The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

Disclaimer: Some dialogues were lifted, verbatim, from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Acknowledgements: thanks to everyone who's still following this.

Chapter nine -

Hide'n'Seek

And after a while, you can work on points for style

Like the club tie, and the firm handshake

A certain look in the eye and an easy smile

You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to

So that when they turn their backs on you,

You'll get the chance to put the knife in

PINK FLOYD, Dogs

The following morning, the ceiling of the Great Hall was the colour of a Melancholy Melange, and the post owls came in dripping wet. The Highlands in September were not the same thing as Wiltshire in August. Draco shivered in anticipation – he could almost smell the wet dirt already.

There were free seats at the far end of the Slytherin table and that gave him a chance to coast its entire length, exchanging mornin's and hello's with his housemates. The first-years were all huddled together in the same spot, like chicks.

"Good morning," Draco said suavely. "Did you have a good sleep?"

They glanced up at him, as if from the bottom of a well: Wilkes' face was all scrunched, like he was going to cry or curse him or both. "You're the one who yelled at me."

Yeah, but that was before you made Slytherin, pipsqueak, Draco conceded silently. Outwardly, he produced a small nod. "I had to. You were being hyst-"

"-a werewolf killed my brother," Wilkes cut in, not even waiting for him to finish.

"I didn't know that. It's terrible. I hope it was caught," Draco rattled off just as quickly, because that was the thing you'd ask in polite circles when saddled with this bit of information - whether the savage beast had been culled so that the bereft mourners would at least find closure – and because if Wilkes let out so much as another wheeze, he was going to curse his knees on backwards… but then an idea formed in his mind, and he hoped he'd be able to wing it as he went.

"I'm afraid we didn't start on the best footing, and I apologize for lashing out at you." He crouched so he was eye level with the first-years and pointed with his chin at the Gryffindor table. "See that student sitting there? The one with the glasses, between the gangly ginger and the buck-toothed b…witch?"

Briefly, he treated them to a recap of the past events, expressing anguish for the untimely demise of Cedric Diggory and outrage at the unexpected conclusion of Potter's recent hearing, conveniently leaving out the part about the Dementors and the underage magic so that to a casual listener the two events would sound connected. And thanks to the antics of the Boy Who Boasted, he didn't need to invent a single thing.

The first-years looked captivated and Draco felt elation flowing through his veins like an alcoholic rush. "It made my blood boil, to see him standing on the platform, free and easy after all he's done."

"Well that's outrageous!" piped the boldest of the firsties, and the others nodded. Draco nodded sagely, and took note. Despite the unfortunate name, Gaius Daley was already on his way to make leader of the pack. Or the swarm. Pansy had said they were gnats, and, boy, were they all fun-sized. If they don't hurry up and flourish, in six years we'll be using walnuts for Bludgers.

Draco took a step back and excused himself, and in doing so he collided with someone - Vince, with a rapt expression on his burly face. It was rather off-putting.

Draco frowned inquiringly.

What's the matter with you?

Still looking awed, Vince shook his head.

Forget about it.

Then he turned and went at the table, leaving Draco rather worried.

The first hour was Charms, which usually went down smoothly. Professor Flitwick gave a passionate speech about the importance of the forthcoming OWLs in everyone's prospective career. As he gestured wildly from the pile of books that was his pedestal, Draco suddenly realized, looking at his diminutive size and spidery hands, that the professor had to be either part-goblin or part-elf. It had been in front of his eyes for five years and he had never elaborated on that, and so must have done everyone else; then again, no one had ever commented about Hagrid having the size – and smell – of an Engorged grizzly bear, until Rita Skeeter had outed him.

Flitwick then began the actual lesson. Parchment and quills started to appear on desks, but Draco's mind refused to focus on the subject – which seemed to be old stuff anyway.

So, another teacher at Hogwarts was not quite entirely human, and no one was bothered by the notion. (In fact, Draco was struggling to get worked up about it, himself). Would the Prophet mount a campaign to make the half-breed resign, like they had done for the giant oaf? Would the parents get up in arms and turn Dumbledore's office into a flurry of owls, calling for the swift removal of the offending teacher?

Probably not. Flitwick had never made his pupils work with anything more dangerous than a tassel pillow…

… and he doesn't go around biting people and turning them into long-fingered midgets.

"…can anyone guess why I could not, for example, Accio Mr. Malfoy's Prefect badge?"

