Justified

Chapter Two
Cadmean Victory
Consequens victoriam est prius experiens aculeum concedentis.

He wasn't coming.

It was an encouraging thought. If Potter didn't show up, not only would Draco be excused from watching a sulking, sullen Gryffindor for the better part of the afternoon, more stringent punishments could be introduced. Draco grinned, his catlike, feral smile glowing along with his hair in the gloom of Rochester's classroom. Oh yes. Potter would play right into his vengeful hands. He thought back to the prefect's meeting, where many had objected to punishing their idol, humanizing their Hero.

"Listen. The appropriate thing in this situation is to punish him. We risk the reputation of this institution by letting Potter get away with his mini-rebellion." Draco's imperious voice carried across the fourth floor classroom the prefects used for meetings. He was a natural Head Boy, comfortable in his authority, absolute in his demands. Draco never settled for second-best, from himself, or from anyone else. His silver eyes met each student in turn, and finally drifted over to Professor Rochester's. The slim professor leaned carelessly across the table in his usual manner.

"I would have to agree with the Head Boy in this case. Mr. Potter is not more worthy of special treatment than any other." Draco looked triumphantly over at Granger, who remarked indignantly:

"I don't think any of you understand Harry at all. He isn't one to shirk his responsibilities without due cause. He must be plotting his actions against You-Know-Who."

"Oh, capital, Granger. I suppose you would suggest we withdraw Potter from all his regular courses and replace them with Devising Really Cunning Ways to Defeat Evil Wizard Overlords? No matter that he's actually using his newly-acquired free time to stare at walls in a typical delinquent adolescent fashion. No. He is obviously scheming," Draco scoffed. "Honestly, Granger. Open those mud-clouded eyes and see the scared little boy in front of you." Granger opened her mouth to protest but Professor Rochester interrupted her.

"I think it's settled then." He ignored Granger's sputtering protests. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, who ought to administer Mr. Potter's detention?"

The other prefects followed Rochester's example and paid no heed to the incredulous Head Girl. They swallowed their own concerns and began to offer suggestions.

"It's unfortunate there is currently no Head of Gryffindor House," commented a Ravenclaw prefect. He continued, "The obvious choice is the Head Boy or Head Girl."

"I don't believe our Head Girl is an appropriate choice," said a tall, chestnut-haired Hufflepuff female, looking sideways at Granger.

"I second that motion," Draco drawled, sneering at Granger.

Arguments broke out from all sides of the room. The general consensus was that Potter should receive detention, but the bone of contention was over who the proctor should be. McGonagall was ruled out immediately; she was in London. Rochester declined. Granger was advocating herself, although few listened to her, owing to her soft spot for her best friend.

"No one has really suggested the Head Boy," remarked a blonde Slytherin prefect. She glanced at Draco. Draco returned her gaze, a small smirk touching the side of his mouth.

"It's logical that he could administer detention," added another Ravenclaw. She ran her fingers through her dark hair. "Mr. Malfoy has no biases concerning Harry Potter."

"Biases?" Granger leaped to her feet. "You say that I am ineligible because of my relationship to Harry. I say that Malfoy is not qualified, on the basis of his relationship to Mr. Potter!"

More arguments erupted after Granger's remark.

"Enough!" Rochester barked. Draco jumped slightly. The fourth-floor classroom quieted almost immediately. "Thank you. So far the only feasible suggestion I have heard is that Mr. Malfoy should administer Mr. Potter's detention. All in favour of this motion, say 'Aye.'"

A chorus of "ayes" could be heard. Draco glanced at Granger, noting with satisfaction that she appeared grumpy and sullen. She glared back at him, and stubbornly kept her mouth shut.

"All opposed, say 'nay.'"

A few scattered "nays" went across the room.

"It appears as though the 'ayes' have it," Rochester said. He turned to the Head Boy. "Will you take the position?"

