Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wherein we learn what Draco Malfoy has been up to: obsessing about, and spying on him, taking over the affairs of the Malfoy family; getting drunk; conspiring with Nott; and wherein Harry has a good cry, gets stoned, and enjoys a romantic interlude.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "fair use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 27 - The Other

As Draco Malfoy looked back upon the rapidly expiring summer holiday, he had to admit that it had not been a good summer for his family - or even a fair one. No, for the Slytherin born to a life of luxury and command, the summer had been downright rotten. One moment, he had been in his accustomed spot on top of the world. The next, he had started a long slide into the depths of such misery that any escape still seemed a like a bad job.

During those increasingly uncommon moments when he had the time to think - and the inclination to do so - he had to admit that his own lack of discipline bore a fair portion of the blame. That had been especially so the day all Hell had broken loose. That day…. That horrible day, he had been bitterly disappointed after Madam Umbridge had left him in her office with the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad and the Scarhead's captured fan club, whilst she had taken Potter and Granger off to hunt for Dumbledore's supposed weapon….

Soon enough, he had allowed that disappointment to fester and morph into disgust and boredom. In retrospect, he knew it had been weakness - and Malfoys despised weakness.

He had been passing the time in Umbridge's office idly flipping his wand in the air, a bored habit of his well known to his fellow Slytherins. Then he had fumbled his wand….

Disastrously, Sally Capper's attention had been wandering, too, at the same time. She was supposed to restrain that damned Weasley girl, but had not been - at least not enough. At that instant, the Weaselette had slipped away from Capper and attacked him, going for the loose wand. She got to it first. After a few horrendous seconds, it was over. The captive Gryffindors had erupted and completely turned the tables on their captors.

He had caught the worst of it. The Weaselette had hit him with a spell that he had never seen before, and never wished to see again. The laughing Gryffindors made some reference to it as a "Bat Bogey Hex." The spell had made live bats emerge from his nose - one after another, without stopping. Her hex had been more or less the same concept that had caused the Weaselette's pathetic excuse for a brother to end up belching slugs way back in second year. The Weasel had done that one to himself (inadvertently, of course … he lacked the brains to have figured something like that out), with a wand that had backfired into his own belly.

Live bats had hardly been the worst of it. Once they came out on top, the bloody Gryffindors typically had wasted no time rubbing it in. He and the other Slytherins, male and female alike, had promptly been stripped naked, trussed up together, and left in Umbridge's office surrounded by a thicket of Devil's Snare. The Gryffindors had done everything in their power to prevent the Slytherins' escape, and Potter's crowd had been nothing if not thorough - again, especially the vengeful Weaselette.

Draco and his housemates had remained shut up in Umbridge's office for what seemed like forever. Finally, a shocked house-elf discovered them and must have gone to find their Head of House. At any rate, it had been a sneering Professor Snape who finally released them.

The humiliation of that day was just the beginning of Draco's troubles. As the defeated Slytherins were leaving, Snape had held him back.

"Whilst you were so usefully occupied," Snape had informed him, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, "there was an … incident … at the Ministry."

"Like I give a damn about what goes on with those nincompoops," he had shot back.

"Silence!" Snape had commanded. "Your impertinence is exceeded only by your incompetence. You need to know, because your father has been arrested as a result. He has been accused of being … a Death Eater."

Draco was stunned into incoherence. "But…. Father can't…. He's too careful…."

"I'm afraid not," Snape had hissed. "He was captured with ten others - all quite well known to the Aurors. And the Dark Lord himself was seen."

He had not believed his ears. "That's impossible," he had protested, "It would take more Aurors than the Ministry has…."

"That's so far off, it's not even wrong," Snape had replied icily. "All it took was Dumbledore - and six measly little Gryffindors - led by Potter - precisely the ones you were supposed to be guarding here at the Castle." With the word "supposed," a slight spray of spittle had flown from Snape's mouth onto his cheek.

To Draco it was as if Snape's information had been leaping from one absurdity to another. "What? You mean Potter and his Mudblood bitch escaped Madam Umbridge? Excuse me, sir, but I'm having a hard time believing you. She's more than a match for them … she said so herself."

"How it happened, I have no earthly idea," Snape had replied. "No more than I have any idea where the Acting Headmistress might be at the moment. She has not returned to her office, and her whereabouts are unknown…. And given what has happened … you would be well advised to watch your tongue in referring to dear Mister Potter … and his friends. This is going to redound to their benefit - I know it."

Strangely, and sickeningly, it had all been true. Somehow Potter and his manky Mudblood bint had managed to join up with the rest of the Gryffindors (and that one bizarre Ravenclaw). Together, they must have traveled to the Ministry itself - because that was where the six of them had ended up.

Snape had no idea how, but Potter and his five hangers on had obtained access to the Department of Mysteries. That department was reportedly the most impenetrable part of a supposed fortress of a building.

Snape had no idea how, but Potter and his followers had evidently encountered Father, that most thoroughly mental of aunts, Bella Lestrange, and a number of other Death Eaters deep inside the Department.

Snape had no idea how, but Potter and his sidekicks had managed to escape after what must have been a tremendous fight. The Dark Lord himself had appeared and had duelled with Dumbledore. Snape had described the duel itself as "inconclusive," but the Dark Lord had been put to flight by the arrival - belated as usual - of Aurors and other Ministry personnel.

Inconclusive? Like Hell it had been inconclusive. The Dark Lord and Lestrange had escaped - but they had been the only ones. The bottom line for the Malfoy family, and the inescapable fact that had guided his own every move from that terrible moment forward, was that the Aurors had captured Father (and ten others). This time their Death Eater affiliation had been undeniable. They had been apprehended in the Ministry itself, and worse had been caught in the presence and on the side of the Dark Lord himself.

Ever since, the Ministry had held Father and the rest at Azkaban pending formal charges. Father, in particular, would be fortunate indeed if he ever experienced freedom again. Always the dutiful son, Draco's task all summer had been to try to enlarge that small sliver of fortune. He was loyal to his family and to his bloodline - that was all that mattered.

Professor Snape had warned him to keep his head down and his nose clean until the furore blew over and things began to sort themselves out. It had not been a request; but rather an order; and he had known it. Snape, however, was not Lucius Malfoy, and Draco had chosen not to obey his Head of House. Snape had many admirable characteristics, but in this matter, that wizard was never fit to raise Father's wand.

Moreover, he simply could not allow Potter to get away with what he had done to a Malfoy. Nobody did that to any Malfoy with impunity.

Thereafter, it seemed that every day's Prophet had brought more awful news. Dumbledore - Potter's biggest fan - had been cleared of all charges and returned as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Unfortunately Umbridge had turned out to be the wrong horse to back. She had ended up a prisoner of a bunch of mangy, half-breed centaurs somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. To add insult to injury, Dumbledore had been the one who freed her from those … animals.

To make matters worse, a squad of Aurors had raided Malfoy Manor - led by, of all people, that simpering, Muggle-loving idiot, Arthur Weasley. The Manor itself, his ancestral home, had been seized by the Ministry and was being held under threat of forfeiture. It had become subject to condemnation and expropriation, since the Aurors found evidence that the Dark Lord himself had once been given shelter within one of the many underground levels beneath the manor house.

One shining light amongst all the blackness had been the death of the mongrel Animagus Sirius Black - but before long even that seeming advantage had turned into its own catastrophe. Contrary to all previously published information, Black had been killed whilst fighting against the Death Eaters, rather than with them….

Then Black's original wand had mysteriously turned up, and his death, too, had abruptly moved from the plus to the minus column. With Black's bloody wand in hand, Dumbledore had publicly claimed that … that criminal … was innocent, and that testing that wand would prove it.

The drumbeat of horrific news continued. Most disgusting of all, the Prophet had begun a seemingly interminable campaign lionising Potter and his gang of Muggle-loving misfits as heroes - how excruciatingly pathetic. Soon the rest of the wizard press picked up on the theme, and after that it had become impossible to escape "Chosen One" Potter's smirking mug festooning the front page of this rag or that.

The only unalloyed piece of good news had been the defection of the Dementors from Azkaban. Even though Dementors were vile, when he had learned of their flocking to the Dark Lord, Draco's heart had risen. Surely, he thought, with his Dementor-augmented power, the Dark Lord would see to it that Father was freed in short order.

No such luck. He - and presumably Father - were still waiting.

That wait - the entire situation - had been infuriating, and had become the hub from which all the spokes of his current troubles radiated. He had heartily despised The Boy Who Lived from the first day they had met. Scarhead had publicly scorned his offer of friendship on the Hogwarts Express at the start of their first year.

Potter had then become Dumbledore's favourite student. After that, he had always seemed to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right number of House Points to wrest, and then keep, the House Cup from Draco's beloved Slytherin. Even more personally galling was that Potter had become the Gryffindor Seeker in his first bloody year. From then on, he had consistently beaten him and his Slytherin squad at Quidditch. Nobody was supposed to beat a Malfoy and get away with it - ever - but that was just what Potter had done, regularly.

At the end of the just completed term, he had angrily confronted Potter. In so many words, he had told his enemy that he would kill him over what Potter had done to Father. Unfortunately, Potter had turned out to be every bit as proficient at Defence as rumoured, and had, once again, gotten the drop on him. Draco knew he had been exceedingly lucky that Professor Snape had stumbled upon their encounter. Otherwise, he thought, Potter might have done something that would have left him wishing for the Bat Bogey Hex, or perhaps, longing to be a bouncing ferret once again.

Draco had tried to pick his spots more carefully after that. Finally, he, Crabbe, and Goyle had caught Potter exactly where they thought they wanted him on the Hogwarts Express. He had been on the verge of doing Potter some real harm when the adjacent compartments opened, and out had flooded a brigade of wrathful Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Somehow - it could not have been in Umbridge's worthless DADA class - they had learned how to duel.

There had been just too many of them for him and his two friends. He remembered nothing about the train ride back after that. Probably that had been just as well; being bested by Hufflepuffs - bleeding Hufflepuffs - was not something he cared to remember.

The end of the train ride had not been the end of Draco's agony - it only marked a new beginning. His family situation had become so muddled that he had not even known where he would be going once he left the Hogwarts Express. The next thing he had remembered was looking down at Mother from atop a luggage rack. He was not sure how he had gotten there, but that was the least of his worries.

