Chapter Seven: Whiplash

A subtle but firm string of envy hung between Harry and Draco following that elegant display of fetch on the practice fields. Harry had plenty of incentive to boast upon himself, as he actually had something worth showing off about, unlike Draco, who leaned near full weight on his father in overwhelming respects. The remarks in the next few days were snide. "Got a suave tongue on you, I guess, worming out a measly slap on the wrist in there with the crow. I swore we lost a hundred House points, give or take." On Sunday evening when he ran dry on fat word regarding Father and his revered status, Draco glimpsed Harry over slickly, sighing, "Sucks doesn't it, not being able to go for tryouts till next year. It's only so obvious how badly you're aching to go magnifying yourself for everyone right this minute, this year anyway."

"Oh, I can wait," Harry had told him with a simple shrug, setting a tight frown to Draco's lips. Harry held no expression, finishing with, "Can you?"

Draco and Harry were getting along alright despite intermittent frictions. The moments were so brief and often offhanded that it held little danger of fermenting any sort of bitter territory. Although, Harry just couldn't deny Draco's lingering jealousy over his accidental reputation coupled now with his inherent flying skill.

Ron hadn't been ignoring Harry with the same old practice of the first two weeks of term. He had glared something hot his way once every meal and then whenever he could during the classes they shared. Harry didn't have it in him to return the resentment, and if anything, his pity and regrets intensified. Before the next Potions class began, a small chunk of parchment folded into a paper airplane glided to a smooth landing short of Harry's bent elbows over the table. Draco was speaking to Blaise two seats down, Goyle gazing ahead half-asleep while Harry opened the paper in the dim of the table's underside.

Harry, meet me in the trophy room on the third floor tonight at midnight for a wizards duel. Bring a second and only that. Not the whole fat lot your glued to the rest of the time unless your that much of a chicken. You're on. -Ron

Harry lifted his head, not glancing back at Ron. He would ask Draco, with great reluctance, what a wizard's duel was after class. Easily he could have denied the request, but an urging obligation was swelling in him, and he doubted it would stop sometime throughout the day. He just hoped it would.

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"Why bother?" Draco snorted out in the corridor, unimpressed with Ron's challenge. "I say we tip-off Filch that he'll be snooping around there tonight. Put the blood-traiting clod in for it."

"Ron and I have a score to settle," Harry said lowly, peering down at his shoes as he swept alongside Draco. "I don't want much to do with it myself, but…" Harry rolled his eyes in desperate thought, "we ought to put him in his place, yeah? I reckon between us both we'd knock him clean off his feet. Who would be his second, after all, Seamus or...or-"

"Longbottom," Draco snickered, lightening up. "Oh definitely. It would be a spectacle, making even bigger clowns out of the Weasel family. They hardly need the help, but…" a wicked smile split wide, sharpening his chin, "yeah, you're right. There's still a lesson to be taught with those inbred ignoramuses. What's the caretaker gonna do? Make him mop the bathrooms? Sit in a few detentions? We can do better. We can get meaner, really give him a reminder not to get so confident towards us." Draco pinned chilly eyes fast to Harry's. "I'm your second. We'll leave the rest behind, show that arse we're damn well not chicken."

Late that night in their dormitory, Harry was swallowing a few lumps every ten minutes. He was praying that Ron was trained beyond adequacy in this type of dueling, which Draco explained would go likely as far as the basics, some scratches and sprains to speak for when it all fizzled out. Draco stressed the importance of dodging spells in the nick of time, even the more harmless ones that he presumed Weasley would botch the pronunciations of. At fifteen minutes to twelve, Blaise's word that they watch themselves went in and out their ears, then they tiptoed through the common-room, which was at this weekday hour only occupied by two third years snogging on the fireside couch. The dungeons were blacker than either were anticipating, both squinting in the cool dark, slow and circumspect in their footing. Heading upstairs, the Bloody Baron hovered from around the corner above them, drifting by in a somber manner that vacuumed any noise, his lethal eyes on the verge of trickling their trousers.

Moonlight streaked the floor from the high windows in the first floor corridors, to their relief and favor. Mrs. Norris was someone to listen for, Draco having the impulses necessary to kick the loyal feline in the stomach, but Harry would try to duck them out of her lining altogether. They managed to step onto the third floor by themselves, scuffling for the trophy room.

