Chapter 14: Logic

Draco didn't have a clear idea of how he managed to get back up the road to the castle. Passing the dementors proved worse than ever-he hadn't seen that horrible woman since the encounter on the train, but her blue eyes pierced him well after he passed through the gates and he felt much heavier than usual, raw inside, and unsure how much of this had to do with the dementors and how much had to do with his conversation with Sirius. He was so absorbed in his whirlwind, half-formed thoughts that it didn't occur to him to even glance at his surroundings until it was far, far too late.

"Good afternoon," said Professor McGonagall's crisp, severe voice from somewhere above. "I cannot imagine how you managed to pass through the castle gates unauthorized, Mr. Malfoy, or what you could possibly have been thinking, but as I am sure you know by now, neither interests me." Draco looked up, and bit his lip. She didn't look quite as angry as she'd done in his first year, when he, Hermione, and Potter had been up on the Astronomy Tower at one o'clock in the morning. Still, even with his brain working properly he couldn't have imagined trying his luck any further; he couldn't afford to be banned from visiting Hogsmeade.

"I know," he said dully.

"Be that as it may-" Professor McGonagall began, then broke off and frowned at him. "What did you say?"

"I said I know," Draco repeated. "That it doesn't interest you." Was it his imagination, or did Professor McGonagall look...a bit startled?

"Well," she said shortly. "In that case, you shall serve detention with me. Tomorrow at three o'clock. Good day." Professor McGonagall swept briskly away, and it was several moments before Draco realized how foolish he'd been. Of course he couldn't sneak past the dementors undetected-hadn't Dumbledore said as much, at the start-of-term feast? If he was going to continue to visit Sirius, then, he needed an alternative way of getting to Hogsmeade. But first, he needed...well, he couldn't say. Numbly, he made his way downstairs, through the empty common room-everyone must be at dinner, he supposed-and into his dormitory, where he gently nudged Olive off his pillow and lay down beside her, staring blankly into the ceiling above his head.

He'd always supposed his parents refused to tell him about Bellatrix for good reason, but this was beyond anything he'd imagined. Perhaps it was the dementors, but if he closed his eyes, he could hear that poor woman's high-pitched scream, see her face contort grotesquely with an agony he could scarcely begin to imagine. Her husband-Sirius hadn't actually said it was a woman and her husband, but that was the image in his mind, clear as if it were right in front of him-her husband sobbed in the corner of the room, doubled over, choking on his words as he pleaded with them to stop. What did the Cruciatus Curse feel like? In Draco's imagination, it was different for each individual person, tailored like a boggart to cause such targeted and horrible pain that it surpassed the physical and tormented them mentally as well; after all, isn't that what Sirius told him had happened to this couple? The woman, he thought, probably felt as if she were being pecked apart by invisible birds, bit by tiny bit, from the outside working in, keeping her alive until it became impossible to continue to do so. Only that point never came, did it, because she wasn't really being pecked apart, her body remained whole, it was all in her mind, and so in order to end it, her mind would need to break. The man probably felt his organs tearing their way out of his body, burning him horribly as they went, and the harder he fought to keep them inside the more excruciating the burning became…

Vomit rose in the back of his throat without warning and he forced it back down with a herculean effort. It wouldn't help anything, he thought firmly, to torture himself-poor choice of words-it wouldn't help anything to torment himself with visions of a horrific act performed before he could speak in full sentences. Hermione wouldn't, for absolutely certain. He paused. What would Hermione do? She'd go to the library, that's what, and find every shred of information she could about this mysterious aunt no one had told him about.

As soon as his body felt as if it belonged to him again, he sat up and paused to glance at Olive.

"Sorry," he muttered, and gently placed her back on his pillow. She gave a muted, disgruntled sort of meow and turned away. Focusing with everything in him on pushing aside the image of the couple-that probably wasn't what they looked like anyway-he stood and put one foot in front of the other back through the common room, up the stairs, and to the nearly empty library. Madam Pince pursed her lips as he slipped through the doors, but said nothing. Unsure where to start, he wandered over to the shelves that housed old school records. Once there, he realized he wasn't even sure when she'd have been at Hogwarts. His mother would've started in 1965-or '66? '66. But Sirius, damn him, hadn't mentioned whether this Andromeda person was older or younger. Stifling a groan of frustration, he snatched all the records for the years 1960 through 1975 and slipped off to the remotest corner he could find. A Hufflepuff sixth-year gave him a very suspicious look, which he returned; after a moment they exchanged a slight nod, and he sat and began to read.

