Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters in the books. I do however, own the cool microwave I just bought for my dorm room.

As always, thanks to my reviewers. If you left a signed reveiw, I replied to you personally, if you are anonymous, I replied right here.

Gremlin: Awwww, thank you so much. And thanks for dropping a reveiw, I really appreciate it.

Rachel: heh heh, actually I'm going for the quick update rather than legnth of the chapters, but there will be some longer chapters out there, just not today

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Chapter 6

Rule #5: After a late night spent saving friends and doing other things that should be left for those who actually enjoy doing heroic deeds (i.e. Potter), make sure that the following day can be spent doing nothing but recuperating from said activities. If that is not possible, make sure that one perishes doing said heroic deeds so that the following day is not spent prying one's eyes open.

Rule #5, revised: Late night activities cause a lack of awareness. Use only when necessary.

Draco sat outside in the courtyard, skipping lunch because he still had a slight migraine from last night and it was making him nauseas. Granted the bright sun wasn't helping his headache either, but it was helping him think things through. It was easier to think of Voldemort in the sun, because the brightness chased away any dark feelings, and because he somehow imagined that Voldemort would disintegrate in the sun, like a vampire.

He sighed. A year ago he had been a diehard Slytherin where the only thing that mattered had been his own security and comfort, and although he knew that Voldemort was on the rise, he had ignored it the best he could, burying the Dark Lord under physics equations and new potions. However, a year ago he hadn't been told he was getting the Dark Mark.

A year ago he had believed that the Order was only a group of eager-to-die martyrs; why else would they choose a battle they couldn't possibly win? Now he realized that perhaps they just wanted the opportunity to choose their own lives like he did, although he figured people like Dumbledore were just self-actualized.

Draco didn't really believe in self-actualization, the theory that one is not fulfilling their potential unless they are doing the thing they were born to do. He figured people could do what ever they damned well pleased; he just wasn't going to be a Death Eater.

He vaguely wondered if he was on his way to being self-actualized by refusing to be a Death Eater, but he had always thought of self-actualized people as the all-knowing type, aka, Dumbledore. If Draco were truly self-actualized, he would know the meaning of life and if it were worth living and what it was really all about.

"The damn Hokey-Pokey," he muttered blandly. Those near him in the courtyard outside gave him odd looks. He just glared, slightly unnerved that he had just referenced a Muggle dance, but then again he had just referenced a Muggle psychology theory, but at least he had an excuse for the psychology because it was educational.

He refused to go back to the For Pureblood Reign group; it was a waste of time and they were so bloody stupid he had felt like murdering them all with an Avada right there. Either that or he would be forced to kill himself before insanity struck, and he knew it would strike. One Wednesday down and he was only kept sane because he had brewed potions in his head and found objects to write physics equations on.

He sighed again and leaned back against the stone wall, tilting his face up to the sun. He was going to get sunburned, but right then he didn't care. He closed his eyes against the rays that were so bright that the inside of his eyelids were red.

He was still exhausted from last night's activities in saving Blaise and then making sure no one else knew what had happened. Why couldn't have McGonagall or Snape been the one to deal with him? He didn't like that Weasley professor.

Alright, perhaps that wasn't fair, because Bill had been the only teacher in the history of Hogwarts who actually treated him like everyone else. The other teachers tried of course, but there was always an undercurrent of fear, or in McGonagall's case, an undercurrent of disgust. But Bill, he was perceptive, and he wasn't prejudiced, or if he was, then he was doing a damn good job of not showing it.

There was a commotion as the students started to file back in for classes, and Draco wearily made his way up to NEWT Transfiguration. He kept himself awake by reviewing potions in his head; even then, there were a few moments when his eyes drifted shut, and his head began to droop forward, only to have him jerk back awake.

Rule number five: After a late night spent saving friends and doing other things that should be left for those who actually enjoy doing heroic deeds (i.e. Potter), make sure that the following day can be spent doing nothing but recuperating from said activities. If that is not possible, make sure that one perishes doing said heroic deeds so that the following day is not spent prying one's eyes open.

Draco frowned. That really was a tad lengthy. Very well then.

Rule number five, revised: Late night activities cause a lack of awareness. Use only when necessary.

Draco couldn't have been more relieved when class was over, and made his way down to the Ancient Runes class wondering what Bill's rule on sleeping in class was. With his rules, perhaps it was something like 'no sleeping in class, unless you promise not to snore'. But then again, Bill had been the one to interrogate him and Blaise that morning, so perhaps it would be best not to get on his bad side.

