Two to Lead

Chapter 11: Alliances, Cease Fires, and Declarations of War

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

McGonagall was a morning person. Harry thought it might be an old person thing, like her office smelling like heather. When he knocked on her door before breakfast the next morning, she was working away as if she'd been up for hours.

"Come in, Potter. Have a seat."

Harry sat down, shaking his head in an effort to wake up a little more.

"So you still intend to become an Auror, do you?"

"Yes, Professor."

McGonagall peered at him for a moment, as if sizing him up. "I've gone over your O.W.L. results with Professor Snape. He's agreed to let you into his course this year."

Harry let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding.

"But," she continued, "there are certain conditions."

"There would be," he mumbled.

"If you turn in even one failing assignment, you will be out of the course. He and I both expect you to prove that you are truly serious about your career decision, Potter. Is this an acceptable situation for you?"

"Yes, Professor," he answered glumly. It would be perfectly acceptable, right up until his first assignment, when Snape would give him a failing grade. End of story.

McGonagall brightened. "Well, in other news, you are officially allowed back on the house Quidditch team." She leaned in slightly. "I understand you've obtained a practice snitch?"

Harry nodded. He only used it in private, though. Bringing it into the common room would have been way too much like his father capturing and recapturing the snitch while Wormtail cheered.

"I rather like how the Quidditch Cup looks sitting by my window, Potter. I'd like to keep it, if you don't mind." Indeed, the Quidditch Cup sat in a position of prominence, right in front of McGonagall's office window. The streaming sunlight glinted off of the silver in a way designed to blind people as they walked in the door.

"I'll do my best, Professor," Harry said, smiling.

"Katie Bell's Captain this year. I expect she'll be organizing tryouts soon to fill the other two Chaser positions, and with a rather...er...inexperienced team, she's going to need your help to whip them into shape."

"Well, at least 'Weasley is Our King' has run its course."

"Indeed," McGonagall said, smirking slightly. "One last order of business, Potter. You'll be starting your extra training tomorrow. I believe Dumbledore wrote to you about it this summer?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry said. Oh, yeah. Extra training. Fighting Voldemort. War. Death. Prophecies.

"I think it would be wise of you to channel your aggression into your training sessions, instead of Draco Malfoy's face." She eyed him over the top of her glasses.

"He started it," Harry said automatically. It was such a stupid excuse that he actually winced.

McGonagall folded her hands on the desk and gave him a stern look. "He always starts it, and you always rise to the challenge. Scrabbling on the floor is for first years, Potter. If it happens again, your position on the team will be in jeopardy." She didn't appear to like that idea any more than he did.

"It won't happen again," Harry promised, hoping he was telling the truth.

"Very well, Potter. You're excused."

People were already starting to make their way into the Great Hall when he got there, annoyingly talkative and chipper for the first day of classes. The prefects were handing out the course schedules. Harry took his and poured himself some coffee, sitting down next to Neville.

"Hey, Harry," the boy greeted him. Neville looked different than he had last year. He'd grown a few inches and looked fit and sunburned.

"Hey, Neville. Spend the summer at the beach?"

"No," Neville grinned. "I made a greenhouse for my Gran. Built it all myself and put in some plants I thought she'd find useful. How was your summer?"

"Okay," Harry shrugged. "Didn't do much." He downed his coffee, still not feeling entirely with it. Here he was sitting in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, which he'd always considered his home, but somehow it all seemed kind of...tiring, actually. He didn't feel up to the task of another school year quite yet.

Or maybe he just needed more coffee.

Hermione plopped down beside him, looking like she needed it even more than he did.

"Rough night?" he asked.

"Lavender and Parvati," she sighed. "They spent all last night gossiping and talking about the boys they dated over the summer and..." Hermione made a strange face and looked away.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly as Ron sat down across from them.

"I think I like sixth year so far," he said happily, piling eggs onto his plate. "I've only got three classes!"

"Three N.E.W.T. classes," Hermione reminded him.

"You're only taking three?" Harry asked. "Which one did you drop?"

"Herbology," Ron said, pouring himself some pumpkin juice. "I don't need it, what with my new life plan and all."

"You've formulated a new life plan? Since last night?" Harry asked.

"Sure have." There was a long pause.

"Well, what is it?" Hermione finally asked.

"Take less classes and do better in them," Ron said simply.

"Good plan," Harry had to admit. "Although I wish I could continue on with you in Care of Magical Creatures."

"Why can't you?"

"Got into Potions," Harry said, biting into a piece of toast. "I figure I should only take the classes I really need, right? Especially with the extra...stuff, and all," he continued, glancing around to see if anyone was listening.

"Oh, yeah. When do you start that?"

"Tomorrow."

"Well, just remember to pass on anything really cool you learn."

"It's odd, though, isn't it?" Hermione said suddenly.

"What is?" Ron asked.

"Why now? Why not before? Did it really take Dumbledore this long to see the pattern? I mean, unless we get really lucky and Voldemort - oh, stop it, Ron - falls down a bottomless pit or something, he's obviously going to try and kill you again."

"Oh. I dunno why," Harry mumbled, averting his eyes. He hadn't told them about the prophecy yet, and he wasn't about to do it while surrounded by people at the breakfast table, anyway.

"See, now this I don't understand..." Ron said, nodding toward the Slytherin table. "You have to get at least one O.W.L. to continue on after fifth year. So how on earth did Crabbe and Goyle survive? And more importantly, what subject did they manage to eke out a passing score in?"

