Justify The Means

Justify the Means

Hogwarts is filled with the sounds of justifiable celebration. The seventh year students completed their final exam half an hour ago and now have nothing to fill their time but - well, whatever they want to fill their time with.

Which is why Harry and Ron, brooms in hand, are heading down to the quidditch pitch. Hermione, accompanying them, can be heard complaining the potions exam was far too simple and she'd hoped there would be something challenging in their final year exams. A scattering of minute, still-smoking holes on Ron's robes provide the evidence for his whole-hearted refutals.

Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown lie basking in the sun, with sunglasses hiding their keen interest in the fact that Dean Thomas, Seamus Molloy and Neville Longbottom are doing the same thing. (Neville Longbottom has somehow turned into a hunk during his final two years at Hogwarts. Parvati and Lavender aren't sure how but they're enjoying it nonetheless.)

Crabbe and Goyle are happily chasing first years around the castle, with an occasional pause to discuss the aesthetic qualities of a nearby painting or the excellent preservation of a suit of armour. (The years have wrought one or two changes on this pair. They recently established the Hogwarts Dried Flower Arranging Club and are hoping the Flower Cup will become as keenly contested as the Quidditch Cup.)

But where is Draco?

Imagine this is the film. The camera pans across the mighty walls of Hogwarts before focusing on the main door. We go through the door, turn left, go down the stairs, turn right, go _up_ the stairs, turn right, turn back, go past the stairs, go down some stairs that weren't there before, pass through an apparently solid wall and find ourselves in the corridor outside the potions dungeon. And _this_ is where we find Draco Malfoy.

He leans back against the wall, arms folded and face sullen. An expression that had looked childish and petulant on an eleven-year-old becomes disconcertingly sinister on an eighteen-year-old. The effect is heightened by slicked-back silver-blond hair, sharp grey eyes and cheekbones that could be used to cut cheese.

Draco is gorgeous. Draco knows he is gorgeous. And, bless his little cotton socks, he has learned over the past seven years that being gorgeous doesn't necessarily get him everything he wants, which has made him a lot less obnoxious than he could be.

He still comes pretty high in the obnoxiousness stakes, of course, but not as high as if his every dream had come true.

And, speaking of dreams...

*****

Draco pushed himself away from the wall as the door creaked open. Professor Snape, he noticed, didn't seem too surprised to see him. Maybe Snape had used the occulus transpariarmus charm to glance through the door. More likely, he'd realised that Draco was fast becoming a permanent fixture.

That would certainly explain the jaundiced look Draco was receiving as Snape wiped his hands dry. "Is there something I can do for you, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco hastily censored the indecent replies that sprang to mind. "I wondered if you knew how I'd done in the potions exam."

Now the look was filled with disdainful pity. "The exam finished half an hour ago," Snape pointed out. "I haven't finished cleaning up-" he glanced distastefully at his hands "-after Longbottom yet, let alone had a chance to look at the theory papers."

"But do you think I'll have passed?" Draco persisted. Not that he particularly cared but it gave him an excuse to continue this conversation.

Snape's expression actually softened and he rested his hand on Draco's shoulder, steered him a step or two down the corridor. "I think I can safely say that you will pass with flying colours."

Draco briefly felt a most un-Slytherin wish that his high marks in Potions were due to ability or hard work, rather than manipulation and powerful relatives.

Was it possible that those bloody sanctimonious Gryffindors had it right? That occasionally honesty actually _was_ the best policy, rather than something to be tried as a last resort?

Draco shuddered slightly with revulsion. Not a chance. It wasn't honesty that had won Slytherin the House and Quidditch Cups for the past two years. It was sheer, out-and-out sneakiness and conniving. (Which was, it seemed, the only way to overcome Dumbledore's blatant favouritism of Gryffindor.)

He glanced across at Snape and felt the familiar surprise that the professor was actually an inch or so shorter than him. "I assume the same goes for Crabbe and Goyle?"

That softness was still there as Snape's sneer turned into a conspiratorial smile. "It's quite astonishing how well that pair do in exams, don't you think?"

