Hello, and Happy Winter Holidays of Various Shapes and Sizes to all.

I don't suppose J. K. Rowling would be willing to give me the Harry Potter series for Christmas, do you?

Didn't think so. Pity. Well, until that happy day, I suppose I'll just have to be content with wantonly ripping her off, secure in the knowledge that, since I'm not getting paid, it's all okay.

Ain't fanfiction grand?
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~*~Wanted: One Missing Slytherin~*~
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"Severus, are any of your Slytherins missing?"

"Fletcher, just because I emerged out of my cave to eat lunch here in the staff room--an impulse I'm regretting more and more by the moment, I assure you--for once does not mean you need to attempt to engage in small talk with me."

"No, I'm serious. Are you missing any of your Slytherins?"

The Potions Master sighed, and reluctantly turned his attention away from the copy of Potionmaking Quarterly he had found and subsequently preempted--the real reason he had deigned to come eat up here. To his surprise, Mundugus Fletcher did indeed look serious.

Well, actually, Fletcher looked more wild-eyed than anything, but that still got the point across. He wondered what any of his Slytherins could have done . . . and how he could sneak in a point or two for Slytherin over this . . . whatever it turned out to be. With a sigh, he brought a scroll of parchment, one he carried everywhere with him.

He tapped it peremptorily. "Show me my children."

The parchment elongated as writing appeared, until around sixty names--sixty-six, to be precise--were written in emerald green ink. Pucey, Andrea -- First Year Girls Dorm, said one entry. Another, Parkinson, Pansy -- Transfiguration Classroom.

Snape scanned the list. "I see nothing out of place." A snap of his fingers, and the parchment shrank, curled up, and jumped back into his pocket. He turned his gaze back to the frazzled Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. "What seems to be the problem?"

"I think one of them is Polyjuicing as Harry Potter." Fletcher slumped. "That boy is impossible! As bad as the fifth-year Slytherin class--which is the worst of the lot. No offense meant, but they are."

If not for the fact that Severus Snape's eyes never twinkle (and he'd be quite likely to hex anyone who suggested they did, thankyouverymuch), one would almost believe they were, indeed, twinkling.

Snape, amused at the plight of his fellow professor? Are you kidding?! Of course he was! Especially since he had already been forced to sit through said professor's complaints about his fifth-years. Twice. (He had heard that Potionmaking Quarterly had come in a week early--regrettably, a false alarm. He still suspected foul play, as Albus had looked far too innocent at the next staff meeting. In which Fletcher had taken yet another opportunity to complain.)

"Even if Gryffindors rarely have the reflexes you're trying to program into them, this is Potter were talking about. You shouldn't be so surprised that he's a bit paranoid." Snape was attempting to sound soothing. Well, sort of. He didn't really want his former schoolmate to have a complete nervous breakdown or anything of that sort.

Not while he was the only other person in the room, at least. He'd rather live with being blamed mostly just for the actions he had actually committed.

But damn, it was funny watching the former Ravenclaw squirm.

"A bit?!" The brown-haired man spluttered. "Severus, he fights back!"

"My fifth-years don't?" Severus frowned. Perhaps I should speak with them. They really ought to know better by now. Sitting back and taking abuse from someone they don't know for a fact deserves that respect is just stupid. Unless there's a good reason--in which case, they ought to be planning revenge.

"Well, yes, but . . . no one else does!" Poor Fletcher. He had his own nice little logical world set up, but certain people just weren't cooperating. Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ravenclaws. "And he's worse!"

An eyebrow raised at this intriguing bit of information. The fifth-year group, with someone like Draco as their ringleader, was one of the worst groups of troublemakers to come through Slytherin in quite a while. Refusing to respect their teachers--except him, of course--always plotting up some sort of scheme against the other houses . . . it made him feel positively juvenile again. Was it any wonder that they were his favorites?

"Don't raise your eyebrows at me, Severus." Fletcher practically growled. "It's true. Your Slytherins . . . they just bounce back whatever I throw at them, then send me an extra little something to grow on." The man winced; Snape wondered at just how awful his students must have been, in order to provoke this sort of reaction less than two weeks into the term.

"Harry Potter does all that, and then finds it amusing to toss hexes my way while I'm in the middle of class."

Snape tried to keep his face straight. Oh, good one, Potter. So much for constant vigilance, eh, Fletcher? "Why are you talking to me about it, Fletcher?" He waved a hand dismissively "Just go see Albus and request that Potter be transferred into the fifth-year Slytherins class. That way," he ended flippantly, "you'll have all the worst troublemakers in one spot."

He should have known better. If there was one thing he should have learned by now, it was that everyone took his words at face value. They may not believe him, but they'd certainly never entertain the possibility that he might have been joking. Not all that strange, considering how rarely he did joke. Still . . .

Fletcher brightened considerably. "Thanks, Severus. I think I'll do that!"
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"Was that really necessary, Harry?" Hermione asked. "Hexing the teacher could have gotten you into serious trouble."

"The look on his face . . ." Ron, who had managed to stop laughing long enough to eat lunch, had been set off once again by Hermione's comment.

"Honestly." Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes at the redhead's antics. "You can stop laughing now, Ron." Apparently giving up, she turned back to Jamie. "You should have at least finished answering the question."

"I did." Impudent smirk. "Afterwards. Frankly, I'm just impressed that he dodged it."

"Who dodged what?" Draco, sans bodyguards, sauntered up. Catching sight of Jamie's smirk, he cocked his head and widened his eyes innocently. "Why, Potter. Are you trying to imitate your cousin?"

Twitching eyelid. "Malfoy . . . one connection seventeen generations back does not make us related!" The lamplight glinted off Malfoy's inhumanly white-silver-blond hair, drawing Jamie's eyes and temporarily muting him.

"Oh, I don't know." If possible, Draco managed to look even more innocent. "Harry Snape . . . it has a pretty nice ring to it, I think . . ."

"Malfoy!" Jamie lunged; Draco scampered away. Chasing each other, they dashed further down the hall.

"Harry . . ." Hermione blinked.

". . . is related to Snape?!" Ron finished, looking a bit green. "Poor Harry."

"Don't worry. It was probably just Malfoy being Malfoy." Lucia assured them, feeling slightly green herself. Snape is nice and all, but I wouldn't want to be related to him.
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"So? Who dodged what?" Draco asked, as the two of them leaned against the door to the Survival room, catching their breaths.

"Professor Fletcher. Hex." Jamie replied succinctly.

