Justified

Chapter Four

A Mind Diseased

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
-MacBeth, Act V, Scene 3.1

Watson was an idiot.

From the moment the young American Astronomy professor had swept into his classroom, proudly displaying his shaved head and casual dress robes, Draco had known. Watson was not simply a sufferer of mediocre intelligence; no, he was a full-fledged imbecile. Draco lazily let his mind drift back to the lecture. In Watson's class, paying attention was as superfluous as Heating Charms in the desert summer. The material was irrelevant, the grading laughably easy and most of the lectures were devoted to the latest developments in Watson's love life. "Did I tell you I went out with Isabella last night?" Draco settled back into his seat with a practiced smirk.

Ah. Draco had forgotten that it was Monday, and they were due for a Weekend Story. No doubt some idiotic female classmate of his would pipe up right about now and encourage him.

"Where did you go?" asked a female voice, as if on cue.

"Funny you should ask. It wasn't like it was veggly interesting or anything of that nature but I met her up at in Hogsmeade, and we had some food. Well, actually I had most of the food, and if they just had hot wings, everything would be darn-shpanking perfect..." Watson looked about the room, having lost the thread of his altogether pointless narrative. Sadly, Draco observed, he was able to jump back on his previous train of thought rather quickly.

Draco stopped listening and turned to the sizable stack of parchments on his desk. He inked his quill with a flourish, and wrote "veggly" at the end of a very long list. It took up the majority of the pages neatly stacked in front of him. Draco suspected that someday, it might amount to its own dictionary, as if anyone would ever purchase a collection of Watsonisms. Nevertheless, it kept Draco amused, and that was worth something since being in Watson's class was about as enjoyable as being crucified with flaming nails.

Privately, Draco wondered how Hogwarts could have stooped so low as to hire Professor Watson. He could have had all sorts of American credentials, but Draco wouldn't have trusted a credential from America signed by every Minister in the wizarding world. Watson, however, did not seem intelligent enough to carry out a proper forgery. So it seemed as though Hogwarts was stooping low indeed. Draco wondered what his father would have to say about that.

Draco detested Watson's buoyant cheerfulness as well. It was just like the professor to saunter into a frigid classroom dressed in light robes only to gaze at his freezing students with a bemused expression.

"Is it cold in here?" he was known to say, and often refused to sympathize with his chilled pupils. Slytherins jeeringly referred to him as the Ogre, for his less than stellar wit, stocky appearance, and bumbling ways.

"Do you think we will be moving past star-charts anytime soon?" asked a bored Slytherin girl in front of Draco. She shook dirty blonde hair out of her eyes, and fiddled with the many woven bracelets gracing her wrists.

"What do you have in mind?" Watson replied, stopping in the middle of an energetic discussion about the movement of stars, his wand inexpertly falling to the floor.

"What about gnomes?" she asked, openly taunting the dense professor.

"The little boogers about yee high?" asked Watson, putting his hand out in front of him, approximately three feet off the ground. "The ones that lived in manzanita groves?"

The class stared at him in silence.

"You know, manzanitas. The bushes? With red bark?"

The class remained quiet except for a few snide Slytherin remarks.

Watson floundered for a moment before realizing that he was referring to an obscure plant from California, a state that his students were none too familiar with, much less the plant. Watson noted their lack of interest, and after a few more moments of discomfort, he remembered the original question.

"That would be a negatory. This is Astronomy class, Miss Condor, not Care of Magical Creatures." Watson replied happily.

"Of course not," remarked Granger, somewhat acidly, "since Care of Magical Creatures was abolished."

"This is true," remarked Watson, unconcerned. He returned to his active portrayal of the stars in motion. The Slytherin with the bracelets turned to a fellow Slytherin, a blonde who had been making fun of the pitiable thickheaded-ness of the teacher with a dark-haired Ravenclaw from behind her quill. The three smirked and resumed passing notes.

Negatory.

Draco scratched another word on the ever-growing list.

He observed the professor running around in circles with cool, grey eyes. Watson was apparently trying to demonstrate the elliptical motion of celestial bodies with his erratic pacing.

He runs like a girl, Draco thought with amusement bordering on disgust as Watson pranced back and forth across the room, coming to rest directly in front of the charts.

"Excuse me Professor, can you move?" a studious Ravenclaw asked from the front row, adjusting her glasses. Her tone was annoyed. Trust a Ravenclaw to take notes in classes as silly as this one. Not even the infamously scholarly Granger picked up a quill in Astronomy.

"Oh yes I can!" proclaimed Watson, and began to spasm violently with a ridiculous grin plastered upon his face. After a while Draco realized to his horror that Watson was dancing. A stunned silence fell, and Watson said, "Oh! You mean over there!" and promptly vacated his position in front of the star chart.

