***
"Here's that book I was telling you about," said Ron, coming into the
living room where Hermione was sitting on the overstuffed sofa, her
hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Harry was lying on his back on the
couch, his head in Hermione's lap, an arm thrown over his face.
Hermione put her mug down and took the proffered book, a musty-
looking leather-bound tome with gold stamping on the spine: Lives of
the Hogwarts Founders. "Thanks, Ron."
Ron sat down in the armchair next to her. "He asleep?" he asked,
jerking his chin towards Harry.
"Mmmph," said Harry without moving.
"That means no," said Hermione, opening the book and beginning to
scan the pages. "I think."
"What are you looking for in the book?" Ron asked curiously.
"Not sure, exactly. Information about their lives...I want to know
more about Slytherin and Rowena's relationship, really."
"Wasn't there anything about that in Slytherin's diary?"
"Yes, but he was pretty mad about the whole thing and just ranted on
and on about destiny and fate and rather a lot about lizards. What
was interesting about Slytherin...well, to me, anyway, were the
parallells to He Who Must Not Be Named. I mean Voldemort got a lot of
his ideas from Slytherin, I think – the Dark Mark, the whole process
by which he tried to achieve immortality. I don't know what it means,
but–"
"It means that evil is evil, Hermione," Ron said, a bit
bitterly. "Whatever time period you're in."
Hermione cocked her head to the side, but couldn't read his
expression. "You all right?"
Before Ron could reply, the living room door opened and Sirius and
Narcissa entered. Narcissa's face was nearly hidden by the hood of
her cloak, but Hermione could see how anxious she looked. With no
warning whatsoever, she swooped down on Ron, and kissed him. (On the
cheek, people!) For the second time that evening, Ron turned scarlet.
"Sirius told me what you did for Draco," she said to him.
"Erm," said Ron, sinking down in his seat. "It was nothing."
"It was not nothing! It was everything. You're a wonderful, brave,
amazing person, Ronald Weasley, and I'm very grateful to you."
Ron, still busy exploring all the different shades of red it was
possible to turn, appeared to have nothing to say to this.
Sirius looked as if he wasn't so tired, he might have smiled. "Come
along, love," he said. "Draco's upstairs with Charlie and Ginny."
Releasing Ron with a last look of gratitude, Narcissa followed Sirius
upstairs.
Hermione grinned at Ron. "You've been getting kissed a lot this
evening, haven't you?"
Ron blinked, his color having returned to normal. "All right," he
said grudgingly. "I still don't like Malfoy. But his mum's all right."
Hermione tried not to giggle, not wanting to disturb Harry. "'You're
a wonderful, brave, amazing person, Ronald Weasley,'" she said
throatily. Ron made a face at her. "Maybe she can convince the
Ministry to give you a medal – ooh, or your very own Chocolate Frog
card."
"Bah," said Ron, but looked thoughtful. He got up out of his chair,
leaned over, and kissed Hermione on the temple. "I'm going to bed.
See you in the morning."
"See you."
"Mpph," said Harry again, feebly waving a few fingers in Ron's
direction.
"That means `good night,'" Hermione translated for Ron's benefit. He
waved from the doorway and was gone, shutting the door behind him.
Absently stroking Harry's hair, Hermione returned to her book. "Hey,
Harry, do you want me to read out loud to you?"
"Mppphkay."
"All right, then. Folk legend holds that the Lycanthe was invented by
none other than Rowena Ravenclaw herself," she read, "to deal with
the plague of werewolves that were at that time overrunning the
British Isles – that would be thanks to Slytherin, I'm sure – and was
usually made of silver, a metal abhorred by the lycanthropic. It can
be easily enchanted to create a Portkey, it purifies water, and ...
it makes girls' clothing invisible. What do you think of that, Harry?"
Harry didn't respond.
"You're asleep, aren't you?" Hermione sighed, looking down at the top
of his head.
This was a rhetorical question. Harry was indeed asleep, his eyes
shut fast, his left hand gripping the hem of her cardigan. She sighed
again and put her book down.
"Harry..." She ran her fingers through his hair, marveling as always
that despite its perpetual untidiness, it was so soft.
Careful not to disturb him, she reached into her pocket and drew out
her wand. "Quiesce," she murmured softly, gently stroking his
cheek. "Dulce somnolus," and felt him relax against her even further.
She had invented the spell herself, a charm for restful and
untroubled sleep, specifically for Harry. She had seen him fall
asleep enough times, over his books in the library, in the Gryffindor
common room, to know that his sleep was rarely unbroken. And she had
used it on him often before, although he had never known that. It was
because he had nightmares: this she knew because Ron had told her. In
fact, he had them so badly that Seamus Finnegan had once suggested to
Ron that they ask if Harry could be moved into another room, or even
have his own, so he would no longer be waking them up. Whereupon Ron
had told him that if he, Seamus, ever suggested anything like that
again, he, Ron, would throw him in the lake.
Hermione sighed. She knew that she should wake Harry up, send him off
to sleep in Ron's room while she went off to Ginny's, but it was
something of a special privilege, she thought, to get to watch
someone you love sleeping, and she hardly ever got to watch Harry
sleeping peacefully. And it was doubly precious because for those
moments while he was sleeping she could be sure that he was not in
any peril, was not suddenly going to be thrown into danger, hurt or
killed or horribly mangled. She laid the book down on the table next
to the couch and leaned forward, putting her arms around him, and let
her hair fall down like a curtain around them, hiding the rest of the
world from view.

