Lord of Shadows Arc, Book One: Prince of Darkness

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_______________________________________________

Title: The Lord Of Shadows Arc, Book 1: The Prince of Darkness
Chapter 5: The Excecutioner's Tale/ The Book of My Life
See notes from previous chapters.
Summary: See previous, for this chapter. . . "Blah blah blah", "Blah
blah blah", "What the hell?!" and KISSIES!!!
____________________________________________________________


From General Chaos; The Life and Times of General Ronald Weasley,
OoM, OotP, OotG

I do hate Draco Malfoy, even to this day. He's a miserable,
arrogant bastard who's far too good at what he does. Luckily, he
hates me just as much as I hate him, and it all works out fine.

You know, our mutual hate explains a lot. Why he was one of the
groomsmen at my wedding. Why he helped free me when his father held
me hostage. Why we pulled each other's arses out of so many fires
during the war. Couldn't let a happy occasion go by without each
other there to mar it, nor could we allow anyone else to do each
other in. It would be far too anti-climactic if anyone where to have
a hand in his death that wasn't me. So I had to go and save his
life all those times, just as he had to save mine.

Because we hate each other, you see. No really, we do. Dammit, stop
laughing.

* * *



It was still the first week in August, but business at Weasleys'
Wizarding Wheezes, sixty-nine, Diagon Alley, was already picking up
with back-to-school shoppers. Upstairs, Draco sat by the window,
studying the list of names Harry had left him before going out with
Granger. He was almost annoyed at the number of Gryffindor names,
but he reminded himself that such a prejudice from Harry's side was
only natural. But even the Gryffindor names were a surprise. Of
course, Professor McGonagall made sense, as did Professor Lupin, and
the choice of Granger. But Ron Weasley wasn't on the list at all,
and Neville Longbottom was?! He understood the astrological
reasons behind the choice, all right. But Longbottom as Control
had disaster written all over it.

Still, the inclusion of Professor Snape was both encouraging and a
relief. Draco knew that he was the only other member of Slytherin
House who could be trusted at the moment, but that only seemed to
further underscore his current desperation.

Admittedly, the choices for the Witnesses of the Dead were
brilliant, as it could reasonably be assumed that none of Draco's
known ancestors would be of any use now that he'd turned "blood
traitor".

The names given for the Wardens of the Four Corners were only
natural, considering their recent studies. But there were two spaces
left which Harry had left for him to fill.

Hmm. . . pondered Draco, the Judge and the Foundation.

There were several possibilities for the Judge but, deciding on a
need for balance somewhere, he wrote down a name.

Metatron

As for Foundation . . . again, there were several possibilities.
But even as he chided himself for cheap sentimentality and wishful
thinking, he wrote down another name.

Haniel

Reviewing the list, he noted with satisfaction that this final name
brought the list of support up to a full thirteen--a full coven,
plus himself and Harry. Pleased with himself, he glanced over at the
list once more before setting it down where Harry had left it.

He was just about to fetch his current book of study when the door
to the main stairs opened to admit Ron Weasley. Draco was well aware
that his agreement with Harry regarding his friends included the
times when the latter wasn't about. So he bit his lip and allowed
the other to speak first. He didn't have to wait for long.

"We need to talk, Malfoy," Ron said.

Draco nodded.

"Not entirely unexpected, Weasley," he said dryly. "Why
don't we have a civilised game of chess while we do so?"


Ron eyed him suspiciously, surprised that they weren't already
hurling hexes at each other. After a moment's consideration, he
made his way over to the chess set beneath the window, sitting on
the light side as Draco had already chosen the dark.

There were a few seconds of awkward silence as both were struck with
the oddity of the situation before Ron moved a pawn, and decided to
speak.

"Malfoy, Harry is my best friend. For his sake, I'm doing my
damnedest to accept this situation. For the moment, I'm thinking
of a mutual truce. But, "Ron lifted his eyes from the board to look
Draco fully in the eyes, "if you hurt him, or ever make him
regret his decision, I will find a way to make you pay ten times
over."

