Fanfiction

Cruelly Fated by Dazma

Title: Cruelly Fated
Author name: Dazma
Author email: Dazmarose@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13

Summary: Draco and Ginny meet for a last time under the sad moon. Romance and angst, with some dark themes implied. Not a light fluffy fic, so don't read if you don't like darker stories.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Okay, this has got absolutely nothing to do with "Pen Pal" or "Twin Shades of Grey". It's just something I thought up the other night when I was suppose to be working on chapter five of TSOG. Oh well, I'll write the chapter eventually!
This is a one shot, and I'll warn you right now, it's sad. Who knows, it might even make you cry. (It made my mom cry!)
Hope you enjoy it, and remember to review and tell me what you think at the end.

The full moon hung sadly in the sky, watching with a weariness acquired from years of witnessing heartbreak, as two young lovers met in its glow. One, born to the night and coldness; one, born to the day and warmth. A pair of star crossed lovers doomed never to be together.
He moved through the night as if part of it. Slipping through shadows and gliding on the silence. His destination was close; as soon as he got to the top of the rise he'd be able to see it. Just a few more steps... And he saw it. The lake shimmered in the moonlight sparkling with hidden secrets. And silhouetted against it stood a beautiful willow, and in his eyes an even more beautiful girl.
A tiny smile flickered across his face like a candle flame in the wind, as he walked down the grassy knoll.
She stood quietly, wrapping herself in the gentle light expelled from the moon, waiting for him to come. She didn't mind waiting. She'd waited for many things in her life, and all though she only got about half of them, she still didn't mind waiting. Especially when she knew he would come. Soon.
Two hands grabbed her at the hips and pulled her back against a strong, lean body. Waiting had its rewards.
The hands tenderly stroked her stomach and sides through the material of her robes causing shivers of pleasure to run through her body. One hand moved up to her neck and pulled her hair away so a pair of soft lips could lightly kiss her right where her pulse was. She sighed, and leaned her weight back against him completely, trusting herself to him like she never had or would with anyone else.
He felt himself warming up the second he touched her. She was fire, beautiful, dangerous, and intoxicating. She melted him, melted away the mask of ice he hid behind. His hands skimmed along her body, and then he moved one up to her neck tangling it in her glorious locks of flames. Lightly he pressed a kiss against her warm skin, loving the feel of her pulse under his cool lips.
She relaxed against him, and he wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her from falling down. He lifted his head from her neck and brushed his lips against her cheek, and then with his hand still tangled in her hair, gently pulled her head so he could taste her sweet lips. The kiss was short and felt like a whisper. A whisper in the silence. A whisper that seemed to drown out the rest of the world while it chimed through the night.
Pulling away, he gazed down at her sweet face. She reminded him of a fairy. Her eyes fluttered open and velvety chocolate met stormy grey. She sighed again, only this time sadly and turned around so she could hold him. Her pale arms wrapped around his waist and she rested her head on his chest, right above his heart.
"Please don't do this. Don't go."
He closed his eyes and held her tightly, one arm stroking her hair the other rubbing her back. "I have to. I don't have a choice."
She didn't say anything for a long time, then, "will I ever see you again?"
He didn't want to answer that, but didn't have a choice. He couldn't keep anything from her. "No. At least, never on the same side of a battle field again."
He felt her struggle to keep herself from crying, and it nearly killed him. He hated himself for hurting her, but if he didn't leave her, he'd cause her more pain in the end. "You can cry. There's nothing wrong with crying."
She lifted her head from his chest, a single tear falling down her petal-soft cheek, and met his own rather watery eyes. "Hypocrite," she smiled sadly.
He nodded, "Yeah."
She bit her lip and looked away, before letting her eyes come back to his. "We could run away. Somewhere where they couldn't find you; us." She said quietly, desperation evident from her tone.
"They'd find us. He's too powerful, and he wants me too much."
She shook her head stubbornly. "We could do it! If we tried, we could do it."
He kissed her on the forehead, severely tempted by her offer. So tempted for a moment he was willing to try, but the moment passed as most moments do and he knew he couldn't do that to her. "You wouldn't be able to see or contact your family. They'd have to think you were dead. And you would never get to finish school, or talk to your friends; we'd have to have absolutely no contact with anyone. Couldn't see anyone, talk to anyone, or write to anyone." He paused, "you're sixteen, I'm not going to let you throw away your life."
Tears started to fall rather heavily from her eyes, and her lip quivered. "I'd do it."
He shook his head. "You'd be miserable."
"And you won't be?!" Her voice was growing hysterical.
He kissed her again, this time on the lips. A long bittersweet kiss... like blood, both sweet and coppery, and just as vital. "Not if I know you're safe."
She wept. Harsh violent sobs wracked her body as she clung to him with all her strength, refusing to let him go. "You can't go. I love you, you can't leave me!"
He didn't say anything. Nothing he said could soothe her, only time would fix this. Slowly her sobs grew quieter. Finally she had enough control to raise her head and look him in the eye again. "Please..." she whimpered.
"I have to. When the mark was placed on my arm my fate was decided. Now he calls for me to come and fight for him... I have to go."
"But what if he's defeated? We could be-"
He lifted a finger to her lips to silence her. She was just madly grasping for straws now. "I'll go straight to Azkaban."
"NO!" she cried, shaking her head violently.
"Sweet, don't you understand? I'm going to kill people, torture people, tear apart families and ruin peoples' lives."
Her eyes screamed but she didn't seem to have the ability to speak anymore.
"Even if I was pardoned... I will be a monster. I have no future; I've accepted this fact. If the Dark Lord falls and they don't lock me up, I'll make them lock me up."
He wiped away the silver tears she cried with a long elegant finger, his eyes begging for her forgiveness and understanding. "Once I leave tonight, I'm dead. Don't think of me as living, don't pray that I'm okay... think of me as dead. I'll never be the person I am right now, again. I don't want you to love the person I'll become." His eyes glazed over, "I want you to go on with your life and fall in love and get married and have kids..."
"No," she had found her voice again. "I won't love anyone ever again. I could never love anyone but you."
He held her close, breathed in her scent one last time - ginger and spice - and then pulled away. "Be happy. Please, live everyday to it's fullest." He shuddered with pain at the thought of what he was about to actually do. "I love you. I will always love you, Virginia." He turned away and started up the hill. Walking like a prisoner to his execution.
"Wait!"
He froze, why did she have to make this so hard?
Her hand touched his shoulder sending a wave of warmth through his body and she turned him around. Standing up on her toes she kissed him, hard. Putting in every ounce of love, pain, forgiveness, and desperation that she felt. After many long moments she finally pulled away. They both felt like an eternity had passed in a second.
Her voice was a ghost when she spoke. "Don't call me that. You've never called me that before... say my name."
He smiled wearily down at her, etching her features in to his memory. "Gin. My Ginger. Gin Adora Weasley." He kissed her one last time on the lips, quickly.
"No Draco. Not Weasley, Malfoy. Gin Adora Malfoy." She locked her eyes on his startled ones, "I'm your wife in every sense of the word... except legally. I'm Gin Malfoy forever more. I will never marry another."
He smiled. Not sadly, it was genuine. Neither would ever forget this moment for as long as they lived; however short that may be. She returned it with one of her own.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Malfoy. Your husband loves you very much, he'll never forget you." He turned around before she could stop smiling; he wanted to remember her that way.
"Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy. Your wife loves you more than you can imagine, she'll never forget you." Her voice drifted through the night to him. "I love you, Draco..."
He let one icy tear fall. And then he was gone.
The moon mourned silently for her children, two star-crossed lovers. Fate was cruel to them, but perhaps in another lifetime she'd be able to look down on them with joy instead of sadness. Perhaps, time would dry the tears the girl of fire cried... and the tear the boy of ice could no longer freeze.

Little Sister by Rochelle

Title: Little Sister
Author: Rochelle
Rating: PG

Summary: A squib was once born to the Malfoy family. A grown up Draco remembers her.

Note: I'm reposting this story as Rochelle has taken her site down, and the link no longer works.

I remember the day you were born, little sister, even though I was barely four. Mum and Father knew they were having a girl, and I knew that my short life would never be the same. Already, all that Mum and Father ever talked about was the baby's room, the baby's crib, all the things "the baby" would need, and little regard was given to me. I knew already that I would hate you, the girl who took my parents away, even before I laid eyes on you or so much as knew your name.

Or at least that's what I thought.

"Draco," Father had said with a smile, peering at me from around the corner, "come with me and meet your new sister." I was sitting in the hospital waiting room, coloring in my coloring book. Even then, I knew how relatively rare it was to see Father smile like this, so joyful and proud that I thought he might burst. I swore there tears in his eyes, too, something I had never seen and haven't seen since then.

"I don't want to meet her," I said with a stubborn scowl and scribbled fiercely in my coloring book.

"Come with me," Father said again, his voice harsher this time, "or I promise I'll make you regret it." So, sulking, I let him lead me down the long, white hall and into Mum's hospital room.

When I walked through the door, I saw Mum lying in bed and holding a small, squirming bundle of pink blankets. "Come see your new sister, Draco," Mom told me with a smile of her own: wearier than Father's, but no less proud. "Her name is Sapphira Emily."

I was frowning when I first approached, but when I looked down at your little face -- all pink and white and innocent with thin wisps of pale-gold hair -- I couldn't hate you anymore, even though I wanted to. You cooed a bit when you first saw me and blinked your big, blue-gray eyes. I think that was your way of trying to charm me, and yes, little sister, it did work.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Father said. "She looks just like your mother."

I didn't say anything right then. I just reached out and let you grab my finger. You had the tiniest hands I'd seen, like a little porcelain doll's, and I couldn't help marveling at how delicate you seemed. I sought to protect you from... from.... Well, I wasn't certain then; I was only four. But if any creature, man or beast, tried to harm my baby sister, it would have to come through me first. "I'm your big brother," I finally said as you played with my fingers. That was when I understood the pride that my parents were feeling right then.
* * *

Sapphira Emily Malfoy. As much as my parents love grand names, I never thought that one suited you and simply called you Emily. It was a pretty, honest name, and I thought it was best for someone so small. And as soon as you could talk (you weren't quite one then -- a very smart girl), you simply called me Drake. You're the only one who ever got away with that, you know. Anyone else who called me Drake would have ended up tasting my fist.

As time went on, I think I only loved you more. You may be the only thing I've ever really loved, or at least the only thing that truly loved me back. Mum and Father? Yes, I know they care about me in their way. But the only reason Mum had me is because Father wanted an heir, and Father only approves of me when I do what he expects. But you, little sister, my Emily... you didn't care about those things. I was your big brother, your hero; all you asked of me was that I be there for you, and I always tried to be.
* * *

"Lucius, what are we going to do?" I heard Mum say in a loud, panicked whisper behind her and Father's closed bedroom door. "Sapphira hasn't shown the slightest bit of potential yet, and if something doesn't happen soon...."

"Don't talk like that, Narcissa," Father answered sharply. I could almost hear him frowning. "She isn't even three years old; maybe she just needs a bit more time."

"But it's only a matter of time before people start to talk," Mother whispered back. "Can you even imagine it if anyone thought our daughter... was...." Then, she began to sob.

Stupidly, I opened the door. I saw Mum crying Father's arms, head buried against his shoulder. "What's wrong with Sapphira?" I asked, eyes wide. I always used your first name when I was in front of them. "Why's Mummy crying?"

"Get out of here!" Father snapped at me. "Get out of here right now!" The look in his eye was murderous. Frightened, I hurried away and shut the door behind me.

I didn't understand it then. I was only six years old. All I knew for certain was that Mum and Father were very upset about you, so I went to your room to check on you. You were only sitting there on the fluffy white rug, playing with your favorite toy: a yellow teddy bear that you'd named Mr. Fuzzy. It was small and cuddly, like you, and the only thing magic about it was the way it made you smile.

"Emily," I asked, sitting down across from you, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine," you answered brightly and offered me your teddy bear. "Mr. Fuzzy wants you to hug him," you explained. Your expression was so earnest that I couldn't help chuckling. Nonetheless, I took the bear, hugged it and handed it back to you.

I nearly asked you if you knew what had upset Mum and Father so, but you weren't that much more than a baby. I didn't expect you'd have the answer any more than I did.

You gave me a puzzled look and asked me, "Are you sad?" You always were perceptive for your age.

"Why do you ask?" was my response.

"Your eyes look sad," you answered, and offered me Mr. Fuzzy again. "Maybe you'll be happy if you hug him again."

