A Plague of Legends

Chapter Fifteen: Beyond Monochrome

Or, The Seven of Swords

It was two in the morning, and Hermione Granger had just about had enough. Her fingers felt raw from the page flipping and the writing and she must have acquired at least a dozen paper-cuts in the past hour alone and the only thing keeping her upright in her seat was the low rustle of paper flipping from across the table.

Snape.

Flip, flip, pause, scratch (quill on parchment), pause, scratch, flip flip flipping until it was enough to drive Hermione insane. Or perhaps she was already insane and the tears of exhaustion welling in her raw eyes were the remnants of her sanity escaping to safer places, though the edge of her jaw could hardly be called safe. Or maybe she was simply too tired and not really insane, but the days and hours piled up until she wasn't sure anymore. Often during lessons Hermione felt that she could still hear the repetitive sounds of their evenings, like someone who still felt the roll of the sea hours after getting off a boat. The turning of pages echoed in the plodding drone of Professor Binns' lectures, the fine tension in the air of Snape's office transmuted into Neville's trembling beside her as he measured careful drops into their cauldron as Snape bore down on them, his drawn cheeks tightly screaming out his own exhaustion, before the cauldron rippled and blew their desk apart.

Snape had been so angry, exploding with the frustration of their fruitless nights and giving it all to Neville, until Hermione hadn't been able to take it anymore and had exploded back. And yes, maybe Harry and Ron thought the scene had been brilliant (apparently everyone had been in shock, especially when Hermione called Snape a petty despot who got his kicks from torturing students, which was quite accurate but not something one said to a professor's face) but Hermione had to work with the man. Hermione sighed. At least she now had an official excuse to be working with Snape every evening until- well, until. One would almost think they'd planned it. Not to mention, now they were meeting in Snape's office. As much as Hermione loved the Library, she had to admit that being able to eat during these 'detentions' was sometimes all that saved her from collapse. Working her mouth against the fouled taste of dinner (oh, for a toothbrush), Hermione picked up her still-steaming cup of tea and took a careful sip. Hermione savored the minty cleansing flavor and caffeine rush that soon followed. Closing her current book (Once upon a time there was a spell that promised immortality by means of a completely improbable method that involved a sphinx's tongue and a harem of hermaphrodites. . .), Hermione leaned back in her chair and curled bruised hands around her mug and stretched them out towards the fireplace.

Everything was over-tense and ready to blow, even though there had not been another attack in the week since Little Degannwy. Everyone was scared, Ron was being Ron (something that Hermione tried not to hold against him), and Harry was more himself than he'd been in a year, but somehow so very distant. Different. Distant. Different. Harry had a Secret (not just a secret, but a Secret), one it seemed like Ron was in on, because whenever Hermione tried to ask or probe Ron would jump in and ask about some homework question which would be perfectly fine except how oblivious did Ron think she was? It was, Hermione thought grimly, time for a Talk. But not today, because it was late (early?) and time for bed. Hermione nodded, her head feeling like it was held up by strings, and began to gather up her belongings. She had just put away her quills when Snape closed his book, let out what seemed to be, for all intents and purposes, a sigh, and fixed his eyes on her.

Which might have been intimidating if not for the hundreds (thousands?) of times he had eyeballed her in exactly the same way over the past few days (years). So Hermione eyeballed him back, and considered. Despite his intimidating and restrained image, the monkish robes, the huge hooked nose, greasy hair that was the stuff of legends, and those nasty rumors about his 'love' of fronds and frogs (which Hermione did not believe or want to think about) Hermione had found incontrovertible proof that Snape was indeed human- Snape tapped. He tapped his fingers against things whenever he was deep in thought or remarkably peeved

Snape drummed his fingers on the tabletop and, curling his lips back like a rabid dog, said, "Miss Granger. There is something you must hear that I am reluctant to tell you; I do not see the need for it, myself. However, I have been informed of a Meeting tomorrow evening," Snape sneered as he said this, his meaning clear, "and so it seems that it has become a matter of 'now or never', as the Headmaster has requested that you be informed."

Hermione nodded and sipped the last of her tea in the strained silence, unnerved by the look in Snape's eyes. 'Requested', indeed.

Snape leaned back in his chair and stared at Hermione, obviously judging her- measuring her against some standard. Hermione bristled and straightened her posture, insulted that Snape felt this was even necessary after everything. And then stopped. Everything? Had it even been anything to him? Had her actions measured up, counted? Here she was (they were), driven to the edge of collapse, to the edge of madness by the pages and etchings and lack of any clues night after night after night. And somehow she sensed it had all been nothing to him, that all of their struggles and efforts hadn't even registered with the man. Hermione trembled, and for once didn't understand why.

"Yes?" she said, softly.

Snape steepled his hands before him, weaving his fingers together and placing his bony chin in the net. "Miss Granger," he began. "Miss Granger, what I am about to tell you now must not be revealed to anyone. Anyone, do you understand?"

Anyone. Was 'Anyone' a person, that he was so dangerous? Dangerous like Snape, with his black on black eyes, black on black hair, perhaps even black on black heart? It seemed like it, sometimes. Hermione found herself swimming through a dreamy threshold, vaguely intent upon returning to coherency, reality. And what was real was Snape's black on white, the black on his white arm, on his white heart. Black on white- it was something Hermione had to believe. But not everyone was so, right? Harry and Ron were more than black on white, more than white on white even, and they could be trusted.

Hermione felt her mouth opening to protest, her jaw coming to hang limply when Snape waved a hand at her. It was shaking.

"This is not a request but an order, from both the Headmaster and myself. If this information were to be leaked my position in the Death Eaters could be severely compromised. Can you keep a secret, Miss Granger?" Snape retracted his hand, once again propping his chin on it. If Hermione hadn't been looking, she might not have seen them, the tremors, the tips of the professor's fingers quivering. It was too late for this; they were both too tired to go on. And yet he did. They did.

Hermione fluttered shut her eyes and wished, just for a moment, that someday soon there would be no need for shaking, for late night meetings and death-like Potions professors who spoke of 'compromising my position' like it was a probable end. She wished that someday was tomorrow and almost cried because that was, as it were, impossible. She wished that everything was as simple as white on white, black on black, black on white, black and white.

"Yes, professor," Hermione said, quietly.

Snape nodded, his lips creased and eyes judging and hands trembling. "Good. I will be brief. Lucius Malfoy is dead."

Lucius Malfoy is dead, Hermione thought. Remember the party we had? One less monster at our gates and fizzing champagne (spiked pumpkin juice, really) to toast the occasion. Hermione remembered the evening as a blur: they had all just returned from break when the Ministry released their official statement (remember, it has to be official). Seamus organized the event and the tension of in the air had briefly disappeared. Ron bounced around the common room, crowing about just desserts, and even Ginny smiled (like the moon reflecting sunlight). They remembered the diary. Parvati spread gossip in the corner, Colin took pictures, and the room jumped with Chocolate Frogs while Harry stood removed and stared out a window.

