The Spinning World

Hermione Granger had a theory.

It wasn't very much of a theory, but Hermione Granger wasn't used to being caught without one. She didn't particularly like being confused, or being caught flat-footed, or not knowing what was going on, especially if what was going on concerned one of her best friends.

Draco Malfoy was up to something.

Of course, he was always up to something - usually something nasty and childish and cruel. But this time, Hermione felt sure that things were different. For one thing, he hadn't included his lackeys in whatever he was plotting. Hermione had seen them by themselves more often since term began then when they had all started their first year together. She had actually watched as Malfoy leave their sides to go and speak with Harry, and nobody had thrown punches or hexed anybody.

Harry had been out with Malfoy last night, far past curfew. Hermione knew this because although Harry had taken his Invisibility Cloak with him, he hadn't taken the Marauder's Map. When Harry hadn't returned by curfew, Hermione had gotten Ron and together they had dragged the Map out of Harry's trunk and searched for him. They'd watched the little dots labeled Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy sit for what seemed like ages in an unused Astronomy observatory in the top of the southeast tower until finally Harry Potter returned to Gryffindor and refused to tell them what he had been up to. He had said, quite unfairly, that they wouldn't understand.

Hermione tapped her quill against her bottom lip, the soft feathers tickling her chin. The Arithmancy classroom was quiet save for the scratching on scrolls and the occasional burst of smoke as someone's spell was completed. They had been given private tasks to work on until a quarter of the hour, but of course Hermione had finished hers long ago. Annoyingly, Malfoy had finished his assignment shortly after her and had spent the rest of the time teasing Terry Boot, who sat patiently under the Slytherin's onslaught. There weren't many Slytherins in Arithmancy class; it was made up mostly of Ravenclaws, predictably, but Arithmancy - well, that was Hermione's favourite class.

Her first day in Arithmancy had almost been like discovering magic all over again. It was more than just swishing and flicking, or adding things to a cauldron as though you weren't making anything more ordinary than soup. It was almost like taking a step away from the letters and numbers that she had loved all her life and looking at them as revolutions - the triumph of mankind to understand something so abstract as symbols scratched upon a rock of time. If Hermione had more poetry in her soul, she would have known what stirred her: the understanding that strung together, those symbols were earth-shaking tributes that have changed lives and destroyed monarchies. Ordinary words had that power, but Arithmancy breathed life into them and gave them the power to shift reality beneath one's feet.

Not even Malfoy's presence in the classroom had ever been able to destroy her enthusiasm for the subject. Even if she was a little disappointed that they never wrote many papers for the class - most of the tasks were done in the classroom under Professor Vector's supervision - she had rewarded herself with plenty of books on the magical theory behind Arithmancy, as light reading before bedtime.

She rested her chin on the ball of her hand and shot a sidelong glance at Malfoy and Terry Boot. Their heads were close together as they talked quietly, not wishing to attract Professor Vector's attention. Earlier, before Terry had finished his assignment, Malfoy had carefully charmed each of his fingers a different colour, and the Ravenclaw seemed to be almost admiring the result, gesturing at his spread fingers with his wand. Malfoy put his head down on the desk, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Whatever they were talking about, it was too quiet for her to hear. She didn't think that Malfoy would be sharing his evil plots with a Ravenclaw, anyway.

After month or more at Hogwarts, Malfoy's hair had grown from the close cropped style he had displayed at his arrival - Harry had told them that Malfoy had cut all his hair off himself one day - to a ridiculous fuzzy growth that made his head look a bit like a newborn chick. She had to admit that it made him look a bit less imposing, but in her opinion that only made him more dangerous.

Hermione just didn't understand this strange infatuation that Harry had these days with Draco Malfoy. They hadn't spoken about it much since that disastrous conversation in the Gryffindor common room. Ron had admitted to Hermione that he had tried questioning Harry about it, but had made very little progress. He seemed, strangely enough, willing to let things lie and just trust Harry. If anybody had asked her, she would have thought that no force on earth would be able to convince Ron that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy being friends wasn't a Very Bad Thing, but apparently he had made his mind up. "Harry knows what he's doing," he told her.

Hermione knew better. Boys never knew what they were doing. They bumbled about in a hormonal haze and never thought anything through or applied themselves to anything but Quidditch and chasing girls. She'd keep an eye out for Harry, and keep an eye on Malfoy.

Admittedly, he hadn't been doing anything interesting lately. Malfoy's life was far more dull than Hermione had imagined: he went to classes, he ate lunch with his friends, he did his homework - just like Hermione herself did, only she wasn't so obnoxious, going about it all. The real evil plotting had to be happening in the bowels of the Slytherin dormitories, far from the eyes of spying Gryffindors.