Ten minutes later, he set the parchment aside with a sigh. Andromeda Black had attended Hogwarts from 1964 until 1972. She'd been a Prefect from 1969 onward, and she'd been in Slytherin. She'd been an impressive student and, by the look of it, run a successful Dueling Club which appeared to have died off after she left. He glanced up at the window covering the far wall of the library and bit his lip. Why was he bothering to read up on any of this, anyway? If the family had chosen to erase this woman from their collective memory and act as if she'd never existed, what did he stand to gain from questioning it? After all, digging into buried family secrets hadn't exactly worked out well for him last time, had it? With a jolt, he slammed the sheaf of records from the year 1971 down onto the table and shoved it away as if it might bite him. This earned him a very nasty look from the Hufflepuff, and understanding himself to have violated the terms under which he'd invaded her corner, he stood and left the library. It had been a stupid place to start, anyway. He wanted to know what this woman was like, not how many O.W.L.s she'd gotten or what House she was in.

As he wandered aimlessly about the first floor, he was struck by a realization so simple he kicked himself for not thinking of it to begin with. Surely, detention with Professor McGonagall would afford him the chance to ask, in an offhand sort of way, whether she'd known Andromeda. There wasn't anything so unusual, after all, about students wanting to know more about their families; he didn't have to mention he'd had no idea, until this afternoon, that this particular family member existed.

Professor McGonagall greeted him with a tight sort of smile and indicated he should sit. He obeyed without comment.

"I trust you remember your first-year coursework?" she said crisply. Draco frowned.

"Er-yeah, but-"

"Good." She turned and produced a sizable stack of what, upon closer inspection, Draco realized were essays on Switching Spells. "I value all of my students, and their work, equally," she went on. "But if I read another composition on the rudimentary aspects of Transfiguration this afternoon, I shall go mad." She paused here to survey him with a shrewd, severe sort of look, as if to impress upon him the gravity of the situation. Understanding crept into Draco's mind and, hardly daring to believe it, he raised an eyebrow.

"Are-are you asking...me to score them?" he asked. She gave a single, curt nod.

"I am. I must impress upon you, Mr. Malfoy, that I would ask no such thing of the vast majority of your colleagues, and I ask that you keep this...as they say...between us." Draco fought to control the grin spreading across his face. Oh, he'd keep this between them, all right, with one exception. Hermione would be sick with jealousy, and her face would be glorious.

"It would be my pleasure, Professor."

"Do not be obsequious, Mr. Malfoy."

"Sorry, Professor."

"That is quite all right, Mr. Malfoy."

Scoring the essays, it transpired, was enormous fun. He felt wonderfully powerful, as if he'd been plucked out of a mundane and self-similar group and anointed with some deeply secret and crucial responsibility-in a way he supposed he had, although he'd hardly call the third-year class mundane and the responsibility was, technically, a bit dull. Apart from that, though, he felt an agreeable rush of nostalgia reading through the first-years' coursework. He'd enjoyed his Transfiguration lessons immensely then-still did, but in his first year in particular they'd felt especially captivating. And then, there were the people who had written the coursework. This one was fully six inches longer than the others and so organized and precisely detailed that he could hear Hermione's voice in his head as he read it; that one was going to have a difficult time in life, he thought, if they didn't learn to spell simple words correctly; this one was frighteningly long-winded and used the word "thus" so frequently that Draco thought he must have only just learned what it meant. He was enjoying himself so much that nearly an hour had passed before he realized this was exactly the sort of opening he'd been hoping for. He paused for a moment.

"Professor?"

"Is everything all right, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes. I just...could I ask you something?"

"Obviously, you've just done so," said Professor McGonagall crisply. Draco wasn't sure whether to laugh or not.

"Something else, then."