Mother had looked positively awful. Her ordinarily impeccably coiffed hair had appeared disheveled, and her expression had been that of someone not entirely sure of who or where she was. Instead of her usual glittering retinue of retainers, Mother had been accompanied by a couple of haggard looking house-elves and a nearly bald, heavyset man with whom he had only the most passing of acquaintances. He thought that the man might have been the overseer of one of the Malfoys' more remote country estates.

Unfortunately, Draco had been right. The man who had helped him down then introduced himself as Llewellyn Tredegar. He had run several Malfoy properties in South Wales since before the Malfoys had even owned them. Tredegar had told him bluntly to "be thankful for" the formerly Black-owned estates that Narcissa Black Malfoy had received as her dowry. These were all that was left - the only Malfoy properties that remained undisturbed by the recent wave of Ministry raids and seizures.

Draco then had learnt to his disgust that he would be spending the summer on the estate on Ramsey Island. All he had known about Oceanix, as the estate was named, was that the place specialised in Thestral breeding. He was soon to learn much more on that subject - far more than he had ever wanted to know.

For one thing, he had been lucky even to see the Thestrals. For all his surreptitious practice in Dark Arts, Draco had never actually had the opportunity to kill anyone. But once he had witnessed a nasty accident involving one of the servants.

From the way this Tredegar person had described it, this Oceanix place sounded like the very end of the earth. With reason, it had been disguised from the Muggles as a nature reserve. In person, it had proven even worse than the description.

He had then spent an initial sullen week wandering over the Oceanix property, casting stones into the foaming sea from atop the stark ten-metre cliffs, and climbing around sea caves in search of poisonous mollusks to use in potions. He had practiced Unforgivable Curses on random small animals, Engorgioed insects or arachnids, and sea birds - all of which he had imagined were Potter. The scion of the House of Malfoy had been home schooled in the Dark Arts, and he thought, schooled quite well.

Oceanix had had a surprisingly well-stocked supply of potion ingredients (even if temporarily short of shellfish toxin), for someplace as far into the back of beyond as it was. He had taken full advantage. Potions had always been his best subject - he had taken the O+ O.W.L., after all - and the only subject of consequence in which he believed he had surpassed the hated Potter. With little else to do, he had practiced his N.E.W.T.-level concoctions. When he had come across some already-stewed lacewings, Draco decided to attempt the Polyjuice Potion. The shortcut had been providential, as that potion ordinarily took weeks longer when started from scratch.

Nevertheless, he had soon been beyond bored. The ramshackle house, whilst not run down, had not been very modern either. The bucolic Oceanix house-elves were possessed of a rather limited set of culinary skills. There had been nothing to do and nobody worthwhile to talk to. Mother, he learnt, had resorted to pretending that she had gone half-way round the twist with depression after Father had been incarcerated. She had been quite frankly scared out of her wits … for her son. The insanity defense had been intended not only to protect her, but him as well.

Like Snape, she had warned him to remain inconspicuous and do nothing that would attract attention - especially the attention of the Dark Lord. Father had failed, she said, and the Dark Lord abhorred failure. With Father under lock and key at the moment, he was out of the Dark Lord's reach. As a result, Mother had been terrified that Lord Voldemort would revenge himself upon her only son, and Lucius' only heir.

Otherwise, Mother had pretended to be unable to carry on a coherent conversation about any important matter. Sometimes he had not even been sure it was an act. Whenever Draco had tried to discuss the family's now serious legal and financial situation, she would fall to pieces and begin weeping. He had hated seeing Mother like this. And slowly, he had begun to hate her as well - for displaying un-Malfoy-like weakness.

Surely, Mother was wrong, he had thought. Father would be out of Azkaban soon and would devise some scheme to save them all from this idiocy of rural life.

The enormity of his changed circumstances could no longer be denied when, on 25 June, 1996, a fortnight after Father's arrest, Draco had received the letter. It had happened just like Father had told him it would - "some day" had come early. An insignificant looking envelope had appeared on his nightstand from nowhere, addressed only to "Balthazar," his little-used middle name.

Knowing what it had been, but not wanting to believe it, Draco had nevertheless followed the procedure Father had drilled into his head. This was not supposed to be happening. Only last year the Dark Lord had freed his servants from Azkaban. That was what should have been happening again, not this. Evidently Mother had been right - the Dark Lord was wrathful.

Making sure he had been alone and would not be overheard, Draco had cast the pre-arranged spell over the seemingly blank piece of paper in the envelope. The erstwhile invisible ink had shown itself, responding not only to the spell that had been cast, but also to its source in his wand. Just as he had been told it would, the letter contained detailed instructions. He had waited until the next morning, when Mother would be out visiting pureblood society friends in London. Under cover of the ubiquitous, drizzling oceanic fog, he had set out. After following the extremely precise directions, he had found the canister hidden in a hollow tree.

Faithful to Father's instructions, Draco had taken the canister with him and inserted it into a grimy, half water-filled indentation in the stonework on the fence around the main building. A trapdoor had appeared. Marvelling at Father's thoroughness, he had descended into a tunnel that ran beneath the house. Presently, he had arrived at the hidden room promised by the letter. The torches had flared magically as he entered, filling the room with an eerie, bluish light.

The accommodations were comfortable enough, there being an elegant oaken table surrounded by a number of leather-bound chairs. Old books lined the walls. Despite Oceanix's perpetual dampness, there had been only the slightest hint of mildew in the air. Sliding the central leaves of the table apart had revealed another circular indentation. He placed the canister in the recess.

There was a hissing noise, and then a soft "pop" as the top of the canister separated. A smoky mist had emerged, glowing, and Father's diffuse image had soon taken form.

"Draco," Father's shimmering image had addressed him, "the fact that you are viewing this means that you must become a man - now. Either I am dead or as good as dead. Listen carefully, because I am going to provide you the information you need to become the new patriarch of the Malfoy line … the forty-fourth in a succession that traces itself back to Salazar Slytherin himself…."

To a rapt audience of one, his spectral father figure had then proceeded to provide him with contact information and numbers, communications procedures, vault combinations, access codes, maps, and diagrams. It took well over an hour, but it had been an hour well spent. By its end he had learnt everything he (and Father) thought would be necessary to carry the Malfoy name and fortune forward.

That is - if there were to be any Malfoy name, or especially fortune, left to direct.

Draco's follow-up contacts with the Malfoy family bankers and lawyers revealed a grimmer set of facts than he had ever thought possible. Father's bank accounts had been emptied, he was told in furtive whispers, on orders of the Dark Lord himself. The Ministry had seized Malfoy Manor and all the other landed estates that were either owned in Lucius Malfoy's name or had been subject to his legal control.

At first Draco had only sneered. Father would be freed soon, and he would know how to fix things. He always did - Father had always been the ultimate fixer.

Even if (he shuddered) Father were not to be freed, he had anticipated having to tolerate his presently reduced circumstances for only another half year (most of which would be spent at Hogwarts anyway). Upon attaining his majority, he had fully expected to inherit the even greater wealth of the Black family. He had been raised from infancy secure in the knowledge that the Black inheritance was his birthright and future.

Only now it was not.

And the reason it was not had once again been - Harry Potter.

Sodding, effing Harry Potter, who had just been tipped for the Order of Merlin - in large part for the capture and incarceration of Father and the others. When that had been announced, it had been enough to make him want to set the offices of the Prophet alight.

Draco had been shocked and infuriated beyond words once he learnt how the wheel seemed to be turning. Before the mountebank Sirius Black had died, the quasi-canine had executed a will leaving all his possessions (whatever those might be) to his godson - the one and same Potter. Nobody had given a damn at the time. Black owned nothing of consequence, save a life tenancy in Azkaban.

Then, the Ministry's raids turned up Black's original wand - the one with which he had committed all those crimes that had earned him his richly deserved life sentence. But that had been before Dumbledore had started insisting that Black's wand be tested using Priori Incantatem. Dumbledore had gone through the trouble of locating a brother wand from some godforsaken place on the Continent. With that wand, the Headmaster's wizards could conduct a thorough interrogation of Black's wand well beyond the last spell or two it had performed.

What if the old man turned out to be right and Black's wand proved that he had been innocent? The answer had been so foreign and so earth shattering to Draco, as the rightful heir of the Blacks, that the unfortunate barrister had to explain it three times before he understood all of the implications - and had admitted them to himself.

If Sirius Black were innocent, then Black was not subject to the exclusionary clauses in old man Orion Black's will. Black had never been granted a real trial. Because of that irregularity, the Wizengamot - Dumbledore again - had never formally accepted the conviction.

Dumbledore. He was coming to hate the Headmaster with every bit as much fervor as he hated Potter.

He had been shocked to learn from the Prophet that Father, under Veritaserum, had admitted that Peter Pettigrew - the wizard Black was charged with killing - was still alive.… Not only was he alive, but a Death Eater to boot, and the one who had seen to the Dark Lord's second rising. If Sirius Black were innocent, that meant that Black, not he, had been the first member of a succeeding Black generation to reach wizarding majority after the old man's will without first becoming either a criminal or a Death Eater.

If Sirius Black were not a criminal - he certainly had not been a Death Eater - then that meant Black would be the sole heir and beneficiary to Orion Black's will. The will's provisions operated automatically, so it would be of no moment that Black had never known of his inheritance. That had been the source of the Malfoy barrister's insistence that he sign another round of pleadings in the suit over his inheritance.

Black's innocence, if proven to the satisfaction of the Wizengamot, would mean that the entire Black estate, with its almost inconceivable wealth, would pass to Potter - Merlin-be-damned Potter - under Sirius Black's will.

In short, old Scarhead would be filthy rich, and he, Draco Malfoy, would just be filthy. The magnitude of this debacle had left him totally at sea. He had really needed advice from Father. Even with Mother's warning, he had never fully accepted that the Dark Lord would not act with his accustomed alacrity to free his loyal, if failed, servants.

Such illusion-shattering information had not been what he had expected to learn when he had scheduled that meeting with the family barrister. He had called that meeting only because Madam Umbridge had asked him to testify on her behalf in the Ministry inquiry involving - once again - Potter.

If not for the Potter connection, he would have declined and laid low as Mother and Professor Snape had both urged. Umbridge, after all, had never really been a follower of the Dark Lord, even if she sometimes acted like one. Still, her interests had coincided with those of the House of Malfoy frequently enough that Father had found her uncommonly useful. Father had thus encouraged him to cooperate with her at Hogwarts.