Hermione said something into her coffee.

"What was that?" Ron asked.

"Ancient Runes," Hermione repeated through very tightly clenched teeth.

"Really?" Harry found this very hard to believe.

"Yes," she answered. "The whole course is basically memorization and translation. For some reason, they were both very good at it."

"Wow," Ron said, impressed. "That adds a surprising depth of character to both of them. Assuming they didn't cheat, of course."

The morning mail arrived. An owl dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of Hermione. She gave the bird a sickle and it flew off. Hermione glanced at the front page, took a sip of coffee and promptly choked on it.

"Oh, that's just a new low. I'm canceling my subscription to this thing," she said, tossing the paper away in disgust.

"You-Know-Who Sending Subliminal Messages Through the Wizarding Wireless Network," Ron read aloud. "Are Your Children's Ears Safe?"

"He is?" Neville asked with wide eyes at the same time Hermione asked, "Now who would believe something like that?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it past him," Harry said.

"Harry, think about it," Hermione said impatiently. "The Wizarding Wireless is magical. It's not like you can get a shortwave and a coat hanger and order people to start killing Muggles. Plus, the WWN's news program happens to be the Daily Prophet's only competition."

"But what about The Quibbler?" Harry asked innocently.

"Compared to this, The Quibbler is beginning to look like well-researched, fact-based journalism," Hermione grumbled.

"But if You-Know-Who had someone on the inside, he could take it over," Ron pointed out.

"So you're going to believe this story in the Daily Prophet, even though the one right below it is about a witch in Bristol who claims You-Know-Who murdered her toad and may or may not have also stolen an apple pie off of her windowsill?"

"People are paranoid," Ron said, shrugging.

"Yes, they are, and this sort of foolishness isn't helping. Haven't you two been paying attention to what's been going on at the Ministry?"

Ron and Harry shared a look that plainly said Hermione should already know the answer to that question.

"Well," Hermione said, glaring at them, "they've been passing all sorts of decrees loosening the laws for search and seizure, and now they can take you to Azkaban and hold you there for months under the mere suspicion of committing a crime, without ever charging you, and most of the people they're putting away are people who just happen to be critical of the Ministry."

Hermione took a deep breath and continued. "Everybody's willing to allow it because they're frightened. And both the Ministry and the Prophet are making sure they stay frightened."

"Just like they used it last year to make Harry sound like a nutter," Ron said through a mouthful of eggs.

"Exactly."

"But what can we do about it?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Hermione said seriously, "but I'll think of something."

*******

As far as material comforts went, Thera had to give Hogwarts some credit. She was currently residing in the posh private bedroom with connecting bathroom that would have belonged to the Head Girl this year, had the Head Girl been a Slytherin. Of course, the fact that it was in the Slytherin dormitory meant that the bedroom was of the same Mary Shelley-esque, dark, gothic style as her previous chamber at Malfoy Manor, which begged the question: did evil need dim light and dark colors to feel comfortable, or did dim light and dark colors make people evil?

Thera felt that somebody should have the Hufflepuffs and the Slytherins switch dormitories. She could just imagine the Hufflepuffs going all Lord of the Flies while the Slytherins became the sort of mindlessly happy people who dot their 'i's with smiley faces.

In any case, it was becoming quite clear that Thera was not going to be winning any popularity contests. There were students who disliked her because they knew somebody her father had killed, students who disliked her because her parents had been Death Eaters, students who disliked her because she was a Slytherin, and Slytherins who disliked her because she got her own room. Draco disliked her, probably because his father had told him to. Thera thought it might be a good idea to keep her head down for a while.

And of course, because she was trying to be invisible, the little Asian-looking first year sitting across from her couldn't stop staring at her during breakfast on the first day of classes. Prior to noticing this, Thera had been more or less shoveling scrambled eggs into her mouth. Realizing that she was probably disgusting everybody in the general vicinity, Thera slowed down to a more leisurely pace.

The kid kept staring anyway.

"Is watching me eat truly that engaging?" she finally asked between ladylike bites.

Any normal person caught staring like that would have blushed, or maybe apologized, but this kid seemed to view it as a conversation opener.

"I heard the Death Eaters kept you for months, all locked up in a cage."

Thera sat back. "Is that what people are saying?"

The kid nodded.

"It wasn't a cage."

"Well, if it wasn't a cage, what was it then?"

"A suite at the Savoy with a jacuzzi and a vibrating bed."

"Really?"

"Of course not. Don't you read the paper?" The kid shook his head. "They kept me in the basement of someone's house."

"Whose?"

"I don't think it was the sort of house that actually belonged to anybody, if that's what you're asking."

The kid was silent for a moment. Then he leaned across the table, looking around to make sure that nobody else was listening. "Did you ever see him?" the kid whispered.

"Him who?" Thera whispered back, just to mess with him. There was something about his utter absence of tact that she found amusing.

She was even more amused by the fact that he had no idea she was messing with him. "You-Know-Who," he said seriously.

Thera shrugged. "Once or twice he stopped by for tea. Not a bad dancer, but he's dreadful at chess."

The kid's mouth dropped open. "You played chess with the Dark Lord?" He said this with the same mix of awe and horror that someone might use when saying 'You ate the tequila worm?' or 'You snogged Maggie Thatcher?'

"Yes, and if you ever find yourself in the same situation, I strongly suggest you let him win. He's got a bit of a temper."

The kid thought for a second, then glared at her. "You're lying to me."