***

Part The Second: In Which Draco Receives A Succession of Visitors

Draco awoke, keeping his eyes shut fast, reeling from the shock of
having slept—and not having dreamed. He turned over, opened his eyes
and saw a blur of colors that resolved itself slowly into the bright
yellow of Percy's bedroom wallpaper, a square of blue sky outside the
window, the red armchair next to the bed, and in the armchair a blur
of black, white and green that wavered once and turned into Harry.
Harry was sitting in the chair with his chin on his hand, one of his
feet up on the bed. He looked wide-awake and horribly cheerful, and
across his lap, gleaming brightly in the sunlight streaming through
the window, was Slytherin's sword.
Draco sat up so fast his head spun. "Potter, what do you think you're
doing?"
Harry looked at him oddly. "I'm sitting in a chair. Is there
something unusual about that?"
"Are you really here? As in, actually here and not just a projection
of yourself?"
In response, Harry kicked the side of the bed. "Yep."
"Is that wise? Given the events of yesterday? I'm surprised Sirius is
letting you hang around with me."
"I didn't tell anyone about yesterday."
"You didn't tell anyone? What – why not?"
"Two things," said Harry, leaning over and propping the sword against
the wall where it gleamed incongruously against Percy's yellow
wallpaper. "One: the state you're in, you couldn't attack me with a
piece of spaghetti because it would be too heavy for you. Two: you
didn't dream anything last night. Did you?"
"No," said Draco, looking warily at Harry. "So?"
"So maybe the love potion wasn't the only spell broken by your death."
"Potter," said Draco dubiously. "That's a pretty shaky hypothesis."
"Well, let me ask you something then."
"What?"
"Do you feel like killing me right now?"
"Erm. Well. No, actually."
Harry shrugged. "There you go." He propped the sword against the
wall, reached over, picked a glass of water up off the bedside table,
and shoved it at Draco. "Here. Drink this. And quit bellyaching."
Draco sat up to take the water, and glanced down at himself. He
appeared to be clad in a pair of maroon pajamas. Weasley hand-me-
downs, he thought glumly. Maroon was a color that looked only
slightly less noxious on him than pink. "How long have I been asleep,
anyway? And who decided your ugly mug should be the first thing I saw
when I woke up?"
"You mean how long have you been passed out?" replied Harry. "About
sixteen hours. And we've been taking turns watching you."
Draco looked at him with deep suspicion. "Who put these pajamas on
me?"
"Ron did. Oh, and he gave you a sponge bath. He's become very
attached to you. It's really kind of cute."
Draco sprayed water all over the bed. "Whaaaat?"
"Just kidding," said Harry brightly. "Fear not, Ron still hates you
with a fiery passion. And your mum put those pajamas on you. She sat
with you here all night and all morning, but she had to go back to
the Ministry this afternoon. She sent you love and kisses, which I
will refrain from personally delivering."
"Good," said Draco, giving Harry a very dark look. "You're
disgustingly cheerful this morning, Potter. What's got into you?"
Harry leaned back in his chair and grinned at Draco. Draco thought
he hadn't seen Harry look nearly this cheerful in weeks. It was
slightly unbalancing. He had become used to Harry with either a
permanent scowl or a permanent worried look. "Well, Malfoy, it's
about that love potion."
Draco felt himself flush slightly. He reached over and put the glass
down on the bedside table with a thump. "Oh. Yes?"
"Did you know it was irreversible except by death?"
"No. And?"
"Well, you died."
"So I did." Draco blinked in amazement. "I did," he said again,
trying to get his mind around how he felt about this new development.
Harry was silent. He was a bit like Sirius in that respect, Draco
thought. He knew when to talk and when to be quiet.
"Can I talk to her, then?" said Draco, finally.
"Hermione? Uh, yeah," said Harry, with only a trace of
hesitation. "Why not? Oh," he reached behind him, and lifted a brown
paper-wrapped parcel off the bedside table. "I almost forgot. You got
an owl."
"Really? From who?"
"From Snape," said Harry, handing over the package as if it were a
bomb about to go off. "Malfoy, why is Snape sending you care
packages?"
"I was staying with him. Long story." Draco tore at the twine that
held the package closed, but his fingers still wouldn't quite do what
he wanted.
Here.
Draco glanced up as Harry took something out of his pocket and tossed
it to him. He caught it reflexively. It was Sirius' penknife, the one
that had made the scar on Draco's hand. And the matching one on
Harry's.
Thanks.
He flicked open the blade and sliced the package open. A flask full
of asphalt-colored liquid and a folded note fell out onto his lap. He
shoved the note in the breast pocket of his pajamas, twisted off the
lid of the flask, and drank the fluid down, grimacing only slightly
at the now-familiar taste of the Will-Strengthening potion.
Harry was looking at him as if he expected him to suddenly sprout
beetles out of his ears. "I can't believe you just drank that. Did
you know what it was? It could have been poison. You stayed with
Snape?"
Draco dropped the penknife on the bedside table and shrugged. "The
difference between us, Potter – well, one of the many differences
between us – is that Snape likes me. He would not send me poison. And
yes, he let me stay with him. Sort of. I kind of left without telling
him where I was going."
"Color me astonished. That's so unlike you, Malfoy."
"Quit with the guiltapalooza already. I got enough of that from
Sirius. Look, I still think I did the right thing."
"The right thing? Malfoy, you died. I think the words `I told you so'
are a tad redundant at this juncture."
"Oh, very funny."
"I just thought that we were—"
"What? Friends? We're not friends."
"I was going to say `in this together' but fine, have it your way."
Draco blinked at Harry. Was it his imagination, or did Harry look
very slightly as if his feelings had been hurt? So what? he thought
to himself, and then, more contritely, well...
"We can't be in anything together," he pointed out, slightly less
disagreeably. "First time I saw you yesterday, I stabbed you. I think
that about rules out some kind of Batman and Robin type relationship."
"Look, Malfoy, my point was not that you should have hung around
long enough to give into your homicidal urges regarding me. My point
was that you should have let us in on your little plan. Do you think
Sirius would have prevented you from asking Snape for help? He'd have
written to him for you, pulled all his Ministry strings; Lupin could
have given you Willpower charms..."
"Or they could have wound up chaining me up in the dungeon with the
torture instruments." Like my father would have done.
"You just don't know who to trust, do you?"
"I don't trust myself," said Draco shortly. "That's the point."
" Well, I trust you," said Harry, scowled, and looked as if he were
about to add "so there", but was restraining himself.
"And that's a stupid thing to do," said Draco flatly.
"I'm not the one who does stupid things. That's your department."
Draco crossed his arms and glared at Harry. "I do not do stupid
things."
"Oh, I don't know. First you insist on keeping an object you know
perfectly well is a Talisman of Purest Evil. Then you don't tell
anyone that the sword is giving you nightmares or that it's telling
you to kill your friends. Then you tell off Lupin when he's trying to
help you, snap at Sirius, and go stomping off into the night with
your demon sword and try to feed yourself to a large and angry group
of dragons. What were you planning on doing for an encore? Standing
on a hilltop during a lightning storm wearing a wet suit of armor and
yelling `All gods are bastards!' at the top of your lungs?"
Draco burst out laughing and the angry tension between them, which
had been spiraling upwards rapidly, broke.
Harry smiled grudgingly.
"That was actually pretty funny, Potter. And here I always thought
you had the sense of humor of a wet bowl of tapioca."
"So you admit you can be wrong."
Draco looked at Harry.
Harry looked back with steady unwavering green eyes.
"Okay," said Draco. "Sometimes I'm wrong. Of course," he
added, "sometimes the sky turns orange and the Earth starts revolving
backwards, but, you know..."
"I'll take that as a full admission of guilt, apology included. Now,
it's your turn to do something for me."
"Oh yeah? What?'
"Tell me something about Snape," said Harry, rather
unexpectedly. "Something...bad. So that when he's glaring at me in
Potions with his greasy little eyes, I can think to myself, "right,
mate, go ahead and glare, but I know that you're actually a pool
shark down at the Three Broomsticks where you make everyone call
you `Jimbo.' "
Draco spluttered with laughter. "Potter! You sound like me!"
"Not at all. Come on, Malfoy, spill. You were in his house. You must
know something. Does he torture small animals? Does he keep pictures
of Professor McGonagall under his pillow? Does he dress up like a
woman when nobody's around?"
Draco grinned. "Snape? A transvestite? With those hips?"
"Come on, Malfoy, there's gotta be something."
"Well," Draco allowed, "I did hear him singing "Hooked On A Feeling"
in the shower."
"You're kidding."
"He actually sounded pretty good. He hit the high notes and
everything."
Harry frowned. "That's not really what I had in mind."
"I'm not sure I can do better."
"Make something up," Harry suggested.
Draco looked at him darkly.
"Oh, right. You don't lie. Have you always been like that or is this
part of the whole New and Improved Draco Malfoy thing?"
Draco yawned and reached out for an extra pillow. "Don't worry,
Potter," he said, putting it behind his head. "I may not lie, but I'm
still a big fan of all the other sins: envy, sex, loud music....you
can handle the lying from here on out."
"Why do you get all the fun sins?"
"Because I'm a fun kind of guy?"
"If you think—"
Harry broke off at a knock on the door, tilted his head to the side,
and smiled. "Hermione," he announced. "Must be her turn to watch you."
Draco looked at him curiously. "How do you know it's her?"
Harry shrugged slightly.
"You know her knock?"
Harry's ears turned pink, and he glared at Draco defiantly. "Don't
tell me you don't."
Before Draco could respond, the door opened and Hermione came in. She
looked at Harry, and then over at him, and smiled hesitantly. "So
you're awake. How do you feel?"
Draco smiled angelically. "I feel fine."
She looks really cute, he thought blandly at Harry. And that skirt.
Very short. I can't believe you let her dress like that.
Harry made a choking sort of noise. Hermione looked at him in
surprise. "Harry, what?"
Harry made a gesture of dismissal. "Nothing. Inhaled some dust."
Take that back, Malfoy.
Hermione was still smiling at Draco. "When did you wake up?"
"Oh, just a few minutes ago," he said, with an exaggerated yawn. Look
how she's smiling at me. She really does fancy me. Oh, not with that
sort of deathless-love thing that you guys have got going, but with
that sort of raw animal attraction. Look, she's undressing me with
her eyes.
She is not undressing you with her eyes.
Hermione was concerned. "Harry, are you all right? You look like
you've got a headache."
Draco looked mildly curious. Been using the old headache excuse again
lately?
Harry made another choking noise. Shut up, Malfoy. Or there will be
an accident.
What kind of accident?
The kind involving me, you, and a forty-pound lump- hammer. They'll
be picking little pieces of Malfoy out of the carpet for years.
"Ahem," put in Hermione, sounding impatient. "Why are you two just
sitting there staring at each other? Have I interrupted something?"
"What?" Harry turned around, and blinked at her. "Oh. No.
Everything's fine."
Behind him, Draco made a snorting noise. Buzz off, Potter, and leave
us alone for a bit, will you?
No way.
Draco's response had a whiney tone. But you promised...
Harry wheeled on him, then paused and looked up guiltily at Hermione,
who was staring at both of them with a vexed expression. "Have you
quite finished being strange?" she said in a clipped tone. "Because
Ron was saying he needed to talk to you, Harry."
Harry stood up reluctantly, crossed the room, paused by Hermione,
then, with no warning, seized her and kissed her. Not just a casual
kiss either, this was the sort of kiss that could have melted solid
steel. When he released her, Hermione staggered back against the wall
and looked at him with wide eyes. "Harry?"
He returned her look innocently. "Yes?"
Hermione took his arm and drew him towards her, speaking softly into
his ear. "You don't, um, have a problem with me talking to Draco
alone, do you?"
Harry cut his eyes towards Draco, who had picked up the glass of
water from the bedside table and was examining it with a show of
great interest. "Oh," said Harry. "No. That's fine. You two have a
nice...talk."
Hermione kissed Harry on the cheek. "I love you."
He kissed her back, in his distracted state missing her cheek and
landing a kiss on her nose. "And I love you. See you later," he
added, turning and waving at Draco. Touch her once, Malfoy, and
you'll be wearing your intestines as a bobble hat.
"Later, Potter." Draco returned the wave. And if you can't find us
when you come back, we'll be in the bathtub, playing Spot-the-
Submarine.
Harry poked his head around the door as it closed behind him. Remind
me why we saved your life again?
Because you're the good guys.
We'll see about that.