I looked at the bear, but hugged you instead. You threw your arms around my neck, smelling of soap and strawberry shampoo.

"Drake," you told me softly while I was still hugging you, "Mummy and Daddy are mad at me. Mummy threw me out the window this morning, and they yelled at me because I didn't fly."

"But you're not hurt, are you?" I asked with concern.

You shook your head. "No."

I didn't say anything for awhile.

"Drake?"

"Hm?"

You leaned against me, prompting me to hold you again. "Can you fly?"

I nodded. "Every wizard and witch can. It's only a matter of time, is all."

Worry creased your small brow. "But... what if I don't learn? Ever?"

I didn't have an answer for you. "You'll learn," was all I said.
* * *

I never meant to lie to you. I did think you would learn to fly, or float, or disappear, or do something magical sometime soon. I'd shown my abilities when I was just two years old, and surely you would by the age of three. But by the time that you were nearly four years old -- nearly the age that I had been when you were born -- you hadn't done anything at all.

Mum cried nearly every day, and I saw Father hit you once. He called you a "filthy, worthless squib," slapped you across the face and yelled at you, shaking you, saying you were an embarrassment to the Malfoy family name. Saying he wished you'd never been born. You were so small and terrified then; you kept apologizing to him through your tears. I tried to get him away from you and got thrown into the wall for my trouble. But at least I gave you time to run away.

I found you later in your room, huddled in the corner with Mr. Fuzzy in your arms. You looked up at me, gasping in fright, probably thinking I might've been Father. I could see a livid bruise just beneath one eye, and tears still streamed down your cheeks. I could feel you shaking when I held you.

"What's... what's wrong with me?" you whispered. "I didn't mean to make them angry."

"They're just upset because you don't have any magic yet," I said, smoothing your long, white-gold hair. "Just give it more time, Emily; they'll be proud of you."

But without meaning to, I'd lied to you again.

It was only two days later that I found you in your bed. Mr. Fuzzy was still at your side.

"Wake up, Emily," I said gently. "It's getting rather late."

You didn't move at all.

"Emily?" I shook you a little. "Emily!" I ran off to look for Mum, knowing Father was at work. I found her in the living room, looking out the widow. "Mum! Come quick! Something's wrong with Emi... Sapphira!"

When Mum looked at me, I noticed her eyes were red-rimmed and lifeless, like she'd been crying a very long time. "It is?" she asked. Her voice was as dull as her eyes. She followed me right to your room, but seemed in little hurry to get there.

"She won't wake up," I told Mum urgently, feeling frightened and confused. "But... but she'll be okay... won't she?"

Mum kissed you on your forehead, but she didn't say anything. Then, she left me alone with you.

You never opened your blue-gray eyes. You just lay there, like a porcelain doll, and your skin was cold as stone.
* * *

I had lost my little sister. Once the funeral was done, Mum and Father told me I was never to speak your name again. They never mentioned your name again, either, and they took down all of your pictures. I saved Mr. Fuzzy, though. I stole him from your room when they weren't looking, and I've kept him hidden from them all this time. Even though I knew how much they wanted to try and forget about you, I just couldn't let them bury every trace of you.

It is... best that they got rid of you, though. This, I realized in time. You were worthless to the family, even worse than muggles and mudbloods. I would have been the laughingstock of Slytherin because of you, would've been the boy whose sister was a squib. I can almost hear it now: "So much for the Malfoy family name!" and "Hey, Malfoy! I heard your sister is a muggle!"

Yes.... it is better for both of us that you're gone. If they had let you live, I only could have hated you.

The End.

The Choosing--by Rocky

Title: The Choosing (takes place during Goblet of Fire)
Author: Rockygirl
Rating: PG

Summary: The Champions must be chosen for the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and Hogwarts is the center of attention. Who will it be? And who should it be? Told from Blaise Zabini's PoV.

The Tri-Wizard Tournament. I could scarcely believe the Ministry'd pulled it together again after all these years. If someone had told me that morning that Hogwarts would be hosting the Tri-Wizard Tournament, I would have called them stupid, or mad. Maybe both. It had been nearly a century since the last Tournament, and no one had ever thought they'd be resurrected.

Oh, my name is Blaise Zabini, and this is how I remember things happening in my fourth year. The year the Dark Lord returned.

It began as any other year, and I was eager to get to London to catch the Hogwarts Express back to school. My summer had been dreadfully boring, as we'd been forced to visit my father's great aunt Lebelia in Italy where she was on holiday. She insisted we stay, and since father is dependant upon her good nature for our family's continued prosperity, we obliged. Lebilia's fondness for solitude is succeeded only by her fondness for having family around to argue with. I cannot abide the countryside, or my aunt, for that matter. The people are tiresomely provincial, the food horribly rich, and if I've ever done anything correctly or well as far as Lebelia is concerned, she's yet to inform me.

But never mind that, I was speaking of the Tournament. When Dumbledore announced to the school that not only was it taking place, but that we were hosting it, I could scarcely believe my ears. Malfoy had known, of course. He'd been strutting around the train for the entire trip dropping not-so-subtle hints that he knew something no one else did, and deliberately teased us all until we asked what it was. He only told those who asked, though, and I made it a point not to. I don't beg idiots for favors, and I made it a point to leave the car if he happened to strut in. When the announcement was finally made later that night he stared around at us with a triumphant grin while Pansy Parkinson gushed at his side and several others congratulated him. Those few others he'd told tried to pretend they'd known all along as well, but I was certain Malfoy was one of a very small number of people who had known before hand.

I remember how excited we all were, how we knew that year would be special. Hosting both the Durmstrang and Beauxbaton contingents; what could be more honorable, or more glorious as we showed off our superiority? We whispered and wondered who would try to represent Hogwarts, and how they'd be selected. Dumbledore said only that the champions would be selected at Hogwarts by an impartial judge in October, and that they'd have to be seventeen. Oh, how my friends and I bemoaned our youth which disqualified us from the honor and prestige, but we weren't earnest in our disappointment. The Tournament would be dangerous, despite any safety precautions the schools took, and cheering from the sidelines sounded like a far better proposition. And as spectators, we'd be having all the fun.

I looked up and down the Slytherin table then, wondering who among our House mates was capable of winning the slot. We had many sixth and seventh year students who qualified, and the Slytherin cunning would be a valuable asset to the Hogwarts champion.

But what if it wasn't a Slytherin who was chosen?

I looked slowly around the Hall, first at the Hufflepuff table nearest us. There were a few worthy students there, but then Hufflepuffs were known for their hard work and diligence, so it was possible that they might be granted the opportunity. . . but what about the Ravenclaws? My eyes searched their ranks. Intelligent and clever, resourceful and inventive. Excellent skills in any situation, yet were they strong candidates? Who among them shone out in their achievements as worthy of the honor of representing the school, not to mention winning a thousand galleons?

Shone out. . .

"It isn't fair, you know," a crisp whisper interrupted my thoughts, "We younger students should be allowed to try for the privilege of competing in the Tournament. There's always brilliance where you least expect it, and I daresay one of us fourth years could easily snag the right."

It wasn't as though I hadn't expected Malfoy to protest vehemently, if only for the benefit of looking the slighted genius. Still, his constant bids for attention were grating.

"If you're talking about yourself, Malfoy, allow me to remind you that anyone who plays substandard Quidditch and gets coddled through Potions can hardly be called brilliant!" I said quietly, not wanting anyone at the next table to overhear my comment.

Pansy glared furiously at me, and I knew she'd make me pay for that comment later. I didn't care; I was trying to think and didn't appreciate useless interruptions.

"Zabini," Malfoy's equally quiet voice floated over to me, causing me to look his direction again, "allow me to remind you that ignorant blatherers don't fare well when the Professors aren't looking."

I allowed my face to assume a cold expression, but nevertheless managed to spit out an apology. Malfoy was never one to issue idle threats to his House mates, and it paid to stay on his good side, or at least remain unnoticed by him. Very few people provoked his anger, though most greatly disliked him, a few even in our House. The only people who freely tempted his wrath were. . . ones who shone out. . .

My eyes drifted over to the table farthest from ours. Farthest in distance and reputation, yet closest to us in strength and purpose.

Gryffindor.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, was listening eagerly with his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger as Dumbledore continued to drone on. The bushy haired Granger seemed troubled or angry, but Potter and the rest of his House mates seemed to hang on the Headmaster's words. Who in Gryffindor would be picked if they were chosen? I knew who many of them would like to pick.

But he was too young, like the rest of us. Which was a good thing because his head had probably already swollen to ten times its normal size with the accomplishments he'd already managed. Defeating a Voldemort-possessed Quirrel in his first year, a book spirit and a Basilisk in his second, Dementors in his third, oh the list was long. He always acted nice, or shy, but I didn't believe that anyone who'd accomplished what Potter had could possibly be modest. Not back then. But I was always a harsh judge of character. I still am, really.

When we retired that evening our rooms were filled with chatter about the upcoming Tournament and speculations on who might win the privilege of representing Hogwarts. Like me, most of my House mates thought a Slytherin would and should be chosen. Several of them were convinced that we already had it, and names were tossed about like Fizzing Whizzbees of those considered cute enough or tall enough to represent our house properly. It makes me smile sometimes to remember. Ah, the carefree idiocy of youth!

The days passed quickly, yet not quickly enough. As September turned to October it seemed the whole school began to look forward to the thirtieth with an appreciation we hadn't given it in years. Halloween spirit was fun, but not as fun as hosting foreign students. As I eavesdropped on many conversations, I came to realize that Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff, was favored to win the spot as Hogwarts champion. Well, favored is a rather strong term. The Hufflepuffs favored him, others thought he had a better than average chance. A few didn't wish to admit he had what it took, like Seamus Finnigan, who nicknamed him Pretty Boy Diggory. The school was scrubbed as it hadn't been in years, which accounted for Filch's foul temper, and an aura of excitement descended over us all, though I and my House mates did our best to appear unruffled.

Other students made no pretense at appearing calm and collected, and I sometimes longed to join them in their fanciful chatter. Passing a group of Ravenclaw girls clustered around a library table one day, I heard them whispering of the dark reputation of Durmstrang.

"I've heard they teach the Dark Arts," Mandy Brocklehurst pursed her lips, a strange glint in her eyes, "my mum doesn't think they should be allowed to be here."

"That's ridiculous," Cho Chang laughed, "It's only a contest, and Dumbledore wouldn't have invited them if they were really dangerous."

"I'll bet they're all tall and dark," Padma Patil smiled knowingly, "their school is up north somewhere, and weaklings can't survive a harsh climate."

The statement was followed by an explosion of giggles, and I wanted to laugh and encourage their stupid, but thrilling, assumptions. The Durmstrang males were going to get lots of attention, I knew, if the mere rumor of these "bad boys" could inspire such insipid admiration. Less was known about the Beauxbaton contingent, and that made them more intriguing to me. Who would they bring? What kind of students were they? Were they more or less powerful or dangerous than Durmstrang? The rumors flew as thickly as owls with the morning post, and we felt the anticipation build to a fever pitch.

But we had distractions to keep us busy until the thirtieth. Many of our professors, particularly McGonagall and Professor Snape, had us working hard and preparing for the more difficult lessons and inevitable O.W.L.'s that would come in our fifth year. Then there was our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Alastor Moody. He was strange, very paranoid, and possessed a gruesome enough appearance to lend credence to the most exaggerated rumors about him. He gave us the most interesting lessons we'd ever had, though, even if I did suffer a bit of humiliation when he put the Imperius Curse on me and I was unable to throw it off. Rumor had it that Potter could, and I hated to think that I might be inferior to that egotistical Lion boy. Still, I must say I learned more from him than from almost any of our former DADA professors, even Lupin.

Potter. Passing whispering, silly groups of gossiping girls was one thing, but passing the Gryffindor Trio in the corridors was nothing short of irritating. They were constantly with heads together, when they could pull Granger from her ridiculous campaign for House Elf rights, that is. It was a common sight, and I'd come to interpret it over the years as them knowing something mysterious and intriguing that they weren't sharing with anyone else. Merlin forbid that Potter the Hero should ever be unable to fix every problem he encountered!

But there seemed to be something agitating Potter that year, as he seemed to be in a temper when he wasn't anxiously watching the owls converge with the morning post. Or at least, he was in a temper one particular evening. I don't know what set him off, but I remember looking up when I heard a muffled bang. I was in time to see Potter's snowy owl fly off, hooting angrily, and Potter himself storm out of the Great Hall. I looked around, but few other people paid any mind to what was happening. I think it was then that I realized I was unique among my fellow students in that I paid close attention to anything that was amiss, which was why I heard that bang from almost all the way across the Hall. Didn't anyone else believe in being prepared for anything?

