Queen of Hearts

Game One: The Dark Joker

*~*

That was the summer Harry started biting his nails.

Some things in his past stood out like beacons in a murky sea. The times in his childhood when he'd encountered wizards, without understanding who or what they were. The day he found out he was a wizard; the first time he visited Diagon Alley. The rush of eleven-year-old pride and certainty that he'd felt on mounting a broom in a windy courtyard.

It turned out that the June he started biting my nails was to be a prosaic addition to the illustrious list. It was something he could instantly recall, while memories of classes and contrary teachers and firelight on a bushy brown head and a bright red one faded with alacrity, until he could barely place them in the chronological line-up of his life.

Neville -- Neville with whom Harry had so much in common, Neville who, but for the grace of Harry, would have gone on to be the Boy Who Lived, although possibly not the Boy Who Was Reckless and Rash and Made Bad Choices and Cultivated Powerful Enemies -- also bit his nails. Down to the quick; it made Harry's stomach turn to look at them, the little white staples in short, chubby fingers. Therefore, he didn't look if he could help it.

Neville had once told Harry that he could remember the exact time he'd started biting them. It had been after Neville's uncle had nearly drowned him off Brighton Pier. Thereafter, whenever Neville felt fear that someone wanted to hurt him -- which, considering the attitude of the entire House of Slytherin, up to and including its Head, towards him, was pretty much all the time -- he bit his nails. Harry had wondered what, if anything, would cause him to take up this queer form of cannibalism and self-mutilation.

That had been in January, fifth year. Six months later, he found out.

Harry bit his nails. He started it in the car home from Platform Nine and Three Quarters, flicking his right thumbnail under his left index finger until it split across the top. Uncle Vernon's new Toyota sped down the motorway, the epitome of carbonated-fuel, greenhouse-gassing, ozone-destroying technology. Harry sat in the back, slowly baking to a crisp in the double-glazed-magnified heat. He lifted his hand -- palms sweaty -- to his mouth and, almost without thinking, bit off his nail.

That was the start of it, at least.

By the middle of June, Harry's fingernails were ten ragged stumps. The sides of his nails were hard and sore and sported long, raw-red hangnails which he peeled, wincing and hating the pain but doing it anyway, because at least it was a pain with a source, one that could be altered to remove and end the pain if he so chose.

He didn't choose.

*~*

Harry could safely say, without a shadow of a doubt, that those weeks after Sirius' death -- those weeks in which he had hours and hours to ponder just how much he was to blame -- were the most hateful of his life. They beat hands down other strong contenders, such as when he'd been reviled as the so-called Heir of Slytherin, the time he'd believed Sirius had betrayed his parents, the Great Coldness between he and Ron in fourth year and even his Quidditch ban, which was presumably on going.

He had not expected any sympathy from his relations and was not surprised when he received none. One day in early June, Uncle Vernon came blundering into his room, bellowing something about, 'Look here boy ... lying about in this useless manner ... earn your keep!'

Harry surmised that Vernon wanted him to do the housework, as usual. Listlessly, he got up and followed Vernon, and had the handle of the Hoover placed in his hand.

It was one of the greatest discoveries he'd ever made; the noise of the Hoover was so loud, amplified by the tiny halls and the clatter it made against the skirting board -- and Harry made sure it clattered -- that it drowned out his thoughts. Eight hours later, when Uncle Vernon returned from work, Aunt Petunia from a social call and Dudley from a mate's house party, Harry was still vacuuming the same patch of carpet. Uncle Vernon's enraged bellows failed to penetrate Harry's soothed consciousness. It was only when he snatched the machine away from Harry that Harry even realised that he was no longer alone.

From then on, Harry took out the Hoover as soon as he rose from bed each morning. This was not the same time as when he awoke; it was often several hours later. Each day he tested himself, to see how long he could last before he needed the fix of the Hoover's distracting sucking-ness. Like a metaphor for the vacuum it actually was, the Hoover's noise engulfed and quietened his thoughts like a Class A drug; he became, in essence, a Hoover junkie.

He didn't bother with nooks-and-crannies, under-the-beds or behind-the-couches, in the manner of the pedantic Petunia. Instead, with a reassuring sameness of pattern, he plugged the power cord into the wall and flicked the switch, kicked the power button on the machine with his toe and dragged it out to the fullest extent of the power cord. Then he started Hoovering. Over and over, in a space about a foot and a half square, eyes closed, making sure to bump each side of the skirting board at regular, two-second intervals.

Soon after this, he discovered a less original addiction -- nicotine. Dudley tended to spend very little time at home -- not that Harry could blame him for that. It meant that on one stifling afternoon, when even the physical exertion of vacuuming was too much, Dudley was not around to witness Harry casting about for another distraction. Nor was he present when, driven by desperation, Harry entered Dudley's room and saw the cigarettes on his dressing table.

Thereafter, when the heat of the day grew greatest, Harry unplugged the Hoover and chain-smoked instead, littering the floor of his bedroom with cigarette butts. He stubbed them out on his friends' letters, until they resembled nothing so much as ash held together by slivers of parchment.

Harry sent only the most cursory of replies to these missives; there was nothing he could possibly say to encompass how he felt, and how he felt took over the whole world.

Harry left Number Four, Privet Drive that September without any intention of ever returning. Until the Dursleys changed their hall carpet, however, there remained a bald patch. In its faded pinkness, it stood out like a beacon -- like an illustrious item in the roll call of life-changing events -- against the deep maroon of the rest of the fabric. If Harry had thought of it that way -- if it was not too painful to think of, and too incongruous a marking-place -- it could, perhaps, have been seen as Sirius' grave, where for a time Harry paid obeisance.

*~*

Draco Malfoy was being pitied for the first time in his life.

Ever since the Prophet had run the Malfoys' story in their 'real-life wizarding families' special, he'd been inundated with owls delivering trite messages of sympathy and offering comfort and advice for the future. Few of them were from Slytherin families: they seemed to be distancing themselves from wherever the press focused the most attention.

No, his most common new pen friends were old women such as Mrs Eileen Dodger from Somerset and Healer Frances Mary from Yorkshire. They seemed to view him as the 'innocent victim' of the situation. Draco would have been all to willing to play along, but total strangers cooing over his blurry black-and-white photograph and penning him lengthy messages about how utterly wretched and alone he must feel just pissed him off. It made him feel like a charity case.

Under no circumstances whatsoever did any self-respecting Malfoy accept charity.

In the beginning, Draco had found it hard to believe that every single roll of parchment delivered to the manor contained words of empathy and good wishes from the wizarding community. As an increasingly large number of envelopes arrived on his dresser crumpled, with their wax seals smeared or broken, it became apparent that Nadsy -- the chief house-elf now that Dobby was gone -- was dutifully scanning the post and burning any correspondence he thought his masters might find unsatisfactory reading.

This subtle approach didn't work quite so well for Howlers that arrived early in the morning, though. Before the parchment began to burn, a few harsh shrieks of 'FASCIST PUREBLOODS! YOU-KNOW-WHO WILL FAIL!' would ring out through the cavernous kitchen, accusations and insults bouncing off the walls. Gradually, the yells would subside as the paper smouldered into ash. Nadsy, looking flustered and wearing a scorched apron, would scuttle upstairs to the dining hall to serve breakfast, the acceptable mail laid neatly on a silver tray.

Draco, the epitome of composure, would cut the crusts off his toast and pretend he hadn't heard anything, whilst his mother, predictably, would break into quiet sobs and excuse herself from the table. Draco was usually immensely relieved when this happened. He despised crying females and his mother was perpetually weeping these days, moping around the house, her pale hair floating out of its once-tight bun.

Narcissa had been described by the Prophet as an 'egotistical, flighty housewife, who did little to nothing to sustain her family'. Privately, Draco thought it was the most accurate description of his mother anyone had dared to pen. Prior to the scandal, Narcissa had done nothing but spend his father's money, host elegant dinner parties for her select circle of friends and attend benefits. Now that Lucius' secret was out, invitations to fancy events had dried up and her equally self-absorbed female companions suddenly became very interested in 'family' affairs and wanted nothing to do with her.

The papers had absolved her of having any connection with Voldemort - Lucius was painted as the 'troubled husband, keeping his affiliation with the Dark Side a secret from his wife and son' - but Narcissa did not realise or appreciate that this was a blessing. She instead mourned the disgraced Malfoy name and the fact that Sylvia Parkinson, who was new money and of a questionable bloodline, was snubbing her and encouraging their entire clique to do the same.

Narcissa's grief was wholly centred on the fact that she had fallen from her high status in society, due to the inconvenient matter of having a husband in Azkaban. Desperate to regain her reputation, she'd arranged a follow-up interview with the Prophet, in which she'd emphatically denounced Voldemort, the 'inherent racism so many wizarding families feel towards those with 'impure' blood' and, worst of all, his father. Such blatant betrayal enraged Draco beyond belief. He could hardly bear to sit in the same room with her, although she had taken to doting on him, calling him her 'precious prince' and frequently wailing that he was 'all she had left'.

Draco did not receive any mail from his friends. He doubted Crabbe or Goyle would be capable of writing a letter that was legible and devoid of grammar mistakes and in any case, both their fathers were also in Azkaban. He had not received even one letter from Pansy, despite her fervent promises in the Spring term that she would write to him every day of the summer, without fail. Draco forced himself not to care.

Draco spent most of the holidays trying very hard not to think about one person. He found that if he did, he tended either to crush whatever he was holding at the time or shatter it into tiny pieces. Everything wrong with his life was Harry Potter's fault. Potter had freed Dobby and now Nadsy -- who always burnt the toast on one side and spent a ludicrous amount of time dusting -- was in charge. Potter had beaten Draco at Quidditch and humiliated him, destroying his credibility with his team-mates. Potter had told everyone the truth about Draco's father and now he was a social leper, his only ally being a grizzled witch from Somerset with bug eyes and a wart on her forehead -- Eileen had enclosed a picture.

Yes, it was far better not to think about Potter, who was no doubt gloating with the Mudblood and the Weasel about how the Malfoy family had been ripped apart. Probably boasting that Voldemort would soon be defeated. Showing off his stupid scar, adjusting his ridiculous glasses, and laughing with his friends.

Laughter had not been a huge part of the Malfoy household. You showed amusement by a small smile, or a smirk, or a curt nod of the head. Draco could remember the last time his father had laughed. It had been in his third year. Draco had summoned up the courage to ask Lucius whether or not he'd been a Death Eater, or if he'd just been under the Imperius curse.

Lucius had bared his white teeth at Draco and laughed. It had been a horrible laugh, loud and mocking, and it had made Draco feel about ten centimetres tall. Eventually, Lucius had stopped laughing, and looked Draco straight in the eyes.

'What do you think, boy?'

Draco respected his father. He trusted that whatever Lucius had done, he had done for the best and for the good of his family. For the good of the entire wizarding community. Who wanted Muggles and half-bloods swanning around the place as if they owned it, spreading diseases and polluting bloodlines? Thirty percent of children born into mixed-blood families ended up Squibs; nearly all of Lucius' books on genealogy confirmed this.

Even though the inmates of Azkaban weren't allowed contact with the outside world, Draco wrote to his father religiously every day. He tried to pry up a floorboard to hide the unsent rolls of parchment under, but the manor floors were sturdy and none of the boards were loose. He contented himself with putting them in the empty metal chest beside his bed and placing nine different Protection charms and hexes on the lock. He also threatened Nadsy with a painful death involving disembowelment if he went anywhere near it. Nadsy henceforth gave the box a wide berth whenever cleaning his room.

Mother was crying again today because Mrs. Zabini still hasn't returned her owl. It's pathetic. Nadsy The elf made her a cup of tea, and she took it and patted it on the back to say thank-you. She's going insane, showing affection to a thing like that. She spent 72 Galleons on a bracelet yesterday. She said you would have wanted her to be happy.

I hate her. When you get out, I know you'll make everything go back to normal.

The Dark Lord is gaining power, which means that you won't have to stay in that hole for much longer.

I can't wait until you get out. I have to go back to school soon, so I won't be able to write, but I will be thinking of you.

Your son, Draco.

Draco reasoned that writing the letters wasn't at all the same as having an imaginary friend, as his father actually existed. Imaginary friends were for losers like Longbottom, who actually didn't have anyone to hang around with. Draco had plenty of friends. They just weren't the sort to write letters.

Draco never sympathised with his father in his letters, or mentioned that he felt sorry for him, shut away in a cell like an animal. He never told Lucius he missed him. This was for two very good reasons. Number one, their father-son relationship wasn't exactly one that let trivialities like emotions get in the way, and number two:

Malfoys didn't like to be pitied.

*~*

The owl was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, amid the ruins of breakfast. Either the owl had gone berserk, or Dudley had just left. Crusts of toast formed a sun-shaped nimbus around bowls of soggy cereal dregs, two empty Pop Tart boxes and enough crumbs to sustain a colony of ants for untold generations.

