Posted 6/9/2014

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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.


Chapter Forty-One - Nighttime Talks

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With a last fake smile to Macmillan, Pansy left for the dungeons, having finished her patrol duties for the night. Apart from scaring a few spiders, they hadn't found anything noteworthy. In fact, as far as Pansy could tell, everyone was fast asleep in their beds, just like they were supposed to be. On the other hand, she was also fairly certain one of Potter's supporters would do something to disrupt the peace sooner or later. Why did they have to make things more complicated, Pansy thought sullenly. Every time they did something, the Prefects had to act. Whenever one of Potter's supporters got caught, it made the Prefects look like the bad guys of girls. And whenever they got away with something, there was the very real danger of someone having to pay for it. Finnigan and Brown had somehow missed one of the messages a few weeks ago. Both had hobbled for a week after their thorough interrogation, but hadn't dared handing in their badges. And when Pansy had been just a bit too late to catch the perpetrators besmirching Professor Carrow's door, she had called in about three dozen students known to sympathize with Potter for questioning. Or so Professor Carrow had called it, but Pansy was quite sure people like first-year Abigail Harrison had never spoken a word to the Boy-Who-Lived.

Well, Pansy reasoned, at least the holidays weren't that far away. Hogwarts just wasn't the same any more, not with the random bag searches that weren't quite as random as they were meant to be, not with the return of some to the more oppressive decrees, not with two glaring professors breathing down everyone's necks, not with Professor Malfoy who was sweet to cover the poison mixed in her words and actions. Holidays meant a bit of time to regain her balance and gather strength for the remaining school year. If she had learned one thing in the past years, then that the weeks before school let out for summer were the worst.

She had almost reached the hidden entrance to the Slytherin Common Room when she noticed footsteps behind her. Whirling around, she came face to face with Draco.

"I didn't want to scare you," he told her, keeping his distance. "I waited for you to finish your rounds for the night, though. I have something I wanted to talk to you about, something I didn't want people to know about right now – something just between the two of us."

Pansy blinked, fighting down a blush and the giddy happiness she felt at his words. "Well, I have finished them now. I... I guess if you want to talk, I guess we could..."

He didn't wait for her to finish pointing to a door. "In there, if you don't mind." He walked in without waiting for her reply.

Pansy followed, wishing for a moment it weren't late in the evening. She likely looked horrible after patrol duty – not how she wanted to be when she was about to... talk to Draco in private. Nevertheless, she followed, finding Draco sitting on a table and watching her.

"Well, Draco," she began, consciously keeping the flirtatious tone out of her voice, "what was it you wanted to talk about, then? We have classes tomorrow – a busy day for me, in fact."

"I apologize for keeping you from sleeping," he replied with a smile that sent shivers down her back and brought memories up from the last time he had said those words. "I have something of a problem, though – one you might be able to help me with."

That didn't make it any easier for her. Did he want to tease her? How was she supposed to go to sleep after that? "You know me," she answered, shifting slightly and sending him a look she knew he liked. Had she honestly cared about losing sleep just moments ago? Well, if she would lose it either way, why not do it the fun way? She stepped closer, careful to sway her hip.

"True, I do know you," he said. "You've stood by my side in the past. You've helped me, you never asked questions. I know I can trust you. I know you can make hard decisions for the best of society. You know what is important in this world, and I know where your loyalties lie. Don't I?"

Pansy blinked. His words had gone in an unexpected direction. She couldn't remember that game. Was it something new? "Well, yes. Yes, you do know me, Draco. You know me very well," she compromised, sending him a devoted look she didn't quite feel, but guessed to be part of this new game.

"Right now, I have a bit of a problem, you see? I'm Head Boy," Draco told her, standing up. "I have responsibility. I have to keep the students in line. It's as if I've changed sides, in a way."

"And you're very good at it," she assured him.

With a chuckle he started pacing. "After everything I've done in the past, all my attempts to get away with this and that," Pansy had to suppress a giggle at the memories of both, "I'm now one of those who try to stop others from having fun at school. I feel like I've become a traitor."

"You're not a traitor," Pansy told him sweetly. "You're doing what is for the best and taking advantage of the situation. And you're very good at that," she purred.

"Nice of you to say that," he replied, sighing. "But I look like a traitor now, what with me stomping on people's fun. I think so. Others do too. Hardly anyone talks to me, and when they do, they keep secrets. I'm no longer one of them, and I'm no longer merely doing my duty. The students think I've truly joined their enemies – the teachers. Of course, it doesn't help that my mother is one of them now. Students think I'll relay everything I hear to the professors, so they've stopped telling me things. If I'm not a traitor, then a spy. I've lost touch with my old friends, but on the other hand, I'm held responsible for their actions." He shook his head. "And I worry about them," he added after a moment of hesitation. "As Head Boy, I can't help them, of course. I can't get them to open up to me. I can't make them accept my help. But I do see and hear some things. Some worrying rumours, you might say."

Pansy didn't know what to say, so she kept quiet.

"But you, you are different. You are special," he told her with a smile that made her heart race. "You are smart and you know what to do. You know some things have to be done for the sake of progress. Once you've left school, you will work for the betterment of society, won't you?"

Pansy nodded. "Of course I will. Serving the Dark Lord is what is right."

"True, true," Draco agreed. "There's a small service you could do right now, though. You could do me a favour." He hesitated, pursing his lips, but continued before she could voice her thoughts. "I've heard worrying rumours, you know? About Bulstrode and Davis." Pansy blinked dumbfounded; bringing up her friends had killed the mood, but he didn't seem to have noticed. Or maybe it hadn't been one of the games he liked? "I look out for my friends," he continued. "I might be able to shield them from harm and the worst, but not without knowing what is going on. They raised their voices a while ago, I heard. They seemed slightly rebellious for a time, you know?"

Pansy swallowed a lump in her throat. She did know about that. "They were upset. They had lost a friend."

"A friend who turned out to be a traitor," Draco reminded her. "Some people might worry about that, you know? You've proven yourself, but what does that friendship with a traitor tell you about Bulstrode and Davis? Where do their loyalties lie?"

"They've come to their senses, though," Pansy told him. "For the most part, they've accepted the truth. They've calmed down."

