I do so love Thanksgiving weekend. Five full days of no school . . . it's an amazing stress-reliever.

Before the question comes up in the reviews of this chapter (as I'm sure it would), I would like to note that yes, I know full well that according to J. K. Rowling, Professor Flitwick is the Head of Ravenclaw House.

Tough.

A Ravenclaw myself (and I can see myself being sorted there at about the speed Draco was sorted into Slytherin), I must register my protests. Professor Flitwick is nice and all, and I have nothing against him being a former Ravenclaw, but he's just not the stuff of which House Heads are made of.

So, in this story, he's not. I have instead elected Professor Vector (teacher of Arithmancy, an eminently Ravenclaw topic) to the position. I know that I am contradicting established canon by doing this . . . but then again, who actually thinks Snape is really Harry's father?

That said, however much I may deviate from canon, it is because of J. K. Rowling, not myself, that the aforementioned canon exists. Severitus owns the challenge that this is more-or-less an answer to. I just own the plot, such as it is.
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~*~The First Step~*~
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Where is he? Lucia finally voiced her frustration, looking towards the open door to the Great Hall for the fifth time. All right, so I can understand skipping breakfast once in a while, but lunch?

He's probably coming in later. Or he may have already come and gone. Parvati, seated across the table from the green-eyed girl, pointed out calmly. Don't worry, Lucia.

Easy for you to say. She grumbled, glanced up to the High Table, and groaned. He's staring at me again!

Parvati looked like she wanted desperately to turn around and look for herself, but was only just barely prevented by the voice of her common sense. Then, considering a few other of their recent conversations, made an educated guess. Professor Lupin?

Massaging her temples, Lucia nodded. He's been doing it ever since last night.

Well, you really can't blame him. Parvati pointed out. I'm sure he's afraid it's his fault somehow that you're . . . well, you know.

Although Parvati's initial reaction to Lucia's announcement of her condition' had not been exactly the most favorable--You're a what?!--she had quickly recovered, and since then had made a point of showing that it didn't matter to her.

Support that Lucia appreciated deeply, especially since Jamie seemed so . . . unapproachable at times--when, that is, she could even find him in the first place! She missed having a friend. Oniisan was too different, Jamie was distant, and when it came down to it, this Hermione and this Weasley were Jamie's friends, not hers.

Well, not his, but his fault. You know what I mean. Parvati, on the other hand, was there and approachable and accepting. A true friend, even before she knew the whole story. Perhaps more importantly, even after she heard the whole story. Lucia sometimes wondered how she had managed to so thoroughly ignore the existence of the other girl before now.

Perhaps there was something to be said about being stranded in an alternate universe after all. It certainly gave her a chance to see another side to all the people she had thought she had known back home.

Still, home was home. And despite the fact that there were things about this reality that she liked far more than the analog situations back home, this place and these people were still fundamentally strange to her. In a way, Jamie was perhaps the strangest of them all, if only because his analog--herself--was most familiar to her.

She missed her home. Missed being ignored by her father, missed the brother that would no longer be there even if she were to find a way to return, missed the mother that had been the largest, the most important figure in her life for so many years.

Firmly suppressing yet another sigh, she ate another bite of her lunch and returned her attention to the empty doorway. Where is he?
**
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**
A low rumble echoed through the Survival room--its acoustics, much like the rest of Hogwarts, were whimsical, unexplainable, and occasionally weird. Or at least highly annoying.

Jamie paused in the form he had been engaging in with the use of his daggers--forms passed on to him by that first lesson, that already seemed almost ingrained in his bones. Almost . . . but not quite. He could feel the mistakes he made as he made them, would determine to correct them only to stumble across other mistakes the previous ones had been covering.

He sneered at his stomach. Oh, grow up. You've gone a lot longer than this without food before. Just because you've been spoiled these last four years . . . Obediently, his stomach quieted. Not permanently, unfortunately--that much he could tell.

Satisfied for the moment, he returned his attention to the flowing forms, taking up where he had left off. It was relaxing and . . . right.

Eventually he stopped, covered in sweat and beginning to pant. He brought out a blank piece of parchment, his quill and ink, and started in on the essay Snape had assigned due Tuesday. In his left hand, though, he continued to hold one of his pair of daggers. His excuse was that he was supposed to be studying it.

Truthfully? It felt so right in his hand that it would take almost too much of an effort to put it down. Especially since the fact that he had slept for only about two hours the previous night (more appropriately, early this morning . . .)--and even those had been curled up on the stone floor of the Survival room--was beginning to catch up with him.

If, as he assumed, Draco was also trying to become an Animagi, he wondered what the blond's mood was like now? He had probably never been without three square meals a day and a full night's sleep in his life!

Then again . . . what did Jamie really know of Draco's home life? He never looked gaunt so he almost certainly wasn't starved; he had never seen bruises on the other boy's body . . . but then, Lucius Malfoy was almost certainly canny enough to refrain from bruising anything visible.

Jamie shook his head. Idle speculation. Draco probably was just exactly what he appeared to be, a spoiled brat of a Death Eater's spawn . . . who was actually a pretty good friend. In a kinda-sorta-tentative sort of way. Even if he wasn't, there was no real way for Jamie to find out. So why bother to worry about the mere possibility?

