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Deceptions	By : GypsyRaeyven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1779 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Characters, locations and certain plot details of this story are owned by JK Rowling and her respective publishers. I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), and I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter Three

The Accidental Horcrux

Hermione and Ron were in the Great Hall the following morning, just sitting down for breakfast, when Harry returned. News of his disappearance had somehow passed beyond the walls of Gryffindor Tower during the night, and now the entire school was debating where he was and why he had so mysteriously vanished. The overwhelming consensus seemed to be that something had happened to him at the hands of Voldemort and that he would likely never be seen again; bets were even being placed among the Slytherins as to his fate. So his reappearance caused quite a stir. He made his way between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, fending off questions from both sides with noncommittal answers, until he dropped down onto the bench beside Hermione. He looked utterly exhausted.

Ron leaned forward, no doubt to ask the same questions that everybody else wanted answering, but was swiftly silenced by a kick under the table, Hermione fixing him with a glare so fierce that he promptly stuffed a forkful of beans and sausage into his mouth instead and turned back to his copy of The Quibbler. She handed Harry a plate of fried egg on toast, which he accepted with the barest trace of a smile but made no attempt at eating. She knew he would tell them what was wrong in his own time, provided Dumbledore's request that he discuss it with no one didn't still hold. Either way, if the expression on his face was anything to go by, the last thing he needed was the two of them subjecting him to an inquisition on the matter. She felt a flutter of fear in her stomach as she surveyed him discreetly. Unless she was very much mistaken, the rumours that had been circulating the school overnight were not too far off the mark. This did have something to do with Voldemort. Harry's face was pale, the lines of stress and strain clearly visible as he stared down at his breakfast with blank, heavily lidded eyes. His scar stood out red and angry, visible even beneath the strands of hair that fell over it; if anything the contrast of the dark hair against it made it more noticeable this morning. Eventually he pushed away the untouched plate of food and pulled his glasses off, running a hand over his face wearily. He caught Hermione's worried gaze and sighed. “It's not good news.”

Hermione looked down at her own plate, her appetite slipping away. “Voldemort?” she whispered, not entirely sure she wanted an answer to that question. Ron shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the name and glanced between the two of them.

“Who else?” Harry mumbled. He looked around at the noisy Gryffindor table, acutely aware that he was the subject of most of the conversation not just there, but across the other three tables too. “I can't talk here.”

Hermione nodded. “Outside, then? Down by the lake?”

Harry yawned in reply. “Okay, but it will have to be at lunchtime. I need to get some sleep first.”

“You should have gone straight to bed,” Hermione admonished him gently. “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied dryly.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. Take it up with Dumbledore; he was the one who suggested I show up for breakfast first, to silence the rumours that have apparently been doing the rounds.”

“More than just doing the rounds,” Hermione admitted. “I think one of the Slytherin seventh years actually had ten Galleons on you having been abducted from your bed by Voldemort himself.”

Harry snorted and pushed himself up off the bench, giving his nodded assent to Ron as the redhead hesitantly eyed Harry's plate. “Go for it. I don't think I could eat it anyway, even if I was hungry.” Ron slid the plate towards him and deposited the egg and toast atop his beans. Hermione watched in irritation, wondering how he could even look at food after hearing what Harry had just said.

“Anyway, I'll see you later.” Harry turned to leave but held back as a tremendous amount of flapping, accompanied by a chorus of hoots, drew everyone's attention. Both he and Hermione looked up as the owls delivering the morning post swept down from overhead, searching for the recipients of their mail.

Hermione's eyes opened wide, almost as wide as Ron's did. It appeared that every person in the room must have received mail that morning. The ceiling of the Great Hall, which had been depicting a cloudless blue sky, was almost obscured by the sheer number of birds flying about. The three friends watched as the owls swooped, dropping letters and a few parcels into outstretched hands. Ron's little Pigwidgeon glided down and deposited a cream envelope addressed in black script into Ron's cup of tea. He picked the dripping envelope out just as Pig was bowled aside by Hedwig. Harry's owl landed gracefully on his shoulder and turned to face him, hooting forlornly as if picking up on his mood. The letter she carried was also cream with black lettering.

Hermione glanced around. Seamus, Dean and Neville all had one, as did Lavender, Parvati, Fay, and even Ginny Weasley. Looking behind her at the Ravenclaw table, it appeared they all had one too. Why was she the only one not to receive one? Not quite the only one, she amended, her eyes settling on the table on the far side of the room where an empty-handed Draco Malfoy was wrestling another of the cream envelopes from Blaise, who it appeared had been hit with a giggling charm; he was laughing so hard he was doubled up. She glanced back down the Gryffindor table, noting how Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati were also afflicted with fits of the giggles, so much so that their envelopes lay untouched. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she recalled the previous night in the common room, when she had been sure they were up to something.

Ron's jaw dropped upon opening his, and the look he gave her confirmed her suspicions. She held out her hand in a no-nonsense manner and Ron reluctantly placed the contents of the envelope in her palm. It was a matching cream card with two rings illustrated on the cover; one a silver band with a golden lion engraved around it, and the other a gold band engraved with a silver serpent. Hermione groaned. The noise level in the Great Hall went up considerably as others opened their envelopes to the same. With trepidation, she opened the card. In the same black script, it read:

Gryffindor House wishes to announce it will be holding a celebration feast in honour of the forthcoming Bonding between

Hermione Granger

and (for reasons* beyond our comprehension) Slytherin House's very own pet ferret,

Draco Malfoy

~

Everyone is invited!

Menu will consist of Wild Cherry Soup, Duck with a Wild Cherry Sauce, and Spiced Wild Cherry Cheesecake

(Wild Cherries are in no way poisonous to ferrets. Honest!)

Date to be confirmed.

In the meantime, we shall do all we can to help Hermione recover from her apparent head injury.

*we can only assume Hermione has heard about the mating rituals of ferrets, and quite likes the idea of being dragged around by her hair.

Hermione clutched the card so tightly her fingertips turned white. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Harry reacted first, tearing his card up into little pieces and throwing them onto the table in disgust.

“Pathetic,” he spat, and left without another word, a flapping Hedwig still perched precariously on his shoulder. Hermione desperately wanted to follow but she didn't have the luxury of coherent movement right at that moment. Or coherent thought, for that matter. “What in the name of–” she began, looking up at a bemused Ron. “Can you– I don't–” She broke off; coherent speech also seemed to be lacking. Draco, however, seemed to have no such problem. He was in the middle of a one-sided argument with a still-giggling Blaise. As Hermione watched, he threw the card and its envelope back at his friend and rose smoothly to his feet, his face a carefully schooled mask of impassiveness. He picked up his bag, said something to a bewildered Pansy Parkinson who had just arrived and missed the commotion, and strode out of the Hall. Only the tautness of his posture revealed any sign of his anger. Pansy, meanwhile, had picked up the card and read it, and was now in the middle of making it spontaneously combust. She then proceeded down the length of the Slytherin table, snatching up every card one by one and incinerating them too. When she stalked over to the Hufflepuff table and started on their cards, no one dared to protest. One look at her livid expression saw to that.

Hermione stared at the scattered remains of Harry's card, one clearly still showing the serpent ring, and slowly an idea began to form in her mind. She waved the card in her hand at Ron. “May I?”

Ron shrugged. “Be my guest.”

She stood and weaved her way between the tables to where Dean and Seamus were sitting, trying and failing to control their laughter. They soon sobered up, however, when they saw her steaming towards them; a pissed off Hermione was not something to be laughed at. “Hermione–” Dean started, but she cut him off.

“I read about an interesting spell the other day, when I was flicking through this year's Charms textbook.” She dropped the card on the table between them and snatched out her wand. “Would you like to see it?” Without acknowledging their panicked replies, she grabbed Seamus' right hand and dragged it alongside Dean's left. Before they could pull away she muttered 'Redimio', and both boys watched as a thin thread of magic wound out from her wand and wrapped itself tightly around their wrists.

“Male Bonding Spell?” inquired Kevin Entwhistle, leaning across from the Ravenclaw table to get a better view. “Nice...”

Hermione nodded. “I felt it was appropriate.”

“What does it do..?” Dean asked uneasily, poking the glowing thread. It pulsed brightly at his touch.

“Forces you to spend twenty-four hours in each others' company,” Hermione replied with a self-satisfied smile. “Enjoy your day.”

Dean and Seamus looked at each other in horror. Best friends they might be, but a whole day? Apart from the rather obvious problems that could present, Dean had planned to spend some time alone with his girlfriend, Ginny, that evening. And he had no intention of sharing that with Seamus. He jumped up as Hermione turned to leave. Unfortunately for him, Seamus didn't and the force that bound their wrists together brought him back to his seat with a thump. “Hermione,” he pleaded. “Look, it was only a joke. I'm – we're – sorry.”

Hermione ignored him as she walked away.

“We can't stay like this all day!” he tried again.

“I'm afraid you have no choice, seeing as only the caster can cancel it,” she replied over her shoulder, adding, “which isn't going to happen, before you ask.” She left Ron to finish Harry's breakfast and made for the doors, her intention to head back to her dormitory and add a little more to her Transfiguration essay before lessons started. But as she left the Hall, Draco Malfoy stepped in front of her. She barely avoided bumping into him.

He smiled. “Don't worry, I won't bite.”