"And until they've proven themselves, they need someone to look out for them," Draco pointed out, giving Pansy a meaningful glance. "Someone to make sure they don't get themselves into any further trouble or draw unwanted attention. We wouldn't want them losing opportunities in the future because of some hasty words born from misguided grief, would we? No, they need someone to look out for them and make sure they don't lose their way – someone with a bit of influence, say. I'd do it, you know? I would, but how am I supposed to know what to do or where and when to intervene if they don't talk to me?" He sighed sullenly, shaking his head. Then he stepped closer to Pansy. "But they talk to you. They're your friends. They don't have secrets from you. You could help me help them. If you find out what is going on with them, if you find out what they're doing and planning and thinking... If you learn something worrying, you can help me keep them out of trouble and save them from bad decisions."

"You want me to spy on my friends?" Pansy asked finally, noticing how the echo of her voice sounded strangely harsh.

"I want you to keep your eyes open and an ear out," Draco placated her. "I want you to help me to keep them from harm and ill-informed decisions. I know it's not nice. I know it's not fair to ask it of you, and I'm certainly not asking you to pry, but they could put themselves in serious danger if they aren't careful. I think they're underestimating the consequences some decisions might have. I fear they might make a misjudgement. Bulstrode and Davis... Millicent and Tracey, they are my friends. I don't want to see them get hurt. I think they need someone to watch their backs. One wrong step, one wrong word, Pansy, that's all it takes."

Pansy stared into his eyes, searching for the lie in them, but in the end, she had to agree with Draco. Millicent and Tracey might indeed need someone to keep them from harm.

"I'll... I'll keep an eye on them," she replied, feeling like something had changed.

"I knew I could count on you," Draco said, smiling. "There are some things I can only trust you with. There are some things I know only you would do for me." He laughed, turning his back to her. "Remember that one time that Mudblood from Hufflepuff had laughed at me in class? And you caused that bang at just the right moment to scare her boyfriend?"

"I don't think they ever had anything," Pansy pointed out.

"His spell missed, unfortunately, but other than that, it was brilliantly executed." Draco chuckled. "Can you imagine how amusing it would have been if he had hit her?"

"She'd have gotten seriously injured, I think," Pansy replied. "And I'd have been partly responsible."

"Nonsense," Draco waved her off, glancing over his shoulder. "She'd have been responsible, you only reacted. Cause and effect, Pansy, cause and effect. Hadn't she opened her mouth, well, you wouldn't have retaliated. If you poke the dragon, don't complain about the burns." He got a wistful look. "Yes, you've been there for me in the past, Pansy, don't think I've forgotten what you've done for me. You've done more for me than either Crabbe or Goyle, that's for sure."

"Well," Pansy spoke up with a teasing note in her voice, walking over to him, "I sure hope so. And I think I've been better company than those two as well, wasn't I?" When he turned around to look at her, she'd already reached him. Sending him what she knew was her most teasing smile, she cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, they don't talk as much," he replied, shrugging. "They listen, but they can't remember anything for more than a few moments, so I guess you're right."

"I do remember a lot, though," Pansy said, stepping close enough that she could reach around him – closer than they had been for over a year. His smell was still intoxicating to her, bringing back memories of hours spent with him away from prying eyes and of the longing that returned in full force. Her hands moved of their own accord as if the past seventeen months had never been; she leaned closer, kissing his neck gently.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away.

Pansy blinked, unable to understand what he meant. "But, Draco," she began, "I, well, I thought... You said you liked that."

"I said that?" He raised an eyebrow, but he didn't smile.

Pansy pursed her lips, fighting a smile. "Well, not in so many words, no," she replied coquettishly. "But I do know what you like, don't I?" She leaned in closer to nibble at his ear, but stopped when she saw his look. She almost jumped back in shock.

"What do you think you're doing?" he demanded of her with cold eyes staring at her.

Pansy felt as if she had been slapped. "I... Draco, I just thought... Don't you remember? You asked me in here, and I thought... Well, didn't we do that in fifth year? Sneak in classrooms? After our patrols? Or whenever we had time? Didn't you like that? It was nice, wasn't it? I just thought..."

"What, that we'd continue where we left?" he asked as something like amusement stole into his voice. "That you'd get what you want just like that?"

"But," Pansy protested weakly, "you liked it, didn't you? I know you did. And I thought, you and me, in here while everyone else is asleep..."

"That doesn't mean I have to jump at the first opportunity that presents itself," he retorted. "Or that we could return to how it was before just like that. I've grown up, Pansy. Did you think you pawing at me would still do the trick?"

"I..." She stumbled away from him, and he let go of her wrist. "I just thought... I was good for you. We were good for each other, Draco, we... matched. And you don't have a girlfriend, I don't have a boyfriend."

A strange look flashed over his face, too fast for her to recognize it. Then he smiled at her. "You're right," he told her, his face softening, "you're right, you were good for me. Maybe we can rekindle our relationship one day, but not now. I'm the traitor in this school, have you forgotten? We can't risk people resenting you as well. We need someone to keep the students in line, someone they can trust." He let go of her wrist and instead took her hand in his, continuing in a voice of kindness, "Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices, Pansy, and sometimes, we have to sacrifice our happiness. You're right, what we did was nice, and I'm looking forward to it again, but right now, in this present climate, it'd be a risk if we returned to how things were once."

"I," Pansy began, "no one needs to know, Draco," she offered. "We don't have to make a big deal out of it."

He sighed heavily. "But someone is bound to notice the spring in our steps. You know how Slytherin works. If we're happy, people will become curious and look into it. And you know how happy you made me," he told her, smiling as he avoided her eyes. "No, if we wait, then it's a build-up, isn't it? Something to look forward to?"

She blinked. She felt they had enough of a build-up already. "Well, I... I guess so," she compromised.

"That's right. Work hard enough for something and you'll be rewarded. That's how fate works, isn't it?" He laughed quietly. "And one day, we'll both get what we deserve, you and me." For a long moment, they looked at each other before he turned his head away. "You'd better go before the others will notice your absence."

Pansy hesitated for just a moment before stepping closer one last time. This time, he didn't stop her; she gently guided his head back around and kissed him briefly, committing the feeling of his lips and their taste of something fruity to memory. The moment ended far too soon for her liking, but she ended the kiss with a sad smile, leaving the room without another word.

The few steps back to the Common Room, she tried to sort her thoughts. So Draco did feel something for her, but put his duties first. While that hurt, she could somewhat understand him. Sometimes, things simply didn't work out the way they were supposed to be. It didn't stop the longing, and she had half a mind to turn around and show him what he was missing out on, making him understand they had waited for far too long already, but she still walked on. The Common Room was almost completely empty already, and she continued to her dorm room.