It was only when he looked around and saw nothing but black that Jamie realized he had closed his eyes. With a jerk, he reopened them, and slowly refocused on the parchment in front of him. Fool. He berated himself. Almost fell asleep. How weak is that?

He levered himself to his feet. If he didn't get back to doing something more active, he really would fall asleep.

But I'm tired. And huuunngrry! A little voice in the back of his mind whined. Resolutely, he ignored it.

It's good practice, after all. What? You actually think Voldemort would come after you when you're well rested and full?

Come off it, Jamie. Even Voldemort's not that stupid. He doesn't care all that particularly much about fairness. He is a Slytherin, after all.
**
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Elsewhere, another stomach growled. Why the bloody hell am I doing this again? The desperately hungry blond Slytherin wiped one hand down across his face, trying to concentrate on his Charms homework. It was his first class on Monday, after all, so it did need to get done soon.

After the allowable three hours (well, two hours and fifty minutes, to be exact--he was playing it safe), Draco had pulled himself out of bed practically by the skin of his teeth. Long before anyone else in the dorm got up. As of right now, he was a mess.

His hair flew every which way--almost as bad as Potter's!--it was a little-known secret that all Malfoys suffered from terrible bed-hair. And . . . he hadn't been able to summon enough energy to get up and brush his hair the way he always did, every morning since he was old enough to hold the brush. A Malfoy's hair was too important to entrust to house-elves, after all.

. . . And gel it too. He liked the way it looked that way better . . . and since his hair was practically his only real vanity, he was damn well going to wear it the way he pleased.

. . . Even if that comment Potter had made still rankled. Oh, what made him such an authority on hair anyway? The black mane belonging to the annoyance in question had always been a nightmare zone anyway. He certainly shouldn't be one to talk--his hair as it was previously would have most definitely benefited from gel. Lots and lots of gel.

Thoughts of the Potter spawn brought him back, as always, to his current predicament. He bared his teeth, an expression unfamiliar to the cultured face. If he were here right now, I'd bite him.

. . . And not just because I'm hungry enough that even he is beginning to sound appetizing . . .
**
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As she looked up into a face surrounded by red hair from her undignified position sprawled on the floor, Lucia felt almost like she was home again. In a bad way. She opened her mouth to rip into Weasley (in the unique Malfoy fashion) when she was brought abruptly back to Earth--and the right universe (or is that the wrong universe? Simply a matter of perspective, after all . . .)--by his reaching out a hand.

Blinking rather rapidly, she took it, quickly getting to her feet. He muttered, now looking at the floor. Wasn't paying attention to where I was going.

Well, that much was intuitively obvious, Weasley. Somehow, she just couldn't say it. It would be too much like kicking a stray puppy. All right then. She said mildly, instead. Merlin. I couldn't have come up with a worse response if I had tried! What's wrong with you today, Lucia?

Evidently the redhead wasn't feeling particularly articulate either. They just stood there looking at each other in silence until Ron broke it. And when did Weasley become Ron to you? Are you bloody insane?

. . . do you know anything about unicorns? He asked abruptly, face nearly as red as his hair. I'm supposed to research them . . . for Care of Magical Creatures . . . but you don't take the class, that's right . . . sorry for bothering you. He turned away.

Lucia stretched out a hand in his direction, reaching as if to stop him. Actually . . . well, you're right about not having ever been in Care of Magical Creatures . . . but I do know a bit about unicorns.

Although she had never actually met one, unicorns had always fascinated Lucia, and she had done her best to learn everything she could about them. It was a fact that she had kept carefully hidden up 'til now--unicorns were too pure and good for the Malfoy family to be quite comfortable with being associated with them in any way, after all.

You are bloody insane, Lucia . . . She swallowed. Would you . . . like my help? I'm not as good as Hermione; she'd probably be the one to ask, actually . . .

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, only managing to spike it. I'm . . . trying not to ask 'Mione for a while. Last time I did, she practically bit my head off, and . . . well, I doubt you're interested . . . Anyway, thanks! This means a lot to me. He grinned. I'd hate to disappoint Hagrid by turning in something up--or should I say down?--to my usual standards.

It was the sort of grin that demanded reciprocation. Reluctantly, Lucia grinned back. Even if I do know more than you about unicorns, are you sure that the quality will improve?

Good humor sparkled in his light brown eyes. Combined with the smile, it was overall such a positive expression as she had never thought she'd see on this particular boy's face. Strangely enough . . . it suited him. Well, I guess there's only one way to find out. The red-haired Gryffindor replied. He extended his arm in a mock-courtly manner. Is now a good time?

Consideration took no more than a moment. There was nothing in particular she had to do, not at this moment. With all the elegance of a Malfoy upbringing, if not the genes, she rested her arm in the crook of his elbow. Now is a perfect time.

Indeed. You are utterly, totally mad. Beyond any shadow of a doubt and any hope of recovery.

Firmly, Lucia told the little voice in the back of her head to take a hike.
**
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Nineteen and a half inches. Jamie yawned widely. Considering his current state, and the fact that he had only written the first six inches before he began depriving himself of sleep and food, he wasn't sure exactly how lucid it was . . . but it was nineteen and a half inches. Good enough.

