Snakes and Ladders

SNAKES AND LADDERS

I wasn't me when we met

You haven't lost my respect

I'm here to serve and protect

What shade of insanity

Keeps leading you back to me

-- ROBBIE WILLIAMS

Draco Malfoy sat at the Head Table of the Great Hall, shifting a little in the leather-bound, high-backed chair. He ran his thumb around the rim of his glass, wishing it were wine instead of innocuous apple cider. The Headmaster, although partial to strong spirits himself, forbade his professors to drink during school hours, fearing to give the "brain-dead morons who pass for students of this establishment" any more ready ammunition to flout the rules.

"After all," he'd said, sneering -- his top lip seemed glued into a little half-curl on a permanent basis, "any Gryffindor worth his salt will march right up and ask for some. The Ravenclaws will mutter among themselves that one rule for us and another for them is theoretically unjust. An odd Hufflepuff who has actually realised what is going on will probably see it as a justification for the alcoholism problem that has dogged that House since its foundation."

"And the Slytherins?" Draco had asked, leaning back and drawing his lips back over his teeth in a feral smile.

The Headmaster let a sullen smile of his own flicker across his features, like sunlight breaking through thunderclouds. He ignored the scowls and growls of the other assembled teachers to say, "They, of course, will have discovered and consumed the secret stash of Firewhiskey in each of our personal chambers."

Draco knew that many people, both inside and outside Hogwarts, thought that Snape as Headmaster was unfairly partisan to Slytherins. This was completely true, of course, but what they failed to acknowledge was that Dumbledore had been the exact same towards his precious Gryffindors. As ever, it was the perpetual bias against Slytherins rearing its ugly head.

And yet. Although in the depths of his soul, Snape might feel more kindly towards his fellow alumni -- and although he lost no opportunity to build them up at the other Houses' expense -- outside of the teacher's quarters he was stringently even-handed. That is, he was a bastard to everyone -- but not more so to any one person or House. Only in private did Snape wallow in his favourite pastime: Gryffindor -- and, if the chance arose, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff -- bashing.

Draco thought that his House was long due to be cut a little slack. It was taking its own sweet time, however, to make people see the oppression the Slytherins had laboured under. Fair enough, there were more often bad eggs in Slytherin than was quite statistically correct. However it was Draco's considered opinion, soldered iron-solid after sixteen years spent as a teacher, that people generally performed as others expected them to. So at least a quarter of the blame for the big bad Slytherin stereotype could be laid at the door of the prejudice that the Lions, Badgers and Eagles had allowed to fester.

Draco still thought it was the greatest joke ever when the son of the great, good Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter himself, was Sorted into the Serpent's Den.

* * *

Draco pushed open the door to the Headmaster's Office. The portrait of Dumbledore twinkled at him, but Draco didn't feel the need to drop his customary smirk when faced by it. While Dumbledore lived, not a will of iron but must crumple when confronted with a face that was always chuckling at some internal joke. Fortunately, the portrait painter, for all his consummate skill, had not been able to capture this feature of his sitter.

Draco opened his mouth to address his employer as Severus, as befit old friends, but was brought up short by the presence of a student. Draco did not think it appropriate that he and Snape bandy around their given names when one of the vipers could hear. It would weaken the façade that they both maintained towards the students, that of bladder-weakening terror.

'Headmaster Snape,' he said, with ice-blade coldness. Snape inclined his head by the merest fraction, but returned the greeting in the same tone.

'I have called you here in your capacity as Potions master,' Snape went on. 'One of our new students --' and all of a sudden his voice became warmer, like acid seeping through skin '-- has a certain condition that requires our attention.'

Draco remained stock-still, but swivelled his eyes so that they came to rest on the small boy shivering in a wing-chair by the roaring fire. It was a trick that stood him in good stead in listening in on student conversations, which were a barometer of what was really happening in the part of the school that teachers had no access to.

He wasn't surprised to find that the boy looked frightened. Draco would have been pissing himself if he'd been summoned to Dumbledore's office his first night at school, even discounting the horror stories about a Muggle-loving maniac that his father had fed him. He was prepared to bet that Snape had held off informing the boy of the reason for his being there in order to establish a healthy atmosphere of bone-chilling suspense. Clearly, the boy was thinking something along the lines of: I didn't really take her Chocolate Frog/ trip him up/ pinch the trolley lady's arse, please please please don't expel me.

Suddenly Draco performed an abrupt double-take that involved him turning to look at the boy face-on. Yes; as he strode forward to check, the light revealed the boy's fearful face clearly.

It was Potter's son - what had Neville called him? The fool boy -- despite Longbottom's thirty-six years Draco still saw him as the quivering, stuttering eleven-year-old lump of lard that he once was -- had a terrible habit of mumbling. Headship of Gryffindor or not -- and Draco favoured the not, considering that to be Head of Gryffindor was only slightly less ridiculous that trying to commune with the dead -- Neville was not exactly imbued with social graces, particularly when it came to public speaking. Still, what else could one expect from a former Gryffindor?

'Wystan.' The name came, rolled off his tongue as he opened his mouth. 'Wystan Potter.'

The boy nodded miserably, his huge, dark-lashed eyes wide with unhappiness. Draco spun back to Snape, who had his hands spread flat on his desk and looking as if he would love to clench them. To Draco's mind, this was perfectly understandable. Snape had suffered a great deal at the hands of this child's father and grandfather, so he could not expected to welcome the third generation with open arms and a cherry lollipop.

As Draco watched, alight with admiration, Snape gathered himself. His features relaxed; if he was not quite smiling, neither was he scowling.

'Young Mr Potter suffered an unfortunate accident two years ago,' said Snape. His face compressed for a mere second, so that only someone as sharp-eyed as Draco would have spotted it. 'He received a werewolf bite.'

So involved was Draco in watching Snape struggle to regulate his breathing, it took a moment for his words to register. When they did, he was hard pressed not to scream. With laudable self-control, he pinched the skin of the web between his forefinger and thumb, under his robes, and said with only the tiniest of quivers in his voice, 'Infected?'

'Lamentably, yes.' As one, they turned to face the boy, who seemed to shrink under their combined gazes. His face spasmed, his small fingers clutching at the leather seat-cover as if it would provide a shield.

'As you have probably guessed, I have need of your services,' said Snape, after a moment. \He will need a cauldron of Wolfsbane every month. I would do it myself, as I did for that mo -- for Lupin, but I am swamped with work as it is.'

Draco swallowed, but he knew his duty. 'Of course.'

Snape sent him a rare, genuine smile. 'I expected no less. You are at least as accomplished a potion-brewer as myself, and possibly better. The best student I ever had.'

'Thank you, Headmaster,' said Draco, allowing his lips to curl upwards and wondering once again why the man refused to be drawn into anything more than a platonic relationship, when every so often he would let loose these firecracker comments.

'Did you go to school here?' the boy piped up, but the inquisitiveness that made his hazel eyes flare faded when met with one of Draco's freezing stares.

Inside, Draco was almost panicking, wondering how to play this. Harry Potter's son; those three words were a perfect incentive to lambaste the boy and the ultimate reason why he could not. Settling for disinterestedness, Draco said, 'I did, of course. Like most wizards in Britain. But a long time ago, before you were even born. I daresay the castle is still as easy to get lost in, never fear.'

The boy opened his mouth as if to speak, but snapped it shut again. Quick learner, Draco thought. He tried not to feel satisfaction or to ponder that Potter's son could be a significant asset to his new House.

'Mr Potter,' said Snape, 'please go out into the anteroom. I wish to speak to Professor Malfoy for a few minutes, but he will then escort you to your common room.'

'Thank you,' said the child, and scampered out. Obedient, too, Draco thought. Is Potter sure he's the father?

Stifling a smirk at the pleasant thought of the Boy Who Lived to be Cuckolded, Draco focused on his colleague's face only to find it peculiarly intent. With a dawning suspicion, he opened his mouth, but had only got as far as the "h" of 'Oh, no you don't' when Snape cut him off.

'He is going to need some looking after,' Snape informed him, as Draco gaped. 'There are a lot of factors working against him: His parentage, his condition, latterly his house. Potter -- goddamn! I never thought fate would allow there to be another -- Harry managed to keep the werewolf attack out of the media, but his Sorting will be splashed all over tomorrow's Daily Prophet. History repeats itself, only darker. People are not going to be happy about this. The backlash will be so great that I should not wonder if it will undo all we have managed to achieve in terms of stilling Slytherin-based discrimination.'

'You think that puny kid is capable of that much?' asked Draco weakly.

Snape shook his head. 'That, and more. His powers will be great, and not just his magical ones. People will follow where a Potter leads, as his father and grandfather so amply proved many moons ago. However, if that Potter turns to the dark because of what he suffers at the hands of other children ... if he leads the wrong people ... Draco, I do not want to be responsible for another Tom Riddle.'

'The circumstances are completely different!' objected Draco.

'Are they?' Snape ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I wish I had your certainty." He sighed. 'You and I are the only people on the staff who know Wystan is a werewolf and I wish it to remain that way at all costs. To ascertain this, some -- measures will have to be undertaken. Thank god for Wolfsbane. The Shrieking Shack will not be drafted in as another generation's dangerous temptation, not on my watch.'

Draco watched in growing consternation as Snape shoved back his chair and made a beeline for his liquor cabinet. By the time he had turned back to Draco, with two crystal tumblers half-full of whiskey, Draco had made his decision. Greater things were at stake here than the little pride he would have to sacrifice in order to pally up with his old rival's son. Although it was never officially acknowledged, everyone knew that Draco was Snape's second in command in all but name. He had risen to that position by never letting his former teacher down, and he wasn't about to start now.

Draco let Snape take a soothing gulp from his glass before reaching for his hand. They gripped each other around the wrists, plighting the ancient Wizard's Troth of fellowship and trust.

'What have you got in mind, Severus?'

* * *

Draco whipped out his wand to perform a Breath-Freshening Charm. No need to be encouraging the boy to think he was anything less than teetotal, although from the rumours Draco had heard the boy should be well hardened to the smell of drink. As he stepped out of Snape's private office into the waiting room, he found his labours had been in vain; Wystan was fast asleep, legs and arms curled around himself, on the floor beside the fire. Fawkes, the unreliable old phoenix who could only be counted on to turn up when he needed to be fed -- usually during a staff-meeting -- had alighted on a nearby cabinet and was crooning softly as he regarded the boy.

The bird ruffled its feathers when it spotted Draco and swooped over to land on his shoulder. Draco let it, long-suffering. The bird had taken an inexplicable shine to him on their first encounter and nothing Draco did could convince the stupid beast that he hated animals, birds especially.

It nipped his ear in misplaced affection. Its song stopped and the boy stirred, something for which Draco was eternally grateful. He did not particularly want to become a Potter's alarm clock, on top of everything else.

'Well, Potter,' he said coolly, as the boy stumbled to his feet, cheeks flushed from the fire and slumber. At this distance, his familial resemblance was uncanny. It was how he imagined Snape must have felt on his first encounter with Harry: Almost winded, and vaguely angry. Although in Snape's case, 'extremely' probably should be substituted for 'vaguely'.

'I'll walk you down to the dungeons,' he added and the boy visibly started.

'I forgot the Slytherin rooms were in the dungeons,' he said in a low voice.

'Expecting a tower, were you?' sneered Draco, pushing open the door. No doubt Potter had expected to be Sorted into Gryffindor, as every miserable Potter had been since Time began.

'Yes,' said Wystan, shortly but honestly. Draco, who had been expecting a sullen response or none at all, raised an eyebrow.

'Well, it does one good to embrace new things.' Draco shrugged. 'Idiot bird! What are you hanging around for? Bu -- Go away!'

Wystan tilted his face away to hide what could have been a smile. A few seconds later, when Draco whipped his head around to source a strange clicking sound, he realised that it was coming from the boy.

At Draco's piecing stare, Wystan coloured up, but Draco felt his shoulder suddenly relieved of its weight as Fawkes flew to land on Wystan's outstretched arm.

'Impressive,' said Draco, in cold tones that suggested that the boy's little performance was anything but.

'He visits us sometimes,' said Wystan, biting his lip, but said nothing more. Draco had to applaud his close-mouthed-ness, despite the flickering of his own aroused curiosity -- considering the secrets the boy was required to keep.

Under his breath, Draco performed a quick spell that would alert him to any approaching person before they were within ten feet of him. It was a little piece of Dark Magic he had inherited from his father, but he felt no qualms about using it in these circumstances. Hatred of werewolves ran high and hot, as several had been indentured into Voldemort's service. More had offered of themselves freely, the loathed Fenrir Greyback among them. Either way, it made for messier killings than Avada had been used to provide. The public was more than ready to accept Remus Lupin as a white crow and turn on the rest, tame or otherwise, with a honed blood-lust.

