Chapter 5
As he left the potion ingredients cupboard after the awkward incident with Malfoy, Harry donned a mask of perfect composure.
Back at their worktable, Ron marvelled aloud at the time it had taken Harry to collect one single ingredient.
“What were you, wanking in there or something? Anyways, uh, look –” Ron gestured at their cauldron helplessly. “I, erm, had to carry on without you. Slughorn said one more minute of waiting, and the whole potion would be wasted...”
The concoction looked like mud inside the cauldron, and it was gurgling loudly. It was obviously unsalvageable.
“Brewed this with our seven shrivelfigs,” explained Ron.
Harry wanted to throw up his hands. “Well, you didn’t exactly help matters, did you?” he growled, frustrated.
Sneaking a look at Malfoy, Harry caught him turn away with a smirk. Scowling, he tossed the shrivelfig he had obtained into his and Ron’s concoction, where it fell with a small plash, to never surface again.
The remainder of the lesson dragged on agonizingly. Moreover, at the end of it, Slughorn even found time to shake his head disappointedly at their ruined Scintillation Solution, which didn’t make Harry feel any better about himself.
When the students started chattering happily as they poured out of the classroom, Harry decided he needed some time to cool off. Further human interaction sounded rather like a chore at the moment.
Once he made an excuse to his friends, he didn’t stay long enough to hear a response. He went to climb up the staircase, away from the masses of students heading down to lunch, and for once, nobody tried to stop him to attempt a conversation. Harry knew it was most likely a testament to the obviousness of his sullen mood, though he certainly wasn’t complaining about the lack of attention.
Left in peace, he couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander. It wasn’t very pleasant, as they involuntarily wandered to Malfoy.
He remembered the draughtiness in the potions storage room, and the low light. He recalled Malfoy looming over him, unwelcome and overbearing, as Harry stood there with a feeling of absurd omnipotence. He thought of his own strange behaviour, and how he had obviously not been thinking straight, wanting to provoke Malfoy into doing something that wasn’t fighting. Malfoy had suggested Harry’s brain was addled by some sort of drug, and frankly, Harry couldn’t see any other explanation for what had happened.
Still, it was rather mortifying. How could Malfoy, even with the prospect of Harry’s humiliation in mind, allow all of that to ensue? Had he not felt absolutely disgusted to be so close to Harry without being violent? Did he know Harry had been – and there was no getting around this fact – aroused?
Dear Merlin, the thought that Malfoy could taunt him about this was unbearable. Even his drug-addled state wasn’t enough to justify that reaction.
Almost without consulting his brain, Harry’s legs led him to the owlery, where owls constituted his only company. As he stepped further into the room, some of the birds on the lower perches hooted expectantly, their large eyes blinking sleepily and wings outstretching. Instinctively, Harry searched around his pockets for owl treats, but just as he’d expected, he didn’t find any. He shrugged slightly at the birds, before turning towards the glassless windows.
There was not much to do in the owlery. Hedwig was obviously not there, and the other owls went back to sleep once it became clear Harry had neither treats for them, nor a letter to send. Still, Harry decided to stay for a while longer to stare at the grey clouds passing overhead. There was a sense of refreshment in feeling cold air whipping across his cheeks, and mussing his hair.
As he lounged in the owlery and continued to think about Malfoy, his embarrassment gave way to curiousness. If he had, indeed, been drugged, when did it happen? How? What was the drug?
Harry knew his best chances of finding out lay with Hermione. On that account, on his way to the common room, he made a detour to the library, where Hermione was most likely to be located. It took him a little over three minutes to find her at one of the tables, behind numerous stacks of books.
“Hey, Hermione, can I ask you a question?” he asked, taking a seat across from her.
Hermione had to stretch her neck to look at him over the heavy volumes. “Harry.” She blinked at him, before glancing longingly down at what seemed to be a three-foot essay she was writing on Ancient Runes. Then, he quickly had her attention again. “Of course you can. What is it?”