Hermione glowered at him. “What do you want?”

He peered past her into the Great Hall. Neville Longbottom was waving his wand haphazardly over Dean's and Seamus' conjoined wrists while they tried desperately to get away from him. “I take it they were responsible for the sudden increase in owl activity this morning?”

Hermione nodded and pursed her lips impatiently. “I dealt with them.”

Draco smirked down at her. “So I see.”

“If that's all...” Hermione stepped around him but he reached out and grabbed her wrist as she went past. She immediately snatched free of his hold. “What do you want from me, Malfoy?”

His eyes glittered dangerously as he moved closer. Hermione responded by taking a step away from him, and then wished she hadn't as he swooped on it and used it against her. “What's the matter, Muggles?” he leered, playing up to the small crowd they had attracted. “Would you rather I kept my distance until after we're Bonded?”

She heard some sniggers behind her that faded as she looked over her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Ron leaving the Great Hall. Now, she supposed, was as good a time as any to put his idea into practise. When she turned back, Draco was watching her intently. She briefly considered Pansy's threat from the previous night and knew that the Slytherin girl would be furious at what she was about to do. But something about that thought rather appealed to her. She could almost envisage the look on the girl's pug-shaped face when she heard about it, and decided it served her right for accusing her of throwing herself at Draco in the first place. Taking a steadying breath, she flashed Draco the sweetest, most sugary smile she could manage, one Dolores Umbridge herself would have been proud of. “What's the matter, Draco? Not getting frustrated, are you?” She touched a hand to his cheek. “But then, considering who your girlfriend is, I suppose that's understandable.” She walked away without giving him the chance to respond, hurrying over to where Ron was waiting with a broad grin on his face. She slipped her arm through his and they hastened up the stairs together, giggling like children, leaving a stunned Draco Malfoy staring after them.

* * *

Harry slept until midday.

Ron and Hermione had foregone their lunch and were waiting for him down by the lake as arranged, in the spot where they always met when they wanted to talk in private. The same spot where Harry’s father, James, used to meet his own friends during his time at Hogwarts. The two watched as Harry approached with the air of someone with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Hermione patted the grass next to her and he sank down with an audible sigh. For a while no one spoke. The birds whistled and chirruped merrily in the trees and a large white butterfly fluttered past, hotly pursued by a bumblebee. Hermione swatted it away casually.

And then, with two simple words, Harry shattered the calm and tranquillity. “It's beginning.”

Ron's face instantly paled. Hermione was all attention. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Exactly what I said. It's beginning.” Harry’s calm, controlled voice made the moment seem that much more unreal.

Hermione glanced at Ron. His mouth was hanging open, aghast. “The war?” she asked, wanting to be sure of what she was hearing.

Harry nodded. “According to Snape, Voldemort has started gathering his Death Eaters from across the continent. The first ones arrived in the country yesterday and within hours a Muggle family were found dead in Kent. There's no doubt it was Death Eaters,” Harry added, seeing the look on Hermione's face. “They left the Dark Mark over their house. The Ministry is taking the attack very seriously; they're already working with the Muggle government to increase awareness and tighten security.”

Hermione's face grew progressively darker as she listened.

“Never mind the Ministry!” Ron's voice squeaked in a way it hadn't since it had broken several years ago. His freckles stood out starkly on his pale face. “What's Dumbledore going to do?”

Harry shifted uneasily. “Well, nothing really. He insists that as long as we have Snape keeping an eye on Voldemort, there's no need to do anything rash.”

“What?” Ron looked appalled. “He's just going to sit back and put all his trust in Snape? Put our safety into Snape's hands?!”

“Of course he isn't,” Hermione snapped at him. Ron's gaze turned to her. His mouth was opening and closing in a manner reminiscent of a fish. She studied Harry's face expectantly.

“Dumbledore believes that as long as Voldemort remains unaware of Snape's betrayal,” Harry continued, “the stronger the position we're in.”

Ron didn't look in the least bit reassured. “And how do we know that he's not double-crossing us?! He can't be trusted; we all know that. Why can't Dumbledore see it too?”

“He's not even going to tighten security here at Hogwarts?” Hermione interjected.

Harry took a deep breath, thinking his next words through carefully. “Apparently that wouldn't make much difference.”

Hermione frowned at him. “Why wouldn't it?”

“Because Hogwarts isn't as impenetrable as we've been led to believe,” he explained. “The truth is that ever since Voldemort returned, Hogwarts has been living on borrowed time.”

Ron looked close to fainting. There was no colour in his face at all now, even his freckles had gone. His eyes were blank as they gazed away into the distance.

Hermione stared at Harry. “Are you saying that Voldemort could have...” She faltered. “At any time?”

“Theoretically, yes.”

“Why didn't he?”

Harry shrugged. “Dumbledore thinks it's because he wanted to test his influence again first. To see how many of his Death Eaters remained loyal to him. It might not be impossible, but it won't be easy either. Definitely not something he can do alone.”

Hermione nodded grimly. “That would make sense.”

Harry looked over his shoulder at the jagged outline of Hogwarts, looking hauntingly beautiful silhouetted by the dazzling sun. “It's only a matter of time though.”

Hermione followed his gaze. “Do you think he will?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact voice. “So much of Voldemort is tied to this school. It symbolises everything he used to be. The Tom Riddle whose life he hated.” He looked down at his hands clenched in his lap. “And it also symbolises everything that he considers a threat.”

Hermione swallowed. “Because of Dumbledore. And... because of you. Because you're here.”

It wasn't a question, and Harry didn't answer.

There was another lengthy silence. Hermione looked around her at the other students mingling about, laughing and joking with each other. In the distance she spotted Hagrid, striding towards his hut with a bunch of wriggling carrots grasped in one hand. It all felt so surreal. “This is it, then,” she breathed, as if putting it into words would make it feel more believable. “The second war...”

Harry's eyes met hers. “You know what this means, don't you?”

Hermione's eyes shone with unshed tears. “You ... and Voldemort ... the prophecy...”

Harry reached up to rub his burning scar. “Speaking of which,” he continued grimly, “I've since found out that the memory I was shown of the prophecy was incomplete.”

Confusion crossed Hermione's face. “Incomplete? In what way?”

“Dumbledore withheld a part of it.”

“Why?”

“Because he didn't think I was ready to hear it. He showed it to me last night.”

“Why now? Because of what's happened?”

“Yes.”

“And..?”

Harry's eyes bored into hers. “I can't defeat Voldemort, at least not alone.”

There was a stunned silence. Hermione blinked in bewilderment. “What do you mean, you can't defeat him alone?” she asked. “It was the prophecy that said you would be the one to do it; how can it contradict itself like that?”

Harry ran his hands through his untidy hair. “Voldemort's evil, Hermione–”

“Tell us something we don't already know...” Ron muttered.

“–you have no idea,” Harry continued, ignoring the interruption, “NO idea what he's done.”

“Can you tell us?”

Harry bit down on his bottom lip as he considered Hermione's question. “Well, Dumbledore is still insisting that I discuss it with no one yet, but in all honesty I think I'm going to need your help. What Voldemort's done is the worst kind of magic there is. It means there's only one wizard alive who can bring about his death.”

“And he marked you as that wizard,” Hermione broke in. “The prophecy confirmed that.” She frowned. “How could it have been wrong? I don't understand.”

“It's not wrong, at least not that bit.” Harry hesitated, trying to find a simpler way of explaining. He decided to recount what Dumbledore had told him the night before.

Harry stared in disbelief at Dumbledore. Had he heard him right? He shifted awkwardly, trying to ignore the oppressive presence of Snape behind him. He could almost feel the Potions teacher's eyes on his back, burning into him. It made his skin crawl. Next to Snape stood Rufus Scrimgeour. It was the first time he had met the new Minister of Magic. Harry was unsure what he thought of the man; on the one hand he seemed to be a more sensible candidate for the position than his predecessor. He was obviously someone who would take control of the Ministry and not be afraid of making tough decisions, something Fudge had lacked. But there was also something about his nature that warned Harry against giving him his absolute trust. He struck him as the kind of person who would not hesitate to use someone in whatever manner he saw appropriate if it was in the greater interest.

“What do you mean, Professor?” Harry asked, trying to make sense of what Dumbledore had just said. “Are you saying that everything you told me – all that stuff about how one day I have to kill Voldemort – was a lie?”

“Not a lie, no.”

“Then what?”

There was a short pause. “I'm afraid I haven't been entirely open with you, Harry.”

Harry knew he should have seen this coming. “Again, Professor?” He was thoroughly fed up of Dumbledore's secrets by now.

Dumbledore gave him a contrite smile. “I can only apologise. As I have told you before, if I keep something from you it is because you aren't ready to know.” He began to pace slowly. "Unfortunately, as you have just heard, my hand has been forced in this matter.”

Harry was still awaiting an answer to his initial question. “What do you mean, Professor?” he asked again. “Why can't I defeat Voldemort?”

“You can't defeat him alone,” Dumbledore corrected.

Harry was becoming more confused the more Dumbledore tried to explain. “But the prophecy..? It said I would be the one to kill him.”

“And that is true.” Dumbledore turned to face him. Harry noticed for the first time that he was holding a book. “Do you recognise this?”