I never found out what made him so angry, but time and future events made that episode seem trivial. In any case, the thirtieth finally arrived, and we all descended to the front lawn to greet our foreign guests. Their arrival is well documented in other tomes, and with more descriptive skill than I'm willing to manage, so I will just say that we were very impressed at the site of our competition. Especially at finding out that Viktor Krum, the internationally famous Qudditch player, was a student at Durmstrang. We greeted them, trouped back inside, ate, and speaking only for myself, discovered how annoying snobby, part Veela females are.

Then the time came to officially start the Tournament. We all sat up a little straighter after the Ministry officials were introduced and Dumbledore announced the impartial selector: The Goblet of Fire.

This was my first glimpse of the legendary goblet, and when Filch carried in the jewel encrusted chest, I had expected to see a jewel encrusted goblet of gold. But no, the goblet was a roughly hewn wooden cup, rather plain and ugly, except for the flames dancing in its depths. The contradiction between its appearance and its reputation actually amazed me. The goblet was ancient and wise, housed within an expensive chest powerfully enchanted for its protection. Yet it looked so. . . ordinary. I couldn't speak for a moment; I was so lost in contemplation.

Youth. How things seem to be simple, how thrown we are when they're not what we expect.

I began to attend Dumbledore's speech after a few moments, as I found my curiosity unbearably piqued.

"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," he said. "Aspiring champions have twenty four hours in which to put their names forward."

Twenty four hours. The champions would be chosen on Halloween night. I felt a smile spread over my face at the thought of this exciting ceremony taking place on my favorite holiday. It seemed grimly fitting, considering the danger the champions would have to face. I almost chuckled at the irony, and wondered if anyone else noticed it.

When Dumbledore finished his speech and dismissed us all, I found myself wondering, along with my fellow House mates, if we would be hosting the Durmstrang contingent in our commons since they'd seen fit to dine with us. But Igor Karkaroff, the head of Durmstrang, could be heard ordering his students back out to their ship, as well as openly favoring the surly Mr. Krum. What did everyone see in him? So he was an international sports celebrity, what else could he do?

But our progress out of the Hall was suddenly halted when the Durmstrang students reached the doors, and I craned my neck to see what was happening. I shouldn't have been surprised to see Potter there, or the looks on the faces of Karkaroff and his students. It was the famous Harry Potter, after all. The Boy Who Lived To Irritate Everyone. Predictable response from those seeing him for the first time, and I was about to turn away when I saw Karkaroff's face change.

That caught my attention, especially since he was no longer looking at Saint Potter, as Malfoy likes to call him. The Durmstrang Headmaster's expression had gone pale with shock and fury, and I eagerly cast my eyes about for the source of this very interesting reaction. I found it a moment later as I heard the now familiar muffled thump along the floor.

Professor Moody.

Ah, now that made sense, since Moody had been an Auror. Perhaps the very Auror that had captured Karkaroff? It was a little known, yet true, fact that Karkaroff had been a Death Eater. My father had told me, and he'd also told me that a deal had been struck with the Ministry for the man's freedom. My mind immediately began to entertain the most titillating theories to account for this little scene, until a gruff statement from Moody caused the Durmstrang Headmaster to stalk away with his students. I felt myself smirk as I watched them leave. I'd known the year would be interesting, but I'd never have guessed in what ways.

Saturday morning dawned cold and bright, and after washing and dressing, I immediately began casting about for who had submitted their names. To my disappointment, I found that thus far only Warrington had submitted his name. I felt myself get annoyed as I headed down to the Great Hall. What happened to Slytherin Pride? When I arrived I saw many students from all the Houses milling about, and my temper flared even more. What were they all waiting for? To gawk at everyone who submitted? Merlin, who needs this kind of embarrassing attention? I looked across the Hall and noticed Potter talking closely with several of his cronies, and took an almost choking gulp of my pumpkin juice. What was he doing? Planning on how to effectively trick Dumbledore's Age Line? Didn't that scarred idiot get enough attention already?

I was suddenly distracted by a loud noise, and I frowned as I looked over at the entrance and saw Angelina Somethingorother of Gryffindor House enter the Hall with many of her fellows cheering her on.

I should have known. What is embarrassing to others is lapped up by those attention seeking lions!

Allow me to just say that the day was, for me, embarrassing. No other Slytherin, as far as I know, submitted their names to the goblet, and I suddenly knew why. Slytherin House represents cunning, ambition, and gain. To win the tournament would have been glorious, but the price was high. You would not be told what your tasks were, so the unknown factors would be many. Cunning would serve, as would cleverness and ambition to win, but success was not a guarantee. To risk one's neck was extreme, and there should be a payoff for the effort put in. But in the Tournament, there were no points for second place. My mood grew fouler as the day progressed, and by dinner time I was furious.

I ate very little and spent the majority of my time looking about and deciding who I thought might have made excellent representatives, if not for their lack of fire. There could be no glory without risk; surely I wasn't the only person to realize this? It didn't even occur to me, back then, that some of my House mates might have decided to drop their names in during the night, when no one would be watching. I was too infused with Slytherin pride, and conveniently forgot that I myself would not have wanted anyone to see me submit my name in case I didn't get chosen.

The Great Hall suddenly became quiet, breaking me from my useless reverie. The Headmaster announced the goblet's readiness, and instructed those who were chosen to parade across the head table and take themselves into the next chamber, where they would receive their instructions. I could feel the tension all through the Hall and even from the many professors as Dumbledore lowered the lighting to an intriguing and somewhat comforting dimness. Who would be chosen? The goblet spit out its first slip of parchment.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, "will be Viktor Krum."

I felt myself smirk as Krum moved forward and his headmaster boomed congratulations over the applause. Had anyone else seen that coming? Perhaps the Tournament was fixed? The thought disgusted me.

But then the second slip of parchment emerged, and the Beauxbaton champion was named: Fleur Delacour. Another big surprise, I'd thought sarcastically as the part Veela walked arrogantly to the side chamber. I suddenly considered throwing a Boil Hex at the back of her silvery head, but thought better of it.

As soon as she disappeared, however, all thought of her and Krum was driven from my mind. The Hogwarts champion, who would it be? My entire body tensed with nervous excitement, and I found my irritation lessen a great deal. A third slip of parchment was caught by the Headmaster.

"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Cedric Diggory!"

I was stunned, I will admit that now. I had heard his name bandied about, but up until that moment I had not thought him to be a real candidate for representing the school. How wrong I was! The Hufflepuff table literally exploded with cheers as Diggory made his way to the next chamber. I couldn't help thinking that their moment of glory had finally come, and they were ready to snatch it from the air. I felt myself deflating faster than a balloon, and only dimly caught the furious remarks of Malfoy and his cronies. Though I do recall the insult "pretty faced, empty skulled badger boy". I think that was Goyle, which would have been the evening's second shock had I been attending more carefully.

So that's it, I remember thinking, the end of our hopes and the beginning of the Tournament. There was nothing else for it but to prepare for some interesting trials, and I found myself philosophizing in order to accept and move on. After all, from here on out it would be—

Another slip of parchment flew from the goblet, and I felt my heart seize in my chest. I had no conscious thoughts, no formed questions in my mind for several moments; I was simply shocked into stillness. A fourth name?

The entire Hall plunged into shocked silence, and even Dumbledore seemed taken aback. But in true Dumbledore fashion he wasted no time in carrying on with the matter at hand, and read the name off the slip of parchment.

"Harry Potter."

This, then, was my second shock of the night. Potter the Hero, Gryffindor's Glory Hog, had somehow managed to slip his name into the goblet! Not only slip his name in, but somehow tricked the bloody thing into choosing him despite the fact that the Hogwarts' champion had already been named! What snake rot was this?

I turned to see him move very slowly up to the head table, every eye in the room trained on him. How did you do this? I wanted to scream. Don't you get enough attention? Why can't you ever let anyone else do something great and take credit for it? I stubbornly blinded myself to the fact that he looked just as shocked as everyone else. Dumbledore ordered him into the second chamber, and the moment he disappeared I saw both of the Headmasters of the rival schools stand and begin whispering furiously at Dumbledore. McGonagall stood also, as did my Head of House, Professor Snape. Very soon there seemed to be an intense argument going on, and I strained my ears to hear snatches of it.

Unfortunately, Dumbledore chose that moment to order us all to our commons. I rose, simmering with resentment at how a mere fourth year had managed to trick some very powerful spells and once again gain the spotlight. But my anger was nothing compared to Malfoy's.

"I knew it!" he spat as we descended the stairs to the dungeons. "I knew that scarred rat would find a way to steal more fame for himself. Dumbledore helped him, he must have! How else would he have gotten past the Age Line?"

"But why not just make him the Hogwarts champion?" Pansy Parkinson fretted, clearly knocked off balance by all of this. "It doesn't make sense-"

"It makes perfect sense," Malfoy interrupted, shooting her a furious glare and making her flinch. "With a fourth champion the publicity will skyrocket more than it already has, and Potter will get more attention than ever before."

We walked the rest of the way in silence, only the older students speaking quietly as we entered the common room. This was too much, and too unreal. How had Potter defeated the Age Line? Unlike Malfoy, I had trouble believing that Dumbledore would have helped a fourth year cheat their way into the Tournament, no matter who they were. And Pansy had brought up a good point (for once); why not make him the Hogwarts champion? Why go to all this trouble and then make the Tournament seem questionable, even unfair?

I couldn't think properly, and it didn't occur to me then that Potter might not have had anything to do with it. So I comforted myself the only way I knew how: I plotted revenge.

"Malfoy," I called, squelching the smirk that wanted to bloom on my face at the sight of him staring moodily into the fire, "I had a thought."

"Did you really?" he drawled, "Well that's a record. Someone should mark the date."

I ignored his hostility, and the snickers from his cronies. What I had in mind would put me in the good graces of the whole House.

"I think we need to make badges to show our support," I continued, watching him closely. His head snapped towards me, a scowl marring his pointy features.

"To do what? If that's an example of the thoughts that flow through your head, Zabini, then it's emptier than I thought."

"These would be special badges," I said emphatically, hoping he would understand me now.

He did. His eyes narrowed, but he sat a little straighter in his chair.

"How special?"

I pulled my wand out and stood with a sly smile.

"Let me show you."

THE END

Please Review Here.

Harry Potter and the Eye of Power--by Berilac

Title: Harry Potter 6--Chapter 2
Author: Berilac
Rating: PG

Summary: Despite the fact that the Ministry of Magic now believes Harry Potter and Professor Dumbledore's stories about Lord Voldemort returning to power to be true, things appear to be getting not better-- but complicatedly worse. During his summer months, Harry is more than isolated from the wizarding world than he was before and the dreams that haunted him last year return with a vengeance. They intensify, replicating tragic events from the prior year and adding things that hadn't happened. Frightening things. Unthinkable things...

Not only are Harry's dreams becoming problematic, but it appears that someone (one can only guess who) really wants Harry out of the way. Constant surprises and horrendous occurrences ensue during the next year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A hidden power is revealed to be somewhere-- but the somewhere is unknown. And even with Voldemort continually festering for this special power-- searching for it while reeking subtle havoc everywhere else-- Harry has to try and overcome his current fears at school. He has to find what he is really capable of academically. He also has to realize how emotionally capable he is while he is trying to control and master his greatest fears...

Not to mention this power is huge enough to put an end to Harry and even the whole of Hogwarts-- power huge enough to completely alter the face of the planet. And this power is closer to Harry than he realizes.

Chapter 2: Aunt Petunia's Guilty Secret

Two more days passed with Harry churning his way through the unbearable everyday routine. He had finally sent out his letter to Mad-Eye Moody and company, telling him that things were going fine as usual and that he had received his O.W.L.s. As a postscript, he decided to tell them his results....

The night after he had sent the okay-owl, Harry began to get horribly restless. The long walks that he had been prone to take each evening had lost their appeal. He had been doing them night after night...and all the excitement that was there was limited. He would follow Dudley, who would be off as usual with his friends replicating his excuses from the year before, pretending that he was having tea with his friends’ families. Harry would stalk Dudley until he met up with his cronies at the park, to do God-knows-what before dusk smothered the area.

Watching them smoking incessantly and beating up the unsuspecting younger kids relentlessly was not what Harry wanted to witness. So he would always return back to the Dursleys quite early and pretend to be tired and head to his room.

His Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia soon began to notice Harry's odd behavior in the evenings. They both didn't really complain, although from time to time, Uncle Vernon became suspicious.

"Why's he acting tired all the time?" he would say uncertainly without his usual snarl, his eyes still squinting mistrustfully. "If he's up to something, I will intend to figure out what he's in fact doing...."

That night however, his aunt and uncle both cast Harry's casual turn-in time away like an annoying advertisement in the mail. Neither of them flinched as Harry told them both he was turning in for the night. Aunt Petunia was too engrossed in cleaning the dishes (and peeking across the fence into her neighbor's yard), and Uncle Vernon was staring blankly at the television, his eyes drooping slowly.

Harry felt this as an added bonus and dashed into his room and locked the door. He stood there, enraptured by the faint darkness. Dusk was almost at hand and all the houses were shadowed underneath the bright streetlamps. After a few minutes, Harry slowly ambled over to the window and peered out. He could seethe enormous silhouette of Dudley, surrounded by his peers. Even though his window was shut, Harry could hear them laughing loudly about something, no doubt about what they had done to an unsuspecting kid in a dark alleyway....

As Harry was about to turn around and call it a night, a small figure with wings approached his window. Another owl! He quickly opened the window and stood back to let it enter. It was Hedwig.

"What have you got there?" Harry asked excitedly, more excited than he had felt when he had opened his O.W.L. results.

Hedwig hooted happily at him and held out her legs, where an envelope was tied neatly to them. He untied the envelope and placed Hedwig in her cage.
"I was wondering when you'd be back," Harry said. Hedwig had left the same day he had received his O.W.L.s.

After releasing the letter from its bindings, Harry unrolled the piece of parchment and his insides gave a sudden jolt. The note was from Hermione.

Dear Harry,
I hope you're doing fine over there. I also hope your aunt and uncle have been nice enough to you while we've all been away. I'm terribly sorry that Ron and I have been neglecting to write to you, but something strange has happened over the past month, which has stopped us from mailing you to see what's up. Ever since Fudge and the Ministry realized that Voldemort really was back in full force, they have become extremely paranoid. There are restrictions for everything in the wizarding world now. Ron told me about it in the one lone note he has written to me at the end of June. There's been a strong restriction on sending owls out between people especially. Only one owl is allowed per family a month and I was hoping to wait until your birthday to send you this note...(I'm only one day off!)...but I felt you had to get this as soon as possible!
Have you been following the Daily Prophet? Not much has happened in the Muggle world that corresponds with the wizarding one, but Ron said that his father thinks that won't be for long. Voldemort is now back in full power...the Ministry is watching every single crack and every little nook that might spell Death Eater or rebellion. Paranoia is certainly amok. I hope it subsides a smidgen...it must be a real pain for you over there.
Well, that's about it for me. I'm almost as out-of-the-loop as you are! I'm glad that you haven't bothered to send letters to us...you would have gotten into some major trouble with the Ministry if you exceeded the limitations.
Hopefully, I'll get to see you before we have to meet on the Hogwarts Express! Ron's mum is considering taking you from your aunt and uncle to live with them for a week or so before term begins. Maybe we'll meet up in Diagon Alley.
Talk to you soon.

Love from,
Hermione

P.S. I got my O.W.L. scores! I can't believe I forgot to tell you! I got 10 O.W.L.s—passed them all. I'm really excited! How did you do? Ron hasn't told me his scores yet....

Harry looked up outside at the sky. Restrictions on owl post? He couldn't believe it, not even with Hermione's words right in front of him. There are more restrictions than this.... What else did the Ministry ban...what else did the Fudge pass to make it more safe for both wizards and Muggles?

Another question quickly popped into Harry's already disheveled head: How come he hadn't been warned by the Ministry about the post restriction, and why wasn't he punished for the numerous notes he had already written a month? Why didn't Moody or someone else from the Order notify him?

A twinge of aggravation coursed through Harry as he rolled up Hermione's letter. He wished he could have felt gratitude for Hermione's excellent O.W.L. grades and the fact that she was almost in the same boat as he was, but the fact that the Ministry of Magic had transformed from being completely blind to Voldemort's return to being paranoid of what he might do was too believable that the irking realization cut deep.

And what about Dumbledore...? Why hadn't he notified Harry of this? Did Dumbledore realize from last year that not telling Harry important facts would lead to possible catastrophe?

Perhaps Dumbledore could not write to Harry at all...maybe there were fiercer restrictions placed on those higher in authority. But that was stupid...because if that were so, then Harry would not have been able to send out so many letters to the Order on how his aunt and uncle were treating him....

Thoughts and irritations flooded inside Harry so much that a throbbing pulse began to thump horribly in his brain. The headache was too much for Harry...he collapsed onto his bed, the pain reaching his scar and thumping so hard that he banged his head against the wall.

And then-

"Potter! Get down here this instant," the booming voice of Uncle Vernon roared from below. After a few seconds came a very forced: "Please..."

Wondering what on earth he had done, Harry unlocked his door and slowly ambled downstairs to where he had heard his uncle's voice. All three of the Dursleys were standing in the kitchen. Dudley must have just returned home, shaking off his friends before approaching too close to the house.

"Good, now that you've made it..." Uncle Vernon's face was turning a deep puce and his mustache was quivering irritably. "...I can let you in on what will be happening the next few days."

Harry stood there confused as to what his uncle was trying to say. Aunt Petunia was chewing her lower lip, seemingly apprehensive. Dudley stood there blocky and dazed, his mind still complexly harped upon the intricate job of bullying to really pay much attention to the conversation. Harry felt slightly relieved at viewing Dudley; if he were in trouble, Dudley would have been paying rapt attention, giddily awaiting Harry's punishment.

"And what will be happening?" Harry finally managed to say.

"Well," Uncle Vernon gave a huge sigh. "It appears that the three of us will be going away for a little while. I have some vacation time I haven't used, so we will be taking a small trip to Majorca."

"Ah," Harry replied softly. "So, when are you leaving-?" (He knew perfectly well that he wouldn't be going anywhere with the three of them....)

"In two days..." Uncle Vernon said tetchily, as if Harry's questions were too painstaking to reply to. "We were considering letting you stay here a bit while we were away...but...." he hesitated extensively at that moment, his forehead breaking out in a sudden sweat. Harry realized that his uncle was trying not to make it seem as if he were mistreating Harry in any way. "But...but..."

"But what..." Harry beckoned for Uncle Vernon to continue. Uncle Vernon flinched at Harry's voice and narrowed his eyes. "If you thought that you'd have gotten the run of the house, well, you were dead wr-" He paused in mid sentence once again. "Er-well-how about...staying at Mrs.-Figg's?"

Harry blanched at what Uncle Vernon had just said and frowned slightly.

"Aha! I knew you'd be thinking you'd have the run of this place," Uncle Vernon smiled wickedly. "However, I don't fancy returning to my house in ruins!" You will-"

Aunt Petunia shot Uncle Vernon a warning stare so fierce, that he noticed it immediately and stop baiting Harry further.

"Y-your uncle and I feel it is-it is best that you do stay with Mrs. Figg," Aunt Petunia said shakily with an unmistakable apprehension.

With these words, which emitted no sense of finality whatsoever, Harry tried to force a suppressed groan, although inside he knew that being with Mrs. Figg for a few days wouldn't be half-bad. The year before, Harry had come to the realization that his neighbor was actually a Squib who had been keeping an eye on Harry ever since he was one year old and landed on the Dursleys' doorstep.

"Don't cause Mrs. Figg too much aggravation though!" Aunt Petunia added, her eyes narrowing as if thinking Harry was plotting something devious to do to her.

"I-I won't-" Harry said unconvincingly. He turned around to head on upstairs when Uncle Vernon's loud voice made him stop.

"Come back here, boy!"

Aunt Petunia coughed loudly. Uncle Vernon looked at her. She was giving him the most piercing stare that Harry had ever seen in his entire life. Uncle Vernon got the picture and continued uncomposedly.

"Er-will you-er-please-"this time the "please" came out of Uncle Vernon so forcefully that his voice squeaked terribly like a dying mouse. "-will you please-er-come back? We aren't-finished telling you w-what we are-er-doing."

Harry returned to where he had stood before, his vivid green eyes staring directly back at his Uncle Vernon's.

"Your aunt and I, as well as Dudley, have to-er-make a small stop to get something before we leave. Tomorrow will-er-be busy for us so we can't go then."

The statement had no effect on Harry. He continued to stand and stare.

"And while we are away you will be locked in your room and make no noise!" Uncle Vernon snarled.

Aunt Petunia coughed even louder after Uncle Vernon said this.

"We won't be gone long, Harry," she said in a sickly sweet simper. "Please stay in your own room. I am reorganizing a few things in my room-as well as a few things in the attic." She said the last half of her sentence rather quickly, causing Harry's eyes to rest upon her for a moment. She looked hurriedly away from his steady gaze, a faint flush staining her cheeks.

What things, he wondered suddenly.

"Okay," Harry replied calmly. "That's fine. I was about to go to bed anyway...."

He turned once again to head upstairs. This time, no one stopped him. He reached his room and sat in the rotten chair next to his bed. A few minutes passed after he had sat down, then the slam of a door and the booming voice of his uncle resounded loudly outside. Then, after a few overly vociferous comments about Majorca, the Dursleys all got in their car and drove off.

And when he could hear their car no more, Harry shot straight up and bounded out of his room....

Aunt Petunia's comment sparked something inside of Harry, an investigative something. What was she reorganizing in her room that could make her look so guilty? He had to go and see for himself what she was hiding....

He reached his aunt and uncle's room and opened the door, which surprisingly wasn't locked. Did Aunt Petunia think that by just saying" don't go in" Harry would listen and obey? Thankfully she did...

Harry opened the door and entered their room. As it was with every other room of the Dursley household, Aunt Petunia's and Uncle Vernon's was immaculate. Everything was neatly in place, dust dared not settle in any open surface or forgotten corner. It was as if Aunt Petunia dusted and vacuumed the room ten minutes ago.

Then, Harry noticed something messy, completely out of place. On the top of his aunt's dresser lay crumpled up pieces of paper, old bits of parchment and a pink letter. He picked up the pink letter first and looked at who it was for. What he saw made him gasp aloud. The letter was addressed to James Potter.

Instinctively, he dropped the letter and looked at it as if it was some kind of infected piece of waste. Why did his aunt have one of Harry's mother's letters to his father? Harry knew that he shouldn't read the note-it would be much too personal-but curiosity got the best of him and he picked it up again and looked at the even flowing hand of his mother.

Dearest James,

I hope that you are doing well and that you are staying clear of anything too dangerous. You know perfectly well how close the both of us have been to Voldemort's fury and I don't want anything bad happening to you. (You haven't accepted another assignment, have you?)
Your prior assignment was way too complicated and dangerous and I'm glad that you have decided to decline it upfront. Severus is more apt for the job because of ‘you-know-what' with ‘you-know-who' and you being near to any extra danger is more than I can bear.
I don't want to say anything else more in-depth on what you already know about because of interception. But please return home as soon as possible. I will tell the owl to search for you. It'll know where you are...it is an un-plottable owl as well, so the odds of it beings caught are slim. I especially hope that Crouch doesn't act like a buffoon and make insane restrictions like he did before the major rebellion happened a year ago.
James, what I've been hearing from my parents is disheartening as well. All the Muggle killings and all the horrendous things that are happening everywhere is hitting close to home-they coincide too much with what Voldemort is doing. As you already know, my sister was almost murdered by an unknown Death Eater a week ago.
Things are becoming more and more serious and I'm afraid for my baby's safety. Is the attempt at my sister's life related to us? I can feel something big is going to happen soon. I don't know what, but it's there and I don't want to be alone when it does happen.
So please hurry back.

Yours, with my greatest and deepest love,
Lily.

At that moment, Harry dropped the note and sat on his aunt and uncle's bed, grief overtaking his senses. He should not have read the note...after reading it, he felt awkward and unsafe. Voldemort tried to murder Aunt Petunia? What for? Did she have some sort of secret that Voldemort wanted? Was this the reason why Harry went to stay with her...could it not have only been for his own safety?

Harry's forehead began to sweat and he looked at the piece of parchment that was weathered, aged, and quite ordinary-looking. He picked it up. This one was addressed to his aunt.

He unfolded it and began to read it slowly, taking in each and every word of it....

