Mirrors

Mirrors, Chapter One: Timetable

* * *

Even at breakfast, even in the jovial, jostling crowd that was Gryffindor, he could still hear the train that had taken them here. Last year. Last year. Last year.

The familiar voices were different. Deeper. The unfamiliar were different. All younger. There were a few trebles, mostly those Sorted the night before and now seated together with shaky stayed-up-all-night smiles. Mid-years' had evened out somewhat, if still cracked high on laughter over the tomatoes broiled with eggs, over the good yeasty bread with which to push it all around. But his oldest friends'--maybe it wasn't that they were deeper after all, or at least not in pitch; maybe it was more that they'd... settled. Among them, Hermione's sunlit alto interwove with Ron's fond teasing; Seamus ranted to the lot of them, and it didn't matter about what, so musical were his lilting imprecations. Ginny sat on her brother's other side, further away from him after this last summer but where she could still overhear all the same. He told himself he didn't mind.

He glanced toward the Ravenclaw table as he always had, every day of last term and the term before that and--listen though he might, he couldn't hear the soft laugh she'd finally found again in the months before leaving school. Surprise caught him then, a sudden surge of resentment that he'd bothered to look, when he'd known her darkly shining head wouldn't be tipped toward her year-mates', and never would again... And then a fluttering thunder of tawny wings blocked even that, and hope fluttered with it, until the post owl swooped past to deliver down-table. Colin, and his gangly younger brother. Candies, cameras, who knew. He looked away.

His plate didn't look back; a chance cut had pierced its tomato's half-charred skin, spilt seeds over fork-flattened eggs, and the golden metal was too smeared to reflect disheveled black hair--even now, neither comb nor charm would straighten it for long--much less that notorious scar. Or the roughness to cheeks and chin that he'd tried to encourage over the summer, still patchy but promising, promising, until yesterday morning's quick hex wiped all the fuzz away and this morning's renewed the job. Last year. Last year.

He couldn't help but hear the Slytherins in the distance, even now, the same restless undercurrent as the train's rumble in his head. Among the feminine voices who'd claimed their places long before, there was a conspiratorial trio of baritones, a gritty bass that grumbled at another's laugh--and woven through them all, a tenor's silvery drawl that managed to be languid and incisive all at once, even when picking apart a housemate. Malfoy... no. Not Malfoy, surely; that voice was too pervasive a prickle along his nerves, not something he could pretend to ignore. Not a brother, neither of them had any, but a transferred cousin perhaps, or...

He had to see for himself, shoulders reflexively tensing in preparation for the slights that House always gave. At least they were broader shoulders now, yet still light enough for Snitch-catching, the one thing he'd always be good for. They'd see.

He turned.

And when Crabbe finally moved out of the way, reddened and awkward, he saw him. Malfoy after all: profile so pure that he must have charmed any spots away, prefect's badge as bright on his black robes as it had been two years ago, as if it had been new-minted just for him. And maybe it had. For a moment he hated how the fair-haired boy could make even the stab of his fork look good, and he sought and met those quicksilver eyes... which then slipped past, as if they'd never seen him at all. As if he wasn't even there.

* * *

"All the numbers are coming together," said Hermione, bright excitement thrilling in her veins--she felt so very here, it was like class itself, or the puzzles in the library, or kissing Ron and feeling the stars in their eyes swirl into constellations, planned and ordered and glorious. There was just enough room for her and her two boys in the wide morning-lit embrasure, and she looked on them with approval: tall Ron with his cinnamon hair, those freckles like so many more stars, feet dangling out of already too-short robes; Harry with ...oh, no, not that distracted look again, the one increasingly familiar through the last two years, as if breakfast were still squirming in his stomach--the look she'd thought he'd lost over the past two fortnights with the Weasleys.

But now the Weasleys' local representative distracted her by agreeing, swinging his heels the more in anticipation, "Three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper, one Seeker..."

"Two Bludgers, one Quaffle, one Snitch!" the boys finished together, and Chaser looked at Seeker, and grinned. And Seeker actually smiled back, a smile that made it all the way to his eyes.

Ron added solemnly, "Which makes eleven," even as Harry held up counting fingers to show her, tucking the littlest back down at the end. "Take that, Arithmancy Ace, Head Girl."

She couldn't help a flush of pride, of relief, even while knowing it was just the next step to the Ministry. "Just make sure you don't do anything that means taking points from Gryffindor... or at least that I don't find out." Only a little wistfulness had made it into her voice; it'd been quiet for so long, as if Cedric had paid the price for them all. But she didn't like to think about that, and she didn't have to think about that, not with exams to study for, and so she didn't.