Harry nodded slowly. It was Tom Riddle's diary. Dumbledore handed it to him and Harry accepted it somewhat reluctantly. He turned it over in his lap and ran his fingers over the stained cover, tracing the hole left by the Basilisk fang.

“Tell me, Harry, have you given any consideration to what happened in the Chamber of Secrets that day?”

Harry glanced up at Dumbledore. “To be honest, Professor, I've tried not to think about it at all.”

“Perfectly understandable.” He, too, reached out and touched a finger to the ragged edge of the puncture mark. “Do you have any idea why stabbing it with the Basilisk fang had the effect that it did?”

“Not really.”

Dumbledore waved his hand and a chair appeared behind him. He sat down heavily and leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. “What you are holding there isn't simply a diary, as you are well aware. You saw the influence it had on Ginevra Weasley, and you know that in destroying it in the manner you did, you also destroyed the part of Tom Riddle that was locked within.

“Harry, what I am about to tell you will most likely horrify you, and rightly so. But it is something you must hear. And not just hear, but understand.” He watched as Harry flicked through the empty pages. “This is perhaps the single most important thing I will ever teach you. Do I have your full attention?”

Harry rested the diary in his lap and turned his eyes to Dumbledore's. “Yes, Professor.”

“Many years ago, when Tom Riddle was a pupil at this school, he gained knowledge of something called a Horcrux. A Horcrux, put simply, is an object used to store a portion of a person's soul, created by the most abhorrent means imaginable. It is forbidden magic, Harry, but something such as that would have been inconsequential to the boy who was to become Lord Voldemort. Have you never asked yourself why he looks the way that he does?”

Harry shook his head. “I can't say that I have, no.”

“Then you should have, for that is the greatest indication to what he has done. Tom used to be a handsome young man, but throughout his early adulthood he started to change beyond recognition. You are holding one of the reasons for those changes in your lap. That diary is one of six Horcruxes that he created, each time ripping his soul apart in order to store a piece of it within them, becoming a little less human in the process. It is these Horcruxes alone which prevent him from being mortally wounded.”

It was as if a lamp had suddenly been lit, casting light into some of the darkest shadows of Harry's mind. He stared at Dumbledore, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “That's why he didn't die when the Killing Curse rebounded from me to him...”

“That is correct.”

“And this diary...” Harry picked it up. “When I stabbed it with the Basilisk fang, the ink that poured from it...”

“That was the visual manifestation of that particular part of Voldemort's soul being destroyed. Basilisk venom is one of only a handful of ways known to do this.”

“And to kill Voldemort,” Harry continued, his mind racing as all the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place, “all of these Horcruxes must be destroyed?”

“Yes.”

There was a prolonged silence as Harry digested all this information. He could hear what he presumed was Scrimgeour fidgeting impatiently behind him, and the gentle snoring of Phineas Nigellus Black as the former headmaster slept soundly in his painting. For the first time in his life, Harry felt he had direction; he now knew how to defeat Voldemort, and the desire to set things in motion as quickly as possible was overwhelming. He met Dumbledore's steady gaze once again. “You said there were six of these Horcruxes, where can we find the others?”

Dumbledore reached silently for the sleeve covering his left hand and slowly pulled it back to reveal a swollen and extremely blackened hand.

Harry reeled in shock at the sight. “Professor?” he gasped, searching the headmaster's face for an explanation.

“Nothing to worry about, Harry,” Dumbledore reassured him. “It gives me no pain. But let it serve as a warning not to underestimate the power of a Horcrux.” He held out his damaged hand. A large gold ring set with a black stone adorned one of his fingers. Harry noticed that there was a crack splitting the stone in two. “This ring belonged to Tom Riddle's maternal family.”

“And it was also a Horcrux?”

Dumbledore nodded his affirmation.

“What happened to it?”

“If you are referring to the crack which destroyed it, I need only to point you in the direction of the shelf behind my desk.” The sword of Godric Gryffindor lay in its glass case beside the Sorting Hat, glinting in the flames from the torches lighting the room. “When you used it to kill the Basilisk, you imbued its blade with the creature's venom. It will play an invaluable part in the eradication of the Horcruxes.”

“And if the sword isn't to hand?”

“There are other ways, but they are not to be recommended; however, as you have asked... The first would be the Killing Curse itself. But used on inanimate objects – as Horcruxes ... tend ... to be – it can have unpredictable results. The second is any one of a handful of spells so devastating that they are rarely, if ever, used. The most notable of these is Fiendfyre, something that can quickly burn out of control and even turn on the most experienced of casters.”

Harry leaned in closer to better inspect the ring. It looked fairly unremarkable; there was nothing about it to suggest what it had been used for other than the crack. He noticed, at this distance, what appeared to be a coat of arms engraved into the stone, presumably that of Voldemort's mother's family. “How can you be sure that there are only six?” he asked. It seemed to him to be a random number, with no reasoning behind it.

“An excellent question, Harry.” Dumbledore smiled appreciatively at him. “Six Horcruxes would mean that the portion of soul remaining in Voldemort's body is the seventh. Seven is a very powerful number within the world of magic, and one that Tom Riddle is known to have attributed great importance to. Crucially, during his sixth year as a pupil here, he is known to have approached the head of Slytherin House with whom he discussed the subject of Horcruxes and the possibility of splitting the soul seven times.”

“But you don't know for certain?”

“No one does, with the exception of Voldemort himself. However, we are as certain as we can be. The soul can only be split a finite number of times. Anything more than seven would be pushing that limit beyond all reason.”

“Six, then.”

“Six,” Dumbledore agreed. “Which means that there are only four left to locate.”

Harry tore his eyes from the ring and looked up at the headmaster. “To locate? You don't know where they are then?”

“I'm afraid it's not quite as simple as that, Harry. In order for Horcruxes to be at their most effective they must be scattered far and wide, leaving nothing behind with which they can be traced. You can be sure that Voldemort will have hidden them well to protect them. Not only do we not know where they are, but we can't even be sure of what they are.”

Harry frowned. “Then what hope do we have of finding them?”

“Well, we have something in our favour. Tom Riddle himself.”

Harry gazed blankly at Dumbledore's smiling face.

“I knew Tom personally from having taught him myself when he was a boy. I have some insight into the kind of person he was and, most importantly, what he valued. Between us–” he nodded in the direction of Snape and Scrimgeour “–we have gleaned what information we can from that, and have drawn reasonably informed conclusions as to what the remaining Horcruxes might be.”

“And what are those conclusions?”

“Tom was never one to form emotional attachments or bonds to either people or places. But there was one notable exception.” Dumbledore rose to his feet and turned on the spot with his arms outstretched. “Hogwarts itself. This was the first place he knew where he truly felt he belonged. Somewhere that he could call a home of sorts. So much so, in fact, that he even applied to teach here after he had left. He was, of course, turned down.

“It is my belief that out of reverence to the school, and perhaps more than a little spite at having been denied a teaching position here, his remaining Horcruxes would have significant links to it.” Dumbledore's arms fell to his sides as he regarded Harry intently. “Four Horcruxes remaining. And what does Hogwarts have four of?”

Harry replied with the most obvious answer. “Four houses.”

Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. “Close enough, Harry. Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Gryffindor. But they are not only the names of the four houses.”

“The founders of Hogwarts,” Harry supplied automatically.

“Precisely.”

“So you think that the other Horcruxes will be objects which belonged to each of the founders?”

“Yes. And also that one, possibly more, might even be located within Hogwarts itself.” Dumbledore's face suddenly grew serious, the lines and wrinkles etched into his skin furrowing deeply as he studied Harry.

Harry instantly tensed. He had seen that look once before, three months ago. The night of Sirius's death. He had been sitting in this very office, and Dumbledore had been wearing that very expression as Harry had asked him, '...does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?'

There was a deeply uncomfortable silence which no one seemed willing to break. Harry's thoughts returned to the question he had asked several moments previously, to which he had still received no answer. “What relevance is all this to me not being able to kill Voldemort alone?”

“Professor Dumbledore is just about to explain that, aren't you?” Scrimgeour's patience had finally run out.

Dumbledore smiled sedately at him. “Indeed, Minister.” He addressed Harry again. “At the end of last term, I showed you my memory of the prophecy Sybill Trelawney made. However, there was a portion of it that I didn't show you. You would have seen it when the time was right; unfortunately, that time has arrived sooner than we anticipated.” He nodded to Snape, who took the Pensieve from its cabinet and placed it on Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore peered at Harry. “This is the portion of the prophecy that I withheld.” He tapped his wand to his temple, withdrawing the silky threads of his memory, and then stirred it into the water.

Harry rose from his seat and approached the Pensieve slowly. At a nod from Dumbledore, he leaned over and looked in. There was the revolving shape of Sybill Trelawney, draped in shawls as before, eyes bulging behind her thick glasses. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke.

“To defeat this most challenging of foes, he must utilise the powers of an equal, one tainted with the blood of his black magic ancestry. A bearer of the mark of the Dark Lord himself...”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Ron frowned.

Harry shrugged noncommittally. “Dumbledore said I would understand when I needed to.”

“You think he knows?”

“I'm sure he does.”

Hermione's eyes had glazed over. “Snape...” she whispered.

Ron looked at her sharply. “Are you seriously suggesting he may need Snape's help to defeat Voldemort?” he asked with a deprecating snort.

Hermione glared at him in exasperation. “I don't know! But he does fit the description, doesn't he?”