The smile dropped away from Malfoy's face abruptly, and he shook his head at Terry. Stealthily, Hermione tapped her ear with her wand. They weren't due to start practicing voiceless magic for another year, but she had read up on it anyway. Saying the charm out loud just took away the point of eavesdropping on people.

"Pirates," was the first thing she heard, which was very unhelpful.

"There aren't any pirates anymore," was Terry's reply.

"How do you know, Muggle?" Malfoy said, which Hermione thought was rather unfair; Terry was a half-blood. "Maybe we have pirates climbing the walls here and you just don't know about it yet."

"But how did the body disappear, then?" Terry asked. Malfoy and Hermione frowned, nearly in unison: she in confusion, he in agitation.

"How did you know that?" Malfoy asked. "Is that what's supposed to happen? Where did you find it?"

Terry shrugged. "In the Restricted Section."

"How'd you get in there?"

Terry's expression, in profile, was mild. "I asked Professor Flitwick for a pass and he gave me one," he said, as though it was obvious.

"Just like that?" Malfoy asked, disbelieving. "Did you make up some ... curse or something that you had to research for another class?"

"No," Terry said, "I just told him what I was looking for and he wrote out a pass for me. It isn't the first time he's done it."

Malfoy snorted, but his eyes were thoughtful. Or scheming, Hermione thought, and waited intently for Malfoy to ask to borrow the pass. Instead, all he said was, "What did you find out, then?"

"Well, it's hardly ever been done. It's a rare spell, and it's kept under tight control because it bears a strong resemblance to something called a horcrux. It was almost impossible to find out about those, by the way."

"I have complete faith in you," Malfoy said, with a sickeningly insincere smile.

"I should hope so. Who else could you get to research this weird stuff for you?" Terry said.

"Oh, I just know that nobody else would enjoy it as much as you do. Really, I'm doing you a favour."

Terry, oddly, looked mollified. "Anyway, what a horcrux does is it splits off bits of a person's soul and puts it into objects of people. Sounds familiar, right? I tried to find out if it was - well - do you know anything about Muggle physics? There's this really fantastic theory of time that's um, it's like throwing a rock at a tree and according to that -"

"Is there a point, Boot?"

Terry's forehead creased appealingly. "Just that I wanted to know whether a horcrux split your soul in half every time you made one, or whether it broke off in specified amounts."

Hermione had always approved of Terry. He was a real Ravenclaw, not like that silly Marietta Edgecombe or Cho Chang, who was even sillier. Ravenclaws were not all brilliant students; they were distinguished mostly by an unwillingness to leave the sanctity of their own thoughts - whether those thoughts were composed of spells, romantic fantasies or Crumple Horned Snorchbacks. Terry was one of the first sort, always haring off after tangents and connected ideas, rarely turning in his papers on time but always bubbling over with an eagerness to explain that he had found a footnote while doing tertiary research that had suddenly shed light on, perhaps, the last assignment that he had failed to turn in on time. Professor Flitwick indulged this with delight, but it drove most of the other professors mad.

"Since they're rather closely related, at least in theory, even though officially the Tutela charm is supposed to be like a Patronus, I wanted to know whether all of Professor Lupin's soul had gone into you and Potter or whether it was only parts of it."
Unexpectedly, Malfoy looked horrified. Well, good. Hermione had felt rather horrified herself at the thought of gentle, kind Professor Lupin being stuck inside a cockroach like Malfoy.

"But what does it have to do with a Patronus?" he asked.

Terry shuffled papers around in his book bag, pulling one out. Hermione shifted on her seat, intrigued. Harry had been vague with his descriptions of what he had called the red wolf, and when Hermione had tried to question him further, he had only put her off.

"You said it looked like a Patronus, right, except more red than ghostly? Oh - more solid than a corporeal Patronus. Can you cast one? Oh, ok. But have you tried? I've tried but - ok, all right. Sticking to the point."

There was a brief interruption as Professor Vector swooped in among them, checking to see how everyone was doing. Most of the class was still puzzling over their parchments. Vector bent neatly over Malfoy and Terry, his reedy voice amplified painfully in Hermione's ear. His wand moved quickly over each of their parchments, correcting minor details until he pronounced their work excellent and moved on. He winked at Hermione as he passed her desk, sparing a rare smile.

Hermione took a fresh scroll from her book bag, scribbling short nonsense to herself while she carefully avoided looking at Malfoy or Terry. They had resumed speaking once Vector's attention had passed, their voices pitched low and heads drawn together.