So Draco still felt something for her, and he trusted her – like no one else, perhaps? He trusted her enough to ask for her help in keeping Millicent and Tracey out of trouble. Laughable as that notion was, she still found it sweet of him to try to help them. Maybe they did need someone looking out for them? They were both smart girls – smart enough to not do anything hasty, at least – but it was the thought that mattered more than the actual necessity. Or maybe Draco had heard something? Maybe Tracey was already in trouble for her harsh words after the loss of Daphne? Did she still feel that way? Did Millicent?

Pansy slowed down a few steps away from her room as she thought about the last weeks. She couldn't remember either Millicent or Tracey making any public statements any more, but they had also not said anything to suport the new rule. How did they feel now? Maybe that was where Draco had gotten that strange idea?

Shaking her head, Pansy continued on her way, but an inkling of worry remained. If some suspicion fell upon either Tracey or Millicent, what then? Would Draco be able to help them?

Entering her room, Pansy made to greet the other occupants of the room. Two beds already had their curtains drawn closed, but Tracey and Millicent sat huddled together on one of the others. They stopped talking the moment they noticed Pansy.

"Hey," Tracey greeted with a careless wave. "How was patrol duty?" Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, Pansy noticed. Had it the past weeks?

"Did you catch anyone?" Millicent added, folding her large hands in her lap.

Silence descended as Pansy stared at the girls she considered her friends. At Tracey who always had trouble keeping her nervousness under control whenever she lied or had to keep a secret, and at Millicent who could lie with a straight face because she rarely showed any expression and was used to hiding her feelings.

"Yes," Pansy said, staring at Tracey – who twitched slightly. Why, Pansy thought miserably, hadn't she noticed it before?

She rolled her eyes. "I'm just messing with you," she told them. "It was just a quiet, boring evening. Hardly anyone dares breaking curfew any more, just those troublemakers from Potter's rebels."

"Oh," Tracey laughed. "You got me there for a moment." Millicent chuckled, shaking her head.

"Yes," Pansy replied, smiling slightly despite knowing what she had to do. "Yes, I got you."

Walking over to her bed, she started wondering what she would tell Draco and how and what she would not tell. Knowing them as well as she did, she knew he had been right about Tracey and Millicent. They had indeed made a bad decision, possibly working with Potter's rebels, and needed someone to look out for them and watch their backs. They needed someone to make sure they didn't get themselves in even more trouble.

Pansy was someone, wasn't she?


Two days had passed in relative quiet. Whatever had gotten into Granger and Potter kept them occupied most of the day, which likely meant they were working on something for Potter's planned attacks against the Death Eaters. Granger didn't look too happy, but she also didn't speak up about it. Weasley too was working on something, but he had retreated to a small lab off to the side of the kitchen, and apart from the occasional puff of smoke of yell of pain, little left the room.

Daphne on the other hand had picked up her usual schedule of training her spellwork, but found herself frustrated with the lack of progress. She secretly wondered whether she had lost her touch with magic at all. Some hours, she had little trouble making the spells count, other times, she missed more than half of the time. Her nights hadn't improved any either; some hours of restful sleep were all she could hope for, but nightmares also continued each night. Sometimes, she watched her sister suffer, other times her friends were torn apart by ravenous monsters. Often though, she found herself in danger – trapped or followed, threatened by unseen enemies, shadows dancing on the walls or jumping from one to the other. Somewhere between awake and asleep, she once became astutely aware of unknown expectations placed on her she couldn't live up to. Each step she made, each wave or word was answered with disappointment pressing in on her.

On the other hand, on the next day, she had managed to get at least consistent results again, which she counted as a success. She went to bed with a slightly better mood that night, but her sleep didn't last for long. Feeling too tired to get up, Daphne remained on her bed, imagining a pear, concentrating on the shape and colour to picture it without flaw to occupy her mind with neutral images just in case she fell asleep. Just as she was about to work out the finer details of the fruit, perhaps even adding the smell, the sound of hastened footsteps drifted into the room, followed by someone knocking on a door outside in the corridor.

It didn't matter to her, it wasn't her business, Daphne told herself. She'd let them work it out on their own, if it had something to do with her she'd be told in time. She had her own matters to think about. Potter seemed to be doing slightly better, so maybe she needn't feel bad if she did not follow through on her decision to reach out to him.

But although whatever was going on in the house wasn't her business, she was still too curious to keep herself from listening. Finally someone answered the door outside, and whispered words were exchanged. Daphne caught very little, but she did hear 'brilliant!' and 'now', spoken in an excited voice she knew. Potter, she recognized; he had spoken with her often enough in low voices to allow her to know the sound.

"No," someone complained in a decidedly higher voice. Either Granger was speaking or Weasley's whines were shriller than she had expected. "Not now!"

It wasn't her business, Daphne told herself, and made to adjust her position.

Yet, for some reason, she rose from her bed. Was it another dream, she wondered, sneaking to the door. If so, she could live with it. So far, it would have been one of the better dreams as of late, in fact.

"But... it's really great, see, I..." Potter tried once more.

"No," the other one repeated, and this time, Daphne recognized Granger. Figures Potter would wake a girl in the middle of the night for some supposedly important business.

"But..." He sounded at the end of his wit. "But you've woken me in the past when you had that idea to..."

"Doesn't matter, Harry. It's four in the morning; I didn't get a wink of sleep last night thanks to you. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait until after breakfast. I love you dearly, Harry, I really do, but if you wake me up again, I will be cross, Harry. Very cross. So do us both a favour and go to sleep."

"I can't," he groaned. "I'm too... too charged, I need to do something."

"Well, read a book or... I don't care. Prune a tree."

"We don't have trees in the house," Potter said, nonplussed.

"Conjure one, then!" Granger hissed. "Just leave me be, I need my rest." With a sigh, she added in a softer tone, "Please, Harry. I promise I'll listen to you in the morning, but not right now, all right? I'm tired."

Daphne peered out through the gap of her door. They were standing close-by, Potter trying hard to contain his giddiness, Granger looking about as grumpy as she had sounded despite wearing a pink nightdress. Strange, Daphne would have thought the other girl preferred more practical clothes. On the other hand, if she did meet Weasley on some nights for some activity or another, then she might have chosen to try something more risqué just in case he'd finally get the hint and rescue everyone from enduring more of their stupid games. Or maybe she simply liked the feeling. Daphne's mind went to her own negligée, the one she had gotten on her wedding night. That certainly wasn't her usual clothing, yet she did keep it at least in part for herself.

"Well, I..." Potter said, frowning. "You are right, Hermione. I'm sorry."

"Be sorry in quiet, then, and let me get my sleep. Tomorrow, all right?" Granger looked at him so sweetly Daphne was sure she would have agreed as well.

"Tomorrow," he repeated. "Goodnight, then."

