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Bad Faith	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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VIII

Infractus Patronus

War does not determine who is right - only who is left.

—Bertrand Russel

: : : : :

'You said if I needed anything,' Draco hissed impatiently.

'Draco—'

'No,' Draco said firmly. 'I won't. Now just sign the ruddy form.'

Snape's lip curled. 'You will call me sir while attending this institution, Mr Malfoy.'

'Sir,' Draco spat. 'Sign it.'

'I do not understand why you insist on being so difficult,' Snape said icily, keeping his voice low. 'I am only trying to help you.'

'You want to help me?' Draco hissed. 'Then sign the bloody form, and keep your nose out of my business.' Then, sneering, 'Sir.'

Snape, at this point, seemed to notice that they were gathering some attention from the surrounding students idling outside the classroom. Draco still held the form out, on the back of his Potions book, quill in the other hand and already dripping with ink. With a look of deep suspicion and subdued fury, Snape seized the quill and quickly autographed the note Draco had prepared to gain access to the Restricted Section of the library. Without waiting for a rebuke, Draco snatched his quill back and stalked off, leaving Snape glaring in his wake.

Idiot. Who did he think he was, snooping around in Draco's business? He had half a mind to think Aunt Bella was right; Snape was supposed to be on their side, but he wasn't being very helpful—either he was just incredibly greedy, or he really was a traitor. Either way, he could not find out what Draco was up to, no matter what Mother thought of him.

Rolling his eyes, Draco sped towards the library; the note would be good over the holidays, giving him plenty of time to scour the shelves for anything that might assist him in his task. He'd take out several books at once, on various topics, to ensure that no pattern could be discerned in the type of books he was borrowing...

Gathering three more-or-less equally dusty and thick volumes, Draco made his way along the last aisle of the Restricted Section, the shelf on one side of which served as a wall separating the study area of the library.

Nearby voices brought him to an abrupt halt.

The first was male and unfamiliar. 'Where'd the sod run off to this time?'

'Probably off snogging his ego.' That was Blaise, easily recognisable; an Italian accent was hard to overlook at Hogwarts.

Draco stopped, ear to the shelf and out of sight, to eavesdrop. Through the small space between the top of the books and the next shelf, Draco could see his fellow Slytherin drop his bag on the table just outside the Restricted Section and pull out a roll of parchment. An equally tall, though much more pallid, Ravenclaw boy followed suit; Draco recognised his face: Kevin Entwhistle, one of Blaise's fencing partners.

The sandy-haired sixth-year was still shaking his head as he sat down. 'All I'm saying is, he's got some balls, talking to Snape like that.'

'Malfoy? Are you kidding?' Blaise said, shaking his head. 'Snape's just scared of his father like the rest of them.'

'I thought his father was in Azkaban?'

'They're all still scared of him,' Blaise assured him. 'But trust me, Malfoy's a bloody craven if ever there was one. He didn't even have the bollocks to step up and ask Pansy to the ball; he had to write her anote during Astronomy.'

Kevin gawked at him, then laughed. 'Are you serious?' Blaise rolled his eyes, shaking his head; Kevin mirrored the action. 'Bloody hell, his mum should've called him Pansy.'

Draco's jaw and stomach clenched simultaneously. He did not like where the conversation was heading; his first impulse was to leave—because, honestly, out of sight was out of mind, and he had much more important things to worry about than what his housemates were saying behind his back. But for security purposes, there was only one way in and out of the Restricted Section—meaning he couldn't leave without walking right past them.

Hands curling into fists and eyes closing in resignation, he leaned up against the bookcase and stayed put.

Draco could see Vince and Greg follow in behind them, taking the seats opposite. Vince was laughing at their remarks; Greg looked uncomfortable. Blaise just shrugged, dragging out his books from his bag. 'S'what I keep trying to tell her, but she's bloody besotted with the idiot.'

'All the birds are,' Vince said shortly. 'It's just 'cuz he's a fucking pretty boy.'

'Yeah, tell me about it,' Kevin was saying bitterly. 'Mandy and her posse never shut up about him. Half the blokes, too. Even bloody Carmichael's all eyes every game.'

There was an exasperated snort, then Theodore's voice. 'He's just a bloody fop like Lucius. My father reckons he's just as bad, if not worse. The favour'll pass, you just wait.'

Vince chortled. 'I think Pansy just wants his money.'

There was another snort, this time from Blaise. 'I've got plenty of money, and she won't go out with me. No, it's not that—she just wants a pantywaist to bully around, is all. Lucius wasn't a nancy, at least,' he said, looking from Theodore to Vince. 'If it weren't for you and Greg, Draco'd have got the stuffing knocked out of him long ago.'

'Gods, I hope his father fucking rots in that hell hole,' Vince snarled. 'Soon as he's out of Dad's hair, I'll pummel the git myself. Thinks he can order me around just because his daddy's a bigshot. I wish someone would kick his face in for me.'

'Potter and Weasley managed that pretty well last year,' Kevin remarked offhandedly as he scratched something else off the parchment; the laughter began anew at the memory of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match of their fifth year.

'Hell,' Blaise gasped, still sniggering, 'don't even get me started on him and Potter. He's had a hard on for that pillock since first year.'

'Potter's not much better,' Theodore said nastily. 'Anyway, you act like Malfoy being a coward is news. I hope whatever he's up to kills him.'

'You're just peeved that Daph wants to shag him,' Vince admonished, smirking.

'Well, at least Potter's not a coward,' Kevin said fairly, taking them back to the topic at hand.

'And he'd kick the stuffing out of Malfoy, given half a chance,' Blaise piped in.

'I've a mind to, sometimes,' Vince muttered. 'Even that bushy Mudblood whacked him good, third year—you should've seen him; didn't even pull out his wand, muttering excuses about not being able to hit girls or some bollocks, as if it matters with that filth.'

'You'd think he'd be complaining that Parkinson won't spread her legs or something, like any other bloke,' Blaise continued over the others' guffawing, 'but no—it's always Potter this and Potter that; I swear, I hate Potter just because he never shuts up about him.'

Snickering, Kevin managed, 'Parkinson won't give it up?'

'Isn't it obvious? Bloody queer might as well have "virgin" stamped on his forehead,' Blaise retorted, rustling through his bag again, wrestling out another book. 'Wanks like a third-year, too, I swear. Are youdone with that yet?' he snapped, indicating the essay Kevin was attacking with a quill.

'Well you would know, wouldn't you?' sneered Theodore, reaching over the table to dip his quill in Vince's ink bottle. 'Don't even try and pretend like you don't fancy him.'

'Yeah, well, you've already snagged the other blonde for yourself, haven't you?' Blaise remarked, tapping his wand impatiently while he waited for Kevin to hand back the roll of parchment. 'He might be a spoiled little shit, but he's also a hot one. For fucks sakes, Kevin, it's not going to correct itself, give it here.'

'Keep your bloody knickers on, I ain't finished.'

'Draco's more of a girl than that tart of yours anyway,' Vince said to Theodore, earning an eyeroll and a smirk from Blaise. 'Probably not as easy, though.'

'Only because he's a pussy,' Theodore supplied.

'Oh, he'll give it up easy enough,' Blaise said, sounding confident. 'Ten Galleons says he's on his knees in a week.'

Kevin looked up from his essay. 'A week? Even for you, that's pushing it.'

'Yeah, you said that about Jones, too, remember?' Blaise responded, still smirking. 'One. Week.'

Vince laughed outright, loud enough that Madam Pince shushed him from afar. 'Done.'

Theodore raised his eyebrows. 'Twenty says he won't.'

'Thirty says I'll be whoring him out by the time you get back from the holidays,' Blaise countered.

'You're on.'

'Easy money,' Blaise said with a flourish, finally losing his patience and snatching the essay right from under Kevin's quill. He frowned at the large mass of corrections. 'What the hell, Ent? You might as well re-write it for me.'

'That'll cost you double,' Kevin said, twirling his quill in his fingers. 'I've got enough to do with my own shit, never mind writing all your bloody essays.'

'Oi, what's with you?' Vince said suddenly while Blaise continued to argue with the Ravenclaw; he had elbowed Greg, who sat up with a start.

'Nuthin',' Greg grunted, giving him a nasty look. 'Just bored of you lot griping about how much wealthier and better-looking Malfoy is.'

'Oh, please,' scoffed Blaise, interrupting his flow with Kevin, who rolled his eyes exasperatedly. 'Being an androgynous tosser doesn't make him better-looking. Just makes him a better whore.'

'Then shut up about it already,' Greg snapped. 'I came here to get my homework checked, not listen to you whinge.' He tossed his roll of parchment at Kevin. 'Hop-to, Ravenclaw.'

Kevin wrinkled his nose at the state of the parchment. 'You could at least try to write legibly, prick.'

Draco didn't remember when he'd sank down to the floor and assumed the foetal position he was growing all too accustomed to: back against the shelf, thighs drawn up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs while his forehead rested heavily on his knees. Eyes clenched shut, jaw set, but ears open to everything being said... thankfully, the conversation steered off him after that, and, after another twenty minutes of arguing and vulgar squabbling, the scraping of chairs and rustle of fabric announced the group's departure to dinner.

Draco stayed against the bookshelf for another ten minutes or so, steadying his breathing, waiting until the library had fallen completely silent before crawling to his feet and retrieving his books. Madam Pince didn't even comment as she checked his pass, made a note of the titles he was borrowing, and waved him out of the library.

So that was Zabini's angle, was it? That was what they really thought?

Draco sneered bitterly as he hefted his bag over his shoulder, heading up to the seventh floor corridor.

Let them talk, he thought. Let them call him what they would. None of it mattered, anyway.

Soon enough, he'd show them all.

: : : : :

Harry sighed and looked at the sky again. It was a clear night, with not even a whisper of a cloud, but the Disillusionment Charm would be more than enough to allow him to remain invisible against the starry void above the Palazzo. Harry had thought Malfoy Manor was flashy, but the Italian mansion below him was opulent on an entirely different level.

He couldn't understand why people needed to live in such places; not only was it big enough to house an army, but it put every luxury hotel he'd ever seen to shame. The thought that it belonged to a single person made his insides burn, especially when he considered the Weasleys, living in a house that was too tiny for even a much smaller family. It wasn't just a waste of space and money, it was shoving the unnecessary extravagance in the faces of those without the means to own even a normal home.

Adjacent to the mansion was a combination casino/racetrack, the latter dark and deserted, the former blooming with faint neon lights and emitting an echo of upbeat music. Vast stables stretched out underneath Harry as he circled overhead, watching the grounds for any unusual movement, keeping a far eye on the bright yellow glow that indicated the débutante ball inside the mansion.

