Of Snow and Dark Water

by Penguin

In their final year at Hogwarts, Harry and Draco have to make difficult decisions about their future - and they will play an important part in each other's lives and choices. (Slash.)

4. Movement

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Warning: Slash.

A/N:
This chapter and Chapter 2 have been rewritten and adjusted to the events in OotP.

Thanks, hugs and lots of love to my betas: Plumeria, Darklites, Verdant, Lowi, and Milena Lupin! I've made quite a few changes to the text after I had beta comments back, and any mistakes are mine only.

Thanks to all who reviewed previous versions of chapters, and to all who have encouraged me to continue writing this story!

Author: Penguin

Title: OF SNOW AND DARK WATER

"The sympathetic connextion supposed to exist between a man and the weapon which has wounded him is probably founded on the notion that the blood on the weapon continues to feel with the blood in his body."
Sir James Frazer, The Golden Bough

CHAPTER 3 – Movement

DECEMBER, 1997

Harry sat in one of the small sitting rooms at the back of the house at 12, Grimmauld Place, huddled in front of the fire with a cup of coffee. Opposite him, in a worn armchair identical to his own, Lupin sat gazing thoughtfully into the flames. He looked very tired, and Harry felt a sudden, surprising wave of gratitude and anxiety, strangely intertwined. He felt very close to Lupin, and he was grateful for the way Lupin had, consciously or not, come to fill some of the space, some of the cold emptiness that Sirius had left behind.

In a way, Lupin was both easier to like and easier to understand than Sirius had been. But no one would ever entirely take Sirius' place. People simply couldn't be replaced.

"How have you been?" Lupin asked quietly.

Harry looked at his friend, at the firelight dancing over the tired face. It struck him now, as it always had with Sirius, too, how little they really knew each other. Harry trusted Lupin unconditionally, as he had Sirius; with them both, there was a deep feeling of security that few other people gave him. But he didn't know very much about either of them as people, as individuals with their own thoughts and problems, loves and hates. Harry had just begun to know a little about Sirius, about his habits and personal tastes, when he died. But he had never known much about the important things. Almost nothing about Azkaban, for instance, although Sirius had spent a considerable part of his life there. Twelve whole years.

Harry had to admit to being curious about Azkaban; curious and horrified at the same time, the way people have always found terrible things fascinating. But he had never asked about it – the fact that Sirius kept so silent about it was enough to stop any attempts at probing. Perhaps Sirius had tried to forget or even deny the existence of those hopeless years. But Harry didn't see how something like that could ever be forgotten; not something that had changed your life to the extent it must have done. The memory of it would keep appearing in dreams – just as Harry's own early experiences, ones he didn't even remember, still gave him dreams about sudden darkness torn by screams and sliced open by green light.

Who had Sirius been before he was sent to prison to have life and light sucked out of him by the Dementors? Harry still shuddered at the thought of those cold, claw-fingered shapes with features covered by black hoods; at the memory of the paralysing fear that instantly filled him when they approached. In the pictures Harry had seen from his parents' wedding, Sirius' face had been young and open and unafraid, happy and handsome and laughing. There hadn't been much likeness to the man he had been afterwards, when he had come back to the Order. He had still been handsome, Harry supposed, but in a fierce, dark way – years of suffering had left their traces. That wide smile had only returned in rare glimpses.

It was much the same with Lupin. Harry knew him as a brilliant scholar and an excellent and well-liked teacher. His presence and his role in the Order revealed him as a powerful wizard with ideals and beliefs. But Harry didn't know much about his person – although he did know something about the pain of being different, of being feared, he knew nothing about the real, raw, physical pain of the transformation into werewolf.

"How I've been?" said Harry, mentally returning to the sitting room. "We've talked about me already. You asked me at dinner."

"I mean, how have you really been?" Lupin leant forward slightly in his armchair, his calm brown eyes searching Harry's. "I talk to Dumbledore now and again, Harry. And to McGonagall. They're both worried about you."

Of course. The grades again. I will do better when I go back after Christmas; I really will. Now that it matters and has some meaning. I just wish everyone would stop nagging me.

"Oh, my academic results," Harry said scathingly, slumping back in his armchair and nearly overturning the coffee cup balanced on the armrest. "Yes, I can see why they're worried. What a disappointment if The Boy Who Lived turned out to be an underachiever. How embarrassing for them."

Lupin sank back in his chair and looked into the fire again. His voice was worried when he said, "Don't be unfair, Harry."

When Harry didn't answer, Lupin went on:

"They are worried about your academic results, of course they are. But you do see it's only for your own sake?" He looked awkward, as if he wanted to apologise for what he was going to say. "We all understand that your bad results lately are a symptom of something else, Harry. We can all see that something is bothering you. We would like to have it cleared up before it's time for your NEWTs – and I'm sure you would, too. It's – it's only common sense."

Harry said nothing. He just stared into the fire while his coffee went cold in its forgotten cup. Common sense. Well, that was certainly part of the problem: he wasn't sure he had any kind of sense at all. Hadn't had lately, anyway. How sensible was it to think about another human being every minute of the day? How sensible was it to think constantly about the look in someone's eyes?

"Won't you tell me what's going on?" Lupin's voice was low and almost pleading. "I know you're under tremendous pressure, Harry. But you have been ever since you were a child, and you've always held up fine."

"I didn't quite understand it then," said Harry thickly, suddenly overwhelmed by an intense sadness. "I knew that Voldemort wanted to kill me. I knew I had lost my parents because of him. I knew he was evil. I knew, but I didn't really understand it."

It had been a good day. Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry had been met at King's Cross by Tonks and Lupin, and taken back to Grimmauld Place. They had unpacked and then helped Mrs Weasley decorate the Christmas tree. There had been quite a large company at dinner, and despite the darkness and fear that was spreading so quickly in the wizarding world, this had been an evening when all worries were discarded. There had been a lot of laughter as Lupin had told them some of the Marauders' wilder adventures, and there had been tall tales, and some real ones, from the past term at Hogwarts. But it had all been lightweight talk. When Lupin had tried to ask Harry in a low voice, underneath the noise, how he was, Harry hadn't mentioned or in fact even thought of either Malfoy or Insomnia. He had just laughed.

But now Lupin wanted to have a real talk.

Funny how empathy could get to you. Harry had never wanted to cry when he talked to Hermione or Ron, or when McGonagall tried to pry him open to find out why his studies were going downhill. But now, simply because he felt that Lupin cared, and that he would understand, understand his fear and his anger and the way darkness was creeping into his thoughts and dreams – now everything was suddenly too much to bear. He desperately wanted to cry.

