FIC: "Occam's Razor", Chapter Four



Chapter Four

"Question number two," Snape announced the next evening, immediately after Harry said his hello.

"Go on," Harry continued, in the spirit of the question ritual.

"Had I shown myself in the Forest of Dean, would you have given me a chance to explain?"

Harry didn't even have to stop to think. "If you would've survived the Killing Curse and Stunned me? Maybe." He shook his head then. "I don't think I was ready."

"In any case, I wouldn't have told you then, if only because Lord Voldemort was still sending Nagini out on 'missions.'" He looked sharply at Harry. "I doubt your friends would've reacted any differently either."

Harry smiled. "Yeah, you're right. That's the great thing about friends, isn't it?" He peered at Snape, who was the picture, literally, of repose, his chair tilted back, feet atop the desk, his hands laced together behind his head. "You didn't have many, did you? Friends, I mean."

Snape scowled at him, but for Snape, good-naturedly, Harry thought.

"Tactful as usual."

"Seriously, sir. I’m just curious."

With a thump, all four legs of the chair were on the floor. "You understand, the Slytherins were a fraternity. We closed ranks and took care of our own. And still do. But as for friends—ones to visit, slug around Hogsmeade together, share confidences?" Snape shook his head as he paused, then added with a sigh, "There was only your mother. She was my best and only friend."

Harry nodded. "I got that…from your memories."

Snape waved a hand dismissively. "What you did not see was how much time we spent together. Especially the summers once we started school, and during our terms at Hogwarts."

Harry couldn't hold back the question. "Even though she was a Gryffindor and you were a Slytherin?"

Snape snorted. "Very perceptive. That became the sticking point as we grew older. But like you, your mother had a mind of her own. My loyalties—being young and mostly friendless made matters worse—naturally aligned themselves with the rest of my House."

Harry knew that wasn't all of it, though. "My father and his friends didn't help matters much, either."

"No, they didn't."

Even though Harry believed that he and Snape were past that point of generational confusion, he needed to say it. "Sir?" When Snape looked up at him, Harry reminded him, "He was my father, and I love him, but he was wrong." Snape stilled instantly, then Harry watched as the features of the man's face relaxed. He inclined his head slightly.

"You saw what happened…how I begged her. But it was, in any case, inevitable. I chose my own path, one that distressed and infuriated her."

"But still," Harry interrupted, "you'd been friends all those years."

Snape looked sad. "I always imagined that I'd end up alone, but to lose her friendship entirely?" He shook his head. "Never."

Harry hesitated, then decided he'd just have to ask it outright. "Did you ever think that you and she…did you hope that you and she…?"

Giving him a marginal smile of understanding, Snape said, "End up together? Not likely. Although, I did…fantasize of such a possibility during the summer between fourth and fifth year. But I knew it was only that—a fantasy. So, I was content just to be her friend."

Harry struggled with what to say next. Snape's obsession was a matter of record, they both knew, one of which Snape had to be well aware that Harry had seen the evidence.

Snape rescued Harry from his dilemma. "She was my friend. My best friend. My only friend. I idolized her. It's what one does with one's only friend."

"She couldn't have known how important she was to you."

"We were sixteen and, as I was certainly not her only friend, no, probably not. But through our two remaining years at Hogwarts, and even after, I held out hope that we'd eventually reconcile."

"Even after my father?" Harry asked.

"Even after," Snape murmured, stroking a finger along the quill he held in his hand.

Harry waited; he knew that Snape would explain this most difficult part when he was ready.

Finally, Snape folded his hands on the desk and looked up. "Can you understand why her death was a double-edged knife in my heart?" he asked in a toneless voice.

Harry took a deep breath. "You told Voldemort about the prophecy. But you didn't know that it'd lead to my parents!" he protested.

Snape held up his hand. "Very good. The second part, however, was the worst of it." He leant forward and skewered Harry with a dark look. "I lost any chance I'd ever have of redeeming myself in her eyes. She went to her grave, thinking me a scoundrel, or worse. No way, ever again, to see her, to undo the damage that I'd done to destroy our friendship. Game over." He sat back heavily in his chair, as if the admission had drained him. "So, as you witnessed, I was beyond distraught, determined to honor her, and do what she would've wanted me to do."

Harry swallowed over the lump in his throat. "Protect me."

Snape answered, but he seemed to be looking straight through Harry, his mind elsewhere, as he said, "There was never any real sexual desire, nor a romantic attachment. No, Lily became a shrine at which I worshipped. My only chance to undo…what I'd set in motion. Protecting you was part of it."

As Harry watched the emotion on Snape's face, he felt the resolution well up inside him. "But you know, sir, that she knows all this now? It's over, Professor. And the prophecy? That all might've happened anyway, even if it hadn't been for you. I don't know—it messes with my mind. But still, my mum…even though you can't see her…or know this…I know she's your friend again."

Snape's eyes were full of wonder, and for a brief, fragile instant, Harry believed the man might actually thank him. He wasn't disappointed, though, that what he received was something different.

As his face cleared, the lines around Snape's mouth and eyes relaxed. He traced his upper lip with his tongue, then inclined his head. "Perhaps."

The tension of the past half-hour gone, Harry leant back and Summoned an unopened bottle of Ogden's.

"I'd've thought you'd be a bit put off of that, given the state in which you returned last evening."

Harry laughed easily. "Nah, I'm fine. And you've lost track of time; that was the night before last."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Indeed." In the next breath, he said, "Question number three…."

Harry spilled a bit of the Ogden's as he poured. "You're enjoying this far too much," he muttered.

"What have you done with the contents of my trunk?" Snape asked, ignoring Harry's remark.

Harry made a face. "You wasted a question on that? I'd've told you that anyway, if you asked."

Snape answered, "A truthful answer, no matter the circumstances, is never wasted. Answer."

"Tsk, tsk. Everything is still in the trunk, except for the books," Harry said smugly.

"And they are where?" Snape asked.

"Is that question number four?" Harry shot back.

Snape opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly. He harrumphed, "No, but you said if I asked, you'd answer."

"I already did, and that statement only applied to 'what have you done with the contents of my trunk?'" Harry watched as Snape graced him with an admiring look.

"But," Harry qualified, "I'll answer, if you agree to answer a question of my own." When Snape took too long to ponder, Harry reminded him, "How bad can it be? Respectfully, sir, you are dead."

This seemed to decide Snape in Harry's favor. "All right. One question only."

"You told me, after Ginny was here, that you'd had a sexual encounter," Harry pointed out.