Draco accepted, albeit reluctantly. He could have found better ways to spend his time than watching Potter mope about all afternoon. However, he nodded his consent.

"No further motions?" Draco asked the assembled prefects. Hearing no replies, he dismissed them.

"Meeting adjourned."

Thinking back, it had been fortunate Rochester was there; Draco gleefully recalled the appalled expression on Granger's face when her opinions were ignored and lost amidst the other prefects' suggestions. The stupid Mudblood couldn't bear not to be in the center of attention, could not bear to be wrong, especially concerning her wonderful Potter. Draco smiled to himself; he would relish telling her how Potter had skivved off detention. He would tell her and savour the anguish on her face as he tore her misconceptions about her speccy little boyfriend to shreds.

The squeak of hinges opening interrupted Draco's reverie, and he swung around to face the doorway as shafts of light streamed in from the corridor. Silhouetted in the brightness was a thin figure he recognized.

Potter.

Fuck.

Draco had been entirely certain the other boy would be absent.

"So you decided to grace me with your illustrious presence, Potter?" Draco asked coolly. "I'm flattered."

The other boy said nothing, but stared at Draco standing in the middle of Rochester's gloomy classroom. Draco stared back, his calm composure belying the fluttering of his heart. The silence between the two boys was strangely charged.

Unable to stand the tension any longer, Draco broke their connection with a sigh. He resigned himself to a wasted evening. The Head Boy swaggered over to his charge.

"I have all sorts of fun planned for this afternoon; care to hear the schedule?"

Potter continued to stare at Draco in an unresolved silence. Draco felt the urge to shift uncomfortably, but brushed it aside. A Malfoy was never uncomfortable, much less shifty.

"Well, first thing, you are to tidy up my hair-care products. More specifically, alphabetise them. The list begins at Amazing Aristotle's All-Day Hold Hair Gel, and continues, I believe, to Quirky Quentin's Quality Conditioner. Next we will make an abrupt about-face to..."

"Alphabetise your what?" Harry spluttered.

"You heard me. My hair-care products. You are to organise them; how else could I get this magnificent head of hair? Anyway, next we're off to Professor Snape's---"

"You can't make me do that."

"Pardon?" Draco asked, raising his eyebrow in mock innocence.

"Organise your...hair-care products," Potter choked out with great difficulty. A look that was a cross between disgust and utter disbelief crossed his face.

"This is detention, Potter, not An Amusing Afternoon with the Amazingly Attractive Head Boy." Draco forged ahead. "Where was I? Oh yes. Professor Snape needs a hand in categorising his closet."

Potter snorted. "How? From Black to Blacker to Blackest?"

Draco was nonplussed.

"Precisely. Organisation is very important to some of us, you know."

Potter arched his own eyebrow.

"In addition," Draco continued, "Filch has requested some assistance in dusting his bookshelves. I hear he has a very intriguing pin-up collection. Really, Potter, you should consider yourself lucky."

"You can't be serious."

"What if I am?" Draco's eyes glittered with enjoyment.

"You can't...you just can't," Potter retorted.

Draco heaved an exaggerated sigh. "If you insist, Potter, we will head up to the trophy room."

"Polishing?" said the other boy, in a somewhat hopeful tone.

"What else do you do in a trophy room?" A strange looked flitted across Draco's face before it quickly disappeared. "Wait, don't answer that. Anyway, now you can see first hand how many times Slytherin has claimed the House Cup. I expect all the trophies to be shining testaments to our glory by the end of the afternoon." The Head Boy pushed past Potter brusquely and led the way to the room.

********************************************

She didn't like him.

She didn't like him, but she could admire him.

Hermione could admire the Potions master's attention to detail, his meticulous work habits, his efficiency grading essays. She could admire his intelligence; Potions was perhaps the only magical discipline that required a scientific, empirical method. Hermione appreciated the subject; it required no magical ability, merely knowledge, knowledge of herbs and their properties.

