Chapter 12: Hitherto Unexplored Homicidal Impulses

Hermione was startled awake quite early on Christmas morning by a faint rustling sound somewhere outside her bed hangings. She froze, as cold tendrils of dread snaked their way into the pit of her stomach. For the first time in her life, she fervently wished for Parvati and Lavender's company. Why had she pulled the hangings? At least if she could see the source of the sound, she'd know whether the unpleasant taste of panic in the back of her throat was warranted.

For heaven's sake, realx, she told herself. It's probably just Crookshanks. She took a deep breath and placed a hand on the hangings, preparing to draw them back, but froze as her eyes lit upon Crookshanks, curled up and very much asleep at the foot of her bed. By the time she fought to stifle her scream, it was too late.

"Bloody hell!" came a shout from somewhere off to her left. Heart hammering in her chest, Hermione tore aside her bed hangings.

"For heaven's sake, Ginny!" she snapped. "You took ten years off my life!"

"Well you've just taken twenty off mine, so well done!" Ginny retorted. She had sat bolt upright in Lavender's bed, where she'd clearly spent at least a portion of the night. Hermione shook her head as if to clear it.

"What on earth are you doing in here?" she demanded, when she could form a coherent thought. Ginny shrugged.

"Dunno," she muttered. Hermione frowned.

"Ginny?"

"What?"

"Did you come in here in the middle of the night because you didn't want to sleep alone?" A pause.

"No," said Ginny loftily, stretching and standing up to look out the window. "C'mon, I can hear Harry and Ron."

Now that she was over her initial fright, Hermione realized Ginny was right. So, laughing and rolling her eyes slightly, she allowed herself to be led downstairs into the common room. Sure enough, Harry and Ron lounged on the sofa in front of the fire, looking as though they'd just finished unwrapping large piles of presents.

"Oh, Harry, it's beautiful!" shrieked Ginny at once, sprinting across the room and snatching something up from Harry's pile. As she held it aloft, Hermione realized it was a broomstick. "Blimey, who sent it?" asked Ginny in hushed tones, holding the handle up to the light and gazing reverently at it from every angle. Harry shrugged.

"No idea," he said casually. "There wasn't a card or anything with it." Ginny frowned slightly, but didn't take her eyes off the glossy handle and flawless, perfectly even twigs. Hermione couldn't be quite sure-all broomsticks tended to look the same to her, despite everyone constantly telling her they weren't-but she thought she recognized the broomstick from the window in Diagon Alley. And hadn't it cost...

Two thousand five hundred galleons, Draco had said, and then Ginny had hit him. Surely, someone going to the trouble to gift Harry something this extravagant would identify themselves. Unless…Well, if she were trying to off someone and make it look like an accident, a jinxed broom seemed a fairly surefire way to do it. And what thirteen-year-old could possibly resist such a valuable gift from a mysterious benefactor?

"What's the matter with you?" asked Ron, and Hermione gave a start. Evidently, her trepidation showed on her face.

"I don't know," she said quietly, after a moment. She paused. "Well...it's a bit odd, isn't it?" she went on, taking care to keep her tone level and choosing her words as carefully as she could. "I mean, this is...quite a good broom, isn't it?" Ron rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"It's the best broom there is, Hermione," he snapped. "So what?"

"Well...who'd send Harry something as expensive as that, and not even tell him they sent it?" she asked. Seeming to catch her meaning, Ginny bit her lip, frowning slightly. Ron, however, waved a dismissive hand at her.

"Who cares?" he said impatiently. "Listen, Harry, can I have a go on it? Can I?" Internally, Hermione groaned.

"I don't think anyone should be riding that broom just yet!" She heard how shrill she sounded and winced slightly, but tact be damned; if her hunch was correct, Ron could be seriously injured. It wasn't her fault he was being so dense about it.

"What d'you think Harry's going to do with it, sweep the floor?" Ron demanded. Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Ginny interrupted.

"It's bad luck for someone else to have the first ride on your new broom," she said flatly, glaring at Ron.

"Oh, it is not, that's just a myth," snapped Ron, rolling his eyes.

"Yes it is, Ron, and even if it weren't, it's rude," Ginny retorted. She placed the broomstick carefully in Harry's hands. "You'll want to have the first go yourself, but I reckon it's probably too cold out just now."

