I'm back, after a heck of a break. I'm confused and I feel a need to kill
Draco.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In his room, Draco is sitting at an ornate table of some heavy, dark wood. A scroll of parchment, covered in fairly neat and very angsty writing is in front of him. The fireplace gutters again and suddenly Draco realizes that the vague feeling of discomfort in his stomach is hunger. He rises, stretching. The letter is safe here; he doubts that either of his roommates can read, and no one else would dare come up here.
~*~
Snape sat at the high table, sweating. Life must be preserved. Was the potion too late? Albus had said that Draco wouldn't do it tonight and had forbidden him to search for the boy. For two hours, he had jittered in Albus's office. It was against his nature to wait for an event. The good news was that the kitchens were back to some semblance of order. Winky was still cleaning his boots; he was wearing black socks with a glamour cast on them, and his feet were cold.
Albus passed his colleague a platter of fudge and watched, amused, as the younger man began buttering his dinner roll with it.
Draco's lateness to dinner didn't bother him at all. The boy was writing a long, ornate, and suitably biting suicide note. Idly, he wondered about the boy's admiration of his father. He had known Lucius for thirty years- he had changed the man's diapers, once. The man _was_ capable of inspiring admiration, but he was better at terror.
Snape glared at the unconcerned headmaster. *Albus, if you are wrong, the repercussions...* He stood, determined to go find the boy and stuff that damned potion down his throat if it killed both of them. He stabbed the man with a glare. "Albus."
The headmaster looked up. "Severus, do sit down. He's in the entrance hall now."
Snape turned just in time to see Draco appear in the doorway. He sat. *How does he _do_ that?*
~*~
In the kitchens, Winky finished the boots. She sent them up with a gesture. Snape jerked slightly, then looked down at his feet with approval. The boots shone black, looking suitably evil. He just hoped she had not used some abominably scented shoe polish, like rose petals or lemon. Albus peeked under the table.
"Severus, your boots look wonderful."
He nodded distractedly, passed Minerva the butter, and looked for the first time at his rather oddly adorned roll. "What the hell?..." He bit off a piece and started chewing.
~*~
At the tables, the teacher's odd behavior was unnoticed. Draco took a sip of his soda. It tasted rather odd, not at all fizzy. He wouldn't put it past the house elves to poison him, actually. A rolling sensation, like flying with wings, filled his head, and suddenly he felt immensely better. *Maybe it's mead.* One could hope- maybe the house elves had finally made a mistake. He drained the glass and refilled it from the same pitcher, suddenly thirsty. This time it was just soda, but it still tasted good. As the weak Obliviate that Snape had worked for hours to put into the mix took effect, he forgot that he had ever tasted anything unusual, and began eating like a teenaged boy, instead of a convicted criminal.
~*~
At the Head table, Dumbledore gave a sigh and many muscles in his aged shoulders untended. Minerva leaned across the table worriedly. "Albus?"
Snape cracked a smile that looked no less evil for being genuine, but still was wider than Minerva could recall ever seeing on his gloomy countenance. Quietly, but with emphasis, he muttered, "It worked."
Albus smiled. "Did you ever doubt it?"
"Of course not. Still, it is good to see the boy alive."
The very confused Transmogrification Professor looked between the two men. "What in hell are you two talking about?"
The headmaster smiled at her. "My dear Minerva. Could you please pass the salt?"
She resolved to drag it out of him later and passed him the pepper instead. He sprinkled a large amount on a potato. She stifled a smile, knowing that the students might faint if they saw it.
~*~
Dinner was over, and Draco Malfoy just wanted to go to sleep. On his way through the common room, he saw his books and was reminded of the potions essay he had been assigned. *Ah, hell. Wouldn't want Father thinking I slacked off just because I was going to kill myself tomorrow.* The best time, he knew, was the early morning. He couldn't do in the castle- it was the easiest way to be caught. Tonight, he was going to the Forbidden Forest and he would take his knife with him.
~*~
In the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Ron argued back and forth over their Divination homework.
"No, the Cannons!"
"Ron, the Bludged Terrors kicked the bloody hell out of the Cannons just last week. How could you think they could possibly beat the Captains?"
"They were just having a bad day!"
"Ron, they've lost every game they've played for the last month."
"No, they beat the Lakers, didn't they?"
"That doesn't count, Ron. The Lakers had never been on brooms before."
Hermione walked in, practically obscured by six editions of Moste Potente Potions. The oldest was on top, and its leather was old and dusty. She set them down with a sigh on the table. Harry pulled futilely at his Divinations homework. "'Mione, they're on top of my homework."