Perhaps he also felt that now that Sirius was gone, Lupin was the only one who really had the right to know what was going on. Or perhaps it was just that nobody else was genuinely interested. McGonagall was only interested for the exam results. Mrs Weasley was very kind, but she had enough worries with her own children. Ron and Hermione were interested, of course, good and true friends as they were. But they had a very clear picture of him in their minds, a picture they wanted to keep and which stood in the way of any real exchange. They wanted him to stay a hero. They didn't want to know about his insecurities.

He hated crying in front of people. He hated crying, full stop. He stared into the fire, as if the heat would prevent the tears flowing.

Lupin had looked up from the fire and was eyeing him steadily, the flames reflected in his eyes.

"You don't have to tell me now, Harry," he said. "I know how hard it can be to talk sometimes. I know how hard it can be to trust people. But I want you to remember that if you do want to talk, I'm here to listen."

Harry stood up abruptly, his coffee cup falling from the arm of the chair and a stain spreading on the worn Oriental carpet like a brown rose that didn't fit the pattern.

"I don't understand why everyone thinks I need to talk!" he said, voice threatening to crack. "There's nothing to talk about. There really isn't."

He knew he was going to cry, and he couldn't stand being looked at. He turned his face away and managed to say, "I'm going to bed."

Lupin gave no reply, and Harry didn't wait for one. He ran out of the room and up the stairs, two blurred steps at a time. He closed the door to his room behind him and took a deep breath – he hated crying; he really did. It was like opening a trap door and seeing nothing but the black depth underneath, knowing you had to go down there. But it was open now and there was nothing he could do. He lay on the bed, crying into his pillow to muffle the sounds. Hedwig moved anxiously in her cage where she had settled for the night.

When the sobs subsided, Harry eventually fell asleep, on top of the bedspread and fully dressed, with his face still itching from tears.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes to cold grey light on Christmas morning. For a moment he didn't know where he was, but then he looked out the window, saw an oak tree stretching a thousand gnarled fingers against a strip of grey sky between brick buildings, and remembered.

He checked the time. Eight thirty.

Oh God. Why did I act like that with Lupin yesterday? Like a spoilt child. He pulled the bedclothes up over his head and groaned. What if he gets tired of trying to make a stupid ungrateful kid think straight? What if he feels I'm not worth his time?

He pulled the bedcovers down again and let out an impatient sigh, annoyed with himself.

Stop it, Harry. Just stop.

I trust Lupin. Of course he won't give up on me. I just... I just need to apologise. And I'm no bloody good at apologising.

Hedwig was nipping impatiently at the bars of her cage, and Harry got out of bed and let her out. He opened the window and saw that it must have snowed all night; the branches of the oak tree and all the roofs were covered with snow. Hedwig was almost invisible against the whiteness as she flew off. Harry closed the window and leant his forehead against the cold glass.

His feet were as heavy as his heart as he went downstairs.

Fred and George were teasing Ron mercilessly about something in the living room, and Hermione's voice, the voice of reason, could be heard trying to intervene. Harry didn't want to face them. He went to the kitchen.

Molly Weasley was slicing smoked salmon and chattering vigorously to Lupin, who stood by the counter next to a row of champagne bottles, obviously about to open one. He turned around as Harry hovered in the doorway, and smiled as if yesterday had never happened.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," he said.

Mrs Weasley held out her arms to hug Harry, and then remembered she was holding a knife in one hand and the other was greasy from the salmon.

"Oh, dear." She waved her hands about helplessly, knife and all, and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Harry dear."

A pale sun was trying to break through the clouds. It matched Harry's mood perfectly, and he smiled back at them both.

"Merry Christmas."

He tentatively went up to Lupin, stood unsurely by the counter for a minute, running a finger down the misty side of a chilled bottle.

"I'm sorry about last night," mumbled Harry.

Lupin glanced at him.

"Don't worry about it," he said, and his voice was warm. "You were exhausted."

"Yeah. Sorry, anyway."

Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other again. Lupin held up the bottle in his hand.

"Ever had champagne for breakfast?"

Harry shook his head.

"About time then."

And as the cork popped, Harry laughed and Mrs Weasley cried "oh!", even the gloomy House of Black experienced something of a festive thrill.

* * *

It had been a great Christmas Day after all, Harry concluded as he went to bed that night, smiling to himself in the dark as he lay back against the pillows. To someone else it might not seem like much, not to someone who was used to more spectacular Christmases. Someone like Malfoy. But for Harry it was wonderful to spend Christmas with family – an extended family, an odd assortment of people, but still undeniably family to him, much more than the Dursleys could ever be. Everything had been special today.

Harry closed his eyes and replayed the day like a film inside his head:

Bill and Charlie had arrived in the morning. Their presence had underlined Percy's absence, but after some tears from Mrs Weasley, they had all made a conscious effort to return to the cheery atmosphere. They had had a long, chatty, luxurious breakfast in the big sitting room where a fire roared in the fireplace, opening presents and laughing and getting a little dizzy from the champagne. Tiny tree-fairies had giggled and waved sparklers in the enormous Christmas tree.

The opening of Christmas gifts had been unexpectedly uneventful. Fred and George had only tried out one new item from their joke shop, one which had caused Ron and Hermione to fly towards each other like pieces of iron to a very strong magnet, and their mouths had been clamped together so tightly that they had finally had to be separated by a Divisive spell from Mrs Weasley. Both Ron and Hermione had blushed furiously, and Ron was later heard muttering that the twins ought to be cut up and fed to the thestrals. Tonks had only overturned a small bookshelf, broken a champagne glass and changed hair colour three times.

But Harry's joy was mixed with sadness. The house inevitably made him think about Sirius, as if the place was still crying out for his presence.

After Sirius' death, a last will and testament had been found in his vault at Gringott's, and Dumbledore and Kingsley Shacklebolt turned out to have been given a copy each for safekeeping.

Sirius had left the House of Black to Remus Lupin.

The Black relatives had been furious, of course, but they had soon found they could do nothing to contest the Will, as everything was in perfect order – it existed in three copies, it had been signed in red ink by two witnesses, and it had been sealed with red wax and stamped with the Black family crest.

Only the house itself had been left in Lupin's possession. Paintings, furniture, carpets, chandeliers, ornaments, jewellery – most of it had now been removed. The drapes and tapestries and portraits that had so stubbornly refused to let themselves be either moved or removed by the Order when they cleaned up the house, now meekly let themselves be carried off by various members of the Black family (with the notable exception of Phineas Nigellus, who simply pretended to be asleep, emitted loud fake snores and couldn't be moved even a fraction of an inch). The screaming, foul-mouthed portrait of Mrs Black thankfully allowed itself to be removed, but only after she had pronounced a horrible curse over Lupin.

