Beneath Appearances

Beneath Appearances

Chapter 4

Nearer to Thee

The morning light streaming through the Gryffindor common room's window was cold and bright, and gazing out, Hermione could see a sprinkling of fresh snow turning the landscape into dazzling crystal. It was perfect weather for a Hogsmeade weekend - the walk to town would be nippy and bracing, hot butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks would be especially welcome, a flurry of Christmas shopping would take up the rest of the day, and on the way back, everyone would chuck a few snowballs before hurrying inside to curl up before a roaring fire in this very common room. Of course, that was if they could manage to get going at all, which at the moment, depended entirely on Ron's getting out of bed.

"Fred and George should still be here," Ginny remarked from her place beside Hermione in the window seat. "Those two would have had him down here an hour ago."

"But we would have spent the entire hour undoing whatever jinx they'd used to wake him," chimed in Beth Waters, one of Ginny's sixth year girlfriends.

"I don't know, Gin, you haven't done such a bad job taking over for the twins," Hermione teased, "I'll bet you could get him down here pretty quickly if you had a mind to."

The redhead's eyes glinted evilly. "Permission to enter the Head Boy's room, Head Girl?"

"Oh, I'm sure Harry and Neville can manage," Hermione backpedaled hastily. Ginny certainly didn't spend the hours Fred and George had plotting really brilliant, sure-to-be-legendary pranks, but since those two had made their grand departure from Hogwarts, she'd gradually built her reputation - possibly inspired by the gap they'd left, possibly because removing the twins' long shadows allowed everyone to see what a saucy bit of mischief their sister had always been - as the Weasley who was always up for trouble.

At that moment Harry and Neville sauntered down the short staircase from the Head Boy's room, both looking rather smug. "Tickling Charm," Neville explained.

Harry broke in grinning. "And Transfiguring his pillow into a rooster - they crow even louder when you've got your head on them."

"So he'll be down in a minute," Neville finished seriously.

"You think I would have done worse than that?" Ginny laughed to Hermione. "Roosters can be damnfully mean..."

"Actually, Gin, you know you would have," put in Glynis Arne, speaking for the first time. Hermione sometimes thought that if you lined up the three girls in Ginny's trio with the Famous Gryffindor Three, the seriously-spoken, brunette Glynis would be her own counterpart. Which would match up Ginny and Harry, the intrepid leaders, and Beth and Ron - but there was really not a whit of comparison between the giggly, girly sixth year and her own friend. Come to think of it, Harry always tended to be in the way of trouble, not at the root of it as Ginny so often was. And Glynis was a soft and soothing voice of reason, never a bossy one. So the comparison was poor, but the fact remained - she was glad the sober girl was part of Ginny's gang, particularly as she really didn't care for Beth.

Ron finally emerged from his room, shooting murderous glowers at Harry and Neville as he descended the steps. "Don't look at us that way," Harry ordered him, "anyone who thinks staying up to look at a few stars gives him the right to sleep away his day and ours deserves whatever he gets."

"Absolutely," Hermione agreed silently. "If he thinks missing a few hours sleep is any excuse..."

"It was a dark moon last night," Ron was defending himself. "The fainter stars were out..."

"When did you become such a geek, Ron?" Ginny groaned, shoving her brother toward the portrait hole. And in a teasing, laughing commotion, the entire extra-large band of Gryffindors finally set off. They made a quick stop to pick up their single Hufflepuff member - Hannah was waiting extremely patiently beside the badgers' guardian portrait - and at last they swung out into the bright winter sunshine, onto the path to Hogsmeade.

The snow crunched underfoot as students hurried toward the town. Hermione could hear merry shouts from other groups, and her own friends' conversations overlapped in pleasant cacophony.

Just ahead of her, Harry and Neville were heading their band, Harry gesturing with his wand and Neville's head cocked at his thinking angle as they talked excitedly. Hermione caught Neville exclaiming, "But Quenching an Incendio-based curse generates so much steam you lose you counterattack advantage to the low visibility!" and realized they were continuing the discussion on advanced dueling defense from Friday's DADA class. She smiled to herself - Neville had really taken off in DADA since fifth year. He was now one of the small group tied for second to Harry in skill and absolutely the only other student who'd talk theory with the somewhat fanatical star pupil. "Well, yes," he was saying now," a Breezing Charm would transfer the steam problem to your opponent if it weren't weather magic. Are you going to tell me you're a Weather Mage, Harry? Or that you even know anyone who is?"

Ron and Hannah were dawdling at the back of the group as far from Harry and Neville as Ron could manage while he described how he'd valiantly fought off the killer rooster they'd siced on him that morning. Hannah was laughing delightedly and soon their conversation had become a flurry of private whispers and giggles.

"What's Douglas Dermot like - as a boyfriend, I mean?" Beth was inquiring of Ginny on Hermione's left. "I'm only asking because, you see, I think he fancies me." Since Michael Corner in her fourth year and Dean Thomas over the following summer, Ginny had dated a rather surprising number of boys. In fact, when Fred and George had dropped by Hogwarts for a visit last year, they'd teasingly enchanted the portrait of Flavia the Flirtatious to bear Ginny's name underneath. Hermione had been immensely amused when Ginny ordered them not to exaggerate, then charmed off their noses 'so you can't go sticking them into my business.' And perhaps, she mused, that was how Ginny managed to have so many relationships without royally pissing anyone off. She wasn't flirtatious, just pretty and animated and impish, and she'd give most boys a chance when they asked her out. And though things never seemed to work out, she always broke things off nicely. There were even some girls, like Beth, who rather than getting jealous, regarded Ginny as a kind of informational resource and wondered what was wrong with a boy she hadn't dated.

"Doug was pretty average, you know," Ginny was telling Beth. "A little dull."

Hermione shook her head. The situation was a bit bizarre to her, and she certainly wasn't interested in the joining that conversation. She turned to Glynis instead and asked if she'd heard from home lately. The other girl's family lived on a remote sheep farm and supplied Gladrags and Madame Malkin's with Britain's finest traditional woolen fabrics. It was lovely talking to her, Hermione thought, because she never mentioned the war; instead, she offered glimpses inside the little cultural-historical bubble her family preserved in the face of the modern wizarding world. Today's tale was a fascinating account of the feud between Glynis's parents and her older brother, who thought he could develop better fabric dyes than the herbal ones the family used. "He's a fool, of course," Glynis told her softly, "not to realize that carrying on the traditional methods isn't just what we do, it's what people want from us. Of course, it'd be different if he was looking to start a new line, but all our merchandise?"

The chatter continued on all four fronts until at last Hogsmeade's colorful rooftops began to peak through the trees and Ron darted forward to link arms with Harry and Hermione. "Oy, you two," he exclaimed, "what Muggle thing can Gin and I get for Dad this year?" Ginny drew in to listen and their brainstorming - a tool kit, an alarm clock, a rubber duck, books (Hermione, stop it!) - carried them all into town.

The rest of the morning flew by as everyone took care of the shopping they could do together. Beth helped Neville pick out a new perfume for his gram since Mistress Maddy's Odd Odors had discontinued the Eccentric and Imposing blend he got her each year. Everyone had a terrific time helping Ron and Ginny pick out the twins' present. Fred and George had requested a challenge - "Send us the weirdest three things you can find and we'll turn them into the next hit prank available only through Weasley's Wizard Wheezes!" The gang dove into Hogsmeade's back streets and shrieked with laughter as they dug through secondhand bins of horrible blinking paisleyed socks, melting teapots, and old photographs of witches who'd tried to adopt Muggle fashions in the 70s. The boys had picked out a eulogizing umbrella, and Ginny had found a scrying glass for revealing what color of knickers someone was wearing, when Hermione ordered them to stop making things so easy for the twins. "Rose soap," she insisted. "They won't know how to use rose soap with those other things."