"You?" A surprised bark of laughter. "Why Potter, I do believe I'm impressed! Most of us have such lamentable aim that he doesn't even bother to dodge." A smirk. "I am, of course, not in that category."

"Of course not." Jamie smirked back. "So, what have you used so far?"

"Getting vindictive in your old age?"

"Not at all." Jamie protested loftily. "I just believe that Professor Fletcher ought to be given an ample opportunity to prove the value of the credo 'Constant Vigilance' through his actions."

Draco snickered. "I agree wholeheartedly. Not that I have anything against paranoia--it's the healthiest way to live, in my opinion."

"Within reason." Jamie agreed. "It's good to be willing to trust some people, though."

A twisted expression. "The problem," Draco noted quietly, "is in figuring out who to trust."

Jamie smiled his own, rather twisted smile. "There is that." And sometimes people make the wrong choices. "There is definitely that."

In relative silence, they turned and entered the classroom; the only sounds the faint clicking of their heels against the stone floor and the quiet murmur as each said his password.

The room was filled with a soft golden light from the windows, giving the room a very welcoming feeling. Without looking back, Draco observed, "you're doing it again, aren't you."

Jamie shook himself out of musings on the way the sunlight reflected off the Slytherins hair--really, showing it to far better advantage than torch light did. "Hm? Doing what?"

"Are you sure you're not actually a crow or a raven?" Draco asked.

"I think I know the difference between a bat and a bird." Jamie replied. "Even if the first bat I ever saw outside of school books was the one in my dream. Why?"

Twitching eye. "Because you seem to have an unhealthy fascination with shiny things." A pause. "Like my hair!"

Jamie shrunk in on himself guiltily. "I was doing it again, wasn't I. Staring at your hair."

"Yes." The annoyed boy hissed. "Look . . . I know you mean nothing by it . . . but it's still really annoying." He cocked his head. "Actually, you were doing pretty well yesterday. But today . . ."

"Yesterday I was concentrating on not staring at you." Jamie looked at the ground. "But . . . well, I'm just distracted today. More than normal. So I'm not keeping track and . . . I forget." Tonight's the full moon . . . He had talked to Lucia the day before, trying to come up with a good place for her to hide overnight.

The Shrieking Shack wouldn't work; not if they were to truly keep Lucia's condition as secret as possible. It turned out that the werewolf had already thought things through and--here she dropped the bombshell--told her new friend Parvati about her condition.

Parvati, being a prefect, had her own room and was able to offer that as a place for Lucia to hide during those hours when she was transformed. Jamie had been left feeling vaguely useless, finally saying nothing more on the topic than telling her to warn Parvati that he would most likely drop in at some point in the night and visit.

"I forgot yesterday . . ." Draco dove briefly into his bookbag, finally drawing out a small bound volume that he tossed Jamie's way. "Here's this back." Suddenly, all memory of his feelings of uselessness was banished, as he realized there was something he could do.

Draco observed his bright face with growing distrust. He had been around the strange Gryffindor enough recently to know that that was not necessarily a good thing. "What evil plot is running through your mind now?"

Jamie blinked, then widened his eyes and put on his best 'who-me?' innocent smile. "What makes you think I was plotting?"

"You were plotting, Jamie? What sort of plot?" Lucia asked from behind him. "Can I help?"

"I'm not plotting!" The black-haired wizard protested. "Hey, Parvati. I've got a book I want you to read." He chucked the journal in his hands in the direction of the startled girl.

"Potter!" Draco protested instinctively. "What are you . . . what did you . . . what . . .?!" He descended into incomprehensibility.

"Nothing you need to worry about." Jamie shoved his hands in his pockets. Nearly his entire attention was on Parvati, who looked at the book in her hands with first surprise, then growing shock and comprehension.

"Thanks, Harry." She smiled widely. "I'll make good use of it, I promise."

He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "Come see me in three days, and then we'll see."

At this moment, Snape appeared in the doorway, and Parvati scattered, dragging Lucia along with her. Jamie nodded his acknowledgment of his teacher's presence, only to blink as the taller man swept past without even looking at him.

He turned, only to see his professor greet Draco with the exact same treatment. The two partners blinked at each other in mutual incomprehension. It seemed almost as if Snape was making an effort to avoid them. Now Jamie could understand this directed towards himself, as that had been the basis of his and Snape's relationship (interspersed with detentions, point deductions, and scathing commentary) for the first four years of his schooling here at Hogwarts, but Draco?

He could not recall a time when Snape had not had something nice to say to his favorite student--a title which Draco almost definitely held. At the very least, a nod and the Snapeish equivalent of a smile. This was most definitely strange behaviour.
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He had come up here, to the Survival room, in order to get a few moments' peace before the afternoon session began. Of course, it didn't work that way--the room was already occupied. And among those occupants were the two people he least wanted to see just now. He just hoped--desperately--that Albus would merely pat Fletcher on the head, tell him not to be silly, and dismiss him.

Unfortunately, putting Potter into a classroom full of Slytherins sounded like just the sort of mayhem Albus enjoyed. But . . . perhaps because it was Potter . . .?

Just about all he could do at this point is wait and see. And be prepared to duck, in case Potter or any of his fifth-years figured out just who has suggested this ludicrous course to the DADA instructor. He wasn't sure that even their respect for him would keep them from exacting revenge for what had been, after all, a really stupid thing to say. Especially to a Ravenclaw. One thing the birdbrains can never seem to learn is how to develop a little something called a sense of humour! Even he had one, as vestigial as it often seemed.

"Professor?" A tentative voice. He looked up.

Of course. Certainly the Gryffindors wouldn't have dared approach him, vaunted house courage or no. "Is something wrong?" Draco picked up where Potter's previous interrogative left off.

"Something we can help with?" Potter's eyes had flashed, almost too quickly to be noticed, towards the cloth covering his left forearm.

To tell or not to tell? Might as well get it over with. Knowing Albus, I can't seriously see him refusing Fletcher's request. Although finding out what his little Golden Boy has been up to might throw him for a loop. Sadly, that was probably too much to hope for. You see a lot in the hundred-odd years Albus had been alive--and knowing the Headmaster, probably one of the first things he had learned was to cover his surprise. By now, even if he was ever surprised by something, the casual onlooker would never be able to tell.

"I made an . . . unwise . . . remark to Fletcher." He admitted, refusing to look at either of them. Had he, he might have been amused by the nearly identical looks of grudging respect--very grudging--adorning both their faces. "He was complaining about you, Mr. Potter, suggesting that one of my Slytherins had drunk Polyjuice Potion and taken your place."

