Series: Minor Arcana. Sequel to "Declaro" (rating R). You really need to read that first, I think. Find it through the author link @ ff.net or skyehawke.com.

Rating: R.

Pairings: This chapter – elements of SS/DM, HP/DM, SS/HP, RW/HG.

Notes: Dialogue just seemed to drag this time, and I couldn't quite edit it to anything tighter. Every time I tried they kept wanting to talk about something else. And Snape, Snape is just talking far too much. I blame ff.net.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling.

Archiving: Only where I've agreed.

Feedback/Reviews: Definitely – especially to tell me what works and what doesn't.

Dedication: All chapter 4 is for xikum, although as it's not very HP/SS, she may wish she got a different one.

Pervinco IV (b): Knight of Pentacles

SEVERUS:

The clock announces Office Hours and the door clicks open.

Within a minute there's a polite knock. I've been expecting him, but also wishing it was over. There's been little time for sleep and I've been thinking about him more than is reasonable, more than I should, and in ways that won't make this easier.

"Mr. Malfoy, come in."

Draco enters with a sheaf of papers, wearing a blue silk robe that clings to his chest and hips, and against which his eyes look quite blue. It's not the most attractive look for him. The cut, and the emphasis on his hair and eyes, is too feminine. He looks like a too carefully dressed girl, and too delicate. You can see he knows and resents that.

But as he moves to slide into a chair and the fabric swishes across the leather, there's a prickling across my skin at the thought of running a hand over the silk to feel it move against the boy's skin.

I catch the flicker that suggests Draco knows what I'm thinking, but I'll let it slide. I'm not quite sure if I'm encouraging him. Clearly I've been spending far too much time with, rather than just around, adolescents. Potter's eyes fluttering as I touch him. Inelegant blue silk slithering.

"The blue really isn't you," I finally say.

"I need someone to find a tradition with a better colour scheme," he replies smoothly, leaning forward to place the small pile of papers on my desk, silk whispering. "But it's that time."

"You've made your decisions?"

"These are the declarations I've retained for the second stage. I thought you might look through the texts, rather than just the names." I see him twist my ring on his finger; he wants me to see. "I'd value your opinion."

I pull them towards me, with a momentary flash of disappointment that I won't be on this list. We would certainly enjoy the first few months, before the distrust and paranoia set in, before his need for something he can't ever accept drove him to hate me, before we started searching out more painful weaknesses and betraying each other pre-emptively. I didn't need Lucius' instruction to know courting Draco would be a bad idea. "Has Lucius seen these?"

"Not from me, but probably."

I flick through the pages. Elise Mansour's letter refers to money, a job, political and social connections, implies a marriage contract, and is bound to be the standard. Filius Hartwood: young, good-looking, wealthy, a moron, his father's puppet. "I thought I advised you to drop Hartwood?"

"Father was insistent, and I think I can handle Filius." His mouth twists with distate. "He was also emphatic about Parkinson." I flick past the next formulaic letter.

"Parkinson for Ministry and Durmstrang connections. But why Hartwood," I wonder aloud. "I suppose we shall find out." I just catch Draco's small intake of breath. The expression on his face is guarded by the time I look up, but I know what the sound meant, and wonder if the surprise is over my interest or my admission of it. "Did he comment on Delacour?"

"He was curious, as she was on his list to be rejected."

"He's unlikely to complain at this stage. She's an obvious prospect, although her father has dubious commitments," Draco raises an eyebrow, and I can't help but appreciate the slight asymmetry as well as the tribute to myself, "from a certain point of view."

I turn to the final sheet and have to quash the urge to tell him I won't permit it. "Lupin?"

"Was my choice."

"And Lucius. . ?"

"Assumed he was your recommendation, and implied he would be asking for an explanation."

We both want to know if I will help him with this. "Perhaps you should explain my reasoning to me."