“Well, it’s about the potion we were making today...” Harry took the liberty of arranging the books on the table in such a way that they didn’t block his view of Hermione. From the way her lips thinned a little he guessed he’d probably just messed up her study plan or something, however she didn’t say anything. “The, er, the Scintillation Solution. See, I was wondering about something you said in class. Something about the ground beetles. How they’re so important and all...”
“Well, they’re certainly a volatile ingredient,” Hermione said, looking stunned he was actually asking her something class-related.
Harry was a little offended – he did take active interest in his studies, from time to time. “Yeah, so?”
“Well, that’s what makes them dangerous to the brewer – the unpredictability and the ability to change the potion’s properties with the slightest alteration. Ground beetles can also be explosive in combination with some other ingredients.”
“Right, right.” He reached out to fiddle with a corner of Hermione’s parchment. “And, say, Hermione, could those beetles have any effect on, erm, a potential brewer before being added to a potion?”
“Well, whole beetles aren’t known to have any magical properties outside of potion making. However, freshly ground beetles emit fumes – that’s why one should work swiftly when grinding the beetles.”
“Fumes?” he repeated.
At that, Hermione looked scandalised. “Yes, Harry, the fumes from the ground beetles! It’s third year knowledge!”
Harry vaguely remembered Hermione talking about these fumes in last class, but he couldn’t recall anything specific.
“Honestly, what am I going to do with you?” she sighed. “The fumes aren’t very toxic, but inhaling them can cause mild nausea and confused perception. It also lowers your inhibitions, similar to alcohol. Thankfully, it’s not very dangerous, and the effects are short-lasting – but a confused state of mind might inspire the victim to feel, or do things they normally wouldn’t.” She looked at him piercingly. “Harry, why –“
“So, er, how can you tell someone has inhaled the fumes?” Harry asked quickly.
“Well... For one, a person under the influence of the fumes will be able to smell the vapours, which are odourless to other, unaffected people. The smell is said to be rather foul. Other than that, you can tell by observation – the higher the level of intoxication, the more bizarre the behaviour of the victim. Of course, the effects may vary depending on a person... Harry, why don’t you stop pretending to read my essay, and tell me what’s wrong?”
Harry snapped his head up. “Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her. “No, honestly, Hermione, it’s nothing. Look, I was just curious, because... ‘cause, you know, Ernie Macmillan said something about smelling something bad when he was grinding the beetles. And then he, erm, started acting kind of weird. Saying weird things and such... Completely barmy, if you ask me. So, yeah, I just wondered.”
There it was – fumes from the ground beetles. He knew there was a reason he had acted like a complete nutcase back with Malfoy.
“If you say so,” said Hermione, looking doubtful and a bit concerned.
“Yeah. It’s no big deal, anyway.” He grinned at her. “Thanks, though, Hermione – that was exactly what I wanted to hear.”
As Harry’s first class on Tuesday was at midday, straight after breakfast he returned to the Gryffindor common room. Ron (whose timetable was the same as Harry’s) and Hermione had a free period as well.
The three of them eased into the common room which was predictably bustling with activity. They settled into a free couch by the windows, where the sun shone brightly and warmed the seats.
Ron sighed contentedly, sprawled between Harry and Hermione. “This is great. Have I mentioned I love Tuesdays this year?”
“Once or twice,” answered Hermione. “Budge up, Ron – you’re taking up too much space.”
“No classes until one o’clock,” Ron said after he arranged himself to Hermione’s liking. “And then it’s only Herbology. Easy.”
“Have you finished your Herbology homework yet?” asked Hermione with a pointed look.
“You’re the devil, Hermione. I was having a jolly good time not remembering.”
“Stop sulking and I might check it for you when you’re done,” she said sternly, but kissed his cheek.