"The Tutela charm works independently from the person or object it's placed in, like a horcrux does. So there is a vestigial part of the original personality inside the host, but only certain parts, because the person has to die before the Tutela charm takes effect. So it's not a spell designed to help people live forever, as I think the horcrux kind of is. It's a way to protect certain things that are left behind. It's almost always a person but there was one incident that I read about where it was this woman's house. Every time her grandchildren tried to tear the place down, this enormous cat came out and attacked them. Caused quite a bit of trouble, I imagine."
"Can these pieces of the soul be removed?" Malfoy asked, ignoring the anecdote. "From the - host, that is. Can they be taken out and put inside a new body?"

There was a long moment of silence, presumably while Terry pondered the question. Hermione's quill hovered uncertainly over her parchment, waiting.

"I don't know," he said finally. "You want me to look some more? If I can find something on the origin of the Tutela charm or anything about those damn horcruxes, I might be able to understand the principles of the spell better."

Hermione chanced a glance in the direction of the two boys. Most of Malfoy's face had been hidden behind Terry, but now he was leaning back in his seat, staring thoughtfully at Terry with a rather odd expression on his normally haughty face. "Yeah," he said. "All right. I bet you were planning on doing it anyway, though."

Terry laughed. "Well - yeah, I was. It's fascinating stuff! I mean, do you think that the Tutela charm is the total opposite of a horcrux because it requires sacrifice on the part of the caster rather than the caster murdering someone else? And if it is, then how does the power of love split a person's soul? Do you think it does the same damage as if you split it for selfish reasons? I just don't know. It's insane to think about it all."

Malfoy's eyebrows were raised skeptically, his mouth twisted into a smirk. "You're almost as bad as Granger," he said. Hermione's breath caught uncomfortably, startled to hear her name mentioned, and even more so when Terry shook his head.

"Hermione's nice, but she doesn't ever study things just because she wants to know. Everything has to have a bloody reason."

Malfoy snorted. "Figures it was Krum who took her to Ball last term. He's used to frigid things."

Terry frowned and made some sort of reproving remark, but Hermione didn't hear it. Her wand had flown to her ear instinctively, and Malfoy's awful voice dropped to the whisper that it had been spoken in, inaudible to her burning ears. She stared at the scroll on the desk and at the quill in her hand and didn't try to listen to any other conversations for the rest of class.

**

"Good heavens," Snape said, rummaging through the cabinets. "There are nearly as many tea cups in this house as there are books." He paused to consider a particularly horrid monstrosity in the shape of a walrus, frowning. "And yet not a single. One. Matches."

"You're not having any tea," Sirius said roughly.

Snape arched an eyebrow at him. "And why not, Black? It is my tea, after all. This is my house. I fail to see where your opinions have any relevance in the matter."
"It isn't your tea," Sirius said. "It's Remus' tea and he's given it to me. And you can't have any."

"Isn't there any proper tea in this house?" Snape said, ignoring Sirius. "All of these boxes are in Chinese, curse it."

Sirius yanked the box of tea out of Snape's hand. "That's Pu-erh and you can't have any. Drink out of the pond if you're thirsty. I think those cows have been pissing in it, which might suit you."

They stood nearly nose-to-nose, snarling at each other, in the placid comfort of what had been, up until two weeks previous, Remus Lupin's kitchen. Two weeks ago, it had been willed to one Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. The house belonged to Snape, but even in death Remus' hand was felt; everything inside the house belonged to Sirius Black, escaped convict and one-time lover of the previous owner. It was not a situation that boded well.

Although Snape had (graciously, and with constant reminders) allowed Sirius to stay in the Farmhouse while he sorted through his new belongings, he had been visiting during the weekends and once or twice during his free periods, as though he had nothing better to do with his spare time than come and annoy Sirius. It was entirely possible that he didn't; he wasn't putting much effort into moving his own property into the Farmhouse or redecorating it to suit his tastes. He followed Sirius from room to room and fingered precious items until Sirius snapped. This was not a one-sided fight, of course; after a particularly vitriolic fight, Sirius attempted during the night to remove all of the inner walls of the house and the south end of the foundations. He had been working his way through Remus' liquor cabinet and so accomplished only the removal of the walls on the second floor before settling in the den before the fire for some nice self-pity and falling asleep there.

"It is tea time," Snape said, his voice silky. "Don't forget your manners, Black. Or have you really reverted to savagery so quickly without the werewolf's calming influence?"

"Why don't you use his name, you bastard?" Sirius hissed. "It's the least you owe him. Now you don't have to live among your own filthy kind."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean Spinner's End? What an ... enlightened way to refer to Muggles."

