Mirrors

Sometimes he could still hear the train drumming in his head. Last year. Last year. Last year. Sometimes the train said other things. In the middle of class: Neville's potion would be just as useful poured over his head. And he'd smell better, too. In the middle of the Quidditch trials: No doubt who's Seeker; let Ron figure the rest out, he's the captain, go flying and come back when it's all over... In the middle of the night: The Slytherins, they've poisoned all the pumpkin juice. He could laugh at himself now, at least—unlike the first time he'd woken from dreams of his own throat swelling up to smother him, of gasping and choking while the others slapped their knees and snickered. But they did know something he didn't, he was convinced of it, and he was going to find out.

A couple of days later, when Hermione was off in Arithmancy, he distracted Ron up to the Owlery. The acrid scent of the birds' droppings was in the air, despite the efforts of house-elves and students given particularly noisome detention, but from the top of the West Tower they could see: only glimpses of lake and Forbidden Forest obscured by the other towers, but more importantly, a vast reach of open air, out from Hogwarts' shadow and over their Quidditch pitch toward the rambling hills beyond. Those hills were still green this early in the season, distantly hazed with blue late-morning mist beneath bluer skies, skies in which a familiar owl floated on wide-swept wings—

"...and with Hufflepuff looking that good on the quick sweep, we're going to have to switch formations: something more Beater-heavy, I think, both shake 'em up and take their attention off our Keeper," Ron was saying.

"Hufflepuff? We don't play them for months," Harry returned after realisation's pause, and extended his forearm for Hedwig's landing: she backwinged to minimise her momentum, careful with her claws, and hooted softly as he brought her up to his shoulder. He checked for a return message, of which there was none, and then rubbed his nose lightly into her feathers; they tickled, and smelled of wind rather than dog or wolf. "She'll get experience in between. Maybe not so much with Ravenclaw—" Ravenclaw, who was missing most of last year's first string (including its Seeker, its Seeker...).

"But Slytherin," Ron said with the hiss of a curse behind it. Harry started to speak, but Hedwig nipped at his earlobe, then squawked as all she got was some of his hair. Even as he started extricating the dark strands from her beak, Ron was already going on, "You heard about Baddock? Challenged Malfoy—"

(Malfoy.)

"...And was the kid ever shown up. Wish I could've seen it," grudging respect entering the redhead's tone. "Three times out of three, just swooped, and one time he was playing him like a fish..." (both of them fish, the second silver and sharper-toothed, speeding through water and the beginnings of blood) "Funny thing, Baddock wasn't mad, they say: just knuckled down and knocked everyone out of his Chaser's spot. We'll have our work cut out for us, Harry. He's got the Sunflare 2010, same as you. Malfoy, I mean."

'Malfoy'. It rang like a bell; he could hear it through the skies, clear and cold. Warning. But none of the owls noticed, busy with their eating and preening; none but Hedwig, who bated briefly and then gnawed on his hair some more.

"Harry?"

"Right," he said quickly, thickly.

(Malfoy.)

He swallowed. "Ron?"

"Yeah, Harry?"

He couldn't bear the (pity) sympathy in those blue eyes; he turned away, out to the sky again, leaned out over the wall—felt the welcome prickle of Hedwig's talons as she rebalanced—and let the wind carry his words back. "It's not just me, is it? They've been quiet this term." (so quiet, too quiet, they could be sneaking up even now) "Even more than last. Nobody's tripped Herm in a dragon's age. ...Well, except Seamus, and that was an accident. They're not worrying about us, are they?" He didn't look behind him. Refused to look behind them. Because they weren't there. Only Ron, and the owls with their prey.

Ron said, "Not just you," a little too carefully for Harry's liking. Hermione had gotten to him. Or maybe Ginny. No, not Ginny, she'd be staying well clear, surely he'd taken care of that at least. "Likely they finally know better, we knocked sense into their empty heads. And Herm's good at what she does, not as if she couldn't make them pay, like that time fifth year when Millicent kept following her around, even into the girls' loo until she sicced Myrtle on her..."

He was right about that much, he had to be: Hermione was capable, could handle these things. And Head Girl; they'd think twice about messing with her. (but if they ganged up... or if it were Voldemort at last, at last, and it could all be over...)

"Your scar's not hurting again, is it?" Ron asked, and Harry blinked at him: had he said that out loud? The other boy's look of freckled inquiry gave him no clue.

"No-o..." Not his scar, it wasn't the same feeling as before the Triwizard tournament, not quite (though it was familiar, it was dread): it was a deeper unease, an itching in his bones. Something's coming. But the skies, search as he might, were clear of storm.

"Right then. You speak up when it does, and for now we'll go down, get some practise in before dinner." That was Ron. Practical, where Hermione'd rubbed off. Creative, at least when it came to formations or pranks, and you couldn't ask for a better friend to help put Flitwick in a tizzy, or to share your sweets from that very first Chocolate Frog; but—practical. He'd have to go searching alone.

