Beneath Appearances

Beneath Appearances

Chapter 3

In Relation to Another

On the first day of December, the students of Hogwarts came to breakfast to find that Christmas decorations galore had grown up in the Great Hall overnight. "Grown up" were very good words indeed as the Hall looked like it had been transformed into a wintry forest. Shaggy fir trees lined the walls and clumped in the corners bedecked with candles and glittering enchanted snow. There was more snow mounded under the trees and creeping toward the tables; a few students let out yelps as they trod unwittingly through it in their thin, indoor shoes. Garlands of red-berried holly and shiny-leaved ivy looped around all the tables, and Dumbledore had hung a bunch of mistletoe directly over his own seat. He was eying each of the professors mischievously as they took their places at the head table; most feigned yawns and pretended not to notice the Headmaster's little joke. Clear winter's light filtered from the enchanted ceiling to illuminate the whole merry scene.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Dean Thomas, noticing that pitchers of steaming wassail and cold, frothy eggnog had replaced the usual pumpkin juice on the tables. The students settled down to eat, murmuring appreciatively about the decorations and the improved Christmas-season fare.

Owls began to trickle through the Hall windows, hooting in surprise and dodging the unfamiliar trees. The sounds of envelopes ripping and parchments unfolding mingled with those of chewing and conversation. Suddenly, there was a cry from the direction of the Hufflepuff table, as something collided with a tree standing just behind Ernie Macmillan's seat and set it swaying frighteningly. All eyes turned toward the disturbance to discover that the tree's attacker was a group of twenty or more owls, which had all insisted on flying simultaneously through the same high-set window, bursting into the hall as a great blind ball of feathers.

"Bloody stupid birds," someone could be heard sneering at the Slytherin table, "Why didn't they..." Why they didn't became apparent at that moment as the owls struggled further into the room and hauled one enormous and clearly very heavy parcel through the window. The parcel rested for a moment on the windowsill before toppling through and jerking the entire flock downward before, with much alarmed screeching, they managed to recover. The owls flapped exhaustedly toward the Gryffindor table, and Hermione quickly Banished a plate of scones and two platters of sausage to clear a space for the mysterious delivery. It thunked down on the table with shuddering force, and Hermione was a bit embarrassed, though not surprised, when the lead owl presented the card to her. The owls settled around her, glaring balefully, and she hastily Rematerialized all the scones and sausage for them.

"What is that, Herm?" Ron demanded, and Hermione could feel that Harry's eyes too - in fact the eyes of the entire Hall - were watching her with interest. She scanned the note - just as she'd thought - and slapped Ron's hand away as he tried to tear open a corner of the wrapping.

"Oh, just some books my parents promised they'd send me."

"Even you don't need that many books. And why couldn't they just have waited for Christmas?"

"It must be, um, that my dad's gotten that promotion to head chair in his office. He promised treats for Mum and me if it ever happened." She scanned her letter, and her face fell, "Oh, and apparently the, uh, promotion means he gets even more free dental floss. Do you two..."

Harry and Ron both turned hurriedly away before Hermione could offer them anymore of her surplus floss. Her eyes flicked up to meet a pair of inquisitive grey ones across the hall for a bare fraction of a second. The glance up also allowed her to notice a small, very nondescript owl winging unobtrusively through the lingering commotion her package had raised to perch on the Headmaster's shoulder. Dumbledore's festive twinkle dimmed a candle's-worth as he scanned his message. He rose, murmuring something softly to Professor McGonagall, and left the Hall as unmarked by most of the student body as his owl's arrival had been.

Back in the Gryffindor common room that night, the Reduced and Lightened bundle of books was still in Hermione's robe pocket. It was such a pity her parents couldn't cast those simple spells, she reflected; it would have spared those poor owls considerably. Of course, the owls had actually been able to deliver the books and get on with their birdy business. Hermione had no idea how she was going to get the things to Draco. They had most classes together - N.E.W.T.-levels tended to be so small students of all houses were thrown together - she'd expected him to wait for her after Runes or Arithmancy. But both times there'd been a gang of Slytherins around him, and he hadn't told them to go ahead. Well, if he wanted the things...

She looked up from her Charms text, and tuned half an ear to check how Harry and Ron's Quidditch strategy session was coming. The two of them had been sharing the Gryffindor team captaincy since Angelina graduated, Harry being the senior player while Ron, as Keeper, was able to watch the team during games better than a Seeker ever could.

"Our problem is that Colin and Dennis work so well together, they never pass to Tracy."

"I wouldn't worry about that; like you said, the two of them are really good."

"The game's designed for three Chasers, Ron, three."

Hermione didn't sense the session's end anywhere in the near future, and Professor Vector had stopped her after Arithmancy that day to pass on a message from Severus - "The Potions Master wished me to inform you that he will not be available to confer about your research project until two hours past the expected time tonight." She sighed - might as well go back to Charms - when she felt something materialize in her hand. She glanced down in surprise - a bit of parchment. Good trick, Malfoy. The note read simply, "Statue of Mary Margaret the Minute, 15 minutes." Bloody presumptuous Slytherin; she might have had plans tonight. But she didn't.