Ron was a bit brighter. "'Mione, what are you doing back? You just left."
She sighed and pulled a wooden chair closer to the table. Sinking onto the cushionless chair, she sounded embarrassed. "I wanted to study up for the potions final."
The two looked at each other and shook their heads. *That's our Hermione.*
Harry tugged at his homework again. Sighing, he picked up the top four books and set them on Ron's side of the table. He tugged his paper from under the remaining two and began writing predictions of his own death for the month of January.
Ron glared at his best friend. "What the hell was that for?"
Hermione settled the dispute by sniffing disdainfully at the homework and lifting the books into one large pile on a nearby and rather fragile- seeming coffee table. It squeaked nervously under the load. She dug out a roll of parchment, a quill, and ink, and began covering the one with the other without even looking at the books.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Cannons."
"Terrors."
"Canons."
"Tenors."
~*~
In the early hours of the morning, Dumbledore and Snape looked worriedly at each other. Hagrid had dragged a reluctant Draco into the Headmaster's office, and a and decidedly deadly knife sat on the table. Hagrid was still reprimanding the boy.
"There be creatures in that forest, master Malfoy, that could rip you to pieces and not stop to chew."
The pureblood just sat with distaste in a comfortable red chair. "What, like your dragons?"
Hagrid colored. "There be centaurs, and skrewts, and the spiders..."
Dumbledore waved a hand at the large man. "Thank you, Hagrid. You should get some sleep if you're to teach tomorrow."
Hagrid scratched his bushy black hair. "Aye, Headmaster, I will." He stopped just inside the doorway and pointed an angry finger at the young man. "And if I ever catch _you_ outside again..."
Draco yawned at the half-giant's retreating back. "He wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Much less you."
Draco ignored that and turned to Snape. "Sir, I understand why, as my Head of house, you're here, but I had an agreement with the headmaster-"
Snape trained a glare on the headmaster that made Fawkes squawk. "I've been informed."
Draco stood, outraged. "You _told!?_"
Dumbledore polished his glasses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Because this needs explanation. I'm sorry for my infrequent updates, my unsatisfactory apologies, and for not posting the last three chapters of Anaheit. I'm just not depressed enough. The next chapter is written in my head and on paper... in extremely different versions... opinions welcome.
REVIEW!!! I'll review you back, I promise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In his room, Draco is sitting at an ornate table of some heavy, dark wood. A scroll of parchment, covered in fairly neat and very angsty writing is in front of him. The fireplace gutters again and suddenly Draco realizes that the vague feeling of discomfort in his stomach is hunger. He rises, stretching. The letter is safe here; he doubts that either of his roommates can read, and no one else would dare come up here.
~*~
Snape sat at the high table, sweating. Life must be preserved. Was the potion too late? Albus had said that Draco wouldn't do it tonight and had forbidden him to search for the boy. For two hours, he had jittered in Albus's office. It was against his nature to wait for an event. The good news was that the kitchens were back to some semblance of order. Winky was still cleaning his boots; he was wearing black socks with a glamour cast on them, and his feet were cold.
Albus passed his colleague a platter of fudge and watched, amused, as the younger man began buttering his dinner roll with it.
Draco's lateness to dinner didn't bother him at all. The boy was writing a long, ornate, and suitably biting suicide note. Idly, he wondered about the boy's admiration of his father. He had known Lucius for thirty years- he had changed the man's diapers, once. The man _was_ capable of inspiring admiration, but he was better at terror.
Snape glared at the unconcerned headmaster. *Albus, if you are wrong, the repercussions...* He stood, determined to go find the boy and stuff that damned potion down his throat if it killed both of them. He stabbed the man with a glare. "Albus."
The headmaster looked up. "Severus, do sit down. He's in the entrance hall now."
Snape turned just in time to see Draco appear in the doorway. He sat. *How does he _do_ that?*
~*~
In the kitchens, Winky finished the boots. She sent them up with a gesture. Snape jerked slightly, then looked down at his feet with approval. The boots shone black, looking suitably evil. He just hoped she had not used some abominably scented shoe polish, like rose petals or lemon. Albus peeked under the table.
"Severus, your boots look wonderful."
He nodded distractedly, passed Minerva the butter, and looked for the first time at his rather oddly adorned roll. "What the hell?..." He bit off a piece and started chewing.
