Tracking down Professor Snape is no easy task.

I know no student would have knowledge of his office or whereabouts, and I can't ask McGonagall or Hagrid about him again. Particularly after I'm called to Professor McGonagall's office once more, a few days after handing in my subpar essay.

I sigh and decline her offer of a toffee, squirming in the armchair before her. She stares at me for just a moment, my essay in her hands.

"How do you feel about this piece of work?" she asks me, sliding it across her desk so I may re-read.

I scan the first few lines quickly. Shakespeare's use of language, contrasted between Macbeth and Hamlet: An analysis.

"I'm not sure," I say quietly.

Truthfully, I can't remember much of it. Nor of any other piece of work. Now that Hagrid's reduced my hours, I've had to take up working for the caretaker, Mr Filch. He's given me the library to tidy, dust and clean four nights a week. It's all I can do not to drop straight into bed when I finally finish. And after I pay for my board and food bill each week, I barely have enough to contribute to Ginny's potluck dinners. Two of my cardigans have turned shabby in the laundry, and my hair could use a trim. I'm spread too thin, like a paper-width sheet of concrete ready to crack.

"It's a passing grade," McGonagall says. "Barely. For any other student, it would be adequate. But I'm afraid all essays and assignments count towards your scholarship eligibility."

My eyes widen. "I can re-submit," I say quickly.

"Re-submissions are only an option for a failing grade."

"But this practically is a failing grade. You said so, yourself."

"I'm afraid my hands are tied, Miss Greengrass." McGonagall softens. "Is everything alright? This is unlike you. I know with Vincent Crabbe's disappearance, we're all feeling a little out of sorts…"

"Has there been any news?" I ask.

McGonagall pauses before speaking. I get the feeling she shouldn't be divulging such information, but perhaps she thinks it will calm my mind, allow me to focus more on my work.

"The authorities are still searching and conducting interviews. At this stage… They expect they are looking for a body."

"That makes sense," I say quietly. "It's been more than a week."

"Miss Greengrass, I hate to ask this, but… Is there a chance you know anything about this disappearance?"

I glance up in shock. "No, Professor. I never even met Vincent."

She scans my face. "Very well, then. Please remember, your next essay is due in just a week's time. I hope to see a significant improvement."

"You will." I nod. "I promise."

Instead of attending my afternoon classes with Flitwick, I spend the time in my dorm, furiously reading Dante's Inferno so I can get started with my essay for McGonagall. I'll have to catch up with Ginny and copy her notes, and think of an excuse to tell Flitwick.

I feel like a zombie in a daze as I head down to Hagrid's and begin my work for the evening. It's hard not to feel resentful of the other students as I'm elbows-deep in hay, stomach groaning from lack of food, head groaning from lack of sleep. I fall back into what is becoming a dangerous habit — daydreaming about Snape's classes. You can't even handle a single degree, I tell myself firmly. There's no way you'd cope with the workload of five others.

But it would be different. The only thing getting in the way of my studies is the working hours, the lack of sleep, the noisy dorm. If I had everything taken care of, so there was nothing else to worry about besides studying…

"Alright," Hagrid's voice interrupts, jarring my thoughts. "Your four hours are up. Time to get going."

I head straight to the library, the last of the students filing out for closing time. The stern librarian gives me a curt nod before she leaves. And now I'm alone, surrounded by books, a bucket of cleaning products in hand. I let out a small sigh. There are worse jobs to have.

I get to work cleaning the gothic windows to begin, though the smears are hard to spot through the amber glow of the oil lamps. The books weigh down my arms as I lug them around, still unfamiliar with the filing system. Madam Pince doesn't use the dewey decimal system — she calls it unimaginative. But the organisational method of her own devising makes little sense, and I struggle around the enormous room, trying to return each book to its rightful place.

As I return the architectural texts — back row of the fifth column, right between Japanese art forms and calculus manuals — I hear a bang, a grunt. I flinch. I look around slowly. Madam Pince combs the library thoroughly at closing time, and I'd have seen and heard anybody come through the doors since. I approach cautiously through the aisles, bucket still in hand. Another bang, another groan of frustration, and I find the culprit, in the free-study section tucked away at the back, mahogany desks and typewriters and an array of quills like those in McGonagall's office. The figure is hunched over a pile of textbooks, crisp white shirt stretched across his shoulders. He pours from a crystal bottle of brown liquid, into a matching glass and downs it in one.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

His head whips around, those silver eyes becoming all too familiar. Our expressions seem to be mirrored — surprise, then annoyance, as we each recognise the other. Draco's eyes narrow in the same moment as my own.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. His eyes dart to the bucket on my arm. "Are you… cleaning?"

My cheeks pinken. "The library is closed, Malfoy. You need to leave."

"Don't tell me what to do," he mutters.

I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, the creases in his shirt. And then I glance to the textbooks across his desk — forensic alchemy; chemical equations in the criminal evidence sector; a simplified guide to trace evidence.

I bite my lip. "Having trouble?"

"You could say that." He pours more alcohol into two glasses. He offers me the second. "Drink?"

"I don't drink," I say quickly. "Thank you."

He frowns, still holding the glass out. "Why not?"

Because I can't afford it. But I don't want to admit that to him, so I take the glass from his hand, our fingers lightly brushing. He lifts his in the air, a quick toast, and throws more back. I take a nervous sip of my own. It's harsh, astringent, burning. I try not to pull a face.

"What's the occasion?" I ask.

I can tell he's close to drunk, by the way the words roll easily off his tongue. "Well, I'll be getting kicked out any day now, so may as well celebrate."

I shift awkwardly, take another sip just for something to do. "Why do you think that?"

