Harry, as he ascended to Gryffindor tower, was pleased to see that he was far less out of breath than he'd have been this time last year. Training - it hadn't brought him muscles like Cedric had, but endurance was what he needed.
Every step upwards, Harry had been bothered by a simple question, Who was Snape's Gryffindor friend? It was an aggravating question, one that didn't seem likely to go away, and bothered him at the most inconvenient of times. An itch that he couldn't scratch, and that when he tried to scratch it it just got worse.
By the time he reached the Fat Lady, he had resolved that he'd ask someone. The only question was who?
Harry stepped into the Gryffindor Common Room, and immediately all those wispy thoughts were burnt off like fog on a summer's noontime. Hermione was there, her feet resting on the couch, her arms engulfing a pillow. Her head rested on it, and from the looks of it, Harry could see that she'd been crying.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked, "Got a spell you couldn't master?"
Hermione sniffled, and said, crossly, "E-e-everyone's got someone, except me!"
Harry looked at Hermione, and then looked cross himself, and said, "What, am I nobody now?!"
Hermione looked up, mustering a small smile, and said, "Of course not, Harry, you're my best friend."
"Who do I have?" Harry asked, trying to summon one of those cocksure smiles that his father had had in Snape's pensive (and very deliberately ignoring any other thoughts about that).
"Oh, Harry, how do you always know what to say?" Hermione said. "I thought I wanted to have Ron - but if he's really serious about Lavender, then I was clearly wrong!"
"You never have liked her, have you?" Harry said.
"We have nothing in common, so I truly can't see what Ron sees in her." Hermione said, and Harry wisely decided not to bring up her sex drive.
"Me neither. Maybe he just sees someone who honestly thinks he's better than she is? Someone who will fawn over him." Harry said dubiously.
"But that's such a horrible idea for a relationship!" Hermione said.
Harry responded dolefully, "I know, Hermione, I know."
And then, abruptly, it was Hermione that was consoling Harry, saying, "Oh, don't worry, you'll find someone, eventually, who can see past The Boy Who Lived."
"Let's get up to bed, before Professor McGonagall catches us." Harry said, for once taking the words out of Hermione's mouth.
Harry Potter was up in the morning, again, running laps around the castle. He'd have invited Neville, if he figured the notoriously late sleeper could actually manage to get up this early. As it was, Harry ran with senses pricked - at the sound of a cracked twig from behind him, he tucked himself into a roll, mourning the mud he was splattering all over his robes. He felt rather than saw the stunner going over him, and his hand reached out, casting a spell without his wand drawn. Harry heard Snape curse, as he flung himself over the wicked blade that Harry'd sent out. Snape was still disillusioned, of course, so it would look like Harry was fighting imaginary enemies. Harry sprang to his feet and launched himself into a full-out sprint, knowing there was a decent secret entrance just around the way. He could almost hear Snape following - with that long legged, leaping lope of his. Just the slightest of crunches - far too quiet for Harry to actually hear over his own breathing.
There! Harry flung himself into the entrance, hitting the secret stones with his full bodyweight, and plummeting inside. He watched as Snape's footprints danced past him. Harry grinned, satisfied.
Severus Snape had been dealing with the High Table, and its gossips, for years. Every year they found something to josh with him about - mostly a running bet on which Hufflepuff he'd make cry first, and how many would cry before the end of the year. Snape was fairly certain they'd all lost that bet this year - he was only teaching the upperclassmen, after all. And they were, by and large, used to his ways. Which is to say, even the Hufflepuffs managed to cry outside the classroom. Generally always.
Today it was Minerva, looking at him, those eerie cat eyes in a human face. And Minerva wasn't a gossip, not normally, though they did have a running feud about Quiddich that Snape had started when he was in an irascible mood, and that Minerva had kept up because she was a hysterical fanatic.
Minerva's mouth quirked into a smile that would have looked more natural on Snape's own face. "Dancing, Severus? You had them dancing?!" Her eyes were alight with a peculiar sort of glee.
Severus Snape sat calmly, picking up his Earl Gray tea (hot and black), and taking a sip. Absently, he gestured toward Minerva, as he said calmly, "Whatever works, Minerva. You've heard me say it often enough."
