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He awoke to a bright and sunny morning, the sun streaming in through the windows, whose curtains hadn't been closed the night before. No house-elves were in sight yet and he understood that it must still be very early. So he lay back again and thought about the evening. He had disappointed his father and that was why his father had nearly... His mind refused to go back to the scene in the library. Instead he thought about his father holding him, something that had never occurred before, as far as he could remember. All would be well soon. He would study harder and work more and would not let his father down again. His father loved him. He had practically said so.

Right after breakfast he set to work without complaint. He started revising last year's curriculum with special care given to Transfigurations, Charms and Herbology as these were the classes in which he had done the least well (meaning he had finished them second or even third). However, Astronomy, History of Magic and Potions were not forgotten either.

And although he still only saw his mother every Tuesday afternoon as before, he now found himself more and more often in his father's company, as he came by his room every other day, sitting down at his side and rehearsing his lectures.

Then one day, in the midst of summer, he found the revision work was finished.

'Now,' his father said, sounding not unkind, 'I think you have done rather well, Draco. So far at least.'

He felt himself blushing, but kept his gaze trained on his parchment, only darting a glance to his father from the corner of his eye. His father seemed quite content for once.

'If you go on studying like this, and do well in your preparation for next year I will buy you something to reward you when we next visit Diagon Alley to buy your new school outfit.'

'A present?' he asked excitedly.

His father smiled.

'What about a new broom?' he asked.

He beamed at him, grateful from the bottom of his heart.

This summer really was all work and no fun, but he didn't mind. The second half of his vacations went with preparations for the new trimester.

Although he was thoroughly submersed in his work, he sensed that something was going on. Visitors were coming and going at all times during the day and sometimes even at night. He often saw Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle trailing after his father, and once he met Mr Avery and Mr Nott when he was summoned to his father's study. Sometimes at night before he fell asleep he could hear agitated voices from the garden or the corridors and he wondered whether all this activity had something to do with the raids his father had mentioned.

One evening after he had been working industriously all day, although the sun was shining from a perfect blue sky and he had longed to fly, he had sneaked out for a few minutes for a breath of fresh air before bed. When he came back late from the garden, he found Dobby lurking in the shadows under the open study window. From inside he could hear his father's voice and he thought he could hear him mention Potter's name (but maybe he had misheard that), and someone else growling a response. The elf was shivering and wringing his pillow case dress.

'Dobby?' he said, mystified as to what could possibly lead to this uncharacteristic behaviour. His father was very strict towards the elves, he knew, and would punish the little creature mercilessly if he was to know Dobby had spied on him.

The elf jumped and turned around. His big, bulbous eyes glistened with tears. He looked at him for a second, gave a desperate little cry and, snapping his long nimble fingers that were covered in bandages, vanished into thin air - or wherever house-elves dwelt when not serving their masters.

Perplexed, he considered telling his father about the incident, but then decided against it. House-elves were bound to the welfare of the families they served. None of them could do any harm.

Not long after this a letter from Hogwarts arrived, letting him know about the requirements for Second-Years:

Second-Year students will require:

The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk
Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart
Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart
Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart
Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart
Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart

Who, he wondered, was Gilderoy Lockhart? He asked his father, but he just snorted and declared to have never heard of him before.

All things considered, his father stated, he was not unsatisfied with Draco's efforts and was thinking about buying him the desired Nimbus Two Thousand to reward him for his work and his good conduct. And to give him a fair chance at Quidditch, of course. He could hardly believe his luck.

....................

So he went with great anticipation when his father took him to shop for books and his new clothing in Diagon Alley one Wednesday shortly before his departure to Hogwarts.

'There is one thing I have to do before, Draco,' his father said curtly, before they took the portkey to Diagon Alley, 'and I trust you will appreciate the confidence I bestow in you, behave yourself and don't talk about it to anyone.'

When they arrived it was not in the familiar surroundings of Diagon Alley, but somewhere he had never been before. It was a narrow and crooked alleyway seamed with small shops devoted to the Dark Arts. An old wooden street sign softly creaking in the breeze read Knockturn Alley. Directly below the sign there was a shop selling poisonous candles right next to Magical Fauna and Flora, apparently specialising in all things vicious, poisonous, and man-eating. There were stores selling shrunken heads and widows' hides, classified potion's ingredients and Trickster Equipment - everything you need to make your neighbour sorry. The largest shop of all, Borgin and Burkes, was where his father now led him, one hand firmly on his shoulder.

When they entered the dimly lit shop to the clang of a door-bell, he was awed. Masks were hanging on the walls, peering down at him slit-eyed, looking diabolically alive and sneering. Glass cases held playing cards, some of them bloodstained, a withered human hand on a velvet cushion, hangman's ropes (former use is guaranteed or else your money back!), glass eyes, skulls or cursed jewellery. He was thoroughly fascinated. His father crossed the shop and rang the bell on the counter before turning back to him and saying, 'Touch nothing, Draco.'

He had been reaching for a particularly colourful glass eye with a slit pupil that slowly contracted and widened again, but now withdrew his hand, hiding it behind his back.

'I thought you were going to buy me a present,' he said.

'I said I would buy you a racing broom,' said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter.

'But what's the good of it if I'm not in the house team?' he sighed, suddenly moody. He had been full of joy at home, but all of a sudden he could not envision himself on a new broom playing Quidditch. The stifling and softly threatening atmosphere of the shop - although strangely intoxicating - was numbing his high spirits and bleeding his confidence away.

'Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He's not even that good, it's just because he's famous.... famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead....'

His father bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls.

'....everyone thinks he's so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick -'

'You have told me this at least a dozen times already,' said his father, irritably, 'and I would remind you that it is not - prudent - to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear - ah, Mr Borgin.'

A stooping and greasy-haired man had just appeared behind the counter and greeted them with oily deference: 'Mr Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again. Delighted - and young Mr Malfoy, too - charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced -'

'I'm not buying today, Mr Borgin, but selling,' said his father.

'Selling?' the smile faded slightly from Mr Borgin's face.

'You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,' explained his father, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unravelling it for Mr Borgin to read. 'I have a few - ah - items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call....'

'The Ministry wouldn't presume to trouble you, sir, surely?' asked Mr Borgin, studying the list through a pince-nez.

His father's lip curled.

'I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act - no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it - and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear -'

'I understand, sir, of course,' said Mr Borgin, 'let me see....'

'Can I have that?' He interrupted them, pointing at the hand on its cushion. He knew he wasn't supposed to touch any of the items around for sale, but some of them were far too interesting not to be researched. A little look-see wouldn't hurt anyone now, would it?

'Ah, the Hand of Glory!' said Mr Borgin and scurried over to him, abandoning his father and his list at the counter. 'Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.'

'I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,' said his father coldly and Mr Borgin said quickly, 'No offence, sir, no offence meant -'

'Though if his school marks don't pick up,' his father continued even more coldly, 'that may indeed be all he is fit for.'

'It's not my fault,' he retorted, not noticing he had uttered the forbidden phrase again. His father didn't pick up on it. 'The teachers all have favourites, that Hermione Granger -'

'I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam,' his father snapped.

'It's the same all over,' added Mr Borgin in his oily voice. 'Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere -'

'Not with me,' said his father.

'No, sir, nor with me, sir,' said Mr Borgin with a deep bow.

'In that case perhaps we can return to my list, I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today.'

He left them haggling over his father's list and returned to the glass cases again, slowly approaching a large black cabinet in a corner next to the door. Just as he reached for the door handle his father called out: 'Done. Come, Draco!' So he turned around and joined his father on his way to the shop's door.

'Good day to you, Mr Borgin, I'll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.'

The air outside the shop smelled sweet and fresh in his nostrils, although on the way in he had felt faintly disgusted with its stale odour. Slowly, the slightly disgruntled and greedy feeling ebbed away and was replaced by his former enthusiasm. He stopped dead in his tracks.

'What was that?' he asked, dumbfounded.

His father turned around.

'What was what?'

'You know, I knew you said you were going to buy me a racing broom, but in there I suddenly didn't want it anymore. I couldn't remember even why I wanted it in the first place. All I wanted was that hand or something else from in there.'

'Ah,' said his father, 'I understand. Dark Arts artefacts. Where so many of them are gathered they tend to sap the willpower and breed hopelessness and despair. And old Borgin probably has cast a desiring spell on his shop to make sure customers won't leave without buying something. You'll get used to it in time.'

He sincerely hoped he didn't have to get used to it. He hoped he would never have to enter that shop again.

....................

Their next stop was Madam Malkin's (again), where he was measured (again) and his new clothes ordered (again), as he had grown two inches since last year.

This bothersome business finished, they headed to Flourish and Blotts and he was looking forward to browsing through the shelves. But they couldn't gain entrance, as a large crowd - mostly middle-aged witches it seemed - was gathered in front of the doors pushing and shoving each other to get in. A large banner stretched across the upper windows proclaimed:

GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
today 12.30-4.30 p.m.

When they finally managed to enter - even his father's best scowl hadn't helped much in cutting through the mass of excited, preening females - he discovered a group of redheaded people in the long queue winding to the back of the shop and sighed wearily. Weasleys. Large numbers of Weasleys, all over the place. And to think it had been not a bad day so far.

At the end of the queue, behind a table covered with his books and surrounded by large pictures of his magical self, Gilderoy Lockhart came into view - all blue eyes, flashing white teeth and wavy blond hair, dressed in blue robes and a fitting hat.

A photographer was taking pictures, his camera emitting puffs of purple smoke with every flash. Apparently he found Weasleys as troublesome as Draco, as he shooed Ron Weasley out of the way. The small disturbance made Lockhart look up, and leaping up he shouted: 'It can't be Harry Potter?'

He insistently wished he was right, but was out of luck. It was Potter, indeed.

Lockhart positively jumped at Potter and pulled him to the front. The crowd whispered excitedly and burst into spontaneous applause.

He cringed. Why? Why was Potter everywhere he went? Why did he always get all the attention?

Lockhart and Potter were now shaking hands, grinning madly at each other, while the photographer clicked away. But it got worse.

Lockhart threw an arm around Potter's shoulders and loudly announced: 'Ladies and gentlemen, what an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time! When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography - which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge - he had no idea that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his school fellows will, in fact, be getting the real, magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that, this September, I will be taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!'

Everybody cheered and clapped - his father smiled ironically - and he had no idea why this statement seemed to amuse him so.

Meanwhile, Potter was loaded with the whole stack of Lockhart's books and staggered away towards where he and his father were standing next to a red-haired little girl (a Weasley, of course).

'Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?' he said. 'Famous Harry Potter can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page.' (Such a hardship!)

Potter straightened up from the cauldron into which he had just skipped his pile of books, but it was the girl that glared at him and spoke first.

'Leave him alone, he didn't want all that!'

'Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!' he drawled, now really amused (girlfriends, yuck!).

The girl blushed fiercely - never a pleasant sight in any Weasley, as it clashed horribly with their hair colour. Right then, Ron Weasley and the Granger girl, both clutching stacks of Lockhart's books, stopped in front of them.

'Oh, it's you,' said Weasley, sneering at him, 'bet you're surprised to see Harry here, eh?'

'Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,' he retorted smoothly. 'I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for that lot.'

Weasley blushed as fiercely as his sister, making him wince (the sight!). Dropping his books into his sister's cauldron, too, he started towards him, but was hindered by Potter and Granger, who grabbed his jacket.

'Ron!' said Weasley Senior, who joined them just now with the terrible twins in tow. 'What are you doing? It's mad in here, let's go outside.'

He felt his father's hand on his shoulder and straightened up a bit more.

'Well, well, well - Arthur Weasley,' his father said.

'Lucius,' said Mr Weasley, nodding coldly.

'Busy time at the Ministry, I hear. All those raids.... I hope they're paying you overtime?' his father continued, and reaching into the cauldron extracted an old, battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration. Looking at the worn book he stated disgustedly: 'Obviously not. Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?'

Mr Weasley flushed a very unbecoming shade of purple (why did these people turn such colours?).

'We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,' he said.

'Clearly,' stated his father dryly, and directed his look towards a Muggle-couple, obviously Granger's parents, who were watching the scene apprehensively. 'The company you keep, Weasley.... and I thought your family could sink no lower -'

CLANK! The cauldron went flying as Weasley Senior threw himself at his father, shoving him roughly out of the way in the process. He staggered backwards and landed on his behind among the books spilled from the cauldron.

THUD! came dozens of heavy spell books thundering down as his father was knocked into a bookshelf. He watched wide-eyed, mouth agape.

'Get him, Dad!' yelled the twins.

'No, Arthur, no!' shrieked Mrs Weasley.

The crowd of onlookers stampeded backwards, knocking more bookshelves over.

'Gentlemen, please - please!' cried a desperate shop-assistant.

And then a booming voice made itself heard above the din: 'Break it up there, gents, break it up -' and the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid, was wading towards them through the sea of books. Grabbing both men at the scruff of their necks he pulled them apart. Weasley had a split lip and his father's right eye was quickly swelling shut - a wound inflicted by the Encyclopaedia of Toadstools that had hit him and not by Weasley, as he later explained. He was still holding the girl's old Transfiguration book which he now thrust at her.

'Here, girl - take your book - it's the best your father can give you -'

Shaking off Hagrid's paws, his father straightened himself, called his son to his side, who hurriedly scrabbled to his feet and joined him, and together they swept out of the bookshop.

....................

Outside, he was wondering why his father was looking as smug as a cat having dined on the canary, when he had just reckoned with a fit of fury.

'And now to Quality Quidditch Supplies!' his father proclaimed in a way that would have been called positively cheerful coming from anyone else. Of course, he made no objections.

Inside the broomshop he gave a little mewl and stood transfixed, looking around him. Brooms! Brooms everywhere! Brooms of each variety and for all purposes. From the latest Cleansweep models (six and seven), over Comets (140, 180 and 260) and Twiggers to the stars of racing brooms: the Nimbus. Moreover there were spare parts for each type, like handles and bundles of twigs, broom-servicing kits, broom polish, twig clippers and 'Build-Your-Own-Broom!' sets. He had eyes for none of these as he steered straight to the main showcase, prominently featuring a sleek Nimbus Two Thousand model. Just the same that Potter owned. Sighing deeply, he laid his hands against the glass and stared longingly at the object of his desire.

A good-natured chuckle tore him from his reverie and he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

'It's a beauty, isn't it, son?' asked a sonorous voice, and looking up he looked into the eyes of a middle-aged wizard, who seemed slightly familiar.

'But, you are -' he said.

'Charles Heriot, at your service, young sir,' beamed the man.

'You played Chaser for the Montrose Magpies!'

'That's right. And now I own this shop and I can tell you there's no better racing broom on the market right now than the Nimbus. But it's pricey, of course.'

'Don't worry about the price, Mr Heriot,' his father said haughtily, joining them at the showcase and laying his hand on his other shoulder. 'Malfoys never buy anything but the best.'

Mr Heriot withdrew his hand.

'Mr Malfoy.'

'I am looking for a new Quidditch broom for my son. He's returning to Hogwarts next week and needs a broom able to compete with a Nimbus Two Thousand for the upcoming Quidditch try-outs. I understand, this is the very best you have to offer?' He gestured towards the broom in the illuminated glass case.

'Well, if you don't mind spending a few galleons, sir, I can show you something special,' said Heriot.

'Surely not. The price is of no interest to me when the merchandise gives satisfaction.'

The shopkeeper bowed slightly.