"Remus," it's Remus now, he stresses it just slightly to let me know, "keeps me close to Dumbledore, gives me a safe place at Hogwarts, knows many influential people, has not inconsiderable talents."

All things I could have done and we both know it. But I'd have to take special leave of my senses before I played those games with a Malfoy again. "That's it?"

"I wouldn't mind teaching." I know he'd rather teach Potions, though the Dark Arts is the other subject in which he excels. "And he's tolerably attractive, if untidy bordering on scruffy appeals."

"As I'm assuming it must."

"Not especially," he says in a quiet voice and I look away from his expression – as if this is the last chance for something that never had a chance.

He can't seriously mean to take Lupin as a lover. It's ludicrous, or some passing thing to anger me. I reread Lupin's letter, which seems serious and tenable and fills me with suspicion. I remind myself it was all Dumbledore's idea.

"Which reminds me," Draco continues as if the pause didn't conceal so much, "can we do something about the Gryffindor infestation – the dungeons are positively crawling with them."

"Mr Weasley will keep to himself. He certainly wants to be here less than the Slytherins want him here – although you're residing in Gryffindor yourself." He smirks at me as if I know better, and I'm tempted to push the question about Lupin.

"I didn't realise using spells that border on unforgiveable would get me a place in your rooms – I just knew there was a strategy I hadn't considered." I should crush his impudence, but I have to laugh.

"Also, Granger and Potter are waiting outside," he says through the grin, "But don't worry, he's not wearing blue."

I'm over-indulging the brat, I know, but it may be for the best. "I'll be sure to pass on your interest in his apparel, Mr Malfoy," I say, pushing his letters towards him. "Your father may accept my 'explanation' about Lupin, but I fail to see what you will gain from prolonging that tension till midwinter."

"I mean to accept him, if I can." My surprise must register in some way because he adds, "Obviously I would prefer to remain at Hogwarts." When I don't respond, because the repercussions of that preference are rapidly multiplying, he adds, "You'd prefer I didn't remain at Hogwarts?"

"We'll talk next week, Draco," I say steadily. "Send Granger in, tell Potter to wait."

He takes his letters – I can almost hear the obscene silk garment slide across his thighs – but pauses on his way to the door.

"Would you ask Harry to speak to me?" he says, without turning back.

"Why would I do that?"

"I'm cut off from Slytherin, he's cut off from Gryffindor," he doesn't say all over you, but I feel the implication. "We can help one another."

"Would you be helping him, Draco?"

He nods. "If you want me to." But how long, boy dragon, before you suspect he has something you want. Draco looks at me then, and I know he is already sure of that, and there's nothing I could do to correct him.

"I will talk to him. But I will also remind him to be careful."

His pleased smile reminds me that he's seventeen, and how much I really want to crawl back into my Potions laboratory, far from all of these children with their needs and wants and offers.

* * *

The girl made a flustered exit, and Snape can't help being pleased. She's always been irritatingly sure of herself – intelligent, yes, she can use what she knows, but she knows far less than she thinks, including about herself.

Harry Potter came in rather cautiously.

"Mr Potter."

Taking the green armchair obviously placed for students, he clasped his hands together, scanning the room nervously as Snape has seen him do before.

"You had something to say, Mr Potter?"

"Yes," Harry brushed untidy hair out of his face. "I'm sorry," he said emphatically.

Snape leant back in his chair, "About what, in particular?"

"The party, after the party, yesterday. And before."

"Usually apologies are rather more specific." Harry shrugged. "All right. I expect you to be capable of better judgment than you showed at the Malfoy party."

"I know." Snape watched him run another hand through his hair. "It's frustrating, not knowing what people want. I know you think I'm naively obvious," Snape didn't correct him, "but there's a big gap between that and never saying what you want or mean."

Snape pushed his marking away across the desk and turned his chair pointedly towards Harry Potter. "Are you asking me a question?"