Lupin only raised an eyebrow and said to Harry:

"The old girl doesn't seem to realise she's a portrait, or she would know that curses and spells uttered by portraits have no effect."

After that, the house was left rather empty and rather quiet.

But although it was quite bare, there was still enough unclaimed furniture left for parts of the house to be lived in reasonably comfortably, at least by people who only demanded basics and weren't finicky about matching chairs or with the style or condition of the furniture. The members of the Order generally weren't. They all had far worse problems to deal with to be bothered by dull-surfaced tables, rickety chairs or beds with scuffed headboards.

Harry turned on his back and looked up at the dark ceiling.

Sirius, I wish you could have been here today.

He had to be careful now. He had lost his parents, he had lost Sirius – he couldn't allow himself to get too close to Lupin. Something bad was bound to happen if he did. Perhaps someone, Voldemort, anyone, had placed a curse on him as a child? A curse that meant he couldn't be close to anyone, or they would die? He wasn't willing to take the risk with Lupin. He couldn't allow himself to be involved with anyone that closely ever again. He couldn't allow himself to love people. But Ron, Hermione...? He couldn't unlove them.

He really had loved Sirius.

Pictures came to him in the dark; he began to walk through his memories like in a gallery, looking at the pictures on the walls. Quickly, with his eyes shut, he passed the last picture he had of Sirius, the one where he watched his godfather fall, fall, fall as if in slow motion, the look on the dark face an odd combination of defiant smile and stunned pain... slowly sinking backwards, his body gracefully curved...

No! Not that one. Never again.

Harry found that the pictures he enjoyed most were the ones where he was doing common, everyday things with Sirius, just as if they were a family, just as if Harry was an ordinary young wizard and Sirius an ordinary parent.

There was the picture of the two of them having a game of chess – the only one they had ever had. Years of playing against Ron had made Harry a reasonable player, but he still wasn't extraordinary in any way. He had lost to Sirius and stoically endured his teasing, while Sirius had unsuccessfully tried to hide a genuinely triumphant grin. Harry had been secretly immensely pleased to see that even after twelve years in Azkaban, Sirius could still find pleasure in trivial things like winning a game of chess.

And there was the picture of the one time they had been flying together, on a very secret visit to the Burrow. Sirius had found an abandoned broomstick in a cupboard and been overcome by a desire to fly. After dinner, when they'd had quite a lot of some very good wine that Sirius had brought from the cellars at 12 Grimmauld Place, he and Harry he had sneaked out to fly in the dark, when there was less risk of being seen. This had earned Sirius no further points in Mrs Weasley's book, and there had been precious few already.

It had been a lovely little adventure for as long as it lasted (which was until Mrs Weasley had come out and threatened to turn Sirius in to Cornelius Fudge if they didn't get back inside immediately).

It had been a clear, cold winter evening with a sprinkle of snow and a fantastic show of stars, and Harry had been swept away by the intense, delirious joy he always felt when he flew. His mood had soared even more when Sirius proved to be an excellent flyer. He told Harry he had been a Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

"And you know what they say. Once you've learnt to fly, you never forget how."

Harry had laughed. "Muggles say that about riding bikes."

Sirius had found this highly amusing.

They had been breaking the law as well as exposing Sirius to danger – flying while intoxicated was strictly prohibited. Neither of them had tried to deny that the danger added to their exhilaration. They hadn't spoken much, but Harry had sensed Sirius' excitement. It was one he understood so well, every fibre of it – it was a mixture of defiance, love of flying and the pure physical enjoyment of being out of doors, with cold air whipping your face. Freedom, if only for a moment. Harry had never felt so close to Sirius.

Getting to know someone was like doing a jigsaw puzzle, Harry thought as he turned around in bed. He had to smile a little as he wondered whether there were wizard jigsaw puzzles, and whether they moved, like wizard photos – that would certainly make things difficult. And they were difficult enough as they were. You picked up bits and pieces here and there and tried to fit them together until you had the entire picture of someone. Sometimes you thought you could see the picture before all the pieces were in place, but the last pieces could prove you so wrong.

Or, you were denied the opportunity to find the last pieces.

Harry beat a fist into the pillow.

Damn you, Sirius! Why did you have to die?

* * *

Draco threw his sweaty running clothes in a heap on the floor for the house elves to collect, and ducked into the shower. He stood there for a long time with closed eyes, hot water drumming on his head and soft, fragrant rivulets of shampoo streaming down his body. There was no hurry. No one was waiting for their turn to have a shower, and he had nothing to do anyway.

He went back to his room, dropped his towel and stood naked in front of the mirror. He turned and twisted and tried to inspect the flame mark on his tailbone. It was small and looked like a tattoo; three dark red flames in a kind of whirl around a central point where Lord Voldemort's fingertip had touched his skin. It didn't hurt any more. He didn't feel it at all. And he still didn't know what it was or why he had it.

He got dressed and sat on his bed for a while, elbows on his knees, looking down on the floor and wondering why everything felt so empty.

It was New Year's Eve. Bloody miserable being stuck at school when he should have been roaming the frosty park around Malfoy Manor, all anticipation for tonight's big dinner and party.

He spent the afternoon playing chess with a sixth-year boy in the Common Room, his thoughts all over the place, so much so that he only won because of a mistake on the other player's part. The sixth-year was too pleased at being almost on a level with Draco Malfoy to mind losing; there was a grin across his face.

"Beat you next time, Malfoy."

"You wish."

Dinner in the Great Hall was a strangely lacklustre affair, despite the glittery, sparkly decorations and the house elves' apparent effort to outdo each others' cooking. There were only a handful of students spending Christmas and New Year at Hogwarts, and the younger ones were so intimidated by being seated at the same table as the Headmaster and staff that they hardly said a word. Draco didn't do much to facilitate conversation, either. He only spoke when asked a direct question; he didn't volunteer anything. He could see Dumbledore trying to catch his eye but avoided the old wizard's gaze.

Draco excused himself as soon as he politely could, and went outside for a stroll. It was a few degrees below zero, with cold bright stars sprinkled across a velvet black sky. He walked briskly and tried not to think.

Why was he so restless? Walking wasn't what he wanted to do. It made him think too much about things that didn't bear thinking about. But he didn't want to return to the New Year celebrations, either.

