A/N: The chapter has been edited. please leave a review, folks.

"Where the hell is Nott?" Montague snarled. He sat on his haunches, braced on his knees, looking worse for wear. It probably was because Montague looked so thoroughly miserable when sleep-deprived and Blaise was too exhausted to respond to his taunt. "We're supposed to be looking for Potter and he does a disappearing act." In Theo's absence, the pair had circled the Slytherin common room three times and plodded the adjacent corridors shoulder to shoulder another four times before rousing the first- and second-year boys from their beds to join the search party.

Blaise braced his forearm head height on the wall and leaned heavily on it. "He took that fourth year back to the girls' dorms, and he probably gave her a stern talking on the way. It's for her own good."

"You are smarter than that Blaise. He should have been back by now." Montague huffed. "Let's sit down." He motioned to an elegant mossy green Chesterfield sofa in the center of the common room and Blaise followed him. As the older Slytherin reclined, he yawned. "I think Nott is lying about something. I just know it."

Blaise replied in a tone indicating that nothing that Montague had to say had surprised or phased him. "If you think he hexed Malfoy and lied about Potter, you are wrong. He was with me the whole time."

"I never said that. Potter is still here, lurking with his friends in an invisibility cloak. It's just a matter of time before we catch him."

Blaise glanced at the ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the room and groaned inwardly. It was too far away to tell the time, but Blaise felt it in his aching muscles that it was long past bedtime. "The joke is getting old. Why don't we just go to bed and let him have fun, roaming the dungeons as he pleases."

"It has been more than two centuries since Slytherin house has had an intruder to the dungeons," Montagu said imperiously. "You might think it's a joke or a prank, but it isn't. Potter is here for a reason, or he would have left hours ago. I intend to find out why." Montague spat. "You are not taking this seriously. Nott isn't even here. I expected more from the pair of you."

Blaise interrupted. "What have you got against him anyway?

"Potter?" He asked incredulously.

"I meant Nott."

"When have I given him a hard time?"

"It was the talk of the common room when Professor Sprout announced Nott's father was on the board of governors. You kept bringing it up every time you saw him. He was so embarrassed he nearly stopped hanging out in the common room."

"That's his problem, not mine."

"Were you jealous?"

"I can't think of a single quality to be envious of," Montague replied snootily.

"What about his Legilimency?" Blaise stated, arching his brow while throwing down the proverbial gauntlet.

"It's more of a curse, isn't it?" Montague sneered. He clicked his fingers at a first-year who flinched to full wakefulness and gestured toward the Grandfather clock. "Check behind it. Use both hands, you lazy prick!"

"You never gave Malfoy a hard time, and he has been boasting about his father's position since the first year.

"Malfoy lacks the insight to know not to reveal his hand. Besides, we all knew Nott's father was giving money to school. We did not know how much money until it bought him a seat on the table." Montague folded his arms across his chest.

"Surely Malfoy's father knew."

"Malfoy's father was hardly going to tout the news of Nott's change in fortunes. Draco certainly had no idea." It was as though no housemate could conceive that Nott's old man had rebuilt his life from the rubble, outside the Dark Lord's sphere of influence and prospered. It smacked of jealousy. Montague maneuvered the conversation onto familiar ground. "We are so alike. You, me, and Draco. I always felt we had so much in common. Your choice of friends still surprises me."

"Familiarity breeds contempt." He said evenly.

Montague laughed outright. "Come now, there should be no animosity between us. We are old friends."

"Perhaps I have held you to a higher standard, old friend."

Montague reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a cigarette from the packet. He took his sweet time lighting it and extinguished the flame promptly. After a long drag, he threw his head back and exhaled a plume of smoke vertically. "You sound disappointed. When have I ever let you down?"

Blaise's nostrils flared. "You didn't have much to do with me after my mother's death."

"It was a difficult time. I thought you would want your privacy respected." Montague said, unruffled. "I have always valued your friendship, Blaise. I thought you knew you could rely on my support. All you had to do was reach out." He offered a cigarette to Blaise. It was the muggle variety, sold only on the Black market. It was the cheap and nasty kind that stained the teeth, caked the breath, and promised to shave off years in life expectancy. It lacked the decorum of pipes and cigars that their fathers were familiar with but were becoming all the rage with the High society youth.

