Gala Performance (an Anti-Romance)

Severus Snape thought that if the world didn't need them both, for one reason or another, he would happily poison them, rip their heads off, use the remains in a potion, then pour it down the drain. Yes, Draco too. The only reason he wasn't devoting serious thought to executing that design as soon as they returned to school was that their childish tit-for-tat antics had got Lucius freed from Azkaban at last.

No one could prove anything against either of them (in Potter's case, Draco's testimony would not constitute proof positive, though Potter's testimony against Draco would), but that didn't worry Severus. Years of acting on probabilities as a double agent left him with a hardy conscience.

Of course, proof hadn't bothered Cornelius Fudge, either. In six months, neither Lucius nor the Death Eaters captured with him had been tried. Now, because he had had a good laugh at the expense of the Malfoys, he had released Lucius and some others, though not any of those who had previously been in Azkaban. Perhaps that hilarity led him to despise Lucius, to consider his family's power, and his personal power, broken. Stupid man. He had dealt with Lucius for years; didn't he realise that Lucius was seldom more dangerous than when he considered himself slighted?

While perhaps Potter should have thought of that, Severus was willing to acknowledge that the boy had little to lose in irritating Lucius. He had certainly shown himself alarmingly competent at revenge. Not only had he exposed Draco - and his family - to ridicule, he had got away with it clean. Narcissa and Lucius's cousins, with the best will in the world, and a great deal of forensic skill between them, had found no proof at all.

They had been able to prevent publication of any report of the shambles Potter had made of that wedding, and to suppress publication of the many photographs taken, but a remarkable number of photographs was circulating anonymously. Severus had even been told that in some circles at the more rakish end of Festive Alley Draco was quite the pin-up boy. Potter, on the other hand, had successfully destroyed all the photographs Draco had taken of him.

Severus smiled sourly. It might be amusing to watch Lucius trying to deal with his son, balancing his outrage at Draco's folly in provoking that shameful display, and its consequences, against his relief at being free, however unexpected a consequence that was. Draco would probably be very adequately punished, however indirectly, by the New Year.

Despite his increasing skill with spell-casting, and the commendable fortitude he had shown in proceeding with his part in the wedding as if nothing had happened, Draco urgently needed a lesson in planning for all contingencies, including a victim's resentment.

In the interests of making a point to both boys, Severus decided he needed to find some way of properly reproving both of them.

There was no use in talking to Lucius about it. When Lucius was not raging (he had a wide array of targets), he was sunk into exhaustion, caused not so much by his fits of temper - Lucius had always had the stamina for that - but in reaction to freedom. The disciplines he had imposed upon himself to survive Azkaban had kept him sane. Nott's and Avery's current state showed how necessary that had been, though Crabbe and Goyle seemed almost untouched. However, Lucius had incorporated those disciplines into himself so thoroughly that he was having difficulty in discarding them.

Lucius probably enjoyed raging, but Severus agreed with Narcissa that it wasn't good for him. Seeking revenge on Fudge seemed a safer and more productive outlet for his feelings than attempting unauthorised revenge upon Potter, who was his Lord's prey, or tool, or potential avatar, depending on the Dark Lord's mood of the moment.

Severus conceded that Potter was growing up. Hardly a sweet-natured child now (not that Severus had ever seen that in him, whatever Albus thought), but a good holder of grudges, an innovative plotter, willing to work to ensure success, however inattentive in class. It couldn't all be dumb luck. No doubt he had had help; if so, it had been of higher quality than the help Draco had called on when he began this idiot game. Severus had to respect anyone who could pay back with that precision, that elegance, almost.

Nonetheless - Severus smiled - the boy had made some mistakes, if only in exposing himself to Draco's initial plot. He would need every ounce of wizarding skill he could acquire, and could only benefit from Severus's lesson. Severus hoped Draco would never need that level of skill; going by Lucius's present views, he would not permit his son to enter Voldemort's service, after this demonstration of the flaws in his thinking and planning and even in his spell-casting. Lucius would know, however, that his master might not allow him to make the choice of his son's future.

Both boys needed a lesson, and both sides in the war would benefit, however little grateful they might be.

If he presented the matter properly to Albus, he would give Severus leave to go ahead with specialised training for Harry Potter, to help him protect himself from Voldemort's plots and devices. Potter had not managed to master Occlumency yet, despite applying himself rather more industriously last term. If he could not use that defence, other skills that Severus could teach would be of value to him.

It might be harder to make a case for training Draco Malfoy too, but Potter would learn faster if he had a realistic opponent of his own skill level. The opposite argument could be put to Lucius, or to the Dark Lord if he took an interest; both sides would concede that Severus had a need to appear faithful to the other at all times.

No one needed to know that Severus was doing this for himself as much as for anyone else.

Potter and Draco might protest at the form his training took, but once Albus and Lucius were convinced it would do them no good. He could leave it to Albus to persuade the boys' other teachers that he would not disrupt their classes or the work of other students. Years as a Death Eater had taught Severus to focus his magic tightly, or to spread its effects broadly. Minerva would probably disapprove, but she would not interfere, if the scheme had Albus's imprimatur.

Severus allowed himself to sit back and dream, before he made more practical plans to trap Potter and Draco, pin them down, and watch them wriggle, furious, but helpless.

He would warn them he was setting traps, and give them three weeks to evade him. Once the three weeks were up, whoever avoided being caught would get off scot-free, while whoever exposed his lack of skill would be put on display, even if no one but the three of them - and, of course, the Headmaster - knew the reason they were again exposed to mockery. Oh yes, that would motivate them. How much time would they waste wondering what he could do to them, worse than they had already done to each other?

If either was caught, he would suffer Severus's penalty. It would be best if he caught both. One of the things they both needed to learn was perspective: to put their energies where they were most needed.

He wouldn't tell them that if they cooperated their chances of escape would be much improved. That was another lesson he could rub in afterwards. They would never like each other (even if Draco lusted after the Potter boy, a truly strange reaction, it seemed to Severus, to years of hatred), but eventually they would learn that friendship was not necessary.