“Oh, you two are being just sickeningly sweet,” gibed Parvati Patil, as she and Demelza Robins came over to lean against the windowsill. “How do you stand it, Harry? My teeth hurt from sugar overload.”
“Comes with practice, trust me,” replied Harry. “I still need to vomit in the dorms every now and then, though.”
“Hardy har har, you two,” said Hermione, pink-cheeked, while Ron looked smug. “It’s not like we were doing anything indecent... Oh, shut up, Ron, go back to writing your essay.”
Parvati glanced at Demelza, presumably to share a smile, only to find Demelza sullenly staring out the window instead. In fact, that was what Demelza had been doing from the moment she appeared – staring out the window. Parvati rolled her eyes. “You won’t find it there,” she said, nudging her.
Startled, Demelza blinked and looked away. “Oh, be quiet.”
“Why, worried your vampire will hear me?” said Parvati in a teasing tone.
Demelza blushed. “Sure, go ahead and laugh it up,” she grumbled. “We’ll see who will be laughing when it starts biting people.”
Turning to Harry, Hermione, and Ron, Parvati explained, “Demelza is convinced she saw a vampire flying above the Forbidden Forest yesterday.”
“Vampires can’t fly. They don’t have wings,” asserted Hermione.
“Well, this one had wings,” insisted Demelza. “Bright, leathery wings, like a bat’s – they shined in the moonlight. Scary.” She shuddered, and Parvati rolled her eyes again.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a Wyvern?” Harry asked in a sudden moment of clarity. “You know, the –”
“White, ugly beasts Hagrid started to keep around this year?” Demelza interrupted with a glare. “Yes, I’m sure it was not one of those. It looked like a human, only with wings. It must have been a vampire.”
“Vampires don’t have –”
“Well, Hermione, what else could it have been then?” asked Demelza. “Surely you must know, since apparently you have answers to everything!”
“If you really want to know, I think it was a figment of your imagination.”
“I didn’t imagine it –”
“Did anyone beside you see this vampire, Demelza?” Harry asked quickly to forestall an argument.
“Well... No, because I was alone out on the Quidditch pitch. It was after curfew.” Ignoring Hermione’s exclamation about violation of school rules, Demelza continued, “The house-elves were asleep, so I was the only one in the area. I still go sometimes to fly, even if the pitch is devastated... Anyway, it was dark, like I said, and I was alone, eighty feet in the air. I was practising barrel rolls, when something shifted and caught my attention. It was him...“
“So it’s a he now,” muttered Hermione.
Demelza ignored her. “He was some distance away, so if it weren’t for the moon shining brightly, I probably wouldn’t be able to see him at all. He was soaring in circles above the Forbidden Forest, with the moonlight reflecting in his dark wings. I think he was hunting,” she added in a whisper.
“Well, did you see his face?” Ron asked sceptically.
“Of course not.” Demelza scowled. “My eyesight isn’t that good. But I think it was a man. A male vampire.”
“So, what did you do when you saw this vampire?”
“I... I left,” Demelza said, flushing when Ron coughed. “Well, what else could I have done? I was scared. It could have seen me and gone after me – it could have bitten me!”
“It can’t have been a vampire, Demelza,” Hermione said patiently. “Vampires can’t fly, and they certainly don’t have wings.”
“Well, it was something,” said Demelza. “I didn’t imagine it. Whatever it is, there is a flying, humanoid creature somewhere out on the school grounds.”
“I don’t know,” mused Ron. “A great, flying, bat-like beast... Kinda sounds like Snape came back from the dead. Only, you know – sporting wings.”
“Well, there’s an idea,” snickered Parvati.
“Don’t even joke like that.” Demelza frowned. “Though I always did say there was something odd about Snape.”
In view of the past rainy weekend and cold Monday, it was a wonder how sunny Tuesday turned out to be at one o’clock. As Harry was walking towards the Herbology greenhouses, Ron and Hermione at his sides, he could see Malfoy in the distance doing manual work. He was mucking out the stables without the use of his wand, while a small herd of Aethonans – winged horses Hagrid taught about in fourth year – grazed nearby.
