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Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 47
- 48
- 49
SUMMARY: Bad news and a plot afoot at Hogwarts.

WARNINGS: drama, wizard angst?, minor character deaths, copious helpings of Neville Longbottom

CONSCIENCE:

MOTHER

Malfoy was in a towering snit. It was still unusual to see him in the common room, though most people had acclimated to the idea of the ex-Slytherin sweeping through the halls in crimson and gold.

But this was quite an uncomfortable bit of Malfoy—sharp, seething Malfoy, cold-eyed and hissing at half the Gryffindor Quidditch team shortly after dinner on a Tuesday night. Just... too much Malfoy. They weren't Slytherins. They hadn't had six years to get used to the fits, to adjust to the manipulation and the occasional out-right tantrums. Malfoy was certainly throwing his toys out the pram at present; the blond knocked over a chair, shoving it angrily out of his way as he stormed up to the largest of the studying tables. With a flick of the man's wand and a silent spell—Evanesco, the O.W.L. Vanishing Charm Neville had never really gotten the hang of—several more chairs simply disappeared, leaving occupants to fall on their rears with a collective bump. Nearby, Hermione and Ron packed up their books and left in a hurry, knowing better than to be caught in the Head Boy's war-path. Seated in the plushiest arm chair by the fireplace, Neville gulped.

The Head Boy had been like this for several hours—ever since he caught Dean Thomas sluffing class to have a snog with fifth year Hufflepuff Laura Madley. Some people said she was Malfoy's girlfriend—and none of those somebodies were in Gryffindor. The lions knew better. After taking a flurry of points from both houses, Malfoy had allegedly aimed a few carefully worded barbs before storming off, impossible and irascible as ever. Normally Malfoy's moods wore off after a time; presumably, the fellow hid upstairs with a bottle of gin and worked his issues out in private. Maybe the Headmistress had confiscated his bottle. Maybe he'd run out. Whatever it was, the blond was taking it out on his players tonight.

“Coote,” Malfoy sneered. “Don't think I was sooooo busy chasing Thomas that I didn't note the bloody Troll you posted in Charms.” The Beater, Coote, flinched, going as red as the Common Room walls at Malfoy's words. Heads swiveled their way. Malfoy's fits never failed to draw a crowd—that much hadn't changed with the git's loyalties. “It's the bench until your marks are passing.”

Coote and several others groaned and began to protest. They had an upcoming match with Ravenclaw, and Slytherin wasn't long after that—but Malfoy kept right on, waspish as ever. The prefect's diction was practically spitting today.

“I won't tolerate any behavior which reflects negatively on this house. Detentions, poor grades or loss of house points are unacceptable and will prevent your seeing game time. Have a little more 'fun' and I won't hesitate to throw you off my team, Thomas,” he snapped at Dean mid-rant, white hair whipping around his head like a dog's floppy ears. Somehow, even when compared to a mutt, Malfoy was far less endearing and a great deal more dangerous. “As your captain and as Head Boy, your idiotic actions can only reflect poorly on this House. And on me. Do not disappoint me.”

As the team gave a collective shiver, Neville chanced a glance at the other end of the room for a collective reaction. Older students were staring but the younger years couldn't have cared less. The first and second year girls were utterly disinterested in Malfoy's disciplinary outburst—they'd played Exploding Snap almost the entire time, darting curious glances at Kieran Gweir.

The raven-haired first year boy was parked right behind Malfoy, close enough for the Head Boy to trod on should he turn about. Gweir was like Malfoy's shadow, always following the git around, content to be ignored so long as he was close to the ex-Slytherin—basking in the man's cankerous, raging-alcoholic glow. Some classes, Malfoy smelled something foul of the stuff beneath all the fancy soap and woodsy cologne. The odor of fermented grain hung around him, not unlike the air of uncertainty blanketing the castle these days. Malfoy was a muggle time-bomb; one primed to explode, taking all of Gryffindor with him. The tower would surely come apart brick by bloody brick. Any day now.

Yet the younger Gryffindors worshiped the ground Malfoy walked on: Malfoy made them feel safe, looked after—if by a madman. And none of them looked up to Malfoy more than Kieran Gweir.

Theirs was certainly an odd relationship. Malfoy paid as little attention to the dark-haired child as most girls paid to Neville; yet he, like Gweir, kept coming back for more abuse and ridicule.

Maybe Gweir had it better. At least Malfoy shot the boy those tight smiles every now and again, the sides of his eyes crinkling and the ghost of an upturn playing around his pressed lips. There were two bright spots of color appearing on the blond's cheeks now, the flush made doubly evident by his fair skin and general paleness. There was a streak of white at his hairline, a long white scar interrupting the coral and pink suffusing his face.

Behind him, Gweir resembled a Harry Potter doll—perfect except in miniature, all tanned and tousle-haired—blinking up at Malfoy with hands stuffed in his robe pockets. Malfoy was one of the few who went about in robes outside of classroom hours and his little shadow emulated him in every possible way.

Turning swiftly, Malfoy finally did trip over the youngster.

“Gweir,” the blond rolled his eyes, righting his robes at the shoulder and smoothing a sleeve down. His voice was short, curt. “What?”

The first year wasn't bothered one bit by Malfoy's tone. Either through pluck, determination or stupidity, he actually smiled at Malfoy, pearly white teeth and pink cherub cheeks lighting up the room. Even Neville had to admit, Gweir was already a lady-killer at eleven. In a few years, he'd be counted among Witch Weekly's Heart-Stoppers. If he remained under Malfoy's wing, the child would undoubtedly grow to become a bona fide terror.

“You said we would play chess tonight, Malfoy,” the boy chirped. “I'm free now if you are.”

Malfoy heaved a visible sigh. “Fine.” He waved a regal hand at the boy, long white fingers flicking as though pushing crumbs from an invisible table. Somehow, Neville doubted Malfoy had done an ounce of manual cleaning in his life, Professor Snape's detentions included. Malfoy could weasel his way out of anything—except, it would seem, a friendly game of chess with this reincarnation of The Boy Who Lived.

“My quarters,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Five minutes. Off with you.”

~ * ~

Draco knew it was important when McGonagall summoned him in the middle of N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes. He couldn't fathom how terrible, how wholly and world-upendingly bad the situation was until he saw the expression of loss and ill-disguised terror soldered on the woman's face.

“I think you'd best sit down, Malfoy,” she intoned. A stiff wing-backed chair scooted itself up to Draco's knees, taking him off his feet in a brush of magic. He nodded, watching her unmoving features and body language for any indication of what was to come. It was as though she had nothing left to give—no tears, no heartache, no rage. The witch had been wound down to her last string and held taut to that last little web of lies one tells oneself, riding out the storm.

Draco took the initiative. “I take it something's happened, Headmistress. Let's not beat about the bush. The sooner I know what's going on, the sooner I can be part of the solution. Or the cover-up,” he shrugged casually, a single shoulder rising as he slouched back against his chair. “What-have-you.”

A muscle at the side of her right eye twitched. With the magnification of spectacles, the tremor was exaggerated, seeming to take over her face. The twitch became a flinch, a dive, a mad grasp at salvation in the guise of normalcy. So the Headmistress' calm was fake: Draco wondered not who was dead but how many. And how grisly.

“That's one thing I always liked about you, Malfoy. Never one to muck about...” she petered off.

“Who's dead?” Draco interrupted in a monotone, scooting forward in his seat. It wouldn't do to look inattentive. “My father?” he raised a hopeful brow.

The Headmistress was thrown. That muscle shook again, a tad more rapidly as she thought. “I don't believe so.”

Draco let out a puff of air. “One can always hope. Who, then?”

“I've only had the first reports now,” she conceded to stress, elbows landing heavy upon her ancient desk as she massaged her temples. “The worst of the battle was before sunrise but we're having some trouble identifying bodies. I leave it to your imagination to supply the particulars,” she breathed. The slow circles administered to her brow metered her sentences, words falling to the tempo of fingers at the sides of her head. “One of my confirmations is a Ministry Auror by the name of Margaret Gweir. Her son is in your house. I presume—”

“I'll handle this, Professor,” Draco said at once. “Have you sent for him?”

She nodded. “The boy should be along presently.”

“How was she killed?” Draco asked, doubting the particulars would be appropriate for a grieving eleven year old but wanting to know for himself. Kieran was strong—perhaps in a few days, he could swallow the truth. “And where?”

McGonagall continued ministering to a blooming migraine. She spoke in clips of information. “At Valaam. Dementors. Hers was one of the few corpses in recognizable condition.”

“Valaam,” Draco repeated, sinking back into his chair and regarding the wooden-beamed ceiling through a growing fringe of blond.

Harry had said that Dmitry and his band of merry outcasts were at Valaam—but that had been weeks ago. Perhaps they'd moved on. Draco kept his fingers crossed for the men's continued safety, casting his worry aside in order to focus on the matter at hand. He was going to have to comfort someone—and he was bollocks at this 'emotion' business. He was probably better at teaching! A combination of little patience, a short fuse and the empathy of an Ashwinder made him the worst possible candidate for either occupation, yet here he sat. Somehow McGonagall thought this was a good idea. To Draco, it smacked of ulterior motives, interference and just a dash of supremacy. But the price of authority was the niggling fact that there would always be someone above you, pulling your strings just as you manipulated those beneath you. It was the price one paid to rise up in the world. His father always said so.

That was a chilling thought. Draco schooled his features as he spoke to the ceiling.

“Gweir is an illegitimate child. Who will take him now that his mother is gone?”

“His grandmother,” McGonagall replied, appearing relieved that Draco was taking an interest—taking the immediate problem off her hands, more than likely.

“No chance of the father stepping forward?”

McGonagall shook her head sadly. “Margie Gweir was kidnapped by Death Eaters the fall of her fourth year—took her from Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, right under our noses. Her father had refused to support He Who Must Not Be Named during the war and so a rogue group kidnapped and raped his daughter until Gweir changed his mind and opened his Gringotts vault to save his child. By the time the Aurors found Margie, Kieran had already been born. She wouldn't give the child up. Raised him as her own. I'd say most have forgotten the story. She was a lovely woman with an equally lovely child.”

Draco's head slumped to the side. Sunlight streamed from the nearby window, lighting his face yet he couldn't feel its warmth on his skin. “Shit,” he whispered. Faces flashed through his mind—the faces of his father's shadier associates, searching for a mop of black hair, sweet round cheeks or delicate blue eyes. He couldn't place Kieran's features but something told him he'd seen a ghost of the boy's face before. The child's father was certainly a Death Eater he knew. Possibly someone still ensconced at Malfoy Manor.

Images were chased out of his head by a gentle chime signaling the arrival of someone at the Headmistress' staircase. A moment later there was a soft knocking at the door. Then Kieran Gweir was peering around the portress with that muzzy head of hair, eyes big as dinner chargers in a face of porcelain youth.

“Come in, Mr. Gweir,” McGonagall gestured, conjuring a second arm chair beside Draco's. The boy's face shifted when he set eyes on his Head Boy—he seemed to draw back, the muscles of his neck visibly tightening beneath his slightly-too-large shirt collar. Bright blue eyes darted between Draco, nervous and wary in his chair, and the Headmistress slouched over her desk of parchments.

“Am I in trouble, Professor?” Gweir asked, inching into the room.

“No,” Draco said. His voice sounded strange in his ears; honey-laced, thick and smooth. With a jolt, he realized he sounded like his father. He swallowed uncomfortably, his voice coming back a mite softer. “But... I must speak with you about something.”

Gweir nodded, calm because Draco was calm. He set himself in the second armchair, swiveling so that his shoulders and face were towards his blond friend with his legs pointing to McGonagall's impressive oak desk, feet not quite reaching the floor and kicking in an erratic little beat.

Draco reached across the distance, settling the boy's movement with a hand to his knee. The lad ceased instantly, brow crinkling as he attempted to read Draco's intent.

“I'm very sorry.”

Some mechanism whirled and ticked in McGonagall's cabinet. Perhaps a Sneakoscope. Draco wished its untimely demise. He was trying to think and the tick-tick-ticking was incessant, throwing him off. Behind McGonagall, the painted image of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore gave a snort in his barmy canvas sleep.

