(A/N: So sorry for the late update! But it's here now, and the next is half done! I was going to update on Thanksgiving, but the computer was down (just my luck). And thank you for all the compliments! I'm glad you're enjoying it. I just hope to be able to post more regularly—I'm taking 9 courses so this quarter will be tough.

XeVanne: you rock, as always. And I'll get you that character sometime…whistles innocently…

HD4Aubrey: Thanks for reviewing! Would you like a character as well? Oh! And tell your friend (that Harry reminds you of) that I love him too!

But I shall detain you no further. Enjoy!)

Potions began in its normal somber state—a dark, musty classroom filled with angry silence after the professor insulted all non-Slytherin students. With a flight of his wand, Severus Snape collected the essays assigned the day before, much to the dismay of the students hoping to finish their last few sentences. Looking at the scrolls he had collected, Snape sneered. "I can't imagine these will be any better than the last." His eyes flicked menacingly towards a redhead seated unluckily in the first row. "Mr. Weasely. Why isn't your essay turned in?"

Even seated behind the boy, Draco could see the tips of his ears turn red. Granger sent a condescending glare her friend's way and Draco rolled his eyes. Bloody know-it-all, he hissed mentally, saving the term 'mudblood' for when he had an audience. Weasely mumbled an incoherent sentence in response to his hated professor's question and said professor whirled around, turning his back to the class.

"Turn to page two hundred and fifty-seven," Snape hissed. "Do the potion listed individually while I grade your compositions. When finished, leave it in the cauldron. At the end of class I will return your essays and grade your potions, and then you will clean your work area. Begin."

As a close ally to Severus, Draco knew something was amiss. His elder's usual stern, cold demeanor had become…icy. His erect posture had a bit of a slouch. His snide remarks had been crueler and fewer than usual, indicating something heavy weighed upon his mind. There's only one thing he could be this concerned about, Draco though glumly. Draco wondered if Severus had received the same news as he had, or if the Dark Lord had been up to something worse.

Setting up for the potion-making, Draco kept an eye on his professor to see if he could discern any more from his odd behavior. Being a natural at potions, very rare indeed, Draco planned to keep an eye on his mentor while brewing the 'simple' concoction. Fate, however, seemed to have something else in mind. At the ingredients cabinet, Draco had his hand poised to take a handful of aconite, only to find another hand had beaten him to it. Following the feminine hand up its milky arm, across the small shoulder, up the gentle curve of the neck, past the delicate jawbone, Draco found himself staring into the vibrant eyes of Trysten Moonjade.

His heart began to pound and his hand grew warm, tingling from—he assumed—the increased blood flow. His hand, a mind of its own, twitched downward towards the hand nearly as pale as his own. His heard did a back flip, and Draco yanked his hand back to his side, wondering slightly if it had been possessed. He watched as Trysten's hand retreated from the container and fell safely to her side, clutching the aconite. "Um…sorry…for…" she trailed off, gesturing uselessly with the offending hand.

"Yeah," Draco replied, although he was completely confused. Draco nervously stepped forward fractionally. His eyes flicked up to hers and he was instantly captivated by their alluring depths. After what felt to be several hours, Draco blinked, breaking the connection. Glancing uncharacteristically down at his feet, he noticed he and Trysten were standing much closer than he believed they had been. Subtly shaking his head clear, Draco turned toward the ingredients cabinet. "Well, we should get to work."

"Oh…yes, right," she mumbled. Out of the corner of his eye Draco saw her shake her head vigorously from side to side, as if coming out of a daze, though not nearly as subtly as Draco had. "Good luck," she told him, shifting her weight visibly from one leg to the other.

"You too," he murmured before he could catch himself. Before he could give himself a mental lecture on the essentiality of keeping up a certain image, however, Draco's heart began to dance in his chest as Trysten glided behind him, a wave of body heat overcoming his body. Reaching out for the aconite, Draco let out the breath he was unaware he had been holding, grabbed a handful of the poisonous plant, and shakily returned to his seat.

Throughout class, Draco kept one eye on Severus and the other on Trysten, watching for behavioral patterns in both subjects, as well as his own responses. Snape, he noticed, rubbed his temple more frequently than usual, had a snarl ever-present on his mouth, but his eyes were tired and saddened, akin to Dumbledore's. Trysten, who he ashamedly admitted to spending the most time watching, had less worrisome characteristics. She would glance at Severus rather frequently, but not with fear as her fellow students did. She cradled her left hand throughout the class, as it appeared to be aching consistently, and would press her lips together when she was thinking. She paid almost full attention to the concoction, with a worried grimace as she added each of the ingredients. She smiled to herself as she added the last of the scurvy-grass. Draco thought to himself as he became instilled with a light feeling while watching the girl.