Draco had no doubt that Weasley would do exactly as he'd
warned--thanks to his brothers, he was no longer poor, and he still
had all the connections they had, whereas Draco himself presently
had money and nothing else. Dropping his gaze from Ron's, he took a
breath while he studiously moved one of his own pawns.

"Fair enough," he said, watching Ron's reaction out of
the corner of his eye. "But I think, for the sake of future . . .
harmony . . . I should explain a few things to you. I trust your
mother drilled you on your manners enough to not interrupt?"

Ron scowled at Draco's invocation of his mother, but silently
nodded, not trusting himself to speak civilly.

Draco leaned back, signaling Ron's move, as he began,

"First, you must understand that my father wasn't always what
he is now. At least, not as I remember it. In my earliest memories,
when I was perhaps three years old, my father was very loving and
caring toward me. He would play with me in the nursery, or call
butterflies to us in the garden in spring." Ron looked
incredulous. "I know, hard to imagine him calling butterflies, isn't
it? But he did, and as I grew, he always spoke of what a great
wizard I would grow up to be. He would always tell me how proud he
was of me when I did something like fly a training broom the first
time, memorised a piece on the piano, or when I came up with a
new 'potion' usually made of talcum powder, water, Mum's make-up,
and some other useless ingredient. As I grew older it would be for
things like memorising various lore-songs, successfully growing
herbs from seeds, and one time succeeding at making a potion for my
mother who'd caught a bit of stomach upset while father was away on
business. Mother told me later that I'd put in too much stevia in an
attempt to make it taste better, but still, it worked. Father was so
proud he brought Uncle 'Sef-wis' over and had me show him what I'd
done.


Seeing Ron's look of incomprehension, Draco smirked.

"I couldn't say his name right yet, it was so long. When I was just
learning to talk, it was 'Uncle Wis', but by that time I had
moved on to 'Sef-wis'. It was another year before I could properly
say 'Uncle Severus', though I still called him 'Sev'rus' for quite a
while."

Ron eyes widened. Draco snickered and continued, sobering as he went.

"Imagine, Weasley, all the love and attention that your parents had
to spread among you and all your siblings, all of that focused on
you. That's what it was like for me--perfect, everything a boy could
want. But then, suddenly, everything began to change, about a year
before I came to Hogwarts. My father became cold and distant. He no
longer said he was proud of me--no, now he went on and on about some
boy named Potter, and how I must put him in his place, and how very
disappointed he'd be in me if I didn't. Of course he'd mentioned him
before, always with a disapproving air, but never saying why. Now he
went on and on about him, and suddenly it seemed that this Harry
Potter was more important to my father than I was.

"This did two things to me. On the one hand, I became determined to
prove my worth to my father, to make him say once more how proud he
was of me. On the other, I wasn't very fond of this new version of
my father--I wanted the old one back. So even then I began to
question what he would say to me.

"Then I went to Hogwarts. My friends were chosen by my father to act
as watch dogs, and I couldn't say anything without them reporting
it. I didn't know it was Harry that day at Madam Malkin's, but
Crabbe was in another part of the store, so I had to say something
father would approve of. Later, when I met you, they were with me,
so I still had them to please. I told them I tried to befriend Harry
so I could use him, but the truth was I just wanted to see if he
really was the menace my father made him out to be. Well, you know
what happened, and when we got to the Sorting, I knew I had to make
Slytherin so my father wouldn't be angry. That's why the Hat decided
so quickly--it knew my situation, and wouldn't endanger me.

"Once classes started, I was able to have some time with Uncle
Severus, though now I had to call him 'Professor'. We would talk
sometimes, and eventually I revealed my doubts about Father. To my
surprise, he didn't disapprove. Nor, for that matter, did he
encourage me. He simply said, 'In the end Draco, the only person you
can trust is yourself.'

"When I would go home on holiday, the Dark Arts took up all my time.
After first year, I could use the three Unforgivables quite well on
insects and small furry creatures. You were quite right in forth
year, you know. I was quite experienced by then. After third year,
Father started my instruction in his speciality, torture. People
overestimate the use of the Cruciatus. . . Father could do things
with knives. . .and not just pain. Strong people can resist pain,
see, find strength and resolve in it. What people can't fight is
pleasure. They hate you, and you make them feel good, so they come
to hate themselves. Once you introduce the proper substances, even
the strongest will do anything for a little bit more. It was
fascinating work, if horrifying. I once refused, early on. I never
refused again. Of course, I had nightmares, but Father said that was
a weakness that would go soon enough.