"I'm just going to go do a few rounds before curfew," she told the sportsmen, patting her Head Girl badge. They nodded absently, scarcely glancing up from their chart of wiggling "X's," "O's," and arrows, as she made her way to the portrait hole.

Hermione had to hand it to Malfoy - he'd certainly managed to pick a secretive, out-of-the-way spot for their meeting. If she hadn't spent so much time sneaking about Hogwarts with Harry, Ron, and the Marauder's Map, she doubted she would ever have known that a life-sized tribute to Mary Margaret the Minute stood on the landing between the seventh and eighth floors of the unused, southeast tower. She puffed up the last steps to find Malfoy idly tossing Mary's likeness from hand to hand. He gave the statue a final flip as he noticed her arrival and set it back on its ankle-high pedestal.

"You have the books?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her apparent empty-handedness.

"Of course," she drew a she drew a tightly wrapped cube the size of a jewelry gift box from her robe pocket and handed it to him.

"Of course," he echoed and paused awkwardly for a moment. Abruptly: "Thanks, then," and he turned to go.

"Hold on a minute." He half-turned back to her, waiting silently. "It's not that easy," she said.

"What else is there?"

Hermione was considerably surprised. This was a completely different Malfoy again - not petty and sarcastic, not enraged and violent, not quietly confiding, just...distant. 'Not that easy' should win her medal for Outstanding Achievement in Understatement. She carefully kept her thoughts off her face - if she hadn't mastered that trick hiding her relationship with Snape from Harry and Ron, she thought, she certainly would dealing with Draco - as she answered, "There's this," and held out her parents' letter.

Draco took it and scanned the page:

Hermione, dear,

So glad to hear your classes and project are going well. Of course, the end of term is always hard, but we're sure you'll manage - you always do. Have you used that fire-making spell you told us about much since first year? Perhaps you should practice it from time to time in case a yeti ever does show up in Care of Magical Creatures.

I thought I should tell you now that your father's entire side of the family is going to be joining us for Christmas this year, so you can start preparing. I don't believe we've seen that whole clan together since Julius's wedding, but I'm sure it'll be as much of an adventure as always. Thank goodness for your gran and Auntie Beth. Your father's reading over my shoulder, and he's glaring a bit now. He says his brothers are perfectly nice, too, and of course, he's right.

The two of us got the books on your friend's list, but we thought if he really wants to learn about non-magical people, he'll need a few others. Really, I don't know what those wizards of yours tell one another about the magickless world, but we got the distinct impression he didn't know what to ask for. We added some selections of our own - do thank your friend for giving us the chance to spend such a lovely day in the bookstores.

Dear, I'm covering this paragraph up with blotting paper so your father doesn't see it. I am sorry about the dental floss - he insisted this kind is better than the last; apparently, it's waxed and mint flavored. I recommend you take up macramé; my girlfriends and I spent a year going through that phase back in school. I don't suppose you could interest Harry and Ron in it, though - how are those two, by the way? Looking forward to seeing you for the holidays.

Much love,

Mum [and in a different hand] and Dad

Draco looked up from the paper - Muggle paper was odd, he noted, not at all like parchment or the thick pages of wizarding books. "Well?" he asked.

"I see you missed a crucial point in that letter. There are unknown books in that box, and this is me you're talking to. I want to see them."

"You want us to open up the package together? Look, Granger, whatever impression you got, I didn't talk to you the other day because I wanted to be chummy."

"Of course not, you needed something I could give you. But there are principles of fair exchange to be observed here, Malfoy - you may have gotten your listening ear and box of books, but I'm not a bit less curious to know what the hell is up with you."

"I'm not a book lying about for your perusal."

"Not north by northwest, but what happens the next time the wind is southerly? What happens when you get another of those confessional urges and need me on hand ? I don't operate on strings or switches, you know."

"If there is a next time, you'll still be curious."

"But you, better than anyone, should understand pride." Suddenly, her tone turned light and flippant again, "Besides, I may want to borrow back some of those books eventually, and since you wouldn't have if not for me, it'd be only common courtesy to agree."

"Two things I've never been called, Granger, are common and courteous," but he was smiling a very small, rueful smile and shaking his head. There were times a wizard either had to admit he was beaten or end up admitting it after a further hour's argument with a very persistent witch. "So where shall we go?"

"Not far," and with that she darted past him up the stairs and into the first door at the top. He followed more slowly and found her gazing distastefully around yet another unused classroom. "I'm getting really sick of these," she remarked conversationally and began Transfiguring the room. There wasn't much to work with, but soon three desks had become two squashy armchairs and an end table and were seated atop a fourth desk, now a thick, golden-hued rug. A few cobwebs became extra torches, and as a finishing touch, she turned a heap of broken chalk into a simple tea service and a plate of biscuits and Levitated them to the new table. "Well, that's a bit better, anyway."

They padded across the cold stone floor toward the chairs, and Draco decided that the rug had been an excellent touch as he stepped onto its warm pile. Hermione plopped down into one armchair, and he settled a bit more ceremoniously into the other. "So you can get that box open while I pour. Cream or sugar, by the way?"