All that was required was a just assessment of one's partner's skills, carefully planned cooperation, and covering one's partner's vulnerable arse as well as one's own. If they could learn that before the final battle was upon them, their chances of survival would be better. If Potter learned to work with whomever fate sent him with the appropriate skills, the wizarding world would benefit. If Draco learned it, there might yet be a next generation of Malfoys to inherit in the direct line.

* * * *

When they returned to school after New Year Severus explained, carefully, that they were officially on trial. To escape whatever penalty he chose to set, they would each have to evade the magical and other traps he would set for a period of three weeks. If either was successful, he would be polite to the other on pain of detention for the rest of the school year. If either failed, he would suffer the penalty.

In any case, they would be having extra lessons with him on two evenings a week for the rest of term, together, starting three weeks from Monday. No, they did not need to know the penalty yet. No, he would not say what the lessons were in. Yes, they would study together, and would be assigned projects together. Were they aware that Professor Dumbledore was planning to hold a New Year festival in three weeks, to which they might find themselves contributing some small entertainment, either together or one alone? Now get to your next classes.

Despite their mutual dislike and distrust, Harry and Draco exchanged dismayed glances as they obeyed.

Harry muttered, "What can he do worse?"

Draco retorted, "I don't know, but experience would count, don't you think?" He added, "If my father hadn't forbidden it, Potter, it would be my traps you'd be needing to look out for this term."

Harry said derisively, "You need the practice, certainly."

Draco hissed, and the two fell back from each other, hands hovering over their wands, before Harry said, "Think about that once we get past Snape."

The grey eyes shot cold fire like an offensive hex, but Draco said, after a moment to reinforce his grip on his temper, "Yes. I will indeed."

Guarding himself against Draco's anticipated desire for retribution as well as against Snape might have been impossible, Harry acknowledged after a few days.

Snape was cunning, ruthless, and played dirty; he set traps in other teachers' classes, even if no one else noticed, at meal times, in the dormitory, and even in Potions class. Harry was surprised as well as nearly burned the first time the potion in his cauldron blew up in his face. Snape developed a nasty habit of sometimes installing a back-up hex to operate if the initial trap failed. After that, Harry was on the alert every waking moment, and asleep too.

Since all his teachers, including Snape, seemed suddenly to have decided to rehearse them for next year's NEWTs this term, loading on the reading, the reports, the experiments and projects, and none was in a mood to make allowances, Harry found himself working frantically. The only way to meet his teachers' demands, to get enough sleep and food, was to set up routines to follow, to surround himself with warning and protective charms constantly maintained.

In the first week he was nearly trapped five times, and at least three of those spells, he calculated, would have done real damage as well as signalling Snape's victory in his unilaterally declared war.

After he narrowly escaped the sword of a suddenly-animated suit of armour only because Peeves took a whim to screech a warning, he realised how essential it was to have help.

He had already told Ron and Hermione he and Snape were playing war games, and warned them to keep clear for their own sakes. Now he gave in, and told the truth. Ron was indignant, and some of his language cheered Harry even as it led Hermione to object, but once he had said his say he had useful suggestions to make, as useful as Hermione's, though very different.

Hermione proposed research into more efficient guarding spells, and into spells which others could maintain for Harry. No reason for him to be the only one to learn better protections. No one was truly safe, even at Hogwarts.

Ron proposed a living guard, especially when Harry was asleep, or rather, to enable him to sleep. He organised the other boys in the dormitory to help. Their sleep would be interrupted, but they all thought it worth while to unite as Gryffindors to defeat Snape's sneaky plan. Harry taught them all the spells he had already assembled and was using. Some of these, of course, they all knew, from the Defence Association's practice sessions the previous year.

Hermione emerged from a long session in the library with a list of other spells to learn, some more efficient than Harry's.

She and Ginny agreed to share guarding Harry's peace at meal times, while the boys escorted him everywhere. Luna soon learned what was going on and would have liked to help, but being in a different year as well as a different house she was confined to making suggestions to Hermione, who became the keeper of spells. Harry was not sorry to have Hermione act as intermediary. Luna had good ideas, but listening to her express them could be very trying, until he unravelled her meaning.

Over the next few days each of them triggered more spell traps, and their respect for Snape's ability as a wizard increased, not that they expressed it that way. He might affect to despise 'foolish wand-waving', but he was very skilled at it, to construct and maintain all those nasty little traps, and replace them with new ones as Harry evaded or disarmed each.

Mid second week, in Potions class, where Harry and Draco had been assigned to partner each other - not a special case, this year Snape had required that of most Gryffindor and Slytherin students in their year - they exchanged muttered notes when they thought Snape was safely preoccupied.

They were both very tired. They had both discovered good friends with good skills were essential. They had both extended their repertoire of protective spells. They were too busy surviving Snape to hate each other.

Draco muttered, "I believe he wants to teach us a lesson."

"Of course he does!"

"No," Draco said impatiently, "I mean, he wants us to learn something useful. You wouldn't catch me so easily now, Potter."

"You wouldn't catch me at all," Harry responded, then paused.

They looked at each other, then Harry said, "Whatever his real purpose is, if he catches us, we'll be sorry. So we mustn't be caught."

"No," Draco agreed.

Then he flinched sideways, grabbing his wand, gasping, "Protego!"

Harry's reflexes had taken him out of the line of fire before he was conscious that there was danger.

They united for a moment in glaring at Snape.

"Evil bastard," Harry muttered.

No one else seemed to have felt that blast of cold.

Snape looked directly at them and said sharply, "Pay attention, Mr Malfoy. Potter, have you chopped those Jobberknoll feathers sufficiently finely yet?"

Harry said carefully, "Yes, Professor Snape."

"Then measure them as carefully into your potion, instead of standing indolently there! You will all be testing these Truth Serums, remember."

"Oh, Merlin," Harry breathed, and yet again inspected the remains of the two feathers they had been issued, to ensure the required fineness had been attained.

Draco joined him.

Draco muttered, "Will he use that serum against us too, d'you think?"

"Bound to."

"I was afraid of that."