It was somewhat satisfying for Harry to think that Dudley was less housetrained than a common bird. Unfortunately, Harry was the one who had to clean up the mess. 'Unpaid slave' didn't even begin to cover it; unpaid slaves would probably look down their noses at him and mutter something along the lines of 'there but for the grace of trade unions go I'.

With an expression that was curiously akin to that of Aunt Petunia's when she discovered unscheduled mould, the bird fluttered over to the countertop. It raised a leg at Harry, who untied a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. His heart gave a dull thud when he realised that the letter contained his OWL results.

The owl clicked her beak, and Harry -- preoccupied with staring at the parchment -- gestured towards the table in a vague, fire-at-will gesture. With the zeal of a missionary encountering primitive natives of the Congo or deepest Slough, the owl set about demolishing the scraps in a sophistic, anally retentive spiral fashion.

Harry pushed himself up on to the counter, banging his grubby trainers against the pristine cupboard doors in passing. Although he was fairly certain that he had done neither spectacularly badly nor astoundingly well, he couldn't help hoping, and fearing ... Potions ... Defence Against the Dark Arts ... If he didn't get those exams, his half-crystallized dreams of becoming an Auror would crumble like so much dry bread.

His hands trembling despite himself and the three hairs he'd discovered on his chest only the day before, Harry pulled at the seal. His eyes scanned the words without re-routing any messages to the swamp that was currently masquerading as his brain. Then they began to sink in.

Astronomy -- Poor.

Harry snorted. He couldn't feel too grieved over that, although he would have thought, in the circumstances ... but bureaucracy would not lean itself towards leniency in such matters. He wondered if Hermione had fared the same, and how much of a stink she would kick up over it.

Charms -- Exceeds Expectations.

Harry's heart gave a little leap. Well, he'd been able to answer the all the questions and the practical had been a breeze ... he remembered Malfoy's face when he'd let his wineglass fall. That was a singularly pleasing memory.

Care of Magical Creatures -- Acceptable.

Not bad. Hagrid would be happy.

Herbology -- Acceptable.

Harry wondered if Neville had an Outstanding. He was the only one who seemed to have a genuine appreciation for sticking his hands in manure.

Defence Against the Dark Arts -- Outstanding.

At that, Harry could not help himself. He gave a whoop of delight, earning himself a stern look from the owl, who was now methodically investigating the contents of the Pop Tart boxes. Harry had never realised owls were so dextrous with their claws.

Divination -- Acceptable.

No thanks to Trelawney, that was for sure and certain.

History of Magic -- Poor.

Harry winced. Hermione's copious notes, all wasted.

Potions -- Exceeds Expectations, Transfiguration -- Exceeds Expectations.

In spite of what had to be deemed excellent results -- results that, as per their name, exceeded his expectations -- Harry felt his stomach plummet.

After everything -- all the vanished potions, the blatant bullying, the favouritism, the torture that was Occlumency, the sheer, blinding, mutual hatred -- he had done very well. And it still wasn't enough.

Professor McGonagall's voice rang in his head: Professor Snape absolutely refuses to take students who get anything less than Outstanding in their OWLs ...

From zero to raging in under five seconds; even for Harry, that was a record. He felt the parchment crumpling under his brutal fist and couldn't bring himself to care. Hermione, who didn't want to be an Auror, definitely had an Outstanding in Potions. Malfoy had one, most likely.

In a fit of temper, Harry threw his letter to the immaculate floor and jumped up and down on it. After a bit, he was quite satisfied with the defined trainer-sole prints all over the embossed parchment. He contemplated them with detached appreciation, until the owl, fed up with clicking to get his attention, flew over and landed plum on his head.

'What are you doing?' cried Harry, flailing. His quick two-step, performed to remove his sudden avine acquisition, skidded on the parchment, revealing two hitherto unnoticed sheets.

One seemed to be a standard issue letter, signed by Professor McGonagall, requesting that he fill out the form pertaining to his subject choices so that booklists could be forwarded as soon as possible. Harry flung it aside in favour of the other; he was in no humour to be choosing subjects that would be useless to him. He'd already failed, as far as he was concerned.

The second was far less formal in tone; more of a note, in fact. One that made Harry's eyes widen and his breath catch.

'... It has come to my attention, Harry, that you wish to study to become an Auror. In terms of what your future will inevitably hold, I believe that this is a wise and good choice. I have conducted extensive talks with Professor Snape and, after some reluctance on his part, he has agreed to take you on for NEWT level Potions -- a necessary subject -- despite the fact that you did not fulfil his usual Outstanding result requirements. I trust that you will see how much of a boon this is from him to you and I have no doubt in the world that you will make your best effort to repay our trust in you ...'

It was signed A. Dumbledore.

*~*

D. Malfoy, Ordinary Wizarding Level Results

Astronomy - Exceeds Expectations

Charms - Acceptable

Care of Magical Creatures - Poor

Defence Against the Dark Arts - Acceptable

Herbology - Exceeds Expectations

Arithmancy - Exceeds Expectations

History of Magic - Acceptable

Potions - Outstanding

Transfiguration - Outstanding

'But these are extremely adequate results!' Narcissa smiled at Draco with pride. She looked down at the parchment again and frowned, brushing a wisp of blonde hair out of her eyes. 'Why that reporter had the nerve to imply that family issues were affecting your schoolwork, I don't know.'

'I got an 'Acceptable' in Defence,' stated Draco.

He hadn't wanted to share his marks with his anyone. Unfortunately, he'd been late to breakfast and Nadsy had mistakenly delivered the envelope to Narcissa, who had ripped it open and started reading the enclosed aloud, even though it was quite obviously addressed to Draco. Draco glared at the elf, who offered him a croissant by way of apology.

'Master has done very well,' mumbled Nadsy, fiddling with his apron strings. 'Master must be a very clever wizard indeed.'

'Yes, who cares about silly old Defence?' trilled Narcissa, tossing the parchment to one side. The top hand corner landed in the butter dish and Nadsy winced. 'You only got a 'Poor' in the subject taught by that giant freak with the hideous accent... and two 'Outstanding's!'

'Potter will have an 'Outstanding' in Defence,' Draco snarled. 'The Mudblood will have one. Even Weasley might have managed to wangle an 'Exceeds Expectations'. And I'm just ... acceptable?' His fists were clenching and unclenching underneath the dining table.

Nadsy squeaked nervously. Narcissa just tutted and sipped her tea with a serene expression. 'Calm down, don't be petulant. At least you can still take it this year.'

'There must be some mistake,' protested Draco. He half-believed it, too. Sure, he'd fumbled the counter-jinx and his theory on defensive spells was a little rusty, but an 'Acceptable' just wasn't something a Malfoy would get. Lucius would have understood. His father would have been appalled. Draco resolved to omit any mention of his marks in his next letter to his father, then remembered that the letters would never be posted anyway.

'Honestly! I think you are blowing things wildly out of proportion,' scowled Narcissa, slamming a red-nailed hand down on to the table. The glasses rattled and apple juice slopped on to the table. Seeing Draco raise an eyebrow at her erratic behaviour, she softened. 'Why can't my little prince just be happy? You're sure to have done better than Vincent and Gregory.'

'That's true, but hardly a compliment,' muttered Draco under his breath. He sighed and addressed his mother aloud. 'I'm going up to my room.' He rose to leave, accidentally on purpose treading on Nadsy's toes. Instantly Narcissa's pale eyes welled up with crocodile tears.

'But Draco ... you can't just get up and go ...'

'Why not?' asked Draco, removing his letter from the partially melted butter and using his knife to scrape off the excess grease. Attached to the results slip was a letter from Professor Snape, urging him to make his subject choices as quickly as possible, so that he could receive his booklist. Narcissa was blubbering on in the background.

'We never eat ... we never sit down together ... as a family ...'

Draco threw the knife down on to the table with a clatter.

Nadsy watched it skid across the polished mahogany, goggle-eyed. Narcissa paused mid-sentence, a single tear glistening on her cheek. They both stared at Draco.

'This,' hissed Draco, stuffing the oily letter into his pocket, 'is not a family.' He spun on his heel and stormed out of the room, banging the door behind him. He paused at the doorway to listen to their reaction. It had been one of his more impressive exits.

There was a stunned silence for a couple of seconds and then Draco heard an odd whimpering sound. It became gradually louder and more insistent, until suddenly there was a piercing wail, which echoed around the large room and through the keyhole.

'Nobody loves me!'

'Mistress Malfoy must not cry - Mistress Malfoy must be happy ...'

'But everyone hates me!'

'Mistress must think happy thoughts, please! Nadsy will take care of Mistress Malfoy ...'

Draco sighed loudly and started to make his sullen way up the staircase. He couldn't wait until school began again. It was rather difficult being the only hormonal teenager within a three-mile radius.

And all the weeping and wailing was getting rather tiresome.

*~*

As Harry drifted around the mostly-empty house, dropping pages of The Daily Prophet -- which he was still getting delivered -- behind him like a deranged Hansel-wannabe, thoughts settled on his mind like a bad case of dandruff. After a quiet while, he decided that everyone associated with him was in imminent danger of destruction. It all came back to Voldemort, but the fact remained that if it wasn't for Harry and his thrice-damned prophecy, his parents would never have died, Cedric would still be alive, and Sirius would not only be living still, but a free man.

Harry came to the conclusion, as he smoked and bit his nails and ignored, for the most part, the increasingly frenetic tones of the letters arriving weekly from Hermione, Ron and Lupin, that it would be better for these people that he distance himself from them altogether. His heart contracted to the point of implosion at the thought of being the cause of the death of any of the Weasleys, or of Hermione, or of the last remaining true friend of his father's. He knew that they would have gone to Hell and back for him, which was precisely why he didn't want to send them there.

Not for a moment did he think that they would capitulate to this decision. He knew them too well and felt, without any doubt, that their loyalty and friendship were too strong to be so easily brushed aside. Instead, it would simply have to be vanquished, with as much dedication, thoroughness and indifference as he would one day try to remove Voldemort, or as Aunt Petunia would buff African mahogany.

So when the thirty-first of July rolled around and letters and parcels began trickling in, Harry hardened his heart and refused to let Hedwig even alight before sending her off again. Back to his friends, bearing his unopened cards and presents and messages of solidarity and love. Mustering up strength from some unknown source, he managed to pen a curt missive to Lupin, apprising him of the fact that he didn't want any more letters, that he felt presents were inappropriate in the face of Sirius' death, that he would be much obliged if Lupin would inform Ron and Hermione that he would see them on the Hogwarts Express and not before, and -- oh, yes --

-- that he was fine.

*~*

Draco arrived at King's Cross a full hour before the train was due to arrive. His mother wasn't there to accompany him; she had claimed she wasn't feeling up to traipsing around London that day. To make up for the indignity of having to catch the train without an someone to see him off, Nadsy had thoughtfully packed his master a lunch of corned beef sandwiches and orange juice. Draco had nearly died when he saw the plebeian fare he was supposed to ingest, but due to his lack of breakfast, he was soon resigned to eating the horrid things.

Sitting glumly on the platform's only bench and tearing chunks of the soft white bread off the sandwich with his teeth, Draco looked around him for a distraction. The small platform was completely deserted so early in the morning and you could practically see the tumbleweed blowing across it. Draco sighed to himself and heard a soft pop coming from the wall he'd entered by. A scraggly, unfamiliar young boy -- first-year, by the looks of him -- was standing awestruck by the red bricks. He was clutching a large drawstring bag in his right hand and his trunk had a purple ribbon wrapped around its middle, presumably to make it look more conspicuous. Mainly, it just made it look stupid.

'Get away from there,' Draco called out tiredly, re-wrapping his half-eaten sandwich and stowing it in his pocket. 'Unless you want your mum to trample all over you when she comes through.'

'My mum's not coming through,' the little boy answered, gazing at Draco with respect. 'She's too busy too see me off 'cause she's going to Russia for work. She works at the Ministry.'

'Oh, really? Well, my father has connections at the Ministry too,' snapped Draco without thinking. The little boy's eyes widened. He was obviously impressed. Draco winced, but he couldn't very well backtrack and say; 'Oh sorry, I forgot. He doesn't, any more. He's actually a convicted felon and in Azkaban at the mo'.

The little boy wheeled his trunk over to Draco and stuck a grubby hand underneath Draco's nose. Draco stared at it in obvious confusion and, after realising that Draco clearly wasn't the handshaking type, the little boy scratched his thigh with the outstretched hand and then sat down next to him on the narrow bench.

'Pleased to meet you. I'm Matthew.'

Draco looked down at the small boy on his left. Matthew was unusually short and skinny for his age, with cropped brown hair and strikingly pink cheeks. His feet barely touched the ground and he kept swinging his legs backwards and forwards, kicking his scuffed trainers against Draco's trunk, unabashed.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' spluttered Draco, pulling his expensive case out of range of Matthew's feet. Matthew shrugged.

'My mum said I was to find the first big student I saw and stick to him like glue until the train came.'

