The Subtle Knife

Chapter 5: Research and Development

Draco failed his next Potions test.

Miserably.

It didn't help that he hadn't been able to sleep for three nights in a row, either. He sported vivid purple bags under his eyes (his mother would have threatened to hide them with concealer) and there was a wisp of blond hair at the back of his head that had taken a page out of Potter's book and refused to be brushed back into submission. Draco had even tried using some of Tim Nott's WizzidoTM Hair Gel, but it just stuck up stiffly afterwards. Like his increasingly frequent morning erections that Potter gave his subconscious.

Potter...

The stupid little chunk of hair had to pick double Potions on Wednesday, of all classes, to spring up in. Draco spent the whole class trying to tame the wayward lock. He was being unusually self-conscious about his appearance. Weasley and Potter found this amusing. Draco tried to send Potter, in particular, black looks and glares-of-death, but these ended up turning into uncomfortable bouts where Draco's cheeks had the habit of flushing and flaring up.

Well, Draco thought, they failed their test too.

Draco was distracted by the weird things that had been happening lately. His mind just wasn't on schoolwork- even though he didn't often have to study that hard to get decent enough marks. This was a different sort of distraction.

The day after Draco had stolen the newspaper clipping from the Mudblood Granger, his father had sent him a brief note harassing him if he had chosen a `date' yet for `his big day'. The letter happened to arrive on November 1, All Soul's Day.

That was a little more than ironic.

He hadn't actually ever thought that being a Death Eater actively involved killing Mudbloods and Muggles- tormenting, shunning, a little torture, maybe, but murder? He thought that the `death' part came as more of an afterthought, if they got in the way or something. Draco thought on this.

But these people who died in the attack (which Draco knew Fudge would never admit had anything to do with the wizarding world); they were younger than he was. The lot of them were really young. It was cliché, and all, but they really hadn't begun their lives yet. Draco thought a lot on that, too.

Clearly purifying the wizarding world's blood would involve more casualties than he had anticipated, and equally as many innocent Muggles.

But...

Since when did he ever care about the lives of Muggles? He had never pitied them in the past. They were just...Muggles. Silly, simple, strange Muggles who were really one step below wizards in the hierarchy of humanity. He hated them, really, just like he hated Muggle-lovers like Dumbledore and Potter.

Potter...

The wizarding blood was far too diluted and dirty. He had an obligation to fix that problem, being a full-blooded wizard. He was helping the wizards everywhere. It was his pureblooded duty. His father was helping the wizarding world.

But...Draco didn't want to kill people, especially have to kill them himself. Getting his own hands dirty was never a part or the job description his father had given him. No, Lucius had insinuated that much of his work involved traveling, meeting up with the `old crowd', getting a few new recruits here and there, dinner parties and dances, stuff like that. However...

Last year, he would have sworn that he wanted to get the Dark Mark painted onto his arm and parade around the Great Hall with Potter and the other Gryffindorks cowering in fear. Or at least just Potter and his sidekicks- with everyone else, his chances at becoming Head Boy might be jeopardized.

That was what he wanted, that and to make his father proud. The two of which went hand-in-hand.

He sighed, and set his chin down melancholically on his desk. The classroom was buzzing in its own quiet way, normally soothing with its sweet scents of stewing herbs and spicy oils permeating the haze of the dungeon room. His own cauldron was bubbling away rapidly, but Draco was oblivious to this.

"Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape had nodded to Draco, "a word with you?"

"Yes, Sir." Draco trudged up to the front of the dungeon classroom; his head must have hung maybe a little lower than usual because Snape eyed him scrupulously.

"What is this?" Snape's tone had changed drastically, now it was an angry hiss. Draco could almost see why the Gryffindors loathed the professor so much, if this was how he always spoke to them. Snape waved Draco's most recent test paper in front of the boy's eyes.

Draco frowned when he caught the mark. Thirty seven percent! Normally, he earned high nineties. His father would be livid if he ever found out. "Sorry, Sir," he said in a mumbling drawl, trying to sound a little less fazed than he came across as. "I don't know what I was thinking-"

"That is obvious." Snape glared. Then, in a lower, softer voice that Draco remembered the Potions Master having used with the first year Slytherins on their first day at Hogwarts after the Sorting ceremony: "If you ever have anything" he stressed, "anything you need to discuss..." His unvoiced offer hung in the cedar and puffskeinskin fumes of the classroom unsaid.