Harry thought Malfoy resembled a Muggle farmer – he had shed his school robes, and the sleeves of his stained, white shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Even from the distance, the cords in his forearms flexed visibly as he dug the pitchfork in and out of the hay.
Even though Harry was aware of Malfoy’s new responsibilities as a caretaker, seeing him do manual labour was still mind-boggling. He couldn’t help but stare.
Following Harry’s line of sight, Ron smiled with satisfaction. “Blessing to my eyes – Malfoy dirtying his ferrety paws.”
Harry averted his gaze and quickened his pace. “Let’s hurry up. Seems like everyone’s already there.”
They made it to Herbology in the nick of time. Professor Sprout, who was standing by the greenhouse entrance, beckoned to them with a gloved hand. “Barely in time, you three,” she said to them. “Now, everybody come closer. Come over, and take a look at the subject of our lesson today.”
The students crowded around her, pushing and jostling; surprisingly many eighth years had decided to take N.E.W.T.-level Herbology. Somehow, as Harry, Hermione, and Ron managed to get a spot at the front, they gained a good view of the plant they were to study during the next couple of lessons.
And it was quite a peculiar view. On the ground, in front of the now crouching Professor Sprout, was what Harry could only describe as a large cabbage with a sharp-teethed mouth and branches for arms, in a pot. It was the size of a bristling porcupine – he knew, because they had covered porcupines in Care of Magical Creatures in fifth year. As Professor Sprout proceeded to tell them, the plant was a gnawplant and wasn’t dangerous if one knew how to deal with its treacherous jaws.
“In the wild, they’ll generally feed on any plant they can find. Our gnawplants, however, have been conditioned to only feed on the Common Wartizome. You should remember from sixth year that Wartizome is a plant whose juices have healing properties, particularly useful when dealing with various stomach aches and nausea symptoms. Since Madam Pomfrey mentioned her supplies of Wartizome are in need of expanding, today we will be extracting the Wartizome juice from the tongues of the gnawplants.” Professor Sprout clapped her hands briskly. “Now, everyone, get into pairs, and back to your workstations. Remember, only one pot with a gnawplant per pair. At the end of the lesson, I want each of you to have detailed notes with your observations!”
As usual in Herbology, Ron teamed up with Hermione, which meant Harry was left to find his own partner. It was in moments like this, when it became clear Hermione and Ron were a twosome, that he just a little bit begrudged their relationship. He resented it when they bickered, or flirted, or snogged, and in the process completely forgot about Harry. Above all, though, he hated how selfish and needy it led him to feel.
For a while, as Hermione and Ron argued about which worktable they should choose, Harry stood there, looking about himself passively.
“Seems like we’re the only ones left,” a voice said behind him. Turning his head, Harry saw Theodore Nott.
“Oh, erm,” He took a quick look around again. Indeed, it appeared that everyone else had already partnered up. “Yeah, seems like.”
Noticing the unusual newcomer, Hermione stopped lecturing Ron, and said primly, “Hello, Theodore.”
“Yeah, hey, Granger. So, Potter, do you want to get some spot a bit farther away from Sprout or...?”
Harry eyed all the free worktables nearby. Walking over to one, he gestured with his hand. “How about we just move over here? There’s plenty of room.”
“Well... why not,” replied Nott, though he looked a bit reluctant. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Be right back, I’ll just bring my things.” He walked away.
“Tough, mate,” Ron said to Harry in a sympathetic tone, nodding at Nott’s diminishing figure. “Just your luck to end up with a Slytherin.”
“Stop it, Ron,” admonished Hermione. “You’ve never even spoken to Theodore once, so don’t assume things about him. Now do something useful and go fetch us a gnawplant.”