"Your grasp of grammar is lamentable. That is not a question, so you forfeit."

"No. No," Harry said firmly. "I was just thinking out loud," he lied. When Snape frowned, Harry stopped to think for a moment more; how could he word the question to yield the maximum information?

"How did it happen that you had sex…with this person?"

Harry could tell that Snape's mind was working the question the same way that Harry had; how could he truthfully word the answer to yield the minimum information?

Then something in Snape's faced changed; Harry saw it, fleeting as it was: a softening of his features as he remembered, then it was gone. Whatever it was, Snape seemed to have decided to answer fully.

"This happened at Hogwarts. Once upon a time, there was someone I cared very much about, after your mother, and it was not just a sexual encounter." He wiped at the corner of his mouth with a fingertip, a gesture that betrayed his self-consciousness to Harry. "We were lovers…" Snape looked Harry in the eye. "…this man and I."

Harry had decided to try and slip in another question, just as Snape had done, but suddenly, looking at the somber expression on his face, he changed his mind. "That's good, then. I'm glad you had that," he said gently.

Snape tilted his head to the side, then agreed, "So am I."

oooOOOooo

Harry was pensive, thinking about how much he'd learnt over the past hour. Some of it he'd already known or guessed, but Snape had also laid a few surprises at his feet. They'd both been weary and lonely men, mourning the death of one great wizard, even as they labored, unappreciated, to bring about the death of a terrible one. This knowledge, late as it was, that the two of them had been similarly afflicted and motivated over that entire last year, Harry found oddly comforting.

But Snape's confession, at the end, that he'd cared for someone who'd cared for him in return, put flesh on the man in a way that the startling and personal revelations of the prior weeks had failed to do. Professor Severus Snape, master of the dungeons, always feared, ever loathed, stood in Harry's memory as a stark, bitter, hollow shell of a man. So how was it that the Snape of the painting—certainly two-dimensional and literally soulless and lifeless—had become a being of emotion and intellect, a holograph of color and warmth? For not the first time, Harry felt a pang of loss—that he'd never have the chance to meet this Snape that he now knew, in the real world.

"Potter?" Snape's voice broke into Harry's thoughts.

"Sir?" Harry looked up.

"My question…if you recall the bargain?" Snape reminded him.

Harry smiled tiredly. "Both books are in the library still, safe and sound."

oooOOOooo

Harry knew that it would be unlikely that Snape would forget that Draco was to arrive that weekend. Even so, as he was saying goodnight on Friday, he decided it was best to mention it again.

"When?"

"At nine. I'll be meeting him at the gates."

"I recall the reasons you gave," Snape said, "but still. Draco here for a day, with you as his only host? I find it odd. However…"

Harry watched Snape warily. God, he hated when Snape did that…ended a sentence so Harry felt compelled to ask. "However what?"

Inclining his head to the side, Snape said cautiously, "Given your circumstances, and his, the two of you may be good for each other."

"You think so?"

"We'll see," Snape advised him. Harry had just let his guard down, when Snape struck without notice. "Question number four."

Harry thought he could guess, fairly accurately, what was on Snape's mind. He silently cursed his fool self for being so simple as to agree to anything Snape would propose in the form of a wager. He reminded himself to remember this in the future.

"I realize that Draco may be coming here for several reasons. What is the single most important reason for why you invited him here? Notice that I specifically asked about your motivations, not his." Snape looked at him expectantly.

There was no way around it, Harry knew, so even before he spoke, he braced himself for the caustic reaction that was sure to come. "I want him to look at your journal, see if he can make any sense out of it," Harry said with an audible sigh, resigned.

To Harry's surprise, what occurred was most definitely unexpected. Snape bent his head, then lifted a thread from his robe. "Haven't I told you all that you needed to know? It was a collection of private thoughts, unrelated to your 'here and now'. You're wasting your time." When Harry started to speak, Snape held up his hand. "However, if this is to be the instrument of bringing two erstwhile adversaries together and uniting them in common cause, be my guest. But I'd think the two of you could find far more satisfying things to occupy your time."

"Then humor me, sir. I'm trying to understand some things about you that don't make sense, things that probably aren't important, but I want to try."

"I have no objection, then," Snape said dismissively. "But…I'd like to offer a word of caution."

"Go on," Harry said.

"Draco may've changed, so far as allegiances, family ties, even in his assessment of the mistakes he's made so far in his young life. People can change. But there is something about Draco that you should bear in mind, if your association with him continues." Snape paused, his face solemn.

"Go on."

"There is one thing that would be very difficult, if impossible, for him to change. Above all else, Draco will always have his best interests at heart. Even unknowingly, he will always choose what is best for Draco, heedless of how his choices affect those around him. This may change, in time, once he's lived a bit more, but I'd be surprised. You'd do well to remember this, whatever the two of you are up to," he finished, his voice intent.

"Worried about me, sir?" Harry asked innocently.

Snape scowled. "I'm a portrait, Potter. I have no worries," he opined as he turned away, after one last dark look at Harry.

"Could've fooled me," Harry muttered as he headed for bed.

oooOOOooo

The next morning, Harry was finishing up his cuppa, poring over the Prophet, muttering, "Where do they get this stuff?" when the sound of the castle clock striking nine reminded him of his visitor due at the gates. With a,"Gotta go," to no one in particular, as the Great Hall was empty, he folded the paper and set off through the Entrance Hall. Hands deep in his pockets as he walked, he realized that he had mixed feelings about meeting Draco again. Although he'd been pleasantly surprised at the Highfield, he wasn't so foolish as to believe that years of ill-will and suspicion could be so easily swept away by a talk of several hours under the influence of a shared bottle of Firewhisky.

As he trod down the path to the gate, he smiled at the sight of Draco waiting.

"You're late," Draco said, peering through the ironwork.

As Harry unwarded the lock, he pointed out, "So, we're even, then." As he swung the gate open and gestured inward, Draco stepped through, then stopped suddenly.

His eyes on the castle, Draco told him, "You'll recall I wasn't late at all. Wasn't my fault you didn't see me."

Harry stood and waited while Draco inspected the sight before him. The man seemed taller than Harry remembered, broader across the shoulders, but it was the change in his face that struck Harry: the gray eyes were clear and serene, alight with his obvious pleasure at seeing Hogwarts again; his mouth curved in an almost-smile, a real smile, devoid of the smirk of contempt that Harry'd come to expect to see there. Taking a step to stand beside him, Harry looked up at the castle to share the view.

