Chapter Four

Mead For the Audience

The dungeons are colder than it is outside, which might be a contributing factor to the icy nature of Slytherins. Shaking my head at myself as I rub my palms together, I glance over my shoulder. My doe-eyed enemy is staggering through the dimly lit corridor as if he's drunk. I really wouldn't have bothered. In fact it would be funny to watch Malfoy run amok across Hogwarts declaring how he has it in for Romilda Vane — something new to replace the ferret jokes. I'm certain that if I was in his position, he would do the very same to me.

But then while thinking about love potions as Malfoy rambled on about how much he loves her, my brain made the connection to our Potions Professor. Slughorn can't shut his office door in my face when a student — a Slytherin one at that, even though the older man doesn't seem so keen on the Malfoy scion — is in dire need of a potion remedy. So, I knock against the oak door, wondering if he's already headed off to the Great Hall for dinner.

"Is she in there?" Malfoy breathes right next to my ear, making me jump slightly. I exhale through my nose, trying to listen for footsteps on the other side of the door.

"She should be."

"Why is she in so many different classrooms?"

I clear my throat. "Extra lessons."

"Mmm," murmurs Malfoy, and I roll my eyes, "I like a girl invested in her future." I ignore his comment. A few seconds later, Slughorn opens the door. He's wearing a green velvet dressing gown and has a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. I've never seen something so bizarrely ordinary in this school. The professor blinks, waves his hand, and his toothbrush vanishes.

"Harry, m'boy," he says cautiously, eyes narrowing. "Did you have a question about the Pepper-Ups from yesterday? If so, we can discuss it during tomorrow's lesson."

"Um, no, sir," I reply, scratching the back of my head. I glance at his matching green nightcap. "Early night?"

Slughorn nods, giving me a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You have to sleep well to keep a sharp mind, Harry." Nodding with fake earnesty, I fumble for ways to approach him about Riddle, until Malfoy reminds me of his presence; in my peripheral vision, I watch him standing on tiptoe, trying to look past Slughorn into his room.

"I'm really sorry to disturb you, Professor," I mumble, stepping closer to him lest the Slytherin behind me catches my words, "but he's—" I jerk a thumb over my shoulder "—swallowed a love potion, though I have no idea how. I would take him to Madam Pomfrey, but she'll get someone else involved, and if it's a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product like I suspect then… you know, awkward questions… I'll end up getting into trouble, somehow…"

"I'd have thought you could have whipped him up a remedy, Harry, an expert potioneer like you?"

"Er," I say through gritted teeth as Malfoy starts jabbing me in the ribs with his knuckles, "well, I've never mixed an antidote for a love potion, sir, and to be honest, we're not really that —"

Malfoy interrupts with spectacular timing, growling, "Is he hiding her from me, Potter?"

"Was this potion within date?" Slughorn's now eyeing the Slytherin student with professional interest. "They can strengthen, you know, the longer they're kept."

"That's interesting," I deadpan, finding the correlation between love potions and wine oddly funny. "Listen, my next stop would be Professor Snape, and —"

"No, no, no, we can't have that!" Slughorn exclaims, his nightcap slipping sideways. I watch him adjust it as he goes, "Neither of you poor boys will hear the end of it from dear old Severus…"

On cue, Malfoy shoves past Slughorn and marches confidently into his office. As I follow Slughorn in, I'm shocked at the abrupt temperature change; where it's freezing in the dungeons, the professor's study is overheated. My eyes travel over the vials of Merlin knows what perched on shelves and the coffee table in front of a shabby sofa, and the fat, voluminous books splayed on any imaginable surface.

As Malfoy's strut falters, he trips over a tasseled footstool just next to the sofa. It takes every ounce of my effort not to laugh when he goes crashing to the ground. To his credit, Malfoy maintains his composure, whipping his head up and straightening himself back up to stand. As Slughorn steps past him while chuckling, he brushes his robes off. Silver eyes swing up to pierce mine.

"She didn't see that, did she?"

"She's not here yet," I croak, the sound of him going thwock on the ground playing a loop in my head. Disguising a snicker as a cough, I watch Slughorn open his potion kit and add a few pinches of this and that to a small crystal bottle.

"Thank Merlin," drawls Malfoy, carding his hand through his hair, "She'd think I'm a Weasley kind of Pureblood."

A thick silence descends in the cramped office, apart from the clinking of Slughorn rummaging through his kit. Clenching my jaw, I roll my eyes at the fact that, even under the influence of a potion, he's still managed to make a nasty comment about my friends. I glance over my shoulder, noting that the door had closed, at some point, which is why I'm sweating in this stuffy room.

