m sure that sharing a dormitory will be very convenient for you to keep an eye on him.” The Professor’s eyes twinkled and Ginny half expected her to wink confidentially.

“Professor,” Ron finally groaned in defeat, “why does he have to stay with us? I mean here, at Hogwarts?”

McGonagall’s gaze softened and she spoke with tenderness. “My dear,” she said, “he has nowhere else to go.”


********************************************************


“Things are going to be different now, Ron,” Hermione said cautiously, “we’re all going to have to make some adjustments.”

Ron continued to brood. “But everything that’s happened is all Malfoy’s fault,” he huffed. “I don’t see why we have to share our bloody room with him.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. Honestly, her brother could be so dramatic at times. “Oh, come off it, Ron. It’s not such a bad deal… like McGonagall said, it will be much easier to monitor him this way. And weren’t you listening when she said they’ve put anti-hex wards around the room? It’s not as if he’ll be able to hex you while you sleep.”

“Yes, but then neither can we,” he said glumly.

A moment passed in which no one said anything, so Ron added, “This whole bloody war is his fault... he should be our prisoner, not our roommate .”

“Ron,” Hermione scoffed, “don’t you think you’re giving him a little too much credit? If it didn’t start at Hogwarts it would have just started somewhere else. It was only a matter of time.”

Ron growled. “But if it weren’t for that prat, we might have been ready for it.”

Harry furrowed his brow.

“What?” Ron sighed.

Harry shook his head. “Nothing… I don’t know. I was just thinking that if it weren’t for Malfoy, we wouldn’t have even had as much notice as we did. It was only because he was acting so oddly that we were even paying attention at all, and if I hadn’t thought he was up to something I would have never given you the Felix Felicis potion. And then who knows what would have happened.”

“Harry’s right,” Hermione piped. “If Malfoy hadn’t been so reckless we would have never suspected a thing.”

Ron glowered a bit and opened his mouth to retort when Ginny abruptly spoke.

“Do you think he wanted to do it, Harry?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Kill Dumbledore… bring in the Death Eaters… everything. Do you think he ever really wanted to do it? Even in the beginning?”

Harry looked troubled and was silent for a moment. He stared into the fire, contemplating her question, and when he finally looked up at her his eyes were unusually bright as he said, “No, I don’t.”


*********************************************************


Draco looked around him at the red tapestries and bedding. It looked overpowering and lavish compared to the cool green of his dormitory. But he had to admit, the air was fresher up here than in the dungeons. He sat on the bed—excessively plush, as he had expected—and contemplated how on earth the Weasel would cope with having to share his dormitory with a Slytherin. If Draco hadn’t been just as disgusted with the situation, he might have grinned wryly.

McGonagall and Lupin had lectured him endlessly about the importance of cooperation and preventing conflict. “You don’t have to be nice, per se,” the werewolf had said, “but do make it a point to avoid insulting your roommates,” to which McGonagall had added that it may also help to be nice. Of course, they had taken his wand, so the damage Draco could do was limited.

But then, so were his defenses. And he was not safe; he knew that. Aside from the threats that came with sharing a dormitory with his two most detested rivals, submitting himself to the will of the Order of the Phoenix, and being stripped of his most valuable weapon, there was still the matter of the Dark Lord. If certain people found out that he was still alive—and connected with the Order at that—he would not be safe until the Dark Lord was dead.

Or until Draco himself was dead.

The thought of death immediately brought his mother to mind and he felt a familiar flood of panic. He fought to keep it down, forcing his breathing to remain steady—he would not lose control again. If there was one thing that would be sure to ruin him it was weakness, and he had vowed from the moment he swore allegiance to the Order that he would maintain his poise. As much as he had essentially denounced the Malfoy name, he adhered to its pride.

Besides, he thought, his mother was fine—she would not have been foolish enough to return to the Dark Lord. His mother was not stupid. Powerless, maybe, but not stupid. Most likely she had gone into hiding.

“Do you think he’s in here already?”

The voices floated in from the hallway and Draco cringed, bracing himself for what would be the first of many awkward and excruciating nights.

“Probably, Dobby brought his trunk up earlier when I was in here.”

The pair stopped short in the door when they saw Draco sitting on his bed, nonchalantly untying his shoes and completely ignoring their presence. He heard Weasley scowl quietly, but otherwise they said nothing and each went to their respective beds. There was silence as the two Gryffindors changed out of their robes and Draco valiantly swallowed a snicker as Weasley donned Chuddley Cannon pajamas. A dozen snide comments flitted through his head, but—Merlin, it killed him—he suppressed them.

Draco flopped back onto his bed, and Weasley was just about to charm the lights out when Potter spoke quietly, “Ron, Ginny’s not sleeping alone, is she?”

