"Who is known as the father of the modern method of Transfiguration?"
Draco leaned against the headboard of his bead, repeatedly tossing a paperweight into the air and catching it as he pondered the question. The figurine was, appropriately, a fire-breathing dragon carved of jade that his mother had given him a few years before. To the best of my knowledge, the thing had never been used for its intended purpose, but Draco kept it with him so as not to offend his mother. "Philip Leon," he said dully, now tossing the stone dragon from one hand to the other. "He was a French Muggleborn who specialized in magical theory in the mid-1700s. His experiments on various objects--like his neighbor's cow--attracted the attention of local Muggles, and he was hanged in 1784 for practicing witchcraft."
"Right," I said, deciding to ignore the lifeless monotone he'd adopted for the express purpose of annoying me. "What is the most important theory he's accredited with?"
"The Theory of the Conjuring-Vanishing Paradox," he answered automatically, then frowned in thought. "Or was that Dawson's theory? What about the Theory of Partially Complete Transformations? And who came up with that 'progressive addendum' thing?" Draco knocked his head lightly against the headboard. "Dammit, I'm no good at this stuff. What's the /point/ anyway? I thought this was Transfiguration, not History of Useless Magics."
I smiled, imagining McGonagall's expression if she heard him say that. She seemed to think that practical lessons weren't enough. Apparently, we needed a solid background of unimportant facts on the origins of Transfiguration. I didn't see much point to it. Who cares where it came from as long as it works? But, unfortunately, I had very little say in the lesson plan, which was why Draco and I were reviewing for the test the next day while Crabbe and Goyle played Exploding Snap on the other side of the room, not caring that they were still wet and muddy from Quidditch practice.
"Come on, Draco. You /know/ this. Just think a little."
"What does it /look/ like I'm doing, genius?" Draco sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his white-blonde hair. "I'm thinking maybe Leon came up with that Partially Complete thing. Maybe," he added, casting a furtive glance in my direction, probably hoping I'd give him a hint.
I merely raised an eyebrow. "And you're planning on passing this test /how/?"
"By cheating off you, of course," Draco said with a grin.
"Good luck doing that under McGonagall's nose," I said. "When she's done murdering you, can I have your broomstick?"
"You touch my broom and I'll kill you."
"How can you kill me if you're already dead?"
"Details, details," Draco said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I'll figure something out, and I can promise you it won't be pleasant."
"Oh, I'm trembling in my boots," I deadpanned. "Please spare me from your wrath, oh Great Malfoy."
Draco mock-glared. "/Children/ these days," he grumbled. "No respect for their elders /what/-so-ever."
"Being a bit older doesn't make you worthy of my respect, Mister I-was-born- a-month-before-you. It just makes you look more pathetic since I'm so much better than you."
"In your dreams, maybe," Draco said, throwing his pillow at me. I caught it and chucked it back, only to duck as it flew over my head a second later and collided with a bedside table, sending it and all of its contents crashing to the floor. Crabbe and Goyle barely glanced in our direction before returning to their game.
"Good job, Draco," I said sarcastically, dropping to my knees beside the mess and trying to organize all the books and papers that had spilled out of the drawer. "Well done. Why can't you knock over your /own/ stuff for once? Is that so much to ask?"
"Yes, actually," Draco said cheerfully. "I happen to like most my stuff."
"And all the things I have are pieces of junk that no one in their right minds would even consider having, so you're free to bust them up as much as you'd like?"
Draco pretended to think this over, then nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."
I sighed and began stacking the handful of books in a neat pile. My hand paused over a thick leather-bound tome that had fallen open. It was my mother's old scrapbook, its pages decorated with photos and newspaper clippings, all with handwritten commentary crowded in the borders. I smiled, skimming over the narration beside a picture of a much younger--not to mention, much smaller--Whomping Willow with a handful of boys attempting to get close enough to touch its trunk.
/Idiots. Just look at them. They'll probably break an arm, and for what? A stupid game. Ah well. It'll be amusing to see them get sent to the Hospital Wing./
Neater, fancier writing was scribbled beneath the first. /Hey, watch who you're calling an idiot, Elly. I've done that before./
/Well, then you're an idiot, too. It seems to run in the family. And who said you could write in my book, Fae?/
/I'll write wherever I damn well please. It's your own fault you keep leaving it out where I can get at it. How do you get off insulting my family, anyway? You're right though, Nate is a bit of a moron. Why else would he like you?/
/I don't know. Why do YOU like me?/
/... in what way do you mean?/
/Oh ISH, Fae! Bad mental picture! GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD!/
/Haha./
/Pervert./
I flipped through the pages, glancing at a few of the pictures and finally stopping on one. It was a photo of my mother's best friends, probably from fifth or sixth year, judging by the shiny Prefect badge pinned to the front of a blonde girl's robe. My eyes drifted from a young Fae, who was waving furiously, to my father, at least two inches taller than any of the others, who looked bored with the proceedings. He oh-so-casually reached over and shoved Fae out of the picture frame, whistling innocently. Fae promptly reappeared, punched my father in the arm, and resumed waving as if nothing had happened.
