The Spinning World

It is said that hindsight is clear.

Harry Potter's fifth year at Hogwarts was the year that he began to realise how very little he knew about the world that he lived in. He had come to learn over his summer months that there was a great deal he had never understood - about the people around him or the world he inhabited. In other worlds, in other times, it might have taken years more for him to be able to see these things, much less begin to act upon them. For nearly five years, he had been saving the world, and still information was withheld from him. Adults talked down to him; they expected a savior and a child in the same breath. The events that began his summer changed the path of his life. Without those ordeals, his education would probably have been left to Dumbledore's teachings, riddled with disinformation and careful omissions of truth.

Remus, Sirius and Draco had managed to change him. At fifteen, love was no longer an abstract concept, nebulous even though his parents had died for it, for him. He had seen love in them. He'd seen it in Remus' respect for him, his slow disintegration. In Sirius' loyalty, his friendship, his drive to bring the four of them together from places so different as to be nearly unimaginable, and knit them into a family. He had seen how love endured even when twisted and abused and wronged.

However (and there is always a however, an interruption in stories such as these) fifteen-year-old boys are never ready to conquer the world. Love is only one word that a boy needs to grow, and although his innate goodness had sheltered him throughout a childhood that would leave most incapable of normal human interaction, Harry was woefully short of many of these words, these compassions. Love is but one part of a person, and in the months that followed his return to Hogwarts, the challenge that faced Draco and Harry - the rebuilding of self - would have been far beyond the capacity of all but the most singular teenagers, to be able to stand together and be strong. As powerful and as earth shattering and as confusing as everything is when you are young, some things are beyond you. The knowledge that death and pain are real can change a child in irrevocable ways, and the death of Pansy Parkinson touched every person in Hogwarts, whether they had known her or not, liked her or not. Such is the nature of a death of a child. Draco was a ghost among them, a physical reminder of how your life can be transformed in a single day, a divider in their minds of How Things Were Then and How Things Are Now. There are many moments like this in one's lifetime, and Draco Malfoy would hardly be the only student who would board the Hogwarts Express a different person come spring.

Hindsight is clear, and looking back over an ocean of time, Harry would later think that everything began one morning in late September. Those packages that arrived so innocuously during the night seemed to be pebbles dropped into still water, setting into motion a series of events that would touch the lives of far more than expected. Living secluded in Remus' Farmhouse had felt hugely important, life changing, and it had been. But building a haven is a far different thing from reclaiming a life.

It isn't often that one gets the opportunity to point to a single moment and say, "There. It started there." And if Harry had known or understood his classmates, he would have recognised that the chaos that spiraled far out of his control in later months did not begin the night that the last wishes (so to speak) of Remus John Lupin were carried out. But to explain why that morning some awoke to discover the death of an idol, or the death of an idea so much larger than life, and some found the spark of courage that would lead them to places they had always thought were best left to others, defies words. To understand would mean untangling the threads of a story that Harry and Draco would not recognise for quite some time.

Better, then, just to say:

It began on a cold September morning ...

---

It began on a cold September morning, with the wind whipping through the trees, the last gusts of a storm that had passed over Hogwarts during the night. The fields and forests that sprawled around the ancient castle gleamed under the newly risen sun. And in the heights of the castle, up stairs that twisted cleverly around each other, tucked away in warm furnishings of red and gold, that first pebble was cast.

Harry snuffled and mumbled his way into awareness. His arms were wrapped tightly around his pillow, and he buried his face into its softness, annoyed by the noise outside his comfortable bed in that vague way that comes in the first moments between sleep and awareness. His subconscious rose and pulled him back into dreamland, blurring the lines of reality: Draco, naked, his pale skin luminous against the firelight that burned bright in Gryffindor common room, his long, shiny black hair tumbling down his back -

Harry let out a soft, confused snort and slapped a hand clumsily over his face. How silly, he thought, scornful of his own brain in his half-awake state. Draco doesn't have black hair, Cho Chang does.

His curtains were ripped open suddenly. Harry half turned, startled, fully expecting to see Ron standing next to him, red in the face and somehow aware that Harry had been dreaming of naked Draco Malfoy, furious even though he had the wrong sort of hair. Instead, Dean Thomas was holding Harry's bed curtain in one clenched fist, looking angrier than Harry had ever seen him.

Harry sat up. Unexpectedly, in Dean's other hand was a mask, nearly a meter tall, carved from wood and stained black in places. Two faces harmoniously shared the central space where teak turned to blackness, splitting three eyes between them. A scrap of parchment was crumpled in the fist holding the curtain. Harry's eyes traveled blearily from Dean to mask to parchment and back to Dean, and discovered the final discomforting touch: Dean Thomas had tears in his eyes.

"What the hell is this about?" Dean shouted, shaking the mask at him. Behind him, Ron and Neville stood awkwardly, Seamus at his best friend's shoulder. Harry gaped at Dean.

"Where did that come from?" he asked stupidly.

"It was in a box by Dean's bed this morning," Neville interjected. "You've got one too."

Stiffly, Dean released his hold on Harry's curtains. He extended the fist with the parchment in it, and dropped it into Harry's lap. Harry unfolded it with clumsy fingers, bringing it up to his face and squinting at it.

You were right about the headhunters.

Take care of yourself.

Remus Lupin

"Professor Lupin's dead!" Dean shouted. His voice cracked between the words, like a young child. "And you knew about it!"

An icy finger seemed to slide down Harry's spine, and he looked up from the parchment reluctantly. His breath seemed to have gotten caught somewhere underneath his ribs. Ron met his eyes steadily, his face white. Neville stared at the floor.

"How did it happen?" Dean hissed.

"Come on, Dean," Seamus murmured, catching a hold of Dean's arm. Dean shook him off, his eyes fixed on Harry. Harry, for his part, felt transfixed. He had the uncomfortable suspicion that if he didn't answer soon, Dean would actually hit him. Quiet, placid Dean - who was always playing peacemaker between Seamus and others, who watched everything with knowing eyes and never said bad things about anybody - was about to hit him on the face.

It had never occurred to Harry that maybe, just maybe his classmates would miss Remus too.

"Voldemort captured him," he said hesitantly. "At the beginning of summer hols. Everyone thought he'd been killed, but Snape showed up with him after the full moon, hurt really badly. They were able to save him but ... he - he just never got better."

