DRACAENA DRACO.

DISCLAIMER

Most of the recognisable characters, concepts and locations referenced in Dracaena Draco belong completely to J.K. Rowling and other production companies. I own none of it ... except the plot, obviously.

PART FOUR. THE TRIALS OF DRACO.

To say that Hermione's curiosity had been aroused by the article she had found whilst clearing out Doctor Jones' office would be to make a gross understatement. The very next day, which as luck would have it was a Sunday, she disappeared off to the Library straight after breakfast, and didn't appear until dinnertime. Harry and Ron were not especially perturbed by this ... Hermione seemed to spend most of her free time in the Library anyway. At dinner that evening, she barely spoke a word to either of them ... and instead kept glancing across the Hall in the direction of the Slytherin table, where Draco was sitting, looking utterly miserable. Occasionally the others kept flicking bits of food at him. Neither Harry nor Ron had actually noticed that Draco appeared to be in a state of some anguish ... he had taken to wandering the castle on his own, without even Crabbe and Goyle. Hermione, however, was beginning to get worried about him, and secretly was hoping this didn't mean she was attracted only to vulnerable men.

Monday morning saw an area of low pressure moving in from the Atlantic, bringing with it thick, grey clouds and pouring rain. Their first class that morning was Care of Magical Creatures, with Hagrid's replacement, the mysterious Xavier Wilmot, whom nobody had actually seen. As bad luck would have it, the Gryffindors and Slytherins had once again been put together, and so, at a quarter past nine, they dutifully pulled on wellingtons and waterproofs to squelch down the hill to Hagrid's little hut ... only to find that Xavier Wilmot had moved them inside due to the inclement climate.

Xavier Wilmot turned out to be a tall, lanky figure with a beard so thick that it looked ... to them, almost unreal. He was grinning broadly at them, and there was a certain glint in his wide, staring eyes that seemed very familiar to Harry, who was sure he had seen the face somewhere before. He was about to open his mouth to speak, but Wilmot chose that moment to call for silence.

"Sorry about the weather," he began ... his voice gruff and faintly unnerving. "I was planning on doing a little outdoor practical work today, but we seem to have been thwarted. Anyway," he looked around the assembled class, and Harry, for the briefest of seconds, could have sworn that his gaze alighted on him. Of course he was used to it ... everyone who met him couldn't help being interested ... on Harry's first day, Professor Flitwick had got so excited he fell off his chair. This time, however, Harry looked hurriedly away. "My name is Xavier Wilmot, and in the absence of your usual teacher, I will be taking your Care of Magical Creatures class this term. We will be beginning work that will lead you up to your OWL's, probably the singularly most important exams you will take at Hogwarts. It will be your OWL's that decide your future career prospects, as well as what subjects you will choose to study to advanced level, for your NEWT's, at the end of the Upper Sixth Form ... so I really cannot impress on you the importance of the coming months," Harry was certain Wilmot was looking at him again. He shuffled his feet nervously.

"We will be starting this term with work on tricorns. A tricorn, as I am sure you by now know from your holiday reading," again, he cast his eyes across the class. Harry had done the holiday reading, but he noticed that both Draco and Ron were looking at the floor, nervously. "Is a close relative of the unicorn, distinguishable by three horns on its head ... instead of the usual one, hence the name. Can anybody tell me why tricorns are so rare?"

Hermione's hand was already in the air.

"Hermione?" said Wilmot, turning to her. This struck Harry as being slightly odd, for he hadn't actually been told any of their names yet. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.

"They were hunted to the verge of extinction last century," said Hermione. "Their horns possess healing powers, and there is no stigma associated with killing them ... as there is with unicorns."

"Correct," said Wilmot. "Two points to Gryffindor. Can anybody tell me where they are to be found in the wild?"

Hermione was waving her hand about in the air, but this time, Wilmot passed her by. "Harry?"

Harry, who hadn't been listening, gave a start, and looked up. "Sorry, sir?"

"Were you listening to a word I was saying?" asked Wilmot. "Where do tricorns live in the wild?"

"Spain?" guessed Harry ... his curiosity again awakened as to exactly how Wilmot knew his name, when to the best of his knowledge; he had not actually been told it.

Wilmot shook his head. "Be thankful I'm not taking points from Gryffindor, Harry ... you of all people must be aware of the need to pay attention in your lessons. Hermione? Enlighten us please."

"Central Asia," said Hermione. "The Pamir and Hindu Kush mountain ranges, Iran, as well as in the former Soviet republics of Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan."

"That is correct," said Wilmot. "Thank you, Hermione. What properties do the horns possess? Ron Weasley, perhaps?"

Ron, who had been surreptitiously picking his nose, looked up. "Are they good for rheumatism?" he asked, sounding unsure of himself.

"That, and two other things," said Wilmot. "When mixed with certain other ingredients, the powdered horn can be made into a potion that can cure most known diseases of the central nervous system, and this is why tricorns were, and remain, so valuable. It has one other use too. Can anybody tell me what this might be?"

Hermione waved her arm in the air again. "It can be used as part of the Ancestral Potion," she said. "To recall the spirits of your distant ancestors. Many wizards used it in the past to give themselves strength during duels and battles. The potion forms an integral part of the Ancestral Rite, which must be performed to complete the spell. It's one of those dual action things. You need to do both parts to make it work."

"Well done," said Wilmot, looking considerably impressed with her. "I suggest you all read the set texts, as Hermione here clearly already has done. You may take another two points for Gryffindor."

Hermione looked very pleased. Wilmot continued to speak. "You therefore see exactly why as of 1980, there were only two hundred and fifty known specimens in the wild, as well as two further specimens resident at the Institute for Advanced Magical Research, where I worked with them until their death five years ago. Since then, their numbers, under careful stewardship and close co-operation between the British and the Iranians, have risen to something approximating two thousand, which is pretty good going. Most of these specimens range across the Al Ashka Preservation, in the remote Iranian interior, a protected area, and one very hard for Muggles to access. Now, as you may already have been told, I worked for some years at the Institute for Advanced Magical Research, where I was daily in contact with these magnificent beasts. The first thing it is important to know about a tricorn, is never ... ever to get between a mother and her foals. The horns are very, very sharp indeed, and men have been disembowelled by angry female tricorns before now ... I have witnessed it happen, and it is not a pretty sight. If a tricorn believes it is being threatened in any way, it will without hesitation charge. If this happens to you, there is not a lot you can do ... it's partly why the Institute insist we signed disclaimers before we began our work on them ..."

The class weren't entirely sure if this was a joke or not ... one or two of the Slytherins tittered slightly. The Gryffindors, on the other hand, were hanging onto Wilmot's every utterance ... all except for Harry, who was trying to figure out why Wilmot's face seemed so familiar to him. Maybe he should stop behind afterwards and ask him. He resolved to check his photo album at morning break, to see if he couldn't be spotted in any of his parents' wedding photos.

The lesson ended promptly at eleven fifteen ... and after two hours in the classroom, which by now was filled with a thick fug of condensation, they were all relieved to be let out. Harry waited until everybody else had filed out, before approaching Wilmot's desk. Wilmot looked up at the sound of his approach, and smiled.

"We meet again, Harry," he said. "I wanted a word with you, as it happens. Have you got a couple of minutes?"

Harry nodded.

"Shut the door will you?" asked Wilmot. "I don't especially want anybody to see this."

Harry gave him a funny look, but closed the classroom door anyway. "How did you know my name?" he asked.

"Everybody knows your name," said Wilmot. "It wasn't especially difficult for me to work out who you are. Actually, it was laughably easy."

"And Hermione and Ron?" asked Harry.

"I've met them before," said Wilmot. "Actually, you don't know it, but you've all met me before. Take a seat," he gestured to the teacher's chair. Harry sat down on the edge of it, whilst Wilmot perched himself on the edge of the desk.

"I'm wondering, Harry," said Wilmot, "just why you decided to stop behind after everyone and see me?"

Harry could feel himself blushing. "I ... I," he began. "I, it's, er, nothing really."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, that is ... it'll sound really stupid," said Harry. "You'll only laugh at me."