"You may." His hands were suddenly shaking a bit, and he took a breath to steady them.

"Did you know Andromeda Black? At school, I mean?" A pause.

"I did." Draco waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't.

"Er-what was she like?" he asked, after a few moments. Professor McGonagall looked up from her desk and studied him for what felt like a very long time. Seeming to come to some sort of decision, she laid down her quill.

"She was a quiet girl, kept to herself and a few trusted friends. One of the top students in her year, uncommonly gifted with Charms and Potions. She was also very kind, as I recall. Always willing to share whatever she had with anyone who needed it." Draco nodded slightly, taking this in.

"And...her sisters?" he asked quietly. There was a moment during which he hardly dared to breathe.

"I admit I found your mother wholly unremarkable," said McGonagall. "A highly skilled witch, to be sure, but for all appearances perfectly content to allow the reputation of her sisters to precede her." Draco had an idea the discussion of Andromeda's sisters would end there, and it did.

"What about, er…" he paused. "Her daughter. Andromeda's, I mean." The words sounded vaguely foreign, and even as he spoke them, he wasn't sure he actually wanted to know. To his surprise, McGonagall gave a short laugh.

"Nymphadora Tonks remains, to this day, one of the most prestigious and accomplished troublemakers to walk the halls of this school whilst I have been here." Draco wasn't at all sure what he expected, but this wasn't it.

"Where is she now?" he asked.

"In training, I believe, to become an Auror." Draco felt as if he'd been struck by a blunt object, and fell silent for a few moments.

"Am I like any of them?" He was scarcely aware of the thought entering his head before it left his mouth in a harsh sort of half-whisper. Professor McGonagall gave him a look he couldn't quite read.

"No, Mr. Malfoy," she said, after a moment. "You are altogether your own person. I suspect you will do well to remember that, in the years to come."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes, I'm telling you." Hermione shook her head.

"No!" Draco smirked.

"You can say that all you like, but it won't stop being true." They dropped their voices as they entered the library, but that didn't stop Hermione staring daggers at him.

"I don't believe it is true," hissed Hermione, "as you've yet to prove it."

"Well, I would have, but you-" he stopped dead. So did Hermione, just managing to catch herself before she careened into him. For the first time in their memory, someone else had taken their favored spot overlooking the lake. They glanced at one another in disbelief, then back at the table. Sure enough, two first-years-a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, no less-sat blithely unaware of the grave offense they were committing. To add insult to injury, they didn't appear to be working, and Draco felt a strong surge of resentment toward both the first-years and the hours of homework he and Hermione had come to suffer through. He dropped his bag carelessly at Hermione's feet, ran a hand through his hair, and approached the first-years in his most cooly intimidating manner.

"Move," he said nonchalantly. They jumped comically into the air. The Slytherin gulped. The Gryffindor went scarlet. Hermione caught up to him with an impatient noise in her throat.

"What Draco means," she said pointedly, "is that we-"

"What I mean is get the hell out of our spot," Draco interrupted, without looking at her. The Gryffindor opened his mouth to speak, but the Slytherin shook his head tensely and gave his friend a significant look. Draco raised an eyebrow and watched their silent argument with what he hoped was detached but menacing impatience. Evidently it was, for the Slytherin won within moments and they fled.

"You should not have done that," said Hermione hotly, throwing herself into the Slytherin's vacated chair and throwing Draco's bag at him with as much force as she could muster.

"It's the way of the world, Hermione. The strong push around the weak, and for once, we're the strong." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please. If you're going to be mean, the least you could do is admit it instead of going on about the way of the world as if you're wise." Draco shrugged.

"Fine," he said lightly. "I'm mean. But I didn't hear you try particularly hard to stop me, and here you are sitting at this very nice table I secured for you by being mean." To his delight, Hermione went pink and busied herself digging through her bag. He grinned.

"It's my favorite place to study," she muttered.

"I know," he said. "Which means….you're mean too." Hermione snatched her History of Magic book from her bag and slammed it on the table, giving Draco a very cold look.

"I'm practical," she snapped. "It wouldn't make much sense to leave this spot empty, would it?" Draco laughed. Hermione didn't, but after a moment her expression softened a bit.