It had been months since he'd had an excuse to be in the air. Harry felt as if he'd been holding his breath all this time, and now was finally allowed to breathe. Granted, it was a bit awkward flying one-handed, but he could now move his injured arm a bit with no pain, just a little stiffness, as he did just now to pull out the plain piece of parchment tucked inside his robes and shake it open.

Three small dots pulsed along the rough schematic of the mansion drawn on it. Hermione was, predictably, at Draco's side in the main hall. Further off, in the opposite corner, a small dot labelled 'Narcissa' floated. Harry wondered what she was doing. Had she already cornered the target?

He sighed again and tucked the map away. He'd be checking it at regular intervals, but unless there was an alarm or suspicious activity, he would remain in the air in case of emergency. If Gawain found out that, in addition to the small force of Aurors on standby stationed just to the east, Harry had gone to survey the operation, Harry was sure that it wouldn't just be his badge that would be in jeopardy.

But he wasn't about to let Hermione put herself in the den of an enemy without being nearby in case things turned ugly. And although he was happy to be flying again, doing repetitive rounds and remaining high enough to stay invisible left him feeling cold and bored.

There were horses and pegasi of various breeds galloping below him in a paddock, neighing loudly. Harry was briefly reminded of Draco's Animagus form, and wondered what he would be if he ever got around to training to be one. McGonagall had offered to teach him, at the end of seventh year, but Harry had told her he was too occupied with the Horcruxes to bother.

He'd see to it later, he'd told her. After this was all over with. She'd given him one of those looks, part sympathy, part something he couldn't identify, as if she knew something he didn't. Now he understood; 'after this was all over with' could be an age from now. Even when he'd managed to track down the Horcruxes, even when he'd managed to defeat Voldemort... his supporters, nationally and worldwide, would still be at large. And they could never snuff out Muggle-haters completely. The prejudice would always be there.

Harry sighed and raised his broom higher, watching the bright lights below him dance in the darkness.

: : :

'I'm sorry,' Hermione said, closing her eyes as she experienced a fleeting moment of deja vu. 'His what?'

''Iz wife,' Carlotta repeated smoothly.

Hermione opened her eyes and looked at Draco. 'Your what?' she repeated, her voice a little high.

'Well, would you look at the time!' Blaise said suddenly, and Hermione jumped. She'd forgotten he was standing just behind her. 'Ceremonies will be beginning any minute now...'

His eyes met Draco's, and Draco scowled. 'Yes,' Draco agreed curtly, ignoring Carlotta's narrowing gaze. 'So I'd best be off with my little paramour here—'

'She does not change 'ze agreement,' Carlotta said loftily, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

'What agreement?' Hermione demanded.

'See you at dinner?' Blaise offered to Draco, ignoring the women.

'Unfortunately,' Draco answered, following his lead.

Carlotta opened her mouth to speak again, but Draco had already seized Hermione by the elbow and dragged her away. Hermione saw Blaise intercept the woman as she made to follow, before focusing her attention back on Draco.

'Draco—'

'Not now,' he snapped in return. 'And definitely not here.'

'But you never said—'

'That's because I'm not.'

'But she said—'

'That's because she's delusional.'

'But why would she—'

'Look, Gra—' Draco cut himself off mid-sentence as he spun around to face her, and lowered his voice considerably before speaking again. 'I'm not married, all right? Relax. I don't even see why it would matter to you if I was anyway.'

Hermione gave him a scathing look. 'I just don't like how I've gone from your prospective to your paramour in a little less than half an hour. You're supposed to keep me informed—'

'Is that jealousy I detect, Miss Leblanc?'

'Sod off,' Hermione responded automatically. 'Then pray tell what led her to have such a grand delusion as being married to you?'

'Good looks? Charm? Five vaults full of gold?' he suggested. Her gaze had not yet relented, and he rolled his eyes. 'It's nothing important. Father just likes to keep his ends tied.'

'Your father picked you out a wife?' Hermione asked, momentarily surprised.

'No, I picked her out,' Draco said, smiling a bit wryly. ''Course,' he continued at the look of great astonishment that appeared on Hermione's face, 'the only information I had to go on was a handful of profile pictures with the basic details. I didn't get to meet her beforehand.'

'You picked your betrothed out of a catalogue,' Hermione repeated dully. 'I can't say I'm surprised.'

The hushed talking in the room around them began to quiet, and Hermione could hear the small orchestra of strings change tune as a generous space in the centre of the room began to clear; the ceremonies would be beginning any moment now.

Draco seemed tense, looking everywhere but at Hermione, shoulders held tight. Hermione was beginning to think he was a bit paranoid.

She suddenly asked, 'So why did you pick her, then?'

Draco looked round at her and blinked. Hermione was barely able to hear his answer over the rising volume of music. 'I liked her eyes.'

Hermione stared at him.

He winked at her. 'I told you I'd be popular.'

'Yes, you did,' she said dryly, snapping out of it. 'They all bloody love you.'

'They don't love me, they love what I'm worth,' he corrected her, 'and what I can give them if they kiss enough arse.'

'Isn't that what you want?'

'Fuck off.'

Hermione started, surprised firstly by his sudden vulgarity, and secondly by the severity of his glare; it only lasted a brief instant, however, before the forced expression of contentment returned and he looked away again. 'Sorry.' She paused, deliberating, before asking, 'Then why do you even bother?'

'I have to bother,' he said, still looking away. 'One of the responsibilities of being disgustingly wealthy is maintaining a façade.'

'You don't have to bother,' she pointed out. 'I mean, if you hate it so much, just—it's not like just because you inherited it, you have to keep it. Why not just get rid of the gold?'

Draco finally looked at her again, eyes and face still completely impassive. 'Because then what would I have?'

Hermione would never forget the complete and utter flatness of his voice as he said that, pulling her into the crowd and losing the conversation in a maze of expensive silk and faux smiles.

: : :

Hermione was, overall, a bit unimpressed at the surprising lack of effort it took to convince a room full of haughty aristocrats that she was of some high-born, pure-blood ancestry. She was convinced Narcissa had been right: as long as she looked the part, and acted confidently, no one would question her. Confidence was something Hermione had in excess, and thanks to Narcissa, her appearance tonight left nothing to be desired, and the ceremony was going down flawlessly.

It began with being paraded slowly down a staircase into the main ballroom. It was composed of a high ceiling decorated with crystal chandeliers and a creamy, marble floor that gleamed at them like polished glass as they approached it, Hermione poised delicately on Draco's arm. There were at least two dozen other couples, all presented similarly, with a variety of different masks painted on their faces. They lined up in the centre of the ballroom, and a smaller group of coupled children, who appeared to be between around eight and ten, quickly gathered in front of them; they were similarly dressed, though their outfits lacked the masks, and they mirrored the graceful movements of the older couples as they broke off into a series of short dances while the gathered audience watched from candlelit tables around the edge of the room.

Despite having had so little time to practice, Hermione felt she did rather well keeping up with Draco's movements; it was easy to allow him to lead, putting in just enough of her own movement to make it look deliberate and like she knew what she was doing by heart. Draco kept a respectful silence throughout the ordeal, avoiding her eyes. The other couples didn't seem to be very friendly either, so Hermione followed his example and kept her expression politely impassive.

The final dance was the longest, and the hardest—the tango Hermione had spent all the previous day and night perfecting—and she felt she missed a step from time to time, but Draco seemed to be overcompensating to hide any irregularities. She glanced a look at the crowd and felt her nerves relax; many people were talking rather than watching, voices muffled under the loud music, and Hermione supposed that when one was coming to something like this every year, the constant dancing must get dull.

The polite but nevertheless loud applause from the onlookers followed them off the dance floor. She pursed her lips as Draco looked away, only keeping them connected at the elbow as he led her towards the long, rectangular table that stretched along the back of the room. He seemed relieved the ordeal was over, and let her go as soon as they had rejoined the crowd, as if touching her had pained him.

Many of the couples from the ceremony had taken seats along the edge of the table, and there at the head sat Yaxley, with Narcissa occupying the seat to his right. Draco was watching the pair through narrow eyes, and Hermione quickly located a pair of seats near the middle and pulled him toward them. It wasn't until she'd sat down that she realised who was sitting directly across from them.

'As flattering as your efforts are, you could just ask me to dance,' Blaise drawled casually, casting her an enigmatic smile.

Hermione pursed her lips again and didn't reply. Instead, she tugged on Draco's sleeve. 'Sit down,' she hissed.

Draco sat without a word, eyes still fixed on the head of the table. Hermione rolled her eyes and gave up, turning her attention back to Blaise. 'So how have you been fairing, Zabini?' she asked casually.

'Well, that depends,' he said smoothly. 'In what respect? Stocks are lower than they have been in decades, but then again I've got a trust fund that could be used as collateral for the Ministry and my romantic life has been extremely versatile the past few months. I suppose I can hardly complain.'

Hermione wasn't sure if it would be appropriate to laugh or not; knowing Blaise, he wasn't exaggerating, just pretending to. 'That's, uh... charming,' she finished, wrinkling her nose slightly.

He smirked at her. 'And how about you? Has that idiot of yours proposed yet?'

Hermione felt herself flush. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Mm,' Blaise hummed, smirking further.

She looked away from him, scanning the faces up and down the table. One pair of eyes quickly caught her own; on the bench by the window in the far corner sat the French woman from earlier. Her brilliant eyes were heavy-lidded and watching them, determined and unabashed. She smiled maliciously as she noticed Hermione's gaze; Hermione quickly looked away, resisting the urge to shudder and wondering when it had gotten so quiet.

It took a moment for Hermione to realise the sudden silence was due to the lack of music; the classical tune had faded and was now replaced by a slow, methodical drumbeat, joined by a bass and acoustic guitar. The stage had changed; the band had moved to the back, and four strikingly beautiful, blonde women in white dresses were gathered in front of them. It took Hermione another moment to realise they weren't women at all—they were Veela. In the centre of them, before a microphone, stood a tall, black witch with curly hair that Hermione thought looked vaguely familiar.

The four Veela began a chorus as the music took on a very Jazz-like appeal. The woman at the microphone started to sing in a deep, smooth voice that seemed to briefly stun the room at large, captivating everyone in the same way the allure of the Veela was affecting the men; Hermione stared, impressed at the range of the woman's voice, wondering if there was some trick with magic that allowed her to hit such high and low notes without so much as a waver.

The performance was thankfully short; if the Veela had continued to dance and sing any longer, Hermione was sure a fair number of the young boys in the room would have grossly embarrassed themselves. A round of applause that was louder than the one heralding the end of the ceremony echoed around the room, and the black witch smiled engagingly and blew a kiss to the crowd before disappearing offstage.

