Any Living Thing

Chapter 15: Any Living Thing

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

In the end, it wasn’t the silence that broke him.

No, it wasn’t the silence: not the silence that greeted him every morning while the other boys dressed, wordless, and went down to breakfast without him; not the silence that swept through the common room when he stepped through the portrait hole, dousing laughter, killing smiles; not the silence that whisked over his housemates when he passed them in the halls, and descended anywhere at the Gryffindor table he chose to sit. No, not the silence of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, who ignored him as well as any two people sleeping in the same room could, and on whose account, he suspected, he found a cache of stink bombs buried in his sock drawer. It was not the vengeful scorn of Fred and George Weasley, who (none too subtly) jinxed his shoelaces together while he was coming down the stairs; nor was it the quieter scorn of their prefect older brother, who became mysteriously deaf and blind to their hijinks whenever Draco happened to be involved.

It was not even the unendurable silence of Hermione Granger, whose boisterous, warm, know-it-all chatter had narrated his life at Hogwarts for almost two years, and who now showed no sign of remembering he existed.

What broke him was, of all things, Ginny Weasley, whom he made the mistake of sitting next to at lunch.

He had just set his bag on the table when she turned, made a face, and said coldly: “You know, Parvati, I’m not really hungry today.”

Parvati paused, bewildered, mid-sandwich. “Oh?” she said. “Oh. Oh.”

“In fact,” said Ginny, standing up, “I’ve rather lost my appetite.”

Parvati glanced at him, then to the sandwich, and seemed to make up her mind. “Me, too,” she said. Then, bravely, as she stood up: “In f-fact, I wouldn’t want to — bother anybody by sitting near them. Being a half-blood and all.”

Draco closed his eyes. He was very tired; Seamus had ‘accidentally’ mistaken Draco’s Potions essay for kindling while building the common room fire last night, and he’d been up past midnight rewriting it.

“Good point, P. And I’m sure anywhere half-bloods aren’t welcome, blood traitors aren’t, either.” Ginny shouldered her book bag. “Let’s go find some of our own filth to sit with.”

They moved down the table to sit with Dean and Neville. A burst of laughter flowered from the group, and Ginny slung her arm around Neville’s shoulders, ruffling his hair. Hermione, who was sitting between them, looked up and smiled at Ginny.

And finally, after a week of silence, Draco broke. Grabbing his bag, he shoved out his seat and stalked away from the table, ignoring the chorus of whispers that ignited in his wake.

Theo jumped when Draco slammed his bag down in front of him.

“Goodness, that’s an entrance,” he said. His eyes did a comical sweep up Draco’s person. “Have you been Confounded? This isn’t your table.”

“I’d like to sit here,” Draco muttered. His jaw was so taut his mouth barely moved.

Slytherins were staring, but he didn’t care. It couldn’t possibly be worse than the Gryffindor table.

Pansy, who was sitting across from Theo, squinted at him in bemusement. “Why?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Does it matter?” Draco said tightly. “There’s not a rule against it.”

Theo shrugged.

Draco sat down. He grabbed a turkey sandwich and forced himself to take a bite. It tasted like ash.

He chewed. He swallowed. He took another bite.

Pansy watched him with an expression of alarm. “Teddy, they broke him,” she said.

“Oh, rats. This is why I never share my good toys.” Theo poked Draco’s arm, tentatively. “My good man, did you get Confounded? I was joking, but now I’m concerned.”

“I’m fine.” He took another bite.

“You are most certainly not. You’re a taciturn fellow, I grant, but you don’t usually act like a goblin clubbed you in the head.”

“I’m fine enough to hand you your arse, if you don’t bugger off.”

Theo and Pansy both sucked their breath through their teeth in the same mildly impressed way.

“Perhaps living in that Tower finally drove him to violence,” suggested Theo. “No shame in it. It took two full years, he’s still a man of more patience than I.”

“Don’t joke, it might be serious.”

“I’m deathly serious. Stuck in that loony bin till graduation? He’s got good reason to be depressed.”

“Or it’s about his M-O-T-H-E-R, you muppet,” she hissed.

“Ah,” said Theo, somewhat sheepish. “You know, I didn’t think of that. She is well, isn’t she, Draco? Please say she is, or I may have to faint in humiliation.”

Reassuring, they were not, and polite they were not, but carrying on a real conversation with people his own age went a long way to making him feel like a human being again.

“Narcissa is fine.”

“Thank Merlin.”

“It’s a problem with Granger.”

“Hermione Granger?” said Theo in surprise. “The swot? Didn’t think she had it in her.”

“She and I had a verbal altercation.”

“Mm,” he said. “Tragic. Well, can’t be helped. Say, can I glance at your Potions homework—”

“What could she have said that would upset you?” said Pansy. She fixed him with an intent shock-blue stare. “You’re Draco Malfoy. Your ancestors were the greatest wizards in the world. What is she? A gap-toothed baseborn freak?”

“Shut up,” Draco snapped. They both stared at him.

