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

Rating: This chapter R, I think, but only just.

Pairings: This chapter – elements of SS/DM, HP/DM, SS/HP, suggestions of DM/RL.

Notes: This point right here is half way through Pervinco. About which I'm more than a little pleased. This is also the longest chapter, with lots of turning points and, I hope, some explication.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling.

Archiving: Only where I've agreed.

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

Pervinco V (b):  The Gift

Lupin's tutorials were exhausting, and not as much fun as the students had expected. There was a seriousness to it all, casting and deflecting the same minor curse over and over again. One of the Hufflepuffs even sighed as they went in.

"Good evening," Lupin said from the rear of the room. He crossed towards them quickly, with a rare energy and a warm smile. Ron met Harry's eye and shrugged. "This week I think we're ready for a change," the Professor continued. "It's not technically Defense Against the Dark Arts, although it can be useful." From the rear door, Professor McGonagall came in, along with the new Charms tutor, both in black but to entirely different effect. Harry looked in Draco's direction, but he was talking to Blaise as if the way Dante looked for him across the room was unimportant.

"Professor McGonagall will be sharing her expertise with us this week. And I believe you've all met Mr Sangermano, who will be assisting." There was a smattering of applause when Dante bowed to the assembled students, and Lupin and McGonagall exchanged a wry look above his lowered head. Dante gave them all an intimate smile and Lavender had to grab Padma's hand.

"We have extra staff because this evening we're going to attempt animal transfigurations," Lupin continued. "Please collect your folio from Draco now."

Hermione was speechless with excitement and Harry had to take her copy of the lesson as well. Draco gave him a slight smile with one arched eyebrow and Harry grinned back. Someone behind him made a gagging noise, but he didn't look.

* * *

PANSY:

Ah, there's another pulled thread. I can't abide cats. And McGonagall as a cat is as unattractive as McGonagall as a human. The least they could do is ensure that teachers don't attack us.

Face is fine; hair is – Pansy ran her hands through her blond curls – better; robe is, well I probably need that restorative charm but it will do till I get to the dormitory. I wouldn't be seen dead in the Great Hall like this.

Draco might have warned us.

Huh.

I don't know that I've ever seen him laugh like that. Loud and open, those perfect teeth, that girlish mouth. I wonder what Draco would do if I ever held him down and whispered across his lips, 'Draco, you have a girl's mouth'?

Mm. It's terrible to think anyone would waste that on Eustacia. Sexless cow. It's not even a safe cover, like with Gran-ger – oh, I'd love to see that girl really lose it some time and I could be very flexible as to how as well. No, I don't think Eustacia's ever experienced a hormone.

And who is Draco laughing for? Not Potter – although the-boy-who-drooled is certainly the comedy act of the year – Draco's far too happy to let people say it. I remember the time he had Goyle pinned against the ceiling for an hour, sweating and crying, for just hinting about him and Snape, when everyone in Slytherin suspects that. You'd just need a lobotomy to be stupid enough to mention it. Those boys are such fun, like big lumbering dogs you just can't help teasing with the same old stick. 

So. . . Dante? Gorgeous, but nothing to offer – just one of those exploitable itinerant tutors who'll be so much less in demand once he starts to go bald or get wrinkles. Lupin? There was definitely a look there. But, again, why?

Oh, and look, that's completely torn. McGonagall's a vicious old bat.

* * *

SEAMUS:

That was wicked.

Dean grins at me in the mirror, and heads over to the showers. Yeah, wicked.

We're never allowed to try transformations except one tiny step at a time while McGonagall's standing right over us. You'd think the whole Animagus thing was a path to the dark side or something. I tell Neville and he's explaining why you need to register. . . Dean would have got it.

And how cool was Lupin? He's always so quiet and that was just. . . cool.

"How funny was it when Parkinson got chased by McGonagall?" Neville's got to laugh at that. Though even as a cat Pansy's turned out pretty cute.

The skin on my face still burns. Who'd want to be a bird anyway? I'm still trying to wash away the sting when Harry comes in. I try not to be in the bathroom with him now cause, well, yeah, but he's kind of lost since Ron went. Can't believe he'd really do it with Malfoy, though. Reckon it's a Cho rumour, she's pretty down on both of them. And boy the Ravenclaws are weird this year – really keep to themselves.