Potter snorted. "Next time you see him, ask him how that would be possible, seeing as our lessons are more than an hour long, and I never drink anything during class."

At the same time, Draco chirped, "Brilliant idea! Remind me to do that, sometime."

"I wouldn't." Potter advised. "Polyjuice tastes absolutely awful." Suddenly the focus of two sharply interested pairs of eyes, he realized that that had not been, perhaps, the brightest thing to say. "Not that I would know, of course . . ." He continued hurriedly.

Neither one looked like they believed him.

". . . And another thing. Slytherin's primary trait is its sneakiness. If one of your House really was posing as me, for whatever strange reason, I'd think they'd make sure to know me well enough to be acting far more like me than I've been acting recently. It would be like practically begging to be caught!"

"And your remark was?" Draco asked hopefully. " 'Get your head out of your ass, Fletcher, none of my Slytherins are that stupid!'?" He paused, then added reflectively, "Well . . . except Crabbe and Goyle. But they wouldn't be able to brew the potion in the first place, so that leaves them out as well."

"Language, Mr. Malfoy." Snape remonstrated. Despite his words, he didn't seem particularly stern. "Unfortunately, no. I instead had the misfortune to say, I quote, 'Just go see the Headmaster and request that Mr. Potter be transferred into the fifth-year Slytherin class. That way you'll have all the worst troublemakers in one spot.' "

"We're the worst troublemakers?" Draco's eyes shone with unshed (fake) tears. He sniffed dramatically. "I didn't know he cared!"

Jamie's eyes widened. "Don't tell me Professor Fletcher thought you were serious?!" He cried.

"Indeed." Snape inclined his head.

"The Headmaster," Jamie began carefully, "would most likely see this as a perfect opportunity to promote inter-House relations."

Draco snorted. "More likely he'd just think the ensuing chaos would be a blast to watch."

Jamie grinned. "Well . . . that too. So I suppose I should be preparing to have my schedule messed with?" He looked thoughtful. "But I don't have any empty class spaces in which to take whatever I'll be shunted out of. Unless I get a T . . . switch into at least one other class with Slytherin," he covered up his slip as well as he could, "this won't work."

I can't believe I forgot I'm not supposed to know that Time-Turners exist! Crap. I just hope they bought it. And it seemed that Draco had bought it, although Snape had the look of someone storing away information for future reference (and/or blackmail).

"When do you have DADA?" Draco asked. "We have it Tuesday mornings."

"That's when I have Transfiguration. I have DADA right before this, actually."

"Which is when we have Transfiguration." Draco looked inhumanly pleased with himself. "So it will be a simple flip-flop. What are the odds of that happening?"

"Ask 'Mione if you really want to know." Jamie quipped.

Snape looked from one to the other, puzzled. "Aren't you at all upset?"

"Who, me? Upset?" Jamie cracked his knuckles and grinned, shark-like. "Oh, not at all. It's a compliment, actually. Then again . . . making that sort of assumption is criminally stupid. I suppose I'll just have to . . . make it up to him . . . Tuesday morning." He smiled beatifically.

"I'll bet I can find more pseudo-legitimate chances to shoot a hex in his direction than you." Draco challenged.

"You're on!"
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Jamie ran his hand through the silky black fur. "Mm . . . your fur is almost as soft as Draco's hair."

A violent twitch. "Sorry . . . I forgot again."

From the bed, Parvati turned over onto her stomach facing Jamie, kicking her feet up into the air. "Do I want to know why you know what Malfoy's hair feels like?" Lucia had turned her head and was giving him the same sort of wary look.

He shot her a mildly hostile glance. "Merlin. Is this school populated entirely by people who can't get their minds out of the gutter?"

"Well, I've never heard you refer to him as Draco before." Parvati pointed out logically. "Even in Survival, where you act best towards each other, you still refer to each other by last name."

Jamie pulled at his short ponytail, clearly embarrassed. "We do. Refer to each other by last name, that is. But now that I know him better, I can't keep thinking of him as Malfoy." He ruffled Lucia's fur. "I never would have believed it when we first met, but you were right, Lucia. Draco is a nice person to know."

The coal-black wolf ducked her head out from under his hand, making a noise immediately identifiable as a snort.

"No, he's not that much like your brother. But he's still an interesting person." Who would have thought that I would be the one defending Draco Malfoy against anyone? How things change . . .

"Still doesn't explain how you know what Malfoy's hair feels like." Parvati pointed out.

"Oh, that. Dra . . . Malfoy and I got into a knockdown, drag out fight in the Survival room, just after lunch on Tuesday." He smirked at the memory.

One would never anticipate it from the normally icy Slytherin, but when Draco allowed himself to get truly angry, he totally lost control. Avoiding the majority of the blond's blows had been child's play. Especially since, in addition to being out of control, Draco had far less stamina than his adversary--in that, all those years of being chased and beat on by Dudley and his gang had stood Jamie in good stead.

The great store of resentment that had evidently been festering in Draco for the last several days, however, increased the powers of those blows the other had managed to land. Still, he had probably done worse damage to himself, those times he fell down the stairs.

His heart had nearly stopped, though, when the other boy had unexpectedly (most likely as a result of his growing exhaustion) tripped over his own feet and gone careening into the teacher's desk, slamming his head squarely against the edge. Knocked him out, of course.

He had rushed over to inspect the unconscious boy's head immediately, of course, and his heart had only restarted once he determined that there was probably no real damage done. Just a very big bump that would probably pain him for a week or so. Only then had he allowed himself to be hypnotized by the beauty, the silky softness, of his friend's hair. And that was how Snape had found them.

"Never mind." Parvati interrupted. "I take it back; I don't want to know how you made it from punching each other to fondling Malfoy's hair." From Lucia's laid back ears and the look in her crimson eyes, it was clear that she felt the same way. "It probably wouldn't make sense to me anyway."

"I wasn't . . .!" Jamie's expression turned sour as he realized that 'fondling' was actually a rather apt description of the way he had stroked Draco's hair. Even if he hadn't meant it that way. "Oh, never mind." He fluidly stood. " 'Scuse me. I've got History I really ought to be studying." Call it a strategic retreat. As well as being truth.

He nodded in Parvati's direction. "See you both tomorrow, I suppose."

As soon as he was gone, Lucia pounced on the bed, curling up beside Parvati, head on her paws and eyes mournful. Oniisan. Parvati rested her hand on her friend's head, a silent gesture of support.