Draco was taken aback at hearing his name. There were some muted snickers and he realized he had been staring into space. Summoning charms, they were brushing on Summoning Charms, and Flitwick was right; Draco knew, without knowing why, that an Accio would never have worked on his Prefect badge, because…

"…it's mine. The badge. It was given to me," he replied, or rather thought aloud.

"That's correct, Mr. Malfoy. The spell will not work properly, unless the caster has a rightful claim over the Summoned object. Now, for five points, can you remember the seven types of claim?"

Seven types of claim? Draco could barely come up with two – obviously, if you owned stuff or if you were supposed to guard it or – and there were seven of them… he just shook his head.

Flitwick didn't seem concerned. "Anyone else? You, Miss Parkinson?" he asked, seeing that she had put up her hand.

"Authority, custody, factory, heredity, mastery, property, seniority," Pansy recited.

"Excellent, Miss Parkinson! Five points for Slytherin. Mr. Malfoy, in your own interest, I suggest that you remain focused on the lesson, even when it's review."

Thirty minutes later, as they were leaving the class, Pansy came and threw an arm around Draco's waist, beaming, as she always did when she managed to get one over him. He conceded defeat.

"Excellent save, Miss Parkinson. Seven types of claim, I would've never…"

Someone else's arm wrapped around his neck, on the side opposite to Pansy: Blaise, cutting in as was his usual.
"Last year, when you were spending your time charming 'Potter Stinks' badges instead of paying attention in class," he grinned.

Pansy smiled wanly – but not to Draco. "Will we ever make a Slytherin of him, Blaise?"

"Ah, I don't know. less than three years left. The Hat should've said Gryffindor and spared us all the trouble."

"What t-the h…" Draco sputtered.

"Oh, put a stopper on it. You're all over the place whenever Potter's involved. The opposite applies, too. If I don't get an invitation I'll be gravely offended."

"You're being absurd. Shall we?" Draco hissed, but his classmates were already on the move. There was no true need to discipline Slytherins into attending Potions, or Herbology for that matter: a class in which you were required to do practical activity was a pleasant change from the usual sit-and-wave-wands drudgery and an occasion to mingle. Too bad one couldn't just mingle with the bloody Gryffindors. How Blaise dare suggest that he belonged with these addle-brained macaques…

As they turned into the corridor leading to the Potions dungeon, they were welcomed by the familiar voices of Granger and Weasley, raising well above the normal chatter din.

"Trouble in paradise," Pansy whispered, nudging him in the ribs, and they eavesdropped in silence for a while. Today the Weasel and the Beaver had chosen to bicker about Quidditch of all things. Which must have been a codeword for something else, because the Beaver wouldn't know a Snitch from a Troll nut and the Weasel supported the Chudley Cannons, meaning that his understanding of the game was in the minus thousands range.

As the two Gryffindor were still huffing and muttering, the door to the Potions class opened, although not to let students in as usual.

An Auror let himself out of the threshold. He looked more like a pirate than a wizard, sporting a golden earring on his left earlobe, missing more than half of the left one, and with his lips curled in an unnatural, permanent sneer by a white scar running across them from chin to cheek. Except for Prefects, students hadn't had the opportunity to glimpse at plainclothes Aurors from up close, and the shock was so great that the first students at the front of the queue backed into the ones behind them. Someone tripped and a school bag fell heavily on the floor – Longbottom's, of course.

"Just checking the dungeon, boys – and girls. It's safe to go in. Well, safe as can be, given the occupant," the Auror announced. He made a grimace that was supposed to be a smile, and the scarred lips parted revealing a badger fang, mounted in gold, where a canine ought to be.

The students parted to grant passage, or rather flattered themselves against the wall to be as far from him as possible, and the Auror strode off towards the Hall. Then Snape appeared, looking darker and starker than ever in comparison with the previous apparition.

"Settle down," he growled. The Auror's visit had taken its toll on the Potions Master: Draco had seldom seen him so infuriated. He looked ready to assign detentions if only given half a chance.

Draco took advantage of the impatient order to plop on the first available seat, at the back, against the wall. Potter had already started eyeing him and he wanted as many meat shields as possible between himself and the Three Busybodies. Vince and Greg looked at him expectantly, and he motioned for them to sit around him: Vince to the side, and Greg slightly forward.

Snape then gave another talk about their upcoming OWLs – it was clear each of the teacher wanted to make it clear, in person, that this year, Hogwarts meant business. On top of everything else. The Slytherin collective hunched and looked meekly at their Head of House when he mentioned how he expected them to 'scrape an Acceptable or suffer his displeasure'.

