Disclaimer: See Prologue

Chapter 18

I Don't Want to Get Over You

Draco rested his cheek on the bar top and studied his near empty glass. Unlike the bar top of The Leaky Cauldron, the bar of the Hogshead was somehow both sticky and gritty, and Draco's cheek was now covered in whatever had caused this effect. It didn't really matter; a dirty sticky cheek was preferable to trying to hold his head up.

It had been six days, eight hours and seventeen minutes since Harry had walked out of his room and thus out of his life. Well, not entirely out of his life. Draco still had to see him every day. Whether it was walking to class, eating his meals, sitting in the Common Room, or just living his life in general, Harry could be seen everywhere – without him. The bastard.

Draco hated endings. In his fifth year he had read the same book seventeen times until he reached the last chapter, then he put it down and waited until he could start the book again. To this day he had never finished that book. He couldn't stand to see it end. Just as he could not stand to see the end of Harry.

He had developed a process after his father was captured, after the war had ended, and then after he was tortured. It was a process of numbing himself and he could produce its effects as systematically as he could produce a potion. It was a simple matter of drinking enough to make him forget. Make him not care. But it was a delicate balance. Like all difficult potions, the mixture had to be just right. Too much and it made him care too much, too little and he could only remember that it was over and Harry was gone. Ended. Finished. Done. The distillate of memory was a bitter vintage, and one he would rather not brew, but one he was all too familiar with.

Why was it; Draco wondered, that life could never be as comforting as a book? Characters in a book never saw his faults or judged him unworthy. If they deemed him an unfit companion, all he had to do was turn back the pages and there they were again, right where he'd left them. Why was it that people were not so easy to find? Why was Harry not so easy to hold on to?

Obviously, tonight he had not found the perfect balance in his drink, tonight he could only remember his loss. In moments like these he found his thoughts would turn absurdly to Archibald Semeuse and the abuse the man inflicted on his father. Semeuse had in Lucius the perfect captive. A living doll. Beautiful, breathing and unable to go. It was a sickening realization that told him he understood the Curator.

Draco could take Harry and with a few simple tricks (a drill, some formaldehyde, perhaps a potion or two) create his own doll. A complex bundle of warm flesh and green eyes – but he wouldn't ever really be Harry. He would be nothing more than a shell, and what good was that?

At least he wouldn't leave.

Draco lifted his head. His thoughts were becoming sick, and so it was obviously well past the time to leave.

His head ached as he lifted it and he flinched, fighting off a wave of nausea. Somewhere from behind him he could hear a sneer and several voices started to grumble. He wasn't entirely sure why he came to the Hogshead to drink himself into oblivion. He had considered that perhaps he was actually hoping to have some malcontent beat him to a bloodied pulp. He wanted pain, something physical to focus on so that his heart could ease. Of course, that was all useless theory. He was usually very good at avoiding pain if at all possible.

He slipped off his stool and swayed a little on his feet. He didn't look so good and he knew it. His jeans were dirty, he was wearing a filthy pair of trainers and one of Harry's old Weasley jumpers. Draco had stolen it from Harry's room because he knew it would smell like Harry – and look like Harry, all crumpled and uncaring. Actually, he was beginning to look like Harry. He hadn't done his hair in days and as he wiped sweaty hands down his jeans he realised that he hadn't had a bath in two days. He really must smell.

He staggered out of the bar, waving a sloppy goodbye to Aberforth Dumbledore who had made a now rare appearance behind the bar, and hurled himself out into the night. It was raining. It was always bloody raining. It was like the sky hadn't closed up since October. He didn't bother casting a basic sheltering charm over his head, as that charm reminded him of Harry and he was determined not to think of Harry.

Harry the bastard. He started to laugh bitterly.

Somewhere a clock struck three. Three in the morning, he was leaving a little earlier than usual. He might even get some sleep tonight. He had taken to getting back to the castle, dozing for a short time and then staggering, still drunk, to classes. It was a habit that had not gone unnoticed. McGonagall had forced a tonic down his throat one morning in front of the entire class in an effort to sober him up. On another morning Snape had slapped him so hard upside of his head that the sound had reverberated throughout the dungeon class room, and his whole body had reeled from the sensation for hours afterwards.

If Harry had noticed he had certainly said nothing. Harry hadn't given Draco so much as a regretful glance. Harry had just marched on happily with his life and completely forgotten about the person he had promised he would love for ever and always.