"What are you looking at, Harry?"

"The moon."

"The moon?"

"It seems vicious tonight, somehow."

"Vicious? . . .Come back to the party, Harry."

". . .alright."

Hermione shook her head, confused. "Professor, I don't understand. We've been working under that assumption ever since he disappeared."

Snape sneered. It was a pitiful approximation of his usual nastiness. "But why do you think the Order has been assuming that? It would be as easy to assume he has gone to ground, in hiding from either the Ministry or his own cohorts."

Hermione pursed her lips, unconsciously reaching up and tugging at a lock of hair. "Because you knew for sure that he is dead?" Hermione paused, fought against exhaustion for clear thought. "Why not simply say so?"

Snape stood up and walked out of the room. Hermione heard a soft rustling, then the clinking of glass. Snape returned to the room with a small vial of green-blue liquid. He stopped when he was looming over her, then handed Hermione the bottle with a quick admonition against drinking. "Analyze this, Miss Granger."

The glass bumped the top of her head, and Hermione grabbed it from Snape. Hermione winced at the strange cold that seeped through the glass; strange because most potions settled to room temperature. Hermione unplugged the stopper and sniffed. Scentless. How odd. Most every potion in their textbooks smelled like something. The only potions that by necessity had to be scentless (and tasteless) were poisons. Hermione put back the stopper, her hands suddenly shaking so badly she almost dropped the vial, and looked up at Snape, "Lucius Malfoy was poisoned."

"Incomplete answers never receive House Points," Snape said, smirking, and stared at Hermione.

Hermione opened her mouth, grasping for the words that were sitting on the edge of her mind, shrouded by sleepless nights. And then they were there, spilling out (like poison) between herself and the Potions Master. "You killed him."

Snape nodded, something almost like regret filling his clouded eyes. "Correct, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor." A bitter smile hovering about his lips, making Hermione really look at him. Sweat had gathered on Snape's upper lip, nervously beading among the rising stubble. Its scent wafted towards Hermione, and she wrinkled her nose a bit at the tang. Snape smelled like sweat and dusty books, and the hollows under his eyes were carved black and deep. He was wasted away: a candle burned till there was nothing left, and somehow no one had noticed. Hermione knew how people saw no more than the greasy hair and twisting lips; even now, when he seemed but a skeleton in his own closet. He looked like a guilty man, a convict awaiting judgment.

Closet. Skeleton. Convict.

"It was a pity. Lucius and I enjoyed a long acquaintance. I was even named Draco Malfoy's mentor, and my Lord is well aware of this." Snape returned to his chair, slouching as he drummed his fingers on the table. He seemed unaware of his slip. "He is also well aware of my possible defection years ago. As a result he decided to test my fidelity by ordering me to kill Lucius. There was no choice."

No choice at all.

"How horrible," Hermione breathed out.

Snape nodded, his bitter smile warping (poisoning) the lines of his face. "I see you understand. However, that is not the reason I have told you this. I simply did so to forestall the questions you would doubtlessly have. No, the real issue is that now the only person other than You-Know-Who in possession of any of the details of the 'Fabula Project' is Wormtail. This is unfortunate.

"Before Lucius died I was given to understand that Wormtail possesses a flawed understanding of the Project, quite appropriately. Wormtail could never have anything more than a flawed understanding of advanced magic. And of course, Wormtail would never betray his master; his leash is far too short to allow that."

Hermione almost pitied Pettigrew in that moment.

Hermione pulled at her hair and bit the inside of her lip. But what if. . . "Professor, I know it's considered Dark Magic, but what if we were to try calling Lucius' spirit and asking it directly? We learned in DADA last month that summoned spirits can't lie, and-"

"A pretty idea, Miss Granger, but impossible," Snape said, the palm of his hand pressed against his eyes.

"Why is that?" Hermione snapped, driven beyond endurance by the conversation and hour. "Is it because of the shady ethics?"

"It is because, my dear, Voldemort had Lucius' body cremated and scattered. And as much as I would love to ask my erstwhile friend some questions, recovering his body has become something of an impossibility," Snape said, glaring at Hermione from under his now-clenched hand. "Unless you are willing to dredge the Atlantic?"

"No," Hermione whispered, impressed by You-Know-Who's thoroughness in spite of herself. Of course You-Know-Who would take preventative measures.

Snape pulled himself up, slowly coming to a standing position. He shook his head once, the movement more doglike than anything, and Hermione was briefly overcome with the urge to laugh hysterically, even though it wasn't funny. None of it was funny.

Snape shook his head again before picking up his poison and saying, "It is over-late, Miss Granger, and past time for bed. We will obviously not be meeting together tomorrow evening, so you will be on your own."

Hermione nodded and shrugged into her robe, shrinking her books and slipping them into a safe pocket. She walked to the door, her head reeling towards oblivion, and had her hand on the doorknob when Snape sent a book from his pile and his last words of advice flying towards her:

"But know this- none of the other contributors to the Fabula Project were disposed of in a manner similar to Lucius. They did not need to be. Lucius was, I believe, at the heart of the Project. He may even have been the very heart itself. Remember that, and also remember the importance of knowing your enemy."

"I will," Hermione said, and clutched the tome tight to her chest. It wasn't until she'd exited the room that she inspected the book in her arms. It stank of dragon skin, silk, and opulence; Hermione felt like crying as she let her fingers drift over what had to be unicorn horn. The inlaid horn glimmered like distilled mother of pearl, its butchered glory proclaiming the book's content to all who had eyes.

A History of Britain's Magical Peerage

***

Draco leaned forward into the sink and splashed water at his face, rubbing the grit from his eyes, his fingers casting thin shadows across his mildly flushed cheeks. Draco wasn't particularly vain (no weaknesses), but he did understand how attractive he was (had been, should be) and how to use it (against himself). So he brushed his hair, washed his face, and removed the purple from beneath his eyes with a handy spell (attention to detail was important) he'd seen Blaise use after particularly late nights. The first time Blaise cast it she'd been staring into her mirror, joking with those obnoxious cherubs and ridiculously pursing her lips. She'd laughed as she draped herself over Draco, and when Draco spread Blaise out before it the mirror had fogged over. Draco wondered what had been done with that mirror, if it was still completely lacking in manners or if it even existed anymore. Mother had said there'd been a fire- a pyre. Blaise's ashes had been scattered over land and sea; as poetic as some might argue the action to be, Draco could not forget the imprint that Cruciatus had left under Blaise's skin. What had she seen, that she had been burned to dust? Was it anything like what he saw? Did it have red eyes and pale lips and smoke-like breath? Had it touched her between her legs before she died? Or had it probed somewhere far deeper?

