Justified

She didn't trust him.

McGonagall had placed this duty into his hands, but so much was hidden behind his stony exterior. Was he truly on their side? She immediately berated herself; she trusted her mentor's judgment. But Hermione had a feeling that Snape knew a lot more than he ever revealed. She knew he had connections within the Death Eater circle. He was a valuable source of information, an asset to them. But she needed empirical evidence, proof that she could trust him.

Proof that he was truly fighting for the Light.

His dark eyes flicked up from the parchment at her.

"Well, sit down, Granger," he said tersely. He returned to his perusal of her notes.

Hermione slowly settled herself into the seat across from the Potions professor. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to be able to trust herself, to uphold her end of the fight, to keep the secrets of the Order hidden.

That was the hardest part of her assignment.

"Hmmm," Snape houghed, his expression thoughtful. He tossed her notes carelessly onto his desk and rose from his seat to work at a table strewn with mysterious ingredients. He picked up a long silver knife from the gloomy tabletop and methodically began to slice a root in front of him, apparently to prepare and bottle it for future use in antidotes and potions.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably as the professor's eyes flickered toward her every once and a while. She was at a loss; she wanted to be useful but she did not know how. What did he want? Anger coloured her cheeks, her irritation and dislike grating at her mind.

Snape raised his head from his work and stared at her, his knife flashing in the dim half-light of the candles that illuminated the cold, dark dungeon. Heat flooded her face, and she drew herself taller in her seat. Did her presence intrigue him? Was it curiousity that gleamed from his eyes? Or was it some other emotion, hooded beneath heavy eyelids and night-black irises?

"Well?" Snape snapped. "Are you going to simply sit there, Miss Granger, or make yourself useful?"

Hermione shrank unconsciously in her seat. It was strange. Around other professors, or even in Potions class, she was her usual intelligent and forthright self, but when Snape fixed his gaze on her alone, like now as she sat alone in his domain, she felt her courage dissolve. It fell away in shards, ripped apart by both his pointed silence and brusque questions. She wanted to hate him, but couldn't. She wanted to trust him, but couldn't. She wanted to run away and never return, yet she couldn't. How could she work with him when just being alone in the same room robbed her of everything that made her Hermione, Head Girl?

"Get up here then, and bottle those dried witch hazel leaves if you're not too busy," Snape said, sarcasm lining his voice as he leered at her.

Hermione rose and squared her shoulders. She walked up to the table and sat beside the Potions master as he slid the witch hazel over to her.

Hermione bowed her head as she efficiently bottled the dried leaves, hiding her face from Snape's scrutinizing gaze.

They worked in silence.

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

The package was wrapped in black silk.

He eyed it warily, knowing where such packages came from, and the types of things likely to be found inside. Only they wrapped their posts in such extravagant and ominous packaging. Noticing a small letter tucked into the folds, in a black envelope, he reached out and took it, still not opening the silk. He used a letter opener to slice the envelope open neatly, appreciating the cruel efficiency of the small blade. A piece of parchment fell onto the desk, and he picked it up, controlling the tremble in his hands. There was no salutation.

Here is the equipment you need. Be discreet, and remember where your loyalty lies. You must not be discovered.

He knew what the contents of the package were.

He knew what he had to do.

He was a meticulous man, and he tossed the letter and its silky wrappings into the flames burning on the small classroom hearth. Although no one had reason to suspect him, there was no harm in taking precautionary measures.

The dim light from the flames cast his face into disturbing shadows that leapt and retreated across his face. A satisfied smile spread wickedly across his sinister expression. No one knew. The prizes...the prizes for him would be endless. They would at last come to recognize him. Never again would they mock him for his less-than-prestigious family name, for his tainted blood. Already, he was gifted by them with his position. His desk, his moderate wealth, these were spoils of the impending war. The war that hung like a plague of locusts over the world, ready to descend and devour. He knew the conflict would consume anyone not quick-witted enough to take care of themselves. He would at last avenge himself. Those who had done him wrong, they would all die, destroyed by his Master. His side was chosen, his loyalty already bought. It had never been more apparent to him than it was now, as he sat in that small room illuminated by fire, swathed in smoke from burning black silk.

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

He wished he would stop staring.

Harry glanced over his shoulder as he cleaned the Arithmancy classroom. The blond Head Boy was ensconced in Professor Vector's chair, surveying Harry with heavy lidded intensity. His long legs were perched atop Vector's parchments as he swung idly back and forth, the squeak-squeak of unoiled springs the only sound in the silent classroom.

