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Draco dreams. Everything is black and white, good and evil, right and wrong, and he doesn't get confused. It's a world of order. He doesn't worry about the Death Eaters or Dumbledore's Army. In dreams, he knows what he should be doing. It's something he longs for every waking moment of his life.

Once he saw Dream himself in his sleep. Dream was very old, and he had responsibilities to carry out. It was his nature, or so he says. Draco wonders if he's telling the truth, because his face carries the same sad uncertainty Draco sees in his own.

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All her life, every wish has been fulfilled. She desired the watery blue of a house elf's gaze. Two eyeballs sat on her table the next day. She desired to swim above the ground, like a goddess, among the people. Muggles drowned in the lake that was their village. She desired to be a part of something great and good, something noble and true. The Dark Lord deigned to ask for her allegiance. Desire doted on her, whispered ideas in her ear that kept her wanting. Desire, beautiful, merciless, like her.

In her cell in Azkaban, Bellatrix desires without regret.

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Luna once knew Delight, in her mother's song, in her mother's embrace, in her mother's voice. She delighted in the colours of her mother's potions, the stacks of spellbooks that tickled her nose and made her laugh. That was a long long time ago, before Delight turned into Delirium, before a spell blew up her mother. Now she hangs radishes from her ears, keeps her eyes open so she doesn't lose track, and smiles as Delirium tells her of goldfish turning into dogs, and colours that mean both green and blue. They protect each other from from the Crumple-horned Snorkack.

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Despair watches through a frame as a scared young man with dark hair and bright eyes turns a white mask over and over in his hands. Regulus Black is hers, a jewel even in war. She fingers her hooked ring, scraping it against her skin as he sobs. There's no big brother to help him now. He doesn't want to kill. He had tried to flee, but now Despair claims him, waiting for his execution.

When a green light fills the frame, Despair goes to her gallery. "He's yours now, sister," she says to a silver ankh on the wall.

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Destiny reads. He reads of a war, and a Headmaster, and a school hiring teachers even as Death walks the streets on her annual sabbatical. He reads of a desperate descendant, a scheming fake, dressing in what she thinks is portentous and mysterious, and the wise old wizard who is patiently interviewing her, waiting for her divinations. Soon...

Sibyll Trelawney finds herself in Destiny's garden, and under Destiny's blind gaze, she feels her lips form The Words Destiny places in her mouth.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him..."

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"Is that all?" Destruction asks. Sirius wasn't supposed to sneak out to Hogsmeade, but this red-haired traveller bought him a drink. "Just leave, then."

"I'm a Black. I can't just leave the family. You're not a Weasley or a Prewett?"

"No. Your family can run itself. I left, and mine is still going," says Destruction. "They don't even know where I am."

"I'd like that," mutters Sirius, thinking of his mother.

"Drink up, boy," Destruction says, laughing, and slaps him on the back.

Later that night, Sirius asks in a small voice, "Can I stay with you this summer, James?"

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He wants her to take his hand so badly. He wants this to be over because he cannot find a way out of the pain and the confusion and the suffering no matter what he does it is all still there and everything he has ever known to be true no longer is except he cannot wait he just wants Death, so close already, watching him with sad eyes, to take his hand and lead him to peace. 

"Please..." he cries out, but Death shakes her head.

"You're Delirium's now," she says softly. "But I'll see you later. I promise."