Somehow Draco knew the answer to all of those questions: knew the memory of their body, shape, and taste. The flavor clung to his mouth, gripping at his teeth; his gums were a bloody mess when he was done brushing them. It never made any difference: just smoke and oil in his lungs and on his tongue, wafting forth with every clipped syllable he snapped out. And somehow the only time the taste ever truly left Draco was when he was with Potter. When Potter was above him, inside him, beside him: with him. When all they were doing was talking, sniping at each other and playing games with fingers and tongues and the way Potter's hand cupped Draco's cheek perfectly as he stared into Draco's eyes. Because he hadn't stopped looking. If anything, Potter was even worse now than when they began. No, when Potter began. And Potter's eyes were the same green as the wings of the Meadow Pixies Draco used to catch and pin to corkboard.

Like Potter did to Draco; but that was an old thought, almost comforting in its pain.

Draco stared in the mirror, at the red mark resting in the hollow of his neck. Potter liked to suck at that spot (if he tried hard enough, could Potter shape something permanent of Draco's flesh with his tongue? Did he fancy his teeth chipped away at the marble of Draco's skin?), and Draco guessed that it had become something of a substitute for his mouth. Not that it was the same. The thought made Draco smile. His eyes weren't the only thing Potter stared at obsessively. Draco rubbed at the fading tattoo, then buttoned his shirt and did up his tie, scowling reflexively at the mirror.

If only Potter wasn't such a stubborn ass. After all, he was Draco's in every other sense. He cut classes to be with Draco (over one hundred fifty points and counting); lied to his friends (Saint Potter, indeed); even knelt before Draco, his mouth warm and wet and tight (last week the broom closet on the third floor, yesterday the hothouses, tonight maybe between Slytherin walls). And somehow lips-on-lips were taboo, while lips on dick was perfectly fine. The current state of affairs should have made Draco happy, gleeful over Potter's blatant and sordid compartmentalization. Each encounter- each thought- was another streak of mud on Potter's white soul, another step towards Potter broken and black in front of him. Wasn't it?

Sometimes Draco wondered if Potter danced with unicorns on the evenings they didn't fuck. The image of Potter prancing around with those deformed mules was enough to make Draco sick. Flowers probably sprouted wherever the git stepped, lotuses blossoming in his footprints. But Potter kissed Granger's cheek with the same lips that mangled Draco's body, so what did it matter that his hands were full of roses? Draco wondered if Granger could smell him on Potter's tongue, if she wondered at Potter's sudden sweaty entrances, broomstick in hand as he stank of sex. Or maybe she didn't wonder at all, simply chalked it up to Quidditch and Potter's almost genius-like ability to accidentally make a mess of himself (Remember yesterday? Potter naked, a falling bucket of manure and Draco's laughter refracted off glass, then Potter suddenly straddling him with dung in his hands, the bastard, twitching lips pressed to Draco's pulse and fingers in Draco's hair and then it was war).

No, Draco doubted Granger knew anything. She was too occupied by Weasley being more of an idiot than even Draco could have anticipated (Draco had heard tell of a medical procedure involving a hole through the head that Muggles used to perform on their most hopeless cases. He sometimes wondered if Weasley hadn't been inflicted with some similar surgery). And now her new directed study with Snape. That was another thing. Draco would someday have Granger's head on a pike for stealing his directed study. It had been his, like Snape and Slytherin and the simple fact that yes, Draco was better than that whore at something. Let her have McGonagall and Transfiguration, Weasley and his stupid gutless mooning. Draco would take Potions, break their damned tie in Arithmancy, and have Potter between his legs, to boot.

Draco sucked in a deep breath and imagined the marks his fingers would leave on Granger's neck. They would be red, blushing roses against the dead white of her skin, and maybe that would make him forget the dreams, how they polluted his mouth.

Draco picked up his toothbrush and began scrubbing. His mouth felt raw, oozing with red. At least, Draco could see the blood as it welled up around his teeth, but there was nothing but smoke and oil in his mouth anymore, getting worse day by day. Last night even the pumpkin juice had faded behind the taste, a hint of pulp on his tongue the only sign that Draco was drinking juice, not oil. Draco spat into the sink, watched the spit bubble pink as it slipped down the drain. But that taste, or perhaps its lingering smell, remained. Draco sighed (though he would later deny it) and wished Harry was there to weave a protective circle around him.

A muffled cough sounded behind Draco, and he jumped (he would deny that, too), startled. The mirror revealed Vince and Greg, hulking like gargoyles in the shadow of the door. They stared at him, their faces like unfolding secrets. Greg looked sheepish. Vince just looked.

Vince nodded, though at what Draco had no idea, and said, "Are you ready for class?

Greg held out a lopsided roll that looked like it had been sat on, saying, "We brought you breakfast. It's raisin bread day, and we know how much you like raisins. I even put special butter on it for you!"

Draco didn't want to know, but he asked. "You brought me breakfast. With 'special' butter."

Greg grinned. "Well, you haven't been eating well lately and we have Double Potions today- got to keep your strength up, right?- so we thought you could use something in your stomach. Oh, and it's garlic butter. I remembered how much you hate jam."

Draco breathed in, then out. "You put garlic butter on a raisin bun?" he asked. Then, "Never mind. I'm not hungry, Greg. You eat it."

Which was not true; Draco was hungry, embarrassingly so. But better nothing than eating smoke and knowing it was actually raisin bread. Raisin bread which even had cinnamon swirls, if Draco's eyes were correct.

Draco was busy trying not to remember how much he loved raisin bread (even if Greg had profaned it with garlic butter) when Vince walked over to Greg, grabbed the bun, and shoved it in Draco's face. "You will eat this, even if I have to sit on you and shove it down your throat. And what's more, once it's lunchtime you're going to eat a full plate or else," Vince said.

Draco sneered. "Or else what?"

"Or else we'll make a public service announcement," said Vince, curving his lips into something that had everything and nothing to do a smile.

Draco almost laughed. A public service announcement? If it was about the box under Draco's bed, they needn't bother. Half of Hogwarts knew about that, and it had done nothing but increase his infamy. Aside from the protections surrounding the bed itself (which could be easily explained by the Slytherin practice of paranoia) there was really nothing they knew that could effectively be used as blackmail against him.

Draco leaned back against the sink and smirked, ignoring the way his sleeves clung to the wet porcelain. "About what?"

Vince came forward, leaning in close until Draco could smell breakfast on his breath and clothing: raisin bread, Darjeeling tea, and eggs. Draco held his ground, not even flinching when his nose informed him that apparently there had also been sausages at breakfast. He watched as Vince raised a hand and ran his fingers through Draco's hair, testing the fineness. Vince's breathing was heavy in Draco's face and Eau de Breakfast rushed into Draco's lungs, but Draco would be damned if he pulled away.