Where were you during lunch? He started at the sound, spinning and automatically raising the dagger still in his hand (he hadn't put it up yet) into the basic guard position he had been taught. Then he blinked, sluggishly identifying the familiar voice. Parvati. Minimal to no threat.

Oh. Lunch? He thought, a laborious process, then came to the obvious conclusion. Same place you've been since ten o'clock last night, dingbat.

Have you eaten yet? She looked slightly worried. You don't look so good.

He drew himself up. Only two hours of sleep and I haven't eaten since supper Friday night? That's not enough to affect me. Have I really become that spoiled? Reminded himself not to reply with the truth if she asked when the last time he ate was. Then realized she had given him the perfect opening.

He laid the dagger down alongside its twin, on the spot that served as his desk. With a few well-placed words, set up a small warning charm, one that would give a mild shock to anyone who tried to touch them. Except himself, of course. One of the things he had learned over the summer, although he still hadn't found a good charm to use for himself.

I'll go do that now. He had been planning on leaving anyway. There were too many people up here now; he was beginning to feel almost claustrophobic.

As he left the room, he turned instead towards the hall that would lead outside to the Quidditch pitch. Maybe a good flight will wake me up.
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It was an open secret that Professor Vector had a sense of humour. Those who met him only in passing never quite believed it--he seemed so quiet, with a simple hello or goodbye, or mild reprimand if one was caught breaking the rules, and then he continued on.

A Ravenclaw himself, it was this mix of quiet strength and practically unfailing good humour--plus an unexpected bonus, the way in which he was capable of laughing at himself, unlike most Ravenclaws, who took themselves far too seriously most of the time--that had made him practically a shoe-in for position as Head of Ravenclaw. Even, much to his surprise, when he first began teaching at Hogwarts, the youngest teacher bar Snape.

His Arithmancy classes, much like the Ravenclaw students he regarded as practically his own children, knew his quirkiness from experience. First-year Arithmancy, though . . . in the silence of his classroom, a grin slid its way on to his face. In many cases his first real contact with the students he would teach (in most cases) for the next five years, it was always amusing to see their reactions when they found out he was not quite as ordinary' as they had believed.

He coughed, cleared his throat. Thank Merlin, the case of laryngitis that had affected him the previous week was almost completely gone. A brief glance at the clock showed it was eight fifty. The students should begin arriving soon--to tell the truth, he was rather surprised a few of his Ravenclaws hadn't shown up already.

As if that thought had been a catalyst, the door opened. Ah, good morning Vlad. He nodded in the direction of the blond Ukranian, one of his third-year Ravenclaws. One of the smartest of that group, in fact--and with Ravenclaws, that was most definitely saying something.

Good morning Professor. Although Vlad had been born in Britain, his parents spoke little other than their native language at home, so he had a rather heavy accent.

The chairs and tables were arranged in an inverted U shape, which (Vector noticed) rather disconcerted Vlad for a moment. It was the professor's first move in his eternal attempt to convince students to see this as more than just a conventional class.

Finally, the boy chose a chair about halfway down the left side of the table and sat. The room descended back into its previous state of silence as the two of them waited.

Not for long. Next, a young man who looked a bit old to be only in third year, with raven-black hair, about shoulder length, pulled back. Not anyone Vector recognized. Until, that is, he caught sight of the distinctive scar. That's Harry Potter? He blinked. He had, of course, received Dumbledore's message about there being two late transfer students into his first-year Arithmancy course, but he hadn't realized that one of them was Harry Potter. Nor that the celebrity would look so . . . different.

Good morning, Professor. A well-controlled voice, but one that reflected the same almost artificial brightness that inhabited his eyes. A feverish light, one that almost convinced him to try to get the young celebrity to visit Madam Pomfrey. This is the correct room? For Arithmancy?

Professor Vector nodded. Oh good, then I'm in the right place. He walked towards the table, somehow tripped over the leg of the first chair but caught himself before he fell, and finally set his bag and himself down in the far back right corner.

You could move in closer. The strawberry blonde professor noted.

That's alright. This way I can watch the entire room. The fifth-year didn't look like he had even considered shifting. Interesting attitude . . . more what I expect from my Slytherins--paranoid as they are by nature--than from a Gryffindor. Then again, this is Harry Potter. He has more reason than many to be excessively paranoid.

The Gryffindor in question turned his attention away from the professor and toward the only other person in the room. Hello. I'm Harry Potter. Fifth year, Gryffindor.

After a moment of silence, Vlad seemed to decide that, yes, Harry Potter was talking to him, and yes, he was rather interested in reciprocation. Oh. Sorry. Vlad Romanov. I'm a third-year Ravenclaw.

Nice to meet you.

Jamie! There you are! All three people in the room started as Lucia stormed in. Jamie's face quickly gained a resigned look as the other Gryffindor stormed towards him. Where were you? You skipped breakfast again!

Jamie leaned back. Breakfast is for the weak. He said haughtily. Seeing Lucia's glare, he hastily added, . . . and those lucky people who the thought of food this early in the morning doesn't make nauseous?