“This is our table,” Theo said slowly. “You can do whatever you like, in Gryffindor, and they’ll tolerate it — or they won’t, apparently. But if you’re going to lean on our hospitality, it’s custom to keep our manners.”

It was more than a little sinister, Draco thought, how quickly Theo could flip from merry indifference to the cool, commanding tone of a superior officer. He was the only son of a pureblood family; he’d likely never been told he couldn’t have his way. Draco knew the type. He was one of them.

Except — it grated at him, for some reason. He didn’t used to care, but he felt something intrinsically objectionable about Theo’s slippery smile, as if there was something disrespectful in it. He found himself thinking of Ron, who could be heedlessly rude on scant prompting, but who never pretended to feel anything he didn’t.

Draco never had to worry about where he stood, with Ron. Or Harry, or Hermione. When they were angry, they just came stomping over and yelled at you until you made it right again. It was sort of marvelous.

Pansy leaned back and flipped her hair. “Fine. Be miserable about it, I don’t care,” she sneered. “But mind you don’t drag us into your mess, whatever it is.”

He gave a bitter bark of a laugh. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“No?”

“Unless you happen to have friends in Gryffindor Tower, I assure you, you’re in no danger.”

She snorted. “Only one, regrettably,” she said. Then she caught him staring. “What? Don’t look at me like that.”

Theo beamed. “Parkinson, you dog,” he said. “That was just about the sweetest thing you’ve ever—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll replace one of your colognes with Itching Potion,” she said furiously. “And I won’t tell you which one.”

“And that’s the second sweetest.”

Draco snorted. It crossed his mind, absently, that Pansy and Percy might enjoy each other, if they could ever tolerate each other for long enough to have a conversation. Then he realized that Harry would probably laugh at all of Theo’s jokes — except the snobbiest ones — because Harry thought practically everything was funny, and that nothing would delight Theo more; and then he was thinking about the sorts of explosive arguments Pansy would have with Seamus, and how Daphne would adore Lavender’s muggle nail polish, and probably flirt with Dean; and most of all, he thought about Hermione, who would sit in the corner with him, and narrate the whole exchange under her breath, and laugh when he said something witty.

This thought occurred to him with a pang, like a physical needle through the left side of his chest. He rubbed the spot.

The afternoon post swept in, bringing with it a lighter haul than the morning. Ulysses made an automatic sweep over the Gryffindor table, doubled back twice in confusion, and finally cut across to land at the Slytherin table. He carried a scrap of tawny parchment.

Theo caught his Prophet before it hit the table. “Double edition,” he said, surprised. “There was already one this morning.”

“Why? Is there a crisis?” Pansy was ever hopeful. “Did somebody die?”

“Seems not,” said Theo. Then he exclaimed, “No! Really?”

“What? Don’t be mean! Tell me tell me tell me.”

“Asquith’s declared for Minister,” he gasped, paging through the paper. “Against Runcorn and Fudge. That makes four candidates, with Lockhart… the vote’s in a week! Of all times…”

Draco unrolled his scroll of parchment. It was written a scrawl so thick and stubby he struggled to parse it.

---

Dear Mr. Drako Malfoy,

Ye don’t know me very well and that’s because I reckon we haven’t met proper yet. I reckon it’s about time to fix that too, since any friend of Harrys is a friend of mine, and I heard enough about ye from Hermione that it seems like I know ye already. I know things aren’t right with you two at the moment, but as I see it, that’s all the more reason a bloke might be needin a friendly ear.

(Don’t worry. I ain’t mad at ye.)

Come down to the hut around 4 if ye can make it for tea + a chat.

---

Rubeus Hagrid

---

“…don’t know what would possibly possess him to do it,” Theo was saying, scanning the article with barely concealed glee. “It’s mad. He must not think Fudge can beat Runcorn, even with the coalition behind him… it’s that or he knows something we don’t. My father must be jumping for joy…”

Draco balled the note in his pocket. “Who’s Asquith, again?” he said dully.

“Speaker of the Wizengamot. Left wing bloke, Pop party. Just how disorganized are things up there?”

“Dumbledore wrote an editorial criticizing Fudge,” Pansy said, wrinkling her nose. “Maybe Asquith took it as a declaration of war?”

“You’d think they’d communicate about these things. This is funny, though. I admit, I thought Lockhart would have dropped out.”

Draco couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to feign interest in politics. At that moment it couldn’t have been less important to him who took the Minister’s seat, whether it was Fudge or Runcorn or Hagrid. He pushed away the rest of his sandwich, muttering, “I’ve got to get ready for Transfiguration.”

The bell rang. Pansy sprang up like a shot. “Me, too,” she announced. “Draco, walk me.”

Theo frowned at her. “You don’t have Transfiguration.”

“No, Defense, but the classrooms are close. Draco?”

She rocked on her heels, fingering the strap of her bookbag. A disorganized and unusual energy animated her body, as if she had been struck by a current and was still riding out its unpleasant aftershocks.

In the archway, Professor Podmore was chatting to Professor Snape, and making no effort to keep his opinions discreet.

