Dolor Draconum

Chapter the Sixteenth

Christmas morning dawned. Traditionally, Christmas dawns cool and crisp and clear, usually with snow on the ground and a pale blue sky. In fiction, it always dawns like that. The kind of morning that makes you want to get up, as opposed to snuggling further into the bedcovers and trying to reach your stocking without exposing any part of your body to the cold damp air.

Draco stared out of the boys' dormitory window in a classically tragic pose. He suited classic poses, like the Greco-roman statues that adorned his family's grounds. It was a tragic pose because it was one of the most miserable mornings he'd ever seen. It was drizzling sleet, not heavy enough to warrant an umbrella; a cold sharp rain that crept into your bones no matter how many layers you wore and chilled you from the inside out. The grounds around the castle had turned into a boggy slurry and the lake had flooded. The whole castle was damp and clammy, and without most of the fires lit making your way down to the hall required full winter regalia.

Draco glanced around the dorm. Everyone else was still fast asleep. He slumped against the window frame, wrapping his enchanted dressing gown closer around him. There were pros and cons to staying with the Gryffindors, as there were to all things.

Pro: he was in close proximity to Hermione.

Con: he was in close proximity to Potter and Weasley.

Pro: it was warm.

Con: it was twee.

Pro: he was getting the hang of tolerating Potter and Weasley's presence

Con: he was getting the hang of tolerating Potter and Weasley's presence

The last one confused him. He had admitted to himself he loved Hermione. He loathed himself for it, but he could admit it. It left him with two choices: purge himself of this mudblood obsession, or accept it and find some way of getting on to her good side. To do that, he had to learn to make nice to Potter and Weasley.

What worried him was that it wasn't so bad. Sure, he couldn't stand either of them, but on a personal level they weren't so bad. If Potter had taken up his offer on the first day they'd probably be good friends by now, and Weasley, well, if his ancestors had had a little more forethought they too could have been friends. When he thought of it that way it seemed almost ridiculous. Well, Potter perhaps not, but Weasley... They were both pureblood, after all, and from long established families. It was just that Draco couldn't understand why any family would let themselves get into that kind of state. Poor. The mere thought made him shudder. But he had a sneaking suspicion that Hermione might prefer that poverty, in a perverted sort of way. She didn't see money as an asset, personality wise. If anything she thought too much money was a bad thing. Draco couldn't even see how a person could have too much money.

Hermione. Sigh.

If she wasn't so damned nice to him! He could just turn his back and push down this unnatural desire until he forgot about it. It wasn't right, wizards loving Muggles. Maybe mudblood were a little better, but it still made Draco's stomach crawl. Halfbloods were worse, he decided, since that showed the perversion in their family. So, really, a mudblood wasn't so bad. But still, he was a Malfoy, and no matter how much the name had been dragged through the mud recently, he still had pride. He was going to marry a pureblood girl. Even if she was his cousin, or worse, Pansy Parkinson.

There was a sound from one of the beds. Terry Boot stuck his head out from the covers of what was normally Dean's bed. He squinted at Draco.

"God, you're up early," he mumbled. "What time is it?"

Draco shrugged, still slumped against the stone window ledge. Terry wrapped the blankets tightly around himself, and shuffled over to join him.

"That weather," he sighed in disgust. He shot a sideways glance at Draco. "So, happy Christmas."

"You too," Draco said dully.

"You had a dream last night," Terry said softly, knowingly, slyly.

"Everyone dreams, every night," Draco said, eyes narrowing. "You just don't always remember it."

"It sounded like the sort of dream you might remember," Terry said. "Dream about a girl."

Draco managed to look scornful, though his stomach was doing flip flops. "Yes, Boot, some of us have reached that age. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll hit puberty eventually too."

Terry sighed and shook his head. "Sarcasm won't get you out of this, Malfoy. You talk in your sleep. Well, you call names and shout things like 'yes, yes! Faster, yes, harder, yes, oh yes!' in your sleep. And 'that's the crocodile!'" he added with a wry chuckle. "I really wanted to wake you and ask what you meant by that."

Draco frowned. "I have absolutely no memory whatsoever of any crocodiles, alligators or otherwise."

Terry lounged against the window frame, jerking back as the cold seeped through his thin pyjama top. Rubbing his arm, he turned serious again.

"This is officially blackmail," he told Draco. "You're dreaming about Hermione. I'll tell people. Give me a reason not to."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Draco scoffed. "I'm being blackmailed by a Ravenclaw. And me, a Slytherin. Who are you intending to tell, precisely?"