“No, she moved in with Hermione.”

Draco could not resist himself. “The Mudblood’s still here? Merlin, I thought the Order would have had a better filtering system.”

For just a moment, Draco felt an appreciated sense of relief, a sense of normalcy and order. But glancing at Weasley’s red, distorted face, he realized with a sinking feeling that if this arrangement was to work whatsoever, he would have to purge that term from his vocabulary.

Weasley’s chest heaved and he gritted his teeth, and in an incredible display of maturity and self-control, he sent a death glare at Draco and stomped out of the room.

Harry looked at Draco in disgust. “I thought you’d be above that at this point,” he spat, and jerked the tapestries of his bed shut.

Draco frowned. He had at least expected a battle of witticisms. It seemed as if entertainment was going to be sparse.

********************************************************

Two weeks after the funeral, on a Wednesday, Harry, Hermione, and Ron left. It wasn’t until lunch that anyone noticed they were gone, at which point pandemonium erupted.

“Why would they have left without telling anyone?” Tonks demanded indignantly. “They know that’s defying regulations.”

“Where they went is the more pressing question at the moment,” Arthur growled.

“Quite noble of them if you ask me,” Fred said brightly, to which George replied, “Yes, it must be quite a covert operation if Ron left his stash of sweets behind.”

“Oh dear,” Molly fretted in a tearful voice, “I do hope nothing has happened…”

“They’ll be back soon, I’m sure… probably headed into Hogsmeade for a Butterbeer,” said Bill with a wave of his hand.

“I was afraid they might do something like this,” McGonagall sighed.

“Ginny, are you sure you didn’t overhear anything that Harry and Ron might have said? Or see them leave?” Lupin questioned wearily.

Ginny quickly donned a worried expression and pretended to contemplate the question before answering thoughtfully, “No, I really can’t remember anything.”

This, of course, was an outright lie—and a shameless one at that. The corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly, and she hurriedly stuffed the last bit of ham in her mouth to cover her blunder. Luckily, only George had noticed, and his response was to give her a subtle wink, to which Ginny had to feign a coughing spell to keep from snickering.

Her mind inevitably flew back to the night before, when Ron and Harry had entered her dormitory with serious expressions and Hermione had closed the door behind them.

“Ginny, we have to talk to you,” Ron had said, and she had immediately known it would be an unpleasant conversation. He started his case off by saying that they had to leave and that she couldn’t come. It had been downhill from there. Amid her protesting, begging—not begging, imploring—and huffing, the trio managed to explain that Voldemort had sectioned off his soul and secured it in six objects, two of which had been destroyed already, called Horcruxes, and that they were obligated to track down the other four if Voldemort was ever to be defeated. They finished and all stared at her hopefully.

Ginny sat back on the bed and crossed her arms, looking back at the trio dubiously. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that load of rubbish,” she snorted.

“Ginny!” Hermione said exasperatedly.

It took a dictionary definition of Horcrux from Hermione as well as Harry’s retelling of his adventure in the cave with Dumbledore before Ginny began to believe them. “Fine then, it’s plausible. But why tell me at all if I you won’t let me go?”

The trio looked at each other. It was Harry who finally spoke. “We don’t expect this first trip to be particularly dangerous,” he said slowly, “but there’s always the chance that we could run into trouble. If something were to happen to us, someone else has to know about the Horcruxes. You seemed like the one who would give us the least resistance. Besides,” he added, “you know your mum would give us hell when we got back if we had taken you with us.”

“Maybe next time,” Hermione said.

“It’s not that we don’t want you to go, Gin,” Ron said reassuringly, “just for this first time it will be better if you stay here, cover for us maybe. At the very least you can reason with mum so she doesn’t think we’ve been abducted or something.”

“Cover for you?” Ginny snorted. “Why sure, I’ll just bewitch some Inferi to sleep until noon and belch at meals. Just what do you plan on telling mum when you get back, anyway?”

Ron looked queasy. “We’ll, erm, deal with that when we have to.”

“It’s better to go without saying anything first,” Harry reasoned, “they would never let us out of the castle if they knew ahead of time. And after we leave and come back alright, they’ll realize that we’re nearly of age and can’t be stopped. Then the next time we disappear they won’t be so upset.”

Ginny was doubtful, but she kept quiet. “Why can’t you just tell the Order about the Horcruxes? It would give them something specific to concentrate on.”

“Dumbledore didn’t want them to know,” Harry said, “at least not for a while. So it must be better this way. Besides, Voldemort has no idea that we know about them, and the first wind he gets of it he’ll gather them up and we’ll have lost our chance. The fewer people that know, the better.”

“We might have to tell them in the end, if we get stuck,” said Hermione, “but for now we have to try it this way. It has to be as quiet as possible. And it’s what Dumbledore wanted.”