In the end, Umbridge had failed miserably in her attempt to take the Headmaster's job away from Dumbledore. For that reason alone - failure - he had initially not been inclined to involve himself with her legal defence. But once he had learned that the inquiry involved Potter, and that Scarhead would be testifying for the other side.… Well, he had to say yes after that.

Anything to get back at Potter.

During the preparations that followed, the subject of his inheritance had arisen, and he had learnt the awful truth. He had been impotently furious when he left, and had done something that he had never done before. He had gone straight back to Oceanix and got righteously pissed on an unappetising but nevertheless effective combination of Firewhisky and well-aged Muggle cognac (Louis XIII, of course).

That mixture had been pure nectar of antipathy - allowing him to give full vent to exactly what he thought of Potter and everything and everyone associated with him. He had felt so terrifyingly awful that he felt good. Whilst rendering him totally powerless, the elixir had made him feel powerful again. It had been a rare release for him just to yield up control to the demons of the bottle.

Draco had been, unfortunately, unused to being sozzled. He promptly lost his way in the largely unfamiliar house and had fallen down the cellar stairs. That had earned him a nasty cut on the leg for his troubles, courtesy of a jagged edge on an old rusted-through cast iron pipe that some idiot had stored by the basement staircase. It had been most unsanitary, but he had not wanted to advertise his inebriated condition to anyone. He had treated himself with some malodourous antiseptic he had found in the potion ingredients cupboard.

He had retired almost immediately thereafter. Being an inexperienced drunk, he had forgotten to set an alarm. Predictably, he had overslept and almost missed the Umbridge hearing. His head throbbing, and not even having time to shower, he had thrown on his robes, Scourgified himself as best he could, grabbed the satchel containing the notes he had made for his testimony, and Portkeyed to the Ministry.

Unfortunately, Draco found that he had grabbed the wrong satchel. Instead of being able to consult the notes that he had painstakingly assembled with the help of Umbridge's barrister, all he had brought with him to the bloody hearing was some of his latest batch of Polyjuice Potion. It had been a damnable situation. He had not even been able to conduct a last-minute review of his testimony.

Nor had it helped that, just as he had been entering the hearing room, he had encountered old Scarhead himself. The incendiary result had been undoubtedly quite predictable. Draco had initiated an exchange of insults. Potter had responded in kind. He had threatened to kill Potter. His enemy had done something weird and magical - without a wand. Then his barrister had intervened to end the altercation before it became really violent.

Nevertheless, the encounter had left him off balance, and it showed. Having just once again come off second best to the Boy Who Lived, Draco had been preoccupied and injudicious. As a result, his testimony had not been nearly as persuasive as could have been the case.

He had remembered the basic story line well enough, testifying that Umbridge's seemingly incriminating statements about Dementors and her going through the motions of performing the Cruciatus Curse were all a ruse to force information from reluctant student miscreants. Unfortunately, he had no real answer to offer to the question of how anyone could have anticipated that the lot of them would be captured at all, as the actions of Potter's Peanut Gallery had been spur of the moment. So Draco had filibustered - inartfully as he had readily admitted afterwards. Fortunately he had been able to avoid total disaster by invoking his pureblood rights to avoid testifying under oath. Still, he was not at all sure if he had sounded very believable….

Spite had been involved as well. He had learned from the posted schedule of witnesses that not only Potter, but the Mudblood as well, were to testify. Thus, he had expanded his testimony to include all of the salacious and unverifiable statements about the two Gryffindors that he had read in the last set of legal papers that he had signed in connection with the Black will contest. If those two were going to oppose him, he had decided, he would make it as unpleasant as possible by going out of his way to slime them both.

After his testimony had been completed, Draco had left for the Atrium in order to use one of the Floos to return to Oceanix. On his way out, however, he had noticed not one, not two, but three Weasleys. Speculating that they must have been waiting for Potter, he had gotten an idea. He could put that Polyjuice Potion to use….

It had turned out to be a capital idea, even though he had been considerably less than keen to appear in public bearing the likeness of Llewellyn Tredegar. Other than almost getting bowled over by either Fred or George Weasley (as always, it was too much bother to tell them apart), Draco had been able to spy on Potter with ridiculous ease. Whilst he had no use for either of the Weasley Twins, he had to admit that some of the products they sold were dead useful.

Most of all, he had been startled to hear Potter inveigle the pretty blonde court reporter to violate her oath of confidentiality regarding the will contest. That had not been the saintly Potter of the press clippings that Draco knew and loathed, but rather someone altogether more dangerous. It must have been the aphrodisiac effect of great wealth - something he had himself exploited for quite some time as need (and opportunity) would have it.

Still, he had thought that this information, properly husbanded and timely used, might prove a valuable legal weapon. Perhaps the advocates would be able to use it as evidence that Scarhead was corrupting the proceedings. Perhaps the barristers could convince the magistrate, or failing that a majority of the Wizengamot, that Potter was not a fit candidate for the Black inheritance after all.

Slightly less than a week later, with Father still languishing in prison, Draco finally managed to execute a ruse that brought him to the grounds of Malfoy Manor without anyone knowing where he was. Even better, he had bought himself enough time to put to good use some of the information Father's image had provided him. It helped that Mother, as she kept playing her mental act, had been unable to pay much attention to his whereabouts. Detesting the weakness inherent in her ruse, he had hardly cared. He had been finding his comfort in Black Pearl cognac and Firewhisky….

Secretly landing the Thestral he had "borrowed" from the Oceanix stables, Draco tethered it close to a Muggle town. Swallowing his pride, he had then stolen a Muggle bicycle. With his Seeker's balance, and minimal magical assistance, it had not been difficult for him to master the contraption. Thus, his visit to the home of his ancestors had begun in a fashion he would not have dreamed possible before this summer - Muggle style.

He had been relieved, but not necessarily surprised, when he saw no Auror's maroon in evidence at Malfoy Manor. He had used a simple spell to propel a rock that activated the wards. When he had confirmed that the only responders were paunchy, middle-aged wizards wearing the crest of the Escheats Office, Draco knew he was home free. From visits to Blackwalls with Father, he had known for quite some time that the Escheats blokes were a bunch of duffers if ever there were any. Typically, their response was neither very vigorous nor very vigilant. They had never even figured out anyone was still there, even though he had left the bike in plain sight whilst taking refuge under the Invisibility Cloak that Father had just bequeathed to him. Those Ministry dullards probably did not even know what a bicycle was.

Leaving the roadway well north of the Manor, he had backtracked on foot. Travelling south across land, he had located without difficulty the stream marked on the hand-sketched map that he had found with Father's instructions. The next several hundred metres had been rather boggy. He had congratulated himself on his foresight in having brought along a sturdy pair of Wellies from Oceanix.

Topping a beech-covered rise, he had heard his objective before seeing it - the unmistakable gurgling hiss of a waterfall where the fairly small stream he was following went over a relatively small cliff. The rocks near the falls had been moss-covered and treacherous, but Father's notes had warned him not to use any magic whatever, to avoid tripping the protective wards.

Portable handholds had abounded. He had cursed under his breath each time he slipped and slid, but persevered because the family name had been at stake. After what might have been the longest fifteen minutes of his life, Draco had finally picked his way over the mossy pile of scree to the back of the falls.

Although the slimy moss had greatly complicated his passage, it had also dispelled his greatest worry. The moss had been cool, lush - and delicate. Dark brown slashes marred the emerald carpet where his footsteps had just fallen. That no similar signs of human presence had preceded his passage gave him confidence that nobody else had recently passed this way. The fool Weasley's raiding Aurors had missed this hidden back entrance, just as Father had anticipated.

Draco had only needed to feel along the rocky, damp cliff face for a few moments. The indentation had been exactly where Father's message directed him. Using one hand to block stray rivulets of falling water with the Invisibility Cloak, he had carefully removed the canister from his robes and inserted it. That done, he next inserted the key that Father had instructed him to use. Almost immediately the cliff emitted a brief scraping noise. Then an irregularly shaped entrance to a roughhewn passageway had appeared, as if from nowhere.

Continuing to follow Father's instructions to the letter, Draco had inserted his wand into what he understood was a recognition chamber inside the door. For an instant he had feared a trap, as a blue light flashed and hit him flush in the chest. The light had quickly vanished, however, and he had seemed none the worse for wear. Only later had he deduced that, at the moment of the flash, he had become the master of the Manor. Thereafter, all of Malfoy Manor's various wards and other protective spells responded to his command.

Torches had flared automatically in their sconces as he cautiously made his way along the narrow underground tunnel for the first time. Whilst Draco had always known instinctively that such places existed below the Manor, he had never been there before. Father had kept many secrets, even from him. He had overheard bits of hushed conversation from time to time - maybe this was the place where Father had given shelter to the Dark Lord himself….

There were cobwebs in this place. Draco elongated his wand to serve as a spider stick. The torches also automatically extinguished themselves as he passed, which had given him the jitters. In front of him the tunnel had trailed off into the gloom. Behind him it did the same. At any point the unseen magic controlling the torches could have plunged him into darkness more profound than the blackest night. Draco's nagging disquiet at not even being in control of his small oasis of luminosity was magnified by his lack of foresight. His wandtip was tiny; he had not remembered to bring his own torch; and he dared not risk the possible consequences of attempting to remove one of those provided from its sconce.

Darkness ahead and darkness behind - if he had been of philosophical bent, Draco might have appreciated in this situation a metaphor for his life.

He had not been in any mood to be philosophical, however. He had been hoping against hope that he would find at least some of the Malfoy Manor complex untouched by Aurors and other Muggle-loving filth. In this, he had indeed been in luck.

After what had seemed like forever, the dreary tunnel had opened up into a series of equally dreary, but at least more capacious, rooms. There, Draco had discovered Father's secret stores - supplies and booty accumulated through decades of service to the Dark Lord. There had been a complete potions laboratory, an extensive library devoted to the Dark Arts, and a variety of potentially useful magical objects. There was even a quartermaster's collection of Ministry-issue equipment, no doubt pilfered from the Auror Corps and other Ministry security units infiltrated by Death Eaters.

On that first visit, Draco had conducted himself most carefully until locating "the Guests," as Father's image had euphemistically called them. He had found the two Dementors securely caged behind magically charmed steel bars. Fortunately, the amulets necessary to control them had been left plainly visible on a nearby (but not too nearby) table.

