Chapter 4: Studying
Male and female foxlet gliders are sexually dimorphic in only several notable ways. While males are typically larger than females upon reaching ultimate maturity, the most apparent difference lies in tail morphology. While females possess a split tail – the distinctive and often variably coloured 'three tails' – males possess only one. This discrepancy is thought to have arisen due to insulative functions of these multitude of tails. Females, as the more permanent residents of the den during breeding season, have exhibited the use of their tails to act as a blanket for their offspring (Jofferson, 1943).
However, behaviourally there are few apparent differences between males and females, despite males typically traversing greater home ranges. Males and females both have upon various occasions (see references) demonstrated both the moderate behaviour of a Sedate and more aggressive behaviour. It is not solely the males who have exhibited this latter behaviour, the heightened aggression characteristic of foxlet gliders. Females too have been observed to go 'Berserk'.
"Peta… Pet-Petau… It was, wasn't it? No, that's definitely not it… What was it that she said the other one was? Family or something… Petauridae?"
Shaking his head, Harry ran his fingers over the spines of the books once more, along the row of books that looked largely identical to the countless others above and below and around it. He had no idea, really. He wasn't a studier, and though Hermione had already recited to him the 'Family name' and the 'Order' only minutes before, he couldn't remember the Latin terms. He should have written them down, he knew, but… who ever thought to do such things before they were needed?
Pausing his trailing fingers, Harry tilted his head sideways to better read the spine of one book in particular. Diprotodontia of Southern Europe: A Study of Arboreal Mammals. Dipro… whatever it was, that was the one Hermione had said, wasn't it? That was the Order name? Harry thought it was but he couldn't be sure.
As it turned out, Hogwarts' library held a surplus of books on magical creatures. More than a surplus; it was a veritable sea of books. Harry hadn't spent that much time in the third aisle from the east wall, not even when he'd been taking Care of Magical Creatures as a subject, so the reality of it was astounding. More so that Harry actually spent the time searching for the books he wanted found – in the past he would hardly have bothered to input the time. Now, though, he had an invested interest.
Tugging the book – the tome really, and who the hell would possibly even write something so long? – Harry propped it against the shelf and flipped it open. Flipped the pages. Scanned the minute writing. God, this is going to be a dry read, he thought resignedly. Worse than that, he didn't know if it even had the information he would be looking for. How does Hermione do this all the time?
At his ear, a chittering little "yip-yip" sounded just louder than a squeak. Harry glanced down at the pointed snout that peered down towards the book that he had open, the wide black eyes – only two of them open now, with the third apparently disappeared when unneeded – staring at the pages as though reading the words herself. As had happened so often already that day, Harry found himself smiling. How could he not when looking at Pips? It was like a reflexive response; he honestly couldn't help it. And, after the absence of smiles in the past few months, an absence that had only just begun to be alleviated, he couldn't help but think it was a good thing.
Ron smiled. Hermione smiled. Both of them, with more frequency than he'd seen since the end of the war. Sure, they might have been landed with a largely thankless job by the blissfully ignorant Hagrid – he honestly didn't seem to realise that not everyone seemed to consider creature care a desirable leisure activity – but Harry couldn't think it was a bad thing. Not in the twelve hours since he'd bonded with Pipsqueak.
Pipsqueak was her name. It was what Harry had named her, but he hardly felt as though it had been his choice at all. It just seemed to fit. She was small, tiny, even smaller than her two siblings. Harry thought it was likely that reason that had her chattering sound of a higher pitch, more a "yip" than a "yap". And yes, Harry was very aware that it was more than a little pathetic that, after barely a day, he could already identify Pips' chitters. Was it even possible to become whipped with an animal?
Mrs Figg had countless sickly sweet names for her cats. All of them cute, all of them fuzzy and, in Harry's opinion, all of them ridiculously out of character for what he considered to be her largely unapproachable, unlikeable and grumpy horde of cats. Mrs Figg had said that a group of cats was sometimes called a glaring and Harry had considered the name entirely appropriate for her pets in particular.
Harry thought he would always flinch should the names Mr Tibbles, Snowy, Twinkles or Princess arise in conversation. Too many less than agreeable memories arose at the thought, of long nights spent looking at picture after grainy picture of cats. Just cats. Really, who even cared? But there was one name that stuck with him, a name that somehow jumped out at him from the moment that Hermione had suggested they name them on the trip back from Hagrid's hut.
Pipsqueak wasn't any cat in particular but more shared around amongst the horde as a general title. Maybe that was why Harry felt more inclined to using it. Or maybe it was because Mrs Figg always used the word with exasperated fondness. "Pipsqueak, don't use the kitchen window to come indoors, you'll fall into the sink", or "Share your dinner with Giggles, Pipsqueak". Always to a different cat and usually when chiding. Chiding affectionately, but still chiding nonetheless. It was one of the only things Harry could recall of Mrs Figg's that he had actually though was… sort of cute. It seemed to fit Pipsqueak perfectly.