Bastard.

Well, he was no doubt better off without the bastard. He had lost himself in Harry. He had lost his spark, lost the thing about him that had made Draco Malfoy the person he was. He had become Harry Potter's bitch! Then again, he had also discovered how to make Harry Potter squeal like a girl, and wouldn't the Dark Lord have loved to have known how to do that?

Selfish, unthinking, uncaring bastard!

Of course any fool could see that he was desperately unhappy and his time with Harry had unfortunately endeared him somehow to a few people. It was more cause for notice that no one had so much as attempted to torment him in any way since Harry had left him. This left him more than a little frustrated. He wanted nothing more than to hex the hell out of some twit, but even he had a hard time putting a Bat Bogey hex on someone who appeared genuinely concerned for his welfare. Well almost. When Colin Creevy had deigned to give him that revolting and ever so sympathetic, "you poor thing I know how you feel," look, before asking if he needed anything at all with a cheery, "don't hesitate to ask" and then patted him on the wrist – Draco had truly felt the need to leave him with a case of festering Beluga Pox he wouldn't get over in a long while.

Gods if this was love, they; whoever they were, could take it and shove it up the arse-end of the world.

He pushed on through the rain, back towards the castle and back towards the one place that held his passion and his pain. He hated walking into that Common Room, seeing 'that' door and knowing all the while that Harry was sleeping soundly inside that room. He had come to the conclusion that Harry was probably right. His morals were questionable. He was one of the only people that he could think of who would torture a woman so that he didn't have to cheat on his lover. He also reasoned that if Harry had met Regina he would probably want to torture her too.

Well, probably not.

And yet Harry was perfectly capable of killing a person and as much as Draco hated everyone and everything, he questioned his abilities to perform Avada Kedavra if he ever needed too. He was filled with enough hate and malice to be sure, but he had never been taught the charm. His father had preferred not to teach him that little piece of dark magic reasoning; correctly, that if he was unable to do it, he would never be accused of performing it. Draco was also filled with an ingrained sense of self preservation. He had no desire to end up in prison, dead, or worse - kissed by a Dementor – thus he had no interest in killing anyone. Torture, hexing, being an all round arse hole was all perfectly fine, but he figured he should at least be able to stop short of killing anyone.

He would never be found lying in a pool of his own blood after slicing up his arms. Draco Malfoy wanted to live. Draco Malfoy would live. He was a survivor, that was that.

Then again, he was in the process of drinking himself into an early grave. But that could take forever, so all was well.

He shivered. The alcohol was wearing off, drenched out of him by the rain that never seemed to stop. He was soaked to the skin, his heavy cloak dragging along in the mud. He reached into the wet interior pocket and pulled out his favorite silver flask and downed a hearty swig.

And then he heard a noise.

It was a small noise, hardly distinguishable above the sound of the rain and Draco decided that he must have incredible hearing to have heard it at all. He turned drunkenly, saw nothing and swayed, straining his ears to find the noise again. It came, small and plaintive. A mewing noise. Something living in the forest perhaps. But it sounded small and lost.

If he wasn't so drunk he would probably just keep going. But he was drunk. Incredibly drunk and more importantly, incredibly depressed and this noise was the perfect distraction. Some reasonable part of his brain told him that. He frowned and followed the noise, the little mewing noise, off the side of the path and into the forest. The reasonable part of his brain started sending out alarm bells. This was 'the' forest. Werewolves and Merlin only knew what lived in there and here he was, drunk out of his gourd looking for the source of some little noise, all the time thinking it a perfect distraction to his misery.

But the noise itself didn't sound fearsome. It sounded small and frightened. It sounded like it probably shouldn't be in the forest. Just as he shouldn't be heading into the forest.

He didn't have to go far. Just off the path, amongst the twigs and leaves and mud he found the source of the noise. Draco looked at it. Small and impossibly helpless, Draco reasoned that in such a place and in such weather it really should be dead. The edge of the forest was no place for such a tiny thing, and this weather was certainly no place for such a tiny thing. He wondered if someone had dumped it, or if it had wandered off from it's mother and been lost entirely. It was far too young to be alone. Draco crouched in the mud and stared quizzically at the little animal and wondered if it was at all magical. Most of the animals in this place were, but this little thing looked incredibly ordinary. He picked it up by the scruff of the neck and inspected it.