On my father's other side was the blonde prefect, snapping her gum smartly and grinning. Beside her was a short boy who seemed vaguely familiar. He had sandy blonde hair, (presumably) blue eyes, and a boyish grin that made him look younger than he actually was. Of course, his height didn't help much, either. But it wasn't until I saw the signature that everything finally clicked.
"Oh my God," I breathed.
"What?" Draco asked, concerned. "What is it?"
I turned to face him. "I think I've just found Cub."
Draco jumped off his bed to join me on the floor. "Really? Where?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but then looked past Draco and hesitated. Crabbe and Goyle, good bodyguards as they were, had yet to master the art of being ignorable when they needed to be. To their credit, they were trying to act like they weren't interested in our conversation, but they weren't anywhere near pulling it off.
"Haven't you somewhere else to be?" I asked them.
As a testament to their level of intelligence, they didn't catch the not-so- subtle hint that they weren't wanted. "No," said Goyle, looking confused.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Crabbe, Goyle, leave for a while. I don't care where you go. Just go."
The two behemoths didn't look too pleased with the arrangement, but did as they were told without complaint. When the door had closed behind them, Draco turned to me. "So, what's all this about?"
"/This/ is what it's all about," I said, pointing to the name scrawled at the bottom of the picture.
"'Zack Warren'," he read, then his eyes widened. "That article in the /Prophet/..."
"Exactly. Doesn't it seem a bit too convenient that two people would die remarkably similar deaths in the span of a few days?"
Draco looked at me with dawning comprehension. "Unless they're the same person."
"I can't believe I didn't figure it out before," I said, angry with myself. "I mean, it's so /obvious/."
"So what does this tell us?" Draco asked. "How is this going to help?"
"Well, if nothing else, it gives us a point of reference." At Draco's curious glance, I elaborated. "Fae and Zack were friends in school, right? And it's obvious from the letter we found that they were in something together."
"So you're saying that some of her other friends might be in on it, too."
"Right," I said, glad that we were both on the same page, so to speak. "Either that, or they both just happened to be recruited to the same group because of their similar occupations."
"Similar occupations?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "How are an elite law enforcement officer and a mercenary similar?"
"Intensive training, for one--neither would live long without it--and they both have to be willing to engage in... somewhat controversial techniques when it comes to their line of work."
While Draco pondered this, he took the time to examine the photo a little closer. "Hey, is that your aunt?"
"That it is," I said, a smile playing at my lips as I watched Fae as she slapped my father in the back of the head for something he'd said. "It's kind of weird, isn't it?"
"She seems so... /normal/," he muttered, eyes wandering to the other occupants of the photo. "I'm guessing that's your dad?"
I glanced at where he was pointing. "Yeah," I said dully. "That's him."
Draco studied me for a second, then looked back at the picture. "You know, you don't look a thing like him."
I smiled, but decided not to reply. Instead, I looked about the messy dorm room, my eyes finally resting on Crabbe and Goyle's abandoned game of Exploding Snap. "You know," I said sagely. "It seems a shame to just leave those cards there."
"You're right," Draco said, allowing the change of subject. "It's a crime against nature. We should remedy it."
"What do you propose we do, my friend?" I asked seriously. "How can two such as ourselves combat such an atrocity?"
"There's only one thing we /can/ do. We have to play Exploding Snap."
I gasped. "But Draco--"
Draco grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. "Damn it, man! Don't you understand? We /have/ to do this for the sake of wizards everywhere! Do you want to live in a world where Exploding Snap decks can just be left strewn over the floor, ignored by all? Is that the kind of world you want to live in?"
I shook my head fervently, and he finally let me go. I gathered what was left of my courage and looked Draco in the eye. "All right, deal me in..."
*******
A/N: I'm sorry for the short chapter. I wrote most of it in one day, since today's been the most time I've had to write all week. I've been clocking in extra hours up the wazoo, and to top it off, cheerleading practice starts next Monday. Two hours a day, four days a week. And school hasn't even started yet! Where is the justice?! I want time to write, damn it!
Next week, I doubt there'll be a chapter because I'm going on a trip to Lake Superior for a whole week and I won't have a computer. I'll bring my notebook (I'm such a dork) so I'll get a start, though. *deadpans* Go me. Party over there. *end deadpan* But anyway, I'm hoping this is enough to tide you over until I can get something else out.
Next chapter (or two... or three...): QUIDDITCH! We'll see if I can actually write it! The joy of Halloween (what, no trick-or-treating? GAH!) and some other stuff, obviously.
Thanks to my loyal reviewers! I love you guys!