“I...” Draco tried again. His hand closed over the boy's knee. He couldn't help it. “Your mother, Kieran.”

The boy's eyes went unfocused, staring slack and glassy at Draco but seeing nothing. His eyes were river stones, water rushing over them, momentum and verve stirring only for a moment before slipping away.

“No,” the child whispered. Draco's fingers tightened, palms beginning to sweat. “No.”

“I'm so... sorry.”

Gweir fell face-first from his chair, weak and weeping. He quivered and shook like a leaf caught up in a great gale. Their knees scant inches apart, Draco surged forward to catch the lad, wrapping arms around his shoulders and drawing that smaller frame to his own.

“No... no,” the boy sobbed against Draco's bony shoulder. “Mum.”

He shushed the child—it was all he could do, running a soothing hand down that quaking back. The roughness of woolen winter robes caught at his fingernails, shivs of friction, heavy cloth and worlds of emotion separating him from his young friend. There was absolutely nothing he could do. He felt... helpless, trapped. There was no one for this child, only an ex-Death Eater's shoulder to cry on, Dark Marked arms to hold him before a bitter old woman locked him in a dusty manor wing, never again to be held—to be loved so fiercely as at this moment. Against his better judgment, Draco felt tears prickling at the sides of his eyes. They were clamped shut so very, very tight.

Headmistress McGonagall gave off a matronly air, making to get up from her desk. She couldn't have crying children on her floor and Draco couldn't blame her.

“I've got him, Professor,” Draco insisted, taking a hand from Kieran's back to wave the woman off.

She made a noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “I'd say you do, Malfoy.”

He looked down to find Kieran unconscious—not quite sleeping but in some undoubtedly magic-induced state, unruly head of hair tucked in the crook of Draco's bicep and forearm. A very faint coral light crackled where the boy met his body: the light was barely visible, hardly more than the hazy buildup of static electricity between winter uniforms.... Except they both knew it wasn't.

“Mr. Malfoy?” McGonagall intoned. Her face was a long, hard line.

“I...” Draco gestured, forgetting he had Gweir's weight. The boy canted wildly in his arms—Draco dove to catch him, supporting his neck like one would cradle a babe. Not that he'd ever held one.

“I assume there's a very good explanation,” the woman spoke to her hands, bracing her weight as she leaned over her desk, peering at the very queer pair of them. “And I'll have it from you. But not now.”

He had no explanation, either for her or himself. Kieran, unconscious, could not demand one, though he had every right. Draco took a deep breath. Air came into his lungs smelling of camphor and bergamot—the child's shampoo.

“Much appreciated,” he managed. He couldn't help but notice how the old professor watched his hands. At first she had merely glanced, as though to check if he had his wand to hand... but now she stared, contemplative. Worried, even. Curious.

A Gryffindor trait, then—that insatiable attraction to powerful and sometimes dangerous things which were rightly none of one's business. It was a curiosity this cat could certainly do without.

The Headmistress nodded. “Please offer my condolences when he wakes,” she indicated the boy with a delicately raised brow. Draco suspected Kieran wasn't truly asleep but kept that thought to himself, climbing to his feet and supporting the boy's torso against his legs. He leant toward the desk, a hand in Kieran's hair to keep the lad from toppling.

“Of course,” Draco nodded. “I'd like to see him upstairs, if I might.”

“I'll inform Prof.'s Babbling, Binns and Firenze of your absences,” she concurred, including both students' schedules. Picking up an Eagle Feather quill, she penned a quick note to a scrap of parchment on her desk. “Looks like he's coming round—must be the shock, poor dear,” she tutted behind her teeth, smoothing a stray salt and pepper hair back into her stern bun. The errant strand jumped right back out of place. Draco kept his silence, eager to be away. “You'd best get him back to Gryffindor Tower, then.”

“I thought my quarters, actually,” Draco shrugged, getting hands under the boy's arms and hoisting the tiny chap up onto his back in a remarkably swift movement. Gweir truly weighed nothing, barely more than a bag of Quaffles. By hunching slightly, he could keep the little body balanced on his back without any magical aid. Draco wrapped long fingers under the boy's knees, securing his perch. “No one to pester him with questions. I know how the dormitories can get.”

“Very good.” McGonagall seemed oddly proud as Draco took his hunch-backed leave.

He wondered whether the woman was congratulating herself for her foresight in selecting Draco 'Death Eater' Malfoy for this unusual task. Not many would have thought to foist a sniffling, grieving student on the Prince of Slytherin; indeed, a year ago Draco couldn't have cared less about some Gryffindor firstie and his dead Mummy-dearest. This was what happened when you let people in, when you started giving a damn. Draco chastised himself: must quit this 'caring' business immediately. It could come to no good end.

He shook his head, adjusting the rousing weight on his back. The quality of sniffs and quiet sobs informed him that Gweir had, in fact, come round... and probably wouldn't care much for conversation on their way back to the Heads' suite. He bit his lip in a frown, wondering if the glowy, generally approving expression on McGonagall's face was anything like the ones Dumbledore had once given Harry in the privacy of that same study. Once upon a time. And what felt like a very long time ago. He couldn't help but feel that he was being strung along by the castle's new master as Harry had been by her predecessor.

Draco carried the sniveling rag of a boy on his back, walking normally under the burden after all the practice he had carting heavy Chosen arse around. Kieran sobbed down his collar, the sound muffled and pitiful. Draco cast a Muffliato to hush his steps and the boy's tears from prying ears. He took the passages less frequented by students or errant poltergeists, knowing Kieran wouldn't want to be seen like this. Draco understood something of lion-hearted pride.

The boy didn't protest at being brought directly to the Heads' suite. He didn't make so much as a sound upon entering the Head Boy's rooms, decked out like a professor's living quarters. A cozy fire had been set in the hearth and his bed linens changed and made up, creating quite a lovely picture with the sun streaming through the windows at the end of the room, lending some pale-veined life to the stone of the mantle, floor and ceiling. He set the child on the sofa, smoothing his hair before crossing the room to close the drapes.

“Please,” Gweir whispered, naught but a pair of damp-rimmed, confectioner's blue eyes peering at him over the back of the tufted couch. “Leave them open? I like the sunlight.”

Draco's mouth opened twice before sound escaped him. “Of... course.” He refastened the tie and called for Kreacher. Moments ticked by, marked by the rustling of dead-leaved trees in the wind. He wondered where the nasty thing could be—perhaps assisting Harry. When there was no response, he bit his cheek and summoned Dobby.

“Mr. Gweir's things from the dormitory—trunk and so-forth,” Draco flipped a dismissive hand. He kept his eyes on the sofa where the boy was righting his robes, fumbling over the knot of his crimson and gold necktie as he removed it. The little golden pin Draco had made for him was fixed to his chest—directly over his heart, just as Draco wore his. “He'll be spending the weekend in my company.”

“Yes, Master Malfoy, sir.” The elf bowed from the waist. It appeared to be wearing seven or eight pairs of hand-knit socks.

Harry had told stories of Granger's house-elf obsession, how in her youth she had taken to leaving knitted articles about for the hapless creatures to happen upon whilst performing their duties, unwittingly releasing themselves from the ancient and magical bond they worked under. Apparently the witch saw it as an archaic form of slavery! Apparently, for all her studying, Granger understood very little of the way magic actually worked. He hoped she'd since abandoned the plot to free the Hogwarts kitchen staff one lopsided Phyrgian cap at a time, else the castle would be without its greatest protection.

Dobby disappeared with a sharp crack.

“...Malfoy?” the lad's voice was small. He'd gotten to his knees on the sofa and faced Draco completely, leaning his weight on his elbows and about to topple over the back of the substantial piece of furniture. He remained perfectly balanced, suspended just before the fall in a way only magical children could. It was amazing when their young magic fields got them defying gravity without their noticing.

“Where are my manners?” Draco chided himself. “Would you care for tea? Something to eat? I have house elves here, as you see.”

Kieran shook his head. His eyes roved the room now, taking in the fixtures, the deep color of the walls and rich fabrics, textbooks and personal items scattered about. His eyes followed Draco as the blond poured himself a healthy glass of port, swirling the wine in his ballooned snifter before taking a swig. The blackberry finish got him craving a cigarette.

Kieran flopped back on the sofa, sitting correctly and watching the flames. The lad drew his wand to levitate a fresh log onto the fire.

“Will there be men from the Ministry?” he asked after a time.

“Probably,” Draco shrugged, swishing his wine again. “My guess is not for a few days yet. They have their hands full. From what I understand, they're quite understaffed and operating conditions are... less than prime. I'd expect an owl from your grandmother before we hear from the Ministry directly.”

“I...” Kieran floundered. “I really don't feel like... talking. Thank you for keeping everyone away.”

“Of course,” was Draco's automatic reply. He left out that Gryffindors were nosy bastards by nature, as they were both technically of the house.

It was disconcerting to see the once boisterous, talkative boy so pensive, so reserved. He still fidgeted with the pent-up vim of an overactive eleven year old but the emotions—the fear and loneliness and tears—had no where to go.

At a loss, Draco went back to his wine.

He and Gweir played chess in the end. It was mostly for something to do. Draco's recalcitrant mind kept flashing on the thought of Chereshko lying in a pool of his own blood, strong features and dark hair contorting in his mind's eye until the man's face was Harry's; glasses broken and askew, dead eyes nothing but a void of empty green—vultures where phoenixes once soared. Kieran was probably thinking about his mother... or wondering what would become of himself, now she was gone. Pureblood families didn't look kindly on bastards. It was most likely the boy's mother who'd fought for him to retain the family name, attending Hogwarts like any other young witch or wizard, the age and sanctity of his surname freeing him from undesirable scrutiny. Now that Margie Gweir was gone, there was a very good chance Draco's shadow-child would be stuffed in a mansion wing much as Potter had been stuffed in that cupboard under the stairs, forgotten with the old mops and dried-out cleaning potions. No wonder Kieran allowed both his knights to be taken—no one was about to sweep in on a white horse and rescue him. By the look on his still-puffy face, the lad knew it, too.

“Tell me about Harry Potter,” Kieran said quite out-of-the-blue. “I only met him that one weekend he was in the Tower.”

Draco considered the lay of black and white pieces as he spoke. “What's there to tell? Potter's a self-righteous prat, head-strong and stubborn to a fault, currently running about trying to get himself killed. He has an uncanny knack for surviving by the skin of his teeth—or the seat of his overzealous trousers,” Draco snorted. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“But he's your boyfriend,” Kieran protested. “Don't you love him?”

Draco advanced his rook, stone-faced. “Sometimes.”

The look the child shot him—consternated and venomous, as though he had glasses at the tip of his nose and were glaring daggers over their invisible rims, the spirit of Harry Potter coming through him like a carbon and smoke face floo-ed through a fireplace—was almost comical in its sincerity and ridiculousness. Eleven-year-olds shouldn't know how to make that face.

“More wine,” Draco declared, getting up to pour himself a second glass. He knew the lad was rolling his eyes. Even with his back turned, Draco could feel it. “No cheating,” he spoke over his shoulder. “I remember where I left every last piece.”

“You're no fun,” pouted Kieran, folding his arms in a petulant show which Draco was treated to upon his return to the chess table, alcohol in hand.

“Why? Because I won't let you cheat?” he laughed.

Kieran bit his lip, scrunching his dark brows to make the most adorable sulky face. It surely got him whatever he wanted from his mother and perhaps the females of Gryffindor. But it wouldn't work on Draco Malfoy.

“Because you won't tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” Draco repeated, sitting down opposite the boy. “When have I not told you the truth?”

“You always dance around the facts, Malfoy,” Kieran announced loudly; bemoaned, lounging lazily in his leather armchair and surveying the board with only half his attention. His child's fingers drummed at the arm of his chair, a steady, flesh-on-dead-flesh thrum that matched the wind as it swept between the castle's spires. Yellow and gold leaves whipped against the window, caught up in the coming winter winds. “You're very good at using your words to say as little as possible. You make jokes and act tough to deflect attention away from the fact that you never really admit anything. Ever.”

“Ever?” Draco echoed lamely. He'd forgotten just how perceptive the boy was.