"Right, yeah," said Harry vaguely, as if this hadn't occurred to him. "We'll take it out for a bit after lunch, yeah?" he added to Ron, who shrugged and glowered at Hermione. At that moment Crookshanks bounded into the room and leapt up into Ginny's lap, batting at the strings on the hood of her pullover. Laughing, she dangled them just out of his reach. Hermione grinned, warm relief and affection for Ginny flooding her. Ron, however, jerked back with a yelp.

"Get that big stupid furball out of here!" he snarled, clapping his hand protectively over his pajama pocket, where Hermione supposed Scabbers was asleep.

"Oh, Ron, don't be ridiculous," said Hermione loftily.

"I'm not!" yelled Ron, stamping his foot in frustration. "Scabbers was here first, and he's ill!"

"Ron, Scabbers has been ill all summer," said Ginny dismissively. "It's not Crookshanks' fault."

"Whose fault is it, then?" demanded Ron, rounding on his sister. Ginny shrugged.

"Has it occurred to you that he's about nine thousand years old?" she asked, far more nastily, in Hermione's opinion, than the situation actually warranted. Ron opened his mouth, face now crimson, but most unfortunately, Scabbers chose that moment to poke his head out of Ron's pocket. Crookshanks pounced. Ginny and Hermione lunged after him, but both missed. To Hermione's horror, Ron's foot connected sharply with the cat's face and he went flying across the room with an alarming thud. Crookshanks got to his feet, tail on end, hissing furiously, and darted back up the stairs leading to the dormitories.

"What did you kick him for?!" cried Hermione, beside herself.

"He was after Scabbers, in case you didn't notice!" roared Ron, now red in the face.

"I was going to catch him!" she snapped. "Next time, just let me catch him!"

"There's not going to be a next time," said Ron sharply. "If I see that cat again, I'll-" he broke off with a violent gesture at the air in front of him. Hermione shook her head derisively and, unable to stand the sight of him for another minute, swept silently from the room.

She made her way mindlessly downstairs, simultaneously furious with Ron and fairly certain he wouldn't make good on his threat. Crookshanks probably wasn't hurt-just angry-but the sheer nerve of him, to kick her pet while insisting he was doing it to protect his own. She shook her head slightly. There were more important things to worry about. Unless she acted very soon, Harry was going to get onto a jinxed broomstick this afternoon and fall to his death at the indirect hands of Sirius Black. She couldn't explain why she was so sure-there wasn't any logical connection between Black and the broomstick. It all just seemed...far too convenient, this expensive and mysterious gift turning up so soon after he'd lost his first broomstick. And, as she'd learned years ago, when it came to Harry, there was rarely any such thing as a coincidence.

As she reached the Entrance Hall, thoughts of Harry and the Firebolt were momentarily driven from her mind as, quite suddenly, a pair of hands covered her eyes.

"It's proper to say hello," she said smoothly, as a warm, tingly feeling filled her insides.

"Hello," said Draco, taking her elbow and spinning her around to face him. Catching sight of her expression, he frowned slightly. "What's wrong?" She sighed.

"Harry was sent a Firebolt this morning," she said flatly. Draco's eyes doubled in size, and he took a slight step back.

"A-You-Are you serious?" Hermione nodded grimly, studying Draco and wondering whether she should've kept her mouth shut. She remembered his reaction well, after all, the first time Harry had been unexpectedly gifted a top-of-the-line broomstick. Now, however, he merely looked gobsmacked.

"That's a hell of a replacement for his Nimbus," he muttered. Hermione frowned slightly, momentarily contemplating whether she ought to share her theory as to the origin of the broomstick. On the one hand, if her judgement was flawed, he would tell her. On the other, she could only imagine what Harry would say if he knew she was sharing tales of his Christmas gifts with Draco. Then again...oh, hell.

"C'mon," she said quietly, and steered him across the Entrance Hall and through the castle doors. He looked slightly startled, but allowed himself to be led out into the grounds. Once Hermione was satisfied they'd cleared a respectable distance from the castle, she turned to face him again.

"There wasn't a card or anything like that," she said carefully. "Someone sent Harry this broomstick….but didn't bother to tell him they'd sent it. Or why they'd sent it." She paused. "And I can't help feeling that...well, I just can't imagine who would send Harry something like this." Draco was studying her intently, as though trying very hard to grasp her meaning.

"Aren't people always sending him loads of good stuff, though?" he said, after a moment. "How is this different from the Nimbus, or hell, his Invisibility Cloak? I'm not being rude, I'm honestly asking you," he added hastily.