"No, Sir." Draco furrowed his brow, and began to slink back to his lab bench.

"And the next time, Mr. Malfoy, do not stoop down to Potter and Weasley's level." The two Gryffindors' heads popped up from their deep conversation about something, both slightly pink. "It doesn't suit you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taking some of Blaise's earlier advice, Draco decided to focus his attention elsewhere. Instead of going up to his dorm to study for a Charms test the upcoming week, he headed for the library on the first Sunday afternoon of November. The prefects' meeting finished early that day so he had plenty of time. The day before had been the Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff Quidditch game. Gryffindor had, unfortunately, won.

Draco didn't actually have the knife with him this time. He didn't want to be reminded of anything related to his father at the present. Researching the dagger didn't remind him, but looking at it did.

Just look at yourself in the mirror to see Lucius...

Rather than bringing the actual dagger, Draco had quickly sketched a relatively accurate drawing of the details on the front of the hilt and one picture of the back as well. He had the sketches, along with a roll of parchment and a self-refilling quill packed in his bag and headed for a promising aisle of volumes in the library. He pulled out a couple more books on magical weapons that he had overlooked on previous visits to the library and then he settled himself down at his favoured table near the Restricted Section. Madam Pince hovered around the locked gate like the raptor she was, but other than that she left him alone.

But someone was sitting there already. Draco felt his cheeks turn a slight shade of pink. He glared at Harry Potter from the opposite side of the table, but was almost relieved to see him. He could deal with Potter today, if he needed to, especially since they had both been in attendance at the prefects' meeting that morning and naught so much as a glance had passed between the two. Unfortunately, Draco did notice that his hands weren't nearly as steady as he had thought they had been since the meeting and the small stack of books that he had been carrying toppled all over the table, onto Potter's randomly spread out parchment rolls of assignments.

Potter groaned in annoyance, shoving his books over to the side of the table where Draco had seated himself. "Can't you sit somewhere else, Malfoy?"

"Can't you?" Draco countered gleefully. His eyes narrowed and hid the faint light of hope in them. "This is my table, Potty," he announced.

Potter frowned again and chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. His green owl-eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Well, then you can share today, because I was here first."

Draco snorted. Arguments for No! and Yes! were competing in his brain. He nodded. "Fine."

Potter picked up his chewed ink-stained quill and went back to furiously scribbling something on a roll of parchment. His eyes would roam over a single burgundy book checked out from the library, then back to glare momentarily at Draco as he tried to read his own book. The Gryffindor stopped for a moment, munching on the wrong end of the quill. The ink that stained the side of his mouth went unnoticed.

Draco wondered how Potter would react if he licked the smear away.

Potter's loud growl brought Draco back to reality, "Stupid piece of junk!" He crumpled what he was writing into a tight wad. He threw the ball across the library, but he was a Seeker, not a Chaser, so it somehow bounced off the nearest bookshelf and hit Draco in the leg.

Madam Pince noticed the Gryffindork's outburst. She didn't say anything, but she pursed her lips and glowered at Potter. Potter promptly shut up and cringed.

Draco, who had hardly been that immersed in Dark Daggers and the Dangers with Them, picked up the ball that had rolled by his feet and pried it apart. His eyes scanned the title with more interest than he had been displaying the whole while and he smirked. "Whatever could possibly be plaguing the Great Harry Potter so much? Studying Hex-breaking Potions? For what"

Potter's eyes widened and he tried vainly to retrieve the discarded paper that Draco was now reading with gusto. "Give that here."

Draco wiggled a finger. "Not until you tell me what it's for. We aren't studying hex-breaking potions in class."

"Well...maybe it's for extra credit." Potter chewed on his lower lip nervously.

"...don't believe you..." Draco said in a sing-song voice and danced the parchment in front of the other boy.

"Look, Malfoy," Potter said darkly as he fruitlessly tried to recover his work, "if you want to know that badly it's because my godfather suggested it. Let it alone."

This sounded a little strange to Draco. Wasn't Potter's godfather an escaped convict still? Why would he be telling Potter what to read up about when he should be off murdering other wizards and Muggles?

Like your father...