An ordinary every day kitten. A common, garden variety kitten. The kind of thing that Draco would have chased out of his garden as a child. It struggled in it's position dangling from between his fingers and finally mewed tragically.

"Stupid cat."

It mewed again. It was tiny and helpless and he had to admit it was cute. But it was just a stupid Muggle of a cat. He should just leave it there to die. It had no merit. It was just ordinary.

But as he started back on his way to the castle, the Muggle of a cat was tucked safely in the interior pocket of his robes, a warming charm heating it admirably.

******
Harry had not slept well for more than a week, and when he did sleep his dreams were haunted by images of creamy skin and pale grey eyes – and sometimes these things would change into something more, something frightening. At night Harry watched Draco die time and time again and when he woke up and found his bed empty he felt he'd died a little too.

But Draco was not dead. Draco was very much alive and depending on what time Harry had managed to sleep could either be out drinking himself into a stupor or stumbling back to the castle.

After six nights of this Harry finally decided to do the one thing that he hoped could cheer him up. He went to see Ron. Hermione had shown absolutely no sympathy for him. After leaving Draco he had gone to see her. Hermione had glared at him for a long time and then unceremoniously slapped him hard on the cheek. And so he was hoping that Ron would prove a good shoulder to cry on and the appropriate boost to his ego by telling him he was absolutely right.

Except that Harry should have gone to see Ron long before now. He should have gone to see him after he'd heard about Angelina, but as usual he'd been so preoccupied with his own problems that despite promising himself daily that he'd go, it was only now that he'd actually managed it. And now that he was here he'd listen for all of five minutes before launching into the tale of his own woe.

Harry was seriously beginning to think that he sucked.

"So you dumped him them?" Ron didn't sound as happy about the news as Harry had expected. "Well I guess that explains the way you look."

"I look bad?"

Ron shrugged. "Yeah, you look like shit." He picked up a plate from beside the bed, "you want a cupcake?"

"Did your mum make them?"

"Yep, she thinks I'm too thin."

Harry took one of the cakes and began licking at the buttery icing.

"You shouldn't have dumped him."

Harry stopped licking as this was not the reaction he had expected or needed. "What? I thought you'd be pleased! You always hated him!"

"Well so did you until last year." Ron began picking at a cake of his own. "Then you started sleeping with him and I seem to recall you here not so long ago telling me how much you loved him."

"I do…" Harry sat him cake down on the edge of the bed. "I still do love him, he just…"

"So why'd you dump him?"

"I told you why! That girl, the Muggle…"

Ron grabbed Harry's cup cake before it fell onto the floor, "look mate, I see your point, I really do, but I've gotta tell you, I've spent the last month or so in here thinking about everything that happened and all the shit I did and to be honest, I've come to the conclusion that we all do crap that we shouldn't and if we were abandoned every time we did we would all be very fucking lonely people." Ron frowned and wondered if he'd just made any sense at all because Harry was still looking belligerent. "You said he did it because she knew something about his father?"

"Yeah, some crap like that."

"You said something was happening to his father?"

"Draco thinks that the Curator of the Museum is doing something to his father's body."

"Like what?"

Harry hesitated, not really wanting to voice Draco's fears lest they sound insane; "sexual things," he said reluctantly.

Ron cringed. "That's sick! Is he sure? How would he know that?"

"I have no idea," Harry said, thinking back to it he knew that Draco was certain it was happening, but he'd never elaborated on just how he knew these things. "He always got really vague when it came to his father. We usually avoided the subject, because he has a habit of looking at Lucius Malfoy as though the man was a saint."

Ron didn't comment on that particular point. He was not going to make any criticism of Draco Malfoy to Harry, even if they had split up, because realistically, who knew if they'd get back together – and Harry would probably pounce on him if he said anything bad? The allegation of abuse alarmed him more so than Draco's love of his father. Ron's own father had been on for almost a year about mistakes made during the Death Eater trials, and his dad had been horrified at the prospect of the exhibition (even though Ron himself had gone gleefully to gloat over Malfoy's body) and to hear this news made Ron stop and think. Perhaps his father was right. He had no love for Lucius Malfoy, but this really was sick. "Has he told anyone?" Ron asked, "I mean aside from you, has he said anything to someone at the Ministry?"