“Well, maybe that Ministry press conference back in August was closer to the truth,” the boy offered, stealing the staff off his inattentive queen and whacking the dainty white piece about the head with it—as though making his pieces stand at attention would improve his game. “Still. You keep secrets.”

“Perhaps I have need of secrets,” Draco said quietly. “Secrets which aren't appropriate for the ears of babes.”

“Don't baby me,” Kieran insisted. His hands gathered to fists in his lap as he sat up straight in his chair. “My mother never stood for it and neither will I. I'll have the truth from you, Malfoy, if you consider me your friend. And you'll get the same from me. You always have.”

Blown away, all Draco could do was sit there and blink. He'd severely underestimated Gweir. The boy possessed a ready mind—he'd proved that the first day on the Hogwarts Express. But he also had an understanding of the intricacies of human emotion. He understood because he'd suffered. And he was getting to the age where all that knowledge and experience fermented itself into something which might one day be called wisdom.

Draco twisted the ring on his finger until the large black stone rested against his palm. It was cool to the touch, meaning Harry was quite far.

“Speaking freely bears too many risks for me. The Dark Lord has ears in every shadow,” Draco said slowly, trying to get the boy to think, to reason for himself. Kieran was a thinker—and a ruddy good one, especially for a Gryffindor. There might be hope for the house yet.

“Why would he care about you and Harry Potter?” Kieran scoffed.

“Because,” and he paused for emphasis, “if it's known how much I mean to that stupid prat, Harry's feelings could be used as leverage against him. You-Know-Who wouldn't hesitate in tearing this castle down brick by brick to get to me, to bring harm to me in order to draw Harry out. He'd use me to get to his enemy. You see?”

“Okay,” Kieran nodded, processing the lines of power and information like a road map. Those thoughtful blue eyes seemed to travel from an upper corner of his vision to the lower opposite, connecting the dots. “But you kissed and stuff in front of people,” the child argued fairly. “Obviously you don't want to talk about him. So how do you know it won't get back to You-Know-Who? The knowledge is already out there.”

“I think...” and here Draco choked as he realized the thought in words for the first time. “We have reason to believe the Dark Lord might already know. And I suspect Harry wants word to get out, sooner or later. I suspect he wants the Dark Lord as angry as possible—”

“Because when people are angry, they make mistakes,” Kieran supplied readily. “My Mum always said that about the Aurors who chased down Death Eaters after the last war—that they were so upset about the war it blinded them.”

“Sounds like your mother was a very wise woman.”

The corners of Kieran's mouth turned up. “She said Harry Potter's really smart, too. She wrote me a letter last month. She got to work with him through the Auror Office; said he's got more natural talent than half the prats on the force. And you said he's wizard at Quidditch, too, right?”

Draco smiled back. “Yeah. Wipes the pitch with me every year. Don't tell 'im I said tha'.”

The lad winked, shimmering firelight crowding out the wetness in his eyes. “Secret's safe with me.”

They lay in bed that night staring at the cracked ceiling. Draco left the curtains open as the sun slowly set; now moonlight flooded in, lighting the room like a cold blue sun. The room was so bright without heavy velvet covering the windows, silvery light reflecting off the gilded picture frames and the mirror above his dresser. It was as though the moon sat directly outside his tower window, a stage's spotlight to highlight their duet of sleeplessness.

Kieran rolled onto his side and fixed Draco with another one of those looks, elbow to the mattress in order to prop up that messy head of his with a still-chubby hand. The whites of the child's eyes caught the moonlight as he blinked; a regular, sleepless rhythm of unknowing.

“Do you think he'll survive?”

Draco kicked at the eiderdown mummifying his knees. “Who?”

“Your boyfriend, Harry Potter.”

“Oh.”

Kieran poked at the meat of Draco's arm, where bicep and tricep became shoulder beneath his flimsy tshirt. “Surely you have an opinion, Malfoy.”

Draco couldn't help but snort. Kieran really should have been in Slytherin—it was a shame, a wit like this wasted on crimson and gold ninnies with their heads up Dumbledore's mauve nightcap.

“I... don't know,” the blond admitted softly, trying 'honesty' on for size. It fit suspiciously well. “Knowing what he's up against... logically, he doesn't stand a chance, does he?”

“But you have hope?”

When Draco didn't answer, the boy continued. “My Mum called him a phoenix—Harry Potter—that she had to push him to his limit to see him light up. Maybe he's like that because he didn't have a mum growing up. He didn't have anyone, so he thinks he's all alone in the world and won't let anybody help him... won't let you help him,” the boy tacked on at the end, raising thick brows to make the statement closer to a question. “Maybe he puts himself out there, in all that danger, because he doesn't think anyone loves him enough to chase after him. He's willing to burn up alone.”

“You'd think,” Draco mused, folding his hands behind his head as he thought. Kieran wormed into the pocket created by his raised arm, resting his black-haired head in the squashy section of scarred-up flesh just above Draco's breast. The boy wriggled the blankets up to his chin and waited. “I've always found it odd tha', fer someone who should harbor a great deal a' distrust an' abandonment issues, Harry's trust is implicit an' complete. He has a way a' drawing odd-balls an' outcasts ta himself, creatin' a network a' uncanny individuals ready to jump to his aid. I once thought the imbeciles flocked to him because of his fame....”

“And now?” the boy spoke around a tremendous yawn.

“It's his heart.” There was more of a tremble at that last word than Draco would have liked. Kieran's back pressed against his side, tepid heat seeping through cotton pajamas and warming him in the way only a dear, tender body at your side could. “He's a kind man. He wouldn't hurt a fly,” Draco sighed. He brought his arm down, pulling his friend closer, arm draped over the boy's thin chest and a hand wrapping his tiny side, holding him close. Kieran didn't seem to mind the Dark Mark pressed against his breast: he released a sigh of his own; worn, tumbled and weary. “Harry doesn't want anyone to get hurt. He wants to protect us, keep us safe. His capacity for love knows no bounds. And he got it from his mother.”

He told a story Harry had recounted to him what felt like eons ago, sitting together before a warm fire at Grimmauld Place—the home they'd made for themselves, together. “When the Dark Lord came for Lily Potter's child... she stood in the way. The Dark Lord offered to spare her life for Harry's but she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't sacrifice her boy. So the Dark Lord took her soul from her body. And in her death, she released a magic so ancient and so powerful that it shattered the Killing Curse itself, throwing it back in the Dark Lord's face, saving Harry's life. That's what love can do.”

“I don't have hope. Hope is a dreaming for children and fools. I have love.” Draco squeezed the child at his side, drawing him ever-closer. “Because they can't kill my love. Hope and beliefs and the best of intentions can be crushed and cast to the winds. But love.... No matter what happens, no one can stop me loving him. Like no one could stop your mother loving you.”

Warm trickles reached his arm; silent, salty tears escaping Kieran as he cried.

- - -

It was a great thump which woke Draco from a dead sleep—something like an Erumpent landing on the terrace. He started at the sound, kicking violently at the bedsheets, suddenly very much awake. Scrambling from bed, he had the good sense to pluck his wand from the night stand.

“Lumos.”

From the bed, Kieran rubbed child-fat fists at his eyes. Upon seeing Draco's alarming stance—one arm in his dressing gown and crouched, weapon drawn—the boy kept silent, patting around for his own wand and slippers.

“I don't see the wards tripped,” Draco whispered, peering out the window. The night was dark but clear, an uninterrupted sky free from colored sparks shooting from the Forbidden Forest, like they'd seen the last time Hogwarts' grounds were breached. Whatever was on the terrace, it was native to the castle grounds. This gave Draco little comfort. He pulled his dressing gown over his shoulders, not bothering to fasten the sash, wanting to keep his hands at the ready should trouble come.

Kieran came and stood at his side, wand to hand.

In his bare feet and borrowed pajamas, Draco stretched out his left palm, calling forth the web of magic which monitored the wards he'd placed on his chamber in addition to the castle's security. It had taken him the better part of two months to weave his own magic into the ancient spells without upsetting the balance. A little each day had done the trick. Checking the web proved his wards were undisturbed.

From the foyer, there came the unmistakable sound of knocking—a fist on the glass doors. The sound echoed around the entry, mingling with the trickles of the lion fountain. Draco's heart beat in his ear like one of those stone lions' roars. He feared Kieran could hear it thundering through the quiet room.

Screwing up his courage, Draco met the boy's worried face with a watery smile. “Shall we see who's come to call?”

Nervous, the boy nodded, following him into the hall. They held their wands ready.

A dark figure stood on the terrace, visible through the glass doors, hooded cloak pulled up, obscuring his form—by the sheer size of the shoulders, it had to be a man. Or a very small troll. Behind the safety of thousands of years of magic, Draco signaled that the stranger should lower his hood and show himself in the wandlight.

The hood dropped back. It was Dmitry.

Draco released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

“He's a friend,” the Head Boy reassured his small companion. “Go ahead an' unlock the door fer 'im.” After an anxious look, the boy did as he was bid.

“Dima, pryvet,” Draco held out an arm, beckoning the man inside. “Rad tebya videt.”

Dmitry did not move from the terrace. With the moon at his back, the man's face was unreadable.

“Is your Russian that bad, Malfoy?” Kieran teased under his breath.

Draco ignored the boy, trying to catch Dima's gaze in the darkness. He looked so much like his brother it was physically painful to look on him at times. The man's amber eyes were too much in shadow to make much of his emotion. On edge, Draco stepped closer, wand raised. It was only upon catching the hardness of the man's scruffy jaw, the determined set of his shoulders and redness rimming his eyes that Draco understood.

“Valaam,” Dima whispered, soft so that his bottomless voice wouldn't shake. There was a wavering in that single word, ominous and terrible as it settled in Draco's ears.

The Head Boy gulped, spittle and bile mingling at the back of his throat. He couldn't summon the glib with which he'd discussed the incident with McGonagall that afternoon. He'd had distance, then; a stupid, ruddy childish hope that Dima and the boys had gotten away, that they were safe from harm.

His own voice was ragged when he spoke. “Who?” he begged. “Chereshko...?”

Dima shook his head to say that Chern had survived.

They stood divided by the doorway, Dima out in the cold and Draco safe inside the castle but still shivering. The wind came up, snapping the larger man's cloak and plastering Draco's thin pajamas against his frame—they were Harry's, right down to the boxer shorts and dressing gown.

Draco felt his heart stop. One moment there was an even beat in his chest and the next it was gone. “Not Nebojsa?”

“Dušan.”

It took Draco a few startled blinks to remember the young man; snarky, short-tempered, dark hair and long limbs with a pretty face. He'd smoked muggle cigarettes and drank like a fish. The fellow couldn't have been more than twenty.

Draco's eyes drifted closed. “I'm... so very sorry.” The words didn't feel like enough. Words never would. His hands balled to fists at his sides. Kieran's big blue eyes drifted between them, feeling their hushed tones and brows furrowed with sorrow.

“Ve're having a... zending off,” Dmitry gestured furtively, back towards the forest.

Draco understood the implied invitation. Solemn, he nodded his understanding. “I'll get my broom.”

“I'm coming, too,” Kieran piped up, peeking around the door frame.

“No yer not,” Draco growled through gritted teeth.

The child had the gall to stick his little pink tongue out before turning to Dima with wide eyes.

“How'd you get up here?” the boy asked, shamelessly curious. “Where's your broomstick?”

The Romanian favored the youngster with a devilish smirk. The expression lent a painful likeness to his dead brother. It grew a thousand times worse when he shot the lad a sporting wink.

“I flew.” His amber eyes turned to Draco, still smiling. The expression was like a knife to the chest. “Don't bother vith zhe broom. I can carry you both.”

Draco frowned, folding his arms over his chest and locking his fingertips inside the crooks of his elbows for warmth. “I'm heavier than I look. This one, too.” He inclined his head towards Kieran, not wanting to give away the Ionescue family secret so easily. The eleven-year-old, ever-curious, hung on their every word.

Dima's brows drew together. “Just get dressed, Malfoy. Little one, too.”

“Yes!” Kieran cheered under his breath, a fist pumping the air as he took off for Draco's room at a sprint.

