Chapter One
Obsession
I have a predicament.
Nowadays, my two best friends refuse to be in the same vicinity as one another — at least, Hermione is adamant about it. So when I'm heading over for a meal, walking into a class or crossing to other classes, I have to choose who to be with. Most classes I stick to Ron; we can struggle together… I'm going to be honest, after beating Hermione repeatedly in Potions, I quite like the delusion of being top student (unfortunately the Prince didn't seem that into Transfiguration, Herbology or Charms). When it comes to meals, though, I quite like my appetite, which is hard to keep when Ron and Lavender have wrestling matches over the food.
In my free time, it's not that hard to pick. I spend time with Ron in Quidditch practice and with Hermione in the library. Sometimes in the common room, she and I sit up late. We stare at the dying embers in the fireplace and talk about nothing important and both silently acknowledge the other's inability to sleep. I wonder if she's more worried about the prospect of a war than she lets on. I'm worried. More about the people around me than anything.
The memories Dumbledore has shown me so far about Voldemort… I know he's thorough. Ties up loose ends. He had to kill a lot of people to get to my parents.
But that's not my point.
And my estranged friends aren't my predicament.
"Seriously, Harry?" Hermione whispers, sounding exasperated. We're making our way from Charms to the Great Hall, and my eyes flicker over at Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davies passing us. Parkinson looks over her shoulder at Hermione and pinches her nose. As Greengrass and Davies giggle, I glare daggers at their retreating backs. My friend appears not to have noticed, saying quietly, "This isn't healthy, your… obsession with Malfoy."
"I'm not obsessed!" I mutter hotly, and catching sight of Dean walking past with his hands in his pockets doesn't improve my temper. Neither does Hermione humming disbelievingly. But before I can elaborate on my suspicion or just yell at her, someone barrels into me.
Stumbling, the world goes blurry when my glasses slide down my nose. Even before I shove them back on, I know who the tall, pale figure drifting past me is.
"Watch it, Potter," Malfoy drawls, hands clasped behind his back as he walks backwards, "Or perhaps you should invest in some new glasses."
"Oh, I'm watching it, Malfoy," I growl, fists clenching at my sides. "And what I see is Daddy's pathetic boy—" Malfoy's sneer morphs to a snarl "—without his Daddy—"
Malfoy's wand is out, but I was already anticipating it. We stare at each other like predators preparing to strike, the tips of our wands pointed to the other.
Then, Hermione calmly steps between us. I blink. I'd completely forgotten she was even here. My eyes shift from her imploring face to the Slytherin behind her. His wand is lowered, and he's clenching his jaw. "C'mon, Harry," Hermione says firmly, grabbing my arm. "He's not worth it." If I hadn't been watching Malfoy's face, I wouldn't have caught that strange expression over it. Like a Bludger has just rammed into his stomach.
He sneers when he catches me looking, swiveling around and striding away.
Hermione tactfully glosses over our previous conversation to talk about the Aguementi Charm, but I'm only half listening. I frown at the marble floors and nod and hum when appropriate as we make our way down the staircases to the Great Hall.
My predicament is that the only thing my friends are united on is that neither would believe me. Ron would just laugh. And Hermione... Well, I'm not sure how she'd react. She might be offended, really. My attempts to tell her have been consistently unsuccessful, and I'm starting to think I should keep this to myself. I mean, I wouldn't blame them. I wouldn't have believed myself, a year ago.
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I glare at the black wand pointing at me.
There's a dribble of sweat climbing down my neck, even though there's a snowstorm howling outside. We're casted in a dim gloom not even the numerous floating candles can ward off. My wand is slippery in my grip as I resist the urge to scratch my shoulder. Who needs Stupefy? I might as well send an Itching Jinx at Voldemort's crotch and see how that pans out.
I fail to suppress my mortified snort at the mental image, which, unfortunately, does not go unnoticed. "And since Mr Potter once again feels his title as the Chosen One enables him to not pay attention," Snape says silkily, drawing my eyes away from my opponent's wand to glare at the greasy-haired professor, "perhaps he can enlighten us on how to efficiently cast a Shield Charm non-verbally."
I clench my jaw before I say something that will land me in detention. "He can't, Professor," Malfoy inputs for me, and my eyes flick back to my opponent. Wish I could feign a look of casual indifference so gracefully but right now I'm squirming to not itch my shoulder. He's crossed his arms, black wand sticking out from the crook of his elbow, and is leaning on the stacked desks behind him. But from this distance I can make out the shadows under his eyes. "He isn't capable."
A few people down, Blaise Zabini snickers. I keep my face blank. Merlin it itches.
"Why am I not surprised?" Snape's words earn chuckles from more Slytherins across the two rows of students.