"By the beginning of fourth year, I could completely flay a man
without him dying on me. Or I could break every bone in his body--
twice--without him even passing out from shock. I had to use more
spells than my father, because of inexperience, and I wasn't big
enough yet to break some of the bones on my own. I would start in
the morning in our dungeons, and then practice music in the
afternoon. I was disturbed to see blood under my fingernails when I
was playing the piano or the violin. And when I sang, I could hear
the screaming from only a few hours before. But my father said he
was proud of me and said he was pleased at how well I was learning.
But at every moment, I grew sicker and sicker of what we were
doing. I would lose myself for hours in music, trying to forget
what I had done in the morning. The first things I learned were the
old masses for the dead. I told my father it was because they were
beautiful--and they are--but in a way, I was trying to beg
forgiveness from the people I'd hurt, and on occasion killed, before
mid-day. The whole thing seemed pointless--why torture Muggles? They
had no information we needed. Why not simply kill them and be done
with it? Or why kill them at all? And were they really that bad? I
mean, Granger has two Muggle parents, and she's the finest young
witch at Hogwarts.

Draco looked at Ron, who hadn't taken his move yet. The other boy's
eyes were wide with horror and incredulity.

"Yes, Weasley, even I knew how talented she was. It was her
example that encouraged me on my questioning more than anything
else. You may tell her, and Harry, but not anyone else, please. I do
have appearances to keep up." This served to bring a faint chuckle
from Ron, its intended effect.

"See," Draco continued. "even more than my father's pride, I wanted
to like him again. Then he went and got himself arrested, and I was
so angry at him, but didn't want to be, so I took it out on Harry. I
plotted my revenge and started spying on him. And I learned that
everything I'd thought about him was wrong. Do you know what that
meant? It meant, for the first time, I had proof that my father was
wrong about something. I'd suspected such was the case before--your
girlfriend's successes were evidence of that. But this was hard
proof. And it confused me so much that I decided I needed to find
out what Harry was really like.

"So on the second day I returned prepared and we started the
first of many strange conversations. Did you know, for example, that
he keeps track of the people he believes himself responsible for the
deaths of? It's in the inside of his left arm--five long cuts, for
his parents, Professor Quirrell, Cedric Diggory, and Sirius Black,
and two shorter ones, for Longbottom's parents."

Ron's brows furrowed, so Draco pressed on before he could interrupt.

"He's gone to great lengths to keep it secret. I think he only
started this summer, so you couldn't have noticed anything anyway.
I'm telling you because I know he won't, and I'm more than a little
concerned about him. But the last thing he wants is for you and
Granger to worry.

"When we would talk, he always spoke so highly of you two. You were
the first real friend he ever had, Weasley, and for someone who went
for so long without love of any kind, that means quite a bit. He
gets very protective of you two. If I were still set on revenge, I
would say that you two, especially you, are the key to his sanity.

"And then, of course, everything fell to pieces in early July, and I
found myself in a quandary with Harry the only way out. Right now,
my concern is to get through to November alive, and to keep Harry
moderately happy with me in the meantime, and if possible, perhaps
even form some sort of foundation relationship with him. And if that
means being civil to those I've ridiculed in the past, and who I'm
sure hate me, so be it. I've made my choice, and now I'll do
anything to ensure success. There is nothing more precious to me now
than Harry's happiness and well-being.

Draco sighed , drained and tired of talking. "That's about all I had
to say."


Ron pursed his lips, deep in thought, finally moving a knight.

"Be careful, Malfoy, I might begin to like you."

Draco chuckled.

"I can always insult your mother, if you'd prefer it."


"No, you can't." grinned Ron, cheekily.

"Damn, you're right." Draco moved another pawn.

"Here's one question." Ron studied the board. "I always thought You-
Know-Who wanted immortality. Why does he need children if he wants
to live forever?"