"Do you think we'll really get to use those spells in the trials?" I say, keeping an eye on him in the mirror as he comes over for a towel. "I'll never get the marks for Animagus, and it would be so cool to do something like a wolf."

"I think so," Harry says, kind of distracted, going into the shower.

Shit, Dean's still in there.

* * *

Harry sat in the window seat looking down on the frosty grass, sparkling in places under the torchlight. Hermione was combing back through her books, looking for tips for tomorrow. Although only a few students managed to become their selected animal, Mione didn't really accept that she couldn't do it. She hadn't actually blamed Ron, but his ginger tabby cat was pretty good, if a little thin and wobbly, and that had to sting. Harry couldn't do it either, but he knew it might take time. But even if they were only temporary animal transfiguration spells, Hermione still felt they'd been working up to this for years and she was failing.

Harry hadn't been concentrating, anyway. First there was the distraction of Draco's hawk, the best transformation in the class – he'd even managed to fly. Sangermano had praised it highly, settling a hand on Draco's shoulder. Harry really didn't think that was an appropriate way for a teacher to look at a student. Lupin must have noticed. 

"Even better than last time," Sangermano had said, his hand on Draco. The others probably assumed they practiced before class, but Harry knew. Dante had already seen Draco toss his head back like that, dark brown lines rippling up his neck and feathering out through his hair. It was disturbing and sexy, and disturbing to find it so sexy. Harry shifted in the seat; Hermione closed another book abruptly.

Draco's Animagus form wouldn't be a bird though, not even the sharp dark hawk. He'd be something like a white cat. Draco as a sleek cat was a strangely enticing thought, even though Harry had pretty much accepted that everything about Draco turned him on. Everything physical, anyway. The way his head tilted when he asked a question to which he actually didn't know the answer. His particular wand grip – two fingers forward, two curled back. The shift of his shoulders when he laughed.  His voice over Harry's shoulder, teasing him about the intimate attention of Zabini's slobbering puppyish wolf.

Not that Draco actually cared, of course, it was just a parody of Harry's own jealousy. Not over Sangermano's attention, Draco didn't seem interested, but over the way Lupin made Draco laugh, and the way he pulled him back towards their quarters at the end of class, covering the awkward moment with an invitation to come for afternoon tea on Sunday. As if Draco's time already belonged to him, to keep or to share.

The thing between Draco and Snape, Harry thought he mostly understood. They definitely wanted each other – Harry bent his forehead to the glass – perhaps they even cared about each other – more than me on both counts, a small strong inner voice insisted. Harry puffed a white breath onto the glass. But Snape would never risk it, because it was always going to be either used or crushed by Draco's father. And then there was all that circling Slytherin suspicion. Perhaps there were advantages to being a naïve Gryffindor after all – how ironic, or at least convenient. But if he knew where he stood with that, in a way, the same wasn't true of Lupin, or the annoying Dante.

"Harry!" He turned to Hermione, who looked concerned. "You were in another world." She came to sit beside him and they watched the torches being extinguished and the surreal crystal world disappearing piece by piece. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?"

* * *

SEVERUS:

The foolishness of this meeting is not lost on me. I've rationalised it in many ways, but it comes down to the irritating fact that I was, in some way, jealous of a boy smiling at another boy. I've never been allowed to be blind to my own faults. But I'm not rash, and it's a long time since I did something so ill-advised.

I concentrate on checking Weasley's marks. It's not necessary, but I've developed an interest in his pain and isolation – it's almost an experiment in character – and both are more visible here than in anything he'll say to me or his attempts to carry on as usual.

Andrea Fallon, the new Granger; this should be interesting.

"Trite.   A-"

Perhaps I should suggest that we kick all the Weasleys out of Gryffindor.

Especially the girl. I've noticed her watching me, of course, and far less subtly than Bulstrode. I'm sure Potter thinks it was thoughtful, even noble, not to reject her outright. Instead it would be a mercy to put her out of her misery. As easily distracted as all the younger Weasleys, she's now utterly incompetent in class, and not only in Potions. Potter would never be interested in her anyway, however energetic and confident she strives to be, except out of desperate obligation or self-loathing. He's capable of both, of course, and of more interesting responses – certainly more interesting than the scrawny shadow of James Potter that turned up in first year. 