At last they all trooped into the Three Broomsticks with their purchases and laid claim to a big table near the fire. It took several rounds of steaming butterbeer to entirely chase away the chill of a morning spent traipsing through the snow, which no one minded at all. They chatted lazily over their frothing mugs, and after an hour Seamus and Dean wandered in with their Ravenclaw girlfriends and joined them for another round.

In the end it was Ginny who, when everyone was feeling thoroughly warm, just a trifle dizzy, and far too contented to venture back into the cold, finally roused them. "Right then," she declared, rising from her seat like tiny, titian-haired general, "the day's nearly over and shopping's only half done. So we'll have to hurry and split up. Beth you with Ron; he'll probably get Hannah something appalling like a year's subscription to Quidditch World if you don't help him. Hannah you go with Glynis. Hermione and Neville, pair up, and Harry, come with me and we'll both see what we can find this lunkheaded brother of mine."

The cold outdoor air woke everyone up, and they all scurried off in their mixed-up pairs. Once the others were out of sight, though, Hermione grabbed Neville's arm and pulled him to a halt. "Got any idea where we're actually going?"

Neville looked perplexed for a moment. "No, actually. I mean, wherever you want. I don't really have anyone else to shop for."

"Well, I ordered Harry and Ron's presents a month ago. But I could look for my parents, I suppose. We didn't get to that this morning."

"Right, then. Where to?" Hermione only grinned.

"Oh, big surprise," Neville remarked as they stepped into Hogsmeade's bookstore. "Um, if you don't mind, I think I'll just..." Hermione saw his eyes straying longingly toward the Herbology section, and she readily shooed him off. The store was nearly empty and delightfully quiet. The leathery smell of fine bindings and the familiar shelves quickly lured Hermione in; she drifted toward the back of the store, following a long-established route through all her favorite sections. She was leafing through a particularly mouthwatering volume in a deserted aisle when someone else appeared 'round a wall of shelves. She glanced up, slightly startled. "Malfoy," she acknowledged him.

"Granger."

There was a moment's confused pause before Hermione spoke, "All alone, are you? If you've snuck off to by Crabbe and Goyle their Christmas presents, that's terribly sweet, but you're in the wrong place."

Draco smirked a self-satisfied smirk. "Actually, I sent them off to get myself a bit of peace. Gave them both some pocket money and told them to buy themselves each a nice surprise. They'll spend all day trying to figure out how to surprise themselves." Another pause, then he continued, "Knowing your friends you're hardly in the right place for Christmas shopping either."

"I'm looking for my mum and dad. Trying to find something it'd be legal to get them."

He reached out and turned the book in her hands so he could see the cover. "You'll never find it looking at 100 Potions Too Complicated to Be in Any Other Book."

"I got distracted." She waited for a snarky remark, but Draco said nothing as he turned the book in his hands and flipped pages. She went on peaceably, "Incidentally, speaking of my parents - Accio letter! - they wrote you back."

"Already?"

"My thought exactly. They never write me back this quickly."

"Then you must be right about them liking me better."

"Actually, I think they were just really excited about whatever you sent them. They asked me to thank you in person in addition to the letter. So thanks. But what I'd rather tell you is that you should enlighten me as to what all that was about."

"They didn't explain it?"

"Seemed to think I already knew - which wouldn't be an unreasonable assumption if you were a decent person who kept his thing for secrecy within healthy bounds. They only mentioned something about flowers, you being an awfully nice boy, and how they wish I'd tell them properly who you are."

"You haven't?"

"No, and apparently you haven't either."

"Thinking it wouldn't make any difference." An extremely pained look crossed Draco's face. "How did I get into a situation where I owe so many thank yous to Grangers?" he asked the ceiling. Hermione didn't answer, and after a moment he lowered his eyes to look at her directly. "That was it," he informed her. "That's all you're getting."

"Witness your graciousness leaving me breathless," she replied dryly. At that moment a letter whizzed through the air and into Hermione's hand. It seemed to be panting after its speedy flight from Hogwarts. She handed it to Draco. He studied it with a vaguely amused expression for a moment until it suddenly seemed to remind him of something. "So what did you tell Snape when I dragged you out of the Potions lab?"

"The truth."

"What?!"

"That there was a very good reason he shouldn't worry about it which I couldn't tell him. Though you're the one who decided to barge in so bloody indiscreetly - it would serve you right if I'd told him everything."

"It was the first time that day I managed to Locate you anywhere outside Gryffindor territory. I figured it was better to risk Snape than that lot. Also I have exactly as much dirt on him as I do on you if he'd wanted to say anything about it."

"I swear I've met Boggarts exactly as pleasant as you."

"That implies that your worst fear is impossibly charming men."

"Doubtful."

"No, it's a certainty. Considering what you shag, you're clearly charm-avoidant."

"Considering with what I've just wasted a quarter hour conversing, you may be right."

Draco shook his head in amusement. "Granger, you should have bitten back when I picked on you before. I can see your bloody moral high ground cost us some fantastic rows."

"You weren't worth it before," she grinned. "Just think - 'Mudblood!' 'Inbred!' Mudblood!' 'Inbred!' - it would have been so dull."

"Hermione..." A blond and a bushy brown head jerked simultaneously at the sound of Neville's voice moving through the rows of shelves. Draco quickly shoved 100 Potions back into Hermione's hands and disappeared 'round the far end or their aisle. Hermione spun around a split second before Neville came into view.

"Time we went to meet up with others," he told her. "Find what you were looking for?"

"Hardly got started looking."

Draco was developing a new fondness for the Slytherin common room. It gave him such a satisfying subversive feeling to sit reading Muggle literature in the midst of the snake pit's busy hub. And it wasn't unpleasant to glance up from his reading, survey his inferiors, and imagine the utter shock they'd get if they could look into his head or past the Illusions he'd cast on the books.

The common room was just the place to answer the Grangers' letter. He pulled out a sheet of parchment and cast a discreet charm to make it look like Potions homework to any unintended readers. With his quill hovering over the parchment, he paused. The Grangers had written him back with warm thanks for his gifts. They'd been glad he liked the books; they'd asked how he was getting on with them and promised to keep an eye out for others he might like. And of course they'd wanted to know who he was and why he'd contacted them. He frankly had no idea how to respond.

It was tempting to dodge the whole issue and dash off a flippant thank you for the thank you for the thank you note. He shoved the feeling aside - it was tempting because it would be easy. He wanted to write to these people; at the very least, he owed it to them. But he'd never met the Grangers, and they wanted to know things about him he wouldn't tell - scoff - his own mum. That was uncomfortable. Of course, they already knew more about him than practically anyone, without even knowing his name. That was bloody awkward. They were also the only people he knew in any sense of the word who hadn't known him before. And that was interesting. He could tell them anything - or he could start writing and see what happened.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

I must apologize for not telling you sooner of my identity or the nature of the situation that caused me to request that you send me Muggle books. I'm afraid that as almost the entirety of my house at Hogwarts is vehemently anti-Muggle I was hesitant to put too much information into writing however carefully and quickly I might send the letter. Of course, Hermione tells me, and I'm even more afraid she may be right, that I simply have an unhealthy love of secrecy. I realize now that my attitude has not only kept my secrets from those it must, it has been unfair to people who deserve better from me.