Slughorn gets up, handing Malfoy a glass of clear liquid. "Drink that up, it'll more prominently define your features of both Black and Malfoy."

"Good," Malfoy says with a smirk as he takes the glass. I watch him drink it with the air of a thirsty man who is practicing manners. For a moment, Malfoy grins at us. Slowly, it fades, until his face becomes as hard as stone.

"Where's the nicer Malfoy gone?" I prompt. I just couldn't help myself. Slughorn chortles.

"Shut up, Potter," he snarls, eyes darting to the professor. He's a cornered feral animal in a cramped space, and if I don't hold my tongue he'll just lash out.

"Thanks, Professor." I turn my head to Slughorn instead, who appears to be wiping a tear away from the crinkles in the corner of his eye.

"Don't mention it, m'boy, don't mention it," he states airily, as Malfoy makes a move to leave the room but instead collapses onto the sofa. His eyes lock onto mine, wide and owlish. I blink the second he looks away. "Pick Me-up, that's what he needs." Slughorn starts bustling over to a table loaded with drinks a few feet opposite where Malfoy sits. "I've got butterbeer, I've got wine, I've got one last bottle of this oakmatured mead... hmm... meant to give that to Dumbledore for Christmas... ah, well..." He shrugs. "He can't miss what he's never had! Why don't we open it now? Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love."

Malfoy's voice cuts through my amusement. "I don't care for mead." I turn my eyes to him, his face blank and pale as a sheet. "Save it for Dumbledore."

"Why!" booms Slughorn, and even though I'm not looking at him I can imagine his moustache has jumped, "The son of Narcissa Black does not care for mead?" Eyes narrowing, I watch as Malfoy's clenched jaw slackens. The Slytherin smirks at the professor, leaning back casually on the sofa.

"But I am also the son of Lucius Malfoy, who also happens not to care for mead," he drawls.

Glancing at Slughorn, who's frowning and shaking his head lightly, then returning to Malfoy, whose eyes, I realize, are fixed on the bottle in our professor's grip, I try to connect the dots. Something is off. As it always is, with Malfoy. "Ah, well," Slughorn says, "How about yourself, Harry?"

The Slytherin's eyes strike me like lightning. "Yeah," I reply, "I'd like some," and I watch something spike Malfoy's face. I recognise it because of the situations I've been in. When Ron and I got hunted by a pack of giant spiders, for example, his face had gone so pale that his freckles stood out even in the dark, and his eyes were on the verge of popping out of his skull. With Hermione, it's the matter of muttering incoherently while her eyes dart around everywhere, and she'll find anything (usually my arm) to squeeze the life out of. I remember it most vividly from the Quidditch World Cup attack.

Panic. Sheer, untainted, instinctual panic.

That's what crossed over Malfoy's face before he schools it, a nanosecond later, to neutral. Listening to the clinking of glasses, I narrow my eyes at him. Giving me a bored look, his stare drifts over to Slughorn. I try to read something in the way his jaw ticks. An abrupt yelp snaps my eyes towards Slughorn, who I watch falling to his haphazard ground. The bottle of mead escapes his grip, and as if in slow motion my eyes follow its spinning journey towards the ground. Just as Slughorn meets the floor with a heavy thump, the bottle shatters, raining glass and amber liquid all the way to the tips of my shoes.

In a flash, Malfoy darts forward in my peripheral vision; I tense, slipping my hand into the pocket of my robes where my wand rests. But when my eyes land on him crouching next to Slughorn, I frown. "Are you alright, Professor?" he asks, placing his hand on the green velvet sleeve. Accepting the help, Slughorn heaves himself upwards.

"Fine, fine, m'boy," he avers, waving the hand of his free arm. Through narrowed eyes I watch them raise to their full heights. Releasing Slughorn, Malfoy steps back. "I would blame it on tiredness, but I know I need to get round to tidying up." Slughorn chuckles to himself slightly, and I glimpse his moustache rippling.

"That's what house-elves are for, sir," Malfoy replies in his nasally voice, hands falling into his pockets.

Not if Hermione has a say in it. Thinking about the hats she'd knitted, for the Hogwarts house-elves of the ground floor, last year, I snort, drawing two pairs of eyes to me. Malfoy's dagger-like ones are the ones I hold, and I suddenly wonder if his comment about the elves was deliberate.

"What's so funny, Potter?"

I shrug, giving him an insolent look.