A minute or two later, Nott returned. He was not only carrying a schoolbag on his shoulder, but also a pot with a gnawplant in his hands.
“I grabbed our plant on my way back,” he said, as he deposited the plant on the long worktable in front of them.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Harry, a bit guiltily, realising he’d been pretty much lazing about so far. “So, how do we do this? You keep its jaws open, while I extract the juice?”
Nott shrugged. “That should work.” He was already pulling on his thick, dragon-hide gloves to ensure the gnawplant’s teeth wouldn’t harm him during the task.
They spent the next ten minutes working in silence, with the gnawplant practically bending itself backwards to bite off their fingers. It was only their protective gloves that were preventing the plant from succeeding. Whilst the task wasn’t very pleasant to begin with, the sultry air in the greenhouse was making it even less so.
As Nott struggled to keep the gnawplant’s jaws open, Harry forcibly drew the purple tongue out of its mouth. Gripping the tongue in both hands, like Professor Sprout had instructed them to do, he twisted it around so the Wartizome juice could be squeezed out, down into the bucket he had placed on the ground. He held it for a few seconds, but then had to let go quickly when the gnawplant jerked out of Nott’s grasp.
“Argh! Damn it,” Harry cursed, having nearly knocked the bucket over. He steadied it, and lifted his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead.
A few rows away, Professor Sprout was showing a pair of Ravenclaws how to hold the plant without hurting its ears. Harry hadn’t even noticed the thing had ears.
“You alright?” Nott asked. “Shall we try again?”
Harry sighed. “Sure.”
They resumed their positions, with Harry in front of the gnawplant, and Nott behind it.
“So, er,” Harry began. “Your mate Malfoy’s sure been keeping himself busy of late.”
Nott trained dark, bagged eyes on him, his eyebrow wrinkled at the non sequitur.
Cursing himself inwardly for bringing up Malfoy, Harry stupidly went on, “I mean, I reckon he must be rather busy. Like, can’t-find-the-time-to-show-up-in-class-half-the-time busy. Wonder what that’s all about.”
“Hmm...”
“I mean, he must really hate going to class if he’d rather muck out and such. He was mucking out today. Not like I care, mind. Just...”
Nott simply stared at him. Realising it was time to shut up, Harry finally did just that. Why had he even brought up Malfoy? He didn’t even care.
They didn’t speak for a longer while, focusing on the gnawplant and their task. Harry noted that the more Wartizome juice he wrung out, the less purple and more green the tongue was becoming. At the next moment of respite, he jotted it down on his largely empty piece of parchment.
“I wouldn’t know what’s going on in Malfoy’s head, Potter,” Nott said then. “If you want to know, you should probably ask him yourself.”
“Yeah,” muttered Harry, managing not to roll his eyes. “Not bloody likely,” he added under his nose.
At the end of the lesson, their bucket with Wartizome juice was half full, which was a decent amount, compared to the rest of their classmates. Once everyone put their plants back to their original place on a stand near the greenhouse entrance, Professor Sprout disclosed they wouldn’t be done covering gnawplants until the next three classes. To make matters worse, she then stated that by the fourth class, each pair would be expected to hand in a full report on the plant’s behaviour.
Harry recalled the times he’d thought Herbology was an easy subject, and groaned.
Draco was lying on his back, arms outstretched at his sides, and observed the clouds.
It was a quiet day. The wind had evened out. Birds were trilling. Some crows were cawing in the distance, trying to get at the rat carcasses Hagrid was storing by his hut. Draco should have gone to chase the birds away, but he chose to linger.
As classes had started a while earlier, no students were milling about, and no teachers were telling him which menial task needed his attention next. After nearly two hours of mucking out, Draco didn’t quite feel up to anything else. He could still smell the manure on himself. He wondered at what had become of his life.