A third reason I haven't previously told you my name is that I'm sure you've heard it used very unfavorably before now by Hermione. I am Draco Malfoy, and it's true that for the past six years I've given Hermione and her friends great cause to dislike me. However, last month I had an experience that gave me very good reason to fall out with my father and to doubt the many things I learned from him as a child including his anti-Muggle ideas. I decided I needed to form my own opinions about a number of matters and that to do so I had to learn about them from sources my father hadn't chosen for me. The wizarding world is so ignorant of Muggles despite the number of us that grow up among them that I couldn't think of any way to get information other than asking you.

The books have been tremendously helpful. I've read at least parts of most of them by now. The histories were fascinating. It's surprising how much Muggle history seems to overlap with ours. I've found many of the same events we study in History of Magic described from a non-magical perspective. A large number of the same names have turned up in both accounts as well, making me wonder that Muggle/Magical cooperation is mentioned so little in class.

The art books are rather frustrating - the chapter on graphic design looks intriguing, but I hardly understand any of it, and wizarding music books play the pieces they describe, so I keep starting to cast sounding charms as I'm reading before remembering they won't work. Still, it's worth it to see what Muggles have been coming up with for the last hundred years or so - for all that wizarding paintings move, they're not terribly creative or diverse. In fact, they're nearly all portraits and stylistically about equal to your Renaissance pieces; there's nothing like your Surrealism or abstract schools.

Please don't feel obligated to continue looking for books for me. You've done more than I ever expected already, and it's very much appreciated.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

P.S. - Thank you for the thank you for the thank you.

Draco read back over the letter, and as so often happened to him lately, he was surprised. He'd written that. It started out formally, which was perfectly acceptable, but he actually sounded excited writing about the books. He sighed. Well, if he was excited, he supposed the Grangers could know it. They'd understand if anyone would, and he'd certainly never meet them or be in danger of them giving him away to the other Slytherins.

He put the letter away and frowned darkly. Mail time wasn't finished for the day. He reached into his satchel and pulled out an envelope of dark grey paper so fine and expensive it felt like silk in his hand. The Malfoy family seal gleamed up at him from a glob of silvery wax; he scowled back down at it. The letter had arrived that morning, and he'd deliberately waited to read it because he knew whatever his father had to say would make him too angry to think of doing something like politely answering the Grangers' letter. The one other time his father had written since the incident had been a few days after it happened. He'd clung to the letter, or tried to; with every rereading he'd desperately hoped for comfort, for something to chase away the image of a tiny face floating over a magic-filled beaker, but the words had only rung more and more false until his hope was entirely replaced by rage. Now, if he didn't know how dangerous it would be to ignore a message from his father... He broke the seal as viciously as possible and scanned the single sheet of paper inside.

Draco,

I regret to inform you that I am writing with disagreeable news. Given the dangerous nature of the current political climate, your mother and I have decided it would be best if you followed the example of many of your schoolmates and remained at Hogwarts during the coming Christmas holiday. I realize this will come as a great disappointment to you, but I expect you to recognize my will in this matter and advise you not sulk.

The Parkinsons have recently told me Pansy complained in her last letter that you do nothing but study lately. Be assured I find this no cause for complaint; rather, it is most encouraging to me that you seem to realize in how few months you studies will be put to the test. If you are wise, you will use the extra time at school this Christmas to continue this happily-formed habit.

Your father,

Lucius Malfoy

Draco struggled to keep scowling at the paper; after all, as far as anyone in the common room knew it was a toss-up whether this news would put him into a towering rage or a days-long sulk. Malfoys always went home for holidays; not to do so would have implied some inadequacy of the family or the Manor. Draco'd had no idea how to get out of it, and he'd been feeling nearly ill at the idea of being in his parents' company, much less of spending two weeks feigning eagerness as his father prattled on about Voldemort's glorious plans and the Draco's coming initiation into the Death Eaters. Well, if his father wanted to put on some flimsy act about the Malfoys being just as scared of the Dark bloody Lord as the rest of wizardom, that suited him exactly.

Draco gazed around the common room beaming - inwardly. Anyone with a normally developed sense of self-preservation would have run from the look he was actually projecting. He noted Pansy and her girlfriends giggling over her latest edition of Witchy Woman on an ancient, green sofa. A group of fourth-year boys were torturing spiders in a corner, and directly across from Draco, Goyle was clumsily bullying second-year Marty Collins. Hmm. The great oaf had snatched the smaller boy's wand and kept waving it closer and closer to the blazing fireplace, chuckling as Marty tried to pretend this didn't terrify him. What the hell, Draco thought, he was in a good mood.

"Shove over, Goyle, and let someone with a bit of skill have some fun," he called. He strode over to the fireplace, and Goyle obediently handed over the wand. "Step back, give a chap space to work," Draco ordered. He turned his attention to Marty, who was glaring up at him not very convincingly.

"J-just give it back," the second-year stammered.

"But of course; that's precisely what I intended to do," he smiled condescendingly. Draco drew his own wand and transformed Marty's into a fearsome tarantula. "Here you are then; I'm sure you've been missing this." He held the spider out to Marty, fangs first; the younger boy recoiled "No?" Draco inquired mockingly. "Is something wrong?" He flicked his wand again, and the spider became a hissing serpent. "You'd like it back now wouldn't you? Still no? What an appalling Slytherin you are, frightened of a little snake."

Draco glanced around the room. An audience was gathering to watch the show, but none of them were anxious to get too near while he was brandishing dangerous animals in ways not calculated to keep them happy. Perfect. He lowered his voice and glowered in a way the crowd would certainly read as menacing as he continued to transfigure the wand into a succession of foul and frightening things. "Just so you know," he sneered softly at Marty, "Goyle's terrified of aardvarks."

Marty's eyes widened in confusion and snapped away from the rabid pixie Draco now held tightly in one fist. "What?" he squeaked.

An even fiercer glower warned the boy into silence. "Terrified. As in petrified, mortally afeared. Fell into a pen at the zoo with one once; it came up and nibbled his cloak. A very bad experience. Can't look at pictures, turns green when he hears the word, tends to scurry off for a bit of hyperventilating at the merest thought."

"Why are you telling me this? I mean, Goyle's your friend," Marty was careful to keep his voice low.

"Well, yes, but just recently he pissed in my tea. Figuratively," he added with a disdainful roll of his eyes for the expression that crossed the younger boy's face. "Suffice it to say, he's not on my "in" list at the moment." He raised his voice for the rest of the common room to hear. "Do you realize how infernally rude you're being wasting my time this way? I can't hang onto this forever, you know." With a final flourish he changed the wand from a sprig of poison ivy - delicately tweezed between his fingernails - to a wine glass filled with swamp muck. He splashed the muck in Marty's face and turned away laughing, "Now don't lose any of that, or I doubt you'll ever see you wand again." He tossed the glass over his shoulder, and Marty barely managed to catch it before it smashed to splinters on the dungeon floor. The crowd drifted away to leave Marty desperately trying to collect every fleck of swamp muck from the hearth stones.