Dean blinked twice, hard, in rapid succession. He lifted his face up to the ceiling. The noise that escaped his throat wasn't quite a sob. He looked back into Harry's face. "You should have told us."

"I didn't - "

"You should have told me," Dean hissed. He stormed out of the room, the mask still in his hand. There was a moment of horrified silence.

"Harry," Seamus said awkwardly. "Sorry, Harry - he's - "

But Seamus couldn't find the words, and after a pause, he turned and followed Dean out of the dormitory. They heard his feet clatter down the steps.

"Wow," Neville said softly.

"Yeah," Ron echoed, sounding awed.

Harry stared at his hands miserably. Avoiding their eyes, he threw off his blankets and went to see what was in the small box that lay at the foot of his bed. It was smaller than Dean's, whose box he could see laying on its side through the open curtains of Dean's bed, and was wrapped primly with twine. Underneath was an envelope of thick, creamy paper bearing his name in bold letters. Harry sat back down on his bed and unwrapped the twine gingerly, pulling the envelope free of its confines. The bed settled beside him as Ron seated himself next to Harry, peering over his shoulder.

"That's from the Goblin Bank," Ron advised as Harry unfolded the paper. "Lupin must have set up instructions for his Will through them. Mum got one of these when my Uncle Bilius died."

The paper itself was full of long words that had little meaning for Harry, but Ron seemed to understand it well enough. He pointed out to Harry the spell that had caused the appearance of Remus' last gifts to Harry and Dean in their dormitory, and added that there were likely loads of other people waking up to similar scenes. "Whoever he left things to," Ron said, and Harry wondered what Remus had left Sirius. He'd been owling Sirius back and forth since term began, and it didn't seem like his godfather was coping very well. He had been living in an isolated old property of the Black family in Northumberland, handed down through the ages and definitely lacking in modern wizarding conveniences such as indoor plumbing or heating. Sirius had told Harry that it suited him just fine, but privately Harry was worried.

He set the parchment aside, and Neville scooped it up as he sat down on Harry's other side, scrutinizing it carefully. Harry sucked in a deep breath and held it as he unwrapped the rest of the twine carefully. A small letter was laid carefully over the contents of the box, and Harry moved this to his lap before picking up what Remus had left him.

Laid on top was an intricate pearl bracelet, three strands of tiny, irregular pearls held together with a single silver clasp, the three strands trailing below the clasp with one thread of thicker, orange pearls, another of fat white ones and the third with delicate silver beads. Harry frowned slightly and lifted it up, turning it this way and that in his palm.

"That's lovely, Harry," Neville said.

Harry nodded, distantly, and reached into the box to pull out the other object inside. It fit snugly into the small box and was wrapped in several layers of thin tissue, but even before his clumsy fingers tore the paper away, he knew what it was.

The mother of pearl moons that marched orderly around the edges gleamed cheerfully in the bright morning sun, and the dark wood seemed to have a honey glow. Harry's fingers hovered over the lid, hesitantly. Ron and Neville's voices, complimenting or querying, seemed to be very far away, and strangely Harry found that he couldn't open the music box, couldn't again see those tiny figures of Sirius and Remus and himself as a baby. There was a horrible squeezing in his chest, and Harry knew that if he opened the lid of the music box and heard the sly tinkle of music within, it would simply be too much.

A monstrous shame overcame him. He had never considered Remus' death very carefully; so much had gone on in the past month that the time to mourn for his ex-professor and friend seemed to slip through his fingers like sand. He had been so occupied with schoolwork and dealing with Draco and trying so hard to slip back into his old life that he had never really accepted the simple fact that Remus was gone, and Harry would never see him again.

"You ok, Harry?" Neville's soft voice was close to his ear. Harry ducked his head and nodded, and that was when the scrap of parchment fluttered out from between his fingers. Remus had left a letter for him as well, it seemed, written in a tremulous and neat hand.

Harry,

There are a lot of people who can still tell you about your father, but I'm sorry that I never had a chance to tell you about your mother and how much I treasured her friendship. The pearl bracelet, as you may have guessed, belonged to her. Please forgive an old werewolf's reticence for not knowing how to say this before I shuffled off this mortal coil and wouldn't have to be embarrassed about it afterwards, but I love you and I am very proud of you. I have always treasured the times that I spent with you, whether when you were a baby or when I was your professor, and I'm sorry that I was not more a part of your life.

Don't ever be embarrassed to ask Sirius about your parents, and look after the old fool for me, when I no longer can. It's not an easy task, but I have the utmost faith in you.

Remus

Harry blinked hard and very determinedly did not cry. He handed the paper over when Ron asked to see it, but left his eyes rooted on the music box, and the bracelet, which he had set upon his knee. The dormitory seemed very quiet, shielded from the twitter of birds or shouts from the Gryffindor common room, and suddenly Harry wished very much that Draco was there, so that he could make some barbed comment and make Harry angry, or maybe kiss him until Harry forgot all about feeling like this.

-

Draco Malfoy, on the other side of Hogwarts castle, was sound asleep. It was a pleasant sleep, undisturbed by nightmares or any dreams but the most gossamer. He woke naturally, undisturbed by angry housemates, long after Harry had showered and dressed. He was not naturally an early riser, but sleeping patterns were always sketchy in the Slytherin dungeons, whose inhabitants did not have the sun to tell them when to wake, and had at any rate been sleeping less these days. He laid for some time in his bed, still curled beneath his blankets, blinking sleepily, a contented smile on his face. The darkness of the dormitory painted everything within his bed curtains a deep gray.

After some time, he pushed himself upwards, retrieving his pajama bottoms from the foot of the bed and wiggling into them. He was still smiling when he pushed the curtains open, enjoying the way the cool stone felt on his bare feet. He went out of the dormitory and padded down to the showers without noticing the box that sat peacefully on the trunk at the foot of his bed, and enjoyed a long shower without having truly woken up. Draco was not often a quiet person, but a sort of mute peace had overtaken him.

He paused thoughtfully when he reentered the dormitory and observed Vincent and Theo in deep meditation over an object at the foot of his bed. "Good morning," he said slowly.

Vincent jumped, but Theo only raised his head and gave a cool salutation back. "Draco," Vincent said excitedly, "There's a package here for you. Who's it from?"