There was one of those pauses in which Harry wished he knew the right thing to ask. Certainly those weren't confined to Snape, but lately he was definitely at the top of the list.

"Can I ask about Ron?"

* * *

Seamus and Hermione were attempting to play chess in the common room when Harry came in. As usual there were cautious and speculative looks thrown his way, a tension around him that was more difficult now Ron was gone.

He didn't have to ask her – as he went up to his room he heard Hermione plead how tired she was and the others wish her goodnight sympathetically. He left his door open.

"Harry," she said, coming straight to where he sat on the bed, "what did he say?"

"He won't let me help him." She nodded, unsurprised. "I explained how much more Ron needs to be here," Hermione took his hand, "and that it wouldn't bother me," she squeezed it. "I think he's not to keen on the idea of me hanging around all the time."

"He's offered me an apprenticeship," she said in voice that seemed uncertain whether it was happy or not, "or rather a trial, starting after Christmas, to see if I really want it."

"That's wonderful."

"You knew! He told you."

"Yeah. I'm happy for you, Mione, you deserve it. But, did he say anything about Ron?"

"Only that I'd see him in classes tomorrow, and if I want to talk to him he'll be having lunch with us in the Great Hall every day."

"Was what Ron did really that bad?" Hermione pulled away, biting her lip. "Sorry. I mean, it's terrible that it happened, but he didn't mean to, and Ron won't stop you casting whatever you want to cast."

"But that's not how it works. It's not just the Pervinco spell, it's anything he wouldn't genuinely want me to do, and how do I know where that stops?"

"But he didn't know, you know he didn't! You didn't even know and you're. . ."

"Don't you think I know that? That I should have known – that everybody thinks it's me that should have known!" She lay back on the bed, looking at the moon pattern the bed curtains. "And they're right. I can't believe I let him do it."

"You did it because you love Ron."

"But why do I?"

"What?" Harry paused, taking that in. "Because he's Ron – you're Hermione and he's Ron."

"I told Snape it was my fault, and he asked me what I wanted with Ron Weasley if I didn't even think he was capable of being responsible for his own mistakes." Harry lay down next to her and waited. "And I don't know the answer."

There was a long silence – long enough that the pattern of moonlight had moved. After a while, Hermione took Harry's hand again in the dim light, and a little later she rolled into his arm to rest her head on his chest.

"You remember when you said Snape or Draco might have some kind of spell on me, because of how. . . abnormally I was acting?"

She nodded against his robe, and her hair tickled his face. She slid an arm across his chest and whispered, "Yes".

"It's ironic, isn't it?"

* * *

Severus took the candle from his desk to light his way to bed. His leg brushed against the chair in which Draco had lounged, provoking him; in which Harry had curled, looking vulnerable. Potter afraid that loneliness would harm a friend has none of the edge of the young man that shuddered in Snape's arms, lashes brushing his cheek, heated lips apart.

Turning back the covers he couldn't help but wonder, and in his mind they flashed, superimposed across his candlelit bed. He snuffed out the light, easing into the cold sheets that dragged uncomfortably against his semi-hard prick. Severus Snape had immense self-control, and he would sleep regardless. But it would be easier, more pleasant. . .

A soft hand glanced across his stomach and folded around his prick and he let it, easily at first and then more firmly, more slickly. Get it over with. Malfoy twisting his bare hips towards him, a long writhing arm across the white sheet, daring prick upright and glistening, licking his lips. Potter's hair fanning across the pillow as his neck arched and he gasped in that urgent unpracticed responsive way, as Severus ran a tongue across a tight nipple – for the very first time – and reached down to grasp that delicious cock again and hear that breathy aching noise once more. Another hand grasped his balls gently and coaxed his cock higher and harder. Draco's tongue sliding out of a sexy smirk to trace the tip of his penis; Harry's green eyes closing as he arched to direct his firm young arse back onto. . ; Severus came hard with a groan that seemed to reach right down into his groin.

