Untouchable

The blood roared in Ginny’s ears, as loud as a steam train, its engine huffing and clanging, thick plumes of smoke rising. The tracks rumbled with the weight of a steam train, as though she had laid herself across the line anticipating its approach. Metaphorically speaking she had. All Ginny wanted to do was dive under the steel tracks and cower like a field mouse. The stranger with an unblinking stare waited for a coherent response. The scrutiny of that hard gaze was unrelenting and even while she was not meeting it, she felt her shoulders wither under the pressure. She was too exhausted to think, too stressed to plan her next move, and too drunk to care. It was a toxic cocktail. She willed her slack tongue to move, to fold itself across her soft palate and make her voice heard. “What about the map?”

“I’m keeping it to ensure your cooperation. We went through this, Jenny.” Nott sighed, expecting a batch of fresh tears any second. He should have brought an umbrella. Jenny looked spent; a husk of a girl, thin and gangly in appearance. Weasley fumbled her way through misadventures, biting off more than she could chew, while choking on adrenaline and apprehension. She looked utterly defeated. The little wretch surveyed him with wide brown eyes, the smattering of freckles on her button nose, an inference of her youth and naivete. Then, she made an odd choking sound from deep in her throat. The raven hair made her look like Astoria Greengrass, except for one errant auburn lock. She pushed her hair back and it disappeared into a sea of brown and black. "I can't do this. I just want to go to bed. I never wanted to come here. It was a stupid idea." She muttered as though facing a mirror. He was the last person she should be confiding her private thoughts. “Without the map, Harry will walk into a trap, won’t he? Is that what you want?”

“I also asked you to bring your brothers, in case you’d forgotten. Your concern for your family is touching but you are stalling for time.” He kicked the hatch and Ginny’s heart sank when she realized they had arrived at the grate. She had to act fast. It was now or never. The stranger, however smart he was, did not have the experience of growing up with seven brothers and Ginny was not about to sell herself short today. There was a tactic she had only ever employed on one of her brothers, and only when in dire straits, but it had never failed. She hoped to God, she had chosen the right brother. If she hadn’t, not only would it be an abysmal failure, but Harry, Ron, and her twin brothers would be in greater peril. Ginny took a hesitant step towards him and before he could react and she could change her mind, she ran towards him, rapidly closing the distance, and threw her arms as high as she could. She buried her nose into the wool of his jumper, under his sternum, bumping her forehead against his ribs with a short sharp shock, and clung to him like a barnacle.

The Slytherin stiffened immediately at the contact as though his back had been burned. Ginny felt his ribs tense and tighten as though his lungs had seized. She dared not look up from her place of sanctuary. Come on Bill. Please don’t fail me now. Tears rolled down her cheeks into his scratchy jumper. It was made of pure wool, not some wool and acrylic blend. His mother certainly hadn’t knitted it for him. She scrunched up her nose, in an effort not to sneeze.

 Theodore Nott’s experience with younger female students was limited to stilted small talk with Astoria Greengrass, in the insistent company of her older sister Daphne Greengrass. This was unchartered territory. As slow as he dared to, Nott’s arms lifted from his side and hovered above Ginny’s shoulders before settling awkwardly. She felt the pressure build as his fingers tightened their grip on her biceps. Determined not to be pried from his person, she interlocked her fingers, pulling his waist impossibly closer. A sharp intake of breath. Moments passed. He laid his palms flat and patted her shoulder uncomfortably. “Jenny.”

“No.” She replied, clinging to him with all her might.

“Let’s not make a scene.”

 She sniffled. “It’s Ginny.”

“What?” Not pardon. “Short for Virginia?”

She shook her head vigorously before remembering to keep her chin tucked under his ribs should he try to catch her off guard. “Ginevra.”

He gave a derisive snort.

“It’s Italian.” She explained.

He surveyed her red hair and fair complexion with an unreadable expression till Ginny’s face was as red as her roots. “Are you going to let go of me, Ginevra?”

Smarting, she hunched her shoulders forward in response and locked her arms tight.

Nott threw his head back with a hollow laugh and swore at the dark winding staircase looming over them, in place of a ceiling. She gave him no choice. He gathered his strength and Ginny felt her hold on him slipping. Frantically her fingers scrambled for purchase on his jumper, but it was like holding onto a rockface while dangling four feet off the ground. Five feet. Six feet. She gasped at how much strength he had been holding back. His hands encircled her wrists like iron shackles and he stooped till they were eye level. Ginny hiccupped between tears, staring into his soulless grey eyes. Her pupils widened when she recognized him. London Fog.