Harry could make out Ron's eyes first thing through the dim of the room. They were narrowed, a slim stripe of pale moonlight banding over one. Neville was standing hunched and cross-armed at his side, being fickle about where to look, a tooth bucked past his lip. "We've been here over twenty minutes. You two are late," Ron said.

"We're not. It's two minutes to midnight, you waning tosser," Draco snapped. "Lucky it's not me appointed for the hexing here. I'd scorch that trademark hair of yours clean off your scalp so that nobody would recognize you for weeks."

"You're the lucky one, I reckon. I'd get the Curse of the Bogies on you first, make shambles of that perfect nose. I've got five older brothers who've taught me a thing or two, you know."

"Ew," Draco pinched his face, "I'd rather not know what kinds of tricks your bumpkin brothers got you in the closet for to show you."

Harry was more than halfway positive that quip would have had Crabbe and Goyle on the floor and holding their sides. As he stood in the thankful darkness, he didn't have to feign the tiniest smirk.

Ron withdrew his wand from his pocket. "Well, I'm ready. Off to the sidelines, seconds. This is between me and Harry."

"Why do you want to do this?" Harry asked earnestly. "What have I done to you? Is this really how our Houses have to settle our differences?"

"I don't have to explain anything. There are lots of offenses you pulled on me. The worst, I think, was buddy-buddying up to me on the train, only to go and join the Slytherins. What the hell was that about?"

"That was chance," Harry blurted out, for the heat of the moment uncaring as to how Draco would sit with the statement of feeling. "I was just placed as one. We are all just dumb eleven year olds here. This trouble isn't worth it, in my opinion."

"Well, you came here, didn't you? And look who you selected to back you up." Ron shook his head. "Pure rubbish, the both of you."

Neville had slunk off to a very dark corner of the room, hugging himself against the wall. He was craving the same affiliation with any of this as Harry. None. Draco walked away himself. "Blast him to hell, Potter."

"On the count of three," Ron declared, taking slow aim. Harry ferreted his robes for his wand, fearing he might faint. He gripped the base and pointed straight back as Ron signaled the duel's ignition, either boy standing with inactive wands aligned with one another's throats for ten, twenty, then forty-five silent, shaking seconds. It was apparent to all who'd be breaking out first.

"What's the hold-up? Stupefy the ginger wimp already!"

"Um…" Harry closed his eyes. "...I….I...er…"

"Expelliarmus!" Ron shouted, the tip of his wand bursting with light that dazed each set of eyes. Harry was thrown off his feet, flying like a ragdoll across the room, his back slamming hard against a slab of wall just along a large glass trophy cabinet. Crumbling to the floor, his skull bonked on the stone, and he sank, losing his ears and eyes.

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Squirming inside thin cloth sheets, Harry cracked his eyes open. The ceiling was bleary, the back of his head sore as he shifted it groggily upon the pillow. He looked further around him. There was a row of empty beds neatly made in white sheets and coverlets. His glasses were folded on a tray beside a glass of water. He sat upright. His robes were draped over the bed frame above his feet, he lay in his dress shirt and pants, his shoes along the bedside on the tiled floor. Blinking back and forth, he found a slight dizziness swaying his perception, inducing nausea that he was glad his stomach was too cleared to react very physically to. He sipped his water and lay back down, rerunning the earlier events of that night. Sneaking out. Bypassing a thousand shadows in the halls. The rows of trophies gleaming in the moonlight. Ron's hating expression on him. Harry's heart felt heavier.

Ron absolutely hated him.

Rubbing the back of his struck noggin, the thought could quite be confirmed. Ron had not gone easy on the challenge, leaving Harry glum, but not vengeful. Disappointed, but not because he would have liked to have that hand at victory or perhaps a short-lived lead. He was hurt. He had felt more hurt on the inside than ever before in his life. Had Ron meant to see him dead? Harry wasn't sure he would have gone though with hexing him to begin with. He had closed him out of his view because he couldn't bear any of it any longer, some part of him wishing Draco would step up to the plate, give him that harsh haircut or something. Harry sighed, flattening with the covers, his bones loose, limbs spread out on the semi-stiff mattress.

In the dim blueish lighting of this room, Harry watched an old woman with long silver hair in a bonnet and apron cross the floor to him.

"Are you feeling alright, boy?" she asked gently, albeit with a soft edge.

"Um, yeah, I've just got a headache."