Ron called his Tod. Harry and Hermione had, naturally, immediately jumped upon his back about how unimaginative such a name was.
"Wow, take you a while to come up with that one, Ron?"
Ron shouldered Harry with a smirk. "Shut up, Harry."
"You could be a bit more creative, Ron," Hermione suggested, sparing a faintly apologetic glance to the newly named Tod where he seemed to be hanging quite happily from the crook of Ron's arm.
Ron turned his smirk upon her instead. "Well, then, what are you going to call yours, if you're so imaginative?"
Hermione glanced down at the white foxlet in her arms. It was a girl, that one, just as Harry's was, distinctive for her three tails. And no, they didn't discover as much because Hagrid had informed them of that little difference between genders, but because he'd offhandedly sexed them as a group as being "two girls and one boy" before they'd left. They'd joined the dots when they'd noticed that Ron's only had one tail, which was weird, but whatever; who was Harry to question it?
Hermione seemed as smitten with her foxlet as Harry felt. Not that he would readily admit it aloud to anyone but it was true. She seemed genuinely concerned about what to name the tod who seemed to have become perfectly content snuggling into her chest just beneath her chin. After a long moment, Hermione replied. "I'm thinking Kitsune maybe."
"Oh, well that makes sense," Ron said with an expression somehow entirely devoid of laughter. Hermione still frowned at him.
"What's it mean, Hermione?" Harry asked.
Hermione turned towards him with a small smile. "It's Japanese. Basically, it means fox –"
"Wait, so you just told me off for calling Tod 'baby fox', but you're just calling yours 'Japanese fox'? I think that's a bit of a double standard."
Hermione sighed long-sufferingly. "It doesn't just mean 'fox', Ron. It is, more correctly, a fox spirit. They're not exactly different from foxes, but the word has connotations of intelligence and magic –"
"How do you know all this stuff?" Ron interrupted her, shaking his head with the awe that he always seemed to adopt when Hermione went on an intellectual rant. Harry could admit now, as he hadn't been able to before they were officially dating, that he suspected it probably turned him on just a little bit. Which was sort of horrifying to consider, even with the knowledge that his two best friends were practically in love, but Harry would acknowledge it anyway. Acknowledge and never think of again.
The rest of the day was an experience, and far from being a poor one. Harry felt an immediate attachment to Pipsqueak that he'd never felt for another creature before, more even than with Hedwig. Pips, for whatever reason, appeared to have developed the same. She was permanently tied around Harry's neck, wrapped like a scarf in a way that was far from annoying, and remained that way throughout the entirety of Harry's classes. No one had really commented on her presence except to croon softly or reach twitching fingers towards her soft fur with the urge to simply touch. Even Flitwick had demonstrated his affection for the foxlets, to say nothing of Slughorn. All of it had gone remarkably well with the exception of…
"Well, it could be worse," Harry muttered to himself. "I could be having to do it all by myself. At least there's someone else to fob the boring books off too."
"Do you often talk to yourself, Potter? Surprising. I'd never noticed before."
Glancing over his shoulder, Harry caught sight of Malfoy turning into the aisle with a collection of books floating behind him. He paused in step as he spoke, tilting his chin just slightly and straightening his shoulders in that way that made him look taller than he actually was. Really, he wasn't all that much taller than Harry. They might even be of a height these days – Harry wasn't sure and had never bothered to check.
Shrugging, Harry turned back to the book propped in his hands and continued to flick through it. "Sometimes, I guess. I don't know. I've never really noticed if I do."
"It's a touch concerning that you don't realise. Talking to oneself is one of the first signs of insanity, you know."
Harry didn't reply. It wasn't because he couldn't think of any particular retort but simply because he couldn't be bothered. He didn't feel the urge to engage in verbal warfare with Malfoy, not anymore – he hadn't felt so inclined for a long time. It just seemed petty, sort of. What was the point in fighting? Besides, unless his ears were deceiving him, Harry didn't think that Malfoy particularly wanted to fight either. His words were casual, almost bored, but with a faint strain to them as though he were pushing himself to speak as such. As though he too could hardly be bothered but felt obliged.
Harry had to wonder at that. Why did Malfoy bother anymore? It wasn't like there was cause to do so, and it would probably be easier for them both if they avoided doing as much. He and Harry would have to work together over the next few months if they were going to care for Pips together, because for some reason the foxlet had decided that Malfoy of all people looked like the perfect person to be her second-bound. Why not?
It had to be Malfoy. Of course, out of all the people in the school, Pipsqueak had to choose Malfoy to be the other person she bonded to. Perfect.