Annoyance flared within Harry like a spark. Why wouldn't he just say something, that stupid prick? How could he just sit there, stewing in the heavy silence that blanketed both boys like a summer night before a storm?

Harry slammed the eraser down.

Clouds of dust arose and he choked on the billowing plumes of chalk.

Harry spasmed in a painful fit of coughing and he doubled over, trying to regain his breath. Malfoy made no move to help him, but simply sat there, arching a fair eyebrow in amusement.

When at last Harry was able to draw a lungful of air without choking, he glared at the blond Slytherin, his green eyes glittering with hate.

You enjoyed that, didn't you, you sadistic bastard?

Yes, I did. The slight quirk of Malfoy's lips told Harry what he had already known.

Harry straightened.

"Done," he said, the soft utterance loud in the silence.

Malfoy gestured elegantly to the door, but the taunting gleam in his eyes belied the courtesy of his actions.

Harry turned, his footfalls loud on the stone floor. Harry relished the sound; it broke apart the smothering silence. He threw open the door and stalked out. Malfoy emerged moments later, a sneer prominent on his face. The urge to punch Malfoy rose in Harry's throat like the taste of bile, but he swallowed it.

"Where next?" Harry asked shortly.

"The Astronomy room. And then Rochester's. And then you have a whole weekend to recover before your next detention with Watson." Glee covered Malfoy's features. Harry bit his lip, resisting his body's natural impulse to lob a good one to Malfoy's left jaw.

"Good," Harry said coldly. "Lead the way, Bighead Boy."

Malfoy's nostrils flared. He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, affronted. Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. Malfoy brought himself closer to Harry, glaring coldly. "Fine. Then follow me, Scarhead." Harry ground his teeth. Malfoy held his stance a moment longer before breaking away to march down the corridor, his heels creating a sharp staccato on the granite floor.

So they had resorted to childish insults again.

"Training for the ballet, Potter?" yelled Malfoy as Harry was forced to a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the rogue Bludger.

Harry laughed softly to himself, sardonic chuckles escaping his throat. They had been silly, sophomoric insults, small pinpricks that only increased his irritation of Malfoy. And now that they were both older, they had honed their insults against their hatred. Sharp knife-stabs that now wounded and hurt.

Malfoy stopped in front of Watson's classroom and turned.

"Here you go, Potter. Go right ahead."

Harry gave Malfoy a withering look and brushed past the Head Boy hard. Malfoy grinned. Harry reached for the handle of the door when it turned by itself.

Harry jumped back in surprise as the door slid open and out stepped Professor Rochester.

"Mr. Potter," Rochester said, slightly startled. "Mr. Malfoy," he acknowledged the blond Slytherin.

"Professor," Malfoy inclined his head slightly in return.

"What are you doing here?" Harry and Rochester asked at the same time. Rochester glanced at Harry sharply.

"Well, Mr. Potter?"

"He's serving detention with me, Professor," Malfoy answered. Harry looked at Malfoy. Malfoy glanced briefly at Harry out of the corner of his silvery eyes before turning to face his teacher.

"I see," nodded Rochester, glancing down the corridor. "Just the two of you?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. He recoiled slightly away from the smell of cigarette smoke that hung faintly about the Transfiguration professor's robes. "I'm supposed to clean the blackboards in the classrooms, sir."

"Very good, Mr. Potter. Well then, why don't the two of you go on and finish the other classrooms?"

"But I need to clean the Astronomy room, Professor," Harry answered. He made a motion to enter the classroom, but Rochester stepped neatly in front of him.

"That's not necessary, Mr. Potter. Professor's Watson's classroom has already been cleaned."

Harry observed the slim professor with hard eyes. Rochester stared back, unruffled.

"Come on then, Potter," Malfoy said. "Hurry up. You should be glad there's one less room to clean." He smiled at his teacher. "Thank you, Professor."

Rochester nodded. "Don't be out too late, boys. I'll see you both in class on Monday." He turned and continued down the hall, taking his scent of smoke with him. Harry stared at his retreating back, unsure of what to make of him.

"Come along, Potter," Malfoy said irritably. "I want to get back to my common room before the next year." Malfoy stalked on ahead down towards the Transfiguration room.

