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Chapter Fourteen: Fairytales and Potions Ingredients

Harry and Draco followed Fang through the Forest for about forty minutes. Harry still appeared unaffected by what they were doing, but to Draco it seemed that the path was getting more and more obscure, and the patches of unicorn blood were becoming thicker and more frequent. To distract himself, he engaged in light conversation with Harry, which was refreshing and welcome after so long with no contact save quarrels and serious discussions.

"How are you getting along with your Housemates?"

Harry made a face. "Horribly. I'm not very popular at the moment, as you can imagine. Even Hufflepuffs are ignoring me. Seems they were really looking forward to seeing us beat Slytherin for the House Cup this year."

"Our reputation precedes us," Draco agreed wryly. "I'm surprised the Ravenclaws haven't jumped on the bandwagon too."

"Well, they're in the lead now, aren't they? We did them a favour losing all those points."

"They're not safe yet, though," countered Draco. "Our Quidditch team is better than theirs. Pucey says Flint's flying them into the ground to whip them into match-winning form."

"Ugh, don't remind me about Quidditch. Wood went absolutely bonkers when I tried to resign as Seeker."

Draco stared at him. "Resign? Why on earth would you want to resign from the Quidditch team?"

"Well, I didn't think they'd want the social outcast on their team," Harry said self-deprecatingly. "And even Quidditch is no fun when the entire team looks at you like you're dirt. They don't even call me by name anymore — it's all 'the Seeker' this, 'the Seeker' that."

"Even the Weasley twins?" Draco asked in surprise.

"Especially the Weasley twins," Harry said moodily. "Though, they're more annoyed with Ron — and they don't seem to be so mad about the fact that we broke the rules as they are that we got caught."

"Their priorities do seem to be a little skewed," Draco conceded. "Don't worry, Harry," he added soothingly. "I expect everyone will get over it soon enough. It's not like it's the first time Gryffindor have fallen embarrassingly behind Slytherin."

"Ha ha," Harry said sourly.

Draco abruptly stopped. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

A twig snapped, and Draco jumped. "Harry, I don't like this." He glanced nervously at the surrounding trees.

"There's a clearing up ahead." Harry pointed. "Let's go there."

The boys cautiously made their way to the clearing, Fang following behind. They stopped short at the sight in front of them.

"There's the unicorn," Harry breathed.

"It's dead," Draco noted sadly.

Fang whined mournfully. The beautiful white horse lay supine on the ground, its legs spread at odd angles, its pearly mane glowing in the darkness.

Harry was about to approach the poor creature when Draco suddenly gripped his arm, his fingernails digging into Harry's skin. Harry didn't protest — he had also seen the hooded figure slinking out of the shadows towards the dead unicorn. As they watched in horror, the unknown person lowered its head to the wound in the animal's side, and slowly but surely began to drink its silver blood.

Draco screamed in terror before Harry could clap a hand over his mouth, and the figure looked up at them. An instantaneous, searing pain ripped through Harry's scar, and he cried out as his hand flew to his head, collapsing to the ground.

"Harry! Harry!" Draco was frantic, almost sobbing as he tried to drag his friend away. Fang had long since bolted, and only his friendship with Harry kept Draco from doing the same.

Harry couldn't concentrate on anything but the pain that was splitting his head in two, but Draco whimpered in fright as the dark figure advanced on them menacingly.

We're gonna die!

In his panic, Draco didn't notice the sound of galloping hooves until something jumped right over him and charged at the figure.

Draco didn't see what happened next because he'd ducked in fear; by the time he looked up again the figure had disappeared. In its place was a centaur with a palomino body, shoulder-length white-blond hair, and the face of a fairly young man. Draco had never seen a centaur before, and he stood gaping, his hands still braced on Harry.

"Are you all right?" The centaur seemed to be speaking to both of them, but his vivid blue eyes were fixed on Harry.