After all, what was blackmail-worthy about Draco's hair? The special shampoo his mother made him use? The completely natural and human color? His secret love for blood sausage, peasant food though it be?

"You've stopped greasing your hair," Vince said quietly. His hand was huge on Draco's head, and settled against Draco's cheek, cupping it. It felt wrong.

No.

There should have been nothing right about such an action in the first place, that a feeling of wrongness would be warranted.

Draco irritably knocked Vince's arm away. "And?" Draco asked, the color in his cheeks rising at Vince's refusal to vacate his personal space.

"Why?"

Draco pushed off of his elbows and faced Vince, his lips' bloodless skin framing a low hiss. "Maybe I was ready for a change of style, Vince. Maybe it's just hair."

The lines around Vince's mouth tightened, and he said, "After five dedicated years of having it just the way your father liked it?"

The way your father liked it. . .

The words to half a dozen lethal hexes flooded Draco's mind along with a now-familiar red ocean. Draco let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding and said, smooth as butter, "You forget, Vince. My father is not around anymore for me to answer to. It is my hair, and I shall do as I wish with it."

Vince stared, his eyes darker than Snape's and just as judgmental. "But you were styling it like that before he disappeared, weren't you? Weeks before."

"Why Vincent," Draco purred. "I had no idea you paid so much attention to the state of my hair. I shall have to remember that from now on. Is there a particular style you would like me to adopt? After all, I'd honor any request from you. Anything for a friend."

Greg stepped between them, but not in time to block Vince's final attack.

"Anything for Potter, you mean."

Red.

Draco knocked Greg aside and lunged at Vince, grabbing his tie and yanking the noose tight. Draco pulled down, the wet choking sounds Vince was making like Potter's blood on his tongue- no, better- and wound a silver green snake around his fist. The world was a scarlet haze and Vince's bloated face colored Draco's whisper crimson. "And what do you mean by that, dear friend?"

Vince choked.

Draco tightened his grip and smiled. "Yes?"

The tie around Vince's throat seemed to come alive, tightening its grip of its own accord. It hissed approval as it hugged Vince to death.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

As Greg helped Vince extricate himself from Draco's grasp, Draco considered the fact that this was probably the first time Greg had ever managed to cast that charm effectively (there was no one in Slytherin worse at Charms than Greg) and how lucky that had been. And then, that he could have killed Vince. That Vince's face could have turned purple and his tongue black and Draco would have kept squeezing, bathing in that red cloud. It was receding now, falling back to his dreams but it would be back. It wasn't really gone. And Vince could be dead.

Draco's throat strained against its paralysis, trying to work a denial past frozen muscles. That had not been him. Not him. Never him. Not to Vince. But who would believe 'It wasn't me', however impassioned the plea? No one. Not if Draco Malfoy was the one making it.

Vince, I'm. . .

Draco saw Vince cough, watched his forehead touch the ground as air flooded that bruised throat. A line of spit trailed from Vince's lips to the floor, and his fingers were shaky on the stone as he pushed himself up. Greg slapped Vince's back, pounding encouragement until Vince slipped away from Greg's well-meaning blows. He stared at Draco for a moment, perhaps savoring the silence of Draco's defeat. But Vince wasn't like that, and his dark eyes were heavy on Draco's stilled face.

"So this is what it takes to make you shut up," Vince said, and he rubbed at his throat. His fingers cast quivering shadows as they brushed reassurance into his skin. "But you can't run away now, so you'd better listen." Vince lowered his voice, leaning in close, and Draco could see his reflection in Vince's eyes. "We know about you and Potter. We know exactly what you've been doing when you skip class, and we even almost walked in on you once. Now, we don't care who you shag as long as you're careful. Lately you haven't been careful; neither of you. So, wise up.

"Now, we'd better get to Potions or we'll be so late even you won't be forgiven. Let him go, Greg," Vince finished, his hands tracing the lines marking his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye Draco saw Greg shake his wand, slumping to the ground as the syllables of his release echoed from tile to tile. The floor was cold, and to the left of Draco's knee was a puddle where Vince had emptied his lungs. It was like water on pebbles, and Draco watched the shimmering of reflected light there, caught up in a feeling that someone else might have called regret. A harsh cough from Vince pulled Draco's eyes up and over. Greg was pale but grinning (so sad an expression), and in spite of everything (red face, trembling hands) Vince was wearing something of a smile.

"Let's go," Vince said, and turned to leave. Then he stopped, faced Draco and, his face still brutalized by that smile, said, "Oh, and I forgive you."

***

The air sparkled pink, frothing with the essence of Valentines and candy hearts, and the taste of sugar melted on Harry's tongue, sweet and smelling like frosted rose tips. Or perhaps that was Draco huddled tight against him, his breath tickling Harry's ears as they sheltered under the protective shield Draco had thrown up just in time.

Harry pulled away from Draco and glared. Caught in the bubble of his spell, Draco seemed encased in champagne, his mussed hair dipped in reflected gold. He laughed, strangely fey as Harry growled his disapproval.

"Can't you leave Neville's cauldron alone for just one lesson? Pompous prick."

Draco widened his eyes and smirked. "You think I did that? I hate to be the one to disillusion you, especially when it is me you are complimenting-"

"That wasn't a compliment, Malfoy. Anyway, how else do you explain this?" Harry said, and poked at the opaque shield surrounding them.

"Not to you, perhaps." Draco showed more teeth and shoved up against Harry, his glowing smirk a hairsbreadth away from Harry's lips. Harry didn't swallow, and he most certainly didn't sweat. Above all else, he absolutely did not think about dozens of proven ways to shut the git up that did not involve yelling. At least. . . not yelling in the traditional sense.

Draco leaned forward and looked for a moment like he was about to lick Harry's upper lip. Instead, he pulled back, dimpled, and continued. "Sadly, I played no part in today's explosion. Why would I need to? Everyone knows what happens when you put nature's most tragic mistake and Goyle together. We should count ourselves lucky with just a fireworks display. Today's Tracing Potion was supposed to be brown, not pink. And while I cannot even begin to conjecture what those two did to their potion to turn it that shade, I do have certain expertise."

"Like what?" Harry asked, remembering the extra newt Draco had added to Neville's potion last week. Neville had been out cold for hours. It took a certain level of 'expertise' to get results like that.

Draco hummed something low and insulting under his breath. Harry thought he could smell raisins in the air before Draco answered, "Well, I suppose it does take a certain amount of expertise to understand that brown is good and pink is bad."

"And that's it?" Harry said.

Draco heaved a sigh. "Potter, I know it's not something you're used to, but could you at least try to think occasionally? Your head isn't going to bloody explode from the effort; you're not that stupid."

That said, Draco drew in and bit Harry's chin, whispering, "Don't worry- no one can see us under here." Draco paused, said, "Ever thought of doing it in public?" and laughed when Harry scuttled away.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?"