Since the second war with Voldemort had begun, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become the one class no one dropped after O.W.L.s. Dumbledore hadn't even had to declare it a requirement; the students had signed up, and the staff had smiled grimly to see them do it. The one problem was that Hogwarts' schedule simply wasn't set up for any professor to teach every single student in the school. Last year had marked the first time in recent memory that Hogwarts had lost a DADA instructor for ordinary reasons when Professor MacLeod resigned, declaring the workload was exhausting.

The class had also had to be moved to another room, practically a gymnasium, to accommodate the advanced cursing and counter-cursing of the large N.E.W.T-level classes. The seventh-years were dotted throughout the room now, stunning and reviving their partners, while an imposingly tall woman with a steely grey braid hanging all the way down her back watched from a dais built out from the north wall. "Slytherins!" she suddenly called out in a sharp, oddly young voice, "And the rest of you, please remember that the emphasis today is on the Restoration, not the Stunning. Move on to Energizing spells if basic Reawakening isn't keeping you entertained enough."

Claire Kohl never showed a sign that she found teaching more students than any of the more experienced professors at the school a strain. She did occasionally disappear for a day or two, however, leaving notes with her colleagues that Harry Potter would be missing their classes to teach hers. It was rumored, especially among the Slytherins, that those were the days she reserved for nervous breakdowns.

The Slytherins also liked to make much of the fact that during classes she always stood immobile behind the massive desk that sat atop the dais. And she Apparated to and from the staff table for meals. Some snickered it was because she didn't want the students to see her cloven feet; others sneered that Dumbledore had finally become so desperate to fill the DADA position, he'd hired a cripple. Whatever they said invariably got them in trouble with the Gryffindors, whose theory was that Professor Kohl had been hit with an irremovable Petrificus curse fighting in the last war against Voldemort.

"Each pair may leave after Mr. Potter checks your work," the professor's metallic voice rang out. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger, please stay behind."

Harry began his round of the classroom, too used to this ritual by now to feel self-conscious, and in a few minutes, he, Ron, and Hermione were alone with Professor Kohl.

"Are the wards in place?" she asked, and Hermione nodded. A look of relief crossed the older woman's face, and she quickly put a hand to her throat and coughed. "I wonder if it hurt Mum this much to sound so mean and queenly all the time," she grinned at them ruefully. The three Gryffindors grinned back.

"Right, then," she continued more briskly, "what this is about is your Christmas breaks; Dumbledore asked me to pass along the news. Harry, Ron, he's personally going to take you two along to 12 Grimmauld with him this Saturday. Hagrid'll bring you back here halfway through break. And Hermione, this is for you." Professor Kohl moved around her desk and tripped stepping down off the dais. "Blast," she muttered as she toppled into Harry, who only just managed to catch her. "Portkey home," she told Hermione rather sheepishly, holding out a blue quill pen.

"What's that for?" Ron demanded. "D'you mean you're not coming with us?"

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything until Dumbledore one hundred percent OKed it, which now I guess he has," she rolled her eyes at her friend's indignant air, "but, honestly, Ron, I've hardly even gone home during the last two summers."

"Not to mention that if you think the three of you aren't being watched, you're dead wrong," Professor Kohl added. "Hermione needs to be seen going home for the holidays, not disappearing off the face of the earth with you two. It's just for the one day, though, you know," she turned to Hermione alone. "That's all we can spare in the way of protection."

Hermione shivered. "Of course."

"Good. Now, Harry, you should know that I'll be off a day ahead of you lot - Friday - so you're to take my classes, but remember it's the last day before break, which means review work at best and more likely just keeping everyone from running wild. Nothing to get you knickers twisted about - Harry?" Hermione glanced at Harry and sighed. He took the days he was left in charge of DADA classes incredibly seriously. The distant, rather frantic look he wore whenever one of them was coming up was already on his face, and Hermione knew she'd hardly see him between now and Friday - he'd be shut away every spare minute practicing spells and rehearsing lessons. She'd tried to talk him out his frenzy the first time it happened; he'd muttered that he wouldn't be the reason anyone else died and pushed her out the door.

Professor Kohl gazed down at him from her impressive height and shook her head. "I guess that's it then...unless..." - she perked up suddenly - "Any of you three know what I can get Dumbledore for Christmas? I was going to get him The History of the Canary Cream, but I saw the other day that he's got it already; then I was going to get him When Pigeons Nest in Your Beard, but Molly's getting him that; and then I was going to get him Matchless Magic for Marvelous Mages until I remembered he'd written it!" she finished almost wailing. Ron and Hermione turned to each other helplessly and shook their heads. "Harry?" she asked pleadingly.

Ron grabbed Harry by the arm and shook him. "Wake up there, mate, we're trying to figure out what Tonks can get Dumbledore for Christmas."

Harry started, realizing all their faces were turned toward him. "Oh...uh, socks," he muttered tonelessly. "Really!" he rallied somewhat taking in their expressions of disbelief. "Really thick, woolly socks. He likes those." Then he went back to brooding.

Very late that night, Harry lay awake in bed. He'd stayed up as long as he possibly could drilling himself in everything he remembered about DADA from first year through seventh. Finally, he'd had to tell himself it would be all right to go to bed so long as he thought about DADA until he fell asleep. But now, for the first time that year, his mind wouldn't stay on the subject. It kept drifting back, try as he might, to a point a few hours before his conversation with Tonks, to something that would certainly not help him in the classroom on Friday.

It had been a very peculiar Care of Magical Creatures class that day. They'd been working with Aspician Asps, frightful serpents whose venom caused raving fits; whose gaze produced an effect very like, though much weaker than a Dementor's presence; and who, Hagrid insisted, were "underrated" and "dead int'restin'." The "int'restin'" thing about the asps was that as long as their intended victims managed to return their deeply unpleasant glares, they were unable to attack, and if someone succeeded in staring one down, he won the ability to command it with a thought. Hagrid had ordered several to keep the gnomes out of his vegetable patch.

Harry hadn't felt particularly badly about informing his assignment in Parseltongue that he had killed a basilisk and did not want to see it put one coil out of line - after all, that was how he would actually deal with one of the blighters should he meet it outside of class. He'd then been free to gaze around at the other students - most were staring doggedly and miserably at their asps as Hagrid stood by with a vial of antivenin. Soon his eyes had drifted, as he prayed Ron never noticed they had a habit of doing, to Draco Malfoy. He'd seen the Slytherin come into class earlier, snapping nastily at one of his supposed friends, laughing with the rest of his gang at the unlucky boy's expense. But at that moment, Draco and his asp had been swaying silently together - Harry'd gotten the impression the Slytherin had already won the staring match and his command had been to resume the game.

The pair had been mesmerizing to watch, and Harry's mind had filled with the thought that there had to be other times like this, other times Draco was quiet and still and without malice. When he sat studying, probably, or right before he fell asleep, he would give no sign what a despicable bastard he really was; he would look as he did swaying with the asp - twice as beautiful as usual.

Draco pushed the book he'd been reading under his pillow and extinguished his Lumos charm with a soft Finite Incantatum. He yawned - it was as obscenely late as it always was when he finished reading, and he expected to fall asleep immediately. This night, though, his mind simply wouldn't cooperate; a dreamy, but definitely not sleep-related image was stubbornly creeping up on him.

It was by far the most disturbing of the fantasies, the most inexplicable and, unfortunately, one of the most frequent. He wanted to pretend he didn't enjoy the thoughts running loose in his head at the moment, but that wouldn't mean he did enjoy them any less, only that he was too weak to admit what he felt. Draco let the thoughts unfold.