* * * *

Early in the third week Draco tripped evading a tanglefoot hex, and lurched into another which stunned him almost to unconsciousness. He was lucky Pansy was close enough to keep him off the floor long enough for Crabbe to take his weight. Otherwise, he would have stood a good chance of hurtling down the stair to the Slytherin dungeon.

His friends held a quick conference, decided he was in no further danger, save of a headache, and followed agreed procedure. Crabbe and Goyle took him to the dormitory and stood guard while Draco got his breath back, with Nott checking every few minutes, while Blaise went to warn Potter. That had been a very recent addition, one the Slytherins had not cared for.

Draco had said curtly, "This is a war, not a game. If he gets me, tell Potter, at once - or as soon as you can. It will probably be better if we're not both on display. If things were different I'd take him down with me gladly, but not in this war."

Blaise found Potter justified Draco's attitude.

First he swore, then he asked after Draco, then he said, "Tell him there's always another day. Afterwards, we'll see if we can't do better."

Blaise thought the look in Potter's eye close to manic, and wasn't surprised. Draco was exhausted, or he would have twisted out of the way of that second hex, and Potter could be no better off. Could he last out the week?

It took two more days of Snape's battering at his defences to bring Harry down.

It was rather more public than Draco's defeat. In the middle of dinner, the jug of pumpkin juice before Harry spattered itself abroad, for a moment blinding the girls who bracketed Harry and the boys who sat opposite and, more thoroughly, Harry himself, since the normally runny juice clung to his glasses like oil.

His left arm swiped across them, trying to clear his vision, and he grasped his wand, never more than inches from his fingers these days. His defensive shield spell was too late. There was a soft roar, a bloom of pinkish fire round his head, instantly suppressed, then Harry was huddled on the bench, head resting on the table, lax fingers dropping his wand.

Ginny flung her arms around him to keep him in his place, while Hermione and Ron and Neville, opposite, all chanted the same protective, repulsive spell. Harry recovered consciousness almost immediately; there didn't seem to be anything wrong with him, except that he kept blinking to clear his eyes.

Ron said angrily, "It's not right to attack Harry's vision; that's low."

Neville pointed out, "I don't suppose the Slytherins thought it right he nearly broke Malfoy's neck on their own stairs, either."

Harry said wearily, "I've lost. Now what?"

Draco was no wiser about the penalty to be paid, Harry knew. Would Snape tell them both, now, or keep it for a surprise on the day? Which would amuse him most: that shock, or the chance to watch them thinking about what was to come?

* * * *

Snape opted for the pleasure of telling them on the day.

That gave them three days to rest, though each was too keyed up to be able to relax his wariness.

Draco was giving himself indigestion imagining unpleasant contingencies; Harry waited grimly, angrily, but resigned to living through it. He had lived through what Draco had done, and, however humiliating, nothing else could shock him so much again.

It was infuriating that Snape, like Draco, had used his defective eyesight against him. That Muggle ophthalmologist Harry had expected to correct his vision had used Harry's Christmas vacation to do tests, but had taken no action, scheduling that for Easter, refusing Harry's demands for immediate remedial work. Harry supposed, however, that even without glasses to be blurred he would have been sightless for long enough. His companions had been.

Harry and Draco met briefly after dinner on the last day before they provided Snape's 'entertainment' as a contribution to the Headmaster's celebration of the New Year. Professor Dumbledore had said it was designed to cheer everyone's spirits in the depths of winter, at which the sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins alike had laughed hollowly. Many of them had been too busy on the sidelines on Snape's small war to pay much attention to planning for a Musical Evening.

The Headmaster asserted his love of music at intervals, even as he encouraged the school, at the start of each new teaching year, to mistreat the school song as innovatively as possible. His party was for the whole school, though first to third years had to return to their dormitories at ten o'clock, and would be a combined dance, feast, and concert. The prefects of the two Houses concerned in Snape's campaign against Harry and Draco had assigned those sixth year students least affected to prepare to present something musical, while the seventh years had coached students in the lower years.

Harry and Draco had no idea what their Houses would be performing, and did not care.

Harry said practically, "I can't sing. Can you?"

"Some," Draco admitted. "I was taught to dance for the ballroom, of course - I don't suppose you were?"

"No, and I don't want to learn."

"There's always magic," Draco said, with a sourness worthy of Snape. "Considering what you and I did to each other - what could he make us do, whether we know how to do it properly or not?"

"Whatever he likes. So we do it as well as we can; that way we might not look such fools."

Harry went on, "I walked through Hogwarts without stumbling once, and you did your part in the wedding service - I heard - whatever you looked like. Afterwards - then we go to war, if you want. Do you?"

"Yes," Draco said softly. "He may believe he's doing my father a favour, 'teaching me to think', he called it. He may be training you to help defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I don't like his teaching methods, even if Dumbledore's approved."

"So whatever it is, we do it; we don't let ourselves be shamed. And then we learn whatever he wants to teach us for the rest of term."

Draco snarled.

"Forgotten those other lessons?"

"No. Merlin, Potter, I hate the idea of just swallowing this! I'm a Malfoy, I don't have to take mortal insult!"

Harry smiled without mirth. "I'm the saviour of the wizarding world, they tell me, and I take whatever's handed out, but I don't have to like it, and I don't forget it. He taught me that long ago, along with a lot of other people. Just save it, Malfoy. Save it, remember it, and when the important stuff is all dealt with, then do something about it."

Draco smiled too.

Harry reflected that though he was used to Snape's malice and injustice as a teacher, this was Draco's first encounter with it. He wondered, briefly, why Snape had decided to stop favouring Draco. Perhaps he had seen, at last, that indulging Draco taught him nothing, though Harry considered that he himself had learned little from Snape's treatment save that, being a student, he had no defence. Professor Dumbledore certainly wanted to protect him from Voldemort; he had never shown any sign of thinking it necessary to protect him from Snape.

The next afternoon they went to Snape's office after classes ended, as instructed, and stood, closer together than they once would have done, patently ready for defence or assault.

