The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to the respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Unbeta'd.

Chapter Ten -

What's the Time, Mr. Wolf?

I cannot conceal it
I cannot put it out
It's like tryin' to hide a fire in the dark
Tryin' to fight a flame I never meant to start
It's out of control and nothin' can help me now

BILLY DEAN, Tryin' to hide a fire in the dark

Getting the tip about the third-floor passage gave Draco some much-needed respite. He had a way out, literally. Now there was just the regular school business to take care of, and he soon found that his hands were full already.

As if Prefect duties were not enough, in addition to keeping Vince and Greg this side of being ploughed in every subject, there was Quidditch. On Thursday morning, he was sitting at breakfast when a heavy hand descended onto his shoulder in a pat-cum-crushing-squeeze salutation. It was, of course, the newly instated Captain of the Slytherin team, Graham Montague.

"Hope you're eager to fly, Malfoy, because I've booked the field for as many times as I could for the next month." Montague motioned at Goyle to make way and sat beside Draco, leaning down a bit to speak confidentially.
"This year we have a chance. All four teams have lost their old Captains, only, for us it could only be an improvement."

They shared a quick smirk at that. Flint had been a fair Chaser, but he had only kept his place as Team Captain by threatening all the hopefuls that he'd curse their firstborns for nine generations if they ever suggested to Snape that they could be better suited for the position.

"But we need to ease new Beaters into the team before the first match," Montague concluded.

Ugh, Draco thought. Beaters were often picked among the seniors because of the harsh physical requirements, which resulted in a faster turnaround than other positions. As was often the case with school teams, Derrick and Bole had just reached their peak right before graduation had taken them off the rooster: Bole had even been inducted into the Winbourne Wasps' feeder club.
But their training had meant weeks of tough practice for Draco, who had been flying as the opposing Chaser and had been grazed by more than his fair share of uncontained Bludgers and out-of-hand bats and on one memorable occasion, a stray knuckleduster. He was not keen on going through it again.

"So who are the two noobs?"

"There ain't none yet." Montague's meaty face settled into a grimace. "Our forwards, including me, are more'n happy to keep Chasing, so it'll have to be fresh blood. And we need someone who's smart enough to tell which ones of the goalposts are our own, and yet dumb enough to meddle with the Weasley twins on broomsticks. If you can think of any candidates, I'm open to suggestions."

The first Defence lesson was a total letdown.

Professor Umbridge had cut in on Doublebore's speech, she had stood up to Potter and given him detention, so clearly there was a common ground to build upon: the Slytherins were ready to like the new professor to a man.

But she spoke to the class as if they were still being potty-trained, wrote a few convolute sentences on the blackboard, and told them to read Chapter One. In silence.

Unlike their fellow Gryffindorks, Slytherins knew better than to argue, and soon the only noise that could be heard in the classroom was the crackling sound of pages turning.

"When dealing with defensive magic we must first and foremost be fluent with the different categories into which it is commonly divided. One would easily infer, the easiest method for doing so is to follow a chronological approach, and indeed the first and broadest categories are based on the TEMPORAL relationship between the perceived aggression and the defensive reaction. Therefore, defensive magic can be classified as preventive, collative, or consecutive. These will be henceforth referred to as type I, II and III, for brevity..."

By the time Draco had ended the period, his eyes were getting crossed. Slinkhard must have worked for the Ministry before he wrote Defensive Magical Theory. The wording sounded much like those pedantic, yet confusing regulations that made lawsuits go on forever. The chapter was as dry as sand and just as pleasant for the eyes, but Draco soldiered on. Perhaps Umbridge was going to quiz them about the chapter's content, and it would not do to draw another blank, not so soon after his Charms faux-pas.

Minutes went by in a silence punctuated by the odd cough. Umbridge did not feel the need to do much: she was sitting at her desk, eyeing the students with a sort of smug defiance, as if she expected them to confront her about the contents of the chapter. As if Slytherins would ever be so stupid.