The music had offered a distraction from the arrival of their dinner; while eyes had been focused on the stage, the silver plates had filled with an array of food that looked so painstakingly prepared that Hermione felt a bit guilty about the fact that she was expected to eat it.

She couldn't have been more pleased when Blaise suddenly appeared beside her seat at the end of the current song and offered her his hand. 'May I have the honour?'

Hermione blushed involuntarily. 'Ah—of course,' she said quickly. Draco was glaring at her, but she gave him a stern look and took Blaise's proffered hand, letting herself be led far from the table and towards the dance floor once more.

The moment they were out of earshot, Blaise suddenly started laughing. Hermione stared at him, caught up in his arms as he spun her around, bemused. 'What's so funny?'

'The look on his face,' Blaise said, still sniggering in a rather undignified manner. 'Oh, come on, you're telling me that after all the laughter he's had at your expense, it doesn't satisfy you to see him so bloody miserable?'

Hermione frowned. 'What? No, of course not! Blaise, really. It's not funny—'

'Spare me the goodwill chat,' Blaise said, sobering. 'A little misery'll do him good. Anyway, that's not why I'm here.'

In the middle of a spin, Hermione felt him slip something small and smooth discretely into her hand. She peered briefly at the silvery substance contained in the vial before closing her fist around it and looking back at Blaise questioningly.

'I had a bit of an emergency,' he said with a rather scandalous smirk. 'Just see that she gets that, would you?'

'Of course,' she said. 'Though I honestly don't know how you two manage this way.'

Blaise's smirk grew. 'Oh? Who's she seeing now?'

Hermione wrinkled her nose. 'Zacharias Smith.'

'Really?' Blaise's smirk turned into a lopsided smile. 'Well, at least she has taste.'

'Eugh,' Hermione said, disgusted. 'The only thing worse would be if she were dating Malfoy.'

'Honestly, there'd be a higher possibility of him courting you,' Blaise said, laughing.

'Eugh,' Hermione said again. 'Not on his life.'

Blaise gave a derisive snort that made Hermione blink at him. 'No,' he said, looking far too pleased with himself. 'I think he's the last person you need to worry about in that respect.'

'What do you mean?'

'The bloke's been locked in his home alone for four years,' Blaise said, raising his eyebrows at her.

'So?'

'Don't you think it's just a little odd that he's not made a single pass at you yet?'

'I...' Hermione gawked at him. 'Are you saying that—you mean that he's—'

'As a bloody maypole,' Blaise confirmed with a smirk.

She quickly shut her mouth. 'How do you know for sure?'

'You learn a lot being someone's roommate for six years, sweetheart.'

'But he and Pansy—'

'Tried, and failed. Badly, may I add.' He grinned at her. 'Well, Pansy kept trying, even after he and I sort of became bedfellows for a while. You really need to stop gaping at me like that,' he continued, readopting the smirk. 'Our kind aren't nearly as uptight when it comes to this sort of thing.'

'I—no, sorry,' she said, shaking her head. 'I mean, I don't think it's—I just—it's a bit unexpected,' she finished weakly. Then something he'd said clicked into place. 'Wait. You and he—'

'A bit,' he said, shrugging.

Hermione slowly raised her eyebrows. 'Is that why he's angry with you?'

Blaise looked at her for a moment, a smile threatening to form on his lips. 'Getting romantically involved with someone you're forced to live with generally isn't a good idea,' Blaise said finally. He didn't elaborate.

'I suppose,' she conceded. 'I guess I just didn't expect him—I mean, he's—a bit of a flirt,' she concluded lamely, frowning.

'That should have been your first clue,' Blaise said, smirking. 'You're supposed to be the clever one, aren't you?'

'I try to devote my intelligence to more constructive matters than people's personal affairs,' she huffed airily.

'Mm, speaking of personal affairs,' Blaise said as he looked up over her head, 'I think it's about time I rescued dear Draco from my mother; she's got that look in her eye again. Cheerio, darling.'

Hermione tucked the vial she'd been given into her purse and followed him back to the table, every bit as curious as she was wary.

In Hermione's old seat sat the beautiful black witch that had been singing on stage with the chorus of Veela. She stood and embraced her son as they approached, and Hermione saw the likeness; she had darker skin and curlier hair, but the resemblance in their expressions was unmistakable. Mrs Zabini was every bit as attractive and alluring as her son, and, judging by the way in which she carried herself, she was well aware of it.

'And this,' Blaise began to say, turning to Hermione, but Mrs Zabini raised an eyebrow at her and spoke before he could make the introduction.

'Ah yes, Miss Leblanc,' she said silkily. 'Draco was just telling me about you.'

'Was he,' Hermione said, giving Draco a look. He shrugged and turned his gaze back towards the head of the table where Yaxley had stood, Narcissa on his arm, leading her away. This left Hermione with little choice except to converse with the woman. 'It's a pleasure, Mrs—'

'Please, call me Aranea,' she insisted politely, smiling. 'So Draco tells me you're one of those "bookish people"...'

Talking to Aranea Zabini was very similar to talking to Narcissa Malfoy; she was propriety personified, but if you actually listened to what was being said, very little of it was complimentary or even particularly polite.

'...after all, you can't expect Muggle-borns to live up to a pure-blood standard,' she finished.

'Who could expect such a thing,' Hermione agreed, trying not to look insulted.

While Aranea held her attention, Blaise had slipped into the seat beside Draco and begun a whispered conversation that, from the looks of things, Draco was trying to forcefully ignore.

'It's all for the greater good in the end...' Aranea was saying, nodding smartly. Hermione was about three moments from inquiring as to how the woman's social affairs contributed to the "greater good" of the wizarding community, but before she could, both Blaise and Draco abruptly got to their feet and Blaise approached them.

'Ah, lovely,' Blaise said briskly, an engaging smile etched on his face, 'you two are getting along—'

Hermione felt slightly panicked by the casual smirk he was wearing. 'Actually—'

'—why don't you introduce Miss Leblanc to the coterie?' he suggested to his mother. 'She's been a bit out of the loop these past few months...'

'Oh, what a splendid idea,' Mrs Zabini agreed, looking interested. She gave Hermione a racy smile. 'You poor thing! Just wait until you see little Merche, he's grown into quite the young man—I suppose you can hardly complain about your current catch, but it's always good to have a backup—'

Mrs Zabini kept talking, but Hermione had stopped listening; she was glaring hotly at Blaise, who flashed her a grin and said, 'Malfoy and I'll catch up, you ladies have fun.'

'But I—'

'Sure, darling,' Mrs Zabini said without a second glance, leading Hermione deeper into the crowd, away from the table, by means of a hand at the small of her back. 'What did you say your name was? Ah, come look, it's Angus' young nephew. Good genes in that one, he'll be a piece worth considering in a few years—and Edmond Vasquez, handsome fellow, but had a new wife already last I heard—'

Hermione craned her neck, looking over their shoulders and trying to catch Draco's eyes—but she only caught a glimpse of the white-blonde hair stepping out of the hall, Blaise's tall figure following. She narrowed her eyes.

Blaise annoyed her at the best of times, and even if he was an invaluable spy, his methods left her suspicious and uncertain more often than not. Whatever Ginny saw in him, Hermione had no idea...

'Ah yes,' Mrs Zabini's voice interrupted her thoughts once more, 'and this one certainly deserves an introduction. I don't believe you two are familiar?'

Hermione turned back around and found herself face-to-face with a fairly handsome man dressed in dark robes who looked to be in his mid-forties. Wavy brown hair and a trimmed goatee framed an amicable face that smiled at her as he raised her proffered hand to his lips.

'Miss Leblanc,' Mrs Zabini was saying ostentatiously, 'I'd like you to meet Rabastan Lestrange.'

: : :

'Come on, Malfoy,' Blaise said, smirking. 'Let's see what four years' rust has done to your footwork.'

Blaise swung at him, and Draco parried it easily. He'd given Draco the longer of the two daisho blades; Blaise liked to prove his worth through a challenge. Draco attacked and Blaise dodged to the side, knocking his blade away with practised ease.

Draco narrowed his eyes, side-stepping as Blaise returned the attacks, forcing him backwards. 'You said you wanted to talk, Zabini. So talk.'

'I'm just a bit curious how you're still alive, is all,' Blaise replied, hitting hard and causing Draco to stagger under the blows. 'Especially with the way you treat people.'

'Since when are you concerned with my amiability?' Draco demanded, slamming his sword into Blaise's and bringing it to a halt.

'What I'm saying, Malfoy,' Blaise said, parrying a blow and returning it with force, causing Draco to dodge and retreat, 'is that you seem to be running out of friends, and if you're not careful, you're going to find yourself alone again.'

Draco's lips turned into a nasty snarl. 'You say it like I care.'

'Please,' Blaise said, smirking. 'I know you better than that.'

He parried Draco's attack and dodged the next, spinning effortlessly out of the way as Draco tried unsuccessfully to skewer him. Draco tried to hit him again, aiming high; Blaise blocked the blow with his sheath and swung low, nearly slicing Draco across the midsection.

'I don't consider them friends,' Draco snapped defiantly, dodging another blow with a quick movement of his head.

'You should,' Blaise returned, side-stepping Draco's next attack and returning it. Their blades met in mid-swing and Blaise paused, looking at him through the 'V' the blades formed. 'You're going to need them.'

'I got what I wanted from them already.'

Blaise withdrew and parried another blow, one-handed and looking bored.

'Just like how I got what I wanted from you?' he asked, smirking again.

Draco paused for the briefest moment, slightly stunned, then attacked with such vigour that it sent Blaise recoiling towards the wall behind him. The wand inlaid in the hilt he was grasping glowed hot under his touch, and red sparks exploded from the metal with every downward stroke. Even the clashing of the swords sounded furious, and Blaise was forced to stop as his back hit the wall and Draco's blade scraped down his own, spraying sparks and locking them at the hilt, bringing their faces close together.

'Let's get one thing straight, Zabini,' he snapped. 'You didn't get shit from me.'

'Really?' Blaise asked, doing a marvellous job of looking sweaty and unconcerned. 'It would seem I certainly earned your contempt.'

'Piss off,' Draco snapped in return, shoving hard with the blade and throwing Blaise's shoulders back into the wall. 'You've got a lot of nerve, talking about friends and loyalties. Since when did you start working for the Muggle-lovers, Zabini? Or are you just leading them on, like you did me?'

'Since when do you give a damn about my affairs?' Blaise replied, looking amused. He had the back of his head resting against the wall, his expression showing little concern and his weapon held firm even as the sharp scrape of the metal blades reached a painful degree. 'On that note, since when do you give a damn about anything that doesn't concern you or your bloody—'

Blaise felt the tremor through the blades and ducked out in time as Draco pulled the sword back and swung again, leaving a diagonal gash in the wall where Blaise's back had been just moments before. By the time Draco swung again, Blaise had his own sword up to meet him, and the repetitive slashing, curving arcs filled the air once again as they danced around the room, Draco pushing and Blaise keeping just out of reach of a deadly blow.