"Promise not to," said Wilmot, grinning cheekily, his features almost childlike. Evidently something was affording him great amusement. "Seriously. I won't laugh at you ... I swear on Snape's life."

Harry smiled. "I thought you looked familiar," he said, quietly. "I wanted to ask you whether I knew you from somewhere else. Are you in any of my photos ... of my Mum and Dad?"

"I already answered that question," said Wilmot. "We've met several times, Harry ... and yes, I am in several of the photos."

"That explains it," said Harry, looking relieved. He was assuming that Wilmot meant he had met Harry as a baby, before Voldemort's attack on his parents. "Well, if that's it, I think I should be going. Ron and Hermione will be waiting for me."

"Don't go yet," said Wilmot. "Don't you want to know how I knew your parents ... or why you think I look so familiar?"

Harry paused, he was halfway out of his seat. "Go on then," he said, curiously.

"I know your parents because I went to school with them," began Wilmot. "Your Father and I were very good friends."

"Nobody ever mentioned you to me," said Harry, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.

Wilmot smiled indulgently at Harry, in a manner Harry found strangely settling. He felt, though he didn't know why, a strange affinity with Xavier Wilmot ... it honestly seemed as though he knew him already. "I didn't always go by the name Xavier Wilmot," said Wilmot. "That is a pseudonym ... there is no such person, well," he paused, "actually there is. He was my maternal grandfather ... he taught Charms here, a very long time ago, back in the fifties anyway. Do you want to know my real name?"

"Go on," said Harry.

Wilmot's face cracked into a broad smile. "You honestly don't recognise me do you?" he said. "Is it so obvious, even with the beard?"

"That's a fake beard?"

Wilmot shook his head. "No," he said. "This is all my own work ... a couple of growth charms, and you too can have a full set of whiskers in the time it takes the average man to shave in the mornings," he sounded like a TV commercial.

Harry, who wasn't shaving yet, couldn't have hazarded a guess as to how long that was ... he felt his chin self consciously.

"I am frankly amazed, Harry, that you can't see past my disguise," said Wilmot. "If I told you that my real name was Sirius Black ... would that help?"

Harry fell off his chair.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He woke up in the hospital wing, with concerned faces peering at him, though without his glasses, he couldn't make out who they were. His head was aching something terrible. It felt like somebody was setting off a jackhammer inside his skull.

"What happened to me?" he asked, the pain in his head throbbing.

"You fell off your chair and cracked your head on the desk," said a blob shaped a bit like Ron.

"Am I okay?" asked Harry, feeling his head gingerly. There was a large piece of sticky plaster on his forehead.

"You're fine, I think," said the possibly-Ron.

"Mild concussion," said Hermione's voice. Harry assumed it was indeed, Hermione.

"Could I have my glasses, do you think?" he asked.

The probably-Hermione handed him his glasses, and he put them on gratefully. The blobs materialised into, perhaps not surprisingly under the circumstances, Ron and Hermione.

"Where's Sirius?" asked Harry.

Ron looked to Hermione, an expression of extreme puzzlement on his face. "Sirius? Sirius isn't here, Harry."

"He must have hit his head harder than Mr Wilmot thought," said Hermione. It dawned on Harry that, of course, they had no idea of Wilmot's true identity. He supposed he probably shouldn't tell them what Sirius had said. If it really was Sirius. Perhaps he'd just imagined it. He shivered ... a chill rushed down his spine. Was he going nuts?

"It's nothing, don't worry about me," said Harry, his voice still sounding, to him, slightly woozy. "What time is it?"

"About a quarter past one," said Hermione. "You were out for nearly three hours, we were starting to worry about you."

Harry heard a familiar voice in the distance, talking to Madam Pomfrey. He sat up in bed. It was Wilmot, or rather, Sirius ... that is, as long as he hadn't been dreaming. He turned to Ron, who had turned to see what was going on.

" ... nevertheless," Sirius was saying. "I would like to speak to him."

"The boy needs rest," Madam Pomfrey was protesting. This was generally her standard protest whenever anybody tried to visit anybody else in the hospital wing. Sirius, however, seemed to have other ideas.

"He looks fine to me," said Sirius, pushing past her into the room. "Harry, are you feeling any better?"

"He was going on about Sirius Black," said Hermione. Sirius couldn't help but grin. "You wouldn't have any idea why would you?"

"Why on Earth would Harry be going on about a convicted felon? He's probably still a bit shaken up, that's all," said Sirius. "Why don't you two run along and get some lunch. I'd like a word with Harry."

"We'll see you later," said Hermione, she ruffled Harry's hair in what she thought was a friendly sort of way, though in truth, Harry found it very irritating when people did that sort of thing to him. Never having been treated as children should be, it irked him when people did try and treat him like a little kid. She and Ron ducked out of the way, and left the ward, their footsteps echoing on the hard floors as they receded into the distance. The window above Harry's bed was open slightly, and Harry could hear the far off cawing of an unseen rook, somewhere in one of Hogwarts' myriad of towers. Sirius drew the curtains around Harry's bed, and sat down on the end of it, missing Harry's feet by inches.

"This has to be some sort of record, Harry," he began. "You've got yourself into hospital within three days of the start of term. Even for you that's a fairly impressive start. Congratulations."

"I won't have to stay overnight will I?" asked Harry. It was all very well spending time in the Hospital Wing, but it didn't half get lonely at night in there.

Sirius shook his head. "I imagine you'll be well enough to go back to lessons as soon as lunch break is over. You have transfiguration this afternoon I believe, with Professor McGonagall?"

Harry nodded, he wasn't sure of his own timetable yet, but that sounded about right.

"You'd better be ready for that," said Sirius. He raised his voice in a cruel yet accurate impression of Harry's Head of House. "The fact that you've been out cold in the hospital wing for most of this morning doesn't mean you can skip lessons as and when you choose," Sirius smiled, as if recalling a long forgotten memory. "She said that to your Father once ... under almost exactly the same circumstances as well."

"What happened?" asked Harry.

"He got clobbered by the Whomping Willow," said Sirius. "It was Remus' time of the month, and he was sneaking back from the Shrieking Shack one morning ... well, I expect you can probably guess the rest."

Harry nodded. "Can I ask you something?" he asked.

"Go ahead, make my day," said Sirius.

"How come you're suddenly teaching at Hogwarts?" asked Harry. "Shouldn't you still be on the run?"

"I take it you've not been keeping in touch with events over the summer," said Sirius, mysteriously.

Harry shook his head. "The Dursleys were stopping my post. I didn't even get any birthday cards."

"Not even from me?" asked Sirius, looking annoyed.

Harry shook his head again. "Not even from you," he said.

"That truly takes the Huntley and Palmers! Bloody hell, Harry. I swear, I swear to God I'll help you get them back," said Sirius, clenching his fists in barely concealed rage at the nerve of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. "One of these days, I'm going to go over there, and teach them a lesson they won't forget in a hurry. I spent fifty galleons on that birthday present too. What is more, I had to go through the indignity of asking the woman in the cake shop to write 'Happy Birthday Harry' on your cake," he shuddered. "She kept winking at me too."

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I didn't want you to go to any trouble."

Sirius smiled. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "Pity about the present though. Wonder what happened to it?"

"It probably ended up in the dustbin," said Harry. "But you were going to tell me something. Stop going off message."

"You sound just like Fudge," said Sirius, indulgently. "Actually, fitting I should mention him. Fudge is to blame for all these shenanigans. You remember he was talking to Dumbledore, when we were in the hospital wing? End of last term," to Harry, he seemed to be skirting saying anything that might upset him. Nobody had dared mention Cedric Diggory's death to him, when in truth, it would have made him feel a lot better if they had.

"Yeah, go on."

"Dumbledore told him, in no uncertain terms, what to do ... you remember what he said?"

"Keep talking."

"Yes, indeed, anyway. So, Fudge didn't take a blind bit of notice, so Dumbledore decided he had to rely on us, instead of him. Everyone was very busy for some weeks. Snape, well, Snape was a spy in the olden days ... for our side, against Voldemort."