He marveled that after their argument on the landing she could snap back so quickly to being pleasant and casual. He suspected there was a very particular agenda behind it, but for the moment there didn't seem to be any harm in playing along. In fact it was bloody impressive to watch - he was perfectly aware his own moods must be infuriating, but she, at worst, kept up and at best managed to be one step ahead. "Just sugar," he replied. He placed the miniature box on the floor between them. "Finite Incantatum. Patefacto." The box sprung back to its normal size as layers of wrapping peeled back like a flower opening in triple time. The box burst open.

Hermione practically shoved his teacup at him and leaned forward eagerly. Whatever else she might be after tonight, Draco chuckled inwardly, she was dead serious about wanting to see the books. He scooted forward to get a better look as well, and his amusement suddenly vanished. "Bloody wow," he breathed.

Hermione looked up him accusingly, "You know my parents have just spent my university fund on your library? Either they're feeling damn sure I'll get full scholarships, or they've decided they like you better."

"I'm awfully likeable," Draco replied mildly, distracted by the fantastic box.

It was stuffed to its seams with books, and without even beginning to unpack, they could see several fat, glossy hardbound tomes sitting on top. Hermione felt like a beggar gazing at the rich man's table. Her parents were always telling her there was no need to buy books she could take out of the library over the summer - granted Draco didn't have access to a Muggle library, but then she hadn't been home much the last two summers either. Besides he was in the middle of some rebellious fit of curiosity, whereas she would really appreciate...

"The History of World," he commented, breaking into Hermione's stream of covetous thoughts. She pulled herself back into reality and discovered he'd taken the first book from the box. He was holding it gently, tracing fingers along its spine; then he slowly turned over the cover and began riffling pages and scanning random passages. She watched him curiously for a long moment.

"They got you a history of Britain as well," she said finally, holding up the second book in box. "That's my parents for you - different levels of inquiry, different angles of approach." Draco closed The History of the World rather reluctantly, tapped it with his wand, and laid it aside.

"What did you do?"

He held the book up again; it now wore the cover of the N.E.W.T.-level Charms text. "Slytherin bastards would hardly let me read it as it was - don't give me that look; it's fine inside." He took A History of Britain from her as well, studied it for a moment, disguised it as a Transfiguration text, and laid it with the other history book. "What else have we got?"

Hermione was kneeling by the box now, armchair forgotten - yes, the rug had been a very good idea indeed. "Well, they clearly decided you needed some religious education - a good point considering religion has influenced Muggle attitudes about magic and hence Muggle-wizard relations since people lived in caves." She began handing him books, "You've got the King James, the Torah, and - gods, I love those two - the Koran, only it's translated, of course, so it's not recognized as a real Koran, and the works of Confucius."

"Slow down, would you?" He hastily Transfigured Confucius, and placed it in the "examined" pile. She held out another volume. "Better yet, just stop that." He moved down to the floor beside her, and Hermione found herself urgently ordering her jaw not to drop or her eyes to bug out. Draco Malfoy, on the floor of an abandoned classroom beside her, and he didn't seem to think the first thing of it. In fact, he didn't even seem to have noticed how shocked she was. "So what have you got there?"

She raised the book, and they held it between them as he read, "Greatest Discoveries in Modern Science and Technology."

Hermione pulled herself together again, noticing the rather concerned expression on his face. She fished another book from the box. "Don't worry, they got you Scientific Basics for the Non-Scientist as well, just read it first."

"Very insightful of them."

"Now we're down to The Complete Guide to Western Art and Music, which should mean...yes, we've also got the Eastern Guide. You know, my parents hate these big survey books, but they do get nice ones when it comes down to it."

"Mmm," Draco replied as they each flipped through a Guide. Suddenly he reached out and grabbed Hermione's wrist as she was about to turn to Ming pottery. "Why'd they do this?" he demanded. "I didn't ask for any of these - well, a history book, but I didn't even know the rest of it existed. And they send all this, plus whatever's still in the box."

"This is part of it," Hermione held out yet another book, Civil Revolutions: Case Studies in the Worldwide Battle Against Discrimination and Disenfranchisement. "Rather heavy-handed of them, actually. But you were right about them being the social activist types. I've told them about anti-Muggle sentiment in the magical world, and I explained that you were asking them to get the books because you had keep the whole thing secret from so many people. I'm guessing they're rather excited about this - it's like their own undercover operation in, well, the battle against discrimination and disenfranchisement. Plus, they know that in this case they're part of the hated class; they have a very personal interest in proving something about Muggles."

"I suppose I can live with being your parents' political project."

"I wouldn't say it's just that, though," Hermione answered slowly. She was leaning forward where she sat on the floor, chin propped on the edge of the box, eyes focused on the far wall as she thought through what she was saying. "I'm an only child, and I think Mum's always felt rather bad that Molly Weasley got such a quick monopoly on mothering Harry our first year."

"Being your mother's little adopted waif I cannot live with."