"I've no idea," Draco said, annoyed. "I haven't looked at it." The probability that it was from his mother loomed large in his mind, and he moved forward to snatch the package from Theo's hands. He dug out the envelope beneath the twine with some difficulty, balancing the box on his dead hand as he sat down on his trunk. Theo and Vincent hovered close, curious.

Unlike Harry, Draco recognised the origin of the package immediately. His mother had received quite a few of these sorts of packages over the years, as members of the ancient and noble house of Black slowly died off. Sometimes they came with interesting Dark Arts artifacts (which he had never been allowed to play with, much to his disappointment) enclosed in tidy boxes just like the one he currently held, and when his paternal grandfather had died of dragonpox, it had contained impertinent letters demanding payment of debts incurred by the recently departed. The box was rectangular, and upon opening it Draco discovered two boxes of equal size stuffed neatly inside. He turned the package upside down and shook it to slide the smaller boxes out, handling them clumsily.

He began to laugh when he opened the first box and saw the tarnished brass trumpet resting oddly atop the square wooden base. "What is that?" Gregory asked, sitting down beside Draco and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"It's a gramophone," Theo said, when Draco did not stop giggling to answer him.

"It's Remus' gramophone," Draco corrected breathlessly. "Professor Lupin's. He willed me his gramophone - and look! All the records, too." Shrunken, the gramophone and box of records fit on top of each palm, and he held them up for his friends to see before setting them on the ground and retrieving his wand to restore them to their proper size.

"What does it do?" Blaise asked, kneeling by the box of records and reaching forward to flick through the album covers.

"It plays rock and troll," Draco said.

"Rock and roll," Theo corrected.

Draco paused. "Really?"

"Play something," Vincent encouraged, his eyes gleaming.

Draco surveyed the gramophone thoughtfully, mirth still hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"Take it to the common room, Draco," Blaise urged. "Show it off."

Draco grinned.

They brought the gramophone to the common room with them. Vincent carried the gramophone itself, and Gregory the box of records that had come with it. As their housemates trickled out of the dormitories, rubbing sleep from their eyes, they were greeted to the solemn sight of the fifth year Slytherins arranging the gramophone to perfection on the high table away from the fireplace.

Draco flipped through the box of records while Theo peered at the needle of the player. Montague and Pucey shouldered the smaller students out of the way and looked over Draco's shoulder in an authoritarian sort of manner. Most of the titles were unfamiliar to the children gathered worshipfully around, but the covers and names were colourful and fascinating. "Put something on already," Montague said, gifting Draco with a jab on the back of the neck. Draco grimaced at him and said nothing. His fingers hovered over an album and then plucked it out from the fold, sliding the black disk out of its sleeve carefully, the way Remus had taught him.

He glanced up at his friends before lifting the needle and placing it precisely in the first shiny groove. The common room seemed to hold its breath as the first hiss and pop came through the horn above the record, and Draco closed his eyes and saw time and history stretch and fall away before him, linking him to a spirit he never knew existed.

Music is an equalizer, and knows no more boundaries than love itself does. The sound that issued forth from that gramophone caught their breath in their lungs as it had the generation before theirs, stopping all words for the sex and power that dripped from every syllable.

"Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel ..."

----

The mood in the Great Hall was somber. It was still early enough that the long tables were not yet full, and knots of students were interspersed along their lengths. At the high table, Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra were bent closely over an ancient roll of parchment. Professor Flitwick was holding his glasses in one hand, scrubbing at his eyes with the other. Professor McGonagall's fork was loose between her fingers, and her eyes were far away. At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George Weasley sat together before a box filled with paper, strange toys spread out before them. George's head rested upon Fred's shoulder, his lips pressed thin. "All this time," Harry heard him say as he passed. "A whole year in his class and we never figured it out."

Harry Potter and Dean Thomas hadn't been the only people to receive packages in the night.

Hermione and Ron dropped onto the bench on either side of Harry. "Don't worry about Dean," Hermione said comfortingly. "He's just upset."

Harry reached glumly for some toast and jam. "I just didn't know that he liked Remus so much." He didn't notice the look that passed over his head between them, staring instead over at the Slytherin table on the other side of the Hall, where not a single Slytherin sat. The long table was bare of even platters of food, as though the house elves below their feet knew that no food would be needed. He felt unreasonably annoyed that Draco did not seem to be around, as if the Slytherin had no right to skip breakfast just when he was wanted.

He picked sullenly at his breakfast, unwilling to let Ron or Hermione draw him into conversation. His raw mood had vanished some time ago, and he had pulled himself sufficiently enough together to leave the Gryffindor dormitories but not enough to face Dean, who was standing with Seamus in a corridor, his eyes rimmed with red. They had all looked uncomfortably at the ground as Harry passed by, Ron in tow.

His mother's bracelet was still cool against his skin, hidden underneath the sleeve of his robe. He had slipped it on when he was getting dressed, and had discovered with obscure delight that when his arm was at this side, he could touch the three strands that dangled down with the tips of his fingers. It was strange to think of his mother wearing the same piece of jewelry he wore now, and he wished that Remus had told him more about it. Had Harry's father given it to her?

He dropped his right wrist down below the table, reaching for his orange juice with the left, covertly stroking the pearls with his fingertips. Maybe his father had given it to her before they were married; surprised her with it like the men sometimes did on Aunt Petunia's soaps, over a romantic candle-lit dinner. Harry knew uncomfortably that he had no frame of reference for romance or relationships; he would rather have gouged his eyeballs out than see Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon flirting over candlelight, and he was aware enough to know that Remus and Sirius' relationship had hardly been orthodox. He took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully, wondering if Draco would laugh at him if Harry asked whether boys could go on dates together.

At first, Harry didn't hear his name being called. He was lost in thought, still absently holding his fork in one hand, vaguely contemplating the eggs on his plate and the possibility that his father had given his mother the bracelet when Harry was a little baby, and maybe he had even seen her wear it, even if he couldn't remember. He was aware of Ron and Hermione's eyes on him before he noticed the presence of the girl standing behind him.

"Oh, hi," he stammered, twisting around in his seat to look up into the face of Cho Chang.

"Hi, Harry," she said, her cheeks pink. "How are you?"

"I'm - alright," he said blankly. "How are you?"

"Good," she said, a little breathlessly. "I just came over to say hello - I haven't seen you since term started."