Harry glanced at the open Astronomy room door. The room was dark and empty. Harry frowned and stepped closer.

There was a lingering smell of smoke.

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

She had finished the witch hazel.

Hermione gazed at the Potions professor from beneath her eyelashes, wondering if she was to be excused. She was more than slightly annoyed; she had just wasted about an hour of her time bottling dried witch hazel when they should have been working on a cure for Dumbledore.

"Um, Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Snape snapped, continuing to slice the mystery root impassively.

Hermione stiffened.

"I was wondering if I am to be excused, or if you need me for anything else?" she said, striving to keep her voice noncommittal.

Snape continued to viciously slash the root on the work table.

Anger bubbled within Hermione. She knew Snape held her in contempt, as he did nearly member of her House, but she at least expected him to treat his work partner with a little courtesy. Snape stared at her, the silver knife flashing he worked. Hermione held her breath. He was going to cut himself if he wasn't careful.

"Would you like to leave, Miss Granger?" he asked, his voice uninflected. Hermione watched his hands, entranced as the silver knife edged closer and closer to his fingertips.

"If I am no longer needed."

Snape held his silence and her stare.

"Is there anything you would like me to do for Dumbledore?" she asked when the silence grew even more uncomfortable.

"What can you do, girl?" he asked, the sneer back in his voice. "What do you know? Go back to your common room. I don't know why Minerva saddled me with you. I don't need an assistant."

The cauldron burst.

"I was selected by Professor McGonagall because I am the best Potions student in this school!" Hermione burst out indignantly. Snape grinned, a horrible twisting of his lips. She felt her face flush and hated herself for rising to Snape's jibes. "And I can help. I may have even found a lead, one that no one has yet considered!"

"Really, Miss Granger? And what might that be?" Snape asked, his sneering polite insincerity worse than his taunts.

"That perhaps his ailment isn't even magical in nature! That it could be Muggle condition!"

Snape was taken aback by her outburst. The knife clattered against the tabletop.

"Do you mean, Miss Granger, that perhaps we've gone about Professor Dumbledore's condition the wrong way?" he asked sharply.

Her courage died upon her lips. Hermione froze, her words checked by the intensity of Professor Snape's eyes.

"Y-yes," she stammered.

"And on what grounds do you have for this presumption?" Snape asked, annoyed that this idea had not occurred to him before. "What do you know about Dumbledore's condition that we do not? In fact, what do you know about Professor Dumbledore's state at all?"

Hermione opened her mouth and then flushed.

"I...I saw a parchment on your desk, Professor, one that listed Professor Dumbledore's symptoms." Snape lifted a dark eyebrow, but Hermione forged on ahead. "They seemed strangely familiar."

"His illness has no parallel to any magical ailment," Snape snapped, interrupting Hermione. She glared at him, but continued.

"His illness might have sounded familiar because they are Muggle in nature. I thought it would have been prudent to owl my parents; they have several friends who are doctors."

"You exposed Dumbledore's status to your parents?" Snape asked. His disapproval and distrust were reflected in his coal-black eyes.

"N-not exactly," Hermione said, stumbling over her words slightly. Snape crossed his arms. "I told them it was for a school project. I merely asked if the symptoms were familiar and that if they could cross-reference it for me in some Muggle medical manuals for a disease that fit."

"Hmmm," Snape harrumphed, regarding Hermione with suspicion.

She narrowed her eyes and squared her jaw. She would show him; she would show him that she was not merely an assistant, that she could hold her own in the race to save Dumbledore's life.

"I received a response this morning," she said, starting to rummage through her bag for the note. Snape held out his hand and Hermione kept her exasperation in check as she placed the neatly folded note into Snape's hand.

He gave her a disdainful look before opening the letter.

Hermione-

So happy to hear you are doing well, you know how proud I am of you. I received your owl two days ago. I asked Carol and Mark about those symptoms and they said that they are nearly identical to those of a person suffering from a stroke. Muscular incapacitation like you described, according to this manual, is similar to the paralysis usually found in a victim of a stroke, but in this case it is on both sides of the body. They have lent me their medical manual, so I have included copies of the relevant pages. Hope this helps and see you over Christmas holidays in a few months.

Love,

Mum

Hermione watched as Snape scanned her Mum's letter quietly. He quickly read through the manual pages before turning to her.

"So you think that Professor Dumbledore suffers from a Muggle illness?" he spat, although she detected a note of grudging admiration in his eyes.