Severus Snape smiled, though no one could have told it was pleasure that moved him. The boys were more capable of learning than he had thought, whether this was a conscious alliance or not. No doubt he would need to be careful, but when was he not? Their enmity, even if they combined against him, could make his situation no worse. They might even thank him, one day; it would not matter if they still hated him then. In the mean time, they would give him another pleasure, trivial, perhaps, but real, and rare. A little private amusement in recompense for his use of his own time for the public good.

* * * *

Snape showed them what they were expected to wear. Harry and Draco were so appalled by it that they showed it. That it was in colours associated with the house of each was no consolation at all.

Snape smiled. "You may help each other," he conceded, and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, patently at ease, and intending to watch.

Harry took a deep breath and muttered to Draco, ignoring the embarrassed colour still high in his cheeks, "Get it sorted out first."

That afforded little delay. Their costumes were laid across a cloth-covered table, tall boots set in front of it, before a long bench. The boots' colours, and the coloured touches on the gold and silver costumes, made it clear which set belonged to which boy. At the back of the table were two double-winged mirrors, surrounded by candles, and before each an alarming array of pots and bowls and brushes of a sort they recognised. So Draco would get to put his own make-up on, and Harry would get to do it again.

"What about underwear?" Harry demanded.

"That would mar the line of the, ah, trousers," Snape responded. "You'll be adequately covered."

Covered, yes; concealed, no. Snape refused to allow them to retain their own. They stripped in haste and pulled on the trousers, each ignoring the other's body and trying to ignore Snape's eyes on his own. Draco was blushing as vividly as Harry, keenly aware of those black eyes assessing his privates, not in the least impersonal now. Snape did not approach, did not touch, but he did not need to.

As they wriggled into the tight, footed satiny garments, more like stockings in the way they slid and clung, Harry pulled his so that the coloured seams lay straight; Draco followed his lead, grimacing. Each of them remembered Harry's fishnet stockings.

Harry realised, as he thrust his head into the top - it could not be called a shirt - that Draco was using him as a guide. Draco had never had to dress himself in such grossly unsuitable clothing. His own ridiculous wedding costume had been magically substituted for his robes, unlike the women's clothing he had obliged Harry to wear.

When the top was pulled straight, its hem clung to the waist of the trousers. At least there would not be an unsightly gap, if magic kept them together. On the other hand, the neckline dipped low on the chest, in a curve that clung to Harry's pectoral muscles, below his nipples. What was new, he thought resignedly.

They looked at themselves in the mirrors just long enough to check the fit, then by unspoken agreement first Draco turned for Harry to inspect his outfit, then Harry sought the same assurance.

From neck to wrist and toe the clothing fitted like their own skins, its shine a contrast and an enhancement to the pale flesh of the breast of each boy.

Draco wore silver, ornamented in Slytherin green overstitching in heavy silk thread; Harry wore gold, with Gryffindor red piping. Though the ornamentation was mostly fine lines along the side seams of arms and legs as well as bodies, Draco's costume also had a green lightning bolt running from his left shoulder to his crotch, whereas Harry's had three partial sunbursts in red, one over his crotch, the others below his nipples, and centred on them. The costumes themselves shone like satin, the coloured devices glowed like velvet.

Snape's taste did not appear to be any more subtle than Draco's or Harry's.

Harry muttered, "Boots last."

Draco nodded.

They sat before the mirrors. Snape moved up between them and began issuing directions. For a moment their indignation was roused when he used his wand to strip away the light chest hair visible on each, but he forced them to concentrate on his orders.

He had very precise ideas on how their make-up should be applied. They were expected to cover their exposed chests as well as their faces and necks with shiny goo a little paler than their own skins. That wasn't so bad. Then came the lip-colouring, dark red for Harry, a paler but still conspicuous red for Draco, laid on in pouting shapes just short of grotesque. Eye-paint in two colours, then a triangular blush of colour running over their cheekbones and back to their temples and ears, then pencil work on eyebrows and around eyelids, and stuff like moth-wing dust to be brushed into their eyelashes.

Harry could see Draco about to refuse the order to use the lip-paint on his nipples, and said softly, "Outline first, then the brush, the way you showed me."

Draco's stiffness eased and he did as he was bidden.

Snape ordered each in turn to sit absolutely still once more, pointed his wand, and muttered a charm. He did this to Draco first, so Harry saw the other boy's hair lengthening and becoming even thicker, though no less silky. He could imagine, without looking, what Snape did to his own. It felt very odd to have it brushing not just the back of his neck but his half-naked shoulders.

After that came a lot of work with hair potion and brushes, then undeniably Muggle spraycans which Harry had to show Draco how to work, adding highlights, again in silver and gold. Considering how pale Draco's hair was, the silver showed up well. His hair waved around his head and shoulders in wild yet deliberate loose curls. Harry's own hair acquired a very noticeable wave, far more than the brushing he had done should have accomplished, even with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. He thought those writhing curls didn't suit either of them.

Then they brushed glittery silver and gold dust to highlight their cheekbones over the blush, and the outer portion of their eyelids, and even their eyebrows. Draco was required to paint a silver star on his forehead to balance Harry's lightning-bolt scar, which the make-up did little to conceal. Snape didn't make him emphasise it, though, as Draco had done.

Harry had removed his silver ear-rings, but Snape told him to put them on again. He shoved a little box towards Draco, and this time Harry watched as Snape pierced Draco's right ear - of course balancing the jewellery concentrated in Harry's left - and told him to insert the long dangling ear-ring. It seemed like a tumble of little silver blocks ending in a tassel that brushed Draco's shoulder. Draco flinched a little when he let it go and its full weight pulled on the newly-pierced gristle of his ear lobe.

No wonder Snape had told them to come to his office at six o'clock sharp. This was taking for ever.

The boots fitted tightly, but well, and their leather had a certain amount of give magicked into them, which made it easier to pull them on. They came to just below the knee, and had wings inlaid, like a Snitch's, though even smaller, that began to flutter at irregular intervals once the boots were on. Draco rolled his eyes at Harry; Harry grunted, and turned his foot to eye the platform soles and the high heels. Much solider than the women's sandals Draco had forced him to wear, but he would bet not much easier to move about in.