And so Ginny had reluctantly agreed to keep quiet. They were right, of course, it was better if she didn’t go—and so with that option extinguished, she was heartily grateful to be in on it at all. She carried much of the twins’ mischievousness in her veins, and the thought of knowing something important that few others did gave her a tiny thrill.

“Ginny, dear, would you like to take a plate up to the Malfoy boy?” Molly asked her, arranging bits of pork, potatoes, and bright green jello on a platter.

“No,” she answered bluntly, mouth full of half-chewed Treacle Tart. “Can’t the House Elves do it?”

“Well, yes,” Molly sighed, “I just thought it might help if he had some company… perhaps he just needs… but, nevermind then.”

Ginny felt the tiniest twinge of guilt—after all, the boy was pitiable. It was obvious upon looking at him that the boy neither slept nor ate well; his gaunt frame and dark-circled eyes told her as much. Since the night of the attack on Hogwarts he had holed up in his dormitory, speaking only when absolutely necessary—and despite the grace shown to him by everyone in the castle, he continued to be malicious when addressed. He was about as pleasant as a cornered Sprite.

But he really is cornered, she thought. He had no friends left, nowhere to go, and everyone was the enemy in his eyes. She smirked sadistically despite any slight compassion she felt—it served the git right.

*********************************************************


It was the next day that Lupin began to teach them Legilimency and Occlumency. It was part of the arrangement, McGonagall had explained to them, that while they stay at Hogwarts they receive training.

“After all, I expect most of you will be joining the Order when you come of age,” she glanced at the Weasley twins, who were over seventeen, “or when you exhibit certain levels of maturity. It’s only fair that lessons continue… without the burden of exams and homework, of course. Defense Against the Dark Arts will be taught by Lupin, and I expect you all to attend,” she said, eyeing Draco meaningfully.

Draco thought it odd that he, a practice prisoner, was to receive training that would advance his magical abilities. But McGonagall had taken him aside and explained that they were putting a great amount of trust in him and that his wand would be seized the moment he did anything to violate that trust.

“We have no intentions of allowing you to fight in this war,” she had said, “but I see no reason why you should be deprived of your education. You’ll need it once the wizarding community is restored.”

That was, of course, before the Golden Trio had up and disappeared (though Draco was none too disappointed at that development), so the only students in the classroom were Draco, the Weasley twins, and their little sister. Lupin greeted each of them before he began.

“I’m not an expert,” Lupin admitted, “but I’ll teach you what I know.”

It was a rather ineffectual way to start out, Draco thought, confessing one’s own inadequacy, and he was sharply reminded that he was in the presence of all Gryffindors. Too bloody honest, the lot of them.

“You’ll need to pair off,” Lupin said, glancing at the four of them. In a second, the twins had linked arms jovially and were sniggering at their sister, who just rolled her eyes and folded her arms, refusing to look at either of them or at Draco.

“Right, then,” Lupin said, “you two may go first since you’re so eager.”

They stepped forward in unison, grinning idiotically.

Draco studied his cuticles as Lupin explained the basics of Legilimency and Occlumency, the premises with which he was quite familiar; he had been studying with his aunt Bellatrix for at least a year.

Several minutes passed in which Draco paid no attention to Lupin, but watched out of the corner of his eye once the twins were finally ready to make attempts. They stepped apart and each faced the other, both squinting in concentration.

“Now Fred, just clear your mind… the less you have going on up there, the harder it will be for George to read you.”

Draco sneered and mumbled, “that shouldn’t be difficult,” under his breath.

Ginny heard and shot him a glare.

“George, your part might be trickier until you’re more practiced… focus solely on your brother and try to tune in to his thoughts… maintain eye contract it you can. It’s difficult to describe, but you’ll know when you’re in. At first you may only feel a surge of emotion.”

George nodded. “Legimens!” he said, and waited.

The air hung in silence for a minute before George perked up a bit. “I think I see something…”

Ginny leaned forward and Lupin raised his eyebrows encouragingly. Draco slouched against the wall.

“I see… a cauldron… and…. and some green stuff… it’s bubbling… it looks like it might explo—”

“George, you nimwit, that’s your memory, not mine!” Fred snorted.

“Oh,” George said brightly, “yes, I suppose it is.”

Lupin sighed. “Try again.”

The twins settled into their stares again, and this time Draco could tell that they had put aside their childishness and were truly focusing. Nearly three minutes had passed, during which no one spoke, until finally George broke out of the trance with a yelp, making all of them jump.

“Merlin! Fred, that’s bloody disgusting!” George exclaimed, his nose and upper lip curled up in an expression that confirmed his revulsion. “Really, the broom closet? I can see Angelina being as predictable, but I’d have thought you’d come up with someplace a little more creative.”