"No, that's just it. In first year Harry really needed someone like Mrs. Weasley to be sweet and coddling and loving and fill this gap in his childhood. My mum would have been horrible at that - not that she isn't loving, it's - well, how do think I got the way I am? She and dad see parenting as teaching, or better yet, as guiding you to your own discoveries. Harry needed one person to let him be a kid, whereas you were sort of perfect for my parents - you started things off with a question."

They sat wordlessly for a few moments while Draco reflected that he wasn't sure Hermione's explanation made him like this new bit of information any better. Hermione's eyes drifted back into box, and she broke the silence, sounding strangely sly, "Stop brooding and look at this next book. I want to see what my parents picked out."

Draco absently lifted the volume out, then started when he noticed the cover. He flipped the book open and began agitatedly turning pages. "This is porn!" he choked out, "Granger, your bloody parents fucking bought me gay pornography!"

"Really? Well, you did ask for anything. And I believe it's called 'erotica' when it comes from a bookstore."

"I thought 'anything' would get me theory or a history..."

"You've got those too," Hermione took more books from the box. "And a cultural study. In case you haven't noticed, my parents are thorough."

"So thorough it's scary." Draco was still flipping pages, looking slightly aghast.

"You don't like it?"

"It...has some decidedly attractive points."

"Good. Let me see." She scooted around the box to look over his shoulder.

Draco snatched the book the book away and spun to face her, now fully aghast. "What?!"

"I said let me see. Really, what's the use of being a supposedly evil bastard if you're going to blush poppy red at sharing your porn?"

"Erotica. And I just, uh, fail to see why you're interested," Draco stammered.

"It's so irritating the way everyone takes for granted that men find lesbians attractive and never considers that women might like the idea of two men together."

"And you seem like such a nice girl." Draco had managed to grab hold of the last scraps of his composure before they flew off entirely, but his voice was only halfway between a joke and uncomfortable wonder. Still, he lowered the book.

"You know, that's something - no, turn the page; that one's no good - that's something I really appreciate about Severus. With Harry and especially Ron there's so much black and white; a girl is a nice girl or she isn't. With Severus nothing has to be, nothing ever is, that simple."

Draco wasn't sure why he was being given that confession, but again he got the feeling she had a very definite purpose in mind. It did set a sort of mood, however. They continued turning pages as he spoke slowly, "That's rather what I feel about the Slytherins right now. They think everything's so bloody clear-cut. They think everything there is to say about Muggles would fit in one of these books, without ever considering that a non-magical race simply wouldn't survive if it was that limited. And that's just one of their stupid ideas. They don't even entertain the possibility there's more to the picture, and supposedly their brains are in good working order." There was a pause; then he twisted to face Hermione directly and said softly, challengingly, "I hate them for it."

"Because you used to be them." His eyes widened at that, and she continued, "If you think Gryffindors don't understand hatred, Malfoy, keep in mind that whatever you say, I've probably heard a lot worse." She gently pushed her half of the book they were sharing back into his lap and stood, a little creakily. "Anyway, I do have to go now. We're down to literature in the box, all of which I've probably seen before. And you should Transfigure everything here back before you leave...Oh, you can take the biscuits if you want..." as she slightly sheepishly Banished their icy and forgotten tea. She paused at the door of the classroom, "Malfoy, you've got some quality porn there."

That brought Draco's mind back about halfway from the place it had gone when she told him Gryffindors could understand hatred. "Hmm?"

"I'd say page twenty-seven, in particular, is a keeper."

"Oh, right," he muttered, catching up with the conversation. "Well, Granger, you're clearly just an uncomprehending straight girl as the superiority of page forty-six should be obvious to anyone with taste."

"I don't care for blondes."

"Bitch."

"Sometimes," and she stepped into the hallway with a small smile.

Hermione stole through the school's now deserted corridors, heading directly for the Potions lab. Torches flickered dimly in their sconces, and occasionally she could hear snoring as she passed a nodding portrait. She was beginning to think her day didn't properly start until classes ended. Really, Hogwarts was less a school these days than a stage for intrigue. If her own life wasn't proof enough of that, it certainly counted for something that the Headmaster's office served as secondary headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. But then, she conceded to herself, ever since getting shut in the loo with a troll during first year she'd never known a time when Hogwarts hadn't been more exciting than any school could safely be.

She muttered the password that unlocked the laboratory after class hours and pushed it open. Snape was already there, hurriedly laying out a set of ingredients she didn't recognize. He looked hassled and grim, more so than usual, as he scowled his way back and forth between the stock cupboards and one of the laboratory benches, black robes swirling with every sharp turn. "What should I do?" she asked immediately - other questions could wait for later.

"That's what we're making," he jerked his head at a book lying open on the bench. "Twenty times the recipe, and we don't have near the quantity of singed rat's fur we'll need. I'm going to find Filch; you finish laying out and grind the white lilac - we've only just got enough of that; don't waste it."

Hermione nodded. She quickly read through the protocol for Essence of Obscurity as Snape swept out the door behind her. The only ingredient left to fetch was sphinx's spit, and that was kept in the restricted cupboard of rare and very valuable substances. She doubted anyone besides her and Severus knew the password for it. This was a most potente potion, indeed.