You're awake. Lucia had stopped glaring, and now looked simply contemplative. Yesterday, you were practically a zombie. I saw you coming into the common room last night . . .

What were you doing with Ron anyway? Jamie asked, curious. Have you made up with him?

--I was helping him with an assignment over unicorns. Lucia replied, then, Hey, don't sidetrack me. You were absolutely wiped yesterday. How are you so . . . well, practically perky!, now?

Jamie leaned back and sighed blissfully. A thousand blessings rain down on the wonderful person who invented caffeine. I detest the taste, but man, does it work!
**
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It is impossible to be human with only three hours of sleep. Draco reflected blearily. He blinked, let his eyes stay closed, then wearily jarred them back open--just in time to dodge a suit of armor that he had almost walked into. There is no way I'm going to survive today . . . at least, if I survive today, I'll be done with it.

He sidestepped another . . . wall. Nose almost touching the stone surface, he pondered how it had come to be that he would be almost walking into a wall. Yep. That's it. As soon as I get a decent amount of sleep, I am going to murder Potter. And I'm not going to let him get out of it quickly, either. No, no easy Avada Kedavra' for him . . . after all, who knows? It might not even work!

Feeling for a moment almost like himself again, a wicked grin curled his lips as he turned away from the wall and continued down the hall, happily plotting excessively bloody and painful ways in which to murder the green-eyed Gryffindor (who really should have been a Slytherin).

Good morning, Malfoy. A perky voice from behind him. He twitched visibly. Oh, how far I've fallen . . . I should be able to hide my reactions better than this! I'm a Malfoy, after all! . . . a Malfoy who's too damn tired. I don't know why I'm even trying . . . Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?

It was just his luck to have Ancient Runes, along with a certain annoying Gryffindor, first thing Monday mornings. He could have had a free period, but nooo . . . Don't work me, Mu-- Visions of that awful shade of brown hair danced in his eyes. He wouldn't put it past Potter to have put some sort of tracking spell on him that recorded everytime he used that word'. --Granger. I am not in the mood.

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard her mutter something about PMS'. That was the last straw.

He paused, then turned to face her. Oh, by the way? If you see Potter before me, tell him that first thing tomorrow, I am coming for him. I'm going to kill him; rip his guts out and . . . he continued his graphic description, getting a certain distant amusement out of the way Granger's face was beginning to turn a very unbecoming shade of green.

He told me you might say something like that. She finally said weakly, as his description ran down. Though he refused to tell me why. Draco raised an eyebrow, in his best well-clearly-I'm-not-telling-either' manner. He said if you did, to tell you, Grow up Malfoy, and stop blaming me. It's your own stupid fault.'

As Granger turned to leave, Draco nodded to himself. Oh yes. Definitely going to kill Potter . . .
**
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Lucia leaned over Ron's shoulder, looking at the charms he and Hermione were going over--something associated with what class was supposed to be on Wednesday, knowing the bushy-haired girl. Hey guys. Feel like taking a break? 'Vati and I thought we'd go out and fly for a while, and I was wondering if you wanted to join us?

Ron looked envious. I'd like to, but . . . He looked back down at the books spread out in front of him. I really should . . .

No response. Ah, c'mon you two! How's this for a compromise? If both of you come on out with us, we'll only fly for a little while, then we can come back in and we'll all study.

Ron turned pleading eyes towards Hermione, and Parvati, coming up behind Lucia, contributed her own pitiful look to the mixture. Unable to stand up to the combined onslaught, Hermione succumbed. Okay, okay. But only for a little while, all right? Ron grinned, and Parvati and Lucia exchanged surreptitious high fives.

The portrait opened to admit a yawning Boy-Who-Lived. 'Lo, everyone. He muttered.

Want to go flying with us, Jamie? Lucia asked.

Where were you, Harry? Hermione asked. We hardly ever see you any more, and you've been looking positively awful the past few days. As has Malfoy . . . nah. Surely that's just a coincidence.

It's nothing. Jamie waved her off. I just haven't been getting much sleep the past few days.

Is it . . . your scar? Ron asked nervously. Well, he hasn't been screaming loudly enough to wake me up, so I suppose that's a good sign . . . then again, it would probably have to be loud enough to shake the entire building to wake me up . . .

No. Just insomnia. He assured Ron. Hopefully, I'm more or less over it. Hermione, I was just talking to Professor Vector to see if I could borrow a textbook from him until I get the chance to buy my own copy. Lucia bit her lip. She had the same problem, but she hadn't thought to do anything about it. She needed to talk to Professor Vector soon too.

He continued on toward the stairs, still yawning. Thanks for the invitation, but I think I'll pass this time. I'm going to go ahead and turn in, see if I can make up for the lost sleep.

But it's only five o'clock! Hermione protested.

What about supper? Lucia added. Harry turned on out of sight without answering. Oh, never mind. It's his own stomach, I suppose. She turned back to the others. Well . . . let's go.

With one last look in the direction of the boys' dorms, the group filed out.
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No food at all and only about three hours of sleep total? Is that some sort of record?

Record of stupidity, perhaps. Honestly.

Jamie groaned, slitting his eyes open, reaching automatically for his wand . . . which wasn't there. Oh, look. Wonderboy is waking up. The second voice, sarcastically.