Then Snape dropped the bomb.

"Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level…"

Oh, Merlin, Draco thought, what's he playing at? The only reason a potion would come up often at OWLs was that it was devilishly difficult to make. And it was the first day of school. And the list of books had arrived so late, Draco had been unable to read them beforehand as usual.

Most of the time Snape was an alright Head of House, settling feuds, tutoring a struggling student, keeping hazing at bay. And then, when Potter or Dumbledore or, in this case, a random Auror managed to get his goat, he would snap and become a fiend whose only purpose was to inflict despair upon the universe.

It was clear from the instructions that there would be no hanging around: the time available was the strict minimum needed to peel, chop, stir, simmer, decant and filter. Even when Greg tried to catch his attention, Draco could barely reply in a hiss, "Busy."

By the end of the lesson, however, the Draught of Peace had lived up to its name by forcing Draco to focus on what he was doing so that he did not have a spare braincell to fret over anything else. And with good results: his was one of the only four potions letting out the required silvery vapour – the others being Theo's, Daphne's and Granger's – although he suspected vapour might be rising from his ears as well. Two hours had passed by in a flash. Snape did not stop to comment at the successful potions; he went straight to the bench where Potter's cauldron was belching dark smoke, like he had been burning ca instead of brewing. All the activity still going on around the cauldrons ground to a halt; watching Snape put the Headmaster's pet down a peg was always a sight for sore eyes.

"Potter, what is this supposed to be?" the teacher asked nonchalantly.

"The Draught of Peace," Potter barked, like Snape's question hadn't been rhetorical at all. His lack of the most rudimentary manners never failed to amuse and amaze Draco. Did he realize a simple "sir" worked wonders in a situation like that?

Snape was too smart to descend to Potter's level and actually softened his tone for the next blow.

"Tell me, Potter, can you read?"

A chortle escaped Draco's lips, before he could collect himself.

"Yes, I can," Potter replied, clutching his wand like it was all he could do not to curse Snape. His defiance bothered Draco. Not only Potter had botched his classwork spectacularly, he also had the gall to huff and glare at Snape like a cornered boar, like it was not his fault that he couldn't brew a potion to save his life. He had also failed to address a teacher appropriately twice in a row… and yet Snape just Vanished the contents of Potter's cauldron, which probably raised the grade. He did not assign him detention, nor take points from Gryffindor. It was a right scandal… oh. Oh no, it was brilliant, it was a masterstroke – Draco could not wait to put his own spin on it.

Greg was trying to stopper his potion, but the flagon was fighting him: either the cork was swollen with moisture or the mouth hadn't been flared properly. It shattered and the hot potion spilled on the front of his robes, which started to smoke. Draco was there in a huff, but Greg already had the situation under control.

"Aspodia," he spelled, smothering the flames before the damage became worse. His face was set in a thunderous expression which stayed on until lunchtime.

At lunch, speculation was still raging and the Great Hall bubbled with sound. Draco picked up morsels of conversation easily. It was like he'd doped on Bat Juice and his hearing had acquired a range of miles.

"…conveniently just around the full moon…"

"…hairier than I remembered…"

"…would ever go camping…"

That last one gave him pause: he was fodder for the rumour mill, too. Of course he was: while his schoolmates were wondering aloud who might be the werewolf, he wasn't. That needed rectifying ASAP.

"I like the new specs, Bulstrode. They compliment your features."

Millicent Bulstrode was as much of a minger and as much of a Half-Blood as ever. Unaccustomed to being acknowledged, let alone addressed by Draco, she replied with ill grace.
"Mind your own business, Malfoy."

"Are those tinted lenses?" Pansy inquired.

Millicent frowned at them from over said lenses. "Why do you care," she stated. There was that – whether it was bad upbringing or a curse running in the family she was unable to sound less than defensive, to the point that even Greg seemed meek in comparison.

"Just making small talk, Merlin!"

"Alright, they're tinted lenses. It's for my headaches. Happy now?"

"Sure," Draco replied, shrugging noncommittally. "No need to get worked up." But Graham Pritchard sitting across the table had overheard and surreptitiously turned his head to examine Millicent, who, predictably, glared back.

Draco stabbed a roasted potato, brought it to his mouth and chewed carefully.
"Snape went really easy on Potter today."