When Severus announced the end of the allotted time given to brew the potion, Draco glanced at his concoction and fervently blessed his natural talent and, in this case, good luck when it came to potions. His eyes followed his Professor as he floated from station to station, although his ears couldn't pick out the words through the anxious rumble of the class. He began to laze in his observation, but snapped to attention as the professor drifted to the girl that had been occupying his thoughts as of late. He studied their faces, not being able to read lips, and was quite shocked when a mischievous glint sparked in Trysten's eyes, complimented by a Malfoy-worthy smirk. Curious as to his mentor's reaction, he looked up to see a half-hearted scowl. When Trysten looked down at the table, however, Draco saw a hint of a smile tug at Severus' lips.

Impressed, Draco although of what it could mean. A smile. He couldn't be genuinely happy, otherwise he wouldn't have scowled in the beginning. Draco glanced up at Snape and saw him looking inconspicuously at Trysten, his eyes shining with …Pride? Draco shook his head in disbelief, wondering if the apocalypse was drawing nigh. Before he had time to dwell, however, Draco heard a faint rustle of a cloak, signaling his professor's arrival. Looking up to his godfather, Draco smirked.

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape stated coldly, although his voice held a bit of surprise. "You get a passing grade, of course, but…" Snape lowered his voice. "You've been outdone."

Draco stared at the Potions Master in shock. "By whom?" he cried incredulously. Snape raised one eyebrow and glanced quickly over his shoulder. Draco followed his gaze and found himself looking once again into the eyes of Trysten Moonjade. A very slight blush graced Draco's cheeks and he forced himself to look away.

"I assume your thoughts were elsewhere," Snape stated, smirking with implication.

"As a matter of face they were," Draco told him, seizing the opportunity, "although perhaps not where you're thinking." Draco stared seriously into Severus' eyes, and his godfather nodded.

"Very well." As he passed by, Snape murmured, "Make a disturbance, but not too serious."

Knowing what his professor was up to, Draco cleaned up his workstation and set off towards Potter and company. Realizing there wasn't much time left, Draco put on his trademark smirk. The group of three huddled over a piece of parchment, whispering. "Well, well, what have we here? Potty, Weasel, and Mudblood, sharing secrets are we?"

"Sod off, Malfoy," Potter spat maliciously.

"Testy, are we?" Draco taunted haughtily. He leaned an elbow on the table.

"I said leave," Potter growled, standing before Draco in a threatening manner.

"Aw, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't like me, Potty," Draco teased. The smirk had barely returned to Draco's lips when Harry's body collided with his. The force of Draco's back hitting the ground quickly ended the surprised stupor he had been captive in. As Harry began to try to pummel Draco's face, Draco merely blocked, trying to roll Harry's weight off his body. Draco soon found the situation out of his control when Harry was forcibly lifted off him by a seething Professor Snape.

"Mr. Potter," the professor spat, looking the boy up and down with disgust. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for this obscene act of pointless aggression. Mr. Malfoy, you will stay after class. Class dismissed!"

Draco nodded his assent while Potter glared. As Draco walked away he heard Weasely while, "Fifty points? But Harry didn't do anything!"

Trysten rolled her eyes at the boys' antics, but couldn't believe her ears when she heard Ron exclaim that Harry hadn't done anything. Ron and Hermione may not have done anything directly, but they didn't stop Harry either. And Harry…well, I wasn't expecting that. I was watching, Trysten blushed as her mind filled in 'Draco', the situation, and Draco hadn't done a thing to deserve that. Alright, well I couldn't actually hear what was said, but I doubt Draco would or could say something as provocative as it would seem in the few seconds he was present. Trysten gathered her book and parchment and swung her bag over her shoulder. She exited the classroom, clutching her supplies nervously to her chest as she took one last worried glance at Draco.

As soon as she possibly could, Trysten slipped out of the crowd and traversed the back hallways on her way to the kitchens. As she raised her hand to tickle the pear on the painting, the door swung open to reveal Rifka holding a parcel up for Trysten.

"Wha- … thank you, Rifka," Trysten stammered, surprised. She peered over Rifka's shoulders into the busy room behind her. "Do you need help again?"

