Somewhere I Have Never Traveled.

[spidy]

Dracol on seos selle King Arthuri looga, eks?

Jätka.

[Kathreen Granger]

mina igatahes loen seda
Ginny ja Harry,
ootan järgmist osa!

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART II: THE GREAT DECEPTION

Who would not rather trust and be deceived?

– Eliza Cook

***

Chapter 11; Bonjour to Beauxbatons

The journey to France had begun.

Sunlight streamed in through the train compartment window, and it was a deceptively lovely morning. Many other aspects of their trip would be riddled with deception. Most of the Ambassadors were journeying to yet another place they had never traveled.

They went again by train, traveling south. As the journey wore on, snow began to melt, and they were reminded that it was only mid-October. The windows stopped frosting up as they traveled farther and farther away from Durmstrang’s snowy heights.

Hermione suspected that the train, quite like the Knight Bus, didn’t follow conventional roads. Within five or six hours, the train began to slow.

“Hermione!” Harry called, rousing her from her sleep. “Look out the window, Hermione! C’mon, get up!”

As the train chugged to a halt near the station, Hermione, Harry, and Ernie crowded around the window to get a better view. What Hermione saw was far more surreal that she had ever imagined.

It was a stark contrast to the arrival at Durmstrang. To begin with, they had docked at a train station in a busy city. And what a city it is, Hermione thought with awe.

Hermione had seen Muggle cities in France, but never a Wizarding city. The first things she noticed were the domed towers that spiraled up into the sky. Their white stems flourished into golden peaks, which glinted fantastically in the midday sun. The entire city, in fact, was a sparkling white, filled with large, airy cobbled streets and grandiose archways. It reminded her of a spectacular Renaissance painting. The city was the epitome of exquisite beauty and unrivaled elegance.

As they stepped off of the train, Fleur took Draco’s arm.

“Welcome to ze Ville de Grace,” Fleur said, with a smile that rivaled the glow of the city.

Hermione wrinkled her nose. No wonder the Beauxbatons students had found Hogwarts to be ungainly. The air was warm and balmy, almost, as it felt on a tropical island. Indeed, Hermione felt as if she had disembarked onto some illusive island of fantasy.

“We will walk to ze school from ‘ere,” Fleur announced regally. It was obvious that she finally felt at home.

As they strolled through the sparkling streets, Hermione noticed that some sort of fair was taking place. The streets were lined with myriad booths containing interesting wares, and merchants called out in the clamour.

Hermione was inexplicably drawn to a shaded booth that read ‘Tahitian Black Pearls.’ A middle-aged woman who was dark and slender tended the booth, and she smiled as Hermione approached. Her breath caught as she saw what lay on the stand. Arranged in various positions were strands of jet black pearls.

“Are . . . are these charmed?” Hermione asked, completely shocked. She had never been one for jewelry, but these were beautiful.

“No,” said the woman. “They are true black pearls.”

Her voice was deep and sultry, like the jewelry before her.

Draco had come up behind Hermione to inspect the jewelry. He had seen true black pearls before, and these ones looked identical. He was sure they were genuine.

Hermione lifted a necklace that had particularly caught her eye, almost afraid to touch it. Dangling from a delicate chain was a round black pearl embedded in sapphires. The sapphires formed an eight pointed star. It was the darkest, most lustrous object Hermione had ever seen.

“How much?” Hermione asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

“One hundred Galleons, no less,” the woman said promptly.

“That’s all?” Draco asked in shock. He could have sworn that the woman winked at him after he said it.

But Hermione blushed and replaced the necklace. “Oh, I could never afford that. I’m sorry.”

She turned to leave. “Maybe we’ll get you one for your birthday,” Harry said consolingly, with a nod from Ginny and Ernie.

One hundred Galleons were a drop in the bucket to Draco. He followed them back to the main road. Ava hung back at the jewel stand indefinitely.

They traveled farther through the splendid city, and at last the way opened up into a continuous, broad street.

“Ze castle eez not far,” Jaime said smugly. There was a certain aspect in his tone that made Hermione suspicious. They all kept their gazes straight ahead, craning their necks, but there was no castle in sight.

Beauxbatons must be quite small if we can’t see it from here, Hermione thought. She told them so.

“Our castle eez very large,” Myra confirmed mysteriously.

“Is it invisible?” Ginny asked, squinting ahead.

“You can see Beauxbatons Academy from anywhere in ze city,” Jaime confirmed. “It eez just ahead.”

“But . . .”

“Merlin,” whispered Ginny. She looked as white as a ghost and her face was pointed toward the sky.

Hermione looked twice and rubbed her eyes before she was able to believe what she saw.

The castle itself was enough to take anyone’s breath away. It was pure white, but the setting sun had stained it a golden pink, and shaded it with sensuous blue and purple shadows. The turrets rose high into the sky, their tops domed and pearlescent in the evening glow. It was humongous, so much that the Ambassadors looked like ants in comparison. The castle seemed to spiral upwards instead of outwards, reaching into the sky to the upper layer of clouds and beyond. All of this went unnoticed compared to the spectacular and unbelievable fact that it was suspended in midair.

The palace seemed to be sitting in the clouds. It was the literal definition of a castle in the sky. White, puffy wisps off cloud skimmed the turrets of the castle, and the castle itself seemed to rest on a bed of luminescent silver clouds.

It was, for the second time that day, the most breathtaking thing Hermione had ever seen. Their eyes were glued to the castle.

“You . . . all live up there?” Ernie asked, blatant awe laced through his voice.

Fleur nodded then, her silver hair flashing in the gold of the setting sun. Fleur looked as if she belonged in the unreal, fantastical world they had so unknowingly entered. Hermione felt as if she stuck out like a sore thumb.

Draco had been taught never to gape at such finery, for the simple reason that it looked second-class if he did. Instead of staring like the rest, he merely turned to Fleur and quirked an eyebrow.

“Are you going to stand there and let them gape all day, or are we going to go up?” he asked sardonically. Fleur laughed at his cultured mentality, and he merely stared back. He was shocked at the beauty of the castle, to be sure, and though he had often been admonished for his lack of kindness and of sympathy, he had never been reprimanded for his lack of acting skills.

“We will Portkey up,” Fleur asserted loudly, breaking the others from their reverie. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small box. Inside the box was a metal cross. “Eez everyone ready?”

Fifteen hands touched the Portkey one by one, and Hermione felt a tug at her navel. She spun uncontrollably until she landed, dizzy and disconcerted.

“Welcome!” called out a high voice from in front of them. Her words rang through the air like bells.

Hermione glanced up to see Madame Maxime smiling graciously at the group. Hermione was again shocked at the woman’s unnerving height. Was it really possible for a person to be so tall? Her liquid black eyes and olive skin gleamed in the adequate lighting. She was, as always, dressed in finery.

“You ‘ave finally arrived! We are very pleased to ‘ave you!” Madame Maxime cooed in her quaint French accent.

She quickly hugged all of her students; Hermione noticed that she did not go as far as to hug the Durmstrang and Hogwarts students.

“Ah, ze ‘Ogwarts’ Ambassadors! ‘Ow eez Dumbly-dor?” Madame Maxime asked them.

“He’s wonderful, Madame,” Hermione said with a polite smile. “He sends you his greetings.”

“And our burly Durmstrang delegates! I take it zat Igor eez well?”

Something aside from cheerfulness flashed through the woman’s eyes as she said it.

Only after greetings and welcomes had been fully exchanged did Hermione take a look around.

High, vaulted ceilings seemed to stretch up into forever. Marble floors below them were veined with authentic gold. Hanging in midair were sparkling chandeliers that twirled around on their own accord, catching the shimmering candlelight in a flourish of crystalline radiance. Outside, all that could be seen was the deepening hue of the cherry sky, and a flurry of silver-streaked clouds. Was there any place more elegant, more grandiose, more aristocratic?

They were led up a sweeping double staircase onto the third floor. When Madame Maxime handed the Hogwarts group eight keys, Hermione frowned in confusion. There weren’t even eight Ambassadors; there were only five.

“Five keys are for ze rooms. You each ‘ave your own. Anozzer is for ze sitting room, for when you wish to spend time together or entertain guests. Ze ozzer two are to ze bathrooms; one for ze ladies and one for ze gentlemen.”

Madame Maxime said these things as if they were obvious and natural. It was unheard of, though, to give mere students an entire eight rooms to themselves.

“Ze entire floor eez at your disposal. Ze Introduction Ball begins at eight. Please be ready as soon as possible. I ‘ope everything eez to your liking. If you ‘ave trouble, simply ring one of ze Brownies.”

“Brownies?” Ginny questioned, confused.

“Zey are servants, little brown creatures that cook and clean,” Madame Maxime explained with a smile. “I well see all of you soon.”

She departed quickly, leaving five shocked students in her wake. Hermione slowly handed out the keys. Turning the lock to her own room, she diligently tried to keep a squeal from escaping from her lips. It didn’t work.