"Catered luncheon," she intoned. A small hidden door in the back wall swung open. Other professors at Hogwarts might incline toward passwords with a theme or a special personal significance, but Snape, more cynical and suspicious by far, insisted that security required utter randomness. Only Mad Eye Moody thought up less guessable passwords - the one of his Hermione had heard had been Swahili for "a raindrop is much like a jar filled with teeth."

She fetched the sphinx's spit - the tiny vial would be more than enough, even for twenty batches of potion. Next, she dragged the extra large cauldron from its place in the corner and set it up on its tripod next to the chosen lab bench. She'd just lifted the Preserving Charm on the lilac, stripped the blossoms from the stems, and begun to grind when Snape returned, carrying a brace of dead rats.

"Mrs. Norris's work of the day," he explained, curling a lip in distaste as he held the pair up for Hermione's appreciation.

"Lovely," she agreed and continued grinding. With no further ado, the Potions Master laid the rats out on the bench, produced a razor blade, and began shaving them. "Ahh, the glamour of magic," Hermione thought to herself. Her thoughts were soon transformed into stifled oaths when Snape conjured a tiny flame at the tip of his wand and began passing clumps of fur through it with tweezers. The burning scruff filled the laboratory with an acrid, dirty smell.

They spent two hours preparing the ingredients - mincing one thing, kneading another, forcing the sphinx's spit to dissolve against its will in seawater. Finally, Snape stepped around the bench to inspect Hermione's half of the work. "Flawless, as always," he commented, then added ironically, "Now, we begin."

The potion was a painful one to prepare. From the moment it was begun, it had to be stirred constantly while ingredients were added in a slow, continuous trickle. Snape started a low fire beneath the cauldron and took up position to stir, the enormous pot being too tall to allow Hermione the proper angle.

She began by pouring gallon after gallon of seawater into the cauldron - thirty in all, and the last one contained the precious spit. Next she carefully pinched in the powdered dreamwort, followed by the rat's fur...

The potion thickened and thinned, bubbled, steamed, and spat - something different with each new ingredient, and still Snape kept up his slow, rhythmic stirring. They raised the flame beneath the cauldron for one ingredient, lowered it for the next, transformed it at one point into a bath of ice. The minutes ticked away, mounting up toward another hour, and it was essential not to hurry, crucial not to add more than one flake of moonstone at a time. Finally, with a few dribbles of lotus sap, thick red smoke began pouring from the cauldron, and at the first sprinkle of ground lilac, it vanished. The potion began to whine, louder and louder the more lilac Hermione added, until it suddenly flashed from its murky grey color to something so pure and transparent Hermione almost couldn't tell it was there. Silence. The whole operation had taken no longer than a regular Potions class session, but then they'd started at midnight and worked without any of the normal class time interruptions.

Snape stopped stirring tiredly and peered into the cauldron. His eyes narrowed appraisingly; after a moment he emitted a small exhalation of satisfaction. He pulled what looked rather like a paperweight from an inner robe pocket and dropped it into the cauldron. Instantly, potion and cauldron disappeared. "Portkey to the Headmaster's office," he said, sinking into a chair behind the lab bench. "He'll send it on from there."

Hermione circled round to his side of the bench and leaned against him where he sat. She felt an arm reach around her waist and twined her fingers into his longish, dark hair. "What was the purpose of all that?" she asked.

"That? None, most likely."

Her voice and the fingers in his hair both tightened. "Really?"

He sighed. "Well, I take it you received my message?"

She settled herself on one of his knees and leaned back against his comfortably robed chest. "Professor Vector passed it on, yes."

"The reason I was delayed tonight was that Dumbledore asked me to be present at an interrogation. Shacklebolt discovered just this morning that one of our lower ranking Ministry recruits - a fledgling, he could hardly be associated with the Order - was in contact with Death Eaters. Though the whelp knew almost nothing, it was necessary to determine just what that almost nothing entailed and what he had managed to pass on."

"So that's the message that upset Dumbledore at breakfast."

"You would have noticed, wouldn't you? You're altogether more perceptive than our students are meant to be."

"That's why I'm here." There was a pause as they both enjoyed the moment's break from bad news, hesitating to return to the story. Too soon, Hermione asked softly, "How was it?"

"The interrogation? Much like they were twenty years ago on the other side." His arms wrapped around her tightly, and she gripped his hands in front of her. "Regardless of who uses it, Veritas is an ugly business. It makes it impossible for the subject to lie, of course, but should he attempt to avoid that effect by saying nothing, it can also provide incentive. It's fear of the Dark Lord that keeps them from speaking; the solution, naturally, is to override that with a greater fear of you." Hermione remained silent, her thumbs simply stroking the backs of his hands. "It turned out," he continued, "that the only thing of any value our traitor knew was the location of a temporary safe room for those in hiding from the Dark Lord. There's no one currently staying there as we've managed to find permanent accommodations for all our refugees so far, and it's easily replaced, but if our friend managed to pass along this information - which is unclear as he collapsed before we finished the questioning - and if, in that case, the Death Eaters have not already visited the site - which is unlikely as they would not hesitate in exploiting any information - there is a chance they might go there to cast tracing spells in search of witches and wizards who have previously used the shelter - all of whom are being moved from their present hideaways as a precaution - and in the process discover something we have not foreseen they could discover."

