"Mr. Malfoy. I presume that you, once again, did not find the atlas root I asked you for." Professor Snape paces back and forth behind his desk, his robes billowing behind him like black moth wings. He looks sinister and forbidding with his eyebrows lowered over his hawk-like nose.

Harry withholds a bitter snicker. A solid week and a half of lessons with Snape over the summer have given him a very unique view into the professor's mind: Snape does not like children. Everyone knows that. But Snape understands children and is truly a gifted teacher. He knows that children need something to rail against, and has set himself to be that foil. If he's learned to take a little pleasure doing so through the years, if being the most hated and most highly respected teacher at Hogwarts—and he is—well, who can blame him? Snape's sneers are real, yet there's a lift to his eyebrows and a light that dances in his black eyes that tells Harry that Snape is enjoying this. Immensely, the twisted bastard. Biting his lip hard, Harry glances at Draco out of the corner of his eye, wanting to share the joke; if there is any other student in Hogwarts would understands just how to read Snape's moods, it has to be his prodigy and frequent assistant.

But Draco is looking at the floor. His hands are locked at his sides, fingers curled into the same kind of fists as at the lake, ones Harry now understands are associated with extreme emotional discomfort and fear. Draco, obviously, doesn't know Snape is entertaining himself—or that Snape is employing the same kind of games Draco himself is using. Or at least Harry suspects he is using.

His humor dies instantly, replaced with confusion and a hint of annoyance. He doesn't understand why Draco isn't seeing Snape's games—surely Snape has allowed the boy he likes to see the things the boy he hates has already discovered? Draco is the petted favorite, a protege more than a student, and for him not to know this bothers Harry. Snape should have already explained this aspect of his role to Draco, who is following in Snape's footsteps without years of experience or countless students to hone his craft. There is priceless advice untapped behind Snape's mask—sneering hate instead of arrogant disdain—but more importantly, Draco's path is perilous and he needs Snape the same way Harry needs Dumbledore. No matter how much Harry resents depending on the Headmaster, he is still a boy and needs a mentor and a confidant. Draco is no different, and for Snape to deny him ... Subtly, Harry angles his body towards Draco's, allowing their hands to brush. Relax, the touch says. I'm here.

"Silence?" Professor Snape sneers. He watches both boys intently, Harry reading the smallest hint of shock in dark eyes before it's swallowed back into contempt. Harry doesn't bother acknowledging his win; his attention is focused on reassuring Draco, and Snape becomes superfluous. "Of course. Very well. For your first detention, you will go out and find more atlas root. You will not ask anyone for help, is that clear, Mister Potter? No quick trips to see if Miss Granger has any hints. You two will search alone, and you will not return until you have at least a solid handful. Am I understood?"

It's just past dinner time so it's not dark out yet, but night falls swiftly in October. Harry knows that the grounds at Hogwarts are safe. Dumbledore's warding has been very thorough, some of the greatest witches and wizards in the nation adding their strength to the spell, along with members of the Order. Nothing can come in without Dumbledore's magically gifted approval, not even the creatures of the Forbidden Forest. So long as they stay within the wards, no matter how dark or cold it is outside, they'll be safe.

Harry holds tight onto that thought. "Okay," he says, since Draco doesn't appear to remember how to look up, let alone open his mouth. "Is there anything else you'd like us to do?"

Snape curls his upper lip, probably disappointed that Harry is nothing but polite. It's become a game with them to see who breaks first. "Try not to kill each other, perhaps? The headmaster would be so displeased."

There are way too many things to be read into such a blatant statement, so Harry doesn't even bother trying. He starts to head for the door, stopping only when he realizes Draco hasn't moved yet. He turns back, Draco's name on his tongue—Draco, not Malfoy—but stops.

Draco is staring. There's something so open and vulnerable in stormy grey eyes. Draco wants, with the desperation of a child, and he wants it from Snape. Weeks ago, the thought would have sickened Harry, no matter how deeply he understands the role Snape's assigned himself to play—but now he sees with unshakable conviction. Outside of this office is something Draco does not understand, something he does not know how to plot or plan for. He does not have Harry's experience at throwing himself off the cliff, just to see if he can fly. He's scared.