Oh, we could have got along so well, Professor.

From time to time a student would move, to stretch a crick in the neck or to take a look at the hourglass, and Umbridge would glare at the perpetrator with her round, almost bulging eyes.

"However, in order to evaluate the appropriateness of each presumed defensive action, a second parameter must be introduced, INTENTION, which modifies and further subdivides the above-mentioned categories. By looking at the specific type of spells which are cast either before (type I) during (type II) or after (type III) the perceived aggression, we are able to recognize adversative, oppositive, conclusive, escalative, evasive intention. The table below lists the fifteen possible combinations..."

Well, there was this to be said for the new course – a few years of Defense taught like this, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement might as well start hiring Squibs.

I love the new teaching policy, Draco thought. Forget the wands, remember the theory.

That last sentence was lifted straight off Celestina Warbeck's "Scourgifying my Cupboard", a catchy, rah-rah song about moving on after a bad relationship, and it settled in his head like an idèe fixe as he tackled the first combination (Type Ia: Preventive, Adversative).

After five minutes of the line going on and on in his mind, vying with old Slinkhard for attention, he gave up and started playing on it. By the end of the lesson he had completed a stanza:

"We love you Madam Umbridge and your teaching policy,
The students cannot use their wands, they're smothered in theory,
But it does looks good on parchment and it is all fine to me,
When the Dark Lord gives the green light and we'll storm the Ministry!"

Pleased with the outcome, he smiled to himself, careful not to lift his head from the book.

The hourglass righted itself and the gong chimed: the lesson was over. Greg, who never been fond of reading, packed his things and stood up. That got Umbridge's attention.

"Hem, hem. Who told you to stand up, Mister...?"

Greg straightened up, going for intimidation. "Goyle. Gregory Goyle," he growled.

"One point from Slytherin, Mr. Goyle, for not waiting a teacher's permission to leave the classroom."

"Ah."
Greg, not used to losing points in the classroom, lingered for a few seconds, then turned and strode towards the door.

"Where are you going, Mister Goyle!?"

"Out," Greg replied. Draco sighed inwardly: he didn't want to attract Umbridge's attention by gesticulating across the room, and his dumb mate had no idea of how to stop digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole.

"I didn't give you permission to leave!" she shrieked.

"Yeah, but you took a point already, so," Greg replied, mulish. To make things worse, someone at the back of the room chuckled. That cost Slytherin another two points; at last Greg went back and slouched into his chair.

The following five minutes were a weird kneazle-and-mouse game. Umbridge pretended to be busy writing in the registry; the students had packed their bags: some were casting Tempus from under cover, other exchanged mutinous looks in silence, but no one dared say a thing. She was making them late just to prove that she could.

A Stinging Hex in the back made Draco turn and he saw Zabini staring at him and tapping an invisible watch on his wrist.

It was Pansy who defused the situation. She raised a hand and, since the teacher was still pretending to be engrossed in paperwork, raised the top of the desk as well, then let it go. It made a noise like a Bombarda spell.

Umbridge shot her head up and found herself glaring straight at Pansy, the portrait of sweetness, her hand politely raised as per teacher's requirement and blinking like a newborn lamb.

"Professor, the class requires permission to leave."

At long last, Umbridge decided the point had been driven home.

"Of course, of course, dear, you may go."

The Slytherins filed out of the room in order (you never knew), then turned the corner and sprinted along the corridor to a man: the next hour was Transfiguration, and that story about McGonagall turning latecomer's… jewels… into stopwatches may or may not have been a fabrication, but it was never worth checking whether it was true.

"At last!" she yelled as she spotted the first two Slytherins galloping towards the classroom. "What happened? Did you get lost?"