Draco resisted the urge to say something exceedingly immature, like, 'I'll stick you like glue' or 'I'm rubber and everything bounces off me, nyah nyah!'.

'I don't care what your mum said,' retorted Draco.

'You would care if you met my mum. She's awful scary when I don't listen to her. But she's nice and everything. She gave me Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans --' Matthew pulled a crinkly packet out of his drawstring bag and waved it under Draco's nose '-- so we can share those later, if you want.'

Draco tried hard to keep his temper. He did not need this scrawny first-year aggravating him on the very first day back. He also did not need Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans, although his growling stomach was telling him otherwise.

'You know how you always listen to your mum?' Draco asked slowly and clearly, so as to get his point across. Matthew nodded.

''Cept sometimes I don't -- like when she tells me to clean my room I just shove everything under the --'

'Right, well, I always, always, always listen to my mum,' lied Draco, not caring about Matthew's ethics. 'And she said that I should never speak to strangers. So you can't sit with me. You have to go and wait for some other first-years ... you can stay over there.' Draco pointed at a green dustbin several yards away. Matthew blinked.

'I'm not a stranger!'

'Yes, you are.' Draco sneered in a superior fashion. 'I only met you two minutes ago.'

'But I've introduced myself and everything! I'm Matthew and you're Malfoy.'

'How on earth do you know my name?' asked Draco, astounded.

'It's on your trunk.'

Draco looked down at his brown leather trunk and groaned audibly. Sure enough, there was a tag that read, in silver lettering, D. Malfoy. Nadsy must have added it. So thoughtful, that elf.

'So we're not strangers after all,' announced Matthew, brightening. 'And if you tell me your first name, we'll be friends.'

Draco glared at Matthew. He didn't appear to notice.

'So, are you called ... Daniel?' Matthew enquired, swinging his legs higher and higher. Draco stared purposefully into the distance, refusing to reply. Matthew carried on regardless. 'Are you ... David? Are you Derrick? Are you Dickie? Are you Dippy? Are you Dopey? Are you ... Diana?' Matthew descended in to helpless giggles, chuckling at his own joke. Draco watched him wryly, his mouth twitching despite himself.

'Make sure to tell the Sorting Hat not to put you in Slytherin,' warned Draco. Matthew stopped laughing and hiccupped.

'Why?' he asked seriously. He lowered his voice and adopted a confidential manner. 'Is it bad?'

'No, I'm just sure that if I had you in my House I'd end up strangling you before the end of the week.'

There was a soft pop from the red brick wall. Draco tried to turn his head to see who it was, but Matthew tugged at his collar insistently.

'I want to get into Ravenclaw, anyway, because I'm really smart. I can do spells already. Kind of. Mum showed me, she held my hand while I did it and we said the words together, but I did it really. So I'm going to Ravenclaw. But we can still be friends and it'll be terrific because I'll know how to do loads more spells and I'll get even smarter.'

Draco nodded absently and turned to see the person that had just appeared through the wall.

It was a dark-haired boy, a couple of inches taller than Draco but pulling a trunk several sizes smaller than his. He was wearing cheap-looking Muggle clothes: a baseball cap, slightly baggy jeans, a dark green jumper and trainers that were in much the same condition as Matthew's. His glasses were familiar, as was his horrifically untidy hair and the small pink scar on his forehead. Harry Potter looked Draco right in the eyes. Draco stared back in defiance.

Matthew squeaked, thrilled at the tension, and Potter's gaze dropped to encompass the small boy sitting next to Draco on the bench. Potter smiled without mirth and shook his head in disbelief. Then he pivoted on his heel and disappeared through the barrier once more. Draco flushed with embarrassment and scowled, furious at himself. But he couldn't very well start duelling with Potter on a train platform with Matthew watching, could he? And to trade insults would have been setting a bad example. Draco was a Prefect, after all.

'Nice to see you back again, Potter,' muttered Draco under his breath.

'Who's that?' whispered Matthew in childish excitement. 'What's his name?'

'That's the famous Harry Potter,' Draco sneered. He stared at the wall Harry had disappeared through, hating him fervently. 'Git.'

'You know his first name?' questioned Matthew. 'Is he your friend?'

'No,' hissed Draco. 'Of course not! He's a stupid, arrogant, attention-seeking ... Look, Matthew, friendships don't work on the basis of knowing someone's first name.'

'Oh,' Matthew said quietly. 'Well ... how do they work? Because I don't know anyone yet, and there's going to be hundreds of kids at Hogwarts, and ...'

'You'll manage,' Draco interrupted. Matthew fell silent.

There was a few minutes' awkward silence, in which Matthew got out his Beans and began crunching them between his teeth. Just as he offered Draco some, there was a soft pop and two blonde third-years emerged out of the wall, chatting excitedly, their trunks banging against each other. A few seconds later, their mother burst through the bricks, her blue handbag swinging wildly. Matthew glanced over at the new arrivals, then tucked his legs underneath him. A faint rumbling noise could be heard coming from the tunnel - the Hogwarts Express was approaching.

'I'm glad I had you to wait with me for the train,' announced Matthew, his mouth full of potato starch. 'That Harry Potter, he doesn't seem very nice. He's not friendly at all.'

'I'm not friendly!' snapped Draco, indignant. 'As soon as the train gets here, you're on your own. I'm bagging a compartment and leaving you behind. I quite frankly don't care what you do after that.'

'Have to sit with this boy Harvey anyway, my mum knows his dad,' replied Matthew, spraying crumbs. 'I'm just sayin',' he swallowed noisily, 'just saying that you're probably a much nicer person than that Potter person. Just saying.'

'I wouldn't bet on it,' snarled Draco, but Matthew wasn't listening. The Hogwarts Express had just pulled in, in a haze of noise and heat and steam. Matthew jumped up and watched the scarlet beast pull in to the station, a huge wondering grin on his face.

'Come on, come on!' Matthew squealed in excitement. He picked up his trunk and looked at Draco with an expectant expression. 'What're you waiting for? The train's here!' He started to drag his trunk towards the train, stumbling in his eagerness.

Draco stood up stiffly. With studied nonchalance, he dusted himself off and propped up his large trunk with some difficulty. A crowd of fourth-years from Gryffindor all walked through the wall at almost the same time, shouting to each other and trying to shush their owls, which had started shrieking shrilly at the noise of the train. Matthew waved madly at him from a compartment window and Draco pretended not to notice.

'Here we go,' Draco sighed in resignation. He picked up his trunk and began to make his way into the Hogwarts Express.

*~*

Harry, from his vantage point behind a useful pillar, spotted Hermione and Ron bidding their parents goodbye and walking towards the barrier to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. They had their heads together and looked very chummy, if worried, occasionally drawing apart to pull up Ron's bockety trolley. Ginny sauntered through a few minutes later.

Harry still didn't move; he wasn't going anywhere until he was certain that Lupin and Mrs Weasley had left the building. He could see them in his peripheral vision. It was obscured by his baseball cap, which was pulled down low over his eyes and scar, and by the hand that was holding a Marlboro up to his mouth.

Lupin had written once more after Harry's birthday, to express concern over how Harry was making his way to the Hogwarts Express, but Harry assured him in the briefest way possible that taking a taxi would do him just fine. After all, Harry was almost certain the Order had been watching Number Four, Privet Drive all summer and that someone with pink hair had trailed him to King's Cross in another taxi.

At long last, with two minutes to go before the barrier closed, Mrs Weasley and Lupin Disapparated. Harry was free to make a sprint for it, bolting through like a doped-up racehorse. He skidded to a halt at the nearest compartment door and heaved Hedwig's cage through, followed by his trunk. He jumped over it and shoved it all the way in as the train began to move.

Depositing both cage and trunk on to a luggage rack, Harry wandered off up the aisle, pausing at a window to take a last drag out of his cigarette before pitching it out the window. He'd filched three of Dudley's ten-packs before he left.

Harry supposed that his friends were in their Prefect's carriage, which suited him. The less chance of them getting him on his own, the better. He would have to start implementing his plan of alienation straight away; there was no sense in letting them think things were as normal, only to have Harry turn on them further down the line. For their own safety, Harry needed to stay away from them.

It was too much to hope that there would be an empty carriage, not judging by the amount of squealing kids -- had he really been that small once? -- cluttering up the place, chasing each other around at about the level of Harry's ankles. Despite a summer diet consisting only of coffee, Pop Tarts and the odd slice of toast, Harry had managed to have a growth spurt since he'd last been on the train. He kept braining himself on the door frames.

Harry took to peering into compartments, executing complicated manoeuvres with his head to keep the cap over his eyes and still, actually, see. For the most part, they were filled to capacity with people he didn't know. A sense of unease began to grow in his stomach. Fair enough, his decision to distance himself from his mates was a wise one -- at least in his own opinion -- but it left him in something of a quandary. Where, exactly, did people with no friends sit? Was there a carriage somewhere designated for losers? If so, he couldn't find it.

At the last carriage but one, Harry found Malfoy. He was struck by the about-turn in their worn-by-tradition roles. Usually, it was Malfoy and his bouncers who popped up by the carriage doors they were least wanted, not Harry on his lonesome.

In fact, Malfoy was also quite alone. He'd had no Slytherins with him on the platform either, when Harry had first arrived and Malfoy had precipitated Harry's hiding out on the Muggle platform. Harry wondered what had happened to the kid. Malfoy had probably eaten him.

Harry didn't open the door, or shout imprecations through it, or make faces up against the window. All of these were tempting, if exceedingly immature options, but they would have proved fruitless as an orange tree in Greenland, because Malfoy was fast asleep. Instead, Harry felt about in his jeans pocket for another cigarette -- a John Player this time. He had no idea on what grounds Dudley bought his cigarettes. Harry could only assume that Dudley was indulging in brand experimentation or was just blind.

Malfoy slept like someone had just delivered him a punch to the solar plexus. He was all curled in on himself, his chin wedged between his collarbones, his hair smudging itself over his forehead and the carriage window. Even his hands were in fists, held in his lap. Harry decided not to focus too much on Malfoy's lap, though, for the sake of his own mental health.

A disapproving voice broke into his reveries, making him jump out of his skin and about five metres in the air.

'Potter, you aren't allowed to smoke in here.'

Harry whipped around, blurting the first thing that had come into his head. 'How did you know it was me?'

'No one else can skulk like you, Harry,' Susan Bones informed him. 'Not to mention you are still dressed in your elephantine Muggle clothes. Most people with Muggle heritage don't shop in circus outfitters, you understand, no offence meant.'

'Oh. Right.' After a second's thought, Harry added, with something less than cutting sarcasm, 'None taken.'

'Good,' said Susan briskly. 'Are you going to get into a compartment? I'm sure, you being Harry Potter, you could have a cancer stick out the window in one, but there are kids in these corridors.'

'Tell me about it,' groaned Harry.

She came to join him at the door. 'Look, there's a seat in there.'

'With Malfoy?' Harry's voice came out in a sort of strangled squeak. He added, after a moment, 'I'd rather be boiled alive in my own spit.'

'You put across a decisive argument, there,' said Susan. 'Come on then, mate, you can share our compartment. Hermione and Ron won't be along for a while, I imagine.'

Harry didn't think informing Susan of his ostracism plans would be the ideal way to implement them, so he said nothing.

Instead, he trotted after Susan, who was striding along like the Colossus on an Alpine hike. The girl had huge thighs. To use one of Uncle Vernon's more-off-colour-than-was-his-general-wont phrases, they looked like those of a Polish miner's daughter's. Her arms were pretty much the same; she was basically a brick with a head. Harry thought, in approval, that she'd make a dashed good Beater.

The compartment she led him to contained Zacharias Smith, Justin Finch-Fletchley and, for some reason, Luna Lovegood. Luna appeared to be humming to herself and she was rocking back and forth slightly, but there was a space by the window next to her, which Harry took without further ado. He rummaged around in his pocket for his lighter -- which seemed to have moved around in his jeans to somewhere under his arse by Geller-ian means. Justin appeared to be pontificating, so Harry paused to listen.

'You see, the reason this country is in such a shambles is that they started letting in, you know, commoners, to high-ranking schools, you know? They just aren't the proper sort, you know. Living in a council house is, you know, a punishment for what you did in you last life, you know? All they care about is satellite dishes, you know.'

'Shut up, Justin,' said Susan. Undeterred, Justin continued to ramble on and on for five thousand hours, his monologue interspersed with questions from an irritated Smith, which Justin didn't answer.

Harry flicked at his lighter, but it refused to throw up a flame. He restrained himself from chucking it out the window only by realising that he had no idea how to localise a Fire Charm on to a fag-end. Luna gave a braying laugh and Harry stared at her.

'What's her problem?' he asked Susan, who kept taking very deep breaths.

'I just have to burst into laughter at the pure unadulterated joy of being alive,' said Luna dreamily, and promptly fell asleep.

'Arse,' said Susan, 'I don't think I have any matches left. Hang it all, Potter, here.' She leaned over, not taking any notice of Smith's howls of, 'That was my knee' and lit Harry's cigarette with a tap of her wand.