Draco let out a long breath, waiting until the lad was out of earshot before speaking. He leaned conspiratorially, looking up into Dima's face. The big man blocked most of the chill wind from reaching him. The top of Draco's head barely cleared the Romanian's burly shoulders; peering up, he took in reddened eyes, cold-stung cheeks, a long nose and deeply hooded eyes, the features familiar and yet subtly different. It took a moment to get his breath.

“Thestral?” he inquired in a whisper, swallowing hard. “Like Vuk?”

“Zomezhing like zhat,” Dmitry shrugged. His meaty hand landed on Draco's shoulder, spinning him round and shoving him back into the castle. “Put zome clothes on. I freeze just looking at you, zmeuleț.”

Draco strode back to his room, leaving his Romanian friend on the terrace to transform into whatever winged creature he was. Kieran had left the door wide open; the child was digging through his trunk, scattering clothes and potion ingredients across the floor as he scavenged for his warmest winter gear.

“This is not an adventure,” Draco chastised, pulling one of Harry's sweatshirts over his head in a rush. “It's a bloody funeral. Show some respect.”

Kieran buttoned a woolen jumper, his fingers racing up the buttons, fastening several askew. He ignored Draco's admonition completely. “Your friend. How's he going to carry us?”

Draco kept silent. When the boy looked at him, Draco tapped a finger against his temple, instructing his charge to think.

“Lightening Charm?” Kieran dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. “Too generic. He's your friend, after all,” the boy pondered from his rear, wiggling his feet into a pair of dragon hide boots. “He said he flew... gotta be something with style. And dangerous. An Animagus, then?”

Draco nodded, Summoning his trainers. “The very illegal kind. Speak of this to no one.”

“Gotcha,” Kieran agreed, bouncing to his feet. “Is he a dragon?!”

Draco couldn't avoid rolling his eyes. He threw his cloak around his shoulders before going on a hunt for something warmer than Seekers gloves.

“Think, boy. Do you suppose my terrace could support the weight of a full grown dragon?”

Kieran sagged in disappointment. The rebound to childish glee was almost immediate.“I reckon not. Still! I've never seen an Animagus before!”

Draco rounded on his charge. “Respect, child. A man has died.” His tone softened at the stricken look on Kieran's face. “A lot of people have died.”

Head bowed, the dark haired boy made his way to the door without a word. He paused, glancing back.

“Malfoy.... I know things are bad and all but,” and he swallowed, casting about for the right words. “You need to lighten up sometimes. Don't act like the whole world's on your shoulders. That's Harry Potter's job.”

And he ducked out of the room before Draco could lay hands on something suitable to throw at him.

Draco hurried after him, locking the door and muttering, “Boy, I may kill you yet. And feed you to the Giant Squid if I....”

He froze beside the fountain.

Dmitry was no Thestral. Out on the terrace, the first hazy flecks of white snow drifting around his form, stood a massive Aethonan, nearly twice as high as a Clydesdale and surely three times as heavy, beating its great blond-tipped wings against the wintry air. Surely, Draco would have to mount up as Harry had, using the terrace balustrade as a spring-board, vaulting himself into the non-existent saddle.

Kieran swore impressively.

“Been spendin' too much time with me, you 'ave,” Draco chided. He put both hands on the boy's shoulders and squeezed. “Still wanna ride the ride?”

“Fuck yeah!” the child cursed again, wheeling around and taking up Draco's hand in his chilly ones. “Gimme a leg up?”

With a great rolling of eyes, Draco acquiesced, mumbling, “I should be taking house points.”

“As should I,” Kieran agreed, “from you and Potter.”

“What for?” Draco inquired, heaving the boy up onto his shoulders. Kieran clambered onto the beast's back, smiling back at Draco with white teeth and cherub cheeks.

“Sex on school grounds,” Kieran laughed. “I told you, Malfoy. Everyone knows.”

Draco swallowed. “Just as well.” He adjusted his cloak before coming round Dima's rear, clambering up onto the balcony's railing. Dima's tail swished—two meters long, it was like a switch, barely missing him as he climbed onto the stone ledge. He put a hand to the Romanian's chestnut rump, balancing himself as he inched along the balustrade.

“I'll have you know,” the blond mumbled, sliding his trainers along the icy stone a centimeter at a time. “Not everyone believes... Potter and I... are....” He wasn't paying attention to the words falling from his mouth. Kieran probably wasn't, either. The boy was winding his fingers through Dima's sandy mane, knees tucked over the folds of those mighty wings. The child was rearing to go, all excitement and well-concealed fear. Draco was the one teetering on a narrow ledge, one gloved hand and two borrowed-trainer-clad-feet from slipping to his demise. He took firm hold of Kieran's boot the second it was within reach, latching on and pulling himself up onto the Aethonan's back. He settled himself behind Kieran, one arm wrapped firmly around the squirming boy and the other taking up a handful of Dima's mane. He dearly hoped the fellow didn't mind, rendered uncommunicative as he was.

Kieran snapped his heels against the horse's sides. The boy was accustomed to riding.

“Ready when you are,” Draco called over Kieran's dark head, observing some semblance of decency. Though Dima was in the guise of an animal, he was still a pureblooded wizard on the inside.

Dmitry's giant hoof struck the landing, shaking the stone beneath them. The castle gave the slightest of trembles—or was that Draco's imagination, Kieran shaking with excitement in his arms?

The Aethonan Animagus backed away from the landing, setting himself up for a running start. Draco quickly cast Lightening Charms on himself and Kieran, wanting to be sure their extra weight wouldn't interfere with take-off. He felt Dima's ribcage expand between his thighs, pulling a mighty breath before surging forward, pummeling the terrace with hooves as big as cauldrons.

Snowy wind buffeted their faces, stinging their eyes. The balustrade was getting close awfully fast. It occurred to Draco that Aethonans were known more for power than speed. His gloved fingers tightened involuntarily. He hoped his grip wasn't hurting Kieran—hoped Kieran's grip wasn't hurting Dima, the way the child pulled at that sandy mane. The railing was upon them and Dmitry jumped, vaulting into the air, into nothingness.

Like a melon dropped from a tower window, they plummeted.

Stomach wrenching, eyes closed so tight, Draco screamed.

It was three agonizing, life-shortening seconds before Dmitry's huge wings caught the air, pulling them out of a deathly nose-dive for the dirt. Kieran squealed happily. Draco's teeth chattered beyond his control.

Each beat of Dima's wings brought them higher, propelled them across the grounds. A faint snow was falling, the earth still too warm to accept it. Flakes melted as they hit the hot skin of Draco's cheeks, wetting his lips. Beyond, past Hogsmeade village, the snow fell in earnest, like a white sheet held aloft in the distance. Soon, the winds would blow the clouds away and the snow would be gone.

They glided towards the Forbidden Forest, the trees a flecked carpet of green and brown. It wasn't long before Dima was sweeping lower, preparing to land in a clearing not far off. Draco let out a shaky little breath, glad this magical version of a roller coaster would be done-with soon. He decided he much preferred broomsticks. It was a matter of control, precision and timing. This was just a bit too “natural” for his tastes.

Gweir pressed back against him, the thundering of Draco's heart pushing hard against the child's back with every wild thump, with every swoop and dive of the Animagus beneath them. Suddenly Kieran was twisting, his face upturned to Draco's in the moonlight.

“Where's your mother, Malfoy?”

The Head Boy twined his fingers tighter in the Aethonan's sandy mane. He swallowed hard, tugging Kieran closer to himself.

“I don't know.”

They were so close to the forest now that Dima's hooves made contact with the occasional leaf, a tiny wet slapping sound each time, reminding them of their slow decent into the woods. There was a music in the trees, in the dead leaves rustling, in the night wind, in the shrill call of creatures in the damp, echoing night. Their sounds broke the silence in a regular, almost metered rhythm.

In short order, they touched down on a sort of path, a natural parting in the trees. Hoof patterns in the mud told Draco this was a centaur trail, or perhaps frequented by Thestrals. There were more prints than could have belonged to the Ionescue brothers alone. He gestured with his elbow, pointing out the marks in the dirt to his young companion as they trotted through the wood.

Their landing was soft when compared to take off; a quick flap of wings and Dmitry was moving at a canter, hooves pounding a steady beat against the earth. Dirt and displaced leaves flew out behind them, marking the path they'd taken through the narrowing trails.

Gweir peered back at Draco as they ventured further into the wood.

“I've never been in the Forbidden Forest before,” the lad whispered, as though the monsters in the trees might hear the worry in his voice and decide to jump out and eat him. “I thought it was... well, forbidden.”

“As the name implies,” Draco nodded. “There are dangerous creatures here. But I'll tell you something I learned from Harry,” he smiled wistfully, remembering their harrowing experience out in these woods as first years, hardly bigger than Kieran. “Most of the things out here are like you and me—they just want to be left alone. So long as we don't trod on their nests, shoot a spell at them or approach their young, they're more than happy to leave us be.”

“Are we allowed to be out here?”

Draco put his chin to his chest to suppress a laugh. This wasn't the time for it, but yes, he and the first year were engaging in some late-night truancy.

“You leave that to me,” Draco assured him, voice smooth. “No one has ever been sanctioned for following the orders of a Prefect.”

“But... t-there are wild creatures, and... what if—”

“If anything happens,” Draco cooed, “Dmitry and I are fully trained wizards, well versed in the Darker Arts. No harm will come to you. I promise.” He patted the boy's elbow, leaving his palm to rest on a small forearm as they rode on. “Hush now.”

Shortly, they emerged in a large clearing, boulders and several rock outcroppings having prevented the forest from overgrowing the grassy space. The sky was open above them, snow clouds off in the distance. Dmitry came to a halt.

There were a few wizards in the clearing, most standing around a modest funeral pyre. They all had wands at the ready, simple cloaks in black, brown and deep green covering their bodies and obscuring their faces in the weak wand light. A figure approached—Draco couldn't make the fellow out until he was at the Aethonan's flank, face upturned and offering Draco a hand to dismount.

“Nebojsa. Good to see you.”

The Serb smiled a little in reply. Pale and drawn, he looked like death warmed-over, an Inferi fresh from the grave and walking about.

Draco turned and held out his arms, inviting his tiny companion to jump down from Dmitry's back. Draco caught the boy around the waist, setting him right on his feet.

“Nebojsa, this is Kieran Gweir, my protege.” He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder, a silent reminder to mind his manners. “Nebojsa Radic, of the Order of the Phoenix. A friend of Harry's.”

Gweir offered his hand with a polite, “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You as vell.” Nebojsa's ice blue eyes flickered, moving between the young boy's face and Draco's. The expression on his long features was unreadable—appropriate, given the occasion, but Draco wished he could discern at least a bit of what the quiet chap was thinking.

There was a rustling in the distance, branches pushed aside as something moved through the woods. The small shoulder beneath Draco's hand went stiff. The boy drew his wand, nervous. A moment later, Chereshko emerged, leading a small Hyppogriff. It would seem he'd coaxed the beast into parting with a few of its feathers, clutched in the man's big hand. Apparently he wasn't letting the opportunity to gather supplies go to waste. Hyppogriff feathers were rather valuable, requiring some skill with the animal to obtain.

Draco took a step back. He and the Hyppogriffs of Hogwarts had a nasty bit of history. Kieran perked up.

“Go on, then,” Draco chided, releasing the eleven-year-old. “That's Chereshko Toleanu, a friend of mine. Say 'hello' for me.” Gweir nodded eagerly and trundled off.

“I'm sorry,” Draco mouthed to Nebojsa, waiting until Gweir was out of earshot before saying any more. “I tried to leave him at the castle but.... The boy lost his mother at Valaam. I thought... perhaps, some closure....”

“Of course,” the Serbian shrugged understandingly, clapping Draco on the upper arm. Nebojsa was unfairly tall. He had to tilt his head down to hold Draco's gaze. “Iz not a problem.”

With a sound like a mighty cauldron of half-settled glue being stirred, Dmitry shifted back into his human form. Draco stepped aside when he heard robes being adjusted. He watched as Dima pulled a pair of insulated dragon hide gloves from his pocket, offering them first to Nebojsa before slipping them on his own hands. Their glances tended uneasily toward the stack of wood bearing the lifeless body of their friend and comrade. It was clear that no one knew quite how to address it, the reason they were gathered together in the snow.