Don't worry, we're not here to hurt you. The first, soothingly.

He sat up. Where am I? Around him, nothing but greyish mist. I'm . . . in a dream, aren't I. Typical decor. Are you my totem animal? Where are you?

Bright child. Five points to Slyth--er, Gryffindor. The second voice muttered. As he looked around, a large shadow appeared, slowly coalescing out of the mist.

A dragon. For a moment, the mist fell away and light struck it, sparking deeply emerald glints in the scales that a moment earlier he had tagged as merely black, emerald glints that in contrast seemed to further darken and deepen the black, emerald glints that perfectly matched the dragon's eyes.

Wow . . . He reached out a hand, seemed to reconsider, brought it back down to rest at his side.

Don't be afraid to touch me. The first voice, still soothing, now amused. I am you, after all. This time, when he reached out he did not draw back.

What are you? His eyes widened. A dragon . . . does that mean . . . Oh wow, can you breathe fire?!

Quick, isn't he? Still sourceless, the second voice continued to mock . . . bringing a sense of reassuring familiarity to the scene--the second voice reminded him of Snape.

Of course not. The dragon sounded almost offended. I'm not one of those scathingly common fire-breathers. I'm a Siberian Ice Dragon; I breathe ice. When the dragon started to talk, his hand paused; now he began to move again, still getting inexorably closer.

My mistake. He murmured. I haven't met very many dragons. I can tell you one thing, though--you're definitely the best dragon I've ever met.

As his right hand touched the dragon's snout, he felt a familiar tug at his navel, one that almost made his heart stop. Not again . . . The dragon's voice murmured in his head, soothing his sudden fear, as it turned back into shadow, the shadow whirling about until it was sucked into his right palm.

For a moment only, a dragon seemed to be tattooed onto his palm in the deepest of black inks, before that too melted away. He sat in silence.

Stupid dragon didn't explain anything. The other voice again, grumbling. Jamie looked around, curious. He had met what would become his Animagus form; he now knew what he would be. So why hadn't he woken up yet?

He asked tentatively. Who--or what--are you?

Use your brain, boy. Again the peculiar momentary disappearance of the mist, the light focusing this time on another animal, one with the same dark green-black skin, the same emerald eyes. A . . . bat? I didn't know bat's could have colored eyes! What use to you is the Animagi transformation if you can't use it without practically screaming to the world Illegal Animagi Here'? Being a dragon--a magical being, and thus certainly not a transformation allowed by the Ministry--would do that perfectly.

Jamie smiled, a smile that broadened slowly into an outright grin. That . . . that's so . . . words seemed to fail him . . . so wonderfully, deliciously paranoid! I can't believe I didn't think of that!

The bat's eyes seemed to narrow suspiciously. I swear, if you try to hug me, I'll suck your blood. A vampire bat . . . Jamie smirked. That goes double if you make any jokes concerning myself and your mentor.

Mentor . . .? In thought, Jamie tested the word, examining it. Yes, Snape rather is my mentor, isn't he? Or I like to think he is, at least . . .

The bat flicked a wing back in a rather self-satisfied manner. Of course he is, even if neither of you has fully admitted it yet. I know more about you than you know about yourself. Self-satisfied indeed, and arrogant in the bargain.

Seeming to recognize the train of his thoughts, the bat launched itself into the air. You're just begging for a blood-sucking, aren't you? It gave the impression of turning its nose up into the air. Besides, it isn't arrogance if I really am always right.

Jamie murmured placatingly. Or perhaps that was sarcastically.

I like you, kid. The bat flitted around his head. You have sense . . . sometimes. Now, once you gain control of me, you'll gain control of the dragon as well, but there may be certain . . . changes . . . that happen right away. Don't worry, it's nothing drastic--not enough for most people to even notice. Don't be freaked.

I'm Harry Potter. Jamie tried for, but did not quite obtain, the same hautieur that the bat had formerly displayed. I don't do

Good to hear. The bat gave him what looked almost like a wink. Then, much more quickly than the dragon, it too shifted into shadow, and dove down into his left palm. Stylized, the image of a bat, again in the darkest of blacks, hovered there for a moment--Don't let the turkeys get you down, it seemed to whisper--before dissipating.
**
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8:30.

The first sight Jamie saw as he opened his eyes, a sight he ignored at first in favor of thinking over his dream. He rolled the word off his tongue softly. I like it. I really, really do.

The dragon had been so gentle and sweet . . . but the bat had had more of a genuine personality. And now that the bat was no longer threatening him with imminent pain, he could freely acknowledge the thought that had only briefly passed through his mind in the dream: the bat was a lot like Professor Snape.

And not just because the aforementioned professor was commonly compared to an overgrown specimen of that species. The sarcasm, the wry humour . . . if not the frank admission of liking him; Jamie had no doubt that, although Snape probably no longer hated him, neither did he particularly like him.

That was all right. Jamie didn't necessarily particularly like Snape all the time, either. Even the bat, had he been around it for long enough, would probably have gotten on his nerves eventually.

8:31.

The shift in number brought his gaze inexorably to rest on the clock. For a moment, he continued to lie there. The information had not quite sunken in yet. His eyes then shifted forward and to the left a little, a small square of parchment.

