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The staircases rearranged themselves inconveniently as Draco, panting, almost fell down two flights. Transfiguration had started at ten, and the last time Draco had checked, it had been 10:25. It was probably better not to check again. The very idea of McGonagall’s face alone was enough to force him back to his feet, wheeling down the next staircase over. (If only he could get preferential treatment, like a Gryffindor.)
By the time he reached the classroom, half of the butter dishes were already furry, and Granger’s had grown a flat tail. Draco sat, a bit loudly, and thumped his bag down at his feet. McGonagall shot him a look that said See me after class, while she said “Beavers, Mr. Malfoy.” Draco nodded, and set to work. His butter dish was tessellated with pigs, somehow, and he felt that if he examined the geometry too closely, he might be sick. Half-bloods and their sense of style, he groaned internally.
His beaver materialized just a minute and fifteen seconds after Granger’s, and he thought that whatever made him late probably hadn’t been worth seeing her smug glance over her desk.
He kept his face composed, calmly counting to seven as Mother had taught him. In three, out four. In seven, and hold.
He kept his gaze fixed on the filthy Continental creature before him, and tried to forget the events of the past hour. Tried, and failed. There had been time enough to turn the pillow into a fluffy kitten, watch its entire life cycle unfold in about two minutes, and stare defeatedly at its half-bald remains. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been time to clean up. He hoped no snooping Slytherins had decided to peek at his bed.
Stars appeared before his eyes. Damn, forgot to exhale.
Granger was still staring at him in her stupid self-satisfied way, gently brushing her beaver’s fur, and he shot her a cutting glance before casting an unbothered finite at his own. It had started to gnaw on his desk, foul thing. A shame the butter dish wasn’t much less foul.
“Again, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall said with a stern look.
***
When class let out, Draco packed his things as slowly as he possibly could, feeling McGonagall’s eyes on him. He strode up to her desk once he was sure nobody else would hear their conversation. McGonagall cut straight to the point. “How did it go, Mr. Malfoy?”
“The cat died, Professor. Quickly.” He suppressed a swallow at that last word, hoping his tone remained calm and aloof.
She nodded. “Adding incantations to transfiguration is a difficult business, young man. It tends to have undesirable effects. And when things go wrong, it’s hard to know which syllable was the problem. So many variables.” She was staring past him at the wall, clearly thinking too fast to say any of it aloud.
“Is there any way to slow it down?” he asked her quietly, trying not to let his voice crack at the end. Blast, it’d been doing that a lot lately.
“You started with a kitten, no?” She said, not waiting for his grim nod. “And it grew up and passed on in very little time?”
“One minute and forty-five seconds, Professor. Then it decayed.”
“Well, brighter minds than ours have gotten stumped on these questions. Defense, charms, certain forms of potions, all of these can take to incantations without dramatically changing their effect. Yet transfiguration remains different. Something about how one form adapts to another means that their incantations tie into something deeper yet.”
Draco nodded, and he couldn’t stop himself blurting out, “It’s as if the transformation adopts the form of the incantation, with a beginning and ending.” He froze, kicking himself for not thinking it through fully – Mother would reprimand him for his phrasing – but looked warily up at McGonagall only to see her smiling slightly. It was unnerving.
“Indeed, Mr. Malfoy.” Her gaze narrowed on him again. “And just as your experiment faced its end, I should hope that next time you will not be late to the beginning of my class.”
***
He would need a fresh start, and a fresh cup of coffee, before renewing his efforts. So rather than waste any time on ridiculous homework assignments, he decided to walk aimlessly through the halls, turning the idea over in his head.
“Draco,” a lilting voice said in front of him, “Where were you at breakfast this morning?”
Draco looked up, hiding his dismay as he saw Blaise leaning against an irritated-looking painting. “Finishing my transfiguration essay, Blaise,” he lied.
Blaise just smiled, twirling his tie around his finger. “Of course.” Draco rolled his eyes and kept walking. To his annoyance, Blaise fell into step with him. “My mother wrote to me this morning.”
Draco hummed (not a grunt, naturally), but Blaise just continued on. “The Dark Lord sent her a rather ingenious set of wards. They identify anyone who believes they are entering enemy territory.”
“The Dark Lord is an accomplished mind mage,” Draco said shortly. “They are for the Bergamo base in Italy?”
“Mmhmm,” Blaise sang, “And they work through occlumency barriers too.”
Draco did not voice his doubts, but instead went on the offensive. “Did they test them on one of your mother’s latest husbands? What’s she on, number eight?”
Blaise’s expression shuttered, his playful air evaporating in an instant. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your task, Malfoy.”
“We all have our roles to play, Zabini,” Draco said in a bored tone. “Mine involves a bit of thinking. So, if you don’t mind.” He made a lazy gesture with his hand, not quite shooing Blaise away.
No response, but when he peeked over his shoulder, Blaise wasn’t there.
Now, on to better things.
***
Harry couldn’t help but think that something this year was going to go wrong. And no, it wasn’t five years of things going wrong that made him think this. No, this year something was going to go impossibly wrong because this year, Malfoy actually had something to do with it.
It had only been three weeks since the start of term, and already things were off. Malfoy was coming late to class, he always seemed distracted, and it seemed that even their enemyship had been put on the back burner. What’s even worse was that McGonagall didn’t even give him detention for it. It was strange, absurd even.
So when Harry saw Draco furtively slip into a classroom on the fifth floor, he knew he had to see. He wasn’t going to let things spiral out of control this year, not this time. He quickly looked around to check for watchful eyes, then in one fluid motion, put on his invisibility cloak. Here we go again.
He crept up to the closed door, and cast a quiet illusorio , watching the image of the closed door shimmer into existence. A silencio later, and he was able to swing the door open invisibly, allowing him entry while the door appeared to remain closed.
Draco was hunched over a small pillow, embroidered with gold serpents. He was sweating, brow wet with focus, waving his wand in an intricate pattern. His voice rose and fell in a murmur, “Kono neko koko no neko no koneko kono koneko ne” repeating it over and over again.
Harry was perplexed, to say the least.
Then, the pillow began to change. Paws pushed out from the surface, then ears, and the pillow’s body shrank and lengthened. The kitten blinked once, then meowed, blinking its bright blue eyes and rubbing up against Draco’s wand hand.
Draco stopped chanting, and shakily rubbed behind the kitten’s ears. He raised his wand to point at a quill on a piece of parchment, saying aloud, “Experiment Sixty-Seven, seal-point kitten aged four months, male. Appears healthy.” The quill seemed to scribble autonomously. “If it survives till morning, I’ll give it a name.”
All of a sudden, Harry felt like he shouldn’t be watching this. He remembered that Draco never had a pet, not even an owl (the Malfoy’s post-owls never got names). He slipped out quietly and, upon reflection, decided not to share this crucial intelligence with any members of the DA.