"Yeah, that was a right shame," Millicent replied, glad for the change of subject.

"Even after all that backchat. As a Prefect, I'd never allow someone to speak to me like that." He picked a bit of stew this time and savoured it, washed it down with pumpkin juice, all the time looking drawn in his own thoughs, as if he was still considering the matter. "It's not like Snape at all. I wonder if he's under orders from Dumb Bore to cut Potter some slack."

"Well, he'd do that, wouldn't he?" Pansy cut in. "What with Potter always looking for trouble..."

Well, for a given value of looking, Draco admitted. What with Diggory snuffing it and the rest of the end-of-year drama, few students seemed to have caught or processed that Potter had never put his name in the Goblet after all. But that suited Draco just fine, it was not his fault if most people were dumb, and it was not his place to be Potter's solicitor.

Draco smiled to himself and readied the final plunge when it turned out he might not have bothered.

At the Gryffindor table – which was always within the peripheral vision of every Slytherin worth their salt – Potter sprung to his feet yelling, swung his schoolbag over his shoulder in a dramatic arc, yelled some more and strode out of the Hall as majestically as his unimpressive height allowed. There was silence for a moment, then the hubbub resumed.

"…the Queen has left the building…"

"…another Potter moment…"

"…won't go an hour without causing a scene…"

Draco sat back and let out a contented sigh. He really ought to send Potter a basket of fruit with a 'thank you' note, for making his life so much easier.

That night, the newest Slytherin prefects were in the Conspirer's Corner, the smallest table in the Common Room. Having laughed themselves hoarse at the thought of Potter getting a detention on the very first day of school, they were now huddled close over a piece of parchment.

"We need to cancel this patrol," Pansy said, lifting the offending task from the schedule with her wandtip and sliding another one in its cell. The little squiggle hovered around trying to find a place for itself, and the others, bullies that they were, started bouncing it around.

Draco looked down at the riot going on over the parchment. They were supposed to patrol the castle in the evening, but because of Pansy's conflicting commitments, it could not be done. What with lessons, study groups, book clubs, and witches' committees, and even an "evening to myself", her week was booked solid.

"What's wrong with Friday?"

"It, er… clashes with my Gobstones practice," Pansy said, just as the patrol was finally chased out of the parchment by its contenders and vanished with a "puff".

Draco snorted. "That's a plus in my opinion. You, taking up Gobstones? That'll be the day."

Pansy sniffed. "You are so narrow-minded! Have you ever given Gobstones a second glance?"

Draco considered the matter. In this corner, Pansy Parkinson, known for never going any closer to dirt than was strictly necessary and making everyone else do her Herbology assignments. And in this corner, a game that's played by kneeling on the floor and handling round pebbles that spit smelly goo at you more often than not.

"Who are you really, and what have you done to Pansy Parkinson?" he asked.

She chortled. "Fine, make fun of it. You'll never know what you're missing."

"So what am I missing, apart from ruined clothes and lots of time spent showering? Humour me."

"You know, getting to know other people, talk to them, pick up things."

Draco made a lopsided sneer. He did see her point, but it was ridiculous that one would choose to socialize under the pretence of Gobstones, rather than Quidditch, and he told her so.

"Because Quidditch is all flash, can't you see? What with players zooming here and there on a broom, like Confunded swifts, and all the neck swivel…"

Draco raised a hand, not entirely in jest. "Stop that now, Miss Parkinson. Those are fighting words."

But Pansy went on. "Take Snape's mother for example. She was a sharp witch." She lowered her voice to a conspiratory whisper for the last tidbit of information: "She was captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones team, and President of the Gobstones Club. You'd never get to know someone like her on the Quidditch pitch, would you?"

"All this, and still she was unable to marry properly," Draco pointed out, increasingly befuddled and amused by Pansy's inanity. "There, case closed."

"Draco, you're impossible."

"I really don't know what you're…"

"Enough!" Pansy stomped the floor. "I've had enough. Let's go to bed. I- I mean- separately!"

Draco guffawed. "I know what you meant. Merlin, Pansy, I'm not that kind of wizard. If you can't spare some time for evening patrols, I'll go on my own. Just make sure you discuss the matter with Snape beforehand, I won't cover up for your absence."