A king-sized canopy bed with silk, champagne colored hangings and a matching silk quilt was the centerpiece of an unbelievable room. She opened a golden armoire to find her clothes neatly hung up and color coordinated. The floor was white marble, with a plush cream carpet surrounding the bed. A polished golden mirror hung majestically on the wall, and she realized that it followed her wherever she went.

Last of all, there was a balcony, her very own private balcony. The door opened soundlessly as she stepped into the sky.

Yes, stepped into the sky. There didn’t seem to be a floor. In her excitement she had rushed outside, and now she stood on . . . nothing.

Hermione stomped. Her feet hit firm ground. She had read about these. Quite like the sky at Hogwarts, these “invisible floors” managed to project an exact image of whatever was beneath them.

She screamed, half from fear and half from delight. The sunset with all of its golden hues and the entire Ville de Grace spanned out below her. Railings indicated the place where the invisible floor ended and the sky began. In the distance, the horizon bent out of sight.

From where Hermione stood in the sky, though, the span of horizon that met her eyes was endless.

[Liz-Miia Parker]

Kommige ka, siis saan aru kas jätkata
Jah Dracol on seos sellega.

PART II: THE GREAT DECEPTION

Truth is beautiful, without doubt, but so are lies.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson


Chapter 12; Malfoy Manners

The bathrooms proved much nicer than the Prefect bathrooms at Hogwarts, which was saying a great deal.

It seemed to Hermione that the Beauxbatons students lived a life of inequitable luxury and glamour.

After thoroughly exploring their new abode, the five students met up in the Sitting Room, which featured an entirely clear wall that allowed them a majestic view of the night sky.

“This Introduction Ball,” Harry said at one point. “It seems like a huge, poncy sort of occasion . . . what are we supposed to do?”

“It’s nothing, I’m sure,” Hermione said quickly. “The ball just has a fancy name.”

Draco was staring at the two of them as if they had grown extra heads.

“Nothing?” he echoed faintly. “Have you morons seen anything since we walked into this place? I doubt this ball is a small occasion. Besides, if it’s anything like the French Balls my father took me to, you lot are in trouble.”

“In trouble?” Harry repeated slowly. “How are we in trouble?”

“Tell me, Potter,” Draco began, “do you know the French Waltz? No? The rumba? The two step? The foxtrot?”

Harry looked blanker than ever. “I don’t dance, Malfoy. I’m an awful dancer.”

“We need to fix that in the next two hours, then, because in French Wizarding society, dancing is right up there with talking. Now . . . Weasley! In which place would I find my salad fork on a table setting?”

Ginny, who obviously had no idea, shook her head. Draco closed his eyes, looking deeply disturbed. “Anyone?”

“It’s the left,” Hermione piped up. “The– the second on the left, I think.”

“Wrong!” Draco grated immediately. “It’s only the second on the left only in Britain and Bulgaria. In France, Germany, and America it’s the second on the right.”

Hermione glared stonily, displeased at getting the question wrong.

“Granger . . .” Draco started, as if an appalling thought had just occurred to him, “will you bring me the dresses you bought for yourself and Weasley?”

Hermione Accio-ed the bags that the dresses had been purchased in. Draco pulled out the first one and shook it out. It was a yellow sun dress Hermione had decided would look cute on Ginny. Draco’s face fell when he saw it.

“This won’t do,” he muttered forcefully. “This is just awful.”

“What’s wrong with it, Malfoy?” Hermione challenged defensively.

“It’s, well . . . it’s an abhorrence to fashion! The colour is appalling, and it looks like something that my grandmother would put on. Have you seen the kinds of dresses these French girls wear?”

“We’re not French, Malfoy,” Harry pointed out. “Why should we try to act like it?”

“Firstly,” started Draco, as if he had been prepared to answer the question all of his life, “I will quote you and Granger. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Secondly, I’m almost positive Fleur will try to humiliate one or more of you in front of the entire school. Thirdly, we are supposed to be cultured Ambassadors, not bumbling imbeciles – such as yourself, Potter – who don’t have a clue. Consequentially, you all have to learn to be elegant and mannerly dancers by eight o’clock, and appalling as this is, I’m going to have to be the one to teach you.”

Hermione felt her own mouth fall open, adapting an expression identical to that of Harry’s. There was no denying it, however; Malfoy had way more class than the four of them combined. It was in the way he moved and the way he talked and the way he sat at a table and the way his grey eyes were always controlled, calculating, seductive . . .

She smacked herself inwardly. What are you thinking?

To mask her obvious irritation, she glanced at her wristwatch.

“Malfoy, it’s a quarter after six. We have less than two hours to become classy ballroom dancers,” she scoffed rather skeptically.

“Plenty of time,” Draco replied nonchalantly. “But first I’ll have to transfigure these dresses into some semblance of acceptability. Granger, Weasley, go do hair and makeup and whatever else it is that girls do to get ready.”

Hermione huffed because it didn’t seem right to take orders from him, but also didn’t protest when Ginny dragged her out of the room.

There was silence as Draco examined the dresses. He shook his head in disbelief at Hermione’s choices in evening wear.

“Well, now that they’re gone, what should we do to these dresses?” Draco asked, a demonic expression passing over his face. “I’m thinking red and yellow polka dots with sequins, feathers, and rhinestones. And then of course there’s always the black leather corset option . . .”

“Malfoy . . . ” Harry started, his voice laced with warning.

“Rufus,” Draco muttered with a flick of his wand, and the dress changed abruptly. “Doesn’t it ever get boring, being so righteous all the time?”

“Strangely enough,” Harry muttered, “we get tired of hanging around you even faster.”

“Longus,” Draco said forcefully, and the dress sprang to attention. “But you do get tired of it. Mico.”

Harry moved to sit on the couch, running his hands through his hair. “If we get tired of being righteous, then you must get tired of being and evil, sadistic prat.”

Draco frowned at the dress as if it had personally affronted him. “Madidus. You’re right, Potter. I do get tired of being an evil and sadistic prat. That’s when I revert back to being my normal, charming self.”

The dress crumpled dejectedly to the floor.

“I think I’ve said enough,” Harry retorted loftily, and stood up to leave.

“I think you’ve said far more than enough,” the Slytherin replied with a wry smile.

Harry left.

“Well, it’s just you and me, Macmillan,” Draco said smugly. “It’s time for your first lesson. Come over here and help me transfigure these dresses like a gentleman.”


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time they had all returned to the sitting room, it was a quarter to seven. There was hardly enough time to breathe comfortably. Hermione and Ginny had finished their hair and makeup, Harry had showered, and Draco and Ernie had completed the dresses.
Hermione picked hers up, and it was silk under her fingers. Her face went a deep shade of magenta as she examined it. “Oh . . . oh no, Malfoy. You’re not going to make me wear this . . .”

“That dress is conservative by French standards,” Draco asserted defensively.

Ginny held hers up to the light. “Wow,” she marveled, “this is really the sun dress Hermione bought for me? I like it, but it’s a little risque.”

“We don’t have time for complaining,” Draco quipped, swiftly masking his obvious amusement. “We have some dances to learn. Get up.”

Harry responded with a dejected groan. “Malfoy, I just don’t dance. You saw me at the Yule Ball. I’m awful.”

“Foxtrot,” Malfoy snapped abruptly, rising in a fluid motion. Hermione noticed that he had rolled up the sleeves of his white blouse and that his left forearm again glistened spotlessly. He ran a hand through his silver-blond hair. Everything about him was classy and controlled, and yet he managed a catlike grace that very few possessed. She also noticed that his eyes were the epitome of twilight; wedged hopelessly somewhere between night and day, black and white. They were unstoppable, the kind of eyes that pierced the soul and banished the impurities . . .

Boy, did she hate him. She hated him more than anyone. That was for sure.

“Partner up now,” Draco drawled. “Not any good dancing without a partner.”

Hermione automatically stood next to Harry, which left Ginny and Ernie.

“Now,” started Draco, rather bossily, “we’ll begin with the ballroom frame. Potter, take her right hand, and put your left hand around her waist . . . same to you, Macmillan.”

Draco watched as they did as instructed. Harry and Hermione got it much quicker than Ernie and Ginny. After they were in position, Draco walked around, firing uncouth insults and prodding at them until they looked acceptable.

“Never lose this frame. Now, the foxtrot. The step are front, right, right, back, left, left.”

He demonstrated for them quickly. “There now, try it.”

Ginny and Ernie tripped over each other within the first ten seconds. Hermione and Harry were far worse, however. It wasn’t a lack of talent, because they executed the steps perfectly. It was the scandalizing fact that Hermione was leading. She was, in fact, steering forcefully.

“No, no, no!” Draco cried angrily, breaking them apart.

“What?” Hermione challenged sharply. “The steps were perfect!”

She had, in fact, been to a Muggle ballroom dance school. She never like to talk about it because dancing seemed far too prissy for the strong-minded, independent Hermione Granger.

“You were leading, Granger,” he sneered disgustedly. “I don’t ever, ever want to see you lead again. A girl leading is as rude as burping at the supper table. Is that clear?”