Draco inked his quill again, adding a footnote to his list in glaring red ink.

Never ask, "Can you move?"

Draco looked up, casting about for something to cleanse the horrific image of Watson's impromptu dance from his mind. He almost wished he could gouge out what remained of his mind's eye after that...spectacle, yet it remained burned into his memory.

The classroom was seemingly divided into two camps: Gryffindor-Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw-Slytherin. He observed his housemates with casual indifference, noting that they all seemed as bored as he. What respect they ever held for Watson had long since disappeared. For the most part, his housemates occupied the back rows, sprawled out extravagantly with no regard to the professor whatsoever. Draco caught the eye of one brown-haired Slytherin, who arched her eyebrow delicately over her specs every once in a while at Watson's idiotic behaviour.

Draco's attention turned from Slytherin to Ravenclaw. Amazing. They were actually paying attention. The Ravenclaws were diligent even in their contempt, struggling to stay awake long enough to take notes.

On the other side of the room, as far from the Slytherins as possible, sat the Gryffindors. They presented a united front against Draco's house, alike in their contempt and feeling of moral and actual superiority. Their attitude, Draco mused, could be partially due to the ridiculous spirit club started by one annoyingly enthusiastic seventh year female in an effort to boost morale, but was more likely due to their false sense of complacency, thanks to Dumbledore and the famous Harry Potter.

However, it was the famous Harry Potter himself who was conspicuously absent from Watson's class. The gap between Weasley and Granger was as noticeable as a lost front tooth, and Draco felt the gap as keenly as an ache in his jaw. The smooth sea of faces that stared back at him was marred by Potter's absence. From the hole that was Potter's seat, Draco fancied he could feel the ghost of a green-eyed glare, a relic of a time when Potter attended classes regularly.

It seemed as though Chester had been correct. One detention had not been enough; Potter had deliberately missed class again.

"I doubt that one detention, or even two, would resolve that boy's problems," Chester remarked, gesturing for Draco to sit in front of him. Draco did so, setting his papers down on the top of the Professor's already messy desk. Rochester crossed his legs and put his hands behind his head. Draco watched Chester pat his head absentmindedly, smoothing his hair. Draco did not respond to his comment; Chester always answered himself anyway. "In fact I doubt it would ripple the surface of the deep wells that are his issues."

"What would you suggest?" Draco asked, not bothering to feign any interest in the subject at hand. He wanted his problems to solve themselves, to dust his hands of them completely. Although it was not an admirable trait in a Head Boy, he was a Malfoy; there were people below him that took care of his problems. Now that his victory had come to pass, it bored him. He was a conqueror, not a governor.

"A more prolonged detention schedule, to be frank. I would say two days a week for a month," Rochester said in his dry, searching voice.

"Who has the authority to make that decision?" said Draco. Whoever it was, Draco wanted him or her to make it happen. Anything to get him out of Potter's tangled life.

"McGonagall. Or Snape, in her absence. I think they would agree with us. The only problem, to be frank once again, is you."

"Me?" Draco was offended. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Your schedule does not allow for you to miss so much class. The faculty does not want to create an academic problem for you," Rochester fiddled with his purple-feathered quill idly.

"Split the detentions, then. I will administer one a week, a faculty member the other."

"Who?" Rochester's quill waved ferociously as he stroked his hair.

"Watson, perhaps?" A scheming smile spread across both of their faces. Rochester dismissed the Head Boy, and strode out to meet with McGonagall.

The idea had gone through with little opposition, as the Headmistress was preoccupied with Ministry relations and Snape had no qualms about punishing Harry Potter. The only element that remained was to notify the Boy Wonder himself.

Draco strove to master his own feelings, which flitted about his mind as erratically as Professor Watson performing his usual pacing feats.

He was bored. He was a Malfoy. He had had everything handed to him on velvet cushions as a child. If it did not serve his needs, with a flick of his wrist he could send it away. Draco had paid for every silver platter, but in ways he had not realized. His spoiled existence had taken a toll on his attention span. To another person, to a subject that did not interest him, Draco could give nothing. Inherent self worth, self-esteem, and even an amount of self-centeredness were embedded in his psyche, as much a part of his day-to-day as being a Slytherin. Draco had few thoughts to spare for the students about him; he saw them only as pawns moving in utterly predictable patterns. They had been stepping stones that led him to a position as Head Boy, and would eventually lead him to something greater.

Ambition.

All Slytherins had it, but few were as successful, as influential, or as driven as Draco Malfoy. He was comfortable with all of these things. Draco understood his own aloof disinterestedness. He knew that he was inherently better than most.