***
“Form pairs,” Snape announced from the front of the classroom. “Weasley, Potter! After your disaster last time, you must both work with competent students. Nott, Malfoy, please assist your less capable peers.”
Draco felt his heart fall, but he snapped his almost-full notebook shut, and turned to face Potter with a bored expression. Potter just stared back dumbly, his stupid glasses askew, his emerald eyes wider than should have been possible.
Seeing that Potter was frozen, and would not approach, Draco sighed and walked over to his desk. He set his things down at Potter’s feet, and sat dramatically in the chair. “Let’s begin then.” The Draught of the Senses, designed to make all six senses sharper, required a long and complicated procedure. While Draco read ahead, Harry began prepping the palpitating persimmons, while squirrel tallow bubbled and rendered in the cauldron.
A partnership that neither would have predicted to be fruitful turned out to be a success, and Draco was repeatedly surprised to find that Potter was always ready for the next step. The snaproot was immaculately julienned, the blesswig fins de-boned, all without needing to say one word to another.
Potter caught Draco watching him curiously. “What?”
“I thought you hadn’t done much potions, back at home.”
“Didn’t,” Potter grunted, continuing to dice the slippery homesnail hearts with ease. “Cooked a lot though. Potions aren’t all that different.”
Draco was impressed. Without his house elves, he would be lost. “Well I suppose muggles don’t have house elves.”
Potter scowled for some reason. A few minutes went by before disaster struck at the other end of the classroom. Potter and Draco turned in unison, only to see Theodore Nott hiding under the table, while Weasley screamed from beneath a sheet of lime-green sludge. Potter bolted out of his seat, but when he reached the doomed Weasley, he seemed unable to do anything more than wave his arms and shout.
Snape swept in, his voice exasperated, “Foolish Weasley, I imagine you added the blesswig fins with the bones still in ?” The sludge was vanished with a lazy flick of his wand, leaving Weasley’s melted visage for all to see. He was rushed to the hospital wing, where he would shortly make a swift recovery. All for the best. Some lessons must be learned through reversible trauma.
Potter slid back onto their bench, breathing heavily and clearly shaken.
“I get it now,” Draco nodded to himself confidently, “ He was the weak link in your potioneering.”
Potter frowned uncomfortably but did not disagree. “His mom cooks,” was all he said.
As their potion continued to brew, Draco began the ritual portion as it simmered, tracing his wand in an arithmantically determined pattern over the surface of the liquid. As this one was for the senses, it required an interlinking of Uruz and Mannaz runes, for strength of the body and fluidity of the mind. The potion began to let out small bursts of turquoise vapor – a good sign that they were fusing appropriately.
Even Potter could not suppress a smile, and Draco found himself smiling along. As Draco patiently skimmed the scum off the top, Potter surprised him with a question. “How did the inventors of the potion know what pattern to draw?”
Well look at that, an interesting question for once.
“Well, it’s not so much that they knew ,” Draco mused. “When a wizard creates a new potion, they have to be prepared for hundreds of failures, and they have to diagnose the cause correctly each time. Sometimes it comes from the ingredients.” He gestured over at the shivering Nott. “Other times it has to do with the runework or the arithmancy.” He pointed at Finnegan’s smoking cauldron.
“Sometimes a mismatched rune and an incorrect ingredient cancel out, and the wizard discovers an alternative path to a similar result.” Potter was paying close attention now, giving him that wide look again.
“The important thing in every potion, though, is to find a stable equilibrium for the final brew. Here the Uruz and Mannaz runes do this, but in other cases an incantation or spell can fulfill that role.” Draco finished, letting out a satisfied huff.
“Like your nekonekoneko thing,” Potter muttered under his breath.
“What?” Draco said, feeling his blood go cold.
Potter just shrugged, turning off the cauldron, acting like he hadn’t said anything and fixing Draco with a bland look.
Draco would not be fooled so easily. “So you’ve been spying on me.” This would not do.
“Spying? Me? That sounds like your kind of thing.” Potter chuckled and started ladling the potion into flasks. “Maybe you’ll introduce me to your cat some time?”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what your game is, Potter. The cat was a gift from my mother.”
“Oh, too little blood for a pureblood sacrifice?” Potter was having too much fun.
Draco seethed, trying to not let panic creep up into his veins. “Well your style of sacrifice is a bit too steep for me.”
Potter just froze, and Draco could hear his jaw click shut. Draco regretted it instantly – a crack about Potter’s dead mother, really? The look in Potter’s eyes was blank now, all the mirth evaporated, leaving his green eyes cold and wary.
“I’ll find out what you’re up to, Malfoy. Watch yourself.”
***
Potter was in the library, doodling on some parchment next to Granger while she did all of his homework, as usual. Draco could see the cover of one of the ten books she had taken from the shelves. Ten books at once, seriously?
“Granger,” Draco said coolly. “I need that book.”
Granger didn’t even look up at him, and continued to scribble on her parchment with a muggle pen. “Which one?”
“Arithmantic Approaches to Runic Stabilization,” he gritted out. That got her attention.
She looked up at him dubiously. “That’s for seventh-year NEWT Applied Arithmancy. You’re not in that class.”
Draco hadn’t expected that he would need to justify his use of the library. For a moment, he thought that he should just come back another time. But Granger looked back down at the stack, pulled out the book and handed it over.
Potter shot her a bewildered look. Draco quickly took the book, before anyone had a chance to waste one more second of his time.
“Hermione, there’s no way he’s going to use that book for anything good.”
Granger shrugged. “Knowledge is morally neutral.”
Draco smirked, “Warlock Belbicius, 12th century.”
“What?” the pair said at him blankly.
Draco rolled his eyes. “The quote. ‘Knowledge is morally neutral.’”
Granger just blinked at him, “It wasn’t a quote, it’s just what I think !” Clearly, Draco had underestimated her.
“Well then,” he said, uncertain how to salvage this. “If you have any other thoughts, maybe write them down?” he offered, quickly turning to be on his way.
Granger spluttered behind him, hissing to Potter, “Was that a compliment? Because it felt extremely insulting.”
Draco left them behind. He had cats to conjure.
***
The cats were getting out of hand. At least three things were going wrong: First, there were now too many of them. Second, he didn’t know if they would ever be able to die. Lastly, they were starting to bond with his dorm-mates, who thought they were normal (mortal) kittens.
His project, up until this point, had been to conjure permanent felines. That is, ones that wouldn’t revert to their starting substance (in this case Crabbe and Goyle’s pillows, though he wasn’t sure they’d notice the difference). His early experiments had ended in total disaster – the incantation at that point had been too short, too fleeting, and so the kittens had aged and rotted away all within minutes. He wouldn’t admit it to Madam Pomfrey, but his nightmares in those weeks had not been due to his post-traumatic stress from the hippogriff incident three years past.