'In that case -' he murmured and vanished behind the counter, from which he emerged again holding an oblong parcel still wrapped in a protective linen cover.

'Look at this! Got this beauty just this morning, the first of a new series, not yet promoted to the general public. The new Nimbus Two Thousand and One!'

He uncovered a broom, sleek and shiny and positively quivering with unspent energy.

'Ah!' he gasped and stroked the shimmering teak wood of the handle in which the words Nimbus 2001 were inscribed in a flowing golden script.

'Yes,' said Heriot, 'this is it. The best, the newest, the absolute fastest broom on the market. Will shortly become the broom of choice for all professional players, I dare say.'

He looked pleadingly at his father.

'Well, we'll take it. If it really is better than the old model Two Thousand it will do just fine.'

'Better! It outruns the Two Thousand like the Two Thousand outran the Seventeen Hundred. It's able to fly higher, reaches a speed of more than one hundred miles per hour in under six seconds and turns three hundred sixty degrees on the spot in mid-air even when flown at full speed.'

He moaned. That was it. Bye-bye, Potter.

'Deal,' said his father. 'Have it delivered to the Manor, please. I trust it will be there in time for my son's departure to Hogwarts?'

'Without fail, Mr Malfoy, without fail,' answered Heriot, looking pleased. 'How about the - erm, financial regulation?'

His father raised an eyebrow and reached into his cloak, producing his moke-skin moneybag.

....................

In the days to follow he could hardly await his departure to Hogwarts - especially when his new broom arrived two days after their return from Diagon Alley. It came complete with a service-kit and he spent hours polishing it before he took it out for the first time. In the air it kept all promises made by the ex-Chaser turned shop-owner, and when he returned home from his first flight, rosy-cheeked and with windblown hair, he very nearly pitied Potter. All the boy was going to see from him would be his tail-end. He could not bear to part with his new toy for even a few hours and so it rested at his side when he went to bed that night. His father was the best, the greatest wizard of all and he loved him enough to give him this expensive broom.

....................

'Guess what?' he said on meeting Greg and Vince on the Hogwarts Express.

'Guess?' asked Vince.

'What?' said Greg.

He grinned.

'New broom!' he answered in a dramatic whisper and raised his eyebrows.

Both boys looked impressed.

'Starts with an N?' asked Greg slyly.

He nodded.

'And ends with a zero?' endeavoured Vince.

He laughed delightedly.

'Better,' he said and produced the manual for his new toy, 'Your Two Thousand and One and You'. 'Look at this!'

'Wow!'

Both boys sat down at his side, one to his left, the other to his right, and all three bowed their heads over the shining brochure. Time flew away and none of them paid any attention to the landscape changing behind the windows or the comings and goings in the small corridor past their compartment door, as he explained his new broom's outstanding features to his friends.

'Hi, there!' said a familiar voice, ripping them out of their discussion. None of them had heard Pansy enter.

'What have you got there?'

'Malfoy's got a new broom,' explained Greg.

'He'll wipe the pitch with the Gryffindors come next try-outs!' prophesied Vince.

'Ha!' said she and flopped down on the seat opposite them. 'About time!'

'My father bought me the new Nimbus Two Thousand and One. It's not out yet, mine's the first one over the counter. It's in my trunk, but look at this.'

He tossed her the manual.

'Mhm,' she said, smiling happily, after she had studied it. 'You should tell Potty. Not fair to surprise him, you know.'

They laughed.

'Potty!' roared Vince.

'Won't know what hit him, the poor chap,' growled Greg in mock compassion.

'Good idea!' he beamed. 'Let's say 'hello' then. It's only polite, all things considered.'

They squeezed out of the door and ran excitedly down the train, looking into the other compartments. A little further down they saw the Weasley twins with their elder brother (the prefect), the little girl he knew from Flourish and Blotts and Granger, all arguing, it seemed, hotly about one thing or another. But neither Potter nor Ron Weasley were to be found on the Hogwarts Express.

....................

Later, at the Slytherin table before the First Night Feast, he looked over towards the Gryffindors in search of Potter and his friend, but they still didn't turn up. Did that mean - and he didn't quite dare to believe in his luck yet - that he was rid of them for good? Perhaps something had happened during the holidays resulting in them being expelled? Oh, what a wonderful term this was going to be!

While Professor McGonagall brought in the stool and the Sorting Hat, he watched Professor Snape get up from the High Table and leave the Hall. But soon The Sorting caught his attention again and he clapped and cheered with his fellow Slytherins to welcome the new First-years into their ranks. The redheaded Weasley-girl was, of course, sorted into Gryffindor.

The Sorting done, Professor McGonagall joined the other teachers at the High Table, and Professor Dumbledore was about to get up and deliver his 'few suitable words', when Professor Snape reappeared (there was a certain spring to his step) and leaned over Dumbledore's shoulder, whispering into his ear. The Headmaster looked stunned and turned to McGonagall, who was now the recipient of Snape's message. She slapped both her hands on the table and replied sharply, but Professor Snape just smiled smugly at her and nodded towards Dumbledore. After a short and secretive discussion, first Snape and McGonagall and then Dumbledore left.

As just now the feast appeared on their table he wondered only briefly before he helped himself to some roasted lamb and mint sauce.

The Headmaster and Professor Snape arrived back in time for the pudding and Dumbledore's speech. It was at this moment that the rumours spreading like wildfire reached the Slytherin table. Flint heard it from a Ravenclaw, who had it from a Hufflepuff, who had it from the Fat Friar himself that Potter and the missing Weasley-boy had arrived at Hogwarts per Flying Car, making a spectacular touch down in the Whomping Willow (sadly no one had witnessed it). They were about to be expelled, put in detention until the end of their time at school, sent to Azkaban - you name it. He looked at Professor Snape again. When he saw him scowl into his goblet and push the plate with custard tart away, he knew they weren't that lucky.

They were, however, lucky enough to watch (and hear!) Ron Weasley receive a Howler from his mother next morning at breakfast.

'....STEALING THE CAR....YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU....LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT....YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN ENQUIRY AT WORK....'

'Woohoo!' he thought, 'Mrs Weasley's sure got a temper'. And laughing, he, Greg, Vince and Pansy left the Hall.

After lunch he was wandering the courtyard with Vince and Greg in tow when he saw the Potter Gang lurking around at the foot of the stone steps to the Entrance Hall. While he was watching, a small boy with a camera crept close to them and started to talk. Slowly approaching them, he could overhear the last sentences of their conversation:

'- maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?'

'Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?'

He couldn't help himself; he just had to shout out loud, he was that annoyed. He was, of course, by now used to Potter's antics, but signed photos were a bit rich, even for him. Signed photos, as if he were a celebrity like this Gilderoy Lockhart guy, who had at least a few books to his name and not just the good luck to have survived a curse that was supposed to kill him. Survived, probably, just because he had been too thick to know what hit him.

'Everyone queue up!' he cried, 'Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!'

'No, I'm not,' Potter said angrily and clenched his fists. 'Shut up, Malfoy.'

'You're just jealous,' piped up the little boy, who clearly was a Mudblood, not knowing a Malfoy for what he was.

'Jealous?' said he, truly surprised. 'Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself.'

He could hear Greg and Vince snigger behind him, but the sound was drowned out by Weasley snarling: 'Eat slugs, Malfoy.'

'Be careful, Weasley,' he advised amiably. 'You don't want to start any trouble or your mummy'll have to come and take you away from school.' He put on a shrill, piercing voice. 'If you put another toe out of line -'

A couple of Slytherin fifth-years nearby laughed loudly about his imitation.

'Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,' he said, crowning his performance, 'it'd be worth more than his family's whole house.'

The redhead, always sure to react if baited, whipped out his wand. It seemed to be fixed with Spellotape. His eyebrows vanished in his hairline as he goggled at this. But then Granger snapped her book shut and hissed: 'Look out!'

'What's all this, what's all this?' Professor Lockhart cried as he came striding towards them in a flutter of turquoise robes. 'Who's giving out signed photos?'

Before Potter could answer, the professor had flung an arm around him and thundered jovially, 'Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry!'

Potter was blushing fiercely as he melted back into the crowd with a satisfied smirk.

'Come on then, Mr Creevey,' Lockhart beamed at the first-year, 'a double portrait, can't say fairer than that, and we'll both sign it for you.'

Just when the boy fumbled around with his camera, the bell rang, signalling the start of afternoon classes.

As everyone hurried away, he looked back, grinning at the sight of Potter looking decidedly morose clasped under the professor's arm as he dragged him away to the Gryffindors' first Defence Against the Dark Arts class.

....................

The Slytherins went off to their first Herbology lesson of the term, which they shared with Ravenclaw. During break Pansy had heard from Lavender Brown that the Gryffindors had been repotting Mandrakes in the morning. He was not very fond of Herbology. The theory - knowing the properties of the magical plants and where to find them etc. - was fine with him, but as far as he was concerned the practical side made you all sweaty and dirty and left earth under your fingernails and so was not enjoyable at all.

Inside Greenhouse Three, where the more exotic and dangerous plants were kept, Professor Sprout announced that indeed they were studying Mandrakes this term. About sixty unimpressive looking little plants were still settled in deep trays, whereas a lot of forty or so were standing in single pots close by.

'As you can see, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff have made quite a good start repotting our young Mandrake plants this morning,' said the professor. 'Hopefully you will do as well. But before we start the practical work, let's hear what you know about the properties of this extraordinary plants!'

Padma Patil, a Ravenclaw girl, and he were the only ones raising their hands.

'Miss Patil?'

'The Mandrake reverses transfigurations or curses and returns the victims to their original state,' answered the girl.

'Very good. Ten points to Ravenclaw. Mr Malfoy?'

'But it's a very dangerous plant, because its cry is fatal,' he said, eyeing the Mandrakes with suspicion.

'True enough. That's why we will use these earmuffs, while we work on them. Moreover our little mandrakes here are only seedlings, so don't worry, their cry won't kill yet. They will knock you out however, so make sure your ears are completely covered. Ah, and yes, ten points to Slytherin.'

He stared at the fluffy pink earmuffs lying on the bench in front of him and shoved them over to Greg, who shoved them right back. Vince quickly grabbed his own plain black muffs and glared at him. Finally, Millicent took pity on him and relieved him of the things, exchanging them for her own dark-blue pair.

When everyone had snapped their earmuffs on, Professor Sprout showed them how to pull the Mandrake plants out of the earth - he had seen a picture in his Herbology book, but was taken aback at how ugly the seedlings were in reality - and repot them in a large clay plant pot, covering the human-like shape with dragon-dung compost until only the purplish-green leaves were still visible.

On her sign they all chose a Mandrake plant to work on and pulled them out of the earth. He looked in disgust at the tiny green-skinned baby hanging from the leaves enclosed in his fist. The seedling clearly shared his feelings as it contorted its face and blew a raspberry at him.

'Yech!' he spat and dried his face with the sleeve of his free arm. He just hoped that Mandrake spittle wasn't poisonous.

He dumped the baby-plant into the clay pot, wiped his hand on his robes and stooped to get some dragon-dung compost, but when he came up again with a shovel full of the strong-smelling stuff, the Mandrake baby was just trying to climb the wall of the pot, its wide open still toothless mouth indicating that it was howling like a banshee. He watched the little thing, clueless as to how he should go about covering it with earth - especially as he didn't really want to touch it again.

Then he had an idea. He carefully looked around, but nobody paid him attention, because each student was struggling with their own Mandrake and Professor Sprout had her back turned to him, helping some Ravenclaw girl mopping up the puddle her baby Mandrake had left on the bench. He quickly delved into his pocket, fishing for the bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and, picking one, popped it into the Mandrake's gaping mouth. The mouth clapped shut and the baby's eyes went wide. It plopped onto its plump little behind in the middle of the pot and sat there, contentedly sucking at the bean.

Now he was able to cover it with compost. He did so quickly and efficiently, and, sticking to this now well proven method, repotted some six or seven Mandrakes in quick succession.

At the end of the lesson, when they had all taken their earmuffs off again, Professor Sprout said, 'Why, Mr Malfoy, I had no idea at all that you had such a talent for Herbology! You must have a green thumb. I have never had a student able to do more than three or at best four plants during the course of a class. Take twenty points for Slytherin.'

He basked in her praise and the surprised looks of his fellow students and decided to keep his secret to himself. Then he hurried back to the castle to scrub his nails.

....................

The next day it was the Slytherins' turn to have their first D.A.D.A. class with Professor Lockhart. The evening before and that morning at breakfast rumours had been heard all around that the Gryffindors' class had been a sheer riot, because Lockhart had set free a bunch of Cornish Pixies - leaving them for the students to round up again. So, he went with mixed feelings into the Defence classroom.

When everyone was seated, the Professor appeared from the door leading to his office dressed in lilac robes made from a shiny material.

'Good morning,' he addressed them in a loud and cheerful voice. 'As I've found out only yesterday there's a regrettable lack of knowledge concerning the Dark Arts, respectively defence against them, among your classmates.'

He frowned, seemingly saddened by the state of their education. 'Only Miss Granger came up with full marks in the little quiz we had. Let's see whether you lot can do better, shall we?' And winking, he handed out test papers.

After thirty minutes spent answering questions like:

07. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's shoe size?
19. Where did Gilderoy Lockhart go on his Holidays with Hags?
25. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite breakfast dish?

...down to:

53. What has Gilderoy Lockhart's mother always told her son?
54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

...the papers were collected again, and the sniggers and giggles that had become louder and louder during the last half hour died down. Rifling through the papers, the professor shook his head.

'Uhuh, uhuh.... yes, yes, I thought so. No, Miss Bulstrode, my favourite toilet water is not Mandrake's Charm, it's Centaurion.'

Millicent whimpered.

'Miss Parkinson! Well done! All questions right, but one. My shoe size actually is nine and a half. That's nine and a half points for Slytherin!'

He turned to look at Pansy, who was sitting behind him and saw her blush a lively shade of pink. As he raised one eyebrow at her she tilted up her chin and stared defiantly back.

'Mr Malfoy! What do you mean you don't care about my favourite breakfast dish, hmm?' boomed Lockhart's voice, demanding his attention.

He looked at the professor and asked calmly: 'Has it got anything to do with the subject matter?'

The boys in the classroom broke out in hoots and laughter, whereas the girls looked outraged. Millicent hissed at him.

'Well, it could, Mr Malfoy, it could,' stated Lockhart agitatedly. 'Information is the base of knowledge and knowledge is what we try to instil in you here. Well, let's see how you lot get along with the dark creatures I've got for today's lesson. Gryffindor yesterday sure was a disappointment.'

'Hear, hear!' someone shouted.

Lockhart retreated behind his desk, upon which stood a covered cage.

'The creatures in here,' he said, leaning on the cage and facing them with serious consideration, 'although not exactly among the most dangerous beasts known to wizard kind still are a pest fouling the countryside throughout northern Europe and northern America.'

'Pixies!' someone whispered dramatically.

'No, not yet,' Lockhart said condescendingly. 'After yesterday's events I'll not risk something like that again. You will have to work your way up to pixies, ladies and gentlemen.'

Someone snorted.

'Female students may want to avert their eyes as the sight is not particularly pretty.'

With that he removed the cover. The class remained silent, watching in disbelief (none of the girls had looked away). The dozen or so creatures inside the cage were about a foot high with disproportionately large heads, leathery skin and small bony hands and feet. Overall they looked like living potatoes.

'G-gnomes?' Crabbe finally asked.