For a moment, it was almost even enough.
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Hogsmeade weekend! The news raced through Gryffindor Tower, carried every step of the way by excited messengers.

"We're looking into a temporary association with Zonko's; it'll be easier to gain respect and attention when connected to such a prominent name than if we were to try to break into the joke business on our own." Fred was telling Angelina, Alicia, and Katie in one corner of the common room.

The Gryffindor Chasers looked suitably impressed. "Good business sense." Katie commented. "So, I gather you're going to be interviewing or something of that sort at Zonko's while we're in Hogsmeade?"

"But . . . so you won't be with me?" Angelina's lip quivered and her eyes grew wide.

"Um . . . er . . . that is . . ." Fred's face grew red as he tripped over himself attempting to reassure his girlfriend, and ending up saying nothing at all comprehensible.

Angelina grinned. "Oh, stop worrying, silly. I don't mind."

"I doubt we'll be at Zonko's all day, anyway." George looked amused at his twin's predicament. "You two will have plenty of time to sneak off and find a dark corner."

Alicia stood and grabbed George by the ear. "George. My dear friend and fellow Quidditch teammate. Allow me to instruct you on manners. Perhaps it will increase your projected life span."

"Which, as of right now, is roughly a minute after Fred and Angelina get their hands on you." Katie remarked dryly. "I'd go with Alicia. It's probably easier than trying to run with her still attached to your ear."

Jamie came down the stairs at his usual pace, then walked over to Seamus. "What's happening?"

The sandy-haired boy grinned. "Just watching the prelude to George's impending and most likely bloody and gruesome death. Popcorn?" He offered his classmate a half-eaten bag. "Dean introduced it to me. Delicious stuff. Amazing what Muggles can come up with."

Jamie took a few kernels dubiously. "I've never had it before, but it does seem very popular." Popcorn--especially as far as the Dursleys were concerned--was mainly something one eats at movies, never at home. And he, of course, was never allowed to accompany Dudley and his pack of friends to the movies.

Not that he had particularly wanted to. Some of the commercials for movies that he had caught out of the corner of his eye had seemed interesting, but not interesting enough to try to convince his aunt and uncle (a lost cause already) to let him stay near Dudley willingly for over an hour (they'd suspect a trick and forbid him, even if they hadn't already intended to through pure spite).

Chewy. Salty and buttery all wrapped up in one. He licked his lips. "Good. I think I've come to it too late to become truly addicted, though. 'Specially since I think the popcorn-flavoured Every Flavour Beans taste better."

"Heresy!" Dean gasped.

Seamus fished out another handful, tossed it into his mouth and chewed contemplatively. "Hm . . . I prefer the crunchy/chewy texture of the real thing, I think. So what will you be doing in Hogsmeade, Harry?"

The raven-haired boy shrugged. "Walk around. Browse. I don't have anything specific I'm interested in getting." At least he could go to Hogsmeade, now that Sirius was around (vicariously, at least) to sign the forms. He was rather surprised that, so far, no extra restrictions had been placed on their movements. He would have thought, with Voldemort back alive . . .

Eh . . . no use crying over spilt milk. Even if it hadn't been his blood used, Voldemort would have found some way to regain his body. Not like he didn't have plenty of enemies and a few to spare, after all.

Still . . . if he hadn't been caught, if the trap hadn't been intended for him personally, Cedric would probably still be alive. That was the part that wore worst on Jamie. He had moved on after Cedric's death, for the most part--not the least because of the words of Lucia's oniisan--but he still sometimes, despite himself, temporarily backslid into grief and self-pity.

Professor McGonagall appeared in the doorway. "Is everyone ready to go to Hogsmeade?"

A resounding "Yes!" echoed through the stone chamber, and the Transfiguration professor allowed herself a small smile.

"Well then, shall we go?"
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As he had told Seamus he would, Jamie wandered aimlessly through the streets of Hogsmeade. Zonko's did not interest him; he had never quite fully understood the appeal of practical joking, especially now that he no longer had anyone within easy reach who he disliked enough to saddle with such a thing.

For a moment, he had a happy vision of finding a way to send Voldemort a Dungbomb. That would be a practical joke worth doing. He supposed an owl might be able to find the reborn Dark Lord . . . but was it really worth sacrificing the life of that owl just to play a juvenile joke?

Hm . . . but if Voldemort was still based out of the Riddle House--which was, after all, a Muggle place, and thus ought to have a Muggle address . . . set it to delay explosion until a certain person (the Dark Lord, who else?) opened it . . . just send it through the Muggle mail system.

Now that idea had definite appeal. It was a thought to store away for later.

A different glint--sunlight off metal instead of the usual glass--caught his eye and he turned to look on a shop he could have sworn he had never seen before. Matter of fact, nothing in the immediate area looked at all familiar--he must have wandered off and gotten lost (how embarrassing) while ruminating on Dungbombs and Voldemort.

The metal in question took the form of a longish dagger laid out in the display window. The dagger itself seemed made of some sort of steel, most likely; the hilt had more of a silver sheen and was wrapped in dark forest green dragonhide--far less abrasive than it sounded and it didn't wear away nearly as quickly as leather. The hilt itself sported an intricate carving of a fox with tiny emeralds for eyes.

He blinked, noticing for the first time that he was still nearly twenty feet away from the display window. No one's eyes are that good, are they? He walked closer in order to verify what he thought he had seen.

With his face practically shoved against the glass, it was quickly apparent that yes, somehow he had seen what he thought he had seen, from that far away. Except somehow, it was even more compelling from close up.

A shadow fell across him and he whirled, bringing his wand up defensively. A stranger stood there--but not in the distinctive Death Eater cloak. He relaxed, but only slightly. Just because the man didn't look particularly like a Death Eater didn't necessarily mean he wasn't one. Just that there wasn't likely to be a raid going on large enough for Death Eaters to feel comfortable coming out in broad daylight dressed as such.

The man--tallish, topping Jamie probably by a full foot, with sandy blond hair--laughed, and slapped Jamie on the back. Good reflexes you've got there, kid. Noticed you looking in my window. Seeing as I don't get too many visitors, I figured I'd come see what you found so interesting. Looking to buy something?

Jamie looked above the doorway, where there was a simple wooden sign holding a crude drawing of a sword and the word Larry's'. So you're Larry? He hazarded.