"Yeah, I've been pretty busy ... got O.W.L.s this year," Harry replied. Inwardly, he felt quite surprised with himself. A few months ago, even thinking about talking to Cho tied his stomach up in painful knots. As soon as he approached her, his brain felt as though it had abruptly shut off, leaving him gasping, devoid of all clever and charming things to say.

Strangely, he felt quite comfortable. He looked up at Cho and studied her face as they conversed. She really was quite pretty.

After she had gone, Harry turned back to his breakfast to find the eyes of his friends upon him. Hermione had a strange smile across her face. "What?" he asked, guardedly.

"Nothing," she said loftily, her smile broadening. Harry frowned at her.

He was distracted from responding when Ginny threw herself down in the empty seat across from them, grinning hugely. "What are you so happy about?" Hermione asked, turning her attention away from Harry.

Ginny laughed. "Haven't you heard? Hagrid's back."

---

Harry caught up to Draco on the way to Care of Magical Creatures. He spotted the familiar white-blond head, now fuzzy with newly grown hair, far beyond them in the throng of sluggish students that moved across the grounds. "Draco!" he called, and muttered a quick apology to Ron and Hermione even as he hurried to catch up, nearly tripping in his rush down the steep hillside. Draco turned and, seeing Harry, slowed his pace. Crabbe and Goyle, trailing behind him, slowed as well.

Harry fell into step beside Draco and they resumed walking, Draco's cronies looming uncomfortably close behind. "Hello," Draco said casually.

Harry, breathless from running and the morning's confusion, didn't bother with a greeting. "Where have you been all day? Why weren't you at breakfast? Or lunch? What's going on? Did you get something from Remus too?"

Draco nodded, his expression annoyingly lofty. Around them, groups of students passed by, glaring at Harry or Draco according to the colour of their scarves. "What did you get?" he asked.

"A bracelet of my mother's and the music box from the study - the one with the moons on the side," Harry replied. Unconsciously, he gasped his right wrist, comforted by the irregular shape of the pearls beneath his sleeve.

"I wonder how Remus ended up with your mother's jewelry," Draco mused. Behind them, Crabbe and Goyle chortled, and Harry jumped.

"His note didn't say," he answered, annoyed. "You didn't tell me what he left you."

"Music. He gave me his player and all of his records. We missed breakfast because everyone wanted to listen to it."

"Oh," Harry said. "I wonder why he did that."

Draco shrugged. "I suspect it will turn out to be one of those wonderfully eloquent life lesson sort of things." There came another rumble of laughter from the mountains of flesh behind them. "But in the meantime it is nice to have some life in the common room - everyone has been frightfully depressed lately."

"Everyone was all upset this morning," Harry grumbled. "I practically got attacked by Dean Thomas."

Draco raised his eyebrows. His cheeks and nose were pink in the cold, and the expression gave him the look of a startled rabbit. "Dean Thomas? Why? Because of Remus' will?"

Harry nodded, reluctantly. "I didn't know he liked Remus so much."

Draco scoffed. "Of course he does. He used to natter on all the time about how wonderful Professor Lupin was and how Professor Lupin was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had. You must have been completely deaf not to notice all of that."

"I guess so," Harry muttered.

They had caught up to their classmates by this time, who were grouped awkwardly around Hagrid's hut, stunned into silence by the appearance of their teacher, who stood waiting for them at the edge of the forest with what looked to be half a dead cow slung over his shoulder.

"Wonderful," Draco said sourly, as they approached. "This looks promising." However, he followed Harry as the Gryffindor made his way forward, and only settled his arms across his chest.

"Everybody gather roun'," Hagrid said expansively, a cheerful smile on his face despite the expanse of faded bruises there. His eye looked to have been blackened some time previous, and there was a healing scrape on his chin that had yet to vanish. "We're working in there today." He jerked his head to the trees that encroached behind his home, and they rustled ominously, as though in response. Draco looked nonplussed.

"I've bin savin' this trip fer yer fifth year," Hagrid continued. "It's a right special opportunity we got - I reckon I'm probably the on'y person aroun' who's managed ter -"

"Excuse me," Draco said loudly. "Are we going to see an animal that requires a dead moose as bait? Shouldn't we have a trained Mediwizard on hand, in case yet another of your lectures goes awry?"

"It's a cow," Hagrid said gruffly. "An' never you mind, Malfoy." However, most of the Slytherins - and not a few of the Gryffindors - were nodding in agreement. Hagrid scowled defensively and hitched the dead cow higher up on his shoulder. Unpleasantly, Harry noticed that a large bit of clotted blood had oozed out of the carcass and made its way onto his shoulder. He stared, fascinated, as Hagrid continued his lecture.

"As I were sayin', we're goin' inter the forest today fer a real surprise. So allya can go ahead and star' walking, we'll get there in a bit." He gestured with one hand, and the cow legs swung out in a sickening arc over his shoulder.

The students looked at each other anxiously, and nobody moved towards the Forbidden Forest until Hermione, with a tutting sort of noise, moved with Ron into the woods. Once the lead was taken, other students walked reluctantly between the trees, in quiet groups. Harry, Draco, Hagrid and Draco's cohorts remained where they were.

Hagrid beamed down on Harry. "Alright, Harry? How's yer summer?"

"Good," Harry said hesitantly, trying to draw his eyes away from the stain on Hagrid's shoulder. He knew without looking that his eyes had drawn Draco's attention to it; the other boy was snickering quietly behind his hand. "Sorry I didn't come and see you earlier."

"S'oright," Hagrid said agreeably. "I got back to Hogwarts late, wouldna wanted ya ter break curfew."

"Er," Harry said hesitantly, "what happened to your face?"

Hagrid's expression darkened and a brief sadness flashed through his eyes. "Ah, well," he said slowly, "I was, er - doin' a favour for Dumbledore, over the summer. Top Secret stuff, y'know. But I found summat important there and tried - well, I shouldn' tell yer that, but anyway it's escaped and gone - er, I mean, it turned out ter be not so important after all."

Draco smirked. "You lost it, then?"

Hagrid scowled at him. "Mind yer own business. And if yer through asking stupid questions, you c'n join the rest of yer class in the forest." With that, he nodded to Harry and turned away, hoisting the dead cow more comfortably across his shoulder.

Harry elbowed Draco in the side. "Leave Hagrid alone," he said.