Father had been evasive, even with him, but he understood that the "Guests" had been in residence for almost a year. The Ministry had employed them, but after some sort of altercation, they had needed refuge. Father had provided it - in his own inimitable fashion - by confining them to a cell so magically powerful that even Dementors could not escape. Apparently these two Dementors had broken Azkaban discipline, and were guilty some sort of unauthorised attack. Although such attacks were ordinarily considered unpardonable, these Dementors must have had highly placed protectors in the Ministry. Father had agreed to house them as some sort of favour. He had always been the ultimate fixer.

Still, the Dementors had required feeding. From a ledger on the table, Draco learnt that once every two weeks the house-elves had been required to venture out and kidnap a couple of randomly chosen Muggles from randomly selected locations - usually near public houses. Draco supposed that the magical manacles hanging from the bars of the Dementors' cage were to hold these victims whilst the Dementors fed. After a couple of harrowing days having their happiness systematically drained from them, the Muggles would be released at some far removed location.

Draco had sneered at the thought of how those ignorant Muggles must have made up rumours of alien abductions in a pathetic attempt to explain what had happened to them. Still, he had been only too pleased to arrive when there were no Muggle prisoners on premises. Next time, however, he had vowed he would be prepared.

He had also quickly determined that the Ministry incompetents had never discovered Father's most inner sanctum, his Death Eater hall. An inscription had confirmed that the Dark Lord himself had supervised its construction two years ago, whilst a guest (much better treated than the Dementors) at the Manor. This hall still contained enough Death Eater equipment to outfit a full squad of Dark wizards, a gathering place, and various Death Eater apparatus.

Also in place was the communications hub of the once vast spy organisation that Father had supervised.

`That's all in the past now,' Draco had thought whilst passing by unused magical communication equipment already beginning to collect dust. With this equipment Father had operated the most extensive espionage network that the Dark Lord had ever commanded. Spies, like most people, were fair-weather friends. With the Dark Lord's defeat at the Ministry and Father's capture, Draco had fully expected that all of the spies who had once been so willing to back a winning side would now be avoiding their erstwhile Death Eater connections like the plague.

Thus, the last thing that he had expected to find was an obviously recent covert communication lying unopened in one of the receptacles. Curiously he had lifted the plain black envelope - which had spontaneously opened at his touch. Draco pulled out two pieces of enchanted parchment.

By such coincidence, lives would unalterably be changed.

Draco had found himself staring at a letter about Potter. Some witch (it was a woman's handwriting) was reporting that a "transcriptionist" in her section was gossiping about possibly "having an affair" with Scarhead. The spy was awaiting instructions on how to proceed. Should she encourage this witch to continue? It had all the makings of a scandal - not Profumo/Keeler of course, but something that might knock Potter at least partway off his bloody pedestal.

He had almost burned the letter in frustration. It had been just his luck that the one secret this spy would have stumbled upon was the one secret Draco already knew - she had obviously been in contact with the same court reporter that he had himself overheard talking to Potter some days previous.

Still, the irony had been exquisite. So, Scarhead was two-timing the Mudblood? Enviously, he had cursed the golden boy with feet of clay. None of the Slytherin girls he had relied upon for physical release (he hardly even thought of it as "pleasure" anymore) had given Draco the time of day since his family's recent eclipse. Nothing was more fickle than a female's attentions … especially a Slytherin female's.

But, goody-two-shoes Potter had evidently been able to get all that he wanted….

Still, being curious in a voyeuristic sort of fashion, Draco had looked up "Correspondent Number 64" in the master directory of the Dark Lord's confidential informers. Lucinda Trucipp…. Middle-aged witch, about 65-70.… Had been a spy for about five years.… Worked as a supervisor in a Wizengamot office that provided verbatim transcripts of testimony….

Draco was most amused. Father had kept this Trucipp woman operational largely because she had provided useful inside information about the Black will contest. She had never produced any information of significant import to the Dark Lord…. Trucipp had become a spy for ideological rather than financial or extortionate motives because she thought the Minister's people were ill disciplined.… She had been reliable, if somewhat slow and poorly situated….

At the time, Draco, too, had been thinking of nothing more than the inheritance contest. He promptly provided Correspondent 64 with instructions to encourage her unknowing friend to become romantically involved with Potter - in the strongest terms that would not evoke suspicion. He had hoped he could generate a scandal that might undercut Potter's attempt to steal the Black inheritance from him. Little had he realised on that first day where it all would lead….

Over the succeeding weeks, Draco had visited the unoccupied portions of Malfoy Manor as often as possible. Once the Manor and its servants recognised him as master, access was much easier. It had turned out that there was even a well-hidden entrance for Thestral riders. For his part, Tredegar had been all too happy to oblige his absences, as long as he was bribed with sufficient samples from the Manor's wine cellar.

Even though his excursions had been limited to dreary, underground dungeons, Malfoy Manor, to him, was nevertheless his real home. Draco instructed the house-elves - now his slaves, and absolutely loyal to him - to spy on the Ministry drones who were ostensibly in charge of the rest of the property. He bided his time, hoping that the Dark Lord would free Father. The ever-shrinking contents of Father's liquor cabinet had helped him with the wait.

The next weekend, he had finally managed to see Father, if only for a few minutes. The solicitors had received a notice setting Father's trial for 28 August. They had been authorised to visit him to try to plan a defence. Ever the dutiful son, Draco insisted on tagging along, even though there had been no assurance he - as a mere relative - would be allowed any face time by the Aurors who had assumed guard duties after the defection of most of the Dementors.

Ultimately, he had been permitted the grand total of five minutes alone with Father. The older man had looked awful - pale, disheveled, dirty, and dressed in little better than rags. Gone from Father's face had been the perpetual half smirk, which had been replaced with enough lines for him to have aged ten years for every week he had spent in Azkaban. Gone as well was Father's commanding, purposeful gait. Instead, he had shuffled uncertainly from place to place.

Even though there were no longer any Dementor guards, Father had not seemed to be mentally all in one place. Draco feared that Father was likely to get barmier before he got better. There had been persistent articles in the Prophet that Azkaban would be turned over to the goblins to operate. Once again, it had seemed to have something to do with Potter.

The father/son conversation had been extremely indirect and elliptical because of the certainty that outsiders were listening in. Draco managed to convey that he had received and followed his instructions and reclaimed at least some part of the Manor. That had prompted the only smile that crossed Father's face the entire visit. No matter what was going to happen, the torch had been passed successfully to a new generation.

Even more elliptically, Draco also managed to convey to Father his hope that "last year's history would repeat." That statement had prompted Father's ominous reply that, "Sometimes failure is not an option." He had not been sure what Father had meant. He had chosen to view it as a warning that no rescue should be attempted on his behalf unless it had a certainty of success. He had shuddered - did Father think he had come as an emissary of the Dark Lord? Was he supposed to be?

The next day, everything had changed. Draco received an unexpected owl from Ted Nott, strongly suggesting that they meet to discuss "matters of mutual interest." He had always been cool to Nott, even though they were both in the same year at Slytherin House and both had parents who served the Dark Lord. He had resented Nott because the other boy was more clever and apparently, better informed. Nott undoubtedly resented the superior social position enjoyed by the Malfoys.

Nott had always been something of a loner. For a Slytherin, he was not particularly well off. His mother had died of her own hand. Only once before had Draco ever had more than a casual natter with Nott, that being when Nott's father had him in tow during a trip to the Manor to discuss Death Eater business with Father.

Then, he and Nott had played "can you top this" with their grievances against the Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore. They also speculated about Potter - how Scarhead kept managing to cheat death at the hands of their fathers' mutual Master. They both wondered why the Dark Lord had given a tinker's damn about Potter in the first place.

Beyond that, they had always gone their own separate ways. Draco had always been the Quidditch playing social lion of Slytherin. Nott, by contrast, had been the rather bookish outsider who nevertheless was not one to be trifled with. Moose Montague had learnt this the hard way when Nott once caught him soiling his duvet with Bubotuber Pus as some sort of prank. Nott retaliated with some spell that resulted in Montague swallowing the stuff. Montague had spent almost two weeks in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.

Nobody had bothered Nott after that.

Still wanting to maintain a modicum of social leverage over Nott, Draco arranged to meet him the very next day by the stile at the end of the lane that left Hogsmeade opposite from Hogwarts Castle. The area was relatively wild and deserted, particularly when the school was on holiday. His short notice response to Nott meant that their meeting had more the feel of a Malfoy summons than of a mutually agreed event. That had been his intent.

Nevertheless, Nott had been there at the appointed time, affecting his usual nonchalant attitude. Draco handed the other boy one of the special Portkeys from Father's storeroom. With a jerk and flash of colours, the two Slytherins had been transported to a safe location not far from Malfoy Manor.

The sudden Portkey did indeed make an impact on Nott. Inwardly he had been pleased that his preparations to overawe the other boy seemed to be working.

Draco then had produced two Invisibility Cloaks - another ostentatious show of wealth given their rarity - and he had shepherded Nott through one of the secret entryways to what he considered the "liberated" part of the Manor. Stopping at the very first underground room they had passed, which was well removed from the most important part of the catacombs, he had motioned Nott in an offhanded, but nevertheless imperious, fashion to take a seat and explain his business.

Draco had also offered a bottle, but Nott had waved it off, saying that he could not afford to dull his faculties. Nott had willing to accept sweets, however.

He would never forget the conversation with Nott that followed as long as he lived.

"As you can see, I still have access to part of the Manor, despite the worst that the Ministry can do," Draco had begun. "Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your request for an audience?"

"Believe it, this is no pleasure trip," Nott had retorted. "I'm here because, like it or not, we're both in the same boat. You're nothing if not resourceful," the boy had continued as he unwrapped one of the Chocolate Frogs provided by one of the Malfoy house-elves, "so I'm wondering what you have in mind to spring your father from Azkaban?"

Draco had been taken aback, and had tried to maintain a relaxed expression whilst popping a chocoball. "Well," he drawled, "for now I'm leaving things to the Dark Lord. I rather suspect that he has more resources than either of us."

"You'll be waiting for quite some time, I'm afraid," Nott had sneered, not at all respectful of their parents' Master. "The trial date's been set. Your father and mine could very well both end up kissed, what with the public mood like it is."

Draco stiffened at this, and his ears had begun going red. "The Dark Lord wouldn't stand for that. Father is too important to his operation. An escape will be even easier than last year, with almost all the Dementors gone…."

"What makes you think the Dark Lord even gives a damn?" Nott had asked archly.