***
Whoever called it `memory lane' was a cretin, Sirius thought, looking
around him. Lane conjured up the image of a pretty country road lined
with flowers, blue sky, birds chirping. Maybe that was what it was
like if you were lucky. As far as he was concerned, however, memory
was a black road lined with cruel thorns, paved with jagged rocks,
bordered with the gravestones of his friends.
Sirius turned around slowly. It was cold in Gringott's vault #711 and
his exhaled breath came out in a cloud of frost. It had been years
since he'd been down here; usually his withdrawals and deposits were
handled by owl post, and there was no need for a personal visit. And
no wish on his part to see the detritus of his former life.
There in one corner was his motorcycle, gleaming and perfect thanks
to anti-rust charms. There were the chests that held his old clothes,
his schoolbooks, albums of photos, his Auror's Certificate. There was
plenty of gold, the penalty money the Ministry had been forced to pay
him when the original ruling that had sent him to Azkaban had been
overturned. One thousand Galleons for each year he had spent in
prison. It was quite a lot of money. Sirius had touched very little
of it.
He walked over to a corner of the vault and knelt down among the
various books and papers. It took him a few moments of shuffling
through them to find what he was looking for.
A book. Very fat, bound in leather, a silver-stamped spine.
Dialectical Interpretations of the Art and Science of Arithmancy, by
K. Fraser.
Sirius closed his eyes, and heard James' voice, sharp and amused,
telling him that it was the most boring-sounding title he could think
up.
He opened his eyes, sighed, and pressed down hard with his thumb on
the F in `Fraser.'
-pop-
The book's cover ratcheted back, exposing a hollowed-out space
inside. It had once been the hiding place for the Marauder's Map,
before its confiscation. Now, it held something else.
Sirius' eyes widened. "James," he whispered, his breath escaping from
his mouth in little white puffs. "What on earth d'you expect him to
do with this?"