“…particularly,” he was saying, “at a time like this. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Asquith’s my man. But the best thing would be to wait. Don’t you think? Better for the coalition, better for Fudge, better for the party. Our party, that is. Isn’t that right, Severus?”

Snape turned his head so slowly he seemed like an automaton.

“In front of students,” he said, choosing each word like he was plucking petals from a rose, “it is custom to address one’s fellow faculty by their title.”

The force of each consonant could have leveled a building. Draco’s mouth twitched.

“Right, of course. Sorry, Professor Snape. Rookie mistake. Still learning, you know! Ha, ha. But seriously, what do you think? Asquith or Fudge? For your ballot.” Podmore clapped Snape on the shoulder. Snape closed his eyes; he appeared to be praying.

“I am a humble Potions Master,” he said. “I am unprepared to speak on the matter without inquiry.”

“Dodgy fellow,” laughed Podmore. “No such thing as a ‘humble’ voter, in a democracy. As long as it’s not Runcorn, eh? Oh, Miss Parkinson! There you are. We were worried about you, the other day!”

“Walk faster,” muttered Pansy, seizing Draco’s elbow.

“Miss Parkinson! Hold on a moment! A word?”

Draco stopped, seeing no other option, and Pansy gave a high-pitched groan, stamping her foot.

“Make an excuse,” she begged Draco in a whisper. “Say — say you’re about to throw up.”

“What? No.”

“I don’t know! Think of something!”

Podmore hurried forward, eager. “Miss Parkinson, you’re on your way to my class, I suppose? Very good, I’ll walk you. Mister Malfoy, you go on ahead, I shouldn’t like to keep you.”

Pansy stared woodenly at her feet. All the nervous energy had gone out of her, leaving her limp and listless.

Draco tried to think of an excuse, but he couldn’t find a reason to deny the professor; Hermione was, ironically, much better at lying. So he watched as Podmore placed a hand between Pansy’s shoulder-blades, and with a gesture like someone guiding livestock, he swept her up the stairs.

---

At four fifteen precisely, Draco put away his watch, climbed the stairs to Hagrid’s hut, and rapped the knocker.

“Jes’ a mo!” Great thumps echoed behind the door, and with a riotous squeak of hinges, the half-giant peered out. At the sight of Draco, his craggy face broke into a grin. “Mis’r Malfoy!” he said grandly, flinging the door wide. “Good to see ye. Thought ye might not be able to come.”

“Hello, Mister Hagrid,” said Draco, in strained tones. He eyed the giant’s hands, and tried not to think about how one errant backhand could punt Draco into a wall. He held out a wicker basket. “Thank you for the kind invitation. This is for you.”

It was a basket of fresh tomatoes under a piece of cheesecloth. They came from the kitchens, so they weren’t exactly his own, but Narcissa had raised him better than to appear empty-handed.

“Thank ye, lad,” said Hagrid, quite touched. “These are beau’iful. Well, come in! Come in! I got a kettle on. Don’t mind Fang, he jus’ wants to lick ye.”

The door swung shut, enclosing Draco in the hut’s only room. Fat hunks of ham and pheasant hung from the ceiling, and a copper kettle burbled merrily on the open fire. It was ample space, but it all seemed small in relation to Hagrid, who made even the largest piece of furniture — an overstuffed armchair the size of Draco’s four-poster — look like a child’s playset.

A black boarhound larger than a Shetland pony came bounding up to Draco in the entrance, barking madly. Draco, whose recent past included less than favorable experiences with dogs, gave a shout and flung himself against the door.

The dog butted him hard in the stomach — he ducked, groaning — and then began licking him furiously. Draco began to reconsider whether he was in desperate enough need of companionship yet to stoop this low: perhaps he could try talking to Peeves, or the Giant Squid.

“Jus’ push him away, if ye don’ like it,” Hagrid called, lifting the cauldron of a kettle off the fire and decanting into a red clay teapot.

Setting his jaw, Draco carefully pushed the dog’s head away. Fang gave a disappointed sigh and relented, trotting over to sit at Hagrid’s feet.

“See? There ye go. Gentle hand, that’ll do it.” Hagrid scratched behind Fang’s ears, and Fang gave a world-weary woof. “Go on n’ have a seat. Cream an’ sugar?”

“Dash of cream and a squeeze of lemon,” he said automatically. “If it’s no trouble, thank you, Mister Hagrid.”

“Hagrid will do fine,” said Hagrid cheerfully. “No ‘mister’ for me. And you’re Draco, is tha’ right? Harry an’ Ron an’ Hermione’s friend.”

“Did they call me that, sir?” he said hopefully.

Hagrid snorted. “No,” he said. “Ron called ye a weaselly git in need of a spanking, and Harry said ye were an embarrassment to Gryffindor.”

Draco swallowed, dropping his chin.

“And I suppose Granger agreed with them,” he said.

“Nah. She did say ye were a ponce and hadn’t any more manners n’ Fang here, but she didn’ call you a disgrace.” Hagrid pushed Draco’s mug at him. “They’re jus’ mad at yeh. They’ll come aroun’ once you apologize.”