Minerva smirked, and said, "You generally use that old canard to justify having half the Hufflepuff firsties in tears."
"It works, does it not?" Snape said, leaning back and crossing his legs.
"But you, Severus Snape, had your class dancing!" Minerva said, and Snape was glad that she wasn't clapping her hands in glee. She certainly seemed gleeful enough. It was bad enough having this conversation, but having the entire Great Hall be witness to it? That would mean Snape would need to put a stop to it. And he truly didn't need another enemy.
"In battle, you know as well as I do, that being prepared for the unexpected is one of the primary skills." Snape said, taking another dainty sip of tea. "That said, I think the next skill they shall be developing is that of The Hunt." Snape smirked inwardly to himself at his ability to create capitalized words while talking. "I believe you have spent countless hours in feline form, developing your skills in that regard..."
Minerva let out a gentle snort, smiling just a bit, and said, "Of course, would you like some assistance?"
Snape smirked, and said, "I would be most obliged."
"What are they talking about up there?" Nott asked.
"No idea, don't stare," Malfoy responded, his eyes more focused on the Gryffindor table.
Harry climbed the stairs up to the Room, enjoying the warm stretching of his muscles. When he entered the room, though, he nearly stepped back out. Hermione was in there, stackng and sorting assignments and papers and parchments. They were Everywhere! Harry was frankly afraid that he'd tumble a pile and then get stabbed by an angry quill.
... and it was Slytherin's turn to teach, too.
Harry somehow doubted that Hermione had told either Malfoy or Goyle about the ... new arrangements.
Harry closed his eyes, willing Hermione and her papers about twenty feet farther from the door.
A safe distance, in other words.
Common sense and Hermione had parted ways a while ago.
(And Hermione was a sensible girl, but far from common about it.)
Harry had had more experience with Hermione's manic side than most - so he settled in to wait. She'd be done (probably) by the time it was classtime, at least.
Goyle came in, about fifteen minutes before most would arrive, carrying a feathered snake - was that really a quetzlcoatl? He stopped, looked mutely at what Granger was doing, and said dumbly, "I don't suppose I should have bothered with lesson plans, mm?"
Goyle's gaze on Harry was solid, not accusing, and so Harry found himself saying, "Fraid not, sir."
Goyle stared at Granger, again, and then said, "She's as busy as bees right before winter. What's on the menu?"
"Damned if I know," Harry Potter said honestly, "but Snape was trying to remove all that from the library, so I reckon it's pretty handy."
Goyle continued to look at Granger, responding only with a noncomittal, "Hmmm..."
Harry managed to get the rest of the class into the room without harming Hermione's latest organizational challenge.
She started class about five minutes after it was supposed to start, though everyone wasn't as pleased about it as she seemed to be.
"Wasn't this supposed to be Slytherin's turn?" Zach said, staring, strangely, at me instead of at Hermione. Wait, did he think - Hermione is her own person, and I do not control her.
"We're going to do this differently from now on," Hermione said, "Starting with finding the people with the best knowledge, and splitting our class sizes down. Research has shown-"
"Enough, enough," Malfoy said, "We get it, Gryffindor Granger thinks she gets to change the rules, without consulting anyone."
"Have you seen what I've been looking at here?" Hermione Granger said in a deceptively sweet cadence. Uh-oh, Harry thought, she generally reserves that for when Ron's been exceptionally daft.
From the looks of it, Malfoy knew that just as well as Harry did, "Can't said that I have, considering that you were ensconced in it. Frankly, I was afraid to be closer than a sneeze, for fear of disturbing... that." Harry swallowed a chuckle, noticing - not for the first time - that Malfoy was actually humorous, so long as he wasn't turning his barbed tongue in your direction.
"Snape wanted to remove these books from the Hogwarts library!" Hermione said, starting to get on a roll (by which we mean starting up her steamroller voice). Quickly and succinctly she explained first what had happened (including their dramatic rescue of the books, which got all of a sentence), and then exactly how much of a goldmine the books were.
"Where would you start first?" Malfoy asked, and Harry saw that by taking up the lead of talking with Granger, he was actively stealing it from Zach, whose arrogant nature would be most likely to disagree with Hermione just for the sake of disagreeing.