"I wasn't aware. Next time, I'll make an appointment." Blaise clenched his jaw as he declined the offer.

Montague raised an eyebrow at the rejection. He appraised him silently, fingers steepled. "You've changed."

"Have I?" Blaise's hard expression dared him to elaborate. Blaise had changed at the end of the fifth year when his mother died. He thought no one else had noticed it either.

"I remember Nott befriended you when you were at your most vulnerable." So, Montague had observed the change but had chosen to conveniently ignore it.

"He was there when I needed a friend." Any friend. Blaise spoke in a low voice so as not to hint at any emotion. Two years ago, Nott and Zabini barely spoke to each other, exchanging curt nods only when unavoidable. They had shared the same dormitories since the first year of Hogwarts and their bunks were next to each other. For a long time, they had different interests. Blaise indulged himself in the wild parties of his house, butterbeer then fire whisky and girls. Partying occupied Blaise's time and helped him forget his problems. Theo spent his time curled in front of the log fires of the library or so he presumed.

"But you don't need him anymore, do you? You have moved on, haven't you?" Montague flicked close the cap on his lighter, tossed it into the air, and caught it. "Grieving for those lost is fashionable for a time then it becomes rather tiresome. I remember you used to be such fun and then you sort of retreated into yourself."

It was a mild way of putting it. In the weeks after his mother's death, Blaise did not sleep for days, so he partied harder and drank more. When there were no more parties to be enjoyed in-house, he sought them out in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, returning late in the morning, disheveled, drunk and pockets emptied. Snape picked up quickly on Blaise's truancy and the related steady decline in his mediocre academic performance, but it was hard to punish a student who routinely skipped his after-school detention in favor of smoke breaks on the grounds. The grounds were vast. Snape's concern for a student determined to derail his health and prospects was modest. "How inconvenient," Zabini said dryly.

"It is rather. I feel like I lost someone I used to know rather well."

Blaise rolled his eyes, thinking of his deceased mother. "My sympathies." Rare moments of clarity pierced the heady smoke of gratification, self-indulgence, and biting grief. He remembered a fifteen-year-old Nott watching on uneasily while his housemates congratulated Blaise on his continual rule-breaking and contempt for authority. Theo had watched with a hollow expression as his housemates filled Blaise's cup with more fire whisky and toasted his debauchery. Theo had held his tongue while his housemaster and fellow teachers failed in their duty to intervene through denial and complacency. Blaise wondered all the while at the growing concern in Nott's expression. It was the wide-eyed horrified expression of someone watching a train about to crash and unable to tear their eyes away from the scene moments before impact.

Theo had finally caught Blaise in a moment of weakness, behind the drawn dense green curtains of his bunk, coughing out angry tearless sighs that wracked his whole body. Zabini had missed another Quidditch practice probably after another late night, though no one from the team had come to check. By Nott's calculations, Zabini had missed class too for two days in a row. He did not see him in the Great Hall for any meals. It was a moment of acute embarrassment when Theo drew the curtains back sharply. Blaise expected him to laugh. Theo's eyes flitted to the loose waistband of Blaise's trousers, the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the stale smell of alcohol on his breath. Blaise tried to roll onto his side and his feet but lacked the stamina to peel his shoulders off his pillow. He held an empty bottle of fire whisky clutched to his chest and stared listlessly at the curtains, refusing to meet Nott's gaze. The hollows of his cheek and clavicles held dark shadows.

"You stopped eating, haven't you?" That was all Theo said before turning on his heel. Blaise was too weak to call after him. When Nott returned, a flustered Madame Pomfrey accompanied him with a weathered doctor's bag. She kneeled next to Blaise's bed, placed the dorsum of her hand on his forehead, and felt his radial pulse while counting the rate at which his chest rose and fell. She shook her head at Nott who muttered something inaudible. He left immediately to do her bidding, pushing past Montague who had stuck his head round the curtain, delightfully curious at the commotion. Blaise recalled little else after being transferred to the hospital wing.