Thera went back to eating. "You're a Slytherin now. Everything anybody says is a lie unless proven otherwise, preferably by photographic evidence."

"So you never saw him?"

Thera had just noticed Harry Potter sitting across the room. She'd seen pictures of him before, but she hadn't realized he would be so scrawny or that his hair would be so messy. Harry Potter was - on the whole - a disappointment. He did not look like the sort of person who went wand-to-wand with the Dark Lord and came out on top.

"I saw him once," she admitted.

"What's he like?"

"Oh, you know. Dark Lord-ish," Thera said distractedly.

"I hear he can fly without a broomstick, and that his eyes can bore right into your head and see what you're thinking."

Thera's attention snapped back to him. "Where do you hear all this stuff, anyway?"

"My parents deal in ancient magical artifacts. Most of their clients are Death Eaters."

"I'll bet they are."

"I wonder what they're gonna think about me getting into Slytherin. My dad didn't go here, but my mum was a Ravenclaw."

"Tell them they should be pleased. It means you have initiative."

"Good angle," the kid said thoughtfully.

"So what's your name, anyway?"

"Kim. I guess we'll be having classes together and stuff, won't we?" he asked, gesturing at her largely first year class schedule.

"Yes, I suppose we will," Thera said dully.

*******

Vivian hated the first week of classes. It was all about handing out course schedules and trying to learn people's names and she was notoriously awful with names. She was far from alone in hating the start of term. The staff room was abuzz with complaints and gossip during the mid-morning break.

"They all look the same," Professor Vector groaned. "I think there's a factory somewhere..."

"Another Nott this year, and Rookwood's grandson," McGonagall was whispering to Vivian, shaking her head. "It's hard to look at them anymore, knowing what their families are up to."

"I'm convinced that I give them the same speech, word for word, every year," Madame Hooch was musing. "And every year, nobody listens."

"Ludo Bagman's nephew," Flitwick was trilling. "Let's see how the Ravenclaw team does once he's on it."

The staff members were split into several different opinions of her. Most were just glad she wasn't Dolores Umbridge. A few of them shook their heads at her pityingly. One or two seemed to be under the impression that she'd done something inappropriate at the Institute and been tossed out in disgrace.

Vivian had a feeling her antics at the Three Broomsticks earlier in the summer weren't doing anything to quell that one.

Her first class had been all first years, looking scared to death. A little intimidation - piece of cake. Her next class, however, was sixth years, N.E.W.T.-level. They were going to take a little more work.

She made sure to arrive before the kids, standing resolutely at the front of the class, making a show of shuffling through papers so she could check out the students. They looked wary, with good reason. The Tales of Umbridge would make one hell of a dramatic opera.

Ron Weasley walked in with a bushy-haired girl and James Potter. Vivian almost fell over. Merlin, the last time she'd seen Harry Potter, he'd been a somewhat fussy green-eyed newborn. They'd all talked about how much he looked like Lily. Well, that prediction certainly turned out to be wrong.

At the moment, he also seemed to have a puffy lip, if she wasn't mistaken.

Once all the students had taken their seats, she put her papers away and stared them down for a moment.

"I'm Professor Wellbourne, and I'll be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts. History dictates that I won't be around next year, but we'll leave that for the oddsmakers and bookies to work out." A smattering of laughter. Not bad.

"Now, I realize that you've had a rather uneven education in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I'm sure you've heard before that you've had an uneven education in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I've spoken at length with Professor Dumbledore about areas of weakness, and I assure you that by the end of this school year, you will be well on your way to passing your N.E.W.T.s."

"Mr. Potter," she called out suddenly.

He jumped slightly. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Are you planning to continue your defense club this year?"

"Erm, if I can...well, yeah," he said with a certain degree of defiance.

"Would you like to keep only returning members, or would you be willing to open membership up to other interested students?"

"It depends on how many," he said carefully.

"As the leader, that's up to you."

"I could take a couple more, but that's it."

Vivian nodded and turned back to the whole class. "From what I've gleaned from your O.W.L. results, the majority of you need the most work in practical defense; I'm sure we all know why. Your final in this class will be a mock N.E.W.T. exam. I expect very few of you to be able to pass." This elicited gasps, and an 'Oh, no!' from the bushy-haired girl next to Potter.

"Students who have joined an extracurricular defense club will find themselves at quite an advantage. Those of you who are unable to persuade Mr. Potter to take you in may want to think about starting your own defense club."

The kids looked slightly flummoxed, which was how Vivian liked them best.

"You will have weekly essays on dark creatures, dark magical history and defense theory, due at the beginning of class. Class begins when I start talking. I do not accept late papers for any reason short of dismemberment or death. The remaining portion of your classes will be devoted to practical defense techniques against dark magic and dark creatures."

"I will not take attendance for this course. First of all, it takes up class time. Secondly, you are all here because you have committed yourselves to passing your N.E.W.T. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, which in my mind automatically implies that you will bother to attend the class. If you fail to achieve a passing grade in sixth year, you will not be eligible for seventh year Defense Against the Dark Arts, which disqualifies you from taking the N.E.W.T. exam in this subject."

In a second, Vivian switched from hard-ass professor to 'let's be friends' professor.

"Now, with that all said, let's go around the class and introduce ourselves..."

*******

Harry had butterflies in his stomach coming up to his first Potions class. Snape held his future in his hands, and what's more, Snape knew it.

"Just don't give him any reason to fail you," Hermione was saying.

"Since when does he need a reason?"