Hermione said, "Spells first, as they take a while to master. I have a list of spells here," Hermione waved her wand and duplicated it 50 times. "Mark off any which you know, and circle any that you are proficient at." Hermione breathed in, "I think we can all do some teaching, right?" Hermione being Hermione she didn't see Hannah shuddering at even the thought of teaching.
Hermione Granger wasn't the best person to teach a class. She had a tendency to get derailed onto irrelevancies, and often came up with explanations that were word for word from the book. However, what she lacked in talent, she more than made up for in enthusiasm.
Harry kept a mental tally of the spells that she was demonstrating, knowing that most of the room would need to practice them for a week to get good at a single one. Of course, it would be Harry's job to prevent Hermione from launching herself at new spells at the next practice session.
Still, because she was going to have to show them again (and again. And Again), he didn't really need to pay attention. He focused his eyes on Draco Malfoy, curious to see. You know, when not in Potions (where it seemed Draco had most things already memorized) or Care (where Malfoy spent most of his time making fun of Hagrid, and as much as Harry liked Hagrid, he had to admit that occasionally Draco had a point. A very mean point, but still).
Turns out, that when Draco Malfoy wasn't busy showing off, he acted remarkably like Hermione Granger did while learning. Took notes quietly, listened attentively, attempted the spells without being unduly successful.
Absolutely NONE of which was helpful, for Harry Potter didn't want to teach Draco Malfoy anything. He wanted a ... favor. A something, at any rate. And if he didn't phrase this just right, Draco Malfoy would blow him off, he just knew it!
It would be odd to say, but it was even odder to see - certain people were starting to take arriving at Snape's ... martial... class as the highlight of their days. After all, it was always interesting. Harry Potter wouldn't have expected that - the often dour professor certainly didn't seem the 'exciting' sort that Lockhart had been, or even the 'nice' sort like Remus Lupin.
But, if there are some things you had to see to believe, Harry was, belatedly, seeing this one.
Hufflepuffs, in the main, with some Ravenclaws. People enough out of the direct fire that they could treat this as just a class, albeit one that gives its students whiplash.
Some of the Gryffindors attempted to swagger in, but the mood of "This is Snape's Class" had them circling up and looking defensive, slightly hunkering down with hands nearing their wands.
The Slytherins, as always when they weren't baiting someone, were quiet. Neutral. Silent.
Harry and his friends weren't really in any of the categories, so they sat together, waiting. Harry was too attentive to fidget, wondering if Snape was already in the room with them, invisible. Or if today would be the day when they got creatures. Yanno, like falling spiders. Falling invisible spiders.
They never look up. Harry thought firmly, remembering Dudley, and resolutely relaxing into a stance.
Snape entered in his usual swirl of robes, proving that Harry really wasn't becoming a psychic. He lept onto the small podium, and launched in, without even greeting people. As this was usual, people mostly just listened (except if they were overachievers like Hermione Granger, in which case they tried to take notes despite the obvious lack of a place to write on. At least she wasn't writing on Ron.)
"How does one win a battle?" Snape said.
"By working well with others." Susan Bones said.
"And...?" Snape prompted, not content to either dismiss her or completely turn his attention to her.
"Death." Someone unidentifiable said from the back of the room, "By killing people."
"Alternatives?" Snape said.
"Incapacitation. If they can't hurt you, you've probably won." Seamus said, his mouth threatening to grin, despite the serious conversation.
"And the obvious problem with that inane approach?" Snape responded.
"They can recover. Knock a man good in the head, and he's down. Kill him, and he's down for good." That was Tracey Davis, of all people. Not the person Harry'd expected to say anything, let alone that.
"How does an auror prevent that?" Snape said, his eyes flashing around the room. "MacMillan. Your answer."
"By... locking people up?" He said, the answer coming more as a question than anything else.
"On the field of battle, not afterwards." Snape derided with an eyeroll.
"Ropes, apparation, stupefication." That was Ron, who generally knew better than to say something in Snape's class. Of course, Snape's class was generally potions, so...
Snape didn't so much as acknowledge that Ron Weasley had said something. Knowing Snape, that was practically equivalent to a "well done." Instead, he straightened, and began to speak.