"Fudge wouldn't care," Harry muttered, then continued, "he thinks this exhibition is the best thing to happen to our world since Voldemort died. He knows that he'd be more popular if Lucius Malfoy was suffering than he would be if he did something about it." Harry stopped for a moment as a thought came to him. "Can he suffer? Can he even feel anything?"

"Well since I haven't been kissed by a Dementor I wouldn't know." Ron stifled a yawn, he wasn't bored, it was just really getting late.

Harry didn't notice the yawn. "He hasn't told anyone – except me and Snape."

"Okay, so what does this woman have to do with the Museum?"

"I don't know. I thought she was a friend of Lucius Malfoy's"

"So what information could she have about Malfoy that could help him? Does she have proof of what's happening?"

"I don't know," Harry said again, deciding that he really didn't know much.

Ron drew a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, so this woman, this Muggle, gives Draco an ultimatum and he decides to practice Cruciatus on her rather than cheat on you?"

"Yep, that's his twisted logic."

Ron stared at Harry.

"Don't tell me you think he was right?"

Ron almost huffed impatiently. "No of course not, but put yourself in the same situation. What if it was your dad and you'd been given the same option, what would you do?"

"I'd find another way."

Ron rolled his eyes and changed tactics; "Alright then, what would you have done if you'd walked in when Angelina was on me, if it had been you instead of Pansy?"

Harry squirmed a little uncomfortably, "I would probably have killed her," he admitted, "but it's completely different. Angelina is a powerful witch, she can defend herself!"

"Well that's some pretty twisted logic there, Harry."

"I wouldn't have had any choice, she was killing you!"

"Yeah, she was. But Pansy just knocked her out and then the Aurors came and took her away – you would have killed her. Everyone makes choices that could be wrong Harry."

"The situation is completely different," Harry insisted, folding his arms across his body, "whose side are you on anyway?"

"Yours," Ron replied firmly, "but Harry, every one fucks up, even you."

"I know!" Harry took a deep breath and calmed himself. He had not expected Ron to be so rational; it was so unlike him. Ron was supposed to just nod and agree with him. Instead he had this new perspective, possibly a by-product of screwing his own life up so very much. Whatever had caused it, Harry didn't want to hear it. "I know everyone fucks up, but she's a Muggle, and she was helpless. I can't just ignore that."

Ron stifled another yawn and lay back into his pillows.

"Are you okay?" Harry panicked a little, "are you tired?"

"A little," Ron murmured, "I'm fine though. I can't think of anything else to say. Isn't the fact that you were happy, enough to justify you staying?"

"Not if he's capable of that," Harry replied stubbornly.

"We are all capable of it."

"But we don't all act on it."

Ron shook his head. "You're just being stubborn because you hate admitting you're wrong."

"I'm not wrong about this!"

Ron closed his eyes. "Fine, you're not wrong about it. I'm not going to argue with you about it."

Harry didn't want to fight with Ron either, but he was waging war with himself to try and save his own ethics in the face of Ron's new found rational. "Maybe I should go," he suggested, "you look like you want to sleep."

"No, stay. They've stopped giving me the sleeping brew so I'm not going to nod off anytime soon."

Harry didn't quite believe that, Ron was yawning openly now.

"George will be here soon, stay until he gets here would you?"

Harry nodded. He could hardly blame Ron for not wanting to be alone, as he'd never been entirely safe in this place. He nudged Ron over a little so he could sit more comfortably on the bed. "Well, if I'm staying, you'd better pass me over that plate."

*******
Non was late. Then again, Non was always late. The knowledge that the Elf was inevitably late did nothing to make Snape's mood any better. He knew full well that the Elf was at the relative mercy of the Curator's comings and goings, but it didn't matter, Snape hated waiting. He'd always hated waiting. He was good at waiting – but it didn't mean he liked it.

He was also hungry and wanted his breakfast, and his stomach grumbled uncomfortably. He didn't want to be sitting in his chambers waiting for a late House Elf. For once in his life he actually wanted to be in the Great Hall eating something. Strange how that worked, when he didn't want to be there he could never escape.