Instead, she gave them each a single sheet of parchment. "Our schedules, including study time. NEWTs are coming, and we've got to do well, and this means you, Harry." He'd never been like her, but nowadays he seemed an indifferent student in multiple senses of the word, even with Ron, of all people, jollying him along. Ron had had to grow up a little that way, and she smiled at him, at his eyes warm as the autumn sunlight itself upon her, at the way the light caught fire within his hair, and--

"Hermione. Did you ever think of something else..." She coloured abruptly and dropped her gaze, but Harry went on, still with that unexpected intensity, "Of not trying for Auror?" She could only look at him blankly, even after his real meaning had sunk in: because his distraction was gone, and because of course she'd go out adventuring, and then she'd come home to the flat where there'd be Ron and their children and her books... "Make kites. Make wands, even. Travel. You could be anything. Both of you. Your destiny's your own--"

She cut him off. "But I want to, Harry," she said. The light reflected off his glasses; she couldn't see his eyes. "It's all I've ever wanted, once I knew what that was. ...And Ron, of course."

Hermione then added, even more hastily, "And the three of us together like this--"

To which Harry said, "And an all-hours open note for the Restricted Section, while you're at it," but the wryness in his youthful baritone was threaded with humor. He chuckled then, as did Ron; and, a released breath later, she joined them.

Dear Ron. He spoke next, with unusual gentleness. "I like not knowing. Not having the future planned out in a scroll as long as I am tall, with footnotes," sky-blue eyes alighting amusedly, affectionately on hers. He continued, "What would we have done if Trelawney was actually right about anything? Maybe, maybe someone'll spot me at one of our games, maybe not the Cannons, maybe a feeder team; or maybe I'll, I don't know, make broomsticks or something. And I could travel; Charlie's invited me by, we could all go. And Fred and George, you know they've offered me a place--which reminds me," and he pulled a small sack from his robes, tied up with ribbons that glittered and flashed. "Take a couple, before Transfiguration."

"We're almost late!" Hermione realised, and immediately pushed herself off the stone ledge, reaching for her schoolbag--but they all stayed a moment to share the candy, and even while rushing to class, the taste of it fizzed and fizzed within her mouth.

* * *

"Goyle's got the door."

His counterpart pointed his wand at the four compass points in turn, which had nothing whatsoever to do with the odd angles of the tiny prefect's room. North, south, east, west... and then an ephemeral green light arced along the chill grey stone where his wand had passed, shimmering beneath the lush-loomed carpet and past hearth and high grilled window until it met itself and shivered into protective, concealing blue.

Nobody looked; they trusted Crabbe, and there wasn't much time.

"Reports first," Draco said, as coolly reflective as the silver cheval mirror before which he stood, the mirror that rippled watery images about the room with anyone's motion as if they were deep beneath the sea. "Pansy, you added our first-years' dossiers, yes?"

"Everything's set read-and-burn, the usual," the ash-haired girl warned without even a shadow of a giggle as she began to pass out tight-rolled scrolls, each sealed in anonymous brown. "Those, and schedules. We got enough of our choices to cover most of the electives between us, and have enough connections to not miss much of what's left; I also copied what you sent of the Gryffindors' classes, as well as the other top students' and all the Quidditch teams'. And there's Blaise's brief, and I do mean brief, on the new DADA teacher: word is she's half mermaid, be careful what you say by the lake."

The ensuing speculative silence was broken by, "Viola?"

Here Pansy did smile, but shakily. "Yes, I heard from my cousin. She's all right, but she isn't sure he isn't still watching."

They traded glances, all four, along with the unvoiced thought that it was far safer that way, safer than to be certain and to be wrong.

Then, "Blaise--"

The olive-skinned girl was curled atop his bed as if she owned it, bare toes rumpling up the coverlet's heavy velvet folds, but her reply was pure business. "Nearly got the Whatifer, twice, but mum came in, so it'll have to wait till the holidays at least. The Time Turner will be even harder. Oh, and the new books for our library are all indexed." The mirror caught her profile as she turned: the high forehead, hooked nose, decided chin. "For the... rest, not in Potions; Snape's too smart. Hagrid, though, he won't notice a thing, much less suspect--him and his skrewts or black-eyed gibnets or whatever he's got this time."

"Blaise. We can figure it out without this."

"Draco. It's one of the possibilities. And it's not as if you can do it for me."

"No? Crabbe should, then."

Everyone laughed. Including Crabbe, who said comfortably, "I don't want to see his wand, thank you," his thick voice enunciating each syllable the way he'd never let himself do outside their gathering, in the same way that, for safety's sake, he was never called by his first name anywhere at all.