However, hex-breaking potions only reminded Draco of his own experience with them. Right after fourth year, when Potty and his Weasel pals had used five different hexes on him at once on the train ride home. He had gone home with itchy little tentacle-boils all over his face and chest. His father had been livid with Draco, but his mother had insisted her husband get the potion out straight away to "...fix my poor son...". The potion made him sick for days afterwards, with a high fever and a bad case of the runs. The infusion had tasted faintly like salty potatoes, too. The whole experience was gross and the humiliation remained ingrained in his memory.

But Potter was also very incorrect on the notes he had made on the potions. Draco shook his head. "This isn't bad, but you should really consider using Toad Flax and Datura, as opposed to Thistle root, if you want to repel any sort of reptilian translocations or invocations. It'll be easier on your stomach. And add Holy Thistle to it to increase the potion's lifespan."

"Oh," Potter took the scroll back and wrote the Slytherin's advice down, and then he looked up warily. "Erm...thank you," he said cautiously.

Draco smiled, sort of, and went back to Dark Daggers, which was as boring, if not more so, than Hogwarts: A History. He had taken the liberty of reading it in his fifth year, at his father's request- know thy enemies and such.

The furious scratching of quill to parchment ceased. Draco looked up and Harry Potter was staring at him strangely, as though Draco had grown another head- Draco knew a spell to do that. His father had taught him.

Potter had an odd expression on his face, and his glasses were sliding down his nose again.

Draco stared back and tried not to think of Harry Potter and naughty things at the same time.

Harry Potter topless and panting...

Harry Potter topless and writhing...

Harry Potter naked and writhing exquisitely beneath him...

Draco could only imagine what Potter's trousers hid too. Maybe a first year could puke on the Gryffindor's bottoms and Draco could lend him a pair. He felt his cheeks go a little pink, but he raised a pale eyebrow anyway.

"What are you doing?" the Gryffindor asked, now fingering the hideous green pendant he wore like a protective amulet.

"Research," Draco answered. He didn't want to say anything more because he was reminded of what he was supposed to do with the dagger.

"For what?" Potter's eyes flicked to the title on the book cover.

Draco debated with himself a moment before pulling out the sketches. Potter was a prefect, so he had to be at least marginally intelligent. Plus, how many times had he defeated the most powerful wizard ever known?

This was, however, nearly outweighed by the fact said individual was a Gryffindor.

Potter studied the drawings, scratching his nose. He looked somewhat surprised that Draco had willingly shown him something of his own. "What is this? Oh, right, that knife your father gave you. Why didn't you just bring it?"

Draco put on an air of pompous indifference. "Well," he drawled, "the actual dagger is in my dorm. I'm not about to have any one else touching it, now am I?" He smirked and hoped any tiny bit of concern he might have had for the dagger ever coming into Potter's hands wasn't showing. "I have no idea what it's for, though." He confessed, his grey eyes diverting from the other boy. "My father wants me to figure it out."

Potter's eyes narrowed when Draco mentioned his father. Draco thought he heard Potter mumble something about `Death Eaters' and `lazy git' together, but he let it slide. He didn't want to be on Potter's bad side when it came to this dagger. Who knows what it would do in Potter's hands? For all Draco knew it could turn Potter into a crazed murderer and kill him.

Plus, he'd rather Potter not tell the Headmaster either.

"It was just a gift, Potty. A silly little gift. There's no need to get all worked up over it."

Potter's eyes squinted even further and he pushed his chair backwards, as though to get up.

"I don't think he even knows what it does," Draco said in a rush. "I'm sure it was expensive, though." He offered a feeble smirk.

"And that's his idea of a decent gift?"

Draco smiled broadly as Potter pulled his chair closer to the table once more. "Of course."

Potter reached an arm over the table and grabbed a textbook. It was ancient and silver leaf sprinkled itself over their arms. "Do you mind?"

Draco's eyes widened incredulously at this. "No, feel free to do all of the grunt work."

Harry looked up from under the rim of his round glasses. "Not as though it wouldn't be something new for me." He said absently, his mouth beginning to frown.

Draco's own expression remained unchanged, but his pupils grew larger. "Oh? You aren't the great and wondrous Boy Who Lived in the Muggle world too?" Draco leaned back, satisfied with this. "I think that's the best thing I've heard all day." This was, in all honesty, the truth.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Potter said mildly. "You wouldn't understand them." He returned to his book promptly, hiding behind its cover.