'Thanks.' Harry inhaled with relief and a lovely familiar raw burning sensation.

'Are you going to smoke that in here?' Smith demanded in querulous tones.

'Naw, he's going to look at it,' said Susan. 'Obviously this is why so much time was spent on the design, because they aren't meant to be used or anything.'

'I don't want to get passive smoke!' complained Smith.

Harry just curled his lip at him and took a long drag, fixing his eyes on a spot right between Smith's hairy brows. He had hair growing on his top lip, too, and creeping down his cheeks like blonde poison ivy. He was something quite like a blonde gorilla with a constipated expression.

Susan rolled her eyes. 'Don't suppose you've a spare one, Harry old chap? I'm hanging for a fag. I can pay you back once we get to school, I've a stash in my trunk.'

'Sure.' Harry extracted a crumpled blue packet from the seat of his trousers and passed her a slightly bent Player.

'-- and since they've opened those, you know, label warehouses, you know, every skanger is wearing Ralph shirts, you know, so that they almost look like us --'

'What is your problem?' asked Harry, staring at Justin. To his credit, Justin didn't flinch, although he stumbled through a over-quota number of 'you knows' before recovering his thread.

'Justin's father is a Tory politician and Justin spent the summer being indoctrinated by him. Now Justin has a problem with class distinctions,' sighed Susan, picking up Luna bodily and depositing her beside Smith so that she could sit beside Harry and smoke out the window.

'What, he doesn't think they should be done away with?'

'To an extent,' Susan hedged, scratching her blonde plait. 'More the fact that he resents that they exist at all. He believes everyone lower than the aristocracy are aberrations on the face of mankind bred during, I think, the mating of the Beast and the Whore, and that the Domesday Book is a roll-call of the Redeemed.'

'You'd want to watch him --' Harry began, but Susan just smiled.

'Don't worry. I warned him that if he joined up with You-Know-Who I'd break his neck with my knees.'

'I can believe it,' said Harry. 'Glad to see you're doing your bit for the cause.'

'Oh, I'm leaving!' Smith stood up and stormed out. Two seconds later, the door crashed open again and he stuck his head in to add, 'I hope you enjoy your lung cancer!'

'Watch it, Smith, you're wrecking your barnet,' Harry warned him.

After a while, Luna -- still snoring faintly -- keeled over and ended up face down in Justin's lap. He didn't notice a thing, immersed in droning on about how, 'The House of Commons is such a bunch of low-class yes-men, you know, I'm sure they're all shagging Major, you know.'

Harry looked out of the window, at the landscape speeding past. He wondered when his life had become so complicated and unhappy. His mouth twisted into a wry smile as he realised that it had always been like that.

When his friends finally managed to catch up with them -- his avoidance techniques would not foil them forever -- Harry was going to succeed in making his life even worse.

*~*

Harry lingered behind Susan as she marshalled her posse out of the train and into the Thestral-drawn carriages. Justin was still talking. From what Harry was desperately trying not to listen to, as he slowly lost the will to live, it was something along the lines of 'I don't know what they have against, you know, SUVs, just because, you know, they're driving Micras.'

'Shut up, Justin,' said Susan.

Harry spotted Hermione and Ron directing first-years hither and yon and wished them the joy of it. The little boy with cheeks like apples, who had been pallying up to Malfoy earlier, was at the tail end of the group, looking as scared, lost, and bulled-up with bravado as the rest of them.

In the carriage, Harry lit up again, offering another to Susan. He wondered if he was becoming an addict. From all accounts, though, he wasn't going to survive long enough to see the ill effects of it. He blew the smoke out the window, watching for people he knew. Hermione and Ron, looking worried, eventually climbed into a carriage.

The Entrance Hall was packed with people, who were all screaming welcomes at each other. Harry pushed through them, wondering why exactly it was necessary that people had to tell the news and give the weather at the same time. He could have taken a shower in the spit that was flying in the few metres between the main door and the door to the Great Hall.

People were flocking in, taking seats. Harry tucked his half-smoked fag behind his ear and huddled down in a seat. He watched Seamus and Dean passing him by, not recognising him, chatting loudly about Quidditch and Seamus' chances of making the team this year. The Gryffindor team was completely decimated now. Harry had a permanent ban, of course, and even if it were rescinded, they were down a Chaser. As it stood, the Gryffindor team consisted of Ron, Ginny and the two wimpy replacement Beaters. Ron's final performance last year notwithstanding, that was not a cheerful prospect.

Harry heaved a great sigh and decided that it was not his problem. He didn't even have his broom; the last he'd heard of it, it was still locked in Umbridge's office.

His brooding was interrupted when the dreaded confrontation with Hermione and Ron finally occurred. His slouch and cap might have fooled his dorm-mates, but the eagle-eyed Hermione made her way over to him like a bat out of hell, her robes flapping, looking crossed between furious and anxious. Ron trailed her, running one hand nervously through his hair.

'Harry!' Hermione exclaimed, just to ensure that some native tribes in the Amazon who might not have known his name now did and then some. She plonked herself down beside him, while Ron waved away random third-years to take a seat for himself on the other side of the table.

'Where on earth have you been?' she demanded, Ron nodding along but as yet not graduating to full speech.

'At the Dursleys,' mumbled Harry.

'We were so worried, mate,' said Ron. 'You hardly ever answered our letters --'

'-- sent back our presents,' chimed in Hermione.

'And it was a really cool Cannons poster, too,' added Ron, but Hermione glared at him.

Harry smiled half-heartedly. 'Thanks, but -- I'm sorry. I -- I can't really talk right now.'

'Don't be silly,' said Hermione in a no-nonsense tone. 'We looked all over for you on the train and on the platform -- you have to talk to us, Harry. We're your friends.'

'Yeah,' said Harry, standing up. 'You are. You are my friends.' He looked at them earnestly, his gaze switching from Hermione's determined expression to Ron's puzzled one and back again.

He willed them to understand. Telling them that they were in danger because of him was no use; they'd known that from the start. Harry would have to make them desert him of their own accord, but he could think of no better way of doing it than by walking away. Every time they approached.

'That's why I can't,' he finished. He knew it wasn't spectacularly coherent, as explanations went, but when it came to gut-feelings definitions were rendered obsolete. 'I'm sorry,' he said again, and almost ran to the far end of the table.

Hermione stood up to follow him, but Harry saw Ron place a quelling hand on her arm. Even from several feet away, Harry could see that his friend's face was troubled, but Harry didn't think he was fooling himself in seeing a glimmer of understanding there.

*~*

Harry stared down at his meagre helping of roast beef, not feeling in the least hungry. He had ignored most of the lavish meal, as well as the third-years who were sitting beside him. For once, his fame worked in his favour; the younger students were too star-struck to talk to him, much less demand reasons for his presence in their midst. For the sake of increased anonymity, however, he'd replaced his baseball cap.

McGonagall left her seat at the teacher's table, followed by Snape, looking as stony-faced and pale as the White Cliffs of Dover. Professors Flitwick and Sprout walked together away from the Head Table; Harry assumed that they were going to reconnoitre with their Prefects, as were McGonagall and Snape. He'd seen them do this at the end of every Welcoming Feast, although he hadn't paid the ritual much attention.

McGonagall headed off down to the Gryffindor table. After poking his head into what had once been Malfoy's gang, Snape headed on to the end of the table -- where Malfoy was sitting, alone -- with a bemused expression. Harry craned his neck to follow his movement; Snape had his hand on Malfoy's shoulder and Malfoy was gazing up at him apprehensively, a forkful of cauliflower cheese halfway to his mouth. Harry thought it was so, so appropriate that Malfoy ate that; it tasted like processed turds and fitted his persona exactly.

This far away Harry hadn't a clue what was going on, but he followed the exchange avidly. He almost lost his mind when someone tapped him, quite forcefully, on his own shoulder. Harry looked around to find McGonagall staring down at him.

In between surprised coughs, Harry managed, 'Professor?'

'With me, Potter,' she said, as ever curt as a chainsaw to the neck.

Pausing only to wipe at his streaming eyes, Harry followed her out into the Entrance Hall. Snape and Malfoy were already standing there, ensconced in cosy conversation. They both shot Harry filthy looks when he walked though the door, almost stumbling on the hem of his robes. Near the stairs, Professor Flitwick and Cho Chang were conversing in low voices and Professor Sprout was clapping Zacharias Smith on the shoulder. Harry squinted at them, feeling a flash of precognition.

McGonagall pursed her lips. 'Mr Potter, I called you out here to discuss the matter of the Gryffindor Quidditch captaincy.'

She paused, while Harry felt his heart soar and then plummet as brute reality came thumping back in concrete overshoes. 'I have a lifelong Quidditch ban,' he reminded her glumly.

'Yes, Professor, he does,' Malfoy jumped in, 'for assault and gross misconduct on the pitch.'

'That wasn't assault, that was justice,' snarled Harry. Malfoy tossed his head.

'An unprovoked attack is not justice,' he pointed out.

'Unprovoked?' Harry's voice squeaked in outrage. 'You little wanker, I'll show you unprovoked --'

'Mr Potter!' interrupted McGonagall. 'If you could return your attention to the matter at hand, I would be ever so grateful. All of Professor Umbridge's professional and educational edicts have been annulled, as of her resignation from the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher -- including your ban.'

'Really?' Harry's face lit up. 'So I can play again? And -- and my Firebolt? I'll be able to fly my Firebolt?'

'Yes, to all of the above,' said McGonagall, her lips twitching at his obvious delight. Malfoy was curling his mouth in disgust. 'And not only that, you will be flying as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.'

'I -- what? Captain?' Harry gulped. 'Thank you, Professor!' He grabbed her hand and pumping it.

'Now, I hope you live up to this honour,' McGonagall said, eyeing him over the top of her bifocals. 'Most pertinently, in your relations with other captains.'

Harry got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at her words. He turned, groaning, but Malfoy saved him the trouble by stepping in front of him with a grin splitting his face.

He poked Harry in the chest.

'We'll play nice, won't we, Potter?' he sneered.

*~*

Draco sauntered back over to the Slytherin table, feeling immensely pleased about what had just happened.

'Hey, dickheads!' Draco called out cheerfully. His former friends glanced upwards at the salutation, but once they saw who it was, they turned their attention back on to more interesting things, like napkins and cutlery. Ah, so that was their game. They were blanking him.

'As I was saying,' continued Pansy, glaring over her shoulder at Draco, 'the reason I didn't buy the pearl necklace was --'

Draco slid into the bench space between Pansy and Heinrich Moon, casually draping an arm around each of their backs. Heinrich recoiled instantly, muttering something that sounded like 'Mad poofter'. Blaise Zabini giggled shrilly from the opposite side of the table and there was a dull thwack as Pansy's leather-booted toe connected with his kneecap. Blaise's eyes widened and he choked out a mouthful of desiccated sprout and saliva. The chewed green bundle flew through the air and landed in Goyle's plate. Goyle was too busy staring goggle-eyed at Draco's audacious behaviour to notice. No one bothered to tell him about it, either.

'Guess who's just been made captain of the Slytherin team?' Draco whispered malevolently.

The entire table went unnaturally quiet. Everyone was straining to hear what was going on; even the excitable first-years were eavesdropping as hard as their tiny ears would allow. Pansy extricated herself from Draco's grasp and turned to gawp at him, her considerable mouth hanging wide open. It made her look decidedly less attractive, Draco noticed.

Blaise scowled and viciously jabbed the prongs of his fork into a cherry tomato, making the juice spurt all over the table. A great deal of it landed on Theodore Nott's face, but he simply licked it off and continued to stare at Draco. Crabbe was making the best of the situation by taking the opportunity to snatch handfuls of food from Goyle's plate. He scooped up some sprout-and-potato mush and stuffed it in his already-bulging cheeks, then tried to chew the huge mouthful as surreptitiously as possible.

'So,' said Pansy at last, 'Prefect and Quidditch captain, eh?'

'You'd better believe it,' replied Draco, cuffing Pansy on the cheek and surveying the horrified faces of the sixth-years with amusement. Crabbe made a noise like a wounded hippo as the stolen food squeezed its way down his oesophagus. 'Of course, I won't be abusing the privilege. At all.'

There was a stunned silence. Nott went pale. Blaise cleared his throat awkwardly. Then Draco started to laugh, baring his teeth at the table and, to his utmost relief, everyone else joined in, albeit a trifle nervously. Goyle was wearing the stony expression of someone who had just wet himself in terror, but was trying hard to hide it.

'Who are the other captains, then?' asked Millicent in her throaty voice. Draco started in shock. Millicent rarely spoke, but it was always disturbing to hear her deep man's tenor husking out of a teenage girl's body.

'Fucked if I know who the captain for Ravenclaw is,' Draco answered carelessly, glancing over at the other three tables.