"The Nimbus was from Professor McGonagall, and Dumbledore gave him the Invisibility Cloak because it belonged to his dad," said Hermione slowly. A look of utter bafflement crossed Draco's face.

"It belonged to-I mean, and it still-" he shook his head. "Never mind." Hermione frowned.

"What?" she asked. Draco shook his head.

"It's nothing," he said at once, then bit his lip. "Just, well. Are you sure Dumbledore was telling the truth about the Cloak?" Hermione frowned, lost.

"I don't see why he wouldn't be," she said. "Why?" Draco shrugged slightly.

"It's just that Invisibility Cloaks tend to wear out over time," he said lightly. "So if it belonged to his dad, he probably shouldn't count on using it much longer. That's all, it's not important." Hermione, however, was fascinated.

"Really?" she said keenly. "I never knew!" Draco gave a slight nod, and Hermione made a mental note to read up on Invisibility Cloaks the next time she was in the library.

"You were saying, about the Firebolt?" Draco prompted, and Hermione gave a start.

"Right." She paused, glancing out toward the Forbidden Forest in the distance. "Well, I think it might have been sent by Sirius Black." To her surprise, Draco's face went white.

"Er...right," he said quietly, after a moment. "What-er, why d'you...why?" Hermione frowned. She wasn't sure what reaction she'd expected-skepticism perhaps, or curiosity? But instead, Draco had turned his gaze sharply toward the ground and was tugging absentmindedly at his sleeve, as if he were intensely nervous about something.

"Well…" she paused. "We already know Black can get into the castle," she said slowly. "I don't think it's too far-fetched he'd know Harry plays Quidditch. And even if he didn't know Harry's broom was destroyed, well...what would you do, if someone sent you a Firebolt?"

"I'd chuck my old broom in the bin," said Draco quietly. He still didn't look up. Hermione nodded.

"Right," she went on. "And isn't sending someone a jinxed broom a nearly foolproof way to kill them and make it look like an accident?" An odd look came over Draco's face then, one Hermione had never seen before.

"I don't think so, actually." He sounded slightly breathless, as if the words were some foul substance he wanted out of him as quickly as possible. "Sirius Black can't exactly go into a shop and buy a racing broom, and then...well, there's loads of quite easy ways to check whether a broom's been tampered with. If Madam Hooch got her hands on the thing she'd know in five minutes whether it was safe." Involuntarily, Hermione gasped. Of course-she'd been stupid not to think of it. If she just had a word with Professor McGonagall about it, a teacher would check the broom for jinxes and then Harry could keep his mysterious Christmas gift. She sighed as a dark, leaden weight settled in the pit of her stomach. If she had a word with Professor McGonagall about it, Harry and Ron would consider it a betrayal in the highest order, no matter her motive. She glanced back at Draco and found, to her surprise, that he looked profoundly upset.

"I really don't want to talk about Sirius Black any longer," he said quickly. "I-is that all right?" Hermione frowned slightly.

"I...well, of course, but what-" she broke off, feeling as if someone had poured freezing water over her head. Hadn't Theo told her, almost exactly two years ago, that Draco was related to the Black family? Suddenly, she felt foolish and monumentally insensitive.

"Of course," she said softly, and took his hand in hers. He gave her a slightly sheepish smile.

"Thanks." He paused for a moment. After avoiding her eyes for the last few minutes, the intensity with which he looked into them now both startled her and made her heart swell. "You, er…" he broke off. "Never mind." Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"What?" she asked. By way of a response, he lifted her hand and softly kissed it. The gesture was so unexpected, and so profoundly sweet, that her knees nearly gave way. She slipped her hand out of his, took hold of the scarf around his neck, and relished his soft gasp as her lips met his. His hands warmed her cheeks, and slowly, ever so gently, made their home in her hair.

They entered the Great Hall that afternoon, somewhat late, to find that the House tables had once again been pushed aside in favor of a single table in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick sat around one end of the table with Filch, who had replaced his usual brown overcoat with a rather moldy-looking tailcoat for the occasion. Harry stared determinedly up into the enchanted ceiling, and Ron was casting extremely suspicious glances at Ginny and Theo, who seemed to be very amused about something. Hermione sat next to Ginny and Draco made to join her, but his hand had no sooner touched the chair when a horrible gasp rang out from the other end of the table. Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin. Harry grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, Ginny buried her face in her hands, shaking with the effort of silencing her laughter, and Theo caught Hermione's eye with a glimmer of detached amusement she recognized only too well from Divination lessons. Following his gaze down the table, she realized she'd missed Professor Trelawney, nestled between Professors McGonagall and Snape. Neither looked very happy about this.