"You can see where most of the damage was…there." Harry pointed. "That was the hardest part—replacing the stones. The windows weren't so bad, but over there you can see what we had to do to make that weight-bearing again."

The two of them began to walk, making a circuit around the castle, as Harry explained what the builders had done, with Draco asking questions now and then. When they arrived at the point where the path to the Quidditch pitch veered off to the right, Draco stopped. He bit at his lower lip, then nodded toward the pitch. "Do you mind?"

Harry waved with his hand, and they were off, careening down the steep incline, kicking up rocks and rubble as they stumbled to a stop. Here Draco hesitated, looking for the way in. Harry gave him a tug of his sleeve, directing him to a small archway, then up the steps to the Slytherin grandstand.

They parked themselves in the front row, leaning over the railing. As they surveyed the sight before them, the House banners flapped in the breeze. The green grass of the perfect oval was lush, trimmed perfectly, the timbers of the structure painted in the bright House colors which gleamed in the summer sun.

"This must've taken some time," Draco commented.

"Hmm, well, it was completely destroyed. Giants…spiders…." Harry shuddered. "We spent most of the first year on the castle. It was more important, getting it sound and leak-proof. But in the spring, when things were just about done, I knew it was time." Harry warmed to the topic. "What's Hogwarts without Quidditch? Really, it's the soul of the school, and I couldn't stand another day seeing it this way. You know what I mean?"

Draco stood and leant over the railing, then looked back at Harry. "Yeah, I do."

Harry got up and stood bedside him, then the two of them were silent for a moment.

"We built it in a single day," Harry said softly. When Draco looked at him, surprised, Harry nodded. "All the materials were donated, and the Saturday after NEWTs, we had a reunion of sorts. Alumni, parents, students, hell, even Aurors and shopkeepers showed up. We worked from sun-up to sun-down, and it was…amazing." He smiled as he remembered. "I think it was something we all had to do. Not another memorial service. God knows we had enough of those. No, everyone getting together, fixing something that everyone knew stood for Hogwarts, well, it was just what we needed."

Draco had turned to look at him as he spoke, and when Harry finally finished, he gave him a crooked smile. "Save the wizarding world, then rebuild it? What else do you have up your sleeve?"

"Apparently not enough for some people," Harry said wryly. Before Draco could ask, Harry told him, "Don't ask."

Draco looked as if he were about to, then evidently changed his mind. Instead he sat down again, then lifted his feet and placed them on the lower rung of the railing. "My best memories of Hogwarts are here. Quidditch. Well, not the matches so much, but the practices were great fun." He reclined against the bench behind them, closed his eyes, then tilted his head back.

There was something about his posture, the way he lifted his face to the sun, his long blond hair tied back, his striking appearance, that infused Harry with a sudden sense of déjà vu; he wanted to reach out and touch him, just as he'd wanted to on that night above the Highfield. Irrational, libidinous attraction, Harry berated himself. He knew he should be wary and cautious, but the fact of the matter was, he just plain wasn't; in fact, what he was feeling at that moment reminded him that Snape, too, had warned him to be careful.

"You didn't enjoy the matches?" Harry asked. "God, you sure seemed like you did."

Draco opened his eyes to look at him, but otherwise did not move. "My father enjoyed the matches. That's part of why I didn't," he said with a shrug. "He expected me to win. I usually did, but when I didn't…."

Harry had a brief inner struggle; it'd been himself, after all, who'd suggested that they not talk about the past. But with the mention of his father, Draco had sent him a subtle signal that if Harry wanted to revisit that condition, then Draco was willing to as well. He supposed that now was as good a time as any to get some things out of the way, and besides, he was curious about a great many things, so far as Draco was concerned.

"How is he?" Harry asked quietly.

Draco looked out over the pitch. "It's a terrible place, Azkaban, even without the Dementors. What makes it worse, I think, is that he'd been there before, so he knew what to expect. But, in some respects, I think he was relieved."

Harry didn't understand. "Relieved?"

"Yeah, relieved. That last year, I saw something in him I'd never seen before." He looked at Harry. "He was afraid. More afraid of the Dark Lord than he'd ever been."

"Why? After all those years…."

"Family, Potter. For the first time, he was afraid for us. He realized we were all expendable."

"He was afraid for you?" Harry asked, comprehension dawning.

"He knew he couldn't protect us anymore. He was out of favor, ever since the end of fifth year."

"So…he wanted out?" Harry asked.

Draco laughed, a bitter sound. "That was the problem, you see. There never was a way out, once the Dark Lord owned you."

Harry was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Well, I understand the family part."

Draco gave him a shrewd look. "Yeah, I imagine you would."

Harry shook his head slowly. "But Voldemort never did—what a force that could be, people caring about each other."

Draco snorted. "Lot of good it did us."

"You're alive—all of you."

"Yeah, we're alive," Draco spat out.

Harry gave him a hard look. "That's more than some people have."

Draco had the good grace to flush.

"And you're free," Harry pointed out.

Draco looked down at his hands. "Sometimes…I wish I could be there with him…to make it easier."

"He wouldn't want that for you. Would you want that for your son?"

"No, I suppose not."

"See," Harry said gently, "so make it count."

"What?"

"Your life. Make it count, Draco. Then your father will know it wasn't all for nothing."

Draco stared at him, opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked out over the pitch again, then when he finally looked back, he said, "You aren't what I expected."

Harry smiled. "I believe that was my line, prat."

Pushing his tongue into the side of his cheek, Draco replied, "So, it seems to work for both of us, eh?"

"Seems so," Harry agreed, then added, "so far."

"Well, let's try not to disappoint each other," Draco suggested, with a hint of a smile.

Thinking that they might be off to a more than promising start, Harry asked, as he nodded toward the pitch, "Maybe later, we could throw out a Snitch, try out the new school brooms?"

Draco sat up on the bench as a smile split his face. "Yeah, that'd be great. God, I haven't been on a broom since…." His smile faded, as he leant his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands in front of him, then looked sideways at Harry. "Since I sat on the back of yours that night," he said softly, watching Harry closely.

Harry, who was facing him, straddling the bench, felt a flash of chagrin. This was too soon, too early to talk about that night; he'd decided to carefully circumnavigate that topic until the two of them were both ready, and he wondered now, who it was that might not be ready, and suspected it might be himself, if only because he'd worried that Draco might resent the idea that he owed a Life Debt, and he didn't want any such extraneous obligation clouding Draco's willingness to help him. He craved help freely given, not begrudging aid because Draco felt he owed him.