Draco's answering smile barely twitched the corners of his mouth but his smug complacency was obvious. "Slytherin is very lucky to have such an inspirational housemaster."

Now there was definite fondness in Snape's expression. "The students themselves are responsible for much of their success."

Draco practically preened.

"You've done very well this year, Malfoy. I have great hopes for you in the future."

"Father has got me a position at the Ministry, working directly with Fudge."

Draco watched in bemusement as the warmth drained from Snape's face. "Your father. Of course." Now Snape's look was positively chilly. "I have work to do. You should go."

Obedient, if confused, Draco did.

*****

"But, Goyle, you're missing out on what Emin was _saying_-"

"She was saying that she's a messy cow who can't clean up after herself."

"No, you're looking at it with a closed mind. She's trying to force people to look at themselves, at their own lives, as a form of art. Saying that art isn't something that gets hung in a gallery and glanced at for five minutes every year - it's something that surrounds us, is a part of us, is-"

"A used tampax. It's not art, Crabbe. It's slovenliness. Art is something that takes skill."

Crabbe sighed. "So you're back to Monet. Safe, careful, doesn't push any boundaries."

"Don't be _ridiculous_ - Monet was an innovator, a radical-"

"A century ago! A century ago, it was radical to put a cushioning charm on a broomstick."

Draco finally lifted his head up from his book. "Shut up, the pair of you."

Genetically ingrained habit forced Crabbe and Goyle to obey instantly and Draco returned to his studying, frowning with concentration.

Studying in the Slytherin common room wasn't desperately unusual, even once exams had finished. Hogwarts had one of the most complete magical libraries in the world and it made sense to absorb as much knowledge as possible. Informed ambition is much more effective than desperate fumbling for power.

It wasn't even unusual that Draco's book was a large, dusty tome which normally resided in the Restricted section.

What _was_ unusual was that this book dealt with the Veela but didn't have a single illustration. (After Professor Delacour had started at Hogwarts, all the illustrated books on Veela had disappeared into the boys' dormitories. Well, Millicent Bulstrode had one but nobody was arguing with her about it.)

Embarrassed, Draco had been reduced to running his forefinger along the faded lines of text, struggling to make sense of ancient phrasing and lettering.

Finally, hoping he had understood correctly, he pushed the book away. "Crabbe, take this back to the library. I need to see-" He stopped short. "Somebody."

Crabbe sniggered. "Professor Delacour?"

Draco blinked. "Just take the book back."

Goyle sniggered in turn. "Good luck, Draco."

"Luck's not necessary. It all comes down to planning."

*****

It was, Draco reflected, a perfect exit line. Other than that, it was completely pointless.

Only a month until he left Hogwarts - and its teachers - far behind.

There was no time for planning. There was only time for pure, dumb luck.

For once, he'd consider himself lucky if he _didn't_ encounter Snape. Considering the way the potions master had been avoiding him since the end of the exams, it wasn't a major risk. If he chose his time right, Draco could probably walk right into Snape's office.

*****

Snape reached up to his bookcase without bothering to look. The advantage of a tidy work area was that you knew exactly where to find everything. His fingers closed on the spine of the book he wanted and he lifted it down.

It wasn't the right book.

He glared at it for a moment before ramming it back on to the shelf. Muttering insults at the presumptuous house-elf who had rearranged his books, he glanced along until he found the right book - _Potions Development for Shape Changers_ - and, again, absorbed himself in the task Dumbledore had assigned.

Personally, Snape didn't care if Remus bloody Lupin spent the rest of his life as a werewolf or not but Dumbledore did get these ideas. And, Snape reflected, getting his name attached to a cure for lycanthropy would hardly be an embarrassment.

*****

Two days before school finished, Draco was finally ready. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, took a deep breath, smoothed his hair back and stepped out the door.

*****

Snape was in a hurry. Dumbledore had dragged him away from a particularly delicate potion to discuss how amazingly well all the Slytherins had done in their final potions exam and what a coincidence it was that this was the fifth year running it had happened. Now, Snape's fragile decoction was probably ruined. Such a beautiful, subtle little potion, one breath of it enough to-

Snape stopped.