Granger closed her door, leaving her friend standing in the dark corridor. Potter shook his head dejectedly –Ha, Daphne thought, served him right! –and turned to leave. His eyes locked on her door and the gap she was watching out of.

Cursing silently, she opened it a bit more and stuck her head out. "I'd welcome it too if you'd kept it quiet out here," she said, trying to keep a steady voice and not act as if she had been caught spying on him.

He chuckled. "Yeah, I didn't think that one through. Sorry."

She nodded sharply, about to draw her head back, when sudden inspiration came to her. "There is something I'd want... need to talk to you about, though." It was a risk, but she needed to take it. In fact, Granger had given her the idea. Daphne jerked her head towards the drawing room, and he understood.

"Fine," he told her.

Once they had arrived, she closed the door, sorting through her thoughts. If she wanted to succeed, she needed good arguments, not just a spur of the moment.

"So, there was something I needed to talk to you about," she repeated needlessly. "You know I'm working on my magic and am currently preparing to get my revenge."

"I'm aware, yes," he said.

"Well, there is just a small problem. He has the school's library as well as the teachers and his mother, not to mention his bloodthirsty aunt to teach him advanced magic. He'll know spells I haven't heard of, I think, and I might need something up my sleeve. You have your wandless magic. No, I don't mean to ask you to teach me, I was merely pointing out that you know what I'm talking about. Malfoy'll probably have the superior spell repertoire."

"That doesn't matter, actually," Potter interrupted her once more. "If you keep your head and use the spells you do know right – oh, and are quick on your feet, ideally, almost forgot that one – well, if you do that, then you don't need extensive knowledge. Good reflexes, you should have those too." He stopped, blinking, before he chuckled. "Well, what I meant was..."

"I get it. It's true, but I might still benefit from some surprise, something he wouldn't see coming. Well, if I were at home, I'd look something up, of course. The same applies to school. I'd go to the library and find something to throw his way. It doesn't need to be something big, but I'd like to have something he doesn't expect, and I won't find that in the school books, will I? That's why I wanted to talk to you. I would like to have a look at the Black library." She had tried keeping her voice steady to not seem too desperate, but she thought she had failed.

"And why would I allow that? Neither Ron nor Hermione go in there," Potter pointed out. "The last time Hermione tried to enter, she got a really nasty shock, and I in turn can't remove most of the books from the library to hand to her. Perhaps it's something about the intention of handing it over that's keeping it there, but until I've figured that out, the best I can do is go in there. And it's not like I do that all the time, I have other things to do."

"Probably for the best they don't go in there," Daphne joked. "I doubt Weasley could learn anything from the tomes I suspect to be there. He probably wouldn't want to anyway."

"Since when is Ron a 'they'?" Potter asked, tilting his head. "Or did you mean Hermione as well?"

"Ah," Daphne sighed, put on the spot, "joke aside, don't take this the wrong way, but... at times she acts like a Muggleborn."

"Because she is, and rightfully proud of it," Potter said evenly, although there seemed to be some annoyance building in him. "I may be a half-blood, but growing up in the Muggle world, I'm practically a Muggleborn myself; do you mind me going in there as well?"

She shook her head. "That wasn't what I meant. You are a half-blood, yes, and you did occasionally act like a Muggleborn, but you've adapted and learned, indicating some respect for wizarding customs. Many Muggleborns don't. See, I know of the traditions; I have grown up hearing the stories of old, the ones you won't hear at school. I know what to make of the spells and rituals and potions – it's a part of the history and of my family. It's not some foreign society I was thrown into, it's part of my origin.

"As for Granger, I didn't mean her heritage as such and more her stereotypical behaviour. Tales of her campaign for house-elves have been told to general amusement in Slytherin. She sees mistreated creatures forced into servitude and refuses to see anything else."

"Such as?" Potter asked, raising an eyebrow. "From my point of view, that's exactly what they are."

"Well, many somewhat intelligent beings are used by magicals or, yes, Muggles. Horses are tamed, dogs are trained, our post owls are both intelligent and determined to work without salary. Just because something has a human face doesn't mean it's human or has human needs. Oh, I'm sure Granger means well, but she is still an outsider – a Muggleborn. From what I know, she refuses to accept other explanations apart from her beliefs; she is also very opinionated. That's one of the reasons people don't like her – she lets everyone know what she thinks, and she doesn't accept anything else. What happens if she's wrong about something?"

"She rarely is," Potter pointed out, "which is why I value her opinion."

"Ah, but what is she were wrong once? Would she admit it? Would she consider the opinion of others? Just because house-elves have little rights doesn't mean they want them or need them. And it certainly won't help Granger's cause to demand change, least of all a drastic change like she seems to want. From what I've heard, she wants to give house-elves rights comparable to goblins or humans. Mind you, not because the house-elves asked for them, but because she decided she wanted house-elves to have them. She wants to change everything she doesn't like in the wizarding world to fit her wishes and expectations, and she wants that change immediately. She alienates people with her approach instead of convincing them to join her."

"If she's biased because of her lack of pureblood ancestry, couldn't you be biased because of your family's history?" Potter spoke up.

Daphne shrugged. "I probably am. But lacking a definite truth about who is right leaves us with opinions, for example, that Granger will probably spend a considerable amount of time crusading against the backwards pureblood society that needs to change right now, traditions and history be damned. This is the world of your father. This is the world of your godfather. This is the world of my ancestors." Following a sudden inspiration, she added, "I grew up hearing about marriage contracts, for example. I may not like them much, but I know they're part of my world. What did Granger say, what did she do when she heard about them? Did she acknowledge it as part of wizarding culture? An insignificant part, mind you."

Potter scratched his chin. "She might have been less than enthused about it, yeah. It doesn't prove or disprove what you've said, though."

"And did she research it before she formed her opinion or did she immediately decide what to think about it? Likely based on her life in the Muggle world? Only, we're not living in the Muggle world, we have our own history and culture. See, Potter, that's what I meant. I'm sure she means well, but from what I know about her, she might be very interested in the books in the library, but likely complaining about their contents. The least she could do would be tolerance for the culture of a society she willingly entered. She might even be surprised at how many people she could reach with that approach. Instead, she demands change of witches and wizards to fit her views and wishes. She also demands change from the house-elves and for them to abandon the life of their ancestors. No one likes hearing what they do is wrong. No one listens to a sole witch yelling it in their face."

"You think so?" Potter asked.