"Because you're an old bat with favouritism?" Ron suggests loudly; I glance to my left, at the other end of the classroom. He's partnered with Parkinson, poor git. We exchange looks of resigned doom.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Weasley," Snape says softly. The old bat's going soft. "Before I was interrupted by our class celebrity—" I quit trying to subtly roll my shoulder against my jumper when I feel multiple eyes on me "—I was instructing you the art of non-verbal magic. It requires skill. It requires focus. And it requires the understanding of each individual spell. Who your opponent is should be irrelevant to you." I glower at Malfoy, who sneers in return. "Since you all seem incapable of following simple instructions, I will have to go over what your textbooks already have. Who can tell me what the key thought to have is when incanting a non-verbal spell?"
I watch Malfoy's eyes dart to the right, and I frown. There's always going to be one person whose hand punches the air. Studying my opponent's carefully blank mask, I wonder if he'd been practicing it in a mirror since our last encounter.
"Nobody?" asks Snape, as predictably as Hermione raising her hand. Malfoy's face spasms. My frown deepens. My eyes dart to Hermione — who's wearing a cross expression as she continues to stretch her arm upwards — before returning to Malfoy. I'm vaguely aware of Snape speaking, but his words have faded to a monotonous voice in the back of my head. Malfoy doesn't really seem to be listening either. He's staring rather intently in Hermione's direction. I finally give in and violently scratch the offending itching; it's not like he'll notice. Then (temporarily relieved) I glance at Hermione, her arms crossed as she pays rapt attention towards Snape. I scratch my shoulder again when I look back at Malfoy.
He's still staring at her.
Gritting my teeth, I stuff my hand underneath the collar of my school shirt and start scratching vigorously. If Malfoy can feel me burning holes into the side of his face, he doesn't show it. He uncrosses his arms and his hands fall into his pockets with his wand. The more I try to convince myself that this is part of Voldemort's plan, the less convinced I am. I'm sure he's linked to the so-called 'Dark Lord', somehow, but this attention he appears to be garnering for Hermione is something different. Something personal.
Something I take personally.
"Potter." My name whips through my train of thought and I freeze. Problem is that my hand is still stuffed under my uniform so I look like a right prat. And Malfoy's eyes are back on me. He smirks vindictively, realizing his Itching Jinx had indeed hit me. The ordinary Slytherin Prince is back in town. Maintaining as much dignity as I can, my hand slithers out to my side before I turn to face Snape again.
I don't listen to his latest insult, though. I'm much too busy thinking about the Half-Blood Prince. He has a spell scrawled in one of the margins of my Advanced Potions Making textbook called Sectumsempra and it's defined 'for enemies'.
One day, Malfoy. And I'll do it non-verbally, too.
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Each house in my year has its own informants.
Slytherin is Parkinson — of course I'm not going anywhere near her. Shame, really. I've heard she's got the best sources. Ravenclaw's one is Terry Boot… though he talks in riddles because, I dunno, he thinks he's the perfect representative of his house. I sure as hell don't have time for riddles. Slughorn's already hiding a memory of one in his head. Then in Hufflepuff there's the ever patronising Zacharias Smith. Do I really need to say why he's not an option? So I have to rely on my own house.
Normally, Lavender Brown would be the one to go to, but since she's too busy to run her mouth by devouring my best friend's face, I find myself turning to her best friend. I'm going to be honest, the last time I had a conversation with Parvati Patil, she called me a 'right tosser' who 'has a lot of nerve' and 'wouldn't land a date without the scar'.
"Potter," she says stiffly, while Ron and Lavender snog each other on the sofa to her right. Well this should be fun. I glance around the common room to find the only other people present being a couple of Third Years playing exploding snap. Hermione's no longer the only one who mysteriously disappears when the couple enter the scene. It's only six in the evening, but most people are getting tired of even the proximity of the Won-Won-Lavender show. Parvati rolling her eyes — before I sit on the chair opposite her — tells me she's included in 'most people'.
"Parvati," I say, wincing inwardly when she raises a brow, "'Potter' now, is it?"
She folds her hands primly on the table between us. My eyes flick back up to her narrowed ones. "Potter since you ditched me in the Yule Ball."
I clear my throat, looking away. When my eyes land on the wrestling match on the sofa, I avert them to the window on our other side. The Hogwarts grounds are peaceful, unlike my mind. Right now I'm just astounded at how long girls can hold grudges. I frown slightly, wondering if Hermione and Ron will ever be friends again. "Yeah, uh," I mutter, shaking the thought away, "Sorry."
There's a few seconds where the cards explode across the room and one of the Third Years whoops in victory. Parvati suddenly snorts, drawing my eyes back to her. "If you're going to give a fake apology, at least try to act the part."