"What makes you think the he doesn't?" He had shot back.

Like he had been waiting in the weeds all along, Nott pounced on that flippant remark. "My father at least told me something of what was going on," he had taunted. "Unlike you, I see…. That whole Ministry thing…. It was your father's bright idea. There was some prophecy the Dark Lord wanted. Apparently only Potter could get it. Your father dreamed up some trap. But it didn't work. The Dark Lord was publicly humiliated by Dumbledore, Potter and Potter's merry little band. The Dark Lord doesn't like failure. I think he's ready to let them all rot - or worse."

Draco had remembered Father's last words to him. Then it had all started making sense. He had been shaken, but tried to keep up his brave front. "Well, I don't think so.…"

Nott had jumped down his throat again, whilst fumbling with another Chocolate Frog. "You're a bloody Slytherin. So am I. At bottom we're supposed to trust nobody. At least you should have a Plan B when the Dark Lord lets us all down in order to exact his own punishment from our fathers."

"You can't pressure the Dark Lord," Draco responded, thinking of the unquestioning obedience that Father had always told him Lord Voldemort demanded. "He'd kill us without a moment's hesitation."

"True," Nott reluctantly concurred. "But we need to find something to convince him to act; otherwise, I doubt we'll ever see our fathers again." Nott had clutched futilely after the escaping Chocolate Frog that had started hopping away with its card still attached to its back.

Draco deftly skewered the wayward frog with his wand. "Agreed," he had muttered sloppily as he bit the head off of Nott's frog whilst stripping away the card. "But what…? Oh bloody Hell…."

Nott watched Draco's face purple with fury. "What's got into…?" Nott had gone silent once Draco had flung the Chocolate Frog card at him. Nott had snatched it from midair, and almost choked at the sight of Potter's picture on it. "We can't get away from that blighter, can we?" Nott had grumbled.

Draco had sighed, thought a bit, but then his eyes had narrowed. "Actually, there is something the Dark Lord wants badly enough that we might gain some bargaining leverage," he said, gesturing at the card, "…and I think I know a little something that even Scarhead's own people don't…."

And thus the plot - which came to be known as "the Potterless Conspiracy" by its participants - had been born. The plot had given Draco back his focus. He had not touched anything alkie after that.

It began as a more-or-less idle Plan B, as Draco had retained more faith in the Dark Lord than had Nott. But at least the plotting had been something useful to be getting on with. It had certainly been better than sitting around, getting plastered, and doing nothing.

His thick-skulled sidekicks, Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, had been enlisted without trouble. By desolate coincidence, it transpired that Crabbe's father was another of the Death Eaters who had fallen victim to Potter's bloody Marauders. The struggle to keep a roof over the Crabbe family's head had consumed every bit of his mother's time and every fragment of her attention. Crabbe had been on his own and at loose ends. He was an easy recruit.

Goyle had been little better off. His father was also a Death Eater, and after the disaster at the Ministry, dear old dad had been away almost constantly in the Dark Lord's service. What was worse (or better, from a Malfoy perspective), Goyle's parents had told him that he had to get a job - either that or stand in a Muggle dole line.

Providentially, Crabbe and Goyle had nothing to look forward to besides becoming last ditchers for the Dark Lord. They had both received negative O.W.L.s - meaning that they had failed more examinations than they had passed. Negative O.W.L.s meant that they had flunked out of Hogwarts. They were not going to be back to school. Thus they had been facing bleak and uncertain futures, and had been more than willing to let themselves be led by Draco Malfoy … and Ted Nott.

Draco had quickly requested and received information about Eliza Marie Brookings' whereabouts from Lucinda Trucipp. He had been appalled (but not entirely surprised) to learn that she had "gone native" and was living as a Muggle in a Muggle neighbourhood in London. If possible, he thought even less of Potter for shagging an apostate witch.

Nevertheless, Scarhead had been in the position to pick the playing field, so he and Nott had no choice but to prepare to play on hostile turf. They had caught a lucky break when the flat immediately below Brookings' had gone vacant. Nott had quickly arranged for Crabbe and Goyle to let that flat and live there as Muggles. For once, the two had played their role perfectly - not that difficult because that role had been to act like a pair of clueless and anonymous Muggle lunkheads - and to stay out of Potter's way.

It had been Nott's idea for the two of them to blast a Muggle stereo at top volume until that Brookings girl finally became sufficiently upset to confront them. It had been quite a risk in retrospect. If she had sent Potter, he would have recognized the pair of Slytherin drop outs immediately. Fortunately, she had come herself, and Crabbe and Goyle had gone properly apologetic. Shortly thereafter they feigned contrition, and had offered to help Brookings move a new sound system into her flat. Whilst inside, Crabbe and Goyle had been able to hide a number of Ministry spy marbles - another something useful he had found in Father's stash of stolen Auror equipment. Even they could fool that half-Muggle slag.

After that, the plotters had been able to keep Eliza Brookings under constant surveillance whenever she was in her flat.

Draco still had access to some money from several relatively small (to him, anyway) trust funds left by other Malfoy ancestors. Also, with Mother continuing to play her divorced-from-reality shtick, it had fallen to him to handle her accounts. Some of those funds had stuck to his fingers as well.

Whilst he had remained personally well away from the goblins, he had funnelled the necessary funds to Crabbe and Goyle. They converted Galleons to pounds to pay the rent. Draco had also provided them with enough money that, to their harried parents, it had appeared that they had found gainful employment. With their parents fooled into thinking that they had steady employment, Crabbe and Goyle had instead been at Draco's constant beck and call.

The "Potterless Conspiracy" slowly crystallised from idle musings into a real plan of action. Draco brewed a constant supply of Polyjuice Potion, and Nott obtained hairs from random wizards. Thus disguised, Nott had devoted his time to shadowing Scarhead - always from a sufficient distance to avoid stirring the suspicions of Potter's handlers.

Through Nott, Draco had gained familiarity not only with Potter's routines, but also with persistent and disturbing rumours that Scarhead actually possessed some sort of tremendous, but uncontrollable power. At first he had dismissed such rumblings, telling Nott that his family lawyers had fabricated those rumours as a legal tactic in the Black litigation.

But what Nott had been hearing was more recent. He learnt that there were whispers about various accidents Potter had had during his training - training for what? Draco wondered. He had cared little about the nature of the Fifth Element allegations that had appeared in the briefs his lawyers had filed, but these new rumours had been from a different source, and they warranted extreme caution.

It was at about this time that Draco had successfully solicited the involvement of the mysterious person whom he would only describe as "The Contact" to his small band of plotters.

For good and weighty personal reasons, the Contact had wanted Scarhead out of the way - and rather quickly. The Contact was willing and able to help him with what the two of them referred to as "diversions" and "alibis." Crabbe and Goyle hardly mattered. They had become latchkey children - and Hogwarts dropouts as well. Nobody would care about them. But Nott and Draco had other plans, and they had needed alibis to make those plans work.

Nott's alibi was going to be that he had joined the Death Eaters in honour of his father. He was not keen on returning to Hogwarts as almost an orphan. He had already had enough of being looked down upon by other Slytherins. If the Potterless Conspiracy failed, Nott was planning to try his hand as a Death Eater for real - if the Dark Lord would still have him.

Draco, on the other hand, had hatched the more elabourate excuse that he was transferring to Durmstrang. Mother was tricked into signing a letter to Hogwarts, addressed to Professor Snape, stating that he had withdrawn and would be seeking education elsewhere. Ever the scion of the House of Malfoy, this alibi had meant that he could hedge his bets - as long as the Contact could carry off the promised cover story and fake his presence at Durmstrang.

Draco's hopes that the Dark Lord would make all of his preparations unnecessary briefly surged when word came of widespread Death Eater attacks. Those hopes plunged back to Earth, however, after it had become apparent that the Dark Lord had contented himself with attacking Scarhead's friends and their families. He had not lifted a finger to redeem his followers imprisoned in Azkaban. After these events, Draco had finally reconciled himself to the fact that the Dark Lord was not bloody likely to play deus ex machina to his current problems. He and Nott were on their own.

That realisation had been the moment when, for Draco, the plot had become truly real, and was no longer just an elaborate charade.

Plot or no plot, everything else quickly went from bad to worse. Some of the goblins - and some very highly placed ones at that - were evidently working hand and glove with Potter. Like a bolt from the blue, Mother had received a threatening legal letter from some bloody bob-ear named Bladvak. That goblin was claiming that there were financial irregularities between Father's accounts and certain captive accounts of the Black Estate.

He had taken the dunning letter to the family solicitor. The solicitor did some checking, and as usually happens when lawyers get involved, things had turned out to be even worse than Draco had anticipated. During the many years that Draco's accession to the Black fortune had seemed assured, Father had "borrowed" considerable sums from various accounts of the estate - borrowings frequently followed in short order by the payments to Minister Fudge and others whose identities had recently been revealed in the Prophet.

Now, the goblins had relieved the Black Estate's most malleable bookkeeper, and were undertaking their own audit of the Black Estate's books on behalf of another serious claimant - Harry fracking Potter. Worse, they were demanding that these outstanding "loans" be satisfied. The goblins referenced some formal-sounding legal papers Father had executed in order to facilitate his son's claim to the Black fortune. The bob-ears were threatening to put lis pendens liens on Malfoy Manor.

Could they even do that? Draco's impression that the goblins were precluded from pursuing creditors' actions against pure-blood property turned out to be woefully inaccurate. The lawyers had to warn him that, whilst goblins could not act on their own behalf, they could institute proceedings on behalf of a wizard. Here, the Goblins could seek foreclosure against Malfoy Manor in Scarhead's name.

The thought of Potter as legal owner of Malfoy Manor was unthinkable, but there was no money anywhere that Draco could lay hands on that would be enough to pacify the damned goblins. Not only were the sums claimed to be owning larger than anything Draco owned personally, but the goblins' demands also constituted a considerable percentage of Mother's entire dowry.

One more reason that Potter had to be eliminated - and soon.

The Contact was also pushing for action. Draco had gone back and forth with the Contact about the Contact's demand to see words converted into action by a date certain. The Contact had promised not only to provide him with an airtight personal alibi, but also to provide a diversion the likes of which would keep both wizard and Muggle authorities busy whilst the deed was done. In return, however, the Contact had wanted action.