It did enter his mind to just go. Non's reports had begun to sound monotonous in their similarities. Lucius was despondent, Lucius didn't want help, Lucius was in pain, and always with the warning, 'don't tell Draco anything.' Snape was lost in the conflicting messages, knowing full well that anything that painted Lucius in less than a well picture was probably the truth of the matter and any observations that came directly from Non, meant that Lucius himself had produced other messages he didn't know about. One thing was clear; Lucius did not want Draco to do anything that could possibly put himself anywhere near the Museum. To tell Draco that Lucius was entirely conscious and able to communicate would only cause him to go off and try to help his father.

So he couldn't tell Draco anything at all – and that was harder said than done. Draco Malfoy was not the kind of person who took to being shut out when his interests were at stake. So far he had pleaded, fought and outright threatened blackmail, and still Snape had kept Lucius' confidence, telling Draco that he knew nothing other than his father was safe. Draco was no fool however, and without Potter to distract him he was fast becoming suspicious. To make matters worse, Snape was watching his Godson fast becoming an inveterate drunk. It was a shame, helping his father would at least take his mind off Potter.

Snape closed his eyes and sighed. It wasn't even the food he wanted. He felt like cake, something sweet. That was odd because he wasn't much of a sweet tooth – except Fizzing Wizzbees which he had a weakness for – but he really did feel like cake. Something very chocolaty.

Yeah, eat cake, keep your mind off the fact that you are dealing with far too many emotions right at this moment.

He had never felt so old as he did at that moment. He was still reasonably young, especially for a Wizard, but he felt older than Dumbledore. The war had been hard, but he was supposed to be resting now. He had done the hard slog of his life, he'd paid for his sins, and he was supposed to be enjoying peace and quiet. Instead he had been thrown into this emotional maelstrom. On one side he had Hermione and everything she represented to him and on the other was Draco and Lucius and the pain that they both seemed to exude. Both sides converged together over him like twin storms becoming something fierce and uncontrollable. For a man who had spent much of his life cut off from such feelings it was not a pleasant experience.

To take his mind off his stomach he reached for a book. He had surrounded himself with a new array of volumes that focused on Muggle religious icons, and he once again began to fervently read through the journal into which Lucius had poured so much of himself. Now that Snape understood the process – it was easy enough, anoint and open the gates and then release the Angel that inhabited Lucius' body – the instructions in the journal made far more sense. The incantation to anoint the gates was reasonably straightforward and he was fairly certain he could muddle his way through the sketchy potion recipe, but as yet he had found nothing to indicate exactly how to release the Angel, and there were ingredients that he had still to find. He didn't know where on earth he was supposed to find Angel oils, feathers and blood, and he could hardly wander into any Apothecary and ask. He had no real desire to go and see Regina again, but she was the only real source of the Angel artifacts.

Lucius could have hidden things at the Manor, but Aurors had spent months going over the estate, and Snape doubted he would find anything more than they would have. No doubt Lucius had hiding places aplenty, secret places that no one would ever find – which was absolutely no use to Snape.

He could just do as Lucius wished. Do nothing at all and leave him to his fate. The Angel would die and Lucius along with it. Draco could mourn and life would go on. And that would be the end of it.

And Snape could mourn too. It would have been better if Lucius had died in the war. It would have been better if they both had. It would be better if Snape could just hate him as he wanted to; he was loving too many people at the moment, too many people who could hurt him.

And where the fuck was Non?

A knock at the door broke his thoughts and he frowned. It had been a long time since anyone had come to see him in the evening. Minerva McGonagall could hold a grudge like an elephant keeps a memory and he had well and truly pissed her off with the whole Regina thing. He had no doubt that she would come back eventually. He'd pissed her off before; he'd done a whole lot worse before, and she'd forgiven him – it just took a while. So he doubted the person at the door was Minerva, well, not Minerva on a social call anyway.

He barely had time to call enter before the door opened and Dumbledore ushered a reluctant Minerva into the chamber. She had her arms folded defensively across her chest and a look so stern on her face that he suddenly felt like a student again and she was about to give him detention. Dumbledore didn't look much better, there was no light in his eyes and the frown on his face creased his brow into a deep furrow.

Oh dear Gods they're going to fire me.

"Albus." He nodded stiffly. "Minerva."

Minerva pointedly ignored him, but Dumbledore nodded amicably by way of reply. Snape noticed that still no light reached the old mans eyes; there was no gentle humor on his features.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked silkily. He figured if they were going to fire him, he could at least retain some of his dignity.

"We just have to wait a few minutes, Severus," Dumbledore replied, patting him on the shoulder as he passed him, "I've sent for Harry."