He went back to his room and spent an hour leafing through various books to try to find information, any kind of information, that could give him a hint about the meaning of Lord Voldemort's flame mark. But he found nothing, and for the first time he missed being able to send an owl to his father.

There had been no communication from his parents. Not even from his mother; not even at Christmas.

He went to the Common Room and found a few people there, among them Martin, the sixth-year he had played chess with. Martin proudly held up a bottle of Firewhiskey and invited Draco to share it with the group.

At midnight, when they joined the others outside to watch fireworks, Draco's blurred brain wondered suddenly what Potter was doing. Spending time with the Weasels, most likely. Poor judgement, Potter. Poor in every sense. No Christmas presents to be had there.

The fireworks wound their way towards the grand finale. Little red suns whistled and whirled and exploded all over the dark sky, their reflections quivering in the lake. A fountain of white sparks shot up, burst into blue and green stars and slowly rained down like petals, to be extinguished with a soft hiss in the dark water. Draco watched it all, unable to stop thinking about Potter. Didn't even really want to stop thinking about him.

Well, if you refuse to leave my head, I might as well try to be civil. Happy New Year then, Potter. Not that you deserve it. But Happy New Year anyway.

FEBRUARY, 1998

They weren't sure how it had started. The Slytherin and Gryffindor house teams had had Quidditch practice virtually side by side, one in the field behind the Quidditch pitch and one on the actual pitch. Nothing strange about that. Parallel practice like this wasn't uncommon.

But after practice, both teams' Seekers had booked an additional half hour for individual practice. The pitch had been double booked, and both Seekers flatly refused to let the other one have it.

The instant they met on the pitch and found out about the double booking, they started to argue violently. Instead of backing off and being shy as they had for so long, they started shouting at each other. They flung their brooms aside, and shortly after that there was the first punch. And it felt so good to have fist connect with jaw.

They really went for each other. They tried to do as much damage as they possibly could, and it took three people to separate them. Harry even thought that Snape and Madam Hooch might not have succeeded if Hagrid hadn't happened to pass by the pitch that very moment and had lifted the boys up by the collar like puppies.

But, they weren't sure how it had started. And now they were standing here, in Dumbledore's office, having to try to explain themselves.

They hadn't looked at each other after the fight was broken up. They hadn't dared, even after their anger had died down.

"Mr Potter! Mr Malfoy!" Dumbledore rose ominously from his chair and leant forward, palms flat against the shiny surface of the desk. "Needless to say, I am appalled at your immature and irresponsible behaviour. I doubt that anything you say can excuse or explain your severe lack of judgement. Seventh-year students should set a good example to the younger ones." He paused to let his words sink in, staring intently at each of the two boys in turn. "However, I am willing to hear you out."

There was an oppressive silence as the boys stood side by side, staring stiffly ahead of them, avoiding Dumbledore's piercing eyes. Avoiding looking at each other.

Harry was uncomfortably aware of the proximity of Malfoy's body, the faint smell of him that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, just his personal smell, underlined now by his sweat-drenched Quidditch gear. He wanted to glance at the fair hair and face next to him, just to see, well, he wasn't sure what it was he wanted to see. Perhaps he just wanted to drink in that hot glow of the skin that follows physical exertion. Or rejoice in the damage he had done to that face. But he forced his gaze to stay directed at the wall above Dumbledore's right shoulder.

He wasn't exactly undamaged himself. Various parts of him were aching and burning from repeated contact with Malfoy's fists and elbows and knees. His nosebleed hadn't quite stopped; he could still feel a small warm trickle of blood down his upper lip. The wad of paper tissue that Madam Hooch had stuffed into his nostril was soaked through. He wiped his lip, grimacing both at the pain and at the streak of blood and grime across the back of his hand. He moved his jaw experimentally. By this evening he would have a fantastic bruise blooming along his jawbone.

"Well?" Dumbledore urged them. "Surely you must have something to say? Some explanation to offer? Or will I have to believe that two of the school's brightest students have acted on impulse and impulse alone, incapable of rational thought?"

Draco had to restrain himself from shuffling his feet and instantly hated himself for his childish reaction. But Dumbledore's assessment was uncomfortably close to home. Incapable of rational thought – that would certainly be a fair description of Draco's recent mental state. He hated the way purely physical realities seemed to have taken over his intellect. Blood had dried in the scratches on Draco's cheek and they were straining and itching. He could feel a vicious bruise developing on his right thigh and one under his left eye, and he had bitten his tongue. Pain throbbed with each beat of his pulse.

"I cannot imagine a satisfactory reason or excuse for violence of this kind between students," Dumbledore was saying. "I would be very interested to hear what brought this about. Very interested indeed."

His voice was gentler now, and Harry relaxed inwardly. This was a return of the old Dumbledore, the Dumbledore who understood and had answers. It was a genuine offer of help. As if anyone could help. Anyone or anything. This had gone too far, it was too frightening. Attraction and repulsion; excitement and embarrassment and shame. And now all of it had exploded into violence.

He shouldn't think of it now, in the Headmaster's office. But Malfoy's presence, even in this situation, made him hot, uncomfortable and scared, and ashamed of his own reaction. The uncontrolled mixture of emotions and physical reactions had increased Insomnia's power. He had never been this exhausted in his life, and exhaustion made him light-headed. He wasn't inclined towards violence by nature. If he had been able to sleep properly, this would never have happened.

Draco shifted a little. He felt Potter's body heat radiate from him, from his steaming clothes. They were standing so close they almost touched, very nearly but not quite. He wanted to turn his head to see the look in Potter's eyes, remembering how they had blazed a mere ten minutes ago, how they had flashed anger and hatred and hurt into his own. He remembered the fists and thuds and punches and the tearing and kicking and biting and groaning, remembered the satisfaction of hooking his arm tightly around Harry's neck to wrestle him to the ground, remembered the taut wiry body scrambling and twisting and writhing to get out of his grip.

Harry heard Malfoy swallow twice and wondered if he was going to cry. He had a sudden urge to laugh at the image of Malfoy crying in Dumbledore's office, with Harry Potter present. Dumbledore watched them both sternly, but both boys were still silent. Behind the Headmaster, Fawkes stirred and let out a short, piercing shriek that made them all jump. And when Dumbledore turned to look at the phoenix, Malfoy turned to look at Harry. Harry saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his face towards Malfoy before he had time to think.