The finishing touches were coloured waist sashes in silk so fine it could be seen through, wrapped around several times and tightly knotted. Even then, the sashes draped almost to their ankles.

Snape had them walk about the room for him, saying it allowed them to get used to the boots, though each disliked the way those beetle black eyes stared at the working of the muscles in their thighs and arses, highlighted by the clinging satin hose.

At last he told them how they would spend the evening, apart from being costumed like sex-doll clowns, inviting the eyes of their fellow-students to touch them like hands, as Snape's had all along done. Dancing. Not just as a turn on stage, like the students who were performing voluntarily, but all night. Dancing with, and at, each other, in a night-long courtship ritual.

"You'll have your own music," Snape informed them. "You'll be able to hear it. When you're on stage, so will everyone else."

He smirked. "It's possible Mr Potter's heard that kind of thing before, but I doubt even the Weird Sisters play music like that you'll hear tonight. Try not to appear too startled, Draco; that wouldn't become a Malfoy."

Draco's lip lifted in a silent snarl, but he said nothing.

They had made a couple of attempts to refuse orders, or to moderate the effects Snape wanted them to create, at the beginning, and found themselves coerced. Both Harry and Draco were at least as thoroughly spell-bound as once before. Snape had not tried to confiscate their wands, but they knew better than to use those against him. Whatever short-term success they had, they would pay for.

Snape told Harry to leave his glasses on the table. They would be at his bedside when he retired for the night. Harry tried to find the good aspects of being three-quarters blind. He would be dependent on Draco for guidance, but he would not have to face the staring, as Draco would, though he would hear any laughter as clearly. If anyone offered him money, they would be hexed into a caterpillar, and stamped on.

Finally Snape handed them a cloak each, which covered their finery completely. If they attempted to keep the cloaks on once they had entered the Great Hall, however, they would be forcibly removed.

Then they walked, side by side, slowly, as gracefully as they could. Draco's dancing experience possibly compensated for the practice Harry had had, but Draco muttered, "I don't see how we can dance in these - these objects. Even if you knew how."

Harry replied, "If we don't, they'll probably dance us. You want that? It's possible, Draco; I've seen it done on Muggle television a couple of times. If we do what I did, in your horrible high-heeled sandals, take small steps, go slow, concentrate on balance, not on distance, we'll probably be all right."

He added, "And crippled in the morning. I found it hard to walk after that; I had to rub Sanders' Lickable Liniment into my arches and calves for days."

"Thanks for those disgusting boots, then, I suppose," Draco commented wryly.

After that they joined the groups of Slytherin students heading from their dormitories towards the Great Hall. Some of them were costumed, but most simply wore dress robes. All of them stared at their painted faces and elaborate hairstyles, though they averted their eyes quickly, deferentially, as Draco snarled his way through the crowd, Harry at his side.

They found Blaise and Pansy waiting for them at the foot of the main Slytherin staircase. Harry was surprised to find the boots enabled him to meet Blaise's eyes on a level, and made him very much taller than Pansy, who was his own height.

Blaise asked at once, "What's under those cloaks?"

"When you find out, if you laugh, I'll kill you," Draco responded.

He added to Harry, "I wonder if we can dance with anyone else?"

"I don't know that I want to be making advances to more than one Slytherin, but we can give it a try, if you like. Just so long as we keep dancing."

"Spelled dancing shoes?" Pansy enquired, with interest. "Will they help you dance, or just make you?"

Draco answered for both of them. "Merlin knows. And not shoes, Pansy: boots. Look at the soles and heels on them!"

He paused, and pushed one foot forward through the sweeping folds of his black cloak.

"I don't believe it," Blaise said dispassionately after a moment, after bending to inspect the fluttering Snitch wings. "Where did he get the idea for those heels?"

"Late-night Muggle television shows, for a guess," Harry said. "MTV clips, or something. I would have thought Snape too determinedly pure-blood to watch TV."

All three Slytherins stared at him, not understanding, and he shrugged. "Does it matter? He's sick. Or vicious."

"Worse than you?" Blaise asked. "Or Draco?"

"There is that," Draco muttered.

* * * *

Just at the entrance to the Great Hall Draco saw a flying wedge of Gryffindors approaching. He nudged Harry's side and murmured, "Your people."

"We have to dance, all night, and probably with each other. Just - crowd control, Blaise, all right?"

Harry added, "I have marshals appointed too, Zabini. Work with them, please." Under his breath he went on, but they all heard him, "We may need all the help we can get."

Draco reinforced that. "Potter and I are in this together, worse luck. So cooperate with the Gryffindors, both of you."

Slytherins did not seem to say 'please' amongst themselves, any more than they did to others.

"And keep Crabbe and Goyle from getting in the way."

They nodded, and stepped back with Draco to allow Harry's friends to surround him for a moment.

Harry repeated to his friends much what Draco had said, once he could see them properly, and asked Hermione, "Would you take this cloak, once I'm inside? I may need it later."

She put one hand on his shoulder and looked up at him as she did not usually have to do, or not so far. Then she stood on tiptoe and brushed a light kiss on his painted cheek.

"Do well, Harry, and spite the horrid beast," she urged softly. "Tomorrow it will all be done with."

He smiled at her, and then sideways at Ron, who was still taking in the details of his elaborate face-paint, dismay, incredulity, and something that looked suspiciously like admiration conflicting in his expression.

He said as cheerfully as he could, "I could go on the stage. That's exactly what Malfoy and I will be doing, all night."

"No rest-breaks?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. "I doubt it. We'll be buggered, by the time the party's over. One good thing," he added, "we'll be too damn tired to care, after a while."

"Thank Salazar for one o'clock dormitory curfew," he heard Draco saying.

Then they slipped through the growing crowds, shedding their cloaks in concert at the door, and walking in together, unconsciously in step, elbows almost touching, to face the music of the night.

* * * *

They learned to dance together, not touching, but imitating each other's movements. Initially Draco coached Harry, though he too had trouble dancing to Snape's choice of music. They were both athletes, however; it was manageable.

The music was noisy, angular, with irregular bursts of furiously high-speed drumming, or guitar playing that must have required considerable skill. To Draco's ears, it was very heavy on the bass, with far too much percussion.