***

The moment Harry left, shutting the door behind him, an awkward
silence descended on Draco and Hermione. Hermione looked at the
floor. Draco looked out the window.
Finally, Draco sighed. "Hallo," he said.
Hermione cleared her throat. "And hallo to you too," she replied, and
hesitated.
He half-sat up in the bed, the covers falling away from him, and even
though he was wearing ridiculous too-big pajamas, and even though his
hair was standing up every which way like a platinum version of
Harry's (unbidden, Hermione experienced a sudden vision of Harry with
his hair bleached blond, and nearly screamed), there was still an odd
sort of dignity about him. "You can come near me, you know," he
said. "I drowned, it's not contagious."
She tried to smile at him. "I didn't know if you would want me to,"
she said, and walked over to sit down in the chair recently vacated
by Harry.
Draco shook his head. "I'm not angry with you, if that's what you
mean."
"I thought you might be," she began, and hesitated. Almost
unconsciously, she reached up and touched the silver Lycanthe which
she had strung on a chain around her neck; somehow she had found that
doing this gave her strength. "Because I was utterly awful to you and
I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say except that it wasn't really
me. I never would have treated you like that if I'd been in my right
mind. I never would have asked you to lie."
"Well, I managed to get around it by just not saying very much," said
Draco, with a crooked smile.
"Knowing you, that must have been nearly as bad." Hermione smiled
back at him.
"It's all right. I understand why you did it," replied Draco shortly,
and his smile vanished. "Anyway, it's over now."
Hermione felt a flutter of uneasiness at his tone. "Well," she said,
as lightly as she could, "at least now we can be friends."
"No," Draco replied without looking at her. "We're not going to be
friends, Hermione."
She let go of the Lycanthe in surprise. "What? Why not?"
"Because I say so."
"That's not an answer."
Draco sighed. "Because someone once told me that there's a natural
balance to all things. And this –" he indicated the space between
them –"you and me, whatever we are, it upsets that balance."
"What? No! That doesn't make any sense, Draco. You know it doesn't."
"It makes sense to me."
She bit her lip. "I love you," she said, in a voice that wobbled. "I
told you that before. Maybe not the same way I love Harry, but I do
love you. Do you know what happened to me when I thought you died? Do
you know how I felt? Like some part of me just died, like I lost a
hand or an arm—"
"Hermione." Draco had thrown the covers back now and had slid to the
edge of the bed, facing her. "Don't you see that's what I mean?"
She shook her head. "I don't understand."
He reached out at the same time she did; their hands met, and she
gripped his tightly, trying not to wince at its coldness.
"There's something tying us together," Draco said. "Like I'm tied to
the sword, like my father was tied to that Dark Mark branded into his
skin. Do you remember what Slytherin said when he saw you with me? He
was pleased. He was glad. Because he sensed that this tie, this bond,
whatever we have, was working."
"What's wrong with having a bond? It doesn't necessarily have to be
something evil."
Draco hesitated. "Every night I have—"
"Nightmares. I know—"
"Yes, nightmares. About you. Well, about other things as well, but
you're always in them. And I know they're not necessarily my dreams,
I know maybe they're being...sent to me from somewhere else, but
still. It's every night, Hermione, every night and I wake up feeling
like someone's punched their hand into my chest and ripped it open."
There was a ringing in Hermione's ears. She stared at him, at his
gray eyes, charcoal at the edges blending into silver at the
pupils. "What am I doing?"
"What?"
"In the dreams. What am I doing?"
Draco looked at her with obvious reluctance. "Sometimes we're
married. Or, at least, we live together and it's all very ordinary
and pleasant. Other times I'm...hurting you, we're fighting, and
that's not so pleasant. Once we were hunting in the woods together.
Two nights ago I dreamed that I was ill and that you came to see
me..."
"And I told you that nobody had sent me," said Hermione slowly, her
voice falling into a dreamlike cadence. "And you said that you let a
snake bite you on purpose."
Draco had gone very white. "And I told you I loved you."
"And I said that you would sacrifice me along with all the rest."
Draco shook his head. "Not you. Never."
There was a moment of total silence. Draco stared at her with the
expression of someone watching the night sky for a glimpse of falling
stars – bemused, distracted, hopeful. Finally, he said, "How..?"
She reached out and took his other hand, covering both his hands with
hers, hoping it might make him a little less cold. "That's what I
dreamed last night," she said. "I thought it was just because I had
been reading about the lives of the Hogwarts Founders, and Salazar
Slytherin was bitten by a snake once, and nearly died. But it was so
real..." she leaned forward, looking at him intently. The blood was
beginning to flood back into his face;, there were patches of hectic
color on his cheekbones, making him look feverish. "Draco, you have
to tell me everything. Everything that's been going on with you. I
can help you solve this, I promise you I can. I swear. Do you believe
me?"
He hesitated. "Everything?"
"Everything. The dreams, everything."
"Even the one I had about the Brazilian women's Quidditch team?"
"Okay. Not that one."

***

"Hey, Ron. Have you seen Harry?"
Ron , who had been looking restlessly out the window, glanced over at
his sister, who had just come into the living room, carrying a pair
of boots. He shrugged. "I think he's in the garden with Charlie,
getting his feelings out via de-gnoming. Why?"
Ginny flopped down on the floor and began lacing her boots up. "I
wanted to ask him if I could borrow his pocketknife, but never mind.
Why is he getting his feelings out?"
Ron pointed towards the staircase, indicating the upstairs
floor. "Draco. Hermione. Talking. Or whatever," he said succinctly.
Ginny looked displeased. "And Harry let them? He shouldn't let them."
"Yeah, and you're entirely objective. Honestly, the tangled love
lives around this place. You can't not let people do things, Gin. You
just have to trust them."
Ginny looked as if she thought this was an extremely suspect line of
reasoning. "I don't see why."
"Relationships are based on trust."
"Can't they just be based on common interest and mad physical
attraction?"
"Try to wind me up all you like, I will ignore you. What's with the
boots, anyway?"
"I'm going down into the cellar to investigate."
Ron looked baffled. "Investigate what?"
Ginny shrugged. "What Dad's always going on about. Our Hufflepuff
ancestry. I mean, if Hermione did say that Helga Hufflepuff in that
tapestry she saw looked just like me. And if she's related to
Ravenclaw...well, it just makes sense that if there was anything
tying us to Hufflepuff, it's be in the cellar. I mean there's just
miles of tunnels and things down there that no-one's even bothered to
look into for hundreds of years. Remember when George found that
spear thing and Dad said it dated back to one of the first goblin
rebellions?"
Ron shook his head. "Seems a bit far-fetched, Gin, but suit yourself."
"Why don't you come with me? We're not needed up here at the moment."
Ron shuddered. "Spiders," he said shortly.
The door banged open, and Harry came in, looking disheveled. His
hands were covered in dirt, and there was mud all over his white t-
shirt. He glanced from Ginny to Ron. "What are you two up to?"
"Ginny's decided to excavate our cellar," said Ron, shrugging.
"And I want Ron to come with me, but he won't."
"He can't," Harry corrected, taking Ron by the back of the shirt. "I
need him for something else at the moment."
Ginny made a face. "Have it your way," she said, yanked the cellar
door open, and stomped loudly down the stairs.
Harry looked after her, and then back at Ron, a quizzical expression
on his face. "She seems...different lately. Don't you think?"
"Maybe," hedged Ron. "Harry, you're getting dirt clods on my shirt."
"Oh. Sorry. Here, come on upstairs with me."