Everyone laughed again, but Blaise's gaze cut away, finger-combing through her blue-black hair again and again as if working out even the ghosts of tangles. Seeing it, Draco interrupted Pansy midway through a particularly descriptive gesture, his voice soft, but intense enough to draw the others' startled attention. "Speaking of wands. Crabbe. You scraped Goyle through OWLs as well as exams, and if that's not magic, I don't know what is. Except maybe the way we scored on the betting... NEWTs, though: can you do it again? Losing him'd be--bad--but we can't have you dragged down too. Are we going to have to cut him loose?"

Crabbe's brows beetled, thick and heavy beneath bowl-cut bangs. "I'll make it. He'll make it," and if determination alone could manage it, surely they would. "Still remember how he looked, after. How he had to unpack the rest of his trunk when he got to stay. Could've lit Hogwarts with that grin... We'll give it a go. Though we might have to find another Beater."

"And wouldn't Maleficent Bulstrode like that," Pansy murmured, and Crabbe's corresponding grimace was a brutal thing.

"She's not alone. Malcom's been watching us, the busy boy." At Blaise's slight cough, Draco added, "Not that anyone isn't, hm? Still, with him it won't just be the fit of our robes. Could be the lad's simply inclined toward the Seeker's spot a year early." A brief, white smile indicated just what sort of lesson he would be teaching the fourth-year. Personally. "In the interests of ensuring such things still even matter next year, though, let's keep a special eye on him and his circle. Growing balls enough to challenge is one thing, but keeping brains to go with them is another, and I'd as soon not waste his training."

Nods all around: challenge was to be expected in their House--but there were levels and levels, and always a price to be paid for losing....

"Detention," Crabbe said all of a sudden. Then, realising, "Oh. Not for him. For me; we can count on the professors that much. Will get those ingredients switched like we talked about. 'Accidental-like.' Not the first time, but after, when someone else's been around them too. Just..." the first hesitancy he'd shown all this time, "not Herbology. I like it. And it's all right to be good in it. Not like the others. It's 'just plants' and--" Blaise reached out, put her hand on his; he went quiet, dark eyes turned to the others in silent appeal, mute demand. To Draco.

Who responded, swift and soft, "We won't ask that of you. Will we." He didn't glance to the others. "Anything else? We'll send Viola a little something from... Gladrags, let's say, to remember us by."

"We'll get 'em," said Pansy. "Fitch-Felch-y, too, the Mudblood."

"...Careful." That was Blaise, her red lip curled.

"Ineffectual is what we want just now." Draco.

And Crabbe? Only "Finite Incantatum," at which point the spell-light--the symbol that any would-be eavesdroppers would only have heard easy teasing, albeit the edged sort one would expect from their House--vanished. For a moment they were lit only by the dim greyness that was all such a dungeon room made of the morning, and by the faint gold of the banked flame in its hearth; he then added, "Lumos," against any Prior Incantato, but as quickly dissolved it with, "Nox.--All clear."

He glanced around, gave one of his trademark grunts--Pansy's chortle was quickly smothered--then stuck the schedule-scroll in a pocket of his robes and slipped his wand up his sleeve, and exited into the world of tunnels and torchlight.

Inside, the remaining three could hear his rumbly voice descend along the staircase, humming, soon followed by Goyle's light rap on the door.

Pansy tucked a ringlet behind her ear, "My cue," but then shot the others a coy look. "Blaise, when you're up for that cat-fight just let me know, yes? I like being a distraction."

"Breakfast or dinner," the other girl returned. "More chance of everyone being there--and if you keep laughing like that, Draco, you'll give it all away."

To which he promptly claimed, all wide silver eyes and gleaming smile, "I need you two to practice for me, see."

"Delighted to. Kiss-kiss," and fully back into character, Pansy went sailing off.

Blaise didn't move.

He looked at her, and the laughter fell away from his eyes.

* * *

"...So much stone around us," she said finally, nose pressed into the hollow of his throat, drinking in the subtle scent that was as distinctively Draco as the warmth of his arms now about her. Citrus and spice and something wilder--it made her think of the high places, of flying. "I miss summer. I miss... sometimes I wish I were Ravenclaw, Draco; except that then I wouldn't be here with you.

"And my mum would have no chance, no chance at all."

* * *

Some time after she had left, he stood again. He reknotted his tie in the mirror, ran his hands through his hair; he said nothing to his reflection, who was likewise silent.

Instead, he poked his head out the door. All but whispered, "Goyle?"

"Yeah?"

"...Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

The hulking boy was quiet for a while, and then he said, "Millie's one thing, but family... He's not one of us, Draco. Not really. He doesn't understand what it means. I'm--I'm not like you, but I do things for you, and you do things for me. Not just a bit of shrivelfig to be chopped up for his potion."

Silence.

Then Draco expelled a breath, sharply, and crossed the threshold. "Guess that's as good a way of putting it as any." He clapped his taller comrade on the shoulder, and together they propped up the wall until it was time for class.