The Hush of War: 13: Counter-Intelligence III
Title: The Hush of War
Rating (this chapter): R
Words (this chapter): 8,528
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Beta’d by: amelancholykiss <3.
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The Hush of War
Chapter Thirteen
Counter-Intelligence III
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Counter-Intelligence: (n) 1. The efforts designed to prevent enemy intelligence organizations from successfully gathering and collecting intelligence. 2. The classification and control of sensitive information or the active spreading of disinformation to mislead the enemy.
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On Monday, over a week after Harry and Malfoy had flown together, he walked to Arithmancy with Hermione and Nott, while Malfoy skulked along behind them, arguing with Zacharias Smith about something inane. They were always arguing, though; usually about things that Harry didn't understand-such as the proper way to formulate an Ancient Runes table or what a constellation meant, depending on where it was at what time. Only now they argued around Harry, being as he was friends-of a sort-with each of them.
The walk was quiet and awkward, something that Harry had never experienced with Hermione. She was strangely reticent, and he still hadn't been able to get her to tell him what had happened between her and Ron. Even more strange, he hadn't been able to get it out of Ron, either. All he knew was that they were fighting-he was pretty sure, anyway-they weren't talking, and he was caught in the middle. He rolled his eyes; it was like fourth year all over again, only without Krum lurking about.
"Did you finish your homework?" she asked him. Well, Harry reconsidered, she was talking to him, but it was stilted-small-talk, really.
"Yeah," Harry said. "We just had to answer the questions at the end of the chapter, right?"
Hermione nodded. "Have you finished your Transfigurations and DADA essays for tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"What about Potions?" she continued. "Do you understand what we've been doing in class?"
"Sort of," Harry said. He glanced over at Nott to see what he thought about all of this, but Nott was looking straight ahead and saying nothing. He'd been quiet in Potions, too, now that Harry thought about it. Harry narrowed his eyes; Krum might not be around, but Nott was, and he'd certainly had his suspicions about the two of them-
"Well, if you need me to go over it with you-"
"Did Ron find out?" Harry interrupted her, bluntly. Nott looked up quickly. So, he had been paying attention. Harry pursed his lips. He didn't care who Hermione dated, but if he was going to have to deal with Ron sulking over it, he wasn't going to be very happy.
"Find out what, Harry?" Hermione asked. She was terrible at evasion.
"Don't insult him, Hermione," Nott said quietly. "You know what he's talking about." Harry nodded in affirmation.
"How did you know?" she asked with a sigh.
Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not completely oblivious, you know."
Hermione grimaced, glancing around her. "We haven't really discussed it, you know," she started. "Theo and I, I mean."
Nott raised his eyebrows. "I assumed it to be understood," he said to her. When she gave him a blank look, he added, "What? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend?"
Hermione snorted and slapped his shoulder. "Nothing quite so frivolous," she answered.
Harry cleared his throat. "Ron?"
"Weasley saw us kissing," Nott said with a shrug. Harry winced: poor Ron. "It wasn't the way I would have wanted him to find out, but what's done is done."
"He's being ridiculous about it," Hermione added angrily. "I tried to talk to him yesterday, but he's acting like…like a git! He just sneers at me and leaves the room."
"He's pretty besotted with you," Harry said frankly.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but it was Nott who spoke, saying with a cheesy grin at Hermione, "Small world." Hermione slapped him again.
"Ron's just going to have to get over it," she said matter-of-factly. "I gave him innumerable opportunities, and, I'm sorry Harry, but I'm just not interested in him any longer." She shrugged, unrepentant.
It was then that Malfoy loped up to them, falling into step next to Nott and pounding him on the back cheekily. "Good for you, Nott," he said. Nott pointedly brushed his shirt off and gave Malfoy an arched look.
"Nice to see you again, Malfoy," he said. "It's been ever so long."
Malfoy ignored him, instead focusing on Hermione, who looked entirely uncomfortable with the attention. "So, landed one, have you, Granger?" he asked. "Nott's a respectable catch-decent standing, and his Gringott's vault isn't entirely empty."
Hermione looked disgusted, and really, Harry wasn't far from it himself. Nott, on the other hand, looked quietly amused.
"Malfoy, you disgusting insect," Hermione said. "I'm not after his money. Don't ever presume to insult me in such a way again, or I'll make that pretty little face of yours look like the back-end of a flobberworm."
"You little-"
"Malfoy," Harry and Nott said simultaneously. Malfoy sneered at both of them and then turned back to Hermione.
"I don't like you, Granger," he said instead. "I think you're a pretentious little bitch, actually, but I have some small amount of respect for Nott, so I'll temper my tongue when in your presence, but I promise you: raise your hand to me even once and I'll raise mine right back. I have no compunctions about hitting a woman-or a girl, as the case may be. Furthermore," he added, "fuck off. It was a joke, you toff."
The awkward silence from before returned; Harry wasn't sure whether to defend Hermione or laugh at Malfoy's fucked-up sense of humour. Judging by Nott's look, he didn't know quite what to do, either.
He should have known that Hermione could take care of herself, though. She proved it with her next words.
"Given that I'm unaccustomed to your admittedly lacking sense of humour," she said archly, "you'll forgive me my breach of etiquette. Also, bugger off, this is a private conversation."
"Not anymore," Malfoy said easily. "Potter's my Arithmancy partner."
"Black," Hermione and Nott said together. Harry shrugged, unconcerned. Malfoy was determined to ignore his parentage, for whatever reason, and Harry really didn't care anyway.
"Oh, and here we are!" Malfoy said, ignoring them as well. He stopped in front of the open door and turned to them with a sarcastic grin. "Here's to hoping Potter and I get the best cursed item, and you two have to deal with a jinxed bidet."
"Fucker," Nott muttered under his breath as they followed him into the room. Hermione obviously agreed, since she didn't chastise him for language.
"Actually," Harry said, as he sat down next to Malfoy at their table, "I already know what we're getting."
Malfoy gave him a blank look.
"Our item," Harry clarified, rolling his eyes. "For the project." Malfoy was so utterly frustrating, even when they had a…truce. Or whatever.
"You would," Malfoy said.
Harry waited. "Don't you want to know what it is?"
Malfoy pulled one of those terrible blood lollies from his pocket and unwrapped it. "I like surprises."
Harry sat back in his chair, disgruntled.
"Good afternoon," Professor Vector said as he entered the classroom, arms laden with papers and books. "Pass up your chapter questions, and Mr Zabini, if you would come hand out last week's marked essays?"
Harry passed his homework up with a sigh. He hadn't been lying to Hermione; he really had done his questions, but he wasn't altogether certain that they were correct. He glanced at her sitting next to Nott across the aisle, wishing that they could switch seats; Nott was really the only one who could explain this stuff to him.
"As Mr Zabini is passing back your essays," Professor Vector continued, "I'd like to take a moment, before we discuss the project you'll be properly beginning today, to discuss my thoughts on your comprehension of this chapter.
"As a whole, I was disappointed," Vector continued just as Zabini handed Harry his marked essay. Harry didn't blame the professor; he was disappointed, too. He thought he would have got an A on that essay, but he'd only scored a P.
"Our two new students this year, Mr Black and Ms MacDougal, I can understand: they were moved into this class when the upper-year beginning class was cancelled. The rest of you?" he said blandly, "Terrible. Not a single O out of the whole class."
Harry glanced over at Hermione and Nott, who were both staring so incredulously at the marks on their papers that he doubted they had even heard the professor speak. Beside him, Malfoy scoffed, muttering, "I knew I should have triple-checked the equation…such a fucking stupid mistake."
"What did you get?" Harry asked him, craning his neck to see.
Malfoy glared at him and covered his mark, but he still answered, "An A; can you believe that? It's hippogriff shit! Use the wrong formula on one single question and he takes off two whole letters!"
"I got a P," Harry said with a shrug. "Better than a Troll, I suppose."
Malfoy scoffed again. "You haven't been taking the class for four years. Also, you're an idiot; it's expected of you."
Harry rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Professor Vector, who was still droning on about how utterly appalling the scores were.
"And so," Vector said at last, "I feel it prudent to reinstate a program I used when I first started at Hogwarts. Working with your project partner, you will be required to log three hours per week studying the worksheet Mr Zabini will now be handing out."
Zabini sighed and stood back up to collect the worksheets.
"These worksheets are similar to the ones you received in your second year. They include a study guide listing all known Arithmantic theorems and formulae plus irregular formulae and suspected theorems. The worksheet attached contains solvable and insolvable equations, which you must, as a team, complete each week. After you have spent the required three hours working on them, they will copy to your file for me to mark; if you finish the equations before your three hours are up, more will appear. Working on your partner project will not count towards the time limit. Are there any questions?"
There was a collective groan from the class, but no questions. Harry scanned the packet that he and Malfoy were given and chuckled bitterly to himself. "It would have been brilliant if he'd bothered to give this to me before. Might've made this nonsense a little more understandable."
Malfoy was not amused. "Most of these are noted in the textbook, Potter. If you'd really given a damn, you might have actually read it."
"I did read it," Harry insisted. "I just don't understand it. I mean-how can twelve to the fourth power equal a 'Middle Magic fire charm'?" he asked, waving his hand at one of the corrected answers on his paper.
"Easily," Malfoy said blandly. "All Arithmantic equations have to be worked backwards before they can be worked forwards, right? So, in the information you were given, it said that the original spell included four waves and three swishes, thus, multiplied, twelve. You got that far, right?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
"You were multiplying an odd, prime number by an even number. Whenever you multiply odd by even, it will always be Middle Magic. Even by even is Old or Dark Magic, so odd by odd would be…?"
"Light?" Harry guessed.
Malfoy shrugged. "New Magic, really, but they've started calling it Light Magic within the last few hundred years."
That was news to Harry, but at least it sort of made sense now. He could now see where the 'Middle Magic' part of the answer came from, but he still didn't understand the fourth power part. He'd guessed on the answer and arbitrarily come up with a 'Spell to Make Apples into Orchards'. "And the rest?" he asked.
Malfoy gestured at the parchment. "Then, it goes on to say that the outcome was twelve to the fourth power, but originally, the spell lasted seven heartbeats and two breaths, and that there were ten variations. So you start with your time indicators-the heartbeats and breaths-and you multiply again. Seven heartbeats times two breaths is fourteen. Subtract the ten possible variations and you get the fourth power, see?"