"I think so, thank you," responded Harry. He grasped Draco's hand and let the blond pull him to his feet. "What was that?"

Draco nearly snorted. Trust Harry to be curious about something that had almost…well, he wasn't sure what that figure would have done if it'd reached them, but he was sure it wouldn't have been anything good.

The centaur, however, didn't answer; his searching gaze had found Harry's scar, which Draco swore was redder and more prominent than usual.

"You are the Potter boy," he stated.

"Er, yeah…"

The centaur's eyes slid to Draco. "Who is this?"

"I'm —"

"Harry!" Hagrid and Ron burst into the clearing, preceded by a barking Fang.

"Are you okay?" Ron demanded, grabbing Harry's arm and looking him over for any injuries.

"I'm fine…how did you find us?"

"Fang came to get us and we followed him here — gave me and Hagrid a right scare when we realised you weren't with him."

As subtly as he could, Draco put some distance between himself and the two Gryffindors. He wasn't quite up to summoning his usual haughty sneer, but Ron paid him absolutely no attention. Hagrid briefly peered at him to make sure he was unharmed before he turned to address the centaur.

"What happened, Firenze?"

Firenze looked very solemn, and there was fire in his eyes. "A great evil has been done."

Hagrid threw a glance at the dead unicorn. "I gathered that," he said, a bit irritably. "Think yeh can be a bit more specific?"

"Someone was drinking the unicorn's blood."

Hagrid paled. Ron gagged.

"Are yeh sure?"

Firenze nodded at Harry and Draco. "The young ones witnessed it for themselves."

"We did," Harry confirmed with a shudder at Hagrid's questioning gaze. "It was horrible."

Hagrid didn't seem to know what to say. He looked quite shaken. "Well," he said finally, "thank Merlin yeh two weren' hurt."

"Firenze saved us," said Harry. "He chased whoever it was away."

"Thank yeh, Firenze. I don' suppose yeh saw who it was?"

"If I had, I would tell you, Hagrid. Such an act of depravity has not been committed in our Forest for centuries." Firenze's eyes rested on the three boys. "I suggest you take the foals out of the Forest, Hagrid, quickly — especially the Potter boy. Dark things lurk here, and Mars is bright tonight."

A faint trace of annoyance crossed Hagrid's face. "Yeah, we've heard. Right, I think that does it fer detention tonight," he announced. "Let's head back."

"Good luck, Harry Potter," said Firenze as they turned to leave. "The planets have been read wrongly before, even by centaurs. I hope this is one of those times."

Living with a family of wizards was a large adjustment for young Harry. The Malfoys were not exactly the warmest people, but they were a far sight better than the Dursleys — and even a seven-year-old Harry could tell, as time went on, that although Lucius and Narcissa had originally taken him in out of a sense of duty, they were gradually coming to be genuinely fond of him — something that had never happened with the Dursleys. And Draco, of course, being Harry's own age, did not share his parents' restraint and was a great friend from the beginning.

Harry had never been simultaneously so happy and so overwhelmed. On one hand, he now had, if not an actual family, then something closer to one than he'd ever had before, as well as the freedom to eat well, pursue hobbies, and talk with anyone in the house; however, he was also expected to learn a whole new culture, new customs, and new subjects. Harry was neither fond of nor opposed to studying, but he quickly found that he had to undertake proper effort in his academics in order to keep up with Draco and the Malfoys' expectations. He didn't quite mind — the wizarding world was infinitely more interesting than Muggle life, and he actually relished the chance to be able to do his best, instead of constantly having to dumb himself down so as not to outshine Dudley.

Besides, it wasn't as if all the learning consisted of boring, faraway stars and writing essays. Nearly every aspect of wizarding life was different from the way Muggles did it. Wizards didn't use electricity — they got light from floating candles or levitating orbs that lit up when touched or when a wand was waved. Laundry was dipped into Cleansing Solution and came out sparkling clean, then folded themselves after a Drying Charm. Pictures moved and talked and dishes washed themselves.