Harry didn't hate Malfoy. Truly, he didn't. He wasn't sure if he even disliked him all that much anymore when he thought about it. It was hard to really dislike anyone after so much had happened. After the battle, after they'd both nearly died in the Room of Requirement, after their one and only confrontation afterwards when Harry had returned his wand to him. Sometimes Harry felt as if all the anger, all the rage and hatred, had simply been drained from him, that he wouldn't be able to get it back even if he'd wanted it.
Harry didn't particularly want it. Although, all things considered, it might have been a little easier if he did feel something more for Malfoy than neutral acknowledgement. Even if it was anger, frustration, or even mild annoyance. Now he just felt… nothing. Such happened sometimes. Harry couldn't bring himself to feel more than that for people he had once been so averse to. Hatred just… it just wasn't there any more.
The problem didn't lie so much in how Harry perceived Malfoy but more in how Malfoy seemed to perceive him. There wasn't hatred from him either, that much Harry suspected. But even so… no, Malfoy was not happy about the situation. He might not hate Harry as much as he used to but that didn't mean he liked him and that dislike was certainly exacerbated by their situation. By the forced bonding. By Pipsqueak.
Ginny had taken it well. More than well, actually, when Tod, had expressed an instant inclination to bond with her. Ron had been distinctly little perturbed because "why does it have to be with my sister?" until Hermione, her head already in a book that she'd acquired from the library in their drive-by that morning, had explained that, from what little she'd gleaned in her swift studies, they tended to bond with someone that either member of the bond felt something strongly for – fondness, connectedness, even hatred. Ron had quickly agreed that Hermione was probably right in that regard, and that yes, that Tod had chosen his sister of all people probably did make sense.
Ginny had hardly let Tod out of her hold since she'd been chosen by him and Tod seemed to love every second of her undivided attention. She'd even gone so far as to scold Ron for the foxlet's namesake. Really, in Harry's opinion and despite Ron's immediate, doting affection for Tod, Ginny seemed to have become the primary carer for Tod. She'd even gone so far as to steal him from Ron for half of their lessons that day. She, at least, seemed more than happy for their particular turn of events.
Lavender was a different story. The ex-Gryffindor girl, surprisingly returned to Hogwarts as only she and Hermione of their old dorm had, had been subdued when Hermione had explained to her during their Charms class later that morning the meaning behind Kitsune's spontaneous 'choosing'. Unexpectedly – or perhaps typically from what little Harry had seen of her since their return to school – Lavender was silent in response. Silent and thoughtful, guarded and just a little confused. But she had accepted it. Accepted that she would play a role in helping out with Kitsune's rearing.
Lavender was different to how she had been. It wasn't just a little bit, either; she was very different, in a way that made Harry fight back the urge to cringe whenever he saw her. It wasn't because of the scars that streaked across her face and that Harry had seen more than a few people staring it – they were ugly, brutal scars, slashing across her cheeks, across the bridge of her nose, and had blinded her in one eye with the scar that ran straight through it. It was horrifying to behold, more because Harry had seen Lavender when it happened, had seen her actually being mauled by Fenrir.
But more than the scarring was her demeanour. Lavender had always been a bright, bubbly, superficial and, all things considered, sort of stupid kind of girl. She was exactly the type of person that Hermione disliked for being her polar opposite. But since Lavender had returned to school – a reality that had surprised Harry but he'd accepted just as he had everyone else's return – she was different, so altered as to be an entirely different person. She kept her eyes downturned as though to avoid those of the people around her. She rarely raised her voice above a murmur, sometimes speaking inaudibly without her apparent realisation. She never smiled anymore to say nothing of laughter, and seemed to have developed a sort of nervous twitch whenever anyone drew too close to her.
Harry had been surprised when Kitsune had chosen Lavender. Not because of Lavender herself, even if the change in the girl was so pronounced that it was hard not to be surprised at the foxlet's supposed fondness for her, but because he couldn't fathom where the bond hard arisen from. Hermione said it was generally elicited by strong emotions, either positive or negative, from one person or the other and that the foxlets picked up on that. At first Harry had thought it was from Lavender, that perhaps she was still jealous even over a year after their break-up, that Hermione was dating Ron? But that didn't seem to be characteristic of Lavender anymore. It didn't seem possible for the quiet, downtrodden girl to feel anything so powerful.
Hermione had only confused him further when he'd murmured a brief question to her during their Potions class in the moments that Lavender had taken herself to the storeroom. A strange, unreadable expression had crossed her face and her gaze had drifted towards the storeroom as her hand settled upon Kitsune draped over her shoulder. "I think it would probably have been driven by me, actually."
"What?" Harry asked, surprised.
Hermione glanced towards him, a small, sad smile upon her face. "Me. I think Kitsune probably picked up on my emotions for her and…" She trailed off and deliberately turned towards her Potions textbook. Harry was left only more baffled, had exchanged a confused glance with Ron, before subsiding. He didn't understand, but he didn't feel it was his place to ask, to push for an explanation.