Dear Petunia,

I'm happy to hear from mum and dad that your marriage is going well and that your baby is right on schedule! I'm also hoping that you deliver healthily and on time. Having a baby is really exciting, despite the downsides of certain things like the weight and the sickness from time to time.
However, I personally know that you have been getting my owls and that you have read every single letter that I have given to you. Why don't you respond to me? Is it still because of what we talked about awhile ago-regarding who I am? It isn't if I asked fervently to become a witch! You know I would have loved it immensely if you had gotten the same acceptance letter to Hogwarts that I did! If it was because of this, please could you lay it aside for one minute?
You are extremely special in your own way, despite the fact you aren't a witch. You know what I mean-I cannot mention it further in case the letter is intercepted. –But you have certain things I will never have...but that's for another letter and another situation. Could you just shelve aside all the feelings you might have against me and help me out?
You know the dangers of living in the magical (as well as Muggle) world nowadays. You know how powerful, evil, and malodorous that sorcerer everyone fears is....
I must ask an important favor only you can do. James has already chosen a godfather for our son in case anything should happen to either of us. His name is Sirius Black. If anything happens, our son will go into his care. But, of course, the fact still remains that if Sirius has a run-in with the Death Eaters, where will our son go? Well, I feel that the only thing to do would be to put him in the hands of the only other living relatives I have. You.
Would you be willing to watch after our son if anything should happen to Sirius Black or us-be his godmother? I would be most grateful if you would accept our request and someday meet our son's godfather. It doesn't have to be right away, but soon would be appreciated. Please, return a letter with a reply and when you could make it to meet Sirius.
With all the love and happiness I can wish to you,

Your sister,
Lily

As he finished the last sentence of the letter, enraptured and oblivious, someone or something suddenly grabbed his wrist.

"How dare you?" came a loud shriek of a voice that sounded vaguely and horribly like Aunt Petunia's.

"Wh-what?" Harry stuttered in shock, his wrist becoming numb from his aunt's strong grip.

"Why did you read those letters?" she hissed.

"Er-" Harry was at a loss for words. He just stared back at his aunt with a stunned silence.

Aunt Petunia was breathing heavily now. She released her grip on Harry's wrists and turned around toward the threshold of her bedroom. Uncle Vernon finally sauntered his way into view from the hallway. She shooed him off with one swift fling of her hand. Then, she closed the door quickly.

"Yes?" Aunt Petunia said softly, completely different from the usual hiss that she gave. "What's the question?"

"You're my godmother and you never told me?"

"Hold on one second..." Aunt Petunia interrupted with her usual harsh tone of voice. "I must explain to you, since you know now about everything-" Harry made a small smirk and nodded silently. His aunt brushed the fringe off of her forehead and paused. What she was about to say appeared to take a lot out of her. It was a while before she continued:

"I-I had so many hesitations on taking this-position of godmother. My sister had every right to be rejected by me, being what she was. Of course I-I was jealous, as you've already guess by now! Well, she made something of herself...something that I refused to take part in. Oh, don't look surprised! I wasn't asked to go to that wretched school. Oh no...it wasn't like that at all.... I didn't want to go there. All I wanted was..." she halted immediately and looked at Harry with a sense that she was about to reveal something enormous. "All I wanted was...something..."

Harry snorted derisively and looked at his Aunt Petunia, who was shaking, half with rage and half with fear. Her eyes darted to Harry, out the window, and then back to Harry, as if afraid that there would be eavesdroppers listening to what she was saying.

"I-I-I was never good at...anything..." Aunt Petunia continued, positively flustered. She tried to talk some more but nothing came out of her mouth except short stutters. And then, after a few seconds-

"Oh, when she left school-when she arrived home every year-oooh, I HATE her with SUCH a PASSION! The way she acted after coming home every year from that freak school, the way she teased me by threatening to do magic! And then-and then asking me after all that happened, she asked me to help her! IT WAS INSANITY!"

"Shut up!" Harry suddenly heard himself roar. "Don't talk about my mother that way...."

"I can talk to her however I please," Aunt Petunia said in barely a whisper. She edged even closer to Harry, her face an inch from his. Her eyes were peering into Harry's malevolently; she wasn't happy at all.

"She required a favor of me yes..." Aunt Petunia continued. "I didn't realize how much work it was. You owe me. You owe me all the time you've done wrong. I said yes to Lily, I did. I don't deny it, although I've denied being your godmother all these sixteen years. But I didn't realize how much of a miscreant you were when I first accepted the task! I didn't believe in a hundred years I'd actually get you...it was a one-in-a-million chance. But when I did accept, I was bound by some spell that that old wizard gave. And I remembered it only last year when he sent me that screaming letter-that howling letter! And now..." she gave a huge sigh, her eyes watering profusely, "...you say he's back, that evil wizard, fully-powerful?"

"Voldemort," Harry said in complete sincerity.

"Yes that..." Aunt Petunia said shakily. "Him! I daresay that if I come close to dying once again, it will be all your fault! Now to your room and pack your things! In the morning, you'll be headed to Mrs. Figg's! I don't care that it's before we're planning to leave. You've earned some extra time with her!"
And with that, she opened the door and shoved Harry out of the room.

* * *

Harry lay awake on his bed, totally unpacked and unready to go over to Mrs. Figg's first thing tomorrow. He hadn't bothered to put one book in his trunk, one bottle of ink in its place, one article of clothing inside it. He just lay there, smothered with too many thoughts...so many that he wished he had a Pensieve like Dumbledore's so that he could take some of his thoughts out of his head and not have to worry about them.

Aunt Petunia-his godmother! Harry couldn't believe that there was an extra closeness he possessed with his aunt...it made more of a bond than what he had found out about the year before! (It didn't better the relationship though...) She had also almost been murdered by one of Voldemort's Death Eaters...! What did his aunt have (or had) that made her so special? She wasn't a witch...so what could it be?

Harry closed his eyes tightly, trying to push out the pain and the thoughts that swam uncontrollably in his head.

And that was when his door creaked open, but hadn't he locked it after he entered his room for the night? As it crept slowly open, Harry could see light intruding the dimness of his still-messy room. Aunt Petunia's face was cast in a heavy shadow. She was silent...as were her footsteps over the carpet...like a ghost...floating...floating across toward him...arms outstretched....

Aunt Petunia reached Harry's bed. Harry stood up looking at his aunt with a mix of extreme uneasiness and bewilderment. Why did Aunt Petunia just enter his room without knocking and without a sound?
Suddenly, Aunt Petunia wailed ferociously, her face suddenly illuminated by the faint bedside lamp next to Harry. Her eyes were encased with fear and her mouth was trembling horribly.
"Why did he have to return? Why is everything happening like this? It's horrible!"

Harry stood nonplussed, staring at his now-deranged aunt. He said nothing.

"Don't you realize what's going on here? It's horrible! I can't believe you're not doing anything about it! Just breaking rules I give, that's it!"

"What?" Harry finally found words coming out of his mouth. "What are you talking about?"

Without warning, Aunt Petunia grabbed both of Harry's arms and shook him violently.

"Do I have to knock sense into you, boy?" she shrieked insanely. Her eyes widened even more so. "This is all your doing! Why did he have to die?"

"What is-" Harry began, but he stopped in mid-sentence. What had just happened made him mute. It happened so fast, without a single noise. His aunt had pulled his arms hard...extremely hard...unnaturally hard. And his arms detached from the rest of his body. They were swinging limply, still grasped firmly by Aunt Petunia's iron-strong grip. The hands were gray and scabbed, glistening in the lamplight....

Harry looked up and saw that Aunt Petunia's face had changed. It wasn't even human. The head was now that of a horse. The eyes were black and wildly swirling around. Harry couldn't take his eyes off of them...they were luring him in...luring him into the depths of them...into the blackness....

And the blackness turned into searing white...a ferocious white...a scar-searing white that was accentuated by an icy laugh-Voldemort's laugh....

Then a loud bang-

Harry opened his eyes, biting his tongue, for the pain had grown too laborious for his own will. He peered around. Cowering on the floor was Wormtail. He was shaking and whimpering, his bald head drenched with sweat. Harry's right had was poised in midair, wand pointing out a small upper-floor window. The hand was not glistening and scab-covered this time around. No, now it was bone-white and spindly, like live spiders. Harry peered out the window and saw a car smothered in flames. People were screaming and running around in a panic. Where was he? And what had he just done?

Harry heard himself cackle again and turn around, facing Wormtail.

"See how simple that was, my odious minion?"

Wormtail looked up warily, his buggy eyes wide and frightened. He nodded and bowed his head again whimpering even more loudly.

"They'll never find us in here. And those filthy Muggles will just think it a car bomb...."

More screams flew through the open window. Sirens blared and pandemonium ensued.

"I know this is just good fun right now. Nothing according to plan..." There was another soft laugh that issued from Harry. "After I've had my fun, we can return to our quest to find that power-"

There was a halt to the sentence and then Harry rounded on Wormtail. He peered down directly at his shimmering head.

"You know Wormtail, I feel as if something's still not right here. It's as if someone's...watching me right now.... Do you know who I am talking about...?"

At those words issuing from Harry's mouth...a bright flash followed by an angry bellow rang in Harry's ears. Laughter rang endlessly in his head while fresh sears of pain consumed his scar.

Harry screamed...a scream so loud and so desperate that when he woke up, all the Dursleys were huddled around his bed. They were all standing there in a blur, but Harry could still make the three of them out. He didn't have much more time to ponder how the Dursleys would react. A tidal wave of sickness swept over him and Harry retched...everywhere. The pain was still fresh and piercing. From a distance, Harry could hear the bellows of Uncle Vernon, the shrieks of Aunt Petunia, and the disgusted moans of Dudley.

After a few minutes of trying to regain steady stream of consciousness, Harry realized that he was again alone in the room. He peered down at his dirtied covers and the washrag that was crumpled next to a hollow basin. He turned and saw Aunt Petunia entering the room once more, a look of anxiety and repulsion both on her face. A large bath towel was in her hands. It was old, frayed, and pink-one of the ancient ones that Harry oftentimes used after taking a shower.

She cleaned up the final puddles of sick that still splattered the floor. After crumpling the towel in the basin, her nose wrinkling from the reeking odor, she cast a glance at Harry, a glance of sheer anger.

"What was that for? What's the matter with you?"

"What?" Harry was still dazed.

"Do I have to knock some sense into you, boy?" Aunt Petunia hissed indignantly. "This is all your doing!" She motioned toward the basin with the dirtied rag and towel in it.

Harry trembled at the words. They were unpleasantly familiar.... He waited a few seconds, wondering if his aunt's head would transform into a horse's....
It didn't. Instead, his Aunt Petunia made a grimace at the mess that Harry made of the room and looked back into his eyes.

"You know, after all we've done for you, this is what you have to go and do...." She shuddered and continued, "Just to add on to everything! First, you have to go and ruin your Uncle Vernon's promotion, practically traumatize your Aunt Marge, ruin our living room with your freaky wizard friends of yours, and then have Dementors attack our poor Diddypoo!"

Aunt Petunia's recap of the mishaps of the past five years would not have been as bad if she didn't state that he, Harry, had sent the Dementors off on her precious Dudders.... Rage coursed through Harry and he groggily stood up on his bed, staring down at his now cowering aunt.

"Don't you dare say that I sent off those Dementors on Dudley! An official who was the most wretched person in the world told them to come after me. I was the victim. And Dudley was innocent...."

"You haven't spoken more truer when you say Dudley was innocent, boy!" Aunt Petunia said angrily, her lips pursed.

There was a pause. Then Aunt Petunia continued:

"I agreed to take you in...I mean-this whole thing-I don't know why I did it...it's just so aggravating when you act so ungrateful! I'm practically forced to watch over you every summer and the least you could do is leave us in peace for at least one God-forsaken summer! And then what just happened a few weeks ago... Don't make me relive it-"

She stopped and looked around the room, halted in front of Hedwig's cage-which housed a very ornery Hedwig who had been awoken by Harry's screams-and then set her eyes back on Harry.

"After everything...this..." There was a slight pause and then, "...and I must have you clean up this pig-sty and get packed!"

She turned to walk out when Harry stood up and said:

"Sirius is dead."

The words came out of Harry's mouth with a grim acceptance so real that it caused a shiver to travel up and down his spine.

"Don't lie to me," Aunt Petunia said icily.

"I'm not," Harry said in the same icy tone. "I saw him die with my very eyes. He was fighting a Death Eater a month ago and he fell through a veil into death. You're sole possessor of me now."