"Relax, Potter. I'm not going to force you," Draco said, smugly.

Draco smiled and shoved up against Harry, pinning him to the shield's wall as he cupped Harry's crotch. Harry hissed and pushed him away, angry with Draco and himself for reacting. Now was not the time, but it was just like Malfoy to play games when people could be hurt. He scowled at Draco, glaring as that stupid unfeeling git lifted up those same fingers and slowly dragged them across his lips.

"After all, I don't need to force you anymore, do I?" Draco slid one finger into his mouth. "Do I."

"Fine," said Harry. "You didn't do it. Now let me out before Snape does it for you. And take that finger out of your mouth before someone sees us. I don't bloody fancy being made into crepe by one of your goons, and I don't believe this thing," Harry poked at the shield, "is completely opaque."

Draco grinned. "Forget your wand again, Potter?"

"Yes, all right? You didn't give me much time to think, you know. So let me out!"

"Answer the question first," Draco said, and slid his tongue around his finger.

"Take down the shield, Malfoy!" Harry said, fuming. Draco was shoving his finger in and out of his mouth, and his eyes were strangely intent. Strange, because they were firm on Harry's face, almost desperately so, and was Malfoy actually unbuttoning his pants? Bloody hell.

"Then you know what you need to do, don't you?" Draco's breath hitched around his finger as his other hand disappeared into his trousers.

Harry swore and slammed one fist into the shield, angry at Malfoy and himself and the way Draco's fingers made ripples in the cloth of his trousers. "Fine, then. No you bloody well don't need to, do you. I'm just as much to blame as you are. Now let me out of here!"

Draco slowly withdrew his hand from his trousers, smiling at the flush Harry was sure stained his whole body. Harry didn't know if the blush was from anger or lust; he did know either answer would be sure to please Malfoy, the bastard. Who was buttoning up his trousers and staring at Harry and when was he going to cancel the spell? Harry was on the verge of charging the shield when Draco lunged forward, grabbing Harry's wrist and dragging him to Draco's side. He ran one slick finger across Harry's cheek, then leaned over and brushed his lips against Harry's scar. Harry shuddered.

"Don't forget it."

Draco released Harry's wrist, thin red imprints scarring the pale skin of Harry's underarm. Harry rubbed at them and watched Draco mutter the release to the spell, blinking at the sudden onslaught of normal light.

Harry looked slowly around the classroom. Pink frosting covered everything, the sound of someone sobbing (Lavender?) percussed in his ears. The room was a mess. Goyle and Seamus had been transformed into statues, Neville was a twitching heap on the floor next to his ruined cauldron, and Snape was conspicuously missing. If Harry craned his neck he could see a pair of freckled hands rubbing frantically at pink pants that would have made Trelawney proud. Ron, though, was swearing like his life depended on it. Hopefully it didn't. Hermione was nowhere to be seen. Something had to be done. Harry leaned over his desk and poked at an un-splattered Pansy Parkinson, who was trembling in what could have been either a fit of hysteria or hilarity.

"Pansy, do you know where Snape is?"

Pansy looked up at Harry through watery eyes, her lips trembling with the effort to keep in whatever emotion she was just about brimming over with, and pointed in the direction of the Potions Closet. Which happened to be cemented shut with that pink sludge (Harry wondered if Fred and George would be interested in the stuff. That is, if Neville could ever duplicate his mistake).

"Snape's in there?"

Not good, not good at all.

Pansy nodded, her short hair bobbing emphasis as she jerked her head up and down.

"Has anyone gone to fetch Madam Pomfrey?"

Pansy nodded again, her mouth twitching and eyes dancing.

Harry made another attempt. "Who went to get her?"

Pansy opened her mouth, and for one brief glorious moment Harry thought that she might actually answer him. His hope was soon ground under Pansy's heel when she drew in a huge breath and let it out in a peal of laughter. Harry tamped down on his frustration, chewing the inside of his mouth as Pansy waved a hand limply at him.

"Feel free to take your time," he said.

"Granger," Pansy gasped, in between her screeching giggles.

Oh. Ron was in no immediate danger, then. And Pomfrey would be there within minutes. Harry was about to make another attempt with Pansy, when the sound of stifled sobbing punctured Pansy's howling: Neville was huddled over the remains of his cauldron, crying as he ran his fingers over the pot's melted edge.

Harry walked past statue-Goyle, where Draco was rapping at his henchman's head and Crabbe was standing off to the side with the most indescribable expression on his face. Like he wanted to laugh and maybe say 'I told you so' but couldn't for being worried. Draco, on the other hand, just tapped on Goyle's head and muttered things about cocoons while sniffing his superiority at the rest of the uncaring room. Harry imagined he looked like a scientist who'd been confronted with some hitherto unknown specimen of Puffskein. Snape's Potions Prince, indeed.

Harry stood behind Neville and cleared his throat. "Neville? Are you hurt?"

Neville sniffed. "No, I'm fine. But Snape's trapped in a closet and Seamus and Ron are frozen and Goyle is going to kill me when he gets thawed, I know it. Not that it matters, because Gran said if I destroyed another cauldron she'd have my head, and she means it when she says things like that." With that, Neville continued crying.

Harry sighed and patted Neville's shoulder. "You'll be fine, Neville. Though Snape's going to give you detention; no doubts there."

Neville sniffled and nodded, obviously comforted by a return of what was, for him, normalcy. They stood there for a bit, Harry's hand on Neville's shoulder and Neville wiping his nose with the corner of his sleeve, waiting for Pomfrey's arrival.

The almost comfortable silence was broken by Draco saying, "He's breaking through. Better be careful, Vince. He's bound to be ripping mad, whatever he looks like."

Crack.

Harry slowly turned around, even though he knew he'd regret it. Draco and Crabbe were backing away from Goyle's still figure, carefully putting space between them and their friend. Who was, quite literally, cracking up.

"Malfoy. What's happening to him?" Harry carefully asked.

Draco inched backwards. "Know anything about butterflies, Potter?"

"Some."

Harry watched the gaps between the myriad pink (tectonic) plates grow, bits of Goyle being revealed little by little. "Why?"

"Well, you know how a butterfly larva will enter a chrysalis to facilitate its transformation?" Draco said as he edged behind a desk.

"Yes," said Harry. He had an awful feeling he knew where this was going.

"Not to use a tired metaphor, but that pink glass is the magical equivalent of a chrysalis, and Greg is about to emerge. Funny thing, though. I'd be willing to bet money that he won't have wings," Draco concluded, and crouched under the desk.

Harry resisted the urge to follow Draco's example, and stood his ground. If Goyle were to turn into a monster someone would have to stop him. Hopefully Pomfrey would come in time to ensure that someone wasn't him.