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Convincing people is seducing them. You don't demand change, you make people want it. You tempt them into wanting it, you plant the general idea in their heads. House-elves, they do a lot; shouldn't they at least not be mistreated? House-elves, they may not be mistreated, but wouldn't it be nice to show them gratitude? That way, it may take a few generations, true, but she might get people to listen. Maybe not the likes of the Malfoys of the Notts, but some of the more progressive families. It's all about seduction."

"Well, I'm not sure you should go into the Black library," Potter said, frowning. "Ignoring your opinion about Hermione and Muggleborns in general, which I believe is... off, it is protected by more than simple locks. She learned it the hard way. I don't fancy a repeat."

"You can enter it," she told him, ignoring his comment about her opinion. She shouldn't have said anything; he was her loyal friend and had to have seen it as an insult. "Can't you? You can enter the library without problems."

"And for the purposes of the protections, I'm a Black," he countered. "When I inherited this place, its protections accepted me as the new owner. I could literally walk around here and have little fear of wards or other protections, but others might not get so lucky. And the Blacks did not like people poking their noses in where they shouldn't be, so I wouldn't be surprised if there was something in place to keep everyone else out."

Daphne smiled thinly at him. "By that logic, I would be a Black as well. For the time being, for as long as our marriage holds, I am your wife. If you are a Black, I am too."

"And you think any child of the Blacks was allowed in the library? Any toddler was allowed to go in there and grab a book from the shelves? Being a Black alone is probably not enough, assuming you count as one."

"I don't know why I shouldn't. There was a reason why we had to include the clause about separate vaults, Potter, or else either of us could have entered the other one's. And I'm not a child," she said, standing straighter and slightly taller than he was in his constantly crouched stance.

"I sought to point out not every Black need to have the same rights around here. And we don't know you are recognized as one by the protections of the house or magic itself. Whether you could have entered my vault or not without the clause we will never learn. You might be considered a guest, for example."

"The house-elf accepted me," Daphne told him, biting her lip to keep from grinning. She could see she was winning that argument.

"You are also his preferred kind of mistress," Potter said. "From what he might call decent stock, or more decent than any of the rest of us. He might have accepted you because you are preferable to Ron, Hermione or me. He might tolerate us three for the time being, but I wouldn't put it past him to betray us again."

Daphne perked up. "Again?" she asked, distracted for the moment.

"He did in the past, which is why I'm stuck with him in the first place."

"He shouldn't be able to, though," Daphne told him. "He's supposed to be loyal to the family."

"Well," Potter said, scratching his cheek, "he was. He just interpreted his orders in a way that suited him, all to sell us out to our enemies."

"He must have really hated you to do that," she wondered. "I'm surprised he did that; normally they view orders in the way they were meant as well as phrased, mischievous nature or not. If you asked them to make a pig stew, they make an edible one, for example, even though you didn't ask for it specifically. If you ask them to throw the trash out, they would go by your definition of trash, not theirs, necessarily. They are meant to serve their masters the best they can, not the way they are willing to. There's a reason they are usually kept busy, my grandmother used to say – to keep them busy."

"He's been here for a while," Potter pointed out, "stuck with the Blacks. He considered their ways as right and just and whatnot. He listened to his old mistress about filthy Mudbloods, so he started thinking like her. He had her painting to keep him company, but busy she did not keep him. That's when we came and told him to stop it. Sirius wasn't very kind to Kreacher, and we threw a lot of old stuff out. Photos, heirlooms, you name it. Kreacher didn't like that, so he sold us out to Miss Cissy and Miss Bella."

Daphne thought about it. Her family treated their house-elf kindly, but she knew others didn't. And while house-elves usually did honour the intent of the order, she could see one twisting the words to suit their own needs.

But it didn't matter. "The library, then?" she said, picking up her previous thought.

"Ah, and I had hoped you had forgotten about that," he sighed dramatically. "I'm not convinced, and I do take the safety of people around here seriously."

She frowned, but kept her protest to herself. "Well, all right. Thank you for listening anyway." She made to leave, but he cleared his throat.

"You're not angry?" he asked.

Daphne blinked. "Why would I be angry? I would like to see it, yes, and it would help me tremendously in my preparation if I had access to the Black library to look some things up, true, but I understand. I know why you wouldn't want me perusing the secret tomes the Black family has hidden away, with or without those protections in place. I guess there are some books you'd rather keep for yourself, right? My family is much the same, really. It's the purebloods' way; they study the secrets of magic, but are unwilling to share their findings with others. And since this will only be a temporary bond," she gestured back and forth between them, "our marriage not lasting long anyway, you have to fear what secrets I might carry off with me. That is reasonable, in fact."

"I don't think you would steal books," he told her automatically.

"And I didn't mean to imply that, but I might still learn something you'd prefer would stay within the Black family." She shrugged. "Rituals and spells, for example. Family secrets. You have to protect your family, and since you are now also a Black, you have to protect their secrets in addition to the Potter's. I can't be angry with you over that. Every pureblood should understand that, even if they don't like it. No need to get angry. Unless someone really bothers me, I can be civil. I could have told you that if you had asked."

"Would you have told me that if I had asked?" he inquired.

"Probably not, but it also doesn't matter." Daphne raised her eyebrow once more. "You're friends with Weasley. One wrong word and he yells, one wrong look and he'll get defensive, one wrong," she hesitated, casting her mind around for something else to mention, "one wrong trait and he'll start assuming. He doesn't like me because I am a Slytherin. Oh, and because I married you, I think, and perhaps because I have tried to play mind games with him and make fun of him from time to time, but other than that, I have been fairly decent to him, yet for some reason, he still doesn't like me."

He nodded slowly. "I guess you are right. I'm just so used to... well, Hermione does like her knowledge, and she does want to get inside and have a look around, partly because she can't have these books just outside her reach and partly because she doesn't trust me with them, I think. She asked me to work on a way around the wards, you know? And she's not happy that she still can't enter."

Daphne nodded, but kept quiet.

"But you aren't her," Potter said. Then he frowned. "You know, I kind of expected you to get angry. Or at least annoyed, that seems to be somewhat of a default for you, perhaps to keep us at a distance. It's rather easy to get under your skin, though, from what I can tell. Whenever I try to broach a topic that you might consider personal, you get defensive. I get that, some things are off-limits, but the moment I'm so much as inching close to such a topic, you growl and snap, you show your... well, your teeth, I guess. Snakes don't have claws, but..."

She could see it written on his face what he was thinking of. Or perhaps it was just her imagination. She still shook her head slowly. "So I have my limits as to what I accept from others. Have you considered you might simply have a way to really tick me off with you constantly butting into my business?" She intentionally spoke in a meaningful voice, hoping to convey he should drop the subject.