"And our latest potion comes into this where?"

"The Essence of Obscurity is normally one part of the quite complicated magic involved in creating an Unplottable location. Then, only a limited quantity is poured at the corners of the property being enchanted. However, if a known location is thoroughly doused in it, it becomes magically anonymous - that is, no spells will be able to detect anything about or from that place."

"Ah, so we've just made profligate excesses of a rare and powerful potion so it can be used in a probably futile task for which it's badly suited."

"As I said, the purpose of the entire business was most likely nonexistent."

"The rare joys of war," Hermione remarked bitterly.

"Attack and counterattack, and most of the time there are either two hits or two misses, with no one gaining ground."

"And half of everything is tragic, and the other half is so petty it just seems to mock us. We've had more of the latter recently, I think."

It felt a relief to share the cynicism and to share the comfort. Snape's head lowered, and he rested one cheek in Hermione's hair. They stayed that way for a long time as morning neared. There didn't seem to be any good in moving.

"Whatch'yer reading?" Pansy flopped down very close to Draco on the couch in the Slytherin common room. She'd used this technique before - repeatedly, in fact. He'd used to take a malicious pleasure in passing her the book - invariably some Dark Arts text his father had sent him - and inviting her to read a bit. It had been fun to see her turn a pale green after a paragraph or two, then to make a few appreciative comments about the text and watch her struggle to reply enthusiastically - yes, of course, anything was justified in the service of the Dark Lord and his noble cause, she completely agreed. Eventually, she would shove the book back to him fearfully and scurry off. He wondered now how she could keep attempting something that always ended so disgracefully for her. For a house noted for it's cunning, Slytherin was filled with some rather slow studies. He was beginning to develop a theory that now was not the height of Slytherin glory.

Pansy was staring at him simperingly. Damn. Draco hugged his book to his chest. And double damn bloody Granger - gave him a fail-proof way to get rid of Pansy, sure, except that he couldn't use it. And not only that, she'd taken his old standard away from him as well. But then, really, to be fair... He reined his mind in again. What was he doing? Now was not the time to be fair; now was the time to deal with the Parkinson Threat. "Just studying a bit of History of Magic."

"Oooh, that sounds so boring. Surely you don't want to be doing that." He was sitting balled up in a corner of the couch. She leaned into him and began playing with the cuff of his trousers.

"I'm rather keen on it actually. Quiz on Wednesday, you know," - a flash of inspiration - "Want to fetch your book? I could quiz you on the differences between the Goblin Rebellion and the Gnome Insurrection."

"Bet I could get your gnome insur-erect."

Gods smite him dead with thunder and lightening, that had to be the worst innuendo he'd ever heard. And she was still there, with her hand sliding toward a most restricted area. "You are damn lucky you're a prefect because if I could take points from you for that completely pathetic remark, I would. Now, I recommend you sod off and let me work, before I think up a curse that will move those revolting implant charms of yours from your chest to your ass."

Ahh, that had done it. She was bolting up, eyes flashing and teary, and happily she seemed to have been struck mute. She whirled on her heel and dashed toward the girls' dormitory.

Gods, that could have gone on until dinner if he hadn't remembered he was allowed to be horrid, that his reputation for nastiness and caprice had been strong enough before...everything...that it was expected of him, even within his own house. Actually, he had no trouble hitting the right tone with the other Slytherins, but Pansy had always unsettled him.

He turned to go back to his book, but it was no use. Of course it wasn't, he groused to himself, he was unsettled. His mind was racing now, not about to tromp sedately through another chapter. Best see where it wanted to go.

Hmm, the difference between Pansy and the other Slytherins. Pansy - that hollow-headed bint. He'd been sitting there, just enjoying his book - it still surprised him that he actually enjoyed reading. Anyway. He supposed the difference was that he'd always disliked Pansy. It made it terribly complicated to sort out the old from the new loathing, determine just how much disgust it was advisable to show. Add to that the fact that he hated passionately her constant attempts to grope him, and passion being the natural enemy of composure... He decided with satisfaction that, in retrospect, his latest insult to Pansy had been about mid-range vicious - perfectly correct.

Now, the other Slytherins. Them he hated impersonally, as a group, as an abstract symbol. Lapping up all the same lies he'd been fed when if they thought for one bloody moment they'd see them fall apart. He had no problem with hating people, clearly - by all means, hate the Mudbloods - but have some bloody reason for it. And it had to be a decent reason - saying they were inferior didn't hold water since every Pureblooded one of them should have looked at Granger six years ago and said, "Oh." Then there was the way they were all waiting in line to join up with the Dark Lord. Whatever else was wrong with that red-eyed maniac's agenda, the utter submission he expected galled Draco. Mindless obedience. Thanks, I'll pass, my first helping was rather large.