Only after Draco had discovered the perfect incantation, one that would loop seamlessly and could be the same backwards and forwards, did he find his perfect (though possibly immortal) solution.
Blaise was stroking one of them, a slate grey beauty with orange eyes, and looking bemusedly up at Draco. “I’m going to be the one to ask: Did you bring all these cats into our dorm? They all seem to know you best.”
“We had a surplus at the manor,” Draco replied. “This is a temporary arrangement.” (He hoped – finite had not worked yet.)
“I’m glad you’re finding the time for amusement, but it’s almost the end of October. You and I both know what needs to happen before the holidays.”
Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress a scowl. He knew his task.
The Dark Lord had long suspected that Dumbledore had a secret horcrux: the phoenix Fawkes. Phoenixes ordinarily were transient beings, hardly staying in one location for more than a season before moving on. Dumbledore’s phoenix was legendary, both as a loyal companion and as a tool for warfare. It was abnormally intelligent, it could conjure weapons and healing salves, and it could appear in multiple places at once.
Even if the creature was not a horcrux, it had clearly been magically tampered with beyond the bounds of good sense, and its continued existence could not be tolerated. With the phoenix gone, Dumbledore’s sorry band of goodly men would be that much more pathetic.
Draco had decided that the most promising route for dealing with the immortal beast would be to transfigure it, permanently, into something harmless. Breaking the problem down into its parts, Draco had decided to first tackle the problem of permanent transfiguration, and enlist McGonagall by tempting her with an interesting research problem.
Transfiguration was, in general, not permanent, unlike charms or other areas of magic. However, it had not been lost on Draco that transfiguration was also generally done wordlessly . His initial forays into the topic had therefore been to replicate existing transfigurations using incantations. Hence the cats.
All things considered, it had been an enormous success so far. Once he got past the first seventy or so experiments, he found a stable incantation that would produce perfectly stable, permanently adorable kittens. The only thing he now needed to do before the holiday was to catch the blasted bird.
“I hope you have a plan, Draco. It would not be wise to make our patron wait.” Blaise thought he was insightful and poised, but really, he was only adept at stating the obvious.
“Malfoys always have a plan,” Draco shot back. It was only a matter of luring the phoenix out from Dumbledore’s protection.
Draco thought through his options, as an orange kitten made a leap off of the wardrobe onto the back of his head. Tossing it to the side with hardly a glance, he realized there was one clear choice. Out of all the non-Dumbledore people around, there was just one person that the phoenix appeared to have an affinity with: Harry Potter.
Perhaps this was his way in.
***
“Potter,” Draco said, walking up to the table he shared with Weasley and Granger in the library. As usual, Potter and Weasley were bickering about quidditch, not even paying attention to the stacks of homework Granger was organizing around them.
“Meet Monty.”
The kitten mewed plaintively in his grip, squirming its little legs as he held it aloft by the scruff of its neck.
Weasley’s eyes went wide, and he turned to Granger. “Blimey, Hermione, couldn’t you have gotten one like that? It’s got a cute face and everything!” Potter was trying very hard not to laugh at this, while Hermione’s expression was murderous.
“Malfoy, cats aren’t allowed in the library.” She frowned. “And why did you name her Monty?”
“It’s a boy cat, Granger,” drawled Draco, checking its underside once more to be sure. Granger’s expression changed, and she stood up abruptly.
“What? All tortoiseshell cats are supposed to be female.” A horrified expression crept over her. “What did you do to it, Malfoy?”
Damn. Draco would need to think on his feet.
“That’s very cisnormative of you, Granger,” Draco said, trying out a word he had learned yesterday.
Granger just rolled her eyes, “Cats don’t have social gender.” Her eyes narrowed, and Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, almost like when mother caught him flying too close to the manor. “So?”
Potter, meanwhile, had extricated Monty from Draco’s grip, and was rubbing it lightly under its chin as he cradled it in his other hand. “I’m sure it’s just Malfoy’s pet project.” He gave a smirk to Weasley. “It’s transfigured?”
“It’s not a pet!” sputtered Malfoy, quickly feeling the situation spiraling out of control.
“Transfigured?” repeated Granger in a confused tone. “But haven’t you had this one for two weeks?”
“Oh, um, actually, I just saw… uh, Crabbe! He’s got a book, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, poor thing. I’d best be off!” Draco sped away, trying to hide his pink cheeks.
***
“Malfoy,” Potter’s voice came from behind him, just after Draco had managed to find a quiet corner in the library away from all of the riff-raff.
He turned around, and saw Potter standing awkwardly a few feet away from his table, cradling Monty next to his chest. “Forget something?”
“Ah,” Draco said, “That.”
Draco didn’t move, and to his surprise, Potter pulled up the chair next to his and rested his feet on the tabletop, pushing the chair onto its two back legs. Monty stretched out on Potter’s chest, and yawned adorably.
“He’s a good chap,” Potter murmured, “No matter his influences.”
“Please,” Draco scoffed. “He’s a Malfoy.”
“Spoiled little thing, aren’t you?” Potter cooed , scratching the blasted thing behind its ears. Draco was solidly contemplating turning it back into a pillow. If he could, that is.
“I can assure you, he’s not spoiled,” Draco replied. “His treatment befits his… standing.” The conversation seemed to have shifted topics. “He acts as he must.”
Potter looked up at him, and for once, Draco wasn’t sure what the expression was on his face. There was something calculating in his gaze, like the razor-sharp look Potter got when he was chasing down a snitch or some highly lethal creature.
“Don’t we all.” Potter said, and plopped Monty on top of the book Malfoy was reading. And before Malfoy could look up again, Potter was gone.
***
October marched on, and was soon replaced by the delightful sleet that characterized early winter in Northern Scotland.
There was an… armistice, of sorts, between Draco and Potter’s golden trio. In Potions, Potter and Draco would square off at their desk, make a solid twelve seconds of eye contact, and then proceed to not speak unless absolutely necessary for the remainder of the lesson. Nott was livid. Snape was amused. And somehow, Potions had become the highlight of Draco’s week. What was even worse was that their potions turned out more often than not.
Today, they were brewing the Draught of Intuition, something that Draco was interested in for its applications in his other ongoing research projects. Today, Potter was a bit chattier than usual. “What a waste of goat’s milk, this. For once, we get to use something delicious as a potion ingredient.”
Draco, who was reading ahead to see exactly what a ‘thrice-forked counterwest stir’ could possibly mean, snapped back before he noticed. “Goat’s milk? What the bloody hell can you do with that, other than feed a Chupacabra?”
“You’ve never had goat cheese? Or goat yogurt? Or goat’s milk caramel? Or…” Potter paused. “That’s about it, really.”