Draco slid into his seat next to Granger rethinking that statement. The whole trouble was that Bill didn't think that he was a bad kid, so maybe he should sleep in class, so that Bill would think that he had beaten up Blaise and write him off as a troublemaker and leave it at that.

Class started and Draco found that it was much easier to stay awake when in a class that he actually enjoyed. He found his foot tapping again as he stared at the worksheet Bill had handed out to be worked on individually and his right hand was drumming lightly on the desk as his left wrote in the answers. Bill stopped at each student's desk to answer questions, and Draco saw the hidden smile as Bill came to his.

"Hyperactive much, Draco?" Bill asked in a whisper, crouching by his desk and gesturing to his tapping fingers.

Draco shrugged it off. "Helps me concentrate," he said.

"Any questions on the sheet?"

"Just this one," Draco lied easily. He pointed to a blank he had skipped over. "I don't know if it should be singular or plural."

"It relates to the subject, not the direct object," said Bill. "That's why you are getting confused. You're over thinking it."

"Oh," said Draco, as if he understood now and filled the blank in.

"You got it," said Bill. "Good job." And the Professor moved on to the next student and Draco was left wondering if he had gotten so few encouraging remarks in his life that he should feel that good about a word of praise from a Weasley.

He shook his head and glanced up at the board to see what they would be doing for the rest of the class period. Bill always wrote the instructions in the fourth Greek dialect but this time, there was a difference. It was slight, and almost unnoticeable, but there all the same. Draco frowned at the board, not being able to pinpoint the exact change.

Bill called the student's attention and began lecturing. Draco took out parchment as Bill began writing notes on the board and pretended to write them down, but he was actually thinking back to last Tuesday and the instructions written on the board then. Draco didn't have photographic memory; but his memory was just as sharp, if not better, because photographic memory was just in pictures and still frames.

Draco could recall gestures people made, and inflections in their voices. While Lucius could tell you exactly what someone was wearing a month ago at what party, Draco could tell you what they wore, who they talked to, what they ate or drank, and whether or not they wanted to be there. If he heard them, he could recall exactly what they said, give or take a few words. So although Draco couldn't recall the exact wording of the message, he reviewed the entire last lesson, especially the parts when Bill referred back to the board and the instructions he had written and came to the correct conclusion that there was something indeed different about Bill's set of instructions.

He stumbled over the difference almost by accident. He was reaching in his bag to get out another sheet of parchment, having doodled all over his first trying to find the difference, when his hand brushed against the book Bill had given him. Immediately he remembered the Syrian dialect, where all of the adjectives went before the noun, and that's when he understood.

In the fourth Greek dialect, the adjectives of a plural noun went before the noun, and the adjectives of a single noun went afterwards. Bill had switched a couple, no, more than a couple, a very large amount. He copied down the instructions on the board to look it over more carefully without drawing suspicion. It was a code; he was sure of it. Bill never made mistakes, at least not this many in a row, so it must be on purpose, but why?

Draco was so wrapped up in the anomalies in front of him that he barely noticed the rest of the lecture. When class was finally dismissed, Draco lagged behind to see if anyone else was coming in who could read the message, but while putting his books away (very slowly) he saw Bill erasing the board, quite thoroughly as well.

Draco left the class deep in thought and headed straight back to his dorm to see if he could figure out the code, but the harder he studied it, the more confused he became. However, the more confused he became, the more certain he was that these errors were done on purpose. But who was Bill contacting, and why?

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Bill erased the board as his class filtered out, making sure that the area that held the instructions for the advanced class was thoroughly wiped clear. Once done, he sank back into his teacher's chair.

He had been so certain of that code in the beginning, and yet when he had placed it up, it had felt as if it were screaming its hidden message out loud. It was all Bill could do not to turn around and check it every three seconds.

No matter. It was done now, and Tonks was no doubt translating the code right now. She would then put it in an essay and hand it in to McGonagall. Yes, his work was done. Until he called again that is.

Bill sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his face. He needed a stiff drink; perhaps he should go see Hagrid. Yes, that was a very good idea.

Bill got up and dropped his papers off at his desk in the teacher's lounge, his eye lighting a moment on the student files on top of the surface, but he moved on. He doubted he could concentrate on the Quidditch World Cup at this moment, and he could feel a few very premature grey hairs start poking out of his scalp.