Lavender might have been quiet. She might have been reserved and hesitant, and Harry might have even expected that she would immediately shrink, withdraw, profess that no, she wouldn't, couldn't help to look after Kitsune. But she hadn't. Though not quite as ready to offer assistance as Ginny was, not quite as eager, she'd listened to Hermione's explanation and had slowly nodded her understanding. She'd accepted it and, from what Harry could make out from their successive classes, she was at least attempting to be helpful. She'd sat next to Hermione in every one, though that might just have been because they were the only ex-Gryffindor girls in eighth year.
Lavender was a good partner. Ginny was a good partner too, regardless of how Ron was already complaining about having to work with his sister, and of how much she appeared to want to steal Tod from him.
But Harry? Harry got Malfoy.
It might not have been that bad, all things considered. Maybe. Harry knew he didn't hate Malfoy anymore, if he ever truly had, and he suspected that Malfoy might not dislike him quite as much anymore either. They might have even been able to work together for something as simple as classwork had they kept their interactions to a minimum. Harry didn't think he would get angry with Malfoy – he almost hoped he could but suspected he wouldn't be able to – but that didn't mean he would take any and all of the shit Malfoy could dish out.
Unfortunately, the reality was far different because quite clearly Malfoy hated animals. That much was apparent from their years in Care of Magical Creatures – the incident with Buckbeak swum immediately to the fore at that – and his compassion for them had evidently not been enhanced over the years. Certainly not since Pipsqueak had flown at his face.
Harry used to love seeing Malfoy unhinged. To see him frazzled and distressed, spluttering yet speechless. It had meant a victory for him, would soothe his wounded pride over the last time that Malfoy had left him in a similar state. But seeing him leaning heavily against the wall of the Great Hall, his fingers seeming to be attempting to fix his hair with mindless compulsion and his eyes widened in a startling mix of confusion, incredulity, indignation and yes, even a little bit of fear. Harry could see it. He hadn't felt even a touch of satisfaction. If anything he'd felt guilty. Malfoy had been through a lot the previous year, just as Harry had. Just as all of them had. Maybe he was as easily triggered as some of the younger and even the older students were, and maybe Pips' loving assault had been one push too far for him.
Malfoy hadn't taken the explanation well of his newly acquired role well. He'd immediately dug his heels in and set to objecting. "I've got study to do", "I don't have time for this", "I don't want to", "It's an animal, it doesn't need to be coddled"and "it's already got you, why does it need me around too?"
Harry had replied as best he could. That it was only for a few months. That it was a favour approved by McGonagall. That Foxlet Gliders were special for some such reason and could he just put up with it for a while? It wasn't as though he had to do all that much anyway. Just being around Pips should be enough.
Naturally, Malfoy rejected the suggestion. Harry had thought he'd changed, that he'd mellowed a little over the past months, the past years. But apparently that entitled, spoiled, self-centred prat that he had been still remained. Harry hadn't been angry for the fact, merely… resigned. It wasn't like there was a whole lot he could do about it anyway.
In fact, the only time he had been annoyed was in the second period of their Potions lesson. Pipsqueak had been the perfect foxlet throughout the entire class. Harry knew as much even if he didn't know anything about foxlets; he could see Ron having to maintain a constant source of entertainment for Tod with his quill that seemed to have to dual effect of similarly distracting Ron, while Kitsune seemed incapable of properly holding herself on Hermione's shoulder and kept slipping down her chest with a startled yap! Hermione had taken to merely holding her steady with one hand.
Pips had barely moved but to snuggle more closely into the nape of Harry's neck. He considered she might have liked the warmth up there and could hardly find cause to complain. She really had been no trouble at all except when, about halfway through their second hour, she'd begun to whimper. It was barely audible, but Harry couldn't help but be distracted by it. Her whimpers continued throughout the rest of the lesson, and it had only been when Harry had tried to soothe her that he'd realised the source of her distress.
She was looking at Malfoy. Looking at Malfoy and whimpering as though saddened by the distance he'd placed himself across half of the room.
Harry had a free day after that. He was only taking five NEWTs anyway, so Potions was his last subject. Hermione had Ancient Runes after lunch, and Arithmancy after that, but he and Ron had nothing but time on their hands. Time that Hermione, when she stood up from the table at lunch, had ordered them to spend in the library.
Harry would have. He had every intention of doing so – for once he actually felt inclined to study – and was even looking forward to finding out more about Pipsqueak. Except that Pips herself had continued a constant, barely audible sniffling of whimpers since they'd left Potions and Harry didn't need to look towards her to know her gaze was trained on Malfoy, even as she tightened her little paws around his collar.