"No," Rifka said firmly. "Dobby won't allow it."

"What?" Trysten asked, puzzled. "But before-"

"Miss Moonjade can't stay. Rifka must get back to work. Bye, Miss," Rifka rushed, closing the door softly in Trysten's face.

"Well, that was odd," Trysten stated. If not a bit rude, she added mentally. "At least she gave me food…" Having naught else to do for the lunch period, Trysten decided to make good on her promise to Myrtle.

She arrived quickly to the flooded bathroom, and, stepping carefully amidst the rippling water, called out a tentative greeting. "Hello? Myrtle?" She waited a few moments, but, hearing no response, turned to leave.

"Yes?" Myrtle snapped, having been floating directly behind Trysten. Trysten started, having just noticed the ghost's presence.

"I had just come to visit," Trysten explained, hoping she hadn't said anything to set Myrtle off. Luck appeared to be on her side as Myrtle merely nodded and floated past. "So…How have you been this week, Myrtle?"

"Well, you wouldn't know now would you?" Myrtle whined, voice rising in pitch as she continued. "Because you never came! No one ever comes back!" she wailed.

Trysten covered her ears as Myrtle let out an exceptionally horrendous scream, dropping her parcel in the process. "But I'm here now, Myrtle," Trysten yelled, trying to be heard over the girl's cries. "And I can stay-" Trysten paused, realizing she was scheduled to aid Hagrid during lunch. "No longer," she edited. "I'm sorry Myrtle. I'll come back some time next week, and I hope you're feeling better by then." Trysten stooped to pick up her soaked parcel, trying to plug her ears at the same time, and rushed out of the bathroom.

She was in a particularly foul mood today, she thought sourly as she strode towards Hagrid's. As she neared her destination she slowed her pace, wondering with anxiety and excitement whether she would see the thestral again. Or the man, she added to herself. "Hagrid?" she called, knocking on the door. Trysten nearly rolled her eyes when Hagrid failed to answer, but ceased her actions when the door swung open.

"Tryst'n, I was wond'rin' when ye'd get here. I 'ave a small job fer ye today. Out in back, I 'ave b'en wantin' to grow some Chinese Chomping Cabbage. All ye've gott'er do is loosen up that dirt there, an' I'll do th' rest."

"Alright, Hagrid," Trysten agreed, happy he had finally been there when she arrived. She set immediately to work, setting her parcel on the back steps. She did the work manually, not wanting to contaminate the soil with possibly magical residue. She had nearly finished the patch of earth when her hand began to trouble her slightly. She paused, straightening her back and wiping her brow with her uninjured hand. She looked up to admire the clear blue sky when she noticed something peculiar. A small black dot was flying through the sky towards her. It was gliding, she realized, recognizing outstretched wings. Could it be? She wondered. Her query was answered when a hawk's cry pierced the air. "Horus!" She gasped in delight and rushed to the back door. Opening it she called, "Hagrid, I must leave for today, but it's almost done. Thanks! Bye!" She closed the door, picked up her parcel, and ran into the middle of the open space between Hagrid's and the castle. She let out a whistle, the melody that of a lullaby her mother used to sing to her. The hawk dove toward her, letting his wings stop his descent as he approached her. She brought her arm up to him, allowing him to perch upon her forearm. The hawk began nuzzling Trysten's arm as she stroked his feathers. Trysten thought back to her seventh birthday in Egypt, where her best friend and caretaker Djawara had given her this beautiful messenger, pet, and companion. He had landed directly on her arm, sending rivulets of blood down where his claws had pierced the skin. Immediately following that incident, Djawara had placed a spell upon her arm, protecting it from the bird's talons, though naught else.

She came to a sudden realization. "Dja sent you, didn't he?" Horus regally dipped his head in assent and extended his leg to her. Taking the message, Trysten opened her soggy parcel and offered the food inside to the hawk. She sat on a nearby boulder and opened the letter with trembling hands. She sighed, recognizing the flowing Arabic script as her friend's.

Dearest Trysten,

I hope this letter finds you faring well. After all this time, I have finally deemed it safe to contact you.

Trysten's mind flickered to the last time she had contacted Djawara, a year before.

Trysten had been sitting beneath the Parisian night sky, reading a text on transfiguration by candlelight, when her father came in suddenly from her right, his dark robes blending in with the night.

"You, inside, now," he ordered, whipping past her into the house behind her. She followed meekly, wondering fearfully what he was going to 'discuss' with her. He was pacing impatiently when she finally made it into his study. "You've been speaking with that mudblood, haven't you?"