"No," Harry said bluntly. "I see where the four came from, but I don't understand how you got a fire charm."
"Oh, well that's easy enough," Malfoy said. "If your heart has beaten seven times in the space of two breaths, you can deduce that it is an adrenaline-affecting spell since the average spell is performed with the same amount of heartbeats as breaths."
"Okay," Harry said dubiously.
Malfoy gave him a look and then continued. "So, you know it's an adrenaline-affecting spell, that it's Middle Magic and that there are ten variations. That's when you would consult your supplementary text, assuming you haven't memorised all the spells as you would have been required to do, had you taken the first two years of Arithmancy."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I did sign up for the beginning class; I can't help that I got moved."
Malfoy shrugged. "Not my problem, but if you didn't understand, as most wizarding children would have," he said pointedly, "you should have asked for help from Vector." He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick book, tapping it with his wand and saying: "Middle Magic, ten."
The pages flipped and rustled, finally stopping near the end. "See?" Malfoy said, pointing to the text. "It's a voice-activated text. You can state the type of magic and the amount of variations, and it will bring up all known spells that fit."
He ran his finger down the page, searching. "This part is a little time-consuming sometimes, but there's always only one answer-at least until you get to the Advanced Squared stuff-so if you've done your equations right, you should have no trouble…and see-here it is: Middle Magic, ten variations, Fire Charm: 'An adrenaline-affecting spell'."
Harry looked over Malfoy's shoulder. "That's it?" he asked incredulously. Malfoy hadn't been lying; there were at least twenty spells on the page, but only the fire charm was listed as 'adrenaline-affecting'. "That's all I had to do?"
"Pretty much," Malfoy said.
This was absurd. This whole time, Harry had thought that, really, Arithmancy involved a little bit of skewed math and an educated guess, but here Malfoy had explained it-even better than Nott had!-all in the span of five minutes.
"So," Harry said slowly, looking at his other missed questions. "In number three, where it says the outcome is six to the negative second power…that would be…erm, let's see. It says the original spell was two flicks and three stabs, so…Middle Magic because one's odd, one's even?"
Malfoy nodded.
"And then, two heartbeats and two breaths, and six variations, so a normal spell. Two times two is four, minus six is negative two, so that's where the negative second power comes from, right?"
"Yes," Malfoy said with a pleased sort of smirk on his face. "But what kind of spell is it?"
Harry pulled his own book from his bag and said: "Middle magic, six variations." The pages flipped to the middle and stopped. "Erm…a fever-reducing spell?" he asked.
Malfoy grinned, and Harry noticed that his teeth were pink from the lollipop. "Yes, exactly. And why isn't it a wart-remover or fabric-dying spell?"
Harry glanced back at the text. "The wart-remover spell is ‘a negative adrenaline-affecting spell’, and the fabric-dying spell is 'an assumed irregular count spell'-what's that?"
"Something too complicated to explain right now," Malfoy said.
"Oh," Harry said. "But-I was right, then? That's all I had to do?"
"Yeah," Malfoy said. "That's it; of course, in the Advanced-Squared class, it gets more complicated, but you can use that formula or a longer variation of it for almost everything we'll do this year."
"Mr Malfoy, if I may have your attention, I think that what I'm saying may be of some small interest to you," Vector said loudly.
Malfoy sneered at his desk and said, "Apologies, sir. I was explaining something to Potter."
"Mr Black may ask me any questions he has after we've discussed the project, Mr Malfoy. Please refrain from making excuses."
"As you wish, sir," Malfoy said contritely. Harry didn't buy that act for a minute, though; Malfoy was still sneering at his desk.
"As I was saying," Vector continued, once again monotone and bland. "Mr Zabini"-here, Zabini rolled his eyes as he yet again got up from his desk-"will be passing out various cursed, hexed or jinxed items, according to your skill level, for your term project.
"You will be given an information sheet pertaining to your item that lists three known factors. Your assignment for the project is to not only determine the type of spell adversely affecting the item, but also to discover a way to remove it. Points for creativity, efficiency and your physical health at the end of the project. This project will count as forty percent of your final mark, so I suggest you do not take it lightly. Assignments will be due after the holidays; that gives you two and a half months to complete it. Any questions?"
There were, again, none. Zabini stopped at their desk with his box full of items and pulled out the tacky ring Dumbledore had shown Harry the week before. The little tag hanging off it, Harry saw as Zabini set it on their desk, said 'Black, Malfoy'.
"Don't lose a finger, Black," Zabini said, walking away.
Harry rolled his eyes.
"That's it?" Malfoy asked, looking at the ugly ring. He, apparently, was so surprised that their item was only jewellery, that he'd actually taken the lollipop out of his mouth and set it on the desk. "Jewellery? Jewellery curses are always so…so mundane!" he hissed. "Surely my skill level more than makes up for your lack, Potter…why are we getting a ring, when Nott and Granger are getting a dagger?"
Harry shrugged, disappointed for some reason. "I don't know-Dumbledore wanted us to do this. He seemed to think that it would keep us occupied."
Malfoy pursed his lips. "There better be a really outstanding curse on this ring, Potter."
"I'm not the one who picked it," Harry said defensively. The bell signalling the end of class chimed, and they started packing up.
"Slytherin has Quidditch practise tonight," Malfoy said as he stood. "Meet me in the library after dinner on Thursday to start on the project."
Harry didn't even have a chance to reply before Malfoy was out of the room. He watched him hurry through the door with a scowl on his face. Malfoy might not be acting like such a git around him right now, but that didn't mean he wasn't one.
Hermione and Nott stopped at his desk on their way out, waiting for him to finish packing everything up. He started to put the ring on his finger for safe-keeping, but stopped at the last moment. Surely, it was insanity to wear a cursed item. He stuck it in his pocket instead.
"What did you get?" Hermione asked. "We got a ceremonial dagger."
"A ring," Harry said, noticing the telling looks that Hermione and Nott gave each other. Really, how boring could removing a curse be? So what if it was just a ring; it was still a curse to remove, and that sounded pretty interesting to Harry. Sort of, anyway.
"Oh-well, I was just going to say that Madam Pomfrey said she was going to let Ginny out about this time today, so maybe you should go help her carry her things back to the Tower."
"Aren't you coming?" Harry asked, as he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked with them out of the classroom.
Hermione pursed her lips. "I think," she said slowly, "that with you and Ron, she'll have enough help."
"Oh," Harry said. He sighed. "All right then, I'll see you at dinner."
Hermione nodded as they parted ways and called, "Bring your Arithmancy book and I'll help you study."
Harry turned around, walking backwards so she could see the full effect of his grin as he said, "No need! Malfoy explained it; it's so simple, now!"
Hermione's mouth dropped, but Harry paid it no mind as he turned back around and jogged to the Infirmary.
-x-
Ron was already waiting on the floor by the door with his Divination book propped on his lap when Harry got there. The overly bright smile that Ron gave him was obviously fake, but if Ron was trying at all, then Harry knew that he certainly didn't want it brought up, so Harry played along, smiling right back.
"What are you doing here already?" Harry asked. "Divination's on the other side of the castle."
Ron shrugged, his smile turning a little more genuine as he answered. "I skipped," he said smugly. "Trelawney told me I was going to be terribly unwell, so I asked her if I could go ahead and come to the Infirmary before I got sick all over her fluffy poufs. She sent me down straight away."
Harry laughed. "What time is Ginny getting out?"
Ron stood, stretching. "Pomfrey said she'd let her out after the last class today, so I reckon right about now."
"Brilliant. I bet she's been really bored," Harry said. Madam Pomfrey gave them a stern look as they entered, but allowed them through the doors anyway, nodding them in the direction of Ginny's bed.
"Nah," Ron said. "Mum and Dad have been up here fussing over her all weekend, and the twins sent her some…questionable sweets. Yesterday, she told me that a rainbow-coloured one made everything all swirly and sparkly for hours, and that she found the meaning of life or something after she ate it…but she won't tell me what it is." Ron grinned at him, shrugging.
Harry raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if those kinds of sweets were legal, much less safe for giving one's little sister, but he didn't say anything. What bothered him more, actually, was that Ron had apparently been spending a lot of time up here as well over the weekend. He felt terrible: he'd been so busy-mostly trying to figure out his Arithmancy chapter questions-that he'd neglected Ron all weekend.
And it had been a weekend that Ron probably needed him around. He hadn't known at the time, of course, but…if he had been so smitten with Hermione, and then seen her kissing Nott, he probably would've wanted Ron around…if for nothing else, than just to have someone to smash things with. Or a distraction-which was probably what Ginny's hospitalisation was for Ron, actually.
Ginny was standing beside her bed at the far end of the room, muttering as she tried to stuff things into her overnight bag.
"Want some help?" Harry asked.
Ginny turned to them absently, then back to her bag. "Merlin-I know I didn't come in here with all this stuff!" she said. "Honestly, it was just a broken ankle…"
Harry glanced at all the little trinkets around her bed-a big stuffed dragon, probably from Charlie, a dangerous looking gift-basket from the twins, cakes from her parents, Ron's Chess board, and several vases of flowers. "How come I never got any of these things when I was hurt?" Harry asked archly. "I'm in here all the time, and no one ever sends me flowers!"
Ron cuffed him. "Don't be a prat, Harry," he said with a laugh. "You're not pretty enough for flowers."
Harry huffed.
"You two can carry all this, if you want," Ginny interrupted with a grin. "I'll get the dragon."
"Of course you will," Ron said indulgently. "Wouldn't want to put any stress on that ankle."
"Absolutely not," Harry affirmed. "You're much too delicate." Ron nodded.
Glowering at them, Ginny plucked the dragon from the bed and started out of the Infirmary. "Indeed," she said as she was walking away. "Luckily, I have two big, strong idiots to carry it all for me."
"We walked right into that one," Ron bemoaned as Ginny flounced ahead of them; no more delicate than Hagrid. "Should've seen it coming."
Harry chuckled. "Lots of things we should've seen coming-we never learn, do we?"
Ron shrugged, attempting to reposition his load; he was carrying the shady-looking basket from the twins and trying to keep it as far from his person as humanly possible without dropping it-which might also be detrimental to his continued health. "Might one day. I'm holding out hope for it, anyway." This statement was accompanied by a strange, faraway look that Harry chose to ignore, in favour of changing the subject.