Harry sighed. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't make exceptions for the foxlet. If he started getting into the habit of doing so now then there would be no turning back. He would be setting a precedent – get in there early, Uncle Vernon had always said.
Maybe it was because it was Uncle Vernon's voice that spoke it in his mind but Harry immediately stood up from the Gryffindor table at the thought. Stood up and made to follow Malfoy as he departed from the Great Hall.
"Hey, Harry! Can't you just wait for a man to finish his lunch?" Ron called after him around his half-eaten sandwich.
Harry barely glanced over his shoulder towards his friend. "Sorry, Ron. I think you'll have to spent the time in the library just you and Ginny for a bit." He didn't explained further and to the sounds of Ron's repeated "Hey!" he left the hall in Malfoy's wake. Moments later found him outside of the classroom for Ancient Runes
Harry didn't say a word as he entered the room and crossed the room towards Professor Babbling. A brief word which had invoked a smile from the kind-faced witch and he'd turned back towards the classroom and made his way to his seat. Hermione's surprised blinking had become an incredulous stare as he seated himself besides Malfoy. Malfoy, who turned with his own surprise as he'd taken a seat beside him and settled comfortable with a hand stroking at Pipsqueak's head.
He stared silently for a long moment. A very long moment as the classroom gradually filled with the rest of the seventh and eighth year students. Then, just as the bell sounded throughout the halls, he spoke. "Potter. What. Are you doing here?"
Harry paused in his plucking at Pips' head and spared Malfoy a sidelong glance. "Is it a problem that I'm sitting next to you?"
"Is it a -?"
"Does someone else usually sit here?"
Malfoy was silent for a moment, his face an unreadable mask but for the faint hint of surprise. "No. Other than Pansy I… Why are you -?"
"Good. That's good, then." And, in a display of academic adherence that Harry doubted he'd ever been inclined towards in his entire life, he reached into his bag and pulled his Transfiguration textbook from his bag, propped it open on his lap and set to reading from the very beginning.
Babbling hadn't yet started speaking when Malfoy reattempted his questioning, though he spoke in a hushed tone nonetheless. "What are you doing here? You don't take Runes, Potter."
"No, I don't."
"Then why -?"
"Pipsqueak was upset and she kept staring at you, so I figured she probably just wanted to spend some time with you or something." Harry shrugged nonchalantly, Pips shuffling around his shoulders as he did so to readjust herself. "She's stopped now, though."
"Pipsqueak?" Malfoy asked faintly.
"It's her name."
"Pipsqueak?"
Harry didn't reply this time. Instead he attempted to focus his attention solely upon his textbook, a hand raised to scratch at Pips' head. She crooned softly, barely audibly.
After another long moment, Babbling began her instruction with, "Right, so we'll start off with just a little revision from last… from sixth year. If you'll all open your textbooks to page sixteen, chapter two." Malfoy appeared not to hear her, however, and instead seemed intent upon staring at Harry. Harry ignored him – he did, though he wasn't exactly concentrating on the book in his lap – until Malfoy continued in barely more than a whisper. "You're following me because your rabid squirrel was whinging?"
"She's not a rabid squirrel. And that's just how their bonds work." Apparently, Harry added to himself, for he had no more idea of how they were supposed to behave than Malfoy did.
"It attacked me. It's rabid," Malfoy hissed. Harry ignored that too, and Malfoy seemed to realise he would persist as such for after another second of pretending to flick through his Runes textbook he whispered at him once more. "This is going to be a serious problem, Potter."
"It's only a problem if you make it one," Harry murmured in reply.
"It's a problem. Why do you even do this? What's in it for you?"
Harry shrugged beneath Pips' accommodating shifting. "Dunno. Maybe it's just the right thing to do."
Malfoy paused for a moment and a sidelong glance saw him as appearing incredulous. "The right thing to do? The right thing – Merlin, Potter, do you ever just -?"
"Malfoy, is there a problem?"
Babbling paused in whatever words she was speaking to turn towards their table, her book lowered in her hands. She arched an eyebrow and peered down her nose through the pince nez propped on the bridge.
Malfoy turned his attention towards her. Harry saw his lips thin for a moment before he replied. "Professor, I was wondering at the disturbance in our class. Potter has brought his creature and –"
"Yes, I can see that, Malfoy. He has already spoken to me and I have afforded him permission."
Malfoy's lips thinned further. "I find such a presence somewhat disruptive, Professor."
Babbling's eyebrow arched further. "Is that so?"
"It is. Perhaps if Potter could –"
"Then this will be a good lesson in perseverance for you, Malfoy." Then Babbling turned back towards her book. "If you'll recall, the translation process of less than ideal artefacts is a delicate study…"
Harry had to duck his head to hide the smile that threatened to touch his lips. He hadn't missed the slight, twinkling glance Babbling had spared him. He'd hardly more than noticed the grey-haired witch throughout his entire time at Hogwarts but he abruptly decided he liked her.