But even as she admired him, her dislike of Professor Snape remained rooted in her psyche. It was difficult to weed out Harry's prejudice from her mind, difficult to pluck out a grudging respect for the man from the tangled vines of her soul Hermione stood before the door, staring at its handle, fighting an internal struggle. Her dislike and respect for Snape raged in her mind, stamping their battles upon her delicate features. Hermione took a deep breath, composed herself, and reached for the doorknob.

The door flew open before Hermione could touch it. She couldn't conceal a surprised squeak as she came face-to-face with the Potions master himself. His obsidian eyes flicked to her face, dark and inscrutable.

"Miss Granger," Snape said, "You are late."

"I'm sorry, sir." Hermione ducked past him into the dungeon. She felt uncomfortable; he was standing at the threshhold, scrutinizing her slight figure, silent and unmoving. She kept her head averted, seemingly preoccupied with the collection of ingredients on Snape's desk.

What is he doing? Hermione thought, annoyed, and unable to prevent her nose from wrinkling with distaste. I'm here to help him, not to stand here, in an attempt to be interested in beetle-legs.

The slamming of the door startled Hermione into a slight jump. She looked up, expecting to see him walking towards her, but Snape was gone.

Hermione was puzzled as to where Snape had disappeared and not a little frustrated. She was giving up her time, her precious, valuable time to help her least favourite teacher make a potion for Dumbledore.

Hermione was still in doubt about the exact nature of her project. Little was revealed about the Headmaster's condition; only that he was incapacitated. The Daily Prophet was surprisingly close-mouthed about the whole affair, reporting only that the aged wizard was stricken with a mysterious illness that "magical aid was yet able to cure." Hermione had expected a scathing expose from Rita Skeeter a few weeks following the announcement, but ever since the new Ministry rose to power, the muckraker's quill had been silent. Hermione suspected that perhaps Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill had been silenced forever.

Hermione was at a bit of a loss; Snape had left her alone in the Potions classroom with no verbal instructions. Did he expect her to have the ingredients ready? Had he already developed the potion? Hermione's eyes fell upon the various parchments scattered across Snape's desk, all written in Snape's cramped but careful script.

A few years ago, Hermione would never have dared to riffle through Snape's papers. Yet those days were gone; her regard for the rules had bled away slowly after her friendship with Ron and Harry. She slowly approached the desk.

There were notes on potions ingredients scribbled on loose sheets of parchment, the genesis of various potions, and graded essays, nothing that would enlighten Hermione as to Dumbledore's condition.

As she shuffled the papers back into some semblance of their original order, she spied an official Hogwarts letter amidst the quills, parchment, and ink. She left the other papers alone and picked the letter up, noting with surprise that it was in McGonagall's neat handwriting.

She scanned the letter, dated some time late summer.

August 2, 1997

Severus-----

Undoubtedly you have heard about the unfortunate events that occurred not six weeks ago; very little has been printed in The Daily Prophet since. I fear that much is being concealed from us, from the reporters, from the public.

I was only just able to see our Headmaster at St. Mungo's yesterday. You will not believe the troubles I have had with our new Ministry concerning Albus. They keep insisting that he is fine, that there is no doubt he will recover, and that it was my duty as Deputy Headmistress to keep Hogwarts open. I was at last allowed to see him briefly, after much finagling with the Department of Wizarding Security.

Severus, I do believe we may be alone.

Albus is alive, yet he is unable to rise from his bed. I do not know what curse has afflicted him; he cannot speak, yet I know he is still with us by the twinkle in his eyes.

The row I raised with our new Minister I will not repeat here. Zabini denies it, but I believe that he intended to run Hogwarts without its Headmaster. He claims that he was under the impression that Dumbledore was not incapacitated and that by September first, he would be able to perform his offices.

