Severus paced his sitting room, wondering if the damn werewolf would ever remember to contact him. An hour ago, he had been on his way to dinner, and had come up the stairs into an overly excited crowd of students in the entrance hall. The roar of overlapping words had seemed to contain Harry's name rather frequently. Quickly, Severus had located the convergence point of the crowd. He had strode quickly through the slow flow of people, only to be nearly bowled over by Hermione Granger, the two remaining Weasleys, and a large floating missile. Before he could even shout, he had recognized the missile as the unconscious, bloody body of his son. His friends seemed to be heading up to the hospital wing as fast as the crowd would allow.

"Stand aside, idiots!" he had bellowed furiously at the clustered students. "Let them through." That had helped. The little group had made it onto the stairs and had run up them as only Gryffindors could. Severus had seen Remus emerging from the Great Hall and had moved to cross his path.

"Check on him," he had whispered fiercely, as he brushed shoulders with the werewolf in passing. Remus had nodded sharply, or Severus thought he had, but had not contacted him since. He wanted to go up to Remus's rooms, but he was afraid they would pass each other in the halls.

Finally, a knock sounded at his door. Severus hurried to answer it. He barely remembered to glance in the mirror to confirm that his visitor was Remus.

"Well?" he demanded, as he opened the door. He stepped back to allow Remus to enter, and pushed the door shut behind him.

"He's fine," Remus said as the door clicked shut. "Pomfrey may allow him to leave in a hour or two." Remus held up a hand to forestall any reply or dismissal. "However," he said, "I'm rather concerned about what happened."

"And?" Severus growled, as Remus appeared to be waiting for an acknowledgment. He remembered a much younger Remus. Sev, can you at least let me know you heard? I feel like I'm talking to myself.

"The damage was self-inflicted."

"What?" Severus gasped.

"Sorry -- I'm overstating." Remus rubbed at his forehead. "He had not intended to seriously hurt himself, but he did intentionally hit himself with a Stupefaction Hex. Not surprisingly, he fell and hit his head. A rather nasty blow, at that."

"Why wou-- Do you know why?"

"To save himself from having to talk to Hermione, apparently."

"What? Lupin, that makes no sense!"

"And he admits this." Remus began to pace restlessly in front of the couch. "He tells me the two of you had some mad scheme to lead Hermione and Ron to believe he's taking some recreational concoction?"

"His scheme, mainly, but yes."

"Well, it worked far too well." Remus stopped pacing and began to wander from one item of furniture to the next. "Hermione is near-hysterical. Ron might be fine on his own, but he's adopting her anxiety. Of course this is entirely predictable, and if Harry had any sense of Muggle culture, he'd know how a girl like Hermione would react."

"I think Harry acts far more like a Muggle than he should."

Remus stopped near his desk and looked back at Severus. His expression was unreadable. "So he's told me."

Severus felt a hard ball form in the pit of his stomach. Why had Harry mentioned that? He never behaved as if that weighed on his mind. On the contrary, he scarcely acknowledged Severus's comments.

"It bothers me that he felt that desperate," Remus continued, turning away to fidget with a letter opener that had been lying on the desk. He turned it over and over in his hands. "Do you know if he had an especially rough day?"

"I thought we'd had a rather pleasant day." Severus thought back over the afternoon. We fought about Remus. "We did have a fight." And my teaching. "Two, I suppose. But Remus, we always fight. He wasn't upset."

Remus whirled to face him, wide-eyed with surprise, and Severus realized he had said the werewolf's first name. He flinched.

"Perhaps I can talk to him about it on Monday," Remus suggested neutrally, regaining his composure. He put the letter opener carefully back down. Severus suspected it was exactly where it had been before he touched it. "After classes?"

"If I'm back."

Remus took a step towards him. "What do we do if you don't come back?" he asked. "I know why you won't be here."

Severus shrugged and turned to regard a painting of a ship being struck by lightning in a stormy sea. He preferred not to have people, or other talking creatures, in his paintings. "I still don't understand what you mean about Harry not understanding Muggles," he said, pointedly redirecting the conversation. The ship pitched and tossed as its sails caught fire.

"He isn't connected to Muggle culture. He wasn't taken to movies -- popular stories in photography -- and he didn't have the money for books, or a way to get to a library. He didn't interact with people, other than the Dursleys. He's comfortable with technology and the clothes, but even I, from occasionally taking refuge where no one will recognize what I am, have a better grasp of Muggle life than he does."