He knocks.

I let him wait.

* * *

Dumbledore and Hagrid were already waiting, with tea and biscuits, when Harry entered the Headmaster's parlour.

"Harry," Hagrid exclaimed, drawing him into a warm hug.

It was wonderful to see him. Amongst the comfortable cushions in inappropriately combined colours, in the morning sun through the Headmaster's window, they chatted about the griffins until Dumbledore finished his tea with a significant clink.

"Before we begin, Harry," Dumbledore began, in an even tone which made Harry unaccountably nervous, "Is there anything we need to know?"

"Uh, what about? I mean, you probably know better than me. "

"Hagrid and I will be best able to help you if we know what you want."

"Oh."

"Ginny's a lovely girl," Hagrid said warmly, "and right pretty these days, eh?" Harry felt suddenly as if this conversation was going to be much worse than the meetings. When he was obviously trying to find something to say, Hagrid slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Don't mind me Harry, I didn't mean anything. No reason to be thinking of that kinda thing, o'course."

Harry looked somewhat desperately at Dumbledore, who must know about his arrangement with Snape, but the Headmaster didn't seem inclined to help him. Hagrid waited expectedly. Dumbledore glanced at the clock.

"I want to accept Professor Snape." Nobody exploded. "But I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so I thought I could meet them and say thank you – that kind of thing."

"And Mr Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked.

"I didn't want him to get into trouble – and I know, Hagrid, before you say it, he's an utter git most of the time – but he doesn't deserve, well, you know his father."

He met the Headmaster's quiet appraising gaze, and wasn't sure how much or how little he wanted Dumbledore to know. Maybe Dumbledore could explain it all to him. He looked at Hagrid then, who was snuffling at biscuit crumbs in his beard.

"Hagrid?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you hear? I mean to accept Professor Snape?"

"Course I did, Harry. That's all right then. We'll just be polite to the others."

"You're not going to say 'Not that greasy git' or 'But Harry he's a death eater'?"

"I reckon there's a thing or two you could learn from Professor Snape, though I reckon too you'd have a sight more fun with Ginny Weasley."

Harry nodded as if that wasn't surreal. "And the death eater thing?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn't have a death eater here." Harry took the breath that would help him find a way to mention Quirrell and Crouch, but Hagrid added, "Least not one everyone suspects already. Ain't that right Headmaster?"

"I trust Severus," Dumbledore said, but his eyes didn't leave Harry's for a long moment.

* * *

SEVERUS:

"Did you know that Millicent Bulstrode has been following you? You and Harry Potter."

"It's not a complete shock," he says.

Grey eyes framed by Lucius' sculpted face and Narcissa's porcelain skin, but they're Draco's own: cautious, attentive, and heated at once. So many expectations but no certainties. "She claims not to be acting under duress or instruction," I tell him. He considers it, running a hand through stiffly moulded hair, a look I haven't seen in weeks.

"My father wouldn't choose her – she's neither stupid nor clever enough."

I can only agree. "I think she'll keep to herself for a while."

"Is that why you wanted to see me?" He knows that can't be all, but I refuse to begin something where I can't reasonably predict the outcome. "I brought you something," he adds, before I can reply, or decide what to reply, producing a flat, dark-coloured box from beneath today's round of letters and papers.

The dark-blue silk he so coolly resents brushes against my sleeve.

* * *

The meeting with Hilary Malkin was, after all, more strange than traumatic.  She was, unsurprisingly, impeccably dressed, in deep crimson. She came with her mother, the famous robemaker, who politely greeted Hagrid and Dumbledore and expressed herself delighted with Harry.

At Hagrid's suggestion, Harry had decided that he would take each of them for a walk – things to look at when it was awkward, some privacy, and reassuringly familiar surroundings.

It was a cool, mostly clear day, although there were clouds on the horizon across the lake. Hilary was quiet, but sure of herself. She quickly established that she was not expecting Harry to really negotiate with her.