The fragile box of tea was crushed between Sirius' fingers. He dropped it at Snape's feet and leaned in close to the other man, who stood his ground with a haughty expression. "You don't deserve to step foot in this house," he said. He stalked from the kitchen. Snape could hear Sirius fling himself onto the monstrosity that Lupin had called a couch. The springs, which should have expired painfully long ago, squeaked restlessly for a while. Snape retrieved the kettle from where it had been stored in the very back of a cabinet and filled it with water. He tapped it with his wand and watched steam pour from its mouth with a satisfied smile. He was adding loose tealeaves to his cup (he had left the Pu-erh on the floor where it had landed, and picked the tea that smelled the most like black) when Sirius stomped back into the kitchen and thumped down at the kitchen table. Snape was privately surprised that the chair didn't collapse into kindling under the man's weight. Sirius' grey eyes fixed on Snape's but said nothing.

"Anything you would like to share with the class, Mr. Black?" Snape asked softly.

"No," Sirius said roughly. "I'm waiting for you to leave."

They stared at each other in taut silence. Snape calmly sipped his tea. Sirius folded his hands on the table. The clock in the hall chimed the hour. Sirius picked dirt out of his fingernails and flicked it towards Snape. Outside, a mournful lowing approached the house, and then there was the pound of tiny hooves on the grass as it ran away. When the clock struck the half-hour, the quiet seemed nearly companionable. Their minds wandered to separate subjects, the reason for their silence pushed to the back of their minds, unimportant. Snape thought of Draco, who seemed more cheerful these days but still would not speak to him.

In truth, Snape had not tried to reach Draco since that troubling detention some weeks earlier. He saw the white-blond head at meals, bent over a steaming cauldron, but each time he remembered that flash of grey eyes his mind drifted, oddly, to the memory that had all but been flung out at him. The sound of the tide upon the rocks, and the warmth of Remus Lupin's body beside him. The trust that was so obvious even in the glimpse he had caught, a trust for an adult that he wouldn't have thought Draco capable of, not anymore. It hurt. It hurt that his godson had trusted the werewolf more than Snape. It hurt to know that the boy was right in feeling that way. It wasn't a conscious thought, but somewhere in the tunnels of his brain he knew without having to question that Lupin had been a far better choice to look after Draco, to pull him from the dark places that genetics and circumstances had created for him. Snape could not teach with gentle nurturing and encouragement; he excelled at pushing students, forcing them to places they had never thought they could go, usually in tears. He liked teaching, in a way, and he liked being head of Slytherin House, full of students that needed no encouragement or hugs but instead clamoured for his favour and pushed themselves all the harder to impress him. It was the currency that Snape dealt in, and in his own House at least, the students were well paid.

He wouldn't coddle Draco. He didn't think that that was what Draco needed. It had been the boy's awe of Lucius that had achieved high marks, not the constant flow of presents from Narcissa.

Snape bent his head and stared into his teacup. At first they had tried to hold the other's gaze, daring each other to be the first to break away, but after a time it had ceased to matter. The surface of the tea was slightly oily, and it tasted nothing like black tea but was drinkable.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Draco's memory. The smell of salt had haunted him through his classes and seemed to fill his quiet rooms. The sound of the waves pounding against the shore drowned out the music of that silly gramophone that echoed throughout the dungeons. He had probed the memory as though it was a sore tooth, and the ache had only increased.

He raised his eyes surreptitiously. Sirius' chin was propped on his fist, and his eyes were far away. There were curls of some waxy substance around his other hand where he had been digging little furrows into the surface of the table. And he was thinking about Lupin. The werewolf's presence hovered around Black's head like eddies of smoke, or tea. Snape rose and poured himself another cup. Black's eyes followed him as he moved from one corner of the kitchen to the other and then flickered back down to his fingernails. He set to work clumsily picking them clean once more, but Snape's gaze never wavered.

The thought wormed itself slowly through Snape's brain. It didn't come upon him all at once; the way letters fall suddenly in line when one is playing word games. It crept across his consciousness like the steam of the teacup that bathed his face, and when Black raised his weary eyes to stare back at Snape, Snape slipped in.
It was easier to do than he'd have thought. They didn't teach Occlumency at Hogwarts and although Lupin had apparently, at some point in his doubtlessly colourful travels, become quite an accomplished Legilmens, the skill set seemed to have escaped Black's notice. His eyes - grey, like most of the Black family - didn't flicker as Snape peeled away the crude defenses around his mind, likely unconscious barriers erected in childhood.