“Please, Potter, you’d think you were a columnist for Witch Weekly’s Cauldron of Love.” Malfoy sneered. “If you’re going to wax poetic about food, make sure someone who actually cares is listening.”
Potter paused in his chopping of the bleetfoot eyes, his gaze settling on the juices on the cutting board. “I heard that Voldemort created the Fidelity Curse, in the last war,” he said quietly. The sound of chopping and other pairs chatting in the room was loud, and Potter’s voice could barely be heard even by Draco, who was standing a mere foot away. “Is it true?”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, Potter,” Draco said carefully. This was not a subject he had anticipated covering. “Spell creation is quite dangerous.”
“That’s what Hermione said,” Potter said ruefully. He looked up at Draco, his green eyes piercing through the vapor of the Potions classroom. “But you do it, don’t you?”
Draco would have to reveal just enough to put Potter off the trail. “The truth is, Professor McGonagall advised me that students who mean to apply for a mastery should begin their research while at school, under the supervision of professors.” A half-truth.
“A Mastery?” Potter repeated, clearly surprised. “But I thought you’d want to do… well, other things.”
Draco bit back his response. Of course, Potter would think that. No doubt he believed Draco would scamper straight off to the Ministry upon graduating, stepping right onto the path his father had laid out for him. Please. Draco had better things to do than glad-hand every sycophant in the British Isles.
“Some of us have our sights set on greater things, Potter. Beyond our first year of life.”
Potter stilled again, and then began ruthlessly shredding the hornbeam tentacles. To Draco’s dismay, Potter kept talking. “I thought about doing a Mastery too.”
“Oh? In Defense?” Draco asked coyly.
“No. In Charms.” Potter said with gritted teeth.
This was unexpected. Now, Draco would have to ask. It was simply unavoidable. Damn his curiosity.
“Charms? What for?”
“The Patronus charm,” Potter grit out.
Draco waited for Potter to continue, counted to seven, and tried not to smirk when Potter started talking on the six.
“The Patronus, you know, a corporeal one,” Potter sighed, a minute amount of tension leaving his shoulders. “The basic idea is that usually, its form will be determined by whatever happy thought you use when you cast it. And so when someone’s happy thought changes, the form of the Patronus changes.”
“Yes, so?” Draco said, clearly missing something.
“But my Patronus is the same as my father’s,” Potter admitted quietly. “And I can guarantee that we didn’t have the same happy thought.”
Draco swallowed. This was uncertain ground again. But maybe also an opportunity. He had to get to the bird, after all.
“That is interesting,” Draco tried, mind whirling. “So there is not a one-to-one relation between thought and form?”
“Exactly,” Potter said, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “See? If even you get it…”
“Excuse me, Potter, but only one of us here actually has any experience doing magical research,” Draco drawled back. “You’d get lost in the weeds in less than a week.”
Potter again paused his chopping. Draco wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Okay then,” Potter said. “Help me. I haven’t had any success yet with changing my patronus’s form on purpose. But you can cast one too, right?”
“Of course I can.” He couldn’t. Yet. But Potter had taken the bait, and Draco would have to make room for one more extracurricular pursuit.
“You get out of Astronomy at 9PM on Thursdays,” Potter said confidently, and Draco couldn’t help but be alarmed that the Gryffindor knew the Slytherin-Ravenclaw schedule so well. “Come to the seventh floor just after, in front of the portrait with all the trolls.”
“Barnabus the Barmy?” Draco spluttered. “What’s ballet have to do with this?”
“You’ll see,” Potter smiled. “Don’t be late.”
***
“Expecto Patronum!” Draco intoned, but once again a measly bit of silvery mist puffed from his wandtip.
Pathetic, how incredibly, horribly pathetic. Draco had tried everything, everything! The first time he stole his father’s wand, the time he his father bought him and the Slytherin team Nimbus 2001’s, the time he got that horrible hippogriff killed off.
A disturbing thought flashed through his mind: What if his happiest memories were not happy enough? Absurd! He just needed more power .
There had to be a trick to it, that much was certain. Whatever it was, he would find it. The only trouble was, there weren’t many Slytherins who could cast one. Over the next week, he posed subtle inquiries.
“Emotive casting is crucial for the dark arts,” Draco lectured at Nott, who was barely watching him over his goblet of pumpkin juice. Nott gave some noise between a hum and a groan. Draco pushed on. “For example, the Patronus charm. Such powerful magic, yet mastered by so few.”
Nott frowned at him now, paying more attention. “What? The Gryffindor spell?”
Draco had been expecting this response, and used it as an opportunity to intellectually humiliate Nott. “Gryffindor spell? How can you say that, when so many of our kin are rotting in Azkaban? So many who could have escaped the dementors, if they had only practiced with the right tools.”
Nott huffed, and started talking to someone else. Not him, then, concluded Draco. A few more experiments like this, and he had found that none of the top Slytherins were even considering the Patronus as a worthy achievement.
Time for more drastic measures, then. Draco had tried more memories in the last week: his first pair of dragonhide boots, that time that Snape transfigured Finnegan’s robes into a bearskin as punishment for showing up to class with contaminated (read: filthy) robes, but still, nothing yet. He peeked around the corner of the bookstacks nearest his most recent quarry: Granger.
“Granger,” he said coolly, stepping out from behind the bookcase. “As you may have been informed, I am conducting a survey on emotive casting capabilities among students of different houses.”
She raised her eyebrow, but otherwise gave no sign she heard him, her bushy head still encased in her book.
Very well then. He’d have to take it up a notch. “But I’m sure my time with you is wasted, since no emotive spells are taught to fifth years and below, and neither of your parents would be able to…” Wait for it. “Assist you.”
Hermione snapped the book shut, and Draco was dismayed to find that he now had her full attention. “Ok Malfoy, here’s the deal. I’ll help you learn the Patronus charm. And I won’t even tell Harry about this. But I need something from you in return.”
Oh no. He had underestimated her again.
“I never said anything about my capabilities, Granger,” but he stopped when he saw her smug expression brighten. Time to backtrack. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Hermione looked serious. “I want to know what you’re doing with those cats. It’s important, because none of us trust you right now. I need to know that you’re not doing something evil for Voldemort. No lies. If you can convince me, I’ll help you impress Harry.”
This was dangerous territory. But…no lies. He could do that. He patted himself on the back for having set this up so well. “I’m doing a research project under the guidance of Professor McGonagall,” he said smoothly, trying not to smirk as he watched her gaze narrow. “It’s all very above-board.”
“Right,” she says, not looking convinced in the least. “And what’s the hypothesis?” she countered.
“That transfigurational arrays can be stabilized with palindromic incantations.” Best leave it at that.
“But that’s one of Horwick’s three maxims on transfigurative ascendance!” she spluttered, “And you’re only in your fifth year! Why would she ask you ?”