'Yes, Mr Crabbe, very good. I present to you the Common European Garden Gnome.' He opened the door of the cage, encouraging the beasts to come out.

The gnomes, being outdoor creatures, used to fields and gardens, took a look at their surroundings (solid walls all around them) and started to bawl and wail pitifully. The bravest one scrabbled warily out of the corner in which they were crowded and carefully closed the door of the cage again - from the inside.

A storm of laughter broke loose. He could hear even Pansy giggling. Vince pounded the table, while Greg was doubled over, tears running down his cheeks.

He was taken aback. The man couldn't be serious.

'Well, yes, the little buggers are a bit shy today,' babbled Lockhart. 'Who can tell me the best way to rid a garden of gnomes, then?'

'Jarvey!' yelled Nott amidst the gales of laughter. The gnomes howled in terror.

'Very good, Mr Nott, five points to Slytherin. Well, let's call it a day. The class is dismissed.'

Lockhart swooped up the steps to his quarters and vanished behind the door.

While everyone rushed towards the exit, snorting, giggling and wiping their eyes, he stayed behind, slowly packing his books and writing utensils into his bag. He had waved Greg and Vince away when they wanted to wait for him and was now waiting for the classroom to empty. When the last of his fellow students had left and he couldn't even hear their footsteps outside in the corridor anymore, he slowly came out behind his desk and approached the cage on the desk.

The gnomes crouched trembling in the farthest corner of the cage, sniffing and whimpering, 'no jarvey, no jarvey', their ugly little faces contorted in fear. He looked at them for a long while, thinking of long ago summer afternoons and a lonely little boy chasing gnomes through a well-kept garden. Then, with a quick look around, he hastily ripped out a few hairs from his head and twisted them into a tight little strand. Taking his wand out, he transfigured the small string into a rope and tied the end to the top of the cage. Then he grabbed the cage and carried it over to the window. He put it down with a thump, then opened the window into the warm late-summer morning outside. Lifting the heavy cage with some effort onto the windowsill, he grabbed the rope firmly with both hands and let the cage slowly down onto the lawn below. A quick flick with his wand and a murmured 'Alohomora!' opened the cage door, and the gnomes squeezed out of their prison and rushed towards the shrubs for shelter.

Grinning he turned around, cast a Slipperysweep-jinx on the steps leading to Lockhart's office and left the room.

....................

His first letter home this Sunday read:

Dear Mother, dear Father,

You won't believe what happened! Potter and Weasley (Ron Weasley, that is) missed the Hogwarts Express and travelled to school using a charmed car that belongs to Weasley's father. There's going to be an investigation at the Ministry - I know that from a Howler Weasley's mother sent him. I can't believe they're still not expelled.

Our new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher is a fraud! Our first lesson was about GARDEN GNOMES! I mean, how dangerous can they be? The Gryffindors at least had Cornish Pixies, but still. It's all a joke.

Do we have Mandrakes in the gardens somewhere? Please tell the gardening elves that they really like Bertie Bott's Beans. Especially the odd-flavoured ones.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Quidditch Try-outs next week! Will keep you posted.

....................

Tuesday dawned bright and clear and all morning he had difficulties concentrating on his lessons because his thoughts were on the try-outs to be held that afternoon.

When he came down to the Quidditch pitch around four o'clock, a small crowd had already gathered there. There were a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, but no one from Gryffindor as they had no vacant slots on their team at the moment. He was the only one applying from Slytherin, as it happened that Slytherin's old Seeker, Terence Higgs, had had a growth spurt during summer and wanted to play Chaser now, which would leave the Seeker position to be filled, so he would be able to actually play if he made it, instead of being just a reserve player. Greg, Vince and Pansy were already there waiting for him to cheer him on as he proved himself. When he produced his new Nimbus, polished to high sheen, an audible murmur of appreciation could be heard and the applicants crowded around him to have a first hand look at the new broomstick model. He felt very pleased and eagerly explained its features.

Then Madam Hooch and the Team Captains of Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin appeared and they got down to business. Hufflepuff started with two applicants trying for Chaser and Beater, followed by Ravenclaw who were in need of a new Keeper as well as extra Chasers and Beaters for their reserve team. Slytherin was last and when he mounted his broom, a hollow feeling in his stomach, Marcus Flint squeezed his shoulder and encouraged him, 'Just think of Potter and fly like the devil!'

Soaring up into the air, he demonstrated a few things his broom could do, feeling more confident by the minute. When Flint released the Snitch, he threw himself down on his broom and raced it without a thought in his head, driven only by his hunting instincts. The little ball seemed to be in a playful mood, relishing in the sun and wind after its imprisonment in the dark Quidditch ball-chest, and not willing to be confined again any time soon. It swished past his right ear just as he grabbed for it and made off towards Hagrid's hut. He did a spectacular turn on the spot, although in mid-chase, resulting in hoots and cheers from the spectators below (the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had stayed for the spectacle). Again he came near enough to snatch the Snitch out of the air, when it unexpectedly dropped five feet below. Without any hesitation he turned upside down and, hanging from his broom held only by his knees and one hand, stretched his left arm as far ahead and down as he could, feeling the fluttering wings on his finger tips. A last jerk, his arm stretched far enough to remind him painfully that his muscles weren't made of rubber, and he closed his hand around the little golden ball. Swinging right side up again, he threw his arm in the air in the same victorious gesture shared by Seekers worldwide 'The Snitch! I've got it!' and returned to the ground, basking in the well-earned applause.

'Yay!' shouted Greg, and tackling him, buried him under his bulk.

'Hooray!' yelled Vince, throwing himself on top.

'Men, don't demolish our new Seeker!' cried Marcus Flint as he dragged him out from under his friends, just a little dishevelled and not any worse for wear.

He laughed delightedly at the sight of Pansy jumping up and down intoning, 'Draco, Draco, Draco!' and received his Team Captain's and friends' congratulations, flushing with joy. Just then a dark figure entered his field of view.

'Well done, Mr Malfoy!' said Professor Snape.

'Sir!' he cried, flattered that his Head of House had turned up to see him fly, and hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement. 'Have you seen me catch the Snitch, sir? Have you seen the new broom my father bought me?'

One of his rare smiles lit up the professor's face.

'I have, indeed, Mr Malfoy. It looks as if Mr Potter will experience a nice surprise come the next Slytherin versus Gryffindor match!'

Just then it occurred to him that he hadn't thought of Potter for one second while he was up in the air hunting the Snitch.

....................

Back in the Slytherin common room he sat down at once without taking the time to shower or change and wrote home:

Dear Father,

I've made it! I'm the new Seeker for the Slytherin Team! Marcus Flint said he has never seen a faster broom and that we will sweep the pitch with the Gryffindors in the next match. Pansy Parkinson said the manoeuvre I made to catch the Snitch should be named after me. The Malfoy-catch! How does that sound?

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Thank you again for giving me that broom. It's the best!

....................

After having delivered his letter to the Owlery and sent his eagle owl home with it, he quickly stepped into his dorm, got a change of clothes and went to take a shower. Greg shook his head.

The bathroom was deserted. As he crossed to the shower stalls a voice called out to him: 'Draco Malfoy! You do look happy.'

He went over to his usual wash stand and looked into the mirror.

The boy looking back at him had glowing pink cheeks and wind-tousled hair, wearing a bright foolish grin.

'I am,' he said. 'I just made Seeker for Slytherin in the Try-outs. I have a new broom, you know.'

'Glad to hear it,' answered the mirror, 'lots of luck then.'

'Thank you!' he said politely, not wondering any longer about exchanging niceties with an inanimate object (by now he had got used to the mirror's strange behaviour).

....................

To his surprise he received a return letter the very next morning, although he had got his mother's weekly epistle just the day before and his father's was not due until the next day.

Draco:

Your Head of House had informed me already. I'm pleased to hear that you finally start to live up to my expectations and contribute something to the honour of our house. As I wish to see my old house team victorious above Gryffindor I have decided to support you even further. Await my messenger within the next two days. You won't be disappointed, so don't disappoint me.

Your Father, Lucius Malfoy

....................

Frowning, he read it again, but couldn't make sense of it. What messenger? And what was he about to bring? Although he thought he should be glad, he went to this morning's first class with slightly dampened spirits.

On Friday afternoon upon his return to the Slytherin common room he found the following announcement on the board:

The Slytherin Quidditch Team is expected at the broom shed this afternoon at five o'clock sharp.

Hooch

'What's this?' grumbled Flint. 'What does she want? Extra practice? Shall we change into Quidditch robes, or what?'

'Perhaps someone has 'forgotten' to tidy the broom shed again after last flying instructions?' wondered Higgs.

He stared him down. A Malfoy didn't dirty his hands tidying broom sheds.

'Nay,' said Vince, 'Greg and I did it. 'T'was all as tidy as my Mum could wish for.'

Could this have something to do with his father's messenger? It had been just two days since his message.

'No way to find out but go there,' he said lightly and scampered off to his dormitory to put away his school things.

Three hours later they were all assembled at the broom shed, still speculating. The door of the shed opened and Madam Hooch came out accompanied by Professor Snape and none other than Mr Heriot from Diagon Alley. His heart did a double flip as his team-mates started to murmur 'Charles Heriot... Montrose Magpies...'.

Mr Heriot smiled and winked at them when Madam Hooch cleared her throat and brusquely declared: 'The Slytherin Quidditch Team will be equipped with new broomsticks.'

'- Thanks to the generosity of Mr Lucius Malfoy,' inserted Professor Snape smoothly.

'Mr Heriot here,' Madam Hooch concluded, 'whom you all know as former Chaser of the Montrose Magpies, and who now owns Quality Quidditch Supplies, has brought a new model Nimbus Two Thousand and One for each player. Please queue up to receive your new racing brooms.'

For a moment there was stunned silence, then Marcus Flint let out a great whoop and everyone pressed forward to be the first in line. Heriot reached into the shed and presented the Captain with the first new broom, still wrapped in its protective cover, servicing-kit and manual.

'Wow!' said Flint, handling the broom as if it were made from finest crystal instead of wood and twigs.

He straightened up, pride swelling his chest. 'You won't be disappointed' his father had promised, and, by Salazar, he wasn't! Could there be a more significant token of his father's pride in him than this? And for everyone to see. Bloody Potter with his shabby Nimbus Two Thousand had not gifted his whole team with new brooms, ha!

His team-mates having each received their new broom gathered round him, slapping his shoulders, shaking his hand, everyone with a word of appreciation. It was the best moment of his life.

Only late that night before he fell asleep did he allow himself to feel a tiny pang of disappointment. The broom his father had given to him had been something so special - and now he had made the same present to everyone else on the team as well.

....................

Early on Saturday morning they wandered down to the Quidditch pitch, dressed in their green robes, each with his new broom in hand, proud as only Slytherins could be.

A flurry of scarlet in the air above the pitch reminded them of their rivals, who had unfortunately booked the pitch in advance. But who cared? They were Slytherins, they had the best and newest brooms available - and a special permission from Professor Snape tucked away in Flint's pocket.

The moment they entered the pitch, Gryffindor's Captain, Oliver Wood, came swooping down on them, landing so hard that he staggered as he dismounted. Potter and the Weasley twins touched down right beside him.

'Flint!' Wood bellowed. 'This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!'

'Plenty of room for all of us, Wood,' replied Marcus calmly.

The three Gryffindor Chasers, all girls, joined their team-mates, so that both teams stood facing each other.

'But I booked the pitch!' Wood spat, enraged. 'I booked it!'

'Ah,' said Marcus, 'but I got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practise today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'

'You've got a new Seeker?' asked Wood. 'Where?'

It was in this moment that he, who had kept himself at the back of his larger built team-mates, stepped forward and in front of them, smirking in the Gryffindors' faces.

'Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?' said one of the twins, looking at him with dislike.

'Funny you should mention Draco's father,' said Marcus, while the whole Slytherin team smiled proudly. 'Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team.'

And all seven held out their broomsticks, highly polished, neatly twigged, the gold lettering gleaming in the sun.

'Very latest model,' Marcus continued, 'only came out last month. I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Cleansweeps,' he grinned at the Weasley twins, who were both clutching Cleansweep Fives, 'sweeps the board with them.'

The Gryffindors were clearly dumbstruck. None of them said a word.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who had been sitting in the spectator stands, came over to see what was going on.

'Oh look, a pitch invasion,' remarked Marcus.

'What's happening?' Weasley asked Potter. 'Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?'

Weasley studied his Quidditch robes.

'I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,' he said smugly. 'Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father has bought our team.'

Weasley gaped at their brooms. His mouth hung open.

'Good, aren't they?' said he, and couldn't resist the temptation to bait the detested redhead again: 'But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives. I expect a museum would bid for them.'

His team-mates howled with laughter.

'At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,' said Granger sharply. 'They got in on pure talent.'

That stung. Until now it hadn't occurred to him that his father's gift could be interpreted that way.

'No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,' he spat.

In the following uproar Marcus had to dive in front of him to hinder the twins jumping on him. One of the girls shrieked, 'How dare you!' and Ron Weasley pulled out his wand, yelling, 'You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!' and pointed it at his face, ducking under Marcus arm.

BANG! A jet of green light shot out of the wrong end (right for Draco) of Weasley's wand, hit him square in the stomach and sent him reeling backwards onto the grass.

'Ron! Ron! Are you all right?' squealed Granger.

Weasley opened his mouth to answer, but no words left his lips. Instead he belched like an overfed erkling and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth and fell into his lap.

He stared unbelievingly at the sight of Weasley belching slugs and burst out laughing so hard, his knees gave and he slumped down onto the grass, supporting himself on his arms lest he would roll on the ground laughing. Marcus was doubled up next to him, hanging onto his new broomstick for dear life. Both Beaters were in each other's arms hardly able to hold themselves upright. One of the Slytherin Chasers lay flat on his back thumping the ground with both fists, his colleagues on their knees at his side.

The Gryffindors had grouped themselves around their mate, but nobody was able to pay them any further attention.

It took a long while for their laughter to die down, and when they were finally able to see straight again the Gryffindors had left the pitch.

....................

Dear Father,

I cannot thank you enough for your generous gift. Everyone's in awe of you and I think you will receive plenty of thank-you letters this weekend. The new brooms are FANTASTIC! Marcus Flint says Gryffindor's as good as dead.

Granger said your brooms have bought me the position on the team, but I made Seeker before you sent them. She's such a filthy little Mudblood and I hate her!

Can you believe it? Ron Weasley's tried to curse me! But something was wrong with his wand - it's wound up in spellotape - and he ended up belching out slugs that were meant for me. It was hilarious! I could hardly fly my sides hurt so much.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

....................

October arrived and the weather turned nasty. He soon learnt that Quidditch practice in heavy rain was not something he enjoyed. He clenched his teeth and tried not to complain too much - however, he caught a cold and had to see Madam Pomfrey for some of her famous Pepper-up Potion. Greg and Vince of course made fun of him, stating that his habit of taking a shower every day should have hardened him to a little splash of water here and there, and even Pansy giggled about the steam streaming out of his ears, while he sneezed and blew his nose, waiting for the Potion to work.

But it was reported that the Gryffindors trained even harder, as their Captain, Oliver Wood, was frightened into near frenzy by the Slytherin Team's new brooms.

This year's Halloween Party was even better than the last one. The Great Hall was decorated with the usual live bats, huge pumpkin lanterns hung in the air and a troupe of dancing skeletons provided entertainment and goose bumps as well. The party was made even better by the absence of the Potter Gang, who were said to have other social obligations. Also: No troll this year!