Even their fairytales were different. Harry knew the basics of many common Muggle children's stories, but he'd rarely had the chance to actually read them for himself. Thus, he was delighted to unearth a book of fairytales in the Malfoy library — but to his surprise, he recognised none of the stories contained within. Instead of tales like Jack and the Beanstalk, Hansel and Gretel, and The Ugly Duckling, he found titles such as The Warlock's Hairy Heart, The Fountain of Fair Fortune, and Babbity-Rabbity and the Cackling Stump. The tone of these stories was different from that of Muggle fairytales, Harry imagined, but he enjoyed them all the same.

After he finished The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Harry moved on to other books. One story in particular, in a very old volume, caught his eye.

And so it was a curious, eight-year-old Harry Potter who sat down, one fine morning, to read a fairly old wizarding tale entitled The Bookseller's Magic Stone.

"Are you really all right?" Ron asked in concern as they followed Hagrid through the Forest.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I am. Thanks."

Ron's eyes flickered briefly to Draco, and he lowered his voice. "Malfoy didn't give you any trouble, did he?"

"Uh…not really. He was a bit annoying, but he was pretty scared of the Forest, so he didn't try to pull anything."

"Well, that's good," Ron said with satisfaction. "So…what exactly did you see?"

"Not much," Harry admitted. "Just…some scary guy in a black cloak and hood."

"Was he really drinking the unicorn's bl…" Ron looked too nauseated to finish the sentence.

"Yeah." Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Draco shiver in fear.

"I'm sorry yeh had to see tha'," Hagrid said darkly. "It's a horrible thing, killin' a unicorn, let alone drinkin' its blood."

Ron shuddered. "Why would anyone do that?"

Hagrid looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I should be tellin' yeh that…"

"We've already seen it happen," Draco scoffed, and Harry marvelled how he still sounded like an arrogant pureblood, though he knew the Slytherin had to be feeling anything but. "And if it weren't for that centaur, that thing would probably have killed me and Potter. I think we deserve an explanation."

Hagrid frowned. "Well, put that way…I s'pose…"

"Suppose nothing!" Ron exclaimed, glaring at Draco. "You don't have to do anything just because Malfoy says so! If you don't think we should know about it, just don't tell us — we'll accept that."

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Ron's hypocrisy, given that the redhead was doing just as much as Harry to wheedle information out of Hagrid regarding Nicolas Flamel. Apparently, it was fine for Ron to bug Hagrid when there was something he wanted to know, regardless what Hagrid said about the matter — but as soon as Malfoy did the same…

"Oh, please, Weasel," scoffed Draco, folding his arms, "don't tell me you don't want to know why either."
"He's got a point, Ron," Harry felt compelled to say. "I want to know why that person was drinking unicorn blood, too — and why my scar hurt when he looked at me."

Ron's eyes widened. "Your scar —?"

"I'm not surprised," Hagrid interjected grimly. "That's a curse scar, Harry, it'll hurt when evil's about. An' yeh don' get more evil than what happened tonight." He sighed. "Unicorn blood's got special powers — it'll keep yeh alive, even if by all rights yeh should be dead — but it ain't worth it," he said firmly. "Unicorns are pure, innocent creatures, yeh pay a terrible price if yeh kill 'em ter drink their blood — yer cursed for life the minute the stuff touches yer lips. Better ter die than ter live a half life."

A chill went up Harry's spine. "Who'd be that desperate?"

Hagrid's eyes darkened. "No one we'd want ter know about."

There was once a boy who loved nothing more than the feel of a quill in his hand as he wrote strings of fine, precise letters on thick parchment. The boy lived in a small village in France, and he was known to have the most beautiful penmanship in the country. From the time he first started to write, people praised his careful work and lovely letters, and soon the villagers were bringing manuscripts to him to copy in his gorgeous handwriting, or hiring him to write letters and documents for them.