They were huddled barefoot and cross-legged in their pajamas and blankets talking crushes by the bay window seat of the Gryffindor girls' dormitories. It was just after last Christmas. Sleet lashed the windows while the hearth burned, casting golden tones and bronzed shadows. Ginny had snuck in next to Hermione and stole a sip of her hot chocolate, laced generously with whipped cream, and marshmallows, while Lavender spoke animatedly of a gorgeous grey-eyed Slytherin. “Let’s call him London Fog.”

Alicia snorted into her butterbeer. “London Fog? More like an abandoned warehouse.”

“On the docklands,” Lavender said dramatically, “Stare too long into those grey eyes and you could lose your way,”

 “Fall into sin.” An equally invested Parvati cackled as she waved her arm excitedly while trying to paint a picture on the collective mental canvas.

Ginny pictured a mysterious suited stranger, walking over a cobblestone paved footbridge, under shrouded streetlights. The dark waters of the Thames flowed silently. She could not imagine him being a pupil at Hogwarts, in staid school uniform, with a book bag and quill, attending the same classes as Ron. It ruined the mental image. She wasn’t the only one whose imagination had been tickled. There were some shrieks of delight and oohs from the fifth-year girls. The older girls looked unsure as if they could not place the grey-eyed boy in question. London Fog was a divisive topic. Lavender moved on quickly to her next crush: Blaize Zabini whose appeal cut across all the year groups. The conversation bubbled, the volume rising steadily.

Ginny whispered in Hermione’s ear, “Who is London Fog? Is it Draco?”

Hermione smiled to herself, eyes misting in the steam rising from her drink.

“I am not your friend, Weasley.” His gravelly voice punctured her reverie.

She was back, facing her grey-eyed assailant in a secluded stairwell, dark alleyway, or abandoned warehouse. The setting did not matter – the threat was real. Her heart pounded in her chest and the pulse kicking in her neck was proof of it.

“I am not one of your brothers.”

Breathlessly, she mouthed, “Noted.”

“You will never try that stunt again.” He brought her wrists together, engulfing them both in one hand. His fingers were long and tapering entwined in ridged muscle, not made from thumbing the pages of a book or scribing with a goose quill.

She winced at the pressure. “You are hurting me.” Ginny squeaked, scared to speak up but equally afraid she would hear her bones crack in the next five seconds.

“Because someone might take you up on your invitation.” The pressure did not ease.

“What invitation?”

Theo was almost lost for words. He could tell from her gormless expression how little she had absorbed. “You threw yourself at me, Ginevra.”

He was awarded with another blank expression, which if translated literally would read. “I did?"

He stuttered, galled at having to spell it out for her. “You are asking for trouble if you continue to… demonstrate such reckless behavior with other male students.”

The tears were back with a vengeance. “Please don’t hurt me or my family.”

He could have sworn. In her anguish, Weasley’s brain had been completely short-circuited. He failed to understand her tangential way of thinking and gave up trying.  She brought her hands, still encased within his larger hands to wipe the tears from her crinkled abused eyelids. He could almost smell the salt in the air. Tears bounced off her flushed cheeks and streaked across the back of his hand. She began to bawl, open-mouthed, and panting chest. He was embarrassed for her. Theo coughed and cleared his throat to no avail. The Weasley girl had no self-respect and even less situational awareness. She had cried enough tears to drown them both in this stairwell. He sympathized with her brothers, especially the one she seemed to be reminded of. He thanked Merlin he had no siblings, especially a bratty younger sister. Theo decided he could not stomach any more of this. He had enough wailing for one evening. Theo opened his mouth to speak. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, his tongue uncharacteristically dry. Granger could hold her own against him but not this little witch. It was pathetic tormenting a girl who could not hope to fight back. Against all better judgment, the wisdom of his ancestors, and the legacy of his family, wordlessly, he let go of her wrists. He stooped again till they were eye-level and cleared his throat. “Change of plans.” He handed her the Marauder’s map, which she snatched from his fingers.

Her face was a picture and she rubbed her eyes in disbelief that the map was once again in her possession. Harry would not break up with her for a start.