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, considering this thought. For the first time in six years, Harry found himself fervently hoping Hermione was wrong. The last person he would ever ask for help would be Snape, regardless of what any prophecy said.

“So, what happens now?” Ron asked eventually.

“There's no way you're prepared to face Voldemort,” Hermione interjected, before Harry could answer. “You can't even Apparate yet.”

“I don't think he's going to defeat Voldemort by Apparating, Hermione,” Ron remarked dryly. “Unless he Apparates on top of him and he keels over from the shock.”

Hermione scowled at him. “I wasn't suggesting that. This isn't just about Voldemort, you know. There's a war starting and Harry's going to be at the heart of it. Being able to Apparate might just save him if the need arises.”

“Well, it's funny you should say that,” Harry told her. “The Ministry have given me a special licence to learn while I'm underage; McGonagall is going to teach me in my spare time.” He hesitated. “And Snape will be giving me extra Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons as well.”

“Are you serious?!” Hermione exclaimed. “After what happened with the Occlumency lessons?”

“I don't have much choice,” Harry replied. “Time has all but run out. If I don't have these extra lessons, you're right. I won't be prepared.”

Ron and Hermione both studied him; Ron's face unreadable, Hermione's visibly concerned.

“That's not all,” he continued. “Last night I went with Dumbledore and Snape to Grimmauld Place. Do you remember that locket that we found last year, when we were cleaning out the drawing room?”

“The one that no one could open...” Hermione frowned. “Wasn't it thrown out with the rest of the rubbish?”

Harry nodded. “When Dumbledore told me about the Horcruxes, he mentioned a locket that belonged to Salazar Slytherin. I told him about the one we had found and he thinks it might be the same one, especially considering where we found it. Something like that would have made the perfect Horcrux.”

“But if it was thrown out, it will be long gone. There's no way we will find it.”

“That's just it, though, it wasn't thrown out.”

Hermione's frown deepened in thought. Harry waited, fully expecting her to find the answer for herself. He wasn't disappointed. “Kreacher!” she exclaimed.

“Precisely. He stole loads of things back from us, there was a good chance that the locket was among them. When we asked him about it, he eventually admitted that the locket was still within Grimmauld Place.”

“But?”

“He modified his own memory so that he wouldn't be able to reveal where.”

“Which suggests that it could well be a Horcrux!” Hermione exclaimed. “Why else would he go to so much trouble to hide it?”

“It's certainly suspicious,” Harry agreed, “although if it is a Horcrux, I doubt that he knows. As it's the only real lead we have, it's the obvious place to start. Remus, Tonks and Ron's parents are already turning the house upside down looking for it, but Dumbledore thinks I might be more effective given the link I have to Voldemort. If it does contain a piece of his soul, he seems to think I might be able to connect with it somehow. Yeah, I know, it's a long shot,” he admitted, seeing Hermione's sceptical look. “But, either way, I'll be an extra pair of hands in the search.”

“So, you won't be in school for the rest of term while you're looking for these Horcruxes?” Ron looked confused.

“Of course I will,” Harry replied, “weren't you listening? Everything has to carry on as normal. Most of Slytherin House are related to Death Eaters in some way; we can't risk doing anything that would draw attention to us. If that happens, it may push Voldemort into acting sooner. At the moment he's just content to play his mind games. He knows I'm not going anywhere because, for now at least, Hogwarts is the safest place for me.”

There was a short pause. “And in the meantime more innocent people die.”

“Ron!” Hermione gasped, shocked by the stark brutality of his words. She glanced worriedly at Harry.

“Well, it's the truth.”

“Do you think I don't know that?!” Harry responded angrily. “I'm not blind to what's going on! But what choice do I have? I'm the only one who can defeat him, whatever the stupid prophecy says, and that can't happen until all of his Horcruxes are destroyed.”

“And what about my mum and dad? What choice did they have when their home was burned out from underneath them? If it wasn't for–” Ron broke off suddenly and exhaled in frustration.

Harry scrambled to his knees. ”If it wasnt for what? If it wasn't for me? Come on, Ron, say it. If it wasnt for me, it wouldn't have happened?”

”That's not what he meant, is it, Ron?”

Ron looked up at Hermione from beneath his long red fringe and shrugged.

”Oh, I know what he meant. In case you hadn't realised, Ron, nobody's forcing your parents to stick around. They could quite easily take you all into hiding, and no one would question why because we all understand the risks they are taking. I understand. But they chose to be a part of all this, to be a part of the Order. They chose, of their own free will!”

Ron turned his head away, refusing to meet Harry's gaze.

“Believe me,” Harry continued, his eyes flashing furiously, “if there was any other way I would gladly take it. Hell, I would happily walk to my own death right now if I thought it would make a difference! But it won't, and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it!”

Hermione placed a hand on Harry's arm. He turned his glare on her and she shook her head. “Now isn't the time to be falling out with each other,” she said softly. She turned to Ron. “We both know how difficult this is for you. You've had to grow up hearing about Voldemort, living with the after-effects of the first war and what happened to your uncles. But none of this is Harry's fault; he's as much a victim as you are.”

Ron concentrated on pulling at a loose thread in the sleeve of his jumper, deliberately avoiding her gaze.

“Ron...” she persisted.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled eventually, staring off into the distance. “I'm sorry.”

“Harry?”

“Forget it,” Harry snapped, falling back onto the grass and covering his face with his arms.

Hermione sighed in quiet discontent, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the tapping of his fingers on his shoulder as he battled to reign in his temper. For a while no one spoke, each of them alone in their thoughts.

“There's something you're not telling us,” Hermione said suddenly, her eyes narrowed at Harry. “Something about all this doesn't quite add up.”

The tapping stopped. She was right, and Harry could tell that she knew it. He should have known he couldn't hide anything from her, she was more perceptive than a Sneakoscope. He raised an arm and looked up into her brown eyes, wondering how he could possibly tell her the truth.

That in order to defeat Voldemort, he might very well have to die first. Not instead of, as the prophecy had implied.

Hearing Dumbledore admit that to him last night had shocked him more than anything ever had or probably ever would; how would she and Ron react to it? He shook his head. He couldn't do it. The emotions it had unleashed within him were still so incredibly raw and painful; he was barely managing to hold himself together. He couldn't stand to put his friends through that too. “No, Hermione,” he insisted. “There's nothing else.” He felt awful for lying to her but he couldn't face the alternative. Not yet.

Hermione regarded him, suspicion and doubt marring her features, but to Harry's relief she didn't pursue the issue. “How will you fit it all in?” she asked instead.

“Well,” Harry explained, grateful for the change of subject, “the extra lessons will have to be done in my spare time, under the pretence of more remedial potions lessons from last year.”

“And searching for the Horcruxes?”

Harry grinned and reached inside the neck of his jumper to pull out a round golden object on a long chain. “Remember this?” It was McGonagall's Time Turner, the one Hermione had used during their third year.

“Oh...”

“So, I can be everywhere at once and no one will be any the wiser.”

Hermione picked at a blade of grass. A couple of first years ran past, chasing one of the wriggling carrots she had seen Hagrid carrying before. Hagrid wasn't far behind, huffing and puffing. He raised a hand in her direction and Hermione waved back. All around them life was carrying on as normal. A thought suddenly occurred to her. “What about last night? It's all over the school how you just vanished and didn't resurface until this morning. Won't that attract suspicion?”

“That couldn't be helped. Everything happened so fast from the moment Snape told Dumbledore what had happened down in Kent.” Harry shrugged. “Snape's handling it. He's going to let slip to the Slytherins that I had to go to St Mungo's to have a miscast Impediment Jinx lifted.”

“Will they believe it?” Hermione asked doubtfully. It didn't sound all that plausible to her, especially as it was something which could easily have been handled by Madam Pomfrey.

“Coming from Snape they should...”

* * *

Harry trudged along several yards behind Ron and Hermione as they returned to the castle after lunch. He had debated with himself long and hard over whether to tell them everything that Dumbledore had told him the previous night, but it was only when Hermione had actually broached the subject of what he wasn't saying that he knew he couldn't. Part of him wanted – needed – to share the burden with his friends, but his own inability to voice the cold hard facts had stopped him; the lack of an inner strength needed to deal with their emotions on top of his own prompting him to withhold it from them as Dumbledore had with him. But here, in the confines of his memory, it played out over and over again, taunting him. There was no escaping the cruel irony of the situation he now found himself in.

Dumbledore's face suddenly grew serious, the lines and wrinkles etched into his skin furrowing deeply as he studied Harry.

Harry instantly tensed. He had seen that look once before, three months ago. The night of Sirius's death. He had been sitting in this very office, and Dumbledore had been wearing that very expression as Harry had asked him, '...does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?'

There was a deeply uncomfortable silence which no one seemed willing to break. Harry's thoughts returned to the question he had asked several moments previously, to which he had still received no answer. “What relevance is all this to me not being able to kill Voldemort alone?”

“Professor Dumbledore is just about to explain that, aren't you?” Scrimgeour's patience had finally run out.

Dumbledore smiled sedately at him. “Indeed, Minister.” He addressed Harry again. “At the end of last term, I showed you my memory of the prophecy Sybill Trelawney made. However, there was a portion of it that I didn't show you. You would have seen it when the time was right; unfortunately, that time has arrived sooner than we anticipated.” He nodded to Snape, who took the Pensieve from its cabinet and placed it on Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore peered at Harry. “This is the portion of the prophecy that I withheld.” He tapped his wand to his temple, withdrawing the silky threads of his memory, and then stirred it into the water.