And he is asking for Snape's reassurance.

Why Harry understands so clearly, he doesn't know. He doesn't really care. Snape is watching impassively, unmoving. Bastard Harry thinks even as he takes two steps towards Draco's side, reaching out to take Draco's hand by the wrist.

"Hey," he says softly. "Come on. It's not worth it."

Grey eyes meet his and narrow, suddenly glaring with penetrating force. Harry feels like a character in the muggle program Star Trek, lasers searing into his body, as Draco searches for something Harry doesn't have a name for—

And just as quickly, it stops.

Draco's arm goes limp, his head dropping into a silent nod. His body moves only when Harry tugs lightly, following behind with a docility that's frightening. Draco shouldn't ever be docile, led around like a decision-challenged Hufflepuff. And Harry, under no circumstances at all, should never feel gratified that it's him Draco is complying with so easily.

The light is dying as they walk towards the lake, shadow-touched dusk competing with the last lingering hints of gold and pink as the sun slides away. It's cool, but not entirely cold yet. Harry surreptitiously checks Draco's attire, pleased when he discovers that Draco is wearing a jumper as thick as his own. Harry suspects that Draco has had the same notion he has, but doesn't mention it here. He doesn't want to think about what plagues him late at night, suspicions clouding his mind as he fights to find sleep. Hogwarts grounds are probably the safest place in all of England, and the best place in a boarding school to truly be alone. That the professors are sending them there... that two boys who fight and snarl in public are kept together in private detentions ...

But those are not important here, or now. All Harry cares about is that Draco is once again by his side.

The lake makes the cool air feel colder when they finally reach it, but Harry finds he likes that. The chill makes Draco's skin rise, fine hairs tickling Harry's skin. He finds a place for them to sit, pulling Draco down with him before Draco has a chance to make that decision on his own, hand still in Harry's. It's so easy to push up Draco's robe and the tightened cuff of his jumper, exposing the goose-pimpled flesh of his forearm underneath. Harry rubs it, bones fragile underneath his touch, smoothing the bumps and warming the skin. He watches as carefully as he can in the grey of sunset.

Draco raises no objections. He merely sighs and leans towards Harry, allowing greater access. Their shoulders are warm where they meet. Eventually, Harry tires of the skin of Draco's forearm. He wants very much to remove Draco's arm from its clothing entirely, but he's not quite sure why or if that's something he should really do—he knows without question that Draco will not object—and besides, it's too cold anyway. He contents himself by mapping as much of Draco's arm as he can through the layers of robe and jumper, working over shoulder and neck to finally touch the curve of Draco's ear and the sharp line of his jaw.

"How's your eye?" he asks.

"Madam Pomfrey gave me something for the pain."

It's an odd kind of answer, but Harry just nods. There's only the faintest hint of discoloration around a lid half-lowered in ... pleasure? Harry hopes that it is, that he's not doing something Draco wants to object to. "I'm sorry I hit you there. I didn't mean to."

"We both lunged wrong," Draco immediately dismisses. "Hardly something to fret over."

"It's so strange for you to be quiet." Harry brushes the backs of his fingers over Draco's cheek, feeling the faintest hint of stubble, the hairs too fair to be visible. "I like it."

"It's strange for you to l—to want to spend time with me." The stumbled word brings a rush of pink heat to Draco's cheeks . Harry can feel the blood as it pools and presses his palm against the skin, fascinated. Draco leans slightly into his palm and says, "I've spent five years coming up with the most devastating ways to hurt you and your friends. You shouldn't want to be anywhere near me. And you shouldn't trust me."

"S'lucky for you that I do, then," Harry says.

He means it as teasing, trying to draw a little more life into this silent creature beside him. He doesn't mean for Draco to start in surprise, turning his head so quickly it dislodges Harry's hand to flop uncomfortably onto Draco's shoulder, eyes inscrutable. "You trust me?"

Harry leans back onto his elbows, listening to the squid splashing somewhere in the middle of the lake, the ripples from its movements lapping softly against the edges. He kicks his legs out before him, tensing and untensing the muscles. "I trust you not to hurt me intentionally," he says eventually. "I trust that I'm seeing Draco, not his father's creature. I trust that you like being here." He doesn't say 'with me'. He can't get the words past his suddenly tight throat.