"We should probably have an extra practise this week and next week," he said. "It was bad enough losing to Zach Smith, but I don't think I'll be able to stand it if I have to listen to Malfoy gloating for the rest of the year."
Ron grimaced at the reminder of that terrible game, but asked, "What d'you mean? Just punch the git and walk away."
Harry frowned as he pushed his hair behind his ear. "Can't-the git's my Arithmancy partner."
"Rotten luck," Ron said sympathetically.
Harry opened his mouth to say that Malfoy wasn't quite as bad as they'd always thought he was, but changed his mind at the last minute. Ron wouldn't believe him, and even if he did, hearing that all Slytherins weren't bad was the last thing he needed after the whole business with Nott. Instead, as they reached the top of the stairs, he said, "Yeah-you think Ginny'll be fine for practise next week?"
Ron shrugged. "Madam Pomfrey just said to stay off it for this week. She didn't say anything about next week-and besides, if you're on a broom, you're not really on your ankle, are you?"
"Guess not," Harry said with a grin. He paused to readjust the huge load of stuff he was carrying, and added, "We're gonna kill 'em." By which he meant Slytherin.
Ron nodded. "They don't have a chance."
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The first night after she got out of the Infirmary, after the four other girls in her year had been asleep for hours, Ginny stared up at the canopy of her bed, unable to close her eyes. She was anxious and restless and if she stayed in that bed a moment longer, she was going to go insane. But she didn't know why, and it was making her even more anxious.
"I swear to Merlin…" she muttered as she flung her blankets off and stood from the bed. Immediately, she was shivering, but she made no move to wrap her dressing gown around herself as she walked over to the window. She looked out; nothing.
Ginny scowled. "Fine-" she muttered to herself, not even caring if she woke her dorm-mates. "We'll go walk around the courtyard once, and then maybe I'll be able to sleep."
She quickly changed into warmer clothes, grabbed her cloak and slipped out of her dorm, closing the door behind her with a soft snick. It had been almost a year since she'd needed to go for a walk before she could sleep, but it would only take a quick stroll around outside and she'd be asleep in no time.
Slipping out of the portrait hole, Ginny hugged the shadows as she hurried down the stairs. At this time of night, she could go out through the side door near the Muggle Studies classroom on the first storey without anyone being the wiser.
It was even colder outside, but Ginny paid no mind to it; she was only interested in calming her strangely anxious mind so that she could get some sleep before class. After a week out with nothing to do but sleep, there was no way her professors were going to be very forgiving if she was feeling tired.
Her shoes clacked on the steps as she hopped down them, favouring her uninjured ankle as Madam Pomfrey had instructed. "At least I'm a good patient," she said.
It was very still outside: she hadn't expected it to be otherwise, but the stillness was so heavy that her anxiousness intensified. She pursed her lips and pulled her cowl up. It was only midnight, Madam Rosmerta would still be serving, and a warm butterbeer might be just the thing she needed for sleep. And perhaps the newspaper: she hadn't been able to keep up with the Derby Dozen-as they'd come to be called-since her injury.
The path around the lake and into Hogsmeade was one she'd never before taken when it was a Hogsmeade Weekend, but she thought nothing of it as she walked along. Everything was dark and still, and she could barely see two feet in front of her, but she knew the way by heart, and did not misstep. Even as she stepped through the gates and felt the protective wards ghost over her like warm fingers-something she'd never even given much notice to-did she question her actions.
Ginny's mind wandered; she didn't notice it, and when her ambling took her not to Rosmerta's pub, not even to the Hog's Head, but to a bar that-had she been paying attention, she would have not recalled having ever seen-she didn't notice that, either.
The barman had black hair, blue eyes and a clever smile. He said, "What'll you have?" without bothering to hide the look he was giving Ginny.
"A butterbeer," she said, and when he raised an eyebrow at the choice of drink-like ordering a glass of milk in a strip-club-she added, "Warm."
"Sure thing, doll," he said.
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Piss off."
The barman frowned, straightened up from where he'd bent to retrieve her butterbeer, and looked at her intently. "What pretty eyes you've got," he said slowly as he tapped the bottle with his grimy wand to warm it up. "Don't see a too many pretty-eyed girls in here."
"It's the décor," Ginny offered blandly. "It wants updating." She hadn't bothered to look around.
The barman smirked. "I'll be sure to let the owner know."
Ginny shrugged. "Makes no difference to me," she said, and reached her hand across the counter. "Nice to have met you."
Having already begun to resume his previous activity, the offered handshake did not immediately register to him. When it did, he paused, looked up at her intensely with his blue eyes and said, slowly, "Have we met before?"
Ginny stared at him, calm, and no longer restless. "Obviously not." Her hand remained out, a pointed gesture that the barman was unable to ignore, though he looked as if he wanted to. She glanced at her still hovering hand and then back to him.
Finally, he took it-his fingers surprisingly soft and warm and clean as they twisted around hers. Her right thumb brushed over the meaty flesh of his hand, and her last two fingers crooked up into his palm. He responded, and his fingers quickly tapped something that, to some people, translated into two words: River Styx.
She pulled her hand back slowly. "Thank you."
The barman ignored it. He said, "That'll be eight knuts, for the beer, miss."
Ginny handed it over without question, grabbed her butterbeer, and slid back out the door, unnoticed by anyone except the barman-just as she had been coming in. She'd turned seventeen in August, right after Harry, but her mother had said she couldn't take her Apparating test until Christmas-this made no difference to her as she stepped and turned and found herself standing on the edge of a river.
Not the River Styx, but a river of no particular interest except that it was full of salmon, and on one side of it, there lived an old woman by the name of Mrs Stanley Whittle who put a few sheep in an area she fondly called the Elysian Fields. On the other side of that river, the side that Ginny now stood on, there was a cottage with purple smoke coming from the chimney.
A generation prior, Mrs Whittle and her Fields had been a very tongue-in-cheek joke among the more educated-and cynical-Death Eaters. After all, one must first die before Charon would ever ferry them across the River, and what better way to die than to abdicate your soul for someone else? That was why, nearly twenty years ago, the little cottage across the river had become one of twenty-five possible locations for a monthly get-together among certain Death Eaters.
It was also the place one came if they were looking to be 'interviewed' for a place in the ranks and they had no connection otherwise-what happened if the hopeful recruit didn't pass was unspoken, but understood. Needless to say, the Death Eaters spent most of these nights relaxing, drinking scotch and talking about their wives, or lack thereof. Few witches and wizards were brave enough to present themselves for such interviews; what they didn't know-that the rumours were far worse than the truth-was immaterial.
Of course, Ginny had no way of knowing this. Which was why when she walked up to the cottage door and knocked the previous noises from inside all stopped immediately-the raucous laughter, the music, all of it.
It wasn't a moment later that the door was jerked open, and she was snatched inside by the neck of her cloak and tossed unceremoniously to the floor. There were at least five people standing over her-both male and female-with hastily thrown-on masks and hoods. Two of them noticed strands of their brown hair hanging loose and quickly tucked it inside their hoods. Another still held a smoking cigar between his knobby fingers; he coughed as he fiddled with it.
"Why are you here?" The voice was unfamiliar to her, but that didn't really say much.
"I'm here," she replied simply, pointedly. She didn't raise her head to look at them more closely; she was much smarter than that. The identity of a Death Eater was usually known only to a select few other Death Eaters, and to make an effort to discern the identity of one was at the very least rude, and at the most possibly fatal.
Her reply was accepted about as warmly as she expected it to be.
"What's your name?" the same voice asked.
"Ginny Weasley."
At this point, there was an uproar of commotion: there were people voicing both the opinion that she should be killed straight away for she was surely spying, and, conversely, that she should be taken to the Dark Lord immediately because wouldn't it be fine to have a spy so close to Harry Potter?
At the same time, however, Ginny was beginning to realise where she was, or perhaps, just that she wasn't at Hogwarts. The realisation came to her slowly, almost like she was waking up from a particularly good dream. She'd not had many of those lately-in fact, during her stay in the Infirmary, she'd dreamt every night that someone she loved was looking for her, but never able to find her. It had left her feeling, every morning, as if she'd been kicked in the-
She wasn't at Hogwarts.
She wasn't in her dorm room.
These weren't her year mates; this wasn't Quidditch. Someone grabbed her arms and hefted her from the ground, and as Ginny looked up only to see two dark eyes looking at her from behind a deathly white mask, she screamed.
"Let me go!"
"You came to us," said a particularly bemused voice to her left. Ginny shook her head and started struggling, but the fingers wrapped around her biceps only tightened.
"I didn't! I didn't! Let go of me!"
"What the hell's wrong with her?"
"She's mad!"
With each new bout of struggling, the grip on her arms got tighter and tighter; Ginny heard everyone around her speaking as if she were five different people-each of them listening to a different conversation-but none of it made sense. Hot tears were beginning to stream down her face, but it wasn't until she felt the sharp jerk of Apparation that she really began to cry.
-x-
Draco couldn't sleep, so he paced.
Of course, Draco often couldn't sleep, but this time, it was different. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but something about the nonsense Potter had told him the week before made him uneasy. He'd left the subject alone in their shared classes-relishing in the knowledge that Potter was anxiously waiting for him to bring it up-but he needed to do...something. Talk it out, perhaps.
It didn’t feel right. Potter had pledged 'his family' for Draco's-it was a monumental thing to do. Why hadn't Draco noticed the incongruity of it all then? He'd been too caught up in the moment-too excited over all the possibilities to care. His mother had always told him that he was too much of a dreamer, and here he was, proving her right.
He'd let Potter talk a whole slew of nonsense to him, and he'd barely batted an eyelash. What he needed now, he realised, was someone to set him straight. It had started off well: he'd known Potter was up to something, and he'd found out what it was, but it still didn't fit.
He remembered the night his father has expected him to be Marked; he remembered it because he'd expected to be killed. He hadn't been-and he hadn't felt any relief when he wasn't because he'd been given a…a prophecy of sorts. Someone would be sent to 'teach' him. Someone would teach him what it 'meant' to be a Death Eater. And that person was Potter.
"Rubbish."
He believed it; he believed that Potter had been truthful, but it still didn't mean that it was the truth. The whole truth anyway. So Potter had decided to join forces with Voldemort to bring about some ultimate ideal-so what? Draco didn't care. Something much bigger was going on. Draco suspected that even Potter wasn't aware of it-but really, was anyone aware of everything?