Harry rose from his seat and approached the Pensieve slowly. At a nod from Dumbledore, he leaned over and looked in. There was the revolving shape of Sybill Trelawney, draped in shawls as before, eyes bulging behind her thick glasses. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke.

“To defeat this most challenging of foes, he must utilise the powers of an equal, one tainted with the blood of his black magic ancestry. A bearer of the mark of the Dark Lord himself...”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Harry frowned, raising his head.

“One thing at a time.” Dumbledore indicated for Harry to sit back down. “If we are correct with our assumption that Voldemort has Horcruxes related to each of the founders, the next thing we need to establish is what they might be. We have, as yet, identified nothing which can be linked to Rowena Ravenclaw, and have only a vague reference to a cup which once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. Salazar Slytherin, on the other hand, was known to have worn a locket heirloom around his neck; the same locket, not by coincidence I'm sure, which ended up in the possession of one Hepzibah Smith, a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff, who also owned the cup. Both items went missing at the time of her death.”

Another long silence followed. “What about Gryffindor?” Harry prompted eventually, his patience diminishing as rapidly as the Minister's.

Dumbledore's eyes met Snape's momentarily before he turned his back on the room and wandered over to the window which overlooked the Quidditch pitch. Harry watched him helplessly, desperate to know all the facts before the man closed up on him yet again, as was seeming likely.

“Gryffindor's,” sneered a voice from behind him, “we believe to have been created... accidentally.”

Harry turned in his seat to find Snape's penetrating black eyes fixed on him. “What do you mean?”

“No, Severus, let it be me. I must be the one to tell him. It is the least I can do.”

“Then do it, Headmaster,” came Snape's harsh reply. “We have no time to waste on such sentimental foolishness.”

“Professor Snape makes a valid point,” Scrimgeour agreed. “If we are to act now, the boy needs to know everything. We cannot be left in the situation where he finds out at the last possible moment and is not prepared. I know it sounds callous, but the time for protecting him is over.”

Harry watched and listened as Snape and Scrimgeour proceeded to discuss him at length, growing more and more agitated as they talked about him instead of to him. Eventually he decided he'd had enough and launched himself to his feet. “Will you ALL stop talking as if I'm not here!”

Silence immediately fell in the room. Phineas Nigellus awoke with a start mid-snore and peered around with bleary eyes.

“I don't care who does it, but will somebody PLEASE tell me what's going on. I just want to know!”

Dumbledore released his grip on the window sill and turned to face Harry.

“Please, Professor,” Harry implored him. “The Minister is right. The time for protecting me is over. I want to know everything, and I want to know it now.” To have finally had the courage to say those words, to have them out in the open, felt like a weight being lifted from Harry's shoulders. He held his breath.

Dumbledore nodded slowly at him. “Yes, Harry. Forgive me, you are quite right.” He waited for Harry to return to his chair, casting a worried glance at Snape and Scrimgeour whilst the boy's back was turned to him.

Harry's stomach fluttered uneasily as he sat back down. He wiped his clammy palms on his trousers and tried to steady his breathing. Now that the fight to get the truth was finally over, he wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room without ever hearing it. Dumbledore's erratic behaviour, more than anything, was making him nervous.

“To fully understand what I will tell you, you need to know how a Horcrux is created,” Dumbledore began without preamble. “There is only one thing in the world that has the power to rip apart a soul and that is the act of killing another. Each time Voldemort created a Horcrux, it was preceded by a murder. This ring, for example, was created following the death of Tom Riddle senior, Voldemort's own father.” He gestured at the diary, which had fallen to the floor when Harry stood. Harry looked down at it. “You can probably work out for yourself whose death brought about the creation of that particular Horcrux.”

Harry nodded. The diary had shown it to him itself four years ago, although he had been unaware of the significance at the time. “Moaning Myrtle...”

Dumbledore sighed. “Harry, this next bit will be as difficult for you to hear as it will be for me to say. All I ask is that you allow me to finish.” He didn't wait for Harry's response; now that he had started he seemed unable to stop until all was said and done. “I want to take you back to the night of the thirty-first of October, fifteen years ago.”

The night his parents had died. Why was Dumbledore doing this, dragging up all these painful memories yet again? “Professor, is this necessary?” Harry interrupted, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Yes, Harry, I'm afraid it is.” Dumbledore rounded on him suddenly, robes billowing around his ankles. “You wanted to know the truth and you have that right. Moreover, you have the need to know. If I am being insensitive then I am deeply sorry, but there is no other way.”

Harry couldn't recall ever seeing Dumbledore look so tense and uneasy. He stared up at him, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Voldemort's intention that night was to murder you, and with your death create his sixth and final Horcrux.” Dumbledore loomed over Harry, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, blue eyes piercing into Harry's. “But you were protected by the sacrifice your mother made, and his magic couldn't touch you. Instead, in committing such acts of evil against James and Lily, he rendered his soul so unstable that when the Killing Curse rebounded from you to him, his soul fragmented and he accidentally created his last Horcrux.”

Harry waited for more, but nothing more came. Dumbledore's hands moved from the arms of the chair to Harry's shoulders, gripping him tightly. That single, solitary movement said it all; it was like a blow to the stomach for Harry. His eyes widened in something midway between fear and horror as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. For the first time, Harry could see everything as clearly as Dumbledore always had, and the decisions the headmaster had taken over the years at last began to make sense. With a shaking hand Harry reached up to touch the scar on his forehead and as his fingers made contact there was a twisting stab of pain. But for once this pain wasn't from the scar that had troubled him almost every day for the past six years. This pain ran much deeper than that. It clutched at his heart as the realisation sank into him, the sheer agony forcing him to collapse back into his chair as his life, quite literally, fell to pieces around him.

And there it was; the reason he could not kill Voldemort alone. Because he was the final Horcrux. Short of a miracle, which Scrimgeour insisted they were searching for, he would need to die before Voldemort could be killed. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memory out of his mind. Instead, he recalled Dumbledore's earlier words from the previous night regarding Tom Riddle and Hogwarts. 'This was the first place he knew where he truly felt he belonged. Somewhere that he could call a home of sorts.' Harry shuddered at the thought that he and Voldemort had both found the same sanctuary within the castle's walls, had both looked upon it as the home they had never had. It was yet another thing they shared. Both of them half-bloods. Both of them forced to grow up without their parents, never knowing what it was like to be loved. It sickened him to know that he had so much in common with someone so twisted and evil. And now to know that he was, in part, keeping Voldemort alive...

“Harry!”

Hermione and Ron were waiting for him in the open doorway to the entrance hall. With a tremendous effort, Harry pushed his thoughts to one side for the time being; it wasn't as if he could do anything about the situation anyway, and dwelling on it wouldn't help. He broke into a jog to catch up and together they made their way inside, pushing through the crowd spilling out of the Great Hall. As they approached the stairs, Crabbe and Goyle stepped out in front of them, blocking their way. Hermione looked around. “Okay, so we've got the two parasites, where's the ferret they cling to?”

Right on cue, Draco Malfoy spoke up from behind them. “H-H-Hey, P-P-P-Potter. Heard y-y-y-you had a little a-a-a-accident y-y-y-yesterday.” Snape had obviously done his job. People that were close enough to overhear sniggered as they passed by.

“Oh, here he is.” Hermione turned to face Draco. He, however, was looking at Ron.

“You really are a disgrace to pureblood wizards, Weasel. You can't even cast a simple Impediment Jinx!”

Ron's jaw dropped indignantly. Hermione grabbed him before he could put his foot in it and shoved him and Harry through Crabbe and Goyle, who obligingly stepped aside. “He was messing around!” she hissed at Draco, trying to cover up any slip. “An accent on the wrong syllable, that was all. Anyone could have done it.” She turned to follow Ron and Harry but Crabbe and Goyle had blocked the way again. She glared at them. They glared back. Then she froze; Draco was right behind her.

His hands grabbed her wrists, holding them firmly behind her back. His lips brushed her ear lightly as he leaned forward and whispered, “I know what you're up to, Granger.”

Hermione's heart gave a panicked flutter. Surely he couldn't mean..?

“That little display of affection earlier,” he continued. “Not very wise of you. Let me give you some advice. Never play the master at his own game.”

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. For a sickening moment she thought he must have been listening in on their conversation down by the lake. Harry had gone a strange shade of grey, apparently thinking the same. She shook her head at him when he stepped forward to intervene, making it clear she could handle it. Yet again, she and Draco were the centre of attention. She tilted her chin to the right in order to look at him. Their lips were little more than an inch apart. “Don't fool yourself, Malfoy.” Her voice remained low and steady, despite his grip on her wrists tightening painfully. “The only thing you're master of are those two dimwits.” Her eyes slipped towards Crabbe and Goyle, who didn't even seem aware that she had insulted them. “Not something to boast about in my opinion.”

Draco scowled. “If you think–”

“Mr Malfoy!” Professor McGonagall's sharp voice carried over the murmurs of the gathering students as they stopped to watch. “A word...”