Montague cleared his throat, bringing Zabini back to the present moment. "I don't see much of you these days. Especially after you quit Quidditch."

"It was a personal decision." He replied curtly.

"Do let me know if you change your mind about Quidditch. I'm sure we can always get your spot back."

"I appreciate the gesture." Blaise gave a tight smile. His substitute was a half-blood. Talented though he was, the new Slytherin chaser's position on the team was precarious. All Blaise had to do was show up for practice and that sorry sod would be back on the bench, rendering Montague's olive branch redundant.

"Say no more. Speaking of which, what would you do for an old friend." Montague pivoted.

"Depends on the friend." Blaise smiled wryly. "What do you want?"

"A moment of your time and an honest opinion."

"Is that all?" Blaise said with a quick smile to hide his doubtful expression. "You don't ask for much."

"You have Nott's ear, and you are in his confidence." Montague licked his lip. It was such an odd gesture but more, so it was out of character not just context. Blaise deduced quickly that Montague's mouth was dry. The whole purpose of the conversation might be revealed in his next breath. He waited impatiently; his ears keened in anticipation.

"Where does Nott's father's loyalties lie?"

Blais's lips twitched with disapproval. Finesse was never one of Montague's strengths. That careful buildup had been shot with a lazy finish, which was all too direct and sloppy. He volleyed easily. "You should ask Nott."

"Nott is your good friend. So, I will ask you again."

His eyebrows shot up at the lack of subtlety. Montague was certainly more a mallet than a scalpel. He was not going to tolerate no for an answer or indeed any attempts to avoid his question. Well, then he would make Montague work for it. Blaise sighed as he straightened his posture but said nothing, allowing his housemate to fill the awkward silence between them.

Rather predictably, Montague pressed forth. "I hear that Nott's father writes to you."

"So, you have gone through my post?" Blaise said feigning boredom.

"You have confirmed my suspicions." There was a note of triumph in Montague's voice which irritated Blaise somewhat.

He replied evenly. "Well if you had gone through my post, you will know that Nott's father writes to me on tedious matters surrounding loss and grief."

"How touching."

"Matters you are well versed with having nearly lost an old friend," Blaise said unable to resist the parting potshot.

Montague did not rise to the bait. "The old man should have died years ago. He's come back from the brink of death, disgraced, and let go from his master's service and has been quietly building his fortune. He has definitive plans for his son's future, or he wouldn't have paid an eyewatering sum of money to Davis's family."

"He wants the best for his son. As does any father."

"Is Nott to be engaged?"

"Didn't you read my letters?" Blaise parried. He scowled. Nott's love life was none of his business and certainly not any of Montague's. Then he remembered most of his housemates would not marry for love but marry into carefully orchestrated political unions between wizarding families to garner or hoard their wealth, influence, and social status. It was not uncommon for pureblood students to announce their engagements to their Slytherin or Ravenclaw housemates in the sixth and seventh years of school. He had always thought Draco, an eligible bachelor keen to do his father's bidding would have announced his betrothment by now. Indeed his mother would have had it printed in the society pages. Oddly none of his female admirers in the fifth year had stepped forth to claim him now he was of age.

Intriguingly, Montague backtracked. "Is just that If Nott's father continues to expand his business portfolio and his influence in the school, his low-key profile will become increasingly public as he gains visibility."

"What's wrong with that?"

"He would make an asset in the fight for which he is currently conspicuously absent."

Blaise had met Nott's father a few times in school and spent his half-term holidays at their country estate. Nott's father was on the wrong side of sixty. A gust of wind could knock the old man off his cane, knock the hat off his head, and send his false teeth flying. "Nott's father has already got one foot in the grave. Who is he going to fight?"

"I think we have all made the mistake of underestimating Nott Senior. He has been sitting on his hands for years, while pretending to be infirm, not taking up his former position in the ministry, and refusing to reinstate his ties with the Death eaters. Nott stands to inherit all that his father has made and probably quite soon."