Potter? Snape relaxed a little, as he highly doubted they'd invite Potter to his sacking. Still, he didn't relish the idea of having Potter in his private chambers and the look on his face must have belied this fact because Dumbledore looked slightly amused despite himself, and told him it was for a good reason.

Dumbledore moved to the fireplace and looked at the two hard leather wingbacks on offer as seating. Shaking his head he conjured himself a squishy armchair and took a seat. It was something that was so incredibly Dumbledore, and yet Snape still could find no real smile on his lips. As the Headmaster stared into the flames of the fire, Snape could not help but notice that he looked more troubled than he had for a very long time.

So maybe Dumbledore felt cheated too, the end of war hadn't ended the worries at all. Minerva hovered behind Dumbledore for a moment, before finally coming forward and gently squeezing her lover's shoulder. Her face didn't soften in the slightest, so whatever was on Dumbledore's mind was also plaguing her.

Snape scowled and turned away from her. If he was going to be made to wait he would at least sit in his favorite chair, Minerva knew she could sit if she wanted to, and he wouldn't have to concern himself with her mood. In the meantime he would endure this uncomfortable silence until Potter chose to grace them all with his presence.

Potter came eventually, barging into the room without knocking and looking out of breath. He made his apologies, and said he'd been playing early morning Quidditch with the Gryffindors and lost track of time. He didn't look good. He looked as though he hadn't slept for a week, and he even had a little stubble on his chin. He looked drawn and tired and Snape felt a cruel smile tug the corner of his mouth. He threw a thought Potter's way, ensuring he caught it.

See, it isn't easy being the one who leaves.

Potter looked him in the eye and shook his head with a small movement. He didn't want to do this; he was hurting, and Snape could feel it.

Too fucking bad. Snape turned back to the fire, aware that Potter was now taking his mind off Snape's comments by sizing up Snape's chambers. Harry decided that it was exactly the kind of place he thought his Potions Master would inhabit. Imposing, dark, rudimentary and full of books. More books than Harry would read in a life time. His eye lingered on the chair beside the bed and Snape realized that a silk nightgown had been thrown over it. Hermione's. Snape had bought it for her, along with many other things and she had left it there – he had never moved it, it was the one thing he allowed himself of her. Right at that moment however he was wishing it wasn't there for all to see. Harry dragged his eyes away from it, glared at Snape and then turned his attention to Dumbledore.

"Good, you're here at last, Harry," Dumbledore said a little crisply, something that threw both Harry and Snape. The Headmaster must really be worried; he usually never spoke to Harry with anything other than concern or regard.

"Sorry I'm late, Professor."

"Why don't you sit down?"

Snape sneered. Now Potter was going to sit in one of his chairs.

And Harry did, sinking into the hard leather wingback and wincing. There was nothing comfortable about it at all. He glanced around the room and saw a day bed in an alcove which looked a thousand times more comfortable than the wingback. Snape looked happy in his own chair and Harry decided that he either had no feeling in his body, or the other wingback was a lot more comfortable.

"So…um," Harry smiled nervously, "so what are we all doing here?"

Snape relaxed a little further, glad to know that Potter was as in the dark as he was. Minerva was glaring at the both of them, her eyes flitting from one to the next and under her scrutiny they both began to squirm. Obviously they had both done something wrong; now they had only to work out exactly what that something was.

"I didn't ask Miss Granger to come," Dumbledore said, straightening himself in the chair and frowned a little further, "although I perhaps should have, as this does concern her."

"Hermione?" Harry glanced at Snape and then turned back to Dumbledore, "what…what has Hermione done?"

"I'm afraid it's more a case of what she hasn't done, Harry." Dumbledore sighed and sank a little lower into his armchair, "I have just spent the day at the Ministry of Magic. There was a sitting of the Wizengamot today." When he looked at the two men in the wingbacks and noticed their blank expressions he sighed again and continued, "Viktor Krum's trial was supposed to be heard yesterday."

Harry's eyes widened and he looked straight to Snape who looked as though he had just swallowed a particularly vicious poison. The Potions Master's mind was reeling. They were both thinking the same thing; Hermione had been in classes all day, and barring extensive use of a Time-Turner she had not left the school at all. Harry had seen her barely twenty minutes ago, as she was heading for the bathroom, and she'd said nothing at all about attending a trial the day before.