Finally, the Contact had simply set a deadline: 21 August. Either the plot was to be carried out by that date, or the Contact would cease all involvement in the Potterless Conspiracy. For good measure, the Contact had threatened to Obliviate the lot of them.

Draco wanted to beat that deadline, for a variety of reasons. Scarhead's relationship with that Brookings woman was one fly in the ointment. Partially from surveillance - but even more from the now regular pouch that he was getting from Lucinda Trucipp - he had reason to question the permanence of Potter's little love affair. On the one hand, Brookings was now wearing an expensive locket with Potter's picture in it. On the other hand, things were not progressing as she wanted. Trucipp had bewitched a mini-Wizard's Wireless to record her conversations with Brookings and had sent Draco weekly Quick Quotes Quills that scratched out those conversations verbatim. He sneered at the thought, but all the signs pointed to Potter having a case of size 15 cold feet.

Then the pouches stopped coming. Trucipp informed him that Brookings had abruptly quit her job. It had everything to do with Potter, she said. He was worried. That Brookings woman could just as easily decide to find a new residence as a new job. If Potter ever got over his cold feet - a little love nest would be just the thing. This was yet another reason that he had to act.

Thus, everything had flowed together. On the evening of 14 August, 1996, Draco found himself pacing back and forth in Crabbe and Goyle's monotonous, minuscule Muggle flat making last-minute preparations. The moment of truth was less than an hour away. Potter was expected at 7:30, according to intercepted mobile calls. Over their heads, the magical apostate woman was inanely puttering about, getting ready for Scarhead.

He checked to ensure that Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle - in addition to himself - had their hand mirror communicators in working order. The four Slytherins would be in constant and immediate contact to ensure precise timing. Draco, of course, was the only one who would speak to the Contact - he always was.

It was time to ensure that they would be able to strike when Potter was least expecting it. This aspect of the Potterless Conspiracy was straight out of standard Death Eater tactics. As ready as he would ever be, Draco summoned the new stepladder he had bought with him to complement his disguise as a Muggle painter - in which he had been able to gain entrance to the building. He cursed as he futilely tried to set up the damned Muggle device. Nott waved him off and expertly unfolded the ladder.

Draco ascended the ladder. From a pocket of his robes he produced one of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' most useful products - a Portable Hole. Kneading it impatiently, he enlarged its diameter to about half a metre across. Nott was carefully listening to the hidden marble-sized microphones in the flat above. He gave the signal.

Quickly, Draco affixed the Portable Hole to the ceiling. Standing on the highest step of the ladder, he pushed his head and shoulders through the hole into Eliza Brookings' flat one storey up.

Her back was turned - just as he had hoped. He pulled out his wand and aimed. "Imperio," he whispered.

The blonde apostate witch stopped in her tracks and dropped the mini-Hoover she had been using. He recognised a dustbuster from one of the Muggle adverts near the Ministry. `Pathetic bitch,' he thought. Under the Death Eater philosophy in which Draco had been steeped since infancy, the only thing worse than a Mudblood was an apostate. `Gone completely over to the Muggles.… The Dark Lord would not suffer this one…,' he thought maliciously.

Draco wanted everything over with as quickly as possible. He gave the command that, under the Imperius Curse, Potter's latest abomination would be powerless to resist, "You will seduce Harry Potter tonight, by any means necessary."

His spell complete, Draco quickly removed the Portable Hole, descended the ladder, and took two deep, calming breaths. He ladled out Polyjuice Potion from the paint can he had carried. He ended the spell cast on his long-handled paint roller. It Retransfigured into his broom.

Pulling on the Death Eater robes and mask that he had "borrowed" from Father's collection, Draco commanded, "Everyone to his positions."

Covering himself with an Invisibility Cloak, he mounted his Nimbus 2001 and flew out of the window.

It was now or never. Potter was about to get his.

* * * *

The moment she opened the door, Eliza sensed that something was very, very wrong with Harry. It was nothing he said. Talk was not necessary to make his feelings obvious - and in fact he did not. As he wordlessly entered her flat, waves of magical agony cascaded off of him in all directions. She had never seen, or felt, anyone as tense as the love of her life was at that moment.

"Harry, what is it?" she asked nervously. "You're very late…. It's not like you…."

He did not answer, unless one counted a guttural sound halfway between a grunt and a squeal.

"Are you all right….? Did something … something happen…? Oh God … not more attacks."

Harry just looked at her sadly, whilst shaking his head slightly - indicating, at least, that he heard and had not been attacked - not by Death Eaters, anyway. He took a couple of steps forward, clearing the door enough so that she could close it, which she quickly did.

"There's … there's … something going on that's … that's not right," she twittered anxiously. "Let's get you seated so you can … well, sit down, anyway."

Ignoring a growing sensation of unease, she slipped her hand into his and slowly guided him to the davenport. To get him just to sit down, she had to lean on him, gently but firmly. For a moment, he resisted, but then Harry collapsed onto the cushions with a loud sigh. Once seated, he stared morosely into space, looking out the window to where the lights of Central London were beginning to blink on in the gathering gloom.

Gathering gloom was precisely how he felt … and he had been gathering plenty.

Eliza slid as close to Harry as she dared, and starting massaging his back. Wordlessly, she kneaded his tightened trapezius and stroked his densely drawn deltoids. Five minutes passed…. Then ten…. Then a quarter hour. Despite her several attempts to initiate conversation, he had yet to speak anything more than a groan or two. But slowly, ever so slowly, she could feel him start to relax.

All this hands-on with Harry was starting to arouse Eliza - it was involuntary, he just did that to her - but real, nonetheless.

"Harry," she whispered. "What ever happened? Please talk to me."

"I…. I can't.… Not right now," he choked out.

Eliza exhaled. This was not what she expected. She had to get through to him - to stop Harry from torturing himself over whatever was bothering him. She snuggled a little closer and moved her hands down to his waist, all the while trying to recall the therapeutic massage techniques she had learned in that Hogwarts Basic Healing class all those years ago.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, whispering "I love you Harry. I just need to know how I can help…."

She squealed, half in pain and half in surprise, as he brusquely elbowed her away.

"Harry!" she cried out, completely taken aback.

He looked at her, his face set in an imperturbable, and rather frightening, mask. In response, shock and surprise became etched on Eliza's face. Tears of hurt glistened in the corners of her eyes.

Harry realised at once that he was doing it again. He was driving away someone who genuinely wanted to be with him - someone who actually loved him. It was hardly her fault that he loved … had been in love with, someone else. His whole life had been one long, drawn-out exercise in emotional futility. Not knowing anything else, he was showing her the same gnawing ache that he felt deep inside.

Harry reached his breaking point at the thought of what he had done to Hermione and how, just hours apart, he was now repeating history with Eliza. The mask he wore tottered, crumbled, and finally fell. He started sobbing - not just sniffles, but great wracking wails of despair that echoed across his innermost core of emptiness - howls that reverberated from a hole torn in his very soul.

Stunned by his frank display of emotional desolation, Eliza found it impossible to stay angry with him or frightened of him - even if he had been physically aggressive towards her. He was not, after all, the first guy who had struck her in anger. There was that dolt of a boyfriend that she had ditched almost two years ago. Otherwise, though, he had been as different from Harry as chalk and cheese. Good in bed, but ultimately a druggie with hardly a pence to his name, and in the end hardly a thought in his brain.

She caught herself after zoning out for a moment, then her hand came to her mouth. Now, that was an idea….

Harry was still crying bitter tears. Eliza tentatively reached out, and when he did not resist, she embraced him. He did not push her away this time. Emboldened, she pulled him closer to her, until she could feel the wet from his tears penetrate the fabric of her jumper. He still did not resist, and did not seem at all inclined to lash out at her again. She cooed his name over and over again, cradling him, stroking the hair on the back of his head. As Harry's sobs lessened into whimpers and sniffles, she lifted his face to hers, and kissed him, shooing away the tears with her thumbs. Again, he did not resist.

Eliza pushed further, kissing Harry deeper. Gradually, Harry allowed his hurt to surrender to her ministrations, losing his own self in her kisses. Increasingly wrapped up in everything that was Eliza, his emotional gyroscope began to reset. Harry felt his tears dissipate and cease. The smell of her, the feel, and the passion bubbling from within her shaved away a small portion of Harry's despair. He began willing himself to forget, and gave into her further, allowing her to pull off his bulky (and somewhat ripe) robes and shoes.

"Please talk, Harry," Eliza pleaded. "Whatever's going on is tearing you up inside. You've got to let it out before you can heal."

The magic of the kiss ended, his mind wandered back. He slumped over, chest to knees, arms drooping, his knuckles scraping the carpet, until he grabbed his own ankles. "I don't want to," he muttered.

"But you need to," she persisted. "I'll say it again. I love you, Harry. I can't bear to see you like this. You've got to talk it out." She leaned over him and recommenced kneading his back. He was still undeniably tense. His scent was strong - and enticing.

"It's.… It's.… It's.… Oh damn, I've been such a toerag!" Harry wailed. "A bigger git's never been born."

"It can't be that bad," Eliza commiserated. "What happened?"

Harry turned his head slowly and regarded her with a quivering jaw and eyes again so bottomlessly sad that they looked ancient. "It's worse than bad," he murmured. "It's … it's … the end." He took a very deep breath….

So did Eliza. All of a sudden she had the horrid realisation that maybe he was about to declare their relationship over.

"Hermione slapped me silly and told me she doesn't want to see me again…. There, I've said it. Are you satisfied?" His voice had started out softly but grew increasingly agitated with each syllable.

That response had been so unexpected that Eliza could not think of anything worthwhile to say for a long moment. She laid the side of her head on Harry's back, and held him around his midsection. Finally, she spoke, "You're right. I guess it actually could be that bad…. I'm not going to ask you how or why. I've only got one question…."

"What?" Harry asked in a tone that suggested a strong disinclination towards answering.

"Did … did … did it have anything to do with me?" she asked in a very small voice.

He exhaled loudly. "No." he affirmed, "I can truthfully say that Hermione slapping me had nothing whatever to do with you - or with us being us."

When she heard him say "us" Eliza's own tension broke, and her own tears welled up. "I'm the one who really loves you, Harry," she replied softly - so relieved that her own nightmare scenario had failed to materialise.

Harry had no idea what to think anymore. He had made this date with the intent of breaking things off with Eliza. After that, he hoped that he could honestly tell Hermione how he felt, and that his best friend would not tell him to go pound sand.