"My dear boy, you mustn't!" she cried, veins popping out in her neck, enormous eyes magnified behind her ridiculous glasses. "If you sit down, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky!" Draco looked very startled, then slightly confused, and then comprehension dawned in his eyes and a polite, deferential sort of smile spread across his face. Hermione, however, wasn't fooled. She could tell that this was a Christmas gift beyond his wildest dreams.

"I didn't know," he said demurely.

"Yes, yes!" Trelawney went on, obviously distraught. "Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise shall be the first to die!" Hermione only just managed to contain her scoff. She didn't dare look at Theo, so instead she followed Harry's example and glanced upward instead.

"We'll risk it, Sybill," said Professor McGonagall crisply. "Unless you suggest we allow Mr. Malfoy to starve."

"Perhaps, Minerva," said Snape silkily, "this is the death of which Sybill spoke a moment ago." Was it Hermione's imagination, or was there the faintest sheen of something approaching amusement in Snape's eyes? Harry frowned at her in a way that suggested he was wondering the same.

"Do join us, Draco," said Dumbledore warmly. "You all have my personal assurance that no one shall die under this roof on Christmas Day." Draco sat, snickering into his hand and grinning at Hermione. She shook her head slightly, but grinned back. Professor Trelawney, meanwhile, was looking around the table and studying each of their faces gravely. Hermione wished she wouldn't.

"But where is dear Professor Lupin?" she asked suddenly.

"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," said Dumbledore. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day."

"But surely you already knew that, Sybill?" said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. Draco and Ginny glanced at one another, but evidently this was a grave mistake, for both turned away at once. Professor Trelawney fixed McGonagall with a very cold look most unlike her usual misty, faraway manner.

"Certainly I knew, Minerva," she said shortly. "But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others uncomfortable."

"That explains a great deal," murmured Professor McGonagall. Ginny made a strangled choking sound and buried her face in Theo's shoulder. Ron's grip tightened around his fork and he scowled.

"If you must know, Minerva," snapped Professor Trelawney, "I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us much longer. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him-"

"Imagine that," interjected Professor McGonagall dryly.

"I doubt," said Dumbledore, in a calm but slightly raised voice, "that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Harry, do have a sausage, they're excellent." Harry jumped as if he'd forgotten where he was, and took the platter without comment.

Professor Trelawney behaved as normally as Hermione had ever seen her for the next two hours, until Ginny and Theo rose from the table and she shrieked loudly.

"Which of you left your seat first? Which?" They frowned at one another.

"I did," said Theo vaguely. "I think." Professor Trelawney's eyes grew enormous.

"Oh, my dear," she said grandly. "My poor dear...no, no, it is kinder not to say…." she paused and studied Theo intently for what seemed a very long time. "Am I correct, my dear, in assuming you were born in midwinter?" Theo's lips twitched in what was clearly an attempt to suppress laughter. Judging by Professor Trelawney's expression, however, she mistook it for fear.

"Er-yeah," he said shortly. Professor Trelawney's eyes filled with tears.

"I seriously doubt that Mr. Nott has anything to worry about," said Professor McGonagall coldly. "That is, unless Miss Weasley has been harboring hitherto unexplored homicidal impulses."

Evidently Ginny harbored no such impulses, for Theo was sitting by the fire when Draco entered the common room that evening. He was writing something in his notebook, but froze the moment Draco walked into the room. His expression was as close to horror as Draco had ever seen on his normally unbothered face, and an impulse from the untrained depths of Draco's mind made him glance down at the notebook. Theo slapped his hand over the page at once, but even so Draco could see it was a list. He caught the words McGonagall, sorry, and flobberworm before Theo, seemingly realizing something he hadn't a moment ago, slammed the notebook shut.

"What was that?" Draco wasn't sure why he was asking; then again, Theo already wasn't speaking to him. It wasn't as if he was risking anything.

"Nothing. Forget it." Draco shrugged.

"Right." He couldn't say what had come over him, but suddenly he felt both profoundly detached from his surroundings and dangerously omnipotent. He crossed the room as regally as he could manage and took the best armchair by the fire. Theo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but didn't move. Ordinarily Draco's mind would have screamed at him to speak, move, run away, do anything to end the excruciating silence in the room, but now he simply watched the fire and relished the tension stretching taut between them. Let Theo feel the broken glass on his every nerve ending, for once.