'You know, Malfoy,' Blaise said in between swings and pants of breath, 'you're not half bad at this when you're all in a stitch.'

Draco growled and launched himself forward, blade swinging relentlessly. Blaise parried his blows with effortless, one-handed swings; he looked entertained, a lazy smirk adorning his face.

The duel continued across the room, Blaise's clever footwork keeping him from being cornered by Draco's persistent driving as he deflected the attacks with tireless ease. Their movements were fast and almost blurred in the dim light of the room. It wasn't until the next time their swords locked that they noticed something was off.

The candles around the room flickered violently—once, twice—and went out silently, leaving behind tiny wisps of smoke. Draco was staring at Blaise through the thin space between their blades again, and as they looked at one another, he could see the warm mist of their breath as it was expelled into the suddenly freezing room.

Draco felt dread begin to claw at his insides. Blaise's expression went from cocky to bloodless in the space of two breaths.

'Shit,' Blaise said.

'Shit,' Draco agreed.

: : :

Harry felt them coming.

The weather in England had been persistently drab throughout every season over the past four years, springs, summers, autumns and winters alike; the ever-breeding Dementors patrolling the skies by day and streets by night had cast something of an eternal fog over the country.

Only on the brightest days did the sun manage to penetrate the mist in populated areas, and flying anywhere near major settlements was not only unpleasant but also extremely dangerous. Even the Death Eaters and pure-blood families had begun to fear the terrifying force that the Dementors had become under Voldemort's regime, because Dementors rarely discriminated between their victims these days. The MacDougals had found that out the hard way just the year before.

The night had been mild, if a bit chilly, and the force of the headwind hit Harry like a truck, freezing his lungs and face in one sweeping stroke that left spots behind his eyes and gave him the sensation that he'd just flown into a solid wall of ice.

He didn't need to see the black cloaks blocking out the stars, nor the large wave of darkness flowing in from the south-west towards the mansion below, to know what was approaching. The dread and terror and grief of ten years nearly overwhelmed him, the cold air stinging his eyes so badly that they were tearing.

Harry didn't even think, just reacted; he turned the handle of his Firebolt towards the whitewashed building below and dived.

: : :

'Mr... Lestrange,' Hermione repeated weakly.

Rabastan Lestrange looked nothing like his old Azkaban photographs; tall and stalwart, he brushed Hermione's knuckles with his lips before releasing her hand, which dropped to her side like a stone.

'Please,' he said, giving her a sultry smile, 'call me Rabastan.'

'She's accompanying young Malfoy,' Mrs Zabini added, with an air of one imparting privileged information.

'Is she really?' Rabastan asked, raising his eyebrows. 'Lucky girl.'

Hermione made a small noise that she tried to cover up with a half-hearted giggle.

Mrs Zabini seemed oddly pleased with this response and suddenly said, 'Oh, there's Cavelle! Rabastan, be a doll and look after her for a moment, would you?' And before Hermione could say a word, she'd whisked off into the crowd.

Leaving Hermione alone with a known Death Eater.

'A bit flitty, that one,' Rabastan said, watching Mrs Zabini disappear. He turned back to Hermione and offered her his arm. 'Shall we, Miss Leblanc?'

Hermione forced herself not to hesitate, joining him at the arm and letting him lead her through the throng of aristocrats chattering around them.

'So,' Rabastan said after a moment, 'how is young Draco?'

'As well as could be expected,' Hermione said, fighting to keep her voice level.

'I can't say that my expectations would be very high,' Rabastan replied, 'considering the recent loss of his father. He must be... devastated.'

'He's coping quite well,' Hermione assured him.

'Mm,' he hummed. 'I suppose such an inheritance would cheer anyone up.'

Hermione was not sure what to say to this. There was only one thought at the forefront of her mind at the moment, and it was that she should escape as soon as possible. She felt the arm entwined with hers stiffen and saw Rabastan's jaw clench as he flexed his fingers. He looked strangely distracted all of a sudden, and seemed to completely forget the topic at hand. Now was her chance...

'I, ah,' Hermione mumbled, thinking quickly, 'loo!'

'What? Oh, yes, of course,' he said dismissively, releasing her. He was looking past her, eyes slightly unfocused. 'I'll go and fetch Aranea for you...'

Hermione thanked him quickly and then made her way to the nearest bathrooms, tripping over the hem of her dress several times in the process, before dropping her purse on the sink and collapsing against the cold porcelain. Her hands were gripping the sink to keep from shaking.

It wasn't that she was distrusting of her abilities; she was more than confident that she could defend herself against a sole Death Eater—but Death Eaters rarely traveled alone, much less so out in the open—if the youngest Lestrange was here, surely his brother wasn't far behind... and if Rodolphus' wife was here...

Oh, God. She needed to find Draco.

Easier said than done; leaving the bathroom, Hermione found herself in a multicoloured conglomeration of people, not a single familiar face in sight. Shit. Blaise—she needed to find Blaise—but she was in a strange house, and a large one at that; he could be anywhere...

She looked from side to side, trying to decide which direction to start in—if she could get within a few yards of Draco, the Tracker on him would heat up the charmed ring on her left hand. Problem was, this place was huge, and getting within a few yards of him could take ages, and if one of the Lestranges found him first... and when did it get so dim in the room?

Hermione managed to move about two feet before the cold hit her, and the reason for the sudden absence of light and activity became clear.

A large space was gradually clearing in the middle of the crowd; people edged away, silent and terrified, giving the seven Dementors space as they glided into the middle of the room. The one at the centre, which seemed taller and more foreboding than the rest, paused with its hands spread wide and looked slowly from one side to the other.

It hissed only one raspy, unmistakable word: 'Malfoy.'

No one uttered a word; it suddenly occurred to Hermione that if Blaise had not sneaked Draco off, they would have been in even worse a situation at the moment than she had been on the arm of the young Lestrange brother. Now, however, just she was in the now-worse situation—at the lack of cooperation from the crowd, the Dementors hissed unpleasantly and broke apart, each moving in different directions to begin inspecting the guests one by one. After all, silly disguises and Invisibility Cloaks did not fool Dementors. They would know Draco when they saw him.

They would also know a Muggle-born.

I need to get out of here. Now.

Fortunately, Hermione didn't seem to be the only one thinking this way. She was one of many in the crowd slowly but surely backing towards the nearest exit; some, perhaps, merely frightened a Dementor would get carried away, as happened far too often these days—some, probably just suffering from a guilty conscience. Whatever their reasons, they provided the necessary cover for Hermione to make her way towards the nearby hall, placing her back to the door frame before slipping around it slowly, eyes closed as she attempted to lock down her worst memories, her true identity, and the reason why she was here.

Once in the hall, she took a quick look around; the corridor to her left led further away from the main ballroom and, kicking off her shoes and seizing her skirt in her fists to lift it above her ankles, she took off at a run.

It felt as if she'd been running for half an hour. The corridor seemed endless, turning now and again, branching off into other halls or rooms or cascading staircases that led somewhere up above. She came to the third fork and nearly went left again before a low warmth on her finger halted her; she skidded to a stop, bare feet clapping against the cool marble floor, changing direction and heading down the right hall.

The ring on her finger grew warmer with every step; there was a door at the very end of this hall—Draco was probably on the other side...

The cold floor suddenly turned to ice, freezing the soles of her feet as a chilling gust of air swept around her like a small cyclone, and Hermione skidded to a halt once more.

Turning the corner before the door at the end of the hall, two tall, hooded figures came into view. Hermione drew in a sharp breath, her lungs screaming at the coldness of the air, and wheeled around; two more Dementors had entered the way she'd come, advancing steadily, arms outstretched.

Hermione instantly reached for her wand, only to discover her purse was missing; she'd left it in the bathroom, surprise at meeting a Death Eater and her haste to find Draco having distracted her. How could she have been so stupid... but she'd always been hopeless at casting the Patronus Charm anyway—the only spell she'd ever had difficulties with—and to conjure a Patronus strong enough to banish four Dementors bent on stealing her soul wasn't a sure thing. Only Harry had that kind of power—oh, Harry, she thought miserably, where was he—

Wandless and alone, she was helpless. You couldn't outrun a Dementor, and Voldemort had them on orders to Kiss any Muggle-born they stumbled upon.

The nearest Dementor paused several paces from her, lifting its slimy, skeletal hands to slowly lower its hood. Hermione had seen the featureless face of a Dementor before, barren except for the gaping hole of the mouth, but never so close—and never with its focus set on her. She stood there, too terrified to move, numb with a panic she was ashamed to acknowledge as every horrible thing she had ever experienced flashed before her eyes.

Ron was being struck down by the queen on a gigantic chessboard—flash—Hermione was covered head-to-toe in fur and sporting a tail—flash—she was crying outside Hagrid's cabin third year, believing the worst—flash—she was weeping after her row with Ron at the Yule Ball, hair and make-up in ruins—flash—Harry disappeared into the maze, only to return with Cedric's dead body—flash—Ron and Lavender Brown were embracing one another, mouths locked together and oblivious to her—

As the memories progressed, she felt cold, bony hands clutch her face and tilt it upwards. All the air seemed to rush out of her lungs and the chill struck the very core of her bones, causing her entire body to seize up and scream silently in agony.

This was it—the mouth was lowering towards her, gaping and empty and engulfing her spirit like a vacuum, and her eyes and tongue felt as if they were being sucked right out of her head...

Shrieks and screams erupted around her and the bony hands let go. She felt suspended for a moment, before her eyes and tongue and breath returned along with the warmth, and she crumpled to the floor in a heap. Someone was shouting—she recognised the voice, and saw a blur of black and white and green whirl past above her, and then something humongous and silver barrelled clear over her to follow the blur. Hermione clutched at her head, not bothering to try and stand. Her entire world seemed to be spinning, and she felt like she was suffocating despite the fact that she could hear herself breathing, in and out, in and out, over the sound of her rapidly beating heart...

Warm, strong hands slipped under her arms and hauled her upwards. Hermione swayed, clutching at his robes to steady herself. The once again brightly lit corridor swam before her eyes briefly before the world righted itself, and she stared at him, thoroughly dazed.

'What—?'

'Shh,' Draco said, placing a finger to her lips and shaking his head. After a moment to ensure she was staying silent, he removed his hand.

He was looking past her, over her shoulder. She followed his gaze and squinted, and saw a large, cat-like animal slinking towards them. The Patronus was a bit unclear and hazy, as if they were looking at it through a heavy rain, so it was impossible to distinguish exactly what it was. It stopped and sat before them, peering around as if looking for something, and then yawned silently as it melted away into the air, leaving no clue that it'd ever been there at all.