Draco leaned his elbows on the table, folding his hands together.

"Think, Weasley. He's got a penchant for possession, and commands
the Dementor hordes. If he found he couldn't ensure immortality for
his own body, what's the next idea"


Ron nudged a pawn.

"What do the Dementors ha--oh. Oh! That's horrible! You mean to say,
he'd have the Dementors kiss his own children just so he could take
their bodies?!"

Draco nodded gravely.


"He could hide them away all across the world, going from one to
the other as he needed, and those children would have children who
would face the same fate. He'd build an unlimited supply of bodies,
waiting for him to animate them."


"That's . . ." Ron searched for a suitable word, "monstrous."

Draco moved a bishop forward.

"Indeed. And after the ritual, I'd only be too willing to help him.
But then, I wouldn't be me, would I? No, even I couldn't condone
that. After all, it would be unseemly for a Malfoy to be possessed,
even worse for the rest of the line to suffer that fate. Up to me to
keep our name from utter destruction."

Ron snickered as he moved his knight to take one of Draco's
pawns.


"Trust you to put it in terms of Malfoy pride."

"Would you rather I put it in terms of morality and ethics?" Draco
replied.

"No," Ron answered. "Then I'd have to check you into St. Mungo's
with the complaint of 'Slytherin acting like a Gryffindor.'"


Draco moved his bishop to threaten Ron's knight.

"You don't think I've been acting like a Gryffindor all along? I
mean, what with courageously changing sides, nobly clearing Black's
name, all that?"


"Ah," said Ron, pointing his finger as though literally making a
point. "but all of that was with the goal of wriggling out of a
sticky mess. How about: wresting control of your financeom yom your
parents, deceiving them, conniving to trap one of their associates,
turning him in for profit--mind you, not monetary profit, but you
_did_ get something out of it--and furthering to meet and plot with
the 'enemy' to turn one of You-Know-Who's more thorough plans on its
head, putting him at a future disadvantage. Oh, and managing to gain
a bit of power for yourself as you do so. All in all, I'd say it's a
plan that's got 'Slytherin' ten ten all over it."


Ron avoided Draco's bishop, putting another pawn into play.

"Really," Draco drawled, "I'm almost blushing. You should beware,
Weasley, I might start liking you myself."


"Alright then," Ron drew himself up. "You promise to make Harry as
happy as you can, and I'll promise to hate you forever."


Draco considered this.

"Tell you what, Weasley, you hate me forever, and I'll not only make
Harry the happiest man on Earth, I'll hate you forever, as well.
Deal?" He stuck out a hand.

"Deal." They shook, then returned to the game at hand.

"So tell me, Weasley," Draco moved a knight, "I don't remember the
twins being quite so affectionate with each other before. When did
that start?"


Ron studied the board.

"Well, it was in our forth year, actually. . ."


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

". . . And so they decided that as pleasant as other people could
be, they really preferred each other over everyone else." Hermione
wound the story up, and took a sip of her tea. She and Harry were at
a new teahouse that had recently opened in Diagon Alley, and were
happily sampling the wares.

"And the family's alright with this?" Harry topped off his own cup,
adding a spoonful of honey.


Hermione gave him a level gaze.

"Really, Harry, incest only matters when there's the possibility of
children. I get the feeling it was sort of expected, even. Well,
Percy was a little odd about it, but he's a prat that no one listens
to anymore, anyway, so he doesn't really count. Do you have a
problem with it?"


"Oh, no, not at all!" He fiddled with the spoon. "It seemed rather
natural, to me, but I know how ignorant I still am about a lot of
wizarding customs and social views. I wasn't sure how things. . .you
know, how people thought about things like that. I'm glad they've
got the support of their family, though. . ." Harry's voice drifted
off in thought, as he mindlessly sipped his tea.


Hermione watched him silently from behind her own teacup, studiously
observing his expressions.


"So," she said brightly, "what's this I hear about Malfoy teaching
you to sing?"

"Oh, that," Harry chuckled while putting down his cup. "I think it's
his version of a social betterment programme. Apparently all Malfoys
are educated in the social graces and arts from infancy. He himself
is adept at violin, classical guitar, piano and voice. He said I
needed some way of expressing myself other than on the Quidditch
pitch, but I think he just couldn't believe that I couldn't read
music. Of course, as I'm learning, he is teaching me the basics of
Spell-singing, for obvious reasons."