A few feet away, Cho Chang was whispering excitedly to her best friend Marietta, tossing her shoulder-length black hair. Marietta was making a huge production of gasping at every alternate sentence and was fanning herself with her fingers, a habit it seemed she'd picked up during the holidays. Her spots had cleared up quite well, although if you looked closely her skin bore a faint purplish tinge. Not that Draco intended to do anything of the sort.

Draco turned back to the table, grimacing. 'I have a horrible feeling that Chang girl made it, though.'

'What about Hufflepuff?' asked Pansy, in a voice so dripping with sugar it was surprising that her teeth hadn't rotted out of her head. Draco was not at all alarmed by Pansy's sudden switch from snarky to saccharine: he had spent long enough in her company to know exactly how her mind operated. Draco turned to glance at the Hufflepuff table. They all looked as mind-numbingly boring and lifeless as usual. Draco's eyes were drawn behind them, to one taller boy sitting at the end of the bench on the next table, carving shapes in to the table with a bread knife.

'Potter,' growled Draco. Everyone turned to look, with a huge clattering of plates and rustling of robes. It was hideously unsubtle.

'Potter can't be the Hufflepuff captain, he's a Gryffindor,' objected Crabbe, after a few seconds' consideration. Pansy rolled her dark eyes.

'Thank you for that, Vincent.' She placed a sympathetic hand on Draco's arm. 'So. Potty's been made the Gryffindor captain. Big surprise there, eh?'

'He's such a fathead,' commented Heinrich sourly, beady eyes darting towards Draco to see if he was gaining his approval. 'I'm surprised he can still fit that Muggle hat on over his ridiculous hair.'

'I rather think it's intended to hide the disfigurement on the forehead.' A fifth-year called Vanessa Stonebridge nodded, sneering.

'Arse,' rumbled Millicent, startling them all. The entire sixth-year division of the Slytherin table was staring at Potter now, identical malicious expressions gracing each of their faces. Pansy snorted.

'What the hell do you think he's doing with the little kids, anyway? Why isn't he hanging around with his own gang?'

'I think he's spreading more lies about us,' announced Draco, trying to create a sense of solidarity between them. 'All of us,' he elaborated. 'He's such a twat.'

'We should do something about him,' declared Goyle, cracking his knuckles. Draco felt a thrill of delight course through his veins, as it always did when anyone suggested bodily harm towards Potter. But realistically, there were teachers, ghosts and first-years everywhere. It would've been practically impossible to break as many of Potter's bones as Draco would have liked without being caught.

'Like what?' asked Draco, sniffing. 'Dumbledore would have us all in detention before you could say The Git Who Lived. No-one hurts Potty on his watch.'

'Throw a sprout at him,' suggested Pansy.

Draco stared at her. Pansy was certainly intelligent enough to be the ringleader of her little clique and she didn't do too badly in tests, but her idea of 'revenge' and his take on the concept clearly differed greatly. Then she added, a sly smirk on her face, 'Unless you're chicken.'

Not bothering to answer this insinuation, Draco pulled his wand out of his robes and levitated a sprout twelve centimetres into the air. Pansy smiled like a snake. Draco hurriedly muttered the Banishing Charm under his breath and the uneven green sphere zoomed purposefully towards Potter, hitting him smack on the side of the head. Pansy chortled in delight and Potter looked up, green eyes blazing. Draco pretended to be staring at the ceiling, which was cloudy and dark. It looked like rain, he observed, avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

'Quick, do another one! He's looking away!' hissed Pansy, clapping her hands together in sadistic excitement. Potter, demonstrating the self-restraint of a nomadic monk, was ignoring them. Draco picked up a slightly bigger sprout and aimed it at his glasses. This one missed its target, but even better, hit Potter squarely on the nose. There was a guffaw of laughter from the Slytherin boys, but Potter still did not react. A few of the people in his vicinity were looking around for the source of the faint 'whizzing' noises, but Draco didn't give a fig about them. Potter was the sole target for antagonism.

'Fucking git - what the hell does he think he's doing, ignoring us?' scowled Blaise. Draco felt a tiny surge of triumph inside him at the 'us'. 'I'm having a go - hand me a sprout, Draco.'

'Yeah, give me one too,' Heinrich joined in, glaring at Potter's impassive face. 'He thinks he's so much better than us ... let's see how superior he feels with a sprout jammed up his left nostril.'

Several rounds of sprouts were fired at Harry from the Slytherin table. Some hit people in the tables in between. They looked around in puzzled irritation, but as yet the projectiles were too small for anyone to realise what they were or calculate where they were coming from. One person who was stalwart in displaying no reaction was Potter.

'This is so dull. He's never going to do anything,' whined Pansy, turning around again. Several of the other Slytherins followed suit, including Draco, who sighed in disappointment. 'Stupid, pigheaded wanker, he's never going to do anythi - DRACO!'

A thick wodge of extra-rare steak had just slammed into the side of Draco's head. Large dribbles of brown gravy oozed from it, the gloopy yellow fat sliding off Draco's cheek. It left a slug-trail of glistening slime on his fair skin before plopping on to the floor, where it lay quivering like a traumatised jellyfish. Draco swivelled around slowly, brown muck already congealing in his white-blond hair, and saw Potter grinning broadly. Almost everyone in the other three houses had paused eating to gawk. The teachers were just beginning to notice something was amiss, and Professor Flitwick was on the verge of clearing his throat, when ...

Not bothering to use magic, Draco grabbed a bowl of trifle that had materialised a few seconds earlier on the Slytherin table and hurled it at Potter, wishing him extreme pain. Potter leaped out of the way just in time, unfortunately, but the lumpy cream, jelly, and strawberries all ended up on the head of the girl next to him. She was perfectly motionless for a full five seconds, sitting quite calmly in a puddle of pinkish goo, looking down at the chilled fruit in her lap. The entire Hall held its breath.

A tureen full of ice-cold pea soup was emptied over the Slytherin girls, who all began wailing in fury.

Pansy Parkinson, though dripping with green slime and soaked through to her underwear, was a force to be reckoned with. Draco had never seen a more vicious use of custard in all his life.

Scraps of food began flying everywhere. Zacharias Smith leapt on to the table and started flinging chocolate pudding in all directions like a crazed war general. Ernie Macmillan grabbed some half-eaten drumsticks and tossed them at Crabbe's massive bulk, screaming expletives. Millicent emptied a tankard of pumpkin juice down Marietta Edgecombe's front and received a slap in the face; Millicent punched Marietta in the jaw and sent her flying. Blaise, in a fit of madness, chucked a salad bowl at the Gryffindor table. In response to this assault on their sanctuary, Ginny Weasley let out an inhuman bellow and hurled balled-up mashed potatoes into the melee.

The first-years went wild. Just having been initiated into the school and having endured the nerve-wracking torture of the Sorting, they had a ludicrous amount of pent-up tension still inside them, just yearning to be set free. This energy would usually have been spent on a whole night of incessant chattering and swapping of stories, but Draco had triggered them off early. The results were disastrous.

They howled like monkeys. They dug their hands into the cheesecake and lobbed it at the teachers. They bit members of rival houses on any part of the skin that was still exposed, leaving their victims food-stained and bruised. They painted their faces with gravy. They crawled on the floor, spitting grapes at those who had had the decency to seek refuge under the tables. Draco tried to see Potter in the midst of the custard-flying, gravy-splattering Armageddon, but the shrieks and screams of the students were disorientating in the extreme, and the unbelievable mess flying through the air kept obscuring his vision. Eventually Draco spotted him, trying to drag an over-excited -- wielding fish fingers and with unusually large pupils -- Matthew off the back of the fat Hufflepuff girl. Matthew's face was streaked with war paint, or mint sauce, and he looked as if he were having the time of his life. Draco wished him well.

Draco picked up a ladle of stew, intending to heave it at Potter while he was still occupied with extracting Matthew's teeth from his forearm, when a strong hand caught his wrist and forced it to his side.

'That,' Dumbledore said in a quiet voice, his blue eyes hard and cold, 'will be quite enough, Mr. Malfoy.'

Just then, a teaspoon hit a first-year called Clodagh in the face. She burst into anguished sobs, silencing everyone in the Hall. Growing shy from the unwanted attention, she threw the bread roll she was holding into the air. It executed a perfect forward somersault and then landed in McGonagall's teacup, spraying the lukewarm liquid all over the teacher's robes. Clodagh gasped, horror-struck.

'Yes,' Dumbledore said, loud enough for everyone to hear him. 'That will be enough.'

It was too much to hope that no one would receive a detention.

*~*

Harry rose before his dorm-mates, despite not having been able to sleep for hours. He put it down to excess adrenaline, or the fact that his hair had been wet. He couldn't sleep properly when his hair was wet, it was an enormous distraction. Being horizontal and wide-awake also had a domino effect on the more southerly parts of his anatomy and doing that with Malfoy at the back of his mind had been one of the more horrific experiences of Harry's life, even those featuring the embodiment of evil wizardry and death and things.

Now his hair was even worse than usual because he looked like he'd been quite recently electrocuted. It was not exactly a look doing the rounds on the catwalk. Harry tamped it down with water, but this only gave him a sort of corn-circle effect, with a flattened crown surrounded by spikes of hair sticking out at right angles to his head. Harry admitted defeat.

Susan was sitting at the Hufflepuff table, eating raw eggs with a distracted air and thumbing through the newspaper. Harry, after a cursory inspection on entering, found the Gryffindor table entirely deserted. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and made his way over, certain that he'd be able to finish his breakfast before his -- old -- friends came in. Before he reached the table, however, Susan hailed him.

'Morning, old chap,' she said, dribbling a bit of yolk.

Harry winced and managed a positive-sounding grunt. ''Lo,' he said. 'Any sign of the new timetables?'

'I should imagine yours is on your table, Potter,' said Susan, grinning at him with yellow teeth. Harry felt relief at the excuse to get away from her, at least until she had wrapped up her repast -- and raw eggs! She was going to be a formidable Beater! There was a pile of sixth-year timetables waiting to be distributed on the Gryffindor table. Harry took one and checked it. Defence Against the Dark Arts, he was happy to see, was his first lesson.

'Hey, Bones,' he said, 'who's the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher? Don't tell me they've given it to Snape at last.'

'Not a pip of it,' Susan assured him. 'Dumbledore said she wouldn't be arriving until today, delayed or some such. Only fear that Snape will fill in for her if she is late.'

'Perish the thought.' Harry shuddered.

'With you on that one, my son,' said Susan, downing a jugful of milk.

*~*

Harry successfully evaded his 'old' friends by careful skulking in the Defence Against the Dark Arts corridor. He hared down the back of the classroom when he arrived and flung his legs across the second chair under the desk, as if daring anyone to sit there. In fact, he dared no one, because the look on his face alone would have stopped traffic at twenty yards.

Ron and Hermione, followed by a gaggle of Gryffindors, trooped in, looking excited. Ron held the door open for Hermione as they came in and something in Harry's stomach twisted. He looked away and slumped down in his seat; they took their customary seats at the front, whispering together. Hermione looked around for Harry, but Harry refused to catch her eye, looking straight out of the window instead. He was aware that Seamus and Dean were also sending him odd looks, and he pretended he didn't notice.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ron talking in a low earnest tone. Hermione's head was inclined towards him, her expression set. It brought to mind the last time he'd seen them before the summer, after waving him off -- they had started talking together then, both wearing worried expressions. At the time, Harry had felt nothing but deep gratitude at having such friends. That had not changed, but Harry knew that he couldn't possibly risk putting them in danger ever again.

It's for the best

, Harry chanted in his mind. For the best. This way, they won't get hurt because of me. For the best.

Harry wondered when he was going to stop feeling so bad about this.

Five minutes passed, and then ten. The time for class to begin came and went, only interrupted by the arrival of Malfoy, with a small posse and a calculating expression. At half-past nine, the class was settled and quiet, aside from the low hum of confused, whispered conversation. Harry heard Malfoy's snickering laugh, looked up, and caught his eye. Malfoy ran his finger across his throat and mouthed, 'You're dead, Potter.' It was something like a traditional morning greeting, for him.

All at once, a high-pitched voice that screamed 'PINK!' emanated from the corridor.

'... because OH MY GOD, there was such a queue in the Floo Network to Hogsmeade, which is when I, like, owled Alby. Then my broomstick's Cushioning Charm deflated, so I was there 'OH MY GOD, I'm going to be so, so late' but then my cousin -- Mike works at the Ministry -- well, he offered to make a Portkey for me, but he forgot the charm and had to go home to look it up, and OH MY GOD, it was such a disaster.'

The speaker came through the door of the classroom, still talking nine to the dozen, accompanied by McGonagall.

'So, eventually, I just decided to go back to the Floo Network and OH MY GOD, it doesn't open until eight, so I had to, like wait for ten years -- but here I am, at long last!'

'Quite,' McGonagall said dryly, and Harry knew she was one spark short of exploding. He was the only one who noticed, though, because the class' attention was diverted to the person who could only -- despite all visual evidence to the contrary -- be their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. She was wearing bright pink robes with frilly things going on along the hems, sequinned flip-flops and more copper bangles than Shiva.