"Hmm, yeah, that was quite a ride," was all Harry said.

"Potter," Draco hesitated, "I've had plenty of time, years, in fact, and I've wanted to tell you—what you did—"

"Listen." Harry was shaking his head. "What I did was what anyone would've done. If it'd been me down there, you'd have done the same, so don't feel like you—"

Draco turned on the bench to face him. "I don't think so, remember why we were in there in the first place. We wanted to get you for—"

Still disagreeing, Harry barreled on. "I didn't even think about it, so it's not like it was some noble—"

Reaching over, Draco suddenly put a finger to Harry's lips to stop him. Without thinking, Harry moved with lightening speed, grabbing Draco by the wrist.

Draco seemed shocked, and tried to pull his hand away, but Harry held it fast.

"Not a wise move, considering who we are and where we've been." He looked at his hand, still squeezing Draco's wrist, and slightly eased the pressure, but didn't let go when he felt the man try to pull away again. "Sorry," he murmured, suddenly entranced by the bounding of the pulse below his thumb. He studied Draco's hand, and watched, fascinated, as the curled fingers relaxed. He wondered if that was his own heartbeat he heard in his ears, or if it was Draco's, pounding steadily against the flesh of his fingers.

"Potter." Harry's eyes snapped up to Draco's face, still without letting go. "I just wanted to say that I know I'd've been dead if you hadn't done what you did." His eyes drifted down to his hand, then widened as Harry began to move his thumb back and forth across the inside of his wrist. He swallowed visibly, then looked back to Harry's face.

Harry knew he should let go, but the look in Draco's eyes stopped him. They were beautiful, up close like this, gray and knowing, warm and rife with invitation. Harry was taken unawares as Draco suddenly twisted his arm and turned the tables; he now had a hold of Harry's wrist, but he held it loosely, massaging the base of Harry's palm with his fingers.

Harry knew he should pull away; it made no sense at all, why just the feel of those fingers would make him hard, why he wanted them to touch him more, why he would want to reach out with his other hand and touch the man's face, slide his hand along his cheek, perhaps trace that vein in his neck…. He was finding it difficult to breathe, and didn't even care when he felt the usual warmth in his face. Draco had to know, just as Harry did…what he was feeling, what one look at the man told Harry that Draco was feeling too.

Harry wondered what Draco had read in his face, because he slid his hand down Harry's forearm, up the back of his upper arm, slipping under the edge of his t-shirt, then his fingers paused, before circling behind to cup his shoulder. Harry, who'd closed his eyes, his breath short and shallow, opened them slowly when he felt the hand slip out of his shirt.

Draco was staring at him, two spots of color in the middle of his cheeks. When he spoke, hands resting on his thighs, Harry felt a streak of arousal at the huskiness of his voice. "Definitely not what I expected."

Harry, still shaken, murmured, "Same here."

oooOOOooo

Hagrid, of course, was the only other person at lunch in the Great Hall.

"Hullo, Professor Hagrid," Draco said smoothly, then smiled when the man nearly shook his arm from its socket.

"Yeh can call me Hagrid," he said. Squinting at Harry, he winked at Draco. "He's never called me professor. So, Harry here's bin showin' yeh the fixins'? Yeh up for the day, then?"

Draco shot Harry a quizzical look, who answered for him. "He's here for at least the weekend. He's going to help me with…some decisions in the library."

Hagrid glanced from one to the other, then his eyes filled with tears. "I saw the two of yeh walkin' up from the pitch, an' I though' teh myself how proud P'fessor Dumbledore woulda bin, teh see the both of yeh gettin' on like friends." He wiped at his eyes.

At Hagrid's words, Harry felt a stab of sadness. The simple gamekeeper had always had an uncanny knack for distilling people and events to startlingly spot-on perceptions.

"You're right, Hagrid. I know he'd have been," Harry said as he patted the big man on the back. Harry looked up, and Draco gave him a sober nod of agreement.

oooOOOooo

They spent the afternoon touring the inside of the castle, Harry using the opportunity to elaborate on details of the battle that had taken place in each particular spot. He noticed that Draco had become more silent and somber as the afternoon wore on. When they reached the corridor where the Death Eaters had finally penetrated, Harry pointed out where Fred had died. The wall had been replaced, the seams carefully fitted and sanded, but the new stones stood out, their color lighter and their surfaces rougher than the originals.

Draco seemed to have paled considerably, and as he leant against the wall, Harry stepped forward in concern.

"You know, I was still here when that happened? I must've been out for a while; when I woke up, everyone had moved on, even Goyle." He shook his head, then said, "Lucky, I guess."

"Lucky all of us," Harry agreed, thinking to himself that the rest of the castle could keep until the next day.

As they walked the corridor to the caretaker's rooms, Harry gave Draco a sideways glance. "So…are you certain you're ready for this?"

Draco seemed to have recovered his aplomb. He made a face, then retorted, "Oh, come off of it, Potter. How hard could it be? He's a portrait, for god's sake," he muttered.

Harry smiled to himself, but said aloud, "You're gonna eat those words."

Mrs. Norris appeared out of nowhere, just at the door. "My roommate," Harry said dryly as he let them in. Draco stopped in the doorway and took in the room, then turned to Harry.

"Not bad. Not bad at all. I was expecting…chains and manacles…things of Filch's you might've felt an attachment for," he said, eyeing Harry, his own eyes sparkling, and Harry felt that by now familiar spark of warmth, which he ignored, especially considering whom they were about to face. It wouldn't do to present Snape with such instant ammunition.

"Oh, I keep all of that stuff in the bedchamber," Harry said in a stage whisper, then emboldened, he nudged Draco toward the painting.

It now was hung on the wall, two feet from the ground. Harry'd tired of sitting on the floor for so many hours at a time, and although he knew it would look odd to anyone else, he didn't have that many visitors to begin with. He'd rearranged the furniture so that two armchairs sat directly across from the picture.

Motioning Draco to a chair, Harry went for the sideboard, asking as he went, "Tea or whisky?" When Draco hesitated, Harry reached for two glasses, saying, "Personally, I'd go for the whisky. You're gonna need it, take my word for it."

"Whisky," Draco confirmed.

"Draco," said the occupant of the painting, causing Harry to smile as he returned with the drinks.

"Severus," Draco replied. "I've been looking forward to seeing you, ever since Harry told me you were…here."

Harry sat back and prepared to enjoy the show, for once feeling like he could let down his guard.