"Why?" Draco said snidely, rubbing his ribs. "Are you actually going to tell me you're looking forward to meeting the great moose eating beast of the forest? That you really think whatever he's so excited about isn't going to think that a student would be a much better meal than half of a dead thing?" Harry, who had taken a few steps forward to follow Hagrid and the rest of their class, looked back over his shoulder at Draco. The only students still gathered around Hagrid's little hut were Draco, Crabbe and Goyle; the body of their class had gone on into the forest and disappeared within its shadow.

"You just don't like him because you got hurt - "

"Pardon me for thinking that being gored by a wild beast is a fine reason to hold a grudge," Draco muttered.

"-- well, that was your fault, anyway. And you weren't gored."

He lowered his head and trudged on into the Forbidden Forest without waiting for the inevitable spiteful remark from Draco. He passed through the first line of trees without paying much notice. The wet of the night still clung to the earth, plants and fallen leaves indistinguishable and equally silent underfoot. He walked on for some distance without noticing that he was alone.

He paused when he heard Goyle speak from some distance behind him, as though the shorter of Draco's henchmen had never moved from where they had stood during Hagrid's lecture. The Slytherin boy's raspy voice was pitched low and urgent, and when he spoke again - "Draco?" - Harry turned and retracted his steps. He found the three boys standing in a curious group in the very foot of the forest.

Draco was frozen, one hand outstretched, barely grazing the surface of the tree before him. His eyes slid closed, and then fluttered open. Crabbe and Goyle hovered on either side of him, mirror expressions of concern and confusion on their craggy faces. Harry drew close enough to hear Draco's slow, ponderous intake of breath. He put a hand over Draco's drawing it away from the tree. "Alright, Draco?" he asked.

Draco pulled his hand out of Harry's grip, his eyes refocusing on Harry's face for only a moment before flicking back towards the forest. "Why, do I look like I need rescuing, golden boy?"

Goyle's heavy hand landed on Draco's shoulder. "You ok?"

Draco looked at him blankly, seemingly oblivious to his flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged glances. Harry frowned. "Come on, Draco. We'll be late for - "

"I don't care about this stupid class!" Draco shouted suddenly. "We were better off with that Grubbly-Plank woman and I have no intention of humoring that servant and letting myself be eaten by whatever his glorious surprise is!" He turned and stomped away, walking very fast. Harry made a move to pursue, bewildered, but was immediately blocked.

"We'll handle it," Crabbe rumbled.

Harry considered the futility of trying to push past the bigger boys. "No," he objected angrily. "I'll talk to him."

"He's our friend - " Goyle said, scowling, but Crabbe put a hand on his shoulder, turning the other boy towards him. Their posture seemed to take Harry out of the equation, as though there was no question that it would be one of them that would rush to console Draco out of his fit. There wasn't, Harry thought. Unconsciously, he stepped backwards, retreating from their space. They seemed to forget his existence as soon as he had left their immediate field of vision.

"Go to class," Crabbe said. "You can't miss it, you'll get in trouble again. Take notes for me. I'll get Draco." Goyle nodded, grudgingly. He vanished into the Forbidden Forest, where the class had long since disappeared into its shadows. After a long moment, Harry followed him, helplessly.

Vincent Crabbe turned and wearily followed Draco's meandering path back up the hill. His footsteps were still visible in the still-glimmering grass, and swayed back and forth, leaving wet footprints when he finally caught up with the stone path leading to the circle of speaking stones.

He found Draco crouched in the grass at the foot of one of the stones, retching pitifully. He didn't raise his head when Vincent approached, but snaked out a hand and clutched blindly at the air. Gingerly, Vincent offered his hand, and Draco grabbed it and held it tightly. His entire body was shaking with the effort of throwing up, and Vincent laid his other hand atop Draco's, enfolding those long, thin fingers entirely between his big paws. He wondered if maybe he should rub Draco's back, the way his mum had done for him once when he had been ill.

So much of what Draco usually did was beyond the scope of Vincent's comprehension, and he was used to that, really he was. He and Gregory had always been happy to shamble along with Draco and play along whatever fantasy he'd thought up for them that day, or maybe rough up anybody that he wanted roughed up. They'd been friends just about forever, and even if sometimes Draco made fun of them for being slow, or for not getting jokes, he always shared his chocolates with them and always helped if one of them was falling behind in class.

The last few weeks, as far as Vincent was concerned, had been absolutely awful. They never knew when Draco was going to run off with Potter or just run off and turn up hours later with no explanation, and Draco ... Draco had always been their center, as unpredictable and bratty as he could be. No matter what sort of tantrums he had thrown, he always came back to Vincent and Gregory, sulky and emotional but still Draco, still easily pacified when they let him poke fun at them. Vincent knew that he didn't really understand what had happened to Draco over the summer. It was far beyond his and Gregory's comprehension and that was alright, he was alright with that, but it was all scary in a way that he'd never felt before.

Vincent had wanted so badly to grow up. They talked about it a lot when they were little - as little as he and Gregory had ever been, anyway - when Draco had tired of games that they had to run around for and had taken them into their secret hideout, the crawl space beneath the stairs, and lit the candle they kept in there just for themselves. That was when they talked about being grown ups. About being able to use magic, to swagger like Draco's dad did, to stay up as late as they wanted and get the house-elves to make them chocolate fools whenever they wanted.

Now all Vincent wanted was to be little again. His life had been changed more than he'd have ever thought it could, and he wasn't even involved in any of it. He hadn't known that anything had happened; his dad had gone out the night that it happened, and had eaten his eggs and bacon the next morning at breakfast as though he'd only gone to the Notts' for drinks. All term, he'd wanted to ask Draco about it, whether Draco knew whose dad was who under the Death Eater masks, whether Vincent's dad had been one of the ones who ... hurt Pansy and Draco. Vincent's imagination stubbornly insisted that his dad couldn't have hurt his friends, had stayed in the back and maybe watched in horror or something, but wasn't that just the problem? He didn't know for sure.

He took a hand from Draco's and rubbed gently over Draco's shoulder blades. They felt small and fragile underneath his hand, like baby bird wings. He knew that when he stood up, he'd have big dirty patches on his robes where he was kneeling in the wet grass, but he stayed where he was because maybe he could make Draco feel just a little bit better that way.

He stared up into the sky and listened silently to Draco's sobs, and knew that he would give just about anything to still be small enough to crawl into that space under the stairs with Draco and Gregory and maybe Theo and never have to be grown up again.