The pink shell surrounding Goyle had become so riddled with breaks that it was practically sparkling with refracted light. Goyle shifted within his casing and Harry became aware of something not encouraging. Goyle's skin had turned grey, and even through the pink distortion Harry could see that his mouth was somehow deformed. Then Goyle flexed, and there was silence as pink glass went flying across the room. Goyle drew back his lips and snarled- an action that stole the breath from everyone's lungs.

"Where is Longbottom?" Goyle lisped, his words twisted by the tusks that warped the shape of his mouth. "Where is he, 'cause I need to kill him."

He drew in a big snuffling breath, the whiskers on his muzzle bristling with effort, and said, "Come out. I smell you behind Potter. Come out, you shit-eating Gryffindork."

Neville huddled behind Harry and moaned, his shaking hands clutching at Harry's robes. "I can't, Harry. I just can't."

Harry took a deep breath and nodded. "It's ok, Neville. Just stay back. I'll handle it."

Harry stepped forward, wrinkling his nose at the pungent fishy smell that seeped from what had once been Goyle. "Just stand back, Goyle. Pomfrey will be here any minute now, and soon enough you'll be back to normal."

Goyle bared his teeth, an action that sent wrinkles rippling over his leathery skin, and bellowed. It was a purely animalistic sound, and had Neville scurrying to the opposite corner of the room. He roared again, and Harry realized that apparently Goyle was so mad any target would do. For a moment all he could hear was the wet rasping breaths Goyle was sucking in and heaving out. Then Goyle charged Harry, plowing him into a wall. Something cracked, and Harry gasped as Goyle wrapped a hand around Harry's throat and contracted his fingers. Harry choked and scrabbled at his pockets (where was his wand?), then gave up to flail at Goyle's face.

Harry could feel his neck caving in, and black spots were dancing across his retina when the sound of yelling reached his ears.

". . . down, I said! Move away from him, if you know what's good for you."

Goyle's fingers loosened their hold, and Harry kicked at the thing's trunk-like legs as oxygen rushed through his dry lips. Where was his wand? Oh, Harry remembered: on the table, beside Draco's mortar, but it didn't matter because Harry's fist was slamming into Goyle's jaw and a wand would only get in the way. And then he was falling, hitting the ground and his lungs were filled with dust as he lay on the floor, the stone cold on his forehead. He looked up, the world wavering in front of him, and a white on black phantasm was standing between him and Goyle. Blackness brushed at Harry's lips, and he realized it was a cloak.

"Get back, Greg. You can't kill Potter, you lump. You'd be expelled for sure, sent to Azkaban and Kissed within an hour of your arrival, and then who'll be here to force buttered muffins on me? So stand down now."

Draco was in front of him, protecting him. Harry tried to force sound out of his mouth and wrap it around his tongue, but all he could do was wheeze and watch as Draco Malfoy faced down his goon, his friend, for Harry Potter.

Goyle stepped forward and grunted something low and vile, not at all pacified by Draco's cold words.

"You will not hurt him, do you understand me? I will not allow it," Draco hissed, his words so quiet no one but Harry and Goyle could have heard them.

Goyle growled, and Harry could make out the flexing of his hands around the edge of Draco's blackness. After a pause, Goyle curled his hands into fists and said, "Yes, Draco."

"Good. Now go sit down before I hex you," said Draco, ignoring the tension and stepping up to clap Goyle's shoulder.

The room throbbed quietly as its occupants watched the stand-off between Draco and his underling peter out. Harry was briefly and irreverently reminded of Muggle cowboy movies and their inevitable shoot-outs at high noon. He fancied he could even see tumbleweed rolling through the classroom, its pink-stained branches shaking in a nonexistent wind. Or maybe he was just suffering from oxygen deprivation.

Silence but for Harry's rasping breaths and the distant sound of Ron yelling threats.

The door to the classroom slammed open and Madame Pomfrey burst into the classroom, radiating worry and brisk cheer. "Now, let's see what we have here. Miss Granger informed me of an explosion; where is Snape when you need the man? But thank Merlin there is only student in the Infirmary right now- quill inflicted injuries can be nastier than you'd think, and oh! A very pink accident I see- I say!" Pomfrey paused, for once at a loss for words as the tableau before her finally registered. She gave Harry and Draco a concerned once over and then turned to Goyle.

After a long look, Pomfrey tightened her jaw in annoyance and said, "Well. Would someone mind telling me who is responsible for turning Mr. Goyle into a walrus?"

***

Potter ambushed Draco as he exited the Infirmary, leaving Draco only enough time for a muffled squawk before he found himself being dragged down the hall, his wrist turning white from the pressure of Potter's fingers. Draco struggled against Potter, tugging his arm and hissing insults at Potter (who had the absolute nerve to ignore him). The only sign that Potter had even heard the comment about Potter's mother and a cave troll was the sudden loss of all feeling in Draco's hand. Fingers tingling, Draco gave up trying to fight and studied the panting boy before him. If Potter was so intent on a short shag that he was willing to hurt Draco, Draco was more than willing to comply.

Where are your unicorns now, Potter?

They stumbled down the hall, and if anyone saw them no one raised an alarm. Even considering it was dinnertime they had been extremely lucky; but their luck was due to run out at any moment, Draco was sure. After all, it only took one second for the Weasel or some sodding Hufflepuff to turn a corner; potentially the corner up ahead. Where was Potter taking him?

"Potter, where are you-" Draco began, watching his fingertips swell purple.

"Quiet, Malfoy," Potter mumbled, rounding the worrisome corner and pulling Draco behind him.

Draco reeled around the wall's edge, and a short click was the only warning he had before finding himself shoved through a dark doorway and onto a pile of what appeared to be cleaning implements.

"Potter, what in Mordred's name is this place? A broom closet? How cliché," Draco said, sputtering as something soft and dirty slapped him in the face. Wonderful. A closet chock-full of slimy rags and moldering brooms was exactly where he wanted to be shagged.

"Potter. As much as I understand your enthusiasm for our activities, I'll have you know that I was not the only Slytherin visiting Greg. We were lucky that no one was leaving with me, you stupid leching git!" Draco said, almost panting.

"Lumos," Potter said, illuminating the darkness and proving once and for all that yes, they were in a broom closet. A closet apparently unvisited by the House Elves for over fifty years. Just bloody lovely.

Potter drew closer, his eyes glowing in the witch-light of his wand. His hair stood up in tufts, its natural state scruffier than the worst case of bed-head Draco had ever experienced. It made him look taller than he really was, with the way it stood almost on end; or was it the shadows looming around them that gave Potter his height? Or maybe it was that Potter wasn't slouching anymore, wasn't drawing in upon himself like a snail in the shell of his robes, frightened of anything and everything the world had to offer. Maybe that was it- it was definitely why Draco was suddenly enraged, drowning in red at the thought of Potter's obvious self-rediscovery. There Potter stood, a caricature of Gryffindor, and for once the bobbing of his Adam's apple wasn't from fear or apprehension. Potter swallowed: as a gesture, it should have been insecure, nervous- not determined.

