Shah Mata

Chapter Three

"Oh, hello, Harry. What are you doing in here? Thought you would be outside on an afternoon like today's. Marvellous flying weather."

Damn you, Ernest Macmillan.

"Hi, Ernie," Harry replied weakly.

"What're you reading? A Compendium of Creative Curses... Is this for the DA? I was really hoping it would start up again, but I thought it would happen before now if it were going to." It's the third week. How impatient can you be? "But I was talking to Anthony, and he's been talking to Terry, and Terry said Hermione said that you hadn't said anything about it."

And I was hiding so successfully, too. "I hadn't thought about it, honestly. I suppose we should find out who's interested still..."

"Bet Dumbledore would let you run it properly this year. Oh, but then I suppose people might join who you didn't want to, like Slytherins, just for a chance to 'accidentally' hex us... Well, maybe the DA could be private again, and we could start up a Duelling Club."

"Do you remember the last one?" Harry asked, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, but that was just Lockhart. He was hopeless, honestly. Still, I would rather him than that Umbridge woman - at least he appreciated clubs. What happened to that chap, anyway?"

"No idea." Harry focussed very significantly on the heavy text in front of him, but Ernie either did not notice or did not care, rabbiting on as though Madam Pince did not exist.

"I bet we could start one," he declared. "It would be fun. I think I'll put it to the next prefects' meeting - bet Flitwick would help run it, he likes that sort of stuff - I know Snape did it last time, but I don't much fancy approaching him, since he's already got this chess tournament on his plate..."

"Chess tournament?"

"Honestly, Harry. You haven't heard?" Well, obviously not. "Have you been living in the library?" Yes, and I was quite happy here until you came along. "First prize is some Honeydukes' sweets and one hundred house points. It's not at all like Snape to be so generous. I'm going to enter. Anyway, about the Duelling Club. Would you help, if I got one started?"

"Sure," Harry said, not truly listening by this point, feeling rather trapped and wishing desperately that Ernie would just go away. Ernie was suffocating at the best of times, and this was not one of them.

Ernie was considering Harry very strangely; Harry only noticed because of the momentary silence. He lowered his voice, a fair miracle in itself. "Listen, mate, are you OK? I know we're not close or anything, but I can't help but notice that you and Ron...aren't exactly getting along."

Harry groaned. "Does everybody know?"

"That you two are fighting? Yeah. No one's really sure what about, though."

An odd impulse overcame Harry, prompting him to tell Ernie. "Hermione. Ron -"

"I wondered if that might not happen," Ernie said thoughtfully. "My condolences." The Hufflepuff patted him on the shoulder and made to stand up. Harry realised in a split second just what Ernie was consoling him about.

"No, it isn't like that - we're not fighting over her -"

Ernie just gave him a knowing grin. "Sure, Harry. But if you are on the outs, I recommend Lavender Brown for a visit."

What?!

*

"Theodore!"

Yes! His ambition rejoiced at Granger's voice echoing down the hallway on Friday night. Were it further into his plan, he would turn and wait for her, smiling indulgently. But it was not, so Ted kept walking, pretending not to have heard. Didn't I tell her to call me 'Ted'? The flicker of annoyance stoked his resilience.

"Theodore, wait up!" We are walking. We do not stop walking. We slow, slightly, but that is all. Run, Mudblood. This once I shall deign to let you catch me.

With a resigned sigh that was not so much a noisy exhalation as a subtle droop of posture-trained shoulders Ted lazily glanced back down the hall and acted out a credible double-take.

"Oh! Granger. Sorry, I was thinking... Did you want something?" Feigning surprise and embarrassment, Ted scratched his head a little.

"Yes, I'm a bit stuck on this Runes translation..." Yeah, right! "...and I was wondering if you would lend me a hand - Terry has no idea about it, and I know you're good."

I know I'm good, too, but a little reminder never goes astray. Inwardly, he smirked, but there was no way he was going to let this rodent see. "Oh, I could spare a moment or two, I suppose..." he replied doubtfully, pulling his watch out to check it.

"Is that a full wizard pocket-watch?" she enquired, fascinated. And Ted could not keep the smirk off his face as he held it out with a condescending air, letting her see from a distance. "With the planets and moons? How detailed is the system?"

"I suppose you would be interested in it, seeing as you take Arithmancy and Astronomy," he drawled. "Tell me, Granger, have you ever studied Calculus?"

He caught her completely off-guard, just as he had planned. "Cal-Calculus? Muggle Calculus?"

"Yes, Muggle Calculus." The disdain was clear in his voice. "I thought you might have studied it, considering you are...what you are."

"If you're going to insult me, Nott, just do it and have done."

"Not every Slytherin has such extremist attitudes as Draco Malfoy." I happen to; I am simply less public when airing them.

