"Where's the young Malfoy, Lucius?" A cold man turned at the sound of his name, disgust gracing his features.

"Are you calling me old?" He asked, dryly. He received a barrage of apologies from the plump little man, who was, supposedly, one of his friends since school. In truth, a hateful man had no friends, just people who clung to him in adoration and longing. To be like him, to have that scowl and frown and be able to turn someone down with a simple glance was a goal among many and Lucius, because of it and his subtle talents, became "popular". His son had inherited so much from him: looks, and a spot of his personality, that same arrogance and pride. From his mother, he dare not say. They discarded such things as kindness and heart and buried them underneath a coat of black, which Draco had worn everyday.

"I was just trying to ask where Draco was, sir," The man tried respect now. Well, it wouldn't work. No one could weasel anything of him; not Lucius; no.

"I don't know. I've been looking for him, but he seems to be lost…" Lucius said calmly, looking through the gray fog that had settled on the forest. His son was out there somewhere, wandering, cold, probably dead by now.

"We should send a search party, then." Lucius shook his head.

"He'll turn up. He's pulled pranks like this before, but he always comes back when he gets hungry," with a laugh, he turned away from the forest, heading back into the throng of the crowd—the death eaters, disguised as he was, and Voldemort, somewhere, creeping among them, searching for Albus Dumbledore at the Convention of the Hearts Assembly of Wizards.

Not a woman in sight.

And so no men would lose their wives, but so many defenseless, weak women would grieve for their husbands. The time for reckoning was now and all knowledge was put aside. It would aid no one. Not even the great Lucius Malfoy could be spared from his leader's wrath.

\*/ ~ \*/ ~ \*/

To have the name Cummings at the end of your first was to have the word good before the word happy. While Good Happy is attainable, the living style of the Cummings family was not always. They were the family on the block that owned a lot, always kept financial troubles (if any) a secret, always made sure light bulbs were properly replaced, kept up talk about getting a swimming pool someday, had a two-story house, though the second story was the attic/loft, and were never on time for appointments. They weren't perfect. They weren't terrible.

In some aspects of their lives, they were happy; in others, they frowned. Aid for money came easily from the mother's parents, who had always believed their daughter would marry a doctor or a lawyer or become rich and famous. Sheila Cummings, who was once Sheila Ray, married a policeman. Robert never was the type for romance; he never could sweet-talk her or call her pet names she liked. He wouldn't buy her flowers on the off chance she might be allergic and he wouldn't give her jewelry because he never wanted to ask if she preferred gold to silver. He didn't usually have extra spending money, but once he did, he'd ask her to do something. They were dating a year longer than Robert hoped to-- that's how long it took him to save up for the engagement ring. After that another year to plan the wedding, and two years later, Elizabeth came into the house, screaming and yelling all the way home from the hospital.

After their baby girl, who was a handful on her own, they never planned for any more additions to the family. Robert had always wanted a boy who jumped up and down yelling to play catch with his daddy, but it was one of those dreams you could live without. And besides, girls could play catch as well as boys; at least, until they discovered fashion, nail polish, and especially boys.

The Cummings were preparing for Christmas. It would be Elizabeth's eighth Christmas, and, already knowing what to expect, she was excited. She ran through the house screaming at the top of her lungs, "Lalalala!!" Without a tune or a reason. She locked herself in a room to wrap presents clumsily, tying it up with tape instead of ribbon for the sake of the Christmas Rush. It was the Eve of Christmas Eve. Two days before all that wrapping paper and tape flew off and landing in a million different places of the living room floor and the candy canes on the tree could be eaten. Two more days left to send Santa Claus a list, or run off to the mall to see if you could catch him there and have your picture taken. Two more days of anxious waiting that could drive any child crazy.

Robert and Sheila were discussing whose house they were going to on Christmas morning and whose they would visit on Christmas night.

"My parents or yours?"

"You know I don't want to put up with them that long."

"Those in-laws drive me crazy."

"I don't want to spend two days flying into the next country."

*Knock, knock*

The first thought to each of their minds was, "carolers? At this hour?" Besides the time, their house was so far from the front of the neighborhood it would have taken hours for carolers to get to them on foot. Their house was in front of a forest, so there was no other road to them.

Robert got up to check the front door, but there was no one there. He looked left and right, and assumed a few kids were just playing Christmas pranks or something. He shrugged and shut the door, muttering things under his breath.

"No one there," He told his beautiful wife with a sigh. She pointed to the back door, in a silent command to check that as well, with a pan of sugar cookies in shapes of bells, Santas, reindeer, and elves. Their daughter was going to make the candy cane cookies later. Doing as he was told, and quite curious himself, Robert went to the back door, connected to the living room. The giant windows that overlooked the small lake and the forest were covered by blinds, and the glass door was as well. Instead of pulling up said blinds first, he turned the brass knob and opened the white door of the bright living room.

