Chapter Three
Problems Don't Just Magically Disappear
If I'd told my ten-year-old self I would be learning to teleport with a wooden stick, I would have thought either I was joking or had been knocked around the head by Dudley too many times. Yet, here I am, wand in hand as the Ministry Apparition Instructor introduces himself. I'm about to learn to disappear and reappear in any spot that takes my fancy — but I couldn't care less the minute Professor McGonagall barks Malfoy's name across the Great Hall.
My head swivels to the other end of the students, where the Slytherins are dawdling. Malfoy's turned a dull shade of pink, stepping away from Crabbe; I immediately know that whatever conversation McGonagall had interrupted must be of the illicit, dark servant, Voldemort recruit sort nobody seems convinced of. By the time Wilkie Twycross — the instructor — continues his rambling about not being able to Apparate in or out of Hogwarts (which I already know because Hermione likes to quote Hogwarts: A History a lot) and then orders us to find five feet of space, I've made my decision.
The crowd of students jostle and scramble for space. I watch the Heads of House stepping forward to break away the erupting disputes. It's funny how human nature works, I think, slipping into the crowd of Ravenclaws beside me, because even with something like magic we fight for ground. My musing is interrupted with Hermione calling my name, demanding, "What are you doing?" Her voice fades as I make my way through, not looking at her over my shoulder. A flash of lightning forks over the sky through the Great Hall's ceiling; for a nanosecond all the occupants of the Hall, including myself, if anyone is looking, have a skeletal glow.
As I pass a lone Terry, who I know normally hangs out with Parvati's sister, I dive into the Hufflepuffs before Flitwick can squeak out to me for getting in his already rumpled students' way. Ernie gives me a wave which I return distractedly, eyes fixed on the platinum blonde head that's inching back to Crabbe. I plunge towards the Slytherins, hoping Snape's too preoccupied trying to fix the hysterical argument that appears to be happening between Parkinson and Greengrass up front. I scan the area, noting that Davies and Millicent Bulstrode have the front row seat to the unfolding drama and Zabini and Theo Nott have taken the middle.
Malfoy has placed himself strategically in the back, with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. The trio are completely oblivious to the fact that I'm standing right behind them. So when I hear the soft hiss of, "Potter," I'm caught completely off-guard and nearly give away my position before I choke back the yelp in my throat.
Eyes sliding to my left, I look into the face of Parvati. No, not Parvati — she's wearing a blue tie, so she's Padma. I'd been so fixed on Malfoy I hadn't noticed her standing here... though I suppose when she's lurking behind the gorillas that are Crabbe and Goyle, I should cut myself some slack. I glance to the other side of the Hall, where I spot Parvati scowling behind Ron and Lavender (who are most certainly not five feet apart, though Ron seems to be attempting to shuffle away). When I catch sight of Hermione frowning in my direction, I blink and return my stare to the other non-Slytherin. I find myself wondering what she's doing here, but then I forget that when Malfoy waves a hand at his bodyguard in my peripheral vision.
"You too?" I whisper, as Crabbe grunts at something Malfoy had said. I eye them momentarily, but the shorter, thinner boy gets distracted by Parkinson shrieking shrilly up ahead so I turn back to the Ravenclaw.
"Me too?"
"'Potter'?"
Padma simpers in a way very reminiscent of her twin. It must be an inherited trait, then. "You're Potter to both of us, just like Weasley is Weasley to both of us."
"You don't say," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "The two of you really are hung up about that Ball, huh?"
Padma crosses her arms and sticks her nose in the air. "Naturally."
"I don't know how much longer, alright?" Malfoy's sharp voice makes me stiffen, and my head straightens forward. "It's taking longer than I thought it would." A movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention — I nearly snort when they land on the parchment and quill that appear to have materialized in the Ravenclaw's hands. Just as I'm about to comment on how Parvati's obviously put her sister up to her task, Malfoy snaps, "Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout!"
My heart is racing, and I open my mouth with the intention of riling Malfoy up, but Padma's hand darts out and grabs my arm. My voice dies in my throat as I look at her, shaking her head at me. "Don't be stupid, Potter," she murmurs. I bite back my retort because Crabbe starts talking again.