“Follow me.” Brusquely he informed her to tuck her hair under robe's collar.

They took a meandering path to the boys' dormitories, doubling back at several points. While he walked, he talked in a low voice to Ginny who had to scramble to keep up with his long strides. He told her emphatically that a group of girls, no matter how physically strong, would struggle to move Hermione if she was indeed a dead weight.

"She's not dead." Ginny countered.

He sighed and continued to explain their best option would be to return the potion to Snape. The cloak slowed them down unnecessarily. If there was Veritaserum in the cupboard there would most certainly be a batch of fresh Polyjuice. Turning into a group of Slytherin boys would enable them to move through the dungeons at speed and enable their escape. By going to the boy's rooms they could easily find locks of hair to use for the Polyjuice potions. He permitted the Gryffindor girls to use his hair and Blaise'.

"What about Hermione?" Ginny asked.

He stonewalled. "Forget Hermione."

"Iona."

The comforting snick of a lock opening and wards falling temporarily greeted them. The girls ran inside with preternatural speed. Before even assessing their surroundings for danger, they threw off the cloak, bolted the door from the inside, and sank on their haunches against it, gasping for breath. The room they walked into contained twin beds, a wardrobe, a writing desk, and a chest of drawers. There was a battered trunk at the foot of the furthest bed. Thin strips of green carpet served as gangplanks between the furniture. The decor was masculine and consisted of a set of weights in the corner, heavy mud set walking boots, and a stack of heavily gilt tomes from the restricted section of the library. The color scheme was an oppressive green, black or brown. The room was hardly spacious for two six-foot Slytherins unless they alternated the use of carpet and furniture.

Angelina threw the cloak on the bed as though it was her residence. "The brat's a year younger than us and he gets a bloody room! For what? For being sorted into a house of insufferable gits when he was eleven!"

"Do you think they pay higher fees for rooms?" Pav asked, walked past the pair of them to the only chest of drawers, hauling the top draw out coolly for inspection. It contained carefully rolled-up ties and belts. There were watches too; all branded. The next draw was flung open, and it contained an array of perfectly pressed and folded shirts. The contents of the third draw drew the most exclamations from the girls; trophies of past conquests. Parvati shoved the drawer back into place. "There is a lot of Italian and leather and designer. I don't think any of this belongs to Nott." She remarked.

The three girls said simultaneously. "Blaise Zabini." After the mystery of the mysterious roommate was solved, the three girls began a thorough rummage through every container, trunk/draw for old homework diaries, editions of Hogwarts: A History, and anything that would contain a map of the dungeons. Their best find was a wordy description of the structural plan of the dungeons in the oldest edition of Hogwarts: A History. Katie made a quick sketch of it with borrowed parchment and ink while Angelina and Pav restored the room to a semblance of order.

"Are we ready?" Katie asked.

Angelina replied. "Katie you've got the map. I've got my wand. Pav, you have the Veritaserum." Angelina's shoulder knocked into Pav's as she reached for the door handle. Parvati stiffened on impact and Angelina regretted her carelessness immediately. Parvati may have thought it was intentional. "Sorry," she said, awkwardly, but realized that was not what grabbed Parvati's attention. She turned slowly to face the door. The handle was moving of its own accord. Ange and Katie backed away from the door reflexively pulling a semi-paralyzed Parvati with them. Tripping over a fold in the cloak, Pav stumbled and landed artlessly on her knees much to the annoyance of the two chasers. Angelina's eyes held a stern warning, and she raised a single digit to her lips.

"It's me, guys, let me in." A small voice said on the other side of the door.

Parvati's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. Katie looked nervously at Angelina.

The gentle rapping of wood continued. "It's me. It's Ginny."

The door was flung open without a second thought, and Ginny was hauled inside and marched and sat on the edge of a twin bed. Angelina stuck her head around the frame to ensure Ginny had not been followed but the corridor outside was mercifully empty. She closed the door and faced the young girl sternly. "Where the hell did you go?"

"Where is Hermione?" Parvati asked. "How did you find us?"

Katie yelped. "What on Earth happened to your hair?"

Ginny froze, ill-equipped for the rapid-fire round of questions. In broken sentences with frequent interruptions by her audience, she told them of the events that had transpired. When she got to the part where they were discovered by the Slytherin patrol, all three girls broke out in furious mutterings and started shaking their heads in disdain. Ginny explained how she was found and sort of rescued by a Slytherin, whom all three surmised to be Theodore Nott. She told them that Nott had brought her here and gone back on patrol with Montague and Blaize. He also passed on vital information on how to find Snape's office and how to travel undetected.