Fred just rubbed his neck and grinned, cheeks tainted pink.

“Alright, alright,” Lupin interjected, giving his head a quick shake and blinking as if to clear an unwanted image. “Time to switch. Fred, this time you try to enter George’s mind.”

The process went on in much the same manner of stopping and starting, focusing then distracting. It was utterly ridiculous, Draco thought. He sighed to himself, realizing that his days would consist of just such nonsense until the bloody war was over.

*********************************************************

Ginny watched her brothers absentmindedly, thinking back over the last few days of lessons. It had been frustrating to say the least—she was the youngest and had received the least training previously, and she detested being the worst at anything. Being the best was not so crucial, just so long as she was never at the bottom. She had never had to excel greatly in anything to be noticed, being the only girl in a pack of boys, but she had to work to keep up with them. It was easier to shine now that the trio had gone, her only competition being her ornery brothers and an apathetic captive.

“Ginny, Draco, your turn.”

Ginny lifted her chin ever so slightly and stepped confidently to the center of the open room, tossing her elbows so that her sleeves bunched up. Malfoy pushed off the wall and faced her in front of Lupin, looking so bored that it irritated her.

“Ok, Ginny, you can try first. Zone in on Draco if you can… don’t break eye contact. It might help if you focus on a certain emotion you’d wish to extract from his memory. Now Draco, for Occlumency you need to empty your—”

“I know how to do it,” Malfoy snapped.

Lupin looked at him oddly. “Very well, then. Ginny, when you’re ready.”

Ginny locked eyes with Malfoy and let out a long breath. As displeased as she was about entering the boy’s thoughts, she was determined to do well. Since the attack on Hogwarts, she had become less concerned with trifles and more determined to strengthen her skills. Anything that was not crucial to the war seemed trivial, so she spent her time on learning hexes, training with the Order members… hugging her family. It was one thing to know that war was impending, it was quite another to understand that all of life had potential to be a battleground and that there would be no laws, no safe havens. The war had begun with Dumbledore’s death, and the wizarding community would hold a collective breath and clutch their loved ones until it was over.

Her focus had already drifted, she realized, and she redirected her thoughts to her reluctant partner, who was standing tall yet slouching at the shoulders, arms crossed in front of him.

“Legilimens!” she shouted.

She stared intently at his cold, grey eyes, her head throbbing as she reached out with her mind to find his. She pictured the room around her fading into darkness and let her gaze travel over his face—his trunk-like neck and bulging Adam’s apple… his sharp jaw… his sallow cheekbones and his bony nose… his colorless, scraggly hair falling into his damnably bored, hateful eyes…

“Ginny,” Lupin sighed, “you’re letting your emotions distract you. I can tell you’re angry without even looking at you. Try again, and this time clear your mind and emotions first… when you look at him, focus on his emotions, not yours.”

Ginny gritted her teeth and slowly let her mind go blank before attempting, again, to concentrate on the detestable boy before her. She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them to revel Malfoy, actually looking attentive this time, and let her thoughts slowly drift towards him.

“Legilimens!”

She thought it a rather considerable improvement when she refrained from sending scathing emotions at him. She felt a difference immediately, like a tingling sensation down her back, and within a moment she sensed that she was inside his mind—or lingering on the edge of it.

She was unsure if her eyes were open or shut as images rushed past her in a blur and settled in a crowded corridor that she distantly recognized as Hogwarts. Students, stone walls, and buzzing sounds swirled around her. She felt fuzzy and weak, like she was hovering between sleep and waking, and the figures around her blended in and out of distortion. She was just starting to get her bearings when she realized what memory he was reliving. Her stomach flopped.

A crowd of students was gathered, Malfoy (flanked by Crabbe and Goyle) and Harry in the middle of it. A grim-looking dwarf was in the process of tackling Harry to the ground as Malfoy grinned. The dwarf, holding a pink parchment shaped like a heart, cleared his throat. Ginny slapped her hands over her ears in effort to block out what was coming next, but that did not stop the gruff song of the dwarf from echoing in her head—for it was her memory, too.

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he’s really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”

Students cackled as red embarrassment crept into Harry’s face. Draco was laughing louder than them all, and he turned to a frail, scared-looking girl with red hair. “I don’t think Potter liked your valentine much!” he sneered.

Ginny fought desperately and pulled her mind out of the connection, which had really only lasted a few seconds, the laughter echoing around her. The room came into focus and the first thing she saw was Malfoy’s cruel sneer.

“You git!” she hissed.