Aunt Petunia looked at Harry with increasing anxiety. "Well, I won't feel any guilt by leaving you with Mrs. Figg for the rest of the summer. And just you wait! Well, see how soon you'll be welcomed on our doorstep in the future! I daresay your precious Dumbledore will have second thoughts about keeping you here after I get through with writing to him!"

And with that, she left.

Harry growled angrily and punched his bed, accidentally touching the damp portions of the covers where he had barfed on. Then, cursing madly, Harry got up and walked around his room, knocking over ink bottles and throwing books and loose sheets of paper over the floor.

He didn't care what Aunt Petunia said; she couldn't kick him out; she had no real power over him; he could do whatever he wanted.... He didn't care anymore why Aunt Petunia had to take him in or where he had to go. Be it to Mrs. Figg's or to the Weasleys, what difference did it make? He still had barely any questions answered. And his fear of Voldemort steadily increased over the day. Where was he now? Would Voldemort be able to track Harry down if he left the Dursleys? Voldemort had just realized that Harry had witnessed the mayhem he caused in a Muggle street. Voldemort realized Harry heard about what he might be trying to get his hands on...whatever it was....

Harry shook with fear as he tried to pack as fast as he possibly could. After a few minutes of packing, he sat down and gazed outside. Everything appeared to be normal and mundane out there, the sky was a calm and contained dark-blue-glittering with a thousand iridescent stars. Harry wished that things were like they were a few hours ago, before he read his mother's letters and before he dreamed about Voldemort and what he was doing at that present moment.

Harry wished things would be normal once more....

Please Review Here.

Shades of Surrender--by Wandwaver

Title: Shades of Surrender--Chapter 3
Author: Wandwaver
Rating: PG

Summary: It's been years since the diary of Tom Riddle has been seen, but the memory of it and its owner's voice have never stopped haunting young Ginny Weasley. Her determination to move on with her life is weighted down by her fear for her family as rumors of the Dark Lord's whereabouts spread about like fire. Yet no one knows for sure where the evil Lord is, and Ginny feels helpless as she watches Harry struggle to hold in his burdens and keep his friends safe. Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy is discovering that the discontent that has followed him all of his life can, indeed, give him impetus to question the established rules he's been raised under. But will he have the courage to cut the ties that bind him and set adrift, especially when it seems he's preordained to follow the family? And what does the Dark Lord want with some moldy old book that's been damged seemingly beyond repair?

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: Just a couple of things to mention - "It's good to talk" was a BT ad campaign catchphrase a while back for those of you who are Brit based and recognise it. The concept of the "things seen and unseen" spell stems from a book by Nina Kiriki Hoffman called "The Thread that Binds the Bones". Highly recommended if you haven't already taken a look at it. The points war was Rocky's cookie idea as the result of a conversation in the Draco Fanclub a while back and I wanted to include it here. Big thanks also go out to Rocky for her continuing beta work and enthusiasm!

Please note - there are no Book Five spoilers within the first two chapters of this fic but that won't be the case for the rest of it. I've tried to get this to fit in with Ootp where possible unless it's already specifically contradicted by the two preceding chapters. Also - *WARNING! Ootp Spoilers ahead! There's one major spoiler for Book Five in this chapter! Don't read on if you haven't finished the novel!*

CHAPTER THREE - PLOTS AND ASSIGNATIONS

". . . To be reborn again, anew
Refreshed, united, entrancing. . . "

Breakfast in The Great Hall

"Pass the pumpkin juice, Hermione," Ron demanded. She did so, stealing a surreptitious look at Harry as she did so.

"Are you all right, Harry?" she inquired cautiously.

"I guess," he answered listlessly.

Hermione hesitated. "Sure?"

"I really don't want to discuss this over the breakfast table, Hermione," Harry stated sharply. Ron laid a warning hand upon her arm. Before she could say anything further, however, Seamus Finnegan made his way over to their section of the Great Hall.

"Is it true, Harry?"

"Is what true, Seamus?" Harry parroted wearily, running a hand through his hair with a distracted air.

"You splitting up with Cho?" he asked.

Harry turned abruptly to stare at him.

"Well, is it?"

Harry exploded without warning. "YES! IT BLOODY WELL IS TRUE! LET'S SHOUT IT OUT SO THAT THE WHOLE SCHOOL HEARS! THE FAMOUS HARRY POTTER IS NO LONGER DATING THE RAVENCLAW SEEKER!" Seamus was already backing away rapidly, a dazed expression plastered across his face.

"Shout a little louder and they might hear you as far as Diagon Alley," Ron advised seriously.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Hermione concluded. She was waving a copy of the Daily Prophet. "It would appear Cho's been crying in the company of a reporter as well as to her friends."

Harry failed to comment.

"So that's what you've been so narked about!" Ron exclaimed. "I knew there was something!"

Harry made a strangulated noise of exasperation and rumpled his hair more violently. "Actually it isn't. If you must know, I called it off and I don't regret it. We're far better off without each other. It's safer this way too." With that ambiguous parting statement he drew back from the table and made his way from the Great Hall watched by several hundred pairs of eyes.

Shortly after he had left the room Ginny made her way in and took his seat. "Was that Harry leaving?" she asked curiously.

"Yes," Hermione and Ron answered simultaneously. They exchanged a wary look.

"I'm sensing there's something you're not telling me," Ginny queried.

"Harry dumped Cho," Hermione stated without ceremony.

"What?" Ginny said incredulously.

"Harry dumped Cho," Ron repeated, word for word. "His decision. Safer or some such nonsense," he clarified.

"Is this a group effort?" his sister asked. She couldn't quite believe her ears. Harry had broken up with Cho thereby logically making him single again and she felt. . . nothing. She had stopped seeing Dean Thomas because she had found herself facing the awful truth that she just didn't fancy him, which wasn't exactly fair, but when the moment came that there was actually a chance for something else she felt…numb. Perhaps she could attribute it to delayed shock.

"Ginny? Did you hear what I just said?" Hermione asked. It sounded as if she had been waiting for a response for a while.

"What? Sorry." She jerked herself back to reality. "I wasn't really paying attention."

"Well, you missed the fact that a rare lesser spotted bat bogey was spotted circling the Quidditch rings at dawn," Ron informed her.

Ginny looked at him for a second then burst into a peal of laughter which shook her curls into disarray about her shoulders. Sobering slightly, she frowned. "That reminds me of something I wanted to mention, actually. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I'm afraid I'm responsible for the first House points of the year being deducted from Gryffindor." She nodded at the display detailing the current score for each House. Sure enough, she was right. Twenty ugly jet black rubies filled the bottom of Gryffindor's hour glass.

"Ginny! You do know what that means, don't you?" Ron exploded. "Gryffindor has minus twenty points, for Merlin's sake! I've never known that happen in the history of Hogwarts!"

"Actually, Ron," Hermione interjected, "there was a similar situation to this in the seventies where…" She stopped when faced with the red head's incredulous look. "It's in Hogwarts: An Extended History," she added weakly.

"That makes me feel so much better, Herm." His tone was grim. "Explain." This was directed at his sibling.

"I know how you feel about this, Ron," Ginny began in an equally determined tone, "but you have to understand it wasn't exactly my fault. Malfoy's been waiting for an opportunity to test out his prefect powers after the holiday. This just happens to be his first chance."

"Malfoy." Ron practically spat the word. "I swear…" He fell into a disconcerting silence within which Ginny presumed he was imagining the many things he would like to do to Draco Malfoy, none of them pleasant.

"I could always retaliate by deducting some points from Slytherin," Hermione suggested, eager to find a form of revenge for her friend.

"Herm, the last time you tried to do that it got out of hand. We were so busy deducting points from each other Hufflepuff nearly won the House Cup," Ron cautioned. "There is such a thing as cutting one's nose off to spite one's face."

Herimone grimaced at him. "Never thought to hear you being the one to advocate caution, Ron."

"We'll just have to settle for beating him hollow at Quidditch," Ginny concluded. "Pity I'm not a Beater, I'd just love to send a Bludger his way." Changing the subject, she said, "Did either of you happen to notice which way Harry went? I needed to ask him something."

"You don't waste any time," Ron smirked. "They've only just split up."

"That's not…" Ginny began. "Never mind, Ron," she sighed. Despite the fact that she had no intention of making any overtures towards Harry on this particular occasion, she could hardly fail to blush in the face of Ron's enthusiastic thumbs up. "See you later." She pushed her dishes together haphazardly and went in search of their friend. She found him some ten minutes later in the Gryffindor common room, staring morosely at the fire.

"Harry? Are you busy?" she ventured reluctantly. He seemed occupied by his thoughts.

"Do I look it?" he asked, glancing up. Shortly afterwards he seemed to relent and a little of the warmth returned to his eyes. "What's up?"

Ginny summoned up all her courage and stated bluntly, "I need to know whether Neville's about or not. I haven't seen him around school these past few days. I figured you'd know."

Harry shrugged and looked away. "Why not just ask Ron or Hermione?"

"I already did. They don't know anything - but it's beginning to look like you do." Ginny narrowed her eyes. Harry steadfastly refused to meet her gaze. "If you don't want to tell me, I'd rather you just told me that," she continued, her brown eyes regarding him steadily.

Harry looked uncomfortable. "It's not that, Ginny," he returned helplessly. "I can't."

"If you say so," she finished and turned away. Harry watched her retreat and wondered when Ron's baby sister had suddenly become so adult.

**********

Night time

Draco sighed. Couldn't his father do his own dirty work every once in a while? Now he had to sneak out after hours with no idea of what to expect. The Hags Haunt was close to the English border but that in itself didn't present a problem. Once safely beyond the school gates Draco could Apparate into the village and keep his appointment without fear. His father had taught him how to perform such magic at eleven. The problem would be getting out at all. Draco gave a mental shrug and threw back his bedcovers. As he did so, he saw Goyle turn several times out of the corner of his eye, wrapping his covers more closely about him. He muttered something unintelligible and put his thumb in his mouth. "Pathetic!" Draco sneered. He'd had just about enough of this. It was well past time for him to be on his way. Draco fumbled impatiently in the bottom of his wardrobe. He'd known his last trip to Borgin and Bukes had been a risk but, apparently, a risk worth taking. He'd found it! He drew out an oddly shaped item, wrapped in a green silk cloth. It was in fact the severed hand of a hanged murderer. It had been dipped in wax in its entirety so that each digit could be lit in a similar fashion to a candle. Draco struck a match. Soon the five fingers were glowing eerily and Hogwarts remained safely in slumber. Whilst it was lit, he could proceed through the school without fear of discovery. Its inhabitants would remain deeply asleep until the candles were blown out. With five lit the Hand was at its full strength and all would be affected save the one carrying it. Draco smirked. He'd known it would come in useful at some point. It was a pity to have to demonstrate its capabilities so early in the term though.

He navigated the dormitory successfully and made his way through the maze of staircases. Everything went according to plan until he fell over a screeching mass nestled at the foot of the lowest staircase. "Bloody hell!" Draco swore softly. "Shut up, you mangy mass of fur! Do you want to get us both into trouble?" Mrs Norris turned yellow black slits in his direction and padded away arrogantly. Apparently the Hand of Glory didn't extend to animals as well as humans. It didn't really matter. There would be no one for Mrs Norris to inform of his night time wanderings. The tension released, Draco found himself wondering whether the cat had actually taken the skin from his bones or whether it merely felt that way. He limped along the corridor, grimacing slightly as he did so. The sooner he reached the front gates the better.

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

There had been no further mishaps as Draco had made his way through the maze of corridors towards the entrance to Hogwarts. He made his way directly to the gates to Hogwarts school itself and felt a sudden intensified thrum! as he passed the boundary. The walls of Hogwarts were not merely a physical entity but a magical embodiment of the protection surrounding the castle. Hence the reason it was impossible to Apparate directly into the grounds, he supposed. All very helpful to the professors in looking after their charges and nothing but a nuisance to himself. There had been some mutterings about the use of the "ultimus praesidium" incantation to strengthen the Wards against potential attack this term. Draco couldn't really care less. What would Lord Voldemort want with a heap of stone in any case? Hardly an impressive tactical move for a seasoned leader to make. Dumbledore was off his trolley thinking the Dark Lord would even attempt it. No, instead, he would act via those he had already assembled within Hogwarts' and the Minstry's walls. He couldn't be the only one being manoeuvred subtly into acting as an instrument for the Dark Lord? There must be others. Draco stifled a grin at the thought of Crabbe or Goyle being entrusted with any errand of vital import. He blew out the waxen fingers of the Hand, hoping no one would wake and think to check the pillows he had stuffed underneath his bedcovers in an unconvincing imitation of his sleeping form. He found a loose boulder and hid the Hand behind it for safekeeping.