“The project was my idea,” he replied with total confidence. “This may surprise you, Granger, but some of us are capable of original thought, not just recapitulation.” He let that sink in for a moment. That’d show her.
“You’re not doing a very good job of convincing me to help you, you know.” She closed her book, setting it atop the (admittedly very precarious) stack. “But I’ll allow it, since I know you can’t help yourself.”
Right, shit. This whole being nice to people thing was really not his strong suit. He gritted his teeth, mind racing as he tried to think of a way to salvage this.
“Many arts could be transformed by advances in permanent transfiguration,” he said quietly, trying to let his voice waver like Mother had taught him back when he was six. “Defensive barriers that can’t be dispelled, potions never lose their potency, or just simple transfiguration, applied to create, protect, or…” he paused, one more half second should do it. “Heal.”
Hermione gave him a thoughtful look. Hook, line, and sinker. Gryffindors were such suckers.
“Fine, then,” she said. “Meet me in the fourth floor Charms classroom at three on Thursday. But don’t think you have me fooled.”
***
“You actually showed up,” Potter said, turning around from where he’d been pacing in front of Barnabus the Barmy’s portrait. Almost the moment he stopped, a door materialized on the opposite wall.
Draco blinked. The door remained, an ornate thing, made of some beautiful old wood. “I… didn’t know there was a door there,” he said stupidly. Harry smirked—a rare expression on his face, but for some reason, Draco didn’t think he minded.
He followed him through the portal, and they found themselves in a magnificent training hall, paneled with dark cherry wood, with sculptures of animals in recesses along the wall. There was even a snake. He tried not to gape, but he couldn’t stop thinking that this, this must’ve been where the founders worked their most dangerous magics, where they pushed the bounds of what arcane knowledge the elder mages had left them.
“Welcome, Malfoy,” Potter said grandly, “to the Room of Requirement.” He swept out his arms, and Draco couldn’t help it – he laughed. It was just too much, that Potter of all people had found this most sacred hall in Hogwarts.
“You’re full of surprises, Potter,” Draco said, not bothering to hide how impressed he felt. “Next thing I know, you’ll tell me you actually found the Chamber of Secrets in your second year.”
Potter just stared at him blankly.
Draco’s smile faded. “Wait.”
“Let’s not go there today,” said Potter uncomfortably.
They walked together to the center of the room, where there was a large runic circle inscribed onto the stone floor. Draco could recognize a few of the symbols – protection, power, stability – it was part of a standard warding sequence meant to shield the walls from spellfire. A dueling ring.
Potter turned to him sharply, his green eyes alight with something like mischief. “So, Malfoy,” he said, a challenge in his voice, “Show me your Patronus.”
“Right, of course,” Draco said. His stomach felt…strange. Was that indigestion? Truly not the time. He took a deep breath and tried to remember his happy memory.
The bitter aroma of snaproot in the dank dungeon air. The pop and hiss of the bubbling cauldron. Potter by his side, the perfect assistant, and Draco reaches for the blesswig fins, immaculately deboned, even the tiniest blood vessels still left intact. Draco traces the runes over the surface of the potion, power pulsing through his wand, and the potion flares blue, then soothes down to the palest pink. He feels…elated. Powerful. Unstoppable.
From the tip of Draco’s wand erupted a bolt of pure silver. It raced around them in a circle, graceful and deadly, and settled onto the narrow patch of floor between them. Draco watched it carefully, waiting for it to grow into its final form.
“Huh, a kitten,” Potter said. “I thought it would be more…snaky.”
His patronus looked up at them, and mewed .
Draco huffed. “Firstly, you have no imagination, it’s not like every Slytherin is all about snakes all the time. And second, that is not a kitten . That’s a puma .”
“...right,” Potter said, sounding rather dense.
“We’re not of age yet, Potter,” Draco snapped, “Of course it wouldn’t be a full-grown animal.”
“Naturally, Malfoy,” Potter said, clearly trying to suppress a smile.
“Well, show me yours then!” Draco countered. Probably some sort of stupid bird or something. Perhaps a small, fluffy rodent. Gryffindors were all saps for that kind of thing.
He did admit though, his Patronus was rather unusual. It was white and black, with long black stripes under its eyes. Most adorable.
Potter smiled and waved his wand casually, as though he had performed this motion countless times before. From his wand came a silver bolt, blindingly bright. A stag .
Oh. Blast.
Potter’s gaze was distant as he watched his stag canter around the room. It paused in front of him, chuffing gently, and Draco almost felt like he could see the stag’s breath on the air. “It’s the same as my father’s,” Potter said softly, reaching out as if to touch the Patronus. His hand passed through it, and he closed it, dropping it to his side. “But I can tell you for sure that the happy thought we use is not the same.”
Draco reached out to the stag without thinking, and was shocked when it came closer, nuzzling his hand. And he felt… something. Warmth, and resistance of some sort. A tangible Patronus .
For the first time, it occurred to Draco that Potter was maybe, actually, truly better at this than him. Just at this of course. But the thought was disconcerting.
Still, he had to figure out some way he could help Potter with his silly research project, or else he’d never get close to that damned pigeon Fawkes. He may not be an expert user of the charm, but he knew his way around research.
This stag was the same form as his father’s? A man who Potter couldn’t even remember? If a person could be boiled down to their ambitions (a proper, Slytherin diagnostic for determining personhood), then a Patronus was an embodiment of that. Their most personal desires, made into animal form.
“So?” Potter snarked, “What does our illustrious research guru have to contribute?”
This was the moment. Draco opened his mouth before his thought had finished forming—a tactic that often seemed to work out
“Well, the original hypothesis, as I understood it, was that different memories might have different outcomes, you know, Patronus-wise.”
Potter nodded. Draco continued, “So, do you have more than one memory that works? How many have you tried?”
“I do have more than one memory that works, and it’s always a stag,” Potter said stubbornly. “Lupin always said that the memory is a crutch, to get into the mindset. It could be that the form is just part of who you are.”
“One hypothesis at a time,” Draco said, mind already reeling from Potter’s implication that he, Draco Malfoy, was a kitten at heart. That would simply not do. “If it’s connected to each person’s individual essence, then we would expect the patronus to always be the same. Are there any documented instances of someone’s patronus changing during their lifetime?’
Potter nodded, his brow furrowed. “I’ll ask Hermione,” he said slowly.
Truly, Potter was hopeless. Did she change his diapers too?
Draco rolled his eyes, “Please, Potter. You’ll never get a Mastery if you make Granger do it for you.” He stalked out of the room, not looking back to see if Potter followed. “Let’s go to the library.”
***
Final exams loomed over the snow-capped towers of Hogwarts. Deep inside, in the darkest stacks of the library, two boys huddled over piles of books. The candlelight flickered in time with their argument.