"W-well," Hermione began, "perhaps not precisely."

Snape raised his eyebrow again.

"Not precisely, Miss Granger? Do elucidate that statement."

Hermione hesitated. Snape's dark eyes bored into her face, expecting an answer she was unwilling to give. Although she knew that he was aware of the Order's suspicions about a conspiracy in the Ministry, or perhaps was privy to the actual conspiracy itself, she was reluctant to trust him. A Death Eater who dealt for both sides.

"Being as the symptoms are similar, and not identical, it gives me cause to believe that the condition is not entirely self-wrought, as it is in most Muggle patients."

"Indeed," Snape smirked. He studied Hermione for a moment before asking, "So, what would be the motivation for inflicting such a curse on Professor Dumbledore? If it is a curse." He stared at Hermione.

She quailed slightly. It felt like a test; Snape was probing her mind, trying to perhaps mislead her into giving the wrong answers.

"My mother sent this with the letter," Hermione said instead, bringing out a few sheets of paper from her cloak. "It lists a few of things Muggles use to help stroke patients recover. I thought that it might be useful in developing a potion for Professor Dumbledore."

"You are avoiding the question, Miss Granger," Snape said coldly. "Do you believe there is significance to your discovery?" He inclined his head slightly to indicate that she was to the set the pages before him.

Hermione bit her lip, weighing her next words carefully.

"The sudden removal of Minister Fudge and Professor Dumbledore within the very same week has brought me to believe---to conclude that perhaps they were removed as points in a larger conspiracy."

Snape glanced at her sharply. Hermione said no more, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Do you believe the Ministry is involved?" he asked harshly.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but then thought the better of it. Snape's probing stares stabbed at her.

"I asked you a question, Miss Granger. Do you believe the Ministry is involved?"

What did he want her to say? Hermione bit her lip again, nervously casting about for a way to circumvent the professor's demands.

"Well, they don't seem to be very concerned about finding out what went wrong with either Fudge or Dumbledore," she said cautiously.

"No, they are not." Snape sighed, a curiously vulnerable action that brought Hermione to attention. "Nor do they care to report the Muggle killings happening across Britain."

"Muggle killings?" Hermione gasped.

Snape observed her from under dark lashes. "I had thought, Miss Granger, that with your connections to Muggles you might have been aware of this."

Hermione wondered if he meant to insult her or merely warn her.

"No, I am not," she replied. Snape rose from his seat at the table and crossed over to his desk. He drew out two publications and tossed them in front of Hermione. By the immobile photographs, Hermione knew that they were Muggle newspapers. She raised her eyes in surprise to the Potions professor.

"The London Daily and the Gloucester Citizen," she said, unsure of what to make of this new development.

"That is correct, Miss Granger," Snape said sardonically. "I also have a subscription to The Daily Prophet and The International Wizarding Herald Tribune. Neither of those magical publications has printed a single word about this," he said viciously, stabbing the paper on the table in front of Hermione. She leaned closer to read the headline in the Gloucester Citizen:

Family of Five Found Dead. Cause Still Unknown. Police at a Loss.

"On the morning of September the twenty-third, police broke into the house of Mr. Peter Simms of Chipping Sodbury after reports from his office regarding a two-week absence," Hermione read. She looked up at the angry professor, who motioned for her to continue. "It is said that a colleague of Mr. Simms, a Fellow of his from Cambridge, noticed Mr. Simms's disappearance after Mr. Simms failed to appear at a lunch date. Subsequent telephone calls to the Simms' house were not answered and Mr. Parson, his colleague, made inquiries at Mr. Simms's work, who reported back that Mr. Peter Simms had been missing for the past two weeks. The police were hailed and the morning of September the twenty-third, they found the bodies of Mr. Simms, his wife, his two children, and his maid. The doctors are at a loss as to the cause of the deaths, as there was no sign of physical trauma and all the members of the Simms household were in perfect health at the time of death."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. She raised her head to the professor to find that he had been observing her with curiousity.

"Those were not isolated cases, Miss Granger," Snape said. "There were six other deaths: two in London, three in Oxford, and one as far north as Durham. All found exactly as the family described here."

"Do you think these deaths are related to the fate of Dumbledore and Fudge?" Hermione whispered.

Snape looked at her strangely.