Nah. Larry's great-great-great-grandson or something like that. The name's Michael. What's yours, kid?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked. Just recalling his own name seemed like moving through molasses, for some reason. He had been about to say Jamie' . . . but that wasn't his real name. Just a label he answered to. What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet' . . .

Well, Harry, would you like to come in out of the sun for a bit? Shop around inside some?

Increasing the chance that I might buy something? Jamie grinned. Why not?

The inside of the shop was rather small and somewhat cramped by the multitude of weaponry--of all shapes and sizes--stacked against the walls, on tables, hanging from the ceiling . . . Jamie felt right at home.

So what was it you were so fascinated by in my window? Michael asked, startling him. He had been looking around so hard he had practically forgotten the other man's presence. I may have mentioned I don't get all that many customers; that's because this shop has always tended to specialize in special' weapons . . . really magical, the sorts of things that appear in Muggle fairy tales and tend to have minds of their own. He grinned. Then again, the up side is that every person who comes here is almost guaranteed to buy something.

Jamie's attention had been caught by something lying on one of the tables; at closer inspection some sort of harness? mechanism? made from the same sort of green dragonhide that wrapped the hilt of the dagger. What is that?

The store owner followed his young customer's gaze. Ah, those. They're wrist guards, of a sort--they also have a sort of trigger mechanism that allows them to hold a paired set of daggers, oh, probably a bit shorter than the length of your forearm. An added benefit is that the mechanism has been permanently charmed to turn itself--and whatever daggers are being held--invisible while it's worn. Or so the inventory list says.

He shrugged. I don't know for certain. The problem with these is, they're a set size. All the people who have been interested in them so far--not that there were necessarily all that many, but over a few centuries numbers add up--have been unable to wear them properly because they're just the wrong size.

Jamie murmured agreeably. He reached out and picked one up, put it on, then repeated the process with the other wrist. He held them up to the light to examine them. Well, your inventory was right in this much. The holding mechanism seems to have entirely disappeared. Except every now and then he could see this sort of shimmer . . . like the sort of thing you see out of the corner of your eye, but that disappears whenever you look straight at it.

I'll be damned. Michael breathed. That's one of the founding artifacts of this store, I'm pretty sure. And no one has ever fit into them before.

Jamie smiled wryly. I'm special. Unfortunately. To himself. Sometimes . . . I wonder what it would be like to be normal . . . He shook himself, then proceeded with sure steps to the dagger in the window, picking it up.

It felt wrong in his hand--even after only two lessons, it were already accustomed to the lighter feel to his scalloped daggers. Yet it was almost an exact match for the length and (if his estimations were correct) weight of Draco's dagger, and the silver and green and the fox motif were an almost exact match for Draco himself. Too close to be a coincidence, in his mind.

Michael eyed the dagger doubtfully. I think it's a bit too long to fit those wristguards of yours.

It's not for me. It's for a friend--and believe me, it's perfect for him.

The tall man's eyes flicked quickly from the green and silver of the dagger to the Gryffindor badge proudly displayed on Jamie's robes. He shrugged. Interesting choice of friends. Digging through another stack, he tossed an object Jamie's way, which the boy deftly caught. I'm assuming you'll also be wanting the sheath.

What makes you think I'm buying? The green-eyed boy asked mildly. A frankly disbelieving Look. He barked a short laugh. Fine, fine. It wouldn't do for me to break the trend, after all. How much?

Michael brought out a book. Due to their extreme age and the fact that this stupid book has never been adjusted for inflation he made a face those gauntlets are only sixteen Sickles. The dagger has been with us for nearly as long, but was originally deemed more valuable. Four Galleons.

Jamie took out his purse (glad I remembered to visit Gringotts last time we were in Diagon Alley . . . though I'm sure it has a branch in Hogsmeade, come to think of it) and exchanged five Galleons for a single Sickle in change and some brown paper to wrap the dagger in. Thank you. Perhaps I'll stop by to visit next time I'm in town.

Michael watched the black-haired student walk away, until at last he was out of sight, an unreadable look in his emerald eyes. Finally he shook his head, and sat back down at the ledger. Taking his quill he marked through two entries:

Slytherin's Gauntlets

Serpent Guardian

Neither had been priced; it had been the opinion of the founder of the store (seen in the man's carefully preserved diaries) that they, the property of Salazar Slytherin and his blood-bound soulfriend, would never be sold.

He looked at the five golden coins lying in his hand. Well . . . never say never, as They are wont to say . . . Personally, he thought the bit about inflation was a nice touch, especially since it gave him the perfect excuse to keep the price low.

His father (the illegitimate son of a true bastard; it was through his grandmother that the store had been passed down) had always said that he would have been a Slytherin had he attended Hogwarts, after all.

Speaking of his father . . . his old man would most likely be veerrryy interested by this turn of events. As he sat down to write a letter, he began to whistle. Slytherin's Gauntlets going to a childling--a Gryffindor childling, at that!--who knew someone who was a perfect match for the Serpent Guardian. And he had been the one to make the sale.

Who'da thunk?
**
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**
"Today, we will be working with mandrakes again." The class groaned loudly, and Professor Sprout beamed her sympathetic smile. "Yes, they can be quite a pain, can't they?"

"They're not so bad." Neville asserted quietly, tentatively touching the leaves of one of the nearest plants. It was here in the greenhouses that the Gryffindor achieved a state of quiet confidence he could not seem to find elsewhere.

"I'm glad you think so, Mr. Longbottom." Sprout's smile was now truly approving. She shared a special bond with Neville not unlike her relationship with the Hufflepuffs she watched over.

Without too much more complaint, all fifteen or so of them--Gryffindor and Ravenclaw alike--went forward to receive their earmuffs. "I thought we were free of these things second year." Lucia groused, though she kept her voice low.

"You had to deal with mandrakes in your second year, too? Our year was the only one in recent history at Hogwarts that did." Hermione said. "I think they're ordinarily taught about early on in third year."

"My class was a special case as well." Lucia replied, uncomfortable. She then pointedly put on her earmuffs, effectively ending the conversation. The rest of them quickly followed her example.

As Jamie secured the muffs over his ears, he became aware of a peculiar buzzing sensation. His vision greyed out and he grabbed for the table as he swayed dizzily. Hermione's face swam into his range of vision, mouthing something--probably "Are you okay?"

I can't see! He tried his best to suppress the panic. Then he realized, he could see--barely. Unlike the perfect vision he had grown used to over the past almost-a-week, he saw mostly blurred patches of color. Even Hermione's face--the only thing reasonably in focus--was extremely fuzzy around the edges.