But there was one person who was likely to know more than Potter-or Draco-and he was going to find out what that person knew. Now was as good a time as any. Glancing over at the two lumps in the beds on the opposite wall, he assured himself that Vince and Greg were asleep before leaving their room. There was no telling where Blaise was.
There was a light coming from beneath the door to Nott's room, but it was no matter to Draco. Slytherins tended to stick to their own business-even if they were fully aware of everyone else's. Nott wouldn't bother him, even if he did care where Draco was going.
He probably already knew, anyway: the year before, Draco had become notorious for leaving the common room at nights to go talk to Professor Snape. There had even been a joke among his house-mates about the two of them and a questionable student-teacher relationship. Professor Snape had borne it with infinite patience, but he did roll his eyes whenever it was mentioned behind closed doors.
Draco had not been as opposed to the idea as he'd let everyone believe.
He hadn't even taken off his school robes from class earlier, but he still felt the chill of the dungeons as if he were in his flimsiest pair of pyjamas. Hurrying down the dark corridors, Draco was grateful to see that the torches were lit in Professor Snape's workroom.
He entered without bothering to knock, and perched himself on a stool across from the table Snape was working at.
"Don't speak."
"I haven't," Draco said.
"You just did. Don't speak again."
Draco opened his mouth to say that he wouldn't, and then shut it again. He glanced at the scene in front of him. His professor was bent over a cauldron, staring a thick, gelatinous fluid-something that wasn't entirely unheard of for him. His dark brows furrowed in concentration as he silently mouthed a count for each stir. At one-hundred, he stopped and looked up at Draco, waiting.
"Explain what's going on with Potter to me," Draco said without introduction. It wasn't necessary with men like Snape-men who hated talking in general and superfluous talking specifically.
Snape cocked an eyebrow, smiling in obvious amusement. He reached behind him to pull forward a stool, and sat, arms crossed, staring back at Draco. The cauldron continued to simmer. "No."
Draco frowned. "But you know?"
Snape gave him a look. "I know what you want to know-more than that, I'm not sure."
"But you won't tell me," Draco said. It wasn't a question, more of a confirmation.
Snape shrugged his shoulders, at the same time stretching his back from the time he'd spent brewing. Very few ever saw the professor like this-all of them Slytherins, so far as Draco knew. "It's a quite a lot of information. The idea of explaining so much to you right now is unappealing."
Draco tapped his fingers on the table and used the other hand to push his hair out of his face. After a moment, he asked the question that he would have eventually got to, had Professor Snape played along from the beginning. With Snape, it was sometimes necessary to show him that you've already discerned the answer yourself before asking him how to solve the problem. It showed him, Draco thought, that you were capable of understanding, and that he wouldn't be wasting his time.
"Who's going to win the war?"
Snape grinned, and raised his hands up in a mockery of all the muggle-born who always gestured when they said 'I don't know'. "What war?" he asked, with obvious amusement. "I see no war."
Frowning, Draco propped his elbows on the table and studied his teacher. "This all sounds very anti-climatic, what you and Potter have postulated."
"And you don't approve?"
Draco shook his head. "There's no denouement. There must be denouement-otherwise, it's not really over."
"And thus," Snape said mock-philosophically, "the reason why Mr Black-the younger-isn't Slytherin." At Draco's attentive look, Snape sighed, and relented. "Fine. Do you truly wish to hear my opinion on the matter?"
"Of course," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Otherwise, I'd have fallen asleep by now."
"Yes, I'm sure," Snape replied. "At any rate, you've asked for it, and you'll sit there and pay attention until I feel that I have sufficiently provided it.
"I first learned of Potter's involvement with the Dark Lord over the summer. It was brought to my attention, by the Dark Lord to be exact, that he had been conducting a series of metaphysical meetings and brainstorming sessions-if I may be so crude-with Potter over the course of the previous year and a half.
"He spoke frankly that Potter's stubbornness had grown on him-that he'd begun to appreciate several of the little brat's ideas. Naturally, I thought he'd gone batshit insane."
Draco snorted. "Wasn't he already?"
"Hardly," Snape replied. "Cruel and vindictive does not equate insanity. In fact, the opposite. But I digress; as it happened, Potter began, some time ago, to think that everyone was redeemable. I have no idea what brought this school of thought on, but I can assure you that it's complete hippogriff shit, and that Potter will be very disappointed when he finds out it isn't true. In the time since these intangible meetings began, Potter, apparently, forgave or forgot his one previous driving motive: that of the Dark Lord disposing of James Potter and Lily-Gods rest her soul."
Draco raised an eyebrow, but Snape only shrugged. "She was once a good friend."
"Do you suppose it's because James Potter wasn't really his father?" Draco asked. "That Potter got over it, I mean?"
"Certainly not," Snape said. He sounded disgusted when he added: "It is merely the fact that, as a Gryffindor, he feels compelled to forgive, after the appropriate amount of grieving, anyway. You must also remember that he has no memory of either of them: they were, the both of them, very impersonal ideals to him. He knows nothing of their personalities, and so it separates him from them."
Draco grimaced. "That sounds very empathic, coming from you."
Snape shrugged again, looking vaguely disappointed in Draco. "It's how he thinks-how he rationalises it-though even he is unaware of it most times, and as a Slytherin, you should have noticed it yourself."
Draco huffed. "I have done," he said petulantly, almost pleading. "I've watched him since school started back, and I still don't understand-it's like…it's like I see what he's doing, and I vaguely comprehend his reasoning, but I'm two steps away from assimilating all of the information…it's like I almost understand, but it's right there…waiting. Even when Potter told me everything himself-"
"He told you everything?" Snape interrupted. "Everything?"
Draco shrugged in annoyance at being interrupted. "How am I supposed to know if he left anything out or not? The thing is, it sounds incomplete, but I think that he thinks he's told me everything…so maybe what I'm asking is 'What doesn't Potter know that I should?'"
Snape nodded approvingly, checked on his potion, and turned back to Draco just in time to see him scratch the final line of a lightning bolt into the top of the work table with a slicing knife. Snape slapped his hand. "You know better than that, idiot: you'll contaminate my utensils."
Draco gave an appropriately abashed look. "Well?" he prompted.
Snape frowned harshly-such an impertinent little beast. "Potter isn't being swindled or led into a trap. Not by the Dark Lord, at least-he, for one, finds the boy to be 'refreshing' and has been honest with him. If he has not told Potter everything-a wise move on his part-then he has neither misled him nor lied outright."
Draco snorted again. It wasn't something he'd do outside of the dungeons, but Professor Snape knew full well of his opinions on most things, Potter especially. As he opened his mouth to further that line of questioning, Snape inserted, "Whatever it is that the Dark Lord has yet to tell Potter, he has also neglected to tell me."
Disappointment flittered across Draco's face for the briefest of moments. Then, he smiled slyly, and said, "But, Professor, why would the Dark Lord tell you anything of importance, when practically everyone knows what a turncoat you are?"
Snape was neither amused nor annoyed. He stared blankly at his pupil. "The Dark Lord was once a Slytherin himself, if you remember, boy, and as such, he knows well the price of my loyalty. When he can pay the price, he will have it."
"What makes you so sure that he'll ever need it?"
Snape's eyebrows lifted. "If you need to ask that question, Mr Malfoy, then you are unfit for Slytherin House. I suggest you re-evaluate the priorities of a Slytherin-you have the foundation for it, yes, but in so many areas you are unrefined…like copper and tin when your classmates have been smelted into bronze."
It wasn't an insult, and Draco didn't take it as one. He knew as much himself-perhaps if he'd been raised by a proper Slytherin, he would have been a better one, but his mother had been a Ravenclaw, and she'd encouraged him to question everything-to think about everything. And where she did not know enough to instruct him he was tutored, by Hufflepuffs, or Beauxbatons' equivalent of such. He nodded, accepting the unsolicited analysis of his character, and continued with his questioning.
"I question everything," he said with a shrug. Snape nodded; he knew as much. And then, "Potter intrigues me; would you think it foolish of me to consider his offer?"
Snape didn't have to ask what that offer had been; he'd been at the meeting after all. He smiled, looking almost sinister. "Mr Malfoy, I suspect that at this point, it could not hurt. Perhaps you might even teach him something, as well."
Draco nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I already did-I explained basic Arithmancy to him in class today." He scrunched his nose in distaste and added further, "We're partnered for the yearly project, and Vector gave us a ring! Can you believe it? Nott and Granger got a ceremonial dagger! But stupid Potter got me landed with a tacky old ring-I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to wear it. It's hideous!"
"Indeed," Snape said, humouring him. "Not the same ring your father wears to business meetings, is it? That hideous ring?"
Draco's jaw dropped, incredulous. "The Malfoy signet ring?" he asked, terribly affronted. "The Malfoy signet ring is an heirloom! It's not tacky!"
Snape cackled unashamedly. "Not the same one, then?" He was obviously enjoying having got in that little jibe.
Draco closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes, only partly joking. "No-as a matter of fact, it was bigger than the signet ring-and made cheaply: a carnelian stone, or perhaps jasper."
Snape's amusement faded quickly. "Really?" he asked slowly. "Would the band be a thick, hammered gold?"
Draco nodded. "Very tacky-do you know of it? Is it very cursed? It better be exponentially cursed. I won't suffer a boring project-especially if I have to spend it with Potter."
Snape pursed his lips. "I wouldn't know," he said bluntly. "But I've seen the Headmaster wearing it once or twice."
"Hmm," Draco said, beginning to get a little more interested. He was interrupted from his internal musing when Snape turned the burner off under his cauldron and rose from his stool.
"I have somewhere I must be, Mr Malfoy, and you must return to your common room. Whether or not you sleep, however, is of no concern to me. I imagine you will stay up well into the night mulling over the entire situation."
"Most likely," Draco agreed absently. He was already rising from his stool as well, completely unconcerned that he was being kicked out. "Good night, Professor. See you in class."
"Good night," Snape said, shutting the door behind him. Draco stood in the corridor for several seconds, staring at nothing in particular. He wondered why the ring was important to Professor Snape, and why he felt the need to rush off to the Dark Lord over it, but it was only a casual interest. What really intrigued him was Potter.
Was it terrible that he couldn't wait for class in the morning so he could talk to Potter more? Surely not-this was, by far, the most interesting thing that had happened in a really long time. Still happening, even.
He sighed as he started back to his common room: he definitely wouldn't be getting any sleep this night.