"I think it best not to voice any unfounded suspicions about the Ministry, no matter what my personal thoughts may be," he said sharply. Hermione jumped back a little in surprise. "However---" he began. Hermione waited for him to finish, but he changed the subject abruptly. "If you do not believe Dumbledore's stroke is the natural result of his great age, then what do think his condition to be the product of?" The sneer was gone from his voice.

"Perhaps," Hermione ventured. "Perhaps the exact parts of the brain that malfunction during a stroke could be altered with magic." She waited, but Snape gave no sign of skepticism. She continued, her voice gaining in confidence. "Thus, a very real illness is created, but with no magical evidence."

Snape did not reply, and Hermione felt as though she had won a small victory against the exacting professor.

"Then whoever cast the spell must be familiar with Muggle medicine and science," Snape said.

Hermione halted. She had not thought of that.

Snape furrowed his dark brows in contemplation. Hermione stood off to the side, unsure of what she was to do now.

After a long moment, Snape turned to her and dismissed her.

"You are excused, Miss Granger." He waved his hand at her, and Hermione turned to leave, curiously disappointed.

"Wait," she heard his say. She looked over her shoulder at him.

His face was inscrutable as he said, "You've helped perhaps more than you know, Miss Granger."

A small glow began inside Hermione and she smiled softly.

"Oh, and before I forget," the leer returned to his face. "Crush those cloves and bottle them before our next meeting. They're commonly used in Revival Potions. It may prove useful to us."

The glow was extinguished.

Hermione glared at the Potions master, grabbed the proffered items, and stalked out of the room, not daring to turn around unless that contemptuous smirk unraveled her composure.

She had gone from Equal Partner to Teacher's Assistant.

She would show him.

She would prove that she was a brain to contend with.

She always did enjoy a good challenge.

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

Harry couldn't take it any longer.

All while he was cleaning Rochester's classroom, Malfoy had sat in the professor's chair, not saying a word. The absence of his usual taunts unnerved Harry, as did the Head Boy's unrelenting stares. The heat of Malfoy's gaze burned holes into Harry's back, causing his face to flush and perspire slightly, yet he had the urge to cover himself with his cloak, to wrap himself in its dark folds, to escape Draco Malfoy's inexorable eyes.

Harry threw down his eraser and turned to face him.

"You're not finished, Potter," Malfoy drawled, smoothing down the back of his head in an unconscious imitation of Professor Rochester. "You have three more blackboards in this classroom to clean." A lazy smile traced the Head Boy's lips, contrasting greatly with the flinty hardness of his eyes.

"Would you stop that?" Harry asked irritably, balling his cold palms into fists.

Malfoy raised his fair brows. "Stop what exactly, Potter?"

"What you were doing," Harry said.

"I wasn't doing anything, Potter," Malfoy responded, a slight smirk at the edge of his mouth.

But that was precisely the problem. Malfoy wasn't doing anything, and consequently Harry did not know how to handle the naked silence between them.

Harry whirled around again. He picked up the fallen eraser and began to clean Rochester's untidy scrawl off the blackboard in front of him.

"If my silence bothers you, Potter, then perhaps you'd like me to tell a few jokes," called Malfoy from his chair, "What do you call a mass of Mudbloods falling out of the sky?"

Harry continued cleaning.

"Come, Potter, you don't know?"

Harry didn't answer.

"Pollution, Potter, pollution." Malfoy laughed raucously. "Very good, eh Potter? I made that one up myself."

"A stellar wit you have there, Malfoy," Harry said flatly. "Did your father buy that for you too?"

Harry heard Rochester's chair scrape the stone floor.

"Leave my father out of this, Potter." Malfoy's voice was suddenly much closer, almost at his ear.

Harry shrugged and continued to wipe all traces of notes off the board.

"My father has given me much in life, but I have had to work to earn things myself," Malfoy said. "You don't know what I've had to go through."

"Oh, like what, Malfoy?" Harry asked, disgusted. "You actually had to lift your finger to brush your hair? No, of course not. You wouldn't want to soil your pretty little hands."

Harry saw Malfoy's hand fly to his wand. Harry stared him down, daring Malfoy to draw his wand, challenge sparkling in his green eyes.

"I was born to privilege, Potter, and with that comes specific obligations*. Obligations to my family." Malfoy's voice dropped low, hatred resonating deep within his throat.

"I see," Harry said sarcastically. "Duty to your family name, upholding your family honour and whatnot. Get out of the sixteenth century, Malfoy."