When they finally left the Hall, well-fed and sleepy, and wandered towards the dungeons in a throng of other students, he was still humming the latest Weird Sisters song, while Greg and Vince were stuffing their pockets with sweets pilfered from the table for later consumption. All of a sudden the whole group came to a halt and he bumped into the student in front of him, a third-year Hufflepuff, who stood transfixed, gaping ahead. Annoyed, he opened his mouth to tell the oaf what he thought about people standing in his way, when he followed the boy's gaze and saw the little group of Potter and his intimates standing like frozen in the middle of the corridor. And at the wall behind them... in large bloody letters... still gleaming wetly in the light of the torches:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

The words were foot high, written in blood and obviously fresh. From the nearest torch bracket hung what appeared to be a bundle of filthy rags, but as he fixed his eyes upon it he recognised it for what it was: Mrs Norris, the caretaker's cat - dead. He shoved the Hufflepuff aside and pushed through the crowd to the front.

'Enemies of the heir, beware!' he read aloud, his voice reverberating in the sudden quiet. And, because he remembered the legend and the opportunity to come back at the offending girl, who had totally spoilt the joy of his success in being made Seeker, was simply too good to let it pass, he shouted, 'You'll be next, Mudbloods!' and maliciously grinned at Granger.

'What's going on here? What's going on?'

Mr Filch, the caretaker, came shouldering his way through the crowd, no doubt revelling in happy anticipation of trapping guilty students and dealing out detentions. But the sight of his lifeless cat hanging from the bracket stopped him short.

'My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs Norris?' he shrieked.

Then his eyes fell on Potter.

'You!' he screeched, 'You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll -'

'Argus!' Dumbledore's shout silenced him in mid-shriek.

The headmaster, followed by a number of other teachers, swept in and detached the cat from the torch bracket.

'Come with me, Argus,' he said to Filch. 'You too, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger.'

Professor Lockhart stepped forward and suggested eagerly: 'My office is nearest, Headmaster - just upstairs - please feel free -'

'Thank you, Gilderoy,' said Dumbledore and went for the stairs. The silent crowd parted to let him pass, the caretaker and professors Lockhart, McGonagall and Snape in his wake.

The moment they had vanished up the staircase, the students started to whisper among themselves excitedly.

'What does it mean?' asked Vince, indicating the writing on the wall.

'Where's this chamber and who's the heir, eh?' said Greg.

'Wish I knew,' he said, 'but I remember the Chamber mentioned in Hogwarts: A History. I have it in my trunk. Let's go and find out.'

And this they did. Right back in their dormitory he dived down into the depths of his trunk and re-emerged with his copy of the book.

'Well, then, let's see,' he murmured, spreading the tome out on his bed. Browsing through the pages, Greg and Vince peering over his shoulders, he muttered, 'The Founders... yes, yes, know that, come on, where is it? Eligibility... ha, here!'

And straightening up he read aloud: 'For a few years after the foundation of Hogwarts the Founders, Salazar Slytherin, Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw, worked together in peace and harmony, seeking out children who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. It was only when Salazar Slytherin expressed a wish to be more selective about the students admitted to the school that a rift began to grow between them. For Slytherin believed that learning to do magic should be kept within all-magical families (the so called 'pure-bloods') and refused to take students of Muggle parentage as he thought them untrustworthy. This led to an argument between him and Godric Gryffindor, who argued pro Muggle-born attendance, and Slytherin left the school, announcing to the remaining Founders that he had built a secret chamber in the depths of Hogwarts, hidden and sealed by magic. This Chamber of Secrets is said to contain a sleeping monster, which will be unleashed when Slytherin's own true heir arrives at the school and unseals the chamber. The heir alone will be able to control it and will use it to purge the school of all those unworthy to study magic, thus fulfilling Salazar's will. Although reliable historical sources confirm the fact of the dissent between The Founders, the tale of the Chamber of Secrets is now considered a myth. Generations of headmasters and headmistresses have searched the school without anyone ever finding any evidence of its existence. Today's more educated historians think it to be one of the many colourful legends wrapped around Hogwarts and its history.'

And looking up, he added: 'There, you have it!'

'Wow!' said Vince, 'sounds creepy, doesn't it?'

'Sure, if you're a Mudblood,' grinned Greg, 'as far as I can see none of us is in any danger from this monster. It's only the likes of Granger who're on its menu.' He made a smacking sound.

He giggled.

'But then it can't be Potter who's written that stuff on the wall, don't you think?' mused Vince. 'Or do you think he could be the heir of Slytherin?'

'No way,' he declared firmly.

....................

When he wrote home the next day, he reported the incident:

Dear Father and Mother!

Guess what? Yesterday evening after the Halloween Feast when we were going back to our dormitory, Potter and his friends were caught smearing the walls with blood! Well, not actually smearing it on the wall, but they stood right under the inscription, which read:

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.
Enemies of the Heir beware.

Why would he do such a stupid thing? I've read everything about the Chamber of Secrets in Hogwarts: A History and historians agree that it is nothing more than a legend. There is no monster. Is there?

Also Potter has killed Filch's cat. Not that it is a pity for the wretched animal. But if he isn't expelled this time, I don't know what's going on.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. We had dancing skeletons at the Halloween Feast! Such fun!

....................

Unfortunately the next morning they were informed that Mrs Norris was not really dead, but just petrified. And Potter - quite obviously - had got away again as he sat at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, gulping down his porridge. There was no justice in this world.

But the attack made for good gossip anyway and everybody had a theory of their own about what had really happened.

By mid November the first Quidditch match of the season was coming up, and on a grey and dim Saturday at eleven o'clock the Slytherin team marched out onto the pitch to the cheers of their housemates and the faint rumbling of thunder in the distance. Gryffindor was as usual greeted not only by their fellows but also by the combined forces of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, who were eager to see Slytherin, who were in possession of the Quidditch Cup, lose big time. Flint and Wood shook hands (trying to break each other's fingers) glaring at each other, and at Madam Hooch's whistle all fourteen players shot up in the air in a whirr of green and scarlet. Potter at once rose higher than all of them, showing off as usual, and he crossed underneath him, riding his new broom to full advantage and yelled: 'All right there, Scarhead?'

But Potter had no time to reply, as in this moment a bludger came pelting towards him, only missing him by a hair. One of the Weasley twins at once whacked the ball towards Slytherin's own Adrian Pucey, but it turned in mid-air and shot straight at Potter again. When Potter dropped quickly to avoid it, Weasley shot it towards Draco, but again the ball turned before it could hit him and made back to Potter, aiming for his head. Putting on a burst of speed, Potter zoomed towards the other end of the pitch, the bludger in hot pursuit, where the second Weasley twin was already waiting for it and knocked it off course. But the ball seemed to be magnetically attracted to Potter, which was quite unusual, as bludgers normally never concentrated on one player, but tried to knock down as many people as possible.

It had started to rain when he, having watched Potter and not paying any attention to the rest of the game, heard Lee Jordan announce, 'Slytherin lead, sixty points to zero.' Clearly the superior brooms of the Slytherin team were doing their job - although the rogue bludger surely didn't do anything to make it more difficult for them - and he couldn't help but break into a big happy grin.

Potter was now flanked by both Weasley twins, who were waving their arms like mad pelting away the bludger which was apparently fixed on Potter. Then Madam Hooch's whistle rang again. Gryffindor had taken a time out and where huddling together on the ground.

The Slytherin team zoomed around them up in the air, pointing and making fun of them, when Madam Hooch approached the huddle. Would they forfeit the match? He hoped not, as he wanted his chance with the Snitch (and also it might be funny to see Potter finally knocked off). As if in answer to his thoughts the whistle rang, and the Gryffindors rose again. Potter shot up, looped and swooped, spiralled, zig-zagged and rolled. The crowd below burst out laughing and he yelled: 'Training for the ballet, Potter?' as the boy did a particularly silly mid-air swirl to avoid the mad bludger taking him out. Off Potter fled, the bludger trailing a few feet behind him. Then Potter turned to look back at him and froze in mid-air. For a few seconds Potter hung there, his eyes trained on him, who was having difficulties keeping his balance, he was laughing so hard.

WHAM! hit the bludger, and he could clearly hear the noise of breaking bones. That must have hurt. Potter slowly slid sideways from his broom, hanging upside down by one knee, his broken right arm dangling useless at his side. The bludger unerringly came back for a second attack and Potter just swerved out of the way. Why didn't the fool give the sign to stop the game? he wondered. He wouldn't be able to catch the Snitch with his catch-arm broken, let alone flee the bludger trained on him.

But even as he thought so, Potter came diving towards him at full speed, apparently intent on knocking him out of the air as well.

'What the -' he gasped in shock and swerved out of Potter's way in the last second. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Potter make a fast snatch with his left hand, flying free-handed and only gripping the broom with his legs (Potter was performing the Malfoy-catch one-handed!), and there he had the Snitch! It must have appeared out of thin air, as he positively had not seen it. Potter headed straight to the ground now, landed in the mud with a splash and rolled off his broom. The game was over. And he had not even seen the Snitch.

To the cheers of the three other houses and the angry roar of his fellow Slytherins, he made it back to the ground. SQUELCH! Marcus Flint landed right beside him, splashing him with mud from head to toe.

'You idiot!' he yelled, towering above him. 'What did you think you were doing? That Snitch was hovering right above your bloody head, but no!, Mr Spoilt Brat was too busy goggling at Potter! The Seeker is NOT supposed to idle around for his own enjoyment, exchanging pleasantries with the rival Seeker, you know! THIS team's Seeker is meant to catch the Snitch! You better keep that in mind if you want to stay on MY team!' Flint shoved him hard and he stumbled a few steps backward.

'Look, I'm sorry,' he started desperately, 'I didn't see -'

'Sorry? You didn't see? Obviously not! You didn't do anything in this game, apart from hanging around in the air and laughing your head off, while Potter caught the Snitch right in front of you with a broken arm and riding an inferior broom. You have cost us the match you useless -' he broke off, panting hard and, turning on his heel, stomped off the ground.

He stood there wet, bedraggled and helpless. What should have been his first triumph on the Quidditch pitch - which he had felt sure it would be! - had turned out to be a catastrophe. Not only had he not seen the Snitch while concentrating on Potter's ridiculous flying circus tricks, he had not even thought of it.

As he looked around, he saw Professor Snape, watching him from his seat on the stands. His Head of House met his look with a stony gaze, disapproval written clearly on his face, then put up the hood of his cloak against the pouring rain, and turned abruptly to leave the stands.

The Slytherin team had already left for the changing rooms. No one dared come near him, not even Greg and Vince. With a last look towards the Gryffindors, who were still crowded around their wounded hero attended by Professor Lockhart, he slowly toddled off the pitch, a picture of defeat.

He didn't dare to brave his team-mates' fury yet, so he didn't follow them towards the changing rooms, but wandered off towards the lake. Why had this happened to him? Perhaps Granger was right and he wasn't good at all. But no, he had done really well in the try-outs. He had only been distracted by Potter's antics, that was all there was to it. It had been Potter's fault entirely. As usual. Potter always was involved when something embarrassing happened to him.

When he came back two hours later, wet and chilled to the bone, after he had rounded the lake in the icy rain, he silently slipped into the Slytherin common room and crept into his dormitory to get a change of clothes before taking a long hot bath. Chances were he had caught pneumonia. Perhaps he was going to die. Which was, perhaps, for the best or at least better than having to tell his father...

....................

Dear Father,

Well, we've lost the match. Potter caught the Snitch out of thin air. It wasn't there a second before, I swear!

I know you expected better of me. And I will do better, I promise! I will practise every day and I WILL CATCH the Snitch in the next match.

Please don't punish me. Don't take my broom away. I will never let you down again, honestly.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

....................

His father didn't need long to reply.

Draco:

I will not take your broom from you. What chance would you have with a lesser broom if you cannot even match Potter with this superior one?

As I have heard the boy did not only catch the Snitch riding an inferior broom, but with a broken arm and trailed by a rogue bludger. While you, my son and heir, were sitting on your fine new broomstick, laughing and not sparing a thought on your duties as your team's Seeker.

As for your punishment, my severe disapproval of your conduct may be enough for the moment, but be sure that I will not tolerate such behaviour any longer. You will study and practise hard and do your best (what ever that may be) or you will feel my wrath.

Your father, Lucius Malfoy

How was it, he wondered, that his father always seemed to know everything going on at Hogwarts even before he told him?

....................

By Monday morning the rumour mill was in full swing. Colin Creevey, a Gryffindor First-year, was lying stiff as a plank in the infirmary. Dead, said some. Petrified like Mrs Norris, insisted others. Anyway, the monster seemed to be more than just a legend.

He didn't pay too much attention to the incident, as he was dealing with his own problems. Although no one shunned him openly, it was made quite clear that he was not very popular inside his own house at the moment. Potter had been awarded fifty points and Gryffindor had taken the lead for the House Cup. Greg and Vince kept steady at his side and Pansy tried to comfort him, but he was too busy feeling miserable to properly value their support.

Meanwhile students were whispering and speculating wherever two or more of them were gathered. Every issue of Hogwarts: A History was checked out of the library. First-years dared only move around the castle in groups, terrified of an attack should they dare to venture out alone. And, unnoticed by the teachers, a prospering black market in talismans and amulets emerged. Some business-minded Slytherins made quite a bit of money, selling protective devices of all kinds like crystals, mummified hares' feet or pieces of dried Mandrake roots.

'They're all suspecting us of dabbling in the Dark Arts anyway,' explained Pansy, who was of a practical mind. 'So we can as well take advantage of it and lighten their purses a bit.'

....................

Dear Father and Mother!

A Gryffindor First-year has been attacked, and they say that it has been the monster that is living in the Chamber of Secrets. But in Hogwarts: A History they say this is just a legend. Do you know whether this is true?

In the book they also say the monster is supposed to attack only Mudbloods. How does it know who's a Mudblood and who isn't? Don't worry, I'm not afraid.

Dear Father, please don't be angry with me anymore. I am practising every other day and I catch the practise Snitch EVERY time in under ten minutes.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. I don't want anything for Christmas this year. Just don't be angry with me.

....................

His father, apart from taking away his new racing broom, found another way of punishing him for the disappointment he had caused and informed him that he was not to come home for the Christmas holidays.

Draco:

Keep yourself out of trouble for once and stop asking questions about the Chamber of Secrets. Stick to the school rules and DON'T wander around in the corridors after dark.

In other news your mother and I will be busy during the holidays, so you will have to stay at Hogwarts this Christmas. Regarding presents, I'm surprised you even mention those after your last stunt.

Your father

....................

He was devastated at first, but after Greg and Vince had pleaded with their parents to stay at school as well, he found the prospect not quite so terrible anymore, and thought that in fact he might be better off at Hogwarts instead of having to face his father. So he sighed and signed Professor McGonagall's list as she came around by mid December, collecting the names of those who would stay at school during Christmas.

During a Potion's class shortly before the holidays the Gryffindors caused mayhem yet again. They were working on a Swelling Solution and he had amused himself and his friends by flicking puffer-fish eyes at Potter and Weasley whenever Professor Snape wasn't paying attention to them. They glared at him, but didn't dare to retaliate, as they knew quite well that Professor Snape had a wary eye on all the Gryffindors (because of their abysmally bad talents for Potions), and any misbehaviour would land them in detention.

