"How did you avoid getting damaged during the War, Father?"

"Everyone gets damaged, Draco. You just continue on."

The healers floated Draco, still pretending to sleep, into the recovery room. Draco knew that patients who woke up prior to recovery got obliviated. He half expected to be obliviated in any case. Draco had walked the area often enough - probing for security weakness - and knew that most patients got up within about half an hour, inspected themselves, and left.

No slow recoveries at Peverell.

Draco spent twenty minutes trying to consider what he had learned and what it implied, but his mind kept going back to his arm ripping off, the pain, and then the flash of fire as Hermione arrived with her Phoenix, right before he passed out, the world blurred behind tears. Draco replayed is several times, shivering. He couldn't focus well. Without the distraction of something to do, something to learn, Draco relived his memories. After a few more near-deaths Draco heard Mad Eye Moody clomping around, and felt relieved to be back in the present. The footsteps stopped at his bed and Draco forced himself to keep his breathing regular, but not too regular. After a minute or two they clomped off. Draco counted out five minutes before 'waking up.'

His robes spoke volumes. The left arm was torn ragged at the shoulder, mud and blood caked together turning the normally black clothe an angry brown hue, streaked with red. Draco sat up and spent a few minutes poking his left arm. It felt ... like his arm. He'd had a small mole below his elbow, now missing, and the color seemed paler below the shoulder than above it, but it looked like his arm. His hand worked normally, and didn't hurt. Not now, at least.

"Hello Draco," said a young witch who'd walked up to the foot of his bed. Draco hadn't noticed, he'd been entranced with his new arm. The witch had long black hair under an outlandish oversize hat, wide brimmed and trimmed with gardenias. Her robe was stylish but ill-fitting, and she had a long grey shawl thrown on top of it. She looked to be a sixth year, maybe sixteen or so but Draco didn't recognize her. Draco stared at the hat again, and the witch started laughing. Not a girlish giggle, but a strong guffawing laugh.

Draco remembered where he was.

"Madam Longbottom?" The witch stifled her laughter long enough to make a formal curtsy that may have been in style during Abraxis Malfoy's youth.

"I happened to be in the stands watching this battle – they've become quite the event, you know, particularly the massive battles that involve all classes – and was sitting next to the Headmistresses when we heard the commotion. Neville had already been knocked out of the fight, he did quite well and I know from his letters that you and Potter have been tutoring him,"

"I think he would come along in any case," Draco interjected.

"Yes, well, I know he's also been talking to you about his parents. Like I told you last summer, it's rare that we both got someone back, and Neville hasn't had an easy time of it. Well, they wouldn't let anyone in to see you, some hogwash about security, but they couldn't very well deny me my cure, now could they? I must admit, I am rather delighted by it." She started to laugh, but then caught herself and giggled, which made her seem younger still. She twirled around, giggling. "You know, I've always felt like I was in my twenties, even yesterday, although I know how I looked. But the years creep up. I didn't remember how it feels, to be young!"

"Most of the people I've seen choose to be in their mid-twenties, or perhaps thirty," Draco agreed.

"Well, if you are going to get young, get young I say. I asked for a few years younger but the healers refused. Times were different from now, when I was this age, the first time. Now I plan on enjoying every moment of it, but I did want to make sure that they took good care of you, and to thank you for your talks with Neville, and those lovely thank you notes. That means a lot to an old woman," she said smiling.

"I'm doing well, thank you. All things considered." Draco clenched and unclenched his left hand, and suddenly realized he had no idea where his wand was. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter.

"Well, then, I suspect your friends are all waiting. I'll pop you back to Hogwarts, and won't we make quite the entrance?"

Despite her promise – or threat – Augusta had simply escorted Draco over to the Hogwart's infirmary then quickly took her leave before she could shock Neville or any other students. Madam Pomfrey fretted over Draco for a few minutes before releasing him. As he left Draco spotted Hestia Carrow lying asleep, bandages covering half of her face and most of her body. Asleep she looked just like any other girl, not the bloodthirsty witch who'd attacked him several times this year. Draco felt bad for her, for a brief moment. He'd been watching her for about a minute when Harry Potter walked into the infirmary.

Harry stopped beside Draco. "It's funny, in a way. You were so badly hurt they simply had to fix you up, but her wounds will heal normally." Draco shot him a glance and Harry said, "I figured you didn't want to talk about it – that's kind of normal – so I'm just making small talk. I grabbed one of your spare sets of robes from the room, if you want." Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch and said "Draco's Robes."

After Draco had changed they walked in silence for a few minutes, slowly descending from the infirmary back to the school. "So," Draco asked, "what happens now?"