Somewhat disconcerted by not having to explain himself, Harry asked why not.

"You're Harry Potter, silly."

"Oh. Then, why. . . did somebody make you?"

A chill breeze picked up across the lake and she pulled up the hood on her gown as she laughed. "I think you're missing the significance of the 'You're Harry Potter' thing."

"You don't seem to mind if I'm not interested."

"Frankly, I'm relieved. It's not like I can compete with most of your other supplicants. But thanks for keeping me in, it's done wonders for my social capital. Even Marcus Flint asked me out."

"Flint? But he's. . . Isn't he?" She looked at him curiously. "I thought he was gay," he finished a little lamely.

"Mm, yes, I think so. But, you know, one must marry and have children. No point in reviving wizarding culture if there are no wizards to share it." She gave him a calm smile, and Harry laughed.

"You were in Slytherin, weren't you?"

"Oh no," she laughed. "Malkins are always Ravenclaws."

At the door, Hilary stopped. "I don't think I'll go back in. I can see Mother's carriage and, well, Dumbledore – he's a frightful old bird, isn't he?"

As she turned to go Harry said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Harry."

"Why Veritaserum?"

"Oh did you like it? A friend recommended it for you."

"Yes, thank you," Harry said without pause. "Which friend?"

"Narcissa, of course, she's a wiz at gifts."

* * *

Severus rose from his seat by the fire as Draco re-entered the room.

"Father. Professor," Draco said, acknowledging each of them with a polite nod.

After all these years he supposed they had many topics of conversation, but he still wondered what they would talk about. Coming back up the stairs he'd wondered about the possibilities for eavesdropping.

"Have a seat, Draco," Snape said, and his father expressed no objection. Draco hesitated infinitesimally before moving to the chair rather than the lounge beside the Professor. How long, exactly, since the three of them were in a room together?

"You seem thoughtful, Draco," his father said smoothly and Draco looked up quickly. With the shallowest of breaths he began the repression charm, hopefully covering it by the shift required to pass his father the envelope.

"Yes, Father. A little."

"And what are you thinking," Lucius continued, one eye on his son as he removed the parchment and unfolded it.

"She's pleasant, I suppose, but not very attractive."

"I am assuming you will not find any woman attractive, Draco." He gestured with the paper. "An apartment in Paris?" Draco nodded. "It's a strange gift, but demonstrates their commitment well enough."

"I was, thinking, Father, of the Malfoy bloodline." Draco concentrated on holding his father's eye, rolling the chanting charm in the back of his mind. "I am just as uninterested in Eustacia, but she is attractive."

Lucius nodded, refolding the paper. "It's a consideration, yes. But Mansour's connections at Beauxbatons are a more significant consideration."

"The Parkinsons will be here shortly," he added, "you will remain non-committal."

"Of course."

"So they are all to be encouraged in these. . . gestures of commitment?" Snape asked.

"I am not juggling, Severus, I am waiting. We hardly need display the vulgar haste of a Miss Chang. Although it's marvelous to see you have my interests at heart." Lucius turned an angular smile from Snape to his son, who kept his mind on the charm. His father's eyes narrowed sharply, and Draco couldn't entirely repress a flinch.

"It's all quite fascinating," Snape replied.

"Indeed," Lucius said, "I find the daily movements of the wizarding world riveting at present. Breakfast has never been so entertaining." Draco tried not to notice his father pocketing the envelope as he rose in perfectly timed anticipation of the knock at the door.

* * *

Harry and Blaise Zabini started up the sloping grounds from the lake. Harry was surprised to find he'd enjoyed Blaise's company. In fact, it had been fun. Blaise's father was disturbingly focused on everything Harry did, but once they were alone, walking under grey skies which thankfully kept most of the students indoors now, it was only strange because he felt like he was meeting Zabini for the very first time.

They'd dispensed with the 'I know you're not interested in negotiating with me' point quite early on. They'd finished bitching about Draco's attempts to be as inscrutable as possible – complete with unfortunate puns on Blaise's side – and Dante's drooling over Draco, and moved onto Snape, when it suddenly occurred to Harry that his life made more sense to Slytherins than it did to Gryffindors lately. He stopped in the path.