As the boy grew older, he became more well-known, and people from other villages began coming to him also. The boy, now a young man, soon had enough money to set up his own shop. It was a simple thing, plain and small, but the man filled it with scrolls and parchment and leather-bound books, and everyday he would sit at the desk and spend long, peaceful hours writing. Twice a week, he would teach the children of the village how to read, and people liked him because he was kind and generous.

One day a woman came into the shop, looking to buy a book. She was tall and pretty, and the man liked her at once. The villagers called her a witch because she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, and they were afraid of her — but it didn't matter to the man. He fell in love with the woman, and he married her. The woman came to live with him in the shop, and they were very happy.

There was a surprise waiting for Harry when he crawled into bed that night. When he pulled back the covers, he saw, to his amazement, his Invisibility Cloak folded neatly underneath, with a note pinned to it written in the same loopy script that had been on the Christmas note.

Just in case.

Grinning happily for the first time since McGonagall had taken so many points, Harry stowed the Cloak safely in his trunk and went to sleep.

Keen to avoid their Housemates' censure, Harry and Ron largely stayed in their dorm the whole weekend. Neville and Seamus had both lost Gryffindor a fair few points this year — Neville for being, well, Neville, and Seamus for blowing things up — and Dean was a very understanding person, so none of them was as harsh as the older Gryffindors. Hermione came up to talk and do homework with them, and when Dean and Seamus and Neville were not there, they told her about the unicorn. She was shocked and horrified, but as there wasn't really anything they could do, they all agreed to forget about it.

"Anyway," said Hermione reasonably, "Hagrid knows. And I'm sure he reports anything suspicious in the Forest to Dumbledore."

This was a comforting thought, and the trio decided to put the whole incident out of their minds. Hermione was much more interested in the return of the Invisibility Cloak.

"Obviously, it's someone in school," she said. "And whoever gave it to you wants you to have it quite badly."

"Yeah, but who?" Ron wanted to know.

And thus began a spirited discussion about which teacher, seventh-year student, or ghost ("Can ghosts even hold things?" Ron wondered) had given Harry the Cloak.

All in all, it was quite a pleasant weekend.

Monday passed without incident, but on Tuesday, Harry managed to win Gryffindor twenty points for correctly answering all of Professor Flitwick's questions in class, and Hermione earned another twenty for her excellent essay for Magical Theory. Moreover, the Ravenclaws controversially lost fifteen points in first period Potions, courtesy of Snape attempting to give his Slytherins a leg up in the race for the House Cup. Harry heard Terry Boot complaining loudly about it to Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein before their Double Charms lesson.

"All I did was ask a question!" the brown-haired boy was moaning.

"I don't think Snape appreciated your use of sarcasm when you were talking about 'the benefits of being taught by a real Potions teacher'," Anthony said mildly.

"Well, he shouldn't assume that just because I'm pureblood I know how to prepare the Standard Ingredient," huffed Terry. "I was absolutely clueless because he didn't explain a thing."

Ron leaned over and confided, "We had that class on Friday. Nightmare, that was."

"Right?" exclaimed Terry. "It doesn't help that I'm rubbish at Herbology — all those herbs look the same when they're dead, dried, and treated."

They probably would have commiserated some more, but Michael shushed them as Flitwick walked into the room.

That night, Harry bade goodbye to Ron and Hermione (who were both suitably dismayed to learn that Harry had a whole week's extra detention with Snape and Malfoy) and made the long trek down to the Potions classroom. He was running a little late, so he had to sprint the last two floors, and he was flushed and panting by the time he reached the dungeon.

Draco, predictably, was already there. He smirked as Harry sank into the chair beside him and dumped his bag on the floor.

"Had a nice hike?" he asked innocently.

"Shut up, Draco. I swear Snape assigned the detention here just to torture me more. You always were his favourite."

"It's practically right next to my dorm," Draco agreed happily.