"Sorry. I haven't, no. Would you like to come back to the library with me?"

Ted smiled with what he hoped was a nervous edge. "Sure."

*

Draco was sitting quietly in a corner of the library, for once alone, but he was not using the uncustomary peace to study. He was using it to observe.

When one is the focus of everyone's attention, Draco had found, one tends to lose touch with the less significant elements of politics. So he sat, and he watched, and he nearly fell off his chair when Nott entered with Hermione Granger. How had he missed that particular development? Ah, they were sitting with Terry Boot. Interesting. Nott and Boot were opposite ends of the scales: Nott was lucky to string three words together, and Boot could not keep his mouth shut, ever. Stupid Mudblood.

Not quite as interesting, but certainly worth noting, was Ronald Weasley playing chess with Tracey Davis. Davis was winning, he noted. This was no average accomplishment; by all reports, Weasley was rather good at chess. Some had gone so far as to say he was excellent at the long- and short-term strategies required for the game. These two were much closer; Draco could hear their hushed conversation, and wondered if the girl had purposefully situated herself at such a proximity. He would not put it past her.

"...I don't know what to do. Hermione's talking to me - whatever you said, it worked, things are almost back to normal now - but Harry keeps turning his back on me whenever I say so much as 'hello'. I dunno, Trace; what do I do? Help me out here..." Problems in Potter Paradise? Also, Gryffindor-to-Slytherin nickname duly noted.

"Just ignore him. He's not worth it. I'm taking your knight."

"I can't ignore him. He's my best mate; he lives in my dorm."

"Find a new one. And the second's no problem, either. I live with Pansy, Millicent, and Daphne; none of them are fuzzy kittens, let me tell you."

Weasley grimaced. "No, that wouldn't be fun. How do you stand them?"

"We've been through this. I'm invisible. That's why I'm even talking to you, remember?" Draco's ears perked up. He felt his left one physically shift, widening slightly to hear better.

"Anyway," Weasley seemed to have decided to ignore this, perhaps having heard it too many times to be sympathetic, "what do I do about Harry? You're the one with all the plans. Fix it." Plans? Davis, you have been branching out, Draco thought with a smirk. How very intriguing. Go on, Weasel King. Draco wondered if he should remove the honorific, but shrugged the thought away - it wasn't important right then.

"I'll decide later. You can stand the cold shoulder for a few more days, can't you?" Davis whined quietly.

"I s'pose," Weasley assented gloomily. "But you better come up with something good." Yes, Tracey, you had better. I'll be quite interested to see what it will be.

He stood up, aware that he needed a different text, and was careful to not quite brush Davis' chair on his way past. Purposefully, he took his time taking down the book, fussing about getting a stool, then pretending he could not spot the volume again. He was in Nott's direct view; the boy would take this as an acknowledgement, and he had better. Draco knew what Nott had been told to do, and why. His pride was still warring with his inactivity, urgently wanting to sabotage the plan that Nott must execute due to Draco's...failure (oh, that hurt to even think). Interesting angle, that was, to befriend Granger; Draco certainly would never have attempted that. But Draco been given too many opportunities and failed every single time. He just could not keep his temper around Potter... There was something about the boy that made him want to wring his scrawny, well-tanned neck...

Nott raised his eyebrows. He was hovering his quill over Boot's parchment, talking in a low voice about the work, but Draco knew the raised eyebrows were for him. It occurred to him that he might look slightly foolish. He was perched on a stool, lost in thought, a heavy volume held in both hands in front of him, and...well, staring at Nott. Draco quickly glanced through the shelves, desperate for somewhere else to look.

Oh, this is too rich.

Potter was sitting at the low counter in the next bay of shelves, with his back to Draco. If Draco wanted to, he could hit Potter with a jinx, completely uninhibited. But then, of course, Granger would hit him with a hex, possibly knocking him off the stool, which now seemed like a rather precarious perch. He climbed down, thinking the opportunity of Potter alone must not go entirely to waste, even if Granger and Weasley were in the room, if not sitting with Scarhead. Casually, he sauntered around the aisles, slipping into Potter's when he was certain Granger was not looking (Weasley could not possibly see him from this angle).

Nott shifted his chair slightly, wood scraping on wood. The noise impinged on Draco's consciousness, and Madam Pince surely would have heard it. Potter did not react at all; Draco was watching him very carefully as he feigned another textbook search.

After exactly one minute and forty-three seconds (not that he was timing), Potter spoke, keeping his tone low. "Get it over with, Malfoy."

"Get what over with?" he returned innocently, his voice at a normal level.

"You really want Ron and Hermione over here? If they spot the two of us alone, they'll hex you first and ask questions later."