She nodded. "It's a mild concussion. You'll be a tad woozy over roughly the next week. Professor Snape will be in to see you early in the morning to speak with you about what he and Professor McGonagall were able to gather from you boys' wild time fooling around." She frowned tightly, sighing through her nostrils. "My name is Madam Pomfrey, in case you missed it during introductions the first day. Rest up now, and stay hydrated as needed." She heeled back into her office.

Harry slept poorly, tossing, turning, sighing, sipping. Not the faintest shade of orange light wafted within when Harry's Head of House strode to his bedside, a welcoming sight for Harry's dry, tired eyes nearing the crack of dawn. The professor's nose seemed to hook sharper this morning, his eyes black as if having held no degree or warmth before. He blinked few and far between, staring in speechless study over the boy for longer than Harry bothered tracking. Harry could only look up at him, prone, running blank.

"Mr. Weasley dared you to a wizard's duel, hmm, and you were so cocky, so desperate to prove yourself…" Snape clicked his tongue, a sleek chunk of black hair curtaining half an eye, which he left be. "I'll have you know it was his House who suffered the glut of subtracted points on the grounds of his inflicting purposeful bodily harm upon you, however McGonagall spared us little grief in turn. As it stands, Ravenclaw is at the lead, but that is not why I've come to visit. I've heard through the grapevine that during another recent gallivant involving irresistible rule-breaking, you demonstrated well-above average knowledge on flying steady, great speeds while maintaining the focused coordination to capture an unbridled Remembrall at a rough fifty-foot nose dive."

Harry blinked once, tilted his chin in a suppressed nod.

"It so happens that our Seeker Terence Higgs is transferring to Durmstrang Institute early October. We're in short supply for the time being." His eyes rolled overhead of Harry, a corner of his lip tugging downwards. It would have suited them both to extract his presence then. "I have spoken with the headmaster. He's awful considerate. As such, if nobody strikes Captain Flint's or my fancies during the tryouts next week, I'm putting you to the test. It turns out your undying thirst for the very teat of public noteworthiness might come to serve some people besides yourself." His face and shoulder shifted toward the exit but Harry cleared his throat.

"No, Professor, I don't think I care to play for the team, not this year. I only um, went flying without Madam Hooch's permission so I could get Neville Longbottom's Remembrall for him. His grandmother got it for him and-"

"Hush, boy, there's no such thing as a valid excuse coming out of your throat." Snape had curled his lips to bare a slightly crooked row of teeth, his eyes narrowed worse and cooler than anything Ron could work up. Harry backed himself deeper into his bed, his upper back digging into the steel bed frame as Snape drew so near Harry that he could see the tiny blemishes and moles along his cheeks and hairline. "You will be reciprocating for your antics, and I couldn't possibly have you placed more conveniently than as a critical contributor to securing the House cup per yearly tradition. I could assign you to back-breaking janitorial duty but that wouldn't affect my direct business around here. I wouldn't like for the eminence of Slytherin to start collecting dust. Bear what you can of that in your presently muddled mind." For a moment, the longest one Harry had ever endured, all Harry saw were those threatening eyes. Snape's crooked index finger pointed above his face had been a belated realization, and the man dressed in black, made of black, may have swooped from the room then he was so swift in his depart. Harry was entranced by the dramatic ripple in his robes along the floor. Harry put on his glasses and exhaled, his muscles easing as minutes later Madam Pomfrey brought him scrambled eggs and buttered english muffins with pumpkin juice. It was a meal he could manage despite a few deep knots and a spirit used to defeat.

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"So it was you who went to alert Madam Pomfrey last night, and Ron just fled back to his dorm?" Harry said, in reassessment over Draco's claim.

"Quite the 'Puff he proved himself to be. He didn't give a damn. He was scared, the chickenshit, but don't worry, Potter, he's paying for it good. The Gryffindors are down the hole deep and we're sitting high on top of 'em just shortly below the Ravenclaws. Also, Weasley's booked full for the next month at least with daily detentions and chores with Filch. I mean, it's not enough, but it's something to make that walking rubbish think twice about how he orders his wand around."

Harry slumped lower into the common-room couch, his lips quivering in profound hurt and some disgust. For once, he was pleased to sit through Draco's incessant self-gloating, anything to shove his mind a bit aside from Ron and his glaring true colors. Just before, Harry was sure that it kept to their House running the 'Bad Sort', but rest assured, there existed a layer of nastiness in the noble House of Gryffindor as well, at minimum, with Ron's recent joining.