Draco took a careful look into the bleak darkness, shivering slightly as the wind seemed to sweep straight through his flesh to chill his very bones. It was a bitter night. He withdrew his wand from within the folds of his robes and spoke briefly. "Appareo." The sensation of Apparating was quite unlike that of using the Floo system. It was swift and instantaneous, although briefly disorienting. Draco felt his head spin as his brain adjusted to the fact it had travelled a hundred miles or so in approximately a few seconds. He was grateful for the fact that this was a spell he was already familiar with, saving him from worrying about the possibility of splinching. He had concentrated hard mentally upon his destination as he recited the incantation, picturing the clearing immediately before the Hags Haunt itself. It was completely deserted. Obviously one of the more popular pubs then, he thought wryly. The building comprised of faded red brick and creeping ivy had forced itself into each and every available fissure. It swamped the walls with its festering green brown fronds. Minimal light protruded from a single unwashed window. There were additional wooden shutters which swung limply upon their hinges in the whistling wind. A solitary splintered post displayed a muddied sign with archaic lettering spelling out the title of the establishment. It was just possible to discern the depiction of Cailleach upon it. It was a female figure, that much Draco knew, hideously ugly and wizened. Her posture was stooped in an attempt to obscure the boar's tusks protruding from her face and the teeth which resembled nothing as much as those of a wild bear. Draco wondered how much her looks would be hindered once it truly became winter. Her gaze turned towards him warily and Draco gave a brief nod. It would not do to snub such a powerful sorceress; it wasn't for nothing she was referred to as the "Mother of All" throughout Scotland. Cailleach broke eye contact suddenly and stalked from the frame. Draco heaved a sigh of relief. It would appear he had been given permission to enter the pub. He stepped over the threshold, looking about him, trying to guess exactly who he was supposed to be meeting here. He hated feeling awkward. He made his way across the dirty oaken slats spread across the floor, squinting into the darkness. The room was illuminated by a few select oil lamps and a small, weak fire. A small cluster of tables occupied the remainder of the room at a modest distance from each other. Draco's shoulders stiffened as he felt several pairs of eyes following his every move as he approached the tiny bar. Indeed, amber eyes observed him from the darkest corner of the room. Werewolves, perhaps? A hump backed figure caught his eye and Draco hastily looked away. He didn't wish to be seen to be issuing a challenge, particularly not to someone of dwarven stock. The little blighters were notoriously strong. "A shot of Ogden's Old Firewhisky," he ordered loftily. The bartender gave him a brief cursory glance.

"You're too young," she snapped. She pulled her hair back from her face and Draco surveyed her with interest. He'd never seen a blue-faced hag before. Something of a novelty, even with his family connections. "It's rude to stare!" she countered. "Are you going to order something, or what?"

"Or what, I guess. I already ordered. You wouldn't give it to me," he returned.

"Oh, I could "give it" to you all right if I wished," she returned carelessly.

"You have my permission to serve him on this occasion, Black Annis," an extremely familiar voice interceded.

"Just Annis," she stated and pushed a mug at Draco mutinously. He noticed what long nails she was equipped with as she did so and shuddered imperceptibly. He had heard old wives' tales about stray children and lambs who had suffered strange fates at her hands, now she had been named. Draco turned to face the speaker, drink in hand. "Good evening, Father," he greeted Lucius Malfoy calmly. "Fancy seeing you in a place like this."

Lucius drew back the hood of the robes shadowing his face. It reminded Draco eerily of the Death Eater robes he had glimpsed previously in his vision.

"You're late."

"Do you know how long it takes to get out of a school on constant alert against attack?" Draco grumbled.

"You had the Hand of Glory, did you not?"

"How do you know about that?" Draco gasped.

Lucius didn't answer. Reflecting upon it, however, Draco decided he should have realised the prorietor of Borgin and Bukes would be likely to report back to his father. They had conducted too many business transactions together over the years for his loyalties to waiver. He suspected his father had eyes and ears in places he didn't know about. Perhaps could never be certain of. Draco fell silent as he recognised the dangerous look in the adult's eye. "Were you seen?"

"No. Every normal person is in bed!" Draco exclaimed.

"Good," Lucius returned, taking little notice of his offspring's mumblings. "No doubt you wonder why you are here."

"To answer the Summons," the teenager replied promptly.

"Indeed. Did you stop to consider precisely what the resulting instructions might entail, however?"

Draco couldn't say that he had. Although he knew full well that ignoring a problem couldn't make it go away it had seemed a sensible plan at the time.

"Very well," Lucius continued impatiently. "Dumbledore has something of ours. We want it back - and you will fetch it for us." He spoke in words of one syllable as though this was the only way to make himself understood. Despite his impatience at being treated like an imbecile, Draco found himself asking curiously, "What is it?"

"A book," his father answered. "Nothing more, nothing less. Here is the name you are looking for upon its cover." Lucius handed across a small piece of paper with a single word on it in his own neat handwriting. Draco pocketed it without reading it.

"What do you need it for?"

"That's enough questions!" Lucius snapped. "What it is needed for is no concern of yours. Too much information has a nasty habit of biting back, Draco," he warned. "It will be found in Dumbledore's office. How you choose to retrieve it is entirely up to you but you will have to search for it. Rest assured the doddering old fool himself will present no problem," he sneered.

"What do you mean?" Draco queried.

"You'll see," Lucius continued. "You will know when to act."

Oh really? thought Draco sarcastically. Secret signals, half baked plots, a decided lack of an explanation; life just gets more and more fun by the day!

"If I'm going to do this I want to know precisely what was going on with the rescue mission," Draco stated bluntly.

Lucius pinned Draco with his stare. "Their specialisms were necessary." Draco returned the look –with spades. "There are many things you are unaware of regarding the selection process and Death Eater status in general," his father said. "You will learn."

"Learn what?"

"Before the end? Everything. At the moment all you need to know is you receive your orders from me."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Quite a turn around for the books, isn't it, Father? You positively needing me for a change - and you do in this particular instance. You wouldn't be degrading yourself by coming here in person unless you did. What's so important about one ruddy book, anyway?"

"You know better than to ask that, Draco - and twice now, no less," Lucius remonstrated.

"What if I decide not to do it?" Draco countered, chancing his luck, knowing full well his father couldn't punish him in a public place, even a dump such as the Haunt.

The look on Lucius Malfoy's face was ugly. "You would be made to wish you had - and by those who are more skilled in these matters than myself." Draco rapidly decided it was a good idea to comply - although he couldn't help feeling that his father had become increasingly relentless following his release from Azkaban on a technicality. He was being watched closely by the Ministry and knew it. Consequentially, the world had become his punching bag and Draco along with it. Come to think of it, there was nothing new about that, he concluded sourly.

"Do you remember the spell you stole from Flourish and Blotts several years ago?" Lucius broke into his thoughts.

Draco merely looked at his father, wondering, once again, whether any of his movements during his school years had gone undetected. Finally, he admitted, "Yes."

Lucius smirked, as if fully approving his son's illustrious career move towards kleptomania. "This would be the time to use it to replace the item you borrow."

"Borrow?" Draco scoffed. "Are we intending to return it at some point, then?"

His father laughed and Draco was stunned. It was a long time since he had heard Lucius Malfoy raise so much as a snigger and he was sure it wasn't because he was thinking anything pleasant. "You might say that," he stated. "In a way it would be correct to say that." Draco was nonplussed. As he pondered the varying implications of what that particular sentence could mean, his thoughts were broken by a blood curdling shriek. The high pitched scream contained words of some description but they were practically impossible to distinguish. "That would be our cue to leave," Lucius instructed, as a withered woman with gangly arms complete with bat-like wings and blackened, mouldy stumps emerging from her mouth as opposed to teeth, continued to wail. "I cannot abide hysterical females." They made their exit hurriedly.

Draco turned to wish his father farewell after they had passed through the low beamed doorway and found himself completely and utterly alone. Apparently his father had mastered the art of Disapparation by means of a mental command or some other such spell. He always had to be one step ahead! He happened to glance at the Haunt sign and saw Cailleach displaying a blunt axe menacingly. Apparently it was possible to overstay one's welcome and Draco could only imagine how much it would hurt if the hag could catch him whilst brandishing her weapon. He would be best making a swift departure. Once more he muttered, "Appareo" and vanished from sight. He still had to get back to bed safely before anyone noticed he had ever gone. The night's work was not yet done.

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

11th September 1996

Tom..my paramour and tied to my life. Somewhere buried deep in the centre of my heart is his festering poison. It taints my outlook. It can't affect my regard for Harry who was present before the Chamber and remains the one constant in my affections. It has defeated all other claims. The well meaning attentions of Neville at the Yule Ball. He was never meant to be mine. He knew it as well as I. Michael. His corners weren't even sharp enough to bruise, let alone to cut. Dean also. I sucked him dry before the start of term with my insistence that he write to me. The volume was too great to sustain. My search continues and I hear him calling softly to me.

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

Early Morning - The Boy's Dormitories

Draco swept his hair back from his face wearily. The early morning outing had left him tired and grumpy.

"You look like crap, mate. D'you know that?" Blaise Zabini greeted him cheerily.

"And you just couldn't wait to tell me, could you?" the other boy griped, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A restoration spell would provide him with at least the outward semblance of a good night's rest. No one would be any the wiser.

"Did you hear about the Annual Wizarding Conference?" Blaise added conversationally, grabbing his robes from his locker at his bedside and pulling his shoes from their resting place beneath his bed.

"What about it?" Draco returned irritably, having barely woken up.

"Dumbledore's representing the Hogwarts contingency. Something to do with publicising Voldemort's imminent bid for power. Keeping abreast of current events, blah, blah, blah," he finished.

"What, more of that gang together to defeat the Dementors, have you spotted the Dark Lord in your area recently kind of bull?" Draco mocked.

"Something like that," Blaise agreed. "It's Ministry funded too. They're pretty eager to jump on the bandwagon now news of Lord Voldemort's re-emergence has started to filter through from vaguely suspect sources. Guess they've decided they'd rather confirm it's true than make matters worse by constant speculation, even if they don't exactly want to advertise their own incompetence at keeping his henchmen behind bars." Draco knew this was a veiled reference to his father's trial. It was amazing the difference a well paid lawyer on a hefty retainer could make. "There are representations being made on behalf of a fringe movement attending too."

"Any idea what they're called?"

"Order of the Phoenix," Blaise confirmed.

Draco had vaguely heard of them. They were a bunch of freedom fighters who had opposed Voldemort's earlier return to power in the first war. He presumed they had reformed in light of recent events although no one seemd to know precisely who they were. Novertheless, he waved a hand dismissively. Let them swim against the tide and see how far it would get them. They wouldn't even come out into the open! Let them hide. They would be ferreted out eventually.

"You're remarkably well informed," Draco commented.

"Well, some of us actually read the newspapers we subscribe to as opposed to using them to construct self automated magical aeroplanes to aim at Potter's head in class, matey boy," Blaise teased.

"I read the papers!" Draco protested. "I just choose not to pay any attention to blatant propaganda," he drawled.

"Means Dumbledore's leaving McGonagall in charge again, doesn't it? Blaise queried. "He must feel fairly secure to be leaving Hogwarts though. Seems strange after that long speech at the start of term about how we should be vigilant and remain united in the face of the greatest threat to the survival of the wizarding world as we know it." He pulled a melodramatic face. Draco resisted the urge to tell him he wouldn't be so smart if he'd ever so much as had a glimpse of Lord Voldemort's face. Who knew. Perhaps he already had.

Suddenly, the meaning of Blaise's words hit him forcibly and a single thought flashed through his mind. Dumbledore was gone! He would be attending the conference today in a bid to secure tighter wizarding relations, leaving Draco a small window of opportunity to secure the goods requested by his father. He would have to act quickly. Regardless of Blaise's words, he knew instinctively that Dumbledore would not leave Hogwarts for long. He would have to find the book today.

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

By The Lake

"Harry, we just want you to know you've been acting like a right git for the past few days," Ron began.

"Tell it how it is," Hermione cut in, rolling her eyes.

"You know I'm right," Ron argued beligerently.

"Oh, so you've been talking about this together?" Harry asked, his brows knitting. The other two exchanged a guilty look.

"Harry," Hermione began, "something's wrong - we know it is. We just don't know what. You've been away with the faeries ever since we came back to Hogwarts. Even before that, truth to tell. We just want to know if you want to talk about it."