Malfoy seemed stunned by her words. That astonishment faded with evident disgruntlement from the slight frown upon his face as he turned back towards Harry. Speaking in an even quieter voice than before, he muttered, "Tell me you're not going to make a habit of this, Potter."
"Of joining you in Runes?" Harry shrugged. "Maybe. Depends if Pips needs me to."
"You can't be serious. You're going to play to the whims of a rabid squirrel?"
"Maybe. And she's not a squirrel, or rabid, Malfoy." Harry paused, reaching up to scratch at Pips' head once more as she butted her pointed snout into his cheek. "Besides, I don't actually see a problem with doing that."
"More trouble than it's worth…" Malfoy muttered. It sounded like a curse beneath his breath.
"I don't think so."
"Be better to just kill the damned thing and be rid of it…"
Harry wasn't angry. He didn't get angry anymore. He didn't even think he was all that irritated when he heard Malfoy's words and slowly turned his gaze upon him. He stared, long and unblinkingly, until Malfoy glanced up at him. No, Harry didn't think he was angry, or irritated, but evidently whatever Malfoy saw in him concerned him for his cheeks paled slightly and he suddenly pressed his lips together once more and dropped his gaze back to his textbook.
"Maybe easier," Harry said, and he didn't even bother to keep his voice down. "But it's not going to happen."
"Is there a problem, Potter?" Babbling asked, attention drawn to them once more.
Harry turned towards her after a moment of staring at Malfoy's pale profile. He opened his mouth to reply but found he didn't need to as Malfoy did for him. "No, Professor. No problem."
There was a pause. A silence that could have held just a touch of surprise from Babbling. She recovered quickly, however, and gave a curt nod. "Good, then. Now, if we'll take a look at the image on page twenty-three, noting the inscriptions around the edge that spiral in a counter-clockwise direction…"
Harry turned his attention back to his Transfiguration textbook, intermittently raising his hand to touch Pips' head as she pressed her snout into his cheek. He didn't absorb all that much of it, really, though he found that his first Ancient Runes lesson had been quite enlightening, if not so much in an academic sense. Malfoy seemed to have caved slightly.
Only in that instance, however, it would seem, for as Harry tucked the Diprotodontia or whatever-it-was book beneath his arm and continued his search, Malfoy was back to his bored yet objectionable self. Strolling along the aisle, he began to return the books back in their places as he spoke. "I have to wonder at your intelligence, both that you'd speak to yourself and that you'd name your squirrel such a thing."
"She's not a squirrel," Harry murmured in distracted reply, gaze drifting along the shelving as he kept only a peripheral eye on Malfoy. He'd barely spent more than half a day alongside him – Runes had been enough intimacy and he'd left him with a sworn promise that Malfoy would join them at the library after dinner which, most surprisingly, he actually had. "I would have thought that after over an hour of reading stuff on foxlet gliders you'd have realised that."
Malfoy didn't immediately offer a snarky reply. He didn't scowl or glare at Harry, which was enough to speak of the development of his character as anything else. Almost as much as the evident sense of obligation he felt for offering insults and barbed comments. They honestly seemed to be a strain. He was silent until he finished filing the books into their proper places, simply urging the thickest into the air to be caught by magic and slotted back into its place three rows up. When he turned towards Harry it was with a slight, curious frown upon his forehead. "Why did you call it that?"
"Hm?" Harry glanced towards him.
Draco gestured towards Pips. "That. Why did you name it that?"
Harry felt his fingers naturally rise to pet at Pips' head in a habit that he seemed to have developed startlingly quickly. "She's a she, you know."
"I don't really care."
"Just thought you'd like to know, 'cause you sound like a simpleton when you call her an 'it'."
Malfoy blinked rapidly for a moment, mouth popping open before he seemed to make a deliberate attempt to close it. He lifted his chin slightly once more. "Whatever. Why'd you call it – her – that? It's a stupid name."
"Thank you for your contribution. I'll bear that in mind the next time I'm naming a foxlet." Then, without another word, Harry tugged a second volume – Mammals on the Wing – from the shelf and turned back down the aisle. Surprisingly, Malfoy didn't stab him in the back with a snide, final remark.
It was a strange situation they'd found themselves in. Harry honestly hadn't seen himself as being inclined to spend any more time with Malfoy than was absolutely necessary. It wasn't because he hated him but because he didn't want to. Because there was no need to. He didn't have any further obligation to Malfoy, and though he didn't dislike him as much as he once had, it wasn't as though he felt any fondness for the other boy. He doubted he ever would.
It wasn't only that, however, that was strange. It was as much the nature of the time they spent together that was curious. Studying; they were actually studying together. And it wasn't as horrendous as Harry might have assumed it would be. Or maybe that was simply because he found, for the first time, what he was studying to be of interest.