On a reflexive tick, Harry was thanking Draco for possibly saving his life, which Draco stuck a smug upturned chin out for. Draco had weeded out the most elaborate pieces from Crabbe's box of chocolates he's received in that morning's post, Crabbe gazing in reserved defeat. Harry wondered if he was alone in perceiving, or caring. Crabbe caught his concerned look and shifted his round moon face at him.

"Did your brain bleed?"

Harry frowned, a subconscious hand reaching to cup the back of his sore but better head. "I don't think so. Madam Pomfrey didn't say so. She said I had a mild, uh, concussion."

Crabbe offered no sign of acknowledgement, his neck rolling into its original setting. Harry clasped his cold hands in his lap.

Ron's common frequent clockwork-style glaring had ceased, to Harry's surprise, during their classes together in the week thereafter. In fact, he'd been keeping his face downturned nearly for the whole of the hours in those rooms. Neville, however, would peek over, pale-faced, to Harry's notice whenever he himself was having his viewpoint set the Gryffindors' way, suggesting a heartwarming capability for pity. Harry had always thought Neville was alright, and lately his view of him had heightened, if only for the other's pained expressions. Harry fathomed well the keen feeling of displacement, but there would be little chance of reaching out to Nevile, let alone anybody among the opposing Houses. It was unbecoming for a member of Slytherin to fraternize with the unfamiliars, the inferior Sorts, no matter how Harry resisted the proper form. Tragically for Harry, the longing to branch his fond relations out seemed to ferment by every few days. Typically is was Gryffindors who caught his interest. He was looking over that brilliant, passionate girl Hermione Granger a few long times every class he had with her, and it frustrated him beyond ease not being able to go up and say hello to her unless he were to grate out that derogatory term at the end that Draco and the like preferred to associate her distinctions by. Whenever Hermione would be chosen to answer - correctly without fail each time - Draco would clench his fists stark white, sending her loathsome vibes through his eyes which were too complex and, Harry wasn't sure, dirty, to be classified as glaring. Before Hogwarts, Harry had never seen such variety in glares. He was beginning to consider a certain prevalent art about the gesture among the wizarding population.

On Friday night, Harry lay in his bed wide awake. The others were shifting under their blankets, the huskier of the bunch snoring. Harry squinted up at the dark underside of his canopy, closing and opening his eyes in a gradually infuriating rhythm. He was reflecting on his second visit earlier that day at Hagrid's hut, which went decently with the exception of the leading topic.

"Harry, I wouldn' go 'n' say Ron hates ye. Not hate. Sounds like he's looking ter pick a bone with ye, but it's nothin' menacin', I'm sure. Ye boys are too young to really know those tangled sorta emotions. Hate, it's just too powerful for ye. Just do yer best to stay outta his way for a while, eh?"

Harry might have wedged a sliver of a gap between his front teeth as he broke into what he could of his oatmeal scone. He had nodded, giving in, but inwardly disagreeing. It was a load of bollocks to say they were too young to grasp the concept of living hatred. Then he could add naivety to love, and Harry knew how to love because all he could see behind his eyelids as he came to from his dreams and nightmares was his mother. As for hating, he'd reserved a good deal of that towards his uncle's treatment of him under his cruel wing on Privet Drive for ten years of his life. He felt in his gut that he hated Uncle Vernon, but something akin to indifference and anger when the aunt came to mind. Dudley, a great nuisance, which Harry left at that. He couldn't reckon just why Ron had tried to kill him in the trophy room, however, but the effort had compelled Harry into casting his once soft, hopeful image of the popular Weasley brood in a murky shade of light. Bugger off with him, then. Harry was done on that front, but not with the whole of Gryffindor House because thinking of Hermione stirred a few butterflies in his stomach, stinging his cheeks. Nobody, no girl, had warmed him up like she did, and he was at a major crossroads again because of his best mate Draco, and his unjustified life philosophy of blood prejudice. He also would lay odds that Draco truly hated Muggle-borns such as her. Harry would pretend to nod along with the belief system for as long as he could endure, but worried he might end up bursting vital nerves in the fast-harrowing process.

He rolled out of bed, padded his bare toes around his bedside for his slippers. He had to go for a walk. As he slipped his robes over his pajamas and walked for the doorway, Draco hissed, "Hey," jolting his shoulders, scuffling his feet to a stop. Harry turned an eye onto Draco, grimacing as he clambered out of his bed and rushed to him. "Where're you off to?"