"Dumbledore told me that," said Harry. "Did he ..."

"Try to contact Voldemort?" asked Sirius. "Yes, that's exactly what he did. Only problem is, nobody has seen hide nor hair of him since July."

"He's not on sabbatical then?"

"Of course not," said Sirius. "The same goes for Hagrid ... he had to go and try to contact the giants. We could do with having them on side this time round. Nobody actually knows what became of Hagrid either. The rumour mill has gone into overdrive of course. There are some people, high up in the Ministry, Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy amongst them, who believe Hagrid went over to the Dark Side, and are doing as much as they can to spread that view around the Ministry. Anyway, that's as much as I know about them. I was up and down the country all summer, mobilising people who we think might be friendly to our cause. Anyway, in mid-August, Dumbledore offered me a post here. It's probably the safest place for me to hide out under the circumstances, and I happen to have experience with magical creatures. So here I am ... here we are."

"Is it really as bad as it sounds?" asked Harry.

"You tell me," said Sirius. "You met Voldemort last summer. You were there. If he really is back, and I've never hoped more that you are mistaken, Harry, things will, to quote your Father, 'shortly be getting rather rough.' As it goes, you are our only witness ... you are all we have to go on. That's why it's so vital this year that you don't do anything stupid."

"Like what?" asked Harry, he had a sinking feeling that as he had done last year, Sirius was about to start lecturing him about what he was and wasn't allowed to do ... something Harry had taken with a considerable pinch of salt, as Sirius had successfully broken almost every school rule ever written during his time at Hogwarts, including the one regarding use of wooden cutlery on Fridays, a hangover from the days of Rowena Ravenclaw.

"No sneaking around at night, Harry. Definitely no unsupervised trips into Hogsmeade, with or without the Invisibility Cloak. Dumbledore's writ doesn't extend beyond the school boundaries, so if anything should happen to you, he wouldn't be able to help you there."

"I can look after myself," Harry glowered at Sirius. "I stood up to Voldemort, didn't I?"

"But next time, you might not be so lucky," said Sirius. "I don't want you to take any chances this year, Harry. Neither does Dumbledore. That's why we're going to have to come down very hard on any rule breaking on your part."

"That's not fair!" said Harry.

"Would you rather we let you out to die, or would you rather we did our best to keep you safe?" asked Sirius. "People out there are looking for you, Harry. They'll do anything to try and find you ... they could even be close by now. If you help us by staying where somebody can see you, we can help you. You can choose to be selfish of course ... it's up to you, but don't expect us to help you then. Perhaps it would be best if you gave me the cloak for safe keeping."

He was referring, of course, to Harry's precious Invisibility Cloak, which had been handed down from his Father, along with the Marauder's Map, a tatty old piece of parchment penned by Sirius, his Father, and their friends Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew during their time at Hogwarts, that revealed all the secret passages in and out of the school to the bearer, as well as pinpointing the location of any roving members of staff. Together they afforded Harry almost total freedom to range all over Hogwarts as and when he pleased. Harry had them both safely tucked away in his trunk, under his bed.

As if sensing what he was thinking, Sirius added. "I think I'd better take the Map off you too, Harry."

Harry looked up. Sirius' face was a mask of seriousness. Inwardly, he knew it would be absolutely no use protesting. He did anyway. "You're not being fair."

"I'm being fairer than I should, Harry. If McGonagall had had her way, you'd be being guarded day and night," Sirius well remembered that particular staff meeting ... he had been surprised to discover that Harry had a very large file all to himself, which was kept in Dumbledore's office, and appeared to be stuffed full of what looked like fan mail. "I know you're a good and trustworthy boy ... but we just don't want to take any chances with you ... not after what happened last year."

Harry scowled at him.

"It's no use trying to throw the grumpy adolescent act on me," said Sirius. "Our minds are already made up. Please, Harry, do as I say ... don't make it harder on yourself," he checked his watch. "It's almost one thirty," he said. "You'd better get going if you want some lunch. Oh, and, Harry, one last thing."

Harry, who had been in the process of climbing out of bed, stopped. "What is it now?" he asked.

"I'm here incognito ... as far as you, Ron, Hermione, anybody else here is concerned, I'm Xavier Wilmot. Please don't go spreading the word about my true identity. If it was to get out that Dumbledore was employing an escaped murderer, Hogwarts would be finished."

"I won't tell anyone," said Harry. "I promise."


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Draco slouched along the corridor towards the Great Hall. To the casual observer, the set of his shoulders, the pace of his walk and the fixed scowl on his face betrayed his mood instantly. He was completely dejected, a shadow of his former self. Two days of persistent persecution by his fellow Slytherins had left his self esteem lower than it had ever been before. They had been flicking food at him at mealtimes ... putting things in his bed, usually things that were either slimy and aggressive, or better still, both. That morning somebody had stolen his towel whilst he was in the shower, and he had been forced to steal his way back to the dormitory using a conveniently placed rubber duck. As if this wasn't bad enough, that very day he had received a letter reminding him of his duties...

'66 Berkeley Place,' it read.

'London
SW5 6MA

Sunday September 3rd 1995.

Dear Mr Malfoy.

I am writing to you on behalf of our mutual master, Artemis Chaldean, regarding the forward movement of the 'mission' you are currently engaged upon. I need hardly remind you that Mr Chaldean expects results quickly, as does your Father. It is now vital we obtain Harry Potter by means either fair or foul, within the next few weeks. To this end I enclose the final details of the potion you are to make.'

Enclosed, Draco had found a small, crumpled piece of paper with the recipe written on it in blood red ink.

'I need hardly remind you that failure in this task will result in Mr Chaldean's immense displeasure, not to mention dire circumstances for yourself. Do not fail us.

Yours truly,

Andrews, David.

Secretary to Artemis Chaldean, BMA, BA.Pot. (Oxford).'

Draco had read the letter through several times. It did not make pleasant reading. The words 'immense displeasure' and 'dire circumstances' stood out in particular. Draco wasn't exactly sure what Andrews meant by this, though it didn't take a great deal of intelligence to work out that a punishment would be in the offing. Draco considered himself to be somewhat of an expert on most conceivable forms of punishment, having undergone a great number of them during his lifetime ... he had a feeling Chaldean was capable of more than hitting him a few times. What were the names of those curses they had done last year?

He looked up as the buzzing sound of happy conversation met his tired ears. His footsteps had lead him straight past the Great Hall, where the other students and faculty were at lunch. He peered around the door. He had been trying to avoid eating at the same time as the other Slytherins for fear of what they might try and do to him.

What hurt the most, he thought, as he watched Crabbe and Goyle shovelling vast quantities of shepherd's pie into their already overstuffed bellies, was that there really was nobody he could go and talk to. He could hardly owl his Father ... most likely if he divulged what was on his mind, a severe rebuke, maybe even a howler, would come his way. His Father had always told him to stand up for himself, to maintain his honour and dignity at all costs. Draco, however, had never, ever had to stand up for himself before, and the realisation was dawning on him that he wasn't actually able to, and with that, the certain knowledge that he was as much of a coward as he thought he was. He could have spoken to Snape ... if he had been here, he was Snape's favourite, by a long way. Doctor Jones, on the other hand, was more or less completely unapproachable. He had only known her a few days, only had one lesson with her, but one thing was already clear in his mind; Doctor Jones hated him.

He hung back near the door until Crabbe and Goyle had finished, and then slipped into the Hall. Most of the other students had gone now. Only Harry, Ron and Hermione were left at the Gryffindor table. Draco contemplated going over to sit with them, but he knew that he would receive no kindness there either. He sat down in his usual seat at the Slytherin table, from where he had a clear view of the back of Hermione's head, and helped himself to what remained of the shepherd's pie.

"Didn't think you'd dare show your face around here again, Malfoy," someone said. Draco turned round. Pansy was standing behind him. "Thought you were hiding in shame!"

Draco didn't reply. He took up his fork, and was about to start eating when his plate was dashed to the floor. It splintered into a thousand pieces, and the sloppy pie went all over Draco's beautifully polished shoes.

"Answer me, Malfoy! What do you think gives you the right to sit at the Slytherin table?"