"Did he tell you why he is helping us?"

"What does it matter?" Katie swatted Angelina's arm. "If it was a trap, we'd have been discovered by now. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Well, what does he want?" Angelina stamped her foot. "Why does this boy we have never spoken to want to help us?"

Ginny shook her head. "I don't know. He didn't tell me. He said that Snape's moved his office closer to the boy's dormitories after a pipe broke and flooded it." Ginny sheepishly took out the marauder's map and opened it up for their viewing. She quickly located Professor Snape on the map as Angelina pointed to a square adjacent to Snape's private quarters, where he lay blissfully sleeping. "This must be it." The girls huddled around on the bed for a closer look, calculating the best route to their intended destination.

"You had the map the whole time?" Parvati said flatly, over her shoulder.

Ginny bit her lower lip and kept mum.

“Did you hear me?”

"Yes, I may have held on to it," Ginny said awkwardly avoiding her gaze.

"Any particular reason why?"

Katie interrupted. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

Ginny looked up in surprise before realizing the question was meant for Parvati. She almost breathed a sigh of relief. Katie Bell was a perennial peacemaker. Her rolling pin voice, employed on the rarest of circumstances could put the fear of God into the wayward.

Parvati looked at Katie quizzically before acquiescing. They moved towards the front door which Katie leaned against with her shoulder. “What’s going on?” Katie muttered under her breath.

“I’ve had it with this girl.” Parvati hissed. “Is she being serious?”

“I know you are feeling frustrated but now is not the time to vent your anger at Ginny,” Katie muttered sternly. “Ginny is drunk and exhausted, and she has escaped the three seventh-year Slytherin boys with her life. We need to cut her some slack.”

“If we cut her any more slack, we’ll have to carry her out of here on the same cloud she floated in on.”

Despite herself, Katie smothered a chuckle. “How is this being helpful, Parvati?”

“I’m just being honest. How has Ginny been helpful this evening? She nearly got caught. Scratch that- she did get caught. It's a miracle that the Slytherins haven't found the rest of us. Has Ginny been paying attention to her surroundings? Her interaction with Nott – did any of it make sense to you? Why is he helping her? What does he owe her? She is omitting information either deliberately or from sheer inattention.”

“She is trying her best.”

“She is not trying at all. That’s my point. If we are not careful, she is going to get us caught!”

Angelina interrupted their conversation. “You two, get back here now.” Pointing to the map laid out on Nott’s Forest-green bedspread, Angelina traced a direct route with her index finger. "That will take us through the boys' dorms." She glanced at the moving dots like a swarm of angry bees buzzing through the corridors and past Nott's room too. "I don't recognize any of these names."

Ginny frowned. "They are first, second, and third-year Slytherin boys."

"So, we have eleven-year-old boys patrolling the corridors looking for us?" Parvati hissed.

"They are looking for Harry. If they knew we were here, I don't think they would make this much effort.” Katie surmised.

 There was a collective groan, which belied a grudging and unspoken acknowledgment of Slytherin doggedness. The Slytherin girls, whether they liked it or not were holed up in their dormitories. While Gryffindors ladies normally rallied against chauvinistic House policies, they were grateful for small mercies tonight.

Angelina smacked her forehead. "Do you know how long it took to get to the boys' dorms without anybody suspecting? We were under the cloak, looking around corners, trying to avoid bumping into someone while being hunted for our lives. They just went doubled the guard."

Parvati countered. "Who here feels threatened by an eleven-year-old wizard?"

"That's beside the point!" A rather vexed Katie Bell added. "I cannot believe Flint made the younger students get out of bed at two o'clock in the morning on a school night!"

"We didn't have the map," Parvati added acidly. She jabbed the parchment on the bed.

Katie said, diverting the discussion onto neutral territory. "Is Hermione still in the kit cupboard? Do we know what's wrong with her?"

Ginny succinctly relayed Hermione's symptoms before she collapsed.

"Lavender also complained of abdominal pain," Katie remarked. "Parvati, you were with both. How come you are not sick?" She pointed at Parvati.

“No idea.” Parvati shrugged. “But it’s not our biggest concern right now.”

