Draco turned around and looked behind him. It was Snape, looking even greasier and more haggard than usual.
'Never let it be said that the stolid Miss Parkinson does not have a sense of humor of a sort,' said Snape. 'What brings you down from the infirmary, Draco?'
Draco shrugged. 'Hey, Professor. I wanted to get a few things from my room. I'm tired of living out of my suitcases.'
Snape nodded. 'Run along, then.'
Draco bit back the response that Malfoys did not run, and went on his way with dignity. A few minutes alone in his room was sufficient. When he emerged, freshly changed into a worn and comfortable t-shirt, Snape was standing in the Slytherin common room, looking spectrally thoughtful.
'Before you return to the infirmary, Draco, there was something I wanted to speak to you about.'
'That's all right.' Draco shrugged. 'I wanted to ask you something, too.'
'Ah?' Snape cocked an eyebrow. 'And what was that?'
'I want to know about the poison,' Draco said. 'I want to know about the symptoms, and how long I have left. I know what my father told me, but I'd rather hear it from you.'
A look of surprise passed across Snape's face. He put a hand out, and rested it atop the back of the nearest couch. 'I respect your wish to know,' he said. 'But I am not sure how it would be useful — '
'It would be useful,' Draco said quietly. 'Surely you know me well enough to understand that I'd rather know. And I know you won't lie.'
Snape sighed. 'Very well,' he said. 'But I will tell you one thing first. If, when I'm done explaining this to you, you want me to cast a Memory charm on you so you can forget it, I will. Is that understood?'
A wave of light-headedness passed over Draco. 'Yes,' he said. 'I understand.'
Snape's eyes darkened. Then he leaned back against the wall and began to speak. Telling Draco, in a flat and even voice, what would happen to him if no antidote was found. What the symptoms would be. How long it would take. What he could expect. Draco half heard him. The other half of him was remembering his father. Being taken hunting with his father when he was eight years old. Hunting the way Lucius did it: aiming the curses to maim the animals but not kill them, or to kill slowly. And then the hours of waiting, watching, observing the death. Lucius had wanted to get his son accustomed to death, for one loves what one is accustomed to, or so went his reasoning. Once Lucius had dismounted beside a dying hippogryff, thrashing its last breaths out in a bank of scarlet snow. He had steeped his gloves in the blood and, rising, put them to either side of Draco's face, leaving crimson handprints where they touched. And what do you say to me now, Draco?
Thank you, father.
The blood had gotten in his mouth. It had not tasted like blood at all, more like burned sugar.
Draco had thought his father was wonderful then. And knew he was somewhere now, watching his son's own slow death, holding his gloved hands away this time, not wanting to get them bloodied. The poison would do his death-work for him.
'Thank you,' said Draco, when Snape was done explaining. He saw the Potions Master looking at him anxiously. 'I appreciate you telling me the truth.'
'Do you want a Memory Charm?' Snape asked.
Draco shook his head. 'No. I don't need it.' He felt the side of his mouth twitch into what was nearly a smile, looking at the expression on Snape's face. 'I can stand it,' he said. 'I was imagining worse.'
Snape nodded somberly. 'Sometimes I forget,' he said. 'Because you are so young. But you are Lucius Malfoy's son, after all. I imagine you have seen things that would make most children's nightmares look like peaceful daydreams.'
Now Draco did smile. 'Am I a child? I didn't think I was.'
Snape did not reply. Instead he drew a clear glass flask from his cloak and held it out to Draco. 'Speaking of nightmares,' he said. 'This was what I wanted to talk to you about. Another side effect of the poison is sleep disturbance. You may find yourself having peculiar dreams. This is a Somnolus potion. It will give you dreamless, instant sleep.'
Draco accepted the flask. 'Thank you. I appreciate it.' He turned and crossed the room to the door, then paused there, and turned back to Snape. 'Professor — before I go back to the infirmary, I was wondering — '
'Yes?'
'Do the others know everything you just told me? Does Harry?'
Snape's mouth twisted into a thin line. 'You have other things to worry about besides Potter and his delicate sensibilities, Draco,' he snapped, surprising Draco with his vehemence. 'Do not waste your remaining energy on him.'
Draco blinked. 'Professor, with all due respect. Harry is — '
'Your friend?' Snape's tone was suddenly cool and slippery as glass. 'Or just someone whom you allow to lead you around?'
Draco paused with his hand on the dungeon door. 'He doesn't lead me around,' he said, his fingers on the bronze bolt. He felt slightly feverish and suddenly longed for a cool windowpane to lean his cheek against. 'I want to go where he goes. It's not the same thing.'
Snape looked almost surprised, but said nothing. Draco pushed the door open and went out into the corridor. It was dank and almost cold down here, especially when the door closed behind him. He leaned back against the nearest wall and unscrewed the top of the flask Snape had given him.
When he took a sniff of the sharp-scented liquid a wave of dizziness rolled over him, as if he'd taken a mouthful of Archenland wine.
His grip tightened on the flask, and he thought about the steps up to the infirmary, his bed there, and how much he wanted to fall asleep and dream nothing, remember nothing. Just for a small while. Surely he'd earned a little piece of oblivion.
He began to climb the steps.
'I still don't understand,' Ginny said softly, 'how you know who I am.'
She sat on a hard chair in front of Dumbledore's desk, her eyes on her hands. Her left hand was swelling up and turning black along the side. It hurt to even try to close it. She was sure Tom had shattered a bone there but it did not seem very important at the moment.
'I wish I did not know who you were,' Dumbledore said. His voice was even. His right hand rested gently atop the Time-Turner which sat on the desk before him. The light in the office was not bright: it was a small office, an office for a Transfigurations professor. The Time-Turner gleamed a dull gold under his touch. 'But the truth is, I have been expecting you, Miss Weasley.'
'How could you possibly have been?' Ginny felt too stunned to be bewildered, but she wondered if she had perhaps heard him wrong. 'I shouldn't even be here.'
'No, you should not be here. That is very true.' At the tone in his voice, Ginny glanced up and then wished she hadn't. The look in his eyes was more than somber: it was wearily despairing. 'But the fact remains that you did make this journey. And in doing so…'
'Have I changed history?' she whispered.
Dumbledore looked, for a moment, amused. 'That would depend on what you mean by history,' he said. 'If you are asking if everything you know will be altered when you return to your own present — no, it will not. If you are asking if you have changed my future, the future of young Master Riddle — why yes. You have indeed.'
'Tom.' Ginny squeezed her eyes shut tightly. 'Professor Dumbledore, sir -
— I have to warn you about him. He's not what you think, he's — '
'No.' He spoke sternly. 'I do not want to hear about the future, Miss Weasley. I know more than I should already.'
'But he's going to kill people — '
'Be quiet.' Dumbledore's voice, though quiet, was like a whip cracking across her face; she flinched back. 'I