***

"I can't believe you're taking notes on what I'm telling you."
"Well, you never know what will turn out to be important, do you?"
Hermione glanced up at Draco and smiled, tucking a wayward tendril of
hair behind her ear. "I can't believe you talked to the Founders. In
person. You're like ... history on legs now."
Draco looked mournful. "I'd rather be sex appeal on legs."
"History is a very sexy subject."
"Which is why Professor Binns is just hell on wheels with the ladies
down at the Three Broomsticks."
"Professor Binns is dead, Draco."
"So was I, yesterday."
"Show-off." Hermione's smile took the sting out of her words. She bit
the end of her quill and regarded Draco thoughtfully. Draco himself
was sitting on the bed, knees drawn up, his hands looped around them.
Hermione was leaning forward in her chair, notebook propped open
against his legs. "Now you're sure that what Rowena said to you was
that you need the Heirs, and their Keys."
"Yes. Does that mean something to you?"
"Not yet, it doesn't. Well, maybe. I don't know what the other Keys
are, but I suspect the Lycanthe is one. I need to finish that book
about the Founders, and I'll get Sirius to bring me Slytherin's
diary. Somewhere, there's an explanation."
In the face of Hermione's energy and enthusiasm, Draco suddenly felt
unutterably tired. He yawned, sliding down under the covers. "Are you
meant to stay with me while I'm sleeping, as well?"
"I will if you like. Although I think it's about time for Ron's turn."
"Ron? Doesn't having saved my life exempt him from sickbed duty?"
Hermione smiled. "Technically, yes, but we thought it would be a good
idea for the two of you to talk."
Draco groaned and pulled the covers over his head. "This is a setup."
"Maybe," said Hermione severely. "But if we're all going to work
together, and I think we have to, then it's best if we all get along."
"Maybe Weasley and I are perfectly happy hating each other."
Hermione looked at him severely. "Ron is not a hateful person," she
said. "He does not want to hate you, or anybody. He's basically the
sweetest person you could ever hope to meet."
At that moment, Ron's voice in the corridor became audible. "Why do I
have to sit with the malingering git?" he was demanding of an unseen
companion, probably Harry. "You know I hate him."
"He's not malingering," came another voice—Harry's-- sounding amused.
"Well, if he's really ill a visit from me might push him right over
the edge."
"Come on, Ron, don't you want your apology?"
"He's not going to apologize to me!"
"Bet he will."
"Bet he won't."
Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "We can hear everything
you're saying, you gits!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.
There was a short silence. Then the door opened, and an unseen hand
(Harry's) shoved Ron into the room, and slammed the door behind him.
Ron, his hair wildly messy, glared at Draco and Hermione with the
jumpy expression of a cat set loose in a room full of rocking
chairs. "What?" he demanded, somewhat belligerently.
Hermione looked at him composedly. "Ron, nobody said anything."
"Good," said Ron.
Hermione turned to Draco. "Don't you have something to say to Ron?"
There was a short silence. Draco took a deep breath, and said, "Come
here, Weasley."
Ron inched reluctantly across the room until he stood about a foot
from the end of Draco's bed.
"Weasley," said Draco, looking as if ever word was being dragged out
of him with a fishhook, "I, uh, I know that I haven't always been the
easiest guy to get along with. And I know that in an ideal world, you
would never have chosen me for a friend, or me you, for that matter.
But given what you've done for me, and everything we've been through
lately, I just wanted to say that I've come to regard you as
someone...as someone...someone that I've met."
Ron looked at him. "That's your apology?"
Draco had the grace to look embarrassed. "I can't help it. Malfoys
don't apologize. In the olden days, my ancestors would just cut off a
limb and mail it off to whoever they'd offended, or commit ritual
suicide."
"That sounds promising."
"It's not my fault," said Draco, sounding aggrieved. "It's the just
the personality I've got."
"Oh, yeah? Well, if it was my personality, I'd ask for my money back."
"That is ENOUGH!" Hermione thundered. She stood up, glaring at the
boys with deep displeasure. "You are both idiots," she said firmly,
snatched up her notebook, and stalked out of the room.
Ron glared at Draco. "So," he said. "It's The Boy Who Died."
Draco looked bored. "I was wondering how long it was going to be
before somebody made that lame joke."
Ron shook his head. "You really are an unbelievable git."
"What, just because you saved my life I have to laugh at your jokes?
That's asking a bit of a lot, given their general overall quality."
Ron threw up his hands. "You know what, Malfoy? I don't even care. I
don't want anything from you – not an apology, not your gratitude,
not anything. I didn't save your life because I thought your life was
worth saving. You might as well know that."
There was a short silence. Then Draco said, "That doesn't change
things."
"What things?"
"You saved my life. There are rules in the Malfoy Family Code of
Conduct about this sort of thing. I owe you my life. That means I
have to stick around and wait for a chance to save your life, or--"
"I told you, I don't want—"
"That doesn't matter. The protocols have to be observed." Draco swung
his legs over the side of the bed, tested them, and stood up slowly.
He was shorter than Percy, so had to be careful not to trip over his
pajama bottoms. He reached out, picked up the pocket knife Harry had
left on the bedside table, and flicked it open. Then he tossed it to
Ron. "Weasley. Catch."
Ron caught the knife and looked at him questioningly. "Malfoy,
what...?"
In lieu of a response, Draco started unbuttoning his pajama top.
Ron backpedaled so fast that he actually tripped over the edge of the
rug and sat down hard on the floor, from which position he regarded
Draco with eyes like dinner plates. "What are you doing?"
"Just a second." Draco calmly finished undoing the top three buttons
of his pajamas, and pulled the collar away from his throat. "Get up,"
he said to Ron.
And Ron, looking as if he had just walked in on Professor McGonagall
taking a bath, did it. "Fine, but keep your clothes on, Malfoy."
Draco grinned. "It's all part of the protocol. But all right. If you
like." He stood up straight, his shoulders back, and looked directly
at Ron. "You saved my life," he said. "The Malfoy Family Code of
Conduct rule #613 clearly states that now, I owe you a debt in blood.
That means you get one try at me with that knife."
Ron now looked as if he had walked in on Professor McGonagall taking
a bath with Snape. "Oh yeah? Well the Weasley Family Code of Conduct
rule #1 just as clearly states `No chance, you psycho bastard.'"
"Come on. One try at me. My ancestors used to do this sort of thing
all the time. Just throw the knife at me. You know, see if it sticks.
You don't have to aim at the vital areas or anything. Then all debts
between us are discharged and I'll never bother you again."
Ron looked faintly green. "What about one try at you with, say, my
wand instead of a whacking great knife?"
Draco shook his head. "It has to be blood."
Ron stared at him. Then the faintest grin curled the left side of his
mouth. "Do I have to throw it? Couldn't I just walk up and stick the
knife in your throat if I wanted to?"
Draco didn't bat an eye. "If you like. But you miss the intended
courtesy of the gesture if you do."
"You're mental," said Ron, flatly. "You do know that."
"I'm a Malfoy."
Ron glanced down at the knife, sighed, and fitted the handle into his
hand. "Well," he said. "If it's tradition...."
Draco felt a very slight twitch of anxiety. Ron seemed to be holding
the knife with a certain degree of...intention. Surely he couldn't
have misjudged Weasley quite that much.
Looking resigned, Ron turned the knife around, took it by the point,
and aimed it towards Draco.
Draco's stomach did a slow, rolling flip. Surely not...
Ron threw the knife.
It whipped past Draco's head, missing him by several feet, and
embedded itself in the wall behind him, point-first (dead center in
Percy's display of old Prefect badges, as a matter of fact.)
Draco looked at Ron.
Ron looked back.
"I seem to have missed," Ron said.
"Well," said Draco, kindly, "it was a very good try."
"Mmm," said Ron thoughtfully, and scratched his ear. "Could I maybe
try one more—"
"No."
"Just for a—"
"No."
"I saved your life," pointed out Ron, for what Draco suspected would
not be the last time.
"And then you threw a knife at me! What's wrong with you, Weasley?"
But Ron seemed hardly to hear him. "Malfoy?"
"What?"
"Is there really a Malfoy Family Code of Conduct Rule #613 that says
I get one try at you with that knife, or was that just for my
benefit?"
Draco looked back at him. And grinned. "Come to think of it," he
said, "Rule #613 actually states that members of the Malfoy family
who have artificial limbs should not attempt sexual intercourse in
the moat. Whoops."
Ron shook his head. "I had a feeling."
Draco, busying himself with rebuttoning his pajamas, was startled
when he looked up and saw that Ron was looking at him curiously. Ron
paused, took a breath, and said: "Hey. Malfoy."
"What?"
"Do you play chess?"
"No."
"Do you want to learn?"

