Die Formen Der Nacht

She's not my type.
She's- well- her hair's too dark, for one, and her face too thin. Actually, all of her is too thin- I like girls with, well, curves.
She's a Slytherin.
I think that says it all.

She kisses.... really well.

It was another Hogsmeade weekend, and it was late. Harry was writing an owl to Sirius, and Hermione was studying, so I was alone this time.

I think that's been a lot of what's bothered me about Harry and Hermione before- we were always together. Nobody can put up with someone else for every waking hour of every day, and I think we all got a little more reasonable- ironically enough, a little closer- when we stopped being quite so inseparable. Harry spends a lot of time with the Quidditch team, and Hermione's getting to know the Ravenclaws.

Me? I think I'm something of a loner. I like the chance to think by myself and for myself. I've had plenty of experience hanging out with large groups- I've got five brothers, don't I? - but I've almost never had so much time to myself. It's liberating. And I- I am digressing. I won't let it happen again.

Hogsmeade. Late fall. In the dark, heavy shadow of a clouded day after a long rain has ended. I was standing on the top of the hill by the Shrieking Shack, just.... watching things.

I was getting a little cold, Weasley sweater notwithstanding, and I was about to leave, when I heard a voice- an outraged, female voice- from inside the Shack.

"I AM NOT!" it shrieked- I found this amusingly appropriate for a moment- and then I heard another voice, indistinct but familiar. A low, slow drawl. My skin prickled on my arms and neck and back.

Malfoy had left us alone this term, so far. I think he wanted to avoid any unfortunate hex marks- two of the blasts from our confrontation in the train car had struck his face, and their conjunction had left something as permanent as a curse scar- a pale, tapering 'x' of raised scar tissue, just below his right eye. Small, but a noticeable mar on his sneeringly perfect Malfoy face.

Now, he must have found a victim less adept at jinxing his feet out from under him.

I turned and started for the Shrieking Shack's door, listening as his voice continued insinuating things I couldn't quite hear.

I whispered 'Alohomora' at the door, and slipped in quietly, walking down musty-smelling corridors and ducking cobwebs- shuddering when I saw spiders- and tracing that voice. That cool, slick voice, rolling on and on, as unstoppable as the tide, wearing away at the cliffs until they broke.

"- worthless," he said. "Do you understand? Then I can tell them your every secret, all those confidences you so stupidly shared with me. You can't let that happen, can you? No. Accept it- you are mine. If I were the Dark Lord and you a Death eater, I could not own you more thoroughly. If I say you're as worthless as a Stupefied dog in a beret, you are. If I say you look like a sick, anorexic snake- you do. Because I can tell them. And I will with an excuse. I almost want to. Can you imagine the looks on their faces?"

It wasn't even directed at me, and it made me feel sick- with anger, mostly, but with something else as well- an empathy I didn't understand.

How could this girl- whoever she was- sit still for this? Was whatever he had over her so terrible? Was she that much in his thrall?

I turned the last corner, to the room I knew they must be in- the room where I had found out just how badly I could be used, where I discovered that the rat I had spent the last several years protecting and confiding in and caring for- in that stupid, silly way another boy might love his crup or kneazle in- had killed my best friend's parents.

I had drawn my wand.

As I stepped into the room, I saw Malfoy, standing like a snake charmer over Pansy Parkinson, who sat on the discarded mattress in the corner, hypnotized with disbelief and the hurt of betrayal, as I had been. I knew students snuck in here occasionally because of that mattress, but it didn't look as if they'd come here with romance in mind. I wondered-

-but then, I decided, as Malfoy turned, the frost and cruelty from his voice plain upon his face as the surprise dawning there- I decided that I didn't want to know any of Pansy's secrets. They were hers, as mine were mine. And no one had the right to abuse them.

Malfoy, I think, never even saw the wand. His surprised expression twisted into a sneer as he recognized me.

"Checking out some slightly more posh places to live, Weasley?" he asked- or started to. He was only as far as the 'to,' but Malfoy is nothing if not predictable. My name is always tacked onto the end of every jibe, like another and fouler insult. I think I hate that more than anything else he says to me. The things he says to others I hate more.

"Stupefy!" I said, and was surprised I wasn't yelling- all the tension and emotion in my voice strangled it into something quieter, more contained.

My wand was aimed low, and the crackle of red light struck him in the stomach, diffusing to a dull, brief glow around him, as he slammed, loose-limbed and unconscious already, back into the wall, and sliding to the floor.

I stood there and shook for a moment. I wondered if it had solved anything- he still had Pansy's secrets, and now I'd given him ammunition against me as well- enough to get me expelled, even, if he told Snape that I'd used a Stunning Spell on him.

I looked at Pansy.

She looked at me.

"What now?" I asked. I wasn't sure what I meant- what to do about Draco, what are you going to do, what kind of trouble is going to thwap me over the head next- pick one.

She answered. "We tell them that Draco and I came up here for the same reasons everyone does. That's what the rest of the House thinks anyway. I said no. He didn't listen. You heard us, and you saved me. Anything he says will sound like a desperate lie."

I think my mouth fell open somewhere during all that, because it was gaping when she finished. It was a brilliant piece of logical thinking. It was worthy of Hermione at her most devious, or Harry at his most desperate.

"D'you-" I laughed a little at myself, still almost breathless with shock and growing relief- "do you play chess, by any chance?"

She smiled at me, narrowly, as if she knew what I was thinking. I realized with some alarm that it was a very sexy smile, and wondered with more alarm if she really knew what I was thinking.

"I'm a Slytherin," she said, standing, smoothly, her cool and composed expression reknitting its frays. "We all play chess."

"Even Crabbe and Goyle?" I asked, rather taken aback, and she smiled again.

"They play Checkers." She shook her head, glancing downward, then back at Draco. She rid herself of that tight, razored smile, tongue flicking across her lips worriedly.

"Will it work?" she asked, after a moment, still not looking back at me.

"Yeah," I said. Dumbledore would probably see right through it, of course- he always did, I think, and probably always will- but he would know that we were handling things the best we could, and that blame was still being assigned where it truly belonged.

"Good," she said, then stepped forward into my arms and kissed me.

My lips parted without thought, letting her tongue curl into my mouth and do several interesting things. She was pressed against me, leaning into me, and my arms were on hers, on her forearms, unsure whether to draw her near or push her away or just hold tight. I kissed her back, and learned that the last thing she'd eaten was some rich, dark chocolate, because her mouth still tasted of the desirable bitterness of it.

Then she drew away, and licked her lips again. "Thank you for saving me," she said, quietly, and I was ready to kiss her again when she laughed- that was quiet as well.

"We need to get back to the school and talk to Professor Snape," she said. "Not Dumbledore- Snape will cover up for Draco, and that's better- we don't want any kind of big scene. I'll let the Professor talk me into letting it go, for the sake of our House- he'll keep Draco away from me, and give him enough detentions to last out the year. And we need to practice and refine our story on the way."

But she didn't slip out of my arms. "Meet me after dinner tomorrow," I said, on impulse. "I want to see how good at chess you really are. I haven't had a really challenging game since first year."

"All right," she said, and let her arms slide along mine as she stepped back, until only our fingertips touched. "Don't expect me to go easy on you because I'm grateful."

We walked out of the Shack into the damp, glimmering evening, towards the road that leads back to Hogwarts.

Her hair's too dark. I like blondes.
She's a Slytherin.
She can't be my type.

I think that says it all.