"Yes," Hermione breathed, "I've read that singing a spell increases
its power at least twice, if not more."

Harry shrugged.


"That's what he said, though he also said it depends on the
confidence, talent, and technique of the singer. He had me read an
old treatise on the subject. Apparently, in Pre-Christian Britain,
the real masters of the art could make plants flourish by simply
singing a few bars. And if a few of them got together, they could
bring down mountains. Like what happened to Jericho, walls tumbling,
all that. . ."


Hermione looked suitably impressed.

"So what specifically are you learning? And what type of voice do
you have?"

Harry began fiddling with his spoon again.

"I'm a tenor, which makes it a little easier since Draco is too.
He's started me with Baroque Era Italian love songs and bits of
that German Requiem. . . I forget who wrote it. . ."

"Brahms," supplied Hermione. "My mother loves that one. Why are you
learning Italian and German?"


Harry frowned, trying to remember.


"He said once I'm competent at singing in Italian, Latin shouldn't
be a problem, and also because he thinks that Italian love songs
from that period are the best to learoperoper technique on. And the
Requiem is what he's starting to teach me theory with, along with
singing in German. He says that that'll make singing in English
easier. As if I didn't already know English!" Harry huffed in
remembered indignation.

"Well," Hermione said timidly, "singing a language is different than
speaking it. . ."


"Yeah," Harry said, wilting, "Draco said the same thing. Then he
threatened to make me sing in Hungarian if I thought German was
tough!"

Hermione snickered.

"I'd stick with German, if I were you. Viktor once showed me a book
written in Hungarian--the use of the Roman alphabet in that language
is very misleading, I assure you."


Harry smiled, sipping his tea.

"To be honest, it's growing on me. It's better than the Italian--
some of those songs are just too frilly. Either that, or they're far
too melodramatic. The Brahms is lovely, but not overdone. What's
really nice is when I sing one line and he sings another. He's quite
good. . ."

Hermione smiled behind her cup as Harry's eyes drifted far away, but
frowned as they darkened again.

"Draco's got a strange obsession with Requiems." he frowned. "I
admit that they are some of the best vocal music there is, but it's
quite morbid how well he knows these works. . . He remembers every
part of the Mozart, Verdi, Brahms, Durufle, and Faure Requiems,
and whenever he gets upset, he'll sit down at the twins' piano, or
pull out his violin, and just start playing one of them. He was
playing a movement the other day that I've come to recognise, and
just on a whim I came in with the tenor line and, without missing a
beat, he entered with the soprano line, though down an octave. It
was beautiful, but. . . disturbing."

"Which movement was it?" Hermione asked.


"The. . first?" Harry tried to place it. "It was the one that begins
'Selig sind, die da Leid tragen' . . .but we stopped half way
through, right before we got to the happy part. He just stopped and
walked away."´ Harry frowned, still trying to understand why Draco
had stopped right in the middle of everything.


Hermione's gently voice interrupted his musing.

"What about you, Harry. How are you?"

Harry looked startled.

"I'm fine, Hermione. . . .why?"

Hermione smiled sadly.

"You're not, Harry, and even Ron has started to notice. You.
. ." Hermione paused to choose her words, "we're worried, Harry,
that's all. You've been through a lot these past few months, so no
one really blames you for acting strange, we just. . . we want to
know how to help you. . .you seem so. . . angry
sometimes . . ."Hermione trailed off, frowning into her tea.

Harry started to brush off her concerns, but realised he'd only be
lying if he did so. He didn't want them to worry, but it seemed they
already were. And if he knew Hermione, denying things would only
further convince her that she was right.

"I am angry," he admitted softly.

"Who with?" she replied.

Harry smiled gently.

"Not you. Or Ron. Or even Draco, or Snape, though that may be a
first. . .I think I'm mostly just angry at the world, for being a
general pain in the arse. You know, a sort of, generalised teenaged
angst."