None had an inkling of what to say: they had been staying on Umbridge's say-so, and yet the truth did not seem a good excuse. They shuffled themselves into chairs and slapped parchment rolls on desks as quickly as possible, but the lack of an explanation made the Transfiguration teacher go into Bitch Mode nonetheless.
"Well! In all my years of teaching, I never! Never! Had an entire class showing up late. You were supposed to be here five minutes ago! Someone had better tell me…"

Pansy had dealt with the previous incident, so it was Draco's turn to speak up now. He stood up, feeling the disapproval radiating from McGonagall like heat from a cauldron.

"We had to obtain permission from Professor Umbridge before we could leave the classroom," he uttered, then sat down before she could reply. He noticed with gusto that the old battleaxe had been taken aback: she needed a few seconds before she could speak.

"Professor Umbridge is new here, and needs to know that her methods of discipline must not clash with the rest of the timetable. Now, where were we…" and she threw herself into yet another teacher's tirade about the importance of OWLs.

Then, finally, came the actual lesson. Cow creamers were passed around the class, with each student pouring a splash of milk onto the desk. Draco absently accepted the creamer from Greg, but he received such a shock that he wheeled around in his chair, to see who had cast a Stinging Hex. The figurine fell to the stepped floor with a series of dull chimes, spilling its content.

Some jokers clapped their hands idly, and Draco's keen ears picked up a whispered "…doesn't try for Keeper…" from the upper rows.

"Class," McGonagall admonished, and there was silence. Then she turned towards Draco. Meanwhile Greg, subservient as ever, had dived under the desk and picked up the creamer. Smartly enough, he put it on the desk rather than handing it over again.

"Mr. Malfoy, usually a simple splash is sufficient to demonstrate the spellwork."

"I know," Draco replied. "It was an accident."

"I accept that. However, since we do not want to overtax Mr. Finch with cleaning the floor, would you try and Vanish the spilled milk?"

Draco blinked. His whole left hand was throbbing; good thing that he had been holding his wand, and had not picked the tray with his right. He chanced a quick look at the fingertips: they were an angry pink. All for a creamer, with a dull bovine expression and a dull finish...

Silver, he realized. A bloody silver creamer.

And now he had every eye in the class turned on to him. Was this a test? Did McGonagall suspect? Or was she just slighting Slytherin as usual, first scolding him for a minor accident and now telling him to do a janitor's job?

Draco huffed. He had missed the verbal description of the spell, but Pansy was doing a wandless version of the gesture while McGonagall had her back turned. It was a wrist-twist double tip-dip thing, and it looked simple enough. He took a calming breath.

"Evanesco," he said, and breathed a sigh of relief seeing how the white puddle on the floor shrunk into nothingness at once.

"Excellent," McGonagall said, but she didn't give points. (And they said Snape was biased!) "Now, all of you try and perform the incantation. Remember, the initial e is not a schwa… What's going on?"

The hubbub that had begun stopped at once. Then Daphne Greengrass raised a hand.
"Professor, may we have some more milk? Malfoy Vanished it all!"

The class was staring at their desks and into the empty creamers in disbelief.

McGonagall pulled herself together quickly enough and then, as an afterthought, she turned towards Draco. Her expression was wooden as usual, but there was a hint of warmth in her voice as she spoke.
"Mastered it on the first attempt, didn't you, Mr. Malfoy? A bit less eager next time. Five points to Slytherin!"

There were good omens at lunch, too. Chinderella was at the teachers' table, meaning she was still filling in for the half-giant, which promised a peaceful lesson with no immediate danger to life and limb.

Everyone had reservations about the new course of Defense. Even the quiet Theo huffed, "I can't believe we're going to spend the whole year reading a bloody book!"

"Consider the positive side," Draco whispered. "If that's what the others are learning, taking over will be a cake walk."

"We can chuck the book into the fireplace for all it's worth," Zabini was telling the girls. "The O.W.L.s examiners aren't going to change their schtick, the old goats." His voice changed to a tremulous bleating. 'What's this nonsense about 'cohesive invasive', young man? Merlin's beard! All I'm asking is that you show me a Shield Charm!'"