Hermione looked more furious than ever. “So what if I do lead? It’s an outdated rule that the boy needs to lead anyway.”

Hermione witnessed something flash through Draco’s eyes. Without warning he grabbed her wrist and placed it on his shoulder, while taking her other hand is his own. Harry ducked out of his way as he swept her forcefully across the room. She kept in time with him perfectly, her feet moving into a well known rhythm.

“This,” Draco grated, twirling her firmly, “is how . . .” but his eyebrows flew up as he realized that she had never danced before. She was a brilliant dancer and followed him perfectly. They twirled and stepped in an intoxicating rhythm, and Ginny noted that she had never seen more beautiful dancing.

“ . . . it’s done,” Hermione finished for him, as he ended the dance by dipping her aggressively.

Harry, Ginny, and Ernie looked rather shocked. Perhaps that was an understatement. Hermione suddenly wondered what in the world she had been thinking to let him control her like that. She tried to justify it to herself. Malfoy can’t be a perfect dancer. I was merely trying to find something wrong with his technique!

“You–” Hermione said a bit breathlessly, “you’re using a swing rhythm for a European classic. That isn’t right!”

“I most certainly was not!” Malfoy defended heatedly. “This is a swing rhythm!”

And this time he took both of her hands, and they swung together and apart flawlessly. He was smooth, his touch firm but liquid. Hermione felt a wave of heat engulf her.

“You certainly don’t know any Latin,” she spat scornfully, and immediately he led them into the cha-cha. This dance was naturally sensual, and they sashayed across the floor as he ran a hand down the length of her back before drawing her close. Suddenly their faces were only centimeters apart, and she stumbled against him in surprise. For a moment their bodies were pressed together closely, and she felt him draw a breath before pushing her roughly away.

She stumbled back, completely intoxicated. Blood was pounding painfully through her head, and her cheeks were no doubt flushed from exertion. Dancing with Malfoy had been everything she had expected it to be; competitive and dangerous and bruising, but it had also been everything she had not expected it to be; flowing and suave and sensual.

Harry was looking at the two of them in complete and utter shock. He grabbed her arm. “I need to talk to you outside now.”

They marched into the hallway, and Harry shut the door behind him. Then he stared at her with a befuddled expression.

“What the hell was that?” Harry asked. He did not sound angry, just stunned.

“I . . .” Hermione trailed off. “After we started dancing, he wouldn’t let go of me.”

It was a lie, and an awful lie. Though Draco had always been firm, he had never been overbearing. Harry’s eyes darkened with temper.

“I don’t like that at all. I’m going to go in there and–”

“Harry, no,” Hermione said quickly. “I went along with it. I just . . . completely forgot who I was dancing with. It was a lapse of good judgement on my part. Now if you don’t mind, I already know how to dance, so I’ll just go get dressed.”

Harry regarded her carefully for a moment, an odd expression passing over his face. At last, he seemed to let it go. He shook his head with a grin. “Another of Hermione’s hidden talents. Will you ever cease to amaze me?”

“I doubt it,” Hermione replied with a smile. In truth, she would never cease to amaze herself.

[Julia Darline Evans]

Liiga head, uusi osasid!

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART II: THE GREAT DECEPTION

Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others.

--Fyodor Dostoevski


Chapter 13; Suspicious, Superfluous, and Sadistic

Hermione checked her wristwatch quickly before taking it off. It was a quarter to eight, and the watch didn’t go with her dress. She was fully dressed, and dawned a pair of strapless black heels Draco had given her to wear with the gown. She felt terribly overdressed, yet as she looked at herself in the mirror, there was not an abundance of material on her body; the least amount of material she’d ever worn into a public area, come to think of it.

Although she did not want to face Draco after the dancing dilemma, she decided that she had no other choice. After checking herself one last time (“Break a leg, dear,” the mirror told her bracingly), she left her spacious, elegant room for the luxurious, aristocratic Sitting Room. Merlin, these French people overdo it, Hermione thought wearily. She was surprised upon entering to find no one inside. Perhaps they had all gone to their rooms to get ready. Hermione sat down in a chair, crossed her legs, and did not have to wait long for someone to arrive.

It was Harry, and he combed quickly through his wet hair.

“Hullo, Hermione,” he muttered, searching his robes for his wand. “We don’t have much time, we’re going to–”

But words failed him as he turned around and caught sight of her. He seemed awestruck.

“That dress . . .” Harry started suddenly, “it’s–”

“A bit revealing?” Hermione finished, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, yeah,” Harry agreed with a laugh. “But . . . it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. How did Malfoy create something so incredibly perfect?”

Hermione never got to answer the question, because Ernie strode in.

“Harry, can I borrow your . . . is that you, Hermione?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Of course it is, Ernie. Do I really look that awful?”

Ernie shook his head. “No, it’s . . . wonderful.”

Harry performed a drying spell on his hair, and water droplets cascaded to the floor. He looked good also, in sharp midnight blue dress robes.

Ginny arrived next, in the stunning crimson dress Malfoy had transfigured for her. It was flowing and ankle length, and was strapless and shimmered golden in the soft light. It brought out the fiery highlights in her hair, which cascaded down her back like a river of lava. Dramatic dangling earrings and golden heels finished the outfit off. Hermione thought Ginny looked more beautiful than she’d ever been, and also more influential and commanding.

“Do I look okay?” she asked them worriedly.

“Do you look okay?” Ernie asked disbelievingly. “Malfoy should be a dress designer or something!”

Hermione laughed as Harry muttered something uncouth about Draco's sexual orientation. She looked at the clock and noticed that it was almost five minutes to eight. Where was Malfoy? They always seemed to be running late because of him.

“Where is the man himself?” Ginny asked skeptically.

“I do take it that you’re talking about me,” an all too familiar voice drawled from the doorway.

Draco had been, at his best, stunning, and at his worst, good looking. Now the only phrase Hermione could find to describe him was devastatingly attractive.

His hair was gelled back lightly, but a few strands had broken loose and framed his face. His eyes glittered like veiled starlight, pure, hooded, silver, and concealed. The Slytherin wore a deep green blouse and charcoal slacks under forest dress robes, and the effect of the dark colors on his skin was astounding. He could have been a perfect porcelain figure, or perhaps an angel, fallen from such lofty heights.

“We’re going to be late,” Ernie told them, checking his wristwatch and breaking her stunned reverie.

“You’re crazy if you arrive at a party on time,” Draco admonished casually. “Fifteen minutes late is right on time by French standards.”

“It will take us fifteen minutes to get down there,” Harry pointed out. “Let’s start walking.”

He did not seem as hostile as he usually did toward Draco. Was it possible that the two boys were learning to tolerate each other? Surely not.

As they stepped out of the sitting room, Draco began reeling off last minute instructions.

“Granger, leave something on your plate at dinner. It looks better that way, trust me. Weasley . . . do not scape your dish with your fork. That is so plebeian. Potter, Macmillan, the proper way to greet a girl is with a kiss on the right hand. Not the left, that signifies you want to ask her hand in marriage. Just . . . act classy, even if you have no idea what you’re doing. Always stay calm, never frown.”

Hermione could barely believe Malfoy. She remembered that only a few weeks ago in Durmstrang, she had been giving him orders on how to act. They were far away from Durmstrang, though.

She had admittedly stared at Draco when he entered, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. His eyes had flicked to her once, and he had not shown the slightest inclination as to whether he thought she looked beautiful or even acceptable

“Dancing . . . Weasley, keep your feet on the ground, your style is too jumpy. Macmillan, smoothen it out a little. Not so stiff when you’re waltzing. Granger, I have nothing to say to you. Potter, avoid the dance floor at all costs. You’re hopeless.”

Harry commenced in glaring at him stonily, and Draco merely smirked.

They descended the large, sweeping staircase, and as Hermione lifted her dress up, she felt like a princess. That is ridiculous, she chastised herself, but a small smile played at her lips all the same. They puzzled out directions to the Grand Ballroom, and at last arrived at two golden, arched doors.

“These French think a lot of themselves, don’t they?” Hermione muttered under her breath, and jumped as she noticed two butlers standing near the doors. When they caught sight of Hermione and the others, one brought a device up to his mouth that could have been a walkie-talkie, though she knew better.

“Zee ‘Ogwarts Ambassadors ‘ave arrived,” one man said quietly. Then he straightened and smiled. “Welcome to ze Grand Ballroom of Beauxbatons, our honored guests.”

Hermione could hear the low murmur of voices and the clink of glasses from within, and noticed that Ginny had suddenly gone pale.

“What– what if we trip?” Ginny stuttered. “I’m not used to wearing heels.”

Harry, ever the concerned friend (or so Hermione assumed), was immediately at Ginny’s side. He held out his arm to her.

“I’ll escort you in . . . if you stumble, I’ll catch you before anyone notices,” Harry said with a grin. Ginny took his arm and immediately looked more as ease.

Hermione glanced down to see an immaculate arm extended toward her.

“And I take it that you’ll need an escort also?” Draco asked with a snidely raised eyebrow. “You’re such a clumsy Mudblood that you’d stumble over your own two feet if someone wasn’t there to help you. And Merlin knows how that would make Hogwarts look.”

He said it so softly that no one heard but her. It was cruel and calculated. Hermione felt heat flare up in her cheeks, and silently checked herself. There was no way she was going to let this jerk get to her. Grudgingly, she took his arm, and told herself it was because she did not want to make a scene in front of the butlers. In all honesty, however, she wasn’t practiced in heels, and feared she would, indeed, trip.

Without another word, the butlers pushed the doors outward, and a rush of glitz and glitter filled their vision.

“Smile,” was the last thing she heard Draco mutter, before he commenced in dramatically sweeping her into the ballroom.

Hermione would have tripped, had she not maintained an iron grip on Draco’s arm. Draco himself felt unsteady, and lost his balance, but the Charming Smile never left his face.

“Drat the French,” Draco muttered with conviction.

They were literally walking on the night sky. The floor was velvet black and sparkled with real stars. It was the striking opposite of Hogwarts. The ceiling was not a mirror image of the sky . . . the floor was. Rather, it projected what was directly beneath it. Far below, the lights of the city illuminated the streets. Hermione gasped at the sharp beauty of the ballroom, the whole of which was bright and seemed to sparkle fantastically. Golden chandeliers caught the glimmer of starlight, and swirling marble walls of white proved a stark contrast to the velvet black sky at their feet.

If someone had told Hermione that she would be walking on the stars in a palace in the sky, dancing the waltz with none other than Draco Malfoy, she would have had them committed. And yet here I am, Hermione thought.

After her eyes had adjusted to the glitz, she became aware of applause and someone calling out their names. The Beauxbatons group approached, and Hermione quickly dropped Draco’s arm.

Fleur wore a long, champagne colored gown made of pure silk. The halter top and a sleek design showed off her slim and graceful form. Silver hair shimmered around her, a halo, and eyes like jewels met Draco’s. She was astoundingly beautiful.

“Drah-co!” she said happily. “And ‘Arry! ‘Ow are you both? You look wonderful!”

Fleur’s eyes flashed ruthlessly past Hermione.

Myra appeared beside her, the striking opposite but just as beautiful. Her black dress was smooth and tight, sparkling relentlessly, which caused her to blend in with the evening sky. Her lips were crimson and her dark curls flowed loosely down her back. Everything about Myra was dark and sultry and seductive. Jaime was wearing pure white, and his fair looks were appealing, as were Michael’s. Hermione noticed that Michael looked nervous for some reason, almost jumpy. And last, Renae looked stunning in a midnight blue corseted gown that puffed out at the bottom with silver heels.

The remainder of the students had seated themselves at small tables scattered at the edges of the ballroom. Madame Maxime and various other important figureheads, including the French Minister of Magic, greeted the Ambassadors curiously.

The food was decadent, and set out in French buffet style, so that the guests could walk around and mingle as they ate.

The various conversations that took place throughout dinner ranged from scornful to intellectual to downright hilarious.

“I am surprised,” Myra said quietly to Fleur, “At ‘ow well the ‘Ogwarts students ‘ave done. Those dresses are something that I myself would wear to a ball.”

Although it was obviously true, Fleur sniffed haughtily. “We will see ‘ow zey do when it comes to dancing. Zat is ze true test of skill. Ze Durmstrang Ambassadors ‘ave failed miserably, no?”

They glanced at the ill-dressed and surly Durmstrang Ambassadors, who stuck out like a sore thumb, save Krum, who had been to France on quidditch trips and was well accustomed to their ways.

Jaime, meanwhile, seemed oddly intent as he talked to Ernie. “If you ask me, my friend, those Bulgarians are completely barbaric.”

The French boy was clenching his fists, and the knuckles were turning white. Ernie frowned and spoke diplomatically.

“Well . . . not barbaric in the classical sense. Perhaps a bit below the class of the French aristocrats, but certainly not–”

Jaime smashed his hand down on the table. “Zey do not deserve to stand on French soil!”

Ernie’s eyebrows flew up. Jaime glared daggers at the Bulgarians; if looks could have killed, they would have dropped dead. Ernie was, needless to say, slightly concerned.

They were all alerted by the sound of a champagne glass shattering. They turned to see Michael run-walking out of the room. Immediately, butlers rushed in to clean up the mess.

“It’s a bit suspicious, if you ask me,” Ginny told Franz promptly. “He has been acting nervous all night. What is going on?”

“I have not an idea,” said Franz, who looked sullen ad puzzled, “but I vant to leave za ball as soon as possible. It is too formal for my taste.”

“It’s a bit superfluous, if you ask me,” Draco told Renae, who he was talking to across the room, “all of these beautiful luxuries, I mean. Who are you trying to impress?”

Of course it was just like Draco to be incredibly blunt in his wording and still come across as polite and charming.

“No one, actually,” said Renae with a laugh. “These French aristocrats have always been decadently rich. During the French Revolution, however, most of the French royalty was taken out of power. The Muggle royalty, at least. The French Revolt didn’t affect the Wizarding aristocracy very much. I suppose they just sort of stuck with the tradition of decadence.”

“It’s a bit sadistic, if you ask me,” said Harry quietly to Hermione. “The way Malfoy is a complete bastard to us, but when he goes to parties he is the Golden Boy, the center of attention. Everyone loves him.”

“That kind of charm should be outlawed,” Hermione agreed, and watched Malfoy let loose his classical Charming Smile and lay a hand on Renae’s shoulder. The girl almost swooned as she giggled helplessly. How did he do it?

“Oh no,” said Harry suddenly, going pale. “I just remembered that a paper for my independent study course is due tomorrow. I’ve been researching Merlin’s staff . . .”

“Merlin’s staff?” came a dark voice. It was Myra’s, and Fleur was standing next to her. “Tell me a bit . . . about it.”

Hermione winced. The way Myra said it, she made it sound like some kind of innuendo.

“Well . . .” started Harry, looking uncertain, “Merlin, the legendary wizard from King Arthur’s time, owned a staff. It is the most powerful magical object of all time, aside from Excalibur and Mordred’s sword. Any one of those three objects could level a city in a normal wizard’s hands. In an extraordinary wizards hands, any of them could destroy the world. Anyhow, the staff has been missing for so long that there are few who believe it actually exists.”

“That is interesting,” Myra said with a genuine but neutral nod.

“‘Ow long ‘as it been missing?” Fleur questioned suddenly.

“No one knows, really,” Harry informed them. “All three objects have been estimated to have gone missing around the time of the Founders at Hogwarts, actually . . . but you two wouldn’t know who they are.”

“You are very smart, ‘Arry,” Fleur said with a smile. “Perhaps you will ask me to dance in a few minutes.”

Before Harry could protest, she winked and walked off.

From across the hall, Draco observed Ginny and Harry talking together and decided to join them. Harry’s back was turned to him, and Draco approached swiftly.

“You better not be drinking champagne, you utter prat,” Draco informed him bossily. “Merlin knows you can’t hold your liquor for–”

Harry had turned around, except that it wasn’t Harry. It was Franz, and his eyebrows had disappeared into his hair.

Draco took a moment to dwell on the fact that he had completely and absolutely bungled a social situation for the first time in his life. It wasn’t fair! Franz looked exactly like Harry from the back, and he even wore the same color dress robes.

“I am . . . terribly sorry,” Draco said, having the common sense to look embarrassed. “I thought that you were . . . well, someone else.”

Franz continued frowning heavily. “An easy mistake,” the boy said at last, but it did not sound sincere.

Great, Draco thought sarcastically, now you’ve got two Bulgarian neanderthals out to get you. Splendid job, you moron.

He was saved any further embarrassment when he turned to see that the tables had all disappeared. Music came on, and Madame Maxime announced that it was time for the traditional French Waltz.

“In honor of their arrival, we will let the Ambassadors be the first on the dance floor.”

“In honor?” Harry muttered under his breath, face paling visibly.

Draco swept over to Fleur and kissed her on the right hand.

“Would you like to dance?”

Fleur smile a gracious smile. “I would love to.”

They swept onto the starlit dance floor in a graceful waltz. Hermione and Krum followed shortly, and as the couples danced by each other, Draco glared at Krum so ferociously that even Fleur noticed.

“Why do you ‘ate ‘im so much?” Fleur asked lightly. “‘E is famous and good looking, and ‘e is a good person.”

Draco frowned. He knew Fleur couldn’t lie, so obviously the part-veela tolerated Krum. Draco replied sharply.

“He is rude and uncouth. He has no class whatsoever. Not to mention the boat fiasco . . .”

Fleur laughed as she remembered this.

Krum waltzed with Hermione from across the dance floor.

“You despise Fleur . . . am I correct?” Krum asked tentatively. “I see it in your eyes. Fleur is an amazing person, Herm-o-ninny . . . perhaps you should give her a chance.”

“She’s so snotty and stuck up, though,” Hermione countered forcefully, “not to mention that whole Triwizard fiasco . . .”

Hermione found that she actually liked being in Krum’s arms. He was an excellent dancer, and he performed all of the steps precisely and straightforwardly. He was not very forceful in leading her, almost as if he was afraid he would hurt her. Dancing with him was nothing like dancing with the elegant, powerful Draco Malfoy . . .

But she quickly shut that thought out.

Many more dancers had taken to the floor, including Harry, who was trying in vain to look like he knew what he was doing as he danced with Ginny.

Fleur was a good dancer, Draco noted. Her style was extremely elegant, and she used many unneeded flourishes and twirls. Her style is the exact opposite of Granger’s, he thought suddenly. Hermione’s style was clean and honest and direct, just like the girl herself. He found himself irrationally annoyed by Fleur’s flourishing steps.

The music changed abruptly, and Draco recognized the Latin beat of a faster cha-cha.In this dance, partners were switched around constantly.

And somehow, whether consciously or unconsciously, whether by fate or coincidence, Draco and Fleur ended up next to Krum and Hermione when it was time to switch.

Hermione’s heart pounded painfully as she was thrust into Draco’s arms.

Draco took the first good look at her he had taken all evening. She was stunning, with her unruly hair swept into a sleek bun, and dazzling pink-framed eyes. Her eyes matched her gown, which was a ravishing shade of fuchsia satin, and skimmed her calves. The satin clung tightly to her body, and the bottom flared out sharply as he twirled her. Her dress was Latin-style, and the gown had a thin, triangle cut halter top.

Fleur may have been prettier than her, but she was by far the sexiest and sharpest girl in the room. And though Draco would never admit it to himself, he had been waiting to dance with her all evening.

Their eyes locked, Hermione’s full of wariness and Draco’s full of cool disdain.The way he twirled her seemed to be an invitation, and her eyes filled with the notion of a challenge. How far would she let him go? Could he outdo her if he tried? Draco was sure that he could.

Hermione saw the smug arrogance in his eyes, and laughed inwardly. If he thought he could out-dance her, he was sadly mistaken.

Draco made his steps bolder, and twirled her so fast that she became a blur of magenta. Her striking features were unruffled as ever.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Mister Malfoy,” she said with a smirk that would have done his father justice.

It came time to switch partners, but they were glaring at each other so heatedly that neither noticed. The couple next to them stopped dancing, eyebrows raised.

Hermione and Draco swayed dangerously to the rhythm, breaking away from each other only to come back together more closely than before. Unlike Krum, Draco was not afraid he would hurt her. His leading was so forceful that at times it seemed as if he was trying to hurt her. And yet she had never danced with someone so completely enamoring.

Hermione’s dancing was clean and direct and sharp, so much more blatantly beautiful than all of Fleur’s unneeded flourishes.

Draco twirled her into his arms, sidestepped around her in time with the music, and brought her arm around his neck. They were shockingly close together, and Hermione felt a shiver of something she didn’t like run down her spine. As he lead them into more and more complicated moves, her feet performed the steps flawlessly.

“You still have to do better, Malfoy,” she said into his ear. “I’m getting bored over here.”

People moved out of their way as their steps became even faster. Many people had stopped to watch, their mouths hanging open in shock and admiration. Eventually everyone in the ballroom had ceased movement, fascinated by Draco and Hermione.

Indeed, they looked as if they deserved to be dancing through the stars. Step-slide-step, step-slide-step, to the persistent Latin beat. He was the epitome of elegance and she was the model of grace, and they sashayed flawlessly across the floor, so quickly and austerely that they were only memorizing, tantalizing blurs.

He ran a hand down the length of her arm, and she responded by caressing his neck with her free hand. All the while their feet were moving with an unstoppable, centrifugal force that seared a hole in the dance floor like a burning star.

As the song came to an end, he thrust her into a dip and she threw her head back. He dipped her so low that the back of her head barely touched the ground.

The majority of the people in the room broke into wild applause. They had never seen dancing like Draco and Hermione had performed.

“Such charisma!” Myra said breathlessly to Fleur. Fleur was too busy glaring stonily at Hermione to reply.

Krum, on the other hand, looked as if her wanted to kill Draco.

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to see everyone watching them. Her cheeks flushed scarlet. The normal, bookworm part of Hermione wanted to get away from their shocked gazes as fast as was humanly possible. There was Fleur, giving her a look of clear disdain, and there was Krum, glaring daggers at an oblivious Draco. And . . . oh dear, there was Harry, his probing gaze much worse than Fleur’s or Krum’s. The rest of them looked happy or entertained or awed, and Hermione couldn’t take it.

“Was that good enough for you, Granger?” Malfoy drawled lazily. On the contrary, he seemed to be enjoying the attention. “I daresay everyone else thinks so.”

“I . . .” Hermione started. What the hell am I doing? she thought angrily. “I don’t know what I was thinking, dancing with you.”

“And twice, at that,” Draco added in quickly. “I know it’s hard to resist my charm, but . . .”

“Oh, quit it, Malfoy! You wanted to dance with me too!”

His eyes flashed dangerously as he finally began to realize what he had done. He was not happy.

“Now where would you be getting the idea that I would want to dance with a bossy . . . self-righteous, bookish little Mudblood such as yourself? Krum thrust you into my arms, Granger, so don’t be getting any ideas that I chose to dance with you.”

“You’re a hypocritical prat,” she accused, exasperated with his arrogance and disdain.

“And you’re a pretentious pregnant dog,” he shot back, on the verge of losing his temper with her.

Hermione abruptly turned and strode out of the ballroom, leaving Draco standing all alone in the center of the sky. And all the while Harry’s eyes followed her out, probing curiously where they had no right to be.

[Julia Darline Evans]

Liiga hea !

[Christian Bray]

Ma õpin peo tantsu, kuhu alla käib ka samba jt. Päris hea !

[Lissandra Sylvania]

Lahe jutt oli see nüüd küll, suure pingutuega sai pause teha, lihtsalt nii põnev ja haarav jutt
Kas keegi ei tea kas on seda juttu ka eesti keelde on tõlgitud, mu õde tahab ka seda lugeda aga ta ei oska inglise keelt nii hästi..?

[Liz-Miia Parker]

Ma kavatsen seda kunagi tegema hakkata, tõlkima nagu.
Tore, et meeldib.

Ja jätkame siis

PART II: THE GREAT DECEPTION

Gaze, lie, and smirk in time
Your arrogance will suit you well.

–AFI, Paper Airplanes

Chapter 14; Illustrious Illusions

The Ball had ended, and Draco stepped onto the floorless balcony of the Sitting Room. Stars glittered above and below him, ships with diamond sails in a sea of midnight blue. A yellow moon rose austerely into the sky, and it seemed that the night had enveloped him.

He became aware of a presence behind him.

“Potter,” he said. His voice sounded neither scornful nor polite. Had he ever said Harry’s name neutrally?

“I wanted to talk to you, Malfoy,” Harry said firmly.

Draco had not turned to face him, but stood with his hands in his pockets, head tilted upwards.

“Did you now,” Malfoy intoned. It was a question, but had been phrased as a statement.

“It’s about Hermione,” Harry continued, his voice like taut wire. At last Draco turned around and looked at Harry. Starlight shone on his green eyes, but in the half darkness they looked startlingly silver. His charcoal hair hung messily around his face, which was half obscured in darkness.

“There’s something going on between you and her, isn’t there?” Harry asked softly, his eyes conveying what looked like apprehension.

“Hm,” Draco said in a noncommital tone. “Define, ‘going on,’ Potter. Because if you’re using ‘going on’ in the sense that we have a loving, mutual, and mature relationship, I’d have to say no. On the other hand, if you mean ‘going on’ in the sense that she thinks I’m a hypocrite and I think she’s a pretentious liar and there is a vindicatory feeling of heated hatred between us, then the answer is a resounding yes.”

He grinned wryly as he saw Harry’s face relax.

“Wow,” said Harry with a dry laugh, “way to quote Hermione almost exactly, Malfoy. I just got through talking with her . . .”

“You love her,” Draco said certainly, giving Harry a sideways glance. His expression didn’t change.

“Yeah,” Harry admitted with a small smile. “Yeah, I do.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, amazed that Harry would so easily share his romantic feelings with Draco. When Harry saw Draco’s expression, he shook his head.

“No, Malfoy . . . do you think I feel like pulling her into a broom closet and snogging with her? No. Would I die for her? Yes, and without even thinking about it.”

Draco seemed truly amused for the first time Harry had ever known.

“That’s weird, Potter,” Draco stated bluntly. “Most teenage boys would opt for the simple broom closet option.”

Harry grinned back. “I know,” he said simply.

They fell silent, and Harry noticed that Draco’s gaze was still turned skyward.

“It’s odd, don’t you think,” Draco started softly, “that everybody says the stars are beautiful. When we look at them, we see these tiny, exquisite jewels that sparkle above our world, like they’re watching over us or something. In reality, they are orbs of endless fire that destroy everything around them. If we saw stars for what they really were, do you think we would still admire their beauty? Or would we admire their endless and unmatched destructive power?”

A swift and silky silence followed his words until Harry spoke.

“Wow . . . I never thought of you as much of a poet, Malfoy,” Harry said, mock admiration in his voice.

“It’s not poetry, Potter,” Draco said simply. “It’s the truth.”

“The star thing is kind of depressing, actually,” Harry continued. “From far away a star is so beautiful . . . from up close it will destroy you in a moment.”

“Better to see things as they really are, though,” Draco pointed out, “than to be deceived by a beautiful illusion that can surely never be.”

Harry was surprised by the cold conviction in Draco’s voice as he said this. It wasn’t the Malfoy he was used to at all, and it unnerved him a bit.

“It’s late,” was all Harry said, before turning to leave. A few minutes after Harry had gone, Draco followed Harry off the balcony. He always did.

Draco went to his own room, and the stars with all of their deceptive beauty shone on.

The following day, Draco gazed out the window and saw signs of a storm approaching. Though the morning had dawned clear and bright, late in the afternoon he could feel the crackling anticipation in the air right before a storm.

Odd, he remembered thinking later. I’m almost sure they didn’t get storms at this time of year. Feeling adventurous and admittedly a little bored, he decided to explore the castle.

He stepped outside his room and into the marble hallway. They greyness of the sky reflected itself in the shiny white marble. He heard thunder rumble in the distance, and in the late afternoon the light of the chandeliers seemed shifty. The whole castle was sultry and antique and perhaps a little creepy.

He supposed that usually it was fuller and less eerie, but all of the students at Beauxbatons had gone with Madame Maxime to the village below, save the fifteen Ambassadors. Draco surmised that it was the equivalent to a Hogsmeade trip, except that no students had been left behind. They would be back before dinner, he supposed.

Draco stopped suddenly as he heard voices coming from around a corner. They seemed hushed and secretive. Afraid of being caught but curious all the same, he slid closer to the wall and strained to hear what was being said.

“I do not know vat you vant me to do!” came an urgent whisper. It was a male voice. Krum, perhaps? Draco couldn’t tell.

“I vant you to try harder! Get me the backgrounds of each and every one of za Ambassadors . . . extensive backgrounds. Talk to them all, ask subtle questions . . .”

The girl that had spoken sounded Bulgarian also . . . but was it Hilda or Ava? The male spoke again more forcefully.

“I am certain it is Jaime . . . he is far too emphatic about how wonderful za French are! It is a cover up!”

Draco frowned, completely confused. What were they talking about? His eyebrows shot up at the girl’s next words.

“I suspect za Draco Malfoy boy . . . he doesn’t seem to get along with the other Hogwarts Ambassadors. The dancing last night vas obviously a confusion tactic.”

“Ve cannot strike until ve know for certain . . .” the next part was too low to hear, “. . . someone in this castle is lying.”

There was a pause. “I get za feeling that many of za Ambassadors are not who they seem,” finished the girl. He heard footsteps heading in the other direction and relaxed.

What the hell was that? Draco thought, bemused. Two Bulgarians were plotting in secret, and they were plotting about him. He was, needless to say, alarmed. The particular use of the word “strike” had not implemented pleasant thoughts into his head. He thought it was probably a good idea to tell someone, but quickly decided against it. If they found out that he’d been eavesdropping, who knew what they would do? He was just have to settle with watching all of the Durmstrang Ambassadors very closely.

He turned a corner and almost cried out as he collided with something silver. The silver thing emitted a high-pitched scream, and he promptly realized it was none other than Fleur.

As she became aware that Draco was standing before her, she seemed to calm somewhat, and steadied herself against him.

“Drah-co. I am so very sorry. I was in a hurry,” Fleur simpered apologetically.

Draco smiled, somewhere between a smirk and a grin. That’s right, he thought wryly, swoon pathetically in my presence. You girls are all the same. “It’s fine. I was going too fast anyway,” Draco replied.

“I wanted to see you, actually,” Fleur said, in a voice that implied their run-in was convenient. “I ‘ave been meaning to show you something.”

“Show me something . . .?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. What was the girl trying to say?

“Follow me,” Fleur said with a smile. She grabbed his hand and began to pull him along. She did not need to pull hard, or at all, for that matter. He caught up with her quickly.

As they strode along the hall, thunder crashed menacingly above them. Droplets of rain pattered against the window panes.

Fleur smiled. “I love this weather,” she intoned softly, when she realized Draco was watching her.

“You don’t get storms like this very often, do you?” Draco asked.

She smiled at him as they stopped in front of a door.

“We’re here,” she announced, instead of answering the question.

“We’re where?” Draco asked quizzically. Why did he always seem to be asking questions when it came to Fleur?

Again, she didn’t answer, merely opened the door and ushered him inside.

The first thing that he was aware of was the cold. It was rather like stepping out of the bathroom after a hot shower; that shocking transition from balmy warmth to arid iciness.

At first he thought he had entered a room made purely of diamonds. Everything glistened and refracted off of itself, creating a light show filled with rainbows.

“Do you remember in Bulgaria that I told you zere was a room fashioned entirely of ice? Well, zis is it.”

The walls and floor had been covered in thin sheets of ice. Strewn around the large room there were more dazzling ice sculptures than Draco had ever seen. He felt as if he were in room filled entirely with mirrors, which reflected pieces of each other until he was lost in the swooping complexity and grace. With every turn of his head the room changed, though after a few steps Draco realized the room only looked like it was changing.

“Wow,” said Draco. “Someone could almost get lost in here.” Sound seemed muffled, somehow, though his image was magnified a hundredfold.

“Indeed, people ‘ave gotten lost,” Fleur informed himher eyes sparkling, “it is called the Hall of Illusions by many.”

“It’s beautiful,” Draco answered, but a certain uneasiness filled him as he looked as Fleur’s reflection in the thousand of chips of ice. His words from the night before came rushing back.

Better to see things as they really are than to be deceived by a beautiful illusion that can surely never be.

“It’s kind of deceiving,” he said out loud, and she nodded her head.

The sculptures themselves, however, were the most amazing things in the room. They were so well done that they could have been carved from stone. There were sculptures of valiant knights locked in deadly duels, fanciful dancers in flowing gowns, of aesthetic castles and drifting clouds. On the ceiling there were icy stars, glittering as convincingly as real ones. He found that he could not even tell how large the room was, for all of the ice chips reflecting off of themselves. It could have been as small as a dorm room in Hogwarts, or large as the Great Hall.

“Who created this room?” Draco asked curiously. He reached out to touch an ice sculpture, and it hurt his skin. His breath came out in frosty clouds as he examined the ice sculpture.

“Actuallyit was fabled to have been created by Mordred,” Fleur said quietly, “one of the most powerful wizards of all time.”

“And one of the most evil,” Draco added in quickly. “Wasn’t he that bloke who supposedly killed King Arthur? Amazing, isn’t it, how someone so evil could create something so beautiful.”

Fleur looked at him quizzically, as if his words puzzled her. She spoke softly but clearly.

“Good, and evil. What will it all amount to in the end, Drah-co? I am just a person and you are just a person. Who are we to discern what is good from what is evil?”

Draco paused before speaking. “I suppose you’re right. Everyone is just looking for the same thing, in the end, and that’s truth.”

“With all of ze illusions around us, I wonder if we will ever be able to find it,” Fleur said with a sad smile.

And as they left the room, Draco had the strange feeling that he was exiting a small Hall of Illusions only to enter a bigger one, the size of the entire world.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FACT: The final battle of King Arthur is speculated to have taken place on Salisbury Plain. Stonehenge lies on Salisbury Plain.
“Stonehenge?” Dumbledore questioned. “Remus . . . this is impossible.”

“I know,” said Lupin wearily, “but the poem leads right to it. Listen to this . . . ‘ the pillar of stone, and the crescent it sows.’ Albus, Stonehenge was built as a crescent, and it is made of pillars of stone. There are also numerous references in the poems to stars, and many believe that Stonehenge is a map of the night sky, if decoded properly. Even the line itself, starlight shines on the eye, is an astrological reference to–”

“Remus,” Dumbledore intoned, cutting him off. “When I say impossible, I mean that it is impossible for the relic to be hidden there. Stonehenge has been intensely studied for centuries by Muggles and Wizards alike. There is nothing of significance within the stone circle. Experts agree on this.”

Lupin looked away, agitated.

“Then it is a map of some kind. A map that leads straight to the ancient relic. We are overlooking something, Albus. Stonehenge is very important.”

“That is just it,” Dumbledore said immediately. “Stonehenge is very important. It is far too conspicuous a place to hide a long lost relic. You claim Stonehenge is a map, then. Are you suggesting that whoever hid the relic has also given an obvious map to anyone who wishes to seek it? That is not a rational thing to do, if the person who hid it wanted the object to sink into oblivion,” Dumbledore countered.

“But can’t you see? What better way is there to hide something then to place it right before everyone’s eyes? No one would expect to find something of importance in the most obvious place of all.”

“And you, Remus,” Dumbledore continued, “do you think you are going to be the one to decode the mystery of Stonehenge?”

“Someone is already far ahead of me, Albus. Someone who is doubtless working for Voldemort. If I want to find this relic before them, I will have to work fast. The person I work against is clever . . . brilliant, even. It will not be easy.”

“It will not be easy,” Dumbledore agreed solemnly. “But, Remus, there is one thing that bothers me . . .”

“What’s that?”

“A poem, a clue, a map . . . it all seems like one large riddle. It almost seems like someone . . . well, wants us to find this object.”

There was an ominous sort of silence. Finally, Lupin spoke.

“If that is so, then . . . there is nothing to be done about it. We must not let this relic fall into Voldemort’s hands.”

But something nagged at the back of Lupin’s mind.

Starlight shines on the eye.

Salvation and destruction, hand in hand.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And somewhere, either very near or very far away, depending on how one looked at it, a lone figure was stooped over a large tome. The sharp eyes widened as they examined the complicated chart.
“I’ve . . . I’ve got it,” came the bemused voice suddenly.

The nameless figure snapped the book shut and smiled.

The brilliance of this riddle went far beyond what had been expected. It was nothing short of genius. Simple, yet complex. Carefully planned, yet subtlety engineered.
Salvation and destruction, hand in hand. [/color][/i]

[Julia Darline Evans]

Heaa Ja laul ,, Paper Airplanes " on ka hea

[spidy]

Jätka.

[Lissandra Sylvania]

Uut!!!

[Kathreen Granger]

Edasi paluks

[Liz-Miia Parker]

PART II: THE GREAT DECEPTION

And is evil,

Something you are, or something you do?

–Morissey

Chapter 15; Horrendous Happenings

Hermione lounged in the Sitting Room, staring out at the steadily darkening late afternoon sky. The wind howled ferociously, and the sky turned a menacing shade of black. It seemed that the storm they had been anticipating was finally rolling in. The ominous weather was a violent contrast to the balmy weather of the previous day. She expected that it was nearly time for Madame Maxime and the other students to return.

“Did you know,” said Harry from an armchair across the room, “that Mordred actually killed King Arthur, who was his own father? That’s the myth, at least.”

“I’d heard that,” Hermione answered, surprised at Harry’s interest in the subject he had been assigned for independent study.

“The odd thing is that the sword Mordred stabbed King Arthur with has never been found and it’s supposed to be one of the most powerful dark objects ever created. How much money d’you reckon Voldemort would pay to get his hands on something like that?”

Hermione laughed. “That’s ridiculous, Harry. That sword has been missing for over a millennium.”

Harry shook his head pensively and continued reading.

Raindrops pattered against the window, and the wind picked up speed. She thought she saw a dark shape hover just out of her vision, but when she turned, of course, there was nothing there.

Draco had flounced off somewhere, apparently in a hurry, and Ginny was napping in her room. Ernie . . . where was Ernie?

Her question got answered as he banged into the Sitting Room, gasping for air.

“Down there . . . ! In the entrance hall . . .” his eyes widened, and he was obviously terrified, “ . . . get Ginny . . . come quick . . . !”

“What’s going on, Ernie?” Hermione asked urgently. A flash of lightning illuminated the room briefly. Harry had dashed to Ginny’s room and pounded on the door.

“It’s Franz . . .” Ernie cried, “I think he’s dead!”

“What?” Hermione cried, slapping a hand over her mouth.

Ernie could only nod. “Come quick!” He made for the door, but Hermione motioned for him to wait. At last, Harry and Ginny arrived, the latter looking annoyed and distinctly rumpled.

“Ernie says Franz is dead,” Hermione informed them, white in the face. Harry paled considerably and Ginny gasped.

“How?” Hermione asked, as they followed Ernie quickly down the stairs.

“I think he fell,” Ernie answered, “from the top of the stairwell.”

They heard voices below, and clamoured down the stairs. At the bottom, in the Entrance Hall, a group of Ambassadors milled around chaotically.

Hermione pushed her way through the crowd, afraid of what she would see. At the center lay Franz, a pool of blood around his head. She felt her stomach lurch wildly.

Suddenly Myra burst through, and fell to her knees beside him. “Out of the way,” she said forcefully, and everyone backed up considerably. She tentatively put her hand to his throat, and everyone seemed to hold their breath.

Myra closed her eyes. “He’s dead,” she said softly. Fleur, on Hermione’s right, sobbed quietly. “Zis is awful,” she heard Fleur say. “Zis is awful.”

From behind them came a roar, and Krum pushed his way through, coming to a skittering halt in front of Franz. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him. “What happened?” he demanded.

“He fell,” said Jaime, pointing at the railing above. “Look. The banister is broken!”

Heads turned upwards to observe the broken banister right above Franz. Krum glanced around wildly.

“He did not fall!” Krum answered incredulously. “Za banister is waist-high, that is completely impossible.”

“Maybe he jumped,” Ernie suggested.

“He didn’t jump, you prat, the banister is broken,” Ginny said softly. Krum nodded.

“Zese banisters do not just break,” Fleur intoned, “Zey are made of sturdy wood! Zey ‘ave never broken before!”

“Maybe someone pushed him,” came a voice from behind them. It was Draco, and he had just entered, looking casually interested. “Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered tightly. Draco raised an eyebrow cooly. His insolence seemed to anger Krum even more.

“You!” he roared, pointing a finger at Draco. “Where vere you vhen all of this vas happening?”

Draco looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I was . . . taking a walk,” he said carefully.

“Malfoy, we’re on a castle in the clouds! Where were you taking a walk?” Ernie asked incredulously.

“Around,” he said, regaining composure. He turned to Krum. “And where were you?” Draco asked nonchalantly.

“I vas flying my broom,” Krum said vehemently.

Draco let out a harsh laugh. “In this weather? That’s interesting. That’s really interesting.”

“How dare you imply that I had anything to do vith this! Franz vas like a brother to me! I vill kill you!”

“Just like you tried to kill us all that day on your ship?” Draco asked quickly, eyes flashing.

“Stop it!” Myra cried angrily. “We ‘ave no proof that zis was intentional. We will cast a preserving charm on the scene, and wait for Madame Maxime and the rest of them to come back.”

“That’s the other problem,” said Draco casually. “This is a magical storm.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“That all magic in the vicinity goes completely haywire . . . there’s so much magic in the air that it can’t be controlled. This storm is just starting up, but it already looks so strong that the Portkeys back to the castle may not work.”

“If that is so, then Madame Maxime can Apparate here,” Ava said calmly, staring Draco down.

“It is impossible to Apparate on or off Beauxbatons grounds,” Jaime said immediately.

“Like at Hogwarts,” Hermione whispered.

“Hold on here,” Krum started, rounding on Fleur. “You are telling me there is no way to get out of the castle non-magically?”

“Yes,” Fleur said in a despairing tone.

“I vill fly a broom down!” Krum said desperately.

“Brooms go haywire in a magical storm,” Harry piped up unexpectedly. “You would fall off.”

Hermione realized why Krum’s previous excuse for where he was at Franz’s murder was so unbelievable. Flying a broom at this time would have been impossible. Where was Krum, then? Hermione thought suspiciously.

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Ginny asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. She touched her left arm worriedly and turned to Myra. “You must have had storms like this in the past! How did you get down from the castle?”

“Zat is ze thing,” Myra said softly. “We ‘ave never had a storm like this before.”

“That is because it’s not–” but Ernie cut himself off before finishing the sentence.

“It’s not what?” Hermione asked quizzically.

“Never mind,” Ernie replied quickly.

“So we’re stuck in here until the storm ends?” Renae asked fearfully.

“As of right now, it vould seem so,” said Ivan from near Krum.

Thunder crashed, deafening in the prevailing silence, and rattled the floor. An electric panic passed quickly through the group.

“I think that we all need a few moments to calm down,” Myra said softly. “Why doesn’t everyone retire to their common rooms, and we all meet back ‘ere in ‘alf an hour.”

Hermione thought this was a good idea, and agreed. She needed a few moments away from the others to process the new information.

As they ascended the stairs, Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand in his own for a moment and smiled reassuringly at her. She could see the worry behind his eyes, though.

“Afraid, Potter?” Draco sneered at Harry as they walked to the common room.

Thunder crashed outside the castle, but Hermione had a growing suspicion that it was no safer inside the castle walls than it was outside in the raging storm.


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They entered the Sitting Room quickly, and Harry shut the door behind them. He then sat on the edge of an armchair near the fire.
“What were you going to say back there?” Harry asked, directing the question at Ernie.

Ernie sighed. “I was going to say that it’s impossible for a magical storm to manifest here.”

“Newsflash, Macmillan,” said Draco rather rudely. He pointed out the window, and lightning flashed as if on cue.

“Well,” Ernie said stubbornly, “the climate here just doesn’t support the manifestation of such a storm. I am doing Weather Manipulation for my independent study course. Basically, what I’m suggesting is that this storm didn’t occur naturally.”

“Then how is it here?” Hermione asked impatiently.

Ernie sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. It seems like a bit of a coincidence, doesn’t it, that the very night someone dies, it also becomes impossible to escape from the castle?”

Hermione had noticed this coincidence, also, but had a hard time comprehending the repercussions of it.

“It’s no coincidence,” Draco answered darkly. “I think someone pushed Franz purposely.”

“It wasn’t one of the Ambassadors,” Ginny said frankly. “That’s just too awful.”

“But there is no one else in the castle!” Harry interjected.

“Do we know that for a fact?” Ernie replied swiftly, glancing at Harry.

Hermione shivered. She didn’t know which was worse, the idea of a sinister figure lurking in the shadows of the castle, or the idea that the murderer was sitting calmly somewhere in the bright light of one of the common rooms, chatting nonchalantly.

“Let’s not assume anything right now,” said Hermione boldly. “For all we know, it could have just been an accident.”

Both Draco and Harry looked skeptical about this.

“C’mon, let’s just relax until dinner,” she continued. “We’ll go down and talk about it then.”

Nodding, Harry leaned back slowly in his armchair. A loud crash of thunder caused Ginny to yelp and Harry to sit straight up. Hermione jumped, and Ernie’s hand smashed against the wall. Draco, casually draped across the sofa, was the only one who seemed unmoved.

“So much for the relaxing, then,” he drawled, amusement laced through his voice. Hermione wondered how he could still find amusement in a situation such as this.

Hermione took up a book, and Harry continued to research ancient relics for his independent study course. The feeling in the room, however, was stilted and uneasy. At last it was time to go down to dinner, though Hermione found she had no appetite.

They stepped into the hall tentatively. The storm outside seemed to be, if possible, growing worse. The palace was as light and elegant as ever, but the rain and thunder infused it with a sinister element. She half expected a crazed murderer to jump out at any moment and attack. Needless to say, she was glad they arrived safely in the Grand Ballroom. Hermione glanced into the entrance hall and was surprised to see only a stain of blood where Franz’s body had been. She approached Krum, who was loitering rather nervously around the door.

“Where is . . . Franz?” she asked, for all the world not able to say ‘the body.’

Krum cleared his throat. “Ve carried him into za Hall of Illusions . . . ve could not levitate him because za magic vould not work properly. It is cold in there.”

Hermione nodded after a moment, and turned to the center of the room. Fleur and Ivan were transfiguring (with many misfires and odd spouts of light) one of the square tables into a round one. Everyone else milled about restlessly. The attitude of the group was much changed from the previous night. There were too many shifty eyes and unneeded questions.

“It is ready,” Myra announced as she finished Accio-ing the fourteenth chair. “Everyone please take a seat.”

As Hermione sat at the circular table, she was reminded ridiculously of the Knights of the Round Table and King Arthur.

“First of all,” said Myra, “ze Brownies are still here, though they will have to bring our dinner up by hand since ze magic won’t function properly. For now, we must decide what course of action to take.”

“We have established that there is no way out of the castle,” Draco announced, an eyebrow coolly raised.

“Correct,” answered Myra. Rain pounded relentlessly on the windows. “The next course of action would be to figure out if there is anyone else in the castle besides us. I ‘ave a way to do this.”

She pulled out a crinkled sheet of paper and laid it out on the table. “Zis paper tracks the location and movement of everyone in ze castle.”

Hermione leaned forward to get a better look. There was a complicated floor plan of the castle, and fourteen dots were placed in a precise circle. One of them was labeled Hermione Granger. It was a replica of the Marauder’s Map.

“There are only fourteen people in ze castle,” Fleur said, “and zey are all in zis room.”

An uneasy silence followed her words.

“That does not make sense,” said Ivan, shaking his head.

“No,” Hilda agreed, her long blonde braids swishing. She looked extremely confused.

“So Franz fell by accident,” Hermione said simply. She was yet unable to accept the fact that one of the people sitting at the table had killed Franz.

“I disargee,” said Krum immediately. “It is absurd that Franz fell. He vas afraid of heights, and never vent near the edge of a balcony.”

“And I will testify that even if he was near the banister, the railings do not simply break,” Jaime added. “Zey are too strong.”

“Then what are you suggesting?” Ginny asked suddenly. “That someone at this table murdered him?”

There was silence. A few suspicious looks were thrown around, accompanied by some uneasy fidgeting.

“That’s called jumping to conclusions if you ask me,” Ginny continued, her voice strong. “No one here had a reason to kill Franz.”

“I have an idea,” Hermione said suddenly. She turned to Myra. “Do you have any Veritaserum in storage?”

“I think so,” Myra said.

“We can give a drop, just a drop, to everybody after dinner and ask them if they had anything to do with Franz’s death. That way we can be sure no one at this table did it.”

At least half of the people at the table looked uneasy, but no one more than Renae. She drummed her fingers incessantly on the table top and bit her lip.

No one said anything against Hermione’s idea, because obviously it would appear suspicious.

“It’s settled, then,” said Myra. She pulled out her wand before looking at it and putting it away. “I will ‘ave to go down to the basement and retrieve the Veritaserum by hand. Who wants to come with me?”

Suddenly everyone seemed to like the idea of staying in the well-lit, elegant ballroom. What if Myra herself was the murderer? No one wanted to be alone with anyone else.

“Look,” Hermione said shortly. “Six of us can go with you, and the other eight will stay back here. How does that sound?”

Everyone seemed more inclined to that idea, and the six people that ended up volunteering were Krum, Hermione, Myra, Renae, Ivan, and Ernie.

Everything darkened as they walked out of the ballroom, but Hermione realized it was only a trick of the eyes.

After they had been walking for a bit, Krum grabbed her arm and made her walk back a ways from the others.

“Hermi-o-ninny, I do not know who to trust anymore. I vant you to know that I trust you above everyone else.”

Thunder crashed.

“I just think it’s ridiculous that anyone murdered Franz,” she said. “It makes no sense.”

“There are people in this castle that are dangerous, Hermi-o-ninny. Take my word for it.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked quizzically, for his expression had darkened.

“C’mon, you two,” Ernie called from up ahead. “We’ve found it.”

In the basement storeroom they located three bottles of Veritaserum. They had returned to the ballroom in less than five minutes.

Harry and the others seemed relieved to have them back.

Dinner was a quiet and subdued meal. Everyone drummed his feet or smoothed her shirt one too many times to make it comfortable. At last the Brownies cleared the dishes, and only fourteen cups remained.

It ended up that Hermione and Draco were invested with the task of placing a drop of Veritaserum in every cup. Fleur, looking unreasonably smug, stood up and approached Hermione. She was smiling.

“I am a Veela,” Fleur said very clearly. “It is already true that I cannot lie, so I won’t be needing any of zat potion.”

She looked so smug that Hermione found herself suspicious.

“We’ll give you a drop anyway, just to be safe,” Hermione said with a contrived smile.

Fleur held out her cup. “Zis is eez not fair!”

She flounced off, expression dark.

Then the group watched as each Ambassador drank the potion. They started with Krum. Draco looked fiendishly excited.

“Did you have anything to do with the death of Franz?” Hermione asked him. Krum glanced around.

“No,” Krum said clearly. He seemed surprised that the word had come out of his mouth.

They went around to Ernie, Renae (who looked extremely nervous), Ivan, and Ava. Each one of them said no. Draco was next. Hermione asked him the same question.

“No,” Draco said simply. Krum was enraged. He stood up violently.

“Did you kill Franz!” Krum shouted at Draco.

“I already said no,” Draco replied softly. “Did you not hear me? I have never hated Franz, never wanted to kill Franz! There! But I do hate you, and you know it’s the truth.”

Krum looked ready to explode, and people began whispering quietly, distracted.

“Do you hate me?” Hermione asked Draco quietly, before she could think about it. She knew the answer.

“Yes,” said Draco softly, “I hate you more than I have ever hated anyone in my life . . . when I think about you I hate you for how you talk back to me, how smart you are, how pretty you are, I hate you for being the only-”

He bit down on his tongue so hard that he could taste blood in his mouth. His gaze met hers fiercely, and she could tell it was taking every bit of his will to fight the potion.

She felt something cold lance through her, like the realization that she had flunked a test. Not that she had ever failed a test in her life, but she imagined this coldness was how it would feel.

It seemed no one had heard her question or his answer.

Fleur was questioned next, and flippantly denied that she had anything to do with it and how dare they accuse her of murder in her own castle. They went around the table, each person saying ‘no’ until at last they came to Michael. He was sweating profusely.

“Did you have anything to do with the death of Franz?”

“Y . . . no,” he said at last. Hermione frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I didn’t m-murder him,” Michael said, and then rather the same expression came over his face as had been on Draco’s, as if he was refraining from saying something.

Hermione then administered the antidote, and everyone seemed to relax. One by one, the twelve of them stood up, until only Myra and Fleur were left at the table.

Myra stood up, followed by Fleur.

“I am determined to figure zis out,” Hermione heard Myra tell Fleur. “It makes no sense.”

They had all denied having anything to do with the death of Franz, which meant that his death had been an accident. If that was true, then why were they all still uneasy? Hermione decided to talk to Harry about it later.

Outside, the storm raged on.