“How bad was it, really?” Draco inquired at last of the battle at Valaam. “I know the Aurors were there—Kieran's mother was with the Hit Wizards. I can only imagine.”

Dmitry took a long breath, closing his eyes.

“Zhey came in zhe morning. Just before dawn, vithout varning. Zhe muggle side of zhe city vos destroyed. Few escaped alive. Zhe Merpeople are gone—viped out. Much of zhe forest vent up in flames....”

“Ve stood no chance,” Nebojsa added.

“A retreat,” Draco confirmed.

“A final stand, for many,” Dmitry countered, looking at the pyre.

The young man's corpse had been covered with a black cloak. Snow settled in the folds of the fabric, the body gone cold. It wouldn't be long before they set fire to the freshly-hewn wood beneath, sending him off in traditional wizarding style—a funeral for a hero.

“I think I ought to pay my respects,” Draco murmured. He stepped away from the couple, leaving them to huddle together as he approached the pyre.

Yura stood to one side of the hastily constructed platform, a hand outstretched, resting on the corpse's feet. The big bearded man's eyes were glazed over, seeming to stare out at nothing, the line of his dark eyes fixed on nothing but snow.

Draco reached to pull back the cloth covering Dušan's face.

“I vouldn't,” Yuri cautioned. “Not vith little one around.”

Draco nodded slowly, checking that Kieran was engaged with the baby Hyppogriff across the way before lifting the fabric.

Draco barely held back a gasp. Yura had been right—the sight was nothing he'd want young Gweir to behold. He'd half expected, but expectation hadn't begun to prepare him for the reality of the thing. It made him dizzy, sick. The fellow's head had been cut off. Clean. Violent. Brutal. But someone, likely one of the older men, Yuri or Chern, had reattached it with some thread and a steely hand. Steady, even stitching marched along the gash, holding neck and shoulders together in this last moment, returning more than the young wizard's head—restoring his dignity in death. They were returning his honor.

Draco held his breath, looking at the young warrior's face; frozen silent, all color gone from his lips and cheeks—so different from when they'd met, flushed with liquor, smoking, joking and dancing.

The smoke would be the same, at least.

Draco replaced the black cloth, backing away, his gloved hands shoved in his pockets and murmuring his condolences. There was nothing he could do but feel sorry. Head bowed, Draco inched backward, stopping when he sensed others gathering around him. Kieran bumped against his hip, showing off a long white Hyppogriff feather, the tips just barely gray, which Chern had given him.

“Very nice of him,” Draco muttered. “Why don't you put it away for now?”

The boy did as he was bid, looking around curiously. The forest was oddly silent.

Looking down the line of wizards, Draco caught Chereshko's gaze. The Moldovan's lips were pressed tight in an almost-smile—closer to a grimace, the skin of his face pink from the cold. He covered his mouth with his hands, blowing into them, concealing the shape of his lips. Draco suspected the action was little more than an excuse not to speak, not to acknowledge all of this death and sorrow unraveling both their lives. Gone were the days of their youth, shagging unfettered and not caring for the consequences. Chern was a soldier now, like Harry. And Draco minded the home-front, the children. He stretched an arm around Kieran's shoulders, bringing the boy flush against his side.

Their lives were so very different now. Silently, Draco wondered how long any of them could hope to last.

Draco gave a single inclination of the head—acknowledging what had once been between them. Now wasn't the time to examine one's bed-hopping: but neither would he deny their history outright. A nod was all he could offer. In reply, Chern's big hand fell to his heart, holding Draco eyes. No hard feelings, his gaze said. I'd pick Harry Potter over myself, too.

Words were spoken over the young man's corpse, many of them in Russian, likely to spare Gweir the particulars. Draco caught bits and pieces, his knowledge of the language quite limited. Tears were shed and wiped at with the hems of wooly cloaks, Warming Charms cast at their feet so they wouldn't feel the need to stomp them for warmth against the snow. Draco charmed a few Sickles in his pockets to give off heat, handing two to Gweir to warm the child's pockets.

Nebojsa stepped forward, Dmitry at his side, supporting him; at times appearing to hold the gaunt fellow upright. Draco wondered if he was sick, or perhaps still wounded from battle.

The Serb spoke in Latin—verses of muggle text committed to memory, things about God and not mourning those who had moved on to be with their fathers and forefathers in some eternal banquet kingdom. Puzzled, Kieran glanced up at Draco.

“Muggle religion,” Draco advised. “Shh.”

Nebojsa had to stop, his leaning against his partner slowly becoming a collapsing. The tall man covered his mouth as a wracking cough took hold of his lungs, bringing up what sounded like blood. Mikhail rushed forward, a potion ampule in hand. The service fell apart as the men moved to support their leader, their shoulders under his arms, hands banishing the blood from his robes, checking his pulse, feeling his cheeks and forehead with the backs of big, hairy-knuckled hands. Annoyance in his light eyes, Nebojsa did his best to shoo his mates away.

“What's wrong with him?” Gweir whispered.

“Probably injured in the battle.”

“It must be bad, then,” the boy mused, looking at his boots and the surrounding snow. “If they couldn't heal him with magic.”

“Must be,” Draco agreed.

Kieran pondered, pushing at the snow with the toe of his boot until he uncovered the withered brown grass beneath.

“Shouldn't he go to Madam Pomphrey?”

Draco quirked a brow in the Serb's direction—the skinny fellow actually slapped a hand as it went to feel his forehead's temperature for a fourth time.

“Do you think anyone could make him?”

“My Mum always said there are times for stubbornness. But I don't think this is one of them. I mean, he looks sick.” The eleven-year-old shook his head. “I thought he was a vampire at first.”

Draco simpered playfully. “Did you, now?”

Gweir was silent a beat too long. His head remained ducked, hair black and wild as ever, toeing his way through the dirt, having pushed all of the snow aside and uprooted the grass in a petulant show.

“It's alright...” Draco said slowly, at a loss for words.

“Don't patronize me,” the child snapped, whirling on him. A few of the adult wizards looked up at the sound. “Nothing is alright—absolutely nothing! My life is fucking shite now! Mum's gone and they're gonna make me stay with my Gran! She doesn't even like me! This isn't—”

“Come 'ere, you prat,” Draco growled, seizing the child and bringing him in for a hug. “Ya miss yer mother.” He smoothed the boy's hair, over and over; useless of course, but it was something. He carded his fingers through that familiar mop.

“They just... they fucking killed her!” Kieran wailed, clutching at Draco's robes. “She was trying to protect people and they killed her. She didn't do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

“Like that guy. Dušan,” he pointed a little finger at the waiting pyre. “I bet you he didn't do anything wrong, either.”

A deep voice replied—Chereshko, come over to see what the ruckus was about. “He didn't, malysh. He vos guarding a chapel. Zhere vere muggles inside, saying zheir dawn prayers.”

Gweir glanced up with large wet eyes. He released his hold on Draco's cloak long enough to wipe at the wetness clinging to his lashes.

“And was he a pureblood?”

Chern's thick brows knit as he considered the question. He blinked twice before answering, “Da. Unless you count a dhampir zeveral generations back.”

“Silly, isn't it?” Draco commented idly. “What's considered pure and what's tainted. None of the great wizards of our time can be considered purebloods—not Harry Potter, not Albus Dumbledore, not even the Dark Lord.” That won him a few startled glances. Draco hitched his shoulders in a small shrug. He swallowed and continued, “Muggle father. Potter's closer to pure than that monster. It would seem that if one wishes to remain pure these days—pure in the old sense of the word—you're likely to wed a cousin. Next generation we'll be back to sibling marriages.”

“It used to be about power,” he said forcefully. Several of the men nodded. Gweir burrowed closer, burying his face against Draco's stomach. “Real power, true magical aptitude. But its devolved, become this... this scraping for political advantage, for control and an opportune position for backstabbing. I don't think this is what the old ones had in mind when they spoke about keeping magic strong.”

Gweir muttered something. Dmitry reached out, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and urging him to repeat himself, louder.

“Granger,” the Welsh boy said. “Head Girl Hermione Granger.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “As much as she annoys me, there aren't many who know more about magic than that muggle-born girl. She's strong, with many talents. She's the type of witch we need breeding the next generations if we're to avoid extinction. Yet the Dark Lord would kill her, rather than see her potential.”

Several of the men shook their heads.

“A zhame,” Nebojsa wheezed.

“I don't understand it,” Kieran announced boldly, hands balled into tiny fists in Draco's robes. “Being pureblood or muggle born really isn't that big a deal—it's only what you make of yourself that matters. Why do they have to kill everyone who disagrees with them, everyone who gets in their way?”

Draco shushed him, pressing the boy's black head to the center of his stomach. The child barely cleared the divot where Draco's ribs met, just below his heart.

“It's not fair!”

Dmitry came in on Kieran's other side, putting his chin to the top of Draco's head, hugging the boy between them.

“Truer vords ver never spoken,” the handsome man muttered.

Draco looked up, catching the Romanian's honey-colored gaze. He waggled his brows at the man. “From the mouths of babes.”

“Mal-foy!” Kieran shoved his way out, annoyed. There were still tears on his cheek. The boy swiped at them with his sleeve, face ever-reddening.

“I'm sorry,” Draco offered swiftly, holding out his arm. “You know I didn't mean it that way.”

Dmitry took a knee, gesturing the child close. With a wary expression, Gweir shuffled back, stopping at the big brunet's side.

“Malfoy has a funny vay of speaking, da?” He cuffed the boy on the shoulder gently. “I'll tell you a secret: Malfoys don't know how to be nice.”

Draco's mouth fell open. “I most certainly—” he spluttered.

Mikhail gave a tremendous snort. Chern laughed outright.

Dmitry held up a big hand, shushing them all. “Zhey zhink emotion makes zhem veak. Zo Draco here iz zhort vith people. He doesn't want to zeem attached to anyone. But zhere's a vay you can zee through him, boy.” Kieran leaned in, eager to hear of Draco's Achilles heel. “He only teazes zhose he admires. He vouldn't vaste zhe time to vhittle barbs if he did not zhink you vere vorth zhe effort.”

A coy smile snaked across Gweir's round face.

“So, when he's a condescending git...” there were laughs all around, “it's because he's fond of me?”

Draco rolled his eyes, rolling with it. “Of course. I thought this was understood, child.”

Dmitry rose from his knee, brushing dirt and snow from his trousers. He looked glad to have set things to rights between Draco and his pint-sized protege. Draco still shook a playful fist at the big man as he righted himself.

There was a howl from beyond the tree line—not far enough away. It could have been a wolf... or worse. Draco swallowed. He caught Yura's eyes, then Chereshko's. Both Moldovans seemed to agree that it was time to get this service over with and get the hell out of the dark forest.

The little Hyppogriff, which had been hanging back away from the wizards, gave a nervous squawk before dancing closer and closer to the woods. With a last darting glance at the humans, it took off into the darkness.

A gust of wind bit at the snow, sending tufts into the air, swirling around them. Draco and the men pulled their cloaks tighter.

Nebojsa cleared his throat. “Enough has been zaid. I zhink....”

He didn't have to finish that sentence. Every last man and boy agreed with a nod. It was time to perform the deed and be on their way. The men formed a loose half circle around the pyre, leaving a gap where the wind carried snow off into the forest. Soon there would be smoke tending in that same direction. Wands were readied.

Draco crouched, bringing his face closer to Gweir's chubby red cheeks.

“Why don't you say the spell with us?” he offered. “The Inflamarae Scale is only second year stuff, you can manage it. The incantation for funerals is Rogō Inflamarae.” Draco nudged the boy's wand hand. “Go on, try it.”

The wizards leveled their wands as one, as though the pyre were a beast about to charge them. Every arm was steady and true, each wand pointed straight at the wooden structure. Not a one of them trembled; not a one of them shook.

Nebojsa gave the signal.

“Rogō Inflamarae,” they incanted as one.

Blue flame erupted from each of their wands—some streams thick and heavy, dripping flames, like arms of fire, while others were feeble, hardly more than lighted blue thread hanging in the wind. The pyre lit instantly, taking their magic into the spells at its core and burning, burning into nothingness so brightly, so fiercely, that Draco almost had to look away. Flames lept out in every direction, skyward and out, palling back at them, melting the snow. Beside him, Kieran took a step back, seizing Draco's arm and drawing it across himself like a shield.