She blinked at the empty spot on the floor before a voice behind her made her jump in Draco's grip.

'It's getting weaker, Malfoy,' Blaise said quietly.

Hermione shivered, turning her gaze back to Draco, silently demanding an explanation. Draco's jaw was set, and he was staring at the empty spot the Patronus had vanished from. 'Yeah,' he said. 'I know.' He didn't offer anything further. Instead, he handed her her purse. She then realised she still had a death-grip on his robes and slowly let go, then took out her wand with shaking fingers. 'Do me a favour, darling,' he drawled, 'and don't do anything that stupid ever again.'

'I,' she said, and stopped because her voice sounded strained and raw. She cleared her throat and tried again. 'You—I didn't know you could do that,' she said, looking again at the place where the large cat had sat. 'When did you learn to conjure a Patronus?'

Draco, having confirmed with a quick sweep of his eyes that she could stand on her own, stepped back and placed a respectable distance between them. He was giving her a funny look. 'You really think my father would allow his only heir not to know the Patronus Charm when he knew for a fact what was coming? Mother spent the better part of those four years making sure I had it perfected.'

Hermione blinked, and then frowned, realising Draco had a good point. She also noticed he was holding one of Blaise's swords, and realised he must have used it to conjure the Patronus; she still had his wand in her purse, after all. She frowned at the empty spot on the floor, feeling light-headed. She blinked back up at Draco. 'I thought you hated cats?'

Draco blinked in return, looking slightly taken aback. He looked torn between amusement and displeasure, and settled on scowling. 'I do,' he said, and left it at that. He looked at Blaise. 'Where are they?'

Blaise looked hesitant, as if he wasn't sure whether to comply or not. Hermione was close to squeaking in pain from the grip Draco had on her arm.

Draco didn't wait a second more; he raised the sword still in his hand, both the blade and the wand in its hilt pointing at Blaise's chest. 'Where?'

'Second floor,' Blaise said finally, seeming to decide Draco wasn't to be deterred. 'West wing, left at the top of the stairs. Double doors at the end.'

Just as Draco nodded, a coy, high-pitched voice from the other end of the hall wound itself around the corner. 'Draco? Draco darling, iz 'at you? We need to talk, cheri...'

'I'll head her off,' Blaise said quickly. 'Go, and assume you'll be followed.'

Hermione, still slightly in shock from the encounter and extremely confused, couldn't formulate a coherent protest as Draco seized her even harder by the elbow and began to drag her down the hall. She tried anyway. 'But—where are we—why were there—how could they—no idea we'd be—are you even listening to me!'

'Not really,' Draco deigned to reply, still tugging her along without much effort.

'Draco—'

'Malfoy, sweetcheeks.'

Hermione's mouth dropped open in a look of complete indignation that probably would have amused Draco if he weren't so desperately preoccupied. His words had the intended effect, though, as Hermione was so thrown off that she hadn't managed to muster a response by the time he'd dragged her up the wide marble staircase and down the west wing that Blaise had given them directions to.

She could see the double doors at the end—a dark and enormous carved wooden barrier that grew even larger as they approached them—and Hermione wondered how they would get inside, for surely such big doors would be sealed with enchantments of all kinds that could take hours to disarm. She did not share this thought with Draco, who seemed quite determined as he stormed right up to them, face set unnaturally rigidly.

Just as they came within reach, Hermione felt the cold wash of the Dementors spill over her and someone inside shouted.

Draco didn't even try the doorknob; releasing her, he bared his teeth and slashed a long, downward arc with the sword in his hand. A flash of red light burst from the blade and the door shuddered, cracked, bending inwards as if struck by the club of a giant. Draco slashed again, and the doors burst open with a sickening lurch and an explosion of splinters.

Hermione ducked to the floor and shielded her face with her arms, and then felt a firm hand on her elbow again, pulling her to her feet. It was something Harry would have done: looking after her even though she wasn't his number one priority, even when his goal should have been much more important to him than ensuring her safety. She dimly wondered where in the fray of Draco's mind, amidst the terror for his mother, he had remembered she was even there, disorientated and vulnerable.

Or what part of him cared, for that matter.

: : :

Harry shot headfirst through the window, elbow and forearm covering his face and forehead. Shards of glass clawed at his robes as he ducked and rolled off his broom onto the floor, crashing into the side of something solid and wooden. There was a startled gasp, a shuddering hiss and a cackle like the sound of clattering chains, and Harry shook the spots from his eyes and jumped to his feet, drawing his wand.

Three Dementors were in the bedroom, two advancing on the partially-robed, blindingly golden figure of Draco's mother by the bed.

'The boy,' one of them croaked at her, its voice shuddering at every syllable. 'Where is the boy?'

The third, behind her, had turned its featureless face to Harry and now began to glide towards him, slimy hands outstretched.

Harry thrust his wand forward at the same time Narcissa did, and two loud, identical shouts of 'Expecto patronum!' broke the icy silence in the room.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Harry had the insane thought that he'd managed to do a double-cast of a Patronus Charm. A moment later, the logical part of his mind recovered and told him that was idiotic, because it was impossible to double-cast any sort of spell, and that there were simply two Patronuses galloping through the room: one, Harry's stag, twelve-points held high and trampling the nearest Dementor to him; the second, a very familiar-looking horse, delicately dished head lowered in a charge at the Dementor advancing on Narcissa. They shrieked and fled, escaping by means of the balcony window Harry had just crashed through.

There was a sickening hiss from the third Dementor as the two Patronuses galloped around, converged and charged, side-by-side, headlong into the cloaked figure.

It wasn't until the creature had vanished into the night that the Patronuses stilled; Harry's stag turned its head back to look at him before dissolving into the night air. Narcissa's horse trot-glided back to her, tossing its head, dissipating as it reached her, briefly encasing her with silver mist.

Narcissa studied him for a moment, golden hair cascading around her face and bare shoulders. Her dress was tossed aside at the foot of the bed and she stood wrapped in a thin nightgown, looking entirely too beautiful and relaxed for a woman who had just been attacked by a squad of Dementors.

'As you can see, I am more than capable of taking care of myself,' she said to him finally, re-sheathing her wand in the thin leather case strapped to her forearm. He almost frowned but stopped when she smiled at him. 'But thank you anyway, Mr Potter. Your Patronus is every bit as impressive as my son has relayed.'

Before Harry could ask her what she meant, the door behind him exploded inwards, causing both himself and Narcissa to jump. Draco came hurtling into the room, a long sword in one hand and the other gripping Hermione by the elbow as she tripped over her dress in an attempt to keep up. Narcissa looked up at her son and smiled faintly as he stood, panting, in the demolished doorway and stared between her and Harry, looking furious.

'What in the hell—'

'I'm quite all right, darling,' Narcissa intervened smoothly. She was pulling a cloak around her shoulders, hiding her indecency—not that anything about that woman could really be labelled indecent, his mind added as an afterthought. Harry shook his head to clear it, and Narcissa's voice flooded his consciousness once more. '—looking for you, it would appear.'

Harry turned his eyes back to Draco and Hermione; Draco appeared highly agitated, but Hermione looked ashen and a bit ill. 'Did they—'

'They tried,' Hermione answered, anticipating his question. 'I—Draco got rid of them.'

Draco said, 'Not now, Granger,' just as Harry asked, stunned, 'Mal—?'

'Children,' Narcissa interrupted quickly. 'I do not think their presence will go unquestioned for long. If Gervasio discovers my son was the target—'

'He won't put himself in any danger to protect him,' Harry agreed. 'It's all right, Hermione has a Portkey to—'

'No Portkeys,' Hermione said. 'Not on the mansion grounds, Harry... there's spells to track the course... they'd know exactly where we'd gone...'

'Well, we can't Apparate out of here!' Harry said, frustrated. 'The Firebolt will only fly two—'

'You're not leaving my mother here,' Draco interjected sharply.

'You won't need to leave me,' Narcissa intervened swiftly, 'because I fully intend to stay.'

There was a tense, icy moment of silence following these words in which Harry and Hermione both came to an unspoken mutual agreement to remove themselves from the discussion.

Draco turned back to face his mother. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Darling, be reasonable,' she said in a diplomatic voice. 'You've just appeared unexpectedly at a début ball after several years' seclusion, a ball that just happens to be interrupted by a brigade of Dementors? Gervasio may be easy to manipulate, but he is not a simpleton. He will have a good idea of why they are here. If I disappear with you—'

'You'll be safe!' Draco snapped.

'—I'll simply be confirming his suspicions. He'll lock down everything he possesses, and my efforts tonight will have gone to waste,' she finished in a frighteningly low voice. The look in her eyes was positively dangerous. 'If I remain, I can do my best to convince him it was a coincidence and, more importantly, occupy him while the Ministry do what they have to.'

'We're not leaving you here,' Draco snarled.

'You're not staying with me, either,' she snapped in a sharp voice that made Harry wince, but when she spoke again, her voice had returned to its diplomatic tone. 'Miss Granger.'

'Yes?' Hermione said, voice wavering.

She caught the small, glass vial Narcissa tossed at her. 'What you need,' Narcissa said. Hermione peered inside briefly, then nodded.

Narcissa, satisfied, turned her gaze to Harry. 'Mr Potter, you'll need to get off the property before a Portkey can be safely activated. The coast to the west is the nearest border.'

Harry also nodded. 'But how do we—'

Draco looked furious at being ignored. He whirled on Harry. 'We're not leaving her here!'

'Draco!' This time, Draco winced as well, and Harry suddenly felt like he should look away; Narcissa had come up beside her son, turned him around by the shoulder and pulled him into a swift hug that Draco all but collapsed into. 'It's not up to him. Nor is it up to you.'

Draco was shaking his head, face buried in her shoulder, and said something Harry couldn't make out. Now Harry did look away, embarrassed and unsure why, and saw Hermione doing the same. She was frowning at the floor, flushed and rubbing her shoulders.

Harry heard Narcissa whisper behind them, 'I will come back to you.'

Harry thought it was probably for the best that he forget the glisten in Draco's eyes as he let his mother go, and led Harry and Hermione out of the room.

: : :

In war, truth is the first casualty;

The innocent are second.

- Aeschylus

: : :

Voldemort never ceased to marvel at his own brilliance.

It was not an easy feat, bringing a man like Marius Constantine to his knees. And yet, Voldemort possessed the ability to do so without lifting so much as an ill-concerned finger. Overall, he felt he was due congratulations for his unfailing methods of persuasion. A little push here, a little pull there, and he could get even the most stalwart wizard to bend to his every will and desire without breaking a sweat.