"Just a few days ago. Or nights, more like it, that's when I saw you get angry the last time."

"Leave it be," she warned. "It's not..."

"'Your business?' Yeah, you mentioned that. But I still stand by what I said. I can see how tired you are, and I'm familiar with the fear for loved ones. Some of mine are in constant danger, and I cannot help them as much as I'd like to. Worse, many of them are in danger because of me, much like your friends are right now because of you. That's something we have in common – right now, we're a danger to those we care about. It might also be something I could help you with. I'm working on means to send a detailed warning..."

"Working hard on it, then?" she scoffed.

"I haven't forgotten about it. I'm trying to work out a good way to do it, one without drawing attention to us or your friends, yet detailed enough to make them believe us. So far, the best I can come up with is indeed asking one of the Hogsmeade story owners to pass the message along, but for that, I'd need them to work with me on that and risk their lives for children they have little reason to stick their necks out for. I'm not your enemy, Daphne, and I see you are struggling with something right now. I'm trying to ease the load, assuming you let me."

"I'm stronger than you think," she claimed, ignoring her own nervousness. He had hit a sore spot, but he had said the truth. Her problems in her preparation had been the reason she had asked him about the library in the first place.

"Stronger than I think? That may very well be," he spoke, shifting slightly. "I'm getting mixed signals from you; maybe that's it. Over the last two weeks, you came to me twice asking for help."

"And you refused me both times," she replied.

"Each time you didn't want to take the help I was willing give. It's not spells or fancy tricks you need, Greengrass, or at least not only them. You already admitted you might not be a match for him. If you fall apart in the fight, he won't have to work hard to defeat you; half the work will already be done for him."

"Well, listen to me, then," Daphne told him. "I've grown up; I'm strong enough to deal with my business on my own and make my own decisions."

He raised an eyebrow. "You have grown up?" he asked. His voice was soft, yet sent a shiver down her spine.

"I... I meant..." she began, trying not to look away. "Yes. Yes, I have. I'm not a... a small girl, frightened of... crones under my bed or rattling closets or something like that. I've grown up; I'm an adult, Potter."

He pursed his lips, but he didn't give up so easily. "You might still stumble and fall before you get your chance," he pointed out, watching her carefully. "It's not only about strength, but also about keeping the balance. Maybe that might help you – to find your inner balance."

"If you'll drop the subject, then I might give it a try," Daphne told him with a roll of her eyes.

He watched her, scrutinizing, almost as if he waited for her to break down under his stare. Finally, he sighed, relaxing. "Over the last few days," he told her, "I've had time to think about fear. Malfoy is one man. You know him, you understand him to a point. I think you can beat him if you stay strong and keep your head when it's time to face him. Yes, he might have some secret advantage when you meet him, but he still only one man."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said, glad she had made him back off. Perhaps she could make it out of the room with her image mostly intact. "I know I can win."

"That is, if you don't lose your head, both literally and figuratively. You escaped from a very powerful dark lord in summer. You didn't faint, and you also didn't fling yourself at his feet, which impressed me. I hadn't expected you to be so tough."

Daphne blinked, unable to think of any reply for a moment. It had almost sounded like an honest compliment instead of a back-handed insult. "I was just there," she finally pointed out, "Professor Moody and you did everything. I didn't stand up to him and I didn't help, really."

"He is a seasoned warrior. I'm used to it by now," he waved off.

He was probably telling the truth, she realized. He might really be used to it and not fazed from meeting the Dark Lord. How could someone her age – younger than her, she reminded herself – be so at ease with the thought? She could see another piece of the puzzle Potter was to her fall into place – or rather, her accepting the truth of it. He was experienced enough with threats on his life to not think much about them, almost as if they were part of his daily life. Or perhaps his Gryffindorish tendencies made him forget the fundamental rules of self-preservation. But it also made her wonder just how long it had taken for him to become like that. When had he started to walk down that path? His past wasn't her business, she reminded herself, but she couldn't help but be curious.

"Very few fare as well as you did in their first meeting with him," Potter continued, taking advantage of her silence. "Although technically," he said with a grin, "a few years ago, there were a lot of people who had even less of a reaction when coming face to face with him for the first time." There was some secret involved, but she would be damned if she fell for his trick. Not her.

"What do you mean?" Daphne asked despite herself. Well, she was damned, she realized. At least they weren't talking about her any more. And he shared something, even if it wasn't private.

Potter's grin widened. "They didn't know, and neither did we, but we both met him before." She raised her eyebrow. He explained, "Riddle was at Hogwarts in our first year, hidden under Quirrell's turban and on the back of his head. Each time Quirrell turned to the blackboard, the whole class technically came face to face with Riddle.

"But still," Potter said, "you did well in summer, better than I would have expected. It's a bit of a pity you don't support our side; with a bit of proper training, who knows? I've had to work with less and still managed to make it work. But no matter." He made a pregnant pause. "You did reasonably well in August. A woman who does not falter under those circumstances can beat the likes of Malfoy even if he's got people teaching him." He sent her another meaningful glance – the silent question of whether she still was that woman.

"So I will beat him soundly," Daphne declared, daring Potter to disagree.

"Unless he's changed more than you indicated and I guessed," Potter said instead after a moment of consideration, "he will still have his anger issues. He will still see himself as better than everyone else..."

"And if he's angered, he'll lose his edge, yes," Daphne agreed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "He's got a cruel streak, which I'm guessing you were about to point out next. I've known him longer than you, Potter. 'Even if he prepared hundreds of spells, he would still be the same person he was before,' would have been after that, I guess. I'd still like to have some surprise just in case."

"It's time he got his just deserts. I kind of hope I'll be there to see it," Potter admitted. "Just to watch," he added when he saw Daphne about to say something.

She shook her head. "We'll see about that. Maybe I'll have cursed you rotten by then," she told him jokingly. After a moment, she asked the question she had on her mind. "Why are you doing this? Why do you... 'ease the load' on me? It's not like we are friends."

"As a leader," Potter replied, "I have to look out for my friends and allies, you see?"

"You aren't my leader, though," she pointed out. "Our goals merely coincide, and not even that much. Actually," she added after a second, "my goals fit in with your plans, not necessarily the other way around. If I deal with Malfoy, that's one less enemy for you, but your planned attacks might scare Malfoy into being more careful and actually endangering my revenge."