"You still haven't proven you're telling the truth," she said pointedly. Draco, who had quite forgotten their earlier argument, pulled last week's Arithmancy homework from his bag and handed it to Hermione. As she read, her expression morphed from surprise to disbelief to sheer indignance.

"You really did-but-" she broke off and tore her own homework from her bag, comparing them side by side. After a few moments, she raised her head.

"You didn't even explain yourself!" she said furiously. "Here, for instance-" she jabbed her finger at one of his answers- "you haven't connected this logically at all, and you've completely neglected to explain here. And I don't even know how you arrived at this answer!"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" asked Draco, amused. "It's correct."

"But you haven't even indicated which sequence you used!" cried Hermione, beside herself.

"I didn't think I'd have to," Draco told her. "As I don't think Professor Vector would be teaching if she didn't know the subject herself." He paused. "Though, we did suffer through a year of Lockhart so perhaps I oughtn't have assumed." He winked. She gave an extremely put-upon sigh and shoved his homework back at him.

"Well, don't get used to it," she said flatly. "I'm going to beat you on the exam." Draco laughed.

"Yes, probably. And when you do, I won't spend my afternoon picking apart your exam paper." Hermione gave him a very dark look indeed and opened her History of Magic book. Draco followed suit, already stifling a yawn at the mere sight of the long-winded and irredeemably dull chapter on the various ins and outs of the legal battle to outlaw flying carpets.

They'd scarcely been at it an hour when voices floated from the other side of the shelves nearest them, quiet at first but soon loud enough to tell they definitely weren't working.

"...hardly got to see anything last time, go on! You haven't even been inside Zonko's yet!" Draco frowned slightly. Apart from being annoying, the voice was familiar.

"Right, I know, but-" a pause, then the speaker lowered his voice to a strangled hiss. "Well, you heard…" A dismissive snort. Draco caught Hermione's eye; to his surprise and bafflement, she didn't looked irritated, but slightly nervous.

"Oh please, you know her. She won't actually do it. So how about it, Harry?"

Right. He tossed down his quill.

"I'm going to tell them to shut up," he told Hermione. Her eyes grew wide and filled with panic.

"No," she hissed. "Draco, I-please, please no." He frowned.

"I'm sorry, are you telling me you enjoy trying to do your homework while they're...I dunno, planning their Hogsmeade trip in your left ear the whole time?" As he said this, it occurred to Draco that Potter wasn't allowed in Hogsmeade. Hermione seized his elbow as he made to stand, and dragged him back into his seat.

"They'll go in a bit," she nearly whispered. "Please just stay here."

Fortunately, Hermione's prediction came true. The moment loud, careless footsteps announced their departure, Draco laid aside his quill once again.

"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" he asked. Hermione didn't look up.

"I don't know what you mean," she said crisply. Draco rolled his eyes.

"All right. Why did you stop me from telling them to shut up?" Hermione sighed.

"I assumed you'd start an argument," she said coldly, though her gaze remained firmly on her essay and she began nervously twisting a lock of her hair. "Isn't that a specialty of yours?" Draco tried for nearly half a minute to meet her eyes, but she wouldn't allow it.

"I resent that, and you're a terrible liar," he told her finally, giving up. Hermione was quiet for a moment, then sighed and set aside her homework as well.

"If you must know, they're…" she paused, looking slightly embarrassed. "They're not exactly happy with me at the moment." Draco gasped and clutched his chest in dramatic semblance of great shock.

"Be still, my heart," he said sarcastically. "What is it this time, then?" he added, as Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Ronald is upset that his rat is ill, and has taken to blaming Crookshanks for it," she sighed. Draco privately thought that, the way Hermione told it, Crookshanks did seem to have a peculiar fixation on Weasley's rat-at any rate, he'd never seen Olive behave that way-but he knew better than to voice this.