There were other feelings that troubled him. The burning rage, deep in his heart, was familiar, but it had always disturbed him, because he had not anticipated it. No, he had anticipated something quite different regarding Harry Potter. Anger was not what he intended when he introduced himself to the pint-sized celebrity, back on the train before first year.

Draco slid the door of the compartment open, and looked with interest at the dark-haired, green-eyed boy sitting there.

"Is it true?" Draco began, "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes." Draco watched the boy's eyes slid over to Crabbe and Goyle, and realized what he was thinking.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," he said carelessly. "And my name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

The red-haired boy coughed and Draco turned indignant eyes on him.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasley's have red hair, freckles, and more children then they could afford." Malice honed from years of privilege laced his voice. A feeling of satisfaction rose in him as the Weasley clenched his grubby fists and his face turned a blotchy red between the freckles. He turned back to Potter.

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter," glancing pointedly at Weasley. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

With that, Draco held out his pale hand in Potter's direction.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," the dark haired boy said coolly.

Draco flushed in anger. There were obviously things this Potter boy did not understand about wizarding society. He brought his hand back to his side, keeping it relaxed with effort.

It was the first time he had been denied something he desired. It would not be the last, but it was the first and it stung more than anything else that had followed did. The friendship of Harry Potter would have been a great asset to him; only a fool could miss his hero's destiny. It followed Potter like a personal cloud of stars, lighting up everything he did. The boy lived a charmed life. Draco would have made Potter rise to even greater heights and then used that fame to catapult himself into power.

Perhaps Potter had understood, better than Draco himself had at the time, that Slytherins did not really have friends. They made offers of friendship, but these bore more resemblance to military alliances than invitations to comradeship. Whatever the reason, he had been slighted, an insult not easily forgotten.

There was a creak as the door opened, drawing the notice of everyone in the room. Draco squinted his metallic eyes, more than a little annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted. However, his anger vanished without a trace when Harry Potter slipped through the small opening, every line of his body apologetic. A slight grin rose unbidden to Draco's lips as the Gryffindor eased into his usual seat. He noted carefully Granger's relative coldness, and how she flinched as Potter steadied himself by placing a hand on her shoulder. The Mudblood wouldn't meet Potter's eyes, an act that struck Draco as unusual. He stored it away in his mind for future examination.

As if sensing his appraising stare, Potter glanced up from his seat to look at Draco. His emerald eyes sparked from behind his glinty specs and his wan complexion fired with unexpected emotion. The intensity of his glare hit Draco like an ice-cold fist in his stomach. Draco swallowed, refusing to let Potter ruffle his cool exterior, and let his patented smirk grace his face.

Well, at least now he was spared the task of finding Potter to notify him of the detention change. Draco promised himself that he would meet Potter after class.

Potter looked away and the shades of enmity fell between them once more. Draco did not glance away. He contemplated the methodic movement of Potter's eagle-feather quill as one question circled his mind.

What had motivated Potter to come to class?

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

The door scraped across the stone floor of the Astronomy classroom.

Hermione raised her head hopefully, a familiar pang tearing through her heart. An icy hand of nervousness clenched her stomach, and she bit her lip, praying for, yet dreading the sight of viridian eyes behind owlish spectacles.

The door slid open further and Hermione released the breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding.

It wasn't him.

Breathing normally once more, she watched as a Hufflepuff female slid back into her seat. A disappointed sigh escaped Hermione before she could prevent it, catching the attention of Ron two seats away. He turned to look at her, concern etched upon his freckled features. Hermione smiled thinly at him, trying to assuage his worry. Ron wrinkled his ginger brows in doubt, but returned to his previous activity: marching parchment pawns across an imaginary chessboard.

She wrestled with the riot of emotions rollicking through her. Hermione's fingers caressed the soft, feathery tip of her quill in a half-hearted attempt to pay attention to Astronomy. She ran her fingers lightly over her quill, but her mind was more preoccupied with keeping her tears at bay.

Hermione had always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalize anything that caused her pain. Mind over matter had been her mantra since before her Hogwarts days. Her mental capacity had always dictated her life: her schoolwork, her relationships, and her emotions. Hermione was a creature of logical processes and rational thought.

But some things, it seemed, proved too great for even her formidable brain.

She was not going to think about him.

A soft puff of laughter brushed past her lips, once again alerting Ron, but this time, she paid him no mind.

It was impossible not to think about Harry.

He permeated all seven years of her Hogwarts education. It had become second nature to mind Harry. It formed part of who she was, along with her books. Looking after Harry, patching him up, comforting him after his nightmares was as natural to her as breathing, something she didn't think twice about.