Draco ended his spell to offer the boy both his arms, gathering the young thing to himself in a heap. He didn't care for the snow soaking through his robes, or the heat of flames on the side of his face, so different from the cold which nipped at his hands, and the warm, snow-flaked hair pressing against his other cheek. He hardly noticed when the other wizards began to chant.

He realized it was a song only when new notes were introduced—which was sparsely. The wizards kept themselves together through eye contact, knowing when to begin and when to fall off perhaps by memory or old habit. There were three parts—the deep thrum of Dmitry and Yura, keeping to only two or three notes, minding the bottom-most reaches of the melody. Nebojsa minded the top, adding almost contrasting notes which rang in Draco's ears; a man's a death mourning.

“What are they singing about?” Kieran whispered against Draco's ear. “More muggle faith?”

“I'm not quite sure,” Draco replied. “I don't understand much of the language.” He turned his ear a moment, listening. The only words he could pick out with confidence were “ne” and “mati.” He swallowed. “I think... they're singing to their mothers. Asking them not to weep.”

“Where are their mothers?” Kieran asked, looking around at the men's faces as they sang. “Were they all captured by the Death Eaters?”

Draco thought on the fate of Lady Ionescue, murdered by her Death Eater husband before her children could know her as men—of Chereshko's mother, Professor Toleanu of Durmstrang, murdered in her Dark Arts classroom when the school was overrun. He dreaded to think of the misfortune delivered upon Yura's parents after he defected from the Dark Lord's ranks. And Nebojsa's mother, who's life was taken in the last war; struck down by the hand of the Dark Lord himself, just like Lily Potter.

And what of his own mother? Was she safe at Malfoy Manor? Surely not, after his escape. Perhaps the Dark Lord had killed her, too. Or Aunt Bellatrix, out of some twisted sense of family pride, or perhaps mercy, sparing beautiful Cissy Black the pain and torture of death at the Dark Lord's hands. Maybe Aunt Bella didn't find mother a worthy target for her Dark Master's ire.

It was likely that Draco, too, no longer had a mother. None of them did.

He pulled Kieran closer—to fight off the chill creeping in.

“Their mothers are gone. Like yours. Like mine.”

~ * ~

Malfoy. If he wasn't so important to Harry—and increasingly good for Gryffindor House morale—she'd kill him with her own bare hands.

She'd thought the pureblooded ponce had had some semblance of manners, that day he invited her into his room at Grimmauld Place for a sherry. Or when he'd danced with her and Ginny at The Blue Iguana, all politeness and gentlemanly, keeping his hands to himself and showing each partner a good time despite his own reservations. Apparently he only sought to charm her when there was information to be had about Harry, their one and only mutual affection. As she was now useless to the conniving blond, she'd apparently been cut off from his good graces.

He'd changed the password of their joined suites to... to.... She couldn't even say the word in her mind! How was she to get into her rooms, to her half-finished Potions essay and the countless books which were too much to carry with her at all times? How was she to live, a prisoner in her own house tower?

Malfoy was an evil git; he always had been and he always would be.

Cunt. That's what he'd changed the password to. She glimpsed the word on his lips even now as he strolled through the Common Room; his shadow, Gweir, ever at his side. The little Welsh boy was as a slave to the Ignoble House of Malfoy, following his master about, all but begging for scraps. If the boy didn't love it so much, she'd have put a stop to it a long time ago. As it was, Gweir ate from the palm of Malfoy's hand. And—Hermione suspected—vice versa. That was something she thought to leave well enough alone. Let Malfoy have a weakness for sweet-faced young boys and see if she lifted a finger to stop him!

Her brows drew together as she watched the pair of them take to the hidden staircase leading up to the Heads' Suite. Malfoy was laughing, the twittering chirp of a sound echoing in the stairway, joined by a burbling giggle. Malfoy had said that word in front of Kieran Gweir—most likely telling the lad the harrowing tale of how he'd snuck such a lewd thing under Headmistress McGonagall's nose—the incorrigible first year laughing at the story as the hems of their robes disappeared from view.

They were the Slytherins in exile, as Hermione thought of them; Malfoy's quarters effectively their clubhouse into which they climbed to exchange secrets. They behaved as children—motherless children. The Wild and Lost Boys. And Hermione feared for them, feared that Harry was becoming too much like them, too headstrong and unwilling to accept help even when it was readily offered; too willing to ostracize himself, to tuck himself away, beyond help, beyond saving. The situation was precarious at best.

The only bright spot on an otherwise bleak horizon was a missive from the Headmistress, informing of Harry's expected return. Apparently he'd owled, requesting a meeting of the Hogwarts prefects. No one asked questions anymore. As Gweir to Malfoy, they simply did as they were bade.

It would be good to see Harry again. It had been too long. She hoped it wasn't too late for Malfoy, that the irascible beast was not yet too far gone to hear reason from the head dragon tamer's lips. If there was a chance at controlling Malfoy—calming him even the slightest bit—Hermione would see it done. He was Harry's to deal with. But let Harry come soon and tend him, before Malfoy turned on himself like a cornered animal in chains.

She could see the shifting of madness in his gaze, eye contact or not. It was the first year boy and thoughts of Harry keeping Malfoy in this world, keeping him sane when there was nothing else, prefects rounds seen to and firewhisky all drunk up. She heard him at the piano sometimes, bleeding his heart out over the ivories, playing for Harry, serenading him each night though he never came through the door.

It would be good to see her friend again. He had been missed, perhaps most keenly by their mooning, moping, cankerous Head Boy.

Malfoy needed Harry as much as Harry would need the comfort of his waspish, snippy bedfellow. It was only a matter of time. She stood her ground—sneers, nasty passwords, giggles and all—awaiting Harry's return.

~ * ~

Neville tapped his quill against his cheek, waiting for the Prefects Meeting to start. He was always early to these sorts of gatherings. He liked to get a seat off to one side and watch the others file in, chatting and taking seats near their friends. Rigid punctuality provided him a moment to collect himself, to think of soothing nothingness before having his unwilling head crammed with schedules and security concerns, rounds and disciplinary measures and the constant revision and bickering which had come to dominate these meetings since Hermione Granger took over as Head Girl. The only bright spot—and Neville wasn't the only one ashamed to admit this—was sodding Draco Malfoy. As much as the man had been a right-fucking ponce of a Slytherin git over the years, his snide remarks and witty come-backs—the way he brushed Hermione aside like little more than a worrying mother—was a welcome relief. Sometimes you wondered whether the bravado was for show, if Malfoy was truly shaking in his boots under the bombast show he put on outside his quarters... and presumably in them, too. It was hard to imagine Malfoy in his rooms at night, clutching a snifter of brandy, sniffling into it. That pureblood pride probably wouldn't allow it. He'd spontaneously combust. Either Malfoy was very good at lying to himself... or he was truly just that confident.

It wasn't unusual to see their Head Boy strolling into Prefects and D.A. meetings a few minutes ahead of schedule, book bag slung over his shoulder and a pretty red rose fixed at a jaunty angle to the lapel of his jumper, shocking-white hair in artful disarray. The unusual sight stood behind him—Harry Potter sauntering in Malfoy's wake, all lean muggle denims and a solid leather jacket, looking harried but victorious.

Neville observed the two as they took their seats at the front of the classroom, facing the rows of desks where Hogwarts' measly population of Prefects would soon gather.

There was something about them... together. The boyishly charming Harry Potter and prickly-yet-saucy Draco Malfoy, a unit, the meeting of opposite spectrums in this seamless alignment. They brought out colors previously unseen in the other. To Neville, Malfoy had always been a sneering bully, hiding behind his family's fame and his father's enormous clout. Malfoy was sharp but ultimately ineffectual. You knew he'd do as his daddy-dearest told him, keep his nose clean and be cowed at the end of the day. As much as Malfoy teased, threatened and snipped, you knew nothing more than an uncomfortable hex or perhaps a beating from his goons would come of it. Draco Malfoy had always been several wagon-loads of show. Now there was something more to him; charisma, an elan and poise which in a woman might be called “grace.” Realization sat heavy in his pale, pointed features—and with it, a kind of serenity. He appeared in the halls as a man lead to the gallows—as though he could see his death nigh approaching and had resigned himself, gathering to red-rosed breast the ragged shreds of his dignity to have one last go, one final stand against a world he so despised. Having betrayed the Death Eaters so publicly in that Prophet article in August, there was surely a price on Malfoy's carefully coiffed head. Perhaps he thought sinking claws into The Great Harry Potter might keep him afloat.

Then again, the whole wizarding world thought much the same thing. Malfoy couldn't be blamed for jumping on the 'Chosen One' bandwagon.

There was change in Harry, too, and not just his appearance. He'd gotten stronger over the summer, more focused, and it showed in the cast of his unshaven jaw, the brick set of his shoulders and spine, the way he sat in his chair as though ready to spring up and defend himself at any moment. And probably defend Malfoy, too. Harry looked weary, hardened. His eyes moved like Professor Not-Moody's of fourth year; ever on guard—vigilant. Unlike the old Harry, this one was fully aware of his power, the nimbus of magic which hung around him and the respect he and it commanded. Old Harry was your friend, a bloke you could count on to listen to your problems and offer a kind word of advice. And though that aura, that gentleness and warmth of his youth hadn't faded entirely, there was a keen sense that this version of Harry, The Boy Who Lived All-Grown-Up, had much more on his shoulders than your rubbish feelings. You really didn't want to bother him.

Harry and Malfoy sat beside one another, only the brush of a polished school shoe and dirty high-top trainer connecting them. But their gazes tended toward one another's forms, the ease of trust and affection clear in their casual, waiting silence.

A moment passed between them—the briefest flash of knowing when their eyes met, a clandestine and private understanding. Power crackled between them; charisma and pluck, flip, intelligence and pure bloody nerve.

Neville slid down in his seat. Those two had center stage—might as well hang back and watch the show.

He began to wonder what was going on when his seventh-year dorm-mates arrived. Dean and Seamus took seats well apart from one another—must've had another tiff while he was down in the greenhouses. If someone wasn't around to keep an eye on those two, usually Neville or Ron, things could go unpleasant in a Snidget's wingbeat.

There were a few too many chairs at the front of the classroom. Whispers bounced about the room as it filled, wondering who else might be joining them. There were no disciplinary hearings on the docket.

Harry's presence was a catalyst. Rumors had traveled the castle. First he'd been seen leaving the Headmistress's office early in the morning, looking determined. By lunch, word in the halls was that You Know Who would be dead by dusk... after all, this was Harry Potter on the job. That Harry was here, intact, probably meant You-Know-Who remained similarly alive and well. Neither of them would go down without a brutal fight. The world would have heard of it, Daily Prophet or not.

Ron came in with his girlfriend, taking a chair beside her at the front of the classroom. Merlin knew what Ron was doing at a prefect gathering—he always avoided them like the plague. Sometimes Malfoy would even schedule Gryffindor Quidditch practice at the same time, excusing both himself and Ron. Hermione hated that. The fact that Harry, Ron, Malfoy and nearly the entire Gryffindor Quidditch squad was here didn't bode well.

Trying to get the meeting underway, Hermione raised her hand for silence. It came immediately when a second Harry Potter entered the room, taking a seat beside Draco Malfoy. The newcomer—who could only be a Time-Turner version of Harry, as similar as they appeared in manners and mien—wore a Gryffindor uniform and Harry's trademark half-bored, half-day-dreaming expression. Stunned, Hannah Abbot closed the gaping mouth of a lesser Hufflepuff prefect at her side. The Slytherins were silent, arms folded across their chests.

“Well then,” the first Harry—the real Harry, Neville thought—spoke before the Prefects could recover and begin lobbing questions like Bludgers for him to dodge. “This is my double. You can just call him Harry. Actually, you should probably pretend he's me.”

Granger rolled her eyes in a grand huff. “What Harry means to say is that, in aid of the war, he, Ron and I will be leaving the castle for a little while. In order not to arouse suspicion, we have three people standing in for us.”

“It'll be easier for us and safer for you lot if no one knows we've gone,” Ron added.