There was anger. Snape had expected that. It was huge and without direction, spilling out of the confines of memory and feeling, infecting everything it touched. The pain that lay beneath it was raw and bloody, nearly animal-like. Black's confused fury only thinly covered it, and it was only the work of a moment to find what he was looking for.
Gone were the cheerful slats of sunlight that stretched across the worn surfaces of Lupin's kitchen. Moonlight burned it away, leaching all colours but the deepest from sight. There was the smell of something sweet in the air - Snape's long, skillful nose twitched and identified it as cardamom and cinnamon. Softly, as though he was hearing it through a closed door at the end of a hallway, a gramophone was bawling out a thumping bass line. He turned his head to the left and there - beside the sink, sleeves rolled up as though he had been doing the dishes by hand - was Remus Lupin, and there, approaching with a hungry, expectant look on his handsome face, was Sirius Black. Lupin turned, one shoulder rising as Black's fingers skated across it, his neck arching and his eyes sliding closed.

Severus Snape closed his eyes and let the memories come.

**

Water swirled around Draco's shoulders, nearly invisible through the steam that had seeped through the room. Draco let out a long, luxurious sigh, and Harry laughed softly. Draco's elbow was propped up on the side of the long pool, white hairs standing up indignantly from his skin, still damp. The other hand, his usable hand, was wrapped around Harry's neck, keeping the other boy in close. Harry's hands pushed and rubbed along Draco's back, knuckles bumping against the tile behind it. Their legs tangled together in the water, lazily, calves brushing ankles, skin sliding against skin. They kissed with open, soft mouths.

Harry's Invisibility Cloak lay close to the door, and Draco's winter cloak lay crumpled
next to it. The trail of garments led to the wall that Draco had pushed Harry up against, knocking the Gryffindor's head up against it in his rush. Afterwards, they had slipped into the pool and played a bit with the taps, splashing in the water until their wrestling brought them closer and closer together.

"How did you get the password?" Harry asked, drawing his mouth over the line of Draco's collarbone.

"Theo gave it to me," Draco said, drawing in a sharp breath.

He pulled Harry up by the hair and kissed him thoroughly. It was only after several breathless minutes that Harry pulled away and said, in a rather dazed voice, "Theo who?"
Draco gave him a dirty look and shoved him lightly away. "Theo Nott," he drawled. "You know, the 'stringy boy.' The one you've been in classes with for five straight years."

Harry treaded water, frowning. The tips of his toes scraped the bottom of the pool with every stroke. "Oh," he said.

" 'Oh,'" Draco mimicked. "Oh what, Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "Are you - I dunno. I mean. Are you friends with him?"

Draco tilted his head to one side. Harry flushed and kicked towards the general direction of the taps, turning on the first one and wincing at the flowery suds that poured out. "Of course I am," Draco said slowly, his pale eyes tracking Harry's movements with amusement. "We've been friends since forever. Stop fussing with that, Harry."

Harry's hands jerked away from the tap they had been toying with. He frowned, and then, as though he had decided something, set his jaw and swam back to Draco. He wrapped his arms back around Draco's thin shoulders, ignoring the amused look on the other boy's face. He leaned forward before Draco could make some comment that was bound to be irritating. When they had first come to the Prefect's bath, Draco had tasted of pumpkin juice, but the last traces of whatever he had eaten after dinner had long since vanished. He was warm and faintly sweet and, irritatingly enough, the corners of his mouth were still curved in a smirk.

"You're jealous," Draco said smugly. "So jealous. I can smell it on you. Jealous of Theo. You should be jealous. He's quite fit, isn't he?"

"Shut up," Harry said.

"Make me," was the reply.

So Harry did. The mermaid looked on with interest. Water sloshed up the side of the pool and over, and Draco's quiet laughter was cut off with a gasp.

Their noses bumped and a nervous smile twitched on Draco's face. Harry swallowed and reached down to pull Draco's leg over his hip. Draco's fingers clenched on the side of the pool, slipping a bit. Harry's eyes were wide, questioning. Draco nodded, the motion contained in just the barest shake of his head and he leaned forward once again. Their mouths slid together and Draco's other hand closed around his forearm, gripping tightly. Their teeth clacked together.

They swam for some time. Draco insisted on washing and went methodically through each tap until he found his favourite. Harry paddled from end to end, trying out different strokes that he vaguely remembered from Dudley's swimming lessons. They talked of quiet things like homework and O.W.L.s and Sirius. Harry was the first to leave the pool to find the biggest, fluffiest towels that he could find. He gave a hand to Draco out of the water and wrapped one around both of them. Draco grabbed the other and threw the entire thing over Harry's head, briskly drying his hair before pulling it off and declaring that it didn't look any worse than normal.

It was far past curfew by the time they eased out of the prefects' bath and headed towards the Slytherin dorms, the Invisibility Cloak draped over both of them. Draco had been delighted to get to play with the Cloak, and hadn't stopped nagging Harry about borrowing it by the time they reached the stone wall that hid the entrance to the dorms.