Draco looked frantically around the hall for help, but none seemed to be forthcoming. The only two teachers who remained at the Top Table were, as bad luck would have it, Doctor Jones, and Professor McGonagall, both of whom seemed to be getting on like a house on fire, and neither of whom had noticed the loud crash as Draco's lunch met its doom.

"I'm still a Slytherin ... like it or not," said Draco, quietly. He was still holding a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth.

"Go and sit with those Mudblood Gryffindors," hissed Pansy. "That's all you're fit for. People like you are scum."

"Sooner be a Mudblood than your friend," Draco found himself saying. "And call my family scum again and I'll hit you so hard you'll be able to see next Tuesday!"

Pansy turned up her nose at him. "Scum. Filthy, cheating scum. How do you think you got all your money? Cheating, that's how! It's dirty money!" she said. "I don't know why I ever deluded myself that I fancied you, Draco Malfoy. Your so called mansion is a front. It's all over the Ministry. Money laundering, Swiss bank accounts, dirty dealings. Sooner or later your poxy family is going to get what's coming to it!"

"And what might that be?" asked Draco, raising his voice in frustration ... he could feel cold, blind rage welling up inside his body.

"A good kick up the rear end," said Pansy.

"That's what somebody needs to give you!" hissed Draco. "You're a nasty little witch, and I can't believe I ever deluded myself than I fancied you."

Pansy gasped. "How dare you!" she hissed. The next thing Draco knew, she had slapped him across the face. The few remaining diners turned to stare in their direction.

"Get out of my sight!" she said. "I never want to see you, or hear you again!"

She turned on her heels, and stormed out of the Hall. Draco looked down at the floor. His lunch was no more. He looked up again. Hermione was looking at him ... her face ... her expression looked like pity. She turned away hurriedly when she noticed Draco was staring at her, and pretended to be once more deep in conversation with Harry and Ron. Draco could tell she was only pretending. As he put his hand slowly to his cheek, which was still burning from Pansy's attack, he wondered what was on her mind ... what she was thinking. Above all he wondered what she thought about him.

"I just want to be liked," he breathed to himself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As it happened, Draco got his chance to talk once again with Hermione later that very afternoon, when he came across her in the library, her nose buried deep inside a reference book. Draco was somewhat alarmed to note that it was the self same book he had stolen from his Father's study that hot, hot morning that now seemed so very far away in time ... the book in which he had first read about Dracaena Draco, the plant that was causing all the trouble in the first place. Summoning all the little strength he felt was left inside of him after the ordeals of the last few days, he went over, stood behind her, and coughed slightly, as he had been taught to do in etiquette classes.

Hermione gave a little jump, startled by the sudden noise. She looked up. "Oh," she said, in a voice that could hardly be said to be bursting with enthusiasm. "What do you want?"

"I was wondering, could I ... talk to you?" asked Draco.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm trying to read," she replied haughtily.

"What are you reading?" asked Draco, pretending he didn't already know, and peering over her shoulder to look at the text, a habit Hermione found deeply annoying at the best of times.

"Will you quit looking over my shoulder?"

Draco withdrew hurriedly. "Sorry," he said. "I meant no offence."

Hermione gave him another one of her funny looks. "You don't give up easily do you, Malfoy? I'll say that in your favour."

"I don't know what you mean."

Hermione, truth to tell, was actually a bit worried about Draco. Not as worried as she would have been about Harry or Ron, but still slightly vexed. She knew he had been lying when he'd claimed that his black eye and bloody nose were 'nothing.' Hermione was by nature a generous soul, given to try and make peace with as many people as possible. At her Primary School, back home in Marlow, she'd always been the one who'd helped out, comforted the underdogs as they licked their wounds. Perhaps, she thought, this is the same instinct surfacing again. Perhaps ... she thought, a bit alarmed this time, I'm doomed to be a mother figure forever. Above all, her curiosity had always been insatiable. Maybe if that hadn't been so ... she would have told Draco to go away and leave her alone, and that would have been the end of that. However, Hermione, being Hermione, did not do this. Instead, she looked up at him, and said. "You still seem determined to be nice to me. You haven't called me a Mudblood once this term, which is saying something as far as you're concerned. So what's eating you?"

Draco shrugged. "Nothing much," he said. "You changed your tune quickly, didn't you?"

"Someone makes the effort to be nice to me ... I ought at least to give them a chance. Don't you think so?" said Hermione. "That's what my Sunday School teacher always told me ... remember? Love your enemies ... stuff like that."

"I never went to Sunday School," said Draco, shuffling his feet nervously, as though he felt this was something that he ought really to be ashamed of. "My parents aren't very religious."

"You weren't missing anything," said Hermione, smiling. "But I guess sometimes stuff rubs off on you. Anyway ... you're not happy, I can tell. You need talking to, not putting down," she closed the book. "So what's new in the wacky world of Draco Malfoy?"

Draco wrung his hands. "Nothing much," he said.

"So nobody gave you that black eye, nobody bloodied your nose? That little fracas in the Hall at lunchtime ... that was a figment of my imagination was it?"

Draco forced a smile. "You're being unexpectedly feisty," he said.

"Feisty isn't the word I'd use," said Hermione, she was unconsciously fluttering her eyelashes at Draco, who hadn't noticed. "Take a seat."

Draco perched on the edge of the table, as he did so, scanning the room for hostile elements. None seemed to be in the way of presenting themselves at that particular moment. Very few of the Slytherins really bothered to use the Library much. All the same, I'd better be on my guard, he thought. "What about Harry and Ron?" he asked.

"Quidditch tryouts," said Hermione. "Harry's gone along to give Ron moral support. If you're worried about them bowling up out of the wide blue yonder and having a go at you, then don't be. I have them both wrapped around my little finger anyway," she favoured Draco with a wicked smile. Draco wondered what she meant by it.

"Shouldn't you be doing the same?" he asked. "I mean, watching the Quidditch ... lending your support, for the greater glory of Gryffindor."

"Draco, there's work to be done," said Hermione. "They have my spiritual support, which they may use as they see fit. Anyway, I don't find Quidditch that enthralling to watch."

Draco gave her a look suggesting she'd just said something tantamount to sacrilege. However he didn't say anything. Instead he coughed, then spoke again. "I thought you and Harry were ... you know."

"An item?" said Hermione. "Heaven forbid. Harry's lovely and all, don't get me wrong, but he's just not my type. I don't go for little guys in glasses."

"And Ron?"

"Too lanky," said Hermione. "Look here, fascinating though my twisted love life no doubt is to you, that's not what I thought you wanted to talk about. What is the matter with you?"

"You'd never believe me if I told you," said Draco.

"Try me," said Hermione. "You never know. Sometimes it helps to talk."

"Well," said Draco. "I'm not really that popular at the moment."

"In what way?"

"Just generally ... you know, with my House. Things being what they are ... I've made a bit of a pig's ear of things, and I don't even know if I want to put it right."

"Why should that be?" asked Hermione, closing her book, and putting it to one side.

"Mainly because I tried to talk to you," said Draco. "They think I'm trying to get in with the Gryffindors."

"That's what it looks like from where I'm standing too," said Hermione. "Why are you trying to get in with us? Is it really worth getting beaten up for?"

"I wasn't beaten up!" lied Draco with feeling.

"Pull the other one, Draco," said Hermione. "Someone had a right go at you. Who was it? You should really go to a teacher."

Draco looked up in astonishment. "Like that'll make any difference," he said. "Besides, they all hate me apart from Snape, and he isn't here."

"Not everyone hates you," said Hermione, taking Draco's last remark as an admission that somebody had indeed been bullying him.

"Yes they do," said Draco.

"I don't."

"That's very nice of you to say so," said Draco, unaware that he was blushing to the roots of his hair, which Hermione found faintly endearing, and thought made him look rather cute. However, she said nothing, and allowed Draco to carry on talking. "I had a lot of time to think things over during the summer," he said. "A lot of time. I suppose I should really have been doing my homework, but you know how it is."

Hermione nodded. "What were you thinking about?" she asked.