Standing in front of him was a Veela. A Veela staring straight at him with an almost familiar intensity. Slowly, she shook her head, sending movement rippling to the ends of floating silvery hair. Even more slowly, she ran a delicately pointed tongue over full, defined lips.

Finally, with glacial speed, she stepped backwards and to the side, passing through the doorway to what he dimly registered was the prefects' bathroom. She paused for long enough to beckon him, then was gone.

Blankly, Snape followed.

She was waiting for him, head tilted and a play of what looked like disdainful amusement on her lips.

Snape still had enough self-control to feel a hint of embarrassment. But then she glided towards him, reached out - his breath came faster as her hand brushed his cheek - but she was only reaching past him to touch the door.

"_Securium_," she murmured and Snape frowned. Veela, although inherently magical, didn't generally use the same charms as...

She was gazing into his eyes and all thoughts fled. So beautiful. So perfect.

"Come." She swayed towards the pool, already filled with deep, luxurious bubbles. Her robe dropped to the floor and Snape had to fight the temptation to pick it up, to keep it, to treasure it. She was exquisite, terrifying in her splendour.

She paced down the ramp into the pool, sank into the bubbles, let out a brief sigh of pleasure that shot straight to Snape's groin, making him breathless with desire.

And, in the back of his mind, a minuscule part of him was screaming with laughter.

She smiled, beckoned him. "Join me." Her voice was soft, filled with soul-searing music, and he couldn't think of refusing her command. Couldn't imagine denying even her faintest wish. Robes still on, he stumbled into the pool.

Her head fell back with unspeakable grace and she opened her mouth to laugh. She didn't say anything but made her way towards him, moving with the slight currents and eddies of the pool. Her long-fingered hands rested on his cheek. "So eager," she murmured and he thought he caught a hint of misery in her eyes before she dipped her head and began unfastening his robes.

Her fingers brushed against his skin as she pushed the robes back, leaving them to float as a malignant shadow in the warm water. Lost in the faint sensations, he didn't even notice as the more awkward clothing was removed until he stood naked before her.

She studied his face for a long moment before gently running the backs of her fingers down his cheek. His chest heaved as he struggled for breath. "So passionate. Why do you lock it all away?"

Was it an invitation? If so, it was one he was too terrified to accept. There was something about this Veela, something different. She seemed too human.

"So passionate," she breathed again as her lips closed on his.

With a strangled moan, he gave in and pushed against her, bearing her back until she was lying on the ramp, her limbs wrapped around him, encouraging him with muffled sounds of pleasure.

He needed no encouragement.

With the first thrust, he lifted his head to see her face - and stopped.

She had... changed.

Impossible to define how - a slight change of eye colour from silver to grey; a difference in the pattern of hair; a subtle alteration of the angle of cheekbones.

And now the hair was shortening, becoming straight.

The body beneath him, around him, was losing its curves and becoming hard and straight. And the flesh around his cock was squeezing tighter, more insistently. Demanding.

He groaned, shut his eyes and gave in.

He tried to ignore the square strength of the hands on his shoulders; the deepening tone of the murmurs of encouragement, and the erection swelling against his stomach.

The murmurs became hissed imprecations, "Snape!"

Later, Snape would reflect with bitter amusement on the fact that, even in the depths of passion, even after daring to pull this absurd trick, Draco still couldn't bear to use his first name. For now, all he could think about was the fact that he had to finish this act of depravity as quickly as possible.

Not quickly enough. There was time for Draco to fling his head back - Snape heard the crack of it hitting the wall. _Let the little fool suffer_, he thought angrily. Time for Draco's hands to clench convulsively against Snape's back - _Marking me in more ways than that,_ Snape thought frantically. Time for a whimpering cry in Draco's throat - _The fool. The stupid, reckless fool!_ Snape thought despairingly.

And finally, time stopped and Snape didn't bother thinking as he buried his face in the curve of Draco's shoulder and bit down hard to muffle his own senseless cries.