"You're getting me in trouble," Draco said, ducking out from under the Cloak. Harry pulled it off his shoulders as well, bunching it up in one hand.

"Yeah, me too," he said. "Ron and Hermione still hate you."

Draco sneered. "As if I care about their opinion of me. Everyone in Slytherin thinks you're a wanker."

Harry shrugged. "Is that what you think?"

"No," Draco said thoughtfully. He snagged Harry's collar and hauled him in close. "I do think you're a - great - big - prat, though." He punctuated each word with a hard kiss.

"Oh," Harry said. "That's alright, then. Same to you."

There was a discreet cough behind them. Harry jerked away, startled, and came face to face with a rather stringy boy with a long, rabbity face wrapped up in Slytherin colours. "Oh," Draco said casually. "Hi, Theo. Nice night, isn't it?" One hand came and wrapped around Harry's, holding him in place. "Some big bad Gryffindor tricked me into breaking curfew. Sorry."

"Draco, I'm not even going to ask you what you were doing out," Nott said. His voice was rather pained, and he glanced toward their intertwined fingers with a pointed frown. "Are you going in now?"

"Yes," Draco answered sweetly. "Of course."

"Five points from Gryffindor for breaking curfew, Potter," Nott said.

Draco cleared his throat meaningfully. Harry looked to him, relieved, but all that Draco said was, "We're trailing Gryffindor a bit in House points, aren't we?"

"Good point," Nott said. "Ten points from Gryffindor, then. Draco, go to sleep. You look like you could use it." He strode away.

"I can't believe you," Harry said slowly, rounding on Draco. "You are such an arsehole."

"What?" Draco said, his eyes wide. "We are a bit behind."

Harry pushed him back against the wall, fingers wrapped around the sharp bones of his shoulders. He leaned in close. "You are an arsehole."

Draco's only response was a muffled, pleased noise. His entire body arched into Harry's as the other boy pulled away, his eyes lidded. "Mm," he said.

"Good night," Harry whispered. He dropped one last, lingering kiss on Draco's mouth and disappeared in a swirl of fabric. He stood still for a long moment, grinning giddily when Draco leaned back against the stone wall, a foolish smile twisting his mouth. He didn't say anything and he made no sudden movements, but his grey eyes were clear and filled with an emotion that Harry didn't think he'd ever seen before. At last, Draco sighed and let himself into the Slytherin dorms.

Harry set his feet towards Gryffindor tower, feeling light and stupid and warm all over. Under the Cloak, everything smelled like the shampoo that Draco had finally settled on. Harry knew he'd be in trouble if he came across Mrs. Norris, but couldn't help bringing the cloth to his face and inhaling deeply. You are such a pervert, said a voice in his mind. It sounded like Draco. Harry smothered a laugh and hurried on.
He drew up short when he spotted a figure leaning quietly against one of the tall banisters opposite the Great Hall. The only light came from the torches that were still lit in the Great Hall, sprawling carelessly through a crack in the doors. It illuminated the hands and legs of whoever it was but their face was in deep shadow. Quietly, Harry crept forward. The quickest way to the tower was up those stairs, and he'd felt as though he'd pressed his luck enough. As he was drawing near the stairs, the figure stirred uneasily. It didn't seem to notice him, however, and made no further movement until Harry was nearly past it.

He glanced over, his foot hovering above the stair, and recognised the tall figure as Theo Nott, his long legs drawn up close to his chest, his hands folded neatly on his knees. His head rested against the banister and his shoulders were slumped. Harry set his foot down but didn't move any further. He didn't know Nott at all; he had known vaguely that the boy was a crony of Draco's because he was often the person that Draco showed off for, trotted out those stupid imitations of people for. The Notts were family friends, he knew; close enough that Draco hadn't thought anything was out of the ordinary when his father had suggested dinner there. But even to members of his House, Nott seemed aloof, calculating. Hermione had confessed a complete lack of knowledge about him.

Harry studied Nott's face closely. He wasn't a handsome boy and Harry could understand why Draco had laughed at his jealousy. His eyes were long and narrow and his mouth was thin. Harry had caught a glimpse of overlong teeth during his conversation with Draco, and in the low light he looked tired and unhappy.

But the other Slytherins always seemed to look up to him, Harry thought. He could remember even Draco, in second year, shutting up and listening to Nott in the same way that he submitted to a dressing down from the older students.

Harry shook his head. He was cold and bed sounded awfully good. He was being an idiot, standing around and watching Theo Nott feel sorry for himself. What did he care if Nott was jealous or upset? Served him right, really.

He took light, quick steps up the staircase, leaving Nott behind.