'I won't tell you a damn thing,' Marius snarled.

Ah, the rebellious type, Voldemort mused. His methods were almost completely flawless and always, sooner or later, effective, but there was little he could do to deter foolish stubbornness.

The girl wailed from behind them, and the Dark Lord closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to calm himself, lest he lose his patience and kill the wench now.

'Let's not have this conversation again,' Voldemort said impatiently, opening his eyes. 'You know what I want.'

When Marius did not reply, Voldemort scowled slightly. Oh, so it was going to be a long night after all.

Well, at least he'd make it entertaining.

'Bring her forward,' he commanded lazily.

Marius looked up as the two men dragged the child forward—less of a child and more of a woman, Voldemort observed idly, except for perhaps the way in which she was sobbing and making a mess of herself. Theodore and Antonin dropped her unceremoniously on the floor and she quickly shied away from the former. Theodore looked positively charmed by his effect on her.

Sick creature, that one. It was one of the reasons Voldemort favoured the boy over his sire: this one had potential.

Marius looked at his daughter, and Voldemort's smile grew as he witnessed the resolve in the man's eyes falter.

'Now, old friend,' Voldemort began diplomatically. 'I feel it is safe to assume I do not need to detail the myriad uses to which my men could put such a pretty girl if I were so inclined as to indulge them.'

Marius did not look away from his daughter, who was staring up at him, pleading with her eyes. She wanted to live, and she was looking for reassurance that everything would be all right; that her father would do something, anything, to save her from this horrible nightmare she'd fallen into.

Voldemort decided to shatter this hopeful little daydream, and squatted low beside the shackled man, tilting his head and smiling engagingly. 'And do not think I would deprive you of the pleasure of witnessing what sort of imaginations my men possess. Tell me what I want to know, Marius, and I swear I will kill her quickly.'

Inevitably, effective. It was so easy to break these Gryffindor types, their compassion their biggest and most easily exploited weakness. They were as foolhardy as they were gullible.

When Marius had told him everything, Voldemort stood back up and smiled. 'Thank you,' he said politely, dusting off his hands. He pulled out his wand and Marius looked over at his daughter, his broken spirit evident in eyes full of despair—which was soon replaced by surprise as the Dark Lord did not execute the girl, but magically bound the man with an idle flick of his wand.

'Really, I'm disappointed,' Voldemort said, smirking down at the immobile but fully conscious wizard. 'Your kind is far too trusting.'

'My Lord?' Theodore asked, sounding enthused.

'Yes, yes,' Voldemort said with an impatient wave of his hand as he turned to leave. 'Have your fun.'

The girl's scream was cut off as Voldemort closed the door behind him, and found himself looking down on a rather pathetic heap of robes. 'What is it, Wormtail?'

Wormtail immediately recoiled and sank to his knees, head bowed in both respect and supplication, and said the last thing in the world that Voldemort wanted to hear.

'My Lord, we have a problem.'

: : :

'Son of a—'

'Careful!'

'It just bit me!'

'Quiet!'

Harry growled under his breath. The bearskin rug on the floor growled back, baring its teeth at his foot again. He had half a mind to set it on fire.

'Potter.'

Draco's voice was usually curt, but never this raw. The sound of it caused Harry's murderous sentiments towards the rug to dissipate. 'Sorry,' he said, keeping his voice low. 'That's the third one in five minutes. Are you sure we're going the right way?'

'Sure?' Draco almost laughed, replacing the sword in the sheath he'd strapped to his waist. 'I have no fucking idea where I'm going.'

'I thought you'd been here—'

'I haven't attended a début ball since I was nine,' Draco informed him, still pulling Hermione along by the wrist. She seemed too shaken to complain and hurried along in his wake, leaving Harry to try and keep up behind them. 'And I never left my father's side; he was always worried Yaxley would try to off his only heir. I'm starting to think he was right—try in here.'

Harry followed them into the darkened room, just as voices began to creep around the corner of the hallway they'd been rushing down. Harry wasn't sure if they were being followed, but he had no intention of finding out.

The top of the handle of his Firebolt, strapped to his back, snagged on something hanging off one of the walls, nearly tripping him. 'Bugger,' he muttered. 'Lumos.'

Hermione looked around at the light, and screamed.

Draco clamped his hand over her mouth, pulling her back and up against him; she almost immediately quieted, but her eyes were still wide, staring at what had snagged the handle of Harry's broom. He looked up and around, and felt all the blood in his head and shoulders immediately drain away. He tried to make a sound, and found that all the air had escaped his lungs. He quickly inhaled and nearly choked. Even Draco looked a bit pale.

The decapitated head of a Basilisk was mounted on a wooden plaque against the wall by the door, mouth wide, fangs long and gleaming in the feeble light of Harry's wand. It was so close that Harry could practically feel the hot, putrid breath over his shoulder, bearing down on him, hissing and blind and furious, hell bent on ripping him apart—

'Potter.' Draco's voice was still curt but less raw, and Harry wondered how he noticed the change when all he could hear in his head was that horrible rasping voice, calling for blood over and over again. 'It's dead. We have to go.'

It's dead.

Yes, Harry thought. Of course it was dead. He'd killed it himself. He'd killed them both, and he'd kill every other one that crossed his path, even if he tore his soul to shreds in the process.

'Yes,' Harry said aloud, rubbing his temple with one hand. Hermione gave him a concerned look, but he turned his gaze to Draco. 'Sorry. Yeah. Go.'

Draco nodded and continued through the room, looking for an exit. He pulled Hermione with him, and she shot another look of concern over her shoulder, but Harry carefully avoided it.

The room was long and wide with a low ceiling; it seemed to be some sort of a trophy room, with many plaques and ornaments along the walls and mantles. Harry saw Hermione wrinkle her nose at the stuffed, boar-like Tebo against the wall, silvery fur shimmering in the light from their wands. Harry felt his jaw clench as he spied a unicorn pelt draped over a large chair; the brilliant white fur was unmistakable, impossible to confuse with that of any other animal, magical or otherwise.

The sports of rich wizards were just as bad as their Muggle counterparts, no matter how much the pure-blood community denied it. They were all such a bunch of hypocrites.

It took another five minutes or so of winding trails, retraced steps, and doubling-back before Draco came to a halt and took a short breath.

'Right,' he said, with dignity. 'I'm lost.'

Harry had the immensely immature urge to slap him. 'Took you long enough to figure that out,' he said instead.

'Well, since sneaking around in big, dark buildings when you're not supposed to be is more your speciality,' Draco said scathingly, 'how about you lead the way, hero?'

Harry scowled. 'Don't call me that.'

'Most people would be flattered.'

'I'm not most people.'

'Oh, no,' Draco said, looking smug. 'I forgot. You're special.'

Harry's hands closed into fists and he went to snap back, but Hermione placed herself between them before he could make a move. 'Really, you two could not have worse timing.'

Harry started to speak again, this time in his own defence, but a low, ancient-sounding voice from behind cut him short.

'Cursed armies of the Underworld. Put out that infernal light, warmblood.'

'Sorry, what?' said Harry.

Hermione and Draco stared at him.

Harry turned around and found himself presented with a wall of glass. He could see himself reflected in it, bathed in his wand's light. He muttered 'Nox' and the light faded as he knelt down and peered into the tank, squinting hard.

Slitted yellow eyes gleamed at him from the darkness on the other side. Harry felt strangely relieved.

Behind him, Hermione said, 'Harry, what are you—'

'Shh,' Harry interrupted, standing. 'I have an idea.'

: : :

Draco Malfoy was well aware of his tendency to be a bit overly dramatic in any number of situations. He was aware of his propensity to panic, to make wild and unfounded accusations if doing do was in his own best interests, and to sporadically collapse due to self-induced nervous breakdowns. He liked to consider all of this to be part of the flair that made him such an incredibly awesome person to be around.

At least, he thought, he wasn't some psychotic, malformed half-blood obsessed with taking over the world. At least he wasn't running about with a mask over his face, jabbing his wand at random Muggles to see what grotesque results would occur. At least, he reasoned, he wasn't some hedgehog-haired wannabe martyr with a dented forehead who saw nothing out of the ordinary in trying to coax an escape route out of a giant ruddy snake.

'Potter, that thing could eat you.'

'Shh,' Harry responded distractedly, English still thick with the sibilant tones of Parseltongue.

The boa constricter, or, as Draco had renamed it, the baby Basilisk—a much more fitting description, in his opinion—was now rearing up on the other side of the glass, bringing its head even with Harry's shoulders. Dirty, glowing yellow eyes shone bright in the darkness of the tank as the snake opened its mouth, and a breathless string of hisses flowed over them, causing Draco to shiver.

Harry responded in turn, and Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as the sound surrounded them; the hisses penetrated his skin, pushing a wave of goosebumps down his arms, and beside him, he felt Hermione shudder similarly. The change in Harry's appearance was subtle and disturbing; green eyes began to glow with a dirty, luminescent yellow, dilated and unblinking, mouth just barely open to allow the harsh tones to slip out. He looked both terrifying and intriguing, and Draco remembered the influence such an aura could have when properly employed. If only Harry realised the kind of power he could wield...

Then a second, very odd thought wormed its way into Draco thoughts: that perhaps he was wrong, and Harry did know. Maybe that was why he kept to himself so much. He was just as scared of his power as the rest of the world was.

The snake turned its dirty eyes to where Draco and Hermione stood and hissed once, long and low; Harry frowned.

'What is it, Harry?' Hermione asked.

'He won't tell me,' Harry said, turning to look at them. 'But he says he'll show me.'

It took a moment for this to properly sink in.

'You want to let it out?' Draco demanded. He really hadn't intended for his voice to be so high-pitched.

'He can show us the quickest way off the grounds—'

'And then eat us in peace and quiet where no one will think to come to our aid!'

'You prefer being lost in the dark in a house full of Dementors?'

'As opposed to being dragged off into the woods and eaten alive?'

'He won't hurt us,' Harry said with confidence, and raised his wand to the screen serving as a roof to the enormous tank. With an idle wave of his wand, the screws began to loosen, slowly rotating out and falling with quiet thuds to the tiled floor.

'Oh, really? And what gave you that impression? The massive size of his fangs or the sultry tone of his voice?' Draco demanded, backing away.

'Snakes are more trustworthy than you'd think.' Harry lowered the cage lid onto the floor, directing it with the tip of his wand, the boa inside looking up curiously at its newfound freedom. 'And surprisingly loyal.'

'Harry...' Hermione said quietly, her tone indicating that she was just as uncertain about the legitimacy of this statement as Draco was.

'Why do you think Nagini has remained with Voldemort so long?' Harry demanded. Draco flinched at the name and hit the wall behind him. 'Snakes are as honour-bound as dragons, especially to Parselmouths.'