'OH MY GOD, is this my class?' The teacher looked around at them as if they were under glass, or more likely, items on a ten-Sickle sale rack. 'OH MY GOD, they are so young!'

'This is because they are sixteen,' McGonagall pointed out. Her gaze raked over Harry and dragged across to Malfoy. 'Although sometimes you seem to be dealing with cantankerous six-year-olds. Mind you do not take away their dummies too soon, Professor Lovebright.'

'Thank you, Minnie!' chirped Lovebright. Harry had to bite down on his lip at the look on McGonagall's face. She swept out without another word, slamming the door behind her and sending another waft of air up Lovebright's rather short robes. Harry could see Malfoy craning his head to try and see up it, the perv.

Lovebright perched on the desk and started swinging her legs. 'So, students. OH MY GOD, this is so funny! Me, a teacher!' She went off in a gale of silent giggles, legs going like pistons. Harry was not the only one eyeing the exit.

'So, like, you guys have to call me Belinda,' she said, hopping off the desk and wandering over to the blackboard. 'OH MY GOD! Chalk! ...Being called Professor Lovebright makes me feel ten thousand years old.'

'How old are you then, Belinda?' Malfoy schmoozed, and Harry wanted to strangle him. Malfoy simultaneously chatted up the teacher and high-fived Moon under the table.

Call-me-Belinda, to her credit, wasn't falling for Malfoy's lines. Despite her dozy manner, within five minutes they all had copies out and were taking notes on Time-Loop Curses, although Harry later found that fifty percent of them consisted of the words 'Oh', 'my', 'god' and 'like'.

On their way out, he heard Hermione whisper something to Ron, who sniggered. He wondered what Hermione thought of Call-Me-Belinda; would she hate her ditziness or commend what abilities she had?

'No,' Harry said, out loud and angrily, scaring away a group of first-years who were gawping at his scar -- and a few older-years who were laughing at his hair.

He would just have to steel himself to not knowing these kinds of things. It was the only way.

*~*

'Hey, um Draco, right?' asked Belinda, peering at the class register in confusion. Draco looked up from his notes, smiling winningly.

'Yes, Belinda?' he purred, not bothering to drag his eyes up any higher than chest level.

'I was wondering if you would, like, see me after class? There's just a little something that we need to discuss.'

Draco frowned slightly. He could hear muttered whispers from the rest of the class: they were all obviously trying to fathom what new trouble he'd gotten himself into. Draco glanced behind him at Potter, who was beaming hugely, almost as if Christmas had come early or he'd been offered extensive plastic surgery to remove the scar on his forehead.

'Oh no, it's nothing like that,' said Belinda, shaking her head for emphasis. Potter groaned loudly from the back of the room. 'You're not in trouble, Draco. But can you imagine - me - being, like, a DISCIPLINARIAN? Oh my God... I can punish you and stuff. My old teacher used to spank me ...' Every male in the room, Draco included, hurriedly readjusted themselves, '... with a ruler. That's illegal now, and it didn't hurt anyway, but I can give you detentions!'

'We don't really mind things being illegal,' Heinrich Moon choked out, his face purpling. 'We learnt the Unforgivable Curses in fourth year - not how to do them, of course - but it was still really ... educational.'

'Oh, trust me.' Belinda smiled at Heinrich from her perch on the desk. Heinrich gulped. 'We won't have to, like break the law to have fun. I've got some really great stuff lined up this term. It's going to be, like, so cool.'

Draco smirked at his classmates and settled down obediently to finish taking notes on the Time-Loop Curses. Belinda wanted to see him after class and he wasn't in trouble. There was only one other plausible possibility, when you took into consideration the over-familiar attitude. Belinda was going to try and seduce him.

The last few minutes of the lesson flew by. Draco didn't pay much attention to what was going on; his mind was full of delicious fantasies involving Belinda and rulers and highly illegal activities. Everyone filed out of the room, chatting and laughing. Draco watched them and practised looking smug. Potter sloped by last of all, but Draco couldn't muster up enough hatred to do anything than stick his tongue out at him. Belinda seemed to have become extremely hyper from the success of her first lesson and waved everyone off personally, gold bangles jangling madly on her wrist. 'OH MY GOD, I'm not, like, giving you any homework, but I so expect you to read up on the curses for next lesson's practical, okay?'

When everyone had left, Belinda opened the door and peered around it, checking for eavesdroppers. How sweet. Draco liked it better that way anyway, he wasn't much of an exhibitionist.

'I'm just checking that no-one's listening,' she murmured. 'I feel everyone's much more comfortable that way, don't you?'

'Oh, absolutely.' Draco nodded in agreement, grinning from ear to ear. He wondered briefly which persona to take on: submissive schoolboy or reckless teenage rebel. It was up to Belinda to make the first move, he didn't want to seem desperate or anything. She was, after all, a teacher and therefore old. Not old old, by any means, but still. Old.

'How'd the class go for you today?' asked Belinda. Draco blinked. Surely this was not how illicit teacher-student affairs were sparked off. Then again, maybe she was working her way up to the indecent proposal. Maybe it was her first time with a younger man. Maybe she was nervous.

'Fine,' replied Draco, biting his lip. He looked at her frilly pink robes, imagined what wonders lay beneath them and swallowed hard. 'I -- er -- like your top.'

'Because I know you're not as strong in this subject as some of your classmates,' Belinda continued matter-of-factly, completely ignoring the compliment, 'and I'd like you to all be on the same level.'

'The same level?' squeaked Draco in shock. He stopped imagining what colour underwear Belinda had on and looked up at her face, alarmed.

'Yeah - don't worry, I could have you tutored by one of the students that got high marks in their OWL,' Belinda reassured him, flipping through the register. 'How about you and ... erm ... H. Potter ... is that the Hermione girl? No, sex male. OH MY GOD! I'm so stupid -- Harry Potter, of course! I could set up study sessions to cover the areas in which you seem to be deficient - assuming Harry's not busy, he doesn't seem to have any commitments other than Quidditch ...'

'No, not him - I don't need a bloody tutor!' Draco exclaimed in indignation. There was an awkward pause. 'I was just feeling a bit off on the exam day, that's all,' he explained.

'A bit off?' repeated Belinda, her eyes wide. 'Draco, you can't feel a bit off when the Dark forces are closing in, you've got to remain alert!'

'I know,' Draco answered, standing up to leave. 'It was just ... some family trouble. Did my head in a bit.'

'Say no more,' nodded Belinda. 'Family can always drag you down a bit ... look, if you need a bit of help, I'm always here and I can ask Harry if he'd like to --'

'No, it's fine. Really.'

Draco left the classroom feeling deflated in every sense of the word. Belinda hadn't wanted to seduce him. She hadn't wanted to play kinky dominatrix games on the desks -- Draco had privately decided that he was a bit of a masochist. She hadn't even wanted to indulge in witty banter and flirtatious conversation, though exactly how flirty anyone's conversation could be when peppered with excessive use of the word 'like', Draco didn't know.

No, all Belinda had wanted to do was insult Draco's intelligence by suggesting that he needed to be tutored by that specky wanker. If Draco ever needed any confirmation that the git had scored an Outstanding in his OWL, there it was. Draco looked around hopefully to see if Potter was anywhere in the vicinity, so Draco could throw his satchel at the back of Potter's stupid head. However, there was no one around except Heinrich Moon, who'd obviously been waiting for him in the corridor.

'Game,' grunted Heinrich, backing him up against a wall and pressing something into his palm. Draco recoiled, suspect of any game that burly, broad-shouldered, seven-foot Heinrich might want to play.

'Card game,' elaborated Heinrich. 'High stakes, invitation only, just the right sort of crowd, y'know? Says it all on the parchment.'

Draco glanced down at the crumpled piece of paper in his fist and grinned. Wizarding poker was his strong point. He might be able to win a little more respect in the clique if he played his cards right.

'Other houses not invited, then?'

'Trying to keep it mostly Slytherins,' replied Heinrich, scratching his scalp distractedly through his straw-coloured hair. 'Some of the Claws have pretty strong stuff, though. One of their fifth-years is definitely on something, she's always out of it. I invited a couple of them. None of the Puffs are going to be there - I don't care if they're stoned up to the bloody eyeballs, they're positively moronic. When I asked around our common room, seems everyone conveniently forgot to bring some of their stash to share. We need to win something to tide us over until the next Hogsmeade weekend.'

Draco couldn't think of a way to subtly find out if any Gryffindors were going to be at the game, so he contented himself with smirking and nodding. Heinrich turned to go, but Draco tugged at his sleeve, realising something. Heinrich looked down at Draco, one eyebrow raised in irritation. Draco noticed that Heinrich was looking a long way down and decided to turn on the old Malfoy charm.

'I don't have any stuff on me to bet with, that okay?' Draco didn't want his admission to the game to be withdrawn if he wasn't able to deliver the goods. That would be mortifying -- turning up with the posse and being rejected at the door.

'Neither do I, mate.' Heinrich grinned conspiratorially. 'Just a few bags of sugar I pinched from the kitchens an' some random herbs from the Potions cupboard. Lifelike as anything.'

'Heinrich - I'm not giving the Ravenclaws sugar to snort and weeds of questionable origin,' Draco snapped in impatience. 'They might ... die or something. Or start drooling like Goyle did when he put hellebore into his joint last term. Christ, couldn't you think of something a little less idiotic?'

Heinrich's expression turned sour and he stalked away again in barely veiled disgust, muttering under his breath.

'Shouldn't be too hard for you to get in, Malfoy -- just show them all your gold and you'll have VIP entry, for Merlin's sake. If you're too much of a pussy to bring something, just do what you always do. Pay your way in.'

What's that supposed to mean? Draco thought angrily. He wanted to shout after Heinrich's retreating back and demand that the boy explain himself, but thought better of it. Draco wasn't in the mood for a pummelling and black eyes were more of a hindrance than a help, especially when one was trying to regain one's status in a clique. Draco let it go, but mentally scribbled Heinrich's name on the blacklist of people he was going to get at the next available opportunity. Potter's name was at the top of the list, obviously, written in bold capitals and underlined twice.

Potter was always the first priority.

*~*

Descending into the frigid dampness of the Potions dungeon after a lazy lunch hour spent basking in the warmth of the castle grounds was a real shock to the system. In fact, it couldn't have been more of a shock to the system if they'd come straight in from the scorching September sun and dived stark naked into a glass tank filled with ice-cubes, extremely aggravated electric eels and appliances with a lot of frayed wiring.

The only real difference was that the eels waiting for the sixth years' inspection had obviously stopped wriggling a long time ago - they were dried and arranged neatly at the side of each desk with the other, equally nasty-looking ingredients. Instead of malfunctioning toasters shocking them into submission, there came a jolt of uneasy surprise when Snape did nothing more menacing than to instruct them to 'Please sit down'. Everyone shuffled awkwardly towards a stool and Draco slid on to a seat near the front of the class. Blaise Zabini loyally sat on his right, still mindful of his place on the Quidditch team, but no one else wanted closer proximity to the teacher than was absolutely necessary.

'I do hope,' sneered Snape, looking around at his small group of students, most of whom were shivering uncontrollably and blowing steam on their hands to keep them warm, 'that you all had pleasant holidays.'

Draco glanced over his shoulder at his classmates. None of them were nodding or regaling the Professor with tales of their beach vacations in Majorca; they merely sat there, stunned. It seemed there were only nine pupils in the class, including him. Five other Slytherins and two wide-eyed Ravenclaws, who were already eyeing the door nervously and wishing that they'd applied for Care of Magical Creatures instead. No Hufflepuffs and only one Gryffindor -- Granger. Draco grinned automatically, but couldn't help feeling that the class was going to prove a trifle dull if he didn't have anyone to make fun of. Perhaps one of the Claws might knock something over in their mammoth effort not to make eye contact with any of the other students, but considering that they'd both received 'Outstanding's in their OWL, it was unlikely that they'd do anything too embarrassing.

'Are you cold, Mr Zabini?' Snape turned on Blaise, a sympathetic expression on his face. Blaise's teeth were chattering noisily and the sound echoed loudly in the stone room. It sounded as if three rats were tap-dancing in hobnailed boots on Blaise's desk.

'A b-bit chilly.' Blaise nodded vigorously. Draco raised an eyebrow at him. His lips were turning blue.

'Would you like me to do something about it?' inquired Snape. He peered closely at Blaise and his lank hair flopped on to his shoulders. Blaise's eyes widened in surprise and even Draco was taken aback. Snape wasn't considerate. The Snape Draco knew wouldn't have cared if the entire class were dying of hypothermia, as long as their potion was the correct shade of scarlet.

'Nuh-uh ... I'm fine,' Blaise choked out. Snape's eyes glinted dangerously.

'You wouldn't like me to do something about it?'

'No, Professor - I mean yes - if it's not too much trouble --'

'Well, then. Could you tell me exactly what ingredients a Conflagration Draught would comprise of?'