"About a week ago," said Draco. "My Father had a visitor, some bloke he used to work with. This guy told me some things that, kind of shook me up a bit."

"A bit?"

"A lot," said Draco. "He said quite a lot of things about what my Father used to do. Back, some time ago. I'd rather not go into what he said, but he gave me a lot of food for thought, and now I'm confused, I suppose."

"What about?"

"Life ... the universe, everything really," said Draco. "You know how it is when there's something you're itching to tell somebody, like making a declaration of love? That's kind of how I feel now."

"There's something you want to tell me badly, isn't there?" said Hermione, who knew exactly what he meant. "Does it have something to do with that cutting I read you when we were in detention."

"Indirectly, yes," said Draco. "But that isn't really very important right now. I guess there is something I want to tell somebody, but I'm not sure if that person is you. If you see what I mean?"

"Would it do me any good at all to know what it is?" asked Hermione.

"Yes, I suppose it would," said Draco.

"You're not going to tell me though," said Hermione. "But that's what's bothering you? Right ... I guess we should backtrack a bit. Who knocked you around?"

Draco glanced around the Library, and Hermione noticed for the first time that the look in his eyes seemed hunted. He seemed to be on the alert, as if anticipating attack from any quarter, at any second. Finally, he spoke. "It was Crabbe, and Goyle," he said.

"What? I thought they were your friends."

Draco shook his head, and hurriedly wiped the sleeve of his robes across his eyes, as if wiping away tears. "Hermione ... that's it ... I don't have any friends."

"Crabbe and Goyle always used to hang around with you ... didn't they?" she asked. "I thought you guys were inseparable ... the gruesome threesome. Was it not like that?" she could anticipate the answer from the look on Draco's face.

"No. Crabbe and Goyle just kind of drifted around me," said Draco. "My Father always chose my friends for me ... he vetoed any I brought home from Primary School. He's a good man ... really, he just, needs to be in control."

"That isn't the mark of a good man," said Hermione. "But I'm not here to judge your Father. Actually, if you'd believe it, I came up here to try and get some research done and I end up playing Agony Aunt to beleaguered adolescent schoolboys."

Draco grinned slightly at this, but it was a forced grin, and Hermione could tell it meant nothing. "I suppose Crabbe and Goyle were just the kind of friends he thought I needed. He could always tell you see. I can't fight for myself, I never could. I was a premature baby, I was always very weak. I suppose that's why he forced me to go to boxing classes. He thought it would put hair on my chest."

"Did it?"

"No, I was eight and a half," said Draco. "Anyway, he used to make Crabbe and Goyle's Fathers bring them round to play with me. Play being the operative word. I won't pretend I was spoiled rotten ... and being an only child ... well, you must know what only children are like ... selfish little sods, most of them."

"Very insightful of you," said Hermione. "Carry on."

"Yeah, so, they just kind of stuck to me," said Draco. "When we came to Hogwarts, I was actually very pleased we all ended up in Slytherin. It was where I wanted to be, of course, but Goyle was petrified he'd end up a Ravenclaw, or a Hufflepuff. They, well, I guess they had their uses as henchmen. The point was, I don't think either of them ever really liked me. I think they were just as pushed into being friends with me as I was with them. Saying your little boy is friends with the heir to the Malfoy fortune carries some weight, you see."

"Don't get bigheaded," said Hermione.

"I wasn't," said Draco. "That's the truth, honest to God."

"You think they were in it for the money?"

"For the toys, probably," said Draco. "I had rather a lot of them. The money, well, that's tied up in some sort of investment portfolio. I don't get to touch a Knut of it until I'm twenty five."

"You're dabbling in the stock market are you?" asked Hermione.

Draco made a face ... he, of course, didn't have the faintest idea what the stock market was. "Probably not," he said. "The money is in holdings in Eastern Europe and Asia ... we have property in the Caucasian Mountains ... Nagorno-Karabakh, Naxcivan and Chechnya, if I remember rightly. My Father has a ninety per cent share in the family business. Only nobody is quite sure what the family business does."

"Nor are we here to discuss investment possibilities in Malfoy Incorporated and it's subsidiaries and shareholders," said Hermione. "You were telling me about Crabbe and Goyle."

"I can't really think of much else to say about them," said Draco. "I'm sorry ... look, I've been bothering you ... you don't want to be seen talking to me. It won't do wonders for your street cred at this particular moment in time. But thanks for listening to me."

"It's no problem," said Hermione. "Look ... I know it won't ... I mean, you probably don't really want to be seen around me at the minute. I imagine your street cred has touched rock bottom of late. But, if you need an ear, or a shoulder, then I am here, and I will listen to you. That's if you think you need it."

Draco smiled ... the first genuine smile she could ever recall of him. For a moment, he looked so much more alive ... not like the normal Draco Malfoy, but a subdued version of the same. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate that. Um ... Hermione."

"Fire away."

"I'd, you know," he wrung his hands again. "Some of the things I've told you ... they're things I never told anybody else at all, before you. I'd appreciate it if..."

"I won't tell a soul. You'd better go," said Hermione. "Harry just came in. I doubt he'd be particularly sympathetic."

Draco slipped off the desk, and melted seamlessly into the shadowy realms of the tall bookcases. Harry approached the desk at which Hermione was sitting. He was still sporting the large piece of plaster on his forehead, partly obscuring his scar, though no less obvious in its way. Hermione was somewhat worried to note that there was now a very large, colourful bruise on his right cheek.

"Who were you talking to?" asked Harry, taking off his glasses, and polishing them on his robes.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley actually," lied Hermione, plucking the first name she could think of out of thin air. Harry seemed satisfied, and sat down on the desk, almost exactly where Draco had been. "He wanted help with his Transfiguration homework."

"You mean you gave it to him? Oh well ... want to know how I got this?" he asked, gesturing to his face.

"Roll up for the Hermione Granger counselling service," she muttered under her breath. "One night only, two Sickles a minute, call 0800-HERMI. Please ask permission before you dial."

"Sorry?" said Harry, looking very perplexed indeed.

"How did you get the bruise Harry?" asked Hermione.

"Bludger," said Harry, proudly. "Didn't even see it coming. Damn near knocked me off my broom."

"It looks nasty," said Hermione. "You really should go up to the Hospital Wing, put an ice pack on it."

Harry shook his head. "At this point in time," he said. "I'd rather dance naked across hot coals than spend any more time with Madam Pomfrey breathing down my neck. Do you have any idea how much starch she puts in the pyjamas?"

Hermione didn't.

"It's like trying to sleep in a concrete overcoat," said Harry. "Anyway, it's stopped hurting now."

"Fair enough," said Hermione. "Look, Harry, I don't mean to be mean or anything, but I'm rather busy at the minute. Was there something important you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Well, actually," Harry began. "Yeah, but it's kind of private. I'd rather not talk in here."

"There's nobody else here," said Hermione, scanning the library. "Nobody can hear."

Harry swung his legs nervously ... he hadn't yet changed out of his Quidditch robes, and there was another livid yellow bruise on his shin. "It's nothing really. Actually, you'll probably think it's silly."

"Very few things you have ever said to me have turned out to be silly," said Hermione. "I can think of one or two, but they're the exceptions that prove the rule ... in this case anyway."

"But this is rather silly," said Harry. "Hermione, what do you think of me?"

Hermione was somewhat taken aback by what appeared to her to be a very direct approach, and one she had never known Harry to take before ... he tended to be a bit dithery when it came to explaining himself.

"You think I'm being daft, don't you?" said Harry, noting the astonished look on Hermione's face.

"Not at all," said Hermione, quickly. "I ... I'm just a little bit surprised. I don't know if I can answer that question."

"Have a go," said Harry. "You see, I've been doing a lot of thinking over the last week ... and now that Cho has gone back to Hong Kong," he paused. "Not that I mean to say for one second that I'm only telling you this because she isn't ... you know, available..."

"I understand," said Hermione, who didn't ... at all. "Carry on."

"Yeah, anyway ... like I said, I was thinking a lot, and I think there's more between us than just being friends. If you see what I mean ... I was wondering, if ... you know, felt the same way about me? It's just ... I think we could be good together, as long as Ron didn't get in the way or anything."