Shifting on the stack of fresh hay, Draco looked at the Aethonans grazing in a paddock. It wasn’t a very large area of land – if not for the fact that it was magically revitalised every other day, Draco guessed the paddock would be bare within a fortnight. Propping himself on an elbow, he glanced at the castle of Hogwarts. Perhaps he should lead the horses into the stables now, before the class ended. The students, girls in particular, got it in their heads sometimes that stroking wings or feeding snacks to the Aethonans was a good idea. As Draco was the one who had to clean the mess up later, he wasn’t going to let that happen again. And he didn’t particularly want to be held responsible for any disfigurations, either.
Getting to his feet, he patted himself clean of hay straws. His work boots were lying halfway from the stable where he’d tossed them, but they were filthy and reeking, so Draco stepped over them, barefooted, as he went. He stopped by the entrance of the stable, where he’d left his leather shoes. He put them on, and then headed for the paddock. He would place the work boots near Hagrid’s hut later, so that Hagrid could magic them clean.
One by one, he steered the Aethonans to the stable and changed their water, before coming back to his stack of hay. He picked up his robes, which were lying in a pile on the ground, and shook them a few times, getting rid of the dirt. As he put the robes on, Draco extracted his wand from his sleeve. It was a piece of black wood, simple-looking and Ministry-issued. Foreign, Draco couldn’t help but think. While he was wary of using the wand since every spell he cast with it was reported to the Ministry, he decided to indulge himself this time.
“Apstergeo,” he said, siphoning the grime and smell off of himself. Surely the Ministry wouldn’t find anything suspicious about him using a cleaning charm. He slid the wand back into his sleeve.
He didn’t use a wand much, anymore. Not only was it monitored, the range of spells he was allowed to cast was limited, too. And then, there was his favourite – the three-spells-a-day-only rule. Draco wasn’t sure what would happen if he used the wand four times in one day, or if it was even possible, but he wasn’t eager to try it. He was usually careful to have one spell left at the end of the day, just in case.
Distant sounds of laughter and conversation alerted him to the fact that class was over. Students were pouring out of the castle, onto the sunlit grounds.
People were emerging from the greenhouses, too. His year-mates. Draco watched Potter’s black mop of hair moving among the small throng of students, before he realised an oddity – for walking alongside Potter was Theo Nott.
Nott said something to Potter and looked at him, expectant. Potter shrugged his shoulders, mumbling something in response. For lack of anything better to do, Draco continued to observe them.
For all the 400 feet that separated him from the place Potter and Nott were, Draco could discern the movements of their mouths without a problem. He’d noticed a while earlier that his eyesight had begun to improve. Still, he decided not to read into it – sometimes, things just happened in the magical world, and they had no evident explanation.
Draco was no lip reader, though, which had never pissed him off as much as in that moment.
Still in conversation, Potter and Nott came to a stop. Uncharacteristically, it was Nott who was doing most of the talking, while Potter nodded and shrugged at intervals. That went on until Granger interrupted them. Her voice wasn’t very loud, but Draco clearly heard her call, “Harry, are you coming?”
Potter said a few words to Nott, and then trotted after Granger and Weasley like an obedient puppy. From what Draco could see, they were heading for Hagrid’s hut. However, he’d already lost interest in Potter’s plans.
Nott was walking towards the castle now, and Draco made a beeline for him, suspicion churning in his gut. Other Slytherins had almost never approached Potter on their own. Potter was Draco’s business, after all, and Draco liked it that way. Nott may have been Draco’s friend of sorts, but he’d stepped out of line.
By the time Nott noticed him, they were both in the courtyard, in front of the entrance doors.
Draco didn’t waste time in asking, “What were you doing with Potter?”
“Oh, hello to you too, Malfoy,” said Nott. “Yes, I’m doing quite fine, how about you?”
“Well?” Draco said, tapping his foot.
There was a groan. “Merlin’s sake, what is it with you two? What did you think I was doing with Potter?”
Draco only waited, arms crossed.