He was lying in his bed in the Slytherin dormitory waiting for sleep. In his mind Harry lay with him; they were both naked and doing...absolutely nothing. His back was pressed against Harry's chest; one of Harry's arms folded around him, the Gryffindor's fingers lightly splayed across his collarbone. The fingers were strong, rough-skinned, and gentle. He was cool; Harry was warm; they lay perfectly still as their body temperatures slowly equilibrated.

Harry wondered why he found the image of Draco in Care of Magical Creatures quite so intriguing. He supposed it must be because...because...well, what would it be like if Draco could be that way with him? Harry could - he had - pictured any number of arguments with the Slytherin turning passionate, but it was an altogether different thing to imagine the two of them peaceful together. If such a thing were possible, he could simply hold the blonde boy in bed with him right now. He could lie behind him and breathe in the scent of his hair, feel the silvery fine threads tickle his nose. And speaking of hair, perhaps Draco had one of those wonderful little trails growing down from his navel; Harry would wrap an arm around him and brush his fingertips over it as they lay very still. He imagined Draco's skin would feel cool against his.

It was part of the fantasy that Draco couldn't tell whether the other boy was awake. The arm around him did not squeeze, just rested against his body with its own comfortable weight. He raised one of his hands and interlaced his fingers with the ones on his chest. The other fingers stirred the tiniest bit. Probably asleep then, but for some reason he had to know. He rolled over in Harry's arms and found green eyes staring into his own, staring deeply, alert but lazily oh-so content. Flecks of moonlight gleamed on the Gryffindor's brow and in his dark hair.

Perhaps his fingers brushing just below the blonde's navel had tickled him, perhaps for no reason at all - Draco turned in Harry's arms. Grey eyes met his, mysteriously bright in the darkened dormitory and a faint smile touched normally sneering lips. Harry shifted a bit in bed, almost as if he were adjusting to the change in the weight not really there, and flecks of moonlight fell across his face.

Draco met the bright green gaze steadily, drinking in the complete lack of contempt he saw there, wondering at the small smile he felt mirrored on his own lips. He contemplated leaning forward the few inches it would take to softly kiss that smile, but tonight he didn't want to go where that would certainly lead. He remained perfectly still as Harry gently brushed fingertips up his cheekbone, then caressed back down his jaw with an open palm. Draco leaned into the touch.

Harry considered a kiss - just a gentle pressure of his lips against Draco's, nothing to upset the quiet intimacy of the night - but knew that between them not even the smallest kiss imaginable could remain chaste. He settled for running his knuckles lightly over the other boy's cheek. He opened his hand, and Draco leaned into the touch.

Harry smiled contentedly as his scooted a little way down Draco's body to rest his head on his chest. Draco crossed his arms over Harry's back as Harry slid his beneath Draco's shoulders.

Harry smiled contentedly as his scooted a little way down Draco's body to rest his head on his chest. Harry slid his arms beneath Draco's shoulders as Draco crossed his over Harry's back.

Suddenly Draco could feel Harry lying on top of him. He started in surprise.

Suddenly Harry could feel Draco lying beneath him. He jerked sharply in shock.

He felt Harry's arms tighten around him reassuringly as he himself hurried to calm the other boy, gently stroking his back. Harry relaxed in his arms.

He felt Draco quiet in his embrace as the Slytherin's hand moving softly on his back soothed him in turn.

Draco glanced down at his bed and body. There was no one there but himself. His hand was raised, slowly stroking the empty air, yet he could feel warm skin under his touch, warm arms encircling him. Uncanny. And very unsettling, too...except for the fact that it was perfectly settling. It felt like life whispering its rightness, like something that should never end; it was almost exactly what Draco wanted at the moment.

Harry cracked one eye open. He was completely alone but lying as though he was partly draped over another person. Possibly it was madness - warm, soothing, safe, and tender madness, madness that was so nearly perfect it drove away any thought that there was anything else he should think of. He snuggled deeper into the feeling of Draco.

Draco "oomphed" a tiny bit as Harry's invisible weight settled more heavily onto him and savored the sensation of additional closeness. He let his eyes fall shut and continued to stroke, slower and slower, until they both fell asleep.

Dear Draco,

It was lovely to hear from you again. Tony and I are so impressed you're finding your own way of thinking despite all the prejudice you've grown up with, and we're very honored you felt able to trust us with your personal secrets. We've told our owl to keep delivering all our letters to Hermione; hopefully, she'll be able to pass things on to you without anything looking suspicious to your housemates.

We're so glad you're enjoying the books, and don't be silly - of course we'll keep looking for things you might like. We love having the excuse to go browse the bookshops, and besides, the holidays are coming up. It is a shame we haven't got a way to send you any music. Hermione's always complaining there's no electricity at Hogwarts; it seems they take in so many Muggle-born students there that they ought to be able to manage something for them. We'll keep thinking about it. And please let us know if there's ever anything else we can help you with.

What are these overlaps you found between magical and non-magical history? They do sound intriguing. It would be such an interesting project to get some Muggle books on a few of the overlap events and see if there are any hints of magical involvement in them. Of course, it would be wonderful to get wizarding books as well; we're so curious about your world, but there's that terribly frustrating law against us having anything really informative.

How is your end of term going? Not too difficult, hopefully. Hermione always gets so anxious around exam time, and we're sure it does her more harm than good. Is she getting enough rest lately? Do you have any special plans for Christmas?

Take care,

Nell and Tony

P.S. Please do call us Nell and Tony.

P.P.S. Thank you x 4.

Dear Nell and Tony,

I very much appreciate your being cautious about sending me mail. Hopefully, Hermione won't mind too much. No, she's not getting enough rest and never is, but you know, she thrives on it. No plans for Christmas. Stuff about magical history, yadda yadda ya...

Draco crumpled up his piece of parchment. He was having the worst bloody time focusing on what he was doing. He reread the Grangers' letter, and again it made him smile. At not one point did it say, 'Oh, wait, you're the boy who was always calling our daughter 'Mudblood;' well, fuck you. And the postscripts alone were enough to prove he was dealing with some great people. So answer their sodding letter, already! He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. Thoughts and musings and yearnings and just your basic all-consuming confusion about whatever it was that had happened last night would not let him write.

There was no reason to think it had been anything but a dream...except that it hadn't felt remotely like one. And it hadn't felt like anything else either. It had felt real, and heavenly, and fucking gods, now it felt like he was losing his mind. He was half-tempted to write the Grangers about this. Wouldn't that be a shock for them - what else could they do to help him? How about playing shrink? Or romantic counselor? Gods, he wanted to do something about this. And not just about this - about the entire bloody mess of who-knows-what that was his inexplicable attraction to Harry. Something to make sense of it, to take some action, or something just to be bloody doing...something. Only the thing he had in mind...maybe it wasn't such a good idea. Maybe doing anything wasn't such a good idea. He would not start beating his head against the common room sofa where everyone could see him. He was sorely tempted, though, to go back to his dormitory and poke his eyes out with quills. Or to crawl into bed and hope that it happened again.

Draco suppressed a groan and lifted his head. Now what? Another attempt at answering the Grangers' letter? Or he could take a long walk around the grounds and hope that the cold and dark numbed him into some kind of calm.