Draco abandoned the non-existent book in favour of leaning against the bench near Potter. "And that's a bad thing for you...why?" The Gryffindor was not looking at him, steadily working away, and, for some reason, this greatly annoyed Draco.

"That isn't any of your business."

"Hiding?" No reply was forthcoming. "Look, it's OK, you're allowed. I mean, Weasley's playing chess with one and Granger's having a heavy discussion about Ancient Runes - by the way, tell her she has the answer to number seven wrong, I checked on the way past - with another; I think you're allowed to talk to me."

"One what, and why would I want to, Malfoy? You're not the best conversationalist, you know. Sorry to burst the bubble."

Draco pulled out the chair next to Potter's and invited himself to sit. "'One what' is a Slytherin. Tracey Davis and Theodore Nott respectively."

"They're allowed. They can talk to whomever they please. I don't own them. You may not have noticed, self-absorbed as you are, but Ron and Hermione are not Crabbe and Goyle clones."

"There's breaking news. You mean Weasley converses in more than grunts?"

Potter looked up now, slowly turning his face towards Draco, confusion congealing. "Did you just make a crack at your own friends, in a sideways sort of way?"

"Yes, I did. Close your mouth; you look ridiculous."

"What was your Boggart, Malfoy?"

It was Draco's turn to open and close his mouth for a moment without speaking. What a sudden turn in the conversation. Well, he had said 'ridiculous'. "Think I'm going to just hand out my worst fear on a platter to my nemesis?"

"Silver one, if you please."

"That's promising. No more gold?"

"Don't get any ideas, Malfoy. It's a Muggle expression, not a Slytherin one."

"More's the pity," Draco sneered. "I just had this wonderful daydream of converting you, and you shattered it in about two seconds."

"Sorry, Malfoy; go recruit junior Death Eaters elsewhere. Golden Boy isn't into that."

Draco's chest suddenly felt tight. How much did Potter know?

"Cat got your tongue?"

"I believe it was a lion," he replied, his heart beating fast but managing a faint smirk. "I'm not - I'm not that."

"Sure."

Draco yanked up his left sleeve, anger bubbling again. "Look at my arm, Potter. Look. Do you see a Mark? No. I am not a Death Eater. So you can take that idea and just bin it."

"Fine. You're a sympathiser. Or has Daddy in prison even put a damper on that?" Potter jeered. Draco didn't realise he was on his feet until he was forcing the other boy's head down on the desk, ready to punch him. But before Potter could even finish his blind fumbling for his wand, and before Draco could get off a single blow, Nott was there, pulling him off Potter, forcing him back down the narrow aisle, barricading his path with his body. Draco strained against him, trying to get past, get at Potter. Potter was straightening up, collecting his things, Vanishing the spilt ink; Granger and Boot were at the entrance, hovering, asking worried questions. Nott was calmly saying something to him, but it fell on ears roaring with blood. Draco wanted to hurt Potter. He wanted to permanently injure him. And now Nott was blocking him; Nott was supposed to be on his side.

"What did you do with my wand?!" Draco screamed at the other Slytherin. Nott told him to shut up. Draco barely noticed the others leaving; in his mind's eye, Potter was still within reach. He flung himself at Nott, using his greater weight to displace the other boy, rushing out into the library, past a surprised Davis and a startled Weasley, out into the hall - Potter was gone. The three had disappeared.

"You were very lucky, Malfoy," Nott informed him quietly, letting the library door swing shut. "Madam Pince was in the storeroom."

"I don't care!" Draco shouted.

"By the way, thanks for helping me out there. I was wondering what the next trick with Granger was going to be. Perhaps a bit sooner than I would have liked, but that can't be helped."

"You think I care about you stupid task?" Draco demanded shrilly. "You think I meant to help? I mean - I could have -" Finally he stopped, hands tangled in his hair. Nott had stayed stationary while Draco had been pacing the corridor, and was now eerily behind him.

"It's working so far. Report that, Malfoy. If you should do anything like this again with me in the proximity - well, I might not be as close-mouthed about it as I ought to be. I don't think...certain people...would appreciate how openly known your position has become. I suggest you remedy the situation - immediately." He tossed Draco's wand back to him, and with that Nott turned on his heel and left, boots sounding firmly down the corridor.

Draco sagged against the wall. Nott was right. He had been lucky Madam Pince had been out of the room. How frequently did that happen? His breathing calmed; he managed to stop panting. The red after-haze had faded almost entirely from his eyes, even if his heart rate was still higher than usual. His ears still rang slightly, and his entire body was trembling from adrenaline, stimulated by the confrontations with both Nott and Potter.

Weasley emerged from the library, talking quietly with Davis. "I didn't harm your precious Potter any, Weasley," Draco snarled tiredly.

The Gryffindor hesitated, then said lightly, "Actually, Malfoy, I reckon Harry can keep that lookout for himself."