"But Ginny says Scabbers has been ill since the start of summer, so it can't be Crookshanks, because Scabbers didn't meet Crookshanks until the end of summer," Hermione went on. "And…" she bit her lip. "Well, yesterday I overheard them planning to sneak Harry into Hogsmeade again, and I really don't think that's a good idea, with-" she broke off, looking stricken, and Draco could tell she'd been about to mention Sirius again. "And...oh, I told them I'd tell Professor McGonagall…" she trailed off, covering her face with her hands. Draco frowned. He'd assumed she was simply annoyed, but her voice had gone quite a bit higher than normal and seemed constricted, as if...as if she were about to cry, he realized with a jolt. Driven by a reflex he didn't know he possessed, he moved to her side of the table and hugged her.

"I'm sorry I joked," he said softly. "I should've thought." He relished the ease with which she melted into him. Normally when they were this close, his heartbeat quickened, his head felt fuzzy, and all he wanted, at the very core of his being, was to kiss her and never stop kissing her, no matter where they were or what happened around them. Now, his heart swelled and he felt full of something else, something warm and sweet, peculiar and wonderful and wholly unfamiliar. He couldn't have given it a name, but it was so strong he was sure it had physical form inside his body, threatening to tear him in half unless he expressed it somehow-but how?

He drew her closer and gently kissed the top of her head, and she looked up at him, eyes shining with tears but full of something else as well, something deep and soft that pulled directly at that weird, beautiful feeling inside him.

"You're brilliant," he nearly whispered. "My life would be worse without you, and so would theirs, whether they know it or not." She gave a halfhearted laugh.

"Stop it," she said firmly, but a grin was making its way onto her face and her eyes didn't leave his. "We're supposed to be doing our homework." He laughed.

"I didn't realize mad old wizards arguing about the pile thickness of flying carpets was more interesting than me."

"Oh, yes," she said seriously. "You're all right, of course, but these magic carpet fellows are just fascinating." There it was, that familiar insatiable urge to kiss her. He did, and by the time she pulled back, his head was spinning.

"Honestly, it's nearly six," she said breathlessly. "I want to have this finished before-" she glanced at her watch- "eight, that'll leave just enough time for Ancient Runes before the library closes." Draco shook his head slightly.

"You're unbelievable," he said flatly. She shrugged and winked, and they returned to their books. They left the library several hours later, and as they went their separate ways on the grand staircase, something stopped Draco cold.

"Hey-Hermione?" She turned.

"Yes?"

"Er-" he paused, wondering how best to phrase his question. "Would you say that you always...well, do you normally know where Crookshanks is?" She thought for a moment, then shrugged.

"Most of the time he's in Gryffindor Tower," she said lightly. "He does go off to explore, sometimes for quite a long time. Why?"

"No reason," Draco told her, fighting to keep his tone level. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Draco."

His mind raced and his heart pounded as he made his way down the stairs, rather more quickly than normal. He'd met Sirius in the first place because Crookshanks had led him there, and it obviously wasn't the first time the cat had visited that clearing. Sirius had asked his name, hadn't he-so they'd obviously met before. Did Crookshanks...know that Sirius wasn't really a dog?

And then there was the cat's odd and highly specific behavior with Weasley's pet rat-Scabbers, had Hermione called him? He knew it wasn't entirely unusual for cats to chase rats, but surely the castle must be full of mice, spiders, and all manner of other things Crookshanks could chase. So, there must be a reason he spent so much of his time going after Scabbers.

He hadn't thought much about Sirius's cryptic comment about another animagus, but now it struck him with such force that he paused for a moment, considered, then shook his head in silent dismissal of himself. He'd asked Sirius whether it was Crookshanks, and hadn't he said no? And yet…

"Does Olive chase rats?" he asked Theo the moment he entered the common room, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Blaise.

"Hello to you, too." Theo smirked, then thought for a moment. "I think she would if she saw one, but unless you're planning to release rats into the dormitory-" he broke off, for this remark had elicited a dangerous sort of grin from Blaise. "If you release rats into our dormitory, I'll tell every girl you like about it from now until the day you die," he said flatly. Blaise raised an eyebrow.

"And then you'll steal them away, is that it?" Theo paused almost imperceptibly, but in that split second he and Draco locked eyes. The Quidditch locker room popped into his head, precisely the way it looked on the evening he and Ginny had walked in on Flint and Wood. Feeling his face grow hot, Draco tried to look away at once, but the harder he fought to avert his gaze the more impossible it became. Theo shook his head slightly, breaking the spell.