Suddenly, a scene on the other side of the common room caught his attention. Goyle had backed Marty Collins into a corner, his enormous oafish bulk completely cutting off the smaller boy's escape. Goyle reached out and grabbed the front of Marty's robes, lifting him to his toes, then completely off his feet. Marty swung choking for a brief moment before his robes ripped away to reveal a tee shirt with a picture of an aardvark blazoned across its front. Goyle yelped and dropped the other boy, scrambling away so fast he tripped over his own ungainly clods of feet. He didn't even try to get up, just sat on the floor staring at Marty's shirt and blubbering as the rest of the common room burst out laughing.

Draco caught himself and hastily switched his shout of mirth to match the others' sneering chuckles. He suddenly felt much better. Clearly, it was best to do something. See how it turned out. Call it an experiment. Yes, that was perfectly logical. And there was no time like the present.

"On your feet, Goyle," he barked. "Crabbe, anyone else who's interested, we're going for a walk."

The greatest difficulty with Quidditch at Hogwarts was trying to schedule practices at a decent time. No one really wanted to give up free hours on weekends, even when the pitch wasn't reserved for games, and practicing during the week meant flying in the dark. Even when a team managed to book the pitch for the moment after classes ended like the Gryffindors had today, the Scottish winter days were so short they ended up starting warm-ups at sundown and packing up in heavy darkness. Not that this hindered practice too terribly - a fanatic team captain long before Oliver Wood's time had had instituted the use of Lumos-charmed practice balls, but it did present a few problems. For one thing, Seekers could hardly put their skills to the test when glow-in-the-dark Snitches were so ridiculously easy to see. On the other hand, Slytherin ambushes as your team left the pitch were quite difficult to detect. Of course, only the Gryffindors had to worry about that, which meant, Harry groused to himself as he led his team toward the lurking gang they hadn't spotted quickly enough to avoid, that only he, the Gryffindor Seeker, really understood the trials of Hogwarts Quidditch.

The Slytherins were skulking about the entrance to the Gryffindor locker room. They'd most likely come to observe their rivals' practice, but they could only have stayed so late into the darkness, directly in the lions' path of exit from the pitch to pick a fight. "'Lo there, Potter," Draco drawled, detaching himself from his band of followers. Only a few of the students around them held their wands with Lumos charms activated; the circles of light they cast illuminated the area very patchily. Harry saw a flash of silvery hair and the slice of a pale cheekbone as Draco stepped forward; then he was through the bright spot and nothing more than a dark outline.

"Evening, Malfoy," Harry replied tightly and continued toward the changing room. He hoped there was a way to at least keep the two teams from blows tonight.

"Now hold up for a minute," Draco stepped directly into his path, "it's only polite you stop and chat a bit."

Harry halted when he felt Draco's hand on his chest, pressing him back. The rest of the Gryffindor team drew up behind him. "Let us by."

"Or you'll what, turn your little gang there loose on me?"

"Harry's got friends, Malfoy; you're the one has to drag a lot of dumb muscle around with you to do your dirty work."

There was angry muttering from the other unseen Slytherins at Ron's words, but Draco's voice was surprisingly mild as he addressed the darkness just over Harry's right shoulder. "Wait your turn, Weasley; I'll insult you in my own good time." He turned quite single-mindedly back to Harry.

Which was immensely odd, Harry thought. He knew he personally held the top spot on Malfoy's 'Hated and Mockable' list, but the Slytherin never brushed off a direct attack, not even to get at him. "What are you up to?" he demanded.

"Just keeping you from getting there." He nodded toward the changing room, a gesture Harry doubted any of the other Gryffindors were close enough to see in the low light.

"Obviously. Why?"

"It's a public service - don't snort, I'm a charitable soul, really. That swooning little fan club you've got in second year? They were all crying that you don't spend nearly enough time in those fetching Quidditch robes of yours..."

That wouldn't have been a terribly embarrassing dig if said girls hadn't been at the pitch earlier that very day, pointing and making Harry feel a fool. And it wouldn't be terribly unsettling, either, if Malfoy weren't at that moment eying him up and down in a way that said twelve-year-old girls didn't know the know the first thing about mental de-robing techniques. Harry was suddenly very thankful for how little he expected his teammates could see of this exchange. He was also very, very confused.

"Not that I've got the faintest idea what they were so worked up about," - Draco's expression snapped back to a typical sneer - "and not that I don't expect them to start bawling again when they see you...you're looking a bit mussed, Potter; they'll have to wonder what you lot get up to out on a darkened pitch."

"I don't know what you do at Quidditch practice, but some of us fly."

"You like that, don't you?" Draco continued smoothly. "Up there on a broomstick; that's quite your thing, isn't it? Don't even have to play with the team, just make like you're after the Snitch, and it's nothing but giving that broom a good, hard riding for hours; hard and fast, Potter, and it gets you so bloody high...Nice, isn't it, wrapping your legs around a bit of wood..."

Harry's mind was whirling. A wave of dejection washed over him as he thought that Malfoy must have found out, that now he'd never have a moment free from his taunting. But Harry's dread was almost instantly replaced with wonder. The Slytherins were chuckling their typical malicious, dull-witted chuckles, with perhaps just an extra edge of glee. The Gryffindors were seething on principle merely at hearing Malfoy open his mouth. Why were they acting so bloody normal? Could they honestly not hear it? Perhaps not; he shouldn't be hearing it. Gods, how sick, how far gone did he have to be to imagine that these insults sounded something like...an invitation? It was impossible...except the glint was back in Malfoy's eyes, and Harry could practically feel his sneering voice wrapping around him like filthy silk, flowing on and on, wrapping tighter, filling him with the mortifying certainty that Malfoy must know everything, everything right down to the way last night had felt so inexplicably perfect. And worst of all, the most perverse, bewildering flicker of excitement was growing in him, excitement that Draco Malfoy was standing only a few inches away, before the unseeing eyes of a dozen witnesses, talking to him in nasty, dirty bedroom tones - 'Nice, isn't it?'

And amazingly Harry found a level voice to reply. "I don't know what you're going on about Malfoy; you're a Seeker too, after all."

"Exactly. So you really can't deny anything to me, can you?"

Stranger and stranger. And strangest of all that he still seemed to be the only one to have noticed. Everyone else was laughing or grumbling as if that had been a perfectly straightforward bit of abuse... "Those are just cheap insults, Malfoy, and you can shut your dirty mouth with them!" It was Ginny who had shouted, she was barging forward, remarkably incensed, to take up position beside Harry. A circle of light caught and held her, and everyone could see she had her wand drawn and a dangerous scowl on her face.

"Did a Weasley just call me cheap?" Draco asked the group at large, turning back toward his cronies without sparing Ginny even a glance. "Well, perhaps I am in comparison to someone who'd so generously hand me a set-up like that when her family can't afford to give away the dirt on their floors."

Ron lunged forward at that, but Harry was ready and grabbed hold of him before he could reach the Slytherin. Draco spun on his heel, gathered his pack, and led them off into the night, bringing the most civil...and the most complicated...argument Harry could remember them having to an abrupt end.