"Hey, Potter!" came a drawling voice from behind them. Harry groaned inwardly. Don't punch him. Just don't punch him. Whatever you do, don't punch him. "I heard you missed out on Quidditch Captain. I suppose you know I've been made captain of the Slytherin team."

What about kicking him? NO, stop it!

"Will that help you catch the snitch faster, or is it just an honorary title?" Harry asked, turning around. Hermione put a hand on his arm.

Malfoy was, unexpectedly, alone. "It's a position of responsibility, Potter, but I suppose if McGonagall's not even going to make you a prefect, she certainly isn't going to make you captain."

"Tell me, Malfoy. Does making captain take the sting out of losing the Quidditch Cup last year?"

Malfoy smiled nastily. "That depends, Potter. Does scraping your way into N.E.W.T. Potions take the sting out of losing your God-"

"Stop it!" Hermione interrupted, coming to stand between them. "One more word, and I'll have Cho give you both detentions. And considering the two parties involved, she'd be more than happy to do it."

Malfoy brushed past them into the classroom. "Enjoy your last Potions class, Potter."

Harry was shaking with anger. "You know what he was going to say, Hermione. You know what that evil little-"

"Of course I do," she cut him off briskly. "And then you would have pounded him into mush, which is exactly what he wants you to do. You have to keep your head, Harry. Especially around him."

"Yeah, well add it to the list of things I have to do, why don't you? It's getting hard for me to keep track of them all."

"Harry, don't do this, not now," she pleaded. "You have to calm down. Take deep breaths or whatever you need to do, because you can't face Snape like this."

He deflated. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Well, you can make it up to me by not getting tossed out of Potions on the first day."

"I won't. I'll be good," he promised.

Hermione didn't look like she believed this. "Just...try to be inconspicuous, okay?"

As it turned out, Snape didn't try to provoke him at all. In fact, he seemed to have settled on a strategy of pretending Harry didn't exist. Even when the Professor's eyes scanned the class, they seemed to skip right over him. Harry had to admit that Snape's attitude was a relief.

He gave them the same speech all of the other professors had about the importance of getting a passing score on the N.E.W.T. exam and how hard they would have to work. Harry wondered vaguely if they'd all been given a script, or if the similarity was pure coincidence.

"That went well, don't you think?" Hermione said with relief as she dragged him out of Potions before Malfoy could catch up with him. "So long as Snape's ignoring you, you might be able to concentrate on preparing your potion for a change."

"Hello Harry, Hermione," a hazy voice said as they made their way up the stairs from the dungeons. Luna Lovegood was coming down, but she had stopped and was currently holding up a group of people behind her. Luna seemed utterly oblivious to this. "How was your summer?"

"Okay. How was yours?" Harry asked automatically. He immediately wished he hadn't.

Instead of saying 'fine' so that they could all go on their way and let the staircase start moving again, Luna actually thought about how to answer this question.

For a good long while.

"It was...I would say it was on the whole enjoyable, but there was also some disappointment. It was enjoyable to spend time with my dad and all, and we had a wonderful time, but we didn't get to actually see any Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. We did find some droppings, though, and what might be the remains of a nest. Dad brought them back as evidence. He's going to use them to try to talk the Ministry into funding another expedition..."

The people behind them had now started shoving. Against her will, Luna was carried off down the staircase as Harry and Hermione were simultaneously carried upwards.

"It was nice talking to you," she called out as a flood of angry Ravenclaws swept her down to the dungeons.

"Well, she certainly hasn't changed much, has she?" Hermione observed.

"Luna? Did you really expect her to?"

"I guess not. Um, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I was just wondering, does Dumbledore have you keeping up with..." Hermione glanced around and dropped her voice "...Remedial Potions?"

"Oh. No. I mean, he hasn't said anything about it."

"It just seems odd, doesn't it, that he would set up your other stuff and not have you doing that?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe it's because I haven't had any problems. The scar's been behaving itself lately."

"Maybe you're right, but just be careful, okay? I mean, if you have any funny dreams or anything, promise you'll go straight to Dumbledore..."

"I will," Harry said shortly. Hermione took one look at his face and shut up about it.

*******

A week into classes, Thera received a package in the morning mail. His curiosity piqued, Draco went over to investigate.

"Who the hell would send you a package?" he sneered, picking it up. It was from the Canadian Ministry of Magic. "The last of your belongings?"

"You could say that," Thera said, smirking.

Draco shook it, frowning. "What is it, sand?"

"My mother's ashes."

Draco promptly dropped the box and wiped his hands on his robes. "That's your mother in there?" he asked, loudly enough to draw stares.

"Yes, I'm planning on mixing her into this afternoon's corned beef," Thera responded just as loudly, taking a sip of coffee.

The house elves were utterly confounded at the Slytherins' refusal to eat corned beef for the remainder of the term.

Quickly returning to his seat, Draco saw that he'd received a letter addressed to him in girly handwriting. It instructed him to be in the trophy room at eight o'clock that night. Draco was immediately wary. Pansy didn't have the imagination to suggest meeting anywhere but his room, her room, or the Astronomy Tower.

He had been showing a bit more attention than usual to Padma Patil, but when he sent her inquisitive glances, she only looked confused. Draco had a gnawing, annoyed feeling that it might be some gawky third year with a skewed sense of romance.

But he went anyway. Just in case.

He purposely arrived late, to make a point. And much to his amusement and satisfaction, he walked in to find Ginny Weasley. Ron Weasley's baby sister. It was an effort to keep from rubbing his hands together in glee. This was going to be the coup of a lifetime.