"There is an old clause in our laws, one that Hermione was well aware of, that if she did not come to witness the charges being presented, then Mr. Krum would be released and would be free to return to Bulgaria."

"Well, what kind of stupid law is that?" Harry burst out suddenly and three sets of eyes fixed on him. "Well, it is a stupid bloody law."

"It may not be the wisest of laws Harry, but it is one that exists in our world and until it is changed we have to abide by it. As I said, Hermione was well aware of the law."

"So what does this have to do with us?" Snape asked, his voice was low and calm, a stark contrast to Harry.

Harry and Minerva stared at him in disbelief and Harry's mouth open and closed a few times before he finally managed to speak. "What kind of an animal are you?" he demanded, his look of disgust boring into Snape, "don't you give a shit about her at all? What was she to you, a quick fuck and then goodbye?"

"What I meant, Potter," Snape growled, "is what exactly are we expected to do? Is it likely that he will come here looking for her?"

Harry bowed his head, he hadn't even considered that.

"I don't know what he'll do, Severus." Dumbledore sighed again and pressed his fingers against his eyes to relieve an oncoming headache. "He is still bitter and anything is possible. He knows that you care for her and I doubt that he's forgotten what you did to him. So yes, it is very possible that he will come here."

Snape scowled, convinced that he'd given the Bulgarian better than he'd deserved. "I should have killed him while I had the chance."

"That was not an option, Severus."

Snape snorted. It only hadn't been an option because Dumbledore had turned up and stopped him.

"So…" Harry looked from Snape to Dumbledore, "what can we do? Can we find him first?"

"I can find him," Snape replied, "I'll find him and take care of it."

"I don't want you going after him, Severus," Dumbledore said hastily, as he reached across and patted Snape's arm soothingly. "As I said to you the last time you went after him, I don't want you ending up in prison – or worse."

Snape folded his arms and stared mutinously into the fire.

"Well there has to be something we can do!" Harry said plaintively, "There has to be a reason why she didn't go…it's probably this greasy bastard's fault!" He gestured wildly at Snape. "She shouldn't be punished just because he used her and dumped her!"

"What!?" Snape was out of his chair and towering over Harry who didn't flinch at all.

"You were supposed to take her to that trial," Harry shot back accusingly; "she was probably scared to go alone!"

"And what about you?" Snape hissed. "Her best friend? Why didn't you step up and take her?"

"I…" Harry fumbled for an answer. It was a logical enough question and Harry was well and truly ashamed of the only answer he could offer – he had forgotten all about it. "I had…I've had other things on my mind…I…" It sounded lame and he knew it. "She hasn't been the same since you left her, and Hermione would have gone to the trial if you hadn't fucked her around!"

"I am not the only one to blame you arrogant little pissant. Oh, but of course it couldn't have anything to do with you, not the glorious Harry Potter! You had other things on your mind, no one else is allowed to be even remotely preoccupied with the manifold complexities of their own lives, but you can because you're the Famous Bloody Harry Potter!"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, his anger building, but before he could speak Dumbledore was on his feet and demanding silence from them both.

They continued to glare and then Harry opened his mouth.

"Oh for Merlin's sake shut up the both of you!" Minerva stepped between them and pushed Snape back from Harry. "You bickered your way through the war and you bickered your way through the trials and I for one am sick to death of hearing it! Now is not the time to be squabbling and appropriating blame. It's obvious that you both care for Hermione, so perhaps you should be concentrating on working out how to ensure her safety rather than fighting amongst yourselves."

Harry bowed his head and flushed lightly, "I'm sorry Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall."

Snape didn't say anything; he just returned his gaze to the fire place and nodded abruptly.

"But Harry is right," Dumbledore continued softly, "there must be a reason why Hermione did not attend the Wizengamot, and I believe that it would be best if you; both of you," he looked between the two of them, "were able to find out just what that reason may be."

******

By dinner time Draco found himself yawning uncontrollably and despite a hangover potion having disposed of his headache, nothing was going to keep him awake. He had decided that his school work was suffering earlier in the day and decided to forgo a nights drinking in favor of study. When the time came for him to head to the Library, he chose instead to make his way back to the tower, reasoning that if he could get two clear hours in which he could sleep he would be able to concentrate a hell of a lot better. It was more sleep than he'd had in a long time.