They had to keep moving. When Harry stopped once to mop at the sweat trickling into his eyes from his hair, something shoved him back into dance.

Draco said, "Snape's watching, but I don't think he did that himself."

"Set a charm to do it," Harry agreed, harmonising his steps with Draco's again.

They became better at dancing, and after a while developed a trick of each in turn marking time with graceful hand movements and swaying body, while the other moved around him. It gave each a breather of a sort, though they had to move in some kind of synchronicity at all times. Dancing with others was not discussed again; it would be impossible. As Snape had said, the music sounded in their ears; without it, no other partner could keep in step.

Always at least one Slytherin couple and one Gryffindor pair danced nearby, or stood close during the performances on stage, holding off anyone who might have approached them, interrupting their concentration, interfering with their balance.

Quite early on Draco asked, "Potter, what is this stuff? The Weird Sisters wouldn't touch it with a pole the length of a Quidditch pitch!"

"Rock music of some sort." Draco shook his head, an eyebrow conveying scorn to add to the incomprehension.

"Muggle music, but it's not all like that. I never heard much, unless my cousin had his CD player turned up even louder than usual, though I did get to watch TV sometimes. I've never heard this kind of thing, though they have a lot of noisy music." Harry added, "Snape's turned the volume down, thank Merlin, otherwise we'd be deafened."

"It'll be louder when it's our turn on stage."

Harry shrugged, in deliberate time to Draco's swaying. "Maybe it'll distract the audience."

"In a troll's eye," Draco replied. "But at least if they yell at us we won't hear a word they say."

Later he asked, "How many musicians do you think are playing?"

"From none to a dozen, going by the instruments... How would I know?"

"None?"

"We have magic; Muggles have machines. There was a girl at my primary school had a thing like a piano keyboard in a plank, she could twiddle its knobs and then it would play by itself, no CD or anything."

"That sounds useful. What was it called?"

"A keyboard."

"Used up all their imagination making it, then."

Harry smiled faintly at Draco's caustic tone. His feet were starting to hurt; despite the support offered by the boots, he was feeling the unusual strain on his arches. No doubt Draco's hurt as much.

"Time?"

They had had to leave their watches behind, too.

Draco glanced up, over Harry's shoulder, tilting his head back. They must be quite close to the back wall of the Great Hall, then.

"Just after nine."

"Four more hours."

Silence fell again, but soon they began experimenting with variations in their steps. Astonishing to think that the worst hazards of the night so far were aching feet and boredom.

Then came the moment they were dreading.

Draco reported, "Snape's having a word with Lewis."

Neila Lewis, of Hufflepuff, was acting as announcer, though sometimes replaced by a performer's house spokesman. She was doing a good job, quite untroubled by any minor, or indeed major, hitches.

Neila's Sonorus charm was activated again. "Now for a special treat! You've all seen Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy dancing tonight, in those faaantastic costumes - they're going to dance for us! And Professor Snape is going to provide special lights and music! Give them both a welcome!"

"Here goes; don't let me trip on anything, Malfoy!"

"Keep close, as we did coming in."

Draco led Harry up the side steps to the high table platform, free of furniture now, with an unobtrusive fingertip at his hip and the occasional warning of hazards. Harry turned with Draco to face the audience, which to him was just a grey blur with occasional spots of colour moving in it as the girls in their brighter robes slowly settled with their partners and friends to watch.

Harry wondered if Colin Creevey was up front with his camera. That was their one consolation; Snape had said no one would be able to photograph them. His little comedy, he had said pointedly, would not expose them or the school to outside gossip. There had been far too much of that already. Draco had said, promptly, that he wanted to learn that spell; Harry had nodded, in complete agreement. Snape had smirked, and promised nothing.

As they mounted the steps something colourful and feathery draped around their shoulders, fluttering. Harry didn't dare swear, in case Neila had placed Sonorus on the whole stage area. What was Snape up to now?

Draco murmured, "Boa. Feathers, like a shawl on a string. Something else to flap about, I suppose."

Draco put his hand to Harry's, touching his fingertips; they moved out to arms' length, keeping that light touch, and bowed together, flourishing their sashes as they rose.

Draco said clearly, voice rich with Malfoy confidence, "We're going to mirror dance for you - we're hardly a couple, after all." There was some laughter at that, but it sounded friendly enough. "So watch closely, then you can learn to do it too. When you think you have the trick of it, dance along with us."

They had decided that might divert some people's attention.

They turned slightly, facing each other. Draco took hold of the ends of his feathery thing and tossed it in the air; it drifted down to him so slowly it might not have been constrained by gravity at all. Harry followed suit, cursing Snape for burdening them with something they had no chance to practice with. Then he realised, surprised, they had been allowed to stand still a moment. Perhaps the things would be better than nuisances.

The music had been murmuring in Harry's ears. Suddenly it swelled, sounding from a different place, places, all about the Hall. Everyone could hear it. Draco moved a step back and then one forward, in place, and Harry matched him, waiting for the introductory barrage of noise to settle into a steadier beat. Harry thanked Merlin that Draco had learned more than ballroom dancing; he had learned some kind of showmanship. Benefits of pure blood, perhaps.

The music turned into something they had heard already at least three times; they followed it, confidence growing, allowing their movements and their gestures to become more spacious, more dramatic, now they were explicitly dancing for an audience. This was something they had consciously rehearsed so they would not be stuck, improvising pathetically, under the eyes of every student in Hogwarts.

The lights Neila had referred to became more than a background glitter of gold and silver stars reflecting in the polished panelling of the rear wall. Harry could even see them reflected in the sheen of sweat that moulded Malfoy's elegant cheekbones and temples. The stars themselves began to dance, and were joined by sheet lightning and even lightning bolts, in all sorts of colours.

They soon learned to ignore the distraction. The lights, like themselves, seemed to react to the music, but quite randomly.

After dancing to three separate pieces, much shorter than what they had become accustomed to, in the last going through the parody of bird courtship Draco had devised, they were allowed to leave the stage. The applause suggested the audience was appreciative rather than polite. Harry couldn't see their faces, and was thankful, but it was probable no one was laughing. Professor Snape said nothing to them, but Neila's generous thanks on behalf of everyone followed them off.