But now, every little touch, every gentle look had become fraught with meaning. When had it happened? Hermione remembered the time she had contracted bronchitis as a child, suddenly conscious of each breath that rattled into and out of her lungs. Had to come to that? Were her feelings for Harry just that, a disease? The burr in her chest was similar, both filled with exquisite pain.

What was it about Harry she loved so?

What was it about him, a thin, lanky seventeen-year-old, that made her heart flutter and glow with warmth?

Hermione's hands smoothed the parchment in front of her absentmindedly, her senses recalling the fire that coursed beneath his skin, the passion that had inflamed his veins.

And it wasn't because of her.

Hermione bit her lip again, willing herself to forget his taste, the life that had died beneath her lips.

She had betrayed him with a kiss.

She had seen it in his eyes.

Those eyes, the ones that had inspired not a few sighs around Hogwarts, had been filled with horror.

And fear.

She betrayed his trust.

Hermione could no longer hold back the pain that rose from her heart to trickle from her eyes. She raised her hand, hoping to catch the oblivious professor's attention and be excused to the toilets.

"Now, this star here is called Betelgeuse, and makes up the lower---"

The scrape of the door caught Watson in the middle of his lecture.

The tears froze behind Hermione's eyes.

The door slid open, and silhouetted against the light from the hallway, stood Harry Potter.

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

Harry stared out the dorm window into the Monday sky. It was late. His roommates had already left, and scattered around behind him was their traditional mess: jumpers, socks, trousers, and robes, all thrown about in untidy jumbles.

Harry sighed. He longed for the weekend. Saturdays were free of guilt's webs, and lately, guilt was the only thing that brought Harry to his feet every morning. On weekends, he could lie in bed, letting the world slip by; on weekdays, he forced himself to be caught in its flow. Still dressed in his pyjamas, he tucked his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth slightly, struggling to keep the voices of his conscience at bay.

You're coming tomorrow, right?

Harry shook the sleepy cobwebs out of his memory. The voice of his better self was all too familiar to him; it belonged to Ron. The wistfulness lingered in his memory of Ron's words, pulling at Harry, compelling him to attend class.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to shut out the face of his conscience that rose up behind his lids, and to diminish the pain that accompanied her anguished eyes. The floodgates had opened as the gates of sleep lifted, inundating his mind's eye with tortured images.

Hermione's broken eyes.

Ron's tired good humour.

Their breath condensing in the late night cold as they worried about him.

The way Harry treated his friends was a lance in his side, piercing his soul. They wounded him with their persistence, and he wished that his friends would just step back.

Especially Hermione.

He was unsure of the Trio's dynamic if he should return to class. Between the hero and heroine, things could never again be the same, and the bonds that held the knight and his trusty squire together were slowly weathering away. He longed to make things right between himself and Hermione, but he didn't know how. Her feelings he couldn't possibly return. He figured that he should just go to Astronomy, for once listening to her good advice. But his presence would only remind her, would remind him, of that night in the common room that never should have occurred. It would remind them both, and it would be better for them if they just forgot the kiss that never happened.

Harry brought his fingers to his lips, wondering if time would warm the ice-cold rock of fear and distaste that settled in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of her lips pressed against his. He hated himself for feeling that way; Hermione deserved more than that.

Guilt pressed heavily on his shoulders. It stained that Monday morning, bleeding into the room, leaving behind an indelible weight that he longed to cast off. The weight of the world was a tiresome burden, and he let the guilt drag him back down onto his bed.

He was comfortable there, for everywhere else, he had to tote the world behind him.

Here, in his bed, his could shed his burden, if only during the brief respite of sleep.

Here, he could forget.

Let Hermione forget too.

Let Ron forget.

Let everyone else forget.

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

He hadn't just woken up.

Hermione could tell. He was wearing cleanly pressed robes, his tie was straight, and the pleats in his trousers were neat and sharp. Harry walked through, apology in every step. He set his books on the desk and slid in next to her. Her body withdrew, trying to create as much distance as possible between them as he placed a friendly hand on her shoulder.

Surely he couldn't have forgotten so quickly?

Yet in all appearances, it seemed as though the Harry of her childhood had returned. Determination followed every line, every curve in his jaw, and in the set of his neck. He glanced sideways at her, gave a slight smile, and returned to the subject at hand.

But she noticed the clenching of his fist, the whiteness of his knuckles.

He would drive her insane.

She recalled the previous Saturday, only two days prior to today, in which the boy sitting next to her had once again walked in late. That time exhaustion had cradled every expression on his pale face. She recalled the same feeling of icy nervousness that pinged in her veins while she waited for him, the same chill that had crept over her in Watson's class awaiting his arrival.

Did she dare to hope?

Hermione drummed her fingers on her wrist, beating an impatient tattoo to wile the time away. Two minutes before the meeting was set to begin, and no one was there yet. It was only she, and the musty smell of the books. Like it always was nowadays.