"Don't you want-" Theo broke off and shook his head. "I mean-" He made a noise of frustration in his throat as Draco remained serene and quiet. And then, to Draco's surprise, he slowly opened the notebook again.

"It's a list," he said quietly, and set it gingerly on the end table between them as if parting with his most treasured possession. "Things I, er...wanted to remember to tell you. You know. When-" he broke off, for a smile had come unbidden to Draco's face. He snatched up the notebook, and as he began to read he could feel Theo's eyes boring holes into his head.

-Blaise has already forgotten Marietta Edgecombe's name. I reminded him. He doesn't see the irony.

-After the Gryffindor match I realized I've never properly told you you're a brilliant flier. So, yeah. You really are.

-Do you think that Professor Lupin

Draco frowned slightly. This entry ended abruptly, and had been halfheartedly crossed out as though Theo had changed his mind a hundred times about its place on the list.

-I'm sorry I said you're too sensitive as if it's a bad thing. It's not.

-Do you know of a potion to kill flobberworms and make it look like an accident? If they turn up in another Care of Magical Creatures lesson I will seriously kill myself.

-Ernie McMillan has been looking at you like that because Daphne told him she's your girlfriend to get him to leave her alone. I promised her I'd NEVER TELL ANYONE. Oops.

Draco laughed. He hadn't noticed Ernie looking at him any particular way, but then again, he often tried very hard not to notice what Ernie did.

-Daphne's now told me no less than thrice that she doesn't fancy you.

-Ask Hermione whether she's ever caught Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan snogging.

-Did Snape and McGonagall really spend Christmas dinner joking about our deaths? Good of Trelawney to come, though. You should've seen your face.

Draco took a moment to bite back the tears threatening to overwhelm him, but when he raised his head, Theo's eyes were slightly misty as well.

"You weren't supposed to see it like this," said Theo quietly. "Can...can we just be friends again? Properly, I mean?" Draco lacked the words to express the rush of relief and affection toward Theo that struck him like a physical blow. Instead, without pausing to think what he was doing, he stood and pulled Theo into a tight hug. The latter laughed, then returned the gesture.

"Er-one more thing," he said shyly, as they broke apart. He took the notebook back from Draco and scribbled something quickly at the bottom of the page.

I'm sorry.

Grinning, Draco snatched Theo's quill.

Me too.

And then, after a moment, he added:

Glad we said that before Ginny snaps and decides to murder you.

Theo laughed and made to take back the notebook, but Draco shoved it into his pocket. Theo frowned.

"What're you doing?"

"What d'you mean, what am I doing?" asked Draco, incredulous. "I've got to answer your list, stupid." Theo rolled his eyes.

"No, you really don't," he countered.

"I do too."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do not."

"Do too!"

They collapsed, laughing, back into their chairs. It was a very enjoyable evening; they talked and laughed until the clock struck three, and as they made their way sleepily back to their dormitory Draco felt impossibly warm and safe, as though the whole world belonged just to them.

He was jolted awake, several hours later, by a sudden and visceral epiphany about the odd entry in Theo's list, the one he'd crossed out. Lupin had been ill today, which wouldn't have been so remarkable….except he had also been ill around the first Quidditch match a month ago, and then, Draco could swear, a month before that.

"Theo," he hissed.

"What?"

"Are you awake?"

"No, I'm talking in my sleep. What do you want?" Draco laughed, then grew serious.

"Do you think Lupin is a werewolf?" Silence.

"Yeah." Theo paused. "Er...I wasn't quite sure when I wrote that. But now I just don't think...well, that's got to be it. The reason he's ill every month." Draco nodded, squinting up at the ceiling in thought. He'd met a werewolf before, just one. His father had a friend-well, more of an associate than a friend, he thought-called Fenrir Greyback. Draco had always felt a profound sense of panic in his presence, and when he was ten, he'd learned that Greyback had developed such a strong taste for human flesh that he'd taken to biting children even in his human form. Even now, the thought made his blood run cold.

"You're not going to say anything, are you?" Theo sounded fretful, and Draco supposed he'd been quiet for a while. He wanted to say something about the acid taste of fear creeping up the back of his throat, but couldn't seem to find the words.

"Draco, seriously." Theo sounded slightly panicked now. "I mean, I know it sounds bad-Christ, okay, really bad, but-"

"I'm not." A year ago, or perhaps even six months, Draco knew his answer would've been different. Now, however...well, he just couldn't. It would be sickeningly poor repayment for the first adult to show him deliberate kindness.