“You’re not listening, Draco,” Harry huffed exasperatedly, “plenty of witches and wizards have more than one form over their lifetime, but none have more than one form at once! It can’t be anything about the memory they use, their magical signature, their genetics, or anything!”
“We have eleven documented cases of Patronus-switching, of which I estimate around seven are credible,” drawled an exhausted and over-caffeinated Draco. “And it was never going to be jean-whatsits.”
Harry sighed and banged his head down on the thousand-page volume in front of him. “Draco, you only think that dark wizards are credible. And also, are pure-bloods illiterate or something? Have you really never heard of genetics? Watson and Crick were like, a century ago now.”
“Whatson Crackpot was no wizard, ‘dark’ or otherwise,” Draco countered. “I only believe what I see with my own two eyes. I’ve seen plenty of blood in my time, and I’ve never seen any spiral curly whirlies.”
“Harry?” an extremely befuddled voice said from somewhere behind Draco’s stack of books. Draco peeked his head up, and was immediately blinded by ginger. He couldn’t duck back down fast enough. “Malfoy?” he spluttered.
“Ron, I can explain,” Harry said, clearly uncomfortable. Draco was suddenly very aware of the fact that their knees were touching.
Weasley-the-sixth just laughed, the visual input clearly not making its way into his extraordinarily thick skull.
“Which one of you is polyjuiced?”
“Ron, it’s not like that time,” Harry said again, and this time Draco was the one who was confused. “We haven’t –”
But Weasley just cut him off, clearly relieved, “Thank god,” he muttered, then narrowed his eyes at Draco. “So, Hermione? Is that you?”
“Of course not!” Draco spat. “Why on earth would you think I’m Granger ?”
Ron went pale, clearly trying not to believe his eyes. “...Fred?”
“I’m not your bloody brother, you mongrel blood-traitor!” Draco snapped, having had enough. “What are you on about?”
“ Malfoy?!?!?”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!” Draco screamed in the library. He could hear Madam Pince’s heels tapping this way already.
“Ron.” Harry whimpered. “It… It’s not…”
Oh no, now the Weasley was crying. And Pince would be upon them soon.
“I can’t believe you, Harry,” Ron said. “First last year, now this. Is this where you’ve been all those times you welched on our chess matches?”
“Ron, I…” Harry said again, but Weasley was already gone, the back of his neck red as he stormed out of the library.
“Boys,” Madam Pince said, her voice unnaturally sharp behind them. “Out.”
***
Draco stalked from the Great Hall, his hand sweating, clenched around the note that had been tossed into his pumpkin juice at breakfast. He unfurled it, crumpled already from many readings. We need to talk , scrawled in abysmal penmanship. It could only be from one person.
The door on the seventh floor was there waiting for him, and behind it was Harry. He sat in an ancient-looking armchair, and Draco saw that there was an identical one across, with a small table between. Somehow, there was tea.
Harry met his eyes and gestured toward the empty chair. It swallowed Draco up, and then Harry started to talk. “You were really nasty to Ron last night,” he began.
“It was an unwelcome interruption. You didn’t seem pleased either!” Draco defended himself, but this didn’t seem to be the right move.
“That’s not the point. You can’t just go around calling people blood-traitors, Malfoy,” Harry said, his face set in a frown.
Draco felt his stomach sink. When was the last time Harry called him Malfoy? Harry was clearly very upset. Because he was confused. Draco had to explain to him. When he realized he was wrong, surely Harry wouldn’t be angry at him anymore.
“Do you even know what blood-traitor means? A Weasley is a blood-traitor! It’s practically in the definition!”
“Traitor to who , Malfoy?” Now Draco saw that he was in trouble. “Ron is the most loyal bloke I know!”
Draco scoffs. “Hardly, the Weasel drops you whenever he gets the chance.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. My mother was muggle-born. Hermione is my best friend. If being friends with muggles and muggle-borns makes the Weasleys blood-traitors, then I’m one too.”
“That’s…that’s different!” Draco splutters. “The Weasleys are an old family, they just have no pride. It’s a disgrace to the rest of us.”
“The Weasleys are my family, Malfoy. They took me in. If this is how you treat Ron, I feel like you don’t understand me at all.”
“What makes you think I want to understand you, Potter? This is just a business arrangement.”
Potter’s face tightened, his mouth thinning into a line. “Right, well, if that’s how you feel, I think you’ve given me all the help I need. You can barely cast a patronus anyway, don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Draco feels his blood boil. “What do you know about loyalty? When have your ‘family’ ever asked you to do something for their sake? Something you didn’t want to do? “Do they even count as your friends, the way they keep you as a mascot?”
“The Weasleys are the closest thing to family I’ve got!” Potter shouted.
“Exactly,” Draco said, letting a smirk rise to his face.
Draco didn’t have much experience in hand to hand combat, and so he didn’t see it coming when Harry leapt out of the chair and started attacking him. “ACK! WHAT ARE YOU DOING,” Draco yelled, and then started giving as good as he got, throwing back slaps and elbows to try to get Harry off of him.
With one swift kick to the back of the knee, Harry brought them both tumbling to the floor, falling directly on top of Draco. The momentum of the fall brought them impossibly close together.
For a moment, Harry hung above Draco, his weight pressing into the floor, a knee pinning him down at the hips. Draco’s heart was going a mile a minute. Glittering green eyes met his own, sparkling with fury. Was he about to…punch him?
The intensity in Harry’s eyes shifted, then, changing into a look of cold satisfaction.
“You’re not worth my time,” he said. Then he rolled off of him, got up, and walked out the door.
Draco laid on the floor waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. He waited a long time.
***
The year trudged on. Draco returned home for Yule, and the return to the castle was uneventful. Pansy and Blaise had started following him around again, and he tried not to think about how lucky he’d been to avoid them in the fall. He saw Potter once or twice, and always looked away, though he felt those green eyes on him.
In the library one January afternoon, the Granger girl approached his table. When he pointedly tried to ignore her, she sat down—the boldness of this mudblood!
“Malfoy,” she said, waiting for him to look up from his book. He didn’t.
“I know my name, Granger,” he snarked, trying to focus on his latest arithmancy text. It wasn’t working.
“I’ve noticed your performance in potions has been slipping,” she said, completely ignoring him.
He felt himself coloring—goddamn his porcelain complexion. “And I’m sure you’re happy about that, no one threatening the mighty Granger anymore.”
She was unflappable today. “It’s not as if Nott is at his level. Aren’t you feeling frustrated?”
Draco wished deeply that he didn’t know who Hermione was referring to. “I’m not sure what you’re not talking about Nott for,” he said shortly.
“You’re really going to make me come and say it, aren’t you,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Fine. You’re miserable because you and Harry had a fight. Harry’s miserable too. It’s stupid.”