The weight was removed from his ears as a new face joined Hermione's--Professor Sprout, looking understandably worried. "Mr. Potter? What happened?" Her voice, after the buzzing silence, seemed unnaturally loud.

He sat up (funny . . . I was standing last time I looked . . .), holding his head. "I . . . don't know . . ." He blinked. He could see again, as perfectly as he had been able to before . . . whatever had happened, had happened.

He slowly stood, expecting at any moment that awful dizziness to return. Nothing. "Whatever it was, I think it's gone now." He said quietly, holding his hand out for the earmuffs.

"You fainted, Harry." Lavender entered the conversation. "You should go lie down for a while. In the Hospital Wing, maybe--perhaps Madam Pomfrey will know what caused it."

"A good idea, Miss Brown." Professor Sprout looked around. "Miss Patil, why don't you escort Mr. Potter to the Hospital Wing?"

"Which one?" Parvati and a Ravenclaw who looked exactly like her chorused.

"Ah . . ." Professor Sprout seemed briefly flustered. "Oh dear. The Ravenclaw."

"Yes ma'am." Padma came forward, blushing and refusing to meet Jamie's eyes. Oh no . . . not one of the Boy-Who-Lived worshipers . . . maybe she's just shy normally? It was definitely quite a difference from Parvati, who had always been rather loud if not usually annoyingly so (unless she was in 'Professor-Trelawney-Worship' mode), and since becoming friends with Lucia was also quite comfortable around him. She never made him feel like the Boy-Who-Lived. Hopefully, that sort of sense ran in the family.

The two of them walked across the grounds in silence, and Jamie began to relax. She hadn't made any sort of move yet--maybe Snape was right, and he was putting too much of an emphasis on his celebrity. His mind drifted back to the incident in the greenhouse.

The strangest thing was, there hadn't been any pain really. When he reopened his eyes, they were just . . . bad again. Much the way they had been when he had been deprived of his glasses previous to that Tuesday. If this was something that came and went . . . ". . . perhaps I should start carrying my glasses around with me again." He mused out loud.

"Your glasses?" The Ravenclaw looked startled. "Aren't you . . ." she peered more closely at his face. "You aren't. How strange. I could have sworn you were wearing your glasses just a moment ago. Why aren't you?"

He frowned, staring through a large tree that provided a beautiful display with its array of brilliant fall colors. "I don't need them anymore." He replied. Or do I?
**
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**
Thursday morning Minerva McGonagall sat on her desk, a cat for the moment. There were times when she found it easier to think--or to not think--when she was in this form. She couldn't quite say which of the two was her objective just now.

Albus, she suspected, was playing a joke on her. What else could it possibly be, this sudden notification that Harry Potter would be taking Transfiguration with the fifth-year Slytherins? Ludicrous.

He hadn't been in the fifth-year Gryffindor class on Tuesday . . . but she had received notification that he had been sent to the Hospital wing Monday afternoon; perhaps he had just been kept there over night . . .

Professor McGonagall did not like Slytherin. It was her personal opinion that the Serpent House should have been disbanded a long time ago. She endeavoured to hide those feelings for three major reasons.

For one, expressing that opinion would undoubtedly disappoint the Headmaster. What had been a childhood crush on her heartbreakingly handsome Transfiguration Professor (the source, to tell the truth, of her interest in that subject) had become a strangely intertwined mix of respect and idolatry as she first took over his position as Transfiguration Professor and Head of Gryffindor, then ascended to the position of Deputy Headmistress. If there was any one thing that she would work to avoid doing at all costs, it was disappointing Albus.

Then, too, was the niggling knowledge that, despicable the Slytherins might be, but now that she was a professor, she had pledged to do her best to treat all students equally. It was the Gryffindor thing to do, and she was in all was a consummate Gryffindor. Even if she sometimes wished she didn't have a conscience.

And finally it was a way of showing that she was better than her opposite. Everyone knew of Snape's unfair favouring of his own students over all other houses; in that regard he had gained an incredible notoriety among the student body. She, though, was Gryffindor. She was above that sort of favoritism (even if Gryffindor really was the best and deserved it), and she was determined to prove it.

Harry . . . how like his father he had grown. Despite his uncanny physical likeness, in the beginning she had despaired of his ever showing his father's aptitude for the subject dearest to her heart. Perhaps, once or twice . . . but those were brief flashes only, before he descended back into disappointing mediocrity.

But since the beginning of this year, he approached and nearly surpassed Miss Granger in both his knowledge and his expression of the subject. So very much like his father! (Who had been, although she'd be reluctant to admit it, one of her favorite students. How she had wished that she was free to laugh, as the Slytherins came straggling into the room after whatever the Marauders' latest trick had been!)

Harry Potter among Slytherins? Hardly.

"I personally prefer using more harmless hexes. Like the Tickling Charm." A voice, carrying easily into the classroom from outside the doorway. She transformed back to human, taking a seat at her desk. "That way, if it goes astray, there's less potential for mayhem."

"How very Gryffindor of you." Draco Malfoy (identical to his father in every way, and just as detestable. Thank goodness he had graduated the year before she started teaching), as always at the head of the line, remarked as he entered the room. 'Gryffindor', as always when uttered by members of the opposing house, took on the tone of an insult. "We just figure that everyone ought to know well enough by now how to fend for themselves."

"That's fine, among you lot." The first voice replied. "You've probably been force-fed paranoia and attack reflexes through your mothers' milk."

"Potter has a point." The rest of the fifth-years entered; Blaise Zabini (not nearly as bad as Malfoy; must be because his mother had been a Ravenclaw) was speaking. "Not that I have anything against eliminating Gryffindors on general principles, but getting expelled for severely maiming another student would put a crimp in my secret plans for world domination."

His voice, by the end of the sentence, so dripped with sarcasm that even she would have had a hard time convincing herself that he was being serious. Still, saying what you mean while making it sound like you didn't mean it was just the sort of thing that a Slytherin would do. So she wouldn't put it past Zabini to actually have designs for becoming the next Voldemort. Even though Malfoy seemed more the type . . .

They all--including Harry, she was disgusted to note--laughed. "If you succeed, do please get rid of that incompetent moron currently holding the position of Minister of Magic." The green-eyed boy begged.

"All right." Zabini nodded. "But who should I choose?"

"How about Draco?" Pansy Parkinson (ugh. She was in love with a Malfoy. What else need be said?) suggested. I'm sure she'd love to be the Minister of Magic's trophy wife.