***
***
"I'm really not sure I can help you, Mr. Black." Dr Branford glanced
into the darkened cell, then back at Sirius. "Or your dog," he added,
nervously.
"He's not a dog."
"No, I suppose he's more of a wolf, isn't he? A very large, vicious-
looking wolf."
"He's unconscious."
"Isn't that fortunate. Look, I'm not exactly sure I understand why
you summoned me here."
"My friend John Walton at St Mungo's told me you were the best for
treating Dark Arts ailments."
"Yes," agreed the doctor. "I'm the best for treating Dark Arts
ailments. In people. Not in animals."
Sirius gritted his teeth. "He is not an animal. He's a werewolf."
"He can't be a werewolf," said Dr Branford, with admirable dignity
considering that Sirius was glaring at him with a quelling
ferocity. "It's daytime."
"I know that. That's why I called you here. He should have changed
back, but he hasn't."
"I'm not a vet, Mr. Black. I'm a mediwizard. Wouldn't an Auror--"
"As for Aurors, I'm an Auror, and I can tell you right now the
Aurors College won't be able to help with this. All they'll want to
do is bring him to their labs to be studied."
"Just because he's a werewolf?"
"Because it's the middle of the day and he's still a wolf. Because
he's suffering from something I've never seen before."
"I told you," said the sharp voice of the demon from the other
cell, "he is being Called. When he awakens, then you will hear such
howling as you have never heard. He will tear his way through the
bars trying to get out, trying to get to his Master."
Sirius regarded its gloating little face with loathing, noting with
satisfaction that its head seemed somewhat flattened where Harry had
dropped the wardrobe on it. "I told you to shut up, demon," he began,
and broke off, seeing by the expression on little Dr. Branford's face
that the good doctor had formed the opinion that Sirius was none too
stable. The fact that he had a demon and a werewolf locked in his
cellar doubtless contributed, along with the fact that Sirius, who
had barely had time to shave or comb his hair in the past two days,
was beginning to look a lot like his post-Azkaban Wanted poster.
Sirius turned back to him with a sigh. "Look...he's not an animal. If
he was, I would have called a veterinarian. Could you just...look at
him?"
The doctor sighed. Then, with an anxious grimace, he knelt down on
the wet floor of the dungeon and poked his wand through the bars,
touching the tip of it to the werewolf's fur. When he drew the wand
back, it was emitting an uneven beam of spinning violet light. "Well,
it seems to be true that he's human," said the doctor, standing up
and turning the wand over in his hand, examining the light beam. "And
he's been hit with quite a strong Stunning charm. Magid strength, I'd
say. If you don't wake him, he'll be out like a light for at least a
day."
"Is he in any danger? Is he dying?"
"Just unconscious. I can't say for sure how long this unconsciousness
is going to last, but I'll give you some charms for pain in case he
wakes up. More than that, I really can't do."
"Thanks, doctor," said Sirius, listlessly accepting the Charm packets
Dr. Branford drew out of his little black bag, and pocketing
them. "How much do I owe you?"
"Nothing," said the doctor, edging away from Sirius. "I'll just be
getting on now, shall I?"
"I'll owl you if there's any change—"
"No, please don't," said Dr. Branford, and fled.
Sirius sighed, leaning his head against the bars of the cage, hearing
the doctor's footsteps fade away in the distance. Slowly, he took his
wand out of the sleeve of his robe, and tapped the tip of it against
one of the cell bars. "Alter orbis attinge," he said, using a spell
that he had learned during Auror training, which would alert him when
Lupin awoke with a buzzing of his wand. He looked down at Lupin. "Old
friend," he said softly. "What have I gotten you into?"
The wolf made no reply, and in fact there was no sound in the dungeon
whatsoever, outside of the demon's harsh breathing and the guilty
beating of Sirius' own heart.
(hmm. It's nothing to do with sirius really, it just seemed like the
sort of thing he might feel bad about. Yes? No?)