Harry--

We tried to wake you up, truly. But you were dead to the world--I don't think even Hogwarts burning down around you would have woken you up!

I hope you wake up in time. See you at breakfast or, failing that, in Transfiguration. You will be up by then, right?

--Ron

Transfiguration. The classroom is not particularly close to Gryffindor Tower, you know . . . a small voice in the back of his head noted.

8:32. Transfiguration started at 9:00.

Finally, he began to move. Accelerating almost impossibly from rest to full speed, he shot out of bed.

Oh shit! I'm going to be late!!
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At 8:58, bookbag in hand, Jamie slid into the Transfiguration classroom. Nice to see you, Harry! Ron chirped cheerfully from the head of the classroom. Didn't think you were going to make it.

Jamie flipped his hair back (and how strange it was, to have hair long enough to be able to do that . . .) and grinned. Not my fault I overslept. I was aiming for fifteen hours, but nooo, I ended up sleeping fifteen and a half instead.

Coffee again? Lucia asked from the other side of the room. Although your perkiness does seem a bit more natural than that positively hyper act you were putting on for Professor Vector yesterday morning.

Muffling a smile, Jamie pulled at an earlobe. Ah, yes. The poor man's probably scarred for life. And no, Lucia, no coffee. I've sworn the stuff off--except for in dire emergencies, of course.

That's most likely a good thing. Parvati quipped from the seat to the left of Lucia's. After all, it's not like your growth needs any more stunting. You're short enough as it is.

Stung, Jamie protested, I'm taller than Malfoy!

At the front of the room, Hermione looked up briefly from her textbook, pushing a pair of reading glasses further up her nose. Harry . . . she began gently, . . . I know first-years that are taller than Malfoy.

Gryffindors all, and by this time heartily sick of Malfoy and his antics, the entire classroom burst into raucous laughter. Impervious, as soon as it quieted, she continued, And you were right. Malfoy is very angry at you for something. Light glinted off her glasses, and the predatory light in her eyes could have been seen by any but the blind. Are you going to tell me now, Harry?

What did you do to him? Ron leaned forward eagerly.

And why didn't you let me help? Dean added, grinning.

I didn't do anything. Jamie replied. Malfoy's just showing his unwillingness to take responsibility for his own actions . . . again.

Spoiled brat. Lavender muttered.

No one disagreed.

As Professor McGonagall entered the classroom, the focus of attention shifted. Harry raised his hand surrepititiously to wipe the sweat off his nose--strangely, the place that sweated most copiously and frequently. Especially when he was embarrassed, nervous, or being put on the spot. As his hand passed across his face, though, he got the feeling that Something Was Missing.

Where are my glasses? His face felt somehow bare without them, although he had not noticed their absense until that moment. Which brought up another, even more interesting question.

Why can I see?
**
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**
Jamie literally wolfed down his food, while the rest of his nearby friends watched with a fascination that approached horror. Jamie? Are you alright? Lucia asked hesitantly.

For once during the meal, the green-eyed Gryffindor paused to chew. He swallowed. Yeah. Fine. Just a bit hungry.

That's what you get for skipping breakfast. Hermione sniffed, as if she had never before become so engrossed in a book that she simply forgot to eat.

Jamie grinned, one that seemed to hold hints of mischievous mystery around the edges. I'm not telling!'
**
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By the time he reached the Survival room, Draco was there already. What took you so long, Potter?

I was eating. So, have you gotten over your urge to--what was it?--ritually disembowel me yet?

A shark-like grin. Thank you, Potter, for reminding me. He picked up a dagger--his long one--putting it back down after a moment's consideration. No, this will be far more satisfying if I do it myself. He began to stalk towards Jamie.

Who stayed where he was, seemingly unconcerned. I don't know that it's possible to disembowel someone without using some sort of sharpened tool. He reached into a pocket and brought out a piece of black string, using it to tie his hair back. Guess you'll have to go with--what was your second choice again? Strangling me?

Without pausing in his slow stalk, Draco held out his hand admiringly. You know . . . keeping my fingernails comparatively long does have its benefits, after all.

Why are you so pissed, anyway?

You cause me to get a total of five hours, forty-five minutes, and twelve seconds worth of sleep (yes, I counted that exactly, Potter. Shut up.) over the course of two days, and eat so little that I could practically feel myself shrinking for three days, and you have the nerve to ask me why I'm so angry?

I got three hours of sleep and ate nothing. The bat said I was a moron--I think you'd like him; he reminded me a lot of Professor Snape. You seem to be missing the point, though--it was your choice.

No, Potter, it is you who has missed the point. They were practically nose and nose now, and Draco was baring his teeth as if he had been practicing the expression for years. It. Is. All. Your. Fault. He lunged.
**
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**
First year Hufflepuffs. Ohjoyohjoyohjoy. They were, if possible, the most hopeless group of children he had ever been unfortunate enough to to teach. (Of course, this is the man who has said essentially the same thing about every single group of Gryffindors and about three-quarters of the Hufflepuffs he has taught . . .) And now he had to grade their pitiful attempts at essay writing.