"Indeed." Snape looked from Draco, then to Harry, whom he fixed for a moment with his eyes, and Harry realized that he wasn't entirely off the hook. Harry returned the look, then was dismayed when Snape smiled slowly at him. Looking back to Draco, he asked him curtly, "Why did you not retreat with the rest of your House when you were told to do so?"

Draco choked on his drink. "You know precisely why," he answered when he'd recovered. "He had my parents in the forest—"

Snape interrupted him. "Your parents, how are they?" He'd pulled his chair to sit in front of the desk, a sign that he was going to be at this for some time.

Draco seemed disoriented by the sudden change in direction. Harry almost felt sorry for him, but not quite. He listened as Draco explained about his father, then moved on to his mother.

"I see her once a week. She never goes out, but Aunt Andromeda visits every weekend, and we still have a house-elf. Most days, she doesn't even get dressed, except on the day we visit my father."

Harry sat still, and thought of the proud woman he remembered from the past, the very same woman who'd, in the end, done him a great service, even though it had been out of concern for the man sitting next to him, not for Harry himself.

His mind wandered as the two Slytherins talked, and he realized from their conversation, that they knew each other fairly well. Then finally, it seemed that the information sharing part of the dialogue was finished, when there was a long silence, broken when Draco spoke, his voice strained.

"Sir, there are some things I'd like to say. Things I've never said, because I was too stubborn and proud."

Snape turned slightly in his chair, and said shortly to Harry, "Potter, leave us, if you will."

Harry shrugged, picked up his drink, thinking to himself that here he was, being ordered out of his rooms by a dead person. He didn't really mind, though. As he turned to go, he leant down to murmur at Draco's ear, "Told you so." Then, despite knowing that Snape was watching, Harry patted him on the shoulder for courage.

oooOOOooo

By the time Harry returned to collect Draco for supper, he'd already decided that he wouldn't ask what the two of them had talked about. He remembered his own 'debriefing' with Snape, and was certain that Draco's comments to the man would be no less personal than his own had been.

Draco was quiet as they made their way down the staircases to the Great Hall; he caught Harry casting him a furtive look. "I'm all right. It wasn't nearly as bad as I expected…at least by the end."

Harry made a small sound of commiseration. "Hmm, yeah, same here. It felt good, though, didn't it?"

Shoving a hand in his pocket as they stepped off the stairway, Draco stopped, staring up at the refurbished House hourglasses. "It did. I didn't know how much it would, but you're right. Felt good to come clean." He pointed to the counters. "He actually took five hundred points from Slytherin," he said with a smile.

Harry guffawed. "Yeah, he does that with me from time to time. And y'know, it still makes me want to argue; he's still so…Snape…and I forget we're not…there anymore." He nodded toward the Hall. "Sometimes I wish we were, at least for Snape's sake."

Draco disagreed, "He was miserable, I was miserable, and so were you. No going back. He wouldn't want that, and you'd have to be mad to even think it."

"Maybe just the Hogwarts part, then. Now that I know…more about him, I think it'd be different. Maybe not, but I wish, you know, some things could be done over," he finished as they took their seats.

Leaning in close to him, Draco told him, "I think you need to get out more."

Harry made a face. "You and Snape both, I should've known."

oooOOOooo

"It's creepy," Draco agreed. They were standing in the headmaster's office, studying the bat hanging from the edge of Snape's portrait.

"Isn't it?" Harry asked, as he waved him forward. "I think Snape misses him, or it, whatever." They watched it for a moment, then Harry knelt to the side of the portrait and pulled the trunk out into the center of the room. "See," he said as Draco knelt beside him, "the clasp has the same design as the key you found."

Draco traced a finger over the tarnished silver. "Yeah, you're right." The two of them pushed the heavy lid up, then Draco leant in to look. "All that work for this?"

Harry pulled the scarf out and handed it to him. "That's what I thought—sort of disappointing. The books are in the library, but I kept the rest of it here." He watched as Draco fingered the wand.

"So, what d'you think? A spare?"

Holding it up to eye-level, Draco balanced it on his palm, then took it by the grip to examine the silver banding. "Could be, but…see how short it is, how slender. No," he paused as he scraped at the surface with a fingernail. "A woman's, I think."

"Hmmm, don't know who, though." Harry leant over and pulled out the leather pouch. "These, now, I've no idea."

Draco carefully removed the phials, then let out a low warbling whistle. "Now, these are very nice. Very nice," he commented, as he examined them one by one.

"They're potions bottles," Harry replied uncertainly. The look he received in reply told him he was obviously missing something.

"Not just any potions phials, these are specially made," Draco scoffed, then rolled his eyes. "I forgot what a dunce you were at Potions. Remember what our class phials looked like?" he asked impatiently, then continued, "These are heavier—did you feel—and see how the bottle has edges? Well, the inside is curved to protect the potion. I'd wager these are from Severus' custom-made stock." He hefted one experimentally in his hand, holding it up to the light, and then giving it a gentle shake. "This is unusual—it's sealed with an anti-reactant ring—see here? The wax set around the stopper?"

"So, you're saying what's inside is probably valuable?" Harry asked, watching as Draco continued to inspect the phials appreciatively.

Peering at the bottom of one of the phials, Draco shrugged. "Valuable to Severus, for sure." He squinted in the low light, then held the phial up to better see the underside. "Hey, there's a number here." He held it out for Harry to see. Sure enough, there was a miniscule number etched on the dark glass. Harry groped for the two other phials in Draco's lap; like the first phial, the others were numbered as well. He felt the goose bumps rise on his arms.

"There're numbers like this in his journal," he mumbled. Summoning a quill and parchment from the desk, he copied them down as Draco held them out for him. He was about to get up, when Draco surprised him by laying a hand on his arm. Despite what had occurred out on the pitch, Harry was still taken unawares by the gesture. But Draco hadn't seemed to notice, his arm still restraining him as he leant into the trunk.

"There's something else in here—looks like a letter," he said as he drew it out, then seemed to realize what his other hand was doing, because his eyes drifted up to Harry's and stayed there for a moment before he let him go.

"Uh…that's sort of personal," Harry attempted, reaching out a hand.

Draco lifted the parchment out of Harry's range. "It wasn't in the trunk when you opened it?"

Harry sighed, "Yes, it was. But I don't think it's of any value." He realized that this had possibly been the worst thing he could've said.

"Potter, there were only a handful of things in there. I think everything would be of value." The gray eyes were alight with suspicion. "It's something you don't want me to see, and why is that?" he asked, but made no move to open the parchment, waiting for Harry's reply.