---------

The first Hogsmeade weekend came early that year, the first weekend of October, and that morning saw a return to the howling storms that announced the arrival of each winter. The air was heavy and gray, and when they trooped up to the courtyard to await permission to leave it seemed that at any moment the sky would open up and dump petulant rain on their heads. Potter and Draco eyed each other warily from across the courtyard, but did not approach.

They hadn't spoken much since that disastrous Care of Magical Creatures class, even though they had had Potions together. Potter had tried several times to speak to Draco during meals without much result. Gregory clamped down on the fierce joy that rose inside him when he saw them glaring at each other like they used to do, permitting himself only a shared glance with Vincent. Draco had been erratic of late, and they were still rather lost without his commanding presence. It felt almost like old times as they pulled their scarves closer around their necks and set off for Hogsmeade, Draco's voice lifted in exaggerated complaints about the weather, the lack of coaches to drive them to the village, and how crowded it would be once they got there. Vincent and Gregory trudged along behind him, grunting every so often in agreement, each hiding happy smiles.

It began to rain when they were nearly to Hogsmeade. Draco took pity on Vincent and Gregory and cast water repellant charms on all of them. He seemed like a pale ghost, bright against the backdrop of muddy grass and increasingly barren trees, the outline of his form blurred along the edges of his Charm. Gregory wiped the water from his face and they all fell back into formation.

The herd of children that staggered into Hogsmeade village broke off into smaller groups immediately, chattering excitedly and rushing this way and that. For once, it seemed that Draco did not have a specific goal in mind, and they wandered the streets for a long while, dodging into shops at random. Vincent needed new quills, and Gregory was running low on powdered newt's blood. Draco griped for some time over an uncharacteristic desire for hot tea, but balked at going to either Madam Puddifoot's or any of the public houses. Neither Vincent nor Gregory noticed that, in marked difference to his usual habits, Draco bought nothing all day. It would never have occurred to them to worry about Draco's finances, anymore than it would have occurred to Draco to tell them about it. Discussing money was coarse, their mothers had always told them, and anyway it was all rather embarrassing for Draco, who had never before considered life without easy access to material comforts. He wasn't restricted from accessing the Malfoy or Black vaults, as far as he knew, but the idea of doing so was rather unfathomable. If truth were told, Draco was afraid, but only in that vague way that comes with imaging something that you truly have no knowledge of.

Vincent stopped at the cart that always stood beside Gladrags, and bought a paper sack full of hot roasted chestnuts. Thunder grumbled over their heads as portions were doled out between them. They walked slowly back in the direction of the Three Broomsticks, carefully prying the hot shells away from the sweet meat inside. Draco was filling up the silences as he usually did, rambling on about his summer at Professor Lupin's, some story about fire breathing cows that he'd already told them. He'd stopped inserting daring battles with Muggles into his stories when he was thirteen, but even patient Terry Boot would have told Draco to shush about those damn cows by that point. Vincent and Gregory never minded. They knew that the cows were real because Draco had made one out of socks and it had briefly been the vogue of the common room, and neither of them really cared that there were no orang-utans in Scotland.

They were slow to notice when Draco abruptly stopped talking and scurried to the left, diving into an alleyway. They turned as one and stared at him, dumbfounded, until he hissed impatiently. "What the hell are you doing, get over here!" They shambled over willingly, and waited for an explanation.

"Didn't you see her?"

Gregory inched over to the mouth of the alleyway and peered around the corner. His eyes scanned the busy street. "I don't see -" he said, and then he did.

She was quite tall, but he hadn't recognised her because she was cloaked, a hood pulled up over her hair and face. The faintest wisp of honey-coloured hair had escaped its confines, and she brushed at it, her fingers lined with rings. Gregory had seen those rings many times, curled around a teacup or a wand and even once on Draco's fingers.

He ducked back in the alleyway. "What's your mum doing in Hogsmeade?"

"How should I know?" Draco's tone was verging on hysteria. "We have to get away without her seeing us. I can't talk to her."

Vincent's eyes widened, realisation making a slow journey across his heavy features. "Draco," he said in astonishment, "you haven't talked to your mum since we've been back."

Draco flinched. "You haven't?" Gregory asked, shocked. "But you get so many letters ..."

He thought hard. Yes, Mrs. Malfoy's owl had brought a steady stream of letters, probably at least once a day, and Gregory had felt so glad seeing them and knowing that Draco was back with people who liked him, and his mum knew that he was alright. But he hadn't noticed Draco writing anything back.

"I can't talk to her," Draco repeated dully, not meeting their eyes.

Gregory hesitated, and then turned and walked out of the alley. He paid no heed to Draco's noise of outrage or Vincent's attempts to hold him back. He walked straight across the street and over to where Mrs. Malfoy stood gazing blankly into a shop window.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked awkwardly.

She turned swiftly, more so than he was expecting and he took half a step backwards, startled. Her face held such light and hope - which faded when she saw that he was alone. Her eyes darted up the street, and Gregory hoped that Vincent and Draco were staying out of sight.

"Hello, Gregory," she said, and managed a smile. "Why are you all by yourself?"

"Draco's back at the castle," Gregory blurted. She blinked. "I mean, if you're looking for him - er - he stayed behind because he's sick."

Her hands clenched convulsively. "He's sick?" she asked.

"I - I mean, he had homework to finish," Gregory said. He was painfully conscious of the blush on his face.

Her eyes darted again over his shoulder. It was a physical effort to keep himself from following her eyes and giving them all away. When her clear eyes had settled back on him, there was raw pain obvious within them. "Gregory," she pleaded, "tell me how he is. Please."

Gregory shifted from one foot to the other. "He's alright," he mumbled. "We thought he was writing to you."

She shook her head, bringing her hand up to wipe away sudden tears. Gregory stared at the rings on her fingers rather than her face, stricken. "Nobody will tell me anything," she said thickly. "Not Dumbledore, not the Ministry - the Parkinsons have moved to the continent - I haven't heard a single word from my son since the beginning of summer - the only time I've seen him was in the papers and there were - were scars all over his face - I haven't heard from my husband for weeks -" She broke off abruptly, visibly trying to compose herself.

Gregory wracked his brains for something to say. He wished fervently that Draco would come round and take care of his mum. Gregory's mum had told him what to do if he ever saw a girl cry: offer her a handkerchief and a willing ear, she said, that's a good start. But did that still apply to other people's mums, too? He just didn't know.