Draco felt almost sorry (if that were possible) for Potter then. He didn't speak of his Muggle relations as though they were very important to him. His voice has lowered with betrayed emotion (bitter? angry? disgusted?) at this revelation and Draco knew that Harry seemed much younger at that moment. Draco didn't press on further nor did he say anything at all. Quiescence lapsed in the library, save for the muttered chattering of the Ravenclaws there to study. Potter looked away and his eyes began to rove absently over the same page or two the remainder of the afternoon and Draco watched him in silence, unnoticed except for the reflection of leaden eyes in the polished malachite stone of the battered necklace.

That week, Draco stayed away from Harry Potter like he tried to stay away from thinking about Death Eaters and his father. Both were inevitable to creep back into his life. But Harry...

He had seemed so...different in the library that Sunday. It was as though everything around him was changing, including the Boy Who Lived and Draco was caught somewhere in the trail behind. Both the recollection of Potter's increased vulnerability in the library and all of the fantasies he was having had thundered away at his reasoning. Draco certainly didn't know what to say to the other boy, or what he should say.

"Hi, I've been fantasizing about you, Potter. Want to do something about it?" No.

"Potter, do you want to talk about this? I know something's wrong with your home life and I don't know what to think of my father anymore. Let's angst about it and have a catharsis." No.

"I had a dream about you Potter, only it was these two weird people as well. What should I do?" No.

His life was seriously fucked up at this point.

For one thing, Draco had very few feelings for Potter other than intense loathing (especially at refusing his friendship in their first year) or perhaps disdain for having to live with Muggles. These Muggles, who, from Harry's- Potter's- reaction, were clearly not the best people to be living with, in addition to being stupid and dirty and uncivilized.

But the dream! And everything else! Draco missed the simple life of previous years. When he knew he hated Harry Potter. When he would have done anything to humiliate the boy.

Now though...

Pansy was still rumored to be holed up in her dormitory, coping (bravely) with Draco's rejection. Draco managed to avoid Pansy like the shrieking plague she was. Her blow jobs may have disguised her unpleasantries before, but Draco's eyes were open now.

Especially to changes between Harry Potter and himself...

Neither of these new developments went unnoticed by the dynamic duo of Crabbe and Goyle; Draco chose to sneak out on Friday evening, again, for a (much needed) opportunity to figure out what the hell his father had given him. Especially with the post-script intensely pressuring him into giving the dagger away to someone like Harry Potter- though Lucius would never go so far as to say directly who it was for. Clearly, the dagger possessed some sort of power that could be used against the Boy Who Lived. This power was, in all likelihood, the work of dark magic. But, despite the fact that the dagger was (probably) dark and definitely powerful, Draco felt himself drawn towards it. He didn't want to give it away, despite the danger label attached to it.

And now he felt it increasingly unlikely that he wanted to harm Potter, either. As well, he needed to figure out the weapon soon.

With the dagger hidden in a well-concealed pocket of his trousers (lest a professor catch him) Draco slinked into the Slytherin Common Room under the veil of his Invisibility Cloak. For starters, the library would be closed at this hour (lights-out was an hour or so off, but students were to be in their common rooms or bed now) and secondly, he did not want to be questioned by anyone. He rather liked the solitary aspect the cloak brought to him and he wanted to be alone to do the research on his most important possession.

The cloak was a good idea after all, as Crabbe and Goyle were conversing about him. They were both squeezed onto a couch by a leaded bottle-green glass lamp in a corner of the Common Room.

"Malfoy's sick, I think," Crabbe muttered lowly. There were still a number of students nearby.

Draco thought that Crabbe looked sicklier- the garish glow of the lamp was playing at the jowls and chins on the boy, painting them at a surreal angle that was in no way flattering. Draco was also mildly surprised that Crabbe was capable of expending such energy on using his brain, though, if he had given it more thought, Crabbe was more capable than Goyle. But only just.

"Nah," Goyle grunted in return.

"But he dumped Pansy."

I should have done that months ago, Draco though as he paused along a mottled side table to listen. All she wants is sex...

Not that you complained at the time. Look at yourself; you're not getting anything now!

I have other, more important things on my mind.

Like Potter?

Draco stumbled into the sharp edge of the table. The cold stone cut into his thigh painfully. What the fuck? Can't I ever not bring Potter into the situation?

"What was that?" Goyle glanced over to Draco's direction, oblivious to the boy hidden under the cloak.

"Nothin'" Crabbe elbowed Goyle in the gut. "Oi! Were you even listening to me?"