"Today, class, your assignment will be in the form of experiential learning. That is to say, your grade will be as dependent upon your further reflection - in the form of a forty inch essay, as on your accomplishments in class." Snape smirked slightly at the audible groans from the back of the room.
"Death, or simulated death, is not the objective. Instead, it is capture. I will leave it as an exercise for my pupils as to why that would be necessary in time of war. You may put that in your essay, if you like - lay out those further objectives and the means to complete current objectives while leaving plenty of room to accomplish latter goals." Snape said, "You should all be familiar with at least a few spells to capture someone..."
"This will be a solo mission - any cooperation, intentional or otherwise, will be penalized harshly." Snape continued. Some of the students were beginning to look around uneasily. "For the rest of the class, you will be allowed to cast spells throughout Hogwarts, as therein lies your quarry. Do not abuse this, or you will regret it." Knowing Snape, that meant cauldrons. Still, he hadn't said what constituted abuse, so presumably any DADA spell used on a classmate was still defensible. More precisely, Snape undoubtedly meant "hexing Filch, portraits or ghosts, or, especiallyunderclassmen"
"Any questions?" Snape asked. And waited, and waited some more. "Fools." he growled, "Is not one of you going to ask what your quarry is?"
People shuffled their feet, and finally, Neville Longbottom said, "Sir, what is our quarry?"
"Twenty points from Gryffindor for being slower than a snail, and another twenty for letting the cat catch your tongue." Snape smirked. He doesn't like Gryffindors, Harry thought, repeating the words to himself for good measure. That didn't stop his nails from digging into the palms of his hands, but it at least meant they weren't drawing blood.
"Your Quarry is cats. There will, of course, be a sliding scale of difficulty, which will affect your grade. Catch an easy cat, and you will get easy points. If you return it to this classroom. Catch more difficult quarries, and your grade will rise." Snape smirked, and said, "Happy Hunting." Harry found himself annoyed, and annoyed at himself for being annoyed - the words, not pointed at him, reminded him of "Harry Hunting."
As students whispered among themselves - only the most courageous setting off first thing, they all turned towards the door. Well, Harry didn't. He saw Snape fold in on himself, as he sat on the edge of the dais - looking almost crumpled. Probably wants a chance to sleep Harry thought. He's actually not following us out.
Troubled, Harry emerged from the classroom, one of the last people out. Crookshanks, was Harry's first thought - that bright orange beast of a furball had to be good for points. Of course, the trouble was finding him. Even if he was up in Hermione's room, that'd be tricky to ascend to.
The truly difficult part about catching a cat with Magic, Harry Potter soon discovered, was finding a cat in the first place. He knew the names of three cats - two of whom found lying on him delightful in the Gryffindor common room.
And he just knew that Hermione (and, unfortunately, Ron) would be after Crookshanks.
Crookshanks was a willful little beast, and Harry knew that he'd have just one shot if the blighter hadn't gotten out of Hermione's room. He skated out onto the third floor balcony.* With a thought, he cast "Accio Broom" - it wasn't his Firebolt, but the school broom that came to his hand would take him. Probably. He eyed it dubiously for a moment, and then vaulted onto it.
Up it went, a little fast and a little shakily. He pointed it straight for Gryffindor Tower, and as he nearly hit the wall, pointed it straight up. He could hear someone shouting, "Hey, that's Harry Potter!" - probably someone in Divination, about to predict Harry's unfortunate, but sadly predictable, death.
Harry shot to the Gryffindor Girls' Dorm, and peeked in at Crookshanks, dreamily sleeping on Hermione's bed. Or, he was, until Harry blocked his sunbeam. It was at this point that Harry realized he'd need to open the window. The Probably Locked window. In the meantime, Crookshanks grumpily stood up, readying himself to jump off the bed. Harry stuck his hand out, trying to push up on the top of the window.
Yup. Locked.
Naturally, it was at this point that Hermione raced into the room, cooing, "Crooksie!" Her cat obediently scampered over to her welcoming arms.
Rats! Harry thought, even as Lavender and Parvati made it into the room, looking jealously at Hermione. "You hadn't thought you'd get my cat, did you?" Hermione said stuffily.
Neville probably has MollyWimpkins and Sneazl by now, Harry thought. If I was a cat, where would I be?