"So you think this scheme of his is too dramatic."

"Absolutely." Remus crossed the room and stopped far to close to Severus. "Hermione told me what she suspected, and if she'd told McGonagall, instead, you'd have a pretty mess on your hands. If she'd told Professor Vector, whom I know she has personal conversations with, it would be even worse. Harry needs to drop this, or to pretend to get over it, before something breaks -- other than his head, that is."

Severus desperately wanted to talk to Harry, but he was due at the Dark Lord's side in ten hours, and Harry would no doubt be closely watched, tonight.

"Thank you for the report, Lupin," he said formally. "I have other matters to attend to."

Remus looked him once up and down. His pale eyes held nothing. "Of course," he said coolly. He stepped to the door. "Good night, Severus."

He shut the door so gently that the the click of the bolt was inaudible. Severus had to lean against the thick wood to be certain the latch had taken.

Harry got a few stares and snickers at breakfast, but he decided it wasn't too bad, as public embarrassments went. He supposed he should thank Hermione for her quick action; falling and hitting his head sounded dumb, but intentionally knocking himself out would have sounded completely mental. He supposed this meant that Hermione was still on his side, really, although it often didn't feel like it, anymore.

Just as he had finished this thought, he saw her approaching. She was on her own, for once, which somehow made him feel safer.

She sat beside him and nudged him gently.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Harry said defiantly. "It's a beautiful Sunday morning, and I've done enough of my homework to spend a chunk of the day outside -- why shouldn't I feel fine?"

"The mind boggles." She sighed. "Look, Harry ... I know you don't want to, but we need to talk. Come for a walk with me?"

"Does this walk involve groping you in the bushes by the lake?" Harry almost winced as the words left his mouth, but managed to keep a neutral expression.

Hermione's face darkened. "No."

"I'll pass, then. Go find Ron."

"I don't want to talk to Ron; I want to talk to you!"

"Look, I had a very long talk with Remus last night...."

"I don't care."

"I told him more than I can tell you. So why don't you go talk to him -- he said to send you -- and leave me alone."

"Do you realize how horrible you're being?"

Harry, who had actually been feeling rather guilty about the groping question, was saved from answering by the arrival of the owls. Hedwig was among them, and she swooped gloriously through the crowd of lesser birds to drop a letter beside Harry's plate. She settled next to it, hooted softly, and stretched and settled her wings. He gave her bacon and scratched under her neck feathers, then unsealed the letter.

To the esteemed Mr. H. Potter, Greetings!

Business is going well. Our thanks for the Mood Wings tip -- we'll bring extra. As for our brother ... we'll try to deal with him when we're there. Tell him we said not to be a prat.

The fifth of October works, but we will need to leave early the next morning, as we've managed to score prime tickets to the Arrows/Wasps game on October the sixth. You must have heard about the new Beater on the Appleby Arrows -- Trent Durand. No way you couldn't -- not only has he been featured in every sports magazine in Europe, but he keeps showing up on the cover of Witch Weekly, for the ladies' viewing pleasure. Oliver's met him, though, and says he's not a clothes horse, just a handsome bloke, and not too snobby to talk Quidditch with a minor-team alternate.

Any Arrow/Wasps game would be a rousing time, but seeing Durand play will be the real treat. Of course, his fan distribution has its own possibilities -- We're bringing a few of our showier, more harmless items to draw the loose birds.

We can certainly make you look like an angel, Harrykins, and we'd be happy to do any mid-term shopping you wish. Anything you want, this trip?

It was weird, having a first-year on the team, but you were a good, steady kid. We (all the big, grown-up third-years) talked, sometimes, about what a stroke of luck that was. It's odd to watch you become closer to our age, if you understand what we mean. A year after you leave school, I doubt it will seem like a difference at all.

Cheers,

Fred & George

"You're smiling," Hermione said softly. "For real."

Harry grinned at her. "It's from Fred and George. They'll come to the Gryffindor/Ravenclaw game."

"It should be fun to see them," Hermione said agreeably.

"Look, Hermione -- I am sorry about being such a git. What do you say to a truce?"

"What kind of truce?"

"You drop the interrogations and accusations, and I won't hold anything you have said or done against you."

Hermione hesitated. After a moment's thought, she spoke. "How about this -- I won't ask you about anything you have already done. If you don't disappear again, that's the end of it. If you do, though, all bets are off."