“Ginny,” Lupin said warningly, stepping in between them as he watched the red-head’s face color to match her hair. “I’m sorry, that was my fault. I should have warned you. It’s easy to switch roles when practicing Legilimency… even though someone might be on the defensive, they can manipulate what memories they let people see if their powers are strong enough.” He looked sharply at Draco, “I didn’t expect your abilities to be quite so advanced.”

Draco just smirked.

“Hang on,” Fred interjected, “so once you’re in someone’s mind, they can take you to whatever memory they choose?”

Lupin nodded, “if you submit to their powers or if their skills exceed yours, then yes.”

“Brilliant!” George exclaimed, “Fred, hop in! I’ll show you that idea for the Pus-Bubble Ointment I’ve been trying to explain to you…”

“Perfect! And then I’ll show you what the Double-Loop Reverse Spin looks like from on the broom… you haven’t been catching on during practices.”

“Fine then,” George said a little testily. “As long as you don’t take me to the broom closet afterwards…”

Their animated banter continued, but Ginny didn’t notice. Her attention was on Malfoy and she was flushed with anger. Her muscles twitched in desire to hex him, to tackle him, to cause him any sort of bodily harm. She fumed silently for a few seconds, and then her breathing slowed and a wry grin spread across her face. Malfoy was regarding the twins with a look of utter repulsion, momentarily distracted and hopefully defenseless. She stared eagerly at his averted eyes and whispered “Legilimens.”

She intended to drag his thoughts to her own memory—a memory in which she received the glory and he received a nose full of bats—but a sudden pang made her forget her mission. Without warning, weariness became so burdensome that sinking to the cool stone tile of the floor seemed inviting. A dull ache burned in her throat and her stomach was unusually empty—she almost felt afraid. But of what? She pushed past the fear, and it took only a second longer to realize that the aching in her chest was loneliness—loneliness contrasted with the odd desire to flee from the room and its company.

And just as suddenly as the rush of emotions onset her, she realized that they did not originate with her.

They were coming from Draco.

He was sneering at the twins, hands in the pockets of his robes, momentarily vulnerable to her amateur Legilimency attempts. Ginny stared at him—his hard, malicious expression clashing with the throbbing medley of hurt that she was sensing. His shoulders were squared, his head cocked mockingly, jaw set and grinding. The loneliness played nowhere on his exterior, and for a minute, Ginny was unsure if it was exuding from him at all.

But just then he realized her intrusion and snapped around with a piercing glare, cutting her intrusion off so sharply that the uncomfortable feelings she had sensed left her with a rush.

For a second she was unable to look away as he sneered at her maliciously, silently daring her to say a word. The twins chattered, Lupin gathered his papers—all of them unaware of the tension radiating from the center of the room. Draco broke the gaze first, storming out of the room. And it was as she watched the backs of his robes swish in angry retreat, his glare still piercing her heart, that she wondered how she had never noticed how blue his eyes were.

*********************************************************

“I’m just not sure what to make of it,” Tonks sighed holding up the Daily Prophet and jabbing at a headline: Five Muggles Found Stuck to Tall Buildings—Death Eaters Assumed Responsible. The article below it described the incident, greatly detailing the process of removing the people from the buildings and the difficulty in reconstructing their memories as well as those of the disturbed Muggles who had witnessed the bizarre sight. Specialists were currently investigating the origins of such a spell, which was a severe form of the sticking charm, and further information would be released upon confirmation.

“It doesn’t add up, does it?” Bill said thoughtfully, “You would think Death Eaters would be more up for, oh, say killing people than playing practical jokes.”

“Now Bill, don’t judge them just because they're Death Eaters,” chided Fred, “a good practical joke can be good for the soul.”

“Downright therapeutic, in fact,” George nodded, sipping at his steaming tea.

Tonks folded the paper. “I think the twins are right. Looks like a prank to me… and a pretty sick one at that.”

They all mused over this possibility.

“Could it mean something?” Ginny asked. “Like… like a code? Were the Muggles placed in any sort of arrangement? A symbol or something?”

Bill grinned at her, “You always have been bright, Gin. We’ve got a team of code breakers and translators working on it—”

“Which your brother is heading up!” Molly said proudly, patting Bill on the shoulder.

Bill rolled his eyes. “But so far there doesn’t seem to be any sort of structure to the placement. Which isn’t surprising… when Death Eaters attack they usually do it with violence and loud bangs, not with subtlety and hidden messages.”

“Mmm,” Ginny agreed.

Lunch being finished, the twins left to open their store for the afternoon while Molly began to pile the dishes neatly for the house elves. “Ginny, dear, would you make up a plate for Draco while I Floo your father? Just have Dobby take it up when you’re finished.”

“Where is Dad?” Ginny asked as she set about arranging the biscuits, ham, and corn on an empty plate. “And the rest of the Order?” It was common for various members to disappear for meals, or even for whole days, but today it seemed like a larger number than usual were missing. In fact, besides her brothers and her Mum, Tonks was the only one who remained.