The dungeon door burst open with a clang, and Snape swept in, his robes billowing about him. In his hands he held a large container filled with green, squishy somethings. These proved to be dozens of dead frogs when Snape set the container down on their table, along with two knives and a plethora of empty glass jars.

"You will be preparing Potions ingredients tonight," he announced. "I want each of these frogs dissected, with the hearts, livers, and hind legs cleaned and stored in individual jars."

Harry and Draco both grimaced in distaste, but nodded. Harry, however, noticed the absence of one important piece of equipment on their table.

"Um, sir? Where are the gloves?"

Snape's eyes glittered with dark amusement. "These frogs are not poisonous, Potter. I hardly think you need gloves."

After many years of marriage, when the bookseller and his wife were about forty years old, an old man came into the shop. He carried with him a large book, and he said his name was Abraham. The bookseller examined the book and was amazed to find it preserved in perfect condition, though it was obviously very old. The runes on the cover and the ancient pages were like nothing the bookseller had ever seen before, even though he had learned to read and write many languages.

"What sort of book is this?" asked the bookseller.

Abraham answered, "This is the Codex, and it is not my place to say what it is or what it isn't. I am merely the Guardian of the Codex."

"Guardian?" questioned the bookseller's wife. "How long have you had this book, good sir?"

Abraham sighed. "Far longer than I should have. As a matter of fact, I am very near the end of my time, and I am looking for someone worthy to take my place as the Codex's Guardian. This book holds many secrets that cannot fall into the wrong hands, or it would bring disaster on the world."

The bookseller and his wife exchanged looks.

"What sort of person does someone have to be to be worthy?" asked the bookseller.

"They must be intelligent, and willing to commit much of their life to studying and understanding the Codex's secrets. They must also be someone who is honest, just, and kind, and they must be open to knowledge of all sorts."

The bookseller thought for a moment. "There are few people I know like that," he admitted. "But I know a young man in the city who might be suitable. I taught him to read when he was a child."

"I agree," said his wife. "He would be a worthy candidate."

Abraham looked solemnly at the bookseller and his wife, and then his aged face broke out in a smile. "I think that will not be necessary. I have already found the new Guardian." And he placed the Codex into the bookseller's hands.

"Me?" exclaimed the bookseller.

"You and your wife," Abraham clarified. "There was one quality of a Guardian — the most important one of all — that I did not mention: humility. If a Guardian is not humble, the power of the secrets in the Codex would eventually corrupt them. Neither of you suggested yourselves as a potential Guardian, though you must surely have known that you satisfied all the other requirements — which means that you are exactly the people who should be the Guardians." He gestured at the Codex. "The book is your responsibility now. I know you will guard it well."

And before the bookseller or his wife could say anything, the old man walked out of the shop, and they never saw him again.

Snape's detentions were disgusting — the night after the frogs they were put to work cleaning cauldrons without magic, and the night after that they had to arrange live leeches by size and colour, and the less said about the night after that, the better — but there was one good thing about them: Harry and Draco were allowed to talk as much as they pleased during the two hours they spent in the dungeons every night.

And talk they did, about Quidditch, school subjects, teachers, home, and everything in between. They caught each other up about almost everything in their lives, taking full advantage of the ability to be, not Potter and Malfoy, Gryffindor and Slytherin — but Harry and Draco, best mates. Even though at this point Ron was undeniably Harry's closest friend, Draco was something more — it was inevitable, after growing up together in the same house, that they would be more like brothers than friends.

But for all their chatter, there were a few things they couldn't speak about. Topics like the Quirrell conspiracy and what they had seen in the Forest were off-limits because Snape was constantly supervising them. Harry also wanted to tell Draco about the Invisibility Cloak and the Mirror of Erised, but as the two were directly related to his nighttime wanderings, he was sure Snape would not approve. So he kept his mouth shut, resolving to fill Draco in as soon as he had the chance.