Draco looped the teabag string idly around his finger. “Right,” he said dully.

“Ye don’t believe me. Listen, I’ve been here for near fifty years, an’ there’ve been folks in here whingin’ about everythin’ under the sun. I mean name-callin’ an’ bullyin’ and catfights, even real fights, too, sometimes. They all come in here spittin’ mad, an’ you know, every one of ’em swears that that’s it, they’ll never speak to each other again, this is the end times. Some kids I have in here every week, with that story.”

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “They all made up in the end.”

“Eh, not all of ’em,” said Hagrid frankly. “Some of ’em meant it. But those folks weren’ the ones who were angry, you understan’? Usually, the folks what meant it jus’ didn’ care enough to go back and make up. They’d come in and tell me, Hagrid, it’s over, an’ they wouldn’ even be sad about it. Because they’d been angry so long it didn’ matter to them no more. They’d wore themselves out, an’ jus’ wanted to stop cryin’ over it.”

Draco gripped the handle of his mug. “Thanks,” he said tightly. “That’s comforting. Thank you.”

“Don’ look so low, lad. I’m tellin’ ye, there’s a long way to go before tha’ happens, with Hermione and yeh.” Hagrid nudged a tray of rock cakes at him, and out of politeness, Draco took one. “She’s still spittin’ mad at yeh, don’ get me wrong, but she’s not done with yeh. When she was in here jus’ yesterday, cryin’ about it? Sayin’ how awful it hurt her feelings, what yeh did? Not done by a long shot.”

The thought of Hermione weeping at Hagrid’s table made him want to sink through the floor. He took a scalding hot sip of tea, and the burn was almost pleasant in comparison.

“So here’s what ye do,” Hagrid said cheerfully, tapping the table. “Yeh go back up there, an’ yeh do somethin’ real nice for her, to make it up. An’ yeh show her yer not done with her, either, an’ that you mean to be friends. An’ yeh try not to do nothin’ stupid again.” He eyed Draco sternly. “Because it was real stupid, what you said to her. An’ yeh know that, don’t yeh?”

“I know,” he said defensively. “I didn’t mean to.”

“A horrid thing to say at all. If we were back in my day, I’d have yer mouth scrubbed out wi’ lye for tha’.”

“We were already having a row at the time,” he muttered. “Did she tell you that? We were both yelling. It was tense.”

“And yer the only wizard on the planet what ever got mad, were yeh?” said Hagrid calmly, without judgment or ire. “Think yer the only one who ever wanted ter say something mean? Think Hermione weren’t mad, too? What’s the worst thing she said to yeh?”

Nothing cruel: the truth, mostly. He scowled. He took a bite of rock cake to avoid the question, and almost cracked his jaw.

Hagrid shook his head, setting his great shag of hair aquiver. “She tol’ me everythin’. An’ now I’m telling yeh: she’ll forgive ye, she wants to, but she can’ do that unless ye show her ye want tha’, too.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

“Ye’ll think of something,” said Hagrid confidently. “Yer a creative lad. Hermione’s always goin’ on about how good yeh are in Potions. An’ a rich boy like yew can always get some flowers, if yeh run out of ideas. Yer father was orderin’ these massive deliveries o’ lilies an’ jasmines up the castle grounds, an’ I had to sign for ’em and haul ’em up for him ter collect…”

Draco sat up straighter. “You knew my father?”

“Lucius Malfoy? ’Course,” he crowed, leaning back in his chair. “He kept to himself, but he had a reputation aroun’ the castle. Tha’ whole year with yer parents in it, they all had reputations. Pompous git, if you ask me. No offense, o’course, he’s still yer dad. Jus’ reminded me too much of some other slimy folks I knew when I was in school.”

“You went to Hogwarts?”

He realized belatedly that his surprise was somewhat rude, and tried to appear innocent.

Hagrid grunted idly. “Long time ago,” he said.

“…You’re a wizard?”

“Aye. It’s a long story, an’ with due respect, Draco, we aren’ that close friends yet, you an’ me—”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I didn’t mean to pry—”

“—but les’ jus’ say tha’ I tried to do somethin’ kind for another livin’ thing, and a lotta people at Hogwarts don’ take well to tha’ happenin’, ’specially when it’s somethin’ tha’ scares ’em.” He set his mug down hard, a faint scowl creasing his weathered face.

Draco’s brows furrowed. “…All right.”

Hagrid shook his head, lost in thought. “I still can’t barely wrap my head aroun’ it,” he muttered. “How much hate some people have in their hearts for jus’ about any livin’ thing.”

Draco, thinking of Fang’s massive bulk, wondered what size of ‘any living thing’ Hagrid had been trying to help.

A crawling sensation prickled his arm. He hissed, and smacked at the tiny spider that had been scaling his wrist.

“Don’ do that!” Hagrid barked, and Draco jumped, slamming his knee on the table. Hagrid hurried around and scooped the spider up, cradling it in his massive hands. “Don’ hurt the spiders,” he scolded, opening the window and tossing it out. “Yeh don’ have to like ’em, but yeh don’ have to hurt ’em, neither.” He sent Draco a severe look. “Especially this close to the Forest.”