Feeling my face burn, I clear my throat again. "Listen. I, er, need your help with something." Very diplomatic. I watch her arched brows reach her hairline. She looks... amused — which isn't exactly the effect I was going for, but it might be advantageous.
"You need my help?"
"Well… that is what I just said." She gives me a filthy look, but I swear her lips twitched upwards for a second.
Parvati leans back in her chair, her hands sliding off the table. She's eyeing me like a fox who's spotted a rabbit. "Let's say that I did help you with whatever it is you're wanting… what's in it for me?"
"Feeling charitable?" She snorts in response. Yeah. Didn't think so. So I pull a large moleskine pouch out of the pocket in my robes and dump it on the table. "Galleons."
"My family is rich, Potter. I get a generous monthly allowance. Try again." I blink, sheepishly swiping the pouch back.
Didn't really think I'd get her to even hear me out, to be frank.
"Uhh…" When she gives me a simpering smile, borderline evil, I wonder if even Parkinson would've been a better choice. But if there's one thing I'm good at doing, it's pretending I know what I'm doing. I rest my chin on my fist, elbow resting on the table, while I regard her. "What do you want, Parvati?"
I hide my smirk behind my fist when she's the one who looks surprised.
"Um—" She pauses, regaining her composure. Parvati gives me a strange look, before she states, "A favour. When I ask for it, you do it." That should ring warning bells in my head. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, so I nod.
When she smiles again, I know it's evil.
An abrupt plunger-like sound has us both looking towards the sofa. Romeo and Juliet have detached themselves from each other. Presumably to get air, because they look like they're ready to dive back in. Cringing, I cast my gaze to where the Third Years had been. Either they've gone to bed or they've fled the scene. I wouldn't blame them for the latter.
"Out with it, Potter," Parvati mumbles, snapping my attention back to her. The fact that she looks like she's sucking a lemon tells me she's struggling to restrain her disgust. "What is the help that you require?"
"Malfoy." I watch her expression shift — the bait has worked. My informant is hooked. I marvel at the circumstances. If the bloke I was stalking was Dean, she wouldn't be anywhere as intrigued.
Parvati's hands are back on the table, polished nails drumming against the wood. "Well?" she demands quietly, even though the only other two people in the vicinity are otherwise preoccupied.
"I need you to report to me anything you hear about him." Her fingers lay abruptly still on the table. "Anything at all. Even what he had for breakfast in the morning—" her brows shoot up "—what time he went to bed. Whatever bit of gossip you can milk."
Parvati clasps her hands together. "And why can't you do that?" I can't help but laugh.
"I'm usually the subject of gossip so people don't tend to gossip around me."
"Hmm, true," she hums, eyes wandering to the window. I follow her gaze. An orange creature is slinking across the grounds blanketed in snow. Crookshanks, I realize. "Why are you so interested in Malfoy, then? D'you fancy him?" I scowl, glancing back at Parvati. She's smirking at the window.
"He's up to something."
"I don't doubt it, but some business you should just stay out of, Potter."
Crookshanks pauses in the snow, and hunches down low. We watch him prowl towards whatever creature it is that didn't hibernate. A dimmed flame ignites in my chest, the one that appeared when Sirius died. "Since when did you care about minding your own business?" I mutter hotly, glaring at her. Her eyes flick over to me before she rolls them back to the window.
"Have you ever heard me say something really controversial?" She doesn't allow me to ponder, continuing, "My family may not be traditional purebloods—" of which I had no idea "—but they do care about their name. If they get onto the bad side of folk like the Malfoys, well…" I look back at her. Why do purebloods care so much about names? Well, not all of them. Dad and Sirius weren't like that. I shrug it off as I study her raven eyelashes glowing in the common room candlelight. When my eyes flicker down to her lips abruptly turning upwards, I clench my jaw. "Two favours."
"What?"
"You heard me, Potter."
"Fine," I snap, acting against instinct. She simpers, eyes zeroing into something below.
"Well would you look at that," she muses, and my eyes dart to the window. Crookshanks isn't alone. There's a mouse hanging from his jaws as he stares up, frozen, at a tall, brooding figure with hair as icy as the world around him. My brows furrow as I lean towards the window, almost pressing my nose against it. My heart starts racing. Crookshanks is good at reading a character — he did it with Scabbers. I can't wait for him to claw at the Ferret. "What's the saying?"
"Speak of the devil," I murmur, and she hums.
The devil bends down on his knee. Crookshanks places his mouse on the snow — my heart thumps against my chest... and the kneazle rubs against the Slytherin's long leg. My jaw drops. When Malfoy starts petting him, Crookshanks doesn't hiss or recoil. In fact, his spine curves towards those slender fingers. Stupid cat. "He likes him," Parvati says, snorting. "I don't think Hermione would believe me if I told her."
That night I dream of Voldemort stroking Crookshanks over Hermione's corpse.