"Because I'm fucking failing." He rubs his eyes. "Turns out, by week three of alchemy, you're expected to be Albert Einstein himself. I'll never catch up."

I glance down at the work in front of him. "May I?"

He scoffs. "What would you know about it?"

Ignoring his lack of confidence, I bend down to see the work he's struggling with. The assignment sheet is written in an old script, as though copied from an ancient book, or replicated by somebody with a renaissance style of writing. Once I get the hang of the letters, I read through, then study the diagrams provided.

"They shouldn't be teaching this shit to first-years," Draco grumbles. "It's far too advanced."

It only takes me a few moments to work it out.

"DNA sample," I say.

Draco blinks at me. "What?"

"The hair still has a root attached," I explain, pointing with his quill-tip to the diagram. "Use that to sample the DNA, and then you've got your killer."

I don't look at his face as I draw back, taking another sip of whiskey. I don't want to embarrass him. Not with him being so vulnerable.

"That's too simple," he says in disbelief, rifling through his parchment, cross-checking with the textbook.

"The answer usually is."

"How did you know that?" he asks, almost accusatory.

I shrug. "I was in an advanced chemistry class. We did a few college papers, for practice."

"For practice," he mocks, rolling his eyes. "Why on earth are you pissing about with Shakespeare and poems, then?"

"It's the most generic," I answer truthfully. "I have the most options, not limited to just one field. And I do enjoy it."

My head feels a little heavy, my face a little numb. I think the alcohol might be affecting me. I put the glass down beside Draco. He's lost in thought, with a creased forehead, running a thumb across his jaw.

"This one," he finally says, directing me to another question. "What do you make of it?"

"You see those fibres, there?" I ask.

He squints at the diagram. "Yes."

"You'll want to bag the sample separately, to prevent cross-contamination."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It's not," I confess. "You just need to run through the basics first."

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway. Even if I pass this assignment, Snape says it's only a matter of time. He can't keep giving me a passing grade unless I improve." Draco rubs his eyes once more.

"What will you do if you leave?" I ask awkwardly.

He lets out a bitter laugh. "Leave? No. My father had to re-do his first year three times before he passed. They expect no less of me. I'll spend half my life here, if I have to. It's better than bringing shame to the family name by not graduating."

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

"It's humiliating."

I think it over for a moment. "Is it just alchemy you're struggling with?" I ask.

He narrows his eyes. "Looking for an opportunity, are you? Hoping I'll flunk out of literature?"

"No, not at—"

"Well, forget it," he sneers. "My literature work is fine. So is almost everything else."

"If you'll listen to me, Malfoy," I say through clenched teeth, "I was actually going to offer to tutor you."

"So you can completely sabotage my work, securing your own spot for next year? I'm not an idiot, Greengrass. As if I'd trust you."

I glare at him. "You don't have much of a choice. If you're struggling this much with the basics, you need to get a solid understanding of chemistry basics under your belt. And fast. I mean, have you balanced equations or anything yet?"

Malfoy blinks. "Done what to equations?"

I sigh. "If you want to keep failing, be my guest. I won't cry any tears when you're out of the running for next year's literature program. But if you want any chance at getting by, you need my help."

Malfoy scoffs. "What's in it for you?"

I'm quiet for a moment, trying to piece my words together. This is the moment. I can't blow it.

"Jesus Christ." He sighs. "I should have known. Come on, what is it you really want?"

"There's only six of you now, isn't there, with Vincent gone? And Snape likes to have seven in his class."

Malfoy swears. "No. No way."

I set my jaw. "Why not?"

"Because it's not a damn country club you just sign up to!"

"I'm aware of that. I've been trying all bloody semester, and it turns out the country club is closed. But you're already a member." I catch his gaze, my own burning with intensity. "I need this, Draco. It's all I've ever wanted. The reason I'm cleaning the library in the middle of the night, is so that I can afford the board here each week. I'm so busy trying to make ends meet, I feel like I can barely focus on my work. Not that you'd know what that's like," I add bitterly.

"And you think in Snape's class you'll have more free time?"

"No. I think it'll be more quality time, with more to gain at the end of it."

He shakes his head. "Believe me, Greengrass, you won't last the year. You have no idea what you're in for."

"I'd like to find out for myself."

We glare at each other for a moment.

"And you expect to find the time to tutor me on top of the twelve odd classes we have to take each day?"

Twelve?! I try to hide my surprise. "The rest of you seem to manage."

"Yeah, and look what happened to Crabbe," Draco mutters. His eyes instantly flicker to me, in fear he's said too much.

I brush it off. Curious as I am, and a little frightened, I can ask him about it later. But right now, I can't leave this room until I get the answer I want. The alcohol must be fuelling me, altering my decisions, my priorities.

"I know what's really going on here," I say. "You're scared. You think of me as a threat."

"You think so?" he sneers. "A few science classes won't even scrape the surface of what you need to know for Snape's lessons."

My eyes glitter. "Then prove it. Get Snape to let me in, and we'll see, once and for all."

"I don't have that kind of sway with Snape."

"You have more than anyone else I know."

Draco sighs, pressing his glass to his forehead. "You're persistent, Greengrass. I'll give you that."

"You'll talk to him," I say, almost a command.

"Yes, I'll fucking talk to him. Now, talk me through the rest of this." He eyes me warily. "And, don't think this changes anything between us. Remember, there's still only one literature spot. Snape won't let you continue without admittance to all the classes."

My euphoria at what I've achieved dies down, and the reality of his words sink in. Draco Malfoy is still the enemy. He is still the one thing standing between me and the possibility of a comfortable life.

"How could I forget?" I say, clinking my glass against his, and downing the liquor in one.