"Why you bein' such a prat, Malfoy?" I can feel my blood rushing through my veins as I observe the jerk of the blonde's head towards his friend. Crabbe is bigger, much bigger, but he appears afraid of his own words because he shifts slightly away from Malfoy. "I mean…"
"Mean what, Crabbe?" His voice is a knife, a blunt knife, one that will take its time cutting excruciatingly through muscle and tendon. Not even Voldemort, who I've witnessed hissing and breathing in death, sounds like that.
The larger boy gestures to the front of the Hall, where Snape seems to have successfully disbanded the bickering between the two girls. "You act like none of us matter. Parkinson says you treat her like she doesn't even exist."
I'm not sure what I'm expecting next. Perhaps an insult, or even a hex. Malfoy's fingers are twitching where they're hanging by his sides; I recognise someone who is itching to whip out their wand. But instead, he laughs, an abrupt, hysterical laugh, one that makes Crabbe startle and Padma's quill scratch frantically on her parchment. "None of us matter," he almost gasps, as if he's breathless, "We're all the same, don't you see?"
Crabbe goes as quiet as Goyle has tactfully been doing this whole time, just as the four Heads of House shout out for silence. But my mind is not on Wilkie Twycross and the wooden hoops that appear in front of us. I hear something vaguely about 'three D's', one of which I think was destination — which is bloody well obvious enough. I just can't focus. Padma giving me a knowing look as I stumble into the same side of my wooden hoop for must be the hundredth time doesn't help my case, and I frown as I try to figure out how much Parvati has told her.
That's not the issue at hand, however. I never thought I'd see the day where Draco Malfoy considered himself the 'same' as anybody else. Something's rattled him into that notion. Something with slits for a nose and red snake-like eyes. I find myself staring at his left arm for the remainder of the lesson, furious at the black sleeve covering it, as Twycross rants about determination.
When the lesson ends with the Apparition Instructor vanishing the hoops, Padma grabs my arm and yanks me into the throng of exiting students before any of the Slytherins can turn around. "You really are thick, aren't you, Potter?" she hisses in my ear, "You can't get information out of someone who knows you're onto him." I ignore her, glancing over my shoulder but my vision of Malfoy is blocked by a grinning Dean and Seamus shoving at each other, so I scowl forward. The Ravenclaw's fingernails are digging into my arm as she tugs me away to a quiet alcove of the Entrance Hall. She doesn't let go as she watches the exiting students.
I catch sight of very bushy hair and deduce Hermione had as little success with Apparating as most people appeared to have done. She storms up the Grand Staircases, but my eyes are caught by Malfoy emerging from the Entrance Hall with his bodyguards and nonexistent friends. Parkinson's hanging off his right arm, leaving Crabbe to loiter a few steps behind them — but even with the back of his head facing me, I know his grey eyes are following Hermione until she's out of sight. I clench my jaw as the group of Slytherins move to descend the staircase to the dungeons. I wish Malfoy could Disparate out of Hogwarts and just vanish.
"How'd you do?" I blink, eyes drifting to Ron. I hadn't even noticed him approaching. Parvati's behind him, but no Lavender, I note. "I think I felt something the last time I tried — a kind of tingling in my feet."
"Maybe you need new shoes, Weasley," Padma offers from behind me, making Ron's face turn red. I raise my brows, glancing at Parvati. She's rolling her eyes. The last dregs of chatting students leave the Hall, making the vast doors slowly heave shut. Their departure is followed by silence.
Her Ravenclaw twin steps beside me, as I tell Ron, "I didn't feel anything. But I don't care about that now —"
"What do you mean —" Ron starts incredulously, but Padma intercepts him.
"Apparition can wait. We have more important business to attend to." Now Ron turns his confused stare to her. When Parvati scoffs, I look up to her holding out her hand.
"You owe me," she tells the Ravenclaw, sounding very sensible. "My reputation with the snakes was hanging on the line." My brows furrow as I try to make sense of what my ears had just heard.
"Sisterly love enough?" Padma inquires. I look between the two as if watching a tennis match.
Parvati scoffs again, rolls her eyes again, then her arm drops to her side, and she huffs, "Sure."
"You didn't say that to me!" I say indignantly.
"Are you my sister, Potter?" asks Padma, and I have to massage my temples.