"So," Hermione said, "your sudden vindictiveness is a manifestation
of typical male teen angst." Her tone indicated her profound
disbelief.

Harry relented.

"I suppose I'm more specifically angry at myself, for not listening
to you, angry at You-Know-Who for killing people, angry at
Dumbledore. . ." he trailed off in thought, eyes hardening again.

"That's an awful lot of anger," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Why
angry at Dumbledore?"


"Because," Harry scowled, "he's operating on the principle
that 'ignorance is bliss',when he knows damn well he should be
working off of 'knowledge is power'. I can excuse that attitude in
Mrs Weasley, she has a habit of being everyone's mother. But,
confound it! Dumbledore knows better! He knows that withholding
information from me will only increase the chances that I'll go do
something stupid. I'm tired of only getting half the story from him,
and getting the other half only after someone important to me has
been killed. Or," he added with a bite, thinking of his first
year, "after I've killed someone. At least I can trust Snape to
tell me the truth in excruciating detail, and I don't have to worry
that he'll leave things out just to spare my feelings."


Hermione lifted an eyebrow as she glanced at the table behind Harry,
where the aforementioned Professor had just replaced Mundungus
Fletcher on guard duty.

"So," she said, re-filling both their cups. "You're saying that
right now you trust Professor Snape more than the Headmaster?"


Behind Harry, Snape nearly choked on his tea.

Harry thought for a moment.

"I can trust him to be honest with me where Dumbledore would try to
spare my feelings. Snape doesn't give a damn about my feelings, so
in a sense he's much more free to be completely honest. Strange as
that seems to say. . . I mean, Dumbledore is so used to getting his
way, to being in complete control over everything, even though he
knows, beyond any doubt, that it can't be that way forever. At least
with Snape I know he's left nothing out as he sees it, whereas with
Dumbledore, who knows?"

Hermione considered several questions.

"So you don't believe he's an 'evil Death Eater git', set on
capturing you for his dark master."


"Well," chuckled Harry, "technically, he is a Death Eater, and he
really can be an evil git, though it turned out he's got a reason
for that. But he's had so many chances to poison me or Stun me and
carry me off. . . but he hasn't. He has saved my life on several
occasions, and was intent to do so in third year, though maybe he
would have tried to kill Sirius even if he knew he was
innocent. . .he may hate every last bit of me, but he's consistent.
And I find I trust that more than the whims of care."

Again, Hermione sorted through several questions.

"You said he had reason for being an 'evil git'. . ."


But this time Harry shook his head.

"Hermione, I'm sorry, but I'm not supposed to know why. Not that I
don't trust your discretion, it's just that, it definitely isn't my
place to tell anyone. It was a mistake for me to find out, a big
one, and I'm not going to make it worse by telling someone else as
well, even if she is the closest thing I have to a sister."


Behind Harry, Snape paused, an unreadable look on his face. Hermione
noted this, then replied.

"It's a matter of honour, then, you mean. . ."


"More a matter of dishonour, really, and I won't make it any worse
than it already is. . ."


Hermione smiled.

"If you can't be swayed, then, I'll trust that it truly is none of
my business."


Harry smiled back.

"It truly isn't. Sorry." He shrugged apologetically,
adding honey to his newly filled cup of tea. "So,"he continued,
"where's Ron?"


"He's out window-shopping. Said he wanted to find ideas for upcoming
birthday presents, and didn't want me to know what he might be
considering." Hermione knew it was just a ruse on Ron's part, but
Ron had thought that Harry would open up to Hermione a bit more than
he might open up to Ron himself. Seemed like he was right, for once.

"Ah," Harry tested the tea with his lips, deciding it was still too
hot to enjoy. "How's he taking . . . everything?"


Hermione gave a crooked grin.


"He's trying, Harry. He knows that Malfoy really didn't have much of
a choice in this matter, and that if you'd decided any differently,
you wouldn't be the person we've always taken you for. But he still
doesn't like it at all. It's cute, in a way. . . he'll get all
worked up, then tell himself he's being a poor friend to you, so
he'll seek distraction with some Quidditch publication or another.
But it won't work, so he'll start pestering anyone he can find for a
game of chess, but nobody will play him since they know they'll
lose. I'll usually end up playing him, since I can at least keep the
game to longer than ten moves."