Harry thought of Mrs. Figg's cats, and then of Filch. No, if I was a cat, I'd be up on top of the castle, stalking innocent birds.
Snape had been anticipating the languid furballs arriving first. Surprisingly, it was Neville Longbottom who was back with the first cats (apparently some liked to catch butterflies in the greenhouses. How they were getting into said greenhouses, which were outside the castle, Merlin only knew.
"Leave the cat by the door." Snape said, words that he would repeat, even as he lay looking upward on the podium, watching all the students. And McGonagall, whose sense of humor was no doubt tickled pink to be participating.
There she goes again, tripping another of my Slytherins, Snape thought with a very slight quirk of the mouth - his thin lips and thinner smiles were difficult to read even in the best of times. And this was far from that.
Snape was taking notes in his head, as he watched the viewing spells above him. Goyle was doing well at this; while Neville had come back with two cats, Goyle could carry a dozen (in the carrier case, gently bound in white bathtowels). Apparently Greg Goyle knew where the best sunbeams were.
Oof! Snape thought as one of the cats thoughtfully pounced on his chest. He gave the cat a sure scritch, running up behind the ears - his sadistic fingers turning their learning backward, to cause pleasure instead of pain. "Off you go," He said sternly, his melodic voice belying his words, as he sent the cat by basic portkey to a new location in the castle. The last of the cat he heard was a startled yowl. Apparently, the cat wasn't done being petted yet.
Ooof! That was a bigger cat.
Snape smirked at Pansy Parkinson, who had thought to get a bowl of cream. Pity she wouldn't have to deal with the cats after class, such a fatty diet would only make them sick. And Malfoy? He apparently thought his voice would properly attract cats. Unfortunately, they didn't know about his wealth, his father, or any such mishegoss. Haughty as always, the cats were ignoring him.
Seamus Finnegan had actually managed to set a cat on fire. If Snape believed he'd done it apurpose, he'd have expelled the fool. As it was, at least the next lad in the hallway, Dean Thomas, had the sense to cast an Aguamenti. Sadly, neither of them apparently believed in drying cats off. So, five minutes later, Severus Snape had to explain to them what they'd done to the poor thing they'd immobilized for the trip down. Without the ability to shiver, the cat had just been getting colder. And-"What's proper practice for dealing with those who've experienced moderate hypothermia? Without your wand?" The dolts of course didn't know. Snape merely got out a large quilted bag, and bade them both crawl in... along with the cat.
Returning to watching the others, he nestled into his robes, waiting for the screams.
Harry Potter flew (slowly, and excruciatingly carefully) his hoard of cats back to the classroom. It had taken him nearly all of the classtime to gather the cats that he had... wrapping them gently in white bath towels, leaving their baleful eyes promising murder.
"There you are, Mr Potter," Snape said with his characteristic impatience. "As classtime is not yet over, you may be excused." Harry, however, had no sooner turned to leave than Greg Goyle came stumbling through the door, scratches covering his arms and back.
Wait. Was that McGonagall? Was she... sleeping?
Snape spared Mr. Goyle only a gentle glance, his eyes still mainly focused on monitoring his class. "Thank you Mr Goyle. I believe you are the first today to bag the formidable witch. If I were you, I'd be out of this room forthwith, as when I give her the antidote, she may wish to take her anger out on your suspecting hands."
"Thank you sir," Goyle said, sending a weary, gratified smile towards Potter.
Harry left the room, knowing a dismissal when given it, but more interested in how everyone else was doing than actually catching more cats. Harry was rapidly learning that people's reactions during Snape's class were predictive of a large range of future behavior.
Harry Potter had arrived back in class, as had most of the students, just in time to be dismissed. It wasn't a deliberate slight - the only people who hadn't come back at all were either lost (probable in Boot's case, the lickspittle...), or had failed to catch anything at all. That was more probable with Seamus, whose temperament seemed the type to scare cats. And he seemed like the cheerful type who'd still be rigging up some sort of trap to capture animals that truly didn't like him.
"Dismissed," Snape said, "Two feet of parchment at least on what you learned today." Oddly enough, Snape didn't even stand to dismiss people, so most of their eyes were on the ceiling. And a good thing too, as who really wanted to stare at Snape's plaid socks? Must have gotten them as a gift from McGonagall.