"It's…a picture of my mother," Harry finally admitted. "She and Snape were friends once…when they were at Hogwarts."

Draco cocked his head to the side in question. "Really?" When Harry nodded, Draco lowered the parchment, then asked him, "Do you mind?"

"Go ahead, I just don't want Snape knowing I showed it to you."

Hesitating, searching Harry's face, Draco unfolded the parchment, then stared down at the half-torn photograph, briefly glanced at the portion of the letter before refolding both of them inside the parchment. "You have her eyes," he said softly, his voice awe-struck.

"Yeah, I know." He lifted his green eyes to meet the gray ones studying him intently.

oooOOOooo

The two of them were sitting side by side at a carrel in the Restricted Section, where Harry pulled the journal and text from the shelf above.

He slid the copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art in front of Draco, then watched as he opened the cover. "Dark Arts," Harry said.

Draco's lip curled as he studied the table of contents. "Brilliant, Potter." He ran a finger down the page, then began to leaf through the pages for a chapter.

While Draco read, Harry looked down at the journal in his lap, running his hand over the smooth leather cover. He noticed for the first time that there was a dark stain on the corner, and wondered idly what it was—a watermark, a potion, or perhaps Snape had just spilled his tea. Not likely, though.

It occurred to him that of all the contents of the trunk, this was the most personal item. The man had no doubt purchased it from a shop—perhaps he'd hesitated over brown versus black, lined or unlined, a clasp with a lock or a tie-cord. He'd brought it back to Hogwarts and set it aside for a while, its purpose perhaps yet unknown.

Harry undid the cord, then opened the book to the middle. At some point, Snape had done what Harry'd just done—smoothed his hand over the leather, then cracked it open, pressing it flat before dipping his quill. Then he'd bent over and begun to write.

Tracing his hand over the irregular script, Harry could feel the barely perceptible texture of the words on the page. Snape's hand had rested just where his was now; his eyes had labored over the entries, just as Harry's had so many times in the past weeks. Part of Snape's mind was preserved in these pages—intellect distilled, intention and emotion, even hopes and fears perhaps hidden between the lines.

This was the crux of the matter—this was Snape, and Harry wanted desperately to decipher the riddle of the journal, if only because he believed that the man deserved to have his true character glimpsed and appreciated by another. Harry experienced a fleeting moment of whimsy, a pang of regret, that he was about to share this treasure with someone else. No matter that it was Draco, the one person who would perhaps understand why Harry felt the need to figure it out. No, it was the sense that the journal had been entrusted to him alone. But he realized that he could go no further on his own. He didn't understand exactly why, but he knew that Draco was the one to help him….

Harry came back to himself when he felt the warmth of Draco's leg against his own beneath the carrel. Not just a casual brush, but a steady, insistent pressure.

"Draco, what're you doing?" Harry asked, but he didn't pull his leg away.

"Reading," Draco said, then turned his head slightly and cocked an eyebrow. "And testing the waters."

"And…?" Harry asked, barely managing to get the word out.

"Oh, I think they're warm, definitely warm." Harry felt the damned flush begin, which seemed to prompt Draco's, "Am I bothering you?" A definite nudge accompanied the question, which Harry returned.

"No, not at all," Harry said quietly, then moved his chair closer as he laid the journal on the desk. Pushing it in Draco's direction, he said, "This is what I wanted you to see."

Draco laid a hand on the journal, but for the moment he ignored it, as he closed the text and tapped the front of it with a finger. "This is serious magic," he said.

"Dark," Harry corrected him.

Draco shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it. Longevity rites and potions, immortality rituals." He paused as he shook his head. "Even Muggles salivate over this sort of thing." He looked shrewdly at Harry. "A universal longing…to live forever." He pushed the book away, then slid the journal in front of him as he said, "But it's lengthy—it'll take me a while to get through it."

Harry nodded toward the journal. "Maybe if you start with the passages that Snape has listed."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Nice of you to tell me that."

For the next hour, Harry led Draco through the journal, at one point pulling down his notes from the shelf. He showed him his work of the past weeks, what he'd managed to glean from the books in the Restricted Section: the potions ingredients, mostly, then he moaned inside when Draco got hung up on the dates and places that represented Harry's wanderings that year.

"I'll explain that—you're right. It's all tied together, I think. But that'll have to keep for another time. It's late, and you're tired. And we still have Snape waiting for us, I'll wager."

Draco groaned. "It'd all be sorted out so quickly if he'd just explain the bloody thing. It's frustrating," he complained. Harry, thinking of Dumbledore, knew exactly how he felt,

Reaching back, Draco undid the clasp to his hair to let it fall loose. Harry gazed at him as he shook it out, tucked it behind his ears, then leant in over the journal.

"Birnum," Draco muttered. "Where have I heard that before?"

But Harry wasn't listening. He didn't think about what he did next. He reached over and caressed a length of the flaxen hair where it lay on Draco's shoulder, finishing by picking up a tress and rubbing the end of it between his fingers. He began again, drawing his fingers through the silky, fine hair, slowly working his way to the ends, repeating the motion again and again.

Draco had frozen in place, then relaxed as he hung his head over the journal. Harry sat slightly forward, to capture the stray hair that had fallen into his face, tucking it back behind the ear again as he continued to comb with his fingers.

"Potter," Draco mumbled, his voice deeper, "what're you doing?"

Harry didn't speak for a moment, until he'd dropped his hand, then he answered with a question. "Why is your hair so long?"

Sighing, Draco angled his chair and leant against the side of the carrel. "Because I don't cut it?" At the look on Harry's face, he pulled a handful of hair over his shoulder and studied the ends as he replied, "My father always said that long hair marks the passage of a boy into manhood." His eyes flicked up to Harry's. "At least for a pureblood."

Harry mused for a moment, then said, "I would've thought that serving Voldemort would be the dividing line." He strategically paused. "For a pureblood."

Draco stared back at him, then surprised Harry when he flushed slightly. "Yeah, well, there was that. This," he lifted his handful of hair, "is just a wizarding tradition."

Harry reached forward and swatted Draco's hand away, then pushed the lock of hair back in place. Close to Draco's face, he said, "Well, it looks good on you." For a moment, Harry hesitated, thinking to himself that all he had to do was to move two little inches, when Draco seemed to decide that question for both of them.

Angling his head, Draco made short work of those two little inches, as he brought their faces close together, and murmured against Harry's lips, "Funny how things turn out." Harry felt a hand at the nape of his neck, gently pulling him forward.