Their eyes met, and Harry's breathing failed its rhythm at the intensity of it; the intensity of looking into Malfoy's eyes so directly and so closely. Then Malfoy gave a little smile. It was a minute smile that only sat at the corner of his mouth, but it was there, and it was an invitation. Harry felt a deep, hot blush wash up over his face like a wave.

When Dumbledore's gaze returned from the phoenix to the boys, they were looking straight ahead again, standing perfectly still. Harry tried to swallow the pounding of his heart that threatened to choke him. And he wondered whether Dumbledore was puzzled by the fact that the flush on his face from Quidditch practice and the ensuing fight still had not died down, even fifteen minutes after the fight was broken up.

* * *

When Dumbledore dismissed them, Malfoy went out quickly before Harry, his head bent down.

Harry realised he only had a very hazy idea of what had been said after he had met Malfoy's eyes. They had both received detention, he was clear on that. But everything else was a blur of burning face and thudding pulse.

On the spiral staircase, Malfoy looked up at him again, but the intensity was gone; the grey eyes only had a vaguely questioning look. The boys stepped off the staircase and out into the corridor, stopped again, looking at each other closely, inspecting each other's faces for damage.

Harry wanted to laugh. For a moment, he almost liked Malfoy.

"You're getting a black eye," he said amiably.

Malfoy made a face.

"Really? Well, thanks for pointing that out."

Harry looked at the angry red, darkening skin below Malfoy's left eye for a long time, fighting an urge to reach out and gently touch it.

"Malfoy... " he said. His voice wavered slightly and he had to clear his throat. "Malfoy, I'm sorry I did that." He just had to do it. He stretched out a hand and touched the bruise with a fingertip, feather-light. Malfoy winced, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was from pain or something else. "Do you want me to... heal it?"

"Didn't you hear Dumbledore?"

Harry hastily withdrew his hand.

"What?"

"No magical healing, not even basic stuff. We're to go around with our cuts and bruises until they heal by themselves."

"Oh." He looked at the scratches on Malfoy's cheek. His own jaw and nose throbbed painfully, but the nosebleed seemed to have finally stopped. "Actually I... er... missed some of what he said."

Malfoy laughed, but broke off with a grimace of pain.

"Unfocussed, Potter?"

The pretty, laughing, bruised face and the arrogant tone of voice touched something so deep within Harry that he couldn't even acknowledge it, and it made him begin to get angry again. And he was somehow absurdly pleased at being able to get angry with Malfoy, angry and not just... that other weird feeling, whatever it was. Anger was clean. Anger was something he could handle.

"What the hell was that grin about?"

"What grin?"

Amazing how teasingly innocent Malfoy could look when he tried, even with a black eye, scratched face and streaks of mud in his hair.

"Back there. In Dumbledore's office."

Malfoy tried to laugh again, but ended up with a hand over his cheek as if he had toothache.

"I guess you just amuse me, Potter," he said irritably.

Before Harry had come up with a good reply, Malfoy started to walk along the corridor, but turned around after a few steps.

"See you tonight then, Potter. I'm curious to see what colour that bruise on your jaw will have by then."

When he had disappeared around the corner, his grin somehow lingering like that of the Cheshire cat, Harry began to shake with silent laughter. He wasn't sure why, but he laughed so hard his jaw hurt (it would turn purple by that evening) and his eyes filled with tears. Fuck you, Malfoy. He couldn't help admiring that arrogance. He wished he had more of it himself.

He wiped a hand across his face and involuntarily echoed Malfoy's grimace of pain. He was tired from Quidditch practice and from the fistfight, but he felt he really needed to go for a run to get the irritated, pulsing tension out of his system. Only it would hurt like hell. Fuck you, Malfoy. Fuck you from here to eternity.

* * *

"Headmaster," Snape said as he hurriedly entered Dumbledore's office and stopped in front of the desk.

"Thank you for getting here so quickly, Severus." Dumbledore made a gesture. "Have a seat."

As Snape sat down in one of the old, well-worn red armchairs, Dumbledore continued: "I have just given Messrs. Potter and Malfoy a well-deserved talking-to about their fight. A talking-to is indeed a proper term, as it genuinely and literally was just that." He paused. "The two gentlemen flatly refused to answer me."

Snape's jaw clenched and he made a disapproving noise, but there was a hint of a smile in Dumbledore's eyes. It glittered there for a second before it gave way to a graver expression.

"I'd like to ask you, Severus – have you observed any change in the boys lately? In their interaction? Are they behaving differently – generally, or with each other?"

Snape frowned. It was an unexpected question, and one he disliked being asked. Like several other teachers, he had observed and followed the interaction between Potter and Malfoy for years. There had always been tremendous tension and hostility between the boys, an enmity that seemed to have culminated in their fifth year.

When Snape had first seen the clash of personalities in the boys' first year, he had personally deemed it inevitable and rather natural. Lucius Malfoy's son wouldn't take kindly to being second to anyone, especially someone who didn't have pure blood in his veins. The fact that this someone had an unequalled celebrity status in the wizarding world would not stop a Malfoy, on the contrary – particularly if this celebrity ranked highly with wizards like Albus Dumbledore.

Besides, Snape welcomed anything that challenged Potter's intolerable arrogance. Potter was unbearably like his father – headstrong and confident without any real talent or brilliance. It always gave Snape a grim satisfaction to see Potter thrown off balance, and Malfoy had always incensed Potter more than anyone else. But in the past year or so, Snape had seen the relationship between the boys begin to take a worrying direction. There irritated tension between them was still there, but there was a strange silence, a watchfulness he did not know what to make of. The open enmity between them seemed to have ebbed out.

Snape had no wish to reply the question, but knew that Dumbledore would demand an answer.

"Only that they seem to refrain from the kind of exchange of venomous insults we are used to seeing them engage in," he said stiffly. "I believe there is still a certain antagonism, but it does not seem to be verbalised."

Dumbledore nodded non-committally, but his eyes were sparkling. "Indeed, indeed. And do you have a theory as to the reason for this... silence, Severus?"

His deceptively gentle eyes rested on Snape, who gritted his teeth and swore inwardly.

"I only recently observed a certain difference in their behaviour towards each other, Headmaster," he said curtly. "I planned to continue my observation for some time to try to determine the nature of that difference."

"Hmm," was Dumbledore's unhelpful comment.

He leant forward, placed his elbows on the desk and his fingertips together.

"I assume you would not in any way be opposed to seeing the... the change you have observed... develop into friendship between the boys? Perhaps even close friendship?"