Draco chuckled despite himself. Zabini was a born performer and knew it. Egged on from the response of the audience, he went on acting out several imaginary OWL commissaries as they walked to Care of Magical Creatures after lunch: after the Senile Old Goat, came the Rancid Spinster (a cat-obsessed, tetchy version of Trelawney), the Impossible Instructor (sounding very much like Snape on a bad day: "What would I get by adding two spoonfuls of Seeker snot to a spring-tailed Sphinx? Why one shouldn't gather Dutchman's pipe on ruby Tuesdays? If a Phoenix lays an egg atop a trigonal perch, which way will it roll"? and the Tooth Fairy Teacher which was a Gilderoy Lockhart in drags.

"Blaise, you're a riot," Daphne Greengrass and the others were chuckling. And Draco knew that Zabini had enjoyed the spotlight long enough. It was time to brush on the pecking order. Pansy, ever the perfect foil, put her arms around his shoulders as soon as there was an opening.

"Sing us something, Draco!"

Graciously, he summoned a few accords for accompaniment, cleared his voice and began. The first stanza was not for anyone's ears, but during the last minutes of Transfiguration he had begun to draft a second one. He was currently in such an inspired mood that it rolled off his tongue already complete:

"We owe you Madam Umbridge, you're the bane of Gryffindor
You're the scourge of Bloody Potter, he ain't strutting anymore
You saw right through his bluster and you gave him what-for
If you want my vote for Minister now just oust Dumbledore!"

By the time they reached the hut where Care lessons were held, they were in stitches. Everything, at this point, was hilarious: Nott, who had fallen prey to the hiccups while trying to maintain his composure; Granger, doing her best impression of a chipmunk-on-a-hot-tin-roof, jumping up and down with her face scrunched and her hand held up high, which Draco always found impossible not to mimicry; Pansy getting a scare out of the Bowtruckles.

Nothing, however, was funnier than watching Potter work himself into a right funk. He was ignoring Granger, he scowled at Patil and Brown, he regarded Professor Chinderella with resentful suspicion. By the end of the lesson, he had his pants in such a bunch, it was a wonder he could walk; he seemed ready to breathe fire.

Draco sketched the Bowtruckle in no time: they were little more than stick figures. The lesson had been interesting and safe, and the assignment an easy one. Chinderella was an alright teacher and deserved the tenure much more than the giant oaf exposing them to dangerous monsters, time and again…

…and he was thrown back into the reality of his own situation.

He did not need to fear Hagrid's creatures anymore: the worst had happened already. He was the one exposing his classmates to a dangerous creature, and he was doing it since he had set foot on the Express.

The pencil slipped in his hand, ruining the drawing with an awkward line that crossed the parchment like a giant slash.

"Ooh, pity!" Pansy cried. "Draco? Is something the matter?"
Draco raked his brain for something, anything, to reply, and then startled because there was something.

"Prefects," he blurted, rolling up the parchment.

"What?"

"We have a Prefect meeting in seven minutes," he said. "Hurry up."

"But Weasley and Granger aren't even done yet!"

"And I want to get there earlier than them," he said. It had not been a sunny day, but the revelation had made it gloomy. In five days he would be returning to the woods, and not for drawing stupid green brownies. The trees were closing in on him like the bars of a cage, their shade darker and ominous. Not even the prospect of taunting Potter was going to make him stay in there another minute.

They reached the Prefects meeting room with time to spare, thanks to a few cooperative staircases that had picked the right moment to wander around the castle. The meeting had not started yet and the early birds were doing small talk, discussing the little newfound privileges of their status.

"…this canteen on the ground floor. It's quiet and cozy and no owls are ever going to fly in at breakfast time!"

"…a soak after Quidditch practice. Beware of that mermaid though, she's a little perv!"