The seconds passed in syncopation with the rhythm of Hermione's taps and sixty beats later, Ron slid open the latch to the library and stumbled into the chair opposite her.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Hermione smiled, trying to hide the disappointment in her eyes.

Harry. Where was Harry?

"I thought you said he would come," she said, striving to keep the accusatory tone out of her words.

Ron sighed, and she saw his shoulders slump. Guilt struck her. Was Harry all she cared about? Her heart went out to her steadfast, red-haired friend.

"I did," he said, tired. "He will." At Hermione's pained look, he continued. "You thought he would arrive on time? Not even You-Know-Who with legions of dementors could get Harry out of bed this bloody early on a Saturday morning. Come to think of it, I'm surprised I'm out of bed at this ungodly hour."

Hermione smiled weakly.

Ron sighed again, mustering up the energy required in order to be the Trio's continuing pillar of strength. "He'll come, Hermione. He'll come. He'll be late, but he will come."

He was late, but he did come.

She observed him next to her, serenely taking notes, which not even she bothered to do in Astronomy. Could the meeting have anything to do with his change in attitude?

Would they be able to salvage the tattered remains of the Trio?

The smell of books was overpowering in the small, unused corner of the library. It was her favourite corner, which was why she had chosen it. As she waited for Harry, falling deeper and deeper into the net of despair with every passing minute, Hermione wondered why she had even bothered to call the meeting. It was almost a shame to the memory of the Trio to have made it so official. In the past, they had always planned, schemed, and met in the library during snatches of free moments, caught like precious butterflies.

Now, Ron had drifted off with the other Gryffindor boys: Dean, Seamus, and Neville. She was occupied with her own duties and Harry...

Harry had almost completely slipped away.

The Order was now the last place, the last chance she had to remain part of Harry's life.

She struggled with herself as they waited, clutching vainly at any handhold she could find. Her feelings for Harry were too precious to hold; she knew she should release them, yet she was reluctant, afraid that if Harry were to disappear from her life, she would become lost.

Because without Harry Potter, there could be no Hermione Granger.

But her weakness passed, and once again, her rationale returned. Harry did not return her affections; she would abandon them.

But Harry her friend was harder to lose, harder to shove into the corridors of her past.

It would have to be all or nothing, she reasoned. There is no going back now. We can't just forget. I can't just forget.

Hermione glanced at the tall grandfather clock in the northwest corner of the Astronomy tower. Twenty minutes left until the end of class.

She turned past Harry to look at Ron, now absorbed in pinning Hannah Abbot's braid onto the desk. An affectionate yet melancholy grin graced her face; Ron was perhaps the one person who would never change, even though the world would cave in around his fiery head. He began shifting restlessly in his seat. Hermione shook her head slightly; Ron always reacted to the passing of time the same way. He always had and always will.

Twenty minutes.

It had been twenty minutes into the meeting and still no sign of Harry. Ron fidgeted in his chair across from her, frowning.

You said he would come! her heart wailed, but her mind put an end to such histrionic nonsense.

She would not give in.

But as the hour grew later and later, her hopes grew thinner and thinner, until at last, she gave up to despair.

How fast her heart healed.

It only took one brief look at Harry for the turbulent sea of emotions to ebb. But her mind was wary, knowing that it could not possibly last.

Yet, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. Off of his unusually groomed appearance, his tangibly good looks, the flush of his cheeks.

He was flushed and breathless when he finally stumbled into the library to take his seat between Ron and Hermione. She glanced at him, at his disheveled clothes and glassy eyes, and decided not to press him.

He was there, after all.

His mere presence made all of her hurts disappear.

With trembling fingers, Hermione brought out a stack of parchments onto the table. Both Ron and Harry glanced at them curiously and Hermione took a deep breath.

"As you might have known, Sirius fell out of touch at the beginning of the year."

Harry's knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrests of his chair. Ron clapped a reassuring hand on his friend's back.

Hermione swallowed. "Our new correspondent referred to us by Sirius has just sent me a letter, suggesting that we act upon our suspicions. In his letter, he revealed very little information that we hadn't already garnered or suspected, but it adds validity to our mission." Glancing at Harry's lost expression, she said, "Let's review the articles."

If only Harry had paid as much attention to what was happening in their world as he was paying to Astronomy. They could have gotten much more done in those short hours they had.

A prickling feeling tickled at Hermione's side and she turned to glance across the room. Draco Malfoy was staring at them; no, he was staring at Harry. An indecipherable expression crossed the Head Boy's face as he watched Harry from beneath heavy lids. Malfoy was tracing the skin of his lower lip idly, almost in time with the waving of Harry's quill.