“Well I’m not sure what you expect me to do about it,” Draco snapped. “He struck me! With his hands! In a muggle duel!”
“A muggle duel?” she spluttered. “You insulted all his friends and family, Malfoy!” Draco tensed. Potter really must tell her everything. How embarrassing.
“I don’t see why you’re here, Granger,” Draco said, again focusing on his book. “It hardly concerns you.”
“I’ll help you make it up to Harry,” she said. “I’m tired of watching him mope.”
“Thank god,” Draco said, but Granger cut him off.
“For a price,” she said, a satisfied look on her face. How she hadn’t sorted Slytherin was beyond him.
“I want to know what your goal actually was,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Your research goal. And you’ll swear a vow to me to tell the truth.”
“A vow ?!” Draco spluttered, “I am the scion of House Malfoy, I can’t simply be making vows willy-nilly to inconsequential classmates!”
“You can’t get through a single sentence without insulting someone, can you,” she muttered under breath. “Look, take it or leave it. If you tell me what you’re up to, I might even be able to help. Provided it’s not too nefarious.”
Draco thinks for a second. It’s really not a bad offer. If he phrases it just right, he can probably convince Hermione to help. And, well. He does miss his potions assistant, just a little. Nott isn’t nearly as good at deboning.
“Very well,” Draco said. “The truth.”
“Oath first,” Hermione said, and they incanted an obscure (but unfortunately rather airtight) truthfulness oath from the 13th century.
“Well then,” Draco said, choosing his words carefully. “I have reason to believe that the most powerful wizard in a generation, who I will not name, is hiding an extremely dangerous dark artifact within the walls of Hogwarts. An artifact that will ensure he will never be defeated or…” a painful push of the truthfulness oath, “...killed.” Dumbledore , he thought to himself quietly, but quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
He waited for these words to sink in, and continued. “I am trying to locate this dark artifact and destroy it. Permanent transfiguration appears to be one such path.”
“And its location?” Granger asked, her eyes wide.
“I do not know…” the truthfulness oath twisted again, “presently where it is,” he said slowly. The damn phoenix was hard to pin down.
“Why would you care, Malfoy? This all sounds rather… noble of you.”
“House Malfoy is always concerned with power,” he said shortly, “Especially when it is held by a single, untrustworthy person.”
“Your parents know?” she probed, and damn, Draco was going to have a hard time getting out of this one.
“They know,” he said. “But enough questions, does this satisfy you?”
“I knew it,” she breathed. “So you’re…” she stopped herself, then nodded. “Yes, this should do. So, location, verification, and means of destruction. Come, I know just the section in the library to look.”
****
Dear Potter,
At the conclusion of our last correspondence, there was little opportunity to clarify certain matters of great importance. It has come to my attention that I may have offended you, which was not my primary intention. This revelation puts into a new light the violence that you visited upon my person, which seems to me now, while not excusable, at least comprehensible. It is my present intention to come to a mutual understanding so that we may move forward with our collaboration.
This having been said, I invite you to meet with me in the usual location at half an hour before curfew on Thursday, the sixth of February. Much depends on this, as I am sure Granger will confirm.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
***
Draco twirled, for perhaps the sixth time, in front of the portrait of Barnabus the Barmy on the seventh floor, carefully not crossing in front of it. It was 9:05.
“Waiting for me?” A voice came from behind him. He spun and saw Harry Potter, looking cross, stuffing something into his ratty leather bag.
“Glad you could make it,” Draco said, trying not to show his relief. “Shall we?” They walked, rather awkwardly, back and forth across the portrait, one, two, and three times.
Draco forgot to think about what he needed.
An exquisite French door materialized in front of them. Through its glass, a warm light flickered.
Potter turned to look at him quizzically, and Draco realized he hadn’t moved to open the door. Such poor manners. He gathered himself, stood up straight, and led the way.
The interior was… unexpected.
Candles were laid around the circumference of the room, with warm mahogany paneling and red velvet curtains. At the center of the room, facing a crackling hearth, was a loveseat.
“Erm…” Harry said, looking awkwardly around the room.
“Let’s get to business,” Draco coughed, striding over to the loveseat and sitting down with ankles elegantly crossed. He looked at Harry expectantly.
Harry shuffled over, and flopped onto the loveseat, dumping his bag unceremoniously on the coffeetable.
“So?” Harry said. Draco gulped. Now he was in the hotseat.
“I’m… I’m… regretful about how I conducted myself when we last met.”
“You’re sorry?” asked Harry with a puzzled tone.
“I… am. Yes. Sorry. About that.”
“About what?” Harry asked, leaning back, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Well…” he said, and took a moment to think. What had he said again? “The Weasleys are… Well. Precious to you, yes?”
Harry deadpanned.
“It is important to me that you feel that I do not dismiss those who you believe are important to you,” he splurted. “I never meant to speak ill of your friends, such as they are.”
“Right, well,” Harry said, getting up and brushing some hopefully imaginary dirt off of his robes. “Well done then.”
Draco was struck by the thought that perhaps, Harry was not being entirely sincere. Time was short.
He jumped up, “No!” he said, and then more calmly repeated, “No. I behaved poorly. And now I would like to hear from you on how you might think we can proceed.”
There it was. His father always advised this in tricky situations.
“Fine,” Harry said, flopping down once more. “Why are you really doing this?”
Draco sat down again, perching on the edge of the loveseat. “Doing what?”
“Why are you apologizing when you don’t mean it? What do you want from me? Your research was going fine before I joined.”
Draco reeled. It was a good question. What did he want from Harry?
He thought back to the hours they’d spent in the library, in the room of requirement, shoulder to shoulder above a boiling cauldron. It was true, he didn’t need Harry to make progress on the research. And yet, it all felt so empty, ever since Harry stormed away from him. No more bickering about the fundamental axioms of transfiguration theory. No more coming up with ridiculous ideas, just to see Harry pretend not to laugh. He hated to admit it, even in the privacy of his own mind, but Harry kept him sharp, kept his mind lively. Made him smile.
“That’s not true,” he said slowly, “Your contributions to the research were quite consequential.” No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? “I mean…”
“Are you saying that you missed me, Draco?” Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“No, no! I just missed your… insights.” he said before he could stop himself.
“I missed you too, you insufferable prat.” Harry chuckled.
Malfoy felt his cheeks burn. Was that a compliment or an insult? If it was an insult, he supposed he didn’t mind.
“Yes, well. Now that we understand each other, I have developments.”
Harry was now the one who looked out of his depth. “What?”
“Through a brief and altogether less fulfilling collaboration with Granger, I have come to the conclusion that transfigurations can only be made permanent if the transfigured object is one that cannot exist in nature.”