Foxlet gliders were a rare species. They'd never been particularly common from what Harry could discern but they were even rarer nowadays. He'd learnt that they were actually more closely related to possums and sugar gliders, that the little flaps of skin he'd thought were wings of a sort were called a 'patagium' and that the foxlets couldn't actually fly with them. He learnt that they would hardly even be able to glide with them until they were matured, as Pips' tumbling attempt to cross the Great Hall towards Malfoy had proven. Hermione had discovered – because of course Hermione would be the best as discovering – that they matured anywhere between three months and a year and that, given their size, it was possible that the first of them could actually mature mentally within a week or two. Which, Harry thought surprisingly, was a little sad. He'd only had Pips as his companion of sorts for a day and he'd already come to appreciate the fluffy scarf she'd become around his neck.
Unfortunately, and a little surprisingly, they had found very little about the supposed 'Berserker' state that Hagrid had briefly mentioned. Surprising because from what they had read of it, it sounded to be a somewhat concerning situation.
"The rise in Berserkers has become increasingly troublesome in recent years as juveniles had matured into those more aggressive and less Sedate."
"It is recommended to maintain constant vigilance when around a Berserker in their agitated state."
"Avoid inducing juveniles into Berserker states if at all possible due to the harm they could potentially inflict upon not only territorial rivals but their own potential mates."
"Berserkers have historically even been used for pit fights, a sport that was ceased in the mid eighteenth century when the number of Berserkers that escaped the fighting grounds and attacked the audience rose exponentially."
All of it was shocking. Shocking because, as Harry turned his attention to Pipsqueak curled at his shoulder upon listening to Hermione's words, her wide eyes peering up at him as though she had been waiting for the moment he spared her a second of his attention, he couldn't fathom it. Aggressive? Pips? He couldn't… Harry just couldn't imagine it. And if the expression on Ron and Hermione's, on Ginny and even Lavender's faces was any indication, neither could they.
The biggest problem they'd encountered was that apparently none of them had worked out when this 'Berserker' state actually occurred, or how to prevent it from arising.
Harry drew towards the little cluster of tables they'd set up for themselves, spread with a sea of books both open and closed and a number of sheets of parchment half covered in variable writing implements. Hermione had suggested they write down every piece of information they could find about the foxlets just for safe keeping, though Harry found it hardly necessary. It was of the greatest unlikelihood that Hermione would forget anything.
He stopped at the seat beside Ginny who, momentarily picking Tod up from her lap to shuffle her chair over slightly, offered him a weary smile. Ginny wasn't all that much of a studier either, no more than Ron was. An hour with her nose in a dusty book of miniscule script was taking its toll. Hermione and, surprisingly, Lavender appeared to be the most adept in their studious pursuits.
"Found anything while I've been gone?" Harry asked, settling himself into the seat beside Ginny. He and Ginny had always gotten along well, even after they had decided to 'take a break' after the war. It was a healthy break; Ginny had said she didn't feel ready for anything, not right now, and Harry was content to oblige. He loved Ginny, just as much as he did Ron and Hermione, but right now… now, he didn't feel the need to be in a relationship with her. Maybe in the future, but not now. Besides, they all had their NEWTs to study for.
Ginny shrugged at his question. "Not me. Hermione might have found something, though."
Harry turned across the table towards where Hermione was scribbling something so quickly across the parchment that it looked to almost as though she were merely drawing lines. "Hermione?"
"One sec," she said, lifting the hand from Kitsune's rump for a moment to raise a finger in the air before resettling it. Really, Kitsune must lack claws for how feeble her attempts at maintaining a hold on Hermione's shoulder were.
Harry waited. And watched. And glanced towards Ron – who was distracted with tickling Tod's belly as he rolled in Ginny's lap – and Lavender, who met his glance momentarily before dropping it once more to the book spread before her.
Malfoy returned, with his assumed bored expression affixed once more upon his face and settled himself into the seat that, though technically considered a part of their group, could possibly similarly be deemed upon the outskirts. He'd just finished fixing his robes so they settled properly – unnecessarily, in Harry's opinion – when Hermione set her quill down. "Okay. Here's what I've got."
"Is it about the Berserk thing?" Ron asked, glancing up from Tod towards her with a touch of hope in his expression.
Hermione shook his head to the communal slumping of shoulders. "No, but it's still interesting."
"Of course it is," Malfoy muttered, but everyone ignored him and Harry wasn't even sure that he realised he spoke.
"It's about their third eye. It's called the Empathy Eye, which I suppose it where they get the word 'veraque' from in their name."
"That's Latin, isn't it?" Ron asked.
Hermione nodded. "Right. So we know that they used their third eye to find who they wanted to bond to. Apparently they can also use it for empathetic readings of sorts."