"Practise," Harry agreed, and finally did turn from the sky; but as best he could tell, the rustling in the shadows was only the owls. (And theirs, too, the crunch of twiggy bone.)

* * *

A few hours later, Blaise slipped from the girls' hallway to see Draco standing in fire-thrown shadows, robes darkened but sharp features undimmed, watching the assembled Slytherins with distinctly proprietary pride.

The assembled studying Slytherins.

In the past two fortnights, additional tables had been co-opted from one of the disused classrooms, permission asked and granted from their Head of House who, for a moment, had shown gratifying surprise in those chill black eyes. Those skilled in Transfiguration had gleefully spent an evening in decorating them to better suit the common room, the more artistic adding small gargoyles—two depicting their own Bloody Baron, but more frequently featuring caricatures of fellow students—leering and grinning from the formerly blunt corners, one endlessly spitting water into nothingness, one rolling white eyes when a particularly choice set of robe-clad legs wandered by; others just went for symmetrical scrollwork, clawed feet, or even simply shading the scarred oak into darker, smoother surfaces that dimly reflected their downturned faces. Crabbe's had little plants growing out of the wood, twining and flowering without the need of sunlight.

Even the inkwells were refilled, and nobody was playing hex wars any longer, or mostly, after Pritchard's face had turned orange with little blue hills of acne: most unbecoming with House green, that. The cavern was somewhat cramped, with the first-years shoved up to the fireplace, but their would-be experiment in sticking them to the ceiling had been turned down. Imagine.

She took a moment longer to study that profile—such pride could be infuriating, but also endearing, and wasn't that just like a Malfoy?—before slipping up beside him, pitching her voice high and scared-of-prefect shrill, "Sir! I mean, M-Malfoy! There's a firstie stuck in the hearth!"

He whirled—and abruptly laughed. "Detention for you, Zabini." A quick wave scattered the staring back to their studies, and she felt those silver eyes rest on her, felt a shiver snake its way down her spine. He spoke more softly then, "Ravenclaw, you'd said."

"Not because of that..." She didn't bother to keep the disdain from her voice: studying was one thing, but holing up together like Hufflepuffs? If it weren't for the need to close ranks against the other Houses; to learn as much as they could, while they still could; to reinforce their following his lead—

"I know."

He did. He knew all too well about Morag, and Lisa, and Padma, who didn't live and breathe the web to which they'd been bred, for all that academe had its own cutthroat competitions. Morag, and Lisa, and Padma, whose high windows opened to the wind.

But she had her pride too, and so she swallowed, and tartly said, "Somehow I can't see Snape done up like Sprout, can you?"

"Black thumb and green," he murmured. "Imagine what they'd breed."

She shuddered, not all of it pretense; he caught it, she knew he did, and briefly she wondered—yet again—what she was doing here, with this House, with him. And because his eyes were gleaming the way they were, she put just a hint of naïveté in her voice and said, "I can't believe he let us do this."

"A surprise for all of us," and his gaze grew softer, less on her than past. The past.

"You do like that, don't you. Surprises." It was gently enough said, enough that she had his full attention back again, but without the guardedness. Yet. Gently enough that no one would look twice at them. She took a breath, then spoke the more swiftly into that moment's silence.

"Especially when it's Snape. What they could say about pupil and master, Draco.... What do you give to buy his attention, that after-hours lessoning in brews that won't even be on the NEWTs? To prove your marks aren't just your father's name—what are you learning, what do you tell him? Do you think he could save us?" and she was unconscionably pleased to see the colour wick up those stark cheeks, all the redder for his extraordinary ivory paleness.

He didn't say anything. But then, he wouldn't: not here, not to her; she was almost positive. Which was another reason why she risked it. She leaned in, grey eyes slumberous, enough that any observer might think it the next thing to pillow talk. Which it also was. "If you really wanted him to dismiss you, you'd never reveal it; you'd not excel in class, the tables'd be someone else's idea. But never say you don't have your pride." Never let it be said she could not be Slytherin.

The pulse beat hard in his throat, close enough that she could lick it, could bite. He said, "Who'd respect a Slytherin who failed?" and it wasn't a question. "Who'd follow her anywhere?"

She shuddered again, and it was genuine, and grey eyes met grey—they were kin, he and she—and dared. She said, "That was years ago."

They had been children together, once.

He let that hang in the air, and then offered her his arm. "I do take your warning," he admitted, if without promising to keep that bright head down. Without lying. "Shall we?"

She found a laugh, one that would serve for others to hear: "'Detention' it is!" and went with him to a little room deep within the dungeon.

And not long after, when she had him up against the wall, her throaty "Severus!" cast him over the edge.

* * *

The Quidditch pitch was soggy after an unexpected rain, and water pooled within the imprint of every step until it made a muddy morass by the changing rooms, while more outlying footprints reflected the growing dusk with a chill, greyed blue. As they walked toward the field itself, Harry kept his Sunflare's twigs well shy of the muck that sucked at his shoes, and of the tall redhead who threatened to tread on his heels. Let Ron have the captainship this year; Harry only wanted the sky. Not the planning, not the scheduling, not the paperwork: just the sky, and the Snitch.