He chanced an upward glance and saw that she wasn't crying anymore. She had a lost, anxious look and her features were a perfect blank. Gregory had seen Draco look like that sometimes, when he was overwhelmed, as though his entire body couldn't decide which emotion to feel first.

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes focused on him suddenly, and he fought the urge to take another step back. Her eyes seemed to bore into him, pinning him in place. Someone jostled his shoulder, and he bit his lip and tried to stay still.

"Watch over my son." It was almost a command, the way she said it, and he nodded eagerly without being conscious of it. "And tell me if ... if anything happens."

"Alright," he said, because she seemed to be expecting it.

Some of the hardness in her eyes smoothed away, and once again she was the lady that would give them sweets and wooden swords, once upon a time. "There's a good lad," she said softly, and reached out and smoothed his hair. She hesitated. "I have a favour to ask you."

"Ok," Gregory mumbled. He thought he could feel the water repellant charm wearing off, and he held an experimental hand out to the side while she fumbled in her purse, finally bringing out a small gold box wrapped with ribbon and holding it out to him. He took it, awkwardly.

"Chocolates," she said softly, a faint blush upon her cheeks. "With raspberries. They're Draco's favourites. Will you give those to him, Gregory?"

He nodded. "Bye, Mrs. Malfoy. Don't worry about nothing, Vince and me will look after him."

"Goodbye, Gregory," she said. "I hope I'll see you again soon."

He blushed and turned away, walking quickly with his head down. He walked past the alleyway where he assumed Draco and Vincent were still hiding, and up the main road of Hogsmeade Village.

He could have kicked himself for making such a stupid choice as going to talk to Mrs. Malfoy all by himself. Draco told them that all the time, that they should just leave all the decisions to him since he made the right ones, and here Gregory hadn't listened to him and hadn't that been uncomfortable. He sighed heavily and turned his steps towards the Three Broomsticks. He definitely deserved a butterbeer after that, even if he had acted pretty thick.

Merlin, Draco was going to kill him when he told Draco all of that. Especially about getting mixed up and not wanting Mrs. Malfoy to think Draco was sick. What an idiot.

He claimed a table in the corner of the busy pub and sat with his face propped on his hands, waiting anxiously for the hammer of doom to fall upon him. The Three Broomsticks was crowded at that time of day; they had been wandering long enough that many of their classmates had gotten tired of shopping and come to put their feet up and drink a nice warm butterbeer. Millicent, Daphne and Warrington waved at him, and he nodded in acknowledgement. The Golden Trio, as Draco used to call them, were huddled closely along one side of a long bench, and didn't look over.

Gregory didn't have long to wait. Draco slid into the seat across from him and sat without speaking, staring at him. Over his shoulder, Vincent was getting drinks for them from the bar. Draco and Gregory stared at each other without moving until Vincent joined them, handing out drinks with a careful hand. Draco rested both of his hands around the steaming mug; the hand that had been burned didn't bend far enough to curl around the mug. His gray eyes were hooded, waiting for Gregory to speak. And so Greg did. He spoke haltingly and at length, never as comfortable with words as Draco or even Vincent was. Vincent's eyes stayed wide, and Draco's were narrowed, and together they presented an almost comedic mirror, one craggy and round, the other all angles.

"Your mum is really sad, Draco," he said. "Oh - and she gave me this. For you, I mean." He handed over the box of chocolates, and Draco took it with both hands, staring down at it intently before setting it on the table and pulling off the ribbon with his good hand.

"They've got raspberries," Gregory said. "She said they were your favourite."

Draco's mouth twitched. "When I was nine."

"Oh." Gregory took a long, fortifying swig of butterbeer and said, "You're angry with me."

Draco looked up at him and smirked. "Why would I be angry, Greg?"

"Cuz your mum knows I lied to her," Gregory mumbled.

"That was pretty dumb," Vincent agreed.

"Yes," Draco said, with mocking gravity. "Yes, it was. But nothing happened, you know. Unless you want to iron your hands or slam your head in a door, what can I do? If you'd really like to make it up to me, I'll allow you to buy me dinner. But only if you ask me nicely."

Gregory grinned feebly.

They finished their butterbeers in companionable conversation, Draco eating his way with great concentration through his box of chocolates, heedless of the threat of sweets ruining his appetite, and Gregory had almost relaxed by the time they picked themselves up and wound their way out of the pub - but not without a detour past Potter and his playmates first.

Draco stopped directly behind Potter, and Vincent and Gregory took up their places behind him, folding their arms and scowling to look more menacing. Gregory hoped that Draco would put Potter in his place and then they could move on and get some dinner. He was hungry and he didn't like knowing that there was the possibility that maybe Draco would want to have dinner with Potter instead of them.

"Hello, Potter," Draco drawled. "Enjoying your day?"

"Yeah," Potter said, his eyes guarded. "Do you want something?"

Draco's smirk widened. "Well, I'd apologise for the atrocious way that I behaved on Tuesday, but I wouldn't want Measly Weasley to think that I had a soul. Shall we cross wands on the Quidditch pitch at dawn instead?"

Potter's grin had spread across his stupid face, as though he and Draco were speaking some sort of code. "Better make it the trophy room, at -" he hesitated, glancing at the disapproving expression on Granger's face, "--eight?"

Draco bowed stiffly. "Make sure you come alone," he said haughtily. "I don't want there to be any trouble when I attempt to murder you."

"Scared you can't handle all of us?"

Draco sniffed. "Well," he said lightly, "it's only that everyone's been so sympathetic to me since term started, and I'd hate to spoil all those lovely feelings by hexing your little mu- " He paused and turned to Granger with exaggerated politeness. "Muggleborn."

Gregory could feel his scowl deepen.

"I didn't know you had such a soft heart, Draco," Potter said, his voice low. "I'd almost say I was impressed." He was twisted around with one knee propped on the bench, and his face was roughly level with Draco's stomach. Gregory didn't like the way Potter was eyeing Draco at all, not at all. He wondered if Potter was going to go for his wand, and tensed to attack, just in case.

Draco tossed his head. "I'm simply majestic, I can't help it." He fixed Potter with a penetrating eye. "The trophy room at eight, then?"

Potter nodded, his jaw jutting out. "I'll be there."