-x-
Comments/Criticism/Reviews = <3
Rating (this chapter): R
Words (this chapter): 8,528
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Beta’d by: amelancholykiss <3.
-x-
The Hush of War
Chapter Thirteen
Counter-Intelligence III
-x-
Counter-Intelligence: (n) 1. The efforts designed to prevent enemy intelligence organizations from successfully gathering and collecting intelligence. 2. The classification and control of sensitive information or the active spreading of disinformation to mislead the enemy.
-x-
On Monday, over a week after Harry and Malfoy had flown together, he walked to Arithmancy with Hermione and Nott, while Malfoy skulked along behind them, arguing with Zacharias Smith about something inane. They were always arguing, though; usually about things that Harry didn't understand-such as the proper way to formulate an Ancient Runes table or what a constellation meant, depending on where it was at what time. Only now they argued around Harry, being as he was friends-of a sort-with each of them.
The walk was quiet and awkward, something that Harry had never experienced with Hermione. She was strangely reticent, and he still hadn't been able to get her to tell him what had happened between her and Ron. Even more strange, he hadn't been able to get it out of Ron, either. All he knew was that they were fighting-he was pretty sure, anyway-they weren't talking, and he was caught in the middle. He rolled his eyes; it was like fourth year all over again, only without Krum lurking about.
"Did you finish your homework?" she asked him. Well, Harry reconsidered, she was talking to him, but it was stilted-small-talk, really.
"Yeah," Harry said. "We just had to answer the questions at the end of the chapter, right?"
Hermione nodded. "Have you finished your Transfigurations and DADA essays for tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"What about Potions?" she continued. "Do you understand what we've been doing in class?"
"Sort of," Harry said. He glanced over at Nott to see what he thought about all of this, but Nott was looking straight ahead and saying nothing. He'd been quiet in Potions, too, now that Harry thought about it. Harry narrowed his eyes; Krum might not be around, but Nott was, and he'd certainly had his suspicions about the two of them-
"Well, if you need me to go over it with you-"
"Did Ron find out?" Harry interrupted her, bluntly. Nott looked up quickly. So, he had been paying attention. Harry pursed his lips. He didn't care who Hermione dated, but if he was going to have to deal with Ron sulking over it, he wasn't going to be very happy.
"Find out what, Harry?" Hermione asked. She was terrible at evasion.
"Don't insult him, Hermione," Nott said quietly. "You know what he's talking about." Harry nodded in affirmation.
"How did you know?" she asked with a sigh.
Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not completely oblivious, you know."
Hermione grimaced, glancing around her. "We haven't really discussed it, you know," she started. "Theo and I, I mean."
Nott raised his eyebrows. "I assumed it to be understood," he said to her. When she gave him a blank look, he added, "What? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend?"
Hermione snorted and slapped his shoulder. "Nothing quite so frivolous," she answered.
Harry cleared his throat. "Ron?"
"Weasley saw us kissing," Nott said with a shrug. Harry winced: poor Ron. "It wasn't the way I would have wanted him to find out, but what's done is done."
"He's being ridiculous about it," Hermione added angrily. "I tried to talk to him yesterday, but he's acting like…like a git! He just sneers at me and leaves the room."
"He's pretty besotted with you," Harry said frankly.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but it was Nott who spoke, saying with a cheesy grin at Hermione, "Small world." Hermione slapped him again.
"Ron's just going to have to get over it," she said matter-of-factly. "I gave him innumerable opportunities, and, I'm sorry Harry, but I'm just not interested in him any longer." She shrugged, unrepentant.
It was then that Malfoy loped up to them, falling into step next to Nott and pounding him on the back cheekily. "Good for you, Nott," he said. Nott pointedly brushed his shirt off and gave Malfoy an arched look.
"Nice to see you again, Malfoy," he said. "It's been ever so long."
Malfoy ignored him, instead focusing on Hermione, who looked entirely uncomfortable with the attention. "So, landed one, have you, Granger?" he asked. "Nott's a respectable catch-decent standing, and his Gringott's vault isn't entirely empty."
Hermione looked disgusted, and really, Harry wasn't far from it himself. Nott, on the other hand, looked quietly amused.
"Malfoy, you disgusting insect," Hermione said. "I'm not after his money. Don't ever presume to insult me in such a way again, or I'll make that pretty little face of yours look like the back-end of a flobberworm."
"You little-"
"Malfoy," Harry and Nott said simultaneously. Malfoy sneered at both of them and then turned back to Hermione.
"I don't like you, Granger," he said instead. "I think you're a pretentious little bitch, actually, but I have some small amount of respect for Nott, so I'll temper my tongue when in your presence, but I promise you: raise your hand to me even once and I'll raise mine right back. I have no compunctions about hitting a woman-or a girl, as the case may be. Furthermore," he added, "fuck off. It was a joke, you toff."
The awkward silence from before returned; Harry wasn't sure whether to defend Hermione or laugh at Malfoy's fucked-up sense of humour. Judging by Nott's look, he didn't know quite what to do, either.
He should have known that Hermione could take care of herself, though. She proved it with her next words.
"Given that I'm unaccustomed to your admittedly lacking sense of humour," she said archly, "you'll forgive me my breach of etiquette. Also, bugger off, this is a private conversation."
"Not anymore," Malfoy said easily. "Potter's my Arithmancy partner."
"Black," Hermione and Nott said together. Harry shrugged, unconcerned. Malfoy was determined to ignore his parentage, for whatever reason, and Harry really didn't care anyway.
"Oh, and here we are!" Malfoy said, ignoring them as well. He stopped in front of the open door and turned to them with a sarcastic grin. "Here's to hoping Potter and I get the best cursed item, and you two have to deal with a jinxed bidet."
"Fucker," Nott muttered under his breath as they followed him into the room. Hermione obviously agreed, since she didn't chastise him for language.
"Actually," Harry said, as he sat down next to Malfoy at their table, "I already know what we're getting."
Malfoy gave him a blank look.
"Our item," Harry clarified, rolling his eyes. "For the project." Malfoy was so utterly frustrating, even when they had a…truce. Or whatever.
"You would," Malfoy said.
Harry waited. "Don't you want to know what it is?"
Malfoy pulled one of those terrible blood lollies from his pocket and unwrapped it. "I like surprises."
Harry sat back in his chair, disgruntled.
"Good afternoon," Professor Vector said as he entered the classroom, arms laden with papers and books. "Pass up your chapter questions, and Mr Zabini, if you would come hand out last week's marked essays?"
Harry passed his homework up with a sigh. He hadn't been lying to Hermione; he really had done his questions, but he wasn't altogether certain that they were correct. He glanced at her sitting next to Nott across the aisle, wishing that they could switch seats; Nott was really the only one who could explain this stuff to him.
"As Mr Zabini is passing back your essays," Professor Vector continued, "I'd like to take a moment, before we discuss the project you'll be properly beginning today, to discuss my thoughts on your comprehension of this chapter.
"As a whole, I was disappointed," Vector continued just as Zabini handed Harry his marked essay. Harry didn't blame the professor; he was disappointed, too. He thought he would have got an A on that essay, but he'd only scored a P.
"Our two new students this year, Mr Black and Ms MacDougal, I can understand: they were moved into this class when the upper-year beginning class was cancelled. The rest of you?" he said blandly, "Terrible. Not a single O out of the whole class."
Harry glanced over at Hermione and Nott, who were both staring so incredulously at the marks on their papers that he doubted they had even heard the professor speak. Beside him, Malfoy scoffed, muttering, "I knew I should have triple-checked the equation…such a fucking stupid mistake."
"What did you get?" Harry asked him, craning his neck to see.
Malfoy glared at him and covered his mark, but he still answered, "An A; can you believe that? It's hippogriff shit! Use the wrong formula on one single question and he takes off two whole letters!"
"I got a P," Harry said with a shrug. "Better than a Troll, I suppose."
Malfoy scoffed again. "You haven't been taking the class for four years. Also, you're an idiot; it's expected of you."
Harry rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Professor Vector, who was still droning on about how utterly appalling the scores were.
"And so," Vector said at last, "I feel it prudent to reinstate a program I used when I first started at Hogwarts. Working with your project partner, you will be required to log three hours per week studying the worksheet Mr Zabini will now be handing out."
Zabini sighed and stood back up to collect the worksheets.
"These worksheets are similar to the ones you received in your second year. They include a study guide listing all known Arithmantic theorems and formulae plus irregular formulae and suspected theorems. The worksheet attached contains solvable and insolvable equations, which you must, as a team, complete each week. After you have spent the required three hours working on them, they will copy to your file for me to mark; if you finish the equations before your three hours are up, more will appear. Working on your partner project will not count towards the time limit. Are there any questions?"
There was a collective groan from the class, but no questions. Harry scanned the packet that he and Malfoy were given and chuckled bitterly to himself. "It would have been brilliant if he'd bothered to give this to me before. Might've made this nonsense a little more understandable."
Malfoy was not amused. "Most of these are noted in the textbook, Potter. If you'd really given a damn, you might have actually read it."
"I did read it," Harry insisted. "I just don't understand it. I mean-how can twelve to the fourth power equal a 'Middle Magic fire charm'?" he asked, waving his hand at one of the corrected answers on his paper.
"Easily," Malfoy said blandly. "All Arithmantic equations have to be worked backwards before they can be worked forwards, right? So, in the information you were given, it said that the original spell included four waves and three swishes, thus, multiplied, twelve. You got that far, right?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
"You were multiplying an odd, prime number by an even number. Whenever you multiply odd by even, it will always be Middle Magic. Even by even is Old or Dark Magic, so odd by odd would be…?"
"Light?" Harry guessed.
Malfoy shrugged. "New Magic, really, but they've started calling it Light Magic within the last few hundred years."
That was news to Harry, but at least it sort of made sense now. He could now see where the 'Middle Magic' part of the answer came from, but he still didn't understand the fourth power part. He'd guessed on the answer and arbitrarily come up with a 'Spell to Make Apples into Orchards'. "And the rest?" he asked.
Malfoy gestured at the parchment. "Then, it goes on to say that the outcome was twelve to the fourth power, but originally, the spell lasted seven heartbeats and two breaths, and that there were ten variations. So you start with your time indicators-the heartbeats and breaths-and you multiply again. Seven heartbeats times two breaths is fourteen. Subtract the ten possible variations and you get the fourth power, see?"