She must have been expecting him, because she didn't look at all relieved when he showed up. Draco felt mildly offended at this. Did she honestly think he didn't have better things to do?

"Malfoy," she greeted him.

"Weasley," he answered, drawing the syllables out. "I wondered who my little secret admirer could be. Looking for more than Dean Thomas can offer?"

To his surprise, she smiled knowingly. "Believe me, that's not possible."

In a rather un-Malfoyish turn, he found he didn't have an answer for that. Luckily, she didn't seem to notice.

"Actually, I asked you here for an entirely unromantic reason."

He focused his eyes on the ceiling and sighed impatiently. "And that would be?"

She addressed her question to the ancient Quidditch Cups on his right. "Why did you let me escape last summer?"

"Pardon?"

She finally looked at him, and he felt a jolt in a familiar place. With her features and her coloring, Weasley really shouldn't have been attractive in the slightest, but somehow she pulled it off. In Umbridge's office, with Bulstrode's wand in her hand and a fierce look on her face and her red hair mussed from the fight, she had actually achieved hotness. He had pleasured himself to that image all through the holidays, picturing that same look on her face as he tied her to a bed in Draco's Masturbation Fantasy World.

He wondered briefly what his father had in store for her. It was a shame, really, to waste the only attractive redhead at Hogwarts. Maybe Draco would get to have a shot at her before everything went down. He liked the thought of wrapping that hair around his hand and those golden brown eyes begging him to fuck her for all she was worth.

"Why did you let me escape from Umbridge's office?"

"I'm sorry, but I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." He really didn't have any problem giving her a direct answer to the question, but he wanted to hold out and get her riled up.

She refused to take the bait. For a Weasley, she wasn't shaping up to be much fun. She just patiently repeated the question.

Shrugging, he looked down and studied his nails. "Because I felt like it."

"Why?" she persisted.

"I believe I already said that I let you go because I felt like it."

"Why did you feel like it?"

"I just did. Marvel at the mysteries of life. There's your answer, Weasley, or are you interested in something else?"

Again refusing to become even mildly perturbed, she shook her head absentmindedly. "Did you know the Department of Mysteries was a trap?"

Oh, that was just too good to pass up. "I knew there was a trap, and that we hoped to catch a few weasels with it. That's all I knew." Flash smirk, await reaction.

Nothing. "So you knew it was a trap when you let me go?"

Draco was beginning to feel like he was banging his head up against a particularly stubborn wall. "Yes," he said very slowly. "That's what I just said."

She frowned at him, but looked immensely relieved nonetheless. Why such a statement would incur relief he couldn't imagine, nor was he particularly interested. "I just wanted to be certain that I hadn't misunderstood you."

If it was possible to formulate a snappy comeback to that, it went far beyond his wit capabilities. Instead, there was a long pause during which Draco imagined what red hair would look like draped across his five hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton pillowcase.

"Well," she finally said, "I guess that answers my question. Thank you for meeting with me."

And then she actually turned around and started walking away. Walking away from Draco Malfoy. It was more than he could stand. He reached out and took hold of her elbow. She stopped and looked at him inquiringly.

"Do you really think I'm letting you off the hook that easily?"

His face was inches from hers. She looked confused, and he would have bought it had he not been so close. There was amusement there. Amusement. She was mocking him. She had been the entire time. The frowning, the incomprehension, the repeating of the questions...

Dear Merlin, a girl had just fucked with him. A Gryffindor. Even worse, a Weasley. Draco suddenly had the urge to jump up in the air and make sure gravity was still in proper working order.

"I did say thank you, didn't I?" she asked innocently.

His ego quailing, Draco narrowed his eyes. "You're no Weasley."

"Of course I am. It's on my birth certificate and everything." She tried to free her arm, but Draco just gripped it tighter. Now he was annoying her.

"No, you're not. Your fool brother? Now that's a Weasley. But you..." an idea came to him, guaranteed to piss her off. "I'm going to call you Red."

She rolled her eyes, and he could tell her anger grew just a little bit. "That's utterly brilliant, Malfoy. Poetic. I commend you on your supreme lack of creativity with nicknames."

"No, not because of the hair. I'm talking about how you'd love more than anything to slap me right now. You're one angry woman, Red. You should let it out more often."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you encouraging me to slap you?"

His grip on her elbow had become a caress. He slid his hand down her forearm until he was able to take her hand and present her with a gentlemanly kiss.

"Perhaps I'm just in the mood to try and earn a slap," he said playfully, kissing each of her fingers in turn. Her hands were soft and cool. Draco found himself mildly surprised that there was no dirt underneath her fingernails. Definitely not a Weasley.

The thought had barely passed through his brain when the hand he was studying suddenly slapped him full-force across the face. Draco felt his mouth open in shock, but she just smiled back at him pleasantly.

"Did you feel you earned that?" she asked.

In the ensuing seconds, Draco felt more emotions at one time than he had previously thought possible. There were too many of them to even bother separating out. Without thinking, he pulled her against him and kissed her.

Yes, he told himself, good plan. Get her all hot and bothered and then walk away. Leave her panting in your breathtakingly handsome wake.

She didn't necessarily respond, but she did open her mouth for him. He swept the soft inside with his tongue once before retreating. She tasted very pleasant. Almost too pleasant. Draco had a suspicion that she had brushed her teeth just prior to the meeting.