"Blaise?" The other boy turned and looked at him, and in that muted autumn light, in his blue robe, Harry could concede he really was quite attractive. And it scared him a little that such a thought didn't scare him any more. "Why did you send me a declaration?"

"You know, as a Slytherin, I'm not allowed to answer that." They both smiled and moved on under the trees away from the smattering of rain.

"Ok," Harry said. "I think Draco's father asked you to, and I'd like to know why."

"No," Blaise replied.

"Just no?"

"No, Lucius Malfoy didn't ask me to – my father did. And," he continued emphatically when Harry clearly went to protest, "that's all I know and all I need to know."

"Did your father say why?"

"You're Harry Potter."

"Huh. Were you spying on my last meeting?" Harry asked with a grin.

"Actually, I'd rather avoid the queue."

"What do you. . . who is then?" Harry began, but Blaise cut him off.

"It wasn't any hardship anyway; not like I had to fake it."

"What?" Blaise just looked at him expressively. "Oh," Harry said, and they walked on.

* * *

SEVERUS:

He leans with one arm along my lounge, intently watching me leaf, with unfeigned interest, through a copy of Sol Solis Exortum clearly lifted from his father's library. I hear the silk of his back slip against the leather. "I greatly value this Draco," I say without looking at him, "But please do me the courtesy of abandoning the seductive poses."

"Finding me hard to resist?" he says, with excessive sweetness.

"I've had to make an effort, once or twice."

With a pleased smile he moves back towards the desk – ostensibly to collect his letters, but I feel him trying to sense what I'll allow. For the second time today I'm struck by the strangest feeling – not pity, though there's cause enough he'd rightly despise that, but a warm urgent desire not to abandon him, as part of me knows I must.

"Draco," he draws a breath as I walk over to him, "can I trust you with a confidence?"

He's as shocked as I would be in his place, and doesn't reply. I walk around the desk to ensure he meets my eyes – even we, Draco, cling to the oldest conventions. "Your father not only demanded that I make a declaration, but also that I did not make one to you."

He puts a hand on the desk and blinks the slow blink that's one of his few seemingly naked responses.

I could slip my arm around him, and he too would come to me willingly, would melt against me, but all the while wondering what the price was, and what he had won. But Draco can't tell a calculated manouevre from a deeply felt response even in himself.

"Would you have?" he asks softly. He wants me far more certainly than Potter does, for all the other boy's delectable and sharply new want. Perhaps, in his own way, Draco even cares for me, although it's not something I want to dwell on. But he will do anything I ask now if I say 'yes'. I know it.

"No. I couldn't." And it's true, but. . . I touch his hand before he can draw away and feel him shiver – but even that I don't quite believe. No, I don't believe it enough. "We wouldn't need your father's help to destroy one another."

He shakes his head, pulling his hand from under mine and moving away.

"Professor?"

"Severus," I say. "When we're alone." I hope he knows what it costs me.

"Severus," he laughs somewhat bitterly. "Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Harry should accept me – that perhaps being your saviour, however appropriately Gryffindor, is not in his best interests?"

"Which lie in being bound to Lucius Malfoy?" He whips his head back in my direction. "Let's not pretend we are discussing Potter's best interests, Draco."

"I am not my father." His voice is torn and hard.

"No. You're not." He can't expect anything gentler from me, and he accepts it with a nod – just part of the usual frustration and entrapment. I recall him flinching under his father's eye. But the thing he can't say, as transparent as the flinch and the thing that powers it, is that he loves Lucius. And it's the love more than the fear makes him dangerous.

* * *

Harry didn't have to knock on the door to Remus's rooms on Sunday afternoon. It was open. He expected to be uncomfortable, but Remus was absentmindedly hunting for something he just had to have for something he, somewhat vaguely, had to do. It was impossible not to help him look for the right book and reassure him he'd be perfectly fine for a few minutes here with Draco.

Draco arranged chairs and ordered tea. They barely spoke, which didn't help with Harry's anxiety. No moonlight, no cryptic gifts, but he felt tensely alive around Draco, and never quite certain how he would act. Sometimes he was coolly casual, others very friendly, and then occasionally there was a flash of intimacy or wave of desire. Harry wandered off around the room, touching things absently.