It was the time of night when the Gryffindor common room was nearly silent - that is to say very late indeed. The fire in the grate was nothing but embers and only a few students were scattered about the room, most pouring desperately over one textbook or another since they would never stay up so late except to cram for an important exam. It was the time Harry and Hermione used for Harry's weekly Potions tutoring - the only time the two busy seventh years could find uninterrupted hours together, the only time they could be sure Ron wouldn't try to tempt them away from their books with suggestions of Exploding Snap games and kitchen raids. It was always a painful process, the tutoring; Hermione would drill Harry on the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday potions for that week until they were fairly sure he'd be able to brew them in the N.E.W.T. exam. Of course, they could never be sure they'd succeeded as Snape insisted he'd sooner snap his own wand than allow someone who was only in Advanced Potions because McGonagall had pulled strings to endanger the real students by touching a single ingredient. Tomorrow night he would remark on Hermione's absence from the lab and she would smugly tell him it served him right, a venomless argument that was as much a tradition by now as the tutoring.

It was worse tonight than usual. Hermione had assumed they wouldn't be meeting at all; she'd been amazed that morning when Harry had shown up at breakfast, apparently relatively at peace, his obsessive DADA practice regimen abandoned. He'd asked if they were still on for studying; he'd gone to Quidditch practice without grumbling about the waste of time. And yet his mind simply hadn't been on reviewing the ingredients for manticore antivenin or Thundering Serum. Now they were struggling through Infusion of Influence. Hermione's fingers were twitching as if they really needed to be wrapped around a cup of coffee as Harry droned out the recipe. "Dried belladonna, wings of four Mab's moths...Hermione," he broke off suddenly, " I need to ask you something. Hermione straightened up a bit at the tone of his voice and looked at him curiously. "It's about Malfoy, he began awkwardly. "He came to the Quidditch pitch this evening to pick a fight after practice, but it was different somehow."

"How so?" Hermione cut in, sitting forward attentively.

Harry blushed a violent red and pulled back a bit in his seat, away from his friend's sudden intensity. "Well, he hardly even acknowledged it when Ron snarked at him, and I, um, I got the feeling that, well, I couldn't tell sometimes if he was insulting me or...flirting with me. No, actually, he was always insulting me, but maybe it was the other thing, too." He paused and looked to Hermione for her to say something, but she only looked at him expectantly. "I was thinking maybe he knew and it was a new plan to torture me, but probably he doesn't - I hope - and it's a new plan to torture me just because he's a bastard. Unless I'm completely hopeless and out of my mind, and I imagined it."

"I think with Malfoy you can assume he's more likely to be out of his mind."

"Yeah...except there was one point where I could have sworn he implied he's gay as well."

"Really?"

"Well, I thought so, but no one else seemed to notice, so I'm back to being the crazy one."

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"You still haven't asked me anything."

"Oh, right. There's...nothing really. I guess I meant I needed to talk to you."

"Harry, you're not crazy, alright?" He didn't reply, just stared glumly at the table between them. "Harry? How did this business with Malfoy make you feel?"

Harry turned bright red again and buried his head in his arms. Some unintelligible mumbling rose from him. "What was that?" she asked gently.

"Dried belladonna, wings of four Mab's moths, one vial of bog scum..." he recited giving Hermione all the answer she could have wanted.

"One vial bog mist," she corrected fondly, taking his hand where it lay on the table into a warm grip

It was actually almost disturbing how easily human beings could adapt to the bizarre, Hermione thought. When she'd first learned she was a witch seven years ago, she'd been shocked - albeit pleasantly - at how easy it was to adjust to life at Hogwarts. And her relationship with Severus - although she still recognized the strangeness of it, lately it felt normal to her, though the mere thought would have nauseated her just that summer. She wasn't sure she liked being so comfortable with that change. Not that she would have had these last few months differently if she could - unless, of course she could have wished Voldemort into oblivion - it just seemed such a radical turn-around ought to take more getting used to.

And now Malfoy was giving her the same feeling. She'd seen him several times - alone - since delivering her parents' letter to him early that month. Once had been when he'd given her his response to owl off; he'd asked her if she knew a good spell for encrypting a message during flight, and he'd been quite impressed by the fingerprint charm. Once had been when she took him their reply. But there'd been an occasion when they were the last two students leaving Runes and she'd asked him what subject he'd chosen for his end-of-term paper. And after just a couple run-ins, it was already feeling strangely ordinary to stop for a few words if she met him out for a prefect's patrol while making her late-night way to the dungeons. Their conversations always started out awkwardly and ended with that sense of too much familiarity too quickly. It was disconcerting and...not unpleasant - or that would be the case if Malfoy didn't seem to be living out a personal vendetta against all things predictable, ordinary, and reassuring. She'd seen him in the halls last night, surrounded by his Slytherin goons. He'd nodded to her very subtly. Now she realized they must have been on their way back from taunting Harry at the Quidditch pitch.

She'd seen him that morning, too - the whole school had to be precise - as the students left the Great Hall after breakfast. He'd positioned himself directly in Harry's path, wearing an expression that was ninety-nine parts his usual smirk and one tiny, easily-missed part a meaningful leer. He'd proceeded to compliment Harry - on his hair, which looked just so artfully mussed, on the way his glasses brought out the stunning green of his eyes. Hermione had marveled that anyone could say such things while giving the impression that it was the other person who was gay, that they were in all likelihood quite smitten with you, that they'd certainly gone to a great deal of trouble hoping you'd notice their eyes and hair. He'd slithered around Harry, touching, actually running his fingers through the 'artfully mussed' hair - a snake wrapping its coils around some unwitting small, furry thing. It had been chilling to see that a caress could look that disdainful. And yet...there'd been a hint, the barest hint of something to say that Malfoy would never compliment Harry's appearance, even mockingly, if he hadn't looked first -

really looked. It was no wonder Harry'd been so distraught the night before or that that morning he'd done little more than stand there, gazing at his attacker in complete puzzlement.

There'd been a similar performance after DADA - clearly Malfoy was planning to make a regular practice out of this new form of abuse. Which was ridiculous. Well, however little Hermione managed to understand the Slytherin, she had been able to figure out one thing. He'd mentioned having Astronomy last on Thursdays, yet he was in lecture with her Thursday mornings. Therefore he must have been referring to his weekly night lab, which met in smaller groups than the lecture. Therefore, in just a few minutes he would emerge from the observatory door around the corner from where she lurked, ready and waiting. Hermione shivered as she leaned against the Astronomy tower's cold stone wall and willed Professor Sinistra to dismiss class early tonight.

At exactly nine o'clock - wishing for anything but perfect punctuality from Sinistra was futile - the door swung open, and students began filing down the hall away from Hermione's hiding place. She muttered a charm, peeked around the corner, and picked Malfoy's head out of the bunch. A slight movement of her hand, and she saw him tense at the feeling of phantom fingers on his neck. Hermione closed her hand and tugged gently. She heard Malfoy murmur some sort of excuse to Blaise and Pansy before turning at the feeling of an invisible pull on his robe. He ducked back into the observatory for a moment - very thorough in his excuses - then as she continued to pull, he followed the pressure around her corner. "Yes?" he inquired.

"Malfoy, what the hell is this business with Harry?" Hermione jumped straight to the point.

His expression closed instantly. "Oh, I see. We're playing this game, are we? 'You'd better watch out, Malfoy. I know all about you, Malfoy. Stay away from my precious friends, Malfoy."

"Harry doesn't need you messing with his head," she answered calmly.

"Maybe Harry doesn't need you protecting him."

"I look out for my friends."

Draco scoffed. "I'm sure Snape never tires of hearing how he ought to be kind and loving to his favorite Harry Potter."