'Well, Potter,' began Draco, and the boy left off petting the bird to snap to attention. Full marks, Potter. 'Headmaster Snape has informed me of the extent of your condition --'

'My disease,' Wystan corrected him, his voice even but venomous. 'You don't have to pretty it up, Professor. I don't care what Dad and Remus say. I know I'm a monster.'

Draco felt startled, despite -- or perhaps because of -- the fact that he'd been thinking much the same thing himself. He reviewed his notion that simply because he was eleven, the child needed coddling. Protection, yes; glazing of the truth, no. He could face it like a man.

Draco's lips pulled back involuntarily in a humourless rictus. No. Like a Slytherin.

Wystan was regarding him with a wary expression. Draco coughed and settled his raging thoughts.

'I don't suppose you know any magic, yet?'

'I do.' Of course. 'Some protection spells.'

'I'm glad you know how to defend yourself.' You'll need it, Draco added mentally.

'They're not for me.' Wystan struggled to find the words. 'My father taught me some wards, so that I couldn't hurt anyone, if I was ever alone for any reason.'

Draco hissed out a breath between his teeth at the words 'my father'. Wystan stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

'How could you hurt anyone? The Wolfsbane renders you -- harmless.'

'Mostly harmless,' Wystan corrected him. 'I keep my mind, but I am also -- well, I am the wolf. So I ward a room so I can't get out and no one can get in. Plus,' his face tightened, 'it's not readily available, so I've had to do without it sometimes, and there was no way I'd allow anyone to get near me. My wards have to be perfect.'

Draco, feeling disorientated, wondered why the boy sounded so familiar. That tone of weary acceptance, where had he heard it before? Not from Wystan's father. Harry had always burned, with fury for revenge, with fury for change, and in any case he was a rebel to the core.

With a jolt, Draco realised that Wystan sounded like himself. At eleven, he too had been self-possessed and withdrawn, but also bowed and brow-beaten. However, Draco had to admit that for all his faults, even Harry Potter would not do that to his own son.

Life had done it pretty well for him.

A small silence had grown up as Draco pondered and he shook himself. Wystan was walking with his back ramrod straight, his chin lifted in defiance. So. Not quite beaten. Not yet.

Not on my watch.

'The Headmaster and I have discussed how to explain your monthly absences,' continued Draco. 'The potion condenses your symptoms so you are a wolf for one full day and night, correct?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Wystan. Draco smirked. He'd love to see Harry's face right now, watching his son acting all deferential around his old enemy. It was balm to the soul and made him feel slightly better disposed towards Wystan.

'We will set up a room for you adjacent to my chambers, so that I can administer your potion and coincidentally keep you up to date on your schoolwork. According to Professor Snape's research, at high noon, for an hour, you have the ability to reassume human form. You can spend that time on your homework.' The boy made a face, which he fondly assumed Draco could not see. 'Meanwhile, your other teachers and classmates will be told that you are visiting your father. No one will question the whims of the great Harry Potter.'

Draco could not stop a hint of bitterness creeping into his last words and Wystan looked up at him curiously. 'Did you know my dad?' he asked.

'We've -- met,' said Draco. He had no desire to discuss his nemesis with said nemesis' son. Not now, not ever. He wished he'd thought to deny the connection, but then again Harry Potter had a way of messing up his life, even by proxy.

'Professor Snape has also suggested that I give you additional tutelage, to teach you how to brew Wolfsbane yourself. In lieu of a proper cure, you will need to know this when you leave Hogwarts. Of course, we need not begin straight away, nor even this year. It is an excessively complicated potion and you may not even have any aptitude for the subject.' Especially as your father wouldn't have even passed it without Dumbledore on his side. And your mother -- well, the less said the better.

'I probably won't,' said Wystan, sounding glum, and now there were shades of Longbottom in his stance. 'My father is pretty crap at it. He and Remus --'

Abruptly he closed his mouth and busied himself with stroking Fawkes' ruffled head. Unbidden, a memory of Harry doing the very same thing rose in Draco's mind. He vanquished it with an impatient huff.

They continued the rest of the way in silence. At the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons, dimly lit with green-tinted kerosene lamps, Draco shooed Fawkes away. For once, the overgrown parrot obeyed him; it clearly had as little liking for the place as Wystan, judging by his pallor. Or it could just be the lighting.

'The password is 'Bezoar',' Draco informed him. 'It is a --'

'Protection against most poisons,' murmured Wystan, then blushed, seemingly at his audacity. Draco nodded, his mouth tight.

'That is correct. When you go in, ask for Nigel Flint. He's a Prefect. He'll show you the way to the dorms and things. If anyone asks where you were, tell them you got lost. Don't mention anything of what happened in the last hour, try to avoid referring overly to your family connections unless you have the balls to back it up and do not tell them you are a werewolf. Slytherin or not, that's something to keep for later.'

'That goes without saying,' said Wystan, looking stung.

'You're eleven, forgive me if I forget how mature and responsible you are,' said Draco, before he could stop himself. Wincing, he gritted his teeth for Wystan's reaction.

A faint smile. Correction: A smirk.

Well, well, well. Potter, just what have you spawned?

On the point of spinning on his heel and departing for his well-appointed and, more importantly, alcohol-stocked private apartments, the changing expression on Wystan's face halted Draco.

It could best be described as wistful, although the trembling lower lip belied that label in favour of young, scared and homesick.

Merlin, what does this kid expect? A goodnight kiss? A lullaby? Saints preserve us.

'Good night, Potter. Sleep well,' he said stiffly, after casting about for something comforting. He quickly patted the boy's shoulder. His upbringing had not inured him to outwardly displaying emotion.

Pathetic attempt though it was, it seemed to do the trick. Wystan took a deep breath, braced his sagging back and vanished through the slab without a backwards glance.

As he strode away, Draco seemed to recall that Harry Potter had never been one overly given to publicly showing affection either.

* * *

Draco swept into the Potion's classroom with pursed lips. He knew well the value of first impressions on a bunch of giddy preteens; the more petrifying, the better. Fortunately for his own boredom threshold he had the introductory lecture down-pat. It was, in fact, standard; Snape had used it before him. It was practically a Potion Master tradition save for those namby-pamby weak-tea losers who wanted to bond with the children. Draco shuddered. Perish the thought.

In a low voice that forced the assembled students to shut up and strain to hear, he began his monologue, flicking around the room with a practised eye.

'You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making ...'

No flame-coloured heads reared to meet him like a hangover dream; there were no more Weasleys due for another two years. Someone up there was taking pity on poor Hogwarts professors. Without exception, all nine Weasleys to pass through the school since Draco had taken a job there had been troublemakers on a par with the legendary Fred and George; not surprising, seeing as how they had spawned five of them. There hadn't been one Percy among them.

They all had an intimate acquaintance with Draco's history, or at least an edited version; he could hazard a guess as to where the nickname Professor Ferret had originated. It was only the fact of his former Death Eater status that stopped them from making complete showground of his classes. Only a Weasley could have made Draco thankful for that particular, student-subduing section of his past.

'I don't expect you will really understand the beauty ...'

No, in fact none of his former classmates' offspring graced his work desks. Excepting, of course, Wystan Potter. Where was the boy?

Slytherin-Gryffindor classes were no longer par for the course; Snape made a point of rotating the combinations every year. This time it was one of Draco's particular favourites: Slytherin-Ravenclaw. So much simmering potential there, and the idiots and the heroes were sifted out of sight. Of course, no Weasley would ever make it into one of these Houses; but after the exploits of Robert Weasley and the Amazing Exploding Crucibles Draco was prepared for anything.

'... bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses ...'

Oh. He had finally located Wystan. On making his periodic swoops around the dungeon Draco had missed the boy, huddled on a stool at the very front desk. Draco frowned; he was sitting alone. He hadn't pinned Wystan as the sort to make friends easily, much like himself in fact. On the other hand, he was in Slytherin, for Merlin's sake; surely even eleven-year-olds with the wit given a cat could spot the potential in befriending a famous Potter.

After all, twenty-five years ago, he had.

'I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory ...'

Draco glided to a halt behind his own carved mahogany desk, face to face with his class at last. As per usual, most were looking bored, some jittery, all apprehensive, which was exactly as it should be ... except for Potter.

Wystan was sitting bolt upright, hands clenched together on the desk. His eyes were wide and feverish and his expression ... well, there was no other word for it but rapt. Bright with interest. It was sufficiently unusual for Draco to stumble in his speech. He coughed self-consciously.

'That is, if you aren't as big a bunch of cauldron-destroying bog-warriors as I usually have to teach.'

He glanced over at Potter, and Draco swore on his mother's grave, wherever it was, that Wystan sent him a ghost of a wink.

Pouncing on his roll-call log, Draco smiled maliciously and the room visibly recoiled. Excellent. 'Have we got a Lois McNair here?'

A bull-faced girl with wiry hair and a face that would have stopped traffic at twenty yards raised a trembling hand.

'Ah, good. Well, McNair, tell me --' are you related to that axe-wielding mass-murderer? Draco blinked. The name had sounded familiar. The girl was literally shaking; after all, Potter was not the only one with family secrets. 'What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'

'I -- I don't know, sir,' the girl stuttered.

'That big book on your desk?' said Draco. 'Textbook. Please to read before showing up to my classes again.'

Behind him, he could hear Potter murmur, 'Draught of the Living Death.' Draco didn't know what to be more shocked by; that Wystan had dared to speak out of turn, or that he had actually got it correct.

'Mr Potter,' snapped Draco. Our new celebrity. 'Since you seem to be so keen to answer other people's questions, tell me where I would find a bezoar?'

Wystan blanched, but didn't hesitate. 'In a goat's stomach.'

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'I find you to be quite amazingly -- right, Mr Potter.' The class murmured in admiration and a wicked thought occurred to Draco. 'Take ten points for -- Slytherin, Potter.'

Oh, revenge. Unexpected, but sweet as a Veela's hot lips in a snowstorm.

Wystan sat up straighter, his triumph apparent in the tilt of his head. His expression, apart from a glow in his golden eyes, did not change one whit, however.

A true Slytherin. Inside, Draco was roaring with laughter. What tangled webs we do weave, indeed.

* * *

A week into term and Draco was already tearing his hair out over essays -- not that it needed it, for he seemed to recall his forehead being a lot smaller than it was nowadays. As ever, most of what he was marking bore little or no resemblance to what had been asked. One girl had dared to scribble a love heart in the margins of one, with a Weasley, no less!

The temerity of it left Draco reaching for his brandy snifter. Oh, he was aware of a Weasley or two floating around in the upper years, but did he have to be reminded so sharply? Shock and awe, the girl was a Gryffindor. Recklessly brave. Draco snorted. Her courage had landed her a big fat zero, which he was sure she'd appreciate greatly.

With a faint tremor of dread, Draco took up his first year essays. He wondered at the schooling some had received prior to Hogwarts; often it did not seem to incorporate writing in its curriculum. Draco winced at the scrawls that would only have been appreciated in a modern art gallery, if even there.

One neat, clean page jumped out from the rest and Draco snatched at it eagerly. He scanned it, eyes widening in delighted surprise. The essay was written in a clear, rounded, flowing script -- and it was a perfect piece, without flaw. Draco turned it over, to take the name.

Wystan Potter.

Will wonders never cease, though Draco hazily, scribbling a 10 on the sheet as a firm knocking at the door pulled him from his seat.

He opened it, looked out and saw no one. He looked down. Wystan was standing there with his arms crossed, looking determined yet resigned.

'Potter,' said Draco, his voice almost a squeak. 'What are you doing here?'

'Well, sir, I know you said it was too early to start teaching me the W-- potion, but I really want to learn.' Wystan looked up at him, a flash of green fire lighting his hazel eyes momentarily. Blood won out, now and then.

'Who am I to turn away learning?' murmured Draco. 'All right, come in for a few moments.'

He led Wystan to his sitting room and seated him in one of the rigid, gate-backed chairs that ringed his grate. Lighting it with a word, he sat in one and gestured Wystan to another.

'Tea?' he offered, well aware that Wystan was on pins and needles. It was always better to face into a conversation like this when the other party was at a disadvantage. Something he had learned from Dumbledore, as it happened.

'No, thank you, sir,' he said, shaking his head.

'You're a very polite boy,' commented Draco, conjuring himself a mug of Earl Grey.

'You sound surprised,' said Wystan wryly, lifting an eyebrow.

And you sound ... like Harry. In his later years. No, don't go there.

'You must have had a good upbringing,' mused Draco, avoiding Wystan's question-disguised-as-a-statement.

'I suppose I did.'