Draco leaned against the headboard of his bead, repeatedly tossing a paperweight into the air and catching it as he pondered the question. The figurine was, appropriately, a fire-breathing dragon carved of jade that his mother had given him a few years before. To the best of my knowledge, the thing had never been used for its intended purpose, but Draco kept it with him so as not to offend his mother. "Philip Leon," he said dully, now tossing the stone dragon from one hand to the other. "He was a French Muggleborn who specialized in magical theory in the mid-1700s. His experiments on various objects--like his neighbor's cow--attracted the attention of local Muggles, and he was hanged in 1784 for practicing witchcraft."
"Right," I said, deciding to ignore the lifeless monotone he'd adopted for the express purpose of annoying me. "What is the most important theory he's accredited with?"
"The Theory of the Conjuring-Vanishing Paradox," he answered automatically, then frowned in thought. "Or was that Dawson's theory? What about the Theory of Partially Complete Transformations? And who came up with that 'progressive addendum' thing?" Draco knocked his head lightly against the headboard. "Dammit, I'm no good at this stuff. What's the /point/ anyway? I thought this was Transfiguration, not History of Useless Magics."
I smiled, imagining McGonagall's expression if she heard him say that. She seemed to think that practical lessons weren't enough. Apparently, we needed a solid background of unimportant facts on the origins of Transfiguration. I didn't see much point to it. Who cares where it came from as long as it works? But, unfortunately, I had very little say in the lesson plan, which was why Draco and I were reviewing for the test the next day while Crabbe and Goyle played Exploding Snap on the other side of the room, not caring that they were still wet and muddy from Quidditch practice.
"Come on, Draco. You /know/ this. Just think a little."
"What does it /look/ like I'm doing, genius?" Draco sighed heavily and ran his fingers through his white-blonde hair. "I'm thinking maybe Leon came up with that Partially Complete thing. Maybe," he added, casting a furtive glance in my direction, probably hoping I'd give him a hint.
I merely raised an eyebrow. "And you're planning on passing this test /how/?"
"By cheating off you, of course," Draco said with a grin.
"Good luck doing that under McGonagall's nose," I said. "When she's done murdering you, can I have your broomstick?"
"You touch my broom and I'll kill you."
"How can you kill me if you're already dead?"
"Details, details," Draco said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I'll figure something out, and I can promise you it won't be pleasant."
"Oh, I'm trembling in my boots," I deadpanned. "Please spare me from your wrath, oh Great Malfoy."
Draco mock-glared. "/Children/ these days," he grumbled. "No respect for their elders /what/-so-ever."
"Being a bit older doesn't make you worthy of my respect, Mister I-was-born- a-month-before-you. It just makes you look more pathetic since I'm so much better than you."
"In your dreams, maybe," Draco said, throwing his pillow at me. I caught it and chucked it back, only to duck as it flew over my head a second later and collided with a bedside table, sending it and all of its contents crashing to the floor. Crabbe and Goyle barely glanced in our direction before returning to their game.
"Good job, Draco," I said sarcastically, dropping to my knees beside the mess and trying to organize all the books and papers that had spilled out of the drawer. "Well done. Why can't you knock over your /own/ stuff for once? Is that so much to ask?"
"Yes, actually," Draco said cheerfully. "I happen to like most my stuff."
"And all the things I have are pieces of junk that no one in their right minds would even consider having, so you're free to bust them up as much as you'd like?"
Draco pretended to think this over, then nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."
I sighed and began stacking the handful of books in a neat pile. My hand paused over a thick leather-bound tome that had fallen open. It was my mother's old scrapbook, its pages decorated with photos and newspaper clippings, all with handwritten commentary crowded in the borders. I smiled, skimming over the narration beside a picture of a much younger--not to mention, much smaller--Whomping Willow with a handful of boys attempting to get close enough to touch its trunk.
/Idiots. Just look at them. They'll probably break an arm, and for what? A stupid game. Ah well. It'll be amusing to see them get sent to the Hospital Wing./
Neater, fancier writing was scribbled beneath the first. /Hey, watch who you're calling an idiot, Elly. I've done that before./
/Well, then you're an idiot, too. It seems to run in the family. And who said you could write in my book, Fae?/
/I'll write wherever I damn well please. It's your own fault you keep leaving it out where I can get at it. How do you get off insulting my family, anyway? You're right though, Nate is a bit of a moron. Why else would he like you?/
/I don't know. Why do YOU like me?/
/... in what way do you mean?/
/Oh ISH, Fae! Bad mental picture! GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD!/
/Haha./
/Pervert./
I flipped through the pages, glancing at a few of the pictures and finally stopping on one. It was a photo of my mother's best friends, probably from fifth or sixth year, judging by the shiny Prefect badge pinned to the front of a blonde girl's robe. My eyes drifted from a young Fae, who was waving furiously, to my father, at least two inches taller than any of the others, who looked bored with the proceedings. He oh-so-casually reached over and shoved Fae out of the picture frame, whistling innocently. Fae promptly reappeared, punched my father in the arm, and resumed waving as if nothing had happened.