A pale face, cold and wet and tired, stared back at him, gray eyes locked on his. Pale blond hair, dripping with water hung in those gray eyes. His clothes were soaked in every stitch, clinging to his skin. His cheeks were so red and his nose was as well and he shivered--due to cold. He awaited permission to come into the house, just standing there with his head up, his arms by his sides and his fists clenched tightly. His sweater heavy and a nasty cut on cheek and burns pretty much everywhere, he stood straight, not a word coming from his lips.

Still in shock, Robert let the 12-year-old boy stand in the snow until Elizabeth came up beside him.

"Daddy, look! I wrapped your present!" She held up a small package covered in reindeer wrapping paper, with torn edges sticking out and a bow glued to the top with Elmer's. "Merry Christmas! Who are you?" She asked the boy, and he looked down to her with curiosity on his face. Quickly, snapping back to his senses, Robert invited him in and shouted to his wife to get him some new clothes.

"What's your name, boy?" He asked, as gently as possible. He tried not to speak in the same tone he used to other strangers, who were mostly criminals, considering his career of choice. He spoke to him as though he was his own child.

"I... I don't know," He asked, no longer looking at Robert, but at the living room, his eyes lingering on the tree.

"Are you a relative? Are you Santa's Elf?" Elizabeth asked, tugging on the boy's pant leg.

Sheila came from the kitchen to see the mysterious boy, asked for his name, and received no answer. She looked to her husband with a worried expression, but Robert just shook his head and shrugged.

"He doesn't know."

**************

In new clothes, borrowed from the 13-year-old troublemaker next door, he sat on the couch. A blanket draped over his shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate in his hands, there he was, Indian-style, as Elizabeth called it, and completely silent. He seemed almost happy and Sheila thought it was because Ignorance was Bliss.

He remembered very little. His age for one. He answered that question quickly, as if snapping back for something they said. Robert and Sheila had been running back and forth, making calls to various doctors to see which one of them could make a house call. When he'd been checked over, he seemed fine, despite a cold.

Surprisingly, he'd taken to their daughter quickly, treating her as though he were her older brother, knowing her and being around her for years. All, however, was an act. Perhaps it was that Christmas spirit floating around on the smell of the sugar cookies or the sight of the candy canes hanging from various branches of the tree. In any case, he was not overcome with grief of the loss of his memory. He'd already helped them cut out dough with the candy cane cookie cutter, placed it on the pan, and stuck it in the oven as the mother and daughter covered each other with flour, a game with no rules and a lot of clean-up afterwards. They didn't complain about his silence and actually embraced it, finding the opportunity to turn into the chatterboxes they were used to being.

Now the two of them sat, wrapped in separate blankets. The boy was dozing off and Elizabeth paused in between every sentence to yawn. It was about nine or so—Elizabeth's bedtime.

Sheila came into the room, almost hesitantly, to get her daughter. As she pushed her towards the stairs, she looked back to the boy, who watched the child go with the smallest of smiles.

"Draco?" At the mention of his name, he looked up, and with surprise, realized that it was his name. Sheila smiled at his expression and handed him a soggy piece of paper with the name Draco on it, and quite a few numbers.

"When I was putting your clothes in the wash," She began, smiling at him. "I think I found your homework in one of your pockets, Draco."

\*/ ~ \*/ ~ \*/

"I'm late! I'm late!" Arthur Weasley ran around his house, grabbing his coat and downing a cup of coffee in record time. He raced towards the fireplace, remembered he forgot his papers, and headed back upstairs to his room, shared with his wife, who was still asleep. It was only about 9:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve Eve, a Saturday, and so a time to sleep in. All the boys, and Ginny, in the midst of her very first year at Hogwarts, had come home. Ron had been a little upset at the thought of leaving Harry at the giant castle all alone.

"After all," he'd said, before nodding off, "who would keep him company? It's not like Hedwig can talk or anything. She probably could be trained though… Or maybe we can cast a…. spell…… talking… owl," And with those wise last words, Ron had fallen asleep. Arthur smiled as he remembered, then quickly scowled as another memory came to mind. Albus Dumbledore, telling him he desperately needed to be at this convention.

'I should not have slept in. I should not have slept in,' Arthur thought over and over. When all he needed was gathered, he kissed his sleeping wife on the cheek and left.

*************

When Arthur Weasley arrived, there were Aurors everywhere. Talking in quick sentences, shaking their heads, moving on. It was chaos. Arthur looked around for someone else from the Ministry of Magic and found no one. Where were they? And who are all these people?

It was during these thoughts that he saw Dumbledore, lying on the grass beside countless other bodies. His eyes were open in complete terror, his face aghast. His last moments had been spent in complete terror. Burns covered his body, as well as the others beside him, and slowly, gently, Aurors placed a cover over him. Completely covered, it must have been true. Albus Dumbledore was dead.