Snape's jaw muscles clenched. Dumbledore knew the answer to that question quite well. Snape had no wish to observe anything at all about Potter – he just wanted the boy out of his sight. And he had no wish to see any kind of friendship develop between Potter and anyone – certainly not between Potter and Draco Malfoy, whose brains and breeding were on a level quite out of Potter's reach. Snape pressed his lips together and refrained from replying.

Dumbledore leant back in his chair again, smiling benevolently. His amusement was obvious.

"Well, Severus, it's clear to us both that something is going on, something quite as intense as the enmity and rivalry we have seen between the boys ever since their first year. They seem to be observing each other very closely. Perhaps, Severus, they are seeing each other as people for the first time, not only as stereotypes? And they seem to be acutely aware of each other's... physical presence. Fawkes noticed it, too. He even commented on it."

Snape frowned at this, and a heavy silence seemed to spread through the room. He began to understand where all this was pointing to, and it was a thought that made him very uncomfortable.

"I would like you to supervise their detention tonight, Severus, and I'm sure you understand why. Supervise – and observe."

Snape did understand. He had no wish to do what Dumbledore asked, but he knew he really had no choice. He made sure his reluctance was plain as he gave the faintest inclination of his head. Dumbledore, of course, was not deterred.

"Have you got any suitable tasks for them, Severus?"

"I believe so. How long a detention?"

"Three hours. And – " Dumbledore raised his hand at Snape's unspoken protest – "please keep in mind that this is very important. It could prove most valuable to us."

Snape did not reply. When Dumbledore said no more, he asked stiffly:

"Is there anything else?"

"No, that would be all for now. Thank you, Severus."

Snape rose from the armchair and left the Headmaster's office with a sweep of his black cloak.

Professor Dumbledore sat back in his chair, a wry look on his face and a small, unmelodious whistle on his lips.

* * *

"Potter, Malfoy," Snape said curtly in the way of greeting.

"Professor Snape."

They stood uneasily side by side just inside the door, and for a moment, the professor was struck by the similarity between the boys, or perhaps by the contrast between their similarities and differences. Malfoy was slightly taller, perhaps by an inch, but they had the same lean, sinewy build – the build of a Seeker. One blond, the other dark; one head tousled and the other smooth. One had wary green eyes behind his glasses whereas the other's grey gaze could shift from evasive to downright challenging in a flash. Malfoy was poised but relaxed and his clothes were impeccable as always, whereas Potter's robes were askew as if he had thrown them on and fastened the clasp while running, and he was fidgeting. Both boys had a seriousness no seventeen-year-old ought to have.

Snape could see why they would both repel and attract one another. He wondered whether the boys themselves were aware of the element of attraction, and how they would handle the realisation, when it came.

It would undoubtedly hit Malfoy long before it did Potter. Snape had never understood why that boy, of all boys, had been the one Who Lived. It was incomprehensible how someone so oblivious and blundering as Potter could have evaded and defeated an enemy like Voldemort for so long. It must all be an extremely fortunate combination of coincidence and luck, because it certainly wasn't skill or strategy on Potter's part. That confounded boy. He wasn't stupid, any more than his father had been, but he was not astute and not the type to premeditate and organise. He acted on impulse and bravery, and so far, his Gryffindor personality had generally served his purpose well. But sooner or later, he must run out of luck, and considering the current situation in the magical world, that would be sooner rather than later.

Snape did indeed harbour an intense dislike for the boy, but did not wish for him to die. He simply wanted Potter out of his sight. As a former Death Eater, he knew all too well that the alternative to Potter's power was Voldemort's rule, and he had to overcome his dislike. The boy needed support if the sanity of the wizarding world was to be saved. Snape only hoped that he himself would not have to get too directly involved in that support.

"Three hours of detention for inexcusable behaviour," he said coldly. "I have never had much hope for any improvement of Potter's manners, but Malfoy – " He shook his head. "I am very disappointed in you. Surely you have been brought up to more dignified behaviour." He let his black eyes pierce each of the boys in turn. "Well. The joy of three hours in the store room awaits you."

When the boys hovered on the threshold, he shooed them off as if they were pigeons on a window ledge.

"What are you waiting for? A guide? A map? A compass? After nearly seven years in this school, I would have thought you could find your way from the Potions classroom to the store room. But perhaps this is too much to ask of your hormone-addled brains?"

Frowns and huffed expressions followed, but the boys turned around and walked ahead of Snape to the store room, where he placed himself by the desk in the far corner, and took his time about rigging the scales for measuring bryony, or womandrake.

* * *

Dumbledore's office was less well-lit than usual, and the Headmaster looked tired and worn. His face was greyish above the white beard, and his eyes dull.

"Well, Severus?" he asked.

Snape hesitated, but only a moment.

"Excuse me, Headmaster, but – are you quite well?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, yes. Thank you. It's nothing. I had a tiring afternoon, trying to gather some information from the reflection of the Sword."

"I see." Snape knew better than to ask about the result. "As for the boys..."

"Yes?"

"They hardly exchanged a glance all evening, and not a word except the minimum communication necessary to carry out their tasks. Which, I must admit, they did impeccably."

He did not add that there had been a tension between them so strong that he had half expected the glass jars on the table to start trembling and tinkling.

Dumbledore nodded slowly while his fingers played with a quill.

"Would you perhaps say that this silence between them might imply some kind of... attraction between them?"

Revolting, Snape thought. Teenage boys. Potter!

He didn't even want to think about the word attraction in connection with Potter.

"That is at least my own observation," Dumbledore said, sharper now. "And I trust you realise the potential of the development of such an attraction, Severus, if monitored and guided properly – and delicately...?"

He did realise it – he'd have to be stupid not to – but that did not mean he sanctioned it.

"Yes, Headmaster."

"But you are not comfortable with the attraction as such – or with the protagonists?"

Snape swore inwardly. Dumbledore always saw right through everyone.

"I know that Harry Potter is not your favourite student, Severus. But I also know that you chose sides long ago, and that you do realise the implications of this relationship."

Snape did not reply.

"We will have to consider this carefully – you especially, as you are the one who has objections. I do not believe it will be necessary for me to underline the importance of this matter staying strictly between the two of us...?"

Snape simply gave a rather stiff nod.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said. "Please meet me here tomorrow evening, after dinner, when we have both had time to think. We need to discuss strategies."

Snape inclined his head again, and Dumbledore sank back against the backrest and closed his eyes. He looked immensely old, and for a brief moment, through his displeasure and annoyance, Snape felt a sharp needle sting of fear.

* * *

It was a dark, sleepy morning in the dungeons, and the students fought to stay awake, despite being chilled to the bone. Harry rubbed his eyes and tried to stifle a yawn while chalk scratched the board. Snape's voice was slow, soporific and as cold as the air.