"Never liked the things," Slughorn admits in the silence, and I imagine Hermione having a fit. "Anyway, boys, I think I'll call it a night. I certainly won't be nursing a bottle of wine in consolation of this embarrassing event..." I laugh, as Slughorn, too, chuckles. Inwardly, I'm disappointed that I hadn't found a way to needle in about the memory, but I suppose, for now, he trusts me a little more. Or, perhaps I should say his guard is lowered.

"Goodnight, Professor," I say.

"Goodnight, m'boy."

"Yes, goodnight," Malfoy echoes, and my eyes slide over to him. He's wearing a cool mask in this overheated room, a polite smile attached to his lips. "Thank you for helping me, Professor."

Slughorn makes a noise in the back of his throat, saying genially, "Not a problem, Mr Malfoy, not a problem at all."

The only reason I leave with Malfoy is because I know Slughorn will panic if I linger, and the last thing I need is for him to crawl back into his shell. Something catches my eye, though, before I head for the door. As Slughorn steps aside, vanishing the mess on his carpet, and runs his fingers over the table of drinks, I realize that the tasseled footstool is what tripped him up. Which, I note, glancing over at the empty space next to the sofa, is the exact same stool that tripped Malfoy up in his potion-induced state.

I think this was more than just a Slytherin's sly, petty revenge for being laughed at. I follow Malfoy out into the dungeons before the door closes behind him, but by the time I reach the gloomy, chilly corridor, he swerves around the corner, out of sight.

0||0

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I tell only two people about the incident: Parvati, and Hermione. Ron, I figure, would use the opportunity to spread a wide story to humiliate Malfoy for the next couple of months' worth of gossip. But if Malfoy gets a ridiculous amount of unwanted attention, then he'll be sneakier, quieter, slipping into the shadows where I can't even imagine what he's up to.

Parvati did a little subtle digging, and found out that Greengrass' younger sister had given her a batch of spiked cauldron cakes for our Transfiguration lesson. "Astoria and Romilda are in the same year, you see, and they're actually friends, or at least they were," she'd reported, following me across the Quidditch pitch with my broomstick in hand. I'd been somewhat distracted, staring at the way Ginny's hair danced like flames in the emerging Spring breeze, flowing over her Quidditch gear. But Ron was standing next to her, which completely squashed the fantasy that was about to play out in my head. And then Parvati snapped her fingers in front of my face, and I scowled.

"So she, what, has an unrequited crush?" I muttered, restraining myself from rolling my eyes. "So what?"

My informant scoffed, striding in front of me and blocking my view of the pitch ahead. "Malfoy and her have an arranged marriage." I raised my eyebrows. "It's customary Pureblood tradition, especially for a family like the Malfoys. She watches her future husband getting hand-fed by Parkinson, draping herself all over him, not to mention that he snogs that mutt-faced snake everywhere, but she doesn't understand that she's a fourteen-year-old girl and not a broodmare."

I see the younger Greengrass girl everywhere, after that conversation. She's sitting glumly on the Slytherin table across the Hall during meals, eyes flicking over the raucous group of sixth-years at the other end. She's dawdling, alone, in the library, while I'm ploughing through my homework accompanied by Hermione and a mountain of books. She lets the sea of students in the corridors carry her to different classes. In a strange way, she reminds me of a gloomy version of Luna.

Hermione's opinion on the love potion affair was that, "I'm glad you listened to me about Romilda Vane, then." When I'd brought up Malfoy's reaction to the mead, she'd shrugged, and I realized the dead end that I had hit so I dropped the subject. The part she'd been most interested in was my approach to Slughorn. I told her I hadn't found an opportunity, but she said I'd created several more by going to him in the first place. "The fact that he didn't immediately reject you speaks volumes," she'd murmured in our very un-strategic conversation spot during Potions, Slughorn loitering by our desk in preparation to praise my brewed concoction.

We're in the library, at the moment. I caught sight of mini Greengrass drifting past our aisle about half an hour ago. Other than that, most people are out enjoying the rare sun. I glare down at my empty parchment, trying to think of a way to start Snape's essay without getting an immediate spiky 'D' scrawled on it. Could be worse, I suppose. He hasn't given me a Troll grade yet, which I suppose on its own is a miracle.

"Starting the essay would certainly help," Hermione remarks, and I shoot her a playful glare. She's tied her hair up, for once, all her chaotic curls fighting to free themselves in her messy bun. As she gives me a patronising smile that tinges her pink cheeks, I snort, then sigh.