Finally they were far enough. Tonight was just formations, nothing to do with him, the sort of thing that would have had his Seeker counterparts pleading homework and staying warm and musty-dry (all of them? really?) ...and abruptly he derailed that train of thought, took one last step—swung leg over broom—kicked off—and he was flying, the ground abandoned for the wild whirl that was the wind, welcoming him in a gust of clarity that swept all thought away—

High—the ascent cut his breath from him—

Higher—the cold ripped at his wrists, his throat, spilling exhilaration with it—

Higher yet—he shut his eyes, it was good as taking off his glasses, flying blind into the onslaught of night—

Higher—and though gravity had been his opponent, shoving against shoulders and tail-twigs as he rose, suddenly he made of it his ally, pivoting—dragging in a gulp of air—plummeting down—

Down—the wind shrill against his ears, tearing at his hair, and still he didn't look, not with the earth reaching up like a lover, reaching to devour him alive—

—and he fell and fell, heartbeats drawn out to eternities every one—

—and the wind was shrieking now, only it was the scattering players, only it was—

He opened his eyes.

The ground was black before him.

And he turned; and neither the charm that secured his glasses nor the spells of his broomstick failed; and he twisted momentum to his will, adrenaline pounding within him, twisting into a dizzying tumble up and around and—

Below, two Chasers floated a mere pace above the wet earth, faces still turned to their unheeding Seeker's aerobatics; young Natalie McDonald tucked thin black braids behind her ears and said, still half-breathless, "Now that's a Wronski feint. None of the others'll top him. Not one."

"...Yeah," replied Ron, slowly. "A feint."

* * *

Firelight flickered transparent orange and gold about the common room, shadows taking refuge beneath broad-bellied chairs, along the curve where floor met wall, in the unashamed gape of a second-year's yawn. It had already been a long day, but within exhaustion lingered flight's exhilaration, sharp as ozone when the lightning had gone. Harry could all but smell it, taste it, even over the onion-laden stew that had been dinner. And so he made his decision; pushed the History of Magic textbook aside, murmured a brief, "Going to the loo," and stood.

Hermione glanced up at him, warm brown eyes taking a moment to refocus from those notes of hers, neatly scripted in seven shades of ink (one magically striped in Gryffindor colours and reserved for Transfiguration); "Nearly lights-out," she reminded, but Ron just snorted, "We didn't have the mystery meat tonight; he'll be safe. So long as Myrtle doesn't get 'im."

Harry mimed a moment's horror, but his heart wasn't in it, was pulling him—out. Out through the portrait hole, frame clattering closed behind him and sending the Fat Lady all a-twitter; out along the hallway, his tread as casual as he could make it through the anticipation that flickered along every synapse: doing something. At last. Out.

He used the loo, too, for its practical purpose but mostly to make his excuse not a lie; he left as quickly. And beyond the corridor's corner, after a quick check that spotted no one else about, he reached inside his robes and drew out not only wand but the filmy folds of his father's cloak, earlier secured by his belt for just this purpose. He tucked it about him, pulling up hood and down hems—it tripped him up less and less, these days—straightening invisible creases with the flat of his hand. And took a deeper breath.

The cloak was a chill whisper about him; the world seemed strangely distant from beneath its hood, as if he had at once all the time in the world and no time at all. The stairs had not moved since supper; he walked their edges, not the center tread so deeply indented by generations of Hogwarts feet, ducking past torches that would blind his eyes to the darkness.

Down—the air still and close about him, a bead of clamminess trickling down his neck—down, into the Great Hall—

The dungeons.

Cold, and dark, and stone: the now-familiar territory around the Potions classroom; other alcoves, other doors; and the long and featureless wall that held the Slytherins' entrance, through which, five years ago, Malfoy himself had unknowingly let him in. Malfoy—gingerly he tasted the name in his head, careful as with a bitten tongue—but it didn't echo, the train silent as it had been since he'd taken flight. Nor did he lose the moment in examining that; instead he walked on, counting the turns, surveying without stopping just as he did with the Snitch—

—and, just as inevitably, there it was. There he was. Walking swiftly, that fair head shaded from moon-gold into celadon by his wand's faint glow, no more light than needed, no less.

He followed that beacon down tunnel after sloping, torchless tunnel, passing at length from fitted stone into older, smoother contours, the walls subtly curved as if a great serpent had once swum through living, liquid rock. The pace Malfoy set was swift, and quiet for all that he surely had no need for stealth. He matched the other's pace as best he could, footstep to footstep, soft-soled shoes near-silent on the stone. For all that they were of a height, it took a little while to adjust to the rhythm that wasn't quite logically measured, that held every now and again a pause or a quickening by this archway or that; still, this wasn't a dance that would tread on toes, this pace Harry could match—until—

Malfoy took a sharp corner; and disappeared.