He was getting a headache just thinking about it. Thank goodness there were only five of them . . . maybe by the time he finished, he would have gotten away with not getting a full-blown migraine.

When a caltrop on his desk--the indicator of malicious energy that he had attuned to the Survival room--began to glow, he knew that any hope of not having a migraine had just disappeared. Stopping in the middle of a word, he jolted out of his seat and took off towards the other room.

How did someone with malicious intent get in? The only ones allowed in there are the students . . . did I leave a loophole in my wards? I was so sure they were airtight . . .

I hope I'm not too late . . .

By the time he reached the room, he was afraid it would all be over, the perpetrator already fled through the same hole in his wards through which it had come. Tom Riddle he pressed his hand to the panel, waited impatiently for the door to open.

Harry Potter (of course, who else . . .) sat in the middle of the room, Draco Malfoy's head in his lap. Both looked about equally roughed up; Harry was stroking his fingers through the latter's hair with a look on his face that approached blissfulness.

Here in the room--or at its boundary, whatever--he was tied in directly to the wards. Feeling no more of that malevolence, he sagged. Too late.

As he watched, though, Draco formed his hand into a fist. All your fault, Potter. And punched the Gryffindor's leg. The malevolent energy he had felt earlier spiked.

Oh. Suddenly it made sense. Although why Potter and Draco had chosen here to rip into each other was something of a mystery. The other boy replied cheerfully. No malevolence there.

Next time . . .

. . . you really will kill me. Mmhm. Just let me know when. The Boy-Who-Lived seemed strangely indifferent to the fact that it was his death being discussed.

I hate you, Potter.

That's nice dear.

Draco pouted. Why won't you take me seriously?

The raven-haired Gryffindor considered. Perhaps because if I were to take you truly seriously, I'd have to kill you. Or at least go to Dumbledore and have you expelled. And I enjoy your company too much to do that. A beatific smile. 'Sides, I know that you don't mean it. Not really.

Another weak punch. Take me seriously, damn it!

Malfoy, the only person I take seriously is Voldemort. Do you really want to compare?

--And stop stroking my hair! When in doubt or faced with an inability to retort, change the subject. I'm not a dog! The hand resting on the Slytherin's head abruptly stopped, quickly hiding in a pocket, and green eyes popped open.

Arms folded across his chest, Snape cleared his throat quietly. Silver eyes joined green in staring, startled and abashed, in the direction of the door. Do I really want to know, Draco, why you're lying with your head in Potter's lap?

The ordinarily urbane Slytherin scrambled out of the aforementioned position, hair in a disarray. Looks like he just climbed out of bed. Which thought brought up alternate uses for a bed. Both were still clothed, and there was the malevolence to consider, so that particular image was highly unlikely. Still, Severus, I think you need to stop thinking. Now.

Probably not. Potter quipped. The reality is rather prosaic, so you'll have a lot more fun just imagining, I'm sure.

Don't make me smack you again, Potter. Draco warned. Professor, I was just beating Potter up because . . .

. . . of some imagined wrong that Malfoy believes is my fault. The Gryffindor stood, stretched. What looked like it was originally some sort of pony-tail was in considerable disarray, but on the whole, it looked like Potter had come out on top. Ack! Bad mental image! Stop it! Now!

It is your fault, Potter. Draco brushed hair out of his eyes.

Just keep on telling yourself that. He murmured, eyes seemingly locked on Draco's hair. You sure I can't touch it again?

Look of irritation. What are you nattering on about now?

Your hair. Snape joined Draco in staring, in that Are-you-insane?!' manner that they both had a great deal of practice using--especially since becoming better acquainted with the Potter scion (although Snape at least got a lot of practice using it on his fellow faculty and especially Dumbledore).

Potter . . . why do you want to touch my hair? Draco asked, slowly enunciating each word. Now that there was so much focus being placed on it, Snape noticed that in addition to being all over the place, there was definitely something different about his godson's hair. He didn't gel it today? I wonder why?

It's so soft and silky. Jamie drifted forward. I love--

Draco backpedaled.

The Gryffindor snapped back into focus. I was going to say your hair'. He snapped. Draco looked mildly embarrassed. Why didn't you gel it today? Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It looks a lot better this way, so silky . . . beautiful . . .

Not again, Draco moaned, as Jamie seemed to space out again. Then he stopped. Whaddaya mean, I didn't gel it. Of course I gelled it. I always do.

Certainly doesn't look like it. Potter maintained, and Snape nodded in silent agreement.

But it's always gelled. I remember gelling it this morning . . . Draco seemed to be drifting off into shock.

Snape, his hair in lank locks that fell haphazard around his face, exchanged a look with Jamie, whose hair was often in much the same state, now that it was comparatively long. Who in their right minds would spend that much time on their hair?

Regardless, you might want to get straightened up. He suggested mildly. You both look like you've been through a blender.

You always know what to say to make a guy feel appreciated. Jamie grinned through the sarcasm in his voice.

Snape stepped out of the doorway in which he had been standing through the conversation; a clear invitation.

The two boys scooted.
**
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**
Jamie commented proudly, as they reached the intersection at which they would split up. How about you? Ferret?