'What is this supposed to be, Mr Potter? For a Swelling Solution it surely isn't,' sneered Professor Snape at Potter, who just ducked his head and didn't give one of his cheeky answers for once (which was suspicious in and of itself). Snape snorted disgustedly and moved on to Neville Longbottom, who as usual had tried to hide in the outer most corner of the last row.

While he was leaning over Longbottom's cauldron, something suddenly buzzed through the air like an angry hornet and landed with a SPLASH! right in Greg's cauldron. Greg's potion exploded, showering the students with Swelling Solution. People shrieked and dived for cover. He was working next to Greg and got a splash right into his face and to his horror his nose started to swell up like a balloon. Squealing with terror, he reached up and tried to press it back to its normal size, but to no avail. It just kept growing.

'Silence! SILENCE!' Professor Snape roared. 'Anyone who has been splashed come here for the Deflating Draft. When I find out who did this...'

He hurried forward, his nose by now as big as a Quaffle and so heavy it weighed down his head. He was the first to take a swig of the antidote and to his ultimate relief his nose started shrinking right away. Only now was he able to have a look at his classmates. Greg was right next to him, his bulging eyes slowly deflating to their normal size, while Vince was still queuing in front of Snape's desk waiting for his turn and cradling his club-like right arm to his chest. Pansy had been able to duck out of harm's way - unlike poor Millicent, who sported a clubbed foot - and was watching them with a mixture of fascination and horror.

Mysteriously, none of the Potter Gang had been splashed - as if they had ducked in time. They were standing behind their desks, laughing and discreetly pointing out the more hideous deformities the Slytherins had suffered.

As soon as quiet had been restored, Professor Snape examined Greg's cauldron and fished out the burnt out remains of a Fred's Filibuster firecracker.

'If I ever find out who threw this,' he whispered menacingly, staring right at Potter, 'I shall make sure this person is expelled.'

Potter looked back at him, his face a study in innocence, but neither Professor Snape nor he bought it.

Late this evening when he had the bathroom to himself, he had a close look at his nose. Was it really the right size again? He felt it had been somewhat smaller before.

'Why do you keep poking at your nose, Draco Malfoy?' asked the mirror, sounding amused.

'I don't know,' he mused, 'would you say it has the right size again?'

'Hmm,' said the mirror, 'why wouldn't it?'

'Because I got splashed with Swelling Solution and it grew to that....' he showed the circumference of a large pumpkin, using both his arms.

'No!' said the mirror. 'Let me have a closer look.'

He tilted his head, so that the tip of his nose was not an inch away from the mirror's surface.

'Oh, oh, oh....'

He blanched.

'No, can't say it looks any bigger than before.'

He let his breath out in a long gasp.

'It's all Potter's fault!' he declared.

'Again?' asked the mirror.

'Those Gryffindors are always up to something and it's never any good, you know,' he said morosely.

'Truly troublesome,' the mirror conceded.

....................

A week later a piece of parchment was pinned to the notice-board in the Entrance Hall. Pansy was the first to see it, as she was always curious about all the announcements and notices pinned up there.

'A Duelling Club!' she exclaimed.

'What?' he asked, surprised, and studied the sign.

'Great idea!' said Greg. Vince nodded his approval.

'Oh, Draco, we just have to participate,' said Pansy. 'Just think of whom we might end up duelling with!' She looked at him and wiggled her brows meaningfully.

'Potter!' he whispered.

'Yeah,' said Vince, 'and Weasley!'

'Oh, I hope I get a go at Granger,' moaned Pansy, 'just think what a Bristling Jinx might do to her hair!'

They laughed. And so it was decided.

That evening after dinner they went back to the Great Hall, where the long dining tables had been removed and a stage had been erected along one wall lit by an abundance of candles floating overhead. Almost the entire school seemed to be eager to participate, as the Hall was packed. He and his friends had come early and were able to secure places right at the front close to the stage They were chatting away with their fellow students, when Gilderoy Lockhart entered the stage followed by Professor Snape.

He turned around and looked at Pansy with a look of sheer disbelief. She smiled smartly and winked at him.

'Gather round, gather round!' called Lockhart. 'Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent! - Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little Duelling Club, to train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions - for full details see my published works. - Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,' said Lockhart flashing a wide smile.

He gasped. Professor Snape, assistant to Professor Lockhart?

'He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry - you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!'

Professor Snape's upper lip was curling. He had no doubt that Professor Lockhart was in for a surprise.

Then, the professors turned to face each other and Lockhart made a great show of bowing, waving his hands and twirling his robes. Snape gave him a curt nod before raising his wand like a sword in front of him.

'As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,' Lockhart explained to the silent crowd. 'On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.'

Professor Snape bared his teeth. His eyes widened.

'One - two - three -' and both swung their wands up over their shoulders.

'Expelliarmus!' cried Snape.

And in a blinding flash of scarlet light Professor Lockhart was blasted off his feet. Flying backwards off the stage, he smashed into the wall and slid down to sprawl in a heap on the floor.

'Yay!' he yelled amidst the cheers and whistles of his fellow Slytherins.

Lockhart was getting back on his feet and came tottering back onto the stage.

'Well, there you have it!' he said. 'That was a Disarming Charm - as you see, I've lost my wand - ah, thank you, Miss Brown. Yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy. However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see....'

Professor Snape was looking positively murderous, which perhaps was the reason for Lockhart to conclude: 'Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me....'

They started moving through the crowd, matching up partners. Professor Snape went directly towards Potter and Weasley.

'Time to split up the dream team, I think,' he sneered. 'Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter -'

The boy moved towards Granger, but Snape intercepted him.

'I don't think so,' he smiled coldly, 'Mr Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger - you can partner Miss Bulstrode.'

He smiled delightedly and walked over to Potter, followed by Millicent Bulstrode while Pansy, who was paired up with Dean Thomas, pouted disappointedly.

'Face your partners!' called Lockhart from the platform, 'and bow!'

Without taking his eyes off him, he gave Potter the merest hint of a nod which was countered in the same spirit.

'Wands at the ready!' shouted Lockhart. 'When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponent - only to disarm them - we don't want any accidents. One.... two.... three....'

He wasn't foolish enough to give Potter the chance to attack first, and so didn't wait for Lockhart to finish. He cast 'Expelliarmus!' together with Lockhart counting 'three' - but unfortunately Potter didn't let go of his wand. He just stumbled backwards as if hit by a physical blow.

Potter wasn't slow to retaliate and, pointing his wand straight at him, shouted, 'Rictusempra!'

A jet of silver light shot out of Potter's wand and hit him in the stomach. He doubled up wheezing. It was a Tickling Charm. Hundreds of invisible hands moved all over his body, titillating him under the arms, crawling over his ribs, swishing between his shoulder blades. Some even very softly scratched the soles of his feet. He cried with laughter, fighting for breath and sinking to his knees.

'I said disarm only!' shouted Lockhart over the heads of the milling and battling crowd.

Gasping for air, he aimed his wand at Potter's knees and choked out, 'Tarantallegra!'

And right away Potter's legs began to jerk and tap, performing a little quickstep of their own accord. He was nearly fainting with laughter as the sight of Potter dancing like mad was added to the tickling sensations still tormenting him.

'Stop! Stop!' screamed Professor Lockhart, but it was Professor Snape who took charge and ended the mayhem.

'Finite Incantatem!' he shouted.

Potter's feet stopped dancing, the tickling sensation vanished, and he was able to look up again and take a deep breath.

A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Everywhere students struggled back to their feet, stooped to gather up their lost wands or tidied their crumpled robes. The only ones still fighting were Bulstrode and Granger. Millicent had the whimpering Granger in a head lock while both their wands lay forgotten on the floor. It was quite a sight.

'Go, Milly!' he breathed, but he was too weak to make himself heard and while Greg helped him back to his feet, Potter leapt onto Millicent's back and pulled her off Granger.

'Dear, dear,' said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. 'Up you get, Macmillan.... careful there, Miss Fawcett.... pinch it hard, it'll stop bleeding in a second, Boot....

'I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,' mused Professor Lockhart, standing in the middle of the Hall. He chanced a quick glance at Professor Snape's glittering black eyes and looked away again. 'Let's have a volunteer pair - Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you?'

'A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,' said Snape gliding towards him. 'Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox. But how about Malfoy and Potter?'

'Excellent idea!' exclaimed Lockhart and gestured him and Potter into the middle of the Hall as everyone backed away to give them room.

'Now, Harry,' said Lockhart, 'when Draco points his wand at you, you do this.'

He raised his wand, attempted a complicated looking sort of swishing and wiggling and promptly dropped it.

Professor Snape smirked, darkly satisfied.

'Whoops - my wand is a little over-excited,' apologised Lockhart, picking it up again.

Professor Snape bent down to him and whispered in his ear: 'Cast Serpensortia, Draco. I'll back you up.'

He nodded imperceptibly and smirked at Potter, who looked nervously at Lockhart and begged, 'Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?'

'Scared?' he muttered softly, so that Lockhart couldn't hear him.

'You wish,' said Potter out of the corner of his mouth.

Professor Lockhart gave Potter's shoulder a merry slap.

'Just do what I did, Harry!'

'What, drop my wand?'

But Lockhart wasn't listening.

'Three - two - one - go!' he shouted.

He raised his wand lightning-quick and bellowed, 'Serpensortia!' as instructed.

The tip of his wand exploded, spouting forth a long black snake that fell heavily onto the floor between them and at once raised its head ready to strike.

There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.

'Don't move, Potter,' drawled Professor Snape lazily as Potter stood there motionless eye to eye with the angry snake. 'I'll get rid of it...'

'Allow me!' shouted Lockhart, brandishing his wand. With a BANG! the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Rightfully enraged about this treatment and hissing furiously, the beast slithered straight towards Justin Finch-Fletchley and threatened him with bared fangs.

In the dead silence Potter suddenly stepped towards the snake and made a strange hissing noise. The next moment the snake slumped down to the floor completely docile, its eyes riveted on Potter.

The crowd started murmuring as Potter grinned proudly at Finch-Fletchley, clearly expecting odes of gratitude and admiration. But the boy didn't perform.

'What do you think you're playing at?' he shouted and stormed out of the Hall.

Professor Snape stepped forward, waved his wand and the snake vanished in a puff of black smoke. The look he mustered Potter with was shrewd and calculating, and he wondered what the professor was thinking. Then Weasley and Granger appeared behind Potter and dragged him with them, towards the exit and out of the Hall. People gave way warily as if anxious to avoid contact.

'A Parselmouth,' he said slowly. He couldn't believe it. As if Potter wasn't odd enough with his scar and his fame and his strange natural-born flying and Quidditch abilities - now he was a Parselmouth to boot!

....................

Dear Father and Mother,

Can you believe it? Potter is a Parselmouth! Professor Lockhart opened a Duelling Club and we had our first session tonight. You should have seen Professor Snape blasting him off the stage! Then I was teamed up with Potter and the silly git cast Rictusempra at me, but I made him dance with Tarantallegra. It was such fun!

Professor Snape told me to cast Serpensortia, which I did, and the snake, it was a real beautiful big black one, frightened everybody nearly out of their pants. Next thing Potter started hissing at the beast and it nearly bit Finch-Fletchley! So it turned out that Potter is a Parselmouth - isn't that odd?

Now everyone says he must be the heir of Slytherin as he was a Parselmouth, too. But Salazar Slytherin wanted to rid the school of Muggle-borns and Potter is friends with Hermione Granger, whose parents are Muggles, so that makes no sense. I mean, he cannot really be the heir, can he? Please say no.

Why can't I be the heir? You have told me yourself, Father, that our family has been in Slytherin all along - so it would be only just if we were the heirs of its Founder and not a bloody (sorry, Mother!) Gryffindor! Why is it always Potter, who is special? I really hate that.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

....................

Draco:

I must ask you to mind your language - especially when writing to your mother. As I have said before: Hogwarts seems to be doing nothing for your manners.

And how often do I have to tell you to stop asking questions about the Chamber of Secrets? You are NOT the heir - and neither is Potter. The heir was at Hogwarts fifty years ago when the Chamber was opened for the first time. Then a Muggle-born girl died. It was all hushed up, but someone was expelled. Now there are definitely a large number of Muggle-borns at the school, which could lead to the assumption that the heir might think it necessary to purge the school again, but I DON'T WANT YOU to get mixed up in it. I won't tell you any more, as it might look suspicious if you know more than your schoolmates.

Again: Stick to the school rules, DO NOT wander around alone, especially after curfew (which you shouldn't do anyway) and behave yourself as it becomes a Malfoy.

I hope I have not to repeat that again.

Father

P.S. The Manor was raided by the Ministry this week. They confiscated a few books, but didn't find anything compromising, of course.

....................

The next day was dark and snow was falling, shrouding the castle in a thick white blanket. It was during this day's last lesson, History of Magic, when the call, 'ATTACK! ATTACK!' was heard from outside the classroom. Even Professor Binns looked up from his book and turned towards the door when everyone jumped up and hastened outside.

In the corridor Potter (who else?) was standing by a limp body lying on the floor - Justin Finch-Fletchley. Close to him Nearly Headless Nick was floating in the air, all black like swirling smoke, and motionless. The girls were screaming (a few of the boys too), even he let escape a tiny squeak at the sight of Nick's head half-off. The teachers were trying to restore quiet, but it was only Professor McGonagall, setting off a loud BANG! with her wand, who succeeded in calming the students, and sent them to their classes again. While everyone reluctantly turned away, he lingered and so caught sight of Ernie Macmillan, a second-year Hufflepuff, huffing towards them and pointing his finger at Potter.

'Caught in the act!' he yelled dramatically.

The last he heard as the door to the history classroom closed behind him was Peeves intoning: 'Oh Potter, you rotter, oh what have you done....'

Professor Binns had some problems to restore silence and get on with his lecture, as the students where positively shaking with fear and curiosity.

'What kind of monster could do that to Nearly Headless Nick?' asked Pansy in a whisper, clutching his arm (ouch, that would bruise later). 'I mean, he is dead already.... I'm just glad I'm leaving for home tomorrow. Oh, Draco! Do you think you'll be safe here over the holidays?'

He carefully freed his arm and tried for a manly smile.

'Don't worry, Pansy. Crabbe and Goyle are staying with me. And my parents would never let me stay here if there was any danger involved.'

'But Potter's going to stay here, too,' whispered Vince, frowning.

'Second thoughts?' he asked.

Vince shook his head, but didn't look convinced.

'So what? He isn't the heir. He cannot be the heir. He's a Gryffindor, for heaven's sake!'

His friends didn't argue, but none of them looked very happy.

In the evening when they went for dinner, the Weasley twins were just descending the stairs from Gryffindor tower, Potter trailing behind them. The small group of students lingering before the entrance to the Great Hall stopped gossiping as Fred Weasley - or George, who the hell could tell them apart? - started calling: 'Make way for the heir of Slytherin! Seriously evil wizard coming through!'

The gossip mongers darted out of their way, and Pansy clutched his arm again; the other one this time (ouch, again!).

He shot Potter a dark look when he cut their path and whisked into the Hall just before them.

....................

Dear Father,

Another attack! This time the monster has petrified Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick! Although he's dead! And Potter was caught standing right beside them. Makes you wonder. I know you said he isn't the heir, but why is he always on the spot when something happens? Everyone suspects him, especially the Hufflepuffs.

I wish I could come home for Christmas. It's not that I'm afraid or something; I know you wouldn't leave me here if it was dangerous, would you? I just would like to go home.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Professor Sprout says our Mandrake plants are the only hope for those petrified people. And Filch's cat. I re-potted a dozen of them myself at the start of term and got awarded with twenty house points.