He didn't let go immediately. “You'll get yours, Mudblood,” he warned her. “Just when you least expect it...” Then he released her, pushing her away from him as he did. Harry caught her as she stumbled over Crabbe's outstretched foot.

Ron pointed a finger at Draco. “You leave her alone, you– you–” He broke off abruptly, appearing to reconsider what he was about to say. “Just leave her alone,” he finished with a half-hearted glare. By his friend's usual standards, even Harry had to admit it was a somewhat feeble threat.

Draco laughed, apparently in agreement. “Is that the best you can do, Weasel? You disappoint me.”

McGonagall was approaching fast. “Come on, let's get to class,” Harry said, pulling Ron away.

“Wait there, Miss Granger!” McGonagall called, as Hermione turned to leave with them. She raised her voice, pointing out that anyone still there and not on the way to class risked losing their respective house ten points each. Everyone began to file away, talking in low voices and looking speculatively at Hermione and Draco. “That goes for you too, Messrs Crabbe and Goyle. I'm sure Mr Malfoy will be quite alright without you for a moment.”

Crabbe and Goyle reluctantly followed Harry and Ron up the marble staircase and out of sight.

“Well... Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy...” McGonagall said, coming to a halt before them. “I have heard quite a lot about the two of you over the last few days.”

Draco lounged against the stone banister. Hermione pointedly looked in the opposite direction. Neither said a word.

McGonagall perused them for a moment. When it was clear she wasn't going to get a response, she pursed her lips. “I must say that I am very glad to see you getting along so excellently. It will be to your advantage.”

Hermione frowned at her. “In what way, Professor?”

“Because, Miss Granger, you and Mr Malfoy have been chosen to represent your houses on the organising committee for the Winter's Ball.”

* * *

Friday afternoon found Harry and his classmates gathered in a cold, draughty classroom in a remote part of Hogwarts they had not previously been aware existed. The reason for this was the one thing Harry had been looking forward to most this term alongside his return to the Quidditch team; the beginning of their Apparition training. For this purpose, the entire wing of the castle which housed this classroom had been permanently sealed off from the rest of the building to enable the anti-Apparition shields to be lifted for the duration of each lesson.

Professor McGonagall stood before them, a smile on her face. Beside her stood what could only be described as the most peculiar looking man Harry had ever seen. He was small, with wispy hair, and had an oddly diaphanous quality to his appearance. In fact, the longer Harry looked at him, the more he became convinced that he could see right through him to the wall of the classroom on the other side. It was extremely disconcerting.

“Good afternoon, sixth years,” McGonagall began, “and welcome to your first Apparition lesson. I should begin by explaining my presence. The techniques involved in learning to Apparate successfully are, you may be surprised to learn, ones that you are already familiar with. Apparition involves remembering three important things: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. The basic principles of which are shared, in part, with the act of transfiguring. Therefore, as your Transfiguration professor, I shall be assisting in these lessons.” She turned to the translucent man on her right. “This is Wilkie Twycross, a Ministry-licensed Apparition trainer, who will be overseeing the tuition of those among you who are over seventeen and therefore legally allowed to Apparate.”

Wilkie Twycross nodded politely at the assembled students.

“For those of you who are underage,” McGonagall continued, “which is currently all but one of you, your tuition shall be with me.” She gestured to her left, directing everyone's attention to the wall at the far end of the long, narrow room. Etched at random positions into the otherwise plain stone wall were numerous circles of varying size and colour. “These are the target marks for the practical parts of your training. Use of these will aid in the focus and precision needed to Apparate to a destination safely. There are many ways in which to do this; for now we will concentrate solely on being able to hit one. Mr Potter, perhaps you would like to demonstrate for us?”

“Me?” Harry asked, somewhat startled at the request.

“Yes, you,” McGonagall replied impatiently. “Unless we have acquired another Mr Potter within the last few minutes that I was not aware of?”

“Let's hope not, one's bad enough,” Theodore Nott commented to his fellow Slytherins.

“Perhaps you would like to refrain from sharing your opinions in future,” McGonagall remarked loudly over the resulting sniggers, “otherwise there shall be need for another Mr Nott to replace the one I will personally remove from this lesson.” The sniggers grew as pupils from the other houses joined in. Nott glared at McGonagall but knew better than to answer back the sharp-tongued professor. McGonagall herself pointed to a white chalk line on the centre of the floor as if the interruption had never happened. “Position yourself behind that line and choose a mark to aim for, Potter,” she instructed.

Wand in hand, Harry approached the line, his eyes scanning the target marks as he debated which one he should pick. The smaller ones were incredibly hard to see at such a distance and he knew he stood a good chance of missing one of those. If he chose a larger one, however, he would be making it far too easy for himself, and the Slytherins would be on his back for the rest of the lesson.

“We would all be grateful for a decision sometime today, Potter,” McGonagall prompted at length.

“Uh, the black one,” Harry answered, settling on one of the more average-sized targets.

“Very well,” McGonagall replied. “The incantation for this spell, which you should all learn, is Verus Intentio. Now, I want you to point your wand at your chosen target, visualise the spell hitting it, and then cast it with as much determination as possible.”

Harry nodded. “Okay.”

“I would say in your own time, Potter,” McGonagall added dryly, “but I fear we may still be here tomorrow morning if I did.”

With everyone watching, Harry suddenly felt very self-conscious. He turned his back to them, his eyes focusing on the black target mark which somehow seemed smaller than it had a moment ago. Frowning slightly in concentration, he slowly raised his wand, aiming it directly at the centre of the circle. “Verus Intentio,” he muttered, and a flash of blue light exploded from the end of his wand with so much force that it momentarily knocked him off balance. He hardly noticed, however, as his attention was very much on the far wall. He stared in astonishment as the target marks suddenly shimmered the moment the spell was cast and the black circle vanished, reappearing in a different location further to the right. Harry's spell hit the wall where the mark had previously been with a puff of chalky dust.

“Not enough focus on your destination, Mr Potter, although your aim was faultless.”

Harry turned to see Wilkie Twycross observing him with his grey eyes. “Er... thanks,” he replied awkwardly. There was something about the man's gaze which made him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

“I wouldn't thank me just yet. Had that happened during an Apparition, there's no telling where you would be right now.”

Harry was spared the need to reply by Hermione. “Professor, may I try?” she asked.

“Of course.” McGonagall waved her forward and Hermione took her place behind the white line. “As you will have seen from Mr Potter's attempt,” the professor said to the class in general, “the targets not only change location, but also size. This is to enable us to assess your skill at aim and precision, as well as your ability to focus on a destination. If you visualise your spell hitting the target strongly and clearly enough, it will not matter where it moves to or how far.” She glanced at Hermione.

“I'll take the white target,” Hermione announced after a quick examination of the wall. Harry watched as she raised her vine wood wand and took a few seconds to line it up with her target. Then, with her head held high, she spoke the words of the spell in a clear, confident voice. The blue light glowed at the end of her wand for a moment before it was released, arcing smoothly down the length of the room. As before, the targets shimmered and shifted, the white target moving quite a distance to the left and growing slightly in size. If there was any change in the trajectory of Hermione's spell it was far too subtle to be seen; however, it made contact with the wall at the target's new location but, to Hermione's obvious disappointment, just far enough off-centre to clip the outer edge of the neighbouring purple target.

“A valiant effort,” Wilkie Twycross observed as Hermione returned to Harry's side. “In contrast to Mr Potter's attempt, your focus on your destination was impeccable.” Those grey eyes slid sideways to Harry in an almost mocking gesture, and Harry decided there and then that he did not like this man.

“Is there anybody else who would like to try?” McGonagall asked. Not to be outdone by his friends, Ron put up a hand. “Come along then, take your position.” McGonagall eyed him warily as he passed her to make his way to the chalk line. “Which target will you take?”

“Er... the yellow one,” he replied, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper. Harry's eyes met Hermione's and he could see his own doubt reflected in hers. Something told him this wasn't going to go well. Ron's wand shook slightly as he held it up, his fingers tightening around it to bring it under control. Without giving himself enough time to aim, he blurted out the incantation and a decidedly more purple than blue flash erupted from his wand. McGonagall's hands immediately flew to her face, and her worried expression prompted several students to scuttle towards the rear wall. Hermione gripped Harry's arm as they watched Ron's spell weave erratically around the room, rebounding off floor and walls, zipping over the students' heads and forcing Wilkie Twycross to duck out of its path, until eventually it sent a lit torch careening from its bracket on the wall, the spell itself being consumed by the flames and causing a large flare of fire that was swiftly doused with a gush of water from McGonagall's wand.

Wilkie Twycross cleared his throat as he straightened and regained his composure. “Yes, thank you, Mr– er...”

“Weasley,” McGonagall provided, tucking her wand away with a furious look in Ron's direction.

“Ah, yes. I should have known from the... er... hair. I remember your brothers' first lesson well. Half the class ended up in the hospital wing as a result of the hole Fred Weasley put in the ceiling. Tell me, when do you turn seventeen?

“Um, March,” Ron mumbled, rejoining Harry and Hermione with a rather sheepish expression on his face.

“Yes...” Wilkie Twycross replied thoughtfully. “That should hopefully give us enough time to bring your aim under control.”

“I wouldn't worry too much,” Draco spoke up. “The worst that can happen is that he splinches part of his face off when he tries to Apparate. It can only be an improvement.”