"It was believed that certain plants, herbs, roots and so on were appropriated to certain parts of the human body. The herbs were also divided into 'hot' and 'cold'. 'Cold' herbs were generally regarded as soothing and could be used for infusions or potions to heal wounds or cure fevers, whereas 'hot' herbs were used to provoke a reaction. Asphodel, for instance, was labelled 'hot in the second degree' and used as an emetic."

Harry glanced around. Parvati's head was about to sink down on her arms on the table. Dean was looking straight ahead with unseeing eyes, lost in some far-away world. He didn't notice that his quill was equally bored and had begun to draw endless tendrils of creepers around the edges of his parchment. Ron slipped a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean into his mouth and made a face.

"Mallows were classified as cold herbs in the first degree. Today, the use of mallows has changed quite significantly. They are mainly used as an ingredient in potions such as..."

Harry grinned at Ron's bad choice of Bean, returned his gaze to the scribblings on the blackboard and sighed. Oh God, this was unbelievably boring. Definitely one of Snape's more uninspired lessons, probably because this was where his own subject overlapped with Herbology. Not the Professor's favourite area.

"Go to page 371 in your books. Mid-page." Snape's black eyes swept over the students, and his voice was ominously silky as he said: "Will you be so kind as to read to us, Miss Brown? After lifting your head from the table, perhaps?"

Lavender started out of her half-slumber and, blushing deeply, miraculously managed to find the right place on the page:

" 'Herbs appropriated to certain parts of the body of man: Heat the heart. Southernwood male and female, Angelica, Wood-roof, Bugloss, Carduus Benedictus, Borrage, Goat's Rue, Senna, Bazil, Rosemary, Elecampane.' "

Harry's mind threatened to drift off again, to the Christmas holidays, the smell of woodsmoke in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place, the feeling of security.... The lesson wound on.

Suddenly a soft, popping noise made Harry jump. Something small and light appeared on his lap, and its fragrance spiralled up into his nostrils.

A sprig of rosemary.

He frowned. What was it Lavender had just read aloud...? Rosemary... to heat the heart?

He was suddenly aware of Malfoy's eyes on him, and his own heart kicked in his chest. He knew instantly that Malfoy had sent the sprig. His thoughts spun while his fingertips gently caressed the cool, needle-like leaves and his face went on fire. Heat the heart.

He looked up cautiously. The grey eyes were there, like he had known they would be, waiting to meet his own. When Malfoy looked grave, like now, they were so beautiful, so strange; slowly shifting and changing, like drifting clouds. Harry gazed into them and didn't understand their expression – it looked like something in between puzzlement and pain.

He looked down again, shaken, and couldn't help thinking at last. At last he's decided to do something. His hand closed around the sprig of rosemary and his pulse thudded almost loud enough to shut out Lavender's voice. From far off, he heard her read:

" '...an oil will distil down into the lower glass, to be preserved as precious for diverse uses, both inward and outward, as a sovereign balm...' "

Malfoy must have sent the herb purely with power of thought. Was he mad? Wandless magic, right here in Snape's classroom? Oh, it was so like Malfoy. He had never exactly been one to break rules, but rather tried to find a way around them by interpreting them in extreme ways. Like Muggle lawyers. Harry had to bite his lip to stop a smile, amused and impressed.

And very nervous. Had he interpreted the message correctly? Was it really possible that Malfoy was saying... asking...? Or was it some kind of joke? But the expression in Malfoy's eyes didn't indicate a joke.

Heat the heart.

They had only had a few exercises with wandless magic in Lupin's DADA class. Harry had done well enough, but nowhere near as well as Malfoy had. If he concentrated, could he do this, too? He wanted to reply to the message. He wanted to say yes.

He threw a glance at the open pages of his book. "Heat the heart. Southernwood male and female, Angelica, Wood-roof..." Angelica archangelica. This very moment, Malfoy resembled the fair-haired, distant angels of a Renaissance painting Harry had seen in a Muggle art book, although not as indifferent as they had looked where they stood with their gaze lost in another world.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated hard. He conjured up a very clear picture of the plant in his mind, pictured a leaf from it landing neatly on the folds of Malfoy's robes. Concentration. Deep now. The leaf... green and new... very clear in his mind... its green shape on the black fabric of the robes... the pale veins... the texture... And then a whispered spell, no louder than a breath.

It didn't work.

Harry opened his eyes but didn't meet Malfoy's. Damn. Why didn't it work? He knew he could do this. He felt it. But he also felt there was something missing... something he had overlooked, that he must take into consideration... something that had to be there when he concentrated on the visual part.

He closed his eyes again. The folds of Malfoy's black robes... the angelica leaf, bright green... its odd shape.... and then, quickly, like a flash, came the memory of Malfoy's smile in Dumbledore's office... Harry's own hot face and his thudding heart...

He opened his eyes again just in time to see Malfoy jump slightly and look down into his lap, staring down for a moment, a faint pink tinge coming into his cheeks. Then the grey eyes came back up and there was an odd look in them, a faint glimmer of something that resembled… relief?

Angelica is the herb of the Sun in Leo... it comforts the heart, blood and spirit...

Snape turned around with a dramatic swirl of his robes and threw a question Malfoy's way. The frail moment was gone. But the disturbing oddness of that look stayed with Harry for the rest of the day, the beauty of it dancing like fen fire in his mind. And when he had gone to bed, it still hung like a lantern above him in the dark, softly glowing.

* * *

There were no lanterns, real or imaginary, in Draco Malfoy's room, but he still couldn't sleep.

You want to talk to Potter, and you send him herbs? Oh brilliant, Draco. Pure genius.

But Potter had replied. He appeared to have understood the message, and he had replied to it the same way it had been sent. By wandless magic. By power of thought. Draco had to admit to being impressed. And not only impressed:

Potter replied.

Draco's heart turned a somersault in his chest every time he thought of it – and he had thought of it innumerous times that afternoon and evening. Potter had replied, and it must mean that he...? Yes, it must mean that – because the reply had required the unusual combination of thought and strong emotion.

Draco turned on his back and looked up into the ceiling, invisible in the dark. Looking at something that was obscured, but which you knew was there – that was what it was like to truly believe in something, wasn't it? What it was like to work towards an abstract goal?

He turned again, impatiently. His down-filled pillows seemed hard and lumpy tonight; they didn't yield to the weight of his head. His eiderdown made him too warm, even in the icy dungeons, even when he stuck his feet outside. He had tossed and turned for hours, thinking about Gryffindors and Slytherins. Thinking about Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, the true Gryffindor.