"Why does that concern you? You have a sizeable inheritance yourself." Blaise leaned back in his seat. He studied Montague carefully in silent wondering until his curiosity got the better of him.

Montague explained hurriedly. "I just want clarity on where he stands. Where his father stands. The Nott family are important but long-neglected allies. His father's loyalties are suspect."

Montague's spiel sounded overtly rehearsed but more concerningly regurgitated from someone else, his father perhaps. The hairs rose on the back of Blaise's neck. His eyes flitted to Montague's shirt sleeves stapled with staid cufflinks in apprehension. Surely, he hadn't been drafted. The Dark Lord would soon be looking to add to his followers, to replace his older crop with fresh meat. Those ambitious Death eaters looking to gain influence and favor would be quick to push their heirs front and center in the offering. Dark curling hair covered Montague's exposed wrist leaving only Blaise to guess whether his forearm had been inked. He said offhandedly. "Are you running a recruiting campaign for death eaters? Where do I sign up?"

While Lucius Malfoy held considerable sway in the Dark Lord's inner circle, his influence would wane when Draco came of age. Despite his pompousness and bluster, Draco lacked the political guile and ruthlessness of his father. The Dark Lord would cut through him like melted butter. Everybody in his year knew it and apparently in the year above too. His housemates could smell Draco's blood in the water and like sharks, they would move in for a morsel of his flesh. They would not act before his family had drafted Draco into the Dark Lord's service and he had monumentally cacked up his first assignment. It would draw the ire of the master and ignominy upon his family. No wonder Draco was still single.

Blaise could understand Montague's interest in Draco but why the interest in the Nott family? Are you trying to eliminate your competition or get the measure of him? A vacuum in an existing power structure would create intense power struggles between factions as opportunistic shadow players vied for control amidst the disorder and chaos. The power hierarchy would reform and stabilize eventually but the Dark Lord's inner circle could have many new faces. He guessed the Dark Lord found it amusing seeing his followers squabble for position and favor whilst he held true power over all of them. Blaise surmised that Montague was either looking for an ally in the Nott or looking to cause trouble. He took a more meandering approach, something Montague could benefit from learning. "There has been no word from the Dark Lord since the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban in their third year and we both know he had no ties to the Deatheaters. The Triwizard tournament went without a hitch in the fourth year. That was the year we were expecting a grand entrance from the Dark Lord which never materialized. It was rather anticlimactic if you ask me and things have been ever so quiet since. You talk as though we are all about to be summoned for some final last stand. What do you know about that I don't?"

"Why would I know anything? I am just seventeen." Montague said. The words lacked conviction.

"My mother has died," Blaise stated stoically. "I have no other immediate family. I am not yet in the Dark Lord's sphere. We can speak candidly."

"I am aware of the fact you have no one to vouch for you," Montague stated. "The bonds of friendship can be just as strong as family."

Untrue Blaise thought, but he let it slide. He found that after his mother, (his only surviving relative) had died, not many of his friends had wanted much to do with him. His utility had waned with his connections, or was it the other way around? "You want me to find out about Nott's loyalties and that of his father's?"

"Malfoy was always concerned about you choosing Nott over your housemates."

Let's not pretend that Malfoy might be dead in a year thought Blaise.

Montague continued. "I knew you had your priorities in order. We Slytherins might be self-serving but when we band together, history remembers it."

A rousing speech." Blaise said dryly.

"We must start thinking of the future no doubt and our place within it. It is important that as we move up swiftly in the world to our rightful places, we take our good friends with us and trample over the rabble. We are the future. If you were to help me, your efforts would not go unrewarded. I would like to see to it that you are recompensed. I take good care of my friends."

"If I had a glass, I would toast to that."