"Why?"

Harry thinks about that for a very long time. The question is said flippantly—why bother—but Harry knows that it's seriously asked and deserves to be seriously answered. And maybe then Harry can calm his own confusion and occasional doubts. "Why do you let me see the real you?" he asks eventually. "Why do you trust me?"

Draco snorts, though his body is trembling very faintly. "Because you're a Gryffindor," he says airily. "You breathe trustworthiness along with your halitosis."

"Well, there is that," Harry agrees in the same tone. "But that's not why you're letting me see things about you, is it? So that's not why I trust you."

The answer is roundabout and Harry's almost confusing himself—but Draco stops holding himself so rigidly, the trembling easing into a sigh that sounds contented. It's a good sound. "I hated you, you know," Draco says, cruel amusement directed at himself, not Harry. It's probably a first, ever—a self-deprecating Draco. Someone needs to notify the Daily Prophet. "You were filthy and skinny and terrified, but you sat down next to Weasley like it was the most natural thing in the world. I wanted that."

"What, being a scrawny kid, clothed in your cousin's castoffs, and terrified 'cause you don't know anything?" Not even that your name is the most famous since Merlin's.

Draco doesn't smile or shake his head, though Harry somehow knows that Draco is amused as he leans back to mimic Harry's position, wearing a thoughtful expression. His legs aren't quite as long as Harry's, but their torsos are the same exact length. Or at least, Harry thinks they are, based on the outlines the robes reveal. He wants to touch Draco again and doesn't have the first idea why he wants it at all, let alone why he wants it so much.

"I'd rather freeze then wear the horrid imitation of clothing that you seem to prefer," Draco says, a hint of a grin lurking around the edges of his lips. His clothes, Harry realizes, are about to become the subject of a great deal of teasing. Since they really are awful—he can't be arsed about getting new ones, as he wears robes to cover most of the worst bits anyway—he decides that it's a good first step. "No, it's how easy it was, with you two. I didn't see it then, of course, I thought you'd done the same kind of thing I'd learned to do—making a formal declaration, like a pair of warring nations, or bludgeoning your way in charge. I didn't know how to just sit down and start talking."

It takes Harry a moment to realize that Draco is jealous not of Harry, but Ron. The sentence runs through his mind several times, leaving giggles and amazement unvoiced in its wake. It's the kind of thing Harry wants to go tell Ron immediately, just to see the reactions he'll get blazoned on his expressive, freckled face—but he won't. Won't ever. Draco is trusting him and Harry is determined to be worthy of it.

Draco's jealousy is easy to understand, probably because Harry's just a little bit jealous of Ron in the same way. Ron comes from a big, boisterous family where no matter what fights have broken out—and here, he carefully does not think of Percy—there's always love and affection underneath it all. There will always be welcoming arms and a chat over a cuppa or one of Molly's meals, people to come to your rescue if you need it or a smack upside the head if you need that. Oh, yes, it's easy for Harry to be jealous of the family Ron has, just as it's easy for an only, lonely child to recognize another.

Worse than that, though, is Ron's easy going nature. Despite all his faults and sore spots, he's remarkably easy to get along with. Ron is instantly recognizable as the kind of person others want for a mate, which is probably why it's Ron who's friends with the rest of Gryffindor, while Harry is still mostly just friends with Ron. Ron is puppyish enthusiasm, plus all the bourgeoning charm that Bill and Charlie display so easily. All the Weasleys, really, are cheerful, friendly souls and little phases them for very long. It's one of the reasons Harry loves them so very much and is grateful to be an adopted son to Arthur and Molly.

But it doesn't stop him from occasionally resenting them. It's taken him a while, but he's pretty sure that's what family is: the ability to not always like someone, sometimes even hate someone, but still never stop loving them.

"It wasn't that easy, you know. The first thing Ron ever asked me was for my autograph." Harry sees Draco shift, disagreeing. Lying fully onto his back, Harry reaches out to tug Draco as flat as he is, their bodies close enough that combined body heat makes it easy to ignore the chill from the ground. A strand of blond hair tickles Harry's ear. "But I know what you mean."