To tell the truth, Draco was keen on patrolling alone: what with Potter having been assigned detention all evenings for a week, everyone would assume Draco was trying to catch him out of bounds. He escorted Pansy to the door of the girls' dormitory and bade her a good night, then left the Common Room and wandered the dungeons alone, on a patrol-cum-search of a hiding place quest. A vault, an oubliette, a damn bedpan stockroom… there had to be something somewhere…
Gobstones, really…

Unconsciously, Draco was gritting his teeth as he tapped on oddly-coloured stones and searched the door frames for hidden mechanisms. Wasn't it just his luck that Salazar Slytherin was the sole Founder known to have built secret quarters, and they had been already found, by Potter of all blasted people? And Draco could not access them if he tried, because you'd need to speak in tongues for that, which Potter of course could do without a care! There was no justice in this world.

In the end he was not even searching anymore, only marching without a purpose or a destination, hoping to give his troubles a slip if he turned corners fast enough. He left the dungeons and went upward, and along the road he took points off students from all Houses and years, for running in the corridors, for whistling Muggle songs, for snogging in dark corners, for not having a care in this. Damned. World.

– To hell with Gobstones! – he mouthed, punching a still life and causing the basket of fruit and the hourglass to topple. He had reached the top of the topmost tower, and had to concede defeat. Hogwarts wasn't helping him. He might as well give up and transform in the Great Hall – or, better yet, Gryffindor Tower. Who cared if he didn't know the password? An old daub was no match for his claws, and when the time would come, he'd…

…get myself killed.

A hand clutched his shoulder. Draco dodged, turned, ducked and aimed, a curse forming on his lips, all in a single motion: Father would be proud. Except it was just Theo. They both took a step back, panting hard.

"Merlin!" Draco cried. "Do you want me to hex your face? What are you doing up here?"

"Daphne told me Pansy had gone to bed, so I knew you were patrolling alone."

"Oh, and you thought you'd back me up. And I would be the failed Gryffindor?"

"Of course. I'm not stupidly brave, I plan to make a run for it if things get ugly."

"Theo, the full moon is not until Monday."

"Yeah. But the Weasley twins are here twenty-four-seven, and they declared open season on Prefects in their third year."

They shared a sigh. Indeed, the twins were among the worst chance encounters a Slytherin could make while roaming the castle. They kept walking, wands in hand, in amenable silence, until Theo let out the Kneazle.

"So, now you see them too."

Oh, so that was the actual reason he had come looking for him. Draco felt like the Bloody Baron had just passed through him. There was little to be gained by lying: his reaction must have been telltale.

"Yeah." Then, since he had answered Theo's question, he made one himself. "How long have you…"

"Ever since we rode the carriages on our way to school. Second year."

"I never saw a thing, I thought they pulled themselves. I bet we looked like a bunch of dolts to you." A throaty sound told him that Theo had appreciated that definition. "But why didn't you say anything?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Touché." He recalled the insecurity he had felt at being the odd one out, at having to confront the others about the matter, with a chance they would dismiss him as a visionary. "What d'you reckon they are?"

"Big ugly winged horses," was the reply, which was Nottish for 'I haven't the slightest idea'. "But the hundred Galleons question remains: how is it that all of a sudden you're able to see them. What's happened to you?"

Draco's mind raced. Could that possibly mean that Theo was a…? No, that was impossible. He would have disappeared every time other teachers were substituting for Lupin. Snape would have never allowed it, Slytherin or not: it was obvious that the Potion Master hated werewolves.
So, what else had happened to Draco? Nothing. Everything was linked to that damned night when he had wandered off on a hunch, lulled into a false sense of security from being underage, from being cared for, from being home…

"Do you think they're some sort of Grim?"

Theo snorted. "If they do, they're pretty slow to take effect. Seeing as how I've been seeing them for years and I still haven't hopped the twig! No, I've racked my brain and it still beats me. I thought you could provide the answer. What happened to you between June and September?"

"Before you saw me, why did you think you were the only one?" Draco tried to change the subject.

Another snort. "You've known me since we were learning to crawl and you still don't know? I thought it was just because I'm smart, obviously. But you seem to be as big a dolt as bef…"

"Sshhh," Draco replied. There was a noise in one of the classrooms to the right. He drew his wand and entered, gesturing at Theo to stay outside.

A group of fourth-years had gathered in the empty classroom. Two were snogging, three were experimenting with a Fanged Frisbee, and both groups were too engrossed in their activity to notice a Prefect quietly walking in on them. Weren't Ravenclaws supposed to be smart? They didn't even have a lookout.

"See, Miriam? I told you it would eat candle tears fine!"