"So, basically, we both act like the last three weeks didn't happen?"

"Right."

Harry sighed. That would be a pretty short-lived truce. "Better than nothing, I suppose," he said. "Do talk to Professor Lupin, though."

After breakfast, Harry went up to the library. He set out his books, but decided to reply to Fred and George before starting on class work.

Dear Twins,

Durand is brilliant! You're so lucky to be able to see him play. I can't wait to leave school and get to go where I want.

I understand what you mean about ages. Ginny is my age, now, really.

I'd love some Muggle cigarettes, if you don't mind. The problem is that if certain people catch me with them, they'll be confiscated, so I need more packs then they think I'll have. Four or five, perhaps? The packs of ten are fine. Don't give them to me in public.

Best wishes,

Harry

The sensation of someone looking over his shoulder caused Harry to look up. Draco was standing beside him.

"What?" Harry asked, hurriedly folding the letter.

"I saw your departure from the great hall, yesterday," Draco said pointedly.

Harry sighed. "You and fifty other people."

"I hadn't been able to find you all day." Draco managed to make it sound as if Harry should apologize for this. Harry resisted the urge. "Would you like to tell me what inspired that display?"

"No," Harry said flatly.

Draco shrugged. "All right then. I won't ask you again. Would you like to come down to the pitch after the Slytherin practice and fly with me? Just for fun? You might work some of those nerves off."

"Sounds great," Harry said.

"Later, then." Draco swaggered off. Draco was proud of him accepting, Harry realized. That felt good.

Hermione and Ron shifted uneasily on Professor Lupin's couch. Lupin didn't seem to notice their discomfort. He offered them a choice of pumpkin juice, butterbeer, or tea, then said nothing more until all of the beverages were poured.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you," he said, "that your friend had a very difficult summer." There was no need for him to qualify "your friend." They had come here to talk about Harry.

"Through August," he continued, "he was recovering nicely. I had expected your presence to accelerate this change, not degrade it."

The disappointment on his face was worse then any reproof. Hermione found herself wanting to apologize before she was certain what he had found wrong with her.

"We were just trying to keep things private, sir," Ron said quietly.

"What things? You don't understand what he's doing, or what he's going through, and I can assure you, he has reasons not to tell you. I and at least two of my associates are keeping quite close watch on Harry, and there is nothing in his life that needs further interference."

"But--" Hermione protested.

"It is not your job to protect Harry," Lupin said, placidly, but firmly. "It is my job, and it is Dumbledore's job -- one, I might note, to which he now applies more direct attention -- but it is not yours. Your job is to be his friends -- to be trustworthy and kind, and to help him when he asks for help."

"But he never asks!" Ron burst out.

Lupin sighed. "I understand your frustration with that. Still, I cannot be his refuge." His pale brown eyes looked pleadingly at each of them in turn. "I need you to do that. If we are all trying to guide him, he has no one for comfort, and he needs comfort, perhaps more than guidance."

Hermione shifted uneasily at the thought of the map in her bag. After Harry had left, the night before, she and Ron had gone down to the dungeons and risked mapping the rooms off the short hall. They had given Snape's lab wide berth, at the sight of flickering light coming through the crack under the door.

Hermione had hoped to ask Lupin about Peter's role in the making of the original Marauders' Map. She was certain they were missing some aspect of how the mapping had been done, because the Marauder's Map had included all the public spaces they had not figured out a way to cense, and all the outdoor areas. Now, she was certain that if she asked Lupin about the map, he would know exactly what they had been using it for. She was equally certain, as she might not have been the day before, that he would disapprove.

When Hermione and Ron left Lupin's office, Hermione led Ron into a nearby classroom and shut the door behind them.

"He's right, you know," Ron said gloomily. "It's what I started to do a week ago."

"I'd sort of like to finish the map, anyway," Hermione advanced. She managed to restrain herself from saying that she could not bear to drop such a challenging project. That would not motivate Ron.

"Bringing him in, or giving it to him for Christmas?" Ron asked.

"I'm not sure we'll finish it by Christmas, at this rate. There must be a better way to do things."

"Well, bring him in, then. He looks at things differently from you or me."

"Ginny's been working on it, too."

"Ginny is nothing like Harry. And she hasn't been thinking about it, just going along."