\*/ ~ \*/ ~ \*/

Minerva McGonagal, Snape, and all the other teachers sat in her classroom, grim expressions on their faces. Their brilliant headmaster was gone. News by owl travels relatively quickly, and so, they'd reached the news of his death within the hour the Aurors had found him. It had been the second day of the convention. When Cornelius Fudge had stepped into the large mansion housing the event, late, due to "important matters", he found a countless number of bodies, laying there, horror-stricken expressions on each of their faces. Dumbledore had been beside the door. Nail marks where he had clawed at it (their wands were taken from them as a precaution during the convention of Hearts) and the rest of them had been reaching for hiding places, chairs, closet doors, anything that could spare them. Lucius Malfoy had been there with his son, but while the father's body was found, Draco's was nowhere to be seen. It was assumed that he was dead as well, since there were no survivors. Arthur Weasley and Fudge, both of them arriving later in the day than the rest, were not exactly counted as survivors, since they had not been there at the time of… whatever had happened.

It hadn't seemed to be a curse, but the burns on their bodies were evident. It was hard to tell exactly what it was. They were not tortured at the times of their deaths; they were not punished for anything. They were simply killed. A part of the public of mankind was annihilated for a completely unknown reason.

"Not only have we lost a headmaster, but a student as well. Barely into his years at Hogwarts," Snape said, woefully, fighting back whatever sort of tears threatened to fall from his normally critical face.

"What year was he, Severus? Second?" To McGonagal's question, Snape simply nodded.

"So young," Minerva dabbed her eyes with a cloth and sniffled quite a few times.

"We should honor them in some way," Professor Treelawny suggested. "So their spirits will find a grand rest and we'll all have better fortunes. We do not want the ghost of a headmaster here. It would be… too painful for me," Minerva merely nodded, Snape rolled his eyes, but agreed to the tribute, whatever sort it would be.

And they all agreed not to tell the children right after Christmas, though some, in wizarding families, would hear of it quickly.

\*/ ~ \*/ ~ \*/

"Do you like blue, Draco? Blue is my favorite color!" Elizabeth squealed. She began to munch on one of her cookies, fresh from the oven, as she covered another with frosting. Draco shook his head, frowning.

"Not blue. Green," He held up the green frosting and covered a candy cane with it.

"No, Draco! Candy canes are red! Red!" Elizabeth made no attempt to correct him politely, but forcefully, shoving the red frosting in front of him.

"I hate red. I'll not have red on one of my cookies," He said, scowling.

"Why do you hate red?"

"I don't know," He responded. Elizabeth sighed and went back to frosting. She looked to his green candy canes, to her plain red ones, and back again.

"Well, if you get to do yours green, mine are gonna be yellow. Yellow is my favorite color."

"I thought blue was," Draco said, quizzically, with raised eyebrows.

"A girl has the right to change her mind. That's what mommy says," She answered, as though she knew everything he did not.

**************

Draco was accepted with open arms into the community. It seemed nice to have someone to teach who didn't have the ignorance of a child. You didn't need to be patient with him; he was rarely patient with himself. He took it upon himself to learn just as much as anyone else did. And so, being unable to find his true parents, the Cummings adopted him, Elizabeth earned bragging rights (for her new big brother!) and he was enrolled in Hunton High School.

It was named for Harvey B. Hunton, a scholar, apparently from that area, and a rather famous chemist. However, Draco had never heard of him, and didn't care to. It just seemed interesting to him that a school be named after a person, and a dead one at that.

In any case, he was attending there, and rapidly joined the ranks of the regulars. It was understood that this was the boy that had wandered through the woods on the Eve of Christmas Eve, strolled into the Cummings household, and attached himself to their family permanently. The news had spread all over the town. Draco Cummings' name was well known.

Out of pity, most of the children introduced themselves, but quickly found he would not allow anyone to pity him for any reason. He rapidly made this clear to them, and most were intimidated. They were amazed at his wit and dazzled by fragments of memories he carried, of places they'd never heard of and will never visit. Something about an Alley, brooms, snakes, and black robes. A school founded by four people, but not named after any four of them. He treasured these, but he did not know why.

And then there was this man. He could never make out his face, his disposition, or his personality and ways. But for some reason, he knew this man was important and at one point in time, he might have known him very well.

Sheila wanted to enroll him in clubs, but he declined. She wanted him to be in some sort of social activity where he could spend more time with the kids his age and perhaps recall some of his old friends if his memory every did return. Club after club was refused, until finally, Sheila Cummings put her foot down and practically ordered, like his own mother would, for him to be in the band.

He played alto saxophone. He was a quick study, taking to the music, the notes, the beat, so easily, one would believe he was born with a sax in his hands. It was his calling. He could play.

Note upon note, and separated and spaced vast distances apart, entire measures of resting and waiting for his next sound to be commanded to play by the paper before him, quick thinking and fingers nearly getting twisted on the keys they were going so quickly, and a melody that really swung the entire class. When he had a sax in his hands, everyone tilted an ear to listen, closed their eyes and smiled, cheered him on and knew, by the perfect sound, this was Draco and Draco was king.

*******~:+:~*******

~~Author's Ending Notes~~

Well, how'd you like it? Please read and review and I promise to get the next chapter up as soon as I can. Thanks for reading this. Please check back for more chapters. ^_^

I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks again!

……….. Maura Belle