Noting that it was now nine o'clock, Professor McGonagall decided to cut that line of speculation off right now. Especially since Harry (what had they done to the poor boy?!) seemed to be on the verge of agreeing with Parkinson's proposal.

The only good thing about having Draco Malfoy as Minister of Magic would be the fact that it would royally piss off Lucius to realize that his son had effortlessly accomplished what he's been scheming towards for more than ten years now. She cleared her throat. "Class, I believe, has begun."

The six Slytherins and lone Gryffindor tumbled into their seats with pleasing alacrity. Harry was sandwiched between Malfoy and Zabini and, she noted, horrified, did not seem the least bit disturbed by this arrangement.

Perhaps this is all just a very bad dream . . .
**
***
**
"Conference." Pansy Parkinson called as they escaped the Transfiguration classroom.

"Stay over there, this'll only take a second." Draco instructed Jamie, his eyes shining brightly, only reaffirming Jamie's suspicion that the blond Slytherin was Up To Something.

The other six crowded over to the other side of the hallway--well out of audible range; they were Slytherin, after all--and held a whispered debate. Jamie just slouched, hands in pockets, feeling increasingly left out and wondering why he was letting it bother him so much.

He rubbed his right thumb along the left wristguard, a nervous habit he had picked up over the past few days. I'm afraid they're talking about me. He realized, watching the animated group through hooded eyes. Specifically, talking derisively. Merlin. If anyone had told me I would ever be nervously hoping for acceptance from Slytherins . . . I really was shallow, wasn't I?

Draco's approach brought his head back up from where it had fallen as he woolgathered. "Harry? We'd like you to come with us."

Whatever the test had been, evidently he'd passed. He tried to suppress the joy that bid fair to become an ear-to-ear grin, eventually compromising with a small smile. "I'd be glad to. Draco."

They led him downwards, towards the dungeons. Not surprising--that was where Slytherin life revolved around, with the exception of meals and other classes. As he continued to walk along in silence, he eventually recognized the route as one he had taken only once before. Showing me the entrance to their House . . . that takes a lot of trust. Especially for a Slytherin, the House that has done its hardest to keep itself hidden.

Finally they reached the 'dead-end' stone wall that was the entrance to Slytherin. Without even a pretense of secrecy--as if Jamie was just another of their own!--Blaise Zabini stepped forward. "Integrity."

Jamie muffled a snicker.

To his left, Millicent Bulstrode rolled her eyes. "Dumbledore is full of it."

"I had wondered," the raven-haired Gryffindor mused, face straight, "if the Headmaster had had an influence on the passwords for any of the other Houses."

"There's a difference?" Crabbe asked.

"Between that and the sort of passwords the Gryffs usually use?" Goyle clarified.

"Yeah, actually. Gryffindor passwords tend to more resemble Dumbledore's 'words of wisdom' than the sorts of ideals espoused." Even 'Nitwit' had made its rounds, embarrassingly enough. 'Oddment', 'Blubber', and especially 'Tweak' were old favorites, used at least once, and often more frequently than that, a year.

Pansy Parkinson laughed. It was a strangely compelling sound, not at all the way he had expected her laugh to sound. "Typical."

"We could have this conversation inside, you know." Draco noted impatiently. Jamie hadn't even noticed the door opening. Obediently, the group of fifth-years trooped in.

He waved his hand at the nearly deserted common room, the few people around glancing up with well-masked curiosity. "Welcome, Harry, to the Serpents' Lair."

"So the 'Boy-Who-Lived' passed muster?" One of the shadowed figures, previously sitting in one of the chairs, padded forward. He was huge and solidly built, making Jamie feel like a mouse standing up to a lion. Or perhaps an anaconda would be a more appropriate comparison. He looked vaguely familiar, but Jamie couldn't quite recall from where.

"In spades. Harry is in the same league as Draco."

"Then it is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Harry." He held out a huge hand. "I'm Chris. Chris Flint. You probably knew my brother." Yes. Now Jamie could recognize the similarity he had seen before. "I'm the Slytherin Head Boy."

Jamie frowned. He could have sworn that the Head Boy this year was a Ravenclaw. Not anyone he knew well, but certainly not a Slytherin.

"The Slytherin Head Boy." Millicent rumbled. "It's a strictly in-House, unofficial title. He's more or less the student equivalent of the Head of House."

His frown disappeared as he nodded. That made a certain amount of sense.

Chris Flint shook his head. "Merlin, Harry, how did you ever manage to get sorted into Gryffindor?"

Jamie grinned. "First time I met Draco, here, he reminded me of my cousin--a nasty, spiteful, spoiled brat. And he was extolling the virtues of Slytherin!" Everyone laughed as Draco flushed to the roots of his hair. "Good thing he seems to have improved with age." Again the laughter.

"Too, Hagrid fed me some crap about how all dark wizards come from Slytherin." All laughter quieted immediately and several sets of eyes narrowed. Plotting a bit of subtle revenge, most likely. "He might have believed it; I personally would not be at all surprised if Dumbledore had put him up to it."

"I repeat." Millicent muttered. "Dumbledore is full of it."

"I of course had all of those nice black and white ideas of good and evil, but knowing nothing about magic, I was desperately afraid that I would turn out bad." A shrug. "So when the Hat suggested Slytherin, I fought against it with all my might."

An admiring whistle from one of the chairs. "Impressive. I should know--I wanted to go to Ravenclaw."

Jamie looked thoughtful. "Not so much. I did fit in Gryffindor fairly well for the first several years. I just don't so much any more."

"Looks like I'm not the only one who has improved with age." Draco smirked, and Jamie smirked back. "Erk! You're doing it again!"

"Shut up, Draco." He was beginning to believe that Draco kept comparing him to Snape merely in order to annoy him.

He was right, of course.

"I'm sure you're probably curious as to why you were brought here." Chris continued.

"Mildly so, yes." Jamie agreed affably.

"Draco, as a prefect, is part of our council. He came to us about a week ago with tales of a Gryffindor that acted like a Slytherin--and might soon be joining the Slytherins in two classes." Sheepish grin from the direction of the blond. "We've been observing you since then--once Draco was induced to tell us exactly which Gryffindor he was talking about."

A pause. "Our council elected the fifth-year Slytherin group to be the ones to make the final decision, and that's what they did today." He went back to his chair, returning with a bundle of black, a familiar green and silver badge proudly shining from the top. He handed the bundle to Jamie. "Welcome to the Serpent House, Harry Potter. Welcome to Slytherin."