Terry considered. "Well, there's Hermione, to begin with," he said slowly. Draco gave an internal hallelujah - Hermione wouldn't tell anyone else, and she'd be understanding about it. "Then there's Potter and Weasley," Terry went on. Well, Draco reflected stoically, it would be embarrassing, but nothing he couldn't get over. Though it was something he'd rather avoid.

"And what are you expecting me to do, to prevent this outcome?" Draco said smoothly, raising one eyebrow.

Terry shrugged. "When I want something doing, I'll let you know," he said vaguely.

Draco's grin suddenly turned predatory. Terry wasn't made for this kind of scheming. He hadn't planned it through, and his uncertainty gave Draco a great deal of wiggle room.

"Why should they believe you?" Draco purred, sliding closer.

"Why shouldn't they?" Terry asked, bewildered. "What, you think anyone's going to take your side?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dream to presume," Draco said airily. He moved closer still. "How do you know you're not doing me a favour?" he asked, brushing one hand down Terry's damp sleeve.

"How on earth would I be doing you a favour?" Terry stared at him.

"You haven't heard the rumours?" Draco asked, grey eyes huge. He picked at Terry's sleeve. "Well," Draco sighed breathily, "I suppose that's a good thing. It's just, well, I heard you... no, I don't want to embarrass you."

"Heard what?" Terry demanded, all thoughts of black mail safely erased.

"Never mind," Draco sighed, eyes sad. He gazed at Terry through lowered lashes. "It wouldn't have been wise, anyway. Too exposed. Potter and Weasley might wake up any time now."

Terry looked at him steadily. "There are plenty of other places we could go," he said slowly. "Though that can wait until you tell me who told you."

Draco froze. Was Terry calling his bluff or was he... oh shit. "You really are..." Draco almost squeaked.

Terry rolled his eyes. "Yes, Malfoy, I like boys. I was under the impression you did too." Draco flinched. Terry had the power now, and Terry knew it. "Don't tell me you were trying to distract me, Malfoy," Terry added.

"We can't," Draco murmured.

"No one told you, did they?" Terry narrowed his eyes. "You were just trying to call my bluff. Well, consider it called, Malfoy. Now make good on that."

"I'll tell people," Draco said, rallying at last. "Consider this blackmail."

"Why should they believe you, Malfoy? You've made up rumours before, and everyone knows you hate anyone who isn't in Slytherin." A thought struck him, "Except Hermione, that is," he added.

"Oh, there are still people who'd believe me. If I tell enough, they'll pass it on and before long those who wouldn't take my word for it will take others'. Who knows, it may even work in your favour. Perhaps you'll get a few boy toys out of it. Of course, there are some who won't look kindly on it. I wonder what your parents would say?"

Terry frowned thoughtfully. "They'd adapt. I have to tell them some day. But you're right, I wouldn't want them to find out from you."

"So let's call it a truce," Draco suggested, abruptly amiable. "All you could do is embarrass me, all I can do is start a rumour. Some would believe it, some wouldn't, and you'd just have to either confirm or deny it."

"So we both stay quiet?" Terry asked.

"I don't see why not."

Terry looked him up and down. "And you?"

"And me?" Draco frowned in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Are you..."

"Oh. No," Draco blushed. "I was just calling your bluff."

"Yeah right," Terry grinned disarmingly. "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt."

"Wow, cliché," Draco said dryly. "Say what you like, I know where my preferences lie. I am always certain of myself. How could I ever be certain of anything else, if I wasn't?"

"You are either extremely self confident, which I admire, or extremely arrogant, which I don't," Terry said. "So, Merry Christmas, I'm going back to bed."

"Sleep tight," Draco smiled.

Ron lay in bed and stared up at the canopy. It had to have been a dream, absolutely had to. Right? He couldn't have just heard what he thought he had, even if his eyes had been open and he'd been staring at a very likely to be real canopy the whole time. And still was. Did that mean he was trying to convince himself he was dreaming while he was still asleep?

It didn't feel like a dream in any way except the sheer surrealism. Terry Boot trying to blackmail Malfoy. Malfoy hitting on Terry. Terry admitting to being gay. It just... The only bit that made sense was Malfoy's dream. Ron knew just how Hermione could inspire such dreams, and he was very aware of Malfoy's feelings for his friend.

It had to be a dream. Had to...

Right?