Potter, do you really want me to hurt you that badly? Draco could feel his hands curving into claws. That was, most definitely, one of the most embarrassing things that had ever happened to him in his life, and not something he was particularly fond of being reminded of. Fox. If you really wanted to know, and not just bait me.

Amazingly, the Gryffindor actually did look it. I guess I never really thought about what it would have felt like, only how much fun it was to watch.

Draco stared straight ahead, refusing to look Jamie in the face. The most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me.

Even more humiliating than my kicking your ass just now? Jamie turned down the corridor that led towards Gryffindor, then turned his head back briefly in Draco's direction. See you back in the Survival room.

At least there weren't any witnesses. Draco muttered. Then, when the other boy was out of sight, he finally processed the entirety of the comment.

And you did not kick my ass!
**
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Anja, Elektra Joradees Gamblin, Saavik: Thanks. Is this soon enough? Almost?

: *grin* I figured James would find some way to leave something behind with which to corrupt the younger generation. So, how do you like their forms?

~Mary~: Oh, I never mind reading how much people like my story; it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. ^_^ Especially when you mention favorite parts (of course, it doesn't hurt that the parts you mentioned are also some of my favorites . . . *grin*)

I don't mind the name, SS#, etc. part (mostly because I filled them out on pdf files, and most of them were set up where you type it in one place and it appears in all the others). What I truly despise are the essays.

Why are you a good match for our college? What that is unique and interesting about you can you bring to increase our diversity and specialness here at insertcollegenamehere?

I'M EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD AND I WRITE FANFICTION!! AND NOT EVEN ABOUT SOMETHING UNUSUAL OR VAGUELY ORIGINAL, BUT ABOUT AN INSANELY POPULAR SET OF CHILDRENS' NOVELS, THAT PROBABLY HAS HAD THE MOST FANFICTION WRITTEN ABOUT IT IN THE HISTORY OF, WELL, FANFICTION!! I HAVE NO LIFE! WOO!!

The sad thing is . . . I like it that way.

Crydwyn: Wah! Now you're making me feel guilty for not updating even faster--my average, three weeks, isn't that much shorter than a month, after all. :(

Longest chapters of any of my stories . . . yet they go by so incredibly fast. I turn around and, What? I've written 20 pages already? How did that happen? ^_^

darkhaven: Yep. *grin* And oh, the fallout when they find out . . .

Lorn('elth'alt'mer)? Really? Cool! After Cerryl, he's my favorite Recluce series character.

*ponders the fact that my two favorite sets of characters in the Recluce series are White/Chaos/supposedly bad mages* Oh well. I don't exactly conform to J.K.'s All-Slytherins-Suck-And-Are-Evil (although I am most definitely not a Slytherin myself! I'd get chewed up and spit out within an hour!) subthread either. I guess I'm just strange that way. ^_^ And yes, I like L. E. Modesitt. One of my favorite novelists, and I've read practically everything he's written.

I'm glad you think I'm doing a good job balancing the viewpoints; I have this horrid habit of making a thousand and one people into main characters' and feeling the need to concentrate on them all almost equally, and it's nice to know that you think I'm managing to pull it off.

Saturn's Hikari: Parvati will meet Sirius. Eventually. Now that she knows Parvati won't run screaming to the Daily Prophet, she's too sweet not to share the wealth.

The spell does have something to do with the way Harry(s) look (yes, Lucia's Snape did the spell too), but not exactly what you're thinking, I don't think. You'll see.

I know! I really wanted to make Draco a ferret. Can you imagine how long Jamie would have laughed? It was really funny, I asked my mom--who still hasn't gotten around to reading the fourth book--what animal she thought Draco should be, and she said !

But someone made a valid point; it is very cliche . . . and the fox was almost as good.

Jayde: . . . hits everyone in both houses from out of left field. ^_^ I hadn't ever really thought about it, but that is kind of the effect I've been going for.

Where do you think Remus gets it from? Though, I must admit that, those rare times I am alert that early in the morning, it really is fun to bounce around chirping Good morning! at people. *sadistic grin*

Alex: *pats on head* Poor baby. I assume it's done by now? Hope you're enjoying the time off. As you can probably tell, I certainly am! Here's the new chapter to prove it, after all!

Yllyana: Yeah, Lucia annoys me too. Except when she doesn't. She's a much harder character to write than Jamie for some reason. Their relationship's kinda rocky: It's going to get better, but then it'll get worse, before it gets better . . . that sort of thing. Everything'll sort itself out eventually, I think.

She does trust Jamie, to a certain extent. It's strange, thinking that she, a true Gryffindor, is stingier than Slytherinish Jamie about where and to whom and to what extent she gives her trust . . . but then again, she's also a Malfoy. That's got to be pretty hard.

A lion?! Hell no! These are Slytherins (well, more or less) we're talking about here. Would it disappoint you too terribly much to know that they were originally going to be a snake and a ferret? -_-

I knew how cliche it was, but it seemed to fit . . . until I really started thinking. I'm still not absolutely sure that fox is a better fit for Draco than ferret, but it's good enough. And I like the idea of Jamie the vampire bat. (Snape swoops around like one, his son actually is one . . . ah, the irony . . . *grins insanely*)

28 November 2002