Harry grinned incredulously.

"Ron is drowning his sorrows in wizard's chess?"


"He'd be nice to the devil if it meant a good game of chess," said
Hermione wryly.

"I'm glad you warned me," Harry laughed. "Perhaps we could convince
him to challenge Professor Snape."


"Ahm," Hermione looked chagrined. "funny you should mention
that. . ."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

About an hour later, Harry and Hermione returned to the back of the
twins' shop, arms loaded down with various parcels. Hermione had
successfully managed to get Harry out of the teahouse without him
seeing Snape, and was pondering what Harry had told her.

Absently, she watched as Harry put his packages down on the landing
and softly opened the door. He had her full attention, however, when
he silently closed the door again without entering, and without
saying a word.

"You know when you said that Ron would be nice to the devil if it
meant a good game of chess?" he asked softly.

Hermione nodded silently. Harry gestured for her to enter first,
pushing the door open ahead of her. There, before her disbelieving
eyes, Ron and Draco were sitting across each other, calmly
engaged in a game of chess.

She must have made some small noise, because they both looked up
suddenly from their game, taking in her shocked expression, and then
both began to laugh.

"But Ron!" she said, eyes wide and staring, "I thought you hated
Malfoy!"

"But I do, Hermione," he said, taking her parcels from her so she
wouldn't drop them in disbelief. "In fact, I've promised to hate
Malfoy forever, as long as he keeps Harry happy. And in return, he
said that not only would he make Harry the happiest man in the
world, but he'd hate me forever, too. So we've got it all worked
out."


"Oh," Hermione sniffed, her eyes suspiciously bright, "that's
so. . . sweet!"


The young men just looked at each other, silently agreeing that
women, even one so young as Hermione, were all strange.



That evening Professor McGonagall came by for their daily Animagus
lesson. Draco, who had already received instruction from Peter
Pettigrew, was further along than Harry, so the good Professor was
able to give the latter more of her attention. At first, his effort
bore little fruit, until one day he finally transformed his head and
hands.

"Excellent, Mr. Potter," the Professor said. "As I suspected, the
same form as your father, though with different colouring. Mr.
Malfoy, put down in your notes that Mr. Potter's form is a black
stag. Potter, you may change back now."

Harry got it mostly right. His hands changed back to normal from
hooves, and his face felt the right shape, though there was
something odd. He turned at the sound of Draco snickering.

"What's so funny, Malfoy?" he asked, annoyed.

Draco burst forth in laughter.

"Six points for Gryffindor!" he exclaimed.

Puzzled, he looked to Professor McGonagall, who told him to go look
in the mirror in the bedroom. When he did so, Harry was chagrined to
see that he'd forgotten to change the antlers back, leaving him
looking like a normal boy, except for the small rack sprouting from
just above and in front of his ears.

He walked back out, scowling at the still snickering Draco.

"This isn't funny," he growled.

"Of course it is," countered Draco. "At least you don't have Death
Eaters exclaiming how cute your mistakes are and taking pictures to
give to You-Know-Who."

"You're joking," Harry said in disbelief.

"Not at all," Draco sighed, "when I was about as far along, I forgot
to change back my ears. I had to walk around for an entire day
before I could change them back. Luckily, I was able to flatten them
back against my head when I went to visit you."


"A whole day?" Harry's heart sank.


"A full day,"´ Professor McGonagall confirmed. "You need to rest
before attempting to change anything again. I'll be back tomorrow
so we can fix this.


Harry tried to sleep that night, but the antlers were heavy, and
kept catching on the pillow. When morning finally came, he was in an
irritable mood, which continued throughout the day.

Professor McGonagall returned around noon, and they tried again.
Harry couldn't seem to concentrate, his irritation mounting with
every moment. It was soon becoming clear that things weren't going
anywhere, when suddenly the antlers shrank down to nothing. To
everyone's concern, however, so did the rest of Harry, until
Harry was gone and replaced by a large, black cobra. The snake was
hissing so emphatically that even Professor McGonagall could guess
at the meanings.