“The Forest?” He wrinkled his nose. “What’s the Forest got to do with it?”

“Don’ ask,” Hagrid said darkly. “Jus’ do me a favor, and don’ go killing no more spiders. And if ye have ter, don’ do it near the Forest.”

“But it wasn’t a dangerous spider, it was just a little…”

“All the more reason yeh shouldn’!” Hagrid cried. “Never done you no harm, did it? An’ they’re not all of them that little, are they?”

“…I suppose not?”

The half-giant lumbered back to his seat. “Don’ mean to yell at ye,” he said apologetically. “But you jus’ remember what I said, alrigh’? About Hermione, and about the spiders.”

Draco blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“No sir,” Hagrid laughed, thumping him on the back. Draco heard one of his shoulder joints crack. “I ain’ yer professor. Jus’ a friend.”

This was the last of a series of surprising revelations in a thoroughly surprising conversation. He wasn’t sure it was accurate to call him Hagrid’s friend, especially since he’d spent most of the visit fearing that the man might accidentally sit on him.

Deaf to these doubts, Hagrid shrugged. “Hermione vouches for ye, when she’s not mad at yeh, and tha’s reason enough,” he said gruffly. “Yer a quiet one, an’ odd, to be sure, but she likes ye, and she’s not been wrong about anythin’ important yet. If ye ever need anythin’, ye jus’ come on down here and let me know.”

“Thank you,” said Draco, and surprised himself again by meaning it.

Then, forgetting his earlier lesson, he took another bite of rock cake and promptly lost a tooth.

---

He sat with Theo in Potions. This was his only option, as Neville — who usually worked by himself in the back — had started sitting next to Hermione. But as soon as Snape put the recipe on the blackboard, Draco was out of his seat.

He had thought about what Hagrid had said. Thought for a while, all alone in Gryffindor Tower, while he stared at the page that was supposed to be his Transfiguration essay, and then, instead of writing the essay, he’d written down a list of things he could do.

The essay still didn’t exist. That was fine. He’d ask Hermione for help, once she was talking to him again.

He stood by her desk with a tray full of lionfish spines and said, “Ahem.”

Hermione didn’t turn her head. Neville did, though, and said, “Oh. Um, hi, Draco. I don’t think you’re supposed to be over here.”

“Hello, Long– Neville.” When he practiced it in his head, Neville hadn’t been there. That was fine, too. He’d adapt. “I don’t want my seat back, don’t worry. I just brought these over.” He added, “To share.”

“Oh!” Neville peered at them doubtfully. “Thank you? I suppose?”

Hermione finally looked up. She had tied back her hair for safety but some pieces always drifted free, and the cauldron’s heat drew a flush to her face. She looked like a tired shopkeep dealing with an unpleasant customer. She looked at him like she’d rather be looking at any other face in the world.

He swallowed around something hard in his throat. “Here,” he said, thrusting out the tray. He’d had words prepared, but they abandoned him under the cool pressure of her stare.

She said nothing.

“Lionfish spines,” he explained. When she gave no sign of recognition, he added helpfully, “The recipe calls for them.”

“I know the recipe calls for them.”

It was the first thing she’d said to him in over a week. It was a very sad, very small kind of relief that warmed him; perhaps some part of him had worried that she truly couldn’t see him anymore.

“Well, you can have these,” he said. He set them down, somewhat lamely, on the edge of her desk.

“For what.”

“For… for what? For the potion.”

“What do you want,” she said flatly, “in exchange for them.”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “They’re for you. You don’t like butchery, so I did them.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “Neville?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Can you get me a fish knife? It should be the small one.”

Neville did so, despite his confusion, for the not insufficient reason that Hermione Granger told him to.

“Just use these,” Draco said, with an edge. “I already did them all for you. They’re perfect.”

“That’s great. I’m sure they are. And the lionfish, please, Neville? I’m going to need three of them.”

“Look, there’s no strings here. It’s a present. Take them.”

“How generous.”

“I didn’t mean — see here! Would you look at me? Please? I’m trying to say—”

“Professor Snape,” said Hermione, lifting her hand.

Draco flinched. He leaned in and hissed, “What are you doing?”

She met his eyes and didn’t blink. “Professor? Malfoy is out of his seat. He’s bothering me.”

Snape sighed, closing the book on his lectern. “Mister Malfoy, please find your table.”

“In a moment, professor,” he said. He searched her eyes, but there was nothing there except frostburn-worthy scorn.

“You mistake me, Mister Malfoy, that was not a suggestion. Relocate, or I will have no choice but to take points.”

“Sit down,” said Hermione coolly. “Or you’ll lose points for Gryffindor.”

“I couldn’t give a rat’s arse about Gryffindor—”

“Yes, you’ve made that very clear!”

“Five points, Mister Malfoy,” called Snape, amid a rustle of groans from the Gryffindor side of the room. “Tarry further, and I will double the sum.”

He went back to his seat.

Still stirring their own cauldron, Theo gave a low whistle. “What crawled up her— ow!”