One thing jolted him back to where he was. "I didn't know Remus had a penseive?" He kept his hands well away and his eyes from meeting the silvery surface but he instantly recognised it. "Not that I should know," he added, "but I think they're very expensive".

"And Lupin is very poor?" Draco said, as if it was a curiousity.

"I guess."

"Huh."

"Maybe things are better now, if he can afford a penseive. Perhaps he wants to put aside memories of the wolf." Draco seemed very silent on a topic that interested everyone else. "Does he still change? You must know."

Draco seemed to shake himself. "You should ask him. But in any case," he said, before Harry could comment, "the penseive is my gift from Remus." He looked at Harry's surprised expression. "I guess he's pretty sure I have things to forget."

Harry looked back at the silver bowl and recognised it as the one the werewolf had given Draco. "So he made it? I wonder how?"

"Severus made the fluid, I believe."

"Severus?"

"I think so."

"Since when do you call him that?" Harry felt more indignant than he had any cause to given the amount of things he and his friends had called Snape over the years.

"He said I could," Draco replied moving back to the table. "When we're alone."

Harry's mouth opened and shut. Twice. "So," he began, "are you. . ." Harry couldn't really think how to put the question; he wasn't even positive what it was.

Suddenly Draco had a hand on his shoulder and Harry tried to pull away, not wanting that kind of confusion right now. "You're wearing it," Draco said, with one of those rare smiles that made Harry ache and shiver.

The pin. "Yes," Harry said, more softly than he meant to. "I like it," he admitted.

"Oh good," Draco said, as if it really mattered to him.

"How was your father?" Harry asked, moving to the table and changing the subject.

Draco took a seat without answering, leaning his chin against a pale hand. Harry finally noticed the stiffly set hair, the unusually pale cheeks, and the drawn mouth. He would have asked again, but there was a knock at the door.

* * *

The whole situation was just confusing. Snape and Draco made small talk. Eventually he said, uncomfortably, "I'm sure you have things to talk about. I should go."

"That's not how you do it, Harry," Draco said calmly, passing him a cup.

"I'm sorry?"

"You could ask how the preparations for Halloween are going, if I like my separate quarters or, in extremity, mention the weather." Snape sniffed, but it was almost something related to a laugh.

"I thought you wanted, and I quote, 'never to hear another word about Halloween'?"

Draco glanced at Snape and Harry supposed the comment must have been private, although how anyone was supposed to know what Draco said to whom. . .

"How are the preparations for Halloween coming along, Mr Malfoy?" Snape asked.

"Brilliantly," Draco replied, though Harry knew – or at least he thought he knew – that Draco dreaded the whole thing. "My mother has been planning the Malfoy marquee for weeks. I'm sure you'll both get invitations."

The ensuing conversation by turns irritated, amused, and astonished Harry. As far as he could tell neither of the others said anything they meant. And then Remus arrived. Although that should have increased Harry's pleasure in the conversation, Remus entered into the light social banter without seeming to care about it being disingenuous, a distraction, or any of the other things it must be. Once or twice Harry caught the werewolf smiling at him across the table and almost growled.

* * *

Draco heard the footsteps outside his door before Remus knocked. He'd spent a long time in the first few weeks memorising the sound of Remus's step. He could hear him in the corridor; in his parlour, which he always acted as if Draco shared; even, if things were very quiet, on the stairs.

He suddenly recalled his father watching him practice the deep focus of attentive listening with Ernestine Mars. His father's eyes – his own eyes, slate blue – on his profile. Ernestine whispering at him to concentrate, with that panicked edge his tutors always had when Lucius was in the room. He slipped a little deeper, listening to his father breathe, eight feet away, wearing black, scented with sandalwood.

Remus knocked again, more hesitantly.  Draco rolled onto his back, inhaling the darkness. He heard the werewolf outside shuffle and sigh in a rustle of cloth and skin. Draco whispered the largest candle alight, and got up to check himself in the mirror.

* * *

Harry sat up in bed as the sound finally resolved into something tapping at the window.

He habitually looked for Ron, who of course wasn't there. A quick movement in the dark outside the glass drew him over.