'A Con-what?'

'A Conflagration Draught. It's the brew described in the very first textbook,' snapped Snape, his eyes blazing in fury. 'It has restorative properties and is used in severely cold climates to make - but I expect you've been far too busy to glance at your schoolwork during the break.'

Blaise blinked in confusion, but the professor had already swept over to the Ravenclaws, who cowered at the sight of this enraged, greasy-haired man who had a nose much larger than was strictly necessary. 'MacDougal! How long would one need to distil a Simulacra Potion? Thought not. And you, Boot, when simmering water-based potions, do we add ferns before or after mosses? Didn't read that part in the textbook my foot ... you learnt that in fourth year. Moon, what elementary brew would enable a witch or wizard to easily mould a metal like iron? Forgotten, have we? Oh dear. Why are you, the best potion-makers in your year, so utterly incompetent?'

Snape picked up an inkwell and hurled it at the heavy wooden door. Draco watched it shatter numbly, black streaks trickling down the wall to form a gloopy puddle on the floor. No one dared breathe, for fear it would aggravate Snape further.

'Almost none of your marks would have been deemed good enough to merit NEWT-level study had you tried any other year. The OWL scores were exceptionally poor this time around and you dimwits were marked up as a result. If I am to teach you --' Snape inhaled deeply through his curved nostrils '-- then I had better see a significant increase in your apparent intelligence during these first few weeks. I am not at all averse to cutting students out of the class if they are not pulling their weight. Produce a single potion that I do not consider up to my high standards and you shall leave this class, never to return. Do you understand?'

The door to the dungeon opened a crack and a mop of messy black hair poked its way through. Potter glared at the small company, nodded sullenly at Snape, and then sloped towards the only available desk. Eight pairs of eyes stared at Potter as he slumped into his chair and kicked his satchel underneath the table carelessly.

'Potter,' hissed Snape, from behind gritted teeth. 'You are late.'

Potter checked his left wrist and stared at the watch for a couple of seconds before grinning amiably in agreement.

'Yeah, I am.' He whistled softly, thrusting his hand back into his robes.

Snape's eyes narrowed and he advanced on Potter. The rest of the class sat there, terrified, whilst Draco watched with barely repressed glee.

'You have left disgusting black footprints on the floor of my dungeon,' Snape whispered, his face centimetres from Potter's. Draco glanced at the floor. The git had stepped in the puddle of ink from the bottle Snape had thrown at the door and a trail of sticky mauve splodges led from the desk to the exit. Snape straightened up, visibly trying to control himself. 'I would like you to take that rag,' he motioned towards a slime-covered cloth that looked as if it had been drenched in mucus, lying in the corner of the room, 'and wipe them away.'

'No way,' Potter stated. 'That's Filch's job. I'm not doing it.'

'Potter, you will clean the floor and you will clean it at once.'

'Look, I won't.'

'You will, or I will tell everyone exactly how you came to be in this class,' said Snape, a look of triumph in his eyes. Potter snorted rudely and folded his arms across his chest.

'Er, let me think - I came in from the grounds, and then I went over to the main staircase, and then I climbed down staircases for about three miles - this dung heap's practically in the bowels of the earth -- and then I went down the corridor --'

'No! No Potter, I will tell them exactly why it is that you are even permitted to take this subject.' Snape smiled as Potter visibly paled.

Draco's forehead creased with confusion. Was Snape actually blackmailing Potter? Did someone else know something juicy about the git that had passed over his head? Impossible, surely. Still, Potter was standing up, picking the greasy cloth up between his forefinger and thumb and returning to his spot. He cast a resentful look at Snape, threw the cloth to the floor with loathing and proceeded to grind the grease into the floor with his toe.

'Potter.'

'What?' Potter looked at Snape, his eyes blazing.

'Use your hands, please.' Potter looked from the slimy rag to Snape's face, then back again, as if he couldn't decide which sight he found more revolting. Snape smirked.

'You must be bloody joking.'

'Not at all, Potter. On your knees, if you please.'

Looking murderous and muttering curses under his breath, Potter squatted on the floor, trying not to mess up his robes. He began to methodically scrub at the ink stains with the rag, which stubbornly refused to fade. They smudged instead, leaving a dark smear on the floor.

'The rest of you open your textbooks to page twelve,' ordered Snape, surveying Harry's back with distaste. 'You will take notes until I tell you to stop. I hardly think you can be trusted with a practical your first lesson back.'

The class obediently opened their heavy textbooks to page twelve and began scribbling notes on to parchment. Draco paused after writing the title, his quill quivering in his right hand. Potter was scrubbing rhythmically next to his desk. Draco kicked at Potter's stomach and the dark-haired boy looked up, scowling. He rolled his eyes when he saw Draco.

'Sod off, Malfoy,' snarled Potter, continuing to scrape at the ground with the rag, albeit a little more enthusiastically than usual.

'I only wanted to tell you that you missed a spot,' Draco whispered, nudging his inkwell so that the black liquid slopped over the side and splashed on the floor. Potter watched the stain darken and spread in silent fury, then shook his head and began to clean with increased vigour.

'I told you to sod off, Malfoy, before I do something I'll regret ...'

'Like what?' Draco sneered, glancing upwards at Snape, who was apparently absorbed in some paperwork.

'Like having to touch you. Like having to repeatedly pound my fists into your ugly mug until your nose swells even bigger than Snape's.' Having successfully managed to eradicate one ink splodge, Potter moved on to the next of his footprints, which, unfortunately for him, was even closer to Draco than the other one. Potter gritted his teeth and knelt down by Draco's lap.

'Merlin, I can smell you from here,' Draco breathed, his grey eyes on the textbook, but his parchment as blank as Harry's expression. 'Didn't manage to take a shower before class, did we? What did Snape mean when he said he'd tell us exactly how you came to be here?'

'No idea,' muttered Potter, scraping at the floor. 'You a closet philosopher, then? How did any of us 'come to be here'?'

'Well, if you want the bloody birds and the bees,' hissed Draco, abandoning his quill, 'your stupid father knocked up some Muggle slut and nine months later, you happened.'

Potter stopped scrubbing abruptly.

'What about that thing your parents did, Malfoy?' Potter asked. 'Quite a novel way of keeping money in the family - only shagging your relatives. I suppose you can blame all your deficiencies on the in-breeding.'

'My parents aren't related, you idiot,' Draco snapped. It was even the truth. They weren't. Not closely, anyway. You'd have a job proving it.

'What, isn't Daddy part of the family anymore?' Potter asked innocently. His voice grew louder. 'Not now he's in Azkaban? Oh, I wonder what that must feel like, your family utterly rejecting you, being locked up against your will ... must really suck, right, Malfoy? That must really suck.'

'If you're whining about Dog-boy,' Draco retorted hotly, 'then I really don't see what I had to do with that, but --'

'Don't you go and visit DADDY on Sundays?' Potter almost shouted. 'How does he like slumming it with the rest of the Death Eater scum?'

'Potter, what exactly do you think you are doing?' Snape demanded from the front of the classroom.

Draco stood up, fists clenched. How dare that four-eyed retard insult his family like that?

'Draco, sit down,' Snape instructed, rising from his chair. 'Potter, come here right this instant. Draco, sit.'

'Don't you talk shit about my father,' Draco warned, his voice trembling. He towered above Potter, who stood up to match his height, smiling nastily. He was about two inches taller than Draco and he made this fact painfully clear.

'Keep your fat mouth shut then, shortarse,' Potter grinned, wiping his wet hands on the front of Draco's robes.

Draco punched Potter in the face. To his surprise, Potter didn't duck out of the way, or catch his fist in his hand and pummel Draco in the stomach by way of retaliation. Potter merely stood there, eyes wide, as Draco's knuckles slammed into his face with a satisfying squish.

His hand didn't even hurt after he'd done it. Much. Except for the index finger, which was throbbing a bit.

And a crunch would've been nice. The sound of cartilage snapping. At such close range, he should've been able to give the bastard a broken nose.

*~*

In the days that followed the punching incident, his fellow Slytherins began to treat Draco with something almost bordering on respect. Somehow -- he didn't know how, but somehow -- everyone seemed to have gotten the idea that he was a snivelling, whiny mummy's boy who lacked the balls to do anything of any real merit. It was unbelievable, Draco reflected later, how easily vicious, untrue and hurtful rumours spread. At least he'd proved them wrong by showing that he was willing to get his hands dirty if the need arose.

'Never would've expected it of you,' Daphne Greengrass had commented, when she came up to congratulate him after class. That seemed to sum up the general feeling; however, this time, there was no doubt that Draco had done all the things he was being credited for. There'd been eyewitnesses this time, people to testify that the bruising was indeed caused by Draco's fist connecting with Potter's face.

Creevey, the budding photographer in third year, had secretly taken a shot of what he termed the 'battle wounds' minutes after Snape had banished Harry to the hospital wing. Draco had cornered Creevey in the hallways as soon as he'd heard about it and, using both Crabbe and Goyle's persuasive skills, he'd managed to make the boy hand over the negatives. Draco planned to develop the picture and tack it up over his bed. To use for blackmail later on. Or something.

Draco also met Matthew again, in a rather startling and unexpected fashion. Draco had been walking down the corridor, minding his own business, when a miniature whirlwind had hurtled around the corner and slammed directly into his abdomen. Draco had been quite literally floored by this unforeseen attack to his ribs and Matthew had to help hoist him up, blinking furiously in his excitement. Whether the school had done anything for Matthew's apparent good health was debatable - he still looked like an advert for blusher, with rosy cheeks any little girl's doll would have coveted.

'Draco!' The tiny boy squealed loudly, once Draco was no longer horizontal. 'Guess what?'

'Matthew, I'd really rather not,' Draco scowled, looking at the spiky brown head beneath him. 'What are you doing, you little twit, running around like that?'

'Running away from Peeves,' Matthew said matter-of-factly. 'But listen, I wanted to tell you - I've only been here a few days and I've already got --' he counted carefully on his fingers '-- five best friends!'

'Yay,' Draco muttered without enthusiasm, rubbing his knee.

'Harvey is my best best friend,' Matthew elaborated, 'and then Danny and Olivier are joint second - only you mustn't tell anyone but I like Olivier a bit more because he gave me his Mad Muggle comic - and Edwin's my fourth, but that's only fair 'cause he's in Hufflepuff so I only see him in Potions and Magical Creatures and stuff.'

'You forgot the fifth best friend,' Draco pointed out, lamenting the youth of today's woeful numerical skills. Matthew rolled his eyes, as if Draco were trying to be funny.

'That's you, silly,' he said dismissively, while Draco sternly told himself not to be flattered just because an eleven year-old boy considered him a mate. 'Anyway, I heard you beat up Harry Potter in Potions. Gave him a shiner and everything.'

'Er, yeah I did,' Draco replied, not wanting to negatively influence his new best friend in any way. Advocating violence wasn't very Prefect-y and since Matthew clearly considered him a role model, he didn't want to lead him down the wrong path.

Despite Draco's lacklustre reply, Matthew's mouth dropped open so far that his chin practically brushed his chest. 'That's so COOL.'

'Well, yeah. Not really. Yeah. He deserved it.'

'I had a fight in Potions with Eddie. I just poked him, though, 'cause I like him really. Professor Snape gave us extra homework because of it.'

'Homework?' Draco repeated, wistfully remembering the meagre amount that first-years were required to do.

'On Conflagration Draughts. It was easy peasy. I'll show you.' Matthew rifled in his bag and pulled out a slightly crumpled sheet of yellow parchment. Draco scanned it, quickly noting that it was much, much, much more detailed than the essay he'd been writing on the same topic. Little swot.

'You know, I could go over that for you,' Draco offered casually. 'If you give it to me, I could - er -- show you any adjustments or corrections you need to make and give it back to you by Monday.'

Matthew was fawningly grateful. 'You would do that for me?'

'Sure, why not?' Draco replied, trying to sound off-hand, as if he were the kind of lame hero who did good, selfless deeds on a daily basis. 'It's no problem.' Draco reflected that he could get all his homework done much more efficiently if the teachers set all the firsties the same assignments.

'You know, Harvey and Danny and I got drunk the other night.' Matthew volunteered. Draco raised a disapproving eyebrow at this surprisingly daredevil behaviour.

'Bad for you,' he warned, knowing he sounded like every other sanctimonious 'grown-up' he'd ever encountered. But, in his defence, Matthew wasn't a rotten apple -- judging from his cheeks alone -- and was obviously a good kid. Draco didn't want him turning into one of those hardcore, smarter-than-thou, dealer Ravenclaws you saw strutting around the castle.

'Not properly,' Matthew giggled shrilly and Draco winced, praying that Matthew's voice would break early, for his sake. 'One of the older girls had a beer in the common room and she only drank half of it and then when she wasn't looking Danny stole it because she's mean and she called us 'snot-nosed little brats' when we were just having fun quietly. We hate her. And then we had to get rid of the evidence so we shared it, 'cept it tasted horrible so we added sugar and water from the tap. And then we were drunk,and it was funny.'