He waited for a moment, heaving deep breaths and trying to control the thoughts that were flying back into his mind, before pulling away from the child beneath him and hauling himself to his feet. He knew his mouth was trembling as he forced it into the familiar sneer. "You have gone too far this time, Malfoy."

At his feet, Draco's expression flickered to momentary pain before assuming an uncomfortable, remote hardness. "I got what I wanted. That's what being a Slytherin's about."

"You got what your father wanted. Although it seems an awful lot of trouble to go to - you only needed to say I'd done... this." His mouth twisted in distaste. "You didn't need to go to all this trouble to make it true." Suddenly realising he was still naked, Snape hastily stepped on to the poolside and wrapped a towel around himself. "You won't need to make this public. I'll be informing Dumbledore myself that I won't be returning next year." He sat down on a nearby bench and tried to ignore the yawning empiness in his stomach. "Unless, of course, your father would prefer to make it public."

Hardness melted into anger. "This has got nothing to do with my bloody father. This was for _me_."

"I see." Snape stared at his knees as he concentrated on rubbing the worst of the moisture out of his hair. "I don't know why you're so keen to destroy me but at least you're not just your father's pawn in this. It's progress." He glanced up. "Of a sort."

"Oh, forget it." Draco was upright in a single, smooth movement and Snape felt a brief pang of - envy? Longing? - at the boy's grace. Arrogant in his youth, Draco made no pretence of concealment and Snape quickly looked away.

With his damp hair roughly pushed into his position, Snape turned his attention to his clothes, still floating in the remains of the bubbles. He sighed and began looking for his wand.

"Want this?" Draco, safe on the other side of the pool, raised it.

Wordlessly, Snape held his hand out.

"Listen to me first."

Snape sighed again and folded his arms in an elaborate show of boredom. "I'm listening."

"I didn't do it to lose you your job. I did it..." Snape waited as Draco faltered. "I did it as a joke. I didn't think you'd fall for it. I didn't even think the potion would work."

Snape frowned. "Not a transfiguration?"

Draco shrugged. "I didn't want to actually turn into a Veela. I just wanted to look like one."

"And be able to use their magic. So not a polyjuice potion." Realisation dawned. "If you're going to borrow books from my office, please put them back in the correct position. And I hope you performed appropriate testing on your potion before using it."

Draco shrugged. "That's why it didn't last long enough. I didn't want to risk taking too much and being stuck like that."

Snape held his hand out again. "Now, my wand?"

With a sigh, Draco flicked the wand away and it landed neatly in the palm of Snape's hand.

A moment later, the professor's robes were warm, dry and neatly folded on the bench next to him. Self-conscious, Snape turned his back on Draco as he dressed. He slid his wand up his sleeve as he faced the boy again. "So what is your next move, Malfoy?"

Draco gave another careless shrug. "I leave Hogwarts next week and you're not likely to see me again." When Snape said nothing, he looked away. "I'm not going to say anything."

"What's the point of a practical joke that nobody knows about?"

"The joke would be on me." Finally Draco, to Snape's relief, began dressing. "You're not exactly the teacher who the Slytherin boys drool over."

"I would assume that honour belongs to Professor Delacour."

"Spot on. There's something about a Veela-" Draco stopped and busied himself with his clothes.

"I'd noticed." Snape was impressed by the steadiness of his own voice. "So you expect me to trust you with a secret that could destroy my career?"

"Yes." Draco shrugged.

Snape sighed. "I'm sorry, Malfoy." Snape was surprised to find that he was. "I can't."

"Slytherins do have some honour, you know. Look at yourself. Look at Sirius Black, if you particularly want to."

"Slytherins may have honour. Malfoys don't." Snape let his wand slip into his hand. "I am sorry, Draco." Draco was still fumbling for his own wand as Snape raised his. "_Memoriam_."

For a split-second, Draco's face was filled with horror before all expression was drained and he was left standing like a wooden doll.

Snape walked around the pool to stand in front of the boy. Frowning slightly, he ran his fingers down the angular cheekbone. When the temptation to kiss the full lips grew too strong to be comfortable, he moved quickly to the door.

"_Alohomora_."