~*~
At the tables, the teacher's odd behavior was unnoticed. Draco took a sip of his soda. It tasted rather odd, not at all fizzy. He wouldn't put it past the house elves to poison him, actually. A rolling sensation, like flying with wings, filled his head, and suddenly he felt immensely better. *Maybe it's mead.* One could hope- maybe the house elves had finally made a mistake. He drained the glass and refilled it from the same pitcher, suddenly thirsty. This time it was just soda, but it still tasted good. As the weak Obliviate that Snape had worked for hours to put into the mix took effect, he forgot that he had ever tasted anything unusual, and began eating like a teenaged boy, instead of a convicted criminal.
~*~
At the Head table, Dumbledore gave a sigh and many muscles in his aged shoulders untended. Minerva leaned across the table worriedly. "Albus?"
Snape cracked a smile that looked no less evil for being genuine, but still was wider than Minerva could recall ever seeing on his gloomy countenance. Quietly, but with emphasis, he muttered, "It worked."
Albus smiled. "Did you ever doubt it?"
"Of course not. Still, it is good to see the boy alive."
The very confused Transmogrification Professor looked between the two men. "What in hell are you two talking about?"
The headmaster smiled at her. "My dear Minerva. Could you please pass the salt?"
She resolved to drag it out of him later and passed him the pepper instead. He sprinkled a large amount on a potato. She stifled a smile, knowing that the students might faint if they saw it.
~*~
Dinner was over, and Draco Malfoy just wanted to go to sleep. On his way through the common room, he saw his books and was reminded of the potions essay he had been assigned. *Ah, hell. Wouldn't want Father thinking I slacked off just because I was going to kill myself tomorrow.* The best time, he knew, was the early morning. He couldn't do in the castle- it was the easiest way to be caught. Tonight, he was going to the Forbidden Forest and he would take his knife with him.
~*~
In the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Ron argued back and forth over their Divination homework.
"No, the Cannons!"
"Ron, the Bludged Terrors kicked the bloody hell out of the Cannons just last week. How could you think they could possibly beat the Captains?"
"They were just having a bad day!"
"Ron, they've lost every game they've played for the last month."
"No, they beat the Lakers, didn't they?"
"That doesn't count, Ron. The Lakers had never been on brooms before."
Hermione walked in, practically obscured by six editions of Moste Potente Potions. The oldest was on top, and its leather was old and dusty. She set them down with a sigh on the table. Harry pulled futilely at his Divinations homework. "'Mione, they're on top of my homework."
Ron was a bit brighter. "'Mione, what are you doing back? You just left."
She sighed and pulled a wooden chair closer to the table. Sinking onto the cushionless chair, she sounded embarrassed. "I wanted to study up for the potions final."
The two looked at each other and shook their heads. *That's our Hermione.*
Harry tugged at his homework again. Sighing, he picked up the top four books and set them on Ron's side of the table. He tugged his paper from under the remaining two and began writing predictions of his own death for the month of January.
Ron glared at his best friend. "What the hell was that for?"
Hermione settled the dispute by sniffing disdainfully at the homework and lifting the books into one large pile on a nearby and rather fragile- seeming coffee table. It squeaked nervously under the load. She dug out a roll of parchment, a quill, and ink, and began covering the one with the other without even looking at the books.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Cannons."
"Terrors."
"Canons."
"Tenors."
~*~
In the early hours of the morning, Dumbledore and Snape looked worriedly at each other. Hagrid had dragged a reluctant Draco into the Headmaster's office, and a and decidedly deadly knife sat on the table. Hagrid was still reprimanding the boy.
"There be creatures in that forest, master Malfoy, that could rip you to pieces and not stop to chew."
The pureblood just sat with distaste in a comfortable red chair. "What, like your dragons?"
Hagrid colored. "There be centaurs, and skrewts, and the spiders..."
Dumbledore waved a hand at the large man. "Thank you, Hagrid. You should get some sleep if you're to teach tomorrow."
Hagrid scratched his bushy black hair. "Aye, Headmaster, I will." He stopped just inside the doorway and pointed an angry finger at the young man. "And if I ever catch _you_ outside again..."
Draco yawned at the half-giant's retreating back. "He wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Much less you."
Draco ignored that and turned to Snape. "Sir, I understand why, as my Head of house, you're here, but I had an agreement with the headmaster-"
Snape trained a glare on the headmaster that made Fawkes squawk. "I've been informed."
Draco stood, outraged. "You _told!?_"
Dumbledore polished his glasses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Because this needs explanation. I'm sorry for my infrequent updates, my unsatisfactory apologies, and for not posting the last three chapters of Anaheit. I'm just not depressed enough. The next chapter is written in my head and on paper... in extremely different versions... opinions welcome.
REVIEW!!! I'll review you back, I promise.