God, but the boy was infuriating! And brilliant. Draco shook his head, sipping his tea. Although he could recognise Potter Senior to be a wizard of no mean talents, he had never been subtle. Or clever. He relied more on brute courage and raw power, both of which he had in abundance.

Wystan, though; well, he probably was courageous. These days, however, it wasn't a trait that was greatly called for and judging from his small acquaintance with the boy's character, not one he thought Wystan would much desire.

If Wystan were courageous, however, it would make his father merely rash. Wystan appeared to have a calculating side that Draco empathised with, unlike his father, who was as transparent as a glass of water and about as devious.

Switching subjects, Draco said, 'I'll admit you seem to have a flair for Potions, which is unexpected, to say the least. However, even were you a genius you simply do not have the practical skills required for brewing a potion of this complexity.' Wystan opened his mouth to object and the green flare was there, so the objections would probably verge on stringent. Draco waved a hand to silence him. 'I did not say I would not teach you -- just not yet. I will cut you a deal.' He smirked. 'Slytherin to Slytherin, let us say.'

Wystan hesitated and a strange expression came over his face. Before Draco could even begin to analyse it, it had disappeared and 'Slytherin to Slytherin,' he agreed, quirking his mouth.

'You will work hard at your Potions class work until Christmas,' instructed Draco. 'I expect you to gain full marks on every piece of work, or near enough, as proof of your ability. If you succeed, after the Christmas break we will start work on the Wolfsbane Potion.'

'Deal,' said Wystan, so quickly that Draco thought that he must already know his own talents as regards potion-brewing.

'Very well, we are agreed,' said Draco. When Wystan made no move to leave, he frowned. 'Well then, be off. I'm sure you have plenty of mischief to be getting up to.'

'Not really,' said Wystan. He took a deep breath. 'Professor, you went to school with my father, didn't you?'

'Yes,' said Draco; a long, painful word. Clearly, the boy had been chatting with Weasleys. 'I as much as told you so before. Why?'

'Oh, it's just --' The boy floundered for a moment, before regaining his footing. He looked at Draco in defiance. 'I thought you could -- maybe -- tell me about my mother.'

'I'm afraid not,' said Draco coldly. 'You see, I don't know who she is.'

'Oh.' The boy blinked. 'You and me both, then.'

'What, Potter hasn't told you yet?' exclaimed Draco, slopping tea over his hand. 'Shit!'

He reached for his wand, but Wystan was quicker. In two seconds, a cooling charm soothed his wrist and the spilled tea was Vanished. Draco gaped at the boy. A week into school and he was spewing spells like a second-year. Wystan raised one eyebrow in reply, in an expression Draco was horrified to realise was a mirror of his own trademark one.

'Clearly, every time you wanted to know, he fobbed you off with a spell,' snapped Draco, shakily placing his cup on a table and not quite aware of what he was saying.

Wystan smiled, slowly and craftily.

'Good lord, it's true,' murmured Draco. 'Well, I can hereby assign him a new altar of stupidity, and you ...'

'Are you going to take points off me for knowing a few spells?' asked Wystan and Draco couldn't, of course.

'I really think you should go back to your common room,' said Draco. 'Make some friends.'

'Aren't you my friend?' said Wystan, his composed expression suddenly crumbling to reveal a gaping hole of need. Draco was nearly felled at this sudden volte-face.

'Your own age,' he enunciated.

'Fine,' grumbled Wystan. He was nearly at the door before he turned back, smirking. 'I don't have friends. I have followers.'

Draco stifled an urge to throw something at the much closed door. Not slammed; just clicked gently shut. Surely if Draco had written a book about his life, he'd know about it?

Because apparently this child of Potter's was determined to quote it verbatim.

* * *

Striding along the corridors, Draco paused by a window to blow on his chilled fingers. The cloisters had changed little since their medieval construction, when window glass had not been a popular ornamental feature. Even the warming charms on the floor did little more than prevent unwary strollers from dropping dead of frostbite during the winter months.

Shouts from below drew Draco to peer out onto the green quad. He smirked; a first-year flying lesson. It should be good for entertainment value, at least. He hoped someone fell off.

He leaned against the window frame -- arrow slit, in truth -- resting his files against his hip. The flying instructor, a middle-aged American witch called Myra Longhorn who hailed from the Salem Institute, was striding along between the lines of grounded brooms and quivering children. The wind whipped her words away from Draco, but he could guess at their content. Most Hogwarts homilies were staples.

He remembered, with a peculiar twisting in his stomach, his first Hogwarts flying lesson. When Potter had made a fool of him and started a long-running tradition; when he'd seen Potter's superb flying skills and for the first time in his life, had wanted something he couldn't have.

Still didn't have.

Shaking his head in an effort to clear it, Draco cast his sharp eyes to the end of the line, where he'd spotted a familiar tousled black head. Potter's broom was already in his hand, a moment before everyone else's. No Longbottom or Weasley graced this class and Draco got to see something he hadn't seen before. That was, twenty students bestriding their brooms and attempting to hover for five minutes without any untoward genius, either in flying or trouble-making, to disrupt it.

Of course, this was beyond the skills of many and Myra darted around, correcting grips and trying to instil some backbone. Draco had eyes for no one but Potter's son. He was on tenterhooks to see if Potter's renowned proficiency on a broom had been translated on to the next generation.

Wystan appeared to be an indifferent flier, however. Myra had no call to mark or aid him, but neither was there to be any fireworks with a Rememberall or anything of that nature. Wystan performed all that was asked for deftly, but without enthusiasm. Regardless, it was evident that he knew exactly what he was doing. With the trained eye of an expert, Draco decided he had potential, but nothing that was out of the ordinary way. He hadn't the build for a Seeker, either; probably, if he could transfer the skills of reasoning and logic that Draco admired in his Potions work onto the pitch, he'd make a noteworthy Keeper, traditionally the strategists of Quidditch teams.

Not for this Potter the magnificent glory and terrible responsibility of winning the game. Wystan, Draco resolved, was truly made to be a power behind the throne, as opposed to a rather ineffectual figurehead.

Leaving them to it, as Myra dashed forward to prevent a head-on collision between two broom-riders -- one of whom, he did not fail to remark with distaste, had her eyes clenched shut in abject fear -- Draco continued on his way, still shivering slightly, but not entirely with the cold.

* * *

Under Snape's supervision, Draco had an expertly brewed Wolfsbane Potion to his credit and the wherewithal to concoct it on his own by the first full moon of the school term. At eleven, Draco rose from his desk at a discreet tapping on his door. He opened it a crack and a small figure brushed past him. Quickly shutting and bolting the door behind him, Draco turned to see Wystan divesting himself of a silvery garment that puddled like quicksilver around his feet.

'An Invisibility Cloak!' said Draco, unable to quench the desire in his voice. 'I knew Potter must have had one, the jammy bastard.'

'Inheritance is a wonderful thing,' said Wystan in a solemn voice, just as Draco winced at his inadvertent admission. He had never been able to keep control of his tongue around Potter senior or when talking about him, but it was still ill-advised to act so loosely around his son.

Wystan scooped up the Cloak and folded it neatly over a chair. He then seated himself with an expectant expression, looking up at Draco, very young all of a sudden.

'Do you want to take the Potion in your room?' asked Draco. Wystan shrugged.

'I don't mind. It takes about half-an-hour to work anyhow, so it doesn't make a difference.'

'Very well,' said Draco, heading for the steaming cauldron he had set up on a tripod in one corner. He ladled three quarts into a mug emblazoned with the words 'Romania 2010' and handed it to Wystan, who shuddered before tossing it back in two careful gulps.

Draco watched him. 'Taste right?'

'As horrible as ever,' said Wystan, grinning.

'Would you like something to eat -- to get rid of the taste?'

'Dad always gave me chocolate,' said Wystan, gazing up through his lashes almost challengingly.

'I'll see what I can rustle up,' promised Draco. He had several Honeyduke's Death By Chocolate truffles in his bedside locker; despite the reputation of Weasley's Wizard Wheeze's Caramel Sutra confectionary range, he refused on principle to buy it.

When he returned from his bedroom, he tossed the three he had left onto Wystan's lap. The boy raised an eyebrow, as if surprised; Draco scowled. Bitter and sadistic he might be, but he was hardly going to deny a child some consolation for what he was shortly going to suffer.

Even Harry's child.

As he gestured Wystan to follow him into the small chamber adjacent to his office, Draco mused that somehow, he had become estranged from the tenets of Lucius Malfoy, and even those of Severus Snape, who preached that the offspring of any enemy must pay for the sins of the father for time immemorial. Even with Weasleys, Draco detested them on their own, personal and unique merits rather than because they were children of the Weasel and the Mudblood. This might have had something to do with the fact that Draco couldn't tell their children from Bill's, or Charlie's, or Fred's or George's or Ginny's; Percy had yet to convince someone to reproduce with him. And yet.

Some small part of Draco wondered if he were attempting to achieve with this boy what he had failed to achieve with another, older, lightning-scarred boy. He shied away from this train of thought, mainly because he still wasn't clear on what exactly he had wanted from Harry, and it was useless sniffing after a trail gone cold so long.

The windowless room boasted a fireplace, a trundle bed, a desk, a bookshelf piled with issues Draco couldn't fit in his own plethora of bookcases and a few balloon-backed chairs.

'I'm not sure what else you need in here,' he admitted, as Wystan stepped around him to plump down on the bed. 'I mean, can you read --?'

'I can. Not so good on the turning of pages, though. Not what paws were designed for.'

'Oh. Pity,' said Draco, temporarily at a loss.

'I often watched television,' offered Wystan hopefully.

Draco regarded him blankly. 'Television. And that is?'

'Muggle thing,' said Wystan, sighing a little. 'For looking at moving pictures.'

'Oh,' said Draco again, hating to have his ignorance, even of Muggle trash, revealed. 'Well, I'll have a chat to Professor Snape and see what he says. I'm not promising anything -- the wards scramble Muggle technology, apparently. You'll have to live without it this time, anyway.'

'Right,' said Wystan, yawning.

'Is there anything else I can do?'

'Well ...' Wystan appeared reluctant to ask, and Draco made a Go-On gesture with his fingers. 'You could read to me -- after I change. Until I fall asleep.'

'I can probably manage that,' said Draco. 'Any preferences?'

'Nope. You choose.' Wystan yawned again, and Draco gulped. His canines hadn't been so sharp and glossy a few minutes ago. 'Oh, it's starting. Will you --' His voice firmed. 'I'll have to take off my clothes, so will you wait outside?'

'Very well,' Draco acquiesced, wondering how on earth Wystan was going to let him know when it was over. Shrugging, he slid down the other side of the door until he was squatting on the floor. He held his limbs loose, carefully thinking of nothing, as he had been used to do when Snape had trained him in Occlumency. A few minutes later, a scrabbling at the door and a low whine alerted him to Wystan's calling.

He opened the door again apprehensively, to find a sleek, brush-haired wolf gambolling before the fire. No -- his eyes widened, in mild amusement, as he corrected himself -- a wolf cub, a metallic grey, was currently chasing its own tail in front of him.

As Draco pushed the door to, the cub looked up and bounced over to him, shoving its damp nose against his calf. Draco dropped to one knee, tentatively running a hand over the wiry head. He hadn't much knowledge of animals, besides phoenixes, but Wystan seemed to like it so he must be doing something right.

When the cub began enthusiastically washing his hand with a wet, rough tongue, Draco hastily decided that was enough Homini Lupin Lupus bonding for one night. Getting to his feet, he wandered over to the bookshelves, scanning the potions textbooks and rat-eared political histories for something suitable for an eleven-year-old wolf.

His eyes alighted on an old copy of one of his favourite books and he drew it out of the shelf, taking care to avoid causing a literary avalanche. Wystan had settled himself in a half-moon curl on the rug, basking in the warmth of the flames. Draco stepped over him as he let out a huge dog-sigh and let his tongue hang out, grinning up at Draco. Seating himself on a chair, Draco opened the book as Wystan lolled bonelessly, clearly ready to be sent off to the land of Nod.

Draco cleared his throat and began to read. 'Hogwarts; A History. A three-hundred-and-forty-third reprint, with edits by Hermione Weasley ...'

* * *

The day before the school broke up for the Christmas holidays, and everyone was literally incandescent with exuberance. Much of the tomfoolery was good-natured, but Draco ended up having to de-curse half-a-dozen students who'd got carried away practising the Merry Christmas Charm, an apparently harmless little spell that made the victim spout carols every time they opened their mouths. None of the little twerps had bothered to look up the counter-Charm, however.

In addition there was a spate of tinsel-strangling, a rash of flashing red-noses and, to top them all, WWW had invented a new product: Heatless Flame Brandy, which was poured over an unsuspecting recipient at intervals of every three minutes or so and set alight. While Draco, yet again, had to admire the Weasley twins' ingenuity in twisting simple spells like Flame-Freezing Charms into something far and away beyond their origins, Draco was also quite wet, having used his wand as a douser so often that it was now spraying like a fountain, drenching everyone in sight, himself included.