On my father's other side was the blonde prefect, snapping her gum smartly and grinning. Beside her was a short boy who seemed vaguely familiar. He had sandy blonde hair, (presumably) blue eyes, and a boyish grin that made him look younger than he actually was. Of course, his height didn't help much, either. But it wasn't until I saw the signature that everything finally clicked.
"Oh my God," I breathed.
"What?" Draco asked, concerned. "What is it?"
I turned to face him. "I think I've just found Cub."
Draco jumped off his bed to join me on the floor. "Really? Where?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but then looked past Draco and hesitated. Crabbe and Goyle, good bodyguards as they were, had yet to master the art of being ignorable when they needed to be. To their credit, they were trying to act like they weren't interested in our conversation, but they weren't anywhere near pulling it off.
"Haven't you somewhere else to be?" I asked them.
As a testament to their level of intelligence, they didn't catch the not-so- subtle hint that they weren't wanted. "No," said Goyle, looking confused.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Crabbe, Goyle, leave for a while. I don't care where you go. Just go."
The two behemoths didn't look too pleased with the arrangement, but did as they were told without complaint. When the door had closed behind them, Draco turned to me. "So, what's all this about?"
"/This/ is what it's all about," I said, pointing to the name scrawled at the bottom of the picture.
"'Zack Warren'," he read, then his eyes widened. "That article in the /Prophet/..."
"Exactly. Doesn't it seem a bit too convenient that two people would die remarkably similar deaths in the span of a few days?"
Draco looked at me with dawning comprehension. "Unless they're the same person."
"I can't believe I didn't figure it out before," I said, angry with myself. "I mean, it's so /obvious/."
"So what does this tell us?" Draco asked. "How is this going to help?"
"Well, if nothing else, it gives us a point of reference." At Draco's curious glance, I elaborated. "Fae and Zack were friends in school, right? And it's obvious from the letter we found that they were in something together."
"So you're saying that some of her other friends might be in on it, too."
"Right," I said, glad that we were both on the same page, so to speak. "Either that, or they both just happened to be recruited to the same group because of their similar occupations."
"Similar occupations?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "How are an elite law enforcement officer and a mercenary similar?"
"Intensive training, for one--neither would live long without it--and they both have to be willing to engage in... somewhat controversial techniques when it comes to their line of work."
While Draco pondered this, he took the time to examine the photo a little closer. "Hey, is that your aunt?"
"That it is," I said, a smile playing at my lips as I watched Fae as she slapped my father in the back of the head for something he'd said. "It's kind of weird, isn't it?"
"She seems so... /normal/," he muttered, eyes wandering to the other occupants of the photo. "I'm guessing that's your dad?"
I glanced at where he was pointing. "Yeah," I said dully. "That's him."
Draco studied me for a second, then looked back at the picture. "You know, you don't look a thing like him."
I smiled, but decided not to reply. Instead, I looked about the messy dorm room, my eyes finally resting on Crabbe and Goyle's abandoned game of Exploding Snap. "You know," I said sagely. "It seems a shame to just leave those cards there."
"You're right," Draco said, allowing the change of subject. "It's a crime against nature. We should remedy it."
"What do you propose we do, my friend?" I asked seriously. "How can two such as ourselves combat such an atrocity?"
"There's only one thing we /can/ do. We have to play Exploding Snap."
I gasped. "But Draco--"
Draco grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. "Damn it, man! Don't you understand? We /have/ to do this for the sake of wizards everywhere! Do you want to live in a world where Exploding Snap decks can just be left strewn over the floor, ignored by all? Is that the kind of world you want to live in?"
I shook my head fervently, and he finally let me go. I gathered what was left of my courage and looked Draco in the eye. "All right, deal me in..."
*******
A/N: I'm sorry for the short chapter. I wrote most of it in one day, since today's been the most time I've had to write all week. I've been clocking in extra hours up the wazoo, and to top it off, cheerleading practice starts next Monday. Two hours a day, four days a week. And school hasn't even started yet! Where is the justice?! I want time to write, damn it!
Next week, I doubt there'll be a chapter because I'm going on a trip to Lake Superior for a whole week and I won't have a computer. I'll bring my notebook (I'm such a dork) so I'll get a start, though. *deadpans* Go me. Party over there. *end deadpan* But anyway, I'm hoping this is enough to tide you over until I can get something else out.
Next chapter (or two... or three...): QUIDDITCH! We'll see if I can actually write it! The joy of Halloween (what, no trick-or-treating? GAH!) and some other stuff, obviously.
Thanks to my loyal reviewers! I love you guys!