"Yeah," he told Blaise. "I'll follow you around for the rest of your life making any girl you so much as glance at fall madly in love with me." Judging by Blaise's affronted gasp, he missed the hint of sarcasm in Theo's voice. To Draco, however, it was so clear that he scarcely heard the words that carried it. He risked a glance back at Theo, who now appeared to be avoiding his eyes as he laughed at Blaise's indignant reply, but this proved a grave mistake. He could see the Quidditch locker room more vividly than ever, and now there was one notable difference. It wasn't the two Quidditch captains inside any longer; it was Draco and Theo. Suddenly his heartbeat was so unbearably fast that it rose into his throat to choke him, and the air in the room seemed to vanish. He needed to leave at once.

"Where the hell are you going?" demanded Blaise, as he stood.

"To release rats into the dormitory," replied Theo easily.

"Oh, and I suppose you're going to steal his girls as well?" Theo's reply was lost in the rush of blood to Draco's head as he fled the common room. He burst into the nearest bathroom, prepared to ruthlessly threaten anyone who dared to be inside. To his relief it was empty, and he leaned back against the door, heart hammering in his chest as if determined to break his ribs, breath coming in useless gasps as if he'd just run a mile. The harder he tried to banish the Quidditch locker room from his mind, the clearer the image became; he could see exactly what they'd been doing before he and Ginny walked in, and-his face was very hot now-precisely what must have happened after they left. He bit his lip in a desperate bid to clear his head, but all this accomplished was filling his mouth with the metallic taste of blood.

What the hell was going on?

He fought air into his lungs until he could take a deep breath, and tried with everything in him to organize his thoughts as he did so. If he could just think about this logically, everything would be all right.

He'd already acknowledged he'd...looked at Theo a certain way since they met. And yes, it was slightly inconvenient that he was now fairly sure-no, scratch that, quite sure-Theo looked at him the same way. But weren't they supposed to be past that? They'd agreed, hadn't they, to be friends again, to behave like normal people? Theo certainly didn't seem to have any trouble going about his life, laughing with their friends, cool and serene and blithely unaware that, beside him, Draco couldn't breathe.

And yet...what he'd felt earlier in the library, so close to Hemione, was unlike any earthly experience he'd ever had. He craved her company constantly, and when they walked or sat together, the urge to touch her was like a physical ache. Sometimes he held off touching her, just to relish that feeling as long as he could. Kissing her was indescribable.

So why should he still look at Theo this way? Why should his smile and his detached, vaguely haughty manner tie Draco's stomach into knots? And why, above all, should the scarcely thirty seconds they'd spent kissing one another continue to haunt him and make him perpetually desperate for a locker room meeting of his own?

There was no thinking about this logically. It defied logic. Draco had never before encountered anything which so resolutely defied logic.

It wasn't until hours later, lying awake and staring up at the darkened ceiling, that Draco remembered the reason he'd sought out Theo in the first place. He hadn't actually managed to ask all the questions he'd wanted answered, but now it hardly seemed to matter. There was something about the nighttime which removed the usual harried, directionless nature of Draco's thoughts and organized them so crisply and beautifully that it physically relaxed him.

Of course, there wasn't really any way of knowing for sure whether Crookshanks could tell Sirius wasn't a real dog. However, he'd been quite put out with Draco for trying to take him away from Sirius, which meant he was intent on getting to Sirius for some reason. And if Crookshanks was just a normal cat and not an animagus...well, perhaps he could tell an animagus when he met one. Draco thought it was odd that Crookshanks chased Scabbers so frequently, but what if there was a reason?

Ron's pet rat. He's been in the family for twelve years or something like that.

But Ginny says Scabbers has been ill since the start of summer.

The start of the summer. The start of the summer...around the time Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban.

Twelve years ago, it is said that Sirius Black was instrumental in the murder of the Potters just prior to the Dark Lord's downfall.

It was said. But it wasn't true.

It looked as if Draco had found the animagus. And, as he'd already suspected, Sirius wasn't after Harry Potter at all.