That chance came on the last night of their detention. Snape had just explained their task for the night (washing vials and jars caked with gunk from whatever potions and ingredients they had been filled with) before Adrian Pucey appeared and reported that he was needed in the Slytherin common room. Apparently, a group of fourth- and fifth-years were involved in a heated argument that had escalated to their throwing hexes about. Muttering darkly about dunderhead students, Snape strode out of the dungeon with Pucey, leaving Harry and Draco completely alone.

Harry seized the opportunity at once. Over the basin of soapy water in which they were scrubbing the containers, he quickly filled Draco in about everything he, Ron, and Hermione had uncovered in the Quirrell investigation.

"We're sort of stuck at the moment, though, because we still can't find out who Nicolas Flamel is…what?" he demanded; Draco was staring at him with a look of exasperated incredulity.

"I can't believe you haven't made the connection," he muttered. "Nicolas Flamel? Merlin, Harry, how many times did I have to hear you rave about that story?"

"What story?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Harry, what was your favourite wizard fairytale?"

"The Bookseller's Magic Stone," Harry replied promptly. "What does that have to do with —" His green eyes widened as it finally clicked.

Over many years, the bookseller and his wife studied the Codex. Slowly, they learned how to read the ancient writings; and eventually, they learned how to unlock the book's secrets.

One such secret was something the Codex called the Philosopher's Stone. The Codex said nothing about this Stone, and only gave directions about how to make it. The bookseller and his wife were careful people, but also curious, so they decided to try to create the Philosopher's Stone, according to the Codex's instructions.

It took them many years of hard work and dozens of failed attempts, but at last, the bookseller and his wife were able to create a Philosopher's Stone, the only one of its kind. Once they had made it, they discovered that it had the power to turn ordinary metals into gold, and could also be used to create an Elixir of Life to help people live longer.
The bookseller and his wife immediately decided that they could not let such a powerful object fall into the wrong hands, and they made up their minds to protect and guard the Stone along with the Codex for as long as they lived.

And so, the bookseller and his wife both used the Elixir of Life from the Philosopher's Stone to live long past the age when they would otherwise have died, so they could remain the immortal guardians of both Codex and Stone, and continue to study and learn everything they could.

As the decades passed and they stayed the same, the bookseller and his wife took new names and moved to different cities. People came to know them as Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel, and no one knew what they had originally been called.

But no matter how many times they moved and wherever they went, Nicolas and Perenelle always found a bookshop to care for, because they always remained a bookseller and his wife.

"Oh. Oh! Oh my gosh, why didn't I think of it sooner? Nicolas Flamel!" Harry's soapy hands gestured wildly in his excitement, causing Draco to cringe as a few drops of the mucky water landed on his robes.

"Harry, watch it!"

"Sorry," Harry said unrepentantly, though he did plunge his hands back into the basin to continue washing. "But do you know what this means?"

"That you're an idiot for not remembering the name of the main character in your favourite story?"

"No." Harry furtively checked the door to make sure Snape wasn't coming back anytime soon, then he pitched his voice even lower. "It means, the thing that Fluffy's guarding — the thing Quirrell wants — it's the Philosopher's Stone."

Draco's eyes widened. "No way!"

"It has to be, Draco — it's the only thing linked to Flamel that would require this kind of protection."

"And no wonder," Draco agreed. "It's an extremely powerful magical artefact. But what's it doing in Hogwarts?"

"It wasn't safe in Gringotts, remember?" Harry reminded him. "Dumbledore must have known someone wanted to steal it and had it moved to keep it safe. I'm betting that someone was Quirrell, too."

"You think Quirrell was the one who broke into Gringotts?"

"Why not? We know he wants the Stone."

"Well, yeah — but it's Quirrell. I know he's teaching DADA, but I honestly can't see him being skillful enough to get past the goblins."

"Maybe he's working with someone," Harry mused.