When Harry spoke, he felt a frisson of wanting as his lips touched Draco's. "Oh god."

Not a kiss of passion. Not a frenzied hide-and-seek kiss of discovery. Not a kiss of intimacy, either. It was a breath of 'hello', a tentative whisper of 'may I?' a delicate press of warm and soft and wet that promised 'more'. It lasted far shorter then Harry would've liked, but far longer than he'd've hoped. Considering who the two of them were, it shouldn't have even happened at all. Yet, here they were….

It was Draco who pulled away first, pushing Harry gently back from the edge of his chair, where he was almost precariously perched. Draco slid his elbow onto the desk, then rested his head on his hand, facing Harry. "Time to talk, Potter."

oooOOOooo

"So, that's where it stands," Harry finished. "She wants something I can't give her. She wants me to…be someone." He shrugged, then looked away.

"You are someone." Draco's voice made Harry look up. "And if she's not happy with that, then let her go. It's that simple."

Harry shook his head. "Sounds simple, when you put it that way, I guess."

"Well, that part of it is. What I'm really interested in…" Draco gestured between the two of them, "…is this part. This doesn't just happen so easily. At least with you, I get the sense that you've…played this game before." His eyes narrowed as he considered Harry. "Am I wrong?"

Harry stiffened. "Why would you call it a game? That makes it sound…I don't know, like something we're playing at." He shook his head. "I don't play, Draco. At least not where people are concerned."

Draco's eyes sparkled. "Poor choice of words. Mea culpa. Let's see…how to word it…. You've liked a man before, haven't you? And by 'like', I mean as in sex. How's that?" he asked, seeming to repress a smile.

"That's better," Harry said, wondering why just the man's words had made him want to lean forward and kiss him again. "But you have to understand this has nothing to do with what happened with Ginny."

Giving a noncommittal shrug, Draco told him, "We'll see. You may have a blind spot there."

Harry hesitated, about to protest, then decided to let it go—it wasn't important at this point. "Remember I told you about the Ministry builders?" When Draco nodded, he went on. "They were here most of that first year, and in the spring, near the end, about five of them actually stayed at the castle. We sorted them out with some rooms in the dungeons, and they kept to themselves at night, drinking and playing cards…sometimes went in to the Hog's Head." Harry slid his elbow onto the desk, then rested his head in his hand, mirroring Draco's position.

"There was one, though, who was younger, and didn't fit in. He used the library at night sometimes, and we got to talking, found we both liked Quidditch. Started out with flying around the pitch a bit, then having a drink afterward. Before I knew it, we were spending every evening together, passing the time. I was bit lonely, and so was he, I guess." Harry twirled a piece of hair in his fingers, his eyes far away.

"And then one night, in my rooms, it just…happened," he said softly.

Draco gave him a knowing look. "What happened?"

"We were spending so much time together…and…."

Pursing his lips, Draco said, "You were attracted to each other?"

Harry gave him a withering look. "You want to finish my sentences, or would you rather I tell it?"

Draco gave him a palms-up gesture. "Then tell it, for pity's sake."

Harry intentionally drew the pause out, then finally conceded, "It happened much the same way as you and…" Harry stopped; he'd almost said, 'as you and I happened', only it wasn't quite an accurate parallel, given what hadn't happened between him and the man sitting across from him. "This…what we're doing." He pointed at Draco and then himself.

"Oh, I see. Details, please," Draco smirked.

Typical Draco, Harry thought to himself, demanding and persistent. Well, he had no delusions that what he was about to say had any shock-value. "What specifically would you like to know? We had sex. We had it often. It was my first time with a man, and he was only slightly more experienced. I was happy and so was he." He smiled as he remembered. "We knew it was a lark—he'd be returning to London, and that would be it. Neither one of us wanted more, not that we talked about it." He gave Draco a pointed look. "I like sex too. And at the time, it was great just to have sex, without all those other things that get in the way," he confessed.

"Like commitment," Draco supplied for him,

Harry nodded. "Exactly. I was still seeing Ginny at the time, but this…thing he and I had? It didn't feel like cheating at all. It was something we both needed and wanted, and knew it wouldn't last for long."

"So," Draco drew the word out, "that makes you bisexual."

For the first time in the evening, Harry felt uncomfortable. "Hmm, I don't know. I guess that's the word for it. I liked sex with Ginny. But it was never like it was with…Nate. I always thought it was all the other stuff getting in the way that made it seem…less exciting with Ginny."

Draco was watching him, the beginnings of a smile on his face. "Being queer doesn't mean you never fuck women. You remember Pansy?"

Harry wasn't surprised. "Yeah, I do. She seemed sweet on you. So, you and she…?"

As the smile spread on his face, Draco nodded. "Yeah, we did. Mostly so I'd have something to tell my father." He stuck the tip of finger into his mouth and moved it in and out, watching Harry, who felt his cock twitch in response. "But I buggered Nott from the time we were fourth-years," he replied slyly.

"You and Nott?" Harry managed to croak out, still watching Draco's finger, fascinated.

"Yeah, me and Nott. I've always preferred men. Doing both doesn't mean I'm bi, though."

Harry shook his head slightly, forcing himself to stifle his reaction. "So, you think that maybe I'm not…bi? That I'm queer?"

Draco leant forward slightly, then used his wet finger to trace down the center of Harry's nose. "That's for you to sort out. It's a matter of which you prefer, given the choice." He withdrew his finger, then said softly, "As for you and me…it's up to you, Potter. I needed to know…" He paused, then finished, "…before anything else happens."

Harry felt it again, the pleasant surge of fullness in his trousers, and answered honestly, "Well, you're sort of a surprise, but I think…whatever happens…happens." He didn't look away, but as he felt the heat in his face, he was struck by the notion that perhaps for him, passage into manhood might mean he'd eventually manage to control this bloody compulsion to blush at the slightest provocation. He sighed out loud, then smiled when Draco laughed softly.

"Fair enough. Believe me, I have a vivid picture in my mind…what's going to happen," he told Harry, his smile fading as he searched Harry's face.