Hermione pondered the question for a moment. She was dimly aware of some unidentifiable person looking at books in the next aisle. She lowered her voice and spoke in a whisper. "Harry, I think you're really nice," she said.

Harry looked relieved.

Hermione went on. "I really like you, and I really value you as a friend and an ally," she caught the look on Harry's face. "I'm not answering your question am I?"

"Do I look okay?" asked Harry.

"Superficially, no," said Hermione. "You're covered in bruises. I guess ... I know what you're getting at. Harry, I want you to listen to me," she considered how best to put this to him without deflating him too severely. "You are very good looking, and believe me, when the time comes, you'll have no trouble getting a girlfriend. The thing is ... I don't think I'm the right person for you. Is that what you were thinking?"

Harry nodded.

"I think you know that as well. I think you know what you want ... I just don't think either of us are ready for that yet ... and even if we were, I don't believe it would be right."

Harry's face was half hidden in the flickering shadows, but it looked very much as though he was biting his lip. "I see," he said.

"Don't be disheartened Harry," said Hermione. "I want you as a friend, platonic, you understand? I think you want the same."

"I made a complete arse of myself, didn't I?" said Harry. "I'm really sorry. I ought to go."

"Stay if you want," said Hermione.

"No, really, I need to get changed, have a shower and stuff. Look, I'll see you later. I'll be with Ron in the Common Room. Okay?" he slipped off the desk, and was gone, leaving Hermione sitting at her desk, looking slightly stunned. She was sure she'd done the right thing, however. She already knew that she didn't have any romantic feelings towards Harry ... but now, knowing that he did made her feel distinctly unsettled. Was he for real? What he had said seemed honest enough, and of course, Harry, not having had the benefit of parents, or even a halfway normal childhood, would naturally find speaking his mind and his heart harder than a normal person. Sometimes, she quite forgot that Harry was not normal, even for a wizard. What he had just done must have required an enormous amount of courage. She knew she had done the right thing by letting him down, but had she done it in the right way? Hermione wasn't at all sure she had. She had never seen Harry truly upset by anything ... save for that one time in the Hospital Wing. She wasn't even sure if he knew how to express himself like that. She would hate to think she had upset him. For a moment she considered going after him ... but decided against it. What Harry needed was time alone. Sighing, she picked up her book again.

From his vantage point a few feet away, Draco stared at her, open mouthed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Draco was surprised to see that the next morning, Harry and Hermione appeared to be chatting away as though nothing had happened between them. Evidently Harry was made of sterner stuff than Draco had previously assumed. Again, he waited until most of the rest of the students had finished their breakfast and gone off to organise their books and bags for the day before he sat down to eat. As a consequence of this, there was just one other Slytherin at the table, Johannes Ericssen, who was slyly looking at Draco over his bowl of lumpy porridge.

"Are you okay?" he asked. Draco looked up. In many ways, Johannes reminded him of himself at the age of eleven. Timid and insecure, apparently friendless, yet hiding that behind an outward show of cheek, that if the rumour mill was to be believed, had already resulted in two detentions and twenty points lost for Slytherin.

"Not really," said Draco. "Forget it, it's nothing for you to be worried about."

"I saw what happened to you," said Johannes. He had a strong South African accent. "Why did they attack you?"

"Because of something I said," said Draco, the tone of his voice making it clear he wanted to be disturbed from his repast no further. Johannes didn't take the hint.

"Is it because you don't want to be in Slytherin?" asked Johannes.

"Of course I want to be in Slytherin," said Draco. "Eat up and leave me alone, kid."

"I didn't want to be in Slytherin," said Johannes. "My parents were both in Gryffindor, a long time ago," he added, as though this wasn't immediately obvious.

"That's nice," said Draco. "Aren't you in a hurry?"

Johannes shook his head. "I've got Potions first with Doctor Jones. She's really horrible to us."

Draco smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "Really horrible," he took up his knife and fork, and began to eat his bacon.

"Do you know Harry Potter then?" asked Johannes.

Draco looked up from his breakfast. "Kind of," he said. "We don't get on very well."

"He seems really nice," said Johannes. "He helped me out when I got lost the other day."

"You shouldn't really have done that," said Draco, sipping his tea. "We ... that is to say, Slytherins and Gryffindors, we have a kind of a feud going on ... it's been going on practically since Hogwarts started, and so we don't usually talk to each other. I'd look out Johannes ... if any of the others see you talking to him or his friends, they might turn nasty."

"*You* were talking to him," said Johannes. "And Hermione Granger. I saw you!"

"That was different," said Draco. "I had a very good reason for that."

"Is that why the others tried to beat you up?" asked Johannes.

Draco scowled at the other boy, and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Yes!" he hissed. "But don't go blabbing about that to anybody, understand. I'll make it worse for you if you do. Got that?"

Johannes blushed bright red. "Okay," he said. He returned to his breakfast, and not another word passed between either of them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"As you no doubt remember," Doctor Jones went on. "The homework I set you during our last lesson was to read Chapters One through Fifteen of 'The Relevance of Potions in a Modern Magical Society' and make notes on what you learned. Please take out your notes and place them on your desks in front of you."

There was a flurry of activity as the class delved into their bags for their assignments. Draco, this time, had done his. Doctor Jones was almost immediately at his side.

"I see we have decided to pull our socks up, Malfoy," she said, picking up the notes, and rifling through them. Draco had actually been forced to do them twice, as Crabbe had ripped up the first set. "They're a bit messy," she said. "But they'll do."

Hermione gave Draco a supportive smile ... thankfully nobody except Draco noticed it.

Jones walked across the classroom to where Crabbe and Goyle were sitting. Much to Draco's annoyance, both of them had completed the set work as well.

"This is an improvement, Goyle," she said. "See what we can achieve when we don't eat as we work? Now, let's see how the troublemakers did."

Draco, and most of the rest of the class turned to look. Harry, Ron and Hermione all had their work out in front of them. The sense of disappointment radiating from Doctor Jones was evident even on the other side of the room, where Draco was sitting, all alone at the front desk. None of the Slytherins were talking to him now.

"Today," said Jones. "We will be attempting to brew the Ancestral Potion. Can anybody apart from Granger tell me exactly what this is?"

Draco thought he remembered, and tentatively raised his hand.

"Go on, Malfoy," said Jones. "Do tell us," a paper dart hit Draco on the back of the head, but Jones didn't notice it, or that it had been thrown by Millicent Bulstrode.

"It recalls the spirits of your ancestors," said Draco, who wasn't sure he wanted to meet the Malfoys. "We won't actually be drinking it, will we?"

"No," said Jones. "It can be very dangerous if used unwisely. If everybody took it, the dungeon would be overflowing with ghosts, besides the fact that it needs to be performed in tandem with a very complex rite that I would not advise anybody here to try. Actually, I don't know why it's on the syllabus ... it is completely pointless and very rarely used nowadays. I believe the last occasion occurred sometime in the 1980's, about twelve years ago. Now, can anybody tell me what this potion is useful for?"

"The spirits can transfer their residual strength into their descendant," said Draco. "It makes them stronger in battle, or in duels."

"We are being very sharp today, Malfoy," said Jones. "A point to Slytherin. Let's see if Granger can tell us more. What is the principal ingredient?"

"Tricorn horn," said Hermione.

"Correct. However, we can no longer use this, on account of the tricorn being a very rare and protected species. I gather Xavier Wilmot is teaching you about them?"

The class nodded. "Heed his words ... he is a very wise man. I used to work with him ... I *used* to know him very well. Now, in the absence of tricorns, a substitute can be used which is almost as effective. This ingredient is nothing more than common or garden sheep's liver. This is what we will be using today. Please pair off."

The class split into pairs. Draco's eyes roved frantically over the classroom, trying to find somebody who was prepared to work with him. However, all the Slytherins had already chosen their partners. Pansy was grinning malevolently at him.

"Malfoy, come here," said Jones. "Granger doesn't have a partner either. Work with her."