....................

Finally the term ended, the students left, and a gloomy silence settled over the old castle. He, Greg and Vince were the only ones of their classmates staying, and in the evenings they huddled close to the fire with a few of the elder Slytherins also left behind by their parents.

He wondered what his parents were doing over Christmas and whether they were really occupied or simply tired of him. The other two didn't seem to miss their parents too much, which surprised him, but then they did spend far more time with them when they actually were together. He had sent presents home with his owl. An herbal cushion for his mother, meant to reduce headaches and guarantee restful sleep, the ingredients of which he had gathered himself in his Herbology lessons after consulting with Professor Sprout. A beautiful quill he sent for his father, made from a wing feather harvested from his own eagle owl, who had taken a chunk out of his finger in the process. The feather was of a subtle shade between brown and grey and he had carefully engraved the keel with his father's name laid out in occami silver (done in Charms).

The morning of Christmas was clear, white and cold. The sky was high and of the palest blue, and a deep silence cloaked the Hogwarts grounds and the lake. The one thing he enjoyed was sleeping late in the mornings. During term he had of course to get up early and even at home during the holidays or the summer break he was always woken in time for an early breakfast. Now he stretched luxuriously under his blankets, blinking in the pale winter sun that was streaming through the enchanted windows (the windows weren't real as the dungeons were below the ground, of course). From his side he could hear Greg and Vince still snoring. Left to themselves they would probably spend all day in bed. But, he decided, it was time to get up. If they hurried they would be just in time for a late breakfast or early lunch.

So he slid out of bed, shuddering when his bare feet hit the ice-cold stone floor, angled for his slippers, wrapped himself into his thick wool dressing gown and scurried over to the four-posters of his friends.

'Rise and shi-ine!' he sang aloud and ripped back their green velvet draping.

'Muah!' groaned Vince and buried his head under his pillow.

'Nooo!' whined Greg and slid deeper under the blankets.

'I'm going to the bathroom now,' he declared, 'and when I'm back it's time for presents.'

He couldn't help feeling jealous, eyeing the presents the house-elves had piled at the ends of their beds overnight. Both their piles were far higher than his - but his wrappings were more luxurious and tasteful, he comforted himself.

The sea-serpent in the bath-room wore a wreath of holly around its neck and seemed for once to be in good spirits.

'Merry Christmas, Draco Malfoy,' said the mirror softly when he came over to brush his teeth.

'To you too,' he answered, blinking away some tears and pasting a cheerful smile onto his face.

When he came back into his dorm Vince and Greg were at their presents already. Greg had got a beautiful set of gobstones and Vince an All-Year-Ticket for the Holyhead Harpies, his favourite Quidditch Team. They thanked him for his presents - he had bought them each a service-kit for their brooms.

He then went through his own presents, feeling grateful there were any at all. As it turned out all of them were sweets, which, he felt sure, the house-elves had sent. There was, however, a tiny parcel, which contained a practise Snitch.

'It's from us, and Pansy, because... well,' explained Greg, blushing.

'Yeah, well...' said he, looking down. 'Thanks anyway, it's great.'

'Lots of sweets,' remarked Vince.

'Yes,' he said, 'my mother's always worried whether I get enough to eat here, you know.'

His mother had never expressed any concerns in that respect, but he had heard it mentioned by others, so apparently it was something mothers in general worried about.

His parents' Christmas letter was short, just expressing their wishes for a happy holiday and remembering him not to waste the time by idling around, but to use it for studying. And there was a paper clipping attached to it that he found highly entertaining. But as they were very late already, he decided it would have to wait until they had had something to eat.

The afternoon was spent outside, sledding and engaging in a snowball fight with some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws that ended in a tie when it became to dark to distinguish friend from foe.

Even his gloomy mood could not withstand the sight of the Great Hall decorated for Christmas. The traditional twelve Christmas trees were standing in all their glory in the corners and at the ends of each house table, holly and mistletoe streamers crossed the ceiling, from which enchanted snow was tumbling softly down, glistening in the light of floating bees wax candles, whose smell mingled deliciously with the pine scent of the trees and the delicacies prepared in the Hogwarts kitchen. Not even the sight of Potter in a terrifyingly ugly new jumper could spoil the feast. And thankfully Potter, Weasley and Granger left early, although not before they had each had three helpings of Christmas pudding.

When they had sung enough Christmas carols to satisfy even the most voracious music lover, the headmaster stood and wished them all a merry Christmas and a good night before retreating to his chambers. He got up, too, while Greg and Vince were still busy stuffing their pockets with nuts and tangerines from the table. He told them not to wait for him, explaining he had to have a word with Professor Snape. Then he hurried over to the High Table to catch the Professor, who was just leaving, still talking to Professor Vector.

'Sir?' he said shyly.

'Mr Malfoy?' Snape turned to him in midstride, raising a questioning eyebrow.

He fell in step beside him.

'This is for you, sir, because you are my favourite teacher.'

Quaking a little, he offered his present, carefully wrapped and decorated with Pansy's help. It was the biggest and most beautiful of the precious crystal phials he had got for Christmas last year. It was diamond cut and stoppered with an amethyst.

'Well, Mr Malfoy, that is very... surprising,' said Snape, stopping as he took the little packet from him. 'Thank you very much.'

He smiled at him, feeling truly happy for the first time of all this wretched Christmas.

....................

He wandered slowly back to the dungeons. But when he entered the common room after two Fifth-years, it was deserted. Frowning, he inspected their dormitory, but Greg and Vince were not in there either. Where could they be, leaving him alone like this? He still wanted to show them the attachment his father had added to his Christmas letter, which he had not found time for after they'd got up. He turned around again and went for a tour of the corridors.

Coming around a corner, he finally found them - apparently they had been ambushed by that git, Weasley the Prefect, who was now lecturing them about wandering the corridors after dark. A bit rich that, a bloody Gryffindor telling two Slytherins they couldn't go around in their dungeons as they pleased.

'There you are,' he said, 'have you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this time? I've been looking for you; I want to show you something really funny.' And then, in a perfect imitation of his father's 'Don't mess with me, I'm a Malfoy'-tone: 'And what are you doing down here, Weasley?'

The older boy looked enraged.

'You want to show a bit more respect to a school Prefect!' he said. 'I don't like your attitude!'

He sneered at Weasley and motioned Greg and Vince to follow him.

'That Peter Weasley -' he started, when they turned the next corner.

'Percy,' interrupted Vince.

'Whatever,' he said, surprised that anyone would know one Weasley from the other. 'I've noticed him sneaking around a lot lately. And I bet I know what he's up to. He thinks he's going to catch Slytherin's heir single-handed.'

He snorted a short laughter. As if.

When they arrived at the bare stone wall hiding the entrance to the Slytherin common room he asked, 'What's the new password again?'

'Er -' said Greg.

'Oh yeah - pure-blood!'

The door opened and they entered. He motioned his friends to a pair of empty chairs in front of the fireplace and said over his shoulder, 'Wait here. I'll go and get it - my father's just sent it to me -'

In his dormitory he grabbed the newspaper clipping from the Daily Prophet that had been enclosed in his parents' letter from his nightstand.

INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car.

Mr Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr Weasley's resignation.

'Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,' Mr Malfoy told our reporter. 'He is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.'

Mr Weasley was unavailable for comment, although his wife told reporters to clear off or she'd set the family ghoul on them.

Back in the common room he waved the clipping under Vincent's nose and said, 'That'll give you a laugh.'

Vince gave a short and somewhat forced-sounding snort of laughter and handed the paper to Greg, who didn't react to it at all.

'Well,' he said, taken aback by their strange behaviour, 'don't you think it's funny?'

'Ha, ha,' said Greg.

'Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should snap his wand in half and go and join them,' he said sensibly (his father had said so more than once). 'You'd never know the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave.' Another of his father's statements.

Vincent's face contorted horribly.

'What's up with you, Crabbe?' he asked, aghast.

'Stomach ache,' grunted Vince.

'Well, go up to the hospital wing and get yourself a Purgify Draught then,' he advised.

'You know, I'm surprised the Daily Prophet hasn't reported all these attacks yet. I suppose Dumbledore is trying to hush it all up. He'll be sacked if it doesn't stop soon. Father's always said Dumbledore's the worst thing that's ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent Headmaster would never let people like that Creevey in.'

He started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did an impromptu impression of the annoying First-year.

'Can I have your picture, Potter? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Potter?'

When no reaction showed on his friends' faces he dropped his hands and asked: 'What's the matter with you two?'

They both chortled dutifully, but too late. He decided to cut them some slack. Probably they had eaten so much it had slowed down their reactions.

'Saint Potter, the Mudbloods' friend,' he said slowly. 'He's another one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn't go around with that jumped-up Granger Mudblood. And people think he's Slytherin's heir! - I wish I knew who it is. I could help them.'

'You must have some idea who's behind it all....'

'You know I haven't, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you? And father won't tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened, either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it'll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing: last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it's only a matter of time before one of them's killed this time... I hope it's Granger,' he said with relish, the thought of the obnoxious girl insinuating his father had bought him his place on the Quidditch Team still sharp and painful in his mind.

'D'you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?' asked Greg.

'Oh, yeah... whoever it was was expelled. They're probably still in Azkaban.'

'Azkaban?' said Greg, puzzled.

'Azkaban - the wizard prison, Goyle,' he said disbelievingly. 'Honestly, if you were any slower, you'd be going backwards.'

He sought for a more comfortable position in his chair and continued, 'Father says to keep my head down and let the heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, he's got a lot on his plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our Manor last week?'

Greg looked concerned.

'Yeah....' he sighed. 'Luckily they didn't find much. Father's got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily we've got our own secret chamber under the drawing room floor -'

'Ho!' said Vince.

Vince looked funny somehow. His hair had such a reddish hue... Also his nose was shaped quite oddly... Greg, whose hair was slightly too long all of a sudden and decidedly messy, looked at Vince, who looked back. Both seemed struck with panic. They jumped to their feet.

'Medicine for my stomach,' Vince grunted, and then both bolted and ran across the common room towards the door.

'Hey!' he called, momentarily confused. What was going on with them? They must indeed have eaten something very wrong. He went after them, slower, but with a purposeful step.

In the corridor he could hear the echo of their footsteps dying in the distance. Shaking his head, he went on. When he reached ground level, he heard a banging noise coming from a broom cupboard across the Entrance Hall. A Boggart! he thought, but then he could make out muffled voices, crying for help.

'Hey there! Someone let us out of here! Hello!'

Coming nearer, he discovered two pairs of shoes flung carelessly away in front of the door.

'What the -' he started saying as he yanked open the door, but was cut short by Vince and Greg tumbling out of the cupboard and sending him head over heels onto his backside.

'Not funny!' said Greg grimly, looming menacingly over him.

'What'd you do that for, huh?' asked Vince, standing at his side.

'I didn't do anything! Why were you hiding in there?' he cried.

'We didn't,' hollered Vince, 'we came from the Hall, found those cupcakes and the next thing we're waking up in this sticky cupboard stinking of Filch's cat! I had a mop over my face!'

'And someone's taken our shoes,' added Greg.

He motioned to the pairs lying around.

'Wait a minute,' he said, thinking hard. 'Did you go in there before or after I showed you my paper clipping in our common room?'

'What paper clipping?' asked Vince, 'What are you talking about?'

'We haven't been down since before the Feast,' said Greg.

His insides reeled. He could literally feel the bottom drop out of his stomach.

'Potter!' he whispered. And Weasley, of course. And he had told them...

Vince and Greg exchanged dumbfounded looks as he suddenly turned a virulent shade of green.

'Hey! Don't pass out on us, will you?' Greg crouched beside him and touched his shoulder.

He looked up, cold sweat on his forehead, thinking frantically about what he had to do now.

....................

An hour later, after he had his companions taken back to their common room and had explained his suspicions to them, he was again wandering along the dungeon corridors alone. He had shown the two impersonators the newspaper clipping and told them about the secret room under the drawing room floor. His father was going to kill him when he wrote home...

Dear Father,

I accidentally blabbed out the secret of the chamber under the drawing room floor to Potter and Weasley, only I thought they were Crabbe and Goyle. The Aurors should be on your front step anytime now...

No way. He couldn't do that. But if he did nothing and didn't warn his parents, they would be unprepared when the Aurors came down on them the next time. And come the Aurors would. Weasley would have a feast telling his father about what he had found out from him. They would find whatever it was that was kept in the hidden chamber (he didn't know himself). And his parents would be sent to Azkaban. There was only one person, who could - perhaps - help him now. Hesitantly he knocked on the door to Professor Snape's private chambers and held his breath.

Despite the late hour the Professor was still fully dressed when he whisked open the door and fixed his gaze upon him leaning against his door frame as if seeking support, looking pale and shaky.

'Mr Malfoy?'

'Professor Snape, sir, can I have.... Could you....' he stuttered, a distinct tremolo to his voice.

'Is anything the matter, Malfoy? You look as if you should go and see Madam Pomfrey.'

'No, sir! I'd rather.... I'd rather talk to you, if I may?' said he, gathering together the last vestiges of his courage.

Snape hesitated, then sighed and opened the door wider for him to pass through.

'Come in then. But I warn you, if it's nothing more serious than a matter of overindulging in sweets you will find my potions much harder to swallow than those used by Madam Pomfrey. Have a seat.'

He slumped in the chair across from Snape's desk. The Professor's quarters looked exactly like the last time he had been here. No tinsel, not the least bit of holiday decoration adorned the stern room, which was again only lit by the fire burning in the hearth and a fat candle on his desk.

'So, what is it?' asked Professor Snape, sitting down.

He gulped in a deep breath of air and started: 'I'm afraid, I've done something awfully stupid, Professor, but it really, really wasn't my fault. You see, I told Crabbe and Goyle something I shouldn't have and now it turned out it weren't Crabbe and Goyle, but Potter and Weasley. At least I think it must have been them. But they looked like Crabbe and Goyle and they talked like them - only they were somehow.... funny.'

Professor Snape raised his eyebrows.

'Crabbe's hair suddenly turned red and Goyle's got long and messy and then they ran away and when I followed them I found them, Crabbe and Goyle, I mean, the real ones, in the Hall in a broom cupboard and they said they haven't been down in the dungeons all evening and I didn't tell them about the secret chamber...' he clasped his hand before his mouth and stared at his professor.

Professor Snape leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and conjured a tea tray out of thin air with a lazy wave of his wand.

'Mr Malfoy,' he said, 'I think you'd better start at the beginning.'

So he did. After he had told his story twice, occasionally interrupted by questions from his teacher, the professor nodded.

'I knew someone had raided my private stores,' he murmured. 'There was an obvious amount of shredded Boomslang skin missing...' Snape looked up and fixed him with a stern gaze. 'What do you know about Polyjuice Potion?'

'Extremely difficult to brew, effects lasting for an hour,' he whispered, 'I thought it must have been... Only Potter couldn't make it, could he? Neither could Weasley.'

'No,' said Professor Snape, 'they couldn't. Miss Granger, now... She's second in Potions only to you and you could do it, if you had the right instructions.'

He didn't know whether he should feel elated that his professor thought him skilled enough to brew that complicated a draught or whether he should feel ill at the thought of Granger playing such a trick on him.

'But surely this is enough to get them expelled this time?' he wagered.