Nott rolled his eyes. “Nothing. We’re doing a project together. Alright?” He made as if to walk away.
Grabbing him by the arm, Draco turned him back to himself, before letting go. “You’re doing a project together,” he repeated, ignoring Nott’s affronted expression.
“Yeah. Herbology, you see.” Then, “Mate, you need to lay off a bit. You’re obsessed with Potter, you’ve always been. I thought you got past it this year, but you’re just starting all over again!”
Draco was losing his patience. “Yeah, yeah, fuck off. I’m not obsessed.” He looked to the side, as Nott stared at him. “Fuck, just... Stay away from him, okay?”
Nott lifted a hand to rub his forehead. “Seriously... Why do you even care? It’s not like I’m trying to become his best mate or anything. We’re only doing a project together.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it. And even assuming I were trying to become Potter’s mate, then so what? The war is over, Draco. Get over it.”
Nott become Potter’s mate? Something in Draco’s stomach twisted unpleasantly at the thought, and his temper flared. “Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.”
“About what? My befriending Potter, or the war being over?” He sighed. “Never mind. You can still live in the past if you want, but don’t drag me with you. I will do as I like.”
Having said that, Nott turned around and walked into the castle, leaving Draco to quietly seethe.
He knew he should have expected that response, though. Nott had never liked Draco ordering him around, and, despite numerous attempts on Draco’s part to change it, he had never been a member of Draco’s clique. As far as he knew, Nott was too much of a loner to join groups.
Annoyed, Draco made his way back to the stable. A few years back, he would have amounted the word loner to loser, but now he thought he wasn’t exactly one to talk. He was an anathema to nearly everyone at Hogwarts, not that he’d made an effort to seek their favour.
The rest of the day passed as usual, which meant uneventfully and boringly. Draco went into minimal contact with his peers, and he made an effort to attend his last class of the day, Arithmancy. It was rather a moot point, though, seeing as he’d missed the two previous lectures which turned out essential to understand the topic. He chewed on his tongue as the Professor berated him in front of the class for treating her subject lightly; the last thing he needed was Slughorn threatening him with Azkaban again for talking back to a teacher.
Following Arithmancy was dinner, and afterwards, he had a break. That, in Draco’s experience, meant boredom. He went down to the edge of the forest, to check up on Tenebrus the Thestral with a broken leg. While the break seemed to be healing well, Tenebrus was old, and it wouldn’t be long before he died. Draco was a little regretful about that – he felt a sense of camaraderie with the creature who had become a pariah among his younger, healthier kindred members.
In the evening, he was made to feed the Crups, fertilise the carrots, clean the arrows Hagrid used for hunting, and bring a batch of Murtlap essence to Pomfrey.
By the time he left the hospital wing, it was an hour past his curfew. Draco didn’t let that bother him – as he had been performing his duties, he would be excused.
Well on his way to the Slytherin common room, his heartbeat picked up. He spotted a person he least expected to meet in the dungeons.
Harry Potter was coming from the other end of the corridor.
Normally, they would have ignored one another. Potter would have turned his head away, pretending not to see him, and Draco would do the same. They would have passed each other without a word.
But not this time.
“Well, isn’t this unusual,” Draco said, obviously taking Potter aback. “You seem to have lost your dogs somewhere on the way, Potter. What are you doing here alone?”
Potter looked rather cross now. “What dogs, Malfoy?” He huffed. “And it’s not any of your business, anyway. I’m leaving.” And he made to do just that.
What was it with people walking out on him today? Grinding his teeth, Draco extended his arm, blocking Potter’s way.
“It’s after curfew and you’re in the Slytherin dungeons – that makes it my business. What do you want here?”
Potter glared at him. “Oh, piss off, I wasn’t snooping around your precious dungeons. I’m just passing by. Let me through, you wanker.”
Potter apparently thought if he just barged against Draco’s arm, he would get through. Draco caught him across the shoulders and pushed him backwards.