"I suppose we ought to find the atlas root. Weed." The change of subject isn't unexpected, Draco tense and awkward as he reclines beside Harry. "Whatever idiotic quest Snape's sent us on. It probably doesn't even exist."

Tiny hints of stars are starting to appear above them. They're faint, the sky still not dark enough to showcase their brilliance, but Harry can already pick out familiar constellations. Astronomy isn't his favorite class, but it's fun to realize he can point up and say 'I know what that configuration is'. It's something even the Dursleys, if the Dursleys cared about Harry's scholastic achievements, could have been proud of. Wizarding constellations and muggle constellations are surprisingly similar. Harry doesn't say anything until Draco finally loses his nervousness and starts relaxing. It happens in a rush, like Harry's passed some sort of test and Draco gives in immediately after. Though 'gives in' is probably the wrong term. "Nah," he says. "He'll just send us out tomorrow for more, even if we find it."

"It's the worst excuse I've ever heard of," Draco grumbles. He sounds more like the boy Harry remembers, now. There's less overweening arrogance and cruelty, but the bite to his drawling words is back. Harry is glad to hear it. "Why on earth did they have to send us outside, anyway? It's cold out here! And it's dark. I don't like it."

He has to laugh. "You really are a spoiled brat, aren't you."

"If you're implying that I prefer my creature comforts undisturbed, then yes, you're correct. There's nothing wrong with preferring to be warm and within decent range of a fire. Or some other light source." He pauses for a moment, waiting for something. When Harry does nothing, Draco grumbles something under his breath that sounds mostly made up of vowels, and reaches into his robes. "Lu—"

"Don't."

It's fully dark now, but for the distant lights coming from the castle. Harry's pretty sure they're fairy lights. Professor Lupin—he's always Professor, when Harry thinks about the Dark Arts, never Remus—taught them that fairy lights are cool and white, like muggle florescents, but without the harshness. They offer just enough visibility that Harry can see when Draco sits up, eyes wide and shining. "But I just—"

"I said don't." Something more seems to be required, some kind of explanation other than Harry not wanting the spindly light from Draco's wand, or the absolutely certainty that Draco won't argue with him. "I won't be able to see the stars, if you do that," he adds lamely.

"Oh."

Draco remains sitting up, shivering slightly as a gust of wind dances over them. He glances side-long at Harry, obviously wonder if a warming-charm is more acceptable—but doesn't ask. It's past eight, Harry guesses, and he wonders how much time they really have before reality intrudes. He likes lying here, with Draco, letting the air brush against their skin as they do nothing at all. He doesn't like the gradual hunch to Draco's shoulder, though. Or the shivering Draco is trying to suppress.

So he puts a hand on Draco's shoulder and pulls him down beside him, arm around his back, Draco's head resting on his shoulder. It's not comfortable. He can feel his arm losing circulation already and Draco's head is heavy and hard against the bones of his shoulder. But Draco's breath is warm against his neck, his body gradually relaxing as Harry holds him there, refusing to let go, and Harry discovers that actually, this is the most comfortable he's ever been in his entire life.

"I don't understand," Draco says eventually. The words vibrate through their bodies as well as through the air. "Snape doesn't like you. At all. 'Loathing' might be a good term to describe just how much he hates you."

"But he needs me," Harry reminds him. Does Snape actually know just how much he needs Harry? The prophecy has never come up once, not even between Harry and Dumbledore, but he doesn't know how many people may already know about it. "And he does like you."

"No, he doesn't. He likes my ... Oh." The hint of realization, bitter and thick like a muggle pill caught in the throat, is painful to hear. "He likes my father," Draco says seriously.

Harry presses his hand flat against Draco's back, feeling the knobs in Draco's spine. It pushes Draco even closer to him, but Harry doesn't think Draco objects. They're practically snuggling, Draco's leg creeping up Harry's until their robes are tangled together and Harry is starting to think things he desperately doesn't want to think right now. Not when he thinks that Draco's finally going to talk.

"Did you know? That Snape is, um. What he is?" Harry asks, mostly to distract himself from the warm pressure of a thigh resting on top of his.