"But I was talking to her—"
"What the bloody hell are you lot on about?"
"Nothing, Ron," Parvati sighs while shaking her head at her sister. I balk.
"Did you just call him 'Ron'?"
She raises a brow. "Yes."
"I thought…" I pause as Ron gives me an odd look in my peripheral vision. I frown as I level my gaze to her. "Wait, so why am I 'Potter'?"
For a second, Parvati looks perplexed. Then, realization seems to dawn on her face, and she smirks. I'm reminded uncannily of Fred and George. Twins are a strange species. "You didn't keep Harry in the loop, Parv?"
"No, Padma," says Padma, "It was more fun that way."
Well, she's doing a better job at ambiguity than I have the patience to try.
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Our observations have drawn multiple conclusions. He's a Death Eater, he's trying to be the new 'Heir of Slytherin', he's scheming a way to get someone — Slughorn, Parvati had insisted — fired. But for all our speculation there is no solid evidence. "You let me do my job, Potter," was her parting words. "You stay focused on your work — don't look at me like that!" she'd snapped when I gave her an expression that said 'are you serious?' "The point of Dumbledore's Army was that we knew how to defend ourselves, right? So it would be pretty bloody useless if the 'Chosen One' who'll save us from You-Kow-Who—" I'd scowled at her, but she continued, "can't even pass his N.E.W.T.s." My informant had left me alone in the common room that evening to stew in my thoughts, but her words didn't linger like Malfoy's ones had.
It's been a couple of weeks since, and apart from the occasional bit of parchment appearing in my books and bag about dead-ends pieces of information (like how he'll take walks across the Grounds alone), I discover nothing new about the Slytherin. It's more frustrating than this Transfiguration lesson. Ron had opted to skive it, because, "Who the bloody hell wants to turn cauldron cakes into cabbage?" I was only going because I knew Malfoy would be here, but since Hermione had been eavesdropping on the conversation from the other end of the common room from behind her upside-down book, I took a different route. I teased Ron about wanting to avoid Lavender, simultaneously trying to figure out if I'd guessed right.
He'd gone red at the accusation, and Hermione looked very cheerful as we made our way to McGonagall's class. So I decided I was right, and that it was safe to sit next to her for the lesson.
"You're not even trying!" she says haughtily, looking down her nose at my cauldron cake. I glare at her merry green cabbage.
"Why would I want to?"
Hermione scoffs. "You can't want the questions in your exams, Harry." It really brings into light what Parvati had said for the first time since she'd said them. I can't see turning a dessert into a vegetable being an effective way to defeat Voldemort, unless he has a sweet tooth acting as his kryptonite.
I huff, deliberately ignoring the desert beneath me. My eyes drift across the classroom — Lavender is glowering at our table with a pouty lip like a child who has been denied some, well, cauldron cakes. Parvati is patting her shoulder sympathetically while not looking at all sympathetic; I watch her cauldron cake flicker inconsistently between a cake and a vegetable of some sort, as I'm not sure that it classifies as cabbage. It's better than Dean and Seamus' attempts… The latter, inevitably, has blown up his cake, having to use one of Greengrass' spares. As for Dean, well, somehow he's turned his cauldron cake into banoffee pie.
I smirk. It quickly fades when I look over at the Slytherins at the left side of the classroom. Greengrass is flourishing her wand over her cake, and I watch it spontaneously combust. I suppose her confidence comes from the fact she'd brought in a whole batch of them to class. Nott is perched beside her, tapping at his dessert with a bored expression. Parkinson isn't even trying — she's, in fact, putting her all into getting Malfoy's attention.
I scowl as I follow the distracted Slytherin's stare to my desk. Hermione, it seems, is as oblivious as ever to Malfoy's eyes. She's now performing a series of complicated wand movements over her cabbage and I glance at it shrinking into a seed. When I turn back to Malfoy, it's like looking at the face of a starving wolf. I pull out the hunter's rifle.
Lowering my eyelids so I can watch through my lashes, I flick at Hermione's hair. Malfoy goes as rigid as stone. I plaster on a grin as she turns her head with raised brows, and I drag my eyes to hers. "Help me?" I tilt my head slightly. Hermione hums as she regards me for a few moments. I know she will, she's only hesitating to emphasize that I should learn to do the work on my own. Or she's thinking about the Prince. Either one.