Molly hesitated. “I’m not quite sure, Dear. I believe they’re all at the Ministry for something or other.”

“It’s a conference,” Bill offered as Tonks and Molly looked at him sternly. “Scrimgeour wants to make some sort of agreement with the Order regarding high-level, round the clock security for certain Muggle officials that the Death Eaters may see fit to eliminate.” He glanced at his mother. “What? She’s nearly grown up, Mum,” he said of Ginny, who was listening intently, though the information wasn’t as substantial as she had hoped.

“Well in any case,” Molly sighed, “the meeting should be on Lunch break, and I need to go Floo your father about the… well, I just need to speak with him,” she said, clearing her throat and leaving the Great Hall.

Ginny bristled inwardly as she finished making the plate. Living among the Order wouldn’t be quite so aggravating if she had any clue what was going on.



************************************************************************



Draco sat on a stiff-backed, maroon chair looking out over the Hogwarts grounds, an open book strewn forgotten across his lap. The chill permeated through the frosted windows seeped through his robes, but he barely noticed. He was used to the cold—the Slytherin dungeons in particular were dank. And shadowy. And mysterious. And dangerous, on occasion. But they were familiar, and that was why he walked them in the afternoons sometimes, between lunch and training sessions, when no one would think to look for him. Living in the Gryffindor tower everything felt foreign—too warm, too bright, too populated—and the dungeons provided a much needed escape.

There was a soft knock at the door, and when he didn’t say anything it opened to admit the Weasley girl carrying a plate of food. An uncomfortable feeling needled him as he battled between the agonizing urge to make a scathing remark about the gross amount of food on her plate and the head knowledge that he should at least act civil. She was, after all, dedicated to the organization that was keeping him hidden and therefore alive, and probably had enough influence to turn the tables out of his favor if she so chose. But as she stepped across the room to where he was seated with a determined look in her eye, he remembered the brief look of pity that had crossed her face when she had caught him unawares with her pitiful Legilimency. He could not stop the brainstorm of possible insults that then beset him. Oh, bloody hell.

“What’s that, Weasley? Did you sneak away with the family dinner before anyone noticed?” he drawled.

“No,” she answered sweetly, “we have a right banquet downstairs, in fact. But since you seem to be too good to eat with the rest of the world, I brought you the leftovers.”

He frowned at the plate. “They usually send a house elf up with it. The help around here seems to get shoddier by the day.”

Although the girl said nothing as she forcefully handed him the plate of food, he thought her saw a muscle twitch in her jaw and her nostrils flare briefly. She then proceeded to stand with her arms crossed as he poked at the ham with his fork. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“If you’re planning on waiting for me to finish you may want to take a seat. I’m not in the habit of gobbling like your half-starved brothers.”

She didn’t move.

“Or were you expecting me to tip you? Because all I have on me are Galleons, and your service hasn’t been worth near that. You haven’t even smiled once.”

“I was waiting for you to thank me,” she said through gritted teeth.

If he had been one to laugh, or if he were even familiar enough with the urge to recognize it, he would have. Instead he just stared at her as he buttered a biscuit and took a giant bite.

She gave a grunt of disgust, turned, and strode toward the door, and Draco was almost disappointed that the battle of wits was over. He thought fast for another insult, some offensive remark to offer in parting, something to spark a reaction or at least spite her one last time before her exit.

“Why did you lie to the Order about your precious trio?” he heard himself ask before he was sure of his next move.

Her reaction, if there was going to be one, was delayed. “Excuse me?” she said, turning slowly.

“Well seeing as how they questioned me about your friends’ disappearance, I assume they asked you as well.”

She said nothing.

“No? Perhaps I’m giving them too much credit.”

She eyed him suspiciously and said, “Of course they asked me… but what makes you think I know where they went?”

He had no reason other than speculation, so he just shrugged and took another bite of the biscuit.

“And if you’re so sure I know where they are, why haven’t you ratted me out?” she asked testily.

He sneered. “If I had done that, they might have found Potty and his sidekicks by now and ruined their chances of getting killed.”

Weasley narrowed her eyes and Draco grinned—this was the reaction he’d been pushing for. He took another bite of the biscuit and chewed absentmindedly as the girl nearly growled, “Let’s get one thing straight, Malfoy. I understand your circumstances and I am willing to tolerate you. I am willing to be civil towards you, and I had even started to feel a twinge of compassion—” she wrinkled her nose in disgust at herself, “—and I brought you your dinner because I thought you could use some company. But I will not stand here like a bloody troll and listen to you insult my friends! I realize that you’re a Malfoy and there’s no hope for you to change, but I thought that with all the Order’s done for you, you would have at least had the decency to suppress your vileness a little bit.”