To jeers and catcalls from the Slytherins, Draco slouched over to Hermione's workbench. Harry and Ron were already setting up their equipment, and both of them shot Draco glares filled with pure hatred.

"Hello," said Hermione, brightly. "Are you feeling better today?"

"Not much," said Draco, who felt like he was about to wither under the stares of Harry and Ron. "Come on, we'd better get started."

"Before we start," said Doctor Jones. "I was somewhat alarmed to discover that somebody had broken into the restricted store cupboard in my office last night. If it was any of you, I warn you now that any further night time excursions will result in severe sanctions. I also add that it any of you know who the culprit is, please tell me."

Draco swallowed, and tried not to look in her direction. He had been following Chaldean's instructions for the mixture of the Dragon's Blood potion ... the powdered Dracaena Draco leaves needed several hours of patient distillation before they were usable, and some of the ingredients were very hard to come by, hence Draco's midnight raiding visits to the dungeons.

"I want you to bring a quart of water to the boil," said Jones, who had once again taken to stalking the aisles between the workbenches, looking for trouble, and when she couldn't find any, creating it herself.

Hermione said nothing to Draco as she filled up her old pewter cauldron with water, and muttering a few choice words, conjured up a small blue fire to heat it up with. Draco was just beginning to think that their heart to heart had meant nothing, when to his surprise, she slipped a little note into his pocket, and tipped him a wink.

"Don't say anything," she whispered. "Remember, Draco ... I hate you."

"Understood," said Draco.

Harry and Ron didn't appear to want to talk to either of them ... something for which Draco was, in truth, profoundly thankful, as he didn't much feel like talking to them either. Indeed, the only person he really wanted to talk to at this point was Hermione. She was actually the only person he felt he could talk to. None of the Slytherins were taking any notice of him. As they waited for the water to boil ... which took a good five minutes, he glanced quickly across the dungeon to where his erstwhile friends seemed to be sharing a very funny joke. Occasionally one of them would look at Draco, and then they would dissolve into fresh fits of laughter. Draco felt slightly sick, and quickly looked away again.

"I really need to talk to you," he said to Hermione, who was watching the water, which was beginning to bubble violently.

"Not here ... not now," said Hermione. "Come and talk to me later."

"When later?" asked Draco, raising his voice slightly.

"I don't know," said Hermione. "Look ... meet me in the Library, seven o'clock, after dinner. Nobody ever goes to the Library. Have you quartered those gall bladders yet?"

"I'm right onto it," said Draco, seizing scalpel and wooden chopping board. "Do you want the shredded mandrake leaves yet?"

"They go in last, Draco."

"Yeah ... sorry. I knew that."

On the other end of the workbench, Harry was watching the proceedings with a certain degree of interest, whilst Ron watched the boiling potion, which was emitting brief puffs of foul smelling purple smoke. It was not meant to be doing this.

"Harry," Ron said. "Should we have added the gall bladders first?"

"Don't think so," said Harry, tearing his attention away from Hermione and Draco for one second. "I don't think Hermione has."

The cauldron was starting to vibrate alarmingly. "Perhaps we should try doing something, Harry," said Ron, indicating the potential for disaster by waving his hands around.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm onto it," said Harry in a very half-hearted manner.

"Harry! Stop ogling Hermione for one minute and give me a hand!"

"Okay!" shouted Harry, whirling round, catching his sleeve on the jar containing their stewed sheep's liver, and knocking it over. "Quit bugging me! Take it off the boil or something."

Ron tried to pick up the cauldron by its handles, and jumped back as it burned his hands. He yelled in pain. From her vantage point at the teacher's desk in front of the class, Doctor Jones looked up.

"Are we completely incapable of carrying out simple instructions without killing ourselves?" she asked, storming over and waving her arms in the air to dissipate the thick, choking smog that now hung over the remains of Harry and Ron's potion.

"I think we may have put the ingredients in in the wrong order," said Ron. Jones had pulled on a very large, very thick oven glove with a picture of a cat sewn into it, and removed the cauldron from the fire. She coughed loudly.

"I assume you thought it would be amusing to mess around during my lessons, did we not, boys?" asked Jones, surveying both them and the smouldering potion. "I can see no other reason for such a superb display of supreme incompetence. You aren't retarded by any chance?"

Harry scowled at her. "It was an accident," he said. "We messed up the ingredients!"

Jones shot him a death ray glance which silenced him. "How dare you raise your voice to me, Potter!" she hissed.

"I wasn't," protested Harry. "All I was saying."

"Silence," Doctor Jones said. "I see you have evidently not even been schooled in the basic mannerisms and conventions of polite society, Potter. Do we by any chance reside in a dustbin?"

Harry remained silent.

Doctor Jones carried on speaking. The Slytherins were looking on with looks of intense glee on every one of their faces. "Since we are unaware of basic courtesy, Potter, I feel it must be my unfortunate duty to instruct you on your sub-standard behaviour. You never, ever, talk back to a teacher ... and if you talk back to me ... well, you had better be very brave, or have some sort of death wish."

Somebody, it sounded like Pansy Parkinson snickered loudly. Doctor Jones ignored her.

"You and Weasley are banned from practical work in these lessons until such time as I am duly convinced that Potter here has mastered the tricky problem of respect for one's superiors. Clean this mess up, and see me after the lesson," she stalked off. There was a brief moment of silence before the usual buzz of casual conversation resumed.

Harry turned to Ron. "Sorry," he said.

"That was unfair," said Ron, reaching for the paper towels to start mopping up the mess. "Here," he leant closer. "What's happening between Hermione and Draco?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "They seem to be working together ... and not actually killing each other."

Ron shook his head. "Weird," he said. "You don't think she was serious ... you know, what she was saying on Saturday."

"That she thought he was cute," said Harry. "Nah ... Draco isn't her type. I'm sure of it."

"How would you be so sure?" asked Ron. "Unless she's seeing you. Hey ... perhaps Draco is her bit on the side. You've got competition, Harry!"

"Hermione is *not* seeing me," said Harry, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice as he thought how much he wished she was. "Whatever makes you think she and I have a thing going?"

"Because you talk in your sleep, Harry," said Ron.

Harry blushed. "What ... since when? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought, some day the moment will come," said Ron, "when it will be right for me to tell Harry about his nocturnal vocalisations. Now is as good a time as any."

"I don't keep you awake ... do I?" asked Harry, not daring to look Ron in the eye.

"Between you and Neville ... yes, you do," said Ron. "Sounds like you have some pretty fruity dreams every so often!"

"I don't want to know," said Harry. "Shut up already and get cleaning."

"You asked," shrugged Ron, affecting an air of being offended, though making it obvious that he wasn't.

"What sort of things do I say?" asked Harry, after a minute's awkward silence, during which both boys engaged themselves in moving the spilled potion ingredients around the desk a bit, without actually managing to make it cleaner.

"Sometimes you don't make a whole lot of sense," said Ron, grinning slightly. "Mostly, you just sort of grunt incoherently. Once you told Snape to eff off."

Harry smiled. "Well, that's something I suppose."

"And the other night," Ron went on. "You kept telling Hermione not to go away. You were having some sort of argument about Quidditch."

Harry glanced quickly over to Hermione, who was chopping up her sheep's liver, ready to add it to the bubbling potion. She didn't seem to have noticed, or heard, what they were talking about.

"Not so loud," hissed Harry. "Be that as it may ... I am not in love with Hermione ... period. She is not my girlfriend." Harry couldn't remember a lie having ever been so difficult to tell before. True, they were not officially an item ... Hermione had done more than confirm that when they had spoken in the Library the previous evening. However, it was true that he fancied her. Ever since she had fixed her teeth by magic, finally discarding her braces for good, he had started to notice her more. At the time, he had been infatuated with the unobtainable Cho Chang, who was not only in the year above him, but was already going out with someone else. However, Cho's Father had been recalled to Hong Kong over the summer ... at least, that was what the rumour flying round the school said, though some Slytherins had made up one about her being dead. Either way, Cho had not come back to Hogwarts that term, and so Harry had finally had time to think about other things ... that is to say, Hermione.