Draco had pulled out his chair, and in an entirely unavoidable accident, had clipped Theo’s ankle with the leg. “Sorry,” he said blandly, and sat down.

When class was over, Hermione left nearly at a run. Harry, who had not been sitting close enough to overhear anything about lionfish spines, shot a dark look at Malfoy, and ran after her.

“Draco,” called Snape. “A word.”

Theo slapped his shoulder sympathetically and shuffled out the door with the last of the Slytherins, leaving Draco alone with Snape.

The classroom was empty save for the burble of dying cauldrons and the creak of floorboards overhead. Snape presided over a bubbling cauldron at the teacher’s desk, the steam from which was effervescent green. He emptied the contents of a small vial into the cauldron, which turned the steam purple.

Draco shoved his hands deep in his pockets and waited.

Snape did not look at him; he continued to prepare the potion, corking and uncorking vials with such speed it seemed random to the untrained eye. “You have changed your seat partner.”

“I guess so.”

“The year is soon over. You have chosen an unusual time.”

“Wasn’t my choice. Sir.”

Snape nodded, as if this did not surprise him. “You have fallen out with Miss Granger.”

Draco set his jaw.

“Am I incorrect?”

“No,” he gritted. “Sir.”

“On her account, and not yours.”

“There were extenuating circumstances,” said Draco, inspecting the floor between his shoes.

“Are the differences irreconcilable?” Snape cracked a bundle of twigs in half. “Understand that I do not ask out of any degree of interest in your personal affairs. I ask because it has twice now interfered with my class, and if you are not capable of conducting yourself civilly with Miss Granger, I will have her moved to the back of the room, and out of your line of sight.”

“Don’t do that. She didn’t — that’s not fair.”

“Not fair? Why, to whom? Is Miss Granger’s eyesight so terrible she must sit in front, or call it punishment?”

Snape understood perfectly well, of course, how Hermione would react to being moved to the back of the classroom, and the humiliation it would bring her. For what it was worth, Draco doubted very much that the threat was genuine; this was Snape’s roundabout and somewhat slimy way of commanding him to set his house in order.

Draco rubbed his eyes until colors spun in front of his eyelids, and dragged his hand down his face.

“I called her a mudblood,” he said. He was aware of how miserable he sounded, but his pride had taken such a beating already that he didn’t care.

When Snape said nothing, he lifted his hands from his face. The Potions Master had stopped brewing. His hands rested in fists on the desk.

“Professor…?”

“That is a foul word,” he said coldly. “Its use is not tolerated on Hogwarts grounds.”

He blinked. “I know. I’ve been through—”

“Did you mean to use it?”

“No,” he spluttered. “I didn’t… I mean, I said it, but it wasn’t… I didn’t think. My mum uses it. I hear it at home all the time.”

“You didn’t think?” Snape’s tone hovered near absolute zero. “You called your friend the foulest word that lies within your arsenal to describe her, and you did it thoughtlessly.”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I knew—”

“What it meant?”

“I meant muggle-born!” he shouted. “I wanted to say muggle-born. I don’t know why I said — the other thing. And I don’t need you to stand there and tell me it was a mistake, because I’ve spent the past two weeks getting treated like dirt by everyone, including Granger, and I can’t even be angry because I don’t have the right! And I know what she’d say, which is stop whinging, you’re not the victim, but actually I think I am, for once, because at least Granger’s got all her friends to be nice to her! Nobody gave me two chances!”

He kicked a table leg. Its cauldron rattled spitefully right back.

“It astounds me that it has not occurred to you,” said Snape quietly, “piddling as your faculties of comprehension may be, that this is your second chance.”

“What?”

He killed the burner. The cauldron gurgled to a still.

He spoke haltingly: “I had a friend, once.”

“Merlin,” Draco said, alarmed.

Snape glared.

“Right, sir. Sorry. Go on.”

“I had a friend,” he repeated. “And that… person… was lost to me, not entirely, but in no small part… because of a grave and singular mistake. And that, like yours, involved… a word that could not be taken back.”

“You mean m—?”

“There is no need for you to say it,” snarled Snape. “Now or ever.”

He paused, trying to show that he was taking the advice to heart. And he was: he didn’t want to say it, didn’t like the way it felt on his tongue. He couldn’t even think it anymore without Hermione’s face popping up in his mind’s eye, bright-eyed and agonied. “Y-Yes, sir. Sorry. But what happened to them? Your… friend?”

Snape shook his head.

“That’s it?” Draco said, chilled. “You just… they didn’t forgive you?” Incredulously, he added, “Ever?”

Snape drew his wand. Draco instinctively stepped back, although he realized belatedly how silly this was.

The Potions Master swept it over the scrapped cauldron, and the potion inside it disappeared.

“It does not matter.”

“What do you mean? Balderdash, of course it does.”

“I mean the point is moot,” said Snape icily. “Desist in asking; I have told you this for the purposes of instruction, not to subject myself to juvenile interrogation.”

“Instruction! What instruction? You haven’t told me what to do!”