Goyle slugged his fist back at Crabbe. "Yeah. He hasn't bothered Potter since last week. Big deal."

"Must be sick, then," Crabbe concluded.

"Or possessed." Goyle snorted. "Or poisoned. Or cursed."

Crabbe just grunted out what Draco usually took as an affirmative laugh of sorts.

Goyle shook his head, which came out more as a sort of wobble in his neck. "Nah, I still think he's in love. Not with Pansy."

Crabbe's beady eyes widened with disbelief.

"I mean, did you see him in Potions on Wednesday? Just starin' off into space all lesson."

Crabbe whacked Goyle again, who returned the gesture. "And," Goyle went on, "he hasn't been around much. Just hangs out in his dormitory or sleeps."

"That's all you do. `Sides Draco's a prefect; he can do what he wants. And maybe he's not happy after breaking up with Pansy," Crabbe insisted thickly.

"It's unrequited."

Crabbe growled, "Do you even know what that word means?"

Goyle didn't reply for a moment, cracking his knuckles intently. "Do you?"

"Shut up, arsehole. That's not love, that's illness. Or preoccupation."

"Maybe, shite-head."

"Oh, I'm so scared, fuck wit." Crabbe chortled at his witty insult.

Draco decided at that point to creep out. In love? Crabbe and Goyle delusional idiots. He was preoccupied, but certainly not sick, or- he shuddered- in love. Dreaming about Potter and himself was one thing, love was another.

As it was a Friday evening and the library closed, the place was deserted. Well, nearly. Granger was still there, being a prefect allowed her to have special privileges, but she was leaving as well. Draco entered, pulling off his cloak and stepping into the dim glowing of the fading lanterns and absently floating candles.

Granger glared at Draco as she walked out. "Murderer," she hissed.

Draco thought of opening his mouth in a retort, but the library doors were swinging behind the girl already. He wasn't a murderer himself, but he was certainly the son of one. He felt dirty, maybe like a Mudblood himself, but he would never bring himself to admit it. If his father was a murderer and a Malfoy, did that make the Malfoys all murderers? He felt ashamed of his father's actions. That he could take human life to mean so little...

Even if they were (mostly) Muggles and Mudbloods.

Fuck! What's done is done! Even a time-turner couldn't help you now. Inwardly, Draco frowned. He needed to maintain control over the whole situation that he had brought on himself and his school-life. His father had little influence now that Draco was on Hogwarts property under the vigilant eye of Dumbledore, for which he was grateful at the present.

If Malfoys could be grateful.

Ugh!

He needed to stop wallowing in self-pity. Potter was the one who wallowed in self-pity, with his `Oh, woe is me for I am the Boy Who Lived' and `Oh, why must I live such a pained and cursed existence?'.

Draco slammed his fist down on the table where he sat. Why must everything come back to Potter? Leave me alone!

"Everything all right there, Malfoy?" A familiar, almost cheery voice called out.

Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. He feigned ignorance of Potter's presence and pulled out his dagger (still wrapped in its silk cloth). Since he was alone, or had planned on the solitude, he had decided to bring the actual weapon.

Harry Potter walked up to him. "Back again?" Potter smiled a little sheepishly. Draco really liked the way his lip was curling at the edge and the flush of Potter's face. "Need some help?" The Gryffindor's eyes were bright with hope and wrung the hem of his shirt in his hands.

Draco didn't know exactly what to say to the offer, but blurted out the first sensible thing "I thought the library was closed for the night."

Potter rolled his eyes. "You're a prefect. I'm a prefect. I don't see the problem."

The Slytherin thought about this for a moment, somewhat baffled at why Harry Potter, of all students, would be in the library, of all places, on a Friday night after hours. The crux of the matter was that he was here, so he should seize the opportunity.

Draco gave a slow smile. The muscles of his face felt strange not contorting into a smirk, a sneer or a smug smirk. And it felt good at the same time. He met the other boy's emerald gaze and matched it. "Yes, actually," he admitted easily. I would love for your help, Harry. "Maybe I'd work it out faster."

Harry's enigmatic smile broadened as he sat down across from Draco, his malachite necklace still hanging around his slim neck. Draco had the sudden urge to run his fingers along its fluid lines, along that golden flesh that radiated...

Must stop thinking about things like that. It's Potter! Potter, not Harry.