As the day drew to a close, Draco looked forward with deep-rooted relief to his last task of that day, that of supervising the collecting point just outside the grounds, which was arranged for students returning home for the holidays. Draco had decided not to visit Malfoy Manor, finding himself increasingly chary of the place as time went on. No, a half-empty castle, and the prospect of not having to leave his quarters for two weeks, was much the more inviting alternative.

After dinner, Draco paused only to change his robes and shrug on a heavy, wool-lined winter cloak before heading out on the grounds. Crisp hoar frost crunched beneath his boots as he strode down the driveway to the boar-topped main gates, drawing his cloak tightly around him and tugging his hood down around his ears. He had barely been there five minutes when a line of students, frolicking along behind Neville, made their way down to him.

'Thank you, Professor Longbottom,' said Draco with the barest of civility. His animosity towards Neville was long since dead, but he held him in no respect. Neville never appeared to care, but after all the good opinion of a grumpy ex-Death Eater probably wasn't top on anyone's wish list.

Neville was shivering as he called out to the students to gather around in an orderly fashion, an instruction they blatantly ignored. Draco drew himself up, glaring around at the hundred-odd scholars with a Look of Messy Death. They immediately fell silent, except for a few mutters and shifting of feet.

'The Headmaster asked me to give you this,' said Neville, holding out a silver hip-flask. 'For the cold,' he added and almost winked. Draco marvelled again, wondering where Neville's dread of Snape had disappeared to.

'Thank you,' he said stiffly. Neville inclined his head and trotted away up the drive.

Soon afterwards, parents started arriving, Apparating with a swish of cloaks or Portkeying. Those who Apparated generally took their children back into Hogsmeade, from where they took the Floo out of the Three Broomsticks or Zonko's. One or two arrived in horse-drawn carriages, bringing to mind Draco's own Christmas memories. Only the very rich could afford to employ a method of transport that required so much magic and stealth to speed it up satisfactorily. The old Malfoy flying chariot was still in the stables somewhere, so far as Draco could remember.

The crowd thinned as students left in dribs and drabs, Draco signing them out in the ledger he'd brought along with him. An hour later, Draco glanced around and thought everyone was gone.

Midway through turning to go back to the castle, Draco realised his mistake. He didn't know how he had missed Wystan, swaddled in his black cloak and perched on his trunk, because he wasn't exactly camouflaged. Draco put it down to his manner, which suggested to people that his personal space radius was several feet wide, and approached him. He was struck, for an instant, at his similitude to Harry. Huddling under his huge cloak, which had obviously been bought for him to grow into, his white face and shock of dark hair made for an oddly fragile picture.

'Who is meant to be collecting you, Wystan?' he asked, as kindly as he could. Whoever it was, they were very late; the sun was sinking in the horizon and darkness was gathering in with a rapidity singular to winter-bound northerly regions.

'My father,' replied Wystan, through chattering teeth.

'He does realise the time to be here was three o'clock, not half-past four?'

'He knows.' Wystan shrugged, his face bent. 'I owled him. Twice. And he got the official letter.'

'Right,' said Draco, not bothering to say anything more. There was too much he could have said and none of it appropriate or anything approaching gracious. 'Are you cold?'

'A little,' Wystan conceded. He had gloves on, which was more than Draco had, but his head was bare. The tips of his ears, which peeped out under his mop of black curls, were bright red.

'Shove up a little,' said Draco and Wystan obediently made room for Draco to seat himself on the brass-corniced trunk. Draco withdrew Snape's flask from his pocket, wincing as his previously-muffled hands were whipped with icy-cold, and uncorked it. Taking a brief, invigorating swallow and grimacing -- he had never acquired any great liking for whiskey -- he wiped the rim and passed it over to a wide-eyed Wystan.

'Take one sip,' Draco cautioned him. 'I don't want you passing out on me.'

'I wouldn't,' protested Wystan, but his shudder at the taste convinced Draco he had no desire for more. Draco snickered softly as he tucked the little bottle away again, fingers brushing the serpent design carved on the front. Don't be too sure. If blood is anything to go by you'll be a two-pot screamer, just like your dear dad.

'How are you finding Hogwarts?' asked Draco, after a few minutes silence. For all that he was a teacher, he was used to subduing children into terrified submission, not making small talk with them. Yet again, Potter's fault. Who is surprised?

The brief contact he had with Wystan outside of Potions, during his transformations, generally consisted of one-sided conversations with which Draco was entirely comfortable -- he liked talking to himself, as he rarely met anyone else worth talking to -- and recitations from books. He had decided to introduce Wystan to one of his preferred wizard playwrights, Billy Shakespeare. Wolf-Wystan was now a devotee of Hamlet, Julius Caesar and Macbeth.

How much of it Wystan understood was debatable, but Draco cared little. Snape had informed him that even were it possible for televisions to be installed in Hogwarts, he would never permit such 'mind-numbing, brainless idiocy' to enter its walls. So that was that.

'School's okay,' Wystan said. 'Cold.'

'Where do you live?' asked Draco, hoping it wasn't too personal a question. Surely not.

'Near Brighton,' replied Wystan and Draco rolled his eyes. Typical. Most bars per square yard in Britain, wasn't it?

'Well, your potion work is up to scratch,' said Draco. Bloody perfect, I mean to say. 'If you're still keen, we can start your extra training as soon as school recommences.'

'Really?' exclaimed Wystan. Draco was pacified to see the enthusiasm lighting up his face like a beacon. He nodded and Wystan grinned. 'Cool!'

'It is that,' agreed Draco, reluctantly pulling out his hand again to check the time. 'Bloody hell, it's five o'clock! If he isn't here in ten minutes we're going back up to the castle --'

'It's okay, there he is!' Wystan jumped up, pointing and sure enough, a figure had suddenly appeared ten yards away, almost invisible in the dusk, and was running towards them. Wystan started forward, but Harry was quicker. He dropped to his knees in the slushy snow and Wystan darted into his embrace, squashing his face onto Harry's neck.

Draco looked on in distaste. What a typically dramatic, thoughtless, Gryffindorian gesture. The two Potters were talking now, Harry still gripping his son's head almost fiercely, neither of them seeming to listen to a word the other was saying. When Harry finally stood up, Draco rolled his eyes. He was pure mud from the knees down and Wystan was not much better. Muttering under his breath, Draco Vanished the dirt from Wystan's robes, before he even had a chance to notice it was there. Harry did, however, and he followed the gesture back to its source, eyes narrowing along the way.

'Malfoy,' he greeted him, teeth clenched.

Draco sniffed haughtily and didn't bother to address him. It was not required. If he opened his mouth now, he'd probably haul Harry over the coals for daring to abandon someone as precious as Wystan, for leaving him hanging for over two hours, and Wystan was looking up adoringly at his father in a way that made Draco feel irritatingly melancholy. And envious. Damn every Potter to the deepest pit of hell.

Instead, Draco pulled out the ledger and muttered as he wrote, so Harry could hear him, 'Wystan Potter, collected by Harry Potter ... five oh five pm.' He didn't say anything more, but his silence implied a thousand brutal recriminations that he was sure Harry could hear as clear as day.

Twisting to Wystan's trunk, Draco tapped it and muttered 'Wingardium Leviosa.' It hovered and at a flick of Draco's wand shivered through the air to come to rest on nothing in front of its owner. Wystan grinned and Draco noticed that his front teeth overlapped in the exact same way as Harry's.

Harry bent down to say something quietly to Wystan, who flicked a piercing gaze on to Draco before nodding and starting to walk down the Hogsmeade road. Draco crossed his arms, trying to pretend that little look hadn't greatly shaken him.

'I'll thank you, Malfoy, not to be giving my eleven-year-old spirits,' said Harry, in an even tone, but under his glasses his cheeks sported two dark bands of colour.

'And I'll thank you not to show up two hours late for collecting him!' retorted Draco, trying and failing to keep his temper under control. 'And he's not your eleven-year-old. He's his own person, one that would probably be a four-foot frozen statue by now if it weren't for my spirits!'

Harry's eyes were flashing dangerously and all of a sudden he looked nothing like Wystan at all. All Potters were dangerous; Harry was reckless. Draco wouldn't put it past him to right-hook him like they were in a pub brawl, or Body-Bind him and leave him to freeze to death in the snow. Consequences! Merlin curse him, does he ever think beyond five minutes into the future?

'Do not think,' Harry was saying, breathing heavily, 'do not ever think that he's yours, simply because he's a Slytherin. He's my son. Mine!'

'Well, jeez, Potter,' Draco drawled, his mentality regressing to that of a teenager. 'I had, like, guessed that for myself, you know.'

A twitch went under Potter's eye, but he reined himself in, although not without a visible effort. Draco raised an eyebrow, slightly intrigued. It seemed a decade and some had learnt him a little self-control. Miracles do happen. Just not that often.

Harry spun on the balls of his feet and strode after his son, who was kicking through piles of snow with childish glee as his trunk followed obediently. Wystan said something to his father as Draco watched, not quite sure why he was. Harry shook his head.

Draco paused for a moment, then called after them. His well-modulated voice carried easily across the distance. 'Have a nice holiday, Wystan!'

Wystan's teeth flashed in the dark as he turned to wave energetically. Only when his straining eyes could no longer pick out their shapes in the distance did Draco make his way back to the castle.

* * *

Snape was an imminently more reasonable man than Dumbledore, in Draco's opinion; he did not force his teachers to attend the Christmas feast. Oh, not that Dumbledore had ever forced anyone to do anything, the wily old fox; simply hinted and encouraged and nodded and twinkled until he got his own way through sheer infuriating bloody-mindedness. Snape had said he would attend, under duress, as was expected of him, but that he would not require any other teachers to subject themselves to the social equivalent of self-flagellation if they didn't want to themselves.

Draco sat back with a sigh, replete. He had pre-ordered his Christmas dinner from the house-elves, as ever ready and willing to serve. Granger's Minority Liberation Party hadn't even made a dent on their stickling of tradition, although she had managed to pass some Employment Equality Bills that Draco could see being of great use to Wystan in the future.

With some claret to hand, Draco turned his attention to his neglected pile of post. He preferred to get all his end-of-term marking out of the way before Christmas; he could be called many things, but a procrastinator was not one of them. Mail was never high on his list of priorities, as most of it was inter-castle memos containing information he usually received from the horse's mouth before he ever bothered to read it.

Christmas cards from all the staff, despite the fact that he had never sent one in return during the whole of his career, except to Snape. A bill from Wurt's Apothecary. A couple of circulars from the likes of WWW and Zonko's, which Draco tossed into the fire without inspecting. Another Christmas card, from outside the castle.

Draco frowned as he turned over the rather grubby white envelope. His few connections were mainly business-related, as dead men didn't make for great correspondents and he'd made few new friends outside the now-decimated Death Eater circle. His stomach jumped when he took in a familiar rounded script adorning the front of the card.

As Draco drew it out gently, dusting his fingers with spangles and glitter, a slip of paper fluttered into his lap. Picking it up, he read, and rolled his eyes:

I don't know what you've done to make him like you, and I won't rule out Dark Magic or something worse. All I know is he thinks you're right up there with Krum and Dumbledore on a hero-worship pedestal. Telling him the truth would be like killing Santa Claus, but if you hurt him, Malfoy, I swear to god you will die slowly over several hours.

H. Potter.

'Harry Potter, ladies and gentlemen,' Draco said to himself, 'the world's only living brain donor.'

He put the note aside and turned his attention to the evidently home-made card. Draco quirked an eyebrow as he realised Wystan must have had Harry's help to charm the obese snowman to wave it's twiggy arms, as he was underage. How sweet. He opened it.

Dear Professor Malfoy, it read.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I'm really happy because the full moon didn't fall on Christmas, like last year, which was manky. I think I got a new broom because I peeked through the wrapping when Dad wasn't noticing. Remus has promised me my own Potion's Starter Kit after some hinting. I must go, the two of them are decorating the tree but they're yelling an awful lot, I think it's fallen on them. Don't eat too much turkey!

From, Wystan Potter (your student)

Trying not to read too much into his actions, Draco carefully placed the card on the bare mantlepiece, where the snowman waved forlornly at the bare expanse. Rolling his eyes at being blackmailed by some cotton wool, Draco waved his wand and a string of twinkling lights -- green, of course -- suddenly trailed across it, interspersed with holly sprigs. The dozen or so cards from the other teachers jumped up to join it. Draco shook his head and poured himself some more wine.

He meant to throw Harry's ridiculous little missive in the fire, so it surprised him as much as anything when he carefully folded it away into his pocket.