With that she spun on her heal and slammed the door behind her. And strangely, it wasn’t her anger that left Draco feeling miffed and out of sorts, it was his own lack of pleasure in provoking that anger.



************************************************************************



They returned on Saturday, and that night Harry lay in bed unable to sleep. Anxiety coursed within him as his mind darted distractedly, first hypothesizing about Horcruxes, lingering for a minute on Ginny’s slender shoulders, and finally resting upon the war.

Until yesterday, Death Eater activity had been completely absent since Dumbledore’s death—a fact that surprised everyone. With the Order’s wise leader out of the picture, the time seemed ripe for Voldemort to execute his plans. The stillness made Harry uneasy. The war had started with the attack on Hogwarts, there was no doubt about that, but so far it was a cold war. The Order was antsy, nervous, waiting for the next battle, the next attack, the next anything.

Harry, on the other hand, was hoping to put off the climax of the war as long as possible—or at least until he had found and destroyed all of the Horcruxes. His mission to Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione had proved fruitless. The heavy golden locket was nowhere in the building, he was sure—Kreacher’s stash had not contained it.

And their return to Hogwarts had been just as discouraging. The minute they appeared in the dining hall they were pounced upon by Mrs. Weasley, who was followed by nearly every other member of the Order, all of them outraged and ecstatic in the same breath.

“For Merlin’s sake, where were you three?! We’ve been worried sick! Leaving without telling anyone?!”

“Don’t you realize how dangerous that was? No place is safe anymore…”

“Ron, we were worried your chocolate frogs would go bad, so we saved you the heartache of finding them ruined…”

“We’ve been sending search parties for days—what could have ever possessed you to pull a stunt like that?”

“Let them rest, they look exhausted… we can question them later…”

And the questioning, indeed, had proven to be both vigorous and hostile. Thankfully, Lupin had refuted the proposal to use Veritaserum, wisely suggesting that they give the teenagers the opportunity to reveal the truth on their own accord, and if necessary, resort to Veritaserum to fill in the gaps. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had appeased the Order momentarily with half-truths and vague answers, and were finally dismissed in frustration with the promise of meticulous surveillance and further questioning in the morning.

Harry was wracking his brain trying to come up with a convincing story when he heard Malfoy writhing in his bed. He snickered to himself, finding the idea of the arrogant Slytherin having a nightmare amusing, but when the boy began to mumble feverishly, Harry became irritated and yelled, “Malfoy!”

Instead, Ron sat straight up and spoke blearily, “Huh? What’s going on? Are the curtains getting you, too?”

Malfoy continued to wrestle and finally Harry got out of his bed and yanked open the curtains to his bed and yelled “Malfoy!”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed open and he immediately gripped his left forearm. Harry was surprised to see that the boy’s hair was matted to his sweaty forehead and his cheeks were wet. He was panting and looked terrified.

“You had a nightmare,” Harry said coldly and took a step back, trying not to appear startled.

Draco sat up with difficulty and gulped a few times. A look of intense pain etched his features. “I—the mark…” he gasped, and Harry immediately understood.

For a minute he wasn’t sure what to do. What could he do? His first thought was of Snape, who had often endured the burn of the mark, but the slimy Professor and only inside connection to Death Eater meetings had betrayed them.

“Harry, what—?”

“Ron, go get Professor Lupin.”



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It was only a few minutes before Ron returned with Lupin—and the rest of the bloody Order, it seemed—but it felt much longer as the fierce pain in Draco’s forearm began to creep its way up his shoulder and into his neck. He sat on the edge of his bed, keeled over and gripping his arm to his stomach. The pressure did little to alleviate the pain, so he held his breath and gritted his teeth; the more he moved, the more it hurt. He had never ignored the Dark Lord’s summons before. He had never needed to.

When Ron returned with the werewolf, Madame Pomfrey was also with them. They were followed by Tonks, McGonagall, Shacklebolt, Moody, and the entire Weasley family. The nurse knelt by the bed and asked him irritating questions which he answered in a strained voice.

"How bad is the pain?”

“Indescribable.”

“Is it limited to your forearm?”

“Hell no.”

“Is it causing you to feel dizzy?”

“Yes.”

“Nauseous?”

“Very.”

The nurse finally stood to speak to Lupin. "I’m not sure if there’s much I can do, but I have some potions that combined may ease the pain a little.”

“What did you do for Severus?”

“Nothing. He never ignored the call.”

The witch left, but the dormitory was still crowded and unmercifully noisy. It seemed that every occupant of the room was discussing his condition and just what to make of it. He felt like screaming, like telling them all to bugger off (though less politely) and leave him alone to concentrate on breathing steadily and keeping his tense muscles from twitching. If any of them had been paying attention to him, he might have done just that. But ironically, none of the detestable bunch seemed to have any awareness of the object of their conversations. They were oblivious to his pain.