"It's always good to talk," Harry added wryly.

Hermione failed to crack a smile. "Seriously," she continued.

"You're just going to nag me until I give you some kind of explanation, aren't you?" he clarified. He knew Hermione was the instigator of this confrontation. Ron would never have been quite so blatant.

"Pretty much," she agreed.

Harry hesitated, then began reluctantly. "You remember how Dumbledore called me into his office at the end of last term after we lost Hagrid?"

Hermione nodded understandingly.

"He told me about a prophecy that was made just before I was born."

"A Trelawney special?" Ron wanted to know.

"Well, yes and no," Harry said. "The prophecy was made by Professor Trelawney before she was appointed to her current position at Hogwarts but it would appear to be a true prediction. She said that whoever was marked by Voldemort as the one chosen would face him in a final confrontation and that one or the other of those involved in the battle would die," he finished.

"Die?" Ron repeated nervously. "As in…no longer living?"

"That would be the normal definition of dead," Harry returned humourlessly.

Hermione winced. "You've known all this time and you haven't said anything?" she inquired gently.

"What was I supposed to say, Hermione?" he asked. "Hi, guys, sorry to break up the cosy reunion but there's a chance I could be dead as of, say, September 1997? Make sure you keep the month open in your diary for the funeral?" he added bitterly. He sighed and looked away. "I wasn't ready to tell you. I didn't want to see the exact expression I'm seeing now on both of your faces." Hermione's and Ron's look mirrored precisely the same mix of trepidation and pity.

"That's definitely what he said? No way round it?" Ron clarified.

"No get out clause," Harry confirmed.

"Well, what does Sirius say about it?" Hermione asked desperately. "Surely he's got some comment to make?"

"I haven't told him."

"Don't you think he'd want to know?" she exclaimed.

"Think about it," Harry returned. "I tell Sirius he could lose his only godson within the next couple of years. What do you think he's going to do?"

"He'd be concerned," she suggested weakly.

"Too damn right he'd be concerned!" Harry agreed. "So concerned he'd hardly let me out of his sight! You're well aware Voldemort knows about his identity as Snuffles through Wormtongue and he takes enough risks as a result of maintaining contact with me already! Did you know he came to Hogwarts earlier this week?"

"Sirius was here?" Ron questioned.

"He came to make sure I was all right," Harry continued as though he had never been interrupted. "He needs to be more careful. He's too reckless by far. Honestly, sometimes I wonder who's the kid and who's the adult around here."

"No telling Sirius then," Ron surmised bleakly. For once he seemed to have run out of madcap suggestions.

"It's better that way."

"He does have a right to know though," Hermione countered.

"Since when does what's right have anything to do with this anymore, Hermione?" Harry spoke sharply. "Was it right for my parents to die to keep me alive? Is it right for Hagrid to have given his life too? Don't try to tell me it's all about the greater good and that small sacrifices have to be made along the way for an eventual victory! I've faced Voldemort numerous times now and defeated him at every single turn, if only temporarily. I just don't want to have to give up my life to him too," he ended. "Maybe I'm just sick and tired of being Harry flaming Potter," he concluded bitterly. He had sworn he'd never speak those words out loud! There was a brief telling silence as this statement sank in. "I guess there's also some small part of me that wishes Dumbledore had told me sooner," Harry stated. "He said it would have been too much of a burden and I believe him. I know he acted with the best of intentions, with only my happiness in mind. . . and yet it still bugs me. It took me a while to work it out. I spent the whole of my "sentence" with the Dursleys thinking it through. The truth is, I've always thought Dumbledore and Hogwarts would always be here but even Dumbledore's fallible. I never wanted to admit that there might have to be a time I'd have to rely upon myself entirely."

Ron's face had been wrinkled in concentration throughout the latter part of the speech. Suddenly, he exclaimed, "Harry, think about it though! You've beaten V. . . well, Him every time you've faced him. You said it yourself. Why should the final showdown be any different? If you kill Voldemort. . . " he faltered slightly. "Well, if You-Know-Who dies, anyway, you get to live. What's so wrong with that?" Harry levelled his gaze at Ron and his best friend flinched. Hermione bit her lip nervously and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. Tears glistened in her eyes but she said nothing. The Trio stood together in silence.

Hermione spoke first, eyes burning with feverish emotion. "Harry, I swear if there is anything within my power I can do to aid you, I will do it. I swear it. You aren't alone."

Harry looked at her fiercely. "Hermione, you don't know what you're saying," he pleaded.

She stared back at him. "You know I do," she said simply. "All you need to do is ask." She reached up to kiss his cheek.

Ron cleared his throat gruffly. "Mate, I swear it too."

Yet some fatalistic emotion whispered to him that he would face his oldest adversary alone in the final count. He hoped he would prove to be enough.

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

Draco thanked his lucky stars once again that he was so proficient in Potions class. Snape's last lesson regarding the ingredients necessary for the preparation of an invisibility potion were proving extremely handy. He had found an empty classroom and commandeered it immediately on pretext of extra study as a result of his status as a Prefect. It wouldn't take long to assemble. He would need to make an extra large batch of the liquid in order to be sure it would last. He couldn't afford to be caught in Dumbledore's office! It was bad enough he would have to wait for Professor McGonagall to appear in order to ascend the circular revolving staircase. How would he know Professor Dumbledore's password?

Once the brew appeared ready he poured it ino a large slender test tube and stoppered it with a cork bung. He stored it rapidly in the pocket of his robes. Draco made his way out of the classroom and grabbed a passing first year. "You! Clear up that mess in there," he ordered. The boy looked at him fixedly, caught by his glare, rabbit-like in headlights. "Go on then! Or it's five points from whichever House has the ill fortune of having you as a member!" The dark haired lad scurried into the classroom and commenced tidying. Service without a smile! Draco thought appreciatively. A rare commodity these days. He made his way along the corridor and headed straight for the Headmaster's office. No point wasting time.

Draco waited nonchalantly by the stairwell, awaiting the arrival of Professor McGonagall. It was almost the end of lessons and Draco had cried off sick, complaining of an upset stomach. He only hoped Madame Pomfrey didn't get wind of it and come running after him with a dose of her own concoction, mysteriously labelled "Number 5" only. It was known to give any recipient a bad case of the runs.

At last! He had spotted movement at the other side of the corridor and it was indeed Minerva McGonagall. She was unhurried and Draco swallowed a sizeable amount of the hastily prepared potion. He only hoped it would work before the professor became aware of his presence. He could see his silhouette outlined in the burnished oak of the door behind him and watched, mesmerised, as it faded slowly from view. Professor McGonagall passed him without so much as a sideways glance. It must have taken effect! He tiptoed behind her soundlessly as she made her way to the very edge of the stairwell. "Liquorice Allsorts," she intoned and the staircase unfurled and descended to reach towards her toes. Professor McGonagall swept up the curved steps with Draco in her wake. They reached the top with him still at her heels and he went through the doorway a second behind her. The professor walked over to the desk and began sorting through a selection of papers distributed over its surface. She put them into some sort of order and reached over to give Fawkes the phoenix an affectionate caress. "This is the calm before the storm, Fawkes," she commented, "but I feel trouble is brewing. Let us hope Albus makes progress today for all our sakes," she added. Professor McGonagall had a heart! She obviously kept it well hidden! Draco felt no embarrassment to be spying on her in this fashion, merely a clinical disinterest for a capacity of her character he had been unaware of. Suddenly he wished she would go so that he could be done and get gone. She, however, seemed perfectly settled. He was in for a long wait. He nestled himself into a corner accordingly.

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

Draco woke with a start, having absolutely no idea of how long he had been asleep. He remembered Professor McGonagall working at the desk but nothing further. He hoped he hadn't suddenly become visible whilst sleeping or started snoring or something. Looking about him, however, he realised Professor McGonagall had gone whilst he was resting. Surely she would have challenged him had anything like that occurred? He felt certain she would have. . . but time was pressing onward. He should look for the book. Where would it be? He searched Dumbledore's bookshelves thoroughly, not knowing exactly what he was looking for, only that he had been told to look for the name "Riddle". It wasn't there as far as he could tell. Draco searched the top of the desk itself, paying no heed to the sheaf of papers dealt with so efficiently by Professor McGonagall on Dumbledore's behalf. In the desk? Goodness only knows why it should be locked away but it was worth checking at any rate. "Alohamora," he commanded. The top drawer lock opened with an audible click! and Draco slid the drawer itself out. Underneath assorted pieces of parchment was a single black book. Draco surveyed its cover, taking in the word "Riddle" only before stowing it amongst the folds of his robes. He would have loved to read the letters which had hidden it from sight but knew the idea was hazardous. He needed to make himself conspicuously absent before he was discovered. "Exhalatio!" he exclaimed, waving his wand at the empty space which had once contained the volume. The emanation settled into place. It would fool all but the most determined onlooker and even they would have to perform a "seen and unseen" spell to discover the truth behind the illusion. Hopefully, it would never be missed. It was only as Draco made his way towards the stairs he realised they had retracted upon Professor McGonagall's exit from the room. Fawkes watched him balefully from his perch. The potion must have worn off! The bird didn't seem to be raising an outcry, however, so perhaps he might get away with the theft yet. He raised the test tube to his lips once again, toasting the bird as he did so. "Cheers." His reflection faded slowly out of Fawkes' coal black pupils as he did so. "Liquorice Allsorts," he whispered once again, hoping his luck would hold and that there would be no one passing to see the staircase apparently descending of its own accord. It would seem luck was with him that day. He made his way to the Slytherin dormitories, tired and hungry but successful in his mission.

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

The Boys Dormitories

Draco thrust the door open to find Pansy Parkinson perched upon the edge of his bed. "What do you want?" he asked quietly. "Since you're well aware girls aren't allowed into the male dormitories and you've still found it necessary to grace me with your presence I'm taking it this isn't a social call." He shut the door behind them to give them some semblance of privacy.

"Something's going on, Draco," Pansy stated. His eyes narrowed. "I'll take that as confirmation," she continued. "I don't care what it is. I don't even want to know all about it. Yet. I just want in."

"Do you?" he asked her. "Do you really?" Pansy amazed him at times. Her unstinting self serving instinct had come into play once again. She had just enough Slytherin ambition to seek him out at the slightest sniff of an opportunity to further her own cause but enough cunning to want someone else to carry out all the preceding donkey work. The Dark Lord alone knew how she had an inkling that Draco was up to his eyeballs in political manoeuvring with the Death Eaters. In fact, Draco was altogether convinced she genuinely didn't have a clue what the hell she was begging to be let in on. It would be mildly amusing to watch her weave herself into the plot and find herself unable to extricate herself when it all became too much. He smirked whilst toying idly with the possibility of seeing how much humiliation she could take but settled for the kinder option - although he doubted Pansy would see things in quite the same light. "Pansy - let me ask you an honest question. Do you ever think about anything other than your own machinations?" Draco asked mockingly. Pansy didn't answer, just turned on her heel silently. After she had exited she found the words she swore Draco would never hear. "Yes, Draco. I think about how much I love you." It was the truth. She would strive to be part of Draco's career path as a Death Eater because it was the only way to ingratiate herself into his life and she would never let him know the extent of her true feelings for fear that he would find a way to turn them against her and use them to his own advantage. Perhaps he thought her incapable of any depth of feeling or thought. She wondered how long it would take in his company as compensation before she would cease to care about that fact.

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

"Did you do it?" Sarah asked eagerly.

"I did," Ginny answered.

"Well, then? Why isn't he here? Will he be back soon?"

"Honest answer, Sarah, is I don't know. No one seems to know anything except Harry and he's keeping his mouth shut." A small frown puckered Ginny's forehead. Sarah wondered whether she was annoyed Harry was hiding something or specifically the fact he was keeping knowledge from her. "You'd think he'd have clued Ron and Hermione in at least."

"Maybe he did," her friend suggested.

"No." Ginny said immediately. "I know when Ron's lying. His whole face goes pink as opposed to just his ears and he looks anywhere but at your face."

"Useful knowledge," Sarah grinned.

"Neither of them knows. Just Harry. That being so, we'll just have to wait either for Neville to turn up or Harry to give something away before you'll get a chance to use your devastating charm on our unsuspecting Mr Longbottom," Ginny deduced.

Sarah simply looked at her.

"What?" Ginny demanded.

"I know something you don't know," her friend stated in a sing-song tone.

Ginny grinned. "Gossip? My favourite subject. If it's to tell me Harry broke it off with Cho I already know," she warn