With a little wave, real-Harry invited two more people into the classroom; they were spot-on likenesses of Ron Weasley and Head Girl Hermione Granger. The fake version of Hermione even had a quill behind her ear, her fake Ronald slumping dutifully behind her.

“But,” Vivienne Huber from Ravenclaw protested loudly, “Who are these people?”

Michael Corner piped up a moment later, agitated. “Does Professor McGonagall know about this?”

“No,” fake-Hermione spoke up, rolling her eyes in perfect know-it-all fashion as she took a seat beside the real Ron Weasley, fake-Ron at her side. Whoever she was, she apparently didn't mind being sandwiched by ginger. “Harry has full run of the castle and he's planted us here behind the Headmistress' back.”

“Honestly.” Fake-Harry and Malfoy intoned as one, in the same bored tone of voice. Several people laughed. Fake-Hermione was apparently sarcastic by nature.

“McGonagall knows about this,” the true Harry reassured the crowd, smoothing his hand through the air as he soothed nerves and frazzled looks. “These three need to be at Hogwarts. Ron, Hermione and I need to be off for a little bit and we'd rather no one know we've gone. It works itself out rather well.”

Hermione picked up where Harry left off, standing to address the crowd of prefects. “And we're going to need help from each of you to be sure that none of the other students have a clue about the switch. You may have to help our doubles with course work and general information. Speak to them privately about any concerns, in the dormitories or empty classrooms, no where you might be overheard. In public, you'll want to talk to them as though they really are us so as not to arouse suspicion.”

“Most of the school staff doesn't know,” Malfoy added from his seat. He had an ankle crossed over the top of his knee, slouched in his chair as he watched the faces of his subordinates absorbing this huge piece of information. He quirked a meaningful blond brow. “See that it stays that way.”

“Right,” both Harrys nodded but only the real one spoke. Twin fringes of black hair shifted over twin lightning bolt scars, giving the impression there was a mirror reflection sitting on Malfoy's other side rather than an entirely different person. Whoever was in Harry Potter's skin, he had The Boy Who Lived's mannerisms down perfectly. Neville began to wonder if it wasn't a Time-Turner version of Malfoy himself walking around in a Harry suit. Everyone knew Malfoy did a spot-on impression of Harry. It wouldn't be too far off.

“This shouldn't be for too long,” Harry said evenly. “Our goal is for no one to notice the difference.”

Both Rons nodded. It was hard to tell the difference when fake-Ron spoke before the real one could open his mouth. “Just act natural. We'll be outta here before you know it.”

There was a flurry of questions to follow but Neville no longer attended them.

Seamus and Dean were making eyes at each other from across the room, an unspoken truce dropping between them with this sudden news. Seamus was insatiable—he'd want to get to the bottom of this immediately, know where Harry, Ron and Hermione were going and who was standing in their place. Dean would want to restrain Seamus—bodily, if necessary. Eventually it would drive them both to madness and they'd be right back where they started; none-the-wiser, not speaking, and making Neville's life nothing more than a daily walk on egg shells. And now there would be no Ron to share in his misery. Not the real Ron, anyway.

This was going to be interesting.

~ * ~

The fakes went off without a hitch. It was difficult to say when the real Harry, Hermione and Ron left and the doubles took over. Ron and Hermione had been perfectly normal over breakfast the following morning, the red head shoveling food into his gob as fast as he could chew, Hermione devouring the meager post with equal enthusiasm, scanning for news. Occasionally she would smack Ron's arm, making him look at this section from a foreign magazine or that snippet of an owl post making it in from the outside. Ron—whether fake or still himself—did his part to look more interested in his buttered toast.

The only indication that something was off-kilter occurred in the Gryffindor Common Room several days later, late in the evening. Malfoy let fake-Harry win at chess. That was when Neville knew the switch had taken place. Because Malfoy would never let the real Harry Potter win at anything. Ever. Even if the ex-Slytherin had to cheat to see it so. If he had to beg, borrow or steal—Draco Malfoy would sell his own mother as a house elf to ensure his victory over The Boy Who Lived. Some things never changed.

Neville was at least comforted by the fact that real-Harry had come to his senses and summoned the Golden Trio. It always took the three of them working together to bail him out of a jam—he should know better by now. Those three could always pull through when they got over their stubbornness and put their bloody heads together.

Except for eliciting game-throwing from Malfoy, fake-Harry was putting on as stunning a performance as his counterparts. Possibly better. He sat and brooded appropriately, staring into the fire late at night and ruffling his misbehaving hair with great troubled sighs. There were even a few intense yet unreadable glances shot Malfoy's way, always at visible times such as meals and in the corridors. He spent time in the library with his fake trio cohorts and flew well at Quidditch practice if the team's lack of reaction was anything to go by.

A shock came during dueling practice at the Thursday night D.A. meeting, when Malfoy took it upon himself to cast the same spell from the infamous Dueling Club Incident of second year—the same great black snake dropped from Malfoy's wand, slithering its way across the floor, making straight for fake-Harry with a tell-tale hiss. A few students who weren't old enough to have been there the first time let out screams; they were quieted by the sixth and seventh years, waiting to see how Harry would react this time around.

Neville had held his breath, wondering what in the hell Malfoy was up to.

The grin on fake-Harry's face was unforgettable. With that sly-arse look behind his glasses, he'd hissed in Parseltongue, wand flicking just-so, the syllables falling from his lips like leaves from the Whomping Willow in a snit. The snake had paused a moment, its scaled head cocked, listening with rapt attention to its new directive. A moment later, it began to eat itself, tail-first. The room erupted in applause. Inside, Neville cringed. Parselmouths were bad news at Hogwarts. Rumor had it You-Know-Who was one.

Neville found himself hoping that whatever spell had been used to make this man—because something buried deep in his gut told him this imposter person was a man—into fake-Harry-Potter was also responsible for the doppelganger having Harry's unique, forked-tongued ability. Because another Parselmouth in the world was bad business. Hogwarts was already up to the third floor windows in trouble. He wondered that Harry felt the need to place an undercover Parselmouth, or if it was just coincidence. He concluded that nothing was coincidence where Harry Potter was concerned. He also kept his conclusions to himself.

Neville idled after the defense lesson adjourned, watching Malfoy speak with Luna Lovegood while Harry chatted up a group of Durmstrang-transfer Ravenclaws. Neville was careful not to make his true point of interest known, exiting the Room of Requirement behind Lavender Brown and the rest of the Gryffindor girls. He trailed fake-Hermione on her way back to Gryffindor Tower, hoping he might hear something magical.

Sure enough, the witch turned toward the bust of Paracelsus a little ways down the hall, the bust guarding the now less-than-secret passageway to the Head Boy and Girl's quarters. He strained his ears, tip-toeing on the very balls of his feet, silent, hoping he might hear the word fall from Hermione Granger's lips. Sure it wasn't really Hermione. That didn't matter: it was the principle of the thing. A puppet saying silly words was still far more entertaining than a silent reality.

As he opened the portrait hole... there it was: Hermione's voice, echoing faintly down the corridor.

“Cunt.”

And fake-Hermione was smiling.

The next morning, Draco Malfoy sat down beside him in the Great Hall, reaching casually for the coffee pot while munching a piece of toast stolen from his first year friend down the row. Neville assumed Malfoy had only sat so close because Neville was near the coffee. So he was shocked utterly senseless when the blond leaned closer, muttering into Neville's shoulder.

“Finally,” the man mock-sighed, “I can experience an attraction to Granger without the simultaneous and overwhelming urge to slit my wrists. Ay?” And then a hearty, “Pass the cream, would ya?”

- - -

Seamus tossed his pillow in the air—aimless, over and over again, catching it between his palms with a gentle thwashing noise as the fabric rushed past his palms. It was the loudest sound in the room, cutting over the wind whistling in the window panes and the swaying clink of Quidditch gear as Dean got ready for practice.

Dean caught the pillow mid-flight with a well-aimed Summoning Charm. It flew through the air, a crimson blur, landing smartly in Dean's outstretched fist. “Stop it,” the boy muttered before tossing the pillow onto his own bed, pulling on his Quidditch jersey.

“I can't 'ave been the only one ta notice,” Seamus pouted, shooting up in bed. He leaned back against his palms a moment later, settling as he eyed Neville for support from across the room. Neville kept his thoughts to himself.

“Sure,” Dean sighed his agreement. Almost begrudging, he added “Doesn't make them a couple.”

They were arguing about Ron and Hermione—or, to be more precise, the people walking around in Ron and Hermione's skins courtesy of a steady supply of potion. They'd seen enough of fake-Ron sipping at it the last few days to put the pieces together.

“When have you ever seen Not-Our-Ron sleep in the dormitory?” Seamus gestured grandly, both hands sweeping the room before he fell back to his pillow-less bed. True, fake-Ron was not in the dormitory much. And they never saw him at nights. He always drifted up the hidden passageway to the Heads' Quarters when he thought no one was looking—well, Neville supposed the person in Ron's likeness was a man, anyway. He could be wrong. Nobody knew for sure; hence all the gossip and speculation. There really was bugger-all to do besides Quidditch and schoolwork these days.

“Maybe they have secret meetings with McGonagall at night,” Dean teased, fastening his cloak. “Or maybe they're off doing it. You should sneak after him and find out.”

Neville turned a page in his N.E.W.T. Herbology text, muttering, “Or you could, you know, ask him.”

“Don't be thick!” Seamus bellowed, looking as though if he had another pillow he'd have aimed it at Neville.

“I'm just saying,” Neville shrugged from behind his book, his eyes never straying from the page. “It would be a great deal more polite than everyone talking behind the fellow's back. Assuming he's a fellow, anyway.”

Seamus slapped his thigh. “I know who he is!” he announced. But no one was paying him any attention at this point. Sometimes Seamus would talk only to hear his own voice. Neville tried to block the chap out. “Remus Lupin! And 'Hermione' is Nymphadora Tonks—that's why they sneak off, right? 'Cause they're together!”

“That makes no sense, Seamus.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Just drop it.”

“Makes perfect sense.” Seamus was petulant, sulking with his arms folded across his chest. “Watch them at the next D.A. meeting and you'll see.”

Neville had to give Seamus that. Whoever was in Ron's skin, the man (or woman) was a defensive powerhouse, throwing out non-verbal spells like a battle-hardened Auror. And Hermione was just as good—maybe better. Every last one of the woman's spells—well, the woman presumably concealed within—was spot-on, non-verbal and quick as a cat. The people masquerading as Ron and Hermione, whoever they were, were seasoned professionals when it came to defensive and improvisational magic. Nothing could get past them. Not even Malfoy The Death Eater Reformed. If a crisis ever came to Hogwarts, those three dangerous fiends were precisely the defenders Neville would want in Gryffindor Tower. They appeared to be the best anyone could ask for: it made sense that Harry and Professor McGonagall would have sequestered them within Hogwarts at a time like this.

“Fine,” Dean gave in with a huff, cautioning, “Just... Seamus? Leave him alone, okay?”

The door to the boys dormitory had opened silently. Everybody jumped when a voice questioned from the doorway, “Leave who alone?”

Ron's body strode into the room. It was Ron's body because, while the fellow inside had obviously studied Ron's mannerisms, family tree and class schedule, there was just something... off. There was a shift in energy; a tranquil passivity, an ease and utter lack of nerves which was simply not Ronald Bilius Weasley. The true Ron panicked over every little thing and never had his coursework done on time; he was also a bit of a slob and always out to prove himself. Neville guessed that came from having so many brothers ahead of him at Hogwarts, so many Prefects and Head Boys and now bloody entrepreneurs in the family. Ron probably felt he had a lot to live up to. This man wasn't Ron because—and no offense to Ron—he was bloody confident. It oozed out of him, a certitude and quiet knowing that this man lived for himself and didn't give a damn what anybody thought of him. It was the kind of serene strength Neville wished he had—like Harry Potter in a crisis, like this man. You could see it in the set of his shoulders, hear it in the slow cadence of his voice. This fellow was used to getting what he wanted, 'Auror' or not. And he got his way with honesty and candor, never taking “no” for an answer and not once backing down. He was a true soldier, a warrior from beyond sacred Hogwarts walls.