"Just because I can't do anything about Severus, you think I'm supposed to let all the pig-headed Slytherins in my life make asses of themselves over Harry?"

Draco bit back whatever he'd been about to snap and peered at Hermione through narrowed eyes. "What did you say?" he asked carefully.

"You could talk to him," she informed him, crossing her arms and adopting the smart girl-knows-best voice Harry and Ron had come to dread.

Draco looked at her curiously and backed away a bit to lean against the tower wall, but his voice, when he spoke, was still scornful. "I can just hear that conversation - it couldn't possibly accomplish what I want."

"Which is what? Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"Is that some sort of threat? Mend your ways or you can't imagine the tragic consequences?"

This time Hermione snapped back. "Let's get bloody defensive, shall we? It's a sincere question: do you have any idea what you're doing? Does it even make sense to you?"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," he glowered at her.

"I don't think so." She held up a hand before he could retort. "Wait." She crossed the hall and leaned against the wall opposite him, each of them in their own flickering circle of torchlight. Draco itched to make some nasty reply to her last comment, but she held her hand stone still in the silence gesture, and the way she was watching him - as if she were studying him minutely while thinking of something else altogether - was so curious he merely watched her watching. Finally she spoke, slowly and decisively, "I think you should come work with Severus and me."

Draco came as close as a Malfoy could possibly come to goggling at her. He blinked several times, the torchlight glinting opaquely from his eyes, turning them to blank mirrors. "Too kinky for my pure soul, sorry," he finally mustered a hollow jest.

"Not the sex, smartass. What you saw when you barged in to give me the Packages that day - the lab work."

Another long pause followed. "Why?"

"Like I said, you don't know what you're doing at all. You need something to do."

"I'll be no one's charity case, Granger."

"Fine, it's not that. I could use some help. You already know Severus and I are working together, and you're the only person I know at Hogwarts who's intelligent enough that I'd want to add you to the project."

"What's in it for me?"

"You practice to be this infuriating, I'm sure. You need something to do."

"I don't accept that." He pushed off from the wall and turned to leave.

Hermione sighed dramatically and slid down the wall to take a seat on the hallway floor. The glare she sent Draco said the conversation was anything but over. "The books won't always be enough. Almost, but not quite. I guarantee."

"And fiddling about with a mess of herbs and nasty dried animal bits is supposed bring me all the fulfillment I'm lacking?"

"It'd be a start."

"I don't see how."

"This project is going to be very harmful to people you very much dislike."

He crouched in front of Hermione, biting off each word furiously, "Is that what you think? If he's not a Death Eater, he must be some kind of fucking hero. Well, I'm not looking any of your half-wit Gryffindor heroics."

Hermione shoved him hard so he fell backwards and ended up sitting just a few feet from her. "That's bloody brilliant then!" she flared, "because much as I'd like to have some heroics to offer, that's not the way it fucking works. What I said is you'll get to hurt your enemies."

"I've got my own ways of doing that."

Hermione's voice was tight with the effort of getting herself back under control. "Maybe you will someday, but until then, sitting about the dungeons loathing the other Slytherins is unhealthy."

Shock forced out some of the coldness that had been n Draco's voice. "You shouldn't know that."

"A good guess."

"I'd thank you to keep your guesses to yourself."

"And I'd thank you to agree to what I'm asking."

"It hasn't occurred to you I might like sitting in the godsdamned common room, being left alone and hating the wretched Death Eater spawn?"

"It's occurred to me you're afraid to do anything else."

Draco shot instantly to his feet. His voice was venomous. "If you're trying to be convincing you've got a funny way of going about it. I haven't heard you give one argument that was even worth listening to."

Hermione gazed up at him, a veneer of calm, at least, recovered. "You're as bloody curious to know what's going on with me as I was to know about you."

"You're saying you'd tell me?" Draco stared down at her with nearly as much surprise as he'd shown when she first asked him to join the lab. "After this? More than a need-to-know briefing?"

"People I work with need to know everything."

"What makes you think you can trust me?" he asked, folding his arms and sending a curious, considering look down to her.

A faint half-smile touched Hermione's lips. "Chapter 107 of the University Arithmancy text. There's an equation for telling if people are trustworthy."

"That'd be damned useful if it existed."

"The only way you'd know it doesn't is if you're planning to betray me. Is that what you're saying?"

Draco was shocked to find himself returning Hermione's hint of a smile. "Even if I was planning to betray you, I'd still be trustworthy if that's what I told you I was going to do beforehand. Whereas if I told you that and didn't betray you, I wouldn't be trustworthy. Which is really beside the point, since it's your trustworthiness I'd say is suspect, what with your going around spouting tales of phony spells and laying ambushes outside people's classes."

"Are you agreeing then?"

Draco fell abruptly silent. He realized he'd been about to acquiesce purely because the novelty of being trusted had lowered his guard. He paused for a long moment, working out whether there was any real reason to go along with this plan. Hermione watched him patiently. He finally answered her slowly, "When do I start?"

Hermione brightened immensely and scrambled to her feet. "How's tonight for you?"

"I think I've at least got time to hear those sordid confessions of yours."

"Perfect. Come on then; I'll just tell Severus I'll be late tonight."

They wound down the flights and flights of stairs from the tower to the dungeons in silence. Hermione's fingers twitched slightly, and she took deep, deliberate breaths, trying to find some stable emotional ground within herself after all the ups and downs of the past half hour. She had a feeling that beside her Draco was doing something similar. At the door to the Potions lab, she muttered the password and stuck her head into the room. "Can't stop in now," she called, "but I'm going to be using the study for a couple hours. I'll see you after that."

She led Draco to the next door along the dim dungeon corridor - one Snape had given him the password for but that he'd never had reason to enter. It turned out that a tiny, round room lined with heavy, dark green hangings lay on the other side. A bookcase was wedged into the curve of the wall, but more books were piled on the table, chair, and sofa that were crammed into the tiny space than on its shelves. A second door connected the room to the back of the Potions classroom.

Hermione heaved a stack of books from one end of the sofa to the floor and collapsed into the space where they'd been. Draco followed suit on the other end of the sofa. He gazed around a moment, then turned to Hermione curiously. "Here we are then."

"Finally. I don't know why you had to be such a stubborn prat about everything." She sighed without annoyance as she burrowed happily deeper into the sofa cushions.

Draco watched this operation with amusement. "Well, it had a lot to do with the fact that when you weren't insulting me, I got the worst feeling you were trying to be my friend."

"You're the one who said it helps to have someone know who you really are."

"Ahh, but that's all I said. You didn't think that beyond that I might believe other people are quite dreadful and the only possible society is oneself."

Hermione smiled at that. "Oscar Wilde," she observed.

Draco nodded. "That's what convinced me to send your parents thank gifts. I got you mum four dozen green carnations," - Hermione looked quizzical - "Wilde wore them as his boutonnière. And I summoned a Victorian cravat and walking stick from the Manor for your dad."

"I might have guessed. Careful I don't start calling you Dandy."

"I'd start calling you Guttersnipe. And I'd ask you to remember that it's crass to go saying something about a person just because it's true."

Hermione nearly giggled. "Seems like it's a night for confessions."

"True, but mostly yours."

"Thank gods." Her fingers had been picking unconsciously at the sofa's green plush; now they dug into a hidden robe pocket and drew out a flat, silvery case. With a soft click she flipped it open, removed a small object, and offered the case to Draco. "Cigarette?" she asked.