Snape snorted. 'And how exactly do you expect me to prove such a thing? No, the question is what are they going to do with the information you gave them? What exactly did you tell them about the raid and the hidden chamber?'

He squirmed. 'Not much, really. Just that the Ministry raided our Manor, but didn't find anything important. And that we have our own Chamber of Secrets under the floor in the drawing room.'

'What's in there?' asked Snape sharply.

He blushed. 'I don't know, sir.'

'Bragging, eh?'

He hung his head.

'What on earth possessed you to blab out your family's secrets like that, Mr Malfoy?'

'I thought they were my friends,' he whispered.

'Has it never occurred to you, boy, that things are not always what they seem to be? That your friends can be your worst enemies? Especially in our world and in times like these?'

'Yes! No, but -'

'Well, that was daring. And right under my very nose!' murmured Professor Snape.

'But why? What did they do that for?' he cried. They couldn't possibly know that his father was going to kill him for this indiscretion, could they?

'What do you reckon, Mr Malfoy, after all you know about Potter?' the professor snapped.

'The heir of Slytherin...?' he suggested hesitantly.

'Yes,' Snape agreed. 'Most of the students think that it's Potter - which is, of course, a ridiculous notion -'

He nodded eagerly.

'But Potter, apparently, believed you to be the heir and ventured to find out. That troublesome boy! He must be very disappointed by now, finding that you don't know any more than he does. And you don't, do you?' The professor watched him inquisitively.

'No, sir. Father knows all about it, though. He said the school needs to get rid of those Mud-, er, Muggle-borns and to let the heir get on with it, but not to get involved.'

Snape smiled a thin-lipped smile. 'Did he then? How very... Lucius.'

'Sir,' he said, 'about the chamber...'

'You must warn your parents.'

He hung his head, close to tears again. 'Yes, sir.'

'Are you afraid of your father, Mr Malfoy?' Professor Snape asked very softly.

'No!' he protested quickly. 'Of course not. I mean... only when he's angry with me. And he's been angry with me a lot lately. I... I have disappointed him. I was only second of my year in exams and then I lost the Quidditch match...'

Snape snorted again. 'Which was a really idiotic thing of you to do, giving the game away, presenting the match to Potter on a silver tray...' he grumbled.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered.

'Well, what's done is done. I know you've been practising a lot and I expect it to show on the pitch next time. Now, I will escort you back to your rooms, it really is late and you shouldn't wander around on your own,' said Professor Snape, rising.

He looked up. 'But - my father, sir?'

'Leave your father to me, Mr Malfoy, I will find a way to let him know what he's about to expect.'

'Sir!' he was breathless with gratitude. 'And - and will you tell him...?'

'No, Mr Malfoy, I will not. That was what your little escapade to my rooms was all about, wasn't it?'

He swallowed hard. 'I didn't expect you to cover up for me,' he said honestly. 'I just thought you were the only person who could help me now.'

Professor Snape looked sternly down upon him. 'I don't know whether I shall feel flattered about this show of trust from your side, but thank you anyway,' he said dryly.

Only when he entered the deserted Slytherin common room again, did he remember that he had not properly thanked his teacher for his help. But when he turned around to do so, Professor Snape was gone.

The following morning at breakfast when he glared at Potter and Weasley (die, sneaks, die!) across the Great Hall, he noticed that Granger was missing.

She didn't show up again until several weeks later, and rumour had it that she had been attacked by the monster and was lying in the hospital wing stiff and stone cold - a thought he cherished. It was the least she deserved after what she had done to him. But as rumours went, it was just too good to be true, and she finally turned up again, brassy, know-it-all and not a bit behind on school stuff.

He never knew if and how Professor Snape had managed to warn his father of the danger of a renewed Ministry raid, but as he didn't receive so much as a Howler from home, he slowly started to feel comfortable again by the beginning of February. The weather seemed to share his mood as by then a little feeble sunshine started to lighten up the days.

Students and teachers alike were feeling more hopeful. There hadn't been a new attack since the one on Finch-Fletchley and Nearly-Headless Nick, and the mandrakes were reported to be in their adolescence. A few of the students were still convinced that Potter was the heir of Slytherin - a theory he did his very best to deflate wherever he came upon it, although it riled him no end to help the boy he now saw no longer as just annoying, but as his sworn enemy. He therefore heartily joined Peeves in singing the 'Potter, you rotter'-song whenever he had the chance.

....................

One morning in mid February he awoke to find a small square of paper under his pillow. Frowning, he unfolded it and was greeted by the picture of an Antipodean Opaleye with a green bow tie, breathing little puffs of scarlet clouds that formed the words 'Happy Valentine's!' Judging from the sudden heat in his face he must have blushed fiercely, and was relieved that none of his dorm mates was up yet. He swiftly hid the card in his trunk and scampered off to the bathroom.

He stood in front of 'his' mirror and wondered how to do this.

'Erm...?' he finally said.

'Good morning, Draco Malfoy!' said the mirror cheerfully.

'Good morning! I wonder whether you could help me?'

'Help you? To do what?'

'Er... erm, there's this girl you know, she's my friend and I really like her, and now she's sent me this Valentine's card and I think I have to send her something back. And I know exactly what she would like, only I have to make sure, that it works the way it should, and that is why I thought you could talk to it first, perhaps?'

'Talk to what?' the mirror asked, sounding confused.

He dug around in his toiletry satchel and produced a small silver hand mirror.

'Talk to this,' he said, holding it close to the mirror's surface. 'You know, I don't want it to say things like 'your hair is untidy' or something, I want it to say something nice.'

The mirror chuckled.

'Like, 'Oh, Pansy, my sweet, you're as beautiful as the new morning'?'

'Now, don't get carried away. It could say - hey! How -? Why -?' he stammered.

The mirror chuckled again.

'There are mirrors in the girls' bathroom, too, you know,' it said. 'And she's the one always drawing hearts with a 'D' inside when they're all fogged up, am I right?'

Again his face felt flushed, and when he looked at his reflection it was positively glowing.

'This is not funny!' he grumbled.

'Ah, don't you worry, Draco Malfoy! There's nothing wrong with a little crush,' the mirror soothed.

'I don't have a crush! She's my friend. Now, can you do it or not?'

'Leave it to me, Draco Malfoy, leave it to me. It will tell her something nice whenever she's looking into it, promise.'

'Nothing exaggerated,' he insisted.

'Nothing exaggerated,' the mirror confirmed.

'Thank you,' he said, a bit stiffly.

'My pleasure.'

When he turned away to go to the showers he thought he heard the mirror chuckle again and shot him a baleful glance, but it didn't pick up on it.

Coming up for breakfast the Slytherins couldn't believe their eyes as they went into the Great Hall. Pink. The overall impression was pink. Pink flowers on the walls, pink confetti softly falling from the enchanted babyblue ceiling; even the pumpkin juice had a sickeningly pink hue. Moreover someone must have persuaded the house-elves that heart-shaped was the call of the season, as everything from scones to fried eggs was delivered in that form.

'I don't think I can eat that,' he said, staring at the scrambled eggs and sausages on his plate. The eggs formed a heart (what else), which was 'shot' through by the sausages, arranged in the shape of an arrow, while ketchup was dripping from the 'wound'. He pushed his plate away and held on to his teacup.

'If you don't want that - do you mind?' asked Greg.

'No, have at it,' he said, and shuddered as the boy cut deftly through the heart (eggs), arrow (sausages), blood (ketchup) and all, scooped the portion up with his toast and shoved it into his mouth.

'Have to go, see you later,' he mumbled, and fled - just as Professor Lockhart stood up from the High Table and shouted, 'Happy Valentine's Day!'

Outside the Hall he ran into an odd procession: a dozen or so dwarfs, outfitted with golden wings and carrying harps, were marching straight towards the Hall entrance. In passing he could hear them mutter angrily among each other, 'Silly bugger... What does he think he's doing...? Those wings are itchy... Free books, pah!'

Shaking his head, he crossed the Entrance Hall and left for the Greenhouses. First class of the day, Herbology: How to wake your Mandrake.

Later, during the lesson, he slipped the little parcel he had made of the mirror wrapped in a piece of parchment into Pansy's book bag as she tried to serve the Mandrake they were tending together its early morning herbal tea.

When they returned to the castle for Transfiguration, he watched her under lowered lashes every time she dug into her bag for books, quills or parchment, but she didn't find his Valentine before lunch break when she vanished into the bathroom with a few other girls, all rather giggly and glowing.

Sitting down for lunch across the table, she beamed at him, her dark complexion flushed and black eyes sparkly. He smiled back, glad he had found the right thing for her. But when Greg and Vince started looking from him to her and back again, shoving each other with their elbows, he turned away and pretended to be fascinated by his Shepherd's Pie, which came in the form of a grazing lamb (this morning's breakfast extravaganza must have tickled the house-elves' creativity).

The last class of the afternoon had been Charms and the Slytherins were just heading towards the stairs, when a small commotion in front of them caught their attention. Potter was scrambling around on the floor at the head of the stairs, grabbing for his books, parchments and stuff that were lying all around the place, heavily splashed with ink, his torn bag next to him. Above him stood a very disgruntled looking dwarf, tugging the strings of his harp as if preparing for a song.

'What's going on here?' he asked nonplussed.

'What's all this commotion?' asked another voice, and Percy Weasley arrived on the scene.

Potter looked panicked and made a dash for the corridor, but the dwarf tackled him, seizing him around the knees and both crashed onto the floor.

'Right,' said the dwarf, sitting on Potter's legs so he couldn't get away, 'here's your singing Valentine:

His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard,
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero, who conquered the Dark Lord.

The laughter that had welled up here and there as soon as the word 'toad' had left the dwarf's mouth now broke out like spring thunder. People were crying with mirth. Potter, face glowing the bright red of a tomato, tried his best to give the impression of sharing in the fun.

The dwarf scurried down the stairs, tearing at the wings on his back while he went, and mopping his forehead with a large red handkerchief.

'Off you go, off you go,' Percy Weasley's voice ripped through the mayhem, 'the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now. And you, Malfoy,' he added.

Still giggling he turned to go, but something on the floor caught his eye. He stooped to pick it up and at once recognised the shabby black book for what it was. A diary! Potter's diary? Greg and Vince were looking over his shoulders, as he turned the thing around in his hands. This was serious stuff.

'Give that back,' Potter said in his usual polite way.

'Wonder what Potter's written in this?' he mused.

'December 20th
Accomplished: Exploded cracker in Potions, robbed Snape's private stores, sneaked out after curfew, cheated Malfoy.
To do: Be cheeky to Snape, annoy Malfoy, hex Slytherins, must break more school rules.'

Everyone went quiet.

'Hand it over, Malfoy,' said Prefect-Weasley.

'When I've had a look,' he answered. Now that he had the opportunity to find proof for the git's misdeeds in his very own journal he wouldn't let it pass that quickly.

'As a school Prefect -' Weasley started pompously, but was interrupted by Potter shouting, 'Expelliarmus!' and pointing his wand at him.

The diary shot out of his hands and into the air. He made a quick grab for it, but Ron Weasley caught it before he could, grinning like a maniac. Of course he was Potter's accomplice, proof of which was in all likelihood to be found in the diary.

'December 30th
Accomplished: Polyjuiced myself and Weasley into Crabbe and Goyle, imprisoned the real ones in broom cupboard, helped Weasley cheat in Charms.
To do: Teach Weasley Trip-jinx, ambush Filch with dungbombs, lie to McGonagall about being out after hours, must break more school rules.'

He nearly stamped his foot in disappointment. So close! He had been so close to reveal Potter's crimes to the public.

'Harry!' Prefect-Weasley cried. 'No magic in the corridors. I'll have to report this, you know!'

The five points this was going to cost Gryffindor could in no way reconcile him with the lost opportunity. As the little Weasley girl passed him by to enter her classroom, he remembered her standing up for Potter at Flourish & Blotts last year and yelled after her, 'I don't think Potter liked your Valentine much!'

Weasley, Potter's partner in crime, snarled and pulled out his oddly deformed wand, but Potter pulled him away before he could hit himself with another backfiring curse. One couldn't be lucky every time.

....................

Soon the Easter holidays were there and the Second-years had to make up their minds about which subjects to choose for their third year. Greg and Vince were dreaming about dropping Transfigurations, Charms and Potions next to History of Magic, Herbology and Astronomy. That would leave them with exactly one subject as he pointed out to them, namely Defence against the Dark Arts. But as it turned out they had just forgotten to include it in the list.

He himself was torn about what to choose: Arithmancy or Ancient Runes? Divination or Care of Magical Creatures? Muggle Studies was of course quite out of the question - although he thought it might be quite interesting to know what is was exactly that made Muggles and Mudbloods so dangerous. But in the end he had no say in it at all, as he received instructions from his father to take Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures, which would add such a workload to his curriculum that he had no idea how he should manage it, given the Quidditch practise and all.

The next Quidditch match of the season was Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff and the day dawned in perfect weather conditions. When he and his friends took their seats in the stand, the teams were just entering the pitch and the crowd greeted them with raucous applause. Wood, the Gryffindors' captain, had just taken off for a warm-up flight while the Hufflepuffs were still standing in a huddle discussing their tactics, when Professor McGonagall came marching onto the pitch.

'This match has been cancelled!' her voice boomed through the stadium enhanced by a large purple megaphone.

The Slytherins joined everyone else in a chorus of 'Boo!' and 'No!'

Unimpressed she continued, 'All students are to make their way back to the house common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please!'

To his delight she then beckoned Potter to her, who was of course followed by Weasley, the leech, and all three left, almost running, for the castle. Could the cancellation be Potter's fault? What had he done this time?

Back in their common room the Slytherins were received by Professor Snape, who, as soon as everybody was assembled around him, enrolled a large parchment and addressed them as follows:

'Slytherins! Two more Muggleborns have been attacked by the monster -'

Interrupted by their excited exclamations of 'Who?' and 'When?' he stopped, and answered them curtly: 'Penelope Clearwater of Ravenclaw and Hermione Granger of Gryffindor. This morning.'

'Are they d-dead?' asked he.

He had wished for the terrible girl's death countless times, and as far as 'dead' meant 'gone forever, never to return' this was fine by him, but if dead meant pain and terror, being torn limb from limb, eaten perhaps... He shuddered.

'No, they're not, Mr Malfoy,' said Professor Snape. 'Surprisingly, they have survived, petrified as the others. - If you would let me continue now. Silence!'

His cutting tone stilled the last murmurs.

'The Headmaster and the Deputy Headmistress have therefore laid down the following rules: All students will return to their house common rooms by six o'clock in the evening. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time. You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All further Quidditch training and matches are to be postponed. There will be no more evening activities.'

In the silence following that announcement the sharp SNAP! with which the parchment curled together again was as loud as an exploding wand.

'But... How long...?' someone finally dared to ask.

'As long as it takes to catch the culprit, of course.' Professor Snape said. 'The school might be closed, if this doesn't happen soon.'

'Professor?' It was Flint speaking up. 'Why do we have to follow these rules? No Slytherin has been attacked. And it's Slytherin's monster as they say. Surely his pet wouldn't harm any of us? His old house?' He grinned.

The professor turned his black burning gaze to him and said, 'Ah, Mr Flint. Pointing out the obvious. You all know how the other houses view us. Can you imagine what it would look like if we were to go about unafraid and without a care? Whatever we might think about our dear founder and his descendant's efforts to continue his work and rid the school of... Muggleborns,' he smiled thinly, 'it would be less than wise to openly admit any sympathy for his cause. Have I made myself clear?'