Montague seemed pleased the conversation had gone as planned and that his old friend had taken the bait. Blaise smiled weakly, rather than correct his delusions. They lapsed into another awkward silence. It had been many months since they had a one-on-one conversation and Blaise realized that despite their similar background, he did not have much to say to Montague anymore, especially when he was sober. Montague struggled with small talk generally and he wiped damp perspiration off the back of his neck with a handkerchief, the efforts of steering this conversation physiologically evident. Blaise glanced at the grandfather clock, its constant ticking a growing irritation. "We should probably join the search. We can't be seen sitting around too long, doing nothing."

"Yes, we ought to," Montague said distractedly. He paused a moment, lost in thought. "I wonder what she was doing in there?" Montague said quietly, as though speaking to himself.

"Who?"

"The girl in the kit cupboard."

Blaise frowned at the memory of the girl in the kit cupboard, a vague and distant one. "Oh, her? She was enjoying a quiet tipple."

Montague scratched his forehead. "Have you ever seen her before?"

"No." Blaise deadpanned, rubbing sleep from his reddening eyes, wishing this night would end. He tried to think. He had seen her somewhere but try as he might he could not place her. Her hair was black as a crow's wing. She had the warm freckled complexion of a farmhand. Something was off.

"Me neither," Montague said with a puzzled expression. "But Nott seemed to know her."

Blaise snorted. "What are you talking about? If I've never seen the girl before, how would Nott know her."

"Nott pulled her out of the kit cupboard and then he asked me to reseal the wards."

Blaise rolled his eyes at the replay of events and began drumming his fingers against the solid armrest with growing impatience. "Why is that relevant?" He instantly regretted asking the question.

Montague fixed him with a hard glare. "We never saw what was inside the kit cupboard." He rose to his feet, "Follow me."

Hermione scrunched up her eyes as soon as the door opened and held out in front of her face to shield it from the light, "Ginny is that you?" She called out desperately.

"No." Nott closed the kit cupboard door behind and strode into view. Granger was lying on her front behind a pile of sports bags stacked high and haphazardly. He nudged past the makeshift barricade and kneeled next to her. She tried to lift her head and look over one shoulder, snatching a glimpse of the stern-faced stranger whose red eyes were offset by grey pupils. He was haggard, unshaven, and hair mussed but Nott was a sight for sore eyes all the same. All the air in her lungs rushed out in one breath. For some odd reason, he reminded her of Harry, and she greeted him with the easy familiarity of a friend. "How did you find me?" She croaked, voice splitting. "Is Ginny alright?"

"No time to explain," Nott said curtly. "Can you stand?" His expression was grave. Granger looked awful, her skin wan with a pale sheen of sweat coating it, as though she had been fighting a fever all night. He could not decide whether she was almost delirious with an infection or intoxicated with something illicit. He placed the back of his hand on her forehead. She was warm to the touch but not overly so. Maybe it was the latter. "What's wrong with you?" He said, not to one to mince his language.

"I'm not sure." Said Granger breathlessly, she tried to roll onto her side to face him but the effort required was too much, and gave up halfway and rolled back onto her front. She pressed her cheek to the flagstone floor and panted.

"You should not have come here."

She fixed him with a look of surprise, turning her chin ever so slightly. Granger's eyes were huge and glazed. Her gaze found him in the half-light and seemed to wander over his shoulder. Nott glanced behind him just to be sure. "So, you know why I am here then?" Granger gave him a crooked disarming smile. "Are you here to rescue me?"

His staid expression faltered for a second. Nott cleared his throat. He was not quite sure why he was here. It was a completely unfathomable and irrational decision to tell his housemates that Potter had attacked Malfoy. Hours later he still could not make sense of it. What had possessed him to say such a thing? He had no doubt he would ruminate on that impromptu decision and regret it even more than he was doing right now. He was paying for his poor judgment in installments with added interest. Theo had lied to his housemates and in doing so inadvertently protected Granger. The niggling voice in his head said it was the other way around. Here he was rushing to her aid again. How nauseating. Whatever his reasons, he needed to get rid of her and fast.