'Where'd you get sugar from?' Draco asked suspiciously.

Matthew shrugged his round shoulders in bewilderment. 'Just had sugar. With me.'

Draco, about to protest, suddenly recalled the days when, at any time, in one's pockets one could find all manner of condiments, string and grey fluff. Draco didn't like nostalgia. He stood awkwardly in the corridor, trying to think of something else to say, when a familiar phantom floated round the corner, looking for mischief.

'Why, it's Cheeky Matthew!' Peeves exclaimed in delight, swooshing closer. 'Bless his cotton socks, he's all embarrassed - blushing! Cheeky little Matthew, ring-a-ring-a-roses!'

'Do you have any particular purpose here?' Draco asked imperiously, while Matthew cowered behind his back. Peeves saluted him, then somersaulted and blew a raspberry.

'Perfect Prefect Malfoy! Oh, you've been naughty too - brawling with wee Potty, aye! Don't worry, You-Know-Who'll finish the job soon enough!'

'Shut up, you stupid poltergeist,' Draco snapped, edgy.

Peeves' round, transparent face turned ugly. 'You've all forgotten, you lot. Not that you knew in the first place. But you can't pretend it's hunky and dory, can't stick your hands over your ears and say it's not happening, because -whoops! - you'll make a mistake, and - whoops!' Peeves con torted his features and made a grotesque face, his tongue slobbering over his chin and his round eyes rolled back into his head. Then he spun around furiously and vanished through a wall.

'He's cracked,' Matthew announced tremulously. 'I don't like it when people talk about stuff like that. What's his problem?'

'Go to class, Matthew,' Draco answered and with that he stomped off in the direction of the Slytherin quarters, even though he had a Study session scheduled next. Taunting Potter could wait. There was more important stuff to do.

*~*

'Dear Father,

I know it's been a while since I last wrote. I'm sorry about that. I wanted to tell you that I'

Draco sat cross-legged on a jade-green cushion and tried to compose another letter to his father. But it was pointless. He didn't want to keep his dad posted on his mundane day-to-day activities. 'I have a new best friend, Matthew. He's not even turned twelve yet and he's more of an intellectual equal than Crabbe or Goyle'. Or, even worse, 'I punched Harry Potter in the face on Monday. How're the plans to kill him going?'

What Draco wanted was answers to his questions. For example, what the bloody hell was going on? Did the Death Eaters in Azkaban discuss over biscuits and weak tea what their next move was going to be? Were they starving to death - he wouldn't put it past Fudge, although the imbecile was being voted out of office - and unable to communicate? Did they talk to the Dark Lord? Just how strong was the Dark Lord? And what should Draco call the Dark Lord, anyway? Was he about to be recruited, was he suddenly going to be snatched away by Portkey and made to pledge allegiance to the dark side?

No-one mentioned the growing -- or was it growing? -- threat outside the school, nobody discussed death or war. Those with named Death Eater parents and no Quidditch Captaincy or connections were studiously ignored, shunned and forced to band together. It was so easy to sink into the comfortable trap of normality, to deny that anything was going on. But if they did, like Peeves said, something would happen -whoops!- and they'd all be goners.

Draco abandoned the parchment and considered starting on some homework, but thought better of it. If he was about to become a Death Eater, what help would a Conflagration Draught be, exactly? Surely the most important thing was to work on his poker game. He put down his quill and pulled open his chest-of-drawers to search for his novelty Famous Evil Dictators card pack. If the war to end all wars was just around the corner, Draco planned to be stoned and rich for as much of it as possible.

*~*

Harry stood underneath the faucet, scalding water stinging his body and covering him in red blotches. It made him look like he'd been mauled by a lovesick Hippogriff.

He'd been in the shower for at least half an hour. Malfoy's comment had got to him -- not the one about his mother, although Malfoy was going to pay, and pay big, for that -- but the one about showering. Harry would be damned if he gave that git any further excuse to taunt him.

He sluiced his wet hair back from his face; little dribbles of water ran down the back of his neck, making him shiver. If he could be bothered, he'd look up a localised Drying Charm so that he'd never have to suffer wet hair again. However, trying to Desertify his hair could suck all the water out of his brain and that wasn't something he was exactly panting to experience.

Harry looked down at the towel he'd tied, sarong-style, around his waist and sighed. He had an erection, again. It was getting to the level of ridiculousness now.

The stupidest things could trigger it off, too. Grass. A passage about tigers in his Potions textbook. Call-Me-Belinda's low-cut top, although that wasn't exactly stupid so much as unbearably clichéd. People's shoes, that was another one, which was starting to worry Harry rather. Perhaps it was the Victorian in him rising to the surface -- along with other things -- but catching glimpses of ankles underneath robes had made his breath catch more times than he cared to count since he'd returned to school.

The worst thing was, boys' ankles were as interesting to it as girls'. Likewise, it was no use telling it that someone like Heinrich Moon not fanciable, that he was, in fact, the scariest son of primates to ever crack his knuckles all the way down the corridors of Hogwarts. Logic just didn't seem to come into it. Such as in Potions, when Harry had been treated to a ringside view of dozens of feet.

Harry's hands curled into fists as he thought about Potions. Bloody Malfoy --

'Oh, no you don't,' exclaimed Harry, only thankful that he was, as yet, alone in the dormitory. 'I didn't mean it like that -!'

But it was too late. Hurriedly, Harry scrambled on to his bed and pulled the curtains closed. Since third year, it had been an unwritten rule among his classmates that the showers were not to be used for any other purposes than self-cleansing, because of the yuck-factor of having to wash where someone had lately pulled themselves off -- not to mention that it negated rather the hygiene factor inherent in bathing. The other reason, that they never, ever mentioned, was the possibility of needing to wank because of having had a shower with other boys. Communal showers could be the pits, although they did provide for good fun at times, such as when they played the Soap Quidditch leagues.

However, beds were private domains and drawn curtains were as good as a Do Not Disturb sign. Although it had taken Neville a few months -- after he'd discovered he had a penis, somewhere at the end of fifth year -- to learn to bite his lip, on the whole it was a set-up that worked well.

Harry snatched his glasses off his flushed face. At least some of that could be blamed on his boiling-hot shower; so he chose to believe. He hissed out through his teeth, casting his mind about wildly for a better subject matter than that of Malfoy's face as he stared down Belinda's top. Seamus' stash of Muggle porn was somewhere in the room, but Harry was too close and it would take too long, and it was either Belinda or Malfoy, Malfoy or Belinda, Malfoy Belinda Malfoy Belinda Malfoy --

'Oh no,' Harry gasped, collapsing forward on to the very bed he'd been trying to bury himself into seconds earlier. 'No, no, no.' He lay motionless for a few moments, as the true horror of his situation hit him.

'I just wanked off to Malfoy,' he told himself. 'I nearly said his name when --'

It was probably the one thing you could unjustly accuse Malfoy of doing, considering his Anyone But Potter preferences. Harry's were rather more complicated, consisting as they did of Anyone But Malfoy, Ron, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hermione -- and that was just the short-list.

'Again,' he remembered, and groaned weakly.

*~*

'Psst! Potter!'

Harry looked up from where he was seated, slumped over a desk in the Great Hall. To accommodate all the students in a detention setting -- punishment for the food-fight debacle -- Dumbledore had Transfigured the house tables into desks. Purple ones. With gilt edgings, and claw feet, and matching, purple-silk-upholstered, balloon-backed chairs. Harry didn't think Dumbledore quite got the meaning of detention. He had even offered to send round trays of cocoa and marshmallows. His 'I was only joking, dear students' had also rang rather hollow and Harry had seen McGonagall's elbow hovering near Dumbledore's back as he said it.

Susan, two desks down and one row across from him, had twisted around in her seat and was hailing him. Harry raised his eyebrows at her.

'Think quick!' she whispered and tossed something at him. With a natural fear for his life from a missile of Susan's -- who had the arm muscles of an Olympic weightlifter -- Harry reached up his hands and caught it between them.

Susan grinned at him and turned back to whatever it was she was doing. With momentary interest, Harry leaned forward and squinted at her parchment. It looked like a list. He caught the words 'I must not kill Justin' before she settled back into her seat and obscured it with her considerable bulk.

The thing she'd thrown him turned out to be a piece of parchment wrapped around a small, plastic-covered bundle. Harry tore off the parchment and glanced at it. It was a missive from Dumbledore -- why and how Susan had come to have it, Harry couldn't begin to fathom -- informing him that his Firebolt had been returned to his dormitory.

For the first time all day, Harry smiled properly. He couldn't wait to get his hands on his beloved broom once more. For a few moments, he sunk into a pleasant and for once un-sexual fantasy, about flying with the wind in his hair, one hand outstretched for the Snitch.

After an interval of grinning soppily with his eyes closed, Harry felt moved to investigate the package. His eyes widened as he realised what it was. Why on earth was Susan giving him her stash, though? He glanced back at her, and found her looking at him expectantly.

'After,' she mouthed, and turned back to her scribbling.

Harry noticed Snape coming up the row and shoved the little packet in his pocket. Harry had nothing else with him, not even a quill. Most of the other Gryffindors had books; nearly all the Ravenclaws had three books apiece. The Hufflepuffs were writing each other notes; Harry had had to pass several back and forth, which, if he'd had anything better to do, would have annoyed him to Malfoy-esque proportions. Snape had set all the Slytherins lines to do, or something like that; the only one near to Harry was Heinrich and he was rolling the parchment into balls and eating it.

'Potter,' Snape acknowledged him.

'Professor,' Harry returned, rolling his eyes.

'What are you doing, Potter?' Snape's eyes glinted in the candlelight.

'Nothing, Professor,' said Harry, unable to stop his lip curling.

'Mind you keep it that way, then, Potter,' Snape ordered him.

'Will do, Professor,' Harry promised, fluttering his eyelashes. This seemed to highly disconcert Snape and he strode on his way without another word.

The hour dragged interminably. Things only started to liven up when Malfoy had the bright idea of making a peashooter out of a Transfigured piece of parchment. His aim was far from spectacular, as a lot of people around Harry came under fire also, but enough spit-wet balls slid down the inside of Harry's t-shirt to make him fume his way through the detention.

When Dumbledore finally called for bedtime, Harry shook himself off and strode over to where Malfoy was lounging in his chair, grinning like a cat who'd just taken out extensive shares in a lucrative cream company that was on the up and up.

Harry didn't bother to say anything. Actions spoke louder than words, after all. As Malfoy watched in terrified consternation, Harry reached out with his fist full of collected spit balls, and rubbed the wet parchment into Malfoy's hair. Evidently too stunned to react or prevent him, Malfoy sat still as stone as Harry stood back to admire his handiwork and flicked a few strands of Malfoy's hair so that they stood up in an even crazier manner.

'What's the story?' Harry demanded, once he caught up with Susan.

'You'll see now,' Susan said. 'What ho, Kevin!'

'Wotcher, Bones,' said Kevin Entwhistle, and this close Harry could see that his eyes were rimmed with red and as watery-looking as a rabbit's with myxamytosis.. He didn't look like his hair had been washed this side of Harry's birthday; either that, or he'd been getting hair-care tips from Snape.

'I inspected the merchandise,' Susan announced. 'It's passable, but I'll need double that by next week. So, any news of when you'll be getting more, Kev?'

Kevin tapped the side of his nose with a nicotine-stained finger. 'I heard tell from a little bird that the Slytherins are having one of their get-togethers at the weekend. I have more of that on me, but I'll need it to bet with if you want more. Otherwise, that'll be it until the first Hogsmeade weekend.'

'Fine,' said Susan, handing him a couple of Galleons. 'Let me know, okay?'

'You could always try gate-crashing,' suggested Kevin, throwing Harry a speculative glance. 'With him with you, they'd probably wouldn't stop you.'

'No, you're right. They'd just kill us outright.'

'What are you talking about?' asked Harry.

'The Slytherin's wizarding poker ring,' said Kevin, as if it were obvious, which it wasn't, or common knowledge, which it most certainly was not. 'Very exclusive, invitation-only.'

'Is Malfoy going to be there?' Harry wondered.

'Is Snape a git?' said Kevin, and guffawed loudly at his own quip. Harry just stared at him, and he coughed and added, 'Of course. Most of the betting money comes from the gold he lays down to get in.'

'Ah. Typical. I take it Gryffindors are barred?'

'Yeah, but like I say, after what you did to Malfoy the end of last term, you'd get in easy. Trust me.' Kevin scratched the back of his head, dislodging a shower of white flakes. Harry felt less inclined to trust Kevin than he would a menopausal basilisk, but at the same time, he looked like he knew what he was talking about.

'Any of your people going?' Harry turned to Susan.

'Doubt it,' she replied. 'There's a reason we got into Hufflepuff. And the Slytherins hate us even more than they do Gryffindors.'

'Good.' Harry smiled. 'We'll both see you there, Entwhistle. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see a trunk about a broom.'