“Oh,” Harry said, leaning back. “That’s interesting. It explains Monty.”
There was a pause for a moment as Draco basked in the glow of success.
“But if you’ve figured it all out, what do you need me for?” Harry continued with a frown.
“Granger didn’t tell you?” he blurted out, instantly regretting it.
“Tell me what?”
“Well,” Draco collected himself, trying to remember exactly what he had told the Granger girl. Consistency was key. “That there is a dark wizard who has housed an artifact of unimaginable power here in the castle, and that object will prevent them from ever being killed.”
“Are you talking about a horcrux?” Harry asked confusedly, as if he hadn’t uttered the name of one of the darkest and most secret arts of wizardkind.
It was Draco’s turn to gawp. “How do you know what a horcrux is?”
“Not important,” Harry said, looking away shiftily. “Recreational reading.”
“Naturally,” Draco said. “Well in that case you know that they ought to be destroyed.”
Harry’s eyes flashed, meeting Draco’s with sudden intensity. “Yes,” he said softly.
Draco let out a breath, held it, counted to three, then spoke.
“It is my aim to destroy one. Tonight.”
Suddenly, Draco felt a warm weight on his hands where they were resting on his thigh. He looked up in shock to see Harry’s face closer than ever, shining with something unnameable.
“I knew it,” Harry breathed, “Of course I’ll help you, Draco. All you ever needed to do was ask.”
Draco was overwhelmed. “Excellent,” he said and patted Harry’s hand awkwardly. He was surprised but pleased. This was going much better than he’d hoped.
“So how do we start?” Harry said, jumping up, and Draco couldn’t help but feel a well of disappointment. “How will we destroy one? How do you know where one is?”
“Permanent transfiguration,” Draco said, finally back in comfortable territory.
A tiara appeared on a pedestal at the side of the room. Perfect, a test object before the real deal. The Room clearly valued magical discovery.
“I will demonstrate here,” he said, smoothly rising, and striding over to the pedestal. He felt something in his chest grow cold. Must be nerves. He waved his hand confidently, “ Kono neko koko no neko no koneko kono koneko ne.””
The air in the room warped uncomfortably, and Draco felt the magic leave him in a heady rush. The tiara shuddered, and transformed.
A kitten mewled adorably on the pedestal, white with black stripes under its eyes. It looked up at Draco expectantly, purring.
Draco twirled towards Harry, brandishing his wand handsomely. “Precisely so,” he said. “Now summon Dumbledore’s phoenix.”
“Fawkes?” Harry gawked at him. “You think Fawkes is a horcrux?”
“Yes, of course,” Draco replied, impatient. “Do you think the most powerful wizard of our age wouldn’t create a horcrux? Besides, that bird clearly has deep magics.”
Harry looked at him like he had grown a second head. “You know Fawkes is a phoenix, right? Pure magic.”
“Of course,” Draco sniffed. “There would be no better vessel.”
“But you can’t attach a soul fragment to pure magic. It’s Gamps’ twenty-third law on magical substantiation,” Harry said patiently, as if he hadn’t again revealed character depth beyond Draco’s ken.
“What?” Draco said, though something about this sounded familiar.
“You know,” and Harry’s tone had changed now, eerily resembling Granger’s, “The creation of a horcrux requires sacrifice for the soul to be housed in an impermanent object. Magic is permanent. Objects and creatures are not. Quod erat demonstrandum.”
Draco fell back onto the loveseat, cradling his face in his hands. That was true. How hadn’t he realized it before? And worse yet, how had the Dark Lord missed it? And Harry knew Latin!
The seat beside him dipped, and he felt Harry’s hand on his back. A warm weight fell on his lap, and Draco was disappointed to see that it was the kitten. “There there, Draco,” Harry said. “Don’t worry, we can find a real horcrux together. I’m sure of it.”
Draco petted the kitten, trying to piece things together. “I was so certain…” he muttered to himself.
If Dumbledore’s phoenix were not a horcrux, then why did the Dark Lord assign him this task? Was it truly just to prove his loyalty? All of his months of work, the late nights, his mother’s worry, none of it mattered in the end. A thrill of fear lanced through him. Maybe the Dark Lord assigned him this task because it was impossible, hoping he would fail. Because by all rights he should have failed. Without Harry, he would have.
Harry suddenly stiffened next to him, and Draco looked over with alarm to see Harry staring at the kitten with great intensity. “The kitten…” Harry murmured, reaching out to scratch it behind its ears. “It’s the same as your Patronus.”
“It can’t be,” Draco said. And fumbled several times before he actually produced a Patronus. He was faced with two identical kittens on his lap, one more ethereal than the other, but both with matching black stripes.
He couldn’t understand it. He didn’t understand.
“What…what does it mean?” Draco asked.
“Well,” Harry said, clearly thinking as he spoke. “Patronus are formed from a happy memory, right? Something important. Something…life changing.”
“But the form was of something I’d never seen yet!” Draco snapped.
“Yes!” Harry said, growing more excited. “Yes! And I hadn’t ever seen my dad’s animagus form either!”
“So…time magic?” Draco guessed. His thoughts were whirring, bits of theory clicking together. He again felt the elation of discovering something new. With Harry.
“Yes!” Harry shouted again. “Draco, you’re a genius!”
He turned to Draco, grasping his face uncomfortably in his hands. He was certain that Harry could feel the warmth of his cheeks as he flushed. It wasn’t every day he got called a genius by Potter, after all.
“Aaaaah,” Draco said, trying to loosen Harry’s grip. Somehow his hands got stuck along the way, only managing to grasp Harry’s forearms. “I am?” he asked without meaning to.
“You are,” Harry said, voice full of conviction. Draco felt like a flock of bats erupted in his stomach. Warm, glowy bats.
Harry’s face was very close to his now, his cheeks just as flushed as Draco’s. Draco’s gaze caught on the sweep of his dark lashes, the soft curve of his upper lip.
One moment, Draco was staring into Harry’s deep, green eyes, and then, without consciously deciding to do so, he was leaning in and pressing his lips to Harry’s mouth.
There was the briefest moment of hesitation, and then Harry was kissing him back. His mouth opened just enough for Draco to feel the warmth of his breath. The hot sweet slide of their lips against each other felt far better than it had any right to, and Draco leaned in further. His hands flexed around Harry’s forearms, feeling the soft skin and the lean muscle beneath. Merlin, Draco had always liked a Quidditch player.
He let out a soft groan and shifted closer once more.
“I think we need to move Catholomew,” Harry murmured against Draco’s lips.
“Who?” Draco replied, distracted as he trailed kisses down Harry’s jaw, licking lightly at the hinge behind his ear.
“Your kitten,” Harry said.
“Oh, right,” Draco said. He scooped the little thing gently off his lap and onto the floor. “Now, where were we?”