But what about the wandless magic? It was traditionally seen as part of the Dark Arts, and he seemed to perform it so effortlessly and on intuition. And what about his obvious disregard for the rules when the situation called for ignoring conventions?

He could have been a Slytherin.

Slytherin. It's a word you can turn around in your mouth and taste. And you'd expect it to be bitter and slimy on your tongue. Perhaps it is, if you don't say it quickly enough. But the first impression is one of coolness and a kind of slippery elegance. It's a lovely word for an unhealthy concept.

Draco was one of them. He was a Slytherin. He wasn't supposed to need friends, or want them. Was he allowed to need lovers? He was seventeen, and perhaps no seventeen-year-old should need lovers. They should be satisfied with dreams.

Slytherins couldn't be caught and held; they slipped away. They turned all ways at once and slid smoothly out of people's hands.

But Draco wanted to be held. He had never wanted to be – until now. It scared him. And he hated himself for being so weak.

But weak or not, he was still a Slytherin. He did have certain Slytherin characteristics, even if he didn't share all their general opinions. He could see some of the characteristics clearly: an analytical mind and a competitive and jealous disposition.

He sat up in bed and beat the pillows into shape before lying down again on his other side.

Jealousy, indeed. He had been jealous of Potter for more than six years. Pathetic, wasn't it? Ever since that time when Potter had refused to take Draco's proffered hand; that time when Potter had chosen Weasley over him. And it suddenly occurred to Draco that all this time, he hadn't only been jealous of Potter, but of Weasley, too.

Jealous of Weasley? Merlin, that was pathetic. That was really and truly pathetic.

All Slytherins had a theatrical streak in them, a craving for drama that perhaps was vanity, perhaps suggestive of something else. They would all do anything to avoid being ordinary.

But Potter...

Potter had never been ordinary, although he seemed to try so hard to be. And Draco knew with absolute certainty that he'd never succeed.

* * *

Hitting a wall of protection spells feels exactly like that: like running into a wall, or perhaps rather a thick glass pane. There is nothing to see, but unlike a wall or a sheet of glass, there's nothing to touch, either. He was satisfied. At least this showed that he had navigated correctly.

He had always liked darkness. It never scared him; he felt protected by it. And the air had a smooth silky quality that was more noticeable in the dark than in daylight; he could almost let it slide through his fingers.

He checked his time-piece. Ten more minutes, and the channel would open. Provided the boy had understood how to work the detection and decoding device.

He sat down on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree and waited. Night breathed around him, and stars twinkled between the bare branches of the trees. He used his ten minutes to rehearse.

The channel would open. It would take him into the Entrance Hall, and from there he had to go up the stairs... many stairs... and hope they wouldn't change and leave him lost. He didn't have much time – he had to complete his mission before the activation spell on the Portkey expired. In the Gryffindor Tower he had to find a portrait of a lady in a pink dress. She guarded the entrance to the students' quarters, and his own decoding device would break the password for him. Then, he'd find his way into the seventh-year boys' corridor – he needed to go up more stairs – and find Harry Potter. And when he had got the Potter boy, he would activate the Portkey and leave Hogwarts without a trace.

No trace. But later, after the great victory, then everyone in the wizarding world would know his name. He would make his imprint on history.

When the ten minutes had gone by, he got up from the tree trunk and began to move experimentally along the invisible wall of protection spells. He found the opening surprisingly quickly. The boy had obviously done a good job, and it would be duly reported to Lord Voldemort.

He clutched the decoding device in his hand and smiled to himself as he began to move, swiftly and silently, along the channel.

* * *

In the Gryffindor Tower, Hermione Granger was turning her room upside down, so frustrated she was almost in tears. It was getting to be too much for her, she decided – everything was getting to be too much. She was Head Girl with all the duties the honour brought with it, and younger students kept coming to her for advice. Her own housemates came to her with their problems, too; everything from Arithmancy questions to confidences about their love lives.

She always wanted to help, but lately she had begun to wonder if it was wise to try to help everyone. Because in doing so, she felt she was beginning to lose herself. She never had time to pursue her own interests. She hardly even had time to see Ron. And she was taking more subjects this year than there was room for on her schedule, just like she had in her third and sixth years. Her Time-Turner was frequently used – and the Time-Turner was the reason why she was now shaking all her clothes out, turning her bag upside down on the desk, and lying flat on her stomach on the floor to peer under the bed.

The Time-Turner was nowhere to be found.

Where is the bloody thing? I remember vowing after our third year that I'd never use one again. Never. Oh, what an idiot I am. I should have kept my word.

Hermione was crying pitifully now. Even if she hated the Time-Turner at the moment, it was a precious magical object. She was using it on condition she kept it an absolute secret. Harry and Ron knew about it, of course, but they were sworn to secrecy just as she was.

She usually wore the Time-Turner on a chain around her neck, but for the past few days she had carried it in her pocket to make it less visible. Several of the girls had seen the chain and asked to see the pendant, and been miffed when she refused to show it to them. She closed her eyes and tried to visualise the last time she had seen the Time-Turner. It must have been in the library. Yes, the library. She could see it now – lying on top of its coiled gold chain, on the shiny wood surface next to the book she was reading... Her eyes pinged open, and she felt panic rise like bile in her throat.

Oh, God. Oh my God. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have put it on the table like that?? I must have been mad.

She had to go to the library. At once.

It was already eleven o'clock, and it was time to do the rounds – she was even a few minutes late. She ran down to the fifth-years' dormitory to meet Professor McGonagall. McGonagall was grimly waiting for her on the stairs – being late was disapproved of, strongly. But Hermione's frenzy must have been written all over her, and her face probably still bore traces of tears, because McGonagall's expression changed and she said sharply:

"Is something wrong, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, Professor," said Hermione in a quavering voice, "I need to go to the library immediately. I left... I left something there by mistake. It's very important, and I need it urgently. It can't wait until morning."

She couldn't say it out loud. She just couldn't make herself admit to McGonagall that the thing she had left in the library was the Time-Turner. Her voice hitched on a fresh sob, and McGonagall only needed a second to make her decision. She gave Hermione a piercing look, and then promptly provided her with a note and the password to the library. It was plainly evident that McGonagall understood, without explanations, what the urgent errand was, but she chose not to comment. The girl's tears began to flow again, from pure relief.

"Thank you, professor. Thank you."

"Off with you now. Be quick."

Hermione didn't need to be told to hurry. She ran.