The student with the Head Boy badge barely spoke after the introductions: he was a Hufflepuff without a personality whose name Draco promptly forgot. Dumbledore was really lowering his standards if he thought Flubberworms such as this one could represent Hogwarts in any grade. Then he realized that the natural choice for Head Boy would have been Cedric Diggory, and that this poor surrogate must be the Headmaster's idea of a token gesture towards his House.

Then Aurors filed into the room. By now Draco was accustomed enough to their presence that he allowed himself to look at them, filing away their faces for later use. The older ones were a bunch of hardened and scarred mugs, the younger still fresh-faced and fair-eyed. One of them, a witch with white-blond hair done in spikes, like an albino Knarl, carried enough of a certain je ne sais quoi to be the product of Aunt Andromeda's elopement, Draco's own long-lost cousin. However, he had never known her name and she was a half-blood to boot, so no need to trouble oneself with the introductions.

The senior Auror took the floor. His raven black hair and the funny upward-pointing beard were badly in need of a trim, and a drab fedora hat, pulled down and forward, always hid one eye if not both. In a dull monotone, he explained that on the ninth, for safety reasons, the curfew would be moved forward to seven in the evening – "nineteen thousand", as he called them. Aurors would patrol the halls and the outdoor areas for hairy critters. Prefects were expected to inform the rest of the students and help enforce the rule. Thanks for the attention, all dismissed.

Granger immediately had her hand in the air. There were murmurs of amusement among the students because really, anyone who had ever spent more than an hourglass with the Mudblood had seen this coming.

"Excuse me," she chanted. "Excuse me." But this was not a lesson, and there would be no question time. The chief Auror had turned, the students were beginning to file out and some were sniggering. Draco hung back, because the Mudblood had a penchant for making the most annoying questions – you had to give her that – and right now he could use the answers. She went right to the Auror who had spoken and placed herself in the way with a last, forceful "Excuse me."

"What?" he let out.

"What measures are you going to take, on night of the ninth, to ensure the safety of the students inside their houses?"

"Inside the… what in tarnation do you mean, girl?"

"If the werewolf is really hiding among of the students, they will try to act normal as much as possible," Granger explained, in that overbearing do-I-need-to-draw-you-a-picture way of hers. "They would not dare to miss the curfew, for fear of being outed. So what is the chance they will be in their House at seven p.m.? Moonrise is at 19:21 on Monday."

In the silence that followed, you could have heard a Knut drop.

"Watch him," Harry said morosely. "He is the one. Malfoy."

Ron shot Hermione a glance that clearly said, Your turn.

Hermione sighed. "Harry, unless you come up with some evidence..."

"The evidence is all there. Look at the way he behaves. He's shifty – even shiftier than usual. Of course he's up to something."

"You know how you can tell that a Slytherin is up to something? He breathes," Ron said and chuckled, overwhelmed by his own humour.

Hermione glared at him. "You're not helping, Ron."

She hadn't felt this exhausted since her third year: the teacher had piled assignment upon assignment, knitting hats for the Elves took longer than she had anticipated, and Prefects duties ate into her time as well. On top of that, Harry had been in detention with Umbridge every evening, Ron was spending all his time outside, both he and Harry were being unreasonable about the whole S.P.E.W. business. And they were hiding things from her to boot. At least, today Harry had made it to lunch, which was something. Only, instead of using the break to catch a breath and eat something, he was playing with his food and surveying the ongoing at the Slytherin table.

"It's plain as day," he went on. "He's all over the place, looking for something..."

"Harry, he's a Prefect, he's supposed to patrol the castle!"

"You two are Prefects as well, and you're not wearing your shoes half as much as he is."
Harry looked at her stubbornly, expecting her to agree with him only because they were friends. When she shook her head, his face contorted with rage and he punched the table.

"Why won't anyone listen?!"

Several students jolted; others, Hermione noticed, were shaking their head or, worse, smirking. Harry slumped in his seat, looking miserable and hurt.

Next: Full moon on Monday.