"Whatever," said Ron, who obviously didn't believe him.

"What would you do?" asked Harry, watching Hermione and Draco whilst continuing to wipe the workbench with the single damp dishcloth that Doctor Jones had begrudged him. "What would you do, if Hermione and Draco were going out together?"

"I don't know," said Ron, pondering Harry's question with an expression of deep thought creasing his freckled brow. "Probably ... hell. I don't know. Why such awkward questions today, Harry?"

"No reason," said Harry. "I was just thinking ... you know. What would happen if they were an item?"

"The Slytherins would turn on him," said Ron. "He wouldn't get a moment's peace. The risk is too high ... he'd never try anything."

"Haven't you noticed that the Slytherins have already ostracised Draco?" asked Harry.

Ron looked up suddenly. "You don't think?"

"Nah," said Harry. "Hermione has better taste than the world renowned poseur Draco Malfoy. He of the gelled back hair and the snazzy designer robes."

Ron snickered. "I think you're right," he said. "We're just talking crap. It would never happen ... and we know it!"

Harry, however, wasn't so sure. Could Ron honestly not see it? He thought it was obvious. Harry didn't consider himself an expert on other people's body language ... but all the same, he definitely thought there were some signals being given out from both of them. Draco seemed to be being polite ... or at least, he wasn't actually at Hermione's throat. He also seemed to be more subdued. He was deferring to Hermione, letting her do the work. Though maybe that was just because Draco wasn't actually very bright. Then there was Hermione ... she seemed to be flashing her eyelids at him ... occasionally actually touching him on the shoulder. It couldn't really have been any more blatant.

"But what if it did?" said Harry, not taking his eyes off Hermione for a second. "What if they really did declare their undying passion to an unsuspecting world?"

"What now?"

"How would you feel about Hermione then? Forget Draco for a minute," said Harry.

"I don't know," said Ron. "I honestly have never given it a second thought."

"Would you still talk to her?" asked Harry. "Would you want anything to do with her?"

"I don't know," repeated Ron, sounding more than a little irritated. "Look ... can we just drop the whole love thing? I think it's making me nauseous."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"I bet you enjoyed that, didn't you, Malfoy," Crabbe said. "In cahoots with that Mudblood Granger now are we? Thought you had better taste."

"Bugger off," said Draco, looking the other way. It was just past dinner time, and Draco was heading off to the Library for his planned rendezvous with Hermione. It was just his luck, thought Draco, that Crabbe happened to be going the same way, laden with overdue books.

"But I don't feel like doing that," said Crabbe, putting his arm around Draco in what any passing person would have interpreted as a mere friendly gesture. Draco however, sensed ulterior motives.

"What do you want?" he asked, trying to wrestle free of Crabbe's grip, which proved impossible.

"I want a friendly chat," said Crabbe. "You know, like the kind we used to have."

"What about?" asked Draco, feigning not being bothered.

"I didn't like doing what we did on Saturday," said Crabbe. "I didn't enjoy it at all. It was Goyle's idea."

"Really. Couldn't help noticing that you weren't objecting at the time," said Draco. "I was the one who ended up with a black eye and got punched so hard in the stomach I spent most of the afternoon in the toilets throwing up."

This information didn't appear to bother Crabbe in the slightest. "I'm giving you a friendly warning, Draco ... a friendly warning because I don't think you know what you're doing ... I don't think you've realised that you're throwing away everything ... our friendship. Everything, just because you can't stop gawking at Hermione Granger. Frankly, Draco, it's painful to watch."

"I do not have a thing for Hermione Granger!" said Draco, finally wriggling free of Crabbe. "Why does everybody think I do? All I did wrong was talk to her a couple of times."

"That isn't exactly how it looks from my point of view," said Crabbe. "Come on, Draco ... admit you admire her ... admit you fancy her if you must. You aren't exactly hiding it ... you might as well start wearing a sandwich board, or have a major leaflet campaign."

"I'm not admitting to anything," whined Draco. "I've done nothing wrong."

"Draco. This is a friendly warning," said Crabbe. "They don't want me to tell you this ... I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. If Millicent, or Pansy catches me, they'll do exactly to me as they did to you. However, I'm prepared to risk getting my lights punched out because I still value your friendship."

"That's nice to know," said Draco. "Believe me ... you're preaching to the converted. Now, if you'd just let me go on my way ... I have a lot of studying to get on with."

"You aren't carrying any books," said Crabbe. "You haven't even got your rucksack on!"

"I'm doing research," said Draco in an annoyed tone of voice. "Will you let me go now?"

"Draco," said Crabbe. "I know you're lying to me ... but I'll let that go see? On account of me being an all round bloody nice bloke. But let me warn you, Draco. I can take so much and then no more. If you don't ditch this Hermione thing at the hurry up, I swear somebody is going to punch you so hard you'll be puking your guts out for a week. Is that understood?"

Draco could do nothing but nod sheepishly. He stared down at his shoes, willing Crabbe to go away.

"It's such a lovely evening," said Crabbe, looking around himself. "Perhaps I'll come with you to the Library. I was taking some books back anyway, and maybe I can help you with your research."

"That won't be necessary," said Draco.

"Oh no, but I want to," said Crabbe.

The Library was not full. There were about five other students sitting at desks, poring over the massive leather bound volumes of magical lore in which the Hogwarts Library seemed to abound. Draco looked around desperately, but in the half light could not tell if any of them was Hermione.

"Wait for me here," said Crabbe, striding over to Madam Pince's desk. "I can help you look for the books you need."

Draco could do nothing but lean casually against one of the bookcases and wait as Crabbe got his books stamped and paid his overdue fines. He kept turning round, evidently to check on Draco.

"Pssst!" someone hissed. Draco spun round, hoping it was Hermione. Indeed it was ... she was peering him through a gap in the shelves.

"I thought you weren't going to show up," said Draco joyfully, momentarily forgetting about Crabbe. "Look, someone else decided to come with me. It isn't worth you risking your neck by trying to talk to me here. I'll try and slip away from him. Meet me out by the Greenhouses. Fifteen minutes?"

Hermione nodded, and disappeared from view.

"Draco ... who were you talking to?" Crabbe's voice.

Draco spun round to face Crabbe, who was standing just behind him. Hoping to goodness that he hadn't seen exactly who he was talking to, he said. "Nobody."

"I can tell when you're lying," said Crabbe. "Your earlobes go all red."

Draco put his hands to his ears self consciously. "I was looking at an interesting book," he said. He could feel an itching, tickling sensation running down his spine. It felt as though somebody was using him as an electricity conduit.

"You were talking to somebody," said Crabbe. "You were whispering. If you're going to try tricking me, Draco, at least try not to make it quite so blatantly obvious that that's what you're doing."

"Who said anything about tricking you, Vincent?" said Draco, playing his 'innocence' card. His Mother, when she was actually in a parenting mood, and passing a rare moment by not sitting at her dressing table, trying different types of lipstick, was often wont to tell Draco in a patronising voice how 'perfectly sweet' he had been as a little boy, and that he was still her 'little baby really.' Draco hoped she was right, and not just being indulgent. From the expression on Crabbe's face, she was being indulgent.

"Just watch it, Draco," said Crabbe, putting his face close up to Draco's. "Your folks might fall for the cute act, but not me. I'm not as stupid as you think I am," he spat the last words with such ferocity that he sprayed Draco in the face with spittle. Draco wiped it off on the sleeve of his robes.

"Just piss off and leave me alone," said Draco, scowling at Crabbe. "I didn't ask for this to happen to me..."

"But you see, Draco, you did," said Crabbe, scowling back with equal venom. "I'm starting to get annoyed with you Draco. Believe me, I don't like you so much that I'd be prepared to let you get away with insulting me and walking off unscathed."

"Just let me go!" said Draco, raising his voice. The other students reading turned to stare at the disturbance, and Madam Pince hissed for quiet.

"If you boys can't keep it down over there, I will be forced to ban you."

Crabbe seized Draco by the left forearm. "Come on, Draco. Let's finish this somewhere else," so saying, he led him out of the Library at the double.