“I have told you precisely what to do. If you are too thick to see it, that is your trial to face.” He flicked his wand at the door, and it swung open. “You may leave.”

“Oh, great. Thanks, Uncle Severus,” muttered Draco. “I’ll just go, then.” He stomped up the aisle, making a point of knocking over every cauldron he could reach.

“Draco.”

“What?”

Snape had not moved from the spot, and was turning his wand over in his hand. He closed his eyes, and spoke as if each letter were being carved into his flesh.

“It is not… the word itself… which requires apology,” he said. “That was… the mistake.”

Draco frowned. “Okay,” he said.

He wasn’t being facetious. He was trying to understand, he really was. But whatever Snape meant to convey, it had slid right over Draco’s head, because as he left the dungeon, he felt worse, not better, than he had before Snape said anything.

---

“Neville.”

“Mm-hm? Oh. Uh, I don’t think I’m supposed to t-t-talk to you.”

“You’re still passing Potions because of me.”

“…Fair. What d-do you need?”

“Is there a secret way into the greenhouses?”

“Yeah, ’course. You come through the d-dungeons and behind the portrait of B-B-Bambi the Tenebrous. Pops you up under the l-l-loose flagstone by the Venomous Ten— wait! Where are you g-going?”

The loose flagstone was somewhat heavier than Neville had implied, but a well-placed Wingardium Leviosa put paid to that. Draco hoisted himself into the plant nursery and rose, brushing loose dirt and cobwebs from his robes with a displeased twitch of his lip.

The sun was still an inquisitive firefly on the far side of the forest. Crickets purred in the warm silence of the greenhouse, and a spiky plant with thorny tendrils waved one coil curiously at him. He gave it a wide berth. A long tray of mandrakes were making a rather lot of noise, for plants, and their planter was shuddering with the force of movement happening within it. He gave this, too, a wide berth.

Professor Sprout grew flowers in the corner of the nursery. Most of them were used for brewing, and some for the kitchens. The pale flutes of a few dozen lilies sprouted from a small bush, and Draco severed these with a muttered “Diffindo.” He wrapped them in a bit of red ribbon he’d filched from Parvati’s sewing kit and examined them. The bulbs were perfect, shock-white bells, so pale the morning light turned them translucent. They were lovely, but just didn’t feel like quite the thing, somehow.

He pointed his wand. “Flositerum tagetes.”

The white bells withered away, and in their place erupted a dozen thick knots of gold petals, suffused with red at the heart. Draco was pleased: the marigolds barely retained any of the lilies’ shape. McGonagall would have been proud.

He cast a clumsy Notice-Me-Not Charm and headed back up to the castle. The library opened at six o’clock on Saturdays, which meant one could reliably find Hermione Granger at the door by six fifteen. The chances of anyone else appearing there so early — especially on the morning of the last quidditch match, when some students were camping in the stands to save seats — were slim enough that he could count on a measure of privacy.

There was a piece of paper in his pocket. He’d written down what he wanted to say. He’d been careful. He hadn’t had much luck coming up with things to say in person, so preparation seemed appropriate. It was like a cheat sheet for an exam. Hermione would appreciate the comparison, he thought. She didn’t find people easy, either. He’d rarely seen her apologize to someone for hurting their feelings; surely she’d appreciate how hard it was to do.

Then again, maybe she wouldn’t. But he didn’t dwell on that. He didn’t really know what he’d do if this didn’t work.

He found her favorite table. It was a wooden round in the back of the Transfiguration section, settled under a great east-facing window that filled the room with clear blue light as the sun rose, and sandwiched between thick stacks of old leather books that other students rarely, if ever, attempted to explore. It was quiet, and smelled of old pages, dust, vellum, the velvety scent of libraries. He sat in Hermione’s usual seat, put the marigolds on the table, and waited.

Six fifteen came and went. So did six thirty, and seven, and at seven fifteen, he stood up, needled by worry. It was impossible that she’d slept in. Perhaps something had happened? Had she seen him coming in, and left to avoid him? That seemed uncharacteristically dramatic. Hermione wouldn’t let a quarrel interfere with her study habits.

He left the library. In the hallway off the library antechamber, he ran into Theodore Nott, who was stepping out of a dark classroom.

“Morning, Draco,” he called, tossing off a wave. “Early to be up, isn’t it?”

Draco eyed him warily. “I could say the same of you. Shouldn’t you be down at the pitch?”

“Who are you, Flint?” said Theo humorously. “No, I’ll go down in a moment, I’m just looking for Pansy.” He tapped the doorknob behind him with his wand and said, “Colloportus.”

The lock clicked into place.

“Why?”

“She promised to watch the game. Can’t find her, though. Are you going?” He leaned against the wall, twirling his wand through his fingers. “You’ll regret missing it. I’m thinking of punting a bludger through your seeker’s kneecap.”

“I’ve an errand,” Draco said stiffly. “I’ll come if I can.”

“Sure. You can sit in the Slytherin stands if you want, Daphne will appreciate the company. Just don’t wear your scarf, you might get punched.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Theo straightened and chopped a jaunty salute. “ Au revoir, mon petit transfuge. See you later, then.”