Draco hated Potter, hated the way Potter's lips screamed Gryffindor pride as they pressed out statements of courage. Draco hated everything about him: his messy hair and bitten nails and the scaly skin on the tips of his elbows. He hated the way Potter couldn't be trusted to ignore him in classes, how Potter was so blatantly open about everything, how that bled through the veils of their deception. Draco even hated the way he gripped his damn wand, the careless angle of his wrist an insult. More than anything else, though, Draco hated the way Potter was looking at him, wand light illuminating the question hovering on his lips, in his eyes- that he had a question was blatantly obvious. Draco almost snorted. Was Potter waiting for permission?

Draco sat down, trying not to think about the state of the floor, and spread his legs, sneering. "Ready for a fuck, then?"

Potter squatted down beside Draco and slowly shook his head, staring into Draco's eyes. "We need to talk. After that we can- if you want to."

Potter glanced around the closet, and a wry smile twisted up his lips. "Don't think it'd be very comfortable, though."

"Oh, please forgive me for your choice of shagging spots," Draco said, narrowing his eyes as Potter's smile grew even wider. Draco shifted closer to Potter, brushing his lips along Potter's slightly stubbly jaw, and whispered, "I thought today's weather was spectacular. The clouds were a particularly nice shade of white- don't you agree?"

Draco's hands shone porcelain as they worked the buttons of Potter's shirt.

Potter drew back and huffed out a sigh, gripping still Draco's fingers. "Malfoy, what are you talking about?"

Draco smirked. There was little as settling as Potter being off-balance. "Well, you said you wanted to talk, and an accepted way of easing into conversation is through chit-chat. Making commentary on the weather is a widely practiced method of doing so. Besides, you spend so much time in the clouds I naturally assumed you would be well aware of their state."

Draco smiled sweetly, making sure to show his dimples (Potter was startlingly susceptible to them, he'd found). He wondered if Potter even realized he'd been insulted. From the look on Potter's face, it seemed like he had. But then Potter sucked in a deep breath of smelly closet air and the lines of his face returned to their usual insufferable places.

"What happened in Potions today, Malfoy?"

Draco managed to catch himself before he stiffened. What exactly was Potter asking? Trying to wrap his lips around a smirk and an appropriate reply, Draco stared at Potter. There was dust in the air that had been kicked up by their entrance, and it glittered on Potter's eyelids and hair, sparkling in the witch-light as it drifted to the ground. The closet smelled like lemon and wood wax, rotting cotton and Potter. Draco wondered where they were, how Potter had found this untouched place, and how long it would be until Potter broke and kissed him. Potter's lips sparkled with dirt, like an afterimage of magic, and yet Draco wanted to lick them clean. Eat them and know if they tasted unclean, know if the smoke had taken them, too.

But nothing was worse than losing (himself) to Potter, so Draco grinned and said, tsking, "Don't you remember, Potter? You were there, after all. How is your neck feeling?"

Potter ignored him and turned over Draco's hand, the one he'd bruised, tracing the line of Draco's veins. Draco shivered in spite of himself and Potter sighed in response. "These look like they hurt- I'm sorry about that. I just- I knew I didn't have much time before Hermione and everyone came to see Ron and you always mouth off."

Draco plucked his wrist from Potter's grasp. "I don't know why you're apologizing; you've never done so before."

Draco could almost make out a blush on Potter's cheeks.

"That. . . that's different," Potter said softly.

"Ah. Different."

Sooner or later everything became 'different', didn't it?

Potter pinned Draco with a look that was both soft and intense. "Today was different, too. Why did you save me in class?"

Draco shrugged, watching as Potter's eyes narrowed to slits. The expression looked strange on Potter, like he'd reached over and kissed it off of Draco's own face. Had Draco, then, stolen his share of Potterisms? Was that how Vince and Greg had found out about it? Not that it mattered, this new tool. Draco was sure innocence looked just as odd on his face as craftiness did on Potter's.

Potter spoke slowly, weighing each word against the movements of Draco's face, his eyes. "Why did you save me, Malfoy? Not just once, either. You didn't have to protect me from that potion, let alone from your own sidekick."

Draco shook the dust from his hair and laughed. "Mordred, Potter. If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is! Sidekick, indeed," Draco said, chuckling.

Harry smiled, his eyes lighting up and curving with an illusion of fond amusement. Draco stilled, made immobile by the phantom of caring that played with Potter's lips, tugging them upwards and open. Made captive by the impossible, Draco hardly felt his bruised hand being lifted again, caressed. Potter's fingers were rough on his skin, like what Draco imagined sackcloth to feel like, and they scraped at the palm of his hand like sand and rocks. Draco watched as Potter brushed his lips across the pulse at Draco's wrist, watched Potter's tongue repeat the action before rough fingers took its place. Draco's breathing hitched, and Potter's smile unfolded.

Draco realized he'd stopped laughing.

"Fine then," Potter said, still smiling gently, disconcertingly. "But you can't deny you saved me today, twice. Why, Draco?"

Draco managed an imperious look despite being very aware of the movements of Potter's thumb on his palm, of the (hungry) blush that he could feel tainting his cheeks.

"Do I need a reason for my actions, Potter?"

Mistake.

The question hung like a noose around Draco's neck, and he could feel the rope coil close, tightening as Potter began laughing.

Potter laughed, echoing Draco's earlier humor. "Yes, Malfoy, I think you do. You always have a reason. So why don't you tell me what it was."

Potter's fingers tickled at Draco's palm, and Draco felt a brief respect for Potter, that he had become so skilled at their game. And then, as he looked into Potter's anticipatory- no, predatory- eyes, Draco wondered for the first time what stakes Potter was playing for.

"Because I don't feel like it, maybe?" Draco said, his tone light, slipping past the lump in his throat.

"Tease," Potter said, grousing. But the light in his eyes didn't change. Or was that just the wand?

"Maybe," Draco agreed.

Potter sat for seconds or hours watching Draco, his legs folded in front of him and his fingers busy on the skin of Draco's hand, his arm. Draco stared back, waiting for someone to break and signal the beginning of the next round. The tableau must have lasted forever- or at least for several minutes- when Potter smiled that smile again and yanked at Draco's arm, pulling him onto Potter's lap.

"Why Potter," Draco purred, and nuzzled Potter's neck. "Is our conversation over? An interesting experiment, I suppose, but-"

Draco stilled as Potter's hands came up to trap his face, forcing him to look directly into Potter's eyes. Draco felt his lungs compress as Potter's hands settled around his cheeks, cupping them.

"You really don't want to answer the question, do you?" Potter marveled.

Draco fought the urge to pull back; this was a battle, and he could not afford to show weakness now. Not now. Not if Draco was correct about where Potter was heading with this inquiry. "Do you think I even care, Potter?"