He headed down the corridor, then stopped short when he spotted the DADA Professor slip down a flight of stairs, looking nervously over his shoulder as he did so, though he didn't spot Bill.

Bill frowned and then followed. This staircase led into the lower corridors of the school where there were hardly any classes down here, save Potions. Stevick began throwing open doors and ducking down hallways as if searching for something. Bill continued following, though he hoped the Professor knew where he was going because he doubted he could find his own way back.

Stevick seemed to grow more frustrated with each passing moment and with each classroom that was empty, save the dust and spiders that occupied the desks. Muttering under his breath, the man turned down yet another corridor and Bill wondered if he should try to find his own way back. He was just considering this when Stevick pulled up sharply and Bill had to duck into a doorway to avoid being seen.

Claire Jameson was in the hallway, bending down to pick up her papers that she had dropped. Her bag was split open at the seams, the obvious cause of the accident.

"Oh, Miss Jameson," said Stevick, trying to control and extinguish the frustration he had felt for the past fifteen minutes, and pretending that he was meant to be down in the dungeons. "I was looking for you; we have a meeting now."

"Now?" asked Claire, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "I thought that was tomorrow, wasn't it?"

"Yes, well, you see," Stevick spluttered, casting around for an answer. "I can't do it tomorrow. I have an…engagement."

"I see," said Claire, finally managing to gather all of her work and standing. "Where at?"

"Somewhere a little more private," said Stevick. "I know why you're here, of course."

Claire looked confused. "I was filling in for Professor Snape," she said. "The Potions classroom is right there."

She pointed down the hall, and immediately Bill realized where they were, a good thing to because he wouldn't have found his way out for another week without that tidbit.

"Of course you were," said Stevick. "Let's go, shall we?"

He led Claire away, not even helping her carrying her things, though her arms were full to bursting. Bill stayed behind, partly because he didn't want to be seen just then, and partly because he needed to work out Stevick's strange actions and conversation.

He left ten minutes later to Hagrid's hut, and found the Golden Trio there drinking tea with the half giant.

"'ello, Bill," said Hagrid warmly, letting Bill inside where Fang immediately drooled on him. "Would you like some tea?"

Knowing that Hagrid's tea was strong, and that he wanted his brain clear to work out the Stevick situation, Bill nodded and took a seat next to his brother.

"So what's wrong with Snape?" asked Harry, eagerly.

"Pr'fesser Snape, 'arry," Hagrid reminded the boy, placing a mug of tea in front of Bill.

"Far as I know he's ill," said Bill, shrugging.

"So it's not something to do with Voldemort, is it?" asked Hermione leaning forward a little.

"Far as I know, you three aren't in the Order yet," said Bill, taking a sip of the scalding liquid and closing his eyes in appreciation. He opened them again when Hermione continued.

"I'll be seventeen in a few days," she said. "And then I'll have clearance, won't I?"

Bill sighed. Hermione's birthday had been a great source of debate among the Order, because they all knew that once Hermione knew, she would tell Harry and Ron all she learned.

"Well, you'll have to wait a few more days then," said Bill.

That was part of the reason the entire Order didn't know about Bill's spying job, so that they could keep that information away from the teenagers. It was just a little too dangerous to let the three know, dangerous for him and dangerous for them.

"Who cares if he's sick or not," said Ron. "I only hope he's out Friday as well. Personally, I'm jealous that Ginny got the Snape-free Potions class. She said that Slytherin got marked off fifty points because they were misbehaving. I would love to see Malfoy's face in a Potions class like that!"

Bill smiled ruefully. Yes, there was no love lost between his family and 'that Malfoy boy' as his mother put it.

"Well, we should go now," said Hermione, standing up. "We have an essay to do for Potions tomorrow and I would rather not get marked off if Snape is there for class."

The boys groaned, but followed Hermione. Hagrid pulled out a bottle of very old whiskey from his cupboard.

"I assume you came here for this, Bill?" he asked.

Bill broke into a grin. "That would be perfect Hagrid," he said.

Once they were settled down by the fire with their glasses of whiskey Bill turned to the gameskeeper. "So, what do you think of Stevick?" he asked.

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So, drop a review and let me know what you think, oh yeah, and Bill finds out about Draco in two more chapters!