But Hermione had just declared that, not only was his love in vain, but also how his latest escapade had gone too far - that she no longer even wanted him around as a friend.

Harry's prior plans no longer made any sense. It was as if they had been prepared for another lifetime. He remembered some Muggle song in that pile of "soft" CDs for which Dudley no use. It had gone, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with…."

In one swift moment, Harry sat up, turned, and captured Eliza's face between his strong hands. At the end of that movement, he kissed her.

Eliza was stunned - and ecstatic. Harry had never initiated a kiss before. It was not that he was a bad kisser; more like he had trouble believing that anyone would find him worth kissing. She kissed him back. He was still terribly tense. It was almost like kissing a mannequin.

"Harry, you need something to eat," she said, breaking it off. "I made dinner, but it's gone cold. I could heat it back up, though."

"Not hungry," he grunted.

"Harry you have to relax," Eliza declared flatly.

"I know, but I'm sorry, I can't right now," he replied.

"Do you trust me, Harry?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes, of course," Harry answered, somewhat perplexed. "I wouldn't have come here after what had happened if I didn't." That was not entirely true, but his original purpose had become less than irrelevant and more than absurd.

"Then I … I have something that can help you relax," she said. "I want you to try it - and not get prejudiced, and all." Eliza got up and started towards her bedroom.

"Remember, I've sworn off the sauce," he said, only half jokingly.

"Oh, it's nothing like that," Eliza answered, only half joking herself.

She entered her bedroom and opened the knickers drawer in her chest of drawers. She moved all the silk and cotton undergarments to one side and took out a small cedar chest with "420" elaborately carved on the lid. It was something that she had not opened in almost two years. She cracked the top and peered in. Yes, it was still there. She counted three three-skin joints done Yank rather than Jamaican style … and a small zip-loc with some desiccated greyish-greenish sinsemilla flakes inside. The odour confirmed what her other senses already knew.

That old berk of a boyfriend had ultimately turned out to be worse than useless, but he had shown her how to relax. Now Eliza was going to show Harry. Nobody needed to relax more than he did just now.

On her way back to him, she stopped by the WC and plucked a cardboard toilet roll from the bin.

Harry was a little more lively now. She hoped that with a little help from her friends in the box, she could get him all the way back - or even better.

"What's that?" he asked curiously. "It smells funny."

Eliza replied airily, "It's weed, otherwise known as marijuana. Sometimes called the `thinking man's cigarette.' I haven't used it in years, but you're so tense…. This will help you relax. Trust me."

"Isn't that illegal?" Harry replied warily.

"No more illegal than the magic that you used to save me from those horrid Muggle muggers," Eliza answered flatly. He had no response, so she continued. "It's harmless, but entertaining, and I can make sure nobody ever knows." With that she collected her wand from a nearby countertop and cast not only a Soundproofing Charm around the entire flat, but a Disolfactorus Charm as well. That charm did to odours what the Soundproofing Charm did to noise. For good measure, she placed a Muggle-Repelling Charm across the front door.

Eliza was still good at charms when she wanted to be.

"I thought you didn't like using magic in this Muggle flat," he observed.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," she retorted, "and I never saw anyone as desperate as you when you first showed up tonight - a half an hour late, by the way."

With Harry watching intently, she used another spell that heated the tip of her wand. She quickly burnt a small hole in the cardboard tube, and then enlarged the hole with a serving knife. After making sure that the skins were not about to separate, she lit the end of the first joint with the same spell. She took two small drags until she was sure that it would stay lit. Once confident that it would not go out, she inserted the other end of the joint into the hole in the tube and lodged it securely.

Harry's nostrils flared ever so slightly as he caught the first pungent whiff of the oddly sweet-smelling smoke. The smell was not as completely novel as he expected it would be. He remembered that he had sometimes noticed the same stale odour on his cousin's clothes - not so much recently as in prior summers. Because it was Dudley, he had never given it a second thought.

"Harry," Eliza said softly, causing him to refocus, "watch me. Since you've never done this before, I brought this tube so you don't have to take … er … toke the smoke full blast. Have you ever smoked anything before?"

He shook his head negatively. Except from open fires, and his own hair set alight, Harry had never breathed smoke. It had never before occurred to him even to try cigarettes. They caused cancer, after all. Maybe this did too … but with Voldemort after him, did that really matter?

Eliza brought the tube to her lips with her right hand, the lit joint sticking straight up from the far end. Covering that end of the tube with the flat of her left hand, she inhaled. The ember at the end of the joint glowed brightly. She almost coughed herself - she was seriously out of practice. Quickly cupping her left hand, she allowed some air to enter the tube to dilute the smoke. It had been a very long time, and she wanted to avoid looking silly.

Holding her breath, Eliza noiselessly gestured for Harry to take the tube. He did, and tried to imitate her. He exhaled, jammed the tube against his lips, covered the other end firmly and strongly inhaled. Within seconds he dissolved into a coughing, gagging fit.

Giggling at his amateurish discomfiture, she reclaimed the tube. "Take it easy, Harry. It's not going anywhere, I'm not going to bogart it, and there's more where this came from. This is your first time…. Relax. Breathe in gently and slowly. If you feel like you're going to cough, let in some air through the back of the tube. That's what the tube is for, so you can carburate your hit."

Harry listened carefully to her directions but said nothing. He wondered what "bogart" and "carburate" meant. But, at bottom, he trusted Eliza. It was obvious that, whilst he had been paying attention during her first demonstration, he had not known what he was supposed to look for. Eliza showed him again. Harry quickly got better at using the apparatus.

Before they were even done with the first joint, Harry noticed that he was feeling not only better, but most peculiar. His extreme tension was leaking away, along with his black despair. Something lighter was floating into his brain.

Eliza put on some music - a CD bearing a picture of a prism by some group called Pink Floyd - and cut the lamps. They stood by the window, arms around each other's waists, looking east across the lights of London. Somehow, the colours looked more vivid, and the music sounded more intense, than he ever recalled previously.

Thus sated, Harry turned and once again snogged Eliza properly. She kissed him back enthusiastically. Both thought the feeling was fantastic. He felt almost like he was floating on air….

Harry also realised that now he was starving. It had been noontime since he had last had anything to eat. Upon his inquiry, Eliza raised the lamps and looked over the remains of the meal she had cooked. The pasta was beyond saving, but the Swedish meatballs themselves could be reheated. When she mentioned this to him, he took care of it in no time flat. His impressive, if a little overenthusiastic, display of wandless magic left scorch marks on the tablecloth. At some other time they both might have been mortified, but for once the both of them just found the accident hilarious.

They broke down into seemingly uncontrollable giggling fits, each one's laughter encouraging, and feeding upon, the other's.

Their appetite for food soon being satisfied, they lit up the second joint. They were about halfway done with it when she decided to show him something new. She plucked the joint out of the tube and brought her face very close to his. Her left hand snaking around the back of Harry's neck, she whispered, "Close your eyes and start inhaling through your mouth, hard, when I pinch the back of your neck."

Intrigued, he happily agreed.

She reversed the joint and held it with the lit end inside her mouth so that only a couple of centimetres of the opposite end protruded. When she pinched the back of his neck, she simultaneously exhaled robustly through the joint. This produced a strong stream of smoke that Harry sucked up until he was simply overwhelmed and had to pull away. He rolled backwards, ending up lying on his back on the floor. He flopped there staring at the ceiling with his legs and arms splayed out on the carpet. It seemed like the room around him was pulsating rhythmically with the music. After a few moments silence, he could only whisper breathlessly, "Wow!"

Eliza studied the young man as he sprawled before her now utterly relaxed, and wondered, `should I?' Something told her she should.

Taking a drag herself, she helped him back into a sitting position. "Ready for another go?" She asked expectantly.

"Yeah," Harry responded dreamily, his eyes losing their usual sharp focus and starting to cloud over in hazy bliss.

Eliza repeated the process, but when Harry started to pull away this time, she dropped what remained of the joint into a half empty bowl of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans, and snogged him deeply. As he rolled backwards to the floor, she followed him down. Her hands sliding around his neck, she pulled herself onto him. Harry, feeling her open her mouth, reciprocated and held her body to his longingly.

He was amazed at how wonderful everything felt. After he was able to get rid of the stale smoke and catch his breath, his entire world narrowed to himself and Eliza. She was hotly erotic and, increasingly, so was he. As she moved on top of him, he felt that familiar prickling sensation around his naughty bits. She was rubbing just a bit too hard.

He slid his hands down her back to her round buttocks and adjusted her so he was more comfortable. Eliza gasped. Harry had never grabbed her before - not like that. His rather mechanical, defensive touch of their prior encounters was gone. She kissed him harder and ground her body more deliberately against him.

He was in Nirvana - or at least in the general vicinity. He groaned, and almost without knowing, found himself rubbing and squeezing her buttocks with both hands in time to her motion. She was moving in time with the music, some rock song he did not recognise and cared not the least about.

"Harry," she panted into his ear. "Do you really want me this time?"

The only response he could manage was a low, pleasured moan from somewhere within this sensuous fog that enveloped him. It had never been this way before - with anyone, not even her. Something had changed. "Yeah," he rumbled, "I think I'm finally ready."

She rolled off Harry, and took his hand. He stumbled groggily to his feet, and she led him into her bedroom. She was elated. She had wanted him for weeks, and at times she despaired of ever overcoming whatever it was that always seemed to draw him up short. It was finally going to happen tonight. She was sure of it now.

He was nervous, but excited. His prior fiddling about with Eliza had always seemed forced, but this was entirely different. He followed her in. He had never been in a girl's bedroom before. Well, actually he had. He pushed that thought from his mind - not wanting to resurrect his mental block. Under Eliza's influence, and that of the sweet-smelling weed, he found this surprisingly easy to do.

Harry had enough to think about as it was. He concentrated on trying to remember every moment of what was happening. He never wanted to forget this, or her. There is only one first time.…

Eliza was standing between him and the bed, blocking his way. The lamps were off in the room, and the curtains drawn. Indirect light from the doorway revealed not only her pouty, half-glazed lips and disheveled clothing from their previous snogging session - but also her well-rounded hips, full breasts, and erect nipples that strained at her blouse. Harry pinched himself, amazed that a girl this magnificent would want anything to do with him.

Eliza's clothing began dropping to the floor as she undid various buttons and hooks. She slid the final item, a filmy pair of pink lace knickers, from around her hips. They pooled at her feet. She kicked them at Harry, and he felt the silky fabric, still warm, land gently on his toes.