Draco looked up and noticed that the Fanged Frisbee had indeed cleaned all the molten wax from the hovering chandeliers. It also had appreciated the curtains and banners, which showed signs of having been chewed. True to the original intent of its inventor, the Frisbee had made short work of all the cobwebs, too.

"Well, well, well," Draco said.

"Oh shit," said one of the snogging students, hastily breaking contact with her counterpart. A thin trail of saliva was hanging between the two of them and Draco did not know whether to laugh or puke.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for the forbidden item, and another five from Hufflepuff for swearing. Give it here."

"Give him a good bite, Freddie," the one called Miriam said and threw, not handed, the Frisbee towards Draco. The device activated and tried to bite off his nose. He parred with a hand and lost a chunk of trim off his sleeve.

Morons. Draco swatted the toy away – its teeth snapping so close to his fingertips he could feel the air being sucked in - feinted, then Diffindo'd a piece of torn curtain and held it like a bull cloth. The Frisbee came back for seconds and Draco wrapped the curtain around him, then passed his wand from hand to hand.

"Glacious!"

The fabric froze, immobilizing the Frisbee. Draco picked it up, a garishly decorated leather contraption. The fangs were barely visible between the two discs that made up the toy. There was a brand on it.

Zonko's Jokes
Hogsmeade - London - Llandrindod

Draco's brain picked a memory. It had to do with Potter obviously. In their third year, the Boy Who Cheated had left Hogwarts without permission and shown up in Hogsmeade, meaning that there were ways out of the castle. And if Potter could find and use them in his third year, then they ought to be a cake walk. The only problem was finding one.

Meanwhile, the fourth years had scarpered, but it was all right - Draco had never meant to give pursuit. His heartbeat was fast and high in his throat and he did not feel like a death sentence was hanging over his head, anymore. He went back to the corridor, where Theodore was crouched behind a coat of armour, slinking in the shadows.

"You're officially crazy, Malfoy," he groaned. "There were five of them."

"Who cares if they're five or fifteen?" Draco breathed, still riding the high of his own relief. "I'm a Prefect!"

Theo shook his head slowly. "You really should have been in Gryffindor, mate."

The library was scarcely populated right at the start of term and Draco slid easily into an unoccupied place to the left of Cassius Warrington. The senior student barely noticed him: he was mouthing the words on the parchment and had his wand out, balanced between slack fingers.

"Hello War. You all right?"

"Malfoy," Warrington acknowledged, huffing at the informal moniker. "Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if your memory loss has started to affect your school performance."

"What memory...?"

"We had a bet going on, remember?"

"Oh, that thing. I thought you'd let it go already, Malfoy." The senior student was looking down at Draco, like Father would sometimes glare at an importunate beggar in Diagon Alley.

This was unbelievable. How did Warrington pretend to be in society if he ignored the very basics? A debt of honour did not go unpaid, all the more since he had been the instigator, and would have cursed Draco into next year if he had been the one reneging.

"Are you at all a man of your word, Cassius?" he hissed.

"Alright, listen. I- I don't have them, right? I mean - not right now."

Perhaps it was not too late for Warrington senior to sire another heir and disinherit Cassius. His attitude would drag the family finances and name into the mud before he was of marrying age anyway. "Well, all right," Draco said, glad for an opportunity to bring the conversation back on track. "Last year you smuggled a keg of Ogden's into the Quidditch lockers."

"You can't prove it was me, and it was just some mead!"

Draco gritted his teeth. The conversation had meen much smoother when he had rehearsed it into his own brain: he had not anticipated Warrington would lose the plot at every opportunity. "I don't care one whit if it was whiskey, mead or griffon piss, Cassius. I want to know how you did it."

Warrington's heavy brow bunched up in a frown, then smoothed out again. "Ahhh, I get it now. Who's the bird?"

Draco considered cursing Warrington's tongue off, before he ran his mouth with all the far-fetched assumptions his sexually obsessed brain would make. Merlin, why did everyone's first thought always get there? He didn't even need to shave yet!

"No, you don't get it. I'm a Prefect and if there are ways to get in and out of the castle, it's my business to know about them. You hardly need them anymore, you'll be out of here in June and you're of age already."

"So, let's be clear. If I tell you about the passage, you'll waive the ten Galleons? That's it?"

"That's the general idea, yes," Draco huffed. At long last! Was that so hard?

"All right," Warrington began. "There's a statue on the third floor..."

Next: What's the time, Mr. Wolf?