Draco noticed his hands were shaking against the hard oak of the table, a faint staccato tapping like how the water dripped from the eaves of the castle in the dungeons after a storm. "Studying down here with your Mudblood?" He needed to get back to the familiar animosity with Potter. This new stuff was too weird.

Potter scowled at Draco's slur, but nodded slowly nonetheless. "Hermione wants to get ahead again in Potions, maybe as revenge for when Snape gave her detention Monday."

Ah, yes, the Mudblood Granger had been caught lifting Pennyroyal seeds and Mayapple root from Snape's potions stores. The bint had been stupid enough to try to steal the ingredients during Potions class as opposed to sneaking in with an Invisibility Cloak after-hours. She claimed that she had only wanted to make an improved version of a Scintillating Solution. Draco thought that the Mudblood was only trying to show off her potions skills after Draco bested her (again) on the potion they made in class that week.

"It's nice to see her suffer down to the level of the rest of you," Draco sneered. "It does her good to realize she isn't the best student there is."

"She's really preoccupied, though," Potter defended his friend vehemently.

Ever the Gryffindor, defending his friends over detentions, Draco thought. "Aren't we all..." he drawled and chewed a fingernail intently.

"She...she was really hurt with what happened in Switzerland..." Potter offered.

Draco raised an eyebrow, willing Harry to go on to see what the other boy was getting at.

"The train wreck." Harry enunciated the words carefully and stared Draco down in the eye, as though he were searching for a confession to being a Death Eater and causing the accident.

"Mmm." Draco pursed his lips, wanting to tell Harry that he hadn't been involved, but afraid as coming off as a coward. Plus there was the larger fact that his Malfoy dignity kept any words firmly lodged in the back of his throat. He shifted his eyes guiltily away from Harry, fixing them on a bookshelf to the left of his head.

But what could he be branded a coward for? Lying? Making an arse of himself by speaking before he knew what he was getting into? Digging himself deeper into a hole?

"I think...everyone was a little shocked over it- surprised in the very least..." Draco let the words hang up in the air for Harry to mull over and come to his own conclusions. He wasn't saying anything directly, but he had certainly hinted. Although, the Boy Who Lived was rather thick...

"Even you?" he asked after a moment, his green eyes wide and questioning in the innocent and naïve manner that fluttered around Harry Potter like his groupies. He was too oblivious for his own good sometimes.

Draco sighed and thought about how he could rephrase it. "I...I had no idea about the attack." He admitted this in a rush, picking at the wrappings of the dagger as he tried to distract himself.

Harry nodded slowly in understanding. "Then- you didn't actually..."

"Well, no one else thinks that," Draco pulled the sheath from the dagger. Harry watched him closely. "Which is fine by me," he added.

Harry's mouth twitched a little. "Keeping up the evil façade?"

Draco's eyes softened but he had to smirk at the truthfulness. "Of course."

"I hoped- well, I knew that you weren't behind it, Malfoy," Harry said with such earnest that Draco felt his cheeks redden and he had to look away. The other boy reached into a small bag of books he had with him. "I found this," he said as he proffered a fading blue book to Draco.

Draco took the book skeptically. "And?" he asked.

Harry went a little red in the face too. Draco felt his heart beat slightly faster at the sight. Harry looked...well, attractive, really, when he turned pink. Draco liked the feeling the sight gave him, too. The faint tinge in his belly of...arousal?

No!

Draco pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He had his dagger to concentrate on now.

"Actually, I borrowed it from Hermione. She thought I should read it."

"Past Prefects?" Draco scoffed at the title. What a boring book!

"Well, I am one." Harry stated firmly. "No, turn to this page." He flipped through the book to a page marked with a fraying scarlet ribbon. He shoved the book into Draco's hands once more.

Draco looked up at him. "Well?"

"Read the second paragraph. About Richard Meelayna."

Draco cleared his throat and sat up straight, looking down his nose through invisible half-moon glasses. Harry shook his head at this. "Richard Meelayna" Draco read aloud the haughtiest voice he could muster, "Hogwarts graduate of 1784, Gryffindor House. Born 1767 to Mr. and Mrs. George E. Meelayna of Yorkshire, wizards of Basque origin. Died 1812 of a freak accident involving a carriage and a hinkypunk. A hinkypunk?" He glanced up to the other boy. "Potter, this is useless drabble."

"No, read further."