Draco smirked and turned away with a flourish, leading them out into the streets of Hogsmeade. They were hardly away from the swinging doors of the Three Broomsticks when Vincent, apparently unable to contain himself any longer, burst out: "I can't believe you did that."

Draco half-turned, looking back at them without slowing his stride. "Did what, Vince? Enlighten me."

Gregory looked back and forth between them, confused. "What did he do?"

"You know," Vincent muttered, catching up with Draco, who shrugged.

"Afraid I don't, actually."

Vincent stopped in his tracks, grabbing Draco's arm to halt him as well. "You - you were flirting!" he sputtered. "With Potter!"

Draco grinned widely. "Oh, that."

"Wait, you - what?" Gregory asked.

Draco threw back his head and crowed with laughter.

---

Severus Snape lingered over his breakfast. He savored his tea (black again, finally, none of that Chinese rot that tasted of grass; Minerva must have finally gotten tired of the house-elves' experimentations with breakfast) and looked over his correspondence. He had neglected it of late, and thus there were three treatises on various intriguing potions innovations, a letter from a rather undesirable social contact that nevertheless had to be answered, and various scholarly missives that were awaiting his attention.

It was too quiet. Normally, Snape looked forward to Hogsmeade weekends, a bit of rest from the endless yipping of overly excited, ill-mannered brats. His rooms were close enough to the Slytherin common room that the bawling of their damned gramophone had assailed him incessantly since it had arrived. He had indulged it with grudging silence, and over the past week and a half he had almost grown accustomed to the vague background noise. Enough so that the utter silence was unsettling, at any rate. Very few of his students had forgone the chance to visit Hogsmeade, and so the dungeons were empty of almost all life.

Severus Snape was very carefully not thinking about the appointment that he would be keeping later that day.

He began to relax once he'd left the castle. Snape was a restless person by nature: discontented in stillness, in waiting. His personality was well suited to the micromanaging of potions brewing, eagerly attuned to the slightest change in colour or scent, and even more alert to the whiff of useful information. Freed from the frustrations of pacing his rooms, his attention still cast stubbornly away from his impending rendezvous, he strode down the high road from the castle with a scowl fixed firmly on his face. He hadn't seen or spoken to anyone that day, and his silence seemed almost of great consequence, a storing of energy both mental and physical in anticipation of the ghosts that would surely need to be confronted. The stillness of the world soothed him, complimented and amplified the stillness in his own mind and by the time he reached the gates and the edges of the wards around Hogwarts, he felt ... ready.

He took a long moment to straighten his scarf, pull his cloak tighter around his body and fiddle primly with his gloves. The wind whipped his hair about his face, and he glared into the sky with annoyance. The rain had quit by this time of day, and bare miles away three of Snape's students were sitting down to a well-deserved lunch, courtesy of Gregory Goyle.

The parchment containing his instructions lay folded on the desk within his chambers. They were brief, and separate from the formal goblin letter informing him of the bequeathal. To see the handwriting within had been staggering, an unwelcome intrusion into what had already been a tumultuous term. He had been turning over in his brain what information it contained (and of course, what it didn't contain) ever since. It made no sense - but when had Remus Lupin ever made sense? There was no reason - but when did Remus Lupin have reasons for the things he did? The werewolf had drifted through his life on the pity of others and his own detachment, professing his humanity from one corner of his mouth and mocking the idea from the other.

After that horrible night in the bowels of Voldemort's stronghold, those exhausting hours pacing the corridors of St. Mungo's, snapping at all who approached until someone finally managed to get across the message that his godson was a floor above them and had been discovered naked and battered, wandering the Forbidden Forest two days previous, Snape had seen Lupin exactly three times before the man's death. They had kept in close contact, however, owling each other often with updates on Draco's condition, research on the curse that afflicted him, and - at the end - desperate attempts to stay the rapid deterioration of Remus' health. Separate from the odd relationship that had bloomed between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, apart from the painful reconciliation of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, Severus Snape had carried on a strangely intimate correspondence with one of his childhood enemies.

It wasn't a friendship. Never that. But ...

Snape tossed his head back, trying to clear his mind of such thoughts. The jump was going to be a difficult one, and he needed his concentration.

He appeared close to the house. Before the death of its owner, the anti-apparition wards had been set nearly a kilometer away, but either it had been keyed to Remus' presence or had been shredded by Voldemort's. He surveyed the house with speculative eyes. It was damn cheery, that much was certain: ivy wound up the stone walls and around the neat little windows on the upper level. The storm that had battered Hogwarts was still in full force here in the north, and Snape was quick to cast a water repellant charm around himself while he trudged towards the front door. The house's defences were still in working order; they stopped him a short distance from the house, but released him when he held his wand out.

The door opened quietly under his hand. Somehow, he had imagined that walking into the wolf's den would be more dramatic; even if it was not the wolf's den any longer ... it was his own. After more than a month of being vacant, there was a fine layer of dust on the small table on the foyer, and the house had a rather unpleasant smell to it. But it was isolated ... away from the dismal Muggle neighborhood he resided in now ... although he had never considered ...

A soft noise drew his attention. Snape moved forward quietly, wand still in hand, up the stairs. All of the doors along the narrow hallway were closed, but from behind the second on the left came a vague sound, as though someone were softly humming behind it. Snape drew close to the door, and when he flung it open, he knew that he had been justified in keeping his wand ready.

Sirius Black was sitting cross-legged on the wide bed that filled the room, wearing a dirty shirt that was only half buttoned, his feet bare. For a long, shocked moment they only stared at each other, eyes wide, and in a flash Black had leapt to his feet, his wand pointed at Snape.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he rasped. The months since Remus' death didn't seem to have done Black much good, Snape noted; a scraggly beard had appeared on his jaw, and his eyes were sunken.

"I'd ask you the same," Snape hissed. "I was instructed to be here."

The colour drained from Black's face. "You - " he said, his voice cracking. "You got something from Remus - ?"

"The house is mine," Snape said smugly - and then a horrible thought struck him. "Why are you here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because it was in his letter - I was supposed to be here at 2, he gave me everything -" Black broke off suddenly, looking sickened. "Everything inside the house." He sat heavily down on the bed, his wand hand dropping to his side. For a long moment, they only stared at each other, mirror expressions of disgust and astonishment on their faces. Finally, Black spoke, his tone bitterly amused.
"That devious son of a bitch."