A bit concerned, Harry was about the last person to leave. Except, well, he really didn't leave. He waited for Snape to acknowledge him.
"Potter, get out of here. Any questions you have can wait until another day." Snape sigh-snarled, his voice mildly irritated.
Something was definitely wrong.
The rest of the day sped by, as if on great eagle wings, until it was time for Practice in the Room. Harry found it odd to be fighting against three, and worse when he was deliberately handicapping himself by not using area spells. Not even ones that they'd learned in class. Cut, pierce, stun. All direct action, all, well, Gryffindor spells.
Not that Ron was using anything like those spells. He was using that odd, perplexing list of spells that he'd learned over the summer. Harry could see Hermione's eyes sparkling with interest, and the banked frustration that was Snape's demand that they not try to learn Ron's spells. Even Draco looked interested, his gray eyes glinting silver like the greedy dragon he was named for.
Somehow, practice was different than with Snape. Here, it felt almost like they were goofing off. Snape always had a purpose for whatever spell he was casting. Often more than one.
Practice, however, was like throwing pasta at the wall until it stuck. If you got upset with a shield spell not working, you fired off a stunner in someone else's direction - rarely actually hitting, but good for the mind.
By the end of practice, Harry felt wrung out, like Aunt Petunia's faded dishrags that used to be sunshine yellow, but were now just a drab yellow-dunny color. They all sprawled on the floor, panting to catch their breaths (Harry vaguely recalled that you shouldn't pant to catch your breath, but he was far too tired to pay attention).
As usual, carping seemed like a good idea when you were stuck in a room with people you'd just cursed from East to West. "We've got Snape's essay to write... That's going to be a bear." Harry groaned.
"Did you even catch a cat?" Malfoy responded.
"Loads. Just - Did you know Goyle caught McGonagall?" Harry said.
Draco Malfoy responded to that with a louder groan, "Full points to him, then. And guess who's got to help him with his essay?"
"How did he manage that, I wonder?" Hermione began to bubble - even her normally hyperactive speech slowed down by being out of breath.
"You could ask him tomorrow." Ron said sensibly, and Harry actually began to wonder - because that wasn't something Ron would have said last year.
The complaining continued, moving on to McGonagall herself, and then to the Arithmancy teacher, who was apparently stricter than Snape. If that was possible. At least, according to Hermione, the Arithmancy teacher knew how to smile on the regular. Snape showing a true smile, rather than flashes of wolfish teeth and unadulterated malic, was as unlikely as a July snowfall. Finally, Ron said, "I'm gonna get a shower," wearily climbing to his feet.
"Maybe you can tell me how that bludger nearly hit Snowflake?" Hermione said, standing slowly and arching her back until it popped. Leave it to Hermione to not understand what that particularposition showed off. All the boys averted their gazes - belatedly.
The door closed after Ron and Hermione. Harry, so tired that his thoughts kept trying to leak away from his head, like trying to carry water in a sieve, startled, when he realized that Malfoy had already sat up.
"Hang on a tic," Harry said, as Malfoy - ever blankfaced, turned towards him. Harry loathed how the Slytherins were so good at concealing their emotions. He hated it.
Harry Potter lay down, sprawled on the ground in a most undignified fashion. He'd stopped thinking, in fact, falling back on older skills. Listening, hearing, watching... and seeing.
Harry Potter had never been particularly sly, nor deceitful, nor particularly ambitious. Which left one thread out of place - why had the Sorting Hat tried to put him in Slytherin?
His eyes drifted over to Draco Malfoy, running along the boy he had to admit he didn't know nearly as well as he'd have insisted just a few months ago. For all the time he'd spent glaring over at the arrogant boy, he hadn't tried to... see.
What was the similarity?
What pulled Greg Goyle to Slytherin? Severus Snape? Tom Riddle himself?
And then it clicked, the knowledge slotting into his head just as if it had always been there - which it had. He just hadn't let himself see it. Too busy trying to be a Gryffindor, he supposed. To have friends, to be liked.
For the moment, he let those thoughts drift away from him.
Just be.
It was a quiet state, a level of meditation that might have some potential for...
Just be, he thought again, more firmly.
Just be.