My eyes scan over a passage in a book titled Inferi: The Living Dead, where it is mentioned that although the creatures act as puppets under a dark wizard's spell, they don't take direct orders like being under an Imperius Curse. Tongue at the corner of my mouth, I dip my quill in ink, the tip hovering over my blank parchment like the sentence hovering in my mind. Inferi may be reanimated corpses, but the creatures' minds are not as blank as a witch or wizard under an Imperius Curse; they have an objective, planted there by their puppeteer —

"No wonder it smells," a nasally voice drawls, making me accidentally puncture a hole into my parchment. Scowling at it, I glance up as Malfoy continues, "Granger is here." He's wearing a long-sleeved black shirt in this nice weather, making me wonder if it's a force of habit living in the dungeons or if he's hiding something on his arm. I feel like he catches me staring at his left arm, because he clasps his hands behind his back.

Turning my eyes to Hermione, who, it seems, hasn't even looked up from her book, I wait for her to make a comment. I know if I do we'll have our wands out in seconds. Her brows furrow down at the very tiny looking words of her own book, before she flips the page. Then, she looks up. "Oh, you're still here," she states haughtily, and I snort.

"Maybe you should go out and get some fresh air, Malfoy," I suggest, staring at him. There's a strange look on his face. The kind that everyone wears when they attempt, yet again, to Apparate in Twycross' lessons. Destination. Determination...

Hermione scoffs beside me. "Have you seen the state of him? I don't think he's seen the sun in his life." I carefully study Malfoy, whose silver eyes are raking over her. His throat bobs, before he turns to me.

"It's a shame, Potter," he states, taking a step toward our desk. He picks up one of the books piled on it and flicks through the pages. "You could have had so much potential. But you spend your time with filthy, little Mudbloods." Hermione yawns beside me, and if I wasn't so furious I would smirk. Silver eyes dart over to her. A contemptuous sneer morphs over his expression. "Just watch, Mudblood," he spits, tossing the book back onto our desk. It clatters against my ink bottle, which spills over my newly-born essay. "The Dark Lord will hunt down every Muggle in his path, and I'm sure your parents will be first on the list."

As a heavy silence rings over us, my fists clench so hard that my quill snaps. I glance at Hermione, who's stiffened, her eyes glazed over with tears. Snarling, I turn back to Malfoy, but blink at the empty space in front of us. Head whipping to my left, I watch his retreating back, exiting the aisle at a brisk pace. In bemusement, I frown, grabbing Hermione's hand comfortingly. We don't say anything much, after that, working on our essays in uneasy tranquility.

0||0

0||0

The next morning, I wake up to Ron's excitement about the birthday presents at the foot of his bed. He's talking about how much of a good haul it is, while I distractedly rummage through my trunk for the Map (returned to me with my bag which Hermione had thankfully picked up). I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good, then scan the aged parchment for Malfoy, of whom I can't find. It's not a matter I can really discuss with Parvati, because I don't particularly want to tell her about the Map. Maybe I can ask Dobby to help, I muse, and Kreacher, but my musing is disrupted with Ron lifting a pack of cauldron cakes off the floor in my peripheral vision.

I glance at my trunk, think about the offered treats from Romilda before Christmas that I, for some reason, didn't discard, then I lunge for them. "Hey!" Ron protests, as I snatch the pack out of his grip. "That's a birthday present!"

"They came off the floor, Ron!"

"They fell off my bed!"

"No, they didn't. These are Romilda Vane's love potion desserts." I whip my wand out and mutter the spell to vanish the pack before Ron's devastated eyes.

"How the bloody hell d'you know that?"

I roll my eyes. "Because they came out of my trunk, you prat." As Ron huffs and grumbles about cakes and birthdays and overbearing girlfriends, my mind wanders back to Malfoy. I pick the Map up from where it had floated to the floor when I'd gone for the cakes, frowning slightly. When Malfoy had consumed one of Romilda's cakes, I'd initially thought he was confessing his obsession with Hermione. I'd said that I'm 'good friends' with the girl he can't stop thinking about. I'm not entirely sure how love potions work, but I figure Malfoy would remember the events while he was under it. He looked embarrassed enough in Slughorn's office. Who else, then, would be my 'good friend'?

He hasn't called Hermione a single slur all year, I realize, or at least not that I've witnessed. He didn't seem to relish in it, either. In fact, with his disappearing act being as abrupt as his interruption, I can't help but think that he was fleeing from Hermione's tears. Ron hoots and thanks me for the Keeper gloves, pulling me back to the dormitory for a moment; I mumble something, although I can't really remember if it was 'you're welcome' or just complete nonsense. My mind is reeling. I wonder if yesterday, Malfoy had an audience that he was trying to convince. A one-man audience armed with informants and an invisibility cloak.

Me.