"I have no idea. Detention for going into the forbidden forest, but beyond that? I don't know... " At that moment Draco and Harry turned a corner were face-to-face with a scowling Professor Lockhart.

"Beyond that," said Lockhart, "we will see. Come with me, Draco." He turned down a hallway and strode off without waiting for Draco.

"We'll talk later," Draco said under his breath, then caught up with the Professor. Lockhart quietly reached into his robes – the motion set off alarms in Draco's head, but the Professor pulled out Draco's wand and handed it to him.

"That was a stupid thing to do, Draco," said Lockhart, handing back Draco's wand, "A calculated risk, I suppose, but stupid. But since I had an inkling that something like that might happen no harm done. Still, you should know better than to rush into uncharted territory that you've been explicitly warned about."

"I wasn't thinking," said Draco, and realized it was the truth. He'd merely followed wherever the liquid luck had guided him.

"No, you weren't. Despite what Potter doubts there is a serious debate about expulsions, although Professor Slughorn is talking the Headmistress down. Look, I'm worried." Professor Lockhart stopped and turned to face Draco. "Not just about the attacks. I know you've gotten in over your head in … something."

Draco hoped he betrayed no sign of the shock he felt. "Oh, it's just school work and stress."

"I know for a fact it isn't that," said Lockhart icily, "but I'm not going to pry. You are flying bareback on a Dragon and holding on for dear life. You hide it well, but not from me." Professor Lockhart turned and strode off, still talking. "I know it's important, at least, you consider it important. When the time comes, I hope you remember my offer to help."

Draco's head was whirling. Professor Lockhart seemed ... eerily well informed. Draco considered further and realized that the Professor hadn't actually said anything concrete. He'd made guesses, spun a vague story that made Draco feel important. Lockhart probably had been informed by his other professors. Slughorn seemed friendly with him, and had probably played both sides as well as his own game. After a few more steps Draco's confidence returned, but he'd already started speaking.

"Thank you, Professor. It feels good to have an ally like you in this." Two months ago Draco would have considered the matter settled, but now he knew Lockhart wasn't a stereotypical Gryffindor who could be placated by appeals to glory and vanity. He suspected the Professor saw Draco's acceptance as a stall.

That didn't make stalling wrong, just less effective.

"On a more practical matter, would you like me to lock away your memories of the attack?" asked Professor Lockhart, "Most people find that kind of thing unpleasant, and they suffered a lot less than you did."

Draco considered this for several steps. He definitely needed his memories of the recovery. Professor Lockhart piped up.

"I can leave in the details, the knowledge, but you wouldn't remember how it felt, just that it happened. Like you read it in a book."

Draco felt sorely tempted. "My memories are who I am," he said flatly. Professor Lockhart shot him a questioning look, then shrugged.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Draco asked, to change the subject.

"Oh, we're here," said Lockhart, as they stopped before the Prefect's restroom outside the great hall. "You did die before sunset, I'm afraid. Rotten luck, that."

Monday Morning

"Professor Asimov," Draco said, "Thanks for the insights into the Muggle legal system ... systems, I guess." They were in Proffessor Asimov's study, Draco had a few questions about the Muggle legal and financial system. Harry's snide comment about wizarding lawyers being 'cute' had stuck in Draco's mind and he wanted another opinion. Professor Asimov had used the American legal system as a reference, but the facts were boggling. Contracts that were hundreds or thousands of pages long, lawyers working in teams, trials taking years. Madness.

Draco stifled a yawn. Even by his standards he hadn't slept well the night since his encounters with the Triffid, when he had nothing to do but remember.

"I do have one other question. My friend Harry Potter said that Science Fiction has solved - or at least addressed - problems that magicians have, if you can just translate the ideas correctly. But unlike him I haven't read it my whole life..."

"What do you need, Draco?" said Professor Asimov.

"Suppose we have a creature that's clever and useful, but dangerous. In the past we'd just avoid and kill them, but we have a spell that can force this creature to do what we want."

"Very convenient, that," said Professor Asimov. "But this sounds remarkably like slavery," his tone was dark.

"It could be construed that way, but the spell can be shaped to be minimally restrictive. We could make this creature do whatever we want, but we could just say 'Don't kill anyone.' But these are clever, malevolent creatures and they hunt for loopholes where they don't kill directly, but still harm and injure. Even if we wanted to, we couldn't setup on an exhaustive condition of rules. But the spell is draining. Permanently. And the more instructions given the more power the caster looses, so we want to give a minimal set of instructions that can cover all situations cleanly, and don't leave any loopholes, while still granting the creature full use of it's abilities. We don't want to cripple it, at least any more than necessary. I realize this is probably something far fetched …."

"I do believe I have just the thing," said Professor Asimov, pulling I, Robot from the shelf.