"He wanted me to," Draco says idly, like his attention is focused on something else. Maybe the feel of Harry's hip, pressed against Draco's inner thigh, robes and two pairs of trousers thin protection? "I've known for years, actually. I could never understand why I didn't tell my father about him, but I suppose I wanted to keep my options open. Or maybe I guessed—" Draco stops, going completely still. Harry expects this, though, and is already bringing his other arm up, linking his fingers together so that he is holding Draco tightly. The tension leaves Draco's body in a forceful sigh, cheek nuzzling against Harry's shoulder in thanks. "I never did tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about."

"It's not. Snape can take care of himself."

Draco's breath is warm and wet against his neck. Harry shivers every time Draco inhales, the cool night air rushing in to chill the damp patch of skin. Underneath pine and crushed grass and squid-infested waters, Harry can smell the musk of another boy and something crisp and clean—shampoo? Soap? It doesn't matter, except that it smells too good. Pressure grows in Harry's middle and he knows that he has to push Draco away. Soon. He also knows that there's no way not to hurt Draco, who won't understand anything but rejection. It isn't rejection, Harry thinks frantically, not at all. Draco's body feels so good against his...

But Draco is trusting him and Harry doesn't want to betray that trust in any way.

"Did you do that on purpose?" he blurts, suddenly. His body quakes with the desire to stay exactly where he is, and the desperate need to move, get away, flee from things he doesn't really understand. He holds onto the thought that any sudden movements will sent Draco scuttling. "Er. The stuff, back at the castle. Insulting people."

"Being my father's son?" Draco deduces, his tone bitter and scathing. "Of course. Dumbledore said something that made me think. He's really not a crazy old bat, is he?"

"Oh, he is. Totally barking, I think. But he's not weak, and he's not stupid." And Draco will probably never know how much it hurts Harry to say those words.

"No, he isn't. He just walked up to me one day, ineffably twinkling, and started talking about rivalries and concentration and using lessons properly." Draco snorts, amused as he taps a pattern on Harry's belly. "I thought he was just being barmy, again. It wasn't until I got back to my common room that I figured it out. They were scared. Everyone was scared, even Slytherins. Even the ones who knew they'd be Death Eaters like their parents. So I—made them stop being so scared."

"You did good, Draco. Er, brilliant, I mean." Harry's skin flushes, scalding hot, and Draco shifts restlessly against him. "I've never actually watched you go after people, before. Mostly I was too busy being got after, myself." He tugs Draco's hair lightly, teasing, and feels the skin against his shoulder shift and bunch—does that mean Draco's smiling? He hopes so. "You're really good at it, if that's complimentary. Skilled. It was like watching a general or a—a surgeon, or something."

"A surgeon? Isn't that a fish?"

A—Harry laughs, grateful for the change in atmosphere, using it to push both of them into an upright sitting position. It takes a great deal of effort to actually let go of Draco, but he thinks the movement looks natural enough. "No, that's a sturgeon. A surgeon is a, um, muggle healer. They cut into you and fix things inside you to make you better."

Draco makes a face, shadows growing more pronounced against skin that glows sickly pale in the moonlight, until his face looks almost grotesque. "They cut into you? Potter, that's barbaric!"

"It isn't, really. They use lasers—beams of light that are very sharp and hot—and they can fix nearly anything, nowadays." He doesn't mention Dudley's laser removal of a pig-tail. Draco's comments are not specifically negative towards muggles, yet, and Harry doesn't want to encourage any deviation. "It's not graceful, maybe, or as easy as Madam Pomfrey waving her wand and giving us a nasty-tasting potion. It works, though. It's not ... bad."

"No. I suppose it isn't."

Harry blinks, staring almost cross-eyed at Draco as the other boy climbs to his feet. That Draco has not retreated into his usual anti-muggle vitriol, Harry has put to Draco wanting to keep on Harry's good side, or maybe Draco wanting to make his own decisions or something Harry hasn't thought of—but he never, truly never, expected to hear Draco sound so thoughtful as he discussed muggle doctoring. Even appreciative. Harry has not considered that Draco's changed opinion about Voldemort also means a changed opinion about muggles. For some reason, that thought never even occurs to him.

"How can light be sharp?" Draco asks suddenly.