Draco bit his lip. "Harry, I really don't like this. This…this is big. We're not dealing with some powerful weapon or potion ingredient here — we're talking about the Philosopher's Stone. Have you even thought about where you're taking this investigation? How far are you gonna go before you tell the adults?"

"I…I don't know yet."

"You don't know!?"

"Shh!" Harry nervously glanced at the door again. "I know I'll have to tell someone eventually, but right now, we don't have any proof. We don't even know what Quirrell wants the Stone for. Nobody's going to believe me if I can't give them a reason to."

"Severus would," Draco said at once, implicitly reminding Harry that Snape already knew Quirrell was suspicious.

"Snape already knows everything I do, and probably more — there isn't any point telling him and getting into trouble for involving myself in this if I don't have any new information that'll help him," Harry pointed out.

"Harry…" What the Gryffindor said made sense, but for the life of him Draco couldn't understand why Harry felt he had to be the one to find the information that would make the case against Quirrell, and he said as much.

"I don't know why, either," Harry confessed. "I just feel that I have to do something, you know? I can't just do nothing when I know something's up."

"Ugh, you are such a Gryffindor," Draco groaned. "Fine. How are you going to tell your Gryffindor friends about Flamel?"

"What do you mean, how?" Harry asked in confusion. "I'll just tell them I found his name in a book."

Draco rolled his eyes. "What book?"

"The book with the…fairytale…" Harry's face became sheepish as comprehension dawned. Draco lifted an eyebrow expectantly. "Ah. Okay. I'm not supposed to know any wizard fairytales."

"Nope," Draco affirmed. "And you can bet that if you do, Granger will want to know what made you look at fairytales in a search of a real-life person. You need to come up with something else."

"Like what?"

Draco couldn't answer, because they both heard footsteps coming up the corridor just then, and had to quickly pick up a conversation about a more mundane topic as Snape returned.

Half an hour later, Snape dismissed them for the night, marking the end of their week-long detention.

"I trust the two of you have learned your lesson," he said, in a tone which implied that if they hadn't, they could expect many more distasteful detentions. The boys nodded fervently. "Good. I expect you both to take this act seriously from now on."

"Yes, sir," they responded.

"I believe I've already made it clear that you are no longer to break curfew to meet each other?"

"Yes, sir," they said, less enthusiastically.

"Very well. And for future reference, should you be overcome by the desire to see one another, there will be no need to spread nonsensical stories. I can easily assign you detention for much less creative offences."

Harry and Draco looked at each other, unsure if the Potions Master was serious or not. Harry was the one brave enough to ask.

"Will we…actually be serving detentions in those cases, sir?"

"You most certainly will," Snape replied with an absolutely straight face. "If I have to put up with the two of you yammering for hours, you might as well make yourselves useful." He raised an eyebrow at their twin grimaces, fully aware that they were thinking twice about the offer. "Dismissed."

They muttered their goodnights and left.

"Well, at least we know what to do if we really want to talk," Harry reasoned. The corridor they were walking along was empty at this time of night, which was the only reason they dared be openly friendly — but that would end once they reached the fork. Draco would take the branch that led to the Slytherin dormitories, while Harry would proceed out of the dungeon.

Draco shuddered. "After witnessing firsthand what Severus's detentions are like, forgive me if I don't want to talk to you that badly."

Harry laughed.

Draco casually glanced around just to make sure no one was nearby. "By the way, Harry, you have Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog card in your collection, right?"

"Are you kidding? I have about seven of his cards already. Why?"

"Go read one."

Harry blinked. "What? Why?"

"Goodnight, Harry." Draco winked and took the right turn, disappearing around the corner.

A/N: Elements of The Bookseller's Magic Stone will be familiar to anyone who's read a certain series by Michael Scott...

Coming up next week: Lots of people learn stuff. The Golden Trio learn what Quirrell's up to, Adrian Pucey learns something about Draco, and an adult learns the Malfoys have a second boy in their care.