She turned to look at Harry, who gripped the nib of his quill tighter and tighter. With a flash, she realized that he was studiously avoiding Malfoy's appraising gaze. Hermione raised her eyes to Malfoy again, who took no notice of her questioning eyes, but kept his eyes trained on Harry, like an eagle sighting its prey.

Not for the first time, Hermione wished that she could get inside Malfoy's head to see what he was thinking. Unlike Harry, who wore every feeling on his face, Malfoy carefully kept his emotions behind a lacquered facade, and only every once in a while, they betrayed themselves in his glinty grey eyes. Hermione wished she could turn the Head Boy's over-inflated skull inside out to examine its contents, for because of his position in wizarding society, Malfoy was surely privy to many more things than she and the rest of the Order.

"As you all know, last summer, Dumbledore was incapacitated with a mysterious illness about the same time as Fudge's untimely death removed him from office."

There were nods from Ron and heavy silence from Harry.

"Eleazar Zabini, Blaise's uncle, was Head of the Department of Ancient Wizarding Artifacts before he became the Minister of Magic."

"How?" Ron asked, biting his thumbnail. "There wasn't an election. Dad would have run if there had been one."

"They just wanted a Slytherin in power, someone loyal to Voldemort," Harry muttered. Ron cringed at the use of the Dark Lord's name.

"The Daily Prophet didn't say anything about his appointment, but my guess is that Zabini got the post as a result of seniority," Hermione said.

"Your guess?" Ron asked. He sounded amused.

"I read the paper," Hermione stated dryly, "and therefore I consider myself well-informed."

"Yeah, but the paper only prints what the Ministry wants printed now," Harry said quietly.

Hermione said nothing.

Ron shrugged.

"Anyway," Hermione continued, breaking the silence. "We have no grounds on which to indict Zabini. Despite what you say about his supporting You-Know-Who, Harry, we have no evidence to support that."

"I don't need solid evidence to know someone's in league with Voldemort," Harry said softly.

Ron turned to look at his friend, slightly surprised. "Well, I agree with Harry. Zabini's a bit of a shady character. Look at what he did to my dad's office."

Hermione closed her eyes. The Department of the Mistreatment of Muggles had been removed, and Arthur Weasley, like many good members of the Ministry, was now without a job.

"Isn't your father still with the Ministry, though?" Hermione asked.

"Well, technically, 'yes,'" Ron said, "But he's 'on leave' and not too happy about it. I was thankful to get out of the Burrow at the end of the summer."

Both Harry and Hermione winced, recalling Mrs. Weasley's fiery temper.

"Well, since he was instated, Zabini's been changing a lot of things in the Ministry. Offices, positions, etc. The Daily Prophet hasn't printed anything, but rumours say that he's been getting his hand in at Hogwarts too."

Ron and Harry started in surprise.

"McGonagall seems to be resisting so far, in my opinion, but we have had an unusual influx of new professors this year."

"Nott," Ron said.

"Watson," Harry added.

"Rochester," Hermione chimed in with a shudder. A contemplative silence fell over the three.

"Weren't they all Slytherins?" Ron ventured.

"Not Watson," Hermione said. "He's American."

"But Rochester was, and so was Nott," Harry said.

"Blimey," Ron said softly. "Always knew those Slytherins would be the end of us."

Harry snapped his head up.

The Slytherin's silver eyes flicked to the side as though embarrassed to be caught in such a candid moment. Harry stared at Malfoy hard before returning to his notes.

If there was one Slytherin no one could trust, it was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione looked at him in disgust. He was the son of a prominent pureblood, racist family, fabulously wealthy, and steeped in the Dark Arts. If anyone was implementing You-Know-Who's regime at Hogwarts, her first guess would be Malfoy.

She was surprised when she found out that he was named Head Boy. At first, she had assumed that his father had bought that position for his son, just as he had procured his seat on the Quidditch team. But she found out later that Malfoy was not only a spoiled rich boy, he was also a smart, spoiled rich boy.

Which made Malfoy all the more dangerous.

His grey eyes wandered lazily back to the Gryffindor corner, resting briefly on her face with a smirk of contempt before sliding back to Harry, where his silvery stare settled. He raised his long legs and rested them on the desk in front of him, watching Harry with an all-perceiving gaze that reminded Hermione of Snape's glittering eyes.

"There's something else you should know," Hermione said slowly, unsure of how the others would react. "Dumbledore is...still alive."

"What?" Harry's head snapped up to meet Hermione's. "He's still...alive?"

"Yes," Hermione said, hesitant. She took a deep breath. "Technically, yes, he's alive."

"Technically?" Ron asked.

"How long have you known this?" Harry demanded.