Potter nodded, but she could tell he only did so to avoid an unnecessary discussion or be sidetracked for once. "As a leader," he repeated, "I have to think about what is best for my side. Right now, it's helping you achieve your goals because, yes, that would suit me well – assuming you can manage it, of course. But then, I also want you to succeed. You asked for some help, I'm giving you what I deem the most prudent – a second opinion on how to tackle Malfoy. One of us should get what they want and deserve."

"Assuming I can earn it?" Daphne guessed.

"Perhaps," he replied with a smile. Then he looked serious once more. "But there's something else." He stepped closer to her, lowering his head and looking at her over the rim of his glasses. Even though he likely couldn't see her well, it was an effective and meaningful gesture. "Your friends may not be here," he told her, sympathy in his voice, "but you need not be alone. You may not think of me as a friend, and you might never come to see me as such, but you know where to find me. If you want to know something, you can ask me. If you want to bring something up, you can do that. And if you want to talk, we can do that. The offer still stands."

"You... just don't give up, huh?" Daphne said, carefully taking in his face, from his startling eyes to the unkempt hair and slight stubble on his cheek. Even though he'd stood up for once, she could see the wiry strength lurking underneath. The book series didn't do him justice, she decided.

"Thank you for the offer," she said, slightly startled, but not alarmed by his attempt to get her to open up.


The next morning, Hermione found herself ambushed by an eager Harry sitting in the kitchen when she entered the room. He had bags under his eyes and parchment in front of him, yet he seemed barely capable of sitting still. She wouldn't have been surprised to see him bouncing from his place, at least.

"Ah, yes, that," she told him, frowning. "You don't waste any time, do you? When did you get up?"

"I didn't go back to bed," he said, beaming at her. "Once I was in my room, I tried to, but I couldn't. Strange ideas just started popping into my head, and so I sat down and wrote them down, just in case, and already started a few tests on my own. You wouldn't believe what I came up with."

"Probably not," she replied, shaking her head. "You should have slept, Harry. It would have been a better use of your time; you look..." She broke off, unsure what to call it. "So that is your idea there?" she compromised and pointed at the parchment still in front of him.

"Those are my ideas. I binned a lot, but some things I kept. I need your opinion and expertise on some of them, namely those I marked with a star next to it. As far as I can see, they should work, but there's always the possibility that I forgot something important. Those with a circle I have already started looking into. There are also those I doubt we could pull off, but might make for decent references for what I had in mind."

"My expertise." Hermione raised an eyebrow, doubting her friend's sanity. "I am a schoolgirl, or should be one, at least. I'm not a killer. I don't have experience with this kind of work. Whatever you came up with, I doubt..."

"I need your expertise on spells and charms, potions and whatnot," he told her. "I want your opinion because I know you are the most likely in the house to be of use with this. It's not the bigger picture I'm worried about now, it's the details. It's closing the loopholes and making sure it won't fail. I want to know whether you think it's... possible."

Hermione guessed he had been about to ask something else – whether it was right.

"See," he continued, glancing at the parchment for a second, searching for something, "at first I thought..."

"Wait, Harry," she interrupted. "I know I promised I'd listen to you, and I will. But I can listen – or read, rather, from the looks of it – while eating. I'm hungry, you know? I came here for breakfast. So how about that? I prepare my breakfast, and then I will read whatever you have there. Afterwards, you can talk me through it. After your last idea, I think it might be better to have eaten first."

He grumbled, but nodded curtly. She should have guessed, she mused. She had promised to talk to him after she had had her nightly sleep, not at a certain time and not after he had slept. The next time, she had to remember to say a specific time – noon might work, she mused.

Once she had some bread and a tea, she sat down at the table, finding her friend watching her impatiently.

"Fine, give it here," she said, rolling her eyes. She really should have made him wait for a while and let him stew, but she wanted it over with. There was also the fact that Hermione was quite curious what Harry had come up with.

She had trouble reading Harry's scrawl. She had thought about giving both boys lessons, but had found other matters taking precedence. She had no one but herself to blame, therefore; she should have arranged something years ago. Her eyes moved over the outlined ideas, and a few of them had her frowning. How tired was he really to think they were any good? Granted, she guessed they could work, but she doubted using Stieger and Kurts to cook the enemies from inside out was worth the effort. She had to give Harry points for creativity, though. And there were also some very rough plans that had her pursing her lips in disgust. Slipping someone portkeys to different places... yeah, probably not. They really didn't need to give the Death Eaters any more ideas.

Finally, she placed the parchment down, deep in thought. "Well, you are mad for even thinking of some of that, and I'm aware I said the same when you came up with those needles. Also, those are not what I had expected, to be honest. Ripping people apart, for example?"

"If I want the Death Eaters to fear me, or really, someone, they need something to fear, don't they?" Harry pointed out. "They shouldn't fear a person, but rather a concept or maybe the unknown. The first strike was something that shouldn't have been possible to prove that I can follow through on my threats – that no matter what protections they put up, I can get past them. After that, though, it's more about what I can do without getting caught. MacNair simply keeled over dead, right under their watchful eyes."

"I know. Loathe as I am to compliment you on a well-thought-out assassination, it worked, and it really was a brilliant idea, if quite ruthless," Hermione interrupted.

"I did give him time to settle his affairs," he reminded her. "He didn't remember my visit, the small piercing wound was be easy enough to heal..."

"And all evidence dissolves into thin air, yes, Harry, I know," she pointed out, pinching her nose. "It wasn't funny the first time, it isn't now. I also don't like the idea of you basically building upon it. This here?" She tapped a spot on the parchment. "Don't you think it might tip them off if you start blasting open people's necks? And ignoring that, don't you think they'd know what to do then? Stop the bleeding? Your victim could survive, and then what? It's not dark magic they'd have to deal with, only a heavily bleeding wound."

"Well, I kept that one mostly to have something at the back of my mind – just in case, you know? But back to topic, if the first strike is about showing I can kill and get away with it, why not make the second one about just what I can do? See here?" He pointed to another spot on the parchment. "That should get the message across, don't you think? Assuming those two spells don't interfere with each other, it should work with little chance of them healing it in time."

"I doubt there's anyone who could heal that short of turning back time," Hermione commented. "I'd have to check it to make sure, but it should work, yes."

"And again destroy the evidence," Harry added, grinning. "If it works once, why not twice? Also, don't forget – once is curious, twice is odd, thrice is a pattern."

"And now you're talking about three murders," Hermione groaned.

"It's not like I have much of a choice," Harry defended himself. "And there'd be little pain, Hermione. I don't revel in bloodshed."

"Yet your plans are based around it," she accused, tapping the parchment they had on the table. "Blasting people's necks open, ripping them apart, cooking them alive by repurposing a heating layout. Heating, Harry! What's next, stabbing them with a pair of tweezers?"