Unshed tears shone in his eyes, as an unfamiliar feeling welled up in his heart. Something that he had felt the first time he saw Hogwarts in all its nightly glory, the first time he had entered Gryffindor Tower. A feeling that had slowly faded from that red and gold environment, but that caused a nearly physical pain every time he was forced to board the Hogwarts Express on the trip back to London in June.

A feeling that had suffused him to a lesser extent as he leaned against the threadbare couch in Professor Snape's rooms, with the professor sitting in a small circle of warm light at his desk while Lucia slumbered beside him on the couch.

Home. The feeling said. Family.

"You may be Gryffindor to the rest of the world, but here you are, and always will be, from this point on, Slytherin."

Yes. I'm home.
**
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22 December 2002
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s, thrax, tima, Frankie the Wonder Wiener Dog: Sankyuu!

~Mary~: Fox-y Draco . . . *groans and goes to beat head against wall for a while* Would you believe me if I said that never occurred to me? And I'm usually so good at noticing innuendoes, too . . . As far as the black ring goes, I was working under the assumption that he had already noticed he did much the same thing; he just hadn't quite felt the impact of having it directed towards himself. And since he already knows that Lucia is also Harry Potter, if he thought about it at all he probably just figured it was another of those 'special-Harry-Potter' things.

As far as Draco having another form he's not telling about . . . I'm not telling! ^_^ Don't worry, you'll find out . . . eventually. Dragons are cool! It's so unfair that so many books make them either Evil or dumb beasts or Dumb Evil Beasts. There are hardly ever any intelligent, protagonistic dragons. *growls at world in general* Sorry, that's kinda a sore point for me. But being reptilian, they are rather un-Gryffindor, I agree. (See, I am agreeing with you. I just had to squeeze in a pro-dragon rant first. ^_^;;)

I'm guessing a bit of a 'notice-me-not' is part of all the changes brought on by the Animagus transformation; since for now his perfect eyesight is due to those changes, the notice-me-not makes people tend to think he still has his glasses on--or at least not think he doesn't.

I know that essay. Um. Texas Common App. Is it elsewhere, too? I'm just glad it's not one of the ones I had to write. I agree whole-heartedly about those STUPID word restrictions. Especially since the person I had looking at them kept coming up with places where I 'really ought to add more you' . . . when I was already 150 words over! Argh!

Never drank coffee. Hopefully never will. Actually, I think my greatest source of caffeine is probably chocolate . . . *blink* I'm more of a sugar person. The coffee comment is based on the fact that it seems to work for other people, and that just the smell occasionally makes me sick to my stomach (especially early in the morning), so I don't even want to try to imagine what the taste would be like. @.@

darkhaven: Yes. Poor Sirius (BWAHAHAHAHA!). Haven't quite worked out what will happen yet, but it should be interesting. I know what you mean about Slytherin. I've gotten to the point where I almost can't read a fic that's anti-Slytherin--as soon as that sort of sentiment starts being spewed, I hit the back button, even if it's a really good story otherwise.

Saddest thing is, I used to be one of those people. Good thing I didn't start seriously writing any HP stuff until I got over that, isn't it? ^_^

Nope, no H/D. It's taken a lot of self-discipline for me to stick to that statement, but I'm determined. I love H/D, but . . . not this story. Lorn is tied with Cerryl for favorite character status, I think--tho' I also really like the little red-haired girl, Anna's first apprentice, in the Spellsinger Cycle; especially in the last two books where she's the main character. (*waahhh!* Anna died! *sniff!*)

Creamy Mimi: Soft hair . . . *happy sigh* I agree with Draco--my hair is one of my few vanities. I don't gel it or anything, but I love playing with it.

Poor Sev just has a bit too active an imagination. *pats long-suffering man on the head* In the immortal words of a girl I knew in sixth grade--"I didn't mean it that way!"

Someday Ron and 'Mione will catch on. Myself, I'm wondering how much Dumbledore knows . . .

SugarHigh: Harry may not be a raven, but dragons are also known to have a certain fascination for shiny things--more specifically, precious metals and gems--and Draco's hair is 'silvery', after all.

Y'know . . . that could actually be a sort of almost explanation for Draco's little 'habit' in the second movie . . . does anyone know what exactly was with that? Especially the page he tore out of that book in Flourish and Blotts. And they cut the Arthur/Lucius fight scene! Hmph.

Crydwyn: I know exactly what you mean. After school, I get in a veeery bad mood if I can't rush straight home and check to see if any of my favorite stories have updated. Then I check the SS/HP section, then the Harry/James and Harry/Lily sections (for time- or AU-travel fics), then . . . The hard part is stopping!

. . . and we suddenly understand why I don't update more often . . .

I agree with you about the fox--the more I think about it, the more I like it, frankly. I just wish I could get away with making Draco kitsune . . . but that's a magical creature too . . . *sniff*

Teardrop: *Nods wisely* I am 100% Ravenclaw. Seriously. I truly believe that the Hat might even take a shorter time sorting me than it did sorting Draco.

*giggles* That would be a funny scene to write. Ten feet away from the stool and the Hat suddenly screams "RAVENCLAW!"

So no Slytherin for me. But I've got this little rebellious part of me that got me started trying to find the 'good' in Slytherin merely because I was sick of people extolling the virtues of Gryffindor. And in the process of trying to find the 'good' in Slytherin, I discovered that it really was a genuinely useful House. And I haven't looked back. ^_^

Hana-chan: If you were looking closely, this chapter I did do a little implied echolocation. Now, what I really want to know is--how does a rat play with a werewolf? At least a bat can fly out of the way; I'm surprised Wormtail wasn't eaten up long ago.

Saavik: Yeah, a panther would have been pretty good. Jamie is rather evilcool at times, isn't he? *hugs*

Alex: *evil grin* I have corrupted you! Now I just need to get my brother to see the light. Unfortunately, he's an inveterate H/G shipper. *dies of shame*

Muchacha: No Harry/Draco, sadly. No Harry/Sev, either--I love the pairing, but it wouldn't quite fit with the whole biological father/son subplot :( I tried to make Jamie and Sev start understanding each other gradually, but I'm impatient enough that 'gradually' probably didn't come across too well -_-;;

There will be slash. I haven't released the pairings yet, but there is some of each. Still, it'll be a while. *sighs* With a story that writes itself as long as this one is doing, everything will be in a while, it seems at times.