**

Daphne Greengrass had been working on her homework when Gregory Goyle rumbled in and flung himself onto the couch across from her, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl across his face. Theo, who had been curled deep in one of the armchairs with his legs thrown over the side, sat up, his eyebrows raised. Vincent trudged in behind Gregory and sat down a little more carefully, a strangely defeated expression on his face. The two boys stared off in separate directions, Vincent's craggy chin resting on his wide fist, Gregory's slitted eyes made more piggish by his glare. Tracey and Daphne exchanged glances.

"Well?" Tracey said at last. "What's wrong?"

Vincent and Gregory looked at each other and then away. Vincent settled in more firmly but Gregory burst out with, "I hate Professor Umbridge!"

"Then what's your problem?" Millicent asked Vincent. "Did you both get detention or something?"

Vincent shook his head, looking toward the parchment that stuck out from both ends of his fist. "Got a letter from home," he said. The Slytherins exchanged knowing glances and ducked their heads. Theo huffed and slumped back into his chair, staring pensively into the fire.

The thought of their parents had loomed large and uncomfortable in the minds of Draco and Pansy's friends, indeed in the minds of most of Slytherin's students. Not all of them came from families who supported Voldemort, either openly or surreptitiously, and there were a few half bloods and even two Muggleborn students that lived in the dungeons. The pureblood students had agreed with their parents on the issues of Muggles in wizarding society and natural pureblood supremacy in the way that children usually do. Later, they had laughed at Draco's ridiculous imitations of Muggles and their strange way of dressing, their bizarre sounding jobs: plumber, secretary, CEO. The two Muggle blokes, one of whom was in his sixth year and the other in his second, were generally considered all right, if a little backwards, even if they had never been able to satisfactorily explain such simple things as ballpoint pens or this interknit thing that the other students had heard about. But after all, they weren't really Muggles.

Some of the pureblooded children in Slytherin, Draco included, had never actually met a Muggle before coming to Hogwarts. Muggles were characters in comics that said very strange things, or they were dim and menacing figures that adults discussed over dinner. Barring Muggleborn students, some Slytherins still had yet to meet their first Muggle, or have a conversation with one. Vincent Crabbe had once been asked for directions by a Muggle in Salisbury and had actually run away from it, for which he had been endlessly teased.

"I don't get it," Gregory fretted. "I just don't get it. How're we supposed to get the spell if we can't practice it first? I hate writing these stupid papers. It sucks and it's too hard."

"Is that from your dad?" Theo asked. When Vincent nodded, he held out his hand. Vincent handed the parchment over without looking at his housemate, sighing deeply. Theo's narrow eyes scanned quickly over the paper and glanced up at Vincent quickly. He passed the paper to Daphne, and it made its way around the table that way.

"I don't see what's so bad," Daphne said slowly, when the letter reached Vincent again. "It's just about schools and your mum, isn't it?

"I asked him," Vincent said, his eyes dull. "About it. You know. About what happened that night. If - you know. And he didn't answer that part. Didn't say anything at all about what he did or. You know. Didn't do."

Daphne and Tracey glanced to each other and then back down to their parchments. "I didn't even ask," Theo said. "I don't want to know."

"How could you not want to know?" Millicent grumbled. Neither boy replied.

Daphne returned to her homework. She had never had much patience for Gregory, but he was right; Defense Against the Dark Arts was much harder now that they couldn't practice the spellwork that they were being taught. Professor Umbridge had told them that now that Voldemort was back, they needed to put their trust in the Ministry, but Daphne didn't like it, not at all. After a while Gregory came and sat next to her, laying his schoolwork out and frowning hard at it, as though it would solve itself. She remembered suddenly that it had been Pansy who always helped him with his schoolwork; Draco had been too impatient. She swallowed hard and offered Gregory her help.

It wasn't as though they suddenly loved Muggles, or that they suddenly wanted to join Dumbledore and the side of Light. Rather, it was like a great creeping suspicion that had come upon them all: that there were things that they had believed in that were not only futile (secretly, in their innermost hearts, many of them believed that Dumbledore and Harry Potter would snatch victory from Voldemort as easily as they had snatched the House Cup from them in first year.) but inherently wrong as well. It was a mute, helpless sort of feeling, difficult to discuss; there wasn't anyone to discuss it with except among themselves. Their parents, whose role in the rape of two of their classmates - and the murder of one - was still unclear for some of them, were out of the question. The students in other Houses had always viewed Slytherin with suspicion, as though a dark wizard (usually assumed to be Draco in Gryffindor circles, although older Hufflepuffs had been laying money on Flint for years) could pop out of the dungeons at any time. Slytherin, responding to their role as the Evil House, became as tribal and enclosed as Hufflepuff and created elaborate unspoken hierarchies within their ranks, which rarely included outsiders.