I quickly disabused him of that misconception. He reluctantly allowed me to assume Headmistress duties and to appoint you as the Deputy Headmaster. But he also gave me specific conditions I was to follow. Zabini said that the Department of Magical Education (which he created!) has reviewed out status and feels that a change of faculty was needed. I was to receive a list of new teachers by late August and dismiss some of our current staff. I refused, but Zabini made it clear that Hogwarts would be closed if I did not comply.

I fear our new Minister, Severus. He has many of the departments under his control. We as the public are gradually losing our influence upon the wizarding government; little do they know just how much power Zabini might have. The spoils of office are to be feared as well: the Notts, the Bulstrodes, and Saulus Sinistra.

My suspicions are unfounded. I have no evidence, no proof from which to draw my conclusions, only our Minister's shady past and my own prejudices.

And now I have a task to impart upon you, Severus. I shall rely heavily upon your Potions skills; they are Dumbledore's last resort. He needs you, Severus, just as the wizarding world needs him. He needs you to find a cure, Severus, and there is no one else I can trust.

A list of Dumbledore's symptoms closed McGonagall's letter. Hermione frowned. Dumbledore's condition pricked feebly at her mind, and she tried to recall why exactly the symptoms sounded vaguely familiar. Hermione scanned the letter again.

...our Minister's shady past...

Those words leaped from the page before Hermione's eyes.

Hermione knew a little about Zabini. He had come through Hogwarts as a Slytherin, had been made a sixth year prefect, and then went on to work for the Ministry. Seven years ago, when he and Fudge were contenders in the Minister of Magic race, he had lost due to his strict policy on Muggle-wizard regulations. He was instead put at the Head of the Department of Ancient Wizarding Artifacts. After Fudge's assassination, he rose to the role of Minister because of his seniority.

All this Hermione had gathered from reading Daily Prophet articles, but she had not known of any stain on Zabini's spotless career. Of course, ownership of the wizarding newspaper had changed since the new Ministry took office and the subject matter as well as the reporters, had undergone a drastic makeover.

Hermione was reading the letter for a third time when the door of the Potions classroom slammed open, and there on the threshhold stood Professor Snape.

***************************************

Squeak. Squeak.

The sound of menial labor was very relaxing. Almost too relaxing. Especially when the form kneeling in front of the trophies was the so-called Hero of Hogwarts. Draco sat comfortably in an armchair while Potter worked diligently. He watched the muscles in Potter's back flex industriously, a play of sinew and bone rippling under the thin fabric of Potter's sweater. Funny. Draco actually had never been in the trophy room before today. He knew Potter was under the impression that he had.

"I'd take you anytime on my own," said Draco. "Tonight, if you want. Wizards duel. Wands only-no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before I suppose?"

"Of course he has," said Weasley, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

Draco looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

"Crabbe," he said. "Midnight all right?" We'll meet you in the trophy room, that's always unlocked."

He, of course, had not shown. His attendance had been in doubt; how could it not have been? Draco's intention was to lead Potter into trouble, to topple the pedestal the wizarding world had placed him on. How ironic that this time Potter's attendance had been the one in doubt. Draco smirked; he had long since waited for that day when he would see Potter sprawled at his feet; to prove that he, Draco Malfoy, was the superior one, had been all along. Hadn't his father always told him that a Malfoy bowed to none, that courage to be right in the face of adversity was to be admired above all things? The desire to succeed had driven Draco to this very spot, whispering to him all along in his father's silken voice.

Draco's Head Boy badge glinted in the fading sunlight and he absentmindedly polished the pin with his sleeve. Most people had expected Potter would be named Head Boy this year, but for once events had swung in Draco's favour. Draco had always been the better student, always in the administration's good graces, and a Malfoy, one of the pillars of the pureblooded society. Yet in the past Draco had always been overlooked because of Potter's goodness, Potter's charm, and Potter's hero-status.

But not this year. This year things had changed. Dumbledore had lost his position of influence due to his strange illness and the Muggleborns were losing power in the Ministry. Draco wondered if this change in office was in some way a reflection of himself. Was he the one that had changed, or was it Potter? Somewhere along the way, Draco, born to generations of purebloods, had become the victor and Potter, born of a Mudblood mother, the loser.