"Thetis."  He turned the latch and let her in.

She had a small square package strapped to her leg. "Huh," was all he managed, till she ruffled her feathers a little crossly. "No ribbons, though," he said, crouching down to free the package, "should I feel cheated?"

As he got it free she skipped away. He reached for the owl treats he'd started to keep in a jar by the window, just in case, and she hopped back. Harry smiled to himself. Progress. She turned a bright eye to him. 

"Does he want a reply?" She flicked the treat further into her beak, sprang to the sill and leapt through the window.  "I guess not."

An outer wrapping fell away as he pulled the binding cord, and the square expanded.

Inside the box, carefully folded, was a pile of dark blue silk. Harry couldn't decide whether to laugh or curse him. He lifted it out, remembering Draco's sarcasm. Beneath the robe lay a card and a large metallic ring.

The card read: "The circle is activated by its name, Chalybs. SS."

* * *

The door clicked open under Remus's hand, and he was almost disappointed that it did.

Draco was sitting in his bed, swathed in black sheets – Remus had certainly given him white ones. A black nightshirt revealed a large pale V of smooth skin. Remus smiled at the pose, but his pulse was running a little faster and his skin, still prickling with the just-waning moon, responded to even the movement of air as Draco placed his wand back on the night-stand.

"Can I help you, Professor?" the boy said calmly, but Remus could still taste his grief in the air, along with something less tangible.

"Are you all right, Draco?"

"Of course," he replied, as if the question was mildly amusing or strange.

Lupin crossed the room, his muscles both tight and long from the change. At the window he looked out at the sliced-off moon. "Two nights after I can still feel the wolf in my limbs and my head," he said in a casually descriptive tone. "And scents are like strongly-flavoured food."

"Do you want me to write this down? I can summon the notebook from the parlour." Lupin didn't respond, listening to the boy move across the bed.

"No. It can wait till tomorrow." There was silence behind him, which didn't mean Draco was still where he'd been. Remus would give a lot to know exactly how much he'd been taught. By whom would also be interesting.

"What is it, Remus?"

Now. "I can smell your pain, Draco." An owl crossed the faintly lit grounds, moving towards the north tower. "I can smell your tears."

"I don't think so."

Remus turned back to see the boy's expression, but it revealed nothing. "Even if you charm them away, even in the way you move. Your pain, your fear, the blood you had washed from your skin that day, your come in those sheets despite the charm, your rush of desire when he crosses a room."

"I did ask about the price of staying here," Draco said, after a pause. "I don't think this was mentioned."

"You sound like him too. Which," Remus added, raising a hand as Draco lifted his chin angrily, "is not an insult."

"Are you here to tell me that you get off on speculating about my desires? Or to admit that you're jealous? I've seen you look at me."

"And you work hard at ensuring that I will." Lupin ran his eyes pointedly over the black shirt, hanging loosely from Draco's shoulders, across his chest, and falling around his strong white thighs. Without comment, Draco leant against the bedpost and crossed his arms, dragging the hem a little higher and draping the fabric across his groin. 

"No," Remus continued, looking out at the cold night and carefully riding out the buzzing of his skin and his fingers, the prickling of his scalp and neck and prick. "I'm here to tell you that I am your friend," Draco made a dismissive noise behind him, "whether you believe in or want me as a friend. You want my protection, and I want to give it to you."

"And the price for that is. . ?" Draco was closer to him now, and Remus almost unconsciously checked the positioning of his wand against his hip.

"You let me help you. You talk to me. You let me in. You stop letting your father torture you. You stop torturing yourself over Snape. You give Dumbledore what he needs to know. You let Harry be." He turned back to the boy's shuttered immobile face. "You give up all the daft struggles to be things you are not, and let yourself be happy."

Draco threw back his head and laughed, "Oh, only that." He took a step towards the bed, and then back again. "Lucius is right, you are insane."

Remus smiled and, as he moved to the door, placed a hand on Draco's warm shoulder, the shirt shifting against his skin. "Well, I thought of it as opening negotiations more than a final offer."

He left Draco standing in the middle of the room, one hand on the bedpost, as if waiting.