* * *

'Move that alembic away from the flame!' snapped Draco. 'It's flammable, remember?'

'Yes sir,' said Wystan breathlessly, darting forward to snatch up the flask and deposit it a safe distance away.

'Grind up those lacewings and measure out twelve and a half grams,' ordered Draco. Wystan was quite a good assistant, but with a potion such as this, precision was all. Draco's concentration was pure and intent and he had no energy to spare to mollycoddle the boy. Fortunately, aside from a few beginners' mistakes in technique, he rarely needed it. This time next year he would be fixing this potion on his lonesome.

Half-an-hour later, the blue-green potion was simmering slightly. Draco heaved a satisfied sigh and dusted off his hands. 'That's it for now. It has to stew for three hours. I'll take it off the heat so we can continue from here next time.'

'Thanks, Professor,' said Wystan, smirking up at him with a face smeared with soot from taming one particularly boisterous and excessively dirty cauldron. 'How am I going?'

'Fine -- for an amateur,' said Draco and Wystan's face fell. Draco relented somewhat, but he continued frowning. 'Wystan, you must remember that the only measure you have is against yourself. You do not need other people telling you that you are good, bad or indifferent to make it so.'

'So if I said I was a Potion's Master that would make it true?' asked Wystan, sounding sceptical, as well he might.

'Of course not. You know you are not a master. You also know you have potential. Just please refrain from forcing me to spell it out for you every time! Trust me, were you as bad as you like to make out, I wouldn't have let you in here in the first place, much less allowed you to continue coming. Think about the evidence as opposed to what people tell you.' Draco paused, rubbing his forehead in mild frustration. 'You are a Slytherin, for Merlin's sake!'

Wystan's self-doubts seemed to evaporate with those words, for he straightened and a dark gleam came into his eyes. Not green, this time; closer to black. 'A Slytherin,' he repeated.

'Yes,' said Draco, tossing his head arrogantly. 'I'll let you in on a little secret, Potter: That fact is all the confidence you need.'

'Because I'm a pureblood?' said Wystan, almost angrily.

'Are you?' Draco raised an eyebrow. 'Did you even listen to the Sorting Hat? The Weasleys are purebloods and they didn't gain admission to Slytherin. This House is not for the dregs, Potter; it is for diamonds only.'

Wystan pursed his lips. 'I like the Weasleys.'

Draco huffed in impatience. 'And I do not. Wasted potential is always irritating. That is not what we were discussing, however. Each House has it's own agenda and its own pride. Slytherin has higher standards than the rest. Just by being here you beat every Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor in your year.'

'I'm sure they could say the same thing,' remarked Wystan. Draco laughed; the noise broke the vague tension that had been building.

'Possibly. But a Slytherin would know which one of you is right.'

'Me, of course,' said Wystan without hesitation.

Draco smiled, a feral smile and painfully proud. 'Do you know what your name means?' he asked.

'No. Why? What's yours mean?'

'Dragon, of course,' said Draco, rolling his eyes before realising it was quite possible and proper that Wystan might not know his given name. 'Anyway,' he went on, 'Wystan means battle-stone. For once, your father got something right.'

'You don't like him very much, do you?' Wystan asked over his shoulder as he washed his hands. His tone was too carefully neutral to make it anything less than a loaded question.

Draco struggled to find words. If you hurt him, Malfoy ...

'Not ... no, not particularly,' he said at last. 'But the feeling is mutual.'

'And immutable?' suggested Wystan. 'Is it because you were a Death Eater?'

The casual inquiry nearly felled him. Draco looked down and realised his hands were white-knuckled, gripping his desk. Many people -- mostly Harry's cronies and their offspring -- knew about his past, but it was by no means common knowledge. And Harry had as much as said he wasn't going to tell his son. So how did he find out?

'Don't worry,' said Wystan with a smile. 'I don't hate you for it. I know the Headmaster was one too. It doesn't make you a bad person.'

'It doesn't?' Draco gasped out. 'Hell, do you even know what the Death Eaters were, boy?'

Wystan narrowed his eyes, but his voice was calm. 'They were Voldemort's supporters. And before you ask, I know who he was too.' He cleared his throat. 'I once heard Remus say you were a double-crosser. A spy. Is that true?'

'Is there anything you don't know about me? Out of curiosity?'

'Yeah.' Wystan shrugged. 'I don't know why you and my father hate each other so much. That's why I asked.'

'Hate's a very strong word,' managed Draco, and found to his inordinate surprise that he was telling the truth. A school-boy rivalry was not strong enough to be called hate. Not strong enough to use to cast the Killing Curse. As they had both discovered. 'I -- dislike him --' envy him '-- and we've never seen eye to eye --' the understatement of the century '-- but all of this was a very long time ago. Ancient history.'

'It didn't seem so ancient when he picked me up last term,' said Wystan, sounding off-hand. 'Dad was like a thundercloud for hours and he nearly bit my head off when I said your name. He wouldn't even listen when I tried to tell him about learning Wolfsbane. He only calmed down after Remus bawled him out.'

A sudden realisation hit Draco, leaving his mouth inexplicably dry. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. 'Are Remus and your father -- I mean -- does Remus live with you?'

'Yeah,' said Wystan, and caught sight of Draco's face. For some reason, he grinned at its thunderstruck expression. 'Oh, don't worry. They aren't lovers. Remus is straight. They were both friends with someone called Sirius Black and they both still miss him even though he died years ago, so they're sort of like brothers.'

'Oh.' Draco wished that he knew why he felt relieved. Wystan's mischievous expression winked up at him. 'Hey, what do you mean? I'm not worried! Who said anything about worrying?'

'When you're in a hole, stop digging,' murmured Wystan. Draco glared daggers at him. Outwitted by an eleven-year-old. Sorrow, shame.

'Remus is more like a mum, really,' Wystan was musing. 'He told me about the birds and the bees and stuff. He helped with the whole werewolf thing, which was great. And he told me about my mother. I was a one-night stand, you see. He thought I deserved to know, but Dad nearly kicked him out over it.'

Draco winced. 'That was harsh.'

'Dad can be a little hasty at times.'

'I meant about telling you.'

'Why?' Wystan's tone would have made glaciers envious. 'Don't you think I'm old enough to know it? Slytherin enough?'

Draco gulped, realising he'd backed himself into a wall. 'Of course not. Look, I just imagine that it's not such a nice thing to hear.'

'But I needed to hear it,' said Wystan. 'So I wouldn't be expecting her to -- I don't know, come back and be a mum. Dad's all for lying to make people feel better, but I think it's only storing up pain for the future. '

Draco blinked, because he actually agreed with Wystan. The boy sometimes seemed to show the wisdom of the ages. At others, he was a silly little boy, but Draco didn't expect anything more of anyone his age. That Wystan could sometimes overcome his immaturity only deserved kudos but then, any child of Harry Potter's was never going to be normal. In fact, considering his background, he was amazingly well-adjusted.

Except for one thing.

'Wystan, have you made any friends in your year yet?' Draco asked, his tone stern.

'Nope,' said Wystan, not seeming remotely bothered by the admission.

'That's -- that's bad,' said Draco.

'Why?' asked Wystan, sounding genuinely surprised. 'You got on okay without them.'

'What do you mean? I had friends!' retorted Draco.

'Did you?' asked Wystan. 'Weren't they more like bodyguards? Who were they again ... Grabbe and Coyle?'

'Crabbe and Goyle,' Draco corrected automatically, and realised his mistake a second too late. Wystan was grinning again and had suddenly inherited yet another characteristic of his father's: That smug expression that had made Draco want to punch him. 'Who have you been talking to?'

'Remus, of course. He was your teacher once, wasn't he? Of course, Dad would know heaps more, but I'm not suicidal enough to ask him.'

'So I was a self-contained kid,' said Draco defensively. 'That doesn't make it right for you. Besides, I make a bloody awful role-model.'

'You're not too bad,' said Wystan, biting his lip in thought. 'A bit like Dad, in ways -- really prickly, but completely soft underneath.'

Draco turned scarlet and incoherent with rage. 'I don't know what's worse about what you just said -- that you made these ridiculous assumptions, out of the air it seems, about my character -- of which you know nothing! -- or that you compared me to Harry Potter!'

'I'd definitely say the latter,' said Wystan shrewdly, tapping his chin. Draco wondered when he would pick up that hair-ruffling trick of Harry's. Never, hopefully, for the sake of Draco's sanity.

'Oh dear, would you look at the time?' snapped Draco. 'Better get you off to bed.'

He bundled Wystan out of the door, with him grinning all the way. When it closed behind him, Draco leaned against it with a defeated sigh and shut his eyes. Was Wystan making a couple of educated guesses, or did he truly think -- Draco covered his eyes, firmly cutting off that thought, and decided his date with his alcohol cabinet was long overdue.

* * *

It was the last full moon of the school year, a week or two before the beginning of the summer holidays. Draco deposited a pile of revision notes on the desk in Wystan's room. Wolf-Wystan yawned, showing a gobful of slobbery canines and managing to express deep disdain for Draco's armful principally using his saliva.

'No, yuck,' reprimanded Draco fruitlessly, as Wystan laid his body against Draco's legs and pushed, depositing yet more dog hairs on Draco's good robes. There was hardly an item in Draco's wardrobe that hadn't had a liberal baptism of canine pelt, and it was a bugger to get out.

They both jumped when the fire flickered green and Snape's dour face appeared, surrounded by dancing flames.

'Headmaster,' said Draco, recovering his aplomb immediately, despite Wolf-Wystan's wet-nosed interest in his crotch.

'D -- Professor Malfoy,' said Snape, and his slip put Draco instantly on the alert. 'Could you come to my office? As soon as possible.'

'But Wystan --' Draco protested.

'This concerns him,' said Snape. 'As soon as possible, Professor.'

Draco rose from his automatic genuflection, wrinkling his nose. What bee's in Potter's bonnet now? Jumping to his tune -- we might as well be Weasleys, for Christ's sake.

'Wystan?' he said out loud. 'Lie down. Down!' Wystan jumped on the bed and let his tongue hang out of his mouth, which Draco had long since decided was the wolf version of a smirk. 'Stay!' added Draco, holding up a hand.

Although Wystan had superior intelligence to a common, wild wolf, it was not a human intelligence, and he often described his wolf-memories in colours and smells as opposed to coherent thoughts. Draco often wondered if Wystan interpreted what he meant by what he read in his scent rather than understanding the actual words. He still made his own decisions, however, no matter what end of the morphic scale he was on.

Locking the door behind him, both magically and physically, Draco made his way up to the Headmaster's office, swiftly but not hurriedly. No sense in fuelling a rumour that there was some kind of emergency afoot. Especially not if Potter was at the root of it.

Outside the gargoyle, Draco distractedly gave the password -- 'Carpe Jungulum'; cynical was not the word -- and ascended the moving spiral staircase, entirely failing to appreciate the small Rembrandt on the way up, as was his usual wont.

He strode into the main chamber, ignoring the complaining cheeping issuing from Fawkes from his perch in the anteroom. His eyes took in Snape, who was seated at his desk with a look of molten anger on his face and the room's only other occupant, the sight of whom made him stop dead.

The woman's eyes had widened at the sight of him, however. Ordinarily, this fairly common reaction would have amused and perhaps flattered him. Right at this moment, however, her blatant look of appreciation made Draco feel oddly violated. Her face was older and showed hard use, but a modicum of her former prettiness still illuminated it. In vain did Draco look for Wystan in her; she couldn't but be his mother, but only her slim hands were Wystan's. Harry's hands were large and square; peasant's hands. Wystan and his mother had artist's hands.

Draco realised he was becoming increasingly frantic and he still couldn't put a name to her although her face was familiar. Realising she was on the point of advancing on him, he cut her dead.

'Headmaster?' he said curtly. 'You wanted to see me about Potter?'

'Miss Chang has requested to see her son,' said Snape without inflection. Only someone who knew him as well as Draco could have spotted the steely glint in his eye, the one that suggested that Snape was very angry indeed.

'Does she have Mr Potter's permission?' asked Draco. The tactic of ignoring her preens worked a charm; Chang's eyes narrowed and her ingratiating smile dropped off her face.

'She does not.'

'Well, I'm afraid that it's out of the question then, Miss Chang,' said Draco, hitching a false expression of politeness on to his face. 'In the case of divorced or otherwise separated parents, they both must provide written proof of custody before we can allow visiting rights.'

Chang stuffed her hands on her hips. 'I'm sure Harry won't mind me seeing him,' she said, with a toss of her head.

'It's full moon,' Draco pointed out.

'It is?' said Chang, twirling a lock of hair around her fingers. 'I must do another Hair Shine Serum if that's the case. I'm running low.'