***


"I'm not sure staring at that thing like it's going out of style is
going to give you any insight, Herm," said Harry.
Hermione looked up from her examination of the Lycanthe, and shot him
a look. They were both sitting at the kitchen table, Hermione
surrounded by books and notes, the Lycanthe lying on a dinner plate
in front of her. The Wizarding Wireless Network buzzed faintly in the
background. The inquest into Lucius Malfoy's death continues at
Ministry Headquarters in London...meanwhile, in more rural news, an
upsurge in werewolf sightings has been reported by wizards in the
south...
"On the other hand," Harry added hastily, "if you're enjoying
yourself, more power to you."
Charlie glanced over at them curiously from his place by the stove.
He had an apron tied around his waist and was stirring a pot of
vegetables with a long wooden spoon. Ron had been teasing him
unmercifully about his apron, but Hermione privately thought he
looked cute. Something about him, in fact, was making her wonder if
Harry could cook anything. Probably not, there had never been much
opportunity for Harry, busy with world-saving and evil-defeating as
he was, to learn how to boil so much as an egg. "What are you
talking about?" Charlie asked.
"This," said Hermione slightly dispiritedly, holding up the
Lycanthe. "I've been trying to figure out what it is, what it does,
but so far..."
"I've seen that shape," said Charlie, wiping his hands off on a tea-
towel and walking over to stand by Hermione. "Carved into the side of
trees in the forest. It's old."
"It's a Lycanthe," said Hermione. "It protects travellers against
werewolves. Only, I think it does other things as well. When I hold
it—"
"Can I see?" Charlie asked, and held out his hand.
Feeling an actual stab of reluctance at the thought of letting go of
it, Hermione handed it over. Charlie turned it over curiously in his
fingers. "Monitum ex quod audiri nequit," he murmured, and it gave
off a sudden sharp flash, like sparked tinder. "Ow!" Charlie
exclaimed, and dropped it back into her hand, looking sheepish. "I
guess that didn't work."
Relieved to have it back, Hermione smiled at him. "That's okay."
The cellar door banged open and Ginny emerged, looking dusty and
irritable. Hermione glanced up at her. "Anything?"
Ginny shook her head. "I found Fred and George's magazine collection
under a paving stone. And when I say collection, I do mean
collection. It was edifying." She shook her head. "That cellar is
huge," she added. "And its got all sorts of twisty little corridors
leading off every which way."
There was a thunking sound, which turned out to be Ron jogging down
the stairs. He came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door,
took out a carton of milk, and drank out of it.
"Ron," said Charlie warningly, flapping his apron.
"Sorry." Ron put the milk down, and turned to face Harry, Ginny and
Hermione who were staring at him with identical expressions of rabid
curiosity. "What?"
"Did he apologize?" Harry demanded.
"Not in so many words. He made a speech, I threw a knife at him, I
started teaching him to play chess, then he fell asleep in the middle
of our second game and knocked all the pawns over."
They all blinked at him. "You're joking about the knife, of course,"
said Harry, finally.
"Maybe," said Ron, with a half-smile. He reached into his pocket and
took out the pocketknife, and tossed it to Harry, who caught it out
of the air and looked at it with a bemused expression.
"So, Draco isn't such an awful git as he used to be, is he?" asked
Hermione triumphantly.
Ron rolled his eyes. "No. He's still an awful git. Now, he's just an
awful git who owes me thirty Galleons."
"You played chess with him for money?"
Ron wasn't listening. "If you fall asleep in the middle of a game, is
that a forfeit?"
Charlie looked up. "He's asleep? Isn't someone supposed to be sitting
with him?"
"I am not," said Ron firmly, "going to sit around and watch Malfoy
sleep. Anyway, he woke up for a second and said `get out of here,
Weasley, you gimp'. I don't think he wants me watching him sleep
either."
Ginny glanced up. "I'll go up and check on him. Besides, he hasn't
eaten anything since yesterday, I'll see if he wants any lunch."
She vanished, brushing cellar dust hastily off her jeans as she went.
Ron looked after her and shook his head.

***
And he dreamed.
He walked a narrow and sparkling bridge between darkness and greater
darkness. At each side the path fell away steeply, so steeply he
could not see the bottom of the vast abyss he crossed, nor its
farthest end.
At the center of the bridge a man was standing. When he reached him,
Draco saw without surprise that the man had his own face, a few years
older perhaps, but no more than a few. He could have been his twin:
slender, with silver hair, his eyes like pale jewels containing
neither passion nor compassion.
Draco groaned and covered his face with his hands. "I thought I had
gotten rid of you."
The other smiled at him. "I almost lost you, it's true. I thought I
might have to follow you down to the Gray Places, but you came back."
Draco found the words he wanted to say without searching for
them. "Why does it have to be me?" he said. "There are others with
your blood, others like you."
"Perhaps, but there are no others like you."
"There is nothing special about me."
"That's a defeatist attitude, boy," said the other, mouth stretching
into a malevolent smile. "Not surprisingly, you echo the darkness in
your own soul."
Draco voice came out on a wail. " What do I have to do to be rid of
you?"
"Try to destroy me if you like. You will accomplish nothing more than
your own destruction."
"I don't believe it." Draco lifted the sword in his hand – in this
other world, in was feather-light -- and swung it toward the man who
faced him, swung it straight and true, meaning to slice him in half.
The sword flew, connected –
There was the sound of shattering glass. Draco jumped back as the
shards of the mirror he had been facing fell around him like snow.

He bolted upright in bed, hearing his own harsh gasps for air as if
they came from somewhere else. There was a tearing pain in his chest
and he pressed his fist against it, feeling it ebb slowly. His
pajamas were drenched in sweat, sticking to him uncomfortably. He
swung his legs over the bed, peeling off his pajama top, and his eyes
caught a glimpse of a flash of light across the room –
The sword, propped against the wall where Harry had left it. The
light reflecting off the blade had a reddish tinge.
Draco closed his eyes. That feeling was back, the feeling of having
slept without resting, awakening more tired than he had been when he
lay down. He wondered if he should write to Snape and ask for more
Wakefulness potion to go along with the will-strengthening potion,
but at the moment he didn't have the energy. He felt overwhelmed by
despair, and more than that, by a rising anger.
And he was still exhausted.
He lay back down on the bed, pulled the covers up over his head, and
fell back into nightmares.