Neville prayed his dorm mates weren't about to antagonize the fellow. It could get ugly. For them.

“Harry,” Dean lied quickly. “He's... it's nothing anyone but us would notice....”

“What is it?” fake-Ronald asked, going to Ron's trunk and siphoning Quidditch gear from the mess. “If there's something we're doing wrong, I'll pass it on, rest assured.”

The man in Ron's skin wasn't even bothering to speak like Ron, now, amongst company who knew of his disguise. Somehow that made it worse—the fact that they were speaking to another made plain by the practiced, Patrician fall of his words. A statesman? A pureblood? Someone famous? Because frolicking fuck did he know how to speak.

“Really,” Dean gave Seamus a stern look that he should keep his ruddy gob shut. “It's nothing.”

“But you, mate!” Seamus piped up, snagging the imposter's keen gaze.

Neville washed his face with his hand, concealing the gesture behind his hefty school book.

Seamus continued. “The dead give-away is your spell-work. Ron's not nearly so proficient.”

Fake-Ron smiled casually over his shoulder. The lop-sidedness was about right, but this fellow made it suave, charming. He was a rogue, sure, by that unguarded look, a fellow quite popular with the ladies.

“Thanks,” the imposter kept smiling. “I'll be sure to tone it down.”

“Hermione's about right, skill-wise,” Seamus added. “You're both really good. Did Harry—I mean real Harry—he didn't—”

“I'm going to stop you right there,” the fellow interjected, still getting dressed for Quidditch and keeping his eyes to the buttons and fastenings as he went. “I can't talk about Harry or why I'm here. I apologize for the secrecy. I know it's rude to come into your lives and pretend to be your mate but... this is what's best for everyone. Including myself and my family. I hope you understand.”

Seamus took off his shoe and chucked it at Dean. The trainer got the dark-skinned boy square in the back of the knee, making his leg buckle. He wobbled a moment before whipping around to glare at Seamus.

The Irishman cackled. Gleeful as Peeves with a new verse of The Dragon Song, he teased, “Blows yer theory outta the water, doesn't it, Dean?”

“What theory?” Neville piped up.

Seamus answered for Dean, who had apparently been harboring some secret musing about the identity of their mysterious faux-mate. “That 'Ron' here was actually Professor Snape. But you'd sooner die than hear that greasy git apologize!”

Fake-Ron laughed, squirming into his Quidditch bracers. “I can say with confidence that I am not the Potions Master Severus Snape.” He was taking this very well—not like an Auror, all seriousness and stone-facedness about his mission. Maybe he was a civilian, then. He'd called the people with him family, after all.

“And you're not Remus Lupin, either, are you?” Dean put in.

A shake of the head from Fake-Ron dispelled that notion.

“But are you someone we know?” Seamus pressed, swinging his legs off the side of his bed and sitting up, elbows braced on his knees and a pensive hand to the scruff at his chin.

Fake-Ron turned to face them, every bit Not-Ronald-Weasley. They were seeing the man behind the mask as much as they could, that much was certain. His voice was impregnable and calm, but warning, as he spoke.

“You're better off not knowing. Truly. We are not anyone you would be acquainted with. We're not Aurors, or former professors, or ex-Death Eaters on the lam. We are here for our safety and well-being as much as Granger, Weasley and Harry are called away to secure yours.” And his gaze traveled the room, taking in trunks overflowing with mess, school supplies and Quidditch gear scattered around the room. He seemed sad as his thoughts continued, his speech softer but no less sure. “We are like these three we pretend to be—young people pulled into the war by circumstance and perhaps by fate. For the time being, Hogwarts is the best place for us... and that comes from your Headmistress herself.”

“No way...” Dean breathed.

“Blimey,” Seamus muttered.

“So you're students?” Neville asked. “Or you were?”

“Neither here nor there,” the man shrugged, giving nothing away. In that moment, he looked nothing like Ron—world-weary and pensive, staring at nothing. “Please. The more I tell you, the more I put you and your families in danger. And that's the last thing we want. We've lost our family—the three of us are all that's left. We fight so that what happened to us won't happen to the students here. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Neville nodded. Dean did the same, sitting heavily on the trunk at the foot of his bed.

Seamus wasn't giving up so easily. “So you're related, the three of you?”

Fake-Ron practically tisked at Seamus, shaking his head in a tired to-and-frow which set Ron's shaggy hair billowing away from his head like a ginger halo.

“Malfoy was right,” the imposter said with a knowing simper. And Ron never smirked like that in his entire bloody life, that was for damn sure. It was like the devil himself breaking through Weasley's freckled skin. “One thing I can say for Gryffindors: you certainly don't know when to stop.”

- - -

Draco Malfoy's fingers stilled over his piano's keys, the paleness of his graceful digits shaming the ivories, hands hovering like birds frozen in the sky. He did not speak. The last of his playing rang out from the grand instrument, the room slowly given over to silence.

“You miss him,” Nebojsa said softly.

Beside him, Malfoy nodded. “Yes.”

“It can't be easy,” Nebojsa continued. They sat side by side on the piano bench. The Serbian wizard rested a hand on the blond's narrow shoulder. His hands were Harry Potter's hands—the knobbly fingers, sun-tanned skin and Quidditch callouses of The Boy Who Lived. He was becoming accustomed to these hands, spectacles, unruly locks, health. When he spoke, it was the heavy cadence of Harry Potter's voice, English accent and lovely syllables issued in comfort. “My looking like him, sounding like him... but not him. I'm sure its been a nightmare come to life for you. The Polyjuice should wear off in a mo'.”

“I know.” Malfoy nodded again, forlorn. The blond bit at the very center of his lip, bit hard, so that the pink flesh went near white with pressure. A vein fluttered at the side of his neck. The powerful wizard looked but a man, small and scared, frightened and in love.

Malfoy's fingers eased an unfamiliar tune from the instrument. It wasn't from the music pages set before him. Malfoy appeared to play by ear, stopping every few bars to hum under his breath as though recalling the melody as he went along.

“I don't know this one.”

Malfoy smiled just a bit, still biting his lip. “Wonderwall.” His elbow brushed Nebojsa's stomach as his hand plied the lower keys, speaking a section of the lyrics. “All the roads we have to walk are windin'. An' all the lights tha' lead the way are blindin'. It's muggle. One a' Harry's favorites.”

Nebojsa listened a few bars, feeling where the vocals might fall within the lilting melody. “It's enchanting. I can see why he likes it.” He made to get up from the bench but Malfoy stopped him, a frail hand to his knee keeping him down with conviction more-so than strength. Malfoy came at him, until their faces were close, foreheads near to touching.

“I know yer not Harry,” the blond spoke, eyes drifting shut. His emotional pain was clear, written across his face in thin lines and purple-blue shadows. The gaunt line of his cheek drew inward as he swallowed, giving him the appearance of a shell of a man, adrift. “I know it. But you're enough like him. You smile like Harry. You even fucking smell like Harry.” He came closer still, all but nosing along Nebojsa's cheek, drinking in his lover's scent.

Nebojsa let loose a low growl, dropping his chin to his chest. “I don't know why he does this to you. He thinks it's alright? Baiting you with his likeness—torture of the heart—for what?” he spat the words, teeth clenched. “To fool spies who may or may not exist? To keep from the Dark Lord that which he already knows?”

Malfoy's skinny hand tightened over his knee.

“I think he wanted you to heal, Radić,” said Malfoy. “He does this—a rather fucked up way a' sayin' he cares. He'll try ta keep yeh from the front line, lie to you an' keep you at arms length in a besotted effort ter protect you. Be glad he's not in love with you—you'd never see or hear from him again, he'd keep you so far away.”

Nebojsa snorted. “What a cad.”

Malfoy smiled—a real smile this time. Brightness came through his eyes as though from a great emotional distance. There was spirit in him, stubbornness and verve. The apples of his cheeks pinkened, giving life to his features as the expression spread.

Nebojsa could not resist leaning forward to plant a brief kiss to the man's forehead. Malfoy allowed the gesture with good grace, holding his breath a moment as the face of his beloved came so close, familiar lips brushing his genteel skin. Malfoy was supple, tasting of autumn and wild-grown apples, almost sweet, a compote of lemon, sage and salt.

Nebojsa released him when he felt a twinge in his spine. Hastily, he spelled his shirt and trousers several sizes larger, divesting himself of belt and trainers before the shift could take hold. He gasped as the transformation racked his body like fire in his veins.

Malfoy sat at the piano bench, pale fingers clenched to tight fists, watching in silence.

Nebojsa closed his eyes against the pain. From the darkness, he would swear he heard the blond wizard speak—a saddened “goodbye” to the image of his love.

- - -

Draco wrapped his cloak tighter around himself against the castle's chill. The old structure got draftier the higher you went. His nose had been cold when he left Moaning Myrtle's bathroom on the second floor. By the time he crested the staircase leading to the seventh floor, his fingers were numb. He cast a Warming Charm before tucking his hands and wand back inside his wooly cloak.

His room would be empty when he returned, devoid of the merriment made mere hours before. The Polyjuiced trio had joined him for a nightcap by the fire, allowing their disguises to wear off for a few hours. They seemed eager to stretch their true legs, free from guises. Dmitry and his brother had had their fill of Draco's brandy, shifting into their Animagus forms out on the terrace, flexing their mighty wings before alighting into the night. Draco presumed they were still hunting in the Forbidden Forest; not to return until dawn, when the alcohol had run its course through their beast bodies, their appetites sated by raw game and the hunt which delivered it. Nebojsa, less than enthused about remaining in Harry Potter's likeness, had cried off joining Draco for his prefects rounds, instead taking to the Chamber of Secrets for a bit of what he called “dumpster diving.” Apparently young muggles made sport of going through rubbish bins, looking for useable items amongst the cast-offs. The Serb had the idea he might find some artifacts or unusual potion ingredients hidden in the rubble which had once been Salazar Slytherin's lair.

A man had to be possessed of a very morbid curiosity, indeed, to descend into that pit of darkness, Draco thought, staring into the abyss once the chamber had been opened with a hiss of Parseltongue and a groan from the ancient stones. Myrtle had fixed them both with a very funny look, pervert Malfoy and the eerie, tattooed stranger. He wondered if ghosts could wank, because this had to be a fantasy of Myrtle's long overdue. Draco sent the man down with Harry's Firebolt and a hearty wave. Nebojsa had promised to share any bits or bobs he found, after all.

The trek back to Gryffindor Tower was quiet, ghosts and fellow prefects nodding solemn and tired to one another as they passed.

Draco paused, startled in the doorway to his bedroom. There was a lump on Harry's side of the bed—too small to be Wonder Boy himself but with dark, unyielding hair and knobbly knees drawn close to his chest. Draco spotted a familiar velvet cloak draped over the piano, deposited by its sleepy owner on his way to the Head Boy's bed.

Kieran.

The little shit had snuck up to his chambers—had said “cunt” to Sir Cadogan and crawled, barefooted, into Draco Malfoy's bed, for there were no slippers or shoes in sight.

Draco shook his head.

This couldn't go on forever. What about when Harry came back? Kieran understood fluid sexuality—he was pureblood, after all. Draco wondered how much the boy's mother had explained of the mechanics of intercourse, if he understood that two men could make love the same as a man and woman. That he would be... interrupting. Surely Margaret Gweir had had suitors of some sort. As Kieran's mother, she had to have been quite attractive. Maybe Kieran would understand, would bugger off when the time came... when Harry returned.

But that was a while off.

Draco kicked his shoes from his stone feet, Summoning his pajamas with a flick of his wand. It was cold. He was cold.

A Note on Latin:

Rogō Inflamarae is derived from the spell Lacarnum Inflamarae, used by Hermione Granger to light Professor Snape's robes on fire in Philosopher's Stone. Lacarnum, the Latin for robe or vestment, gave me the idea that Inflamarae could be a series of spells used for setting specific objects ablaze.

Rogō comes from the Latin rogus, a noun of the second declension meaning funeral pyre, grave, or place of burial. Rogō is Rogus in it's dative form, to suggest that the fire is not so much conjured as it is given, a final gift to the deceased, donating magic to the flames.

I'm such a dusty old codger.
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Conscience