“You are wrong,” Katie said forcefully, leaning over the map. "We cannot drag Hermione out of here. There's no room under the cloak for four people, and if Hermione is unconscious, as Ginny says she is, we have a huge problem."

Angelina turned her full attention to the redhead. "Did Nott offer to help?"

"He just grunted and told me to forget about Hermione for the time being," Ginny stated.

"What did he say specifically?" said Angelina.

"He asked if she was drunk. I told him she passed out."

"So, is he willing to help move Hermione?" Angelina demanded, her patience fraying thin with the Weasley girl.

"He didn't say," Ginny said petulantly.

"You were with him for the past half an hour, and you didn't think to ask." Angelina snapped. Angelina could have sworn. She knew from the very beginning that Ginny would be a liability. She just had not trusted the younger and naïve girl to realize the importance of their task and stay focused. Despite this, Angelina sympathized with the girl who had had an awful night after being separated from the group. Ginny had come through the worst by the skin of her teeth which was probably a testament to her leprechaun luck and Nott’s misplaced mercies rather than Ginny’s mental faculties. Yet, Angelina could not help but feel annoyed at the girl. It was as though Ginny had reunited with the rest of the girls, she was back to doing the bare minimum. Angelina had secretly agreed with Parvati that Ginny had done all her thinking for the night and left her brain in the kit cupboard next to Hermione. She was hardly pulling her weight, now that she was back with the group. She knew Ginny had no idea who was going to rescue Hermione but instead of answering Angelina’s questions, she resorted to unsatisfactory and diffuse explanations. Angelina would have preferred to hear Ginny say she did not know. Ginny kept repeating her vague answers like a broken record, and then had the nerve to act frustrated with Angelina for not following. Her patience for Ginny’s antics was running low.

"He said we should use the Polyjuice potion to turn into Slytherin boys. As a group of girls under an invisibility cloak we would struggle."

"So, essentially we are carrying Hermione out ourselves after we metamorphosed into guys," Angelina concluded frankly. "Thank you for wasting five minutes of my time, Ginny." She turned to the other girls. "We each need locks of hair, boys' robes, and shoes. Take what you can from this room and we'll transfigure them into pebbles which we will each carry in our pockets. Do not lose any items. We will all have to get under the cloak.”

“We can only fit three people under the cloak.” Katie reminded Angelina.

“Fine, you three should use the cloak and I’ll dress up in Zabini’s clothes and hope to God nobody takes a closer look at me.” Angelina sighed wearily, ‘We are going to Snape's office. I would hate to be late for someone who is not expecting me."

Up till now, everything had running according to the plan. Exactly to plan. After much searching, Parvati, Angelina, Katie, and Ginny had located Snape's office. They successfully found access to his secret storeroom. Not only had they returned the Veritaserum bottle to a row of identical Veritaserum bottles and transfigured their pebbles back into Slytherin robes, but they had also identified Polyjuice potion- two shelves worth of it. With Hermione out of the picture, their second most skilled witch Angelina set up a tripod, gauze, and a large cauldron in the storeroom to brew a batch of Polyjuice in bulk. She instructed her fellow witches to set up individual beakers to which they added their separate Slytherin hairs. Katie kept a watch on the time and under her direction, Angelina poured the vat of liquid carefully into one beaker. The girls had changed in the meanwhile into their Slytherin robes and sat huddled and barefoot on the floor around the tripod and beakers. The cut of the cloth was expensive, Ginny's more notably so than the remaining three. The clothing was loose and baggy on their shoulders and hips as expected for boys clothing. That was soon about to change.

"This is not going to taste pleasant; I'm warning you. No, spitting it out, okay?" Angelina said as Ginny, pinching the bridge of her nose, tipped her beaker to her mouth and threw her head back. She almost gagged but held it together, scrunching her face from the distaste. She nodded at the rest of them, put the beaker down, and stood up to move towards a corner of the storeroom for privacy.

Pav turned to Katie. "Do you have any idea who you're about to turn into?"

Katie shook her head. "No. I ran into the nearest room that did not have wards and threw open the wardrobe, grabbed the first set of robes I laid eyes on. "

Parvati replied. "I am turning into Zabini. Angelina took a lock of Nott’s hair."

"Mine's a brunette – that's all I can tell you." Katie gestured to the hair at the bottom of her beaker and swilled her potion absently.