"Since yesterday." Harry's green eyes bored into hers, allowing no grounds for untruths. "Yesterday was the first I knew of this."

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Harry asked. Her heart tore at the hope she saw in the depths of his eyes for the first time in several months.

"I wasn't sure. McGonagall said---"

"Wait a minute," Ron interrupted. "What did you mean by 'technically?' Either he's alive, or he isn't."

"He's alive, but trapped in his own body. He can't speak, or move. Magical treatments so far have been unsuccessful, but I have been given a research assignment to develop a remedy based on his condition."

The hope that flared so shortly in Harry's eyes died.

"Are you working with anyone?" Ron asked.

Hermione was silent.

"You're working by yourself?" Ron said, incredulous.

"No," Hermione replied.

"Then who?"

Hermione didn't know what to say. What the others would think. Why she would willingly spend more hours with her least favourite professor when she herself wasn't sure.

"Professor Snape."

"Snape?" Ron spluttered.

She nodded.

"Wait," Ron interjected again. "You've been working with Snape. That man is the most socially-challenged person to ever try his hand at teaching."

"I know," Hermione said, "But he's also very talented at Potions."

"It's Snape," Harry said, disapproval etched on his face.

"Yes," she whispered. "But he may very well be Dumbledore's last hope."

Snape's cure may certainly be Dumbledore's last hope if Harry did not rise to the occasion. Hermione observed him through her lashes, the sudden model student. He turned to look at her and smiled, the sweetness of it, the taste of Elysian past puncturing the shield around her heart. The face of their youth smiled softly at her, but the eyes of the man she had kissed in the common room were reflected in his sorrowful green eyes.

"Professor Watson, class had ended."

Hermione wrenched her eyes away from Harry's face. A chestnut-haired Hufflepuff stood by the door while the bald Astronomy teacher continued to lecture until the very last minute. The students had been shuffling their books and quills into their bags for the past two minutes.

Hermione got up from her seat and met Ron's eyes over Harry's head. Ron smiled at her and started talking to Seamus. Hermione was stung; when had this happened? She saw for the first time, the ever-widening gulf that spanned the distance between herself and Ron. The camaraderie that had formed her childhood was wearing away with the passage of Time. She gathered up her things and began to walk after Ron in an effort to knit the threads of her friendship back together.

"Harry?" she asked, turning over her shoulder. "Class is over."

Harry did not move, nor did he make any sign that signaled that he had heard her. He had his notes still out on his desk, but to Hermione's surprise, there was little written on his parchment. He was stroking his quill idly, his eyes fixed on a point across the room. She followed the heat of his gaze, a lifeline extended to someone she could not see, could not be.

It ended on Draco Malfoy's empty seat.

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

He waited.

It seemed as though Potter would always leave him hanging in the dust.

Draco waited just outside the classroom door in order to waylay Potter on the way out. He crossed his arms and leaned against the outer wall of Watson's room, watching the throng of students as they made their way out, waiting for one dark-haired, jewel-eyed boy to appear.

He glared at Weasley as the red-headed boy exited, who gave Draco a contemptuous, hateful look in return as he passed. He emerged without Granger or Potter, which struck Draco as unusual, but what was he to think in the age of the Boy Who Sulked?

Draco and Weasley did not exchange words; their mutual enmity based on years of family pride and countless generations gone by. His hatred of the red-haired Weasel was bred into him, and real. It was a pure, unfounded loathing that Draco had grown up with, unlike the resentment that smouldered in his chest whenever he thought about the Weasel's best friend. He watched Weasley walk on ahead, without waiting for the Mudblood or Potter. Peculiar, Draco thought as Weasley joined the other Gryffindor seventh years instead.

Sounds from Watson's classroom caught his attention once more and he disregarded the dismissible redhead. He heard Granger talking in a low voice to her speccy little boyfriend, and despite his avid curiousity, Draco suppressed the urge to eavesdrop. He would not deign to mingle in the Mudblood's affairs, no matter how much he longed to listen.

The door swung open again and Granger rushed out. She glanced at him, surprised at to stumble across a body that still waited outside Watson's classroom. She averted her eyes when she realized who it was, but not before Draco caught the glitter of tears unshed.

The Mudblood had been crying.

Envy rose in Draco's heart; he had never in seven years been able to make the Mudblood cry, but in two minutes, Potter had succeeded where he had failed.

Again.

Draco clenched his fists. Damn you, Potter, Draco thought, must you be perfect in everything you do?

Footsteps approached the door.

Draco steeled himself to confront the Boy Who Lived. He closed his eyes, marshaled his resolve, drew in a deep breath and ----

"Harry!"

A Gryffindor seventh year called out from across the corridor.

Potter's footsteps froze.