'And what about us?' Draco snapped.

Harry looked over at him. 'Do you have a better idea?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. First of which is an ideal place you could shove that broom—'

Draco abruptly stopped talking as the snake, coloured black by the darkness, slithered headfirst over the top of the tank that had been serving as its home, thick body following the trail over the top and back down to the floor, where it coiled itself around Harry's feet. Harry hissed at it, and it hissed back, almost contently, and began to glide away, in the opposite direction to the door.

Harry followed it, giving them what he probably thought was a reassuring look. Draco did not feel very reassured at all. He watched the dark, slithering shape disappear down the crowded aisle with Harry's shadowy figure trailing behind, and shuddered. This was all too familiar...

'Come on,' Hermione whispered, her fingers closing softly around his wrist. 'Harry's never led us wrong before.'

For a moment, he didn't react. Then, suddenly, he remembered who it was and jerked away from her as if he'd been scalded. She gave him a reproachful look but did not comment, and walked after Harry, leaving him there.

Draco frowned and, after a moment of hesitation, followed quickly after them.

: : :

'Oooh, why do they have to do this at night?' Hermione whispered in outrage, indicating the many sprinklers. The ground outside was soaking wet and her bare feet were covered in blades of grass and mud; the bottom half of her dress had been effectively destroyed by climbing through a broken window, tumbling six feet to the ground below and fighting their way through various walls of shrubbery.

'To discourage nocturnal rutting in the garden, I'd expect,' Draco commented briskly. She gave him a filthy look.

Harry was ahead of them, half-walking, half-jogging to keep up with the boa constricter. The snake was invisible to Hermione in the darkness, but she could hear it and Harry, whispered hisses floating back to where she and Draco trailed behind, her wand out but not lit—Harry's voice and the snake's eyes were their only guides through the pitch-blackness.

After trotting through the soaking grounds for a good ten minutes, Hermione began getting tired, tripping over her dress as the hem caught on stray twigs, limping when her bare feet struck the occasional rock. At one point, her foot caught a root and she pitched forward, finding herself, not for the first time that night, in the arms of Draco Malfoy.

'You really are the worst undercover agent ever,' he told her, sighing dramatically.

As he set her upright, Hermione resisted the urge to kick him. 'You really are the worst gentleman ever,' she huffed, dusting herself off just as Harry called back in a loud whisper, 'What the hell are you two doing? I think they've—'

There was a bang and a small explosion of smoke, and a shriek in the distance made them both freeze; Hermione wheeled around. What appeared to be a wall of Dementors was gliding towards them from the direction they'd come, overlapping cloaks forming a nightmarish blockade, completely blocking their view of the mansion beyond. Hermione moved to run and tripped over the same root; this time, Draco wasn't there to catch her.

He had frozen like a rabbit in headlights at the sight of the oncoming Dementors.

The largest and foremost raised its grimy hands to its hood and pulled it back, exposing the featureless grey face and gaping hole of a mouth. 'Come.'

Hermione could hear footsteps behind her, she heard the incantation, and someone shouting in the distance...

A great white stag went barrelling between them, antlers lowered at the oncoming Dementors. They shrieked and scattered, flying out of the way, several coming from the sides now, hands outstretched—Hermione thrust her wand forward; it emitted a feeble silver vapour that died away almost instantly.

Harry's Patronus leapt over her, strong and bright, driving them back, but in doing so, it left Draco unprotected—Hermione rolled over in the grass just in time to get blinded by a huge ball of white light. Squinting and back-pedalling towards Harry, she was able to discern the outline of the silver shape in front of Draco.

The bear bellowed silently, swinging its paws, towering as tall as the Dementors as it reared onto its hind legs. Draco leapt backwards, startled by the strange Patronus, tripping over the old root and landing with a squishy thud beside Hermione. The Dementors screeched and hissed their agitation, but in the presence of two powerful Patronuses they were forced to retreat, melting into the night and leaving the grounds eerily empty and silent. Hermione only dared breathe when the warm breeze returned, assuring her that at least for now, they were gone.

Harry hooked a hand under her arm and lifted her to her feet; she stumbled, a bit dazed, and looked up in time to see the giant bear disappear and a tall, dark figure emerge from behind it.

'What the hell are you gawking at?' Blaise demanded as he trotted into view, looking harassed. 'Do you think they won't be back? Go!'

Draco had gotten to his feet himself, shoving Harry's proffered hand away with a nasty look on his face. 'You want me to leave her here?' Draco demanded, rounding on Harry. 'With these things swarming the place? I'd rather turn myself in than—'

'And what would that accomplish, Malfoy?' Harry snapped. 'You think she'd be safe if you went and got yourself killed?'

'What the fuck do you care if I do?'

'They will be coming back,' Blaise interrupted harshly, shoving the two apart and glaring at Harry briefly before turning to Draco. 'You are what they're after. She'll be safe as long as she's under Yaxley's wing. You, on the other hand, need to go. Now.'

Draco looked very much as though he'd like to argue the point. Blaise seemed to anticipate this, and added, 'I'll look after her, Malfoy. I swear I will. Now go!'

: : :

Draco slammed the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place with such force that the entire entryway shook. Harry saw Hermione shy away from him, looking alarmed. Harry didn't blame her; Draco's magical aura was pulsing with fury. Standing this close to him was suffocating.

'It's only for a couple of days,' Hermione attempted weakly, hoping to mollify him. 'Your mum's a very talented witch, Draco, she'll be—'

'Oh, right, I forgot,' he sneered, the volume of his voice rising with every word. 'It's only a couple of days in a house with that—'

'Don't you shout at her,' Harry interrupted, his temper flaring as Hermione winced at Draco's words. 'Your mother made up her own mind, Malfoy.'

'My mother shouldn't have been there in the first place!'

'Yeah? Says who? You?' Harry snapped back, ignoring Hermione's 'Harry, please.' 'It seems your mother is more willing to help us than you are! Or maybe you're just a coward with nothing to lose like your bastard father!'

Draco swung at him and Hermione shrieked, casting a Shield Charm between the two of them as Harry ducked the blow and moved to retaliate. Draco glowered at him through the transparent shield, eyes glazed with cold fury.

'Don't you bring my father into this, Potter!'

Harry snorted. 'Or what?'

'Or it'll be the last fucking thing you do, that's what!'

'Oh, will you both just stop!'

'I have stopped!' Draco exclaimed in outrage, eyes still focused on Harry. 'I stopped the moment I came begging for help, in case you didn't notice! You didn't know my father, Potter, whatever you think—and I don't care how good a wizard you fancy yourself to be, he was twice the man you are!'

'Oh yeah? Is that why he let that happen to your mother?'

Harry regretted the words the moment they'd left his mouth; he saw Hermione stare at him, looking as if she couldn't believe it was her Harry that had just said it. He expected Draco to attack him again.

Draco surprised him by instead closing his eyes and laughing low in his throat. The sound wasn't pleasant.

'At least my father,' he said slowly, looking back up at Harry, 'was able to protect his wife and son enough to keep them both alive.'

Harry's throat tightened, and he could see tears in Hermione's eyes, though the magical make-up remained flawless as they ran down her cheeks.

'Harry, please,' Hermione was pleading with him. 'Just stop. This isn't helping anybody.'

It's helping me, Harry thought bitterly. Or it had been, lashing out at Draco, until Draco had, not for the first time, floored him with the irrefutable truth.

They and their families had both been in danger from Voldemort; and where James had failed to defend and hide his family, Lucius had succeeded.

So far, Harry reminded himself.

'They were betrayed,' Harry heard himself saying. 'My father did everything he could—'

'As did mine,' Draco interrupted shortly, a challenge lining his tone.

'And both James and Lucius are dead now,' Hermione said quietly, and they both looked at her. 'Both trying to protect their families, both by the same hand. So—' she took a deep, shaky breath, looking between them as if expecting them to start shouting again, '—they've done all they can. Now it's up to you two to make sure their sacrifices weren't in vain.'

Harry glanced at Draco and saw him watching Hermione with cold suspicion; the idea that she was defending rather than badmouthing Lucius Malfoy, a man who would have killed her as soon as looked at her, was obviously not something he was willing to believe. But he did not comment, and turned his gaze back to Harry.

'If anything happens to her, Potter,' he said slowly, 'the deal is off.'

'She was granted immunity,' Harry returned angrily. 'Whatever else she does is up to her, not you, and it doesn't affect the deal.'

'The hell it doesn't!'

'She's a grown woman, she can make her own—'

'She's all I have left!' Draco shouted at him furiously, chest and shoulders heaving beneath his miraculously still pristine dress robes. 'And I swear to Merlin if anything happens to her, I will have nothing to lose and you'll find out just what kind of bastard I can really be!'

Harry stared at him. He didn't even register the threat; he'd been aware that Narcissa was fond of her son and that, to some degree, the fondness was reciprocated. But the relationship Draco had with his mother seemed to have become more than that, something desperate—an obsession with protecting one another, with getting one another out of this alive, each risking their own life to do it.

If it kept up like this, both of them would end up dead.

'Nothing is going to happen to your mother,' Harry told him, and Hermione let out a breath she'd been holding. Draco was glaring at him still. 'You just need to relax—'

'Relax,' Draco repeated, almost laughing.

'She's just trying to look after you—'

'No, really?' Draco snapped. 'I don't need looking after. She needs looking after. That's why—'

'Why don't you trust her to at least look after herself?' Harry demanded. 'Your mum's a fully qualified witch, and smarter than she looks—'

'Because, Potter, I don't want her ending up like yours!'

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione draw another sharp breath and hold it. She did that a lot when she thought he might lose his temper, when she was worried that half the glass in the room would explode, that someone would end up in St Mungo's... Harry resisted the urge to bite back, to hit Draco for talking about that, like he had any idea... at least he was alive and his mother was alive and there was something he could do about...

But he is, an annoying little voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione was saying to him. He is trying to do something about it, and you're supposed to be helping him.

Why should he? Draco didn't deserve it. Why should he go out of his way to protect something of Lucius Malfoy's...

Don't think about it like that, the voice chided. Dumbledore was trying to protect them, too.

And a fat lot of good it did him, Harry thought angrily. He'd long ago gotten angry, furious even, with how Dumbledore had left things, and then gotten angry at himself; Dumbledore had hardly wanted to die, after all.

'Harry,' Hermione said quietly, laying one of her hands on his forearm and bringing him out of his reverie.

'Excuse me,' Draco said before Harry could muster a retort. He turned and walked into the adjacent living room, closing the door behind him. Moments later Harry heard a loud crash from inside, as if someone had hurled the huge vase on the mantelpiece into the fireplace.