His breath caught inside him. She was so beautiful. How has he managed to stay away from her for this long? More times than he could count, when he had been alone lying in bed, Harry had guiltily undressed Eliza in his mind's eye. But for some reason, he had never been able to follow through on such fantasies with the real thing. Tonight everything was becoming real - him … her … this.

Eliza, now totally nude, stood before Harry expectantly. She had an expression of deepest yearning on her face, and if he did not do something right away, she probably would. Comprehending what was expected of him, he fumbled a bit with his own clothing. She approached her bed. He heard the springs squeak and saw the mattress dip just a bit as she sat down. Calling his name softly, she beckoned him to follow.

He stood stock still, drinking in her shadowy beauty with his eyes. Eliza sighed just a bit, stood up again, and quickly closed the distance between them. She put her arms around him under his shirt, her fingers trailing across his sensitised skin.

"Oh, Harry…. I'm ready…. So ready…," she whispered in his ear.

He gasped as goose pimples shot up and down his body. He allowed her to lead him by the hand. At the edge of the bed, she clasped him to her firmly, took him into her arms, and pulled Harry into another fierce kiss.

Harry's euphoria seemed total - the afternoon's bleakness, so far away. His mind was struggling to take everything in and file it away in his most permanent memory banks. Inevitably they came up for air.

"Harry?" she said softly. "Are you going to take those off, or should I?" Not waiting for an answer, Eliza started with his shirt. As she leaned over him, he kissed her lips. She had not meant to start the act right then. The kiss would have been completed without much thought, except he lost all pretense of control.

He clutched her naked body to him and started doing to her those things that she had painstakingly showed him on their previous dates, when he had been such a reluctant participant. She ran her fingers through his hair, leaned away from him so he wasn't obstructed, and let the feeling flow through her. He was ready, and so was she - more than ready.

Harry kissed her with a fervor that surprised them both. "Eliza, I need you," he murmured into her mouth.

She responded with equal if not greater ferocity - as if she were drowning, and he her only salvation. She threw her head back, thrust her pelvis forward, and began moving in time with his touch. Abandoning any pretense, she let loose with what Harry thought were most awesome series of gasps and groans from her half-open lips. The effect on him was immediate and electric.

At last, he was feeling ready for release. He was ready to expurgate all the pain and death that had accumulated during his young life. He had known only heartache and horror - except for her. He flopped onto the bed, pulling her atop him. She rolled off him to grant him better access, and arched her back as Harry resumed showing how quick a study he really was. She kicked at his pants and reached for his arms with her own. He felt he could go on forever, pleasuring her, plucking her body like a string, wondering what she would do next as he changed the pattern of his motion….

"Ouch," she squealed in frustration. "What's that?" Something on his right forearm had poked her badly. In the semidarkness, she could not tell what it was.

"Sorry," he choked out, breathing heavily, as much from his own arousal as from the physical effort. "That's the wrist holster for my wand…. It's invisible."

"Please take it off," Eliza requested. "It wouldn't do for that to happen again - at an even more inopportune moment." She giggled, and he did too. "If you're that paranoid you can put it right here on the headboard of the bed, where you cannot see it in plain sight."

Harry did as he was told, except he pulled his wand halfway out of its invisible holster so he could find it again - when they were done. Whilst stretching for the headboard, he was rocked with another of those awesome sensations he had been feeling lately. Eliza had used the interlude to push his trousers and boxers the rest of the way off. Then she started caressing what she found. He was most appreciative, as was she. There was no longer any doubt what Harry's body wanted. She regarded him with wide, contented eyes, and pursed her lips, pondering her next move. Should she…?

No, she decided, she didn't want to risk it - not tonight, with his inexperience … and what had happened before. There would be plenty of other occasions to introduce him to the pleasures of the French arts. She tried to calm herself, to recover from the sensations he had already given her. She would slow things down a bit. This was his first time, and she meant to make it memorable for the both of them.

Licking off beads of sweat, she kissed her way back up Harry's chest until she was once again face to face with him. He buried his head in her breasts, softly moaning her name.

Eliza rolled over Harry onto the middle of the bed. Pushing the pillows up towards the headboard, she made half of a nest for herself. He was hovering over her, breathing raggedly as his hands - and almost immediately his mouth - began paying her homage once again. She wondered how he could even concentrate. She was losing that ability.

He took a deep breath, looking down at her writhing under his touch. He had never seen a more beautiful and wanton expression on her face. She was ready. And so was he.

He was kneeling before her prone figure. Her legs extended on either side of him, her feet drawn up, just touching his buttocks. Harry leaned over and ran his hands up the sides of her body, from her hips, to her waist, to her armpits, to the tips of her fingers, covering her with his body in the process. He grabbed both of her hands in his, intertwining their fingers.

She was almost ready to demand, "Now, Harry," when Eliza felt something hard on his left hand. It was on his index finger, and she thought she knew what it was - having seen it on that horrible night in Kew Gardens.

"Take that off too, Harry," she urged.

"I think you've already got everything off me," Harry chuckled in response. Then he stopped still, and began laughing.

"Sorry, I can be such a prat," he giggled more loudly, removing his glasses and placing them next to his wand on the headboard.

"No, it's not those," she insisted, "although they would surely have to come off soon as well…. Take off the ring."

"Oh," Harry responded tentatively, he halted what he was doing and looked uncertainly at his left hand. "I'm not sure I should. Auror instructions and all…."

She slid herself into a sitting position and looked at him with pleading, bedroom eyes. "That ring connects you to her. For once, I want to be the only person you're connected to tonight." She reached for his member and stroked it to emphasize the point.

He groaned with pleasure and returned her gaze. Eliza's long blonde hair curled around her face and poured over her shoulders. Her figure, illuminated by the uncertain light from outside the room, made a perfect silhouette of the female form against the pale white sheets.

Harry understood. This vigorous vixen, even now, remained unsure that she, and only she, was what he desired. She had given up her last defenses, now so did he. "Okay," he agreed. He leaned over her and carefully slipped the ring around his wand until it fit snuggly.

"It's not like anyone else even knows we're here," Eliza continued soothingly. "Nothing is going to ruin this night."

Just to be sure, he picked up his wand and checked her charms - her magical ones - one more time. He strengthened the Soundproofing Charm over the entire flat, and for good measure put a Locking Charm on the bedroom door.

"Now where were we?" he asked slyly. His hands quivered just a little as he repositioned himself, and her, sliding Eliza back down the slope of pillows until her privates just touched the end of his. Her hands were similarly unsteady as she released him and readied herself for the amazing experience that she was now certain was only moments away.

Drawing a breath, Harry touched her. Physically, as well, she was more than ready for him.

One last time, he looked around, trying to remember every detail, as his hands wandered over her body. Music remained playing softly in the background. Sheets were curled around his feet. He kicked them off. The orange of what must be a magnificent sunset glowed indistinctly through the thick white curtains that covered the window behind the headboard.

Harry felt Eliza's heels digging into his buttocks. He realised that if he waited much longer, she would start the act herself.

"Harry," she whispered urgently, "rock my world."

His heartrate quickened, as did his breathing. Time, on the other hand, seemed to slow to a snail's pace. Harry felt almost like an outside observer watching himself. He had been a prat before, but still he was glad that they had waited. This was going to be perfect. He eased himself into position. Now was the time.

Underneath him, he felt the earth move….

* * * *

Author's Notes: Sally Capper is the "large Slytherin sixth year" described but not named in OOP; from the S. Capper who checked out Quidditch Through the Ages

"Not even wrong" was a caustic putdown uttered by Wolfgang Pauli

Tredegar is a Welsh place name and Llewellyn is a Welsh name

Ramsey Island is a Welsh island at the south point of Cardigan Bay

Unlike JKR's, Draco, mine can do unforgivables

Draco's O+ becomes important

"Idiocy of rural life" is from Marx's Communist Manifesto

The middle name I picked for Draco, Balthazar, is one of the three Christmas wise men, but I got it from "Saucer News" by Blue Oyster Cult

Wizards live longer than Muggles so, thirty-four generations is about 1,000 years

Lucius-in-a-can is the same spell as the Fudge-in-a-can in Chapter 1

Louis XIII is a real (expensive) cognac brand

Nectar of antipathy, another Blue Oyster Cult phrase, from Transmaniacon MC

As did Draco, I once cut my leg on a jagged, rusted out cast iron pipe

This explains Malfoy's appearance in Chapter 8

Draco was the nondescript wizard the Weasley twins bumped into in chapter 8 - and who used extendable ears

South across land is from Baba O'Reilly by the Who

"Portable handholds abound" - from a hiking description on Kauaii's Na Pali coast

Spider sticks are another attribute of Hawaiian hiking

There's enough here to reveal what these particular dementors did to end up as Malfoy guests

Voldemort's prior presence at Malfoy Manor becomes important

Profumo/Keeler was a huge 1960s British politics, sex, and espionage scandal

Lucinda is consciously based upon a real person, in actions, motivation, and name. A mention in the next chapter's authors notes to the first reviewer to guess who it is

"Torch passed to a new generation" is from JKF's inaugural speech

Nott's background and personality are from information on JKR's website

A grading system that subtracts failures from successful O.W.L.s, creates the possibility of negative O.W.L.s. Negative O.W.L.s flunk out

Apostasy is a capital offense in some religions

How Eliza had gotten her new stereo system moved in and set up is explained

The Contact is not OC

Malfoy's need of money helps eventually bring him into line with HBP

A lis pendens prevents transfer of title to property subject to a legal dispute

"By any means necessary" is a 1960s Malcolm X slogan

"Love the one you're with" is from Stephen Stills' song of the same name. Harry repudiates it later

For some reason 420 is associated with marijuana

American style = closed tip; Jamaican style = open, flared tip

Sensimilla is good weed, grown with a bag over the bud to prevent pollination

Desperate times line was Jafar's in Aladdin

The described use of the toilet paper tube is accurate

Bogart means to monopolize; as used in "Easy Rider"

The CD is Dark Side of the Moon - a favorite of mine for such activity, as is Aqualung, Master of Reality, and Brain Salad Surgery

The "something new" is what I've always called shotgunning

The source of Harry's mental block should be obvious

Plucking your body like a string, from Miracles, by Jefferson Starship

There's something wrong with the orange sunset - having to do with the direction Eliza's windows face

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