Draco curled his lip. She didn't even know her son was a werewolf. 'Wystan is ill at the moment,' he drawled. 'We think it may be contagious.'

'Really?' said Chang, making a moue of disgust. 'I wanted to call him Cedric, you know. Harry can be so implacable at times. Wystan. I mean, honestly!' She raised an eyebrow at Draco, inviting him to share the feeling. He merely stared at her.

At that moment the door to the office crashed open, revealing a flushed and incensed Harry Potter. Disregarding the two professors completely, he advanced on Chang, who had the wit to fall back with an apprehensive expression.

'What are you doing here?' growled Harry and Draco blinked at the ferocity in his tone. It was truly alarming. Draco allowed himself to purse his lips in approval.

Chang made an attempt at a simper. Even Draco could tell that this was a Bad Move. Harry's lips pulled back from his teeth, but he wasn't smiling. The last time Draco had seen an expression like that had been on his son's face, when he'd been snapping after a particularly irksome flea. The fact that the object of Harry's antagonism was a human being only made it the more chilling.

'I came to see my darling son, of course,' said Chang, making eyes at Draco over Harry's shoulder and not even pretending to be sincere. Draco tried to hide behind Snape, who appeared temporarily titillated at this turn of events.

'How much?' asked Harry through gritted teeth.

'Another fifty. I have expenses, you know...' Chang batted her eyelashes. Harry looked weary. He shoved a hand in his pocket, withdrawing a money pouch.

'Here's a hundred,' he said, shoving it at her as she reached for it, so she had to step back, clutching it to her chest. 'That'll get you to London. I'll owl Gringotts tonight. Now get out.'

'Thank you, darling,' purred Chang, leaning forward to peck Harry's cheek. Harry jerked back as if she'd proffered a stinger and glared at her. 'Professor Snape, if I may?'

Snape nodded and Chang sashayed to the fire, tossing in a handful of Floo powder from an ornate urn on the mantle. Winking at Harry over her shoulder, to bared teeth from him, she stepped into the fire. Draco thought he heard 'the Entrance Hall' before she was consumed in a swirl of emerald flame. Hogwarts was closed to the outside Floo Network, so she would have to make her own way out of the grounds.

'Snape --' Draco noticed Harry seemed to gain no immoderate satisfaction from dropping the honorific '-- I am so sorry about that. She --'

'Sit down, Potter, and have a drink.' Snape sounded tired and grouchy. This was not the surprise; rather it was his invitation that came as a bolt from the blue. Eyes wide, Harry scraped a gate-backed chair over near Snape's desk. Snape unlocked his liquor chest, conjuring glasses with his wand. Largely ignored, Draco seated himself near the fire.

'I take it that isn't the first time she's come with her hand out?' Snape asked.

Harry sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. Removing his glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose. 'No. The last time she came was when Wystan was four or five. I'd given her a hundred thousand Galleons after he was born, to -- well, to make her go away.' He paused, looking pensive and, without his glasses, about sixteen. 'I gave her another twenty thousand the next time.'

'So you weren't offering her fifty Sickles just now?' Snape's voice was even as he measured out three shots of whiskey.

Harry gave a mirthless bark of laughter. 'Of course not. I don't care what you think --' His face took on a stubbornly defensive cast. 'I don't want her around him. She doesn't care about him at all, only insofar as getting money out of me. When she found out she was pregnant she wanted to --' He coughed. Neither Draco nor Snape asked him to finish his sentence. It was clear enough what her intentions had been.

'You have never cared what I think,' said Snape, still in that careful tone. 'So I'm sure it makes no difference to you when I say I'm in total agreement with your methods. I cannot think of a better one, short of -- but assassination is so disregarded nowadays.'

Harry started, then seemed to decide Snape was joking, for he smiled wanly. Draco had nothing like Harry's certainty, but Snape's impassive face gave nothing away.

'Draco,' said Snape musingly. 'I don't suppose there is a rule about separated parents needing proof of custody, is there?'

'Well ...' Draco put his head to one side. 'There is now.'

Snape narrowed his eyes in approval. Harry jumped and twisted around in his seat.

'Malfoy. I didn't see you there.' His tone was accusatory.

'Putting the glasses on would help,' suggested Draco, as Harry glowered. And shoved them back on.

Snape held out a glass to Draco. 'I'd better not. Wystan is alone in his bedroom and he's due another dose in an hour or so. I should get back.'

'Very well,' Snape acquiesced. Harry hastily gulped back his drink, spluttering slightly to Draco's infinite amusement, and got to his feet.

'I'll come with you,' he announced. 'If I may?' The question was merely formality, but it was a sign of Harry's grudging gratitude to Snape that he made the gesture. Snape merely blinked, which Draco knew was his form of dismissal. Getting to his feet, he swept out, followed by a rather puzzled Harry, who kept looking back as if expecting Snape to say something.

'It's changed an awful lot, since Dumbledore's days,' said Harry wistfully, as they reached the anteroom.

'You don't say,' said Draco. 'If you don't mind, I'll cast a Disillusionment Charm on you. As Wystan is supposed to be visiting you, it would be odd if someone spotted you running around Hogwarts like a blue-arsed fly.'

'Succinct as ever,' murmured Harry. 'Very well, then.'

'Did you happen to notice if anyone saw you coming in?' asked Draco.

'No,' said Harry, looking shamefaced.

'Urg. The Gryffindor tactics are as polished as ever, I'm delighted to see. Stand still.' Draco quickly cast the charm and swiftly made his way back to the dungeons, the scuff of Harry's boots on the floor the only indication that he was tagging him. By the time they came to Wystan's room, the fire had died to embers, which cast the room in a soft glow. The wolf cub was curled up on the bed, snuffling gently in deep dog-sleep. Harry pressed past Draco, his face soft and wearing an expression of such love it hurt Draco to look at it.

Leaving them to it, Draco returned to his study. However, all his planned work seemed suddenly mountainous. Dropping his head onto his desk, he let his mind wander, wondering why it wandered by Harry so very often. Probably because even now he remained a fly in the ointment, the thorn in Draco's hand that had never quite healed or been completely removed.

It was by his breathing that Draco realised Harry was in the room with him. He looked up to find him leaning against the door jamb, yawning slightly, his eyes crumpled with tiredness. His hair was beyond belief; it looked like it had recently been home to a family of swallows.

'If you let me contact Professor Snape, I'm sure he will arrange a room for you for the night,' said Draco in a stiff little voice, wishing Harry would go away. From this vantage it was evident that Harry had dressed in a hurry; his cloak was fastened wrong and gaped open to reveal a ratty pullover that looked like a Lupin classic and holey jeans. 'No, s'okay,' said Harry, yawning widely. 'Just need to siddown ... for a bit ...' Without waiting to be invited, he dropped into one of Draco's velvet-upholstered armchairs. He yawned again, arching his head back so the entire column of his throat was exposed. Draco blinked in horror at the thoughts that his mind conjured at the sight and cast around frantically for a distraction.

'How did you know Chang was here?' he said, aware that his voice was shaky. He busied himself with paperwork, manically neatening piles. When he finally glanced up, Harry was observing him. Their eyes locked for half a second before Harry frowned and turned his gaze to the ceiling.

'She owled me,' said Harry, sounding rather distant. 'I came as soon as I got it.'

'Oh,' said Draco, with equal coolness. He took up some marking, suddenly locating an abiding interest in it.

When he looked up, Harry was fast asleep in the chair. His mouth was slightly open, and his face rested on his shoulder. Every time he breathed, some of the hair that lay near his mouth shivered. He slept sprawled out, seemingly exhausted.

With misgivings, but unable to prevent himself, Draco conjured a blanket and threw it over him. He shifted in his sleep, sighing. Draco spun on his heel and made blindly for his bedroom.

When he came back the next morning, Harry was gone.

* * *

'Please?' said Wystan beseechingly.

'No,' replied Draco, on general principles.

'Pretty please with a cherry on top?' said Wystan, pouting his lower lip with the unsubstantiated view that such an action would help his case.

'Hate cherries,' said Draco briefly.

'Oh, please, sir,' said Wystan, dropping the cajoling tone. 'You have to drop off the potion anyway. You might as well stay for dinner. And the night. Please.'

'If you shut up, I'll think about it,' replied Draco, with no intention of doing any such thing. Owl post was a perfectly adequate method of delivering Wystan's summer supply of Wolfsbane.

'Yes, sir,' said Wystan, rolling his eyes and scampering off to his desk. Just in time, as the door to the dungeon opened and the students poured in, their chatter abruptly stilled as they crossed the threshold.

Pretending not to watch them -- all the better to catch their wrongdoing -- Draco started writing the day's lesson on the board. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the Ravenclaw girls -- a quiet girl, with glossy nut-brown braids and quite a reasonable standard of work -- say something to her friends, while looking over at Wystan. Wystan was sitting bolt upright as ever, his eyes unfocused as he went to that place inside his head of which Draco was so envious. He'd once told him it was where the wolf lived. For the wolf there was no past or future, only the present; and going to that place was an easy way to alleviate boredom.

As Draco looked on, intrigued, the girl hesitated, then took a deep breath and walked over to Wystan. She said something to him, smiling a little. Wystan smiled back, friendly but not warm. Measured. Draco almost laughed. Such a Slytherin he would make.

Whatever passed between them seemed to be concluded satisfactorily by the time Draco turned his attention to the class and found the girl sitting beside Wystan, whose eyes were as green as Draco had ever seen them. She quailed a little as Draco's gaze passed over them but remained otherwise unmoved. Draco blinked, and suddenly a bespectacled boy with a scarred forehead, a bushy-haired girl and a Weasley were sitting there; the Three Musketeers, the bane of his life, who'd always looked as if they were having too much bloody fun.

Impulsively, Draco decided to accept Wystan's invitation. He tried to think why, afterwards.

Anything to mess up Potter's day a little more, he thought, but even to his own ears it rang hollow.

* * *

Draco took a moment to settle his Apparition-ruffled robes and to clear his throat before knocking smartly on the bright red door.

The little cottage was gorgeous, if he said it himself. Perfect, and most likely magically-up-kept, thatch roofed a white-painted farmhouse with small, deep windows whose red sills were almost obscured by a wild profusion of flowers spilling from a multitude of pots and trays. The short paved garden path running from the immaculate gate in a dry stone wall was barring encroaching lilies and roses only with the greatest difficulty. The lawn was as smooth as a gardener's dream, what little could be seen through the magnificent flower beds.

The door knocker was the only thing that prevented Draco from indulging in jaw-dropping awe; it was fashioned in the shape of a lion's head. He had to laugh at the doormat, too; he hadn't expected such self-deprecating wit from Harry. He thought he saw Lupin's hand in the motto: 'Warning: Here be Gryffindors'. It was certainly worlds away from the austere, gloomy grounds of Malfoy Manor, or even the Hogwarts dungeons if it came to that.

The sound of running feet alerted him and he had a second to compose his features into polite indifference before the door was wrenched open by Wystan, his face wreathed in smiles.

'You came!' he said in delight, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

'I said I would,' said Draco, working hard not to show how touched he was by Wystan's artless joy at seeing him.

'Come in,' said Wystan, recalling himself, and throwing the door open wider. Draco picked up the crate of Wolfsbane with a slight groan. He had to keep remembering he no longer had the back of a twenty-, or indeed a thirty-year-old. A month before he'd marked his thirty-seventh birthday, with a wry grimace for the most part.

Every window and door in the place was thrown open to welcome in the gentle heat of a hazy summer's day, and though the passage way was small it was bright and cheery. Draco glanced at the pictures and photographs lining the walls. Some were of Quidditch teams and parties. He thought he recognised Granger's bushy head in one, cradling a wailing infant in a very frilly dress.

He stifled a laugh at a gallery of what was evidently Wystan's baby scrawls; stick men with balloon heads cavorted in fantastically delineated landscapes, their bodies executed in shocking colours that had never graced any skin palette in Draco's experience. He particularly appreciated one of Harry -- his lightning bolt scar obscured half his face -- drawn in violent purple. Reminds me of Harry's face when he gets all angry and self-righteous. We'll make an artist of Wystan yet.

Absorbed in this pleasantly vicious train of thought, Draco almost didn't see Harry when he emerged from a doorway, bathed in a stream of hot sunlight from the room behind him. Draco's breath caught in his throat at the sight and he tried desperately to pretend that it was simply because he was startled.

Harry was dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans; his feet were bare. His face, while guarded, was not overtly hostile, probably in deference to his son's wishes. Wystan was dressed much the same, although his clothes were covered with little symbols that Draco couldn't make head nor tail of; one looked like a tick, another was a set of small lines that formed a triangle shape.