The door re-opened and Draco came back into the hall, flexing his fingers but otherwise looking considerably more relaxed.

'Feel better?' Harry asked sardonically.

'A little,' Draco admitted, not looking at him. 'So, if that'll be it, I think I'll go have a kip before heading back to the Manor...'

'Malfoy,' Harry said as Draco went to slip up the stairs. 'Tomorrow, I want what you've promised us.'

Draco paused on the stairs, turning back to look at Harry over his shoulder. 'Tomorrow?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'Is that a problem?'

Draco snorted derisively and turned away, making his way up the staircase. 'Would it matter if it was?'

: : :

Wiltshire was hazy and crisp the next morning, and bright sunbeams cast curtains of light through the thick mist around Malfoy Manor. Inside, Hermione was comfortably warm, wrapped in a thick blanket and curled up in a swede settee that had probably cost more than her house in its entirety.

It was terribly soft, however, and though she disapproved of the amount of money the Malfoys spent on furniture, it felt good against her sore limbs. She had lazily dressed in a loose summer dress, tucking her bare legs and feet under her protectively as she sipped her tea. Wearing heels and a corset all evening had been a lot harder than Narcissa had made it look.

'What's taking him so long?' Harry demanded.

'Relax, Potter,' Draco said tiredly. 'I imagine it's quite well buried, or Weaselbud senior would have confiscated it long ago.'

Ron, surprisingly, just rolled his eyes and ignored him. Hermione tossed him a grateful smile. Harry, however, huffed and folded his arms again, shifting impatiently.

The small study they were using was adjacent to the library; the only entrance was past the nightingale floor and a series of enchantments that Draco had assured them (and which Hermione had then confirmed after checking them herself) were all but impenetrable. It was the safest place to talk about Horcruxes outside of Grimmauld Place, and with Snape still able to access the old Headquarters, this was probably their best bet.

'This better not be a load of crap, Malfoy,' Harry growled. 'Or you can forget about any deal that keeps you out of Azkaban.'

'Is he always like this?' Draco inquired mildly of Hermione, giving her a look.

'No,' she said, yawning. She was still quite tired. 'Just around you.'

It was another ten minutes before Nivens returned, scuttling quickly through the arrangement of lounges and coffee tables in the sitting room. He was carrying a large, ornate box made of dark wood and inscribed with runes and Latin words Hermione did not recognise.

Draco took the box as the three of them watched, and laid his hand over the rune in the centre of the lid. Hermione heard a faint click and watched the circular edge begin to rotate under his palm. The lid slid open as he removed his hand, revealing a dark interior with a few overlapping items. One of which caught her eye immediately—

'Is that a wand?' Ron demanded.

Draco raised an eyebrow and removed the wand, holding it delicately between two fingers. 'My original, from Ollivanders,' he explained.

Harry looked outraged. 'You were supposed to surrender your wands! The agreement said that you were supposed to turn them over to us while you were under supervision—'

'Actually, Potter,' Draco interrupted, 'the contract stated that I needed to turn over my wand; as it failed to specify further, I was required only to surrender my current wand, the one on my person—not any other wand or wands that I may have had at my disposal elsewhere.'

'That's such a load of—' Ron began.

'Furthermore,' Draco went on, replacing the wand in the box as Harry went to take it, 'as said contract has already been agreed upon and signed, as long as both parties adhere to their terms, it cannot be altered, and although I cannot keep a wand on my person without express permission from yourself, I am allowed to keep one in my possession.'

'Don't try this loophole crap with me, Malfoy,' Harry warned. 'If you think I'm going to let you—'

'You're going to have to, Harry,' Hermione said quietly, silently cursing her own stupidity. She scowled at Draco as he smirked. 'Draco's right. There's nothing we can do about that.'

'Malfoy, Granger,' Draco corrected briskly. 'And of course I'm right; you think that, with the price that's been put on my head, I would have signed a deal designating that I could have no wand within reach? You're out of your mind.'

Hermione gave him a look, ignoring his comments. 'Aslong as both parties keep to their terms,' she reminded him firmly. 'So I hope there's a set of directions to an exact location in that little box of yours, or we may be amending said contract.'

'You won't need any directions,' Draco said, raising an eyebrow. 'I have it here.'

: : :

'You what?' Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. 'Honestly, Potter, do I have to spell it out? Here.'

He shoved a rather flat, thick velvet box at Harry, the kind held shut by springs and usually made smaller to hold rings. Harry eyed it suspiciously. It was black and unmarked, and extremely heavy for something so small.

'What is this?'

Draco raised his eyebrows. 'What you want,' he said simply. 'Open it.'

Harry did. He didn't look up or speak for a very long time.

It was so very different from the one he and Dumbledore had retrieved. Larger, and a duller gold as befitted its age, this locket was wedge-shaped, and after a moment Harry realised it was actually moulded to look like a snake's head; the locket was so old that most of the scales had been worn smooth, but two emerald-studded eyes gleamed at him as he looked it over, and he noticed two pointy fangs overlapping the bottom lip, sealing it closed.

'Where did you get this?' Harry breathed, flaring up at Draco.

'My mother,' he said simply, setting the box aside and sitting back. He seemed unable to hold Harry's gaze, and was instead looking at the spot over his shoulder. 'It was included in a box full of assorted items that Kreacher delivered the night he informed the Dark Lord of your... affections for Black,' he finished carefully.

'But Sirius left everything to me,' Harry snapped. 'All of this stuff was mine!'

'Actually, Sirius left you the house and any effects within, if you want to get technical,' Draco informed him. 'The rightful owners of any small, pre-obtained artefacts were granted full possession of their items.'

'So your mother was able to keep any jewellery or clothes she acquired from relatives, like Sirius' mother,' Hermione added, nodding. 'That makes sense, Harry. There's no way Sirius would have guessed something like that was so important—'

'So you've just kept it all this time?' Harry demanded, temper rising. 'Four years, Malfoy? If your bloody father hadn't met his end, we'd have probably never gotten it!'

'No, you probably wouldn't have,' Draco said mildly, but his eyes were narrowed. 'I told you before; this house, the property in its entirety, answers to one owner. Until a week and a half ago, it all still belonged to my father, and I couldn't have given it to you if I'd wanted to.'

'Draco,' Hermione intervened before Harry could go off again, 'how did you know what it was?'

Draco didn't bother correcting her this time; he looked slightly uncomfortable. 'I remember my father... describing the diary in detail,' he admitted. 'How it felt, to hold it, to be close to it for too long... he feared it so much he never dared open it, much less use it. Too much Dark magic made it heavy, he used to say, and anything like that wasn't worth meddling with.'

'Oh, so obviously the best thing to do with such a thing was give it to my little sister,' Ron said nastily.

'I had nothing to do with that,' Draco said sharply. 'I was twelve at the time, if you remember.'

'Your father described it as heavy with Dark magic,' Hermione interjected again. 'That's it?'

'Well, yes,' Draco said, shrugging. 'I didn't think much of it until several years later, the night Dumbledore was killed. I overheard Snape talking with my father, asking him if he'd come across "anything similar" since... and I remembered that the night Kreacher bestowed the locket upon my mother, I had noticed it.'

'Noticed what?' Harry said.

Draco smirked. 'Pick it up.'

Once again, Harry did; and then he dropped the locket as if it had burned him. It literally felt like a burn; white spots appeared behind his eyes as he flexed his injured fingers; after a moment, he tried again, using the small, dark piece of buffing cloth that had been in the box to protect his hands.

This time, the locket did not burn him—but he instantly noticed how heavy it seemed for such a small locket, solid gold or not, and the longer he concentrated on it, the more convinced he became that he could feel the magical equivalent of a pulse. It was leaking so much Dark Magic, he could practically smell it.

Making sure to keep his hand covered, Harry turned the locket over; on the back, over the scales of the snake, an ornate letter 'S' had been carved into the metal.

'It doesn't make any sense,' he said finally, looking up. 'The diary wasn't overly heavy.'

'But the diary was a book,' Hermione pointed out. 'You would expect that to be heavy anyway...'

Draco inclined his head as if to agree with her point. 'I confronted Snape with my suspicions and demanded to know what all of it meant. At the time, he refused to tell me anything, so I didn't disclose any information about the locket...'

Draco paused, looking a bit hesitant. 'It wasn't until Snape knew that the Dark Lord had learned of my father's whereabouts that he finally enlightened me on the subject of Horcruxes. He was convinced it was the only way Potter here would be willing to help me at all,' he finished, looking smug. 'Surprise, surprise, he was right about you after all.'

'Hang on,' Ron said, 'you told us you hadn't been in contact with Snape!'

'I haven't,' Draco said, looking amused. 'Not directly.'

Harry sat up. 'What the hell do you mean, not directly?'

'You simply asked if I'd been in contact with Snape,' Draco said, shrugging again. 'I assumed you meant direct contact. My mother has been serving as a middleman in our communications over the past several years.'

'You little rat!'

'Ronald!'

'No, Ron's right,' Harry said viciously. 'He is a little rat, but I guess we shouldn't have expected anything less.'

'Or perhaps he's just much smarter than any of you,' Draco offered. 'And don't bother questioning my mother about his whereabouts; the terms of her amnesty included immunity from all of our affairs. You wanted information, I informed you; you wanted to use my status for an undercover operation, I cooperated. You wanted the Horcrux, I've given it to you. I've kept my end of the deal.'

'You've thought this all through very well, haven't you?' Harry said scathingly.

'Not well enough,' Hermione said suddenly. The three of them looked at her; Draco narrowed his eyes. 'Oh, don't look so surprised,Mr Malfoy,' she said, smirking. 'The contract does not specify a set of tasks to be completed before you're free of the dragon's den.'

'What are you implying?' Draco asked, looking mutinous. 'I've nothing more to offer you.'

'Oh, see, that's where I think you're mistaken,' Hermione said simply, sitting up in her chair. 'You're a Malfoy, after all. Voldemort—' Draco winced and hissed, '—was so lenient with your father for a very good reason. He was terribly useful.'

'I am not my—' Draco began.

'But you have his resources at your disposal,' Hermione pointed out. 'As well as what I assume is a—' she paused, searching for words, '—or at least, what I imagine is a vast knowledge of Dark magic that could prove extremely useful to us while we continue the search.'

'The search?'

'For the other Horcruxes,' Harry supplied. 'And Hermione's got a fair point.'

'Hold on,' Draco said, holding up a hand. 'You can't be suggesting that I continue helping you with this nonsense.'

'Who's suggesting?' Ron said, grinning nastily. 'We're telling you.'

Draco glared coldly at him. 'Why? You don't need me for anything more.'

'We don't need you,' Harry confirmed as Draco's hands tightened on the arms of the chair he was lounging in. 'But we can use you.'

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