Once he had reached his room he found that the House Elves, having discovered a starving animal, had put down two bowls, one full of some kind of pureed meat and the other full of cream. There were also pages of old Daily Prophets scattered all over the floor – possibly the first time the paper had been used for anything good.

Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust and scanned the floor for the kitten. He found its little tail sticking out from under the bead spread and he wrenched it out, causing it to give a little cry of fright.

"Well Mr. Kitty, you are making a mess." As an after thought he lifted it by the tail and checked, "Oh, sorry, Miss Kitty." He dumped the kitten on the bed and quickly picked up the newspapers. Balling them up he dumped them unceremoniously over the balcony and then he collapsed on the bed, almost crushing his new pet. He moved the small tabby bundle.

And then he needed the bathroom.

"Fucking hell." He struggled up from the bed, patted his kitten roughly and staggered into the hall.

The small hallway that lead from the Common Room to his bedchamber came out close to Hermione and Lavender's door and he heard their voices well before he could be seen in the Common Room. He groaned softly. He really didn't want to see either of them. Hermione had appeared nothing short of tense and sick over the last week, and Lavender kept giving him sickeningly concerned looks every time she saw him. He didn't want to be confronted by Hermione with that look on her face. The last time they had spoken they had fought and he was beginning to think that it was his fault she looked so bad. And he couldn't stand the fact that Lavender kept giving him those sympathetic glances.

Those horrible, "Poor Draco, Harry dumped him and now he's fucked because he doesn't want anyone else ever again" looks. He flattened himself against the wall and held his breath, hoping they would pass by the hallway door quickly.

"Are you okay?" Lavender was asking Hermione with that same concerned voice she used with Draco.

"Yeah," Hermione sounded a little out of breath, "I just can't believe how revolting this feels.

"Well, I read somewhere that you should be eating more or else you'll feel nauseous."

"I'm eating what I normally eat!" Hermione snapped, "I can hardly eat more than that."

"Well you'll have to carry biscuits around with you or something."

"Oh yeah, that would go down well, "I'm sorry Professor, I have to sit here eating in your class because if I don't I am going to vomit." They would pick it in a second."

"Well," Lavender sounded perplexed, "maybe you should tell Professor McGonagall. She seems to really like you and you said she was pretty pissed off at Professor Snape. Maybe she could…smooth it out with the other teachers."

There was silence and Draco was fairly certain that Hermione was pulling her incredulous face.

"Well, it was just an idea!" Lavender had gone from perplexed to exasperated.

"If I tell Minerva she'll tell Severus. It doesn't matter how pissed off she is with him now; it's only a matter of time before they are speaking again. She has a real soft spot for him, and with something like this she would be on his door step and he'd know I was pregnant by the end of lunch."

Draco's mouth fell open. Hermione was pregnant? Pregnant with Snape's baby? A baby Snape? Oh Gods, a little Snape? That poor child!

"What about that potion?" Lavender was saying, the exasperation having faded and concern returning. Draco guessed that the Common Room must be empty because she was speaking at a normal level, and when Hermione replied she wasn't whispering either.

"The Apothecary won't sell it without a script from Madam Pomfrey or a Healer registered with St Mungo's. There is no way I am going to Madam Pomfrey to ask for a script and a trip to St Mungo's isn't really plausible at the moment…" Hermione paused, as though she was thinking. She didn't sound certain of what she was talking about at all.

"Maybe," Lavender suggested hesitantly, "maybe you don't want to get rid of it."

"Nonsense," Hermione scorned, but the uncertainty still resonated through her tone, Draco guessed that she would be chewing her lip right now, "I figure there has to be a recipe in the Restricted Section of the library. I'd say an abortion potion would be fairly rudimentary, and I'm sure I could make it."

Lavender said something in reply, something uncertain, but Draco didn't hear it. The girls were leaving the Common Room, and it sounded like they were heading to their bedroom. Draco himself was still recovering from the shock of his discovery. Hermione was pregnant. Pregnant with Snape's baby – and she was going to abort it – and Snape knew nothing about it. A large part of Draco filled with indignance. He knew Snape well enough to know that his interest in parenthood was fairly limited – to nothing at all – but it was his child and he might well want to know about it.

At the very least he could probably make the potion she wanted.

Draco had forgotten his full bladder and had turned back to his room, but somehow he didn't think he would get any sleep.

******
Continued…