"Empathetic readings?" Ginny asked, reaching down a finger to stroke Tod's forehead right where the third eye should have been. There was not a trace of it, however, Harry knew, and Tod seemed to nothing short of revel under her touch, wriggling in her lap in delight. "So they, what, can read emotions from people or something?"
Hermione nodded once more. "They're particularly sensitive to strong emotions – which explains why those who they bond to typically have some sort of emotional connection – but they can also pick up on other things. Happiness, sadness, anger, frustration, love, affection. In this book here by Aeneas Petralia, it says that in the olden days, something like six hundred years ago, foxlet gliders were used as companions for wealthy, young, single witches who would otherwise find themselves alone much of the time."
Their table set to nodding slowly, understandingly, but Harry couldn't help drawing his gaze towards Malfoy. Malfoy, who had similarly glanced sidelong at him only long enough to meet his gaze. That was something Harry didn't understand. If Pipsqueak's choice was based upon some sort of 'feelings' between the two of them, then what was it? Was it hatred still? In that case, was it just based upon Malfoy's emotions? Harry didn't think he felt much of anything for Malfoy – he didn't feel much of anything save mild, distracted affection or sympathy for most people besides his closest friends, really – so it must have been from Malfoy's end. Which was… actually sort of saddening. Did Malfoy really dislike him so much that it had taken only his one-sided opinion to attract Pipsqueak's attention? Harry didn't much care whether Malfoy liked him or not but it was a bit of a downer that he disliked him that much.
Or was it something else entirely? Was it because they had, for a time, used the same wand? Even though Harry had given it back to Malfoy, had relinquished his claim for his own holly wand, he couldn't forget that. Did it hold some sway? Was that some sort of basis for a 'connection'?
"So what does this mean?" Ron asked, drawing Harry from his thoughts as his attention focused solely upon Hermione as though she held all the answers. Which, realistically, she did. Or she did in their group, at least.
But Hermione only shrugged. "I guess it means that our emotions will be felt and rub off upon the foxlets? I'm not sure. But even not being sure, I'd suppose it's probably a good thing to try and be as cordial to one another as possible."
"Probably best not to make them upset," Lavender murmured in agreement, barely audibly. "Maybe that's what makes them go Berserk?"
The thought made them all shift uncomfortably, and Harry found himself exchanging a glance with Malfoy once more. This might be harder than he'd anticipated.
They remained in the library until Madam Pince kicked them out at nine o'clock. Surprisingly, Malfoy had actually stayed with them the entire time, so it was that the majority of their party – Ginny parting ways halfway back to the eighth year tower – travelled together back to their dorms. When they clambered into their common room, it was to the brief, curious glances of the rest of their fellow students and barely a wave of acknowledgement.
As Hermione and Ron made for the couches near the fireplace – really, there was almost enough to seat every eighth year – and Lavender wandered after them at a slower pace with Kitsune propped on her shoulder, Harry paused to catch Malfoy's arm briefly. Only briefly, because the surprised and almost affronted blinking that Malfoy turned upon his hand wrapped around his wrist urged him to drop it immediately. "Hey, Malfoy, listen."
Malfoy slowly raised his chin to meet Harry's eyes. "What?"
Harry paused, hand drifting unconsciously towards Pipsqueak. "Look, I just want to apologise for this happening. I mean, it's not really my fault but –"
"It sort of is."
"No, it's not, actually," Harry rebuffed. Malfoy's words didn't irritate him exactly but he felt the need to correct him regardless. "Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry for the situation, I guess, and maybe, just for however long it takes, if you could work with me? It would make things easier if you didn't object every time I had to sit next to you because Pips is upset."
Malfoy's gaze settled upon Pipsqueak, who began a chorus of quiet "yip-yip"s at his attention. He shifted slightly, as if uneasy, though the slight shuffling of his feet was the only indication of such. Slowly he shook his head. "I don't know why you bother, Potter."
Harry paused for a moment, thinking, before shrugging. He didn't know why he bothered, why he went out of his way. For Hagrid? Maybe a little bit. For Pipsqueak? Definitely. For some reason he just felt the urge to ensure she was well cared for, that she was comfortable, that she was happy. Harry didn't know why, couldn't explain it, but that was the truth. "I don't know either. I just do."
Malfoy stared at him for a moment longer. He stared at Pipsqueak too. Then he gave a small sigh and shook his head once more. "Whatever, Potter. Just… do whatever. So long as it doesn't disrupt my studies." And with that, Malfoy turned and wandered across the room towards where Zabini lounged alongside the fire, book resting open upon his chest.
Harry stared after him for a moment, stroking Pips' head. Well. He supposed it could have gone better but it certainly could have gone worse. Much worse. As he crossed the room to join his own friends, Harry considered that in this instance at least he would take what he could get.