Nott pulled her to stand and when Granger continued to lean heavily against him, he took her arm and loped over his shoulder. Hermione turned her face towards him expectantly, the beads of sweat forming on her neck. Her forehead lolled against his shoulder, and she rested it there as though she had a claim to it. If Theo turned to the left, his lips would have brushed her forehead. Her pulse was fast and thready in the tight grip he maintained on her right wrist. If it wasn't a reaction to his proximity, he deduced it was probably an effect of her sickness, whatever the cause. "Come on," Theo said gruffly. He opened the kit door and scanned the corridor both left and right before hauling the witch out with him, toppling brooms as he dragged her limp form.

The glass wall came into view; a spectacular window into the lake that extended down the entire length of the corridor. It was like looking out into a storm. Some pinpricks of white light would flash and flit by. Bursts of bubbles would erupt from somewhere. Sometimes a tail fin would momentarily come into view but few creatures tended to stray so close to the building. Theo slowed his pace. It was a view he had enjoyed in solitude from the first year. This corridor was a deserted one running to the older girls' dorms on the far left. Surprisingly so: it did not appeal as a hideout for star-crossed couples. Too eerie and too much nature? It had appealed to him. It was the only stretch of carpet in the dungeons that was blue and black – from the lights. The silver decor on the walls was a metallic grey in the same light. The lights and colors were calming. It anchored him whenever he walked through here which was rare now. He used to walk Tracey back to the girls' dorms through here. Granger gasped in wonder at the sight of it. Hermione straightened and then lurched forward unexpectedly. "Oh!" Her abdomen spasmed, the pain exploding behind her belly button. She felt her gorge rising and retched.

"Granger!" Nott caught her waist at the last minute and held her swaying body away from his. Her knees folded like paper napkins. She cupped her mouth to hold back a wave of nausea. He reacted fast and not so gently guided her to the door behind their backs. She slid down and lay in a crumpled heap at his feet, flexed at her ankles, knees, and hips. He braced his head on his forearm on the wall. "Merlin."

A soft whimper.

"What am I to do with you, Granger?"

Soft moan that sounded suspiciously like. "It hurts."

A normal person would have felt sympathy. Theo knew his limitations; however, he needed her cooperation if he wanted her to disappear quietly. He said flatly. "Do you think you can get up now?"

The question was left unanswered. The sound of a door opening at the far end of the corridor started them both. Theo sprang into motion. Hermione was pulled roughly to her feet and before they caught up with the rest of her body, before her brain could even begin to coordinate movement, they were running. Her wrist was locked in his grip like a vice. "Whose following us?"

No answer, because truthfully, he didn't know. He didn't have time to look. Theo was not going to wait around to find out, because frankly speaking nothing could be more incriminating than being caught with a Gryffindor.

She turned to glance over her shoulder. Sensing this movement, Theo yanked her forcefully. She could feel the pull of his arm all along the ligaments in her shoulder. The sharp clicks of his shoe heel on the marble floor, became dull as he moved onto the carpet. There was no time wasted between the toes lift off and the heel landing of the alternate foot. She could hear him thinking as he was running, thuds punctuating a mental checklist. She could barely keep up with him. Hermione lost her footing, lost a shoe, and rolled over one ankle. Her kneecap hit the carpet, pain shot up like lance through a nerve-ending and Hermione smothered a small scream. Theo stumbled on with her. He dragged her kneeling form for half a step before promptly turning, gripping her underarms, and hauling her to him. The back of her head awkwardly knocked his chin. As soon as her feet contacted the ground, they were sprinting even faster. This time, she was in front, the pulps of his fingers prodding the small of her back, dictating the pace. It was a pace she could not sustain, unsteady from the fall and the loss of one shoe. She fell back. He took her hand and took the lead.

Conscious thought evaporated. Adrenaline flowed relentlessly. It was comforting in a way not to have to think. Hermione now understood why survival was just an instinct and how it served as a mechanism, to keep a person alive. But to switch off entirely in the presence of a man who could take care of all the details, was a blessed relief for a girl who could never contain her thoughts. Their steps were pounding, lungs heaving like bellows and breaths sounded harsh in the corridor, palm to palm, fingers entangled. Hermione could hear his thoughts; a dull drumming on the side wall of her mind. If they weren't running like the damned, she would put her ear to that wall, to catch the whisper of that train and know him. But she could not speak. Her breath was spent on hard ongoing exertion, but her other senses were open. She trained them all on him. The thick dark brown hair washed out and fell into his eyes like blades of black grass and onto the bridge of his straight noble nose. Like some avenging anime antihero in freeze frame. If she ever had the opportunity to explain to him what that was, she would surely chicken out. But as it was, she couldn't speak.