He continued giving her small tongue kisses before suddenly bending her backwards and performing one of the most death-defying, romantic, Muggle film kisses he had ever bestowed upon a girl, coming dangerously close to throwing his back out in the process.

By the time he managed to stand them both up and step away from her, Draco was panting and horny and desperately wanting a lot more. He could pay a visit to Pansy, but she always just lay there. Thera was more fun, but she was so critical. Tough decision.

Weasley seemed unruffled, but he noted with satisfaction that her lips were wet and slightly swollen.

"Not bad," she said breathlessly.

And then little, innocent, Gryffindor Ginny Weasley actually grabbed the front of his robes and did to him what a starving man might do to a very well-prepared steak. She crushed her lips to his almost brutally, drawing his tongue into her mouth and sucking on it briefly. Then, just as abruptly, she let go and stepped back, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Draco's slacks felt tight against his crotch and there was a pounding in his head and throughout his body. Well, that was certainly a surprising turn of events...

"I think that was a little better," she said primly. Then she sent him a brief smile and walked out of the room.

Once he was finally able to walk normally and his robes weren't quite as tented, Draco made his way back toward the dungeons. There was going to be a certain amount of crow-eating to get Thera to fuck him again, but he wasn't going to be able to sleep tonight if he didn't fuck something. No, no, somebody. Yes, of course.

And maybe it would be a good idea to make up with Thera. He needed a partner in crime, someone to bounce ideas off of. Because so help him Merlin, if it took the rest of the year, he was going to get the Weaslette to lose her temper. She liked control; that much was abundantly obvious. He could get her to lose it, though. Go nuts and start screaming at him in the hallway and utterly humiliate herself.

Draco came dangerously close to giggling.

Screw tormenting first years - they were too easy. Screw Potty and his crew of imbeciles - he was starting to run out of good lines anyway. No, Draco had found a new adversary, a far more attractive adversary.

Little Red was going to wish her tight little ass had never been born.

Smirking maliciously, Draco strode through the hallway to Thera's room only to be accosted by Professor Snape.

"Mr. Malfoy, might I have a word?"

Draco ground his teeth together in annoyance, but he really had no choice but to follow the man to his office. The thrill of being made Quidditch Captain when Potter hadn't was quickly wearing off. Being a Captain required a goddamned lot of work.

Snape proceeded to go on and on about the strengths and weaknesses of the Slytherin Quidditch team and every other house's Quidditch team until Draco's erection had long become a fond memory.

When he finally managed to escape, Draco couldn't scrape up the patience for Thera, so he sent a blonde, pigtailed second-year to fetch Pansy.

A few minutes later, she appeared at the door to the girl's dormitories, looking wrinkled and sleepy. Draco silently cursed the fact that he was directly related to just about every attractive girl in Slytherin House. Damn the Malfoy line and their cursed monopoly on beauty.

"Let's go," he said shortly, turning toward the boy's dormitories.

"Draco," she whined. "It's late."

He turned and sent her his coldest, most Lucius-like glare. Then he turned back and started walking toward his room. Unsurprisingly, Pansy followed.

He kicked out Crabbe and Goyle before turning to the curtains shut around Zabini's bed.

"Get out, Zabini. I've got a girl in here."

There was no answer.

"You'd better be asleep, you sleazy, buggering son of a hag," Draco warned him.

Still no answer.

Realizing that this was the best he was going to get, Draco did the deed as quickly and quietly as possible. The fact that he had to wake Pansy up to tell her to go back to her room did very little to assuage his already smarting ego.

Finally pulling the curtains shut around his bed, Draco stared at the ceiling and brooded. So this was his life, was it? Being outsmarted by Weasleys and screwing Pansy Parkinson in her ugliest flannel nightgown while trying to ignore the fact that his roommate was hearing everything? Assuming Zabini could hear. Draco wasn't entirely sure, actually. He'd never talked to the guy.

Well, it was still untenable. It was unfit for any Malfoy to put up with, especially him. His anger took him over, not allowing him to sleep. The fucking bond. His fucking father. Fucking Potter. It was all too much.

Draco sat up and ripped the curtains apart, walking out through the common room and into the short corridor leading to the Head Girl's room, currently inhabited by Thera. He pounded on the door.

She must have been awake, because she opened it almost immediately. She was still wearing her school robes.

"Draco Malfoy," she drawled, leaning against the doorjamb. "I always knew someday I'd see your face at my door."

"I want to talk," he said tightly.

"Oh, really?" she asked disbelievingly, crossing her arms. "And what gives you the impression that I want to talk to you, you spineless ass-kisser?"

Draco actually took a step back. "What?"

"Daddy told you to stay away from me, didn't he? And, of course, ickle Draco always does what Daddy tells him to do, doesn't he?"

"Fuck you, Thera," Draco said, turning away.

He stopped when he heard the distinct creak of her door opening farther.

"What gets said in this room stays in this room, Draco. It doesn't get passed on to anyone else. Not by you and not by me. Now, if you find the terms acceptable, then by all means, come in."

When Draco turned around, Thera had retreated into the room. Draco couldn't say that he trusted Thera farther than he could throw her...actually, she was pretty small and he could probably throw her a good distance if he'd a mind to...

Well, it didn't matter, because there wasn't anybody else capable of having a coherent fucking conversation right now. And there was always a chance he might get laid again. Draco walked into the room and shut the door.

Thera was sitting on the edge of the bed. "So what did you want to talk about?"

Draco could have sworn that when he knocked on her door, he'd had a very detailed plan of action, talking points and so forth. He couldn't think of anything right now. He stood in front of her closed door for a ridiculously long time trying to put something together.