“Fais gaffe à ta gueule, crétin,” he said, and enjoyed the way Theo’s eyebrows hopped all the way up to his hairline. As if it was bloody hard to learn French. “And I’m less worried about Potter’s kneecaps than Higgs’s eyes. Let me know how it feels to lose to a seeker in glasses, will you?”

He gave Theo a hard clap on the shoulder and strode out of the corridor.

The Gryffindor common room was empty, as was much of Gryffindor Tower; by eight o’clock, most people had flocked down to breakfast, or ventured out to procure seats. Even those uninterested quidditch had turned out at the prospect of winning the Cup. The only one left in the Tower was Lavender.

She emerged, red-nosed and swaddled in blankets, after he hollered himself hoarse for her at the foot of the stairs.

“Quit that yelling,” she sniffled, peering balefully down the staircase. “What do you want?” When she saw the flowers, she brightened slightly. “Are those for me?”

“Don’t be daft. Is Granger up there?”

Lavender scowled and blew her nose. “No,” she said thickly. “She left early, like always. It’s rather hateful, if you ask me. She always wakes me up…”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“How should I know?” shrilled Lavender. “I was trying to sleep.” She dabbed at her nose, and then added, “You might try the library.”

“I did. She’s not there.” His foot bounced.

“Well, golly, Malfoy, let me pull out my crystal ball and check,” she said irritably. “It’s none of my concern where she goes… Maybe she’s at the game, I know she’s friends with Harry. Besides, everybody’s there.” She groaned. “I so wanted to watch… it’ll be the last chance to see Wood play, and he’s so fit…”

“That’s enough. If she comes back, will you tell her I’m looking for her?”

Lavender blinked, rubbing a bit of sleep from her eye. “I suppose,” she sulked. “Not sure I should, though. Everyone says you were really awful to her.”

He snapped, “And I can’t very well make up for it if I can’t find the damn witch, can I?”

“Oooh, fine! I’ll help. But only because I’ve been trapped up here for days, and I’m bored to death.” She blew her nose again, pointedly.

He felt an unanticipated twinge of pity. “Doesn’t Pomfrey have anything for you?” he demanded. “You sound heinous.”

“I went and asked, but she gave out all her Pepper-Up, and she’s been so busy with Leanne and Colin she hasn’t made any more.”

“Why don’t you just brew it yourself?”

“Because it’s hard! And I hate potions! And I’m sick!” She gave a honking cough, for emphasis. Miserable as she was, he narrowly managed not to laugh at her.

“Good lord, this House is hopeless. Fine. You can have some of mine, but only if you promise to stop whinging.”

“Really? I can?”

“And if you tell Granger I’m looking for her.”

“Okay!” chirped Lavender, beaming. Her attitude improved instantaneously. “Is there anything you’d like me to say?”

“Tell her to meet me by the quidditch pitch,” he called, crossing to the portrait door. “And to hurry.”

The sun had risen cold and clear in a watery sky, and spring winds carried the scent of pollen on the breeze. The stands shuddered in tumultuous applause, and as he descended the lawn, his heel crunched on a paper-mache finger in red and gold, with ‘GO GRYFFINDOR’ printed on the bottom. He had just crossed the shadow of the stands when Professor McGonagall came striding out of the pitch, her robes billowing in haste. He had never seen her move so quickly.

“Professor—?”

“The match is canceled.”

“What?” __

On cue, a cacophony of boos and shouts arose from the stands. He could hear Madam Hooch squawking through her megaphone as she tried to quell the school’s dismay.

He started after Professor McGonagall, who was scaling the hill at a breakneck speed for someone in ankle-length skirts.

“Professor, why—”

“All students are to make their way back to the House common rooms, where their Heads of House will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please.”

“You’re my Head of House,” he reminded her, bewildered.

She slowed, and the fact of who he was seemed to finally register. “Malfoy,” she said. “There you are. You… hm.” She pursed her lips, and after a moment of thought, she jerked her head. “No. You may as well come along.”

“What? Where?”

“I sent Potter and Weasley ahead. You’ll see.”

He followed her back into the school. His heart started a terrible drumroll against his ribs.

The halls near the infirmary were preternaturally empty, because of the match, and he could hear his own pulse in his ears.

McGonagall swept her wand at the doors, and they burst into the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was bending over a fifth year girl in hijab, and Draco drowned in guilty relief, until he saw the bed next to her.

Harry and Ron were already there, clustered at the bedside of a second-year girl whose face was buried in her nest of brown curls. She was frozen stiff, with one hand braced aloft, as if shielding herself.

Ron looked up when Draco and McGonagall came in. Harry didn’t lift his gaze from the body, his expression glassy with fear and grief.

“Malfoy,” he began hoarsely. “Where’ve you been? It’s—”

Draco shoved him aside and lurched over the bedside, reeling with nausea. The flowers scattered to the floor, forgotten.

For Hermione stared sightlessly at the infirmary ceiling, her mouth parted in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise.

---

NEXT CHAPTER: 10/17/2022

---