He watched Potter gaze wistfully into space, his arms marking lazy circles on the gleaming silver trophies. "Missed a spot there, Potter," Draco drawled, ensconced in a chair, his legs draped casually over the armrest.

"I did not." Green eyes flashed indignantly as Potter turned to shoot him an angry glare.

"Yes, you did," Draco sneered, enjoying Potter's look of dismay. "All the way back there, the first one you cleaned."

Potter glared at Draco, his hard glance never leaving the other boy as he shuffled back to the first trophy. The cold, lifeless emerald eyes of the snake emblazoned on the cup were mirrors of Potter's own. Draco shivered as all four glared at him coldly. With a tired effort, he brought a semblance of dancing mockery back into his own eyes.

"Honestly, I thought your Muggle relatives raised you to do this sort of thing. Perhaps you've forgotten over the course of your history as the Boy-Whom-Everyone-Loved-Because-He-Just-Wouldn't-Die." Draco did not bother to hide the malicious humour from his voice.

The Gryffindor searched vainly for an offending mark on the glistening surface of the trophy before him, but found none.

"What on Earth are you talking about, Malfoy?" Potter asked, displeasure written across his face.

"Pardon me, my mistake," Draco smirked. He pointed lazily at another trophy from his seat across the room. "Maybe it was that one. The one that's almost the size of your over-inflated head."

Potter threw the rag down onto the floor. "I don't have to stand here and listen to you, you know." Defiance stamped itself on his features.

"Of course you don't. You can simply walk out and be expelled." Draco paused slightly before continuing bitterly in an attempt to defuse the building tension. "What? You think they wouldn't take disciplinary action against you because of who you are? You think that I would let you get away with all this?" Draco rose from his seat to close the distance between him and Potter. "You're scared, Potter, admit it." He brought his face closer to the other boy's. "Just say it. It will make everyone's lives that much easier."

Potter did not back down from Draco's invasion of his personal space. Their eyes challenged each other and their wills clashed.

"Yeah?" Potter broke the silence at last. "How? How do you think that will make it better? No one likes to be let down." Potter broke eye contact to pick up the rag and return to cleaning. "You just want to pave the way for your horrid master. You're his toady, Malfoy. I bet it will be the jewel in your crown to say to him, 'I've got Potter out of the way.'" Potter turned his back on Draco.

"Is that what you really think?" Draco said harshly.

"Yeah," Potter said defiantly, his back still turned.

Emotion came crashing through Draco's long-standing walls, colouring his voice with malice and cruelty. "You don't know the first thing about duty or loyalty, Potter. You expect loyalty from your friends, the Mudblood and the Weasel, yet you give them nothing in return. With you, everything is always about 'the great Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.' What about your duty to them? They're looking to you, but all you can do is hide behind your cleaning rag, hoping the Dark Lord will overlook you. You're nothing but a scared, cowardly little----"

"Shut up!" Potter whirled on Draco, an unfathomable expression torturing his face. The tense atmosphere crackled between them.

The two boys stood there in the trophy room, their faces inches from each other, willing the other to crack first. Draco found himself staring into the open, vulnerable eyes of his enemy and felt his surge of hatred ebb.

Suddenly, Potter's expression shut itself and he lifted the trophy between them. "Is this any better?" he asked dully.

Draco glanced down at the shining object and smiled, a trace of sadness lingering at the edge of his lips.

"Smashing. You're halfway there." He stepped back and tossed a can of the cleaner at his charge. "Might need this, you seem to be running low." Potter caught it easily, from long practice as a Seeker. Potter turned and returned to his chore, while Draco watched his back. The Boy Who Lived went back to serving his menial sentence and Draco was once again the victor.

Perhaps the afternoon had not been entirely wasted after all.