Heat flushed him from both inside his suffering body and from the number of people in the small room. Suddenly the little oxygen he was now rapidly sucking in did not seem enough, and as the perspiration dripped down his scrunched face he felt a twinge of panic. He was keenly aware of his exploding heartbeat and the tightness in his throat, and was quite certain he was about to faint, scream, cry, or vomit, when a cool cloth pressed gently against his forehead and he released a gasping breath of relief.

“Try to calm down,” a soft voice said, “it’ll be over soon and then you can rest.”

He glanced up feverishly into the calm eyes of the Weasley girl. Potter stood behind her. For a moment he felt like sneering at them, snapping at the lowly girl not to touch him. But as she tenderly dabbed at his temples and neck, his breathing became less labored and his racing heart gradually began to slow. He rarely felt gratitude, but her kind touch and the relief that accompanied it were so soothing that a dry sob rose in his throat. He swallowed it hard.

As Weasley continued to tend to him, the pain in Draco’s arm slowly began to ebb, starting with his cramped neck and working its way down his shoulder. The Dark Lord must be getting ready to lift the call, Draco realized, and wondered with a stab of fear if he was able to know that one of those branded had not responded. He pushed aside the thought and glanced up once more, slightly embarrassed at his state, to find Weasley gazing at him with a neutral expression. Potter, however, was eyeing him bemusedly.

“What are you staring at, Potter?” Draco sneered.

Harry shrugged and was quiet for a moment before asking, “It hurts worse when you ignore it?”

“Obviously,” Draco spat.

“And you feel it at the whim of the Dark Lord?”

Draco just rolled his eyes as Weasley looked between him and Potter. “What are you getting at?”

Though the other boy was looking at him, he seemed to be staring straight through him as he said, “I guess we both have our scars.”



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Back in the Gryffindor commons where the occupants of the castle (minus one exhausted and ill-tempered Slytherin) congregated in the wake of the excitement, Ron was having a conniption.

“This is bloody ridiculous! That pompous git isn’t safe. We’re not safe! Here we are, Harry and I, sharing our dormitory with an evil, murderous Death Eater, and he’s not even grateful for it! He struts around with that ugly black mark on it and acts like the castle belongs to him!”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron,” Molly scoffed, “you’re not in any danger. And you knew he was marked long before this… what difference does it make now?”

“But—but, isn’t it against the laws to have the mark? Shouldn’t he be sent directly to Azkaban? I mean, think of what he probably had to do to get it,” he said, shivering a little.

Hermione rolled her eyes discreetly and said, “Honestly… there’s no need to be so dramatic—”

“I’m NOT being dramatic! I bet he had to drink Thestral blood, or… or torture a Muggle… or even kill one!”

“Then why don’t you ask him?” Ginny said testily. “If you’re so concerned about it just ask him nicely and maybe he’ll tell you. He’s been acting much less childish than some people,” she said, glaring at him pointedly. “Besides, you haven’t even been here the last few days. If you had been, you’d know that he doesn’t strut around the castle so much as he holes up in the dormitory.”

Ron spluttered. “Ginny! You’re on his side!” He stomped over to her and put a threatening finger in her face. “Something happened while we were gone, didn’t it? I saw the way you were with him just now… you almost acted like you felt bad for him… Ginny, did he do something to you?”

“Merlin, Ron!” Ginny nearly shouted, “What if I do feel bad for him? Didn’t you see how much pain he was in?”

“That is quite enough!” Arthur said sternly, coming up behind Molly and shooting Looks at his two youngest children. “Ginny, lower your voice. And Ron, I won’t have you storming about causing a ruckus over something that the rest of us have come to terms with.”

“Do you really think we haven’t taken precautions?” Mad-Eye Moody growled from the corner, having had quite enough of Ron’s outburst. “There are spells, boy… wards and enchantments that can prevent a person from leaving… from communicating……… booby traps, if you will. Do you think the Order would be stupid enough to give the boy complete freedom?”

“I’m sure he feels trapped as it is,” Tonks added from behind Lupin, “he has no friends and nothing to do with his time.”

“And his poor mother,” Molly said tearfully. “Who knows where she is… or if she’s even alive…”

“He’s just a boy,” Lupin said gently. “If we don’t help him, he has no one.”

“It’s what Dumbledore wanted, Ron,” Harry offered softly.

Ron glanced around at them all defensively, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly before finally realizing that he was outnumbered. Resignation and a hint of shame flitted across his face, but Ginny sighed as she watched him muster his pride, say “I’m sleeping with Fred and George,” and stomp out of the room.



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