"No," Harry said bluntly. "I see where the four came from, but I don't understand how you got a fire charm."
"Oh, well that's easy enough," Malfoy said. "If your heart has beaten seven times in the space of two breaths, you can deduce that it is an adrenaline-affecting spell since the average spell is performed with the same amount of heartbeats as breaths."
"Okay," Harry said dubiously.
Malfoy gave him a look and then continued. "So, you know it's an adrenaline-affecting spell, that it's Middle Magic and that there are ten variations. That's when you would consult your supplementary text, assuming you haven't memorised all the spells as you would have been required to do, had you taken the first two years of Arithmancy."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I did sign up for the beginning class; I can't help that I got moved."
Malfoy shrugged. "Not my problem, but if you didn't understand, as most wizarding children would have," he said pointedly, "you should have asked for help from Vector." He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick book, tapping it with his wand and saying: "Middle Magic, ten."
The pages flipped and rustled, finally stopping near the end. "See?" Malfoy said, pointing to the text. "It's a voice-activated text. You can state the type of magic and the amount of variations, and it will bring up all known spells that fit."
He ran his finger down the page, searching. "This part is a little time-consuming sometimes, but there's always only one answer-at least until you get to the Advanced Squared stuff-so if you've done your equations right, you should have no trouble…and see-here it is: Middle Magic, ten variations, Fire Charm: 'An adrenaline-affecting spell'."
Harry looked over Malfoy's shoulder. "That's it?" he asked incredulously. Malfoy hadn't been lying; there were at least twenty spells on the page, but only the fire charm was listed as 'adrenaline-affecting'. "That's all I had to do?"
"Pretty much," Malfoy said.
This was absurd. This whole time, Harry had thought that, really, Arithmancy involved a little bit of skewed math and an educated guess, but here Malfoy had explained it-even better than Nott had!-all in the span of five minutes.
"So," Harry said slowly, looking at his other missed questions. "In number three, where it says the outcome is six to the negative second power…that would be…erm, let's see. It says the original spell was two flicks and three stabs, so…Middle Magic because one's odd, one's even?"
Malfoy nodded.
"And then, two heartbeats and two breaths, and six variations, so a normal spell. Two times two is four, minus six is negative two, so that's where the negative second power comes from, right?"
"Yes," Malfoy said with a pleased sort of smirk on his face. "But what kind of spell is it?"
Harry pulled his own book from his bag and said: "Middle magic, six variations." The pages flipped to the middle and stopped. "Erm…a fever-reducing spell?" he asked.
Malfoy grinned, and Harry noticed that his teeth were pink from the lollipop. "Yes, exactly. And why isn't it a wart-remover or fabric-dying spell?"
Harry glanced back at the text. "The wart-remover spell is ‘a negative adrenaline-affecting spell’, and the fabric-dying spell is 'an assumed irregular count spell'-what's that?"
"Something too complicated to explain right now," Malfoy said.
"Oh," Harry said. "But-I was right, then? That's all I had to do?"
"Yeah," Malfoy said. "That's it; of course, in the Advanced-Squared class, it gets more complicated, but you can use that formula or a longer variation of it for almost everything we'll do this year."
"Mr Malfoy, if I may have your attention, I think that what I'm saying may be of some small interest to you," Vector said loudly.
Malfoy sneered at his desk and said, "Apologies, sir. I was explaining something to Potter."
"Mr Black may ask me any questions he has after we've discussed the project, Mr Malfoy. Please refrain from making excuses."
"As you wish, sir," Malfoy said contritely. Harry didn't buy that act for a minute, though; Malfoy was still sneering at his desk.
"As I was saying," Vector continued, once again monotone and bland. "Mr Zabini"-here, Zabini rolled his eyes as he yet again got up from his desk-"will be passing out various cursed, hexed or jinxed items, according to your skill level, for your term project.
"You will be given an information sheet pertaining to your item that lists three known factors. Your assignment for the project is to not only determine the type of spell adversely affecting the item, but also to discover a way to remove it. Points for creativity, efficiency and your physical health at the end of the project. This project will count as forty percent of your final mark, so I suggest you do not take it lightly. Assignments will be due after the holidays; that gives you two and a half months to complete it. Any questions?"
There were, again, none. Zabini stopped at their desk with his box full of items and pulled out the tacky ring Dumbledore had shown Harry the week before. The little tag hanging off it, Harry saw as Zabini set it on their desk, said 'Black, Malfoy'.
"Don't lose a finger, Black," Zabini said, walking away.
Harry rolled his eyes.
"That's it?" Malfoy asked, looking at the ugly ring. He, apparently, was so surprised that their item was only jewellery, that he'd actually taken the lollipop out of his mouth and set it on the desk. "Jewellery? Jewellery curses are always so…so mundane!" he hissed. "Surely my skill level more than makes up for your lack, Potter…why are we getting a ring, when Nott and Granger are getting a dagger?"
Harry shrugged, disappointed for some reason. "I don't know-Dumbledore wanted us to do this. He seemed to think that it would keep us occupied."
Malfoy pursed his lips. "There better be a really outstanding curse on this ring, Potter."
"I'm not the one who picked it," Harry said defensively. The bell signalling the end of class chimed, and they started packing up.
"Slytherin has Quidditch practise tonight," Malfoy said as he stood. "Meet me in the library after dinner on Thursday to start on the project."
Harry didn't even have a chance to reply before Malfoy was out of the room. He watched him hurry through the door with a scowl on his face. Malfoy might not be acting like such a git around him right now, but that didn't mean he wasn't one.
Hermione and Nott stopped at his desk on their way out, waiting for him to finish packing everything up. He started to put the ring on his finger for safe-keeping, but stopped at the last moment. Surely, it was insanity to wear a cursed item. He stuck it in his pocket instead.
"What did you get?" Hermione asked. "We got a ceremonial dagger."
"A ring," Harry said, noticing the telling looks that Hermione and Nott gave each other. Really, how boring could removing a curse be? So what if it was just a ring; it was still a curse to remove, and that sounded pretty interesting to Harry. Sort of, anyway.
"Oh-well, I was just going to say that Madam Pomfrey said she was going to let Ginny out about this time today, so maybe you should go help her carry her things back to the Tower."
"Aren't you coming?" Harry asked, as he slung his bag over his shoulder and walked with them out of the classroom.
Hermione pursed her lips. "I think," she said slowly, "that with you and Ron, she'll have enough help."
"Oh," Harry said. He sighed. "All right then, I'll see you at dinner."
Hermione nodded as they parted ways and called, "Bring your Arithmancy book and I'll help you study."
Harry turned around, walking backwards so she could see the full effect of his grin as he said, "No need! Malfoy explained it; it's so simple, now!"
Hermione's mouth dropped, but Harry paid it no mind as he turned back around and jogged to the Infirmary.
-x-
Ron was already waiting on the floor by the door with his Divination book propped on his lap when Harry got there. The overly bright smile that Ron gave him was obviously fake, but if Ron was trying at all, then Harry knew that he certainly didn't want it brought up, so Harry played along, smiling right back.
"What are you doing here already?" Harry asked. "Divination's on the other side of the castle."
Ron shrugged, his smile turning a little more genuine as he answered. "I skipped," he said smugly. "Trelawney told me I was going to be terribly unwell, so I asked her if I could go ahead and come to the Infirmary before I got sick all over her fluffy poufs. She sent me down straight away."
Harry laughed. "What time is Ginny getting out?"
Ron stood, stretching. "Pomfrey said she'd let her out after the last class today, so I reckon right about now."
"Brilliant. I bet she's been really bored," Harry said. Madam Pomfrey gave them a stern look as they entered, but allowed them through the doors anyway, nodding them in the direction of Ginny's bed.
"Nah," Ron said. "Mum and Dad have been up here fussing over her all weekend, and the twins sent her some…questionable sweets. Yesterday, she told me that a rainbow-coloured one made everything all swirly and sparkly for hours, and that she found the meaning of life or something after she ate it…but she won't tell me what it is." Ron grinned at him, shrugging.
Harry raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if those kinds of sweets were legal, much less safe for giving one's little sister, but he didn't say anything. What bothered him more, actually, was that Ron had apparently been spending a lot of time up here as well over the weekend. He felt terrible: he'd been so busy-mostly trying to figure out his Arithmancy chapter questions-that he'd neglected Ron all weekend.
And it had been a weekend that Ron probably needed him around. He hadn't known at the time, of course, but…if he had been so smitten with Hermione, and then seen her kissing Nott, he probably would've wanted Ron around…if for nothing else, than just to have someone to smash things with. Or a distraction-which was probably what Ginny's hospitalisation was for Ron, actually.
Ginny was standing beside her bed at the far end of the room, muttering as she tried to stuff things into her overnight bag.
"Want some help?" Harry asked.
Ginny turned to them absently, then back to her bag. "Merlin-I know I didn't come in here with all this stuff!" she said. "Honestly, it was just a broken ankle…"
Harry glanced at all the little trinkets around her bed-a big stuffed dragon, probably from Charlie, a dangerous looking gift-basket from the twins, cakes from her parents, Ron's Chess board, and several vases of flowers. "How come I never got any of these things when I was hurt?" Harry asked archly. "I'm in here all the time, and no one ever sends me flowers!"
Ron cuffed him. "Don't be a prat, Harry," he said with a laugh. "You're not pretty enough for flowers."
Harry huffed.
"You two can carry all this, if you want," Ginny interrupted with a grin. "I'll get the dragon."
"Of course you will," Ron said indulgently. "Wouldn't want to put any stress on that ankle."
"Absolutely not," Harry affirmed. "You're much too delicate." Ron nodded.
Glowering at them, Ginny plucked the dragon from the bed and started out of the Infirmary. "Indeed," she said as she was walking away. "Luckily, I have two big, strong idiots to carry it all for me."
"We walked right into that one," Ron bemoaned as Ginny flounced ahead of them; no more delicate than Hagrid. "Should've seen it coming."
Harry chuckled. "Lots of things we should've seen coming-we never learn, do we?"
Ron shrugged, attempting to reposition his load; he was carrying the shady-looking basket from the twins and trying to keep it as far from his person as humanly possible without dropping it-which might also be detrimental to his continued health. "Might one day. I'm holding out hope for it, anyway." This statement was accompanied by a strange, faraway look that Harry chose to ignore, in favour of changing the subject.
