Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!

Um, yes. Chapterlette, again, containing small and scattered scenes that I could not tuck into the next chapter. That means the next chapter will be later than I planned on, but I am going to start writing it the moment I'm done posting this one. At least if you waited up late for the chapter, you'll have this to much on before going to bed.

Intermission: Glances

Millicent glanced up from her book as the door to the Slytherin common room opened and Harry and Draco came through. She could barely see Harry's face at first; Draco was bending over him and saying something in a low, excited tone that instantly made her want to listen more closely. People always give away their best secrets when they're talking like that.

Harry came into view at last, and Millicent paused. She had thought of sneaking up to them so that she could hear at least a few words of Draco's conversation—he was too deep in speech to notice her, and Harry too deep in listening—but now she gave it up.

Something happened. At last. Draco told him? No, the shaken look in Harry's eyes is too deep for that. He looks like he's been picked up and dunked underwater twenty times.

But there was a definite difference between them now, and Millicent wound up watching in silence as they climbed the stairs, her eyes narrowed in thought.

Draco did tell him, I think. He had to have. That's the only thing that would start that shaking in Harry. But it was combined with something else, and they probably aren't inclined to tell me what it was.

Start from what you know, then. Draco told Harry. And Harry didn't run in the other direction, or Draco would have come back to the common room alone and with his magic blasting the furniture apart in his rage.

This will give the Malfoys an advantage with Harry. I don't know if Harry would actually join with Draco, but Draco isn't one to let a door shut if it's even a little way open.

Millicent stood, thoughtfully, and went to write a letter to her father. She was no longer reporting to him on Harry's daily movements, but this was something larger, something that could affect their political standing in what Adalrico was calling Potter's Alliance for want of a better name. Her father would want to know what had happened, especially since Millicent knew that he had a private bet with Lucius Malfoy about its likelihood. He would appreciate having a few days or weeks to adjust his mood to losing before Mr. Malfoy came to gloat to him about having won the bet.

Pansy maintained a properly solemn expression as Harry and Draco passed her, pretending that her Transfiguration homework was the most interesting thing in the world. Then she threw back her head and laughed so hard that Montague, trying to do his homework in a nearby chair, glared at her and stormed off.

It's about time! Honestly, I might have made a move on Harry myself if Draco had waited any longer. Since when is any Malfoy that patient, or that pigheaded?

Pansy rolled back over and put her head on her arm, smiling. She watched Millicent go up to their room, doubtless to write a letter. She took that kind of thing seriously. She had never been more her father's magical heir than this month, when her mother was due to deliver a child who might or might not share Millicent's position in the family someday.

Pansy had no letters to write, at least right now. She was only her mother's blood heir, and had no need to let her know of Harry and Draco's obvious attachment to each other until it became more obvious.

Let them enjoy their privacy, Pansy thought as she picked her book up again, her cheeks hurting from the pressure of her grin. They'll have little of it soon enough. Draco ought to realize that dating the Hero of Hogwarts will make him rather more interesting than he's been so far. Watch him get indignant about it, though, and storm and fume and complain that the press no longer trembles before the word of a Malfoy.

At that she couldn't help herself, and started laughing again.

Albus blinked slowly, roused from a daze he couldn't remember entering. He was often like that, when he had lost his consciousness to the wards. He was so busy seeing and hearing around the school, and sorting information into his merely human mind, that he it took him some time to realize the import of what he had seen.

Now he did.

His face grave, he paced over to his window and cast the spell that would let him see the Forbidden Forest. It lay calm and dull under the heavy February snow, looking as it always had—until Albus raised his magic and looked at it through the eyes of a man who once might have been vates, and could see webs.

The unicorns' web was gone, and with it, a large part of the beauty and color of the Forest.

Albus closed his eyes and sighed wearily. He wondered if Harry knew what he had done, realized how endangered the unicorns would be in the wider world, from Muggle hunters and wizards intent on getting their hands on horns. He wondered if Harry even realized that a small part of the everyday joy at Hogwarts came from the happiness that the unicorns breathed as they existed in the Forest, that it dispersed across the grounds and added cheer to the students' moods.

Of course, he would probably only shrug and say that he values the unicorns' freedom more.

Albus shook his head. The boy was too careless, too impatient and hasty. He could not be trusted the way that Albus, as a Light Lord, should have been able to trust another powerful wizard to realize what was sensible and not make waves in the world. But Harry was not sensible, and never had been, or they wouldn't have had to bind his magic.

Albus turned thoughtfully back to his desk. He would keep his promise, and not interfere further with Harry in the school. But he thought there was something else he could do, bread he could cast on the water and see if it came back to him. There was no harm in writing. The one he had chosen would probably reject his letters, anyway, as he'd had a habit of doing of late.

But he could try. Much of his life, lately, seemed to consist of long and patient trying, regardless of whether or not he could see immediate results.

Snape glanced up from the law book he was studying. It was nearly time for double Potions with the Slytherins and Gryffindors, and he wondered, mind still half-caught up in what he was reading, what Harry would look like this morning. His face had been pale and shaken last night, but he had eluded Snape's every attempt to confront him, and simply gone to bed.