And then, as everything resolved into crystallic perfection, he spoke. "I heard a rumor a while back..." He let the story lie fallow, the potential hanging like a cloud so low it was fog.
"Oh?" Malfoy responded, his face deliberately not showing the interest that he most surely had. Harry knew how Malfoy'd respond if he didn't care. That's nice, Potter. Malfoy'd drawl, Turning into a gossipy old maid?
"About Snape." Harry Potter said, "I'd like to know the truth."
"I'm sure you would," Malfoy said, balancing on an elbow, "What makes you think that I know?"
"I don't think you do,really." Harry admitted, "But you can find out."
"I can do many things, Potter," Malfoy drawled, his pace deliberately slow, almost tantalizing. "What makes you think that I'll do this for you?"
"For me?" Potter said, chuckling, "No, you'll do it for the knowledge itself, I think." Harry let his mouth slowly smile, turning into a grin.
"And if you're asking me to just hunt after lies?" Malfoy said skeptically.
"Then I'll pay a forfeit." Harry responded. "Your choice, nothing illegal or that will absolutely get me thrown out of school."
"Lotta leeway in that," Malfoy said, his eyes staring upwards, but flashing greedily, "If I asked you to plant a swamp in the middle of the Great Hall?"
"A good prank," Harry affably agreed, "I'd do it, of course."
Malfoy's answering smirk was almost all the acceptance Harry needed. But he willed himself to stay quiet, to wait until Malfoy put it into words. "Okay, what's this rumor?"
"I heard that Professor Snape had a friend who was in Gryffindor." Harry said, doing his best to sound, if not idle, at least not very invested in the whole of the question. It had been driving him up the wall for ages, but he devoutly couldn't bear if Malfoy knew that. What sort of Death Eater had that been? It boggled the mind to think of someone from Gryffindor, home of Sirius Black and James Potter, having the black bollocks to hang out with Severus Snape. It was the sort of thing that Harry needed to know. Snape was a scholar, as much as he was a Potions Master - was that what had gotten him a Gryffindor friend?
Malfoy snorted, "Is your source at all credible, Potty? Because that sounds incredible."
"The best." Harry responded, and knowingly let Malfoy reach the conclusion that it was McGonagall.
"I'll ask around." Malfoy said, his knowing smirk flashing into a smug smile. "Be prepared to pay up."
Harry laced his hands behind his head, in an impression of nonchalance that he didn't feel, "Oh, I will."
Harry looked at the top of his bedcurtains, his hands fiddling with his wand for lack of something better to fiddle with. No, he'd rather have a rubick's cube or something - at least then he could pretend that he was really doing something, rather than just fidgeting for its own sake.
What Hermione had said... and more importantly, what she'd looked like, was bothering Harry. He didn't want her to be all adrift like that - particularly because it was honesty his fault.
If He hadn't have said something, Ron would have continued to sink time and effort into vainly crushing on his best friend - for the simple reason that Hermione wouldn't turn him down hard.
And now Hermione was stuck thinking that she was all alone,and everyone else had a date. Well, Harry thought, there were ways to fix that.
Should he?
That was the question. And why he was fiddling here.
He heard the lightly heavy steps (so unlike Dudley's), as Longbottom came into the room. Harry lightly swung out of his own bed, "Hey Neville" When you thought about it, Neville was the perfect choice - an utter gentleman, a nice guy - and, most importantly, not someone Hermione would fall in steamy hot love with. **
"Hey Harry," Neville said, starting to take off his muddy clothes. Good thing that Hogwarts had elves, Harry's hands were itching to clean up just at the sight. And Harry hated cleaning.
"You should ask Hermione to the dance." Harry said firmly.
"Why?" Neville said, glancing down at himself, before meeting Harry's eyes, "Has she said something about me?"
"well, no..." Harry said, "It's just, that she doesn't have anyone to go with..."
"Guess it wouldn't hurt to try..." Neville said, "Only... why didn't you just ask her?" Harry mentally winced, thinking that he really didn't need a crush on his best friend Right Now. No, that would just cause too many complications.
Harry smiled (he was sure it was a bit wan), and said simply, "Oh, that's plan B!"
Neville and Harry grinned at each other as they went to bed.
**Famous last Words, Harry!
*ramparts, actually. but who expects Harry to know medieval architecture?