"He didn't harm me any, either," Draco called after him.

*

Harry's neck ached. "I'm fine, Hermione; he didn't hurt me at all."

"Are you sure?" she replied anxiously. "I couldn't see properly when we got there - Nott got in the way - but he didn't curse you or punch you or anything?"

"Lucky Nott was there," Terry mused. "I reckon he's had to referee Malfoy's fights before. He handled that pretty easily."

"How could he not have?" Hermione demanded, still trying to check Harry over as they walked along the corridor. "He must have. Nothing hurts? Itches? Tingles, even?"

"No," Harry snapped irritably. "Look, Hermione, I'm fine. I just want to go back to the tower and go to bed, all right?"

"OK," she conceded, looking doubtful. "Terry, you'll have to finish on your own, or else find Nott; I'm going to walk Harry back up to Gryffindor, just in case Malfoy's put something nasty on him that takes a while to kick in."

Harry very nearly groaned out loud. She's more paranoid than I am. "I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Oh, before I forget," he added, feeling slightly vindictive, "Malfoy said you had question seven wrong, Hermione. He looked on his way past, apparently."

"Typical," Hermione grumbled.

"I'll check it," Terry offered.

"Thanks. Come on, Harry."

Once in the common room, however, Hermione settled in to poke and prod Harry, checking that all of his limbs were in working order. When she discovered the red finger marks on his neck, she made Harry do twists and flexes, making sure Malfoy had not damaged Harry's back. It was entertaining for everyone else in the common room to watch Harry do aerobics, grumbling at Hermione's insistence, but it was extremely frustrating for Harry, who simply wanted to be left alone.

Perhaps over the summer he had acquired a taste for it; he had spent much time up in his room, experiencing self-enforced solitary confinement. He had not replied to all of Ron's and Hermione's letters and had only scribbled a brief note back to Hagrid. In any case, it was something of a relief to tramp up the staircase and crawl into bed, even though he just lay there for a while, listening as the other boys trickled in.

Despite his longing for solitude, it had been nice to spot the tiny pyramid charm he had given Hermione for her birthday dangling from her wrist as she examined him. He was thankful that he still had that best friend - even if she was annoyingly bossy at times.

*

"Ron," Harry called sleepily as his friend readied for bed.

"What?" came the terse reply. He was not in the mood for another row with Harry.

"You remembered Hermione's birthday yesterday, right?"

Ron paused, trying to get his runaway temper back under control. "Of course I did. I gave her a book in the morning."

"Good." There was the sound of rustling blankets as Harry rolled over, presumably putting his back to Ron.

Stuff Tracey's plan. Two weeks was too long of a fight with Harry. Clad only in tattered pyjama bottoms, he marched over, opened Harry's curtains, and plonked down on the bed, whisking them shut behind him. As he had suspected, Harry was facing away from him, but he now rolled onto his back, annoyed.

"What do you want?"

"Look, mate, I'm sorry."

"A Slytherin, Ron. I found out from Malfoy."

"It's not like that," he said softly. "We're not - like that."

Harry sat up, fumbling for his glasses on the cupboard. "You're damn lucky you remembered Hermione's birthday, because, if you didn't, you wouldn't be sitting there right now." Ron nodded, silent. "What's the deal, then, with Davis?"

"She's..." Ron cast around for an excuse, "helping me prepare for the chess comp."

Harry stared at him for a moment. Eventually, resignedly, he said, "OK." His shoulders slumped, and he dropped back in bed. Ron's heart sank. Harry did not believe his lie, even if it was only a white one and the shadows in the dorm were hiding his face.

"Did Malfoy do any lasting damage?"

"No. He did barely any damage at all, thanks to Theodore Nott." Harry was sounding cranky again. "No thanks to me."

What? Ron had been expecting Harry to blame him. He struggled to find the right words to fend off this...whatever it was.

"You had no warning. You couldn't've done anything."

"I had plenty of warning," Harry said bitterly, and Ron wondered how long this had been building up. As a matter of fact, he could take a reasonable guess at that: since they went to the Department of Mysteries. Thinking about it that way was easier than thinking 'the day Sirius died'. Was Harry blaming himself for that, too? "I was just going to sit there and let him start it. What is that about?"

Harry would not want to hear what Ron thought that was about. It was easier just to say, "I don't know." Ron did not want to wreck this fragile start back to their friendship, although Harry seemed to have slipped straight back into the full swing of it. "I don't reckon you would have just sat there and taken it, Harry. You would have fought back."

"S'pose," Harry muttered, then yawned. "S'pose we should get some sleep."

Ron said good night and slipped back to his own bed. Just as he was closing the curtain, however, Seamus piped up, "So does that mean you two are back on track?"

Ron was very glad that Harry was the first to start laughing, and he was not far behind.

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