They weren't occult, Draco knew, but they were certainly strange. Muggle clothing, obviously. He never understood why they felt the need to adorn their garments with names -- of famous Muggles, perhaps? He'd never heard of anyone called Adidas. But there again, with Muggles, not much they did made any sense.

'Lunch is nearly ready,' said Harry, scratching his nose in a preoccupied way. 'You're staying, Malfoy?'

'If that's all right with you,' replied Draco, well aware of Wystan making encouraging faces at his father behind Draco's back.

'It's fine,' said Harry curtly. He frowned at his son. 'Oh. Would you like a -- beer, Malfoy?'

A small finger poked Draco in the small of his back. Draco jumped. 'Um, certainly. Thank you, Potter.'

'Come on, the sitting room's this way,' said Wystan, tugging on Draco's arm. He led him into a cosy, almost circular room, full of worn sofas upholstered in rather glaring red brocade. Pot plants were dotted around the walls, which were literally sagging with the weight of yet more photographs. One wall, Draco was pleased to see, was occupied by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, volumes stacked haphazardly and sharing space with ornaments and toys. At Wystan's urging, Draco sat down on a cracked leather armchair, placing the crate of Wolfsbane carefully on the floor.

Harry reappeared, holding two icy green bottles. He handed one to Draco, who squinted at the name on the label. Carlsberg. Not a wizarding brand, that's for sure. Potter clearly loves his Muggle trash.

Wystan sprung up from his position on the floor. 'I'll go put this in my room,' he said, hefting the crate with care but no apparent discomfort. 'Don't kill each other in my absence,' he added as he left.

Draco, rather bemused, took a gulp of chilled beer. 'This isn't too bad, for Muggle lager,' he conceded.

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Hello? It is probably the best lager in the world. Still can't admit Muggles are better at some things than wizards, huh?'

'Like what?' Draco wanted to know, before taking another swallow.

'Electricity,' said Harry. 'Cinema.' He nodded at Draco's beer. 'Brewing.'

'I only know what the last word means,' announced Draco, the beer fizzling pleasantly in his stomach. 'The only thing Muggles are better at is --' He squinted in thought, staring at Harry's jeans until Harry glared daggers at him '-- making clothes, possibly. They certainly make enough of them.'

'I suppose that shows a great achievement for you, to be able to say that much,' remarked Harry, around the rim of his bottle. Draco waited for him to choke, rather disappointed when he expertly tilted up the bottle and tossed back most of the contents.

'Steady on, Potter,' warned Draco. 'It's only three in the day. Far too early to get drunk.'

'Well you see, Malfoy,' said Harry, slouching back insolently, 'I, unlike you, do not get drunk on one light beer. And if I wanted to get paralytic in the middle of the day, who are you to stop me?'

'I wouldn't stop you, Potter,' sneered Draco. 'You can drink yourself into an early grave for all I care. I just thought you'd have a little more respect for your son, that's all.'

'That's rich, coming from the one who was force-feeding him whiskey,' retorted Harry. He seemed a little struck by what Draco had said, though, for he put his beer on the floor and leaned forward. 'Out of interest, what makes you even think I get drunk on a regular basis?'

Draco shrugged. 'Well, I did hear --'

'No, that's right,' said Harry, sounding grimly amused and speaking over Draco. 'Rita Skeeter is an old crony of yours, correct me if I'm wrong? A leopard does not change its spots, or in her case a beetle. For your information, on Ron's last birthday I got smashed, yes, and she spotted me reeling out of Sharkey's nightclub. While I had Louisa Weasley babysitting for Wystan. I'm no more a drunkard than you are.' He rolled his eyes. 'What am I saying? You believed I fancied Hermione just because that fool woman said so.'

'Actually, I didn't,' said Draco, stung. 'I have eyes. As it happens, I have not seen you for years. How was I to know you weren't a fully pickled alco when I had no visual evidence to the contrary?'

'Fair enough,' sighed Harry, leaning back again. 'Let that be an end to that rumour, then.'

'Fine,' said Draco, wanting to say something killingly witty but finding himself completely at a loss. Did Harry realise he was slowly tracing the circle of his bellybutton with one beer-damp finger? It looked completely unconscious, from the impassive, contemplative look on his face, but Draco found it was having more effect on him than if Harry had been doing it on purpose, fully aware of the consequences. If he weren't Harry, Draco might have felt almost -- but no, that way lay madness.

Fortunately, Wystan bounded back into the room at that moment clutching a broomstick. Draco was treated to a fond, gallingly heart-warming look on Harry's face. It was not in the slightest forced, being simply Harry's default expression around his son.

'Good, no blood!' said Wystan cheerfully and Harry stuck his tongue out at him. Draco almost let loose a startled laugh, but caught himself in time. 'Look, Professor,' he said, turning to Draco. 'The Stardust X900. Top of the range. I can bring it to school next year, for team tryouts.'

'Impressive,' said Draco, holding out his hands. Wystan proudly set the smooth handle in them and Draco ran his hands along the length. He could barely feel the grain of the wood, it was so slick. The tail-twigs were so neat as to look almost woven together. The name was picked out in what looked like cubic zirconium; it flashed as Draco turned the broom over in the light. Draco wrapped his hands around the handle, his hands falling effortlessly into a flier's grip. It was arrow-straight beneath his fingers.

He happened to glance up at Harry, who was staring at him with a very odd look on his face. Almost flustered, Draco faced Wystan, his face breaking into a rare, genuine smile.

'This is a very good broom,' he told him, and Wystan grinned, taking the modest words for the seal of appreciation that they really were. 'Going for the Keeper position, are you?'

Wystan nodded. Harry started. 'How did you know?'

'Guessed.' Draco shrugged, inwardly high-fiving.

'Want to play some Quaffle-toss?' asked Wystan hopefully.

'Okay,' agreed Draco, after the smallest of hesitations, during which he noted Harry's expression. It was still; not approving, but neither was it resentful.

'Get Malfoy an old broom from the shed,' Harry called after them. Draco turned, uncertain, and Harry lifted his shoulders defensively. 'None of Wystan's old brooms are full size,' he muttered.

'Oh. Thank you,' said Draco after some consideration, and followed Wystan out.

* * *

Everyday robes were not like Quidditch robes, which were streamlined and close fitting. As he was feeling overly warm in any case, Draco felt no compunction about shedding his outer robes, thanking Merlin he had not gone commando beneath. He was wearing soft Italian trousers and a silk shirt, along with dragonhide boots. Wystan unlocked the door to an outbuilding and touched something on the wall that flooded the room with light. Draco blinked. More Muggle technology, he presumed.

'I'll just grab a Quaffle,' said Wystan. 'Take your pick.'

'Thanks,' said Draco, but he was already gone. Moving between the racks of brooms with something approaching holy awe, he shook his head. There were more brooms here than he had ever seen together, even in Quality Quidditch Supplies. Of course, Harry had played professionally for over a decade.

For some reason drawn on beyond sparkling modern sticks that literally quivered at his passing, Draco reached out to the very last broom at the far end of the shed. In fact, as soon as he had entered he'd had the idea of finding it in his head.

Harry's Firebolt.

It was there, all right, somewhat dusty but sleek as ever, its true value shining even though years of neglect. Draco swallowed back the bile at the memories of defeat one touch of the broom called up, in favour of fulfilling one of his longest-held desires. He had begged his father for one, but even Lucius Malfoy was loath to buy a thousand-Galleon broom for a Seeker who lost most of his matches. Again, cheers, Potter.

Lifting it out of its clips, Draco sighed in pure delight. Tucking the broom under his arm, he did not even wait until he was out of the shed before thrusting his leg over it and urging it into the air. Yes, the power was there, thrumming through him; Draco felt like he was an extension of the broom. Shooting up vertically, he yelled like a kid, a huge bawling roar that had Wystan staring up at him. Draco executed a perfect Wronksi Feint as Wystan's face drained of colour, drawing up alongside the boy with the balls of his feet skidding along the packed earth.

'Wow,' the boy said, sounding stunned. 'I've never seen anyone but Dad do that.'

For once not aggravated by the comparison, Draco simply smiled again. Twice in one day! You're slipping, Malfoy.

'I can't count the number of times your father thrashed me on this broom,' he said, running his hands along the gold name. It was tarnished and flaky, but the broom still shivered with raw energy.

'I didn't know you played against him!' said Wystan, sounding surprised.

Draco raised his eyebrows. 'I was the Slytherin Seeker for six years. Doesn't he ever talk about playing? He was the youngest House Seeker in a century.'

'Yeah, so he said,' confirmed Wystan. 'Hang on, I think he did mention you -- just never by name. He sometimes talked about this rival Seeker. He said you were the only one who ever gave him a run for his money.'

'I don't know, Wystan,' said Draco in disbelief. 'There were two other Seekers at any one time that he could have been talking about.'

'Nope,' said Wystan, sounding confident. 'He named all the others. Wow. Two quality Seekers in one place! I'm glad I'm not going for that position. That's way too much to live up to!'

'You're perfectly capable of it,' Draco remonstrated.

'I know,' said Wystan merrily. 'I just prefer to make my own legends, that's all.'

Draco snorted. 'Let go of that Quaffle, boy, and we'll see if you can put your money where your mouth is.'

'Gladly,' said Wystan, smirking. He released the ball, and they both shot after it like a pair of comets. Draco was quickly absorbed in the game, but he could have sworn that as he passed one of the windows at eyeball-whipping speed, Harry was standing there, watching them.

* * *

After half an hour in the air, Draco and Wystan were both pink-cheeked and panting. Draco was tingling all over. He had forgotten just how utterly exhilarating flying was. It had been too long. He resolved not to let it go so long ever again.

Harry was setting the table with a carefully concentrated look on his face, a small line between his eyebrows. In the light of the compact dining room, Draco saw the silver hairs with a small jolt. Harry had aged well in most regards; always slight, he now looked slightly gaunt. However, the grey on his head made Draco feel old and slightly panicky, as if life was speeding up like a steam train, leaving him at the station.

Smoothing down his shirtfront with annoyance, Draco distracted himself with tucking in the light blue silk where it had come loose during the flight.

'Sit down, then,' said Harry, and Draco thought the heat must have been affecting him as well, because his cheeks were flaming.

Wystan wriggled in his chair, taking up his knife and fork with childish anticipation. 'I'm starving!' he announced.

'I never would have guessed,' remarked Draco, seating himself somewhat more soberly, although his stomach was adding its own commentary on the proceedings. He wondered uneasily what kind of a cook Harry made. Culinary spells were ten-a-penny, but just like any other magic they took practice and often people simply did not have the knack of them.

His worries were assuaged when Harry walked back through the adjoining door, levitating a platter on which a magnificent roast fowl lay steaming. It was surrounded by mounds of stuffing and Yorkshire pudding. Smaller dishes came to rest beside it on the table, bearing tender baby carrots, sprouts, roast potatoes and broccoli, along with gravy.

'There goes my waistline,' said Draco, licking his lips. Harry shot him an uncertain look, as if Draco was mocking him, but Draco only had eyes for the delicately roasted meat as Harry expertly carved it.

'Make sure you take vegetables, Wystan,' instructed Harry, as he took a seat after serving each of them several slices of meat. He had given Wystan a leg as well.

'Aw, Dad!' complained Wystan. Harry waved his knife at him threateningly.

'I mean it! Or no dessert.'

'What is it, first?' Wystan demanded.

'Strawberry sorbet,' Harry told him. 'I hope that's okay, Malfoy?'

Draco was masticating a melting mouthful of chicken, his cheeks puffed out like a hamster's. Mentally cursing Harry for catching him at such an inopportune moment, he nodded and opened his eyes wide to show that sorbet was perfectly fine thank you very much, now bugger off, Potter.

Harry gave a small smile and turned his attention to Wystan, who was reluctantly spooning carrots onto his plate with a look of woe.

'That's it. You need carrots to keep up your flying strength.'

'Never seemed to affect you,' drawled Draco, after an eternity of swallowing. 'As I recall, the only reason you ever went near a carrot was to flick it at me.'

Harry glared at him; Wystan looked flabbergasted, before nearly falling off his chair laughing.

'Calm down, Dad!' he spluttered. 'Look!' With exaggerated care, Wystan scooped up a forkful of mashed carrot and shoved it in his mouth, looking as if it were laced with rat-poison. He swallowed, then took a huge gulp of water to wash away the taste, shuddering.

Harry allowed his face to relax, taking a long draught from his own glass and watching Draco over the rim. Draco found this slightly disconcerting. 'Well, you were no mean participant in the food-fights yourself, Professor. Sixth year? When Snape had to hose us both down to get rid of the toffee?'

'Oh, Merlin, I remember that.' Draco grimaced. 'He gave me detention for a month and I wasn't allowed any dessert for a week. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.'