As Hermione sighs dramatically and drags my cake towards herself, I glance at Malfoy. He's now paying attention to a triumphant looking Parkinson. She offers him a slice of her cauldron cake; he looks down at it, glances at Hermione — who's fussing over my own dessert — then eats it off Parkinson's fingers. Repulsed at the display, I glimpse his mouth slide over her fingers as she simpers and perches herself onto his lap before I decide I've seen enough.
My eyes pass Parvati making mimed retching movements before I turn them to my cake under my friend's wand.
"That's disgusting," Hermione murmurs, surprising me. A spark flies out of the tip of her wand and singes the top of my cake. "You'd think they'd get a room." I hadn't realized she'd even been looking.
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"I can't stop thinking about her, Myrtle!"
"That's why you 'need my help'?" the ghost screeches. "You should be thinking about me!" I hover at the entrance of the bathroom, throat dry, struggling to catch my breath.
Malfoy had been acting erratically for the last ten minutes of Transfiguration — Hermione had grown steadily irritated with me as I sacrificed listening to her demonstration of transfiguring my cauldron cake for eyeing the Slytherin's every exhale. A line of sweat glistened on his forehead when he'd shoved his friend off his lap, and he looked a sickly pale. I'd watched him rip himself away from a livid Parkinson the second McGonagall dismissed us, fleeing from the classroom. When I had set off after him at a brisk pace (ignoring Hermione's quiet protest) I overheard Nott mentioning Malfoy had forgotten his bag.
Now I'm here, with my back to the wall, my heart pounding in my chest, I realize I'd forgotten mine, too. For three heartbeats, I hope Hermione picks it up; it's got the Map in it. And the invisibility cloak. But before I can call myself a stupid idiot, an echoing clang steals my attention. "Me! Not anyone else." Myrtle's voice is shrill.
Malfoy's mumbling something. I strain my ears, but I can't make out his words. Just the slapping of shoes against the wet marble. Gritting my teeth, I slide more and more until I'm right at the edge of the wall. All it takes is for either of them to swerve round the corner.
"Are you listening, Draco?" the ghost wails, sounding so close that I nearly jump out of my skin.
"No!" the Slytherin breathes. Under any other circumstance I would have snorted. "Myrtle, you don't understand. I need her —" my stomach drops "— I crave her—" I feel my blood simmer "—I need to feel her hair in my fingers—"
"So you don't like me anymore because you can't feel my hair?" Myrtle demands. Again, I would've snickered at the comment if my fists weren't clenched against the wall, my heart thundering in my chest, the most painful and humiliating hexes on my mind. I go straight to the Prince for inspiration.
There's a moment where the slapping shoes skid to a halt, and the only sound is the dripping tap that nobody will fix. I breathe shallowly as I anticipate his next words. "I need to find her," Malfoy says firmly. "Yes, I need to find her. Right now!" No he bloody well won't.
"Draco!" she screams, but the approaching slapping footsteps indicate he's ignoring her.
Malfoy races round the corner to face my pointed wand. Rather than looking angry or shocked or even mortified, he just appears… strangely unfocused. His pupils are blown wide open. I can make out only a thin ring of silver rimming them. Studying him carefully, including the fact that he hasn't reached for his wand, I listen to the rain of toilet water in the bathroom with Myrtle's parting wail.
"Potter," Malfoy sighs. I have no idea if I should have the fight or flight response kicked in but my brain seems to be in a sort of limbo between the two. I grip my wand tighter. "I can't stop thinking about her, Potter."
A confession?
Something's wrong. When that wrong thing involves Hermione, it's a problem. So I play along. "You can't?"
He sneers, for a moment looking like his usual self. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."
"Why wouldn't I, Malfoy?"
"Because you don't appreciate her like I do." Sectumsempra is at the tip of my tongue before I bite on it with my teeth. I taste blood.
Instead, I shrug nonchalantly. Fighting every instinct that I have, I lower my wand. "Fair enough, but I certainly know her better than you do."
He straightens up, and when I see that hopeful look on his face I know something's happened to him. "Can you introduce me? I don't think she knows I exist." No, Hermione certainly knows he exists. She just, rightfully so, treats him like he doesn't. Until about half a year ago it seemed Malfoy was perfectly fine with that.