"A pee," Harry sighed, holding in insufficient exasperation.

"You're lying. You went while we were out there forty minutes ago."

"I have a bladder infection…" Harry crossed his arms while Draco began to narrow his eyes in tiny increments. Draco put a foot back for his bed when Harry sighed and came clean. "Alright, I can't fall asleep. I'm going out to walk around the castle. Um, fresh air."

"Well, I'm coming too."

"But we'll both be in trouble then."

"You're pathetic at dissuasion, Potter. I'm going so I can keep us out of Norris' or anybody's notice. I still know the place better than you do." Draco went and grabbed his robes from its crumple on the foot of his bed. "Won't have you costing us any more points."

They snuck out in much the same manner as their first, fateful outing, this round delving the pitch-black air of the dungeons with a careful, quicker learned smooth footing. Harry kept dawdling ahead of Draco from floor to floor, covering dozens of corridors, distrait and aloof, to Draco's annoyance.

"How far were you planning on going? Haven't you got enough fresh air?"

"No, you're free to return."

"I don't trust you. Who knows, Weasel might be loitering out here somewhere. He'll kill you right this time. You need me."

"I don't want to talk about him," Harry snapped. His eyes widened at the new, fed-up tone he'd extended. He dared a brief smirk because of it.

"Oh, I get it. I do get it, Potter. You were still holding out to be friends with the freckle farmed imbecile. I remember you with him on the train, of course, getting chummy. I guess he did get some effective brainwashing in, didn't he?"

Harry spun at him with unpracticed aggression, causing Draco to step backwards in a wobbly trip. "No, it's all gone at this point, Draco. It wasn't quite effective enough, believe me. If we run into him, he's toast to say the least."

Draco's eyes slimmed again in glowing pride. Harry turned and walked forwards, aimless and headed nowhere. They passed the length of the third floor where the trophy room had been, squeezing Harry's stomach while they breezed by. Harry had not experienced his first concussion in that room, but four years earlier at home when Dudley barreled into him at the head of the staircase, hurling Harry in a sloppy somersault down, the side of his head striking the railing near the bottom. His injury here had been worse, cause and pain-wise, and Harry hoped to avoid re-entering that ugly showcasing of metallic winnings from then on.

Around the next corner, Harry tuned in on another pair of scuffling feet, and he stuck an arm out to halt Draco. "Someone's coming," he hissed.

"Oh shite." Draco whipped his head behind them, scrambling to each closed classroom door and trying their locked knobs. "Damn!"

"Shut it," Harry said, clutching a fistful of Draco's robes and yanking him into the dreadful trophy room, which had no door. They crouched underneath a table along the wall encasing six silver and gold shields and plates. A tiny string of whimpers rose out of Draco, urging Harry to smother his palm against his mouth, cringing at himself for the crude course of action, tensing with the other as Filch and Mrs. Norris neared the room.

"Sniff long and deeply, my sweet," Filch rasped to his cat tenderly. "Could've swore I heard some illicit steps down here…" The diligent team passed the trophy room. Harry's sweating palm stayed firm over Draco's smooshed lips, they remained tucked out of easy sight for a slow mental counting of two hundred seconds. Draco squirmed once the silence had fallen to its recent completion, Harry dropping his hands and crawling out.

"Thanks for letting me breath," Draco whined, slapping melodramatic palms onto the stone floor. Harry had fled the room quickly in fear of succumbing to some post-traumatic stress symptoms if he lingered any longer. He was less worried about the pestering caretaker dragging them down to Snape's bedchamber than flashes of forceful light reemerging to slap him silly into the ground.

Draco's fingers rapped at his shoulders. "We're going to bed now, for crying out loud. We can muck around plenty out here in the morning."

"You may. I'll be retreating when I please."

"Come on!"

"Shush, do you want that prowler back at the snap of your fingers?"

Draco frowned. "What is up with you, anyway?"

"My mind, that's what." Harry kept on his hyper feet. Draco pursued him with uncertainty. They exited into the next corridor, going a thousand miles, according to a tired and on-edge Draco. Harry brushed through a tapestry, standing in a secluded but brief passageway. Intrigue met him, whereas Draco grew evermore weary. He hadn't been in this area before. Harry led them further, soon bringing their Charms class into their presence. Halfway down yet another corridor, they got a visitor too sudden to scurry in hide from. Peeves the Poltergeist had shot out from the stray door he blew wide open. He cackled for the moon to hear.