"Er." Harry searches his memory and comes up with an image of different colors of light bouncing off oddly placed mirrors, nothing more. The word 'prism' tantalizes him. "I don't know, really. We only had one class about lasers when I was in muggle school, and I was only about seven years old. I doubt they really explained the physics of it to us, even if I could remember it."

"Ah, yes, muggle school." There's the derision Harry is waiting for, but Draco shocks him by asking, "What was that like?" They begin walking back towards Hogwarts castle, Harry idly searching the grounds for a root or weed they cannot see in the dark. They'll be yelled at, of course, for returning empty handed but Harry expects that and isn't worried. "Was it like Hogwarts?"

"Sometimes." Harry skips over memories of Dudley sticking his head down toilets or Dudley's friends pushing him around, instead relating what the classes were like and some of the subjects they were taught as the boys veer away from the main doors to head towards the Quidditch pitch, instead. They're too busy talking to go back inside, yet. "It wasn't really that different, I guess," Harry sums up. "We just learned muggle stuff instead of magic. We didn't have the houses, though, but that could be because I wasn't at a boarding school."

Draco sniffs at him. "No Quidditch?"

"Er, there were other sports, but—no. No, there's no Quidditch there."

They share a look of perfect rapture, grateful that they are in a world where they do get to play Quidditch. There's more illumination, this close to the castle, and Harry can see Draco's eyes light up with happiness. He's never seen Draco happy before and continues staring far too long, enthralled by the picture Draco makes. He's very pretty this way, all smooth skin and boyish enthusiasm, without a sneer to mar his features. His lips are soft and pink and Harry leans closer to them, too caught up in his studies to realize he's too close.

"Harry! Hey, 'arry!"

They immediately spring apart, Harry grabbing Draco's hand and pulling him slightly behind his body—at least, until he realizes the large shape moving towards them is Hagrid. Who can see that Harry is holding Draco's hand.

He drops it as if the skin of Draco's palm is scalding.

When Draco inhales sharply, Harry starts mentally cursing himself.

"Er, hi, Hagrid," he babbles, wincing and wishing he could turn around and explain himself. "What're you doing around here?"

"Could be askin' you boys that," Hagrid says. He's eyeing the two of them curiously, but Harry is far more concerned with the way Draco is shrinking more and more behind him. "It's a bit late to be out, in'it?"

"We're on detention. For, er. Snape sent us out here to find atlas weed, or root, except that we can't so we were just going to go back. It's cold out and—and Malfoy's going to catch sick. He'll never let me hear the end of it, if he does."

"Is that what he's been telling yeh?" Hagrid's expression is suddenly dark and scowling, and Harry has the unique opportunity to see Draco face the kind of immediate, hateful assumptions that he has received from Snape for years. Behind him, Draco bristles the way Harry has always done, furious and frustrated because any backtalk only brings about more punishment. It's confusing, really. Harry wants to be gleeful, satisfied to see Draco finally face this kind of thing, smugly happy to not be the accused for once.. Except he also wants to step in front of Draco and tell Hagrid to back off. After all, it is cold out, and the damp air from the lake means that there is a very real (if slight) chance Draco could become sick. Harry doesn't want that. He'll probably be annoyingly demanding to care for, Harry unconsciously assuming that he'll be the one to nurse an ill Draco back to health.

"It's bloody freezing out here," Draco spits out. He steps out from behind Harry's body, posture straight and regal once more, mask firmly in place. If the circumstances were better, Harry might be fascinated to watch the transformation. "If this weren't detention, I wouldn't be caught dead with you peasants." His hand brushes against Harry's as Draco stomps away, muttering imprecations under his breath.

"Yeh all right, Harry?"

Harry nods, wishing he is as good an actor as Draco because it's hard to look the way he thinks he's supposed to look now. Forced to spend several hours in Malfoy's company—there should be scowling and dark mutters and possibly a mirrored black eye. Harry manages the scowl, but only just barely; he's certain, based on Hagrid's confusion, he looks constipated more than anything else. "Fine. I've got to get back. Professor Snape's going to be upset that we didn't find the plant. He'll probably give us even more detention," he adds with what he hopes is the right combination of sullenness and morose acceptance.