* * *

"Forethought," Ron muttered resentfully to the dark green door. It didn't budge until he said it loudly and clearly. The young Slytherin girls cautiously passing on the opposite side of the corridor giggled, and he turned to scowl at them. They ran in a laughing gaggle to the stairs.

"Stupid Slytherin bints," he grumbled, closing the door behind him and beginning to unpack his book bag. He already knew everything had to be exactly where everything went, even in his own rooms. Snape routinely inspected the workroom, and even his bedroom had to be tidy.

On the board near the door was this afternoon's list. Ron groaned. Newts' eyes. He hated newts' eyes. A row of glass bottles were lined up on one shelf, and a large tub he could already smell sat in the middle of the workbench. A lot of newts' eyes.

"Mr Weasley," Snape said, coming in the door from his own rooms. Ron had spent most of the first week setting up these two small rooms by hand, no magic: one to work and one to sleep. It already felt like a prison, and the Christmas break seemed a lifetime away.

"I'm late because of a meeting with Professor McGonagall and my parents." Ron knew by now not to apologise, just to explain.

Snape nodded and gestured to the desk, where a stack of papers lay. Ron looked at them without even pretending enthusiasm. "What is a potion? Dreamless Sleep." He turned a page and looked up at Snape. "1st year Potions essays?"

"The newts' eyes need to be extracted after sunset, and you will clearly mark the bottles as such. Until then you can mark this drivel."

"I," Ron gaped. "I've never been any good at Potions."

"You've never attempted to be any good at it. But you have passed six years of my classes. I doubt this pile of misspelled bumbling is beyond even you." Ron sighed unhappily. "If you finish these in time we will work on reflexive cursing upstairs. Your reaction time is appalling and we missed last week's tutorial."

Ron took his seat at the desk. "I didn't think you'd be teaching me any more."

"I finish what I start." Ron nodded and picked up his quill. "What, no moaning Weasley? If you don't accuse me of inhuman cruelty or slavery before I leave I shall think I've not given you enough to do. You'll put my evening routine quite out."

Ron opened the first essay:

What is a Potion? Dreemless Sleep.

By Andrew McVay.

A potien is mixing things to do something the wizard wants to have done. . .

Snape was still here.

"Was there anything else?" Snape leant against the workbench, apparently untroubled by dead newt stench, and indicated he should proceed. Ron looked back down at McVay's paper and corrected the spelling. Snape was. . . "You're not going to stand there and watch me are you?"

"I was rather waiting for the breakdown. My father is so ashamed of me, my mother cried; the love of my life scorns me as a selfish idiot. . ."

"Shut. Up." Ron said in a low hoarse voice. "Please just shut up and leave me alone."

"You don't want to rant and abuse me, then? I rather enjoy those sessions. Have you considered teaching as a future career?"

Ron glared at him, and Snape smirked back. Ron looked back down at the page and began correcting the grammar. He felt rather than saw Snape's shadow fall over him. "It's a relief to discover you do know what a complete sentence is in time for graduation."

"It was an accident," Ron whispered. "It was stupid, I should have been more careful, or asked. And why didn't Hermione notice, she's supposed to be the brilliant one and she didn't think. . ." he stopped, just on the edge of shouting and took a breath.

"My mother thinks I did it on purpose," he continued more calmly. "She didn't say so but I could see it. She thinks I was trying to stop Hermione going off without me," he looked up at Snape and realised he was crying; "Hermione thinks so too."

"Those who love you don't always know you best," Snape said quietly. "Now stop blubbering over your own stupidity and mark that stupidity instead. However, I have better things to do than watch you mope all evening so you can join the Gryffindor babble after dinner if you wish." Ron looked at the vat of dead amphibians. "They're in stasis; you can catch up tomorrow." Snape left.

The hardest thing about a potien is the long time waiting for everything.

God, Ron thought, what a waste of ink.