"It's about treating the symptom, not the disease. It's about posing a viable threat, hopefully to make focus more on protecting themselves instead of attacking. It's about forcing them on the defence."

"And avoid bloodshed, I know, except this would be horribly bloody. You go from a precise strike against a single target to..." Hermione hesitated before settling on, "well, to setting off a bomb, essentially."

"Hadn't you once suggested I should send Riddle a bomb? Hidden in a letter?" Harry pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"I did, but that had been a spur of the moment and against your enemy," she argued. "This is something else entirely. You actually planned it through."

"Times change," he sighed.

"So you want to rely on some trickery again?" Hermione asked, focusing back on Harry's plan.

"Trickery, she says," he grumbled, scrunching up his face. "No, not trickery. It's far more than that." There was an odd gleam in his eye. "I just want your opinion on whether it would work. Ah, and maybe some input as to where exactly I should plant it. If you don't want to help, I can do it on my own just fine. But right now, it's one of the better plans – one that has a high chance of success while sending a clear message."

She glanced at the parchment. "Well, you certainly have a worrying talent for dramatics. I'll look it over, all right? Just promise me you won't traumatize too many people."


The past week had passed relatively quiet. Weasley had retreated to some corner and had begun reading – Reading! Him! If only the people at school would hear about that! – while Granger and Potter had taken time each day and had secluded themselves in some corner of the house. Each time, Granger had looking particularly grim afterwards, her dislike for the task at hand as unwavering as her loyalty to her friend. Potter on the other hand had gained a new spring in his step.

The rest of his time, Potter had written on some pieces of parchment he hadn't let anyone else see, or had retreated to his floor to train some. And he seemed to get some sleep for once, something she was envious of.

Her own dreams continued, some nights keeping her awake most of the time, other nights only slightly troubling her. It was the house, Potter's house that got to her, she told herself each day. She had grown up around an old house as well – even though theirs was brighter – but the Black's home had a different feel to it. The gloomy corridors pressing in on her made her feel followed, the dusty air robbed her of her strength, chiselling away her courage. Or maybe it was the war and not the house. Maybe it wasn't gloomy, but instead had a certain sense of melancholy.

She liked keeping to herself at school, at home, and with friends. She kept herself in check, didn't normally show her fears or anger, but to do so, she needed some sort of balance. She had friends for that at Hogwarts or Greengrass Manor, and simply talking with them helped her see the bright side of life.

Yet now, she was isolated. She was effectively alone, stuck in a mouldy house of a dying or dead family fallen from their glory days to ruin. The elf had done well, in fact, to keep it as decent as it was, yet Daphne felt herself losing the balance as old issues resurfaced. She was more tired than she had ever been, finding herself dozing off while standing, but she couldn't find rest.

Isolated as she was, she lacked the support, the guidance. She had had half a mind to run back to Hogwarts, just to see a friendly face again. But she knew it wouldn't do any good; so she stayed, thinking with a heavy heart of her friends who probably believed her to be dead already. And she thought of her parents, sitting in their house, without any sign of their daughter. They hadn't parted on the friendliest of terms, as Daphne had still resented their lack of help with the contract, yet sitting in the house of the Blacks, she would have gladly made her peace with them. Daphne even thought about her sister at Hogwarts. Did Astoria hate her? Did she grieve? Or had she moved on, happy to be the only living Greengrass heir?

Dark thoughts haunted Daphne, and she longed for a few hours of fresh air. She longed for her friends, and for an exquisite meal instead of the Muggle food she was served most of the time. She longed for light and happiness to balance out the gloom in her life. She longed for justice and peace of mind; to see Malfoy writhing on the floor, to make him bleed would cheer her up. She wanted to accomplish something, to do more than just curse random targets and work on her spells or prowl the empty house that had become far too small for her liking. She needed a distraction in her life, or maybe merely the balance back. Hadn't Potter told her something like that? Hadn't she said she'd give it a try, if only to shut him up? She needed to be useful and active, not sit around at windows, watching the rest of the world continue with their lives.

Walking down the corridor, lost in her thoughts, she almost stumbled over Potter. He was kneeling in front of the bathroom, watching the keyhole intently. For some reason she couldn't and didn't want to understand, he had tied a small piece of cloth or parchment in front of it, she noticed.

He looked up at her. "Oh, Greengrass, didn't see you coming."

"Obviously," she gave back, glowering. He was at fault, he was the cause for her troubles, she knew he was, if only so she felt better about knowing the culprit. Yet she couldn't feel the same anger in her; instead, it seemed rather stale and half-hearted.

"Do you need to use the loo?" he asked her, his eyes jumping back to the door for a moment.

"No, I..." She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help herself. She blamed it on the lack of sleep. "What are you doing there?"

He smiled indulgently. "What does it look like? I'm preparing for another attack, of course."

She blinked, too surprised to think of an adequate reply for a moment. "You're preparing another attack. By squatting in front of a bathroom?" Her eyebrows shot to her hairline.

"Yes, only you came by and disturbed me," he told her, glancing back at the door.

Daphne stared down on him, part in shock and part in outrage. Either he had lost his mind or he was telling the stupidest lie she had ever heard. She wasn't sure which it was, but hoped he was merely joking around. "You want to kill someone in a bathroom?" she asked as a hint of disgust stole into her voice.

Potter frowned. "No, the bathroom has nothing to do with it. Although..." he said, his voice drifting off as he tapped his chin. "But no, killing someone with a bathroom is bound to be a great big mess."

"So," Daphne summarized, "you are preparing an assassination by squatting in front of a bathroom, even though a bathroom has nothing to do with your plan?"

"Yes, that's what I said." He looked utterly confused. "I don't make a habit of sitting in front of bathrooms, you know? Of course it's part of my plan for the war, and the bathroom was just the most suitable room to test my theory." He focused back on the piece of cloth in front of the keyhole. "Now quiet, please. This took some time to set up, you know?"

She hadn't known, but was perfectly fine to not get involved. Instead, she saw him take a small pouch in his hands. Before she could wonder about what he'd pull out of it, he ripped it apart, the stitches giving way. She had expected – hoped, really, if she were honest with herself – that something would happen, but other than the pouch being destroyed, a muted Pop!, and the piece of cloth swaying softly in a breeze, nothing did. No hidden weapon came to the boy, no sudden ally showed up, not even a distraction seemed to have started; Potter had not gained anything.

He seemed to disagree, though, smiling to himself with a glint in his eye.


Well, can't have a death each and every chapter from now on, can I?