"She knows you exist, Malfoy," I say, sweat beading on my forehead as I clench my wand. It's dangerous to experiment with magic I don't know the nature of. "She, in fact, despises you." When his face crumples so spectacularly, I almost feel sorry for the git.
His eyes glaze over. I have never been more alarmed in my life. "She does?"
Something is very, very wrong. Just as I'm thinking I should walk away, a crystalline tear slides down Malfoy's cheek. No, I need to do something about it. He's dangerous enough walking around the school in his normal state. I know he had something to do with what happened to Katie Bell, despite how Ron and Hermione had looked at me when I'd accused him in front of Snape and McGonagall. "But... I can help you reconcile with her," I amend, mind wild. His whole face seems to illuminate with hope. Think, think, Harry, who to get? My first impulse is Dumbledore, but his office is all the way up on seventh floor and I'm not sure if he's even in there. McGonagall, then. She's only downstairs. "C'mon, Malfoy. Follow me."
"You'll take me to her?"
"That is what I just said," I deadpan, but the snark is lost on his unfocused gaze.
I'm about to turn my back on him, then think better of it. "You first. I'll follow behind you, and tell you where to go."
"Okay," sighs Malfoy, and he drifts forward.
I instruct him to meander through a few corridors, until we reach the Grand Staircases. As we wait on a platform, for the set of stairs leading to first floor to move to us, Malfoy gazes at me from over his shoulder. "How do you know her, Potter?" Averting my eyes from his uncomfortable scrutiny, I clear my throat slightly.
"We're good friends."
The stretching silence forces me to look back. His eyes are ablaze, jaw clenched. I recognize the signs of Malfoy's jealousy. "You'll make us friends too, right?" he growls. The abrupt tone change makes me tense, and I take a few more steps back from the edge of the platform before he gets any ideas.
"Of course, Malfoy." When his face returns to blissful contentment, I release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The second the staircase arrives, I prompt him to go down at a brisk pace. He listens, because he's determined to get to the girl he can't stop thinking about. I know this because he keeps rambling about how perfect she is, how he wants to feel her in his arms, to taste her lips. My temper slowly ticks. I swear by the time we reach McGonagall's office, I can feel a vein twitching on my forehead.
I knock. No answer. Then I knock again. And again. When Malfoy grows restless beside me, my heart hammers against my chest. It's late afternoon, where the bloody hell is McGonagall? Maybe try her classroom... I'm not sure how long I'd been eavesdropping on Myrtle and Malfoy, but I feel it hasn't been that long since class ended.
"Where is she?" demands Malfoy, voice strangled.
My tongue flicks over my dry lips. "Um..." Think, think. "She might be in our Transfiguration classroom. If not, she'll be in the dungeons." That seems to calm him, and I exhale slowly. I resign myself to going to Snape, even though he'll probably find a way to blame me for whatever is going on with Malfoy. For the love of Merlin, I hope my Head of House is in her classroom.
As Malfoy rambles nonsense and makes his way to the Transfiguration classroom with me following behind, I think of ways to dodge Snape's inevitable detentions. If I was quick as Hermione I would be able to make convincing arguments on the spot, and then get excused from doing Defence Against the Dark Arts homework for the next month. No, nothing would change, I think darkly, because Snape will look down his nose at anyone with a red tie. "...I want to feel all of her with my hands," Malfoy's mumbled words snag my attention, making me stiffen. "Her lips, her neck, her hips..." I grit my teeth. I've officially reached my breaking point.
"Shut up for a while, yeah, Malfoy?"
He whips around, eyes narrowed. He looks like a shark with those infinite, black eyes. "Why? Do my words bother you?"
"No, I just have a headache," I say, as calmly as I can manage. "You'll have plenty of time to talk about her when we get there."
Malfoy sighs, head tilting slightly. "But I can't stop thinking about her thick, black, glossy hair—"
"What?" My brows furrow. "She doesn't have black hair."
The Slytherin blinks owlishly at me. "Who are you talking about?"
I mirror him. "Who are you talking about?"
"Romilda Vane," Malfoy breathes, and like the Hogwarts Express at full speed realization slams into me.