Yes, those were the other Slytherins, and irony of delightful ironies, he was their recognized Master of the House - him, reading Muggle books in their common room. Of course, no matter what he thought of them all privately, he intended to stay Master of the House - that's where the power was, the vengeance potential. And it was easy. He was quite an actor, and well aware of the fact - no one who knowingly came from a family of Death Eaters to attend Albus Dumbledore's school could be anything but. As long as they kept their hands away from his fly, he could play his former self to the rest of the snake-brained mob.

Of course, to be fair... There he was, doing it again. It had shocked him practically silly the first time his brain had played this trick. Suddenly it had ad to look at all sides, weigh every possibility, allow for what was actually true. During the first week, especially, he'd felt mad, his mind zipping about among all his comfy assumptions, knocking, prodding toppling... It was still uncomfortable; anytime you felt like going in for a really good generalization, there you were again, up against 'well, actually...'

Fine. Well, actually all the Slytherins were not identical Death Eater Juniors. The others in his year were, without exception - it had been a particularly fanatical bunch that had come in with him, despite the strength - or lack thereof - of Parkinson's stomach. And as for the fifth and sixth years, any of them that had started out with a shred of personality, or decency, or pride - not arrogance, but real pride - had had it stamped out of them by years of pressure from their housemates and ready-made anti-Slytherin scorn from the rest of the school. There were a few not-yet-converted in the lower years, though, and that was exactly why they weren't worth his time - the not-yet-converted, bound to fold after a few more jeers from the snakes and few more cold shoulders from the rest of the menagerie. No, he wasn't extending any secret hand of solidarity to them. Unless...well, it could be fun to give them a few tips to use against the full-fledged Slytherins, add a little hell 'n' chaos to those prats' lives. It merited thought. But he definitely wasn't looking for companionship.

A sudden mental leap - Really? Then what was that business with Granger the other night? All that chitchat and forgotten tea and secret-trading. The first time he'd spoken to her after the spell - well, first after he'd shouted his head off - there'd been a definite purpose. He had needed someone else to know he was different - not tree-hugging, puppy-patting different, but some different - to get rid of the feeling that it was all just a private delusion. And if he'd been a bit familiar with her, well, she was easy to talk to and he had promised himself he'd be honest that day. And it had accomplished his goal; no need for any further friendliness. The other night had been entirely her doing.

Yes, what had she been up to? There'd been a scheme in action, obviously, and people were untrustworthy - just one of the reasons he wanted nothing to do with them. But the more he thought about it, the more it looked like the only purpose she'd had was keeping him there. Why? And why had it worked when he'd fully intended to leave the moment business was concluded?

Part of it had been the books, he realized. There was so much he didn't know about himself all of a sudden. He didn't actually know what he liked or what interested him. He'd never expected to open that box and be suddenly entranced. Of course, a good number of them had been beautiful, expensive books. It was nice to have a few solid facts about himself to grab hold of - he may have lost any and all love for his family, but he'd been raised a Malfoy, and he appreciated quality. But suddenly, he also appreciated books. The sheer unfamiliarity and, yes, the pleasure of realizing he actually cared for something had been enough to throw off his guard.

Then there was bloody Granger herself. Another of the many things and persons who were not as he'd thought them before. But unlike most of those, he couldn't fit her into a new category. In the few interactions he'd lately had with her, she'd been controlling, conniving, do-gooderish, compassionate, and confiding. She was Head Girl and probably the worst rule-breaker he knew. His greatest complaint nowadays was that people saw things too simply. There was no simple way to see Granger - unless you wanted to call her a Mudblood and leave it at that - and he knew she didn't see things simply either. She'd as much as said so, but in addition, he could sense the questions, the 'well, actuallies' running through her mind. Was it possible he wanted to talk to her? In that case, he'd simply have to avoid her. He didn't want to be close to anyone; he wanted to talk to her. He'd appreciate it if a few more things in his life could make sense right now.

Blaise Zabini crossed the common room, cutting through Draco's field of vision. That was something else he'd like to make sense. Blaise was twice as attractive as Harry fucking Potter by anyone's standards. Not to say Harry wasn't nice-looking, but even the most smitten second year Gryffingirl couldn't seriously try to pass him off as extraordinary. It was impossible to put it down to type. Not only did Draco not have a clue what his type was, Blaise could really be considered an improved model of Harry - the same medium height, dark hair, green eyes. The differences were that Blaise's hair knew how to behave very nicely, that he was well muscled where Harry was a mite scrawny. No, he was not scrawny, another part of Draco's mind rebelled. No one who played Quidditch so powerfully, let alone won the Triwizard Tournament and escaped the Dark Lord in a single night could be called scrawny. He was slim and...wiry, yes. True, the first part of his mind attempted to reason, but he looked a bit scrawny. Just a bit. In a really delicious way.