"We should probably have an extra practise this week and next week," he said. "It was bad enough losing to Zach Smith, but I don't think I'll be able to stand it if I have to listen to Malfoy gloating for the rest of the year."
Ron grimaced at the reminder of that terrible game, but asked, "What d'you mean? Just punch the git and walk away."
Harry frowned as he pushed his hair behind his ear. "Can't-the git's my Arithmancy partner."
"Rotten luck," Ron said sympathetically.
Harry opened his mouth to say that Malfoy wasn't quite as bad as they'd always thought he was, but changed his mind at the last minute. Ron wouldn't believe him, and even if he did, hearing that all Slytherins weren't bad was the last thing he needed after the whole business with Nott. Instead, as they reached the top of the stairs, he said, "Yeah-you think Ginny'll be fine for practise next week?"
Ron shrugged. "Madam Pomfrey just said to stay off it for this week. She didn't say anything about next week-and besides, if you're on a broom, you're not really on your ankle, are you?"
"Guess not," Harry said with a grin. He paused to readjust the huge load of stuff he was carrying, and added, "We're gonna kill 'em." By which he meant Slytherin.
Ron nodded. "They don't have a chance."
-x-
The first night after she got out of the Infirmary, after the four other girls in her year had been asleep for hours, Ginny stared up at the canopy of her bed, unable to close her eyes. She was anxious and restless and if she stayed in that bed a moment longer, she was going to go insane. But she didn't know why, and it was making her even more anxious.
"I swear to Merlin…" she muttered as she flung her blankets off and stood from the bed. Immediately, she was shivering, but she made no move to wrap her dressing gown around herself as she walked over to the window. She looked out; nothing.
Ginny scowled. "Fine-" she muttered to herself, not even caring if she woke her dorm-mates. "We'll go walk around the courtyard once, and then maybe I'll be able to sleep."
She quickly changed into warmer clothes, grabbed her cloak and slipped out of her dorm, closing the door behind her with a soft snick. It had been almost a year since she'd needed to go for a walk before she could sleep, but it would only take a quick stroll around outside and she'd be asleep in no time.
Slipping out of the portrait hole, Ginny hugged the shadows as she hurried down the stairs. At this time of night, she could go out through the side door near the Muggle Studies classroom on the first storey without anyone being the wiser.
It was even colder outside, but Ginny paid no mind to it; she was only interested in calming her strangely anxious mind so that she could get some sleep before class. After a week out with nothing to do but sleep, there was no way her professors were going to be very forgiving if she was feeling tired.
Her shoes clacked on the steps as she hopped down them, favouring her uninjured ankle as Madam Pomfrey had instructed. "At least I'm a good patient," she said.
It was very still outside: she hadn't expected it to be otherwise, but the stillness was so heavy that her anxiousness intensified. She pursed her lips and pulled her cowl up. It was only midnight, Madam Rosmerta would still be serving, and a warm butterbeer might be just the thing she needed for sleep. And perhaps the newspaper: she hadn't been able to keep up with the Derby Dozen-as they'd come to be called-since her injury.
The path around the lake and into Hogsmeade was one she'd never before taken when it was a Hogsmeade Weekend, but she thought nothing of it as she walked along. Everything was dark and still, and she could barely see two feet in front of her, but she knew the way by heart, and did not misstep. Even as she stepped through the gates and felt the protective wards ghost over her like warm fingers-something she'd never even given much notice to-did she question her actions.
Ginny's mind wandered; she didn't notice it, and when her ambling took her not to Rosmerta's pub, not even to the Hog's Head, but to a bar that-had she been paying attention, she would have not recalled having ever seen-she didn't notice that, either.
The barman had black hair, blue eyes and a clever smile. He said, "What'll you have?" without bothering to hide the look he was giving Ginny.
"A butterbeer," she said, and when he raised an eyebrow at the choice of drink-like ordering a glass of milk in a strip-club-she added, "Warm."
"Sure thing, doll," he said.
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Piss off."
The barman frowned, straightened up from where he'd bent to retrieve her butterbeer, and looked at her intently. "What pretty eyes you've got," he said slowly as he tapped the bottle with his grimy wand to warm it up. "Don't see a too many pretty-eyed girls in here."
"It's the décor," Ginny offered blandly. "It wants updating." She hadn't bothered to look around.
The barman smirked. "I'll be sure to let the owner know."
Ginny shrugged. "Makes no difference to me," she said, and reached her hand across the counter. "Nice to have met you."
Having already begun to resume his previous activity, the offered handshake did not immediately register to him. When it did, he paused, looked up at her intensely with his blue eyes and said, slowly, "Have we met before?"
Ginny stared at him, calm, and no longer restless. "Obviously not." Her hand remained out, a pointed gesture that the barman was unable to ignore, though he looked as if he wanted to. She glanced at her still hovering hand and then back to him.
Finally, he took it-his fingers surprisingly soft and warm and clean as they twisted around hers. Her right thumb brushed over the meaty flesh of his hand, and her last two fingers crooked up into his palm. He responded, and his fingers quickly tapped something that, to some people, translated into two words: River Styx.
She pulled her hand back slowly. "Thank you."
The barman ignored it. He said, "That'll be eight knuts, for the beer, miss."
Ginny handed it over without question, grabbed her butterbeer, and slid back out the door, unnoticed by anyone except the barman-just as she had been coming in. She'd turned seventeen in August, right after Harry, but her mother had said she couldn't take her Apparating test until Christmas-this made no difference to her as she stepped and turned and found herself standing on the edge of a river.
Not the River Styx, but a river of no particular interest except that it was full of salmon, and on one side of it, there lived an old woman by the name of Mrs Stanley Whittle who put a few sheep in an area she fondly called the Elysian Fields. On the other side of that river, the side that Ginny now stood on, there was a cottage with purple smoke coming from the chimney.
A generation prior, Mrs Whittle and her Fields had been a very tongue-in-cheek joke among the more educated-and cynical-Death Eaters. After all, one must first die before Charon would ever ferry them across the River, and what better way to die than to abdicate your soul for someone else? That was why, nearly twenty years ago, the little cottage across the river had become one of twenty-five possible locations for a monthly get-together among certain Death Eaters.
It was also the place one came if they were looking to be 'interviewed' for a place in the ranks and they had no connection otherwise-what happened if the hopeful recruit didn't pass was unspoken, but understood. Needless to say, the Death Eaters spent most of these nights relaxing, drinking scotch and talking about their wives, or lack thereof. Few witches and wizards were brave enough to present themselves for such interviews; what they didn't know-that the rumours were far worse than the truth-was immaterial.
Of course, Ginny had no way of knowing this. Which was why when she walked up to the cottage door and knocked the previous noises from inside all stopped immediately-the raucous laughter, the music, all of it.
It wasn't a moment later that the door was jerked open, and she was snatched inside by the neck of her cloak and tossed unceremoniously to the floor. There were at least five people standing over her-both male and female-with hastily thrown-on masks and hoods. Two of them noticed strands of their brown hair hanging loose and quickly tucked it inside their hoods. Another still held a smoking cigar between his knobby fingers; he coughed as he fiddled with it.
"Why are you here?" The voice was unfamiliar to her, but that didn't really say much.
"I'm here," she replied simply, pointedly. She didn't raise her head to look at them more closely; she was much smarter than that. The identity of a Death Eater was usually known only to a select few other Death Eaters, and to make an effort to discern the identity of one was at the very least rude, and at the most possibly fatal.
Her reply was accepted about as warmly as she expected it to be.
"What's your name?" the same voice asked.
"Ginny Weasley."
At this point, there was an uproar of commotion: there were people voicing both the opinion that she should be killed straight away for she was surely spying, and, conversely, that she should be taken to the Dark Lord immediately because wouldn't it be fine to have a spy so close to Harry Potter?
At the same time, however, Ginny was beginning to realise where she was, or perhaps, just that she wasn't at Hogwarts. The realisation came to her slowly, almost like she was waking up from a particularly good dream. She'd not had many of those lately-in fact, during her stay in the Infirmary, she'd dreamt every night that someone she loved was looking for her, but never able to find her. It had left her feeling, every morning, as if she'd been kicked in the-
She wasn't at Hogwarts.
She wasn't in her dorm room.
These weren't her year mates; this wasn't Quidditch. Someone grabbed her arms and hefted her from the ground, and as Ginny looked up only to see two dark eyes looking at her from behind a deathly white mask, she screamed.
"Let me go!"
"You came to us," said a particularly bemused voice to her left. Ginny shook her head and started struggling, but the fingers wrapped around her biceps only tightened.
"I didn't! I didn't! Let go of me!"
"What the hell's wrong with her?"
"She's mad!"
With each new bout of struggling, the grip on her arms got tighter and tighter; Ginny heard everyone around her speaking as if she were five different people-each of them listening to a different conversation-but none of it made sense. Hot tears were beginning to stream down her face, but it wasn't until she felt the sharp jerk of Apparation that she really began to cry.
-x-
Draco couldn't sleep, so he paced.
Of course, Draco often couldn't sleep, but this time, it was different. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but something about the nonsense Potter had told him the week before made him uneasy. He'd left the subject alone in their shared classes-relishing in the knowledge that Potter was anxiously waiting for him to bring it up-but he needed to do...something. Talk it out, perhaps.
It didn’t feel right. Potter had pledged 'his family' for Draco's-it was a monumental thing to do. Why hadn't Draco noticed the incongruity of it all then? He'd been too caught up in the moment-too excited over all the possibilities to care. His mother had always told him that he was too much of a dreamer, and here he was, proving her right.
He'd let Potter talk a whole slew of nonsense to him, and he'd barely batted an eyelash. What he needed now, he realised, was someone to set him straight. It had started off well: he'd known Potter was up to something, and he'd found out what it was, but it still didn't fit.
He remembered the night his father has expected him to be Marked; he remembered it because he'd expected to be killed. He hadn't been-and he hadn't felt any relief when he wasn't because he'd been given a…a prophecy of sorts. Someone would be sent to 'teach' him. Someone would teach him what it 'meant' to be a Death Eater. And that person was Potter.
"Rubbish."
He believed it; he believed that Potter had been truthful, but it still didn't mean that it was the truth. The whole truth anyway. So Potter had decided to join forces with Voldemort to bring about some ultimate ideal-so what? Draco didn't care. Something much bigger was going on. Draco suspected that even Potter wasn't aware of it-but really, was anyone aware of everything?