Daphne felt at times that she was the sole voice for Slytherin. Not the shining example of a Slytherin student, of course, but one of the few with friends in other Houses who shared with those friends the goings on of Slytherin. Orla Quirke, Su Li and Mandy Brocklehurst knew all about Draco's long, unexplained disappearances and Theo's withdrawal. They had been hearing gossip from Pansy for years and she was glad to be able to talk about all of it. She was aware that some of her Housemates frowned upon her airing their dirty linen; nowhere but in Slytherin was the distinction between Our Own and Not Our Own so clear. She paid no attention, however; Pansy had assembled her little gang of girls years ago and nobody had ever said anything then. The fact that their situation was far more dire than the question of who was going out with whom, escaped Daphne's notice.

When Vincent spoke, it was so quiet that Daphne wasn't sure if he meant anyone else to hear it. "I don't know what to do," he muttered, his eyes on the fire. Daphne and Gregory looked up, quills still. "What if he wants me to be a part of that?"

Comforting words deserted her and one by one, they all looked away, unable to find an answer for anyone.

**

The first clue was a small note, a bit of torn parchment. It was tucked underneath Harry's glasses in the morning, and he picked it up with some puzzlement. It was unsigned and printed with a tidy hand: I have a surprise for you tonight.

Harry smiled and tucked the note into his pajama pocket. He recognised Draco's handwriting easily, having received more than one mocking note from him, over the years. In the past a little cartoon of Harry befalling some grievous bodily harm had often accompanied them. The most thought that he'd ever given to it was that Malfoy wasn't much of an artist, but as he dressed and showered the thought of those silly notes ("Like love letters," Ron had said scornfully. "He should put some perfume on it or something.") loomed large and bright in his thoughts. He was smiling when he went down to breakfast with Ron, Dean and Neville.

While he was eating breakfast, another note appeared on the center of his plate, right on top of a piece of buttered toast that he was about to heap jam on. He snatched it up quickly and wiped the butter off of it to read: Good little Gryffindors deserve rewards. What's your spirit of adventure like these days?

Harry's eyes flew over to the Slytherin table, but Draco's back was turned towards him. He pushed the note into his pocket and tried to ignore the curious stares around him.

There was a third note tucked between the pages of his Potions textbook, and a fourth beneath a particularly vile slug. He could feel Snape's evil eye resting upon his bowed head as he smoothed the notes out on his knee to read them. Draco didn't look over, but Harry could see the edges of a badly hidden smirk curling his mouth. He just thought he was so clever, didn't he? Harry knew how to fix that.

Harry was the first to leave the Potions classroom, stuffing his books hurriedly into his bag and waving a vague hand at Ron. Lunch came after their gruelling session of double Potions, but Harry passed up two corridors and dodged down the third, listening carefully as he pressed himself against the wall.

He heard Draco's voice coming down the hall, lifted high in some sort of complaint. Draco's goons usually walked on either side of him, but the first fifteen minutes of class had seen an exploded cauldron and Crabbe sprouting eyes and noses all over his body, so Draco was unprotected on one side. Harry chose the moment carefully.
He shot out of the corridor and slammed into Draco, staggering him into Goyle's expansive side. Draco whirled instantly, his wand out, before he saw what had hit him. A small, puzzled frown crossed his face.

"Watch where you're going, Malfoy," Harry challenged. The confusion cleared up instantly from Draco's eyes.

"Didn't those Muggles teach you how to walk straight?" he demanded. "Although I suppose if they couldn't teach you how to dress yourself, walking must have simply been beyond you."

"Yeah?" Harry breathed. "I've been taught to throw a pretty good hex in the last few years. You want to see?"

A small crowd had gathered around them and took note of the haughty toss of Draco's head. "This shouldn't take more than a minute," he said to Goyle. "I'll see you for lunch after I've finished with this upstart." He stalked off down the corridor without waiting to see if Harry followed. By the time they reached a disused classroom, Draco had dissolved into giggles.

"I don't think that fooled anybody," he said.

Harry shrugged, pulling the door shut behind them. "I dunno. I thought it was pretty clever."

"You would," Draco said loftily, and pinned him against the door. "You are a sad little boy," he said, reaching through Harry's robes to find the fly of his trousers. "Are you trying to outdo me?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Harry said, finding the sharp planes of Draco's hips to hold onto.

"It won't work," Draco replied and sank to his knees.

It wasn't until Divination that Harry found the final note, stuffed into the front pocket of his trousers.

Take the corridor to the kitchens and turn left at the painting of the ocean. Go into the second door on your left. 9 o'clock. See you there.
Draco