Trysten flinched at the profanity, but nodded, knowing he meant her friend Djawara. "Yes, sir, I have."

"Never again," he ordered. As he began to storm out of the room, Trysten's despair overruled her better sense.

"But why?" she called out.

He stilled and pivoted slowly on his heel, his countenance dark. "What?" he hissed.

"W-why can't I talk to Dja?" she murmured, holding in a tremble.

"He's a mudblood!" her father shouted. "And I forbid you to talk to him again! He has corrupted you! You take no pride in your pureblood heritage! He corrupted your mother, and now he's corrupting you!"

"Don't you dare talk about my mother!" Trysten warned him, her eyes flashing. Her father sent her a murderous look and she relented, knowing he had killed before. "Fine," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I'll write to Dja telling him I wish never to speak with him again."

Her father perfected his posture and his face became tranquil. "Good. I'm proud. You've made the right decision." Trysten resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the insinuation that she had a choice in the matter.

"Thank you, sir," she stated, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She left the room in a hurry, breaking into tears the moment the door to her room was closed behind her. She worked her way around the numerous stacks of books and sat at her littered desk, pulling out parchment and ink. She continued to write Djawara telling him they could no longer write each other. She told him she feared for her life if they continued, and instructed him to keep Horus until they could safely communicate again. She sent it off with Horus, and not two weeks later her father left her in her grandfather's care in England.

She turned her attention back to the letter.

While I hope you agree communication is safe, I believe you'll find my reasoning to your interest. Browsing the market in Cairo a few days ago, I happened to glance upon a small group of men clad in black. I got closer and realized one of these men was your father.

Trysten's breath hitched in her throat, and Trysten read the next few passages with great care.

I recall in your last letter you told me should you ever return to Egypt with your father, you would await me in your "study cove" by your old house. I had a feeling that's where you'd be staying, so I followed Aitor's group.

Trysten's eyes grew wide at her friend's actions, for although he had survived to write the letter, she knew what her father was capable of.

Discreetly, of course. I honestly don't think he'd recognize me if he saw me. He never paid much attention to me anyway (we'll have to see how well you recognize me next we meet). It came as quite a surprise to me when I heard Aitor mention your absence, let alone mention you at all. He said you were left at your grandfather's house in London shortly after your last letter. (I hope Grandfather Sheltson treated you well. Considering he was on Shikara's side, I should think he did.) Then Aitor mentioned that you had been moved to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Trysten paused. How did father know that? She asked herself. Grandfather Sheltson signed all the papers, and he's too lazy to bother writing his son-in-law… how did father know where I am? Trysten shivered. Father knows where I am. Gulping, Trysten read on.

Congratulations, Baraka, I'm sure you are glad to finally be at a school. I could barely get your nose out of your books on your birthday! In addition to mentioning your whereabouts, Aitor mentioned coming to 'visit'. Whatever he meant by that, he implied you wouldn't be staying at Hogwarts after he came.

Trysten paled, tears coming to her eyes at the thought of leaving her home to return to the arms of her father.

With your father's associations we both know this is bad news. (He also mentioned that "Harry sodding Potter" is at Hogwarts. Is that true?)

Trysten laughed. Dja always knew how to lighten up the worst news.

Trysten…I also came upon a piece of information you should know. Concerning your mother.

Trysten froze. Does he know? She thought, a sense of hope shining through the terror she felt at him knowing.

That day in the desert…you were six, I can't expect you to remember, but…What I'm trying to say is…Trysten, your mother wasn't killed in a sandstorm. She was killed by Death Eaters.

She sighed. So now he knows that much…but he still doesn't know the half of it. Trysten shook her head.

I'm sorry, Trysten.

"Me too," she murmured aloud, a tear dripping onto the page before her.

Because of this (and you, of course) I wish to come to Hogwarts as soon as I can get away. Oh, and it might be nice to check with the headmaster, although I'm coming either way.

Trysten laughed, wiping her tears.

Get back to me as soon as you can; I can't wait to see you, Baraka.

Love, Djawara

P.S. Send an owl, not Horus. He deserves a rest—and he's yours to keep (again)!

Trysten took a few deep breathes, reviewing the information given to her as best she could. After a moment, one section came back to her full force. Father's coming to get me. She stood and, gathering her belongings, sprinted toward the castle and the only one who could help her: Severus Snape.