And there you had it. Harry Potter rendered him incapable of coherent thought while an objectively much more appealing boy did nothing for him. Of course, he hated Blaise. But then he'd hated Harry a lot longer, and he had no trouble getting lost in visions of his eyes, his skin, fantasies of his touch and the taste of his warm, sensual lips... Fucking bells of bleeding hell! Harry did not have sensual lips. If you needed a reason to hate someone, you absolutely needed a reason to...like them? Want them, that was better. A real, very compelling reason was indispensable, and here he was inventing things. Even realizing what he was doing didn't help in the least. If he sat and forced himself to concentrate on the real, perfectly ordinary shape of Harry's lips, it made it so much worse - so much exquisitely worse.

Gods, he had to get rid of this train of thought. There really wasn't the time or the privacy before dinner to take the measures that were going to become necessary if he didn't. Maybe he could try reading again - not more British history; it wouldn't be sufficiently distracting. Maybe fiction? He rummaged about in his satchel and randomly pulled out one of his new books - carefully disguised as a Dark Arts text from Malfoy Manor. Amazingly, it did the trick. In fact, amazing was possibly the only word suitable for this book. He wasn't sure he'd be going to dinner after all, and he was entirely sure he owed the elder Grangers a thank you. Which complicated things just that much more.

Draco followed the tug on his wand around a corner and down a steep set of stone stairs. Of course, the dungeons. He put his wand away - the locator spell was now quite superfluous - and made his way toward the Potions lab. He'd never expected to actually find it useful that the Slytherin prefects were given the passwords to the lab and Snape's office, but times were strange and life was funny. "Twelve kilos of sandstone," he said to the door, and it silently swung open a crack.

The sight that met his eyes was not particularly impressive, but it struck him as one of the most bizarre he'd ever witnessed. Hermione and Snape stood facing him but not looking toward him. They were leaning together over one of the lab benches, his hand on the small of her back. Hermione picked up a vial and held it toward the professor. "Smell," she said.

Snape straightened up and eyed the vial disapprovingly. "And what, pray tell, is the intended effect of this one?"

"Come on now," Hermione dodged an answer teasingly, "For the final test. And besides, I won't be able to see whether it worked if I try it."

"A difficulty easily remedied," he rejoined, drawing his wand and conjuring up a mirror.

"You realize you're no fun at all." She shoved him playfully with her shoulder.

"It's true I make the avoidance and, in fact, the diminishment of fun my particular business."

Shaking her head, Hermione raised the vial herself...

"Granger!" Draco called out, "A word with you outside." He noted the expression of total shock on his professor's face and the hardly less surprised look on his classmate's before he turned and strode back into the hallway. A few moments later, Granger appeared. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into one of the dungeon's dim, secretive side corridors

"You couldn't have tried something a bit more tactful to get in touch with me?" she hissed quietly as footsteps approached along the main corridor. "Another note?"

"I'd hate to be predictable."

"Knocking, at least?"

"I expected there to be an alarm."

She sighed. "There is, but it doesn't sound for intrusive gits who already know I'm going to be there."

"Funny, I would have thought Snape had more secrets than just you."

"You've no idea...What in hell did you want, anyway?"

"Well, if you're going to be rude..." he attempted to sound wounded and put upon, which came out so peculiarly as a whisper that Hermione grinned despite herself. "What are your parents' first names?"

"There's really no danger of your being predictable is there? And they're Nell and Tony - Anthony."

"Middle?"

"Elaine and George."

"Elaine with Nell, and George with Anthony, I presume?"

She rolled her eyes. "You presume correctly."

"And they both use Granger?"

"Yes! Why..."

He held up his wand in a halting gesture and took a step away from her. Then he drew two tiny objects out of a robe pocket and held them in his open palm, so Hermione could see them clearly. They were small, dully glinting metal disks, bronzish in color and blank as a coins before they're stamped. "Nell Elaine Granger," he pronounced, tapping one of the disks with his wand, and "Anthony George Granger," tapping the other. For a moment the disks glowed green in the dim hallway, and when the light faded, they looked even more like coins - they'd each been printed with one of her parents' names. "Could you send these to them the first chance you get?" he asked, holding them out to her.

"You want me to send my parents a pair of random, mysterious magical objects? Not to mention it's illegal to give anything magical to Muggles."

"They're not random because I'm asking you to send them. They're not even magical - almost - once the Packaging spell is removed, and you can't tell me you use those yourself; they're not even regulated."

Hermione peered at the disks with more interest. "What are they really?"

"Only one way to find out, so don't bother thinking..."

"Obviously, I wouldn't try opening something Packaged to someone else, but if you want me to send them, Malfoy..."

"Nothing bad. Nothing hexed, poisoned, jinxed, or cursed, nothing harmful or illegal in anyway, and most especially nothing redolent of crude humor, poor taste, middle class values, or limited funds. What goes around, proverbially speaking, Granger, and your parents have been more than decent to me."

"I'm left with the impression that somehow, in a slightly twisted way, you just said something rather sweet."

"I wouldn't pry into it much further; you're likely to leave a chap with no dignity whatsoever."

"I'll send these in the morning," she smiled, taking the disks from his hand.

As she reentered the Potions classroom, Draco caught one sentence drifting through the briefly-open door: "My dear Miss Granger, if your intention was to turn the subject's eyebrows vividly orange for twenty-two seconds, your potion has succeeded famously..."