The old Ron would have snapped back at Draco for that comment, but instead he simply blushed and looked awkwardly at the floor. This change in his personality was really beginning to trouble Harry. Ron barely spoke to anyone besides himself and Hermione anymore, Lavender being the exception. Even then, he was often distant and closed off. His behaviour towards Draco was especially telling. Usually, he would jump at every opportunity to insult the Slytherin, or to stick up for his friends against him. It hadn't gone unnoticed with Harry that during the incident with Cho's note earlier that week, Ron had stayed right out of it. It was unnerving to see such a difference in his best friend, particularly at a time when they needed to stick together more than ever.

McGonagall clapped her hands together to silence the chatter that had sprang up following Ron's mishap. “I think it would be best to move on, before Mr Weasley sees fit to destroy the rest of the classroom,” she advised Wilkie Twycross, who immediately acquiesced.

“Whatever you wish, Professor McGonagall, this is your lesson.”

Draco, however, chose that moment to step forward, pushing his way roughly between Harry and Ron. “I would like to try,” he informed McGonagall coolly, indicating the target marks on the wall. “Unless, of course, only Gryffindors are being favoured with practicals in this lesson?”

Professor McGonagall fixed him with a piercing stare. “I can assure you, Mr Malfoy, that each and every student in this class will receive both practical and theoretical tuition–” she turned away from him momentarily to address the rest of the group, “–and provided they are of age, will be allowed to attempt close-range Apparition.” Her eyes returned to Draco. “That is, after all, what this lesson is for.

“However,” she continued, her voice rising, “I shall take this opportunity to warn you all that anyone caught attempting to Apparate underage will be suitably punished. If you are not yet seventeen, your practicals will consist solely of the focus training you have just seen... demonstrated.” She glanced briefly at Ron, then eyed Draco with an expectant gaze and gestured to the far wall. “When you are ready.”

Draco walked to the line, twirling his wand absently in his fingers. “Green target,” he declared without hesitation. Harry rolled his eyes at the Slytherin's predictability but nonetheless watched with interest as Draco glanced up from lowered lashes for barely a second to locate his mark before his eyes flicked back to his wand. He lifted it in one swift fluid motion and muttered 'Verus Intentio'. The spell shot from his wand with hardly a trace of the flash Harry's had produced and flew with unwavering precision the entire length of the room, smacking into its intended mark, which had moved diagonally to the left, dead on centre in a fizzle of sparks. Draco slowly lowered his wand. Harry glanced at Wilkie Twycross in time to catch the look that passed between him and McGonagall. There was no mistaking their surprise.

“That's how it's done, Weasel,” Draco said in a low voice, smirking at Harry as he elbowed his way between him and Ron once again.

Harry stuck his own elbow in Draco's ribs in retaliation but privately he couldn't help marvelling at the grace and accuracy with which the older boy had performed the spell. Not at all unlike his flying skills, Harry thought. He had always been a little envious at the ease with which his fellow Seeker flew, managing to attain high speeds but always with a smoothness and elegance that Harry wished he could master. In comparison, he flew with little control and certainly nothing which could even remotely be described as graceful. He relied almost completely on his nerveless ability and sheer breakneck speed, both of which had served him well so far. Even Draco found it difficult to compete with him, yet Harry always felt awkward and ungainly when they were racing side by side, chasing down the snitch. Draco turned flying into an art form, making it look so effortless. As if he was one with his broom. Whereas Harry always felt he was fighting a constant battle with his.

Wilkie Twycross was almost beside himself with excitement. “Well done, my boy, well done. Perfectly executed, wouldn't you agree, Professor?”

McGonagall nodded rather frostily and promptly moved on to the next subject before the matter could be discussed further.

* * *

Hermione was perched on the edge of a desk in the Transfiguration classroom the following evening, swinging her legs impatiently. She was the only one present at the first meeting of the organising committee; she had been waiting for the others to arrive for well over twenty minutes. It wouldn't surprise her if she ended up organising the whole damned thing on her own, especially considering who two of her co-members were. She sighed in exasperation at the thought. If she was honest with herself, this was the last thing she wanted to be doing. Normally, she would have thrown herself into it wholeheartedly. But having to spend every weekend for the next ten weeks shut in a room with two people she didn't really know, and one that she wished she didn't know at all, didn't appeal to her in the slightest. Moreover, the ball just wasn't that important to her since learning Harry's news. She knew it made sense, that it would act as a perfect smokescreen. She just didn't see why she had to be so involved, not when it took her away from Harry at a time when he needed her support.

She looked up as the door opened. A tall, willowy girl with pale blue eyes and a halo of blonde curls framing her heart shaped face entered, followed by a slightly taller boy with honey coloured eyes and a shock of black hair atop his head. He smiled warmly at Hermione, who managed a weak smile in return.

Celestine Balfour and Gavin Keppel, both seventh years, and the representatives of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff respectively.

Celestine looked down at Hermione with a disdainful expression. “I suppose we'll have to do what we can between us, Gavin,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “Why they couldn't have chosen Emilia Grey for Gryffindor's committee member instead of some little girl from the sixth year is beyond me.”

Gavin took her by the arm and steered her firmly towards a nearby desk. He shot an apologetic smile at Hermione as Celestine leaned against the desk and folded her arms petulantly.

Emilia Grey was a seventh year Gryffindor prefect who Hermione knew well. It didn't surprise her in the slightest to find out that she and Celestine were friends; Emilia often behaved with as great a lack of maturity during their prefect meetings as Celestine was displaying now.

Gavin looked around. “Where's Malfoy?” he asked. From the look on his face, he thought as little for the Slytherin representative as Celestine did for Gryffindor's.

As if in answer the door swung open, rebounding with a bang off the wall. Draco's face was like thunder. He slammed the door shut behind him and threw his book bag down on the nearest desk.

“Throwing a tantrum already, Malfoy?” Hermione piped up.

“If you don't want to be here, Malfoy, speak to Dumbledore. I'm sure we can manage without Slytherin's input.”

Draco glared at Gavin. “Oh believe me, Keppel, don't think I haven't tried.” He turned his glower on Hermione, as if it was all her fault he was here. “For some inexplicable reason, Snape actually wants me to take part in this ridiculous exercise.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“So...” Draco leaned in close to her as he took a seat at the neighbouring desk. “You're just going to have to put up with me...” That last sentence was intended just for her, and he made sure she knew it.

Gavin sat on the edge of McGonagall's desk. “Okay, let's get started. I guess the first thing we should do is decide who's going to take notes–”

“Shouldn't we choose a chairperson?” Celestine butted in.

“What for?” Gavin chuckled. “Cel, we're organising a school dance. I don't think we need to be quite so formal.”

Celestine flushed and scowled at Gavin, who promptly straightened his face. “Well... how about if we each take turns?” he suggested, attempting to pacify her. Celestine scowled even deeper. Obviously, she'd had her sights set on the job solely for herself.

As Draco wasn't paying any attention at all to what was going on, Hermione spoke up. “I think it's a good idea. That way it's fair. And if you like, I'll take notes today.” She ignored the glare she received from Celestine.

Gavin smiled at her appreciatively. “Is that agreed, Cel? Malf– er... Draco?”

Celestine nodded, her lips pressed tightly together.

“Do I look like I care either way?” Draco drawled. “And you were right first time, Keppel. It's Malfoy to you.”

Gavin let Draco's comment wash over him. “Okay, that's decided then. Oh, and in case I forget, Professor McGonagall has agreed to let us continue using her classroom. So every Saturday and Sunday evening we'll meet here, same time as tonight.” When no one objected, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Right, well first of all we need to discuss this. On the way down here, we–” he nodded to Celestine “–were stopped by McGonagall. She gave us this note from Dumbledore.” He tapped the piece of paper. “I won't bother reading it out. Basically, he wants us, as the organising committee, to dance the opening and closing dances at the ball. And he's insisting both dances be a waltz. So we'd better start with this because... well, I don't know about the rest of you but I'm not exactly the world's best dancer. I'm going to need to practise as much as possible.” He ginned at Celestine, who reached over and squeezed his arm.

“Don't worry, you'll be fine in my hands...” she said with a suggestive smile. He laughed.

Hermione watched this brief exchange with growing horror. She hadn't realised Gavin and Celestine were a couple; of course they were going to want to partner each other. Which meant...

She glanced at Draco. He was leaning lazily on his desk, and if the sadistic grin on his face was anything to go by, he had just realised the same thing she had. “Well, Granger,” he declared in amusement, “maybe this might not be as dull as I thought...”

* * *

Hermione stomped down the corridor the following morning before breakfast, heading for McGonagall's office. There was no way she was going to partner Draco Malfoy to the Winter's Ball. Okay, admittedly she didn't have a partner yet, but she would rather go with a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a dinner jacket than him! That wasn't the half of it though. There were all the committee meetings, not to mention the practise they would have to put in before then. All that time spent together, just the two of them. Her mind was made up; it wasn't going to happen.

McGonagall, however, didn't quite see it her way. She studied Hermione gravely. “I must admit, Miss Granger, you disappoint me. Whilst I understand your reluctance to want to work so closely with Mr Malfoy, especially given recent ... events ... the fact that I chose you to represent Gryffindor should be considered an honour. I feel that you will do this house of ours proud, but more than that you have excellent organisational skills, and given the fact that Professors Snape and Flitwick felt the need to choose Mr Malfoy and Miss Balfour, your contribution will be of much need.”