Harry and Draco came in first, most unusually, and were so caught up in talking that they didn't even realize he was there. Snape watched them take their seats and continue chatting.

No. Not caught up in talking. Caught up in each other.

Snape released his breath on a long hiss, surprised. Harry glanced sharply at him, then, but turned his shoulder a moment later when Draco said something in a coaxing tone. Then he laughed, and his face acquired a rare, vivid openness that Snape had seen only during this past August, when Harry had been so close to peace.

He told him. And it was not a disaster.

Snape stared at them blankly, trying to conceive how that could be. Harry, from what he knew of his relationship with Draco lately, should not have taken this so calmly. He might have accepted Draco's friendship and confidences, but it was a long step from there to being lovers, or even boyfriends. And there was the fleeting nature of Draco's crush, which should surely have died a swift death. Crushes did, when one was Draco's age and of Draco's disposition. He might be possessive, but he was also temperamental. Snape had assumed he would tire of not having Harry and move on to someone else, resuming his place as Harry's friend easily enough.

Of course, he had always been different about Harry.

Snape nearly decided that he would retain his doubts until he saw something definitive to crush them, but then stopped that train of thought. Why could he not allow himself—that was the word hovering on the edges of his consciousness—to believe that Draco's crush would last? Was he really preparing himself to comfort a broken-hearted Harry?

Yet he should not have his heart broken at all. It should have taken far more for him to even consent to the idea, if I know him. There would be a great deal of nonsense about not being worthy of Draco's loving him, and how he was sure that no one could love him in that way, and how he does not have a future. And Draco does not have the patience to deal with that.

Yet it had apparently happened. And there was no rupture between the boys, but no simple friendship, either, not with the way that Harry was obviously paying attention to Draco's hand on his shoulder, gazing at it as if he knew why it was there but were trying to assimilate the reason. He would either have tolerated the touch without notice or swatted it off before.

Snape decided that he could wait and see what happened. There were far worse courses.

And now, he thought, his gaze briefly darting to the drawer where he had locked the bottle of Pensieve Potion, while his mind spasmed in wonder and doubt, I almost think I should wait on my plan. Speak to Harry, first, before I do anything rash. Perhaps I should have Draco with me when I do, if he can soothe Harry so effectively.

"Lucius!"

Lucius glanced up lazily from the book he was reading. He had only meant to look up the color of Potter's soul when he got it down from the library shelf, but the theory of colors was more interesting than he remembered, and he'd ended up reading a great deal more. Deep green had meant just what he thought it did, both in strength of power and potential and in darkness of the soul. Lucius had been pleased. Either color meant good things for his family, as long as things fell out in the way Narcissa said they would.

And now she was entering the room, waving a letter covered with handwriting that looked like Draco's, her face full of proud elation.

Lucius smiled and sat upright, reaching out to catch and kiss her free hand. "Let me guess, my dear," he said. "Our son is now absolutely sure that Harry will be our son-in-law someday."

His wife blinked at him, an inch from gaping. Lucius allowed himself a small—a very small—smirk. It was rare enough to get the drop on Narcissa that he had no compunctions about doing so, especially when it made her act like that.

She stood straight at once, of course, her eyes narrowing. "You intercepted the owl and read the letter before I did," she accused him.

Lucius turned a page in his book. "No."

"Draco wrote you another letter, in which he confided his hopes and fears, so that you knew what the next message would say."

Lucius glanced up, admiring the defiant flash of his wife's blue eyes. "No."

"Then tell me how."

"No," said Lucius a third time, and stood himself, drawing Narcissa near and kissing her on the mouth to silence her. "Does it matter, my dear?" he breathed as he drew back. "We will be Harry's favored allies; we cannot help but be, as long as he returns Draco's love, do they join in five years or in ten. The position of our family is secure for at least this generation, and the next as well, as long as Harry and Draco find a child to be a magical heir. Imagine the power of one who inherits the magic of a Lord. You were the one who saw the potential in Harry first. You were the one who told me. Can you doubt that the world will change when Harry Potter is done with it?"

"He will not be a Lord," said Narcissa, but she had the half-comfortable, half-speculative look on her face that meant she was thinking about what he had said, and fitting it neatly into the world of her own plans. Or she was thinking about the kiss, Lucius conceded, as she threaded her fingers through his hair.

"No," said Lucius, though privately, he had his doubts about that. Potter had noble ideals, of course, but every other wizard who had tried to walk that road had ended up on one side or the other. So long as the boy chose Dark when he did stumble—and Lucius could not help but think he would, what with his swearing not to be a Light Lord—then there was nothing wrong with his middle road. It might even increase his prestige in the public's eye. They would think him all the more benevolent.

"But he will be Draco's, or so he thinks," said Narcissa, and put the letter on the table beside his chair. "You will read it later?" She started pulling him towards the stairs.

Lucius smiled at her, the slow smile he knew she liked best. "Of course," he agreed, and let thoughts of politics go for now. Marrying Narcissa had been good politics, but that was not the reason he was filled with fierce delight whenever she wanted to go to bed. That was all, and only, her.