"I don't know, actually. I just couldn't sleep."

"Okay," Thera said patiently. "Well, why don't you help me with my Defense Against the Dark Arts essay, and if you think of something really important, just throw it out there. How's that?"

"Fine."

Thera got up and went over to the desk to pick up her things, then sat back down on the bed. Draco sat down next to her, looking over her essay. So far, she had managed to write her name.

"Eloquent," he said, handing it back to her, suddenly remembering at least part of the reason he'd come here. "I need your help on something."

"My help? I see." She handed the parchment back to him. "Then when I said 'help me with my Defense Against the Dark Arts essay,' I really meant, 'write my Defense Against the Dark Arts essay.'"

Rule number one of Slytherin House: never, ever do anything for free. Frankly, considering he'd been such as ass lately, Draco had been expecting worse. Thera must be in a forgiving mood.

"Fine," he said grudgingly, lest she be inspired to make him do anything else.

"For the rest of the term."

"Not a chance."

"Fifteen essays, selected by me, spread out over the rest of the year."

"Fifteen! Most people will help you dispose of a body for twenty! Three, at the absolute most."

"Ten's the lowest I'll go. If you had anybody else who could help you, you wouldn't be here. Plus you manhandled my mother this morning."

"I only manhandled the box, and...oh, forget it. Ten, but I get to pick which ones."

Thera held out a hand, but withdrew it just before his made contact.

"If I get a failing grade or it's just a copy of an essay you turned in before, it doesn't count."

Damn. "Alright," he bit out.

They shook hands.

*******

Fox knew the boy was close because the buzzing had gotten worse, like a whole hive of bees trapped in her head. Shutting it off would dull her reflexes a bit, but it wasn't like the kid was going to be much of a challenge. Fox closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then shut that part of her brain down.

Much better.

Harry Potter walked into Classroom 13a looking puzzled. "I didn't even know this classroom existed."

"It didn't," Fox answered, getting out a pair of short swords. "I put it in this summer." And she'd done a damn good job, if she said so herself. There was enough floor space to conduct a decent battle once he got good enough, and there were sword holders all over the wall that were connected to the collection in her room.

"Oh," he said, rubbing the infamous scar on his forehead. "I didn't know that was possible."

"Anything's possible," she said, smiling slightly and throwing one of the swords at him. He caught it and stared down at it, confused. "Defend yourself," she barked. Then she attacked. It was a pretty short battle. In less than a second, the tip of her sword was at his throat.

"Er...sorry," he said. "I wasn't ready."

"You should always be ready," she answered, drawing down her sword.

His mouth quirked. "Constant vigilance?"

"Something like that."

He rubbed his scar again, more vigorously. "It keeps burning," he said apologetically.

"Does it hurt when Voldemort's nearby?" He nodded. "Then I'd get used to ignoring it, if I were you."

Without warning, she swung her sword at his head. At the last second, he managed to deflect her.

"Well, at least you have good reflexes," she sighed.

"I try," he said, backing up and swinging the sword around a little bit, getting a feel for it.

"Ready to go again?"

"Y.." It was as far as he got before the point of her sword touched his chest. She withdrew it, and he sheepishly held his sword out in front of him, preparing himself for another attack.

"Don't say you're ready if you're not," she warned him, backing up and dancing around like Muhammad Ali, just to mock him.

Harry set his jaw and followed her with his eyes, his hands clenched tightly around the hilt of the sword.

Fox got him three more times before he managed to block her again. It was time to push him a little.

"So this is the famous Harry Potter, huh? I'm not so sure the news stories didn't mix you up with somebody else, you sorry little pissant." Surprised by her change in tone, he let her get another touch in.

"And Dumbledore told me you used a sword before, killed a basilisk and everything. No offense, kiddo, but I don't believe it for a second." Spinning past him, she caught him behind the knees with the broad edge of the sword, dropping him directly on his tailbone and getting him in the throat yet again.

"Well, don't just sit there, little girl. Get up and fight me." Glaring at her, he attempted to do just that. Fox let him get about halfway up before she feinted an attack. He went to block it and she kicked him in the chest, knocking him back again and causing him to lose his sword.

"What the hell is this!?" he yelled.

"This is a sword fight, Mary. Now pick your skinny ass up off the floor and get your sword."

His face was red with anger as he quickly leapt up before she could push him again. He walked over and snatched his sword up, turning to face her.

"Are you actually going to teach me how to sword fight, or are you just going to keep screwing around with me?" he asked in a deceptively mild voice.

"Julie, if you criticize my methods again, I'll stop pulling up short and just bury this thing in your throat. It's about time you stopped hiding behind Dumbledore's robes and learned how to protect yourself."

"I never..." he snarled, right before the point of her sword got him in the chest again.

"Goddammit, Linda, pay attention!" she shouted. "Mommy can only die to save you once!"

"Arrrrrggghhh!" he yelled, rushing her. At the last second, Fox stepped out of the way and tripped him. His momentum carried him a good distance before he landed on his face, his sword skittering across the floor. For a few seconds, she let him lie there, his breath coming in gasps.

She walked over to stand beside him. "You are the most easily manipulated human being on the planet," she said honestly.

He didn't look at her or make any move to get up. Fox had a feeling he was trying to calm himself down before he did anything.

"Did all that rage make you pop a blood vessel, Sandy?" she asked lightly, prodding him in the back with her sword.