"Well, let's start the research on animal control spells. When we see Harry, we'll just tell him what we're doing. He'd love sneaking into Hogsmeade to buy rats; I'll just be worried sick we'll be caught."

"I'm still not certain I can bear keeping a rat."

Harry glanced at the time, and began packing up his books. The Slytherin practice would be over soon. He thought it would be best, though Draco had not said so, if he kept out of sight of the other Slytherin players, but he also suspected Draco would not wait long for him, so he needed to get near the pitch and watch for the Slytherins starting to leave.

On his way out of the library, he met Hermione and Ron.

"Harry! Stay a bit longer?" Hermione urged.

Harry shook his head. "I'm done for the day."

"Doing anything fun?" Ron asked hopefully. "I don't need to --" Hermione elbowed him.

"I'm meeting Draco," Harry said coolly. "You should probably stay away."

And that, he thought with satisfaction as he headed down the stairs, ended that conversation.

As he got closer to the pitch, he couldn't help thinking that it also provided some clue to his fate were he to not return to the castle. "He was meeting Draco Malfoy," Hermione would say, wringing her hands, and Dumbledore would look concerned and Severus would mutter darkly about his idiocy.

Near the pitch, Harry skulked behind some bushes, listening to shouts and thumps from the aerial activities of the Slytherins. Eventually, Draco called an end to the practice, and the noise ended. From here, Harry found, he could not hear anything from the changing rooms.

After a boring wait, someone passed his hiding place on the way back to school. Another followed. Harry couldn't see the passing Slytherins until they were too far away to identify from the back, but he counted them as they passed. When six had gone by, he went the other way around the bush and into the passage that led to the pitch, itself.

"There you are!" Draco said, with no little satisfaction. "You needn't have waited, you know. They don't bite unless I tell them to."

Harry shrugged. "You hadn't said."

"Let's race!" Malfoy, predictably, did not wait for Harry to be ready, just took off, yelled back the goal, and gloated about winning. Harry retaliated with a race of his choosing and did the same. In ten minutes, it was nothing more than a wordy game of tag. Harry didn't mind at all. He was working out his nerves, he thought -- he felt calm and happy flying with no responsibilities.

It was forty minutes later when they finally tumbled off their brooms and went to sit on the bottom benches of the stands. Draco was flushed, and his hair streaked dark with sweat. The sight reminded Harry that Draco had been through a full practice before Harry arrived. His uncertainty returned.

"Any reason for this invitation?" Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. "You looked like you needed a break from your Gryffindor friends, and I wanted to talk to you."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Talk to me about what?"

With an explosive sigh, Draco crossed his arms over his chest and slouched back. He looked so sulkily childish that Harry wanted to laugh, but when he spoke, it was in his best, clear tones, with considered, adult words.

"I have come to the conclusion that there is no plot. Is that correct?"

"What do you mean?"

"You have no particular reason to cultivate my friendship; it simply struck your fancy, when you walked into Potions, to be amiable to an enemy."

"No," Harry protested. The distant precision in Draco's voice horrified him. Didn't the Slytherin ever relax?

"Well? What is your goal, then?"

"There's no goal," Harry said stubbornly. "Or not the sort that -- But it wasn't a whim."

"Explain, then." Draco was still flushed. Harry suspected he had little experience in unmotivated friendly interactions, and probably did not trust them. Harry thought about what he could say.

"Over the summer," Harry said, "I received a letter -- from someone who was dead. It had a lot of things in it of the sort you don't tell people when you're alive."

"So this was meant to go to you after the sender's death."

"Yes." Draco would think the letter was from Sirius, Harry realized. After a moment's consideration, he decided that worked well.

"He talked a lot about where things went wrong--"

"How very Gryffindor," Draco sneered.

Harry remembered Severus, sitting with his face covered, talking about the Game. "Universal, I suspect," he said. "It wasn't some chest-beating confession, but he did need to apologize, or at least explain. He couldn't apologize to the right person, to his face, because the ... matter of guilt continued, and he needed to protect the --" Harry stopped. "Not the innocent, I suppose, but the differently guilty."

Draco laughed. "What a fine phrase, Potter. May I use it?"

"Go right ahead. Oh. And me. I was entirely innocent of the matter, but embroiled in it, though I didn't know. He thought I should know, and he was the last one who knew my connection. So he sent me this letter." Harry hesitated. He'd gone off track. "All of which has nothing to do with you." He ