"People do not despise others for their vices, they despise those who lack virtues." - Lucius Malfoy



Professor Slughorn, slathering jam liberally across a piece of toast, turned to Adjunct Professor Lockhart and said "You know if you do this, things could get ugly." Slughorn then slid the toast into his mouth, grabbing a croissant

Professor Asimov, sitting on Slughorn's left, fiddled with his strawberries and cream. He'd tried to eat healthier since rejuvenation and didn't want to get fat, not with long decades stretched out in front of him and a vividly compelling counter-example sitting beside him. He stared at Draco Malfoy, nibbling on his breakfast and talking with several Slytherins at once.

"You don't think they'd attack him in public like that, do you?" Isaac said, putting down his spoon and greedily eying the pastries.

"If things turn ugly it will be due to your meddling, Horace. I don't imagine they would," said Professor Lockhart, cutting into a sausage, "I mean, that doesn't seem clever. Practically every teacher will be watching."

"Oh," chuckled Professor Slughorn, "that's the thing about cleverness. A plan some quivering Hufflepuff considers clever would seem terrible to a smart Ravenclaw. Then a bold Slytherin pulls it off. So, was it a clever plan? Should our Hufflepuff try it? Of course not, he'd muck it up." Horace had used his fork to stab a piece of sausage and waved it like a baton, swinging it towards the various Houses tables at the appropriate point in his discussion. Now he took a bite, then continued.

"But the Ravenclaw wasn't correct, either. A plan can be clever and not clever at the same time. Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors never deal with ambiguity like that. Loyalty and Bravery aren't mercurial and fluid. Cleverness and ambition wax and wane like the moon. Shirkers think that too many witnesses makes a flawed plan, ambitious students see an opportunity. I mean, you can't watch everyone while judging a battle, can you Gilderoy?"

Professor Asimov leaned across, "You … you're prodding them into it, aren't you? Plotting against your own students!" Slughorn chuckled and reached for a danish. He liked the little cheese ones best.

"Isaac," said Professor Lockhart cautiously, "Well, you are right of course, but that's how these things are done. I may have issues with his methods, but Horace's ... meddling produced a slew of immensely talented individuals over the decades. But exactly who are you promoting, Horace? Malfoy doesn't join your little chats, but Zabini does."

"I have a wide variety of interests," sniffed Professor Slughorn, "and I'll ruefully admit that my methods are blunter than usual, but you have no idea the mess I inherited from Severus. I'm hoping to limit the damage to several expulsions, personally."

"Expulsions?" said Professor Asimov, "You are angling to get your students expelled? That seems drastic."

"We can't all be good students, Isaac," said Professor Lockhart, "I might have turned out better if I'd gotten a shock like that at fifteen. Not that I did anything worthy of expulsion, mind you."

"Oh, if you had been in my house, you would have," chuckled Horace Slughorn, stretching his arms out and patting both his colleagues jovially on the back, "but I think you've turned out well enough in your own time. Looking back over my history, I played it a bit too close to my chest at times. Perhaps last year could have been avoided, if I'd trusted my judgment a few decades earlier."

"You … you taught Voldemort," said Professor Asimov too loudly, then looked out over the House tables. Professor Lockhart saw his glance. But the assembled students kept up their chatter without pause. Professor Asimov remembered what he'd been told, magic kept students from overhearing anything said at the teacher's table unless a Professor specifically addressed the students.

"Don't worry, we all do that a few times. That's why we have the spell," said Gilderoy.

"I don't know that," said Professor Slughorn, dropping the remaining half of his Danish and shoving his plate away. "No. I do know that, but I didn't admit it to myself. I'm not certain, but it all adds up. My greatest mistake. That boy had such potential I blinded myself to his danger, told myself that no mere teenager could outwit me. If he'd been expelled he might have turned out just as poorly, but at least my hands would be clean. He might have very well lashed out right away, limiting the damage. No ... I think things would have turned out better if there had been a few more expulsions in the past. Maybe, one every few years, perhaps ... one or two? Yes. Two expulsions."

Isaac had just picked up his spoon and taken another tentative bite of his strawberries and cream when Horace added "Or one murder, I suppose."

The Howler exploded as dawn broke besides the lake, the last wisps of moonlight glittering off the surface, turning the morning fog silver. The howler ripped open along the edges, noise pulsing outwards, screaming "Good morning Slytherins" loudly, with an elongated drawl. Nobody in the dungeons heard, of course.

Startled by the howler, Draco whipped awake, wand out, sitting up so quickly that he tumbled out of a small green cot onto the dew-laden grass. Gregory's face appeared as he leaned over his edge of his cot. They glanced at each other and heard the rest of the shouts and exclamations as the Slytherins woke up.

"How did we get out here," "What's going on," "Fifteen more minutes, just fifteen..." "Why are we by the lake," the murmuring grew into conversations into shouted accustaions until finally a second howler appeared overhead. This one opened slowly and deliberately. It didn't scream, but the voice carried well over the lake shore, echoing slightly.

"Good morning, my young apprentices," Professor Lockhart's voice boomed across the lake, "As I mentioned in our last class, today the N.E.W.T. armies, along with some selected fourth years, are conducting battlefield exercises. I promised you an exciting spectacle. What I may have neglected to mention is that in any real war there are civilian populations. You can define civilian in any number of interesting ways I suppose, but I define it as people who don't particularly care about the outcome of the battle. It most certainly doesn't mean non-combatant."

Draco looked across the group, boys from the first four years. A mere hundred yards along the shore he spotted another cluster of cots and a blinking and stretching coterie of Slytherin witches. Two mermen poked their heads above the lake, stared at the Howler and assembled students, then disappeared underneath the still water. Scanning the crowd, Draco accounted for every healthy Slytherin of third year or below, except Harry Potter.

That didn't surprise Draco.

"War can come at any time, often you only have the vaguest of hints and little time to prepare. In short, wars inevitably lead to refugees, simulated today by my younger students. All younger students have been transported onto the battlefield for the duration of the battle, although each house has has been put into a different area. Because this simulates a sudden evacuation, we only transported the items you slept with – although clothes were provided in a few cases. Large capacity items, such as mokeskin bags, are still in your rooms. If you proclaim that you would have taken it with you, well, you may be right. But often refugees find that someone stronger may steal what you have saved."

At this, a large groan and several students started crying, Draco had started sleeping with his wand after the night he'd been abducted. A quick pat of his robes revealed that his mokeskin pouch didn't get transported with him. However, he felt the reassuring bump of his pocket flask next to his heart. Draco raised an eyebrow at Gregory. Gregory flashed his wand, gripped tightly in his hand. That made two.

"Refugees, as a rule, have a single goal. Survival. But I'll concede that watching this battle is more fun that being a refugee, which means my more clever students would be tempted to get themselves killed, have breakfast, and enjoy the show. To help align our incentives anyone killed before sundown tonight will have detention for the rest of the weekend. Those restrooms do clean themselves, but they can always use some extra shine! But this wouldn't be interesting for our N.E.W.T. students if every refugee behaved the same, there are always a few idealists interspersed with the displaced masses, people who don't fear death as much as others. Which leads us to my next point..."

The sky, lighter as the sun poked over the water, darkened slightly as a massive fluttering of wings approached carrying the morning mail. Unlike most mornings every student got a letter. Draco didn't recognize the owl, a large woodland brown owl with a cruel beak that landed on the side of his fallen cot. It hooted twice, dropped a letter, and then flew off without even looking. Draco reached over and opened it.

Draco,

Be careful. Some of your Housemates mean you actual harm. Simulated dying is to be much preferred to actual death, and you will receive no detention if you die to avoid real danger. If you need to discuss your situation, I am always willing to help.

G.L.

Draco read the letter quickly. He started to hand it to Gregory, but it burst into flame. Of course, thought Draco, nobody should be able to verify your motivation by some in-game scroll, where's the fun in that? Draco walked over to Blaise Zabini, who saw Draco's wand and shook his head mournfully. Since the upper years were combatants, Draco probably didn't have many enemies in camp. Draco cast Sonorus and addressed the crowd.

"The armies will be here shortly. If you have anything useful, like a wand, let one of the Generals know. Our first order of business is to make sure that any army that comes by has a strong interest in leaving us alone. Do you like scrubbing toilets? No? Then we want to be left alone. First years, gather up any wand shaped twigs. Anyone with a wand, let someone borrow it so they can transfigure the twigs to make them look more like wands."

They wouldn't last long, but most second years could turn twigs into wands and maintain the transfiguration for a while, at least while they held the twigs.

There were brooms overhead. Draco saw two, three, four formations. The fliers coming from the North East veered towards the western group, and spellfire flew between them, red, green and a cone of purple that produced a thunderclap and sent the water rippling. Powerful spells.

"Anyone with a good plan, talk to one of the Generals. Everyone, lets move towards the witches, safety in numbers. Take your cots! They may be useful." Draco canceled his spell, then summoned his patronus, it floated in the air besides him, tongue flicking tentatively.

"Find Neville Longbottom, we'll give him any information we come up with, as long as they do the same. Right now I don't have anything to offer. I'm just a refugee, no special goals." Draco glanced at the broom overhead. All of the armies must know the positions of the underclassman by now, no point in hiding it. "Slytherins are on the lake shore, if he wants to form up."

Draco nodded and his Patronus slithered off. He started jogging towards the witches, pausing only to pick up a twig and start a Transfiguration. As he jogged, he glanced around at roughly half of House Slytherin. Combined on the lake shore, not split into armies.

Modest stakes, for the rest of them. Nobody would be making a serious attempt on Zachary Smith or Blaise Zabini, so they didn't have to worry about that. But nobody relished detention. Draco couldn't convert enemies today, but he could make dozens of friends and solidify some lukewarm allies. All he needed to do was figure out a way to save them all. Draco stumbled again as another spell crackled overhead, sounding like the whimpering of whipped dogs. Draco smiled, reaching into his robe for his flask.

General Wood sat on his broom, hovering a dozen feet above the ground, a safe distance above the assembled Slytherins. They'd built up a barricade of cots. It wouldn't stop any real spells, but it did make it difficult to see who was who, and the gaps fairly bristled with wands pointing at him.

A suspiciously large number of wands, Oliver thought. He pulled his broom up a bit higher, next to Fred Weasley. "What do you think, Fred?"

"Is Potter down there, hiding?" asked Fred.

Oliver shook his head, "I saw him in the bleachers."

"Then it's a bluff," Fred said firmly. "Some real wands, but probably not many." He peered down inside the barricades, and saw the Slytherin generals conferring. "Malfoy's tricky, and not just Slytherin tricky. Potter's rubbed off on him. Me an' George swap ideas with him, and he's good. And you've seen him fight."

Oliver kicked away, and then shouted down to the Slytherins. "PARLAY?" There was a huddle, and several patronus rushed away in all directions. Mist, snake, owl and maybe a sparrow. A shout came back ... "AGREED." Draco Malfoy walked away from the rest of his generals, hands up, no wand showing. After his brief show, he jogged towards a small hill and past it.

Oliver Wood landed the broom just as Draco took a small swig from his flask. "Can you believe they didn't provide us food or water," Draco asked, smacking his lips as he put the flask away. "I choose this hill because for all I know someone in my camp has a grudge against your army, and I don't want to be accused of plotting against you."

"What do you mean someone has a grudge?" Draco just shrugged "Lockhart sent every one of us a letter explaining how he'd judge if we won or lost. Most of us just need to survive, but I have no idea what every letter said. That's true of every camp, by the way."

"You've been in contact with them, then?"

Draco nodded, slowly turning, surveying the scene. The brooms had mostly disappeared, early scouts just getting the lay of the land. Even second years knew the value of good battlefield intelligence. Plans were being made now, but there were still skirmishes when groups encountered each other unexpectedly. Oliver followed Draco's gaze and saw spells coming from the non-forbidden forest, a few trees had caught fire but a small rainstorm appeared overhead to douse the flames.

"We sent word about your offer of parlay, so if you attack us now, the other camps will know they can't trust you. So, what do you want?"

"We need a logistical support and more soldiers," said Oliver.

"And you are offering ..." Draco drew out the question.

"We could just take it. Armies are press-ganging the others as we speak."

"General Wood, I like you, I trust you. But I don't trust your orders. For all I know you drew the Voldemort chit this game and want to murder everyone. And if we do join with you, you'll face the same problem. Someone may have a goal of murdering a General, or aiding your enemy, and I don't even know how many teams there are. So if I made a deal with you, I could only say that most of the people involved won't try to betray you, and some would actively help you. If you want, I'll ask for volunteers and we won't stop anyone who wants to join you."

"That doesn't seem like much," Wood said.

"If you want me to recommend we join up with you, we need real concessions as a show of good faith. We keep our wands, you can execute traitors, but no mass retaliations. Volunteers only for combat missions and our logistical support people get a reasonable sized garrison. And two brooms for us to use"

"Two brooms? Get serious. I could just kidnap you and destroy your group. From what I've seen, that may be better. At least we wouldn't be tied down defending everyone and watching our backs. And it would eliminate a threat."

Draco slowly pushed back his robe to reveal his dueling holster strapped to his left arm and the wand it held. Oliver had his wand out and pointed instantly. Draco pulled out the wand by the tip. He kept the wand pointed at himself, then slowly brought his other hand up and snapped the wand in half.

He dropped two halves of a wand, but only snapped twigs hit the ground.

"Now you can murder me," Draco said, "But kidnapping me is useless, unless you loan me your wand. From my point of view, I win if you murder me. I loaned my wand to someone else, and I'll have an ally in real life if he gets to use it for the rest of the day. You can leave us alone, and rest easy in the knowledge that no other general can use us, or you can try to kill us all."

The fire in the non-forbidden forest grew dimmer, and the rising cloud of steam reflected the morning sunilight. Draco shrugged and started back towards the rest of the Slytherins.

"It probably won't even cost you two of your soldiers. But you'll have lost two," Draco added, "and all those armies will have gained how many?"

Oliver Wood paced, then went back to his broom and kicked off the ground, hovering. This wasn't good at all, but he had to make the most of a bad position. Just his luck, being close to the Slyltherins. He turned back to Malfoy and asked "What do you need the brooms for?"

"Rescuing survivors from other camps and some defensive patrols," said Draco. Oliver thought about it, then took a quick flight to examine the Slytherin contingent and confer with his officers.

"One broom now to Goyle and he flies with us. You get the first broom we capture and any more that Goyle brings down or your people personally scavenge, but he's part of our team."

"Gregory would enjoy that," Draco agreed. "What else?"

"I counted at least three or four patronuses, we add those people to our signal core or combat operations, their choice."

Draco thought about it, "We keep our wands. No trying to figure out which ones are real, and no mass reprisals if there are traitors?"

Wood nodded, "I didn't draw the Voldemort chit. You try to sniff traitors out before they attack. And you take your wand back from whoever you loaned it to and assist as I see fit."

"Put Weasley in charge of the garrison defenses and I can sell that."

"Done," said Oliver as they shook hands, making sure that the brooms overhead as well as the Slytherin camp saw.

Ten minutes later, joint operations began.

Daphne Greengrass suddenly pivoted, shifting her aim. Draco didn't have time to shout, he'd already started casting, swinging his wand towards Daphne and he finished Stupefy right as she did. Daphne fell to the ground suffused by the red glow that indicated a casualty of war. A mere twenty feet off to her right, Oliver Wood lay sprawled on the ground besides his broom, glowing red, victim of Daphne's treachery.

"Dammit," said Penelope Clearwater, "I thought you vouched for her." Penelope's wand pointed at Draco while the rest of the squad, what was left of it, watched. Penelope's free hand brushed away the sweat of the mid-afternoon sun. It wasn't that hot, but they'd been moving and fighting for hours.

"I did vouch for her," Draco said, "and you saw her, she did fine. What can you do when someone hides in your midst for hours? Maybe she had an objective of killing General Wood." Oliver had only joined this squadron in the last half hour, his prior group dead. "This doesn't change the deal. I held up my side as best as I could. And in any case, killing me doesn't help you. " The squadron exchanged glances, shoulders hung low.

Draco didn't know the exact situation, they'd cut him out of a planning, fearing treachery, but he'd sent some messages and seen their army whittled down. Maybe other armies took heavier casualties, but he didn't think so. Draco could read it in the downcast eyes and slouched shoulders. They'd lost – they'd had hope as long as they had General Wood – but it died with him.

They were in an endgame, on the losing side. But chess teaches that sometimes you could sneak out a draw despite being down a few pieces.

Draco looked up at the sun through the trees – through edge of the forest - trying to gauge the time. His stomach growled, they'd barely eaten anything. "I figure we just need to hold out for an hour," he said trying to rally them without sounding bossy, "let's find a place to hole up, ride this out." Penelope had resuscitated Olivier and Daphne, who trudged off the field without a word. (Speaking after you died was unrealistic. Roger Davies tried to impart some crucial information in spite of Professor Quirrell's ban last Spring. Professor Quirrell made sure to take a few minutes from his next lecture showing a recording of Davies on the battlefield, coughing up chicken feathers and making sad gurgling noises in front of his horrified squad mates. Nobody tried to break that rule anymore).

Draco saw the approaching brooms, five of them, with a sinking heart … all older Slytherins. He spotted MacNair's face from beneath the robes. Draco couldn't tell about the others but they'd stripped off any army insignia. No time for a logical decision, Draco acted on instinct. He reached into his robe, took out his flask, and drank the last of the Felix Filicis in several gulps, ignoring the looks.

Draco had maybe two hours of luck.

As the first drop hit his stomach, Draco felt clarity. Some options fell away instantly, Draco knew he couldn't talk his way out of this. But he could see that Penelope and the others would let him go, if he just gave them some hope. Draco ran to the broom, and the others turned their wands to him, but he just shouted "It's an ambush, but they're after me, I'll lead them off." Penelope lowered her wand and the others followed their lead. "Head into the forest, keep low, they can't follow you on brooms anyway." Draco kicked off. He started North, away from the oncoming brooms, but instinct told him to head West, towards the lake and the makeshift refugee camp. At least, that's what it had been this morning. He accelerated as fast as he could, and he heard the shouts.

"After him," came Hestia's screeching voice. Draco didn't bother casting any hexes, there were too many of them. He stayed low to the ground, and sometimes made a quick turn, just a few degrees. Spells kept narrowly missing him but the others were getting closer. He could see the refugee camp ahead, and he aimed to go past it as close as possible. He might have enemies in the camp, but he doubted they'd be able to hit him. But if anyone behind him had an enemy...

After he passed the camp, he veered back, heading directly into the sunset while over Hogwarts lake. None of the people chasing him had been shot down, but they'd been shot at, which gave Draco time. Draco saw brooms ahead, a grueling dogfight. Four brooms, moving faster than he was - even at full speed - but these brooms flew in jagged arcs, suddenly veering and darting. Seekers and Beaters and Chasers, but Draco's instinct said to head straight for them and he did. He elevated, gaining altitude to join the dogfight. One of the brooms glowed red and fell from the sky, splashing into the water, followed a second later by a second splash. Draco heard Gregory's triumphant whoop.