"Eh, buck up, Harry!" Hagrid's hand comes down, patting his shoulder hard enough that Harry fears it will dislocate. "I'll talk to him, mebbe, see if I can tell him how awful Malfoy was bein' t' yeh. Dunno how yeh put up wit' him for so many hours, out there by yerself."

Yes. Hours and hours they talked and ... cuddled by the lake. All very traumatic. Harry obviously needs ice cream to console himself after such awfulness.

Harry chooses not to respond to Hagrid's comments and instead turns to make his way back to the castle. He tries to make each step heavy and despondent, as if he does not want to return for his inevitable punishment, when what he really wants to do is run all the way there to make sure Draco has arrived safely. He knows, intellectually, that there are no gopher holes to trip Draco's feet and that nothing's snuck past Dumbledore's protections. Draco is fine. But Harry desperately wants to explain himself and apologize so there's no misunderstanding between them. He doesn't want Draco to think ... well, all kinds of things, really. Not that it matters, since Hagrid falls in step—a surprisingly slow step, since normally Harry has to jog to keep up with Hagrid.

"Didn't fight again, did ya?" Hagrid asks.

"No. We didn't fight."

"Well, that's alright then, innit? Be out of detention in no time!"

Harry lets Hagrid chatter at him, just barely convincing him to leave before Harry arrives at the front doors. He doesn't want Hagrid and Snape interacting if he can help it, the two of them far more like the oil and water Harry and Draco used to be. It takes a promise of a visit this coming weekend—detention permitting—but finally Hagrid heads back down to his little hut while Harry crosses the stone threshold to the castle itself.

Snape is waiting for him, fairy light curling around the edges of his black robes and blacker hair until he looks haloed. It makes looking at him difficult, a terrifying visage, dark and sinister despite the almost golden quality of the light—which is probably why Snape has chosen this particular pose. The man does enjoy playing up to his audience, Harry thinks with an internal snort, and simply stares at him. "We didn't find it."

"So Mr. Malfoy informed me. Pity. I thought he, at least, might be persuasive enough overcome your inabilities."

There's a game here, something hidden within the couched words, the silken, unctuous tone, but Harry's not the one who's good at making words dance or decoding the meanings within each step. That is Hermione's forte, proved way back in first year with Snape's riddle, but Hermione isn't here and Harry isn't going to tell her anything about this night or this conversation. Instead he settles for making his flat look even flatter. He can't risk a glare, unfortunately; it just isn't effective.

"We'll go back out tomorrow night," Harry snaps, tired and testy now that Draco's gone again, where Harry can't see him. "Surely you can wait twenty four hours."

"That assumes that you will find my plant tomorrow, Mr. Potter. A dangerous assumption to make."

Harry's mind whirls, trying to tread in choppy waters, coming up with explanations and suppositions and not a single clever response. Or maybe a dangerous one? A soft breeze curls through the court yard, throwing light into Snape's eyes—and Harry abruptly stops caring. This is a game to Snape, who is eagerly awaiting Harry's response. If Snape wants to play games, he thinks grimly, then he can find someone else to play them with. Harry knows what his priorities are, and Snape isn't among even the top ten.

"If you've something to say, then say it." Harry's proud of how level his voice is. "Otherwise, it's late, Professor, and it's getting chilly outside. I'd like to go and get warm."

Snape folds his arms across his chest, the light making his greasy, pock-marked face shine. It's a disconcerting image, particularly when Snape's expression goes perfectly blank—and Harry starts being frightened. The crueler, more satisfied Snape looks, the more petty the next thing he'll say is. But when he's blank, as if he wants to give nothing away, then, Harry's learned, whatever Snape says is bad. Very bad. Harry swallows, all his lovely maturity vanishing as he remembers that he is sixteen and no matter how awful he thinks Snape is, the man still knows more than he about a lot of things. Including fear.

"Yes, I suppose you should be well rested." The lack of Snape's usual sickeningly satisfied purr makes Harry's stomach knot itself. "The Headmaster has requested that he take over some of your detentions, Mr. Potter, which you will be serving on the weekends. Alone."

Harry gulps, aware of each drop of blood as it drains from his face. No. Oh please no.

Snape's grimace is the closest thing to sympathy that he can manage; Harry is too frightened to hate him for it. "It's time for your training to truly begin."