"Nephew of silversmith Sir Henry Hampstead Meelayna, also of Yorkshire who was famous for forging ritual sapphire binding daggers." Draco's head shot up and he stared at his own dagger in realization. "You think that's what it is?" he asked incredulously.

"We could check into it." Harry suggested. "It would be a start at least."

Draco gave him a look. "It's `we' now is it?"

"I thought you could use a little help." Harry huffed and folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm perfectly able to do this research on my own," Draco announced. "In fact, I'm good at it."

"Fine." Harry stood up, glaring. His chair was scraped back so quickly behind himself that it had fallen over with an echoing crash. Luckily, Madam Pince was not in sight.

"But...I'm grateful for your help," Draco added smoothly. "Providing you don't tell anyone."

Harry smiled and pulled his chair upright. He leaned close to Draco across the table, neck stretching out ever so scantily, if only to subconsciously torment the Slytherin with the action. "Of course I won't. It would sully your reputation as my arch-rival."

"And yours as the untarnished pride of Gryffindor."

Damn his neck looks so...ravishable!

Draco had to blink a couple times to regain his composure. He skimmed through the book. "The rest is useless?"

"Pretty much. But we could find out who this Sir Henry is. He's from the right time frame and area as your knife-"

"Dagger," Draco corrected.

Harry sighed exasperatedly. "Your dagger...it's silver and set with sapphires."

"Mmm...amethysts as well, though." Draco nodded. "And if it's not made by him, perhaps someone similar. We could check for contemporaries of his."

"Right." Harry rose to his and started to walk off suddenly.

"Where are you going?" Draco made a feeble attempt to grab the Gryffindor's arm, but ended up trailing it across the table.

"To look for books." Harry sniggered at Draco's ungraceful move.

"Oh." Draco felt like a fool for worrying over such a trivial thing and for prostrating himself like a virgin sacrifice overtop of the table.

Time passed in an unnoticed oblivion punctuated only with Harry or Draco occasionally rising to retrieve more books or to use the card catalogue to search for titles. There weren't too many books on Yorkshire silversmiths of the late eighteenth century to be found and even less mentioned the name `Meelayna'. The candles burned low into the night and the shadows in the library enveloped more of the room.

The clock over the door chimed once before Draco bothered to pay it any heed. Something grey and wispy floated in by the windows across the room and stopped at the table where the two boys sat.

The Grey Lady, paying them a visit. Harry looked at the ghost blankly and Draco eyed her with interest.

"Shouldn't you two both be in bed by now? Even the Ravenclaws are."

Draco didn't know quite what to say to the Ravenclaw resident ghost, but Harry seemed to. Then again, he got on with just about everyone, save the Slytherins.

"I thought you lived in the Ravenclaw section of the castle," the Gryffindor said. "Why would you be here?"

The Grey Lady smiled wistfully and motioned to the books. "I always liked the library here. So peaceful, especially now..." She sighed sadly.

Draco blinked. "What? Why?"

The ghost shook her transparent head. "I'm sorry..." Then she floated into the darkness of the library and was lost among the encyclopedias of household charms.

Draco looked at the other boy, who shrugged. Checking his watch, he realized that it was after midnight and he rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Fuck...it's after one in the morning now," he mumbled, his eyes suddenly sleep-deprived and drooping.

"Yeah, I guess it is." Harry glanced at the clock, and then stretched out his arms cat-like before yawning. He frowned slightly at the huge pile of books Draco had spread across the table. "It looks like you probably have enough books there to go on...see you in Potions on Monday-" He turned to walk away, shoulders sagging with a little more fatigue than necessary.

"Wait!" Draco called out before realizing the words had actually left his mouth. "Wait, Potter," he said more softly.

Harry turned around anxiously, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. "Yes?" he croaked, and then he cleared his throat to repeat himself.

"I'll probably be here next Saturday," Draco said offhand, glancing at his fingernails. The left index still had a little that could be chewed off. He winced at it. "I'm not going to bother to go to Hogsmeade..."

Potter grinned. "Getting drunk not worth it after all?"

"Ha ha." Draco gave a sarcastic smirk and Harry continued to grin back. "No, I...I'm not done researching this thing-" he gestured to the ritual dagger that he had taken into his hand. "-it's a lot of work," he added.

Harry didn't say anything, but Draco hoped the glint in his green eyes that matched the malachite necklace he wore was an answer enough.