But there was one person who was likely to know more than Potter-or Draco-and he was going to find out what that person knew. Now was as good a time as any. Glancing over at the two lumps in the beds on the opposite wall, he assured himself that Vince and Greg were asleep before leaving their room. There was no telling where Blaise was.
There was a light coming from beneath the door to Nott's room, but it was no matter to Draco. Slytherins tended to stick to their own business-even if they were fully aware of everyone else's. Nott wouldn't bother him, even if he did care where Draco was going.
He probably already knew, anyway: the year before, Draco had become notorious for leaving the common room at nights to go talk to Professor Snape. There had even been a joke among his house-mates about the two of them and a questionable student-teacher relationship. Professor Snape had borne it with infinite patience, but he did roll his eyes whenever it was mentioned behind closed doors.
Draco had not been as opposed to the idea as he'd let everyone believe.
He hadn't even taken off his school robes from class earlier, but he still felt the chill of the dungeons as if he were in his flimsiest pair of pyjamas. Hurrying down the dark corridors, Draco was grateful to see that the torches were lit in Professor Snape's workroom.
He entered without bothering to knock, and perched himself on a stool across from the table Snape was working at.
"Don't speak."
"I haven't," Draco said.
"You just did. Don't speak again."
Draco opened his mouth to say that he wouldn't, and then shut it again. He glanced at the scene in front of him. His professor was bent over a cauldron, staring a thick, gelatinous fluid-something that wasn't entirely unheard of for him. His dark brows furrowed in concentration as he silently mouthed a count for each stir. At one-hundred, he stopped and looked up at Draco, waiting.
"Explain what's going on with Potter to me," Draco said without introduction. It wasn't necessary with men like Snape-men who hated talking in general and superfluous talking specifically.
Snape cocked an eyebrow, smiling in obvious amusement. He reached behind him to pull forward a stool, and sat, arms crossed, staring back at Draco. The cauldron continued to simmer. "No."
Draco frowned. "But you know?"
Snape gave him a look. "I know what you want to know-more than that, I'm not sure."
"But you won't tell me," Draco said. It wasn't a question, more of a confirmation.
Snape shrugged his shoulders, at the same time stretching his back from the time he'd spent brewing. Very few ever saw the professor like this-all of them Slytherins, so far as Draco knew. "It's a quite a lot of information. The idea of explaining so much to you right now is unappealing."
Draco tapped his fingers on the table and used the other hand to push his hair out of his face. After a moment, he asked the question that he would have eventually got to, had Professor Snape played along from the beginning. With Snape, it was sometimes necessary to show him that you've already discerned the answer yourself before asking him how to solve the problem. It showed him, Draco thought, that you were capable of understanding, and that he wouldn't be wasting his time.
"Who's going to win the war?"
Snape grinned, and raised his hands up in a mockery of all the muggle-born who always gestured when they said 'I don't know'. "What war?" he asked, with obvious amusement. "I see no war."
Frowning, Draco propped his elbows on the table and studied his teacher. "This all sounds very anti-climatic, what you and Potter have postulated."
"And you don't approve?"
Draco shook his head. "There's no denouement. There must be denouement-otherwise, it's not really over."
"And thus," Snape said mock-philosophically, "the reason why Mr Black-the younger-isn't Slytherin." At Draco's attentive look, Snape sighed, and relented. "Fine. Do you truly wish to hear my opinion on the matter?"
"Of course," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Otherwise, I'd have fallen asleep by now."
"Yes, I'm sure," Snape replied. "At any rate, you've asked for it, and you'll sit there and pay attention until I feel that I have sufficiently provided it.
"I first learned of Potter's involvement with the Dark Lord over the summer. It was brought to my attention, by the Dark Lord to be exact, that he had been conducting a series of metaphysical meetings and brainstorming sessions-if I may be so crude-with Potter over the course of the previous year and a half.
"He spoke frankly that Potter's stubbornness had grown on him-that he'd begun to appreciate several of the little brat's ideas. Naturally, I thought he'd gone batshit insane."
Draco snorted. "Wasn't he already?"
"Hardly," Snape replied. "Cruel and vindictive does not equate insanity. In fact, the opposite. But I digress; as it happened, Potter began, some time ago, to think that everyone was redeemable. I have no idea what brought this school of thought on, but I can assure you that it's complete hippogriff shit, and that Potter will be very disappointed when he finds out it isn't true. In the time since these intangible meetings began, Potter, apparently, forgave or forgot his one previous driving motive: that of the Dark Lord disposing of James Potter and Lily-Gods rest her soul."
Draco raised an eyebrow, but Snape only shrugged. "She was once a good friend."
"Do you suppose it's because James Potter wasn't really his father?" Draco asked. "That Potter got over it, I mean?"
"Certainly not," Snape said. He sounded disgusted when he added: "It is merely the fact that, as a Gryffindor, he feels compelled to forgive, after the appropriate amount of grieving, anyway. You must also remember that he has no memory of either of them: they were, the both of them, very impersonal ideals to him. He knows nothing of their personalities, and so it separates him from them."
Draco grimaced. "That sounds very empathic, coming from you."
Snape shrugged again, looking vaguely disappointed in Draco. "It's how he thinks-how he rationalises it-though even he is unaware of it most times, and as a Slytherin, you should have noticed it yourself."
Draco huffed. "I have done," he said petulantly, almost pleading. "I've watched him since school started back, and I still don't understand-it's like…it's like I see what he's doing, and I vaguely comprehend his reasoning, but I'm two steps away from assimilating all of the information…it's like I almost understand, but it's right there…waiting. Even when Potter told me everything himself-"
"He told you everything?" Snape interrupted. "Everything?"
Draco shrugged in annoyance at being interrupted. "How am I supposed to know if he left anything out or not? The thing is, it sounds incomplete, but I think that he thinks he's told me everything…so maybe what I'm asking is 'What doesn't Potter know that I should?'"
Snape nodded approvingly, checked on his potion, and turned back to Draco just in time to see him scratch the final line of a lightning bolt into the top of the work table with a slicing knife. Snape slapped his hand. "You know better than that, idiot: you'll contaminate my utensils."
Draco gave an appropriately abashed look. "Well?" he prompted.
Snape frowned harshly-such an impertinent little beast. "Potter isn't being swindled or led into a trap. Not by the Dark Lord, at least-he, for one, finds the boy to be 'refreshing' and has been honest with him. If he has not told Potter everything-a wise move on his part-then he has neither misled him nor lied outright."
Draco snorted again. It wasn't something he'd do outside of the dungeons, but Professor Snape knew full well of his opinions on most things, Potter especially. As he opened his mouth to further that line of questioning, Snape inserted, "Whatever it is that the Dark Lord has yet to tell Potter, he has also neglected to tell me."
Disappointment flittered across Draco's face for the briefest of moments. Then, he smiled slyly, and said, "But, Professor, why would the Dark Lord tell you anything of importance, when practically everyone knows what a turncoat you are?"
Snape was neither amused nor annoyed. He stared blankly at his pupil. "The Dark Lord was once a Slytherin himself, if you remember, boy, and as such, he knows well the price of my loyalty. When he can pay the price, he will have it."
"What makes you so sure that he'll ever need it?"
Snape's eyebrows lifted. "If you need to ask that question, Mr Malfoy, then you are unfit for Slytherin House. I suggest you re-evaluate the priorities of a Slytherin-you have the foundation for it, yes, but in so many areas you are unrefined…like copper and tin when your classmates have been smelted into bronze."
It wasn't an insult, and Draco didn't take it as one. He knew as much himself-perhaps if he'd been raised by a proper Slytherin, he would have been a better one, but his mother had been a Ravenclaw, and she'd encouraged him to question everything-to think about everything. And where she did not know enough to instruct him he was tutored, by Hufflepuffs, or Beauxbatons' equivalent of such. He nodded, accepting the unsolicited analysis of his character, and continued with his questioning.
"I question everything," he said with a shrug. Snape nodded; he knew as much. And then, "Potter intrigues me; would you think it foolish of me to consider his offer?"
Snape didn't have to ask what that offer had been; he'd been at the meeting after all. He smiled, looking almost sinister. "Mr Malfoy, I suspect that at this point, it could not hurt. Perhaps you might even teach him something, as well."
Draco nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I already did-I explained basic Arithmancy to him in class today." He scrunched his nose in distaste and added further, "We're partnered for the yearly project, and Vector gave us a ring! Can you believe it? Nott and Granger got a ceremonial dagger! But stupid Potter got me landed with a tacky old ring-I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to wear it. It's hideous!"
"Indeed," Snape said, humouring him. "Not the same ring your father wears to business meetings, is it? That hideous ring?"
Draco's jaw dropped, incredulous. "The Malfoy signet ring?" he asked, terribly affronted. "The Malfoy signet ring is an heirloom! It's not tacky!"
Snape cackled unashamedly. "Not the same one, then?" He was obviously enjoying having got in that little jibe.
Draco closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes, only partly joking. "No-as a matter of fact, it was bigger than the signet ring-and made cheaply: a carnelian stone, or perhaps jasper."
Snape's amusement faded quickly. "Really?" he asked slowly. "Would the band be a thick, hammered gold?"
Draco nodded. "Very tacky-do you know of it? Is it very cursed? It better be exponentially cursed. I won't suffer a boring project-especially if I have to spend it with Potter."
Snape pursed his lips. "I wouldn't know," he said bluntly. "But I've seen the Headmaster wearing it once or twice."
"Hmm," Draco said, beginning to get a little more interested. He was interrupted from his internal musing when Snape turned the burner off under his cauldron and rose from his stool.
"I have somewhere I must be, Mr Malfoy, and you must return to your common room. Whether or not you sleep, however, is of no concern to me. I imagine you will stay up well into the night mulling over the entire situation."
"Most likely," Draco agreed absently. He was already rising from his stool as well, completely unconcerned that he was being kicked out. "Good night, Professor. See you in class."
"Good night," Snape said, shutting the door behind him. Draco stood in the corridor for several seconds, staring at nothing in particular. He wondered why the ring was important to Professor Snape, and why he felt the need to rush off to the Dark Lord over it, but it was only a casual interest. What really intrigued him was Potter.
Was it terrible that he couldn't wait for class in the morning so he could talk to Potter more? Surely not-this was, by far, the most interesting thing that had happened in a really long time. Still happening, even.
He sighed as he started back to his common room: he definitely wouldn't be getting any sleep this night.
-x-
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