The last chapter was quite lengthy...this chapter, not so much, harharhar. Sorry, guys. It's mostly banter--but lovely Harry & Malfoy banter, so I do hope you enjoy.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Poetic Justice

Harry had spent the night tossing and turning. There was no meeting with Tom in his dreams, nor anything really definable. Only shadows springing up around him that he could only glimpse out of the corner of his eye before he turning to see better and watching them dissipate. In all, it was a very frustrating thing to dream of.

When he awoke and had fumbled to put his glasses on, the first thing he'd noticed was that there had been no one there to wake him up. It was, the calendar showed, a Saturday, which generally meant that if Malfoy were to wake first he would rouse Harry so they would "suffer consciousness together," as the other boy put it. But Malfoy's bed was empty; something strange must have happened.

The next moment, the door of the dormitory banged open and the boy in question trudged in with a bitter look. Zabini and Nott stirred and muttered incomprehensibly; Crabbe and Goyle didn't budge a muscle. Malfoy took no notice of any of this, flopping down miserably on Harry's bed.

"Wha's going on?" Harry asked with a slight slur.

"They stole the map," Malfoy moaned.

"What!"

"Those disgusting Weasel twins. They found me, and they spelled me, and they took the Map." Malfoy stared gloomily at the ceiling.

Harry glanced at the other beds in the dormitory and said hurriedly, "Keep your voice down, first thing—and second, what do you mean they found you? Where did you go last night?"

Malfoy waved his hand dismissingly. "Just wandering around the halls. After dark, I mean. And I guess they were too, and they froze me and took it."

Harry ran a hand through his extremely messy hair, agitated. "Stole my map? My dad's map?"

Malfoy nodded; the effect was strange, what with him lying down. Suddenly he sat up and said fiercely, "You've got to get it back." Harry raised an eyebrow at this sudden change of mood. "No, I'm serious!" Malfoy almost yelled. "You HAVE to get it back. It's your dad and his mates what made it, and Filch found me when I woke up and now I've got detention, and—and—they called me kid. Those idiots had the nerve to—"

Harry held up his hands to quiet the boy. "Alright, alright, quit fussing, of course I'm going to get it. Who do you think we are, a couple of…er…lier-downers? And quit yelling before you wake everyone up."

"We'll have to find out how to get into their common room. When everyone else is gone—Hogsmeade weekend," Malfoy continued, a brooding look on his face. "It's next week, the visit, Filch is making me do detention that day." He looked up at Harry, his face smug. "You'll steal it back then, for me. Father always said plans require a little poetic justice."

Harry frowned. "I've got to get it back myself, then? How will I even get in there?"

Malfoy thought, then said, "Lag around their ugly little portrait hole a bit with the cloak on, and wait till someone says the password. Even you can pull this off."

Harry snorted. "Oh, even me, eh? Let's not overlook who lost the map in the first place."

"We'll get it back." Malfoy met Harry's bemused gaze squarely. Harry felt a little nostalgic: here they were, conspiring together like before, before he had the diary, before he met Tom. He saw Malfoy hesitate now and look down.

"So," the fair boy remarked in a cool tone. "You learned a whole new language and didn't bother to tell me?"

Harry stiffened. "What are you talking about?"

Malfoy laughed derisively. "Parseltongue."

Harry blinked. He vaguely remembered hearing something like that, but his mind drew a blank. "What's Parseltongue?"

His friend looked at him in disbelief. "You playing? You don't know, honestly?" He leaned in towards Harry. "Talked to any snakes lately?" he drawled.

Harry drew back, and his dream with Tom returned to memory. "I—but—how did you know?"

"Little bird. How in hell did you just pick up Parseltongue?" Malfoy asked incredulously.

"It's not such a big deal…" Harry said weakly, not sure if he believed that.

"Look, Potter, your parents are darling goody two shoes, but my family's gone back to generations of Dark wizards. And let me tell you, Parseltongue isn't something you just shrug off. That Slytherin bloke, one of the founders, he was a Parselmouth. And there've only been a few recorded ones since him: some necromancer in Italy, Grindelwald, Lord Voldemort. This is most definitely a big deal."

Harry sighed. "I, er, I got this Christmas present, see, and it—"

Malfoy gave him an insulted look. "Do you really expect me to believe that you got Parseltongue for Christmas?" Harry met the other's gaze squarely until Malfoy rolled his eyes and said, "All right, all right, that part doesn't matter. Who was it? Who taught it to you?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth for a moment, not sure what to say. "I don't really know…"

Malfoy glared at him, but was stopped from inquiring further by stirs in Theodore Nott's corner of the room. "The important thing," the fair boy said in a quieter voice, "is to get that map back. Then you can—you can get back to world conquest or whatnot. But I'm going to want more answers than your stupid 'dunnos' sooner or later, Potter."

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