Potter looked like he was about to breath fire. His hand went to a pocket in his robes, where Draco knew was his wand.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Draco said. “Slughorn’s office is just around the corner.”
Luckily for him, Potter dropped his hand. He was scowling. “Funny you should mention Slughorn. If you don’t stop being a giant git, I’ll tell him about the ingredients you stole from his supply yesterday. How’s that?”
Draco whistled. “Potter, you surprise me – that piece of blackmail was almost Slytherin of you.” When Potter just looked at him balefully, he chose a different route. “I would’ve thought you were too busy making eyes at me to remember anything else, anyway.”
Instantly, Potter’s cheeks reddened as he looked away. “Sod off, I wasn’t making any eyes. I was high, Malfoy.”
“Yeah, I told you that,” Draco pointed out.
“Great, then you know I wouldn’t normally act that way. Around you, I mean. I was delirious! Those sodding fumes messed with my head!”
If that was how Potter believed the fumes from ground beetles affected a person, Draco resented the fact that Potter was still allowed in Advanced Potions. He was quite sure Potter had consulted Mudblood Granger on the matter, though, so either Granger gave him wrong information, or Potter misunderstood her meaning. In actuality, inhaling the fumes had an effect similar to knocking back a whisky. It was practically liquid courage.
“What?” Potter said. “What’re you smirking for?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Draco. “How’s your head now, Potter?”
“I’d’ve pushed you away,” Potter insisted, looking up at him with baleful eyes. “It was your fault anyway, coming on to me like that. You were sober!”
Draco choked a bit. “I wasn’t coming on to you.”
“Odd how it seemed that way, then. You were pretty eager to get close to me.”
“You’re a joke, Potter. You goaded me into getting close to you, and you know it.”
“Oh, yeah? Am I goading you now? Because you’re getting close again.”
Potter was right, of course. Draco had come right into Potter’s personal space, while Potter hadn’t moved an inch. “Maybe you are,” he said. He certainly felt goaded. He’d never felt this need for proximity during their face-offs before.
“Back off, Malfoy.”
“Or what?” Had Potter always been such a runt? If Draco had noticed earlier, he would have used his height advantage more often. “What’re you going to do?”
“I’ll make you back off with magic, and I won’t care if Slughorn hears. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you don’t use your wand much. Or that it’s not even your own wand.”
In the time Draco was taking to answer, footsteps very quietly sounded from behind him. Feeling his heart hitch, Draco took a hasty step back from Potter. He cursed himself. What was he doing, getting into a scuffle in a public hallway? He couldn’t afford this, and especially not with Saint Potter.
“Well, what is going on here, boys?” The person came into the torch light, and it was the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Adalger Bones. “Mr Malfoy, it is long past your curfew. I imagine the Ministry would not be too happy to hear about this, do you?”
“Madam Pomfrey held me up, sir,” Draco said. “I was just heading to my common room.”
Bones was a stout man, easily over fifty years of age, with a greying beard and an annoying, condescending attitude. “Oh, indeed... And I assume Mr Potter here held you up, as well?”
Draco held his tongue. While he didn’t take Defense anymore, he’d encountered Bones enough times to realise the man had some sort of grudge against him. Well, he could as well queue up. So many people held a grudge against Draco he’d long since lost the count.
“It’s okay, Professor,” Potter uttered, his expression at odds with the statement. “We were just passing by each other.”
Bones took his gaze of Draco to look at Potter. “Well. If you are quite sure.” He dug into his layered set of robes to extract a watch. “Nine thirty-one. I’m afraid I have to dock fifteen points from Slytherin and Gryffindor each, as you, Mr Potter, appear to have broken curfew, also.”
“By only one minute!” Potter protested.
“And another ten before you reach your common room,” said Bones, snapping the flap of the watch closed. “Now, it would behove you both to retire into your respective dorms. Goodnight, gentlemen.”