By the time they were called up to the stage for the third time, at about half past midnight, Harry's back was aching as much as his feet. He had a headache from the lights and the inability to focus on anything, despite hours of trying, and he felt coated in sweat under his skin of satin, though none marred its surface brilliance.

Draco exhaled softly. "This must be the last time."

"We're going to start tripping soon," Harry agreed.

In fact they had been doing so, occasionally, since before midnight, though never at the same time. They learned to compensate for that too, gritting their teeth in the haze of weariness, supporting each other as needed.

This time the students applauded as they walked up onto the stage. Draco acknowledged it with a wave, a Malfoy smirk, and a baroque flourish of his boa. They had become quite inventive with them, silly things that they were. Harry took his by both ends and swung it slowly like a skipping rope, though he was careful to step rather than skip over it as it swung. Draco took one end from him, offered him the end of his own, and for a few grateful moments they could postpone dancing by playing with the lengths of feathers as little girls played with skipping ropes. Then they flung them round their necks again, and began once more to dance, the strings of feathers and their sashes flickering after them like slightly out-of-phase shadows.

Then it was over.

They could walk down the steps for, please Merlin, the last time, and resume the dancing on the spot that for the last hour had increasingly been their resort, tiny steps back and forth, hypnotic, but not exhausting as their stage performances had been.

Draco murmured, "The next time Mother tells me I have to go to a dance I'll tell her I never want to dance again."

Harry replied, "If I can get all the way up the steps of the Gryffindor Tower, after this, I'll be surprised, except that I'm not sleeping where Snape might get at me."

"Ick," Draco agreed, grimacing comprehensively. "I'm going to triple spell-lock my room, and get Blaise to reinforce the wards. I've never seen a better imitation of a dirty old man."

"Is it an imitation?"

"He's not old," Draco pointed out. "You mightn't fancy my hands on you, Potter, but it'd have to be better than his."

Harry shuddered involuntarily, going off balance for a moment, then recovering. "At least he didn't touch."

He didn't comment on how he felt about Draco's touch; at the moment, he wouldn't care if Draco did lay hands on him. He probably wouldn't even knock him down, just lean, if it were possible. If he could stop moving, he'd go to sleep standing up.

At last Professor Dumbledore came to the front of the high table's platform, clapped his hands, and benevolently congratulated them all on having had a good time, and on entertaining each other so finely.

Draco snorted; Harry didn't even bother with that, as they swayed gently to and fro, side by side.

The music was fading; would it stop? Would the bastard let them go, now?

Yes.

Harry sighed his relief, and heard Draco do the same.

Draco touched his shoulder, guided him over to the side wall and a bench. They walked leaning against each other, with a hand on each other's shoulder for support, then sat in a small clear space between two bunches of fourth year Ravenclaws, uncaring that they were pressed closer still.

Harry set his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his hands, and mopped carefully at some of the sweat with his fingertips, trying to avoid smearing his make-up into a real clown's mask. He thought Draco was doing something similar, from the movements he could feel, but he didn't look to see.

"Merlin," Harry said after a while.

"Yes."

Then there were familiar robes swirling round them, Blaise was chasing the children away, Hermione was sitting at Harry's left hand and patting his shoulder.

Draco yawned, "Let's go to bed, Potter."

"Let's," Harry agreed.

They ignored the mixture of shock and amusement in the laughter of their friends, now separating like unstirred potion ingredients, and allowed themselves to be heaved upright and apart.

As they were marched towards the doors like automata, black cloaks once more concealing the outrageous costumes, Harry said, "The day after tomorrow, Malfoy, we'll find out what these classes are. But in the morning, let's have a talk before breakfast, see what we can work out about these spells he laid, see if there's any way of never having anything like this happen ever again."

"Never," Draco agreed, "but make it after lunch. We're going to sleep like the dead, and it's Sunday; I plan to forget about breakfast."

Harry yawned. "See you in the Library, then."

Someone pushed Harry's glasses into his hand: Neville, he discovered, thanking him with real gratitude.

He put them on his nose in plenty of time to see that Malfoy's friends appeared to be as surprised and displeased as his own.

He grinned wearily. Snape had wanted to change things. Maybe there would be more change than he would like. They could hope. There were two of them, after all; that ought to be good for something.

~~Not The End Yet~~

Blaise helped Draco drag himself along to the Prefect's Bathroom. He was exhausted, but he wasn't going to bed with all this muck on his skin and in his hair, to say nothing of the stink of his own sweat. It might have set like concrete by morning.

The hot water was wonderful, and gently scented with something that reminded him of the Malfoy woods. He sank into it, and went on sinking, submersing himself, breathing out gently with eyes open, watching the bubbles of his exhaled breath rise to the surface through the coloured water, seeing his hair float out like waterweed.

Blaise hauled him out before he was ready to consider breathing air again. He only started sputtering then.

"Stay awake," Blaise ordered.

No Zabini could tell him what to do. Draco sighed, and rested his head against the edge of the enormous bath, which obligingly reconfigured itself to cushion head and neck.

He wondered why six hours of dancing had tired him out even more thoroughly than nearly three weeks of dodging hexes. Maybe because the three weeks came first.

Blaise started rubbing shampoo into Draco's hair. Draco let him. After a while, however, he sat up and started washing himself, being very particular to scrub every crevice of skin with the soapy loofah. That seemed wiser than cleansing charms, and was certainly more comfortable for tender skin. Later Blaise assured him every speck of makeup was gone, after inspecting face and neck and chest.

Blaise speculated, "Wonder how long it will take your chest hair to come back?"

While Draco was interested in that, he was more concerned that, now he was dry and his hair roughly towelled, he could feel it lying damply along his shoulder blades. Professor Snape had charmed it to grow long; when would the wretched spell wear off?

He sat before the broad vanity table, and brushed and combed it out, having to hold it up in a hank to do the ends. Blaise took the comb from him and used it carefully. Sometimes Draco wondered about Blaise, but he wasn't going to reject his assistance.