"Stop calling me girly names," he muttered.

"I'll stop calling you girly names, Donna, when you stop acting like a little girl."

He turned his head and squinted up at her. "Let me guess. Lesson number one is: learn to control your rage."

"Good job, Matilda. You're not as dumb as you look." Fox reached a hand down to help him up. After a second he took it.

Fox promptly flipped him on his back, the tip of her sword once more resting right under his chin.

"Lesson number two, Lisa: don't be so gullible."

*******

Ginny was very, very glad for Quidditch tryouts; she needed something to keep her mind occupied. She had been avoiding the Great Hall since the Draco Malfoy incident, and the mere thought of her own actions was enough to turn her face roughly the same color as her hair.

It wasn't even that she'd kissed him. It was that she had very nearly molested him. Had she not dragged herself away when she did, the situation could very easily have turned very raunchy, very quickly.

There had to be something wrong with her. A normal girl probably wouldn't respond to Draco Malfoy basically admitting that he'd knowingly sent her into a deathtrap by trying to rip his trousers off. What was it with her and guys who tried to get her killed?

She wasn't the only Gryffindor girl who fantasized about jumping Draco Malfoy, but it was the general consensus that such a fantasy should stay a fantasy. He may be gorgeous, but he was an evil bastard.

Unfortunately, for Ginny, it was the very fact that he was an evil bastard that made him so intriguing; that he could do the things he did and not feel an ounce of guilt or remorse. Talking to him was like walking a tightrope over a very deep gorge. One misstep could mean the end of you, but every step you took without falling was exhilarating.

It made her uncontrollably horny. What could she do?

Well, for now, she was trying to get the Quaffle past Ron, and not doing too badly. Every time she did, he got the same shocked look on his face as when he'd found out about her sneaking out to practice Quidditch when her brothers weren't home. Ginny found it particularly amusing that six people who had watched her lie to their mother hundreds of times could be so surprised that she would lie to them.

The Chaser spot appeared to be in the bag, not because she was so unbelievably talented, but because nobody else was very good. Even their two Beaters - who were already on the team - hit Bludgers at Ron and Harry nearly as often as they hit them at the Chaser hopefuls.

It wasn't shaping up to be a stellar year for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

Finally, Katie Bell called them down, looking nearly as stressed as Angelina Johnson had the year before after Harry, Fred and George had gotten banned.

"You all did very well," she said diplomatically. "But I think we're going to go with Weasley and McDonald. Congratulations, girls. Everyone else, thanks for coming."

Ginny grinned as Ron and Harry came over to slap her on the back.

"You've got to write to mum, and Fred and George," Ron said, beaming like a proud parent and looking slightly teary-eyed. "It's amazing what you can do with a decent broom."

In fact, Ginny ended up pretty much having to write to everybody. The problem with a big family - or one of a great long list of problems, at least - was that you might as well post a story in the bloody Prophet to get news out.

By the time she got back from sending out a whole host of school owls, there weren't many people still awake. Hermione was still up, though, doing homework at one of the tables.

"Congratulations," she said, smiling briefly as Ginny sat down across from her.

"Thanks." Vendetta padded over and leapt onto her lap. Ginny had been trying to keep him in the common room, since her roommates tended to trip over things and accidentally bump their heads when he was in the dormitory.

"Don't you have homework to do?" Hermione asked, nodding at Ginny's classmates, working together in front of the fireplace.

"I'll do it this weekend," Ginny shrugged. "Why are you still up, anyway? I thought sixth year was supposed to be easier."

"It is. It's just that I'm taking six courses, so I don't have the sort of time that everybody else has during the day to get work done," Hermione explained. "Not that Ron or Harry ever bother to use that time to get work done, anyway."

"And yet, they're already in bed," Ginny commented.

"Yes, they went up, even though I told them..." Hermione trailed off, putting her quill down. "But it's the last time. I'm not going to follow everybody around acting like a surrogate mother this year. They're old enough to know what's what."

Ginny studied her for a moment. "That's certainly a new outlook for you," she said lightly.

"Well, it's not as if they ever listened, anyway," Hermione sighed. "And I'm tired of..."

"Of what?"

Hermione was silent for a moment, staring very intently at her quill. "I actually worry about how Ron's doing in Care of Magical Creatures without me," she finally murmured. "Isn't that silly?"

"Of course not," Ginny reassured her. "You care about him. You want him to do well."

"Yes, but sometimes I think...well, I think too much, I suppose."

Ginny was starting to get a bit worried. Hermione was not a disjointed person. She said what she wanted to say. She didn't fuss about like this. Hermione was the most solid person she knew, and this conversation was becoming very odd, indeed.

"Hermione? Is something wrong?" Ginny asked tentatively.

"No," the older girl said in a flat voice that brooked no argument.

"Okay," Ginny said, feeling stupid. She was used to listening to and to giving advice to Ron, who was - in all of his lovable ways - basically an idiot. She couldn't imagine trying to listen to and give advice to Hermione, not when their relationship was largely the other way around. Something would have to be terribly wrong with the universe if Hermione ever came to Ginny for advice.

Ginny was starting to get the feeling that this wasn't entirely about Ron not paying enough attention to her. But what else could Hermione really have to complain about? She was pretty, she got top grades, she'd tied the bloody school record for O.W.L.s...

...and if Ginny kept on with this, she was really going to start resenting the girl.

"Well, goodnight then," Ginny finally said, getting up from the table.

"Goodnight," Hermione answered, her attention already back on her homework.