"And what would you know, Potter?" Malfoy snarled. "You who can't even honour the bond he has with his so-called friends," he spat. "You hide away in your little hole, unable to face the world and the responsibility placed on your shoulders. You're a fucking coward, Potter."

Harry made a sudden violent movement at Malfoy. Malfoy cringed and threw up his hands. Harry stopped his punch mid-swing. Harry had been called a great deal of names in his life: midget, Specs, shrimp, but he had never been called a coward. He was a Gryffindor; bravery characterized his House.

"Look at you," Harry said, a disgusted expression crossing his face. Malfoy looked up from his protective crouch. "You can't even defend yourself, you pathetic prat. Not quite so sure of ourselves are we, without Crabbe and Goyle to champion us?"

Malfoy reddened, his silver eyes widening with anger.

Thwack!

Harry staggered back. He brought his hand to his jaw, where a sharp pain lingered.

Malfoy had punched him.

Harry threw himself at the Head Boy with a vengeance, feeling freed at last. The two boys threw punches at each other left and right, swinging wildly in their fury. Harry landed a few on Malfoy's stomach before the Slytherin retaliated with a swift uppercut to his chin, knocking Harry against the desks in the classroom and onto the floor.

Before Harry could recover, Malfoy was on top of him, swinging madly, catching Harry on the shoulder and chest. Harry brought his leg between the two and kicked Malfoy away, who landed with a thud on the floor beneath the blackboard. He rushed Malfoy before he could rise, crashing onto the floor with Malfoy pinned beneath him. The blond boy struggled, punches forgotten as both seventeen-year-olds wrestled for dominance. Malfoy kicked away from the wall, rolling Harry over. Harry thrashed about, trying to regain the upper hand.

Thud! Smack!

Harry doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. He elbowed Malfoy hard across the face and rolled away from the howling Head Boy, struggling to catch his breath.

Both boys were curled up in their respective corners, recuperating. Harry heaved himself to his feet, feeling his breath return. Malfoy was still on the floor, nursing a purpling eye. Malfoy brought himself to his feet as well, breathing hard and glaring at Harry out of his good eye.

Without a word the two boys rushed each other again, grabbing any part of his enemy's body that he could: fistfuls of a cloak, a jumper, anything within reach. Harry had Malfoy in a headlock while the Head Boy kicked feebly at Harry's feet. Shifting his weight, Malfoy threw Harry over his shoulder and brought him crashing against the surface of the desks, bringing Malfoy with him. The two rolled across the desktops, breathing hard, vying for the position of dominance.

At last, Harry had Malfoy pinned beneath him and the other boy ceased struggling. The two boys glared at each other. Malfoy glared at him, his stare icy and full of stabbing hatred. Harry stared back, his glasses askew and bent.

Suddenly, Malfoy shoved Harry away and got up. A strange look crossed his face and Harry wondered if he had hurt Malfoy worse than he thought. Malfoy looked at him, his silver eyes unguarded, vulnerable, and fearful.

"Malfoy, are you all ri---"

"Fuck off, Potter." Malfoy didn't meet his eyes again. He collapsed into a nearby chair, resting his head against hand in a defeated pose.

Harry looked around the destroyed classroom.

"Maybe we should clean up---"

"I said fuck off, Potter," Malfoy said, not looking up.

Harry frowned, and limped toward the Head Boy.

"Look, I---"

Malfoy jumped to his feet in a flurry of black robes. He shoved a few desks aside and advanced on Harry.

"I said, Go. Now." Malfoy's voice was low and dangerous.

Harry began to slowly back away towards the door.

"I said Go!" Malfoy roared, picking up a chair and throwing it to the side.

Harry turned and left. But once he was outside the classroom, he chanced one last look at Malfoy, who was sitting alone in the Transfiguration room, head in hands looking desperately unsure and ready to cry.

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

His room smelled like smoke.

He threw off his cloak and opened the window, airing out his room.

The acrid smell of burning silk still clung to his robes.

He hung his cloak near the window, letting the cool night breeze blow softly across his face. He laughed softly to himself. He had done his work; he had gone about to each of the classrooms and placed a small, insignificant metal ball in obscure places. Nobody had seen him. Nobody would suspect him.

His sinister chuckles did not carry beyond his bedroom window as the night breeze carried away the scent of smoke.