Draco watched as a girl ran across the hall to intercept the Potter. "Hey, Harry, I'm glad I caught you. I've been wanting to talk to you about O.O.G."

"Listen, Christina," he heard Potter say, "I've told you before; I have no interest in joining your spirit club."

Draco snickered quietly from his position behind the open door.

"Look, Harry, we would really appreciate it if you endorsed the organization. Hogwarts might benefit from it; the students might find something to enjoy and take comfort in these hard times. You're the ideal patron, Harry. You're a Quidditch star, and the Boy Who Lived---" she stopped abruptly.

There was a long pause before Potter answered.

"Thanks," he said bitterly. "Just strap a lion's mask over my head and let me go perform acrobatic feats for you."

"Harry, if you don't want---"

"Of course I do, Christina," Draco heard Potter interject with false brightness. "In fact, I think I'll got put on the sparkly red skirt right now."

The girl sighed.

"All right," she said, resigned. "Good luck, Harry, whatever you do with your life." Her voice trembled and Draco saw her emerge and walk away, her gait and posture disappointed and betrayed.

Momentarily, Potter walked out of Watson's room, shuffling his books into his bag. He took no notice of Draco, who was half hidden in the shadows behind the open door.

Draco waited to be acknowledged.

But as Potter continued to walk down the corridor, Draco realized that acknowledgement would not be forthcoming. It stung him. It stung him all the more so because it was Harry Potter that did not notice him, did not recognize him, did not perceive him. It had always been Harry Potter that continued to walk ahead, completely oblivious to the Head Boy lying in wait.

Draco slammed the door shut.

Potter jumped and halted, but did not turn around.

"What is it, Malfoy?" he asked, the tense set of his shoulders belying his calm tone.

"If you don't know, then you're even thicker than I give you credit for," Draco replied, icy hate and mockery coating each word.

"If it's about detention, I've already paid my due," Potter said.

"Not according to McGonagall," Draco smirked.

Potter whirled around.

Draco relished the look of dismay that crossed Potter's face. "Yes, that's right, Potter. In light of your performance this past week, Potter, McGonagall has decided that a prolonged detention schedule is in order. Your next detention is scheduled for this Friday." He stared the other boy down, feeling some measure of vindication as he saw Potter deflate. Who was the superior one now?

"Am under whom am I serving this time?" Potter asked, obstinacy replacing his dismay. Draco stepped back involuntarily. "You? What is it, you get off by watching me polish trophies?" Potter advanced on Draco, his eyes hard, his arm tracing suggestive circular movements in the air. Draco backed away slowly, against his will. He felt a blush rise in his cheeks, and hated himself for becoming flustered in Potter's presence, whose glittering green eyes never left Draco's. He cursed his fair colouring, his silver-blond hair, his light eyes, all which betrayed all the discomfort Draco felt upon his face.

Discomfort bled away into anger, and Draco whet the edge of his voice upon his malice.

"Maybe, if we were returning to the trophy room," Draco answered, sarcasm dripping from his voice like poison from a wound. "No," he lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes. He straightened himself and stepped forward, bringing his face inches from Potter's. "I've got a better use for you."

The other boy did not blink. Draco stared back, their eyes meeting in a clash of iron wills. He had meant his words to carry a threat, but Potter seemed unfazed.

"Do it yourself, then," Potter said, his voice husky. Draco shivered involuntarily; the hate that resonated in the low timbre of Potter's voice sent shivers down his spine. The other boy drew his dark brows together in a scowl. "I don't have to listen to you."

He continued to hold Draco's gaze. Didn't he feel uncomfortable? Draco wondered as the tension grew tighter between then. He felt it like a noose wrapped around his neck; he couldn't breathe, he was losing hair, and all the world faded except for Potter's unblinking eyes. If the green-eyed boy did not cut the bond between then soon, Draco would have to, before the unbearable tightness shattered in his chest.

At last, Potter wrenched away. He held the silence and turned his back on the Head Boy. Left cold, Draco rallied his defenses and aimed one last parting shot at Potter's retreating figure.

"Practice those polishing skills, Potter. Watson may want his head buffed and waxed Monday afternoon. Isabella should be able to see her reflection in it."

If Potter heard, he gave no sign. Draco strove to cling to his fleeting sense of power, but it slipped through his fingers like shadow through light, growing thinner and thinner as his enemy walked farther and farther away.

"He'll come," Draco said to himself, mustering his pride. He would not let Potter get the better of him. "He's Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He'll honour his responsibility."

But despite Draco's outward confidence, he could not be sure. He was seeing glimpses of Potter previously unrevealed, previously hidden.

"He will come," Draco whispered.

But as he spoke into the gathering darkness, Draco wondered if the Boy Who Lived had finally died.