Hermione smiled at the head of Gryffindor house. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall. But–”

“No 'buts', Miss Granger. I am not prepared to replace you on the committee. That is my final word.”

Hermione had been expecting this. She lowered her voice. “Professor, what about Harry? I really feel that as his friends, Ron and I should be spending as much of our free time helping–”

McGonagall stood from behind her desk so suddenly that Hermione physically jumped. “Miss Granger, must I remind you that walls have ears?” she interrupted in a harsh whisper. “Yes... we expected Mr Potter to confide in you and Mr Weasley. Your concern for him is understandable. However, you will be of more use to him if you continue on the committee.”

“How?” Hermione asked.

McGonagall blinked. “I had expected you to work it out for yourself. Very well... For a start, Miss Granger, you will be keeping potentially the most dangerous student at Hogwarts out of the way.” Her voice lowered further. “Do not forget who Draco Malfoy's father is...”

Hermione stared at her in undisguised shock. This was quite definitely one of the rare occasions where she was rendered speechless; occasions that seemed to be occurring more and more frequently of late. “B-but there are other students with parents working for Volde–” she stuttered, trying to get her head around the fact that she was being used in such a way.

McGonagall waved her hand and Hermione found that although her mouth was moving, no sound came out.

“You must refrain from using that name!” McGonagall hissed furiously. “Nothing must draw his attention to us, nothing. We cannot even be certain that speaking of such matters under silencing spells is safe. Do you understand?” She released the spell following Hermione's nodded affirmation.

Hermione cleared her throat to ensure that she could speak again. She lowered her voice. “Why Draco?”

“Despite his faults, Draco Malfoy is highly intelligent. If anyone is capable of discovering what we are doing, it will be him. And do not think that Lucius Malfoy is beyond exploiting that. He is, first and foremost, a Death Eater. He will not think twice about using his son in such a way.”

Hermione swallowed the bile rising from her jittery stomach. She knew McGonagall was right. She also knew she had been deliberately chosen to help organise the Winter's Ball for this very reason, and so had Draco. But, she reasoned, if she could do anything to help, she should. When put in comparison with what Harry was facing, having to endure Draco Malfoy for the next couple of months was considerably more bearable.

Well, a little.

She nodded reluctantly, her eyes fixed on the desk. “Okay, Professor, I'll continue on the committee. But I refuse to accompany him to the ball.”

McGonagall smiled tightly. “As you wish. You may choose your own partner.” Her voice softened and she reached out, lifting Hermione's chin with wrinkled fingers until their eyes met. Her next words made Hermione shiver with apprehension. “What makes Draco Malfoy more dangerous still is that he will do anything within his power to please his father. We would prefer not to involve you in this, but very few people seem to garner his attention as you do. Tread carefully, Miss Granger, never think you know what is in his head because that will be when you are at your most vulnerable.”

Unable to find any suitable words, Hermione nodded again.

“Remember,” McGonagall finished rather ominously, “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

* * *

Hermione was surprised that night to find Draco arriving at the Transfiguration classroom seconds before herself, and she was five minutes early. He waited for her as she approached. “Didn't expect to see you back, Granger.”

“Really? Why's that?”

He leaned casually against the door as he held it open. “I thought you might have pulled off the committee since finding out you have to partner me.”

“Funny, I was hoping you would do the same,” she countered, moving past him into the room.

“I never run from a challenge,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her back.

“Not even when you've met your match?”

She heard him chuckle softly. “Especially when I've 'met my match', Granger.”

Hermione turned to him. “Well just for the record, Malfoy, I have no intention of going to the ball with you. We may have to partner each other in a dance or two for show's sake, but that's it.”

“Fine by me,” he replied with a shrug. “I've already got my date.”

“Let me guess,” she sneered. “Pansy Parkinson...”

Draco smiled at her jibe. “And who are you going with, Granger?” Hermione's hesitation was all the answer he needed. He nodded satisfactorily. “I thought so. Never mind, you could always take pity on Potter if Cho Chang's still mooning over Diggory.” He sauntered past Hermione and dropped into McGonagall's chair. “I think I might take my turn at chairing the meeting today,” he declared, reclining back with his hands clasped behind his head.

“Good to see you taking an interest,” Gavin said sarcastically, following Celestine into the room. Celestine brushed past Hermione with her nose in the air and not a word of hello.

Gavin touched Hermione's elbow in greeting. Hermione smiled up at him but when she looked back at Draco her smile faded. He was watching her with an intensity in his eyes that she didn't like. She pivoted away from him and took a seat.

The meeting flew by and before long it was approaching eight o'clock. Between them they had managed to achieve quite a lot, not least of all reaching the decision that the Winter's Ball should be a costume ball. This had been a matter of some contention. It was Celestine's suggestion, and Draco had immediately backed it up. Hermione hadn't liked the idea at all. At a time like this, the last thing they needed was everyone running around in varying degrees of disguise. But when she had voiced her concerns they were met with little support. Draco had looked at her, his gaze steady and extremely unsettling, as she had broached the subject of a possible war starting before Christmas. Celestine had scoffed at the notion that Hogwarts might be in any danger from Death Eater attacks, at which point Draco's eyes had shifted from Hermione to the blonde Ravenclaw. Gavin, meanwhile, had not been keen on it either but Celestine had worked what little charm she possessed on him and he eventually caved in. Somewhat disappointed, Hermione had fought her corner hard and eventually it was agreed to consult McGonagall who, to Hermione's utmost surprise, gave her blessing. Draco had regarded Hermione with such a smug expression since then that she was forced to turn her back on him. Now that the meeting was over, she couldn't wait to get out of there.

Gavin stood, his arm around Celestine's slender shoulders. “Well, if we're all done for tonight–” he pulled her closer and nuzzled her hair, “–I think we should go and, uh, practise our moves...” He winked at Hermione as he led a giggling Celestine out of the classroom.

Not wanting to be alone with Draco for a second longer than was necessary, Hermione hastily grabbed her things together and hurried to leave. Draco, however, was already at the door. He pushed it shut and turned to face her, leaning against it casually with his arms folded.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

Draco smiled suggestively. “I think we should practise our moves too.”

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise as he moved away from the door and strode purposefully towards her. “Malfoy...” she warned. She took a few steps herself – backwards – and bumped into a desk. What was he doing? There was nothing to achieve by this, he had no audience this time. She edged around the desk, Draco following after her as she looked around for a way past him.

“Malfoy,” she repeated. “I want to leave. Now.”

He smirked in response. “I'm not stopping you.”

Her lunge for the other side of the desk and a clear run at the door, however, proved futile as Draco pre-empted her and moved swiftly to block her way. Realising there was no way she could compete with the reflex reactions of a Quidditch seeker, Hermione had no alternative but to retreat the entire length of the room, eventually backing into McGonagall's large desk and sending a pile of books tumbling to the floor. That was it; there was nowhere else to go. She dug inside her robes for her wand but Draco quickly cleared the remaining desk between them in one athletic leap, grabbing both her arms above the wrist before she could pull it free. Hermione's heart thudded so hard against her chest she feared it would burst right through.

“You do know–” he said with more than a faint trace of humour in his voice, “–that by moves, I meant these...” He slipped an arm around her back, his free hand taking hold of hers. Before she could resist he stepped back, pulling her with him, guiding her in a clumsy resemblance of a waltz which was hampered even more by all the usual classroom furniture. Hermione stumbled several times and trod on Draco's feet at least twice. It felt alien to her, the unfamiliar steps and especially the unfamiliar arms holding her. She fought to keep a distance between them, their bodies not coming into contact once, but this only served to make the dance more awkward and ungainly. After what felt like several minutes but which was, in reality, only a matter of seconds, she jerked away from him.

He let her go. “If that's the best you can manage, Granger, we're going to be the laughing stock of the school at this stupid ball.” The disgust was evident in Draco's voice.

“I'm surprised you're that bothered about something as trivial as a school dance,” she retorted, shoving past him.

“What makes you think I am?” he countered to her retreating back. “But seeing as I have to go, and seeing as I have to dance in front of the whole school, I want to make sure it's done properly. I'm not going to have anyone show me up, least of all you. Which is why tomorrow, after lessons, we're going to meet up to rehearse.”

He didn't bother to ask if that was okay with her. “And what if I'm busy tomorrow night?”

“The only thing you're going to be busy with is me, Granger. If we have to practise every night until the ball, we will. Got that?”

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. Such audacity was something only a Malfoy could wield. But then she heard McGonagall's voice. 'You will be keeping the most dangerous student at Hogwarts out of the way.' Well, at least someone would be happy with the amount of work they were going to be putting in. She had to admit that this was the perfect opportunity; it was almost as if he was playing into their hands. “Okay,” she muttered.

Draco blinked. “What?”

Hermione smiled inwardly at the look on his face. He had not expected that. “I said okay,” she repeated. “Sure, fine, whatever you say. Can I go now?” She didn't wait for a reply, grabbing her things on her way out.

Draco watched her silently. As she slipped out the door, he called her back.

“What?” she demanded irritably.

“What exactly did you think I meant when I said we should 'practise our moves'?” he asked with a smirk.

“Go to hell, Malfoy.”

He chuckled as she slammed the door behind her.
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Deceptions