Blaise made a noise like a discontented camel, and there was disapproval in his voice when he said, "Snape didn't bother to tidy up the ends when he grew it."

"I don't have split ends!"

"No, no," Blaise soothed, "but some bits straggle, now. It needs trimming straight, if it isn't back to what it was by morning."

He offered, "Isabella could do it for you; she trims mine."

"And do you do hers? All right, you can trim mine too, if it needs doing. Tomorrow."

Draco got up and pulled on his heavy silk dressing gown, bending to pick up the bundle of discarded satin and velvet costume. He had left the feathers, silk and leather on the floor in his room. He was going to dump the whole lot on Professor Snape, as soon as he worked out how to do so with maximum inconvenience to their Head of House.

Blaise asked, "Going to wear his ear-ring, since he pierced your ear, the way Potter wears yours?"

Draco snorted. The ear-rings he had forced on Potter were elegant and in fact suited the Gryffindor, who knew it, and wore them all, even if he had transfigured the shower of stars into a plain solid ring. That - that silver bauble of Snape's, with its heavy tassel, would tangle in his robes. If it was real silver at all, though going by the weight it might be.

With precision he said, "I'm going to keep it. I haven't decided what exactly to do with it, yet, but when I do, I hope he won't like it."

Blaise smiled. It wasn't anything like the Malfoy smile, or the infamous Malfoy smirk, but he, like his mother, could get a real look of the kneazle who had the cream and knew where the snidget was.

One thing Snape's little exercise in terrorism had done was unite Draco's year in Slytherin as it had never been united, even in the Inquisitorial Squad. That was a good thing, and probably pleased Snape, though Draco still found it very odd that their Head of House should set them into opposition to himself. Did he imagine they would forget this betrayal? Draco avoided thinking it had also forced him to cooperate with Potter, a much less palatable outcome.

* * * *

Blaise hauled him out of bed about eleven. Draco didn't protest. He would be plotting revenge on Snape with Potter after lunch - or plotting something, any way; better to get the Slytherin plots organised first.

Draco's hair was still long. He frowned at it, but brushed it industriously, wishing he had a house-elf to do it as his father had - now that he was out of Azkaban again. A wonder he hadn't cut his hair off, there, in desperation, but perhaps he couldn't get scissors, or a knife. His father hadn't said, and Draco hadn't asked. It was enough he was home again, and becoming himself once more, beginning to control the outbursts of rage he could now allow himself to feel.

Blaise turned out to have a very simple idea, but it appealed, as an initial gesture of defiance. That it also, subtly, rebuked Snape's taste, appealed even more.

Draco walked into the Great Hall for lunch with Pansy and Blaise, as he had done for weeks now. The three of them were the best, and worked together well, now, though both Isabella and Millicent had turned out to be extremely competent witches, under pressure. Crabbe and Goyle, useless for magical battle, nonetheless came in on his heels; they still hoped for a simple fight, but things were rarely simple, with Professor Snape.

He wore, not his best dress robes, but a new set, severely elegant, black silk velvet, with highly polished boots under them rather than the laced shoes that he ordinarily wore at school. A little discreet muslin and lace at his throat showed in the precise vee of his high collar, secured with a silver snake pin. That too was his own, a Yule gift from his mother.

His hair shone with brushing, and lay smoothly straight across his shoulders and down his back. Draco knew perfectly well he looked uncannily like his father, and had done everything he could to enhance the resemblance.

He was only sorry he had not had time to transform that abominable ear-ring. He wore a plain ball stud rather than display the pink-rimmed hole, even if it did not fit so well with his father's image.

Glamour be damned. Elegance, good taste, and high quality, were the marks of a pure-blood wizard. Which Professor Snape, pure-blood or not, knew nothing about. They sat down in calm silence, then talked quietly. Snape had not changed expression at all, of course. Draco knew, however, if no one else did, that the reminder of Lucius Malfoy would have caught his attention.

He hoped it might give Snape a moment's unease as well as pleasure, make him think that Draco might now be capable of more than mere mimicry of Lucius's appearance. One day he would have his father's skills, and power.

It was beneath Draco's current dignity to look as the sixth year Gryffindors entered the Hall, but Isabella had no such inhibitions, and her murmur started Slytherin heads turning, until Draco had to look too.

So. Potter had felt inclined to defiance also, and had certainly had help. He could never have achieved that effect with his hair without help. It had probably taken three girls all morning.

Potter wore plain, clean, neat robes; probably the best he could do, but his straight carriage and steady walk made their simplicity irrelevant. His hair, however, was impressive. Snape had made it even longer than Draco's - or so it had looked, since last night Draco's revolting curls had been much more elaborate than Potter's.

Now Potter's hair looped around his head in tiny, marvellously neat plaits, worked into fantastic designs. It didn't look like the corn-row plaits Angelina Johnson and Merrilee Smithers in Slytherin used to affect on special occasions, and certainly nothing like Lee Jordan's common dreadlocks. More like a portrait Draco remembered of a Malfoy ancestress from Haarlem, though she was a blonde in her festival best.

The plain silver ear-rings suited the hair. Together, even despite the dreadful glasses (the sooner Potter got rid of those the better), they focussed attention on Potter's unbelievable green eyes.

Potter didn't look like a girl gorgeously arrayed for a suitor. He looked like a barbarian warrior stripped for battle, dressed in nothing but pride. Draco felt his stomach lurch with unexpected excitement (and his cock rise, but he was used to that when he looked at Potter; he didn't like it, but he was used to it).

Whose idea had that been? Not Potter's, for sure. Whoever she was, she understood him, and she understood the significance of the image she had created. That was far more appropriate than what Snape had done, too.

Draco decided that when he met Potter, after lunch, he had better concentrate on what they were going to do about Snape and the additional lessons he proposed to teach them. What he wanted to do about Potter would have to keep. He could linger over it, adding this somehow private view to the very public one he had created months ago, the memory of which he still cherished. Potter didn't need to know that Draco's primary aim then had not been to humiliate him, but to have that image for his own.

~~The End~~