There was no light in the corridor that opened its square jaw and swallowed them whole. They straight hurtled into its black mouth, numbered doors on the right stood in a single file of grey teeth and dark water on their left. All she could see was him. They ran, hand in hand, house loyalties and common sense forgotten. In this moment, Nott was hers. This moment belonged to her for as long as it lasted. It was a wave that was building and building before it crashed. It was reaching its tipping point now. Everything that had been said and gone before them were memories hovering in cold suspension. Like flecks of dirt and grit raked from the bottom of the lake and now pressed to the glass partition. Hard promises of retribution between a pureblood wizard and a muggle witch. Now they were weightless, peripheral, and floating in the rising swell. He was at the very center. This moment was hers for as long as it lasted. It was not going to last. Because in the next moment, she knew the wave would tip, the debris it carried would be dropped. The glass would smash. The silt and sludge memories would soak through her like ice water and stain her. It was only ever a mind-numbingly pleasurable fantasy about a boy who had nothing to offer her. It was all that she could hold on to even when she felt it slipping. All she knew was that she was running. Running and falling. She heard him speak, but it was just noise being filtered through her ears. Then she stopped moving. She felt pressure over her hair beneath the base of her skull and a strong hand over the small of her back. The axis of her body shifted obliquely. A sudden weightless feeling overcame her and she was lowered to the ground.

"Granger?"

She tried to speak. Her eyelids were growing heavier. "I can't move. Everything's dark." Her mouth seemed detached, flapping like a useless appendage. Her head lolled backward on the carpet. "What..." She could see through the crack between her eyelids his face and all its sharp angles. As the gap began to close, those edges began to blur and soften. "Don't... don't go." She croaked.

"I'm right here. " He said tonelessly.

She moaned softly into the carpet.

When her eyes closed, her body had melted completely to the floor, Theo stood up and assessed the situation. He should have foreseen this. He straightened her skirt out of courtesy. The rest of her, he left sprawled on the carpet. Something had been in the fire whisky. That was a fact. Granger had been acting strangely even before the spell was wearing off. She had been distracted. So was he to be fair, but he had been thinking hard. She had been decidedly vacant. Jenny Weasley had unknowingly ingested Veritaserum. It was plausible that Granger had consumed a similar potion. It was not a truth serum. She had been at a party. Supposing her drink was spiked? Could it have been Amortentia? What did it matter? Did it account for her fever? This was not the time to dwell on the cause of her condition. It was now time for damage control. He had to move her. The question was how and where. Granger, unlike the company she kept, did not have an invisibility cloak to hand or the map of Hogwarts to guide her. If she could not be moved, he had to distance himself physically from her. He watched the peaceful rise and fall of Granger's chest and huffed. The wizard took off his turtleneck jumper and wrapped it around her, pinning her arms to her sides. He squatted and in one slick move, rolled up her wadded form against the glass wall and cursed his misfortune. Nott looked back up the corridor they had sprinted down and saw two indeterminate black shapes jogging at speed him from the direction of the girls' dorms.

"Nott? Is that you?"

Theo knew that voice anywhere. It carried the distance. Blaise had his wand stretched out in front of him. Beside him was Montague. Theo's fingers dove into his pocket and wrapped around his wand. If Granger had felt like a warm and solid weight, his wand felt like a steel bar of power.

"I wouldn't bother if I were you," sneered Montague who had tracked his movements from thirty steps away. "So, keep those hands where we can see them."

Nott looked behind him to his right at Granger's ghostly form pressed against the glass wall and made his decision.

A/N: Please leave a review folks, it is much appreciated! Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed the latest chapter.