***

Ginny closed the door of Percy's bedroom quietly behind her and
blinked to adjust her eyes. It was nearly twilight now, and the room
was dim, lit only by a single fringe-shaded bedside lamp. She could
make out the shapes of the furniture, the bed, and the huddled
outline of Draco's sleeping form under the covers.
Quietly, she walked up to the bed. "Draco," she said softly. "Hey.
Wake up."
Draco didn't respond. She tilted her head, looking at him, her vision
adjusted to the half-light now. He lay asleep on his side, shirtless,
sheets tangled around his waist. His head was pillowed on his fist,
his other arm under the blankets. She could see where his very light
summer tan ended at the base of his throat, the faint line of the
scar under his eye where the shards of Harry's broken ink bottle had
cut him. Most people looked different when they were asleep, she
thought, younger, gentler, undefended, but Draco just looked the way
he always did: contained, and guarded.
She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, meaning to shake
him awake. His reaction was immediate. His hand shot out so quickly
she barely had time to react; he seized her arm, yanked her down on
the bed, and rolled over on top of her, his arm across her throat,
his other hand drawn back as if he meant to hit her. "What do you
think you're doing?" he hissed, glaring down at her.
"Ow!" Ginny yelled indignantly. "Ow! You bastard, get your elbow out
of my throat!"
Draco froze, and lowered his arm, blinking. It was the most surprised
she had ever seen him look. "Oh, I...thought you were someone else."
"Who? Voldemort? Get off me, you twit," Ginny snapped, startled to
wriggle out from under him, realized something, and paused. "I, uh.."
"What?"
Ginny found herself stammering. "I, uh, just came to see if you
wanted any food. It's nearly tea-time, you know. Charlie made food.
It's pretty good. And, uh, we thought you might want some food. Did I
say that already? I, uh, I could bring you up some, or you could come
down if you feel up to it."
Draco paused for a moment, and a faint smile flitted across his
face. "I feel up to it," he said blandly.
"Right. Well, then, you'd better get off me so I can stand up."
Draco hesitated for a split second, smiled, and rolled off her. Ginny
stood up, rather unnecessarily straightening her shirt, and, without
looking at him, said, "Shall I tell them you'll be down in a few
minutes?"
"Sure. Why don't you do that."
"Okay. And about the naked thing..."
"I'll put some clothes on before I go downstairs."
"That'd be a good idea."
There was a short pause. He looked at her inquiringly.
"Right, then," she said. "I'll just go...away."
"See you," said Draco cheerfully, and Ginny ran for the door, bolted
out into the hall, and slammed it behind her. He's laughing at me,
she raged inwardly, starting off down the hallway. He's the one
without any clothes on, and I get laughed at. It's not fair. She
kicked out at the railing when she got to the stairs and was rewarded
by feeling the wood splinter slightly under her foot. Take that,
Draco Malfoy, she thought, you obnoxious, smirking, naked sort of
person.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the front door bang
open.

***
Sunset came in shades of rose and sapphire and turned the sky over
the Burrow into a mosaic of color. Sirius, however, was in no mood to
admire the sky. He had arranged to meet Narcissa some distance from
the Weasleys' so that they could talk privately for a few moments.
When he Apparated into the middle of the darkening grove of trees,
Narcissa was already there. She came towards him, her hair very
silver in the half-light, twilight caught in the folds of her dark-
red robes. She tilted her face up; he kissed her, and
said, "Everything all right?"
"No. The inquest is horrible. They just don't know what to make of
Lucius' death at all, and all his old papers have to be dragged out
and gone over –" she broke off. "Never mind that, how's Remus? Did
you get the doctor to come see him?"
"Yes," said Sirius, as they started along the path towards the
Burrow. "But he couldn't do anything. He looked at me like I was a
complete nutter, too. Which was a bit discouraging."
"Sirius, I think we'd better bring Draco back to the Mansion. You
can't keep running back and forth between sickrooms, you'll drive
yourself round the twist."
"I know, you're right. You know, I had another thought. I didn't want
to go to the College of Aurors, but what about old Mad-Eye Moody?
He's a bit of an iconoclast, and he knows more about the History of
Dark Arts than anyone. I'm sure he wouldn't feel like he had to tell
the Ministry about Remus."
"Mmm. Maybe. You know who else might be able to help?"
"Who?"
"Severus Snape."
"No."
"Sirius, don't be stubborn."
"I'm not being stubborn. I just said no, that's all. Because I hate
the little rat bastard and I'm not asking him for anything."
They were coming into sight of the Burrow now. Narcissa gave an
exasperated sigh. "He knows a lot about being Called—"
"This is the second time you've suggested Snape; I'm starting to
think you know him better than you let on."
"Well, there was that one mad weekend we spent together in Bora-Bora."
"I have now gone to a very bad mental place and it's entirely your
fault."
"Sirius, don't be stupid. I do know him, because he and Lucius were
practically inseparable for years before he left the Death Eaters. He
really knows a lot about –"
She broke off.
Sirius turned to look at her. He caught a single brief glimpse of her
face, wide-eyed with horror, staring off past him, before she
screamed.
"Narcissa?"
She tore past him, not even looking at him, hurtling down the path
towards the Burrow. Sirius spun around in astonishment – and froze.
No. It can't be.
He stood where he was, too stunned to move, at least physically. His
mind had already flown back, fifteen years back, to another night
like this one, a night that was no longer dark but filled with the
light of leaping orange flames – the house with its side caved in as
if it had been kicked by a massive foot, the choking cloud of dust
and plaster that burned his throat, stinging his eyes as he crawled
through broken slabs of rubble towards the sound of a baby crying –
and over it all that deadly greenish-black cloud, its shape
unmistakable, as it was unmistakable now:
A skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth, its dead black eye
sockets filled with stars.
The Dark Mark.


***
All right, I know I've killed off someone in every chapter for the
past four chapters, so I will take a moment to tell you that no
Weasleys, Potters, Grangers or Malfoys were harmed in the making of
this chapter. (In other words, they're all alive. I can't promise
happy and unharmed, however.) So, next chapter: what on earth's this
Dark Mark business all about, then? What was in Sirius' Gringott's
vault? If a Hideous Evil really did visit the Burrow, did Draco
manage to get his jammies back on before it arrived? What was in the
note from Snape? The answer to these and other posers as soon as
humanly possible. –

NB: Credit for the inspiration for this conception of the wizarding
afterlife goes to a book called The Secret Country, alas, I no longer
recall who wrote it.