They all nodded and murmured their agreement.

'In fact, I have to ask you to step forward and tell, if you think you might know anything that could help to end this... unfortunate situation.'

Professor Snape's gaze flicked over them, shortly resting on him. No one stirred.

'Didn't think so,' he smirked and swept off.

As soon as the stone wall had closed behind him again, a storm of shouts and questions broke loose.

'Go Slytherin!'

'I liked Penelope.'

'Away with the Mudbloods!'

'Are you insane? They're closing the school!'

'No exams!' This was Goyle.

'But how,' he said, destroying the happy grins that followed that thought, 'does the monster know who's in Slytherin and who's not? I mean, does it ask first?'

'It's looking at the house crests on the robes.'

'The heir will know,' said Avery.

'Potter knows!'

'He wouldn't harm Granger, they're friends.'

'The heir of Slytherin can only be a Slytherin.'

'So, it's one of us.'

They looked at each other, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

'Yeah,' he said into the echoing silence, 'who's got the guts to kill their schoolmates?'

As he looked around, everybody avoided his eyes.

'No one's dead yet,' said Higgs disparagingly.

'Yet,' said Pansy.

....................

Dear Father,

Another two students down! Clearwater of Ravenclaw and Granger were attacked this morning. They are petrified, not dead. I'm not sure I like that killing thing. Even if it's Muggle-borns. How does the monster kill people? And does it eat them?

The match was cancelled and there will be no more Quidditch practise or any evening activities. We're practically imprisoned in our dormitories when not in class. They're talking about closing down the school! Can't you help? Surely there must be something you can do.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. Are you sure the monster knows the difference between a Gryffindor and say, a Slytherin?

....................

The very next morning Headmaster Dumbledore and Hagrid were missing from the High Table at breakfast and his owl delivered the following letter:

Draco:

I can assure you that, as a Governor of your school, I have, of course, its best interests at heart. Therefore I have been working for quite a while with the other Governors to remedy the current crisis as soon as possible. In a first step we have asked Professor Dumbledore to resign. As soon as we have found a new Headmaster, he and the Board of Governors will design measures to render further intervention of Slytherin's heir unnecessary.

How many times do I have to tell you not to ask me about the monster?! Obey your Head of House's orders and keep quiet!

Your Father, Lucius Malfoy

....................

While summer's warmth and light was slowly conquering the grounds around the castle, the mood inside could only be described as dark. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but foremost Gryffindor, were tense and depressed. Everyone looked tired and worried, and no one dared to laugh or joke any more. The students were hurried along the corridors between classes; each group chaperoned by a teacher, and they crossed paths silently and without greeting. And everyone, students and teachers alike, looked over their shoulders frequently or stared warily into dark corners when entering a room or on their way from one location to another.

Even the Slytherins were far from feeling light-hearted. Being watched with contempt was one thing, but being considered in league with ruthless killers was quite another. It didn't help that none of the monster's victims so far had been one of them.

He was the only one trying to uphold an appearance of nonchalance and good grace. Although his anxieties with regard to the monster's diet hadn't been stilled, he was proud of his father, who had succeeded where no one had before: getting rid of Dumbledore. He felt it was his duty not to let him down.

'I always thought Father might be the one who got rid of Dumbledore,' he told Vince and Greg during a Potions lesson, some fourteen days after the Headmaster's resign.

'I told you he thinks Dumbledore's the worst Headmaster the school's ever had. Maybe we'll get a decent Headmaster now. Someone who won't want the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall won't last long, she's only filling in...'

Professor Snape swept through their rows, heading for the front of the class.

'Sir,' he said eagerly. 'Sir, why don't you apply for the Headmaster's job?'

'Now, now, Malfoy,' said Snape, 'Professor Dumbledore has only been suspended by the Governors. I dare say he'll be back with us soon enough.'

'Yeah, right. But I expect you'd have Father's vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the job. I'll tell father you're the best teacher here, sir...'

Professor Snape tried to suppress a smile. And while the professor turned to the blackboard to set up the instructions for the day's homework, he whispered audibly to Vince and Greg, 'I'm quite surprised the Mudbloods haven't all packed their bags by now. Bet you five Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn't Granger...'

He knew only too well what effect talk like that had on Potter and Weasley, who were sitting right behind him. It was his only means of getting back at them and making them pay for their Polyjuice prank. Weasley jumped right off his stool and had to be restrained by Potter. Just then the bell rang, so that in the general upheaval of everyone getting their books and bags and hurrying towards the door, the git's attempts at getting towards him went sadly unnoticed by Professor Snape.

....................

Unfortunately for Greg and Vince, who had set all their hopes on the school closing before exams were due - and had therefore been even more lazy than usual - exams were set for the first of June, as Professor Snape announced to them in their common room one evening by the end of May.

The Slytherins moaned loudly.

'But that's only one week!' screeched Pansy.

'Excellent observation, Miss Parkinson,' said Professor Snape. 'The other houses will be notified tomorrow in class. That gives you one evening ahead of them. It had better show in your results.'

He glared at them and left.

He stoically went back to his table in the corner of the common room, where his books and parchments were piled on high. Still one week to revise - and this time Granger was out of the competition. This year he would satisfy his father's demands.

Three days before the exams were due though, McGonagall stood up at breakfast and stated: 'I have good news.'

The Hall exploded into yells of, 'Dumbledore's coming back!'; 'You've caught the heir of Slytherin!' and 'Quidditch matches are back on!' That had been Wood. He was fanatic. Scary.

When the noise had calmed down she concluded, 'Professor Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last. Tonight, we will be able to revive those people, who have been petrified. I need hardly remind you all that one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what, attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year will end with our catching the culprit.'

Everyone cheered. Only he looked down at his plate, suddenly gloomy. That meant Granger was to take the exams. Of course she would have no revision time to mention, but as she seemed to simply learn all their textbooks by heart before term started, this would probably not hold her back.

Later that day classes were interrupted by Professor McGonagall's magically magnified voice booming through the entire school: 'All students are to return to their house dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.'

The Slytherins were having Defence against the Dark Arts right then and were not unhappy to leave early when Professor Lockhart, who had been sitting dozing at his desk, dismissed them from reading his Holidays with Hags, announcing importantly that his presence was needed elsewhere.

Back in their common room, they milled around, speculating in low voices about the reasons for this break of the routine.

'I bet it has happened at last,' said Pansy darkly. 'Someone has been killed.'

He gulped nervously. He felt bad, as if his permanent talk about the monster finally killing a Mudblood had somehow brought fourth the event.

'Perhaps it's not that,' he argued. 'It could be that they've caught the heir.'

But that would be bad as well, as it clearly ran against his father's expressed wishes. Why must everything be so difficult? Why couldn't the Mudbloods just pack and leave them alone?

Right then, Professor Snape entered their common room, his mien grave and his eyes cold and piercing like icicles.

'Slytherins,' he addressed them, 'it appears that the monster has taken a Gryffindor first-year into the Chamber of Secrets. As a result the school will be closed, as your safety is no longer guaranteed. You are to leave on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow.'

No one said a word as they stared at him in disbelief. The Slytherin first-years clung to each other.

'B-but how?' someone dared to ask finally.

Snape didn't answer.

'Sir?' he whispered, his throat feeling parched.

The professor turned towards him.

'How can you know that he's not simply somewhere in the castle or out in the grounds?'

'She, Mr Malfoy,' Professor Snape answered softly, 'it's little Ginny Weasley who's missing. And we know, because the heir has left a message on the wall again: Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever.'

Several students gasped. He felt faint.

'I'd advise you all to go and pack now. You'll be leaving tomorrow morning, right after breakfast. Don't bother to send owls home. Your parents have been informed.'

His heart was heavy and his legs felt numb as if they wouldn't carry him much longer when he went to his dormitory and started throwing random things into his trunk. He didn't care that his best robes got squashed under his heavy spellbooks or that his cauldron smashed one of his crystal phials.

Was it his fault? Had his wish brought about this fate? A skeleton... he shuddered. Naked white bones, like the skulls at Burgin & Borkes. He hadn't understood then, that these had been living, breathing beings once. They had just been... things. But now, that someone, whom he had known, a real girl with flaming red hair and a sweet little voice would share their fate, killed by a monster he didn't dare to imagine... Her skull would lie in the chamber, stripped of flesh and hair, dark eye holes staring ahead, right into his nightmares. Even if he hadn't liked her, he preferred her alive and annoying. He sank onto his bed and buried his face in his hands.

'Hey,' said Greg, sitting down at his side.

He didn't stir.

'She wasn't one of us,' said Vince and sat on his other side.

'But she was a pure-blood,' said Greg. 'Wasn't this monster thing supposed to hunt Mudbloods only?'

'I've always wondered how it would know the difference,' he said through his hands.

'Do you think...?' Greg started and broke off.

'What?' he asked, looking up.

'Do you think she's... dead?'

'Of course she is,' said Vince.

He winced.

'Wonder what it feels like... dying?'

'Do you think it hurts?'

'Sure it does. When a big slimy monster eats you.'

He covered his ears with his hands and sank down on his bedspread.

'Better shut up,' said Greg, 'or he's going to be sick.'

Vince shrugged helplessly.

They sat there for a long time, not looking at each other, each of them alone with their terrible fantasies of death and despair.

Later, when they had packed and went to bed, leaving a candle burning in silent agreement, they could hear Blaise Zabini's suppressed sobs long into the night.

He slept restlessly, hunted by nightmares of monsters and rotting corpses, which developed seamlessly into his old dream about his parents. As always they towered above him in his bed, but their heads were skull-like now, without hair, their faces fleshless and with dark hollows where their eyes had been. His father said something, his jawbone clapping and teeth gnashing, and this time he thought he could nearly understand the meaning of the sound: 'Die... die... die...' Then his mother answered something and he started to cry like he always did in this dream and his father left him, his mother following him shortly thereafter.

They had slept but an hour or two, when someone came bursting into their dormitory. All the candles lit with a resounding WHOOSH! and the room was flooded with light. He bolted upright wide awake, hastily wiping his wet face with the sleeve of his pajama.

'She's back! There's a feast in the Great Hall! They're all back!' cried Adrian Pucey, who was on the Quidditch Team with him.

'Ginny Weasley?' he asked unbelievingly.

But the boy had left already, bolting down the corridor to alert the others.

When they came running into the common room, it was crowded by students, all in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, dishevelled, but awake and very curious. Professor Snape was standing in their midst, looking nearly benevolent, but ignoring the questions thrown at him by the excited students.

Only when they were all gathered together, he announced, 'I am very relieved to be able to tell you, that Miss Weasley is back from her ordeal, safe and sound. The monster is dead. The Headmaster has ordered a feast for this special occasion. And yes, Professor Dumbledore has retrieved the Mastership of Hogwarts and the school won't be closed any time soon. So, I suggest we join the other houses in celebration up in the Great Hall - unless you're too tired.'

'No!' they cried.

'But how?' asked Marcus Flint, scratching his head.

'What do you think?' said Snape, looking suddenly glum.

'Not...?' said he, shaking his head.

'Oh, yes, Mr Malfoy,' said the professor, turning towards him, 'Harry Potter. Again.'

He had to sit down very suddenly.

....................

The feast was the greatest they had yet experienced. The Great Hall was lit by innumerable floating candles. The stars on the enchanted ceiling shone bright in a dark and cloudless sky. Everyone was in their pyjamas, even some of the teachers (not Professor Snape). Professor Dumbledore sat at the High Table again, twinkling like the madman he was.

The petrified people had been returned to their old selves and Granger came running into the Hall, screeching, 'You solved it! You solved it!' before she threw herself at Potter and Weasley.

Mr Filch clutched a purring Mrs Norris, both looking very nearly happy.

The house-elves had worked their magic, preparing an assortment of most delicious dishes, with cucumber-soup for starters and burning ice-bombs for pudding.

And it all got even better, when Professor McGonagall announced that exams had been cancelled as a school treat. Greg and Vince boxed each other's arms, grinning from one ear to the other.

Not even the fact that Potter and Weasley were the heroes of the hour, being awarded with two hundred house points each, which made Gryffindor the winner of the House Cup again, or that Hagrid came back from where ever he had been, turning up in the Great Hall at half past three in the morning, could annoy him one bit - he felt so relieved.

....................

Dear Mother, dear Father,

All is well again. The monster - they say it was a basilisk - has been killed and all the petrified students have been healed. Even Granger and Mrs Norris. So what!

We're told it has been Potter and Weasley who did this, but I'm sure they must have had help. Can you imagine killing a basilisk? Perhaps Potter told it a joke in Parseltongue and it laughed itself to death, haha?

Professor Lockhart has left, because he needs to get his memory back. I wonder where he left it?

Exams have been cancelled, which is, of course, a pity, as I'm quite sure I would have turned out first of my year this time.

Your son, Draco Malfoy

P.S. I just don't understand why Dumbledore is back. Haven't you sacked him, Father?

....................

The answer didn't take long to hit this time.

You stupid Boy!

Nothing is 'well again'. I have had a fall-out with the other governors over Dumbledore's return and have therefore decided to resign my office as a school-governor.

Lucius Malfoy

P.S. The fact that the exams have been cancelled is, indeed, lucky for you. But don't think I am fooled so easily.

....................

He felt very hurt by this harsh reproach and even the cheerful weather with the sun blazing from a perfect blue sky could not lighten his depressive mood. He went around with his head down, not meeting anyone's eyes.

When the time came to go home for the holidays, he felt totally listless. He didn't want to stay at Hogwarts, where people now had started to whisper about his father having been sacked as a school governor (which was not true, he had resigned himself!). On the other hand he felt no desire to go home, only to be incarcerated for another two months of nothing but school work day in, day out. Where had all the fun gone?

But there was nothing he could do, and so he mounted the Hogwarts Express one fine morning to go home. He, Greg, Vince, Pansy and Millicent played Exploding Snap in their compartment to while the time away until they reached King's Cross. When they had said good-bye to each other, he was very sorry to see his friends leave one after the other to join their parents and be greeted with hugs and kisses, before he reluctantly turned to look for his mother.

There she stood, Bobby, heavily bandaged, at her side and waited for him. He went over to her and said, 'Good day, Mother, I'm back.'

He tried for a smile, but was answered rather curtly with a 'Goodness, Draco, I wish you wouldn't let me stand here waiting for you.' And then, giving the house-elf a little kick with her immaculately shod foot, continued, 'What are you waiting for, elf? Get Master Draco's luggage!'

Bobby limped away and while he was manoeuvring the hefty trunk out of the train, Narcissa concluded, 'What a dreadful year this has been. Your father is most upset. Annoyed, one could say. Very annoyed.'

'With me?' he asked timidly.

She mustered him, her foot tapping impatiently, and said, 'Well, no, not really. He's got more important things to worry about, right now.'

He nodded. So much for coming home.

When Bobby was back, levitating his trunk and the owl cage, his mother brought out the portkey and they took off.

Arriving at the Manor's entrance hall she said, 'Well, supper's set in your room. Then get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow.'

'And father?' he dared to ask.

'I told you, he's occupied. Very occupied. This whole dreadful mess at your school has got totally out of control. And the Ministry... don't get me started on that. He has to work really hard at the moment to overcome all the damage that foolish headmaster of yours has done.'

He's not my foolish headmaster, he wanted to say, but she had already turned away, leaving him standing in the entrance hall alone. Sighing, he turned as well and started climbing the stairs to go to his rooms that were quite far away in the west wing.