Harry laughed and smirked. 'McGonagall just told me off till my ear was ringing, and then complimented me on my aim.'

'Huh. Gryffindors. What a bunch of wusses.' Draco sniffed sanctimoniously. 'What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.'

'I should be a champion weight-lifter then, by your standards,' said Harry and poked out his tongue. Draco simply stared for a moment, captivated, before shaking his head ominously.

'That's it, Potter. Revenge is long-since overdue.' Harry opened his mouth to speak, but instead got a faceful of mashed spud. Draco laughed gleefully, a reaction quickly curtailed when Harry grabbed his spoon and sent a load of gravy-drenched broccoli winging his way. It hit Draco square in the forehead.

'Told you my aim was spot-on,' said Harry smugly.

'Oh, you are so dead,' Draco growled, snatching his own spoon. Wystan stared open mouthed as his father and his teacher engaged in a short but furious battle that featured significant amounts of airborne cuisine. Eventually, things quietened down, and he crawled back out from under the table.

'I have to say, that's an unusual way of eating,' commented Wystan. 'Well, at least some got in your mouths, I suppose.'

His father raised eyebrows heavily weighed down by a slimy mixture of stuffing and potato, but wisely forbore to say anything. He probably realised his status as an authoritarian figure was slightly compromised at the moment.

'I might just get my dessert and let you clean up,' Wystan went on carefully, and Harry nodded. When he was gone, he glanced over at Draco, who managed to look haughty and composed despite bearing a facemask of gravy and sprouts.

'Come on then, Malfoy,' he sighed. 'Let's do what the boy says.'

Draco followed him into the kitchen, where Harry had started running the tap. 'I'll have you know this is one of my favourite shirts,' sniffed Draco.

'I'll bloody well pay for it,' said Harry, his voice gruff.

'Nah,' said Draco, with a small smile. 'That was the most fun I've had in ages.'

Harry paused, and compressed his lips. 'Huh. Well. Me too.'

Draco nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. He looked down at his shirt with a sigh and started unbuttoning it. 'I don't suppose you could see your way to lending me another, Potter?'

'Sure,' said Harry, his voice sounding rather strangled. Draco shrugged off his shirt and looked up, but Harry was leaning over the sink, splashing his head vigorously.

'Shove up then.' Harry jumped and looked across at Draco, his wet, tangled hair falling in his eyes. Taking advantage, Draco plunged his head into the half-full sink and straightened, stretching up to run his fingers through his wringing hair. Harry made a sound like a small animal being energetically squashed to death, but before Draco could call him on it, he had pulled off his own t-shirt and Draco found himself clamping his lips around a very similar sound.

Ignoring the storm of tension building, Harry and Draco laved themselves off in silence. Long after they were both sparkling clean, they remained, scrubbing pointlessly at some portion of their anatomy that boasted nothing dirtier than bare skin.

'Malfoy,' said Harry at last, and his voice sounded thick. 'You have ... something ...'

Without waiting for a reply, he touched his dripping hand to a place just under Draco's left ear. Draco shivered involuntarily and Harry snatched back his hand.

'Towels,' he muttered, and almost ran from the room. By the time he came back, Draco was fooling himself that his racing heart was under control.

Wordlessly, Harry held out a fluffy red towel to Draco, who took it in equal silence. They dried themselves off. Harry remembered about lending Draco a shirt, and took the excuse to leave again. Draco seated himself to wait.

When Harry returned, he looked calm and unruffled, his hair combed but springing up in unruly waves as it always did. He passed a soft denim shirt to Draco, who took it gratefully, not looking at Harry as he put it on.

'Well,' said Draco, clearing his throat. 'I'd better go. I can owl this back to you,' he gestured at the shirt.

'Don't worry about it,' said Harry, sounding strained. 'I'll just tell Wystan you're leaving then. He'll want to say goodbye.'

His voice trailed off as Wystan himself appeared in the kitchen, looking pale and woebegone and dragging his feet. 'Daddy ... I don't feel so great,' he said piteously.

'The full moon --' hissed Harry, looking around for a calendar as he crouched down to Wystan's level and putting a hand to his forehead.

'Not for another two weeks,' said Draco, shaking his head. 'But there could be a second one --'

'A second full moon?' repeated Harry in horror.

'It happens sometimes. About once a decade,' said Draco, frowning. 'Is he hot?'

'Burning up,' replied Harry, his voice shaking.

'Wystan,' Draco said. 'Tell me how you feel.'

'Cold,' whispered Wystan, shivering. 'I feel really cold ...'

'He probably has a touch of 'flu,' said Draco. 'You'll need to put him to bed, wrap him up warmly.'

'But what if --' Wystan took a deep breath '-- what if it's the bite?'

'I can check it out,' said Draco with a frown. 'Lupin keeps books on this, surely?'

'Yeah,' said Harry, distractedly, picking up Wystan. 'Try the sitting room, or his bedroom. The one with the blue door. I'll come help as soon as I've tucked him up.'

'Okay,' said Draco, striding towards the door. Wystan looked at him as he passed, curled up against Harry's chest with flushed cheeks, his black hair standing up in cowlicks identical to Harry's. Draco brushed his head with the tips of his fingers. 'You will be fine, Wystan. I won't let anything happen to you.'

'We won't,' Harry said firmly, to Draco's retreating back.

Wystan smiled.

* * *

Draco sat in the sitting room as darkness gathered, surrounded by piles of open books. He held one close to his face, perusing the minute text and squinting his eyes. Next thing you know you'll need glasses. Wonderful.

His head snapped up as bright, artificial light flooded the room. Harry leaned against the doorframe, glasses dangling from his fingertips, rubbing under his eyes with the other hand.

'Find anything?' he asked tiredly.

'No, but I am fairly certain he has a mild case of 'flu,' said Draco, getting to his feet. 'Keep his room hot and he'll sweat it out overnight, I should imagine.'

'Well, I put on the electric blanket and closed the windows. Lit the fire,' said Harry through a yawn.

'That'll do the trick,' Draco agreed. 'But if he's not okay first thing in the morning, we can -- I mean, you can take him to a Healer.'

'Where are you going?' asked Harry, blinking, as Draco stepped across the threshold. Draco paused, face to face with Harry.

'Well, I thought I'd better leave ...' he said slowly.

Harry made an exasperated face. This close, Draco could see stubble already darkening his chin. 'Don't be silly. You can stay over. Especially in case something happens during the night. You know more about medicine than I do.'

'Well ...' hedged Draco, but in one respect, Harry was right. Au fait Harry might be on vanquishing Dark Lords, but on basic healing Draco had the upper hand every time. 'All right,' he agreed, not quite reluctantly.

'Good,' said Harry, letting his breath out in a whoosh. 'Here, sit down. Can I get you something to drink? I'll make up a bed for you later.'

'Thanks, and yes, a drink would be most welcome.' Draco fell over into a sofa with a sigh, before wriggling around into a sitting position. When he looked at Harry, Harry quickly busied himself with Summoning glasses from the kitchen.

Handing Draco a glass brimming with red wine, Harry asked teasingly, 'Malfoy, it's only eight in the day. Sure you want to be getting hammered this early?'

'I --' Draco caught sight of Harry's superior expression. 'I do not feel up to this right now. Can I take a rain check? For when I feel more scathing?'

'I couldn't engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed person,' said Harry, mock serious, and to Draco's surprise plumped down next to him on the sofa. 'It would be --'

'Not Gryffindorish?' Draco suggested.

'Close.' Harry shot him a grin. He was a few degrees off a Dumbledore twinkle. 'Unethical, was what I was going to say.'

'No wonder you didn't get into Slytherin,' sighed Draco, leaning his head back against the sofa, realising too late Harry's arm had been flung across it. 'Oh -- shit -- sorry, Potter --'

'Its okay -- no, seriously! I don't need to go anywhere for a while, do you?'

'I guess not,' said Draco cautiously, letting his head rest back against Harry's arm. It was reassuringly warm. Draco closed his eyes.

'Watch it there, Malfoy, you'll spill wine all over your shirt. I mean, my shirt.'

Draco felt rather than saw Harry lean across him to remove his glass and set it aside. The arm Draco was resting on shifted slightly, nudging Draco closer to the crook of Harry's arm.

'This is rather unorthodox,' said Draco, smiling crookedly up at Harry from his vantage point almost under his chin.

'I'll say,' said Harry, leaning forward again to drop his glass on the floor. Empty, it fell with a dull thud and rolled away. The top of Harry's head was practically brushing Draco's nose and he reached up a hand to push him off. Somehow, though, his hand ended up being caught at the nape of Harry's neck, his fingers curling in the fine, downy hair of Harry's neckline. Unbidden, Harry raised his head a little so that he was looking straight into Draco's eyes, and for the life of him Draco couldn't make his hand move --

They sat motionless for half a second, before both attempted to draw back and save face, but their opposing actions came into conflict. Draco was left leaning against the arm of the sofa with Harry's hands on either side of his chest and Harry's face hovering inches above his own. Draco's arms, which he had moved with the firm intention of levering Harry off him, had of their own accord twined themselves around Harry's neck. Harry swallowed. Draco could see the movement clearly, could feel Harry's heart beating fast or maybe that was his own, and Harry's face was gorgeously flushed.

Moving with continental-drift slowness, Draco arched his neck, brushing his lips against the underside of Harry's throat. Harry gasped and tensed. Draco immediately snatched his head away, but Harry chased it. Very much in control now that some mental barrier had come crashing down, Harry let all his heated, trembling weight pin Draco against the sofa and shoved one hand under Draco's head, dragging his fingers through Draco's hair and wrenched his face up to meet Harry's, trapping his mouth in a hot, hasty, greedy kiss.

When he finally broke away, leaving Draco's head spinning and his eyes flashing, Harry buried his face in Draco's shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' he said, his voice muffled, but even so, Draco could tell he did not mean it in the slightest. 'I've wanted to do that for so long.'

In response, Draco's fingers sought out his mouth, turning his head so that Draco could kiss him this time, a cool sweet kiss that rapidly burned its way onto his nerve endings. Harry's hands were fumbling at the buttons of Draco's shirt. Well, it was Harry's shirt, they were both Harry's shirts, but when they were both off it made little difference to whom they belonged. Harry's hands were roaming over warm flesh and Draco's hands were tangled in Harry's soft hair, and Draco did not want to stop but he knew he had to.

'Wystan,' he groaned, as Harry's diabolically talented mouth tattooed his collarbone.

Harry looked up at him. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked almost completely black. He smiled a slow, inviting smile. 'Draco -- he loves you. For some reason. He invited you here in the first place. I really couldn't think of anyone better suited to being in this position right now.'

As Harry's lips caught Draco's mouth for yet another breath-taking kiss, Draco found he really couldn't argue with that.

* * *

Remus Apparated into the hall, shaking his sodden cloak. It had been raining cats and dogs in the rainforest in Antigua where he had been making a stop-off for some rare plants. The house was darkened, except for a slit of light peeking out from under the kitchen door. Wondering if Harry was still up -- he often stayed up to wait for Remus, but it was three in the morning and he hadn't been due back until tomorrow night -- Remus made his way softly into the kitchen to the sound of voices.

He opened the door gently.

'Wystan!' he said, clutching his chest. 'What are you doing up?'

'I was hungry.' The boy shrugged, grinning. Fawkes, seated on Wystan's shoulder, shook his gleaming feathers in a smug sort of way. 'Want to join our midnight feast?'

'Certainly,' said Remus, removing his cloak and sitting down across from Wystan.

'It's not much of a feast, actually,' Wystan said, frowning a little. 'Only ice cream and crackers, and they're really for Fawkes. But it's better than nothing.'

'I agree wholeheartedly.' Remus took the proffered bowl of slightly melting chocolate ice cream. 'Where's your father?'

'In bed with my Potions teacher,' said Wystan. Remus dropped his spoon halfway to his mouth. It fell into the bowl with a resounding clang.

'You aren't joking, are you?' he said slowly, watching Wystan eat ice cream with careless abandon. Wystan shook his head. 'Draco Malfoy?' A nod. 'Well, well, well.'

A husky laugh, quickly stifled, and a creaking of bedsprings floated through the slightly open door.

'Good lord,' said Remus, gulping. Wystan grinned. 'You don't seem fazed, Wystan Sirius Potter.'

'Should I be?' asked Wystan, wiping the bowl clean with his finger and licking it. His other hand, unseen beneath the table, crumpled a Skiving Snackbox wrapper between his fingers.

'Don't lick the bowl,' said Remus automatically. 'Did you have a hand in this somewhere?'

Wystan went to lick the bowl again, but hesitated at Remus' thunderous expression.

'Who, me?' he asked meekly.

* * *

And power-hungry Slytherin loved those of great ambition.

The End