Pav threw a cursory glance in the same direction and froze. "Say, have a look at Ginny's beaker. Look at the hair she picked. What color do you suppose that is?"

Katie shuffled closer.  The potion was bottle green in color and looked questionable for human consumption. The hair shaft disconcertingly looked the same color as the potion.

Pav picked up the beaker and held it up to the light. Still unsure, she tilted the beakers slightly, separating the remaining ten milliliters from the Slytherin hair follicle. "Do you suppose she picked up a white hair?"

"A white hair?" Katie said hopefully. "Premature greying can happen even at our age."

"It's white," Pav stated and said it again with a cold realization. "Or it could be a very light blonde."

Angelina did not look up from the steaming cauldron. "Merlin, what's Ginny done now?" It was half muttered into the rising steam. When nobody answered, an insistent Angelina asked again. “Is there a problem?”

"Yes," Pav emphasized at the same time Katie said. "No." They shared a look.

That is the problem with plans. They are not foolproof. There was no accounting for human factors like Ginevra Weasley. Parvati let out a long and shaky breath. She knew like Katie and Angelina both knew that their current situation was tenuous. To gain a full appreciation for the overall situation, they also had to consider what their mortal enemies Slytherin house knew. Earlier this evening, the overwhelming majority of Slytherin house were made aware of an unprovoked attack on one of their number. His eminence, Draco Malfoy first of his name had been hexed to a near-vegetative state by members of the Gryffindor house. It was probable that several Slytherins had helped transfer his rigid body to the hospital wing, where he could be expected to remain for several days if not weeks. Lucius Malfoy was probably preparing to flail the entire school board tomorrow morning to close Hogwarts for the remaining school year. In the interim, Draco's fellow brethren were likely plotting reprisal attacks against Gryffindor's house. Therefore, it would be highly conspicuous if the Prince of Slytherin house were to be seen roaming the corridors of the Slytherin dungeon in full possession of his senses.

"Guys, how do I look?"

"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 good.”

"You are smarter than that Blaise. He should have been back by now.” Montague huffed. 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.” He kicked his shoes off.

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 him, that yellow-bellied bastard!”

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

“Potter?” He asked incredulously.

“I meant Nott.”

“When have I given him a hard time?”

Didn’t you just call him a yellow-bellied lizard? “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 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,” Blaise said evenly.

Montague laughed outright. “Come now, there should be no animosity between us. We go way back.”

“Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

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.

“I remember Nott befriended you when you were at your most vulnerable.”

“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 seconds before impact.

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.”

Blaise gritted his teeth. Montague knew full well he had been kicked off the team.

“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. Blaise did not count him among his friends. Asking Montague for a favor was akin to asking him for a kidney. “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.”

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. Blaise sighed as he straightened his posture but said nothing, allowing his housemate to fill the awkward silence between them. 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.

Rather predictably, Montague pressed forth in his clumsy flat-footed manner. “I hear that Nott’s father writes to you.”

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

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

 “Well, if you had indeed 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 and disgrace and has been quietly building his fortune. He has 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. It was rude to pry. Most of their 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 Montague, 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. Perhaps, he was not the catch he thought he was.

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. He would make an asset in the fight for which he is 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.”

“Why does that concern you?” Blaise leaned back in his seat. He studied Montague carefully and let an awkward silence build for a second time. It worked like a charm. He mused, whether to go for a hattrick.

Montague explained hurriedly. “The Nott family are important but long-neglected allies.”

Montague’s answer told him nothing. Are you trying to eliminate your competition or get the measure of him? The seventh year’s spiel sounded overtly rehearsed but more concerningly regurgitated from someone else’s mouth. The hairs rose slowly on the back of Blaise’s neck. His eyes flitted to Montague's shirt sleeves stapled with sterling silver 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. 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 power over all of them. 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?” He took an indirect approach, something Montague could benefit from learning.

“You really are too much!” laughed Montague.

“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?” Montague said, answering a question with another.

“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 who had been his only surviving relative, 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? “So, you want me to find out about Nott’s loyalties and that of his father’s and whether they are still aligned with our Master’s purpose?”

“Malfoy was always concerned about you choosing Nott over your housemates.” Montague continued cryptically. “I knew you had your priorities in order. We must start thinking of the future no doubt and our place within it. We Slytherins might be self-serving but when we band together, history remembers 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.”