"Incoming," Draco shouted, passing between the other two brooms. Angelina Johnson almost fired at Draco, then turned to her team-mate and shouted "Ignore him." In calmer times Draco may have protested but he didn't feel offended when the two brooms shot off towards his attackers. Draco banked hard left, heading back towards land.

"So, what's up," Gregory asked casually. Draco looked over his shoulder and Gregory was there, slightly above and just behind him, robe pulled up over his face to keep the brunt of the wind out of his eyes. Draco pulled his own robe up to cover his face, then glanced back over his shoulder, the brooms behind them made complicated patterns, a furball of maneuvers and spells.

"It's MacNair and Hestia and the others, after me," Draco said.

"If we go around the forbidden forest we can make it to the spectator stands," Gregory answered.

"It's faster if we go over," Draco said. "Well over. We need at least twenty feet clearance." Draco glanced behind them, the brooms were catching up. Why did Oliver Wood own such a terrible broom if he played Quidditch? If he'd been alive, Father would surely have bought him a Nimbus 2001 by now. If he'd been alive. Draco ignored the thought.

"If we go that high we'll be easy to track," Gregory said. "They just took down the other two, but there are only three following us now."

"We've got time, I can feel it." Draco felt drawn towards the forest, he just knew that he should head into the forest. Given his luck so far, he didn't question his instinct to go there. Draco gained altitude again, broom not even slowing.

Gregory said, "Warn me if you break," then moved in closer, put his hand out, fingers brushing Draco's broom. Gregory turned his head, looking over his shoulder and took a long look, letting Draco's broom guide him.

"They're back and climbing. Maybe in spell range in a minute. Someone's pursuing them, but too far back to matter."

Draco nudged his broom up slightly. Gregory rose with him, while Draco explained "There's some webbing in the trees and a mist over the forest, twenty feet isn't enough."

"Webs?" Gregory said, worried, but didn't look forward. They passed over the boundary of the forbidden forest and Gregory spotted the webs behind them. "Another broom just kicked up, eight o'clock. Coming fast."

"Break right on three, take any shots, into the mist. I'll break left. Meet you near the stands but stay in bounds," said Draco. Gregory started to protest but Draco just said "Trust me! One, two, three!"

Gregory whipped his head forward on two and ducked under Draco, turned hard, but Draco's foot grazed the edge of his hood and knocked it back as Gregory climbed towards the mist. Gregory – realizing that they'd all follow Draco now that they could tell them apart - started to dive and ignore the orders, but there were webs everywhere and he climbed up and disappeared into the mist, having to take his time to circle back safely.

Draco dived low, knees brushing the treeline. He weaved between webs thick enough to hide him, narrowly dodging the sticky tendrils. The brooms behind him had to slow down to navigate, their speed advantage wasted. Draco felt a pull, lower felt safer and if he stayed visible Gregory would find him and risk himself. Draco dropped below the treeline, moving slowly. Branches scratched his face, light peeked through in small beams. He heard a muffled whumf behind him, and branches shook.

The screaming sounded like Hestia.

Draco quickly dropped to the ground. He wasn't sure, but he felt like he had maybe a quarter of a mile to the edge of the forest. The forest was thick here, he doubted anyone could spot him unless they moved. Draco heard a scuttling, and his instinct told him to veer right, so he did, confidently walking a mere foot past the triffid.

Vines quickly entangled his arm and jerked him ten feet into the air. Draco felt the sharp searing pain as foot long thorns ripped into his shoulder, piercing straight through and grinding hard against his bones.

There was a flash and Draco heard someone shout his name and then heard nothing.

Author's Note - Lucius' quote is (again) by La Rochefoucauld.

The next chapter will be published in two weeks.

A note on the Hot Hand discussion from earlier. Science marches on! See /2015/07/09/hey-guess-what-there-really-is-a-hot-hand/