"Now, Mr. Potter," she said sternly, "there's no need for such
language. Mr.Malfoy, please note that Potter has two forms, the stag
and. . ." she paused as she tried to identify species, "an Indian
Black Spitting Cobra, of larger than usual size."


Draco made the appropriate notations as she continued. "Now, Mr.
Potter, if you could reign in your temper, change back."


This time, the change was successful, though Harry was still
spitting and hissing to himself afterward, his eyes flinty and dark.

"Mr. Potter," said Professor McGonagall, but he didn't hear. She
tried again, louder, but met with no success. She was about to try a
third time when Draco walked up to Harry, gave him a long glance,
then pulled his hand back and smacked him hard on the cheek.

"What the hell was that for, Draco?!" Harry exclaimed.

Draco refused to back down.

"You were not yourself," he said simply. Harry's eyes lit with
sudden understanding as Draco turned to the Professor.

"I thought people only have one Animagus form," he said.

Professor McGonagall shook her head slowly.

"Most people only have one form. Very powerful wizards can have more
and Potter certainly falls within that class." Draco nodded his
understanding, and she continued, addressing Harry.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she said. "We'll practice again then."


The days of August continued to pass, most in a similar manner,
their days packed with studies related to the upcoming ritual. In
the morning usually a combination of Angelology, Introduction to
Jewish Magical Systems, Kabbalistic Classification Schemes, and
Charms. Then Animagus practice with Professor McGonagall, followed
by lunch, an hour of study, and then Music and Spell-song.

During this time came the long awaited news that Lucius Malfoy,
along with several other Death Eaters, had escaped Azkaban. And
although there were rumours that he had disowned his son, no
official papers were ever sent to make such a change in status
legal. It was something Draco wondered about as he would drift off
to sleep at nights. In the meantime, he and Harry were spending
their entire days together, except for when Professor Snape would
visit. Harry wanted Draco to feel he had some freedom, even if he
couldn't leave the apartment, so he knew that Draco would also want
a break from his constant 'Gryffindor presence.' During these times,
Harry was often found speaking very seriously with Lupin about
something, but not even Ron or Hermione could get him to say what
about. Draco appreciated Harry's sensitivity, though he had decided
he really didn't mind Harry all that much.

In fact, as the weeks progressed, Draco found himself making excuses
to touch Harry--a hand on a shoulder, an accidental brushing of
fingers, a clumsy "trip"´ that would send him into Harry's arms.
Little did he know that Harry was doing the same thing from his end,
and they were both so painfully oblivious to the other's attempts
that even Ron made some comments.

Everything came together, however, two days before leaving for
Hogwarts. Harry and Draco were taking a break from their studies,
standing by the large window overlooking Diagon Alley, involved in
one of their intricate discussions, this time about the relationship
of ancient religions and magic. Draco had just finished explaining a
related bit of Roman law when the sun's angle changed and sent light
refracting through Harry's eyes.

Draco was stood entranced as the light made Harry's eyes glow like
living emeralds. Together with his silky, dark hair, and smooth,
pale skin, Draco was reminded of some primeval forest godling.

Harry had been gazing at Draco for quite some time, dazed by the
play of light in his silvery hair. He had been trying to pay
attention, but he found himself watching Draco's lips, wondering if
they tasted like the sweets they resembled.

Both stood in silence, for a moment, until Draco lifted a hand to
caress Harry's cheek. Harry smiled at this, and Draco could no
longer resist. Leaning forward, he softly placed his lips on
Harry's, sucking lightly on his lower lip. Then he pulled back,
trying to gauge the other's reaction.

Harry's eyes widened as he felt something rise within himself, and
he moved forward, this time initiating the kiss, both of them
melting into each other. Afterwards, neither was sure who delved
into the other's mouth first, only that it was heavenly, and
perfect. Harry moaned as he felt something rush through him and into
Draco, leaving both of them gasping.

". . .that was. . ." Draco was at a loss for words.


Harry smiled, his entire face lighting up.


"That was really nice, is what that was," he said happily.


Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the floor
as Draco called his name in alarm.

* * *

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!
More delightful is your love than wine!

Song of Solomon,1:2


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