"Stop it!" Harry screeched up at him. "Please don't do that!"

"Oh dear, and just what are you ickle firsties doing out of your warm beds so late, huh? Looking for a warm glass of milk, your teddies? Maybe Filch has those lullabies on him…"

"You wouldn't," Harry said, his belly tearing with fireworks.

"Wouldn't I, when I'd love to see nothing more than not one, but two naughty first years cry," Peeves cooed, either boy curling their fingers below.

"Piss off," Draco spoke up at last, aiming light spittle upwards for the ghost. Harry bit into his bottom lip.

A bad feeling crept up in time with Peeves' enormous bellow. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED! STUDENTS OUT OF BED! HAPPY TO HAVE DETENTIONS ON THEIR HEADS!"

"Damn you, Potter," Draco groaned, his clammy white hand crushed in Harry's unforgiving fingers. They bolted straight onward for a broad door at the end of the corridor, slamming into it, taking turns wrestling with the lock. They swore they could hear the distant wheezes of the caretaker jogging alongside his practical soulmate. Peeves went on with booming guidance toward the jackpot vicinity.

"Arse! This is completely your fault!" Draco said, shouldering Harry. "Professor Snape will be telling my father about this one!"

"You chose to come with me. You're not my puppet." Harry withdrew his wand, thanking his thready lucky stars that he'd forgotten to remove it from his pocket before bed. Hermione's sweet, intelligent voice echoed in his mind a spell that might save them yet. He had only picked it up the other day, the tip of his wand tapping the doorknob, and with a throat clogged with sheer faith, he choked out, "Alohomora!"

The lock clicked, and he disappeared inside with a sluggish-footed Draco. They shut the door and huffed and puffed, leaning on the door by their shoulders, facing each other. Filch's feet scratched to an uneven stop outside. He panted, "Where'd they go?"

"Fetch your manners, and I may cough," Peeves negotiated shrilly.

"Come now, don't tease me. Where are the escaped brats?"

"Manneeeeers," Peeves incited with a lazy tongue.

"Please," Filch groaned loudly.

"Pleeeaaaaase?"

"Please! Yes, please!"

"What was it?"

"The kids out of their common-rooms! Where the devil are they?!"

"Tsk, tsk, you've misplaced those manners again."

They listened to Filch scuttle off down the rest of the corridor, his uncouth cursing mouth running harder than his legs could carry him. He returned the blissful distancing from them.

"Mean old bastard's been haunting these halls earlier than the ghosts," Draco scoffed. "Time for him to go to bed."

Draco looked at Harry, who was facing the opposite side, his jaw hanging, eyes peeled impossibly. Draco tried out the reaction for himself, gaping in dumbstruck fascination at the super-sized three-headed hound, its height and proportions so ridiculous it stood almost bumping the ceiling, limited leg room throughout the back end of the corridor. They gulped, reasoning they'd found themselves enclosed in the forbidden one. Draco cowered slightly behind Harry's shoulder, popping round eyes over them as a fountain of drool shimmered down from one giant muzzle's loose tongue, three sets of yellow eyes ample in eating them alive. What mattered, their courage at least, had vacated, so Harry had already resigned to the probability of a thorough mauling within the minute, taking the brunt as he partly shielded his friend so concerned about his own preservation. Then the creature, or creatures, Harry was clueless as to the plural here, perked furthermore in their realization that their eyes weren't playing tricks on them in the dark, and that they were actual, flesh and blood boys in front of them. They aligned their sleepy paws and moved for them, Harry gathering his senses in order to grope the doorknob slippery with sweat and grind it, toppling back out into the safer corridor and shoving the door shut upon a hound's snout. It whimpered behind the door. The boys were collapsed over themselves, and as Harry got on his knees to rise, in a streak of telltale moonlight he identified the darkened blot and trail, fresh and soaking down the front of Draco's trousers. Harry looked away quickly, embarrassed for him, but Draco hopped to his feet, pinning extra layers of his robes over his waistline in shame Harry had presumed Draco was incapable of.

"You tell anyone, I'll smother you in your sleep, you understand, Potter?"

Harry nodded, but that wouldn't have been a worry for that night. Harry couldn't anticipate capturing anything like sleep for the remainder of that explosive night either. Something, some things, once so simple, had gone just like that.