"Yes," Potter said. "Yes, I think you do."

"Shows what you get for thinking, then. Are you willing to settle for nothing?" Draco spat.

Potter ignored him, his eyes intent on Draco's face. "What if the reason you don't want to answer my question is because you're afraid of the answer, hmm?" Potter whispered, and his words brushed at Draco's lips and nostrils.

"What could I possibly be afraid of?" Draco returned. "You, Potter?"

Potter smiled, but the expression did not puncture the careful stillness of his eyes. They burned. "What if you saved me because you care about me? Want me?"

Draco snorted, careful not to break eye contact. Potter's hands burned his cheeks.

"Of course I want you, I'm bloody shagging you."

Potter pulled Draco's face closer, so that their noses were almost touching. "What about the first part? Why did you save me- me, Harry Potter- from your friend?"

Draco smirked. "Well Potter, now that I've finally got you good and broken in, I don't fancy losing you." Draco tightened his lips and said, clearly, "It's just sex, Potter; nothing more. You would be wise to remember that."

Remember that.

Potter looked almost angry for a moment, then went back to his damned smiling and chirped out, "Against your friend? Really? If I remember anything, I remember today. I was there, and you honestly threatened Goyle, your friend. If he had hurt me any more, what would you have done? Hurt him? Killed him? What about earlier? No one else even knew what was coming, but you did. And you dragged me down with you. Why? You could have just left me, but you didn't. Why?"

Potter's words pounded at Draco, slamming into him one after the other until he had to admit that he didn't know why, not really, and that admission was enough to rekindle his earlier fury. Suddenly Draco was raging, words sluicing from his lips as he trembled with emotion.

"Why, Potter? I'd think it completely obvious by now, you utter twat. I have branded you mine: my dog, my cattle, my toy. You're mine, and only I can hurt you, break you- touch you. You're mine until I throw you away, and I'm not about to let some bloody sot break your neck before then, friend or no." Draco ground to a stop, panting, his eyes tearing. It was the dust that made Draco's voice crack and his eyes sting with wet. It was the dust that made Potter sparkle in the wand-light, motes even now dancing in the air between their open mouths.

It was the dust and oily shadows Draco harbored that made him say these things. Not him, never him.

Potter stirred beneath him, winced and jutted out his lips: a pout of all things. "Your nails are digging chunks from my shoulders. Care to loosen up a bit?"

Draco blinked and looked down, finally free of Potter's eyes. "Oh." He loosened his grip, and was examining his nails for chips when Potter's right hand left his cheek and drifted down to press at the small of his back.

"I'm yours?" Potter asked. Would he ever stop that insufferable smiling? "Does that mean that you're mine?"

Draco hissed. "What presumption. Let me make this simple for you; I doubt you'd understand anything complex. I am as likely to become yours as I am to kiss you."

Potter's hands pulled Draco closer, bringing him down and in, until their faces were the only parts of them not touching.

"But you want to," Potter said, and his lips moved under Draco's, only scant molecules of air separating them.

This was going too far.

"Want to what?" Draco said harshly, even as he breathed in Potter's taste.

"Want to kiss me," Potter said, reflecting Draco in his eyes.

Was that how Draco looked to Potter? No wonder the git was deluded.

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do," Potter replied, his voice butter-soft.

Too far, indeed; Potter needed to be taught a lesson.

"Let me tell you something, Potter. I wouldn't kiss you if I were dying," Draco spat. "I promise you that."

Potter's eyes darkened, his hands tightened around Draco, and he opened his mouth to blast out his own retort (ultimatum?) when a shrill scream pierced the door.

"You forgot to cast a silencing spell?" Draco snarled. "Anyone could have heard us!"

Draco was about to continue when the scream sounded again; an ululating wail that had the Draco clutching at Harry (and Potter, him) as a frisson of fear passed though them. Draco held Potter even harder when he felt the other boy struggle to get up.

"Stay still!" he whispered, then dipped his head and bit at Potter's shoulder, pressing a warning into Potter's skin with his teeth.

Potter, hero extraordinaire, saw none of the wisdom in this and jerked against Draco, drawing blood. "We have to get out and see what's wrong, Malfoy! Someone could be hurt!"

Draco pushed Potter to the ground, licking his lips clean. "And you think you could help? Really, Potter, you are too much. Besides, do you want other people to know about us? Think, for Mordred's sake."

"Yes I might, and-" Potter stopped, nearly biting off the end of his tongue as two voices settled in front of the closet's door.

"They say it happened on the Quidditch pitch. At least, that's where the Dark Mark appeared."

"The Quidditch field? Then they somehow made it onto campus?"

"Somehow. And I heard. . . I heard two Ravenclaws, sixth years, were taken. They were out there, alone."

Now the distant sound of crying.

"Parvati Patil," the second voice said, the tone of her statement somehow dreadful.

"I heard," began the first.

"Yes?"

"I heard that Parvati's sister, Padma, was last seen out there with Terry Boot."

Terry Boot and Padma Patil

"A date?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess it doesn't. Not anymore."

"We should get back to the dormitory. They'll be taking attendance."

Draco listened as the voices grew distant, listened until he could hear nothing but the thudding of his heart, the rasp of Potter's breath. Draco rested his forehead for a moment against Potter's collarbone, only vaguely aware of the stroking motions Potter was making on his back. In the strange dream that followed Draco found himself licking the flecks of blood from Potter's shoulder, kissing the taut skin there. Then he sighed and pressed his cheek to Potter's throat, almost comforted by the feeling of Potter's hands on his back, his neck.

Terry.

A deep breath and some gentle touches later, Potter pushed Draco away and said, "No more morning games."

Draco attempted a smirk. "That goes without saying."

Terry Boot, kidnapped. The Patil girl, too. Terry.

"We should get going, then. We're probably needed in the dorms." Potter looked at Draco, his green on green eyes clouded, and Draco wondered how it was possible to layer emotions so clearly. Potter was always so clear.

It was almost blinding.

***

Caught up in the furor that the disappearances of Terry Boot and Padma Patil caused, almost no one noticed Hermione's distraction. Harry had once again been roped into trying to bring some calm to the hysteria surrounding them, Ron and Seamus were still in the Infirmary being treated, the other sixth years were clustered around Parvati (the girl's eyes were like black holes and just as empty), and everyone else was either in hysterics or holding huddled conferences.

But not Hermione: Hermione stood at the edge of the room and stared out a window, watching as Snape made his way to the Forbidden Forest. The moonlight glinted off of his sallow skin, harshly illuminating the white of his hands as he held close a black bundle. She watched until the darkness covered him and clutched his almanac to her chest, wishing that it would all be over tomorrow; that this all was as simple as black on white, black against white, black inevitably lit by white.

Harry had been right. Somehow, the moon did seem vicious.

**tbc**