Meeting his eyes, Harry said, "Like you said, funny how things turn out." He supposed it was outrageous, but given the past several weeks—finding himself mesmerized by a portrait, consumed by the obsession of the journal, spending most of his free time in conversation with a dead person—the prospect of what he and Draco had discussed, bizarre and unexpected as it seemed, was just about right.

oooOOOooo

It was almost ten by the time Draco closed the journal. "I'll start with the potions. That'll be the easiest part." He chewed the end of his finger. "You're right, though." He patted Harry's parchments. "Trying to tie all of this together is the hard part. You've done a great deal of work already—impressive, actually." He eyed Harry thoughtfully. "I can stay till Tuesday this time. I'm seeing Mother then, so I can make use of the library—we have books that aren't in the Restricted Section."

Harry was relieved; he'd been half-afraid that Draco wouldn't want to commit to the rather sizeable and time-consuming project. "You can come and go as you please. If I'm not expecting you, just show up at the gates and rattle them, and the wards will let me know you're there. Or owl me, if you can."

As they walked back to Harry's rooms, Draco advised him, "When I'm working, I'm usually done by nine. Is that too late for you?"

Shaking his head, Harry replied, "Not at all. I'm not on any particular schedule for now." Reaching the door, he said as he pulled it open, "I'm up late, most nights, as you-know-who seems to be deciding when I get to bed."

Mrs. Norris streaked from the corridor, from out of nowhere, through their legs to disappear into the rooms. Harry called up the lights, then Snape's irritated voice accosted them almost immediately.

"The Happy Wanderers return at last," he said with his usual sarcasm. Harry noted that he was leaning back against his desk, his arms crossed in front of him. "So, you've been abusing my privacy; no need to deny it." Fastening his eyes on Draco, he demanded, "How did you find my journal?"

Draco affected disinterest. "Boring, cryptic, even for you, and I don't know why Potter's bothering with it at all," he said as he threw himself down into one of the armchairs opposite the painting, Harry taking the other beside it.

Snape seemed to dismiss the comment, and moved on. "So…I'm curious. How have the two of you been getting on?"

Harry instantly knew that the man wouldn't hesitate to inflict question number five, if Harry didn't produce something to allay at least part of his prurient curiosity. "We're getting along…amazingly well. Just as you predicted," he told him frankly, watching as Snape's eyes dilated slightly, and his lips lifted with the beginnings of a sneer.

"Indeed. My congratulations to Mr. Malfoy, then. Rather more large-minded than I expected," he said snidely. "How long do you intend to stay?" he asked Draco.

Draco said evenly, "Until Tuesday. But I'll be back on Saturday, maybe even Friday."

"Hmm," Snape said, eyeing Draco thoughtfully. "What about your other money-making venture?"

"Sir?" Draco frowned. "My what?" he asked, perplexed, looking from Snape to Harry, then back again.

Snape rubbed his chin with his thumb. "How did Potter phrase it? I believe it was your 'pick-up' business."

Opening his mouth, Draco shut it suddenly. Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose, then, ignoring Snape, he turned to Harry. "I may've stretched the truth a bit." Harry realized that this was the first time in their short reacquaintance that Draco seemed ill-at-ease. "It's not really a paying job. I accept money, but only because I buy the bottle." He cast an irritated look at the portrait when Snape snorted. "No, it's the truth, really. I only told you what I did to see if I could get a rise out of you."

"And instead, Potter here was worried about you," Snape scoffed. "But I knew…I knew that despite what you'd told him, despite how dire your circumstances might be, you'd never sink to selling yourself, your professed aptitude for sex aside." He made a tsking noise, but Harry had focused his complete attention on Draco.

"Get a rise out of me?" Harry pressed.

It was obvious that Draco was embarrassed. "Well, I didn't get the reaction I thought I'd get…luring you to the Highfield, so I thought I'd go one step further…and see if I could outrage you…." He dropped his voice, then sounded almost apologetic as he added, "with the 'pick-up' story."

Harry was bewildered for a moment. What he was hearing sounded like something the 'old' Draco would've done. But as he studied the Draco beside him, he realized how foolish a thought this actually was. As different as they both might be now, as odd as it seemed to feel an attraction for the man, this Draco would always be connected to the one of the past, just as Harry was tied to the person that he had been, once upon a time. He remembered that Snape had warned him of this only the night before.

Harry had to admit that he wasn't proud of all the things he'd done in the past, and even of some of the things that he still thought and did on occasion. He supposed that Draco wasn't any different. Personal change was difficult and unpredictable, often a journey of three steps forward, then two steps back. Even at almost twenty, he found that opinions and prejudices didn't just give up and die a neat painless death. They hung on, pled for mercy, whispered that they'd been a part of his life for so long, how could he just shed them without hearing them out, giving them a second chance?

"I wasn't outraged," Harry told him soberly. "Just a bit…concerned."

Draco inclined his head. "I apologize then."

"Well, isn't this touching?" came the voice from the portrait.

Harry ignored Snape again, telling Draco, "Remember what I said? About playing games? Please…don't. If you have a curiosity about how something would strike me, just ask. All right?"

The gray eyes grew large, and Harry guessed that Draco had expected something different. "All right…no games."

Snape cleared his throat dramatically, then commanded, "Now that that's settled, I've not had my update from the Daily Prophet. Potter, if you don't mind?"

While Draco poured them drinks from the sideboard, Harry settled himself in his chair while picking up the paper, shooting Snape a quizzical look. The man returned the look, measure for measure, situating himself in his chair behind the desk, propping his feet up on it as he usually did.

Draco and Harry took turns reading, Snape interrupting with questions here and there. When they'd finally finished, Harry turned to Draco and asked him, "Where would you prefer to sleep? You have your pick of the castle, even the Slytherin dormitory, if you like."

Casting a wary eye at Snape, Draco said, "If it's all right, I'd prefer to stay here. I spend so much time alone, as it is. So, here on the settee would be fine, if you don't mind."

"Sure, but we can make it more comfortable," Harry offered as he stood. In a matter of minutes, they'd transfigured the settee into a more spacious bed, with a coverlet and pillows; Draco smirked when Harry flicked his wand to turn them all a muted Slytherin green.

Draco sat on the edge and bounced several times, testing the mattress. When he looked up at the painting, he narrowed his eyes, then, out of the blue, asked, "Severus, what's Birnum?"

Bringing his feet down from the desk, Snape stared back at him. "An entry in my journal, of course."

"Of course," Draco replied sarcastically. "Forget I asked."

"Done," Snape retorted.

After exchanging 'goodnights', Harry paused at the door to his bedchamber, and looked back into the sitting room. Even though he knew he'd more than likely have to pay the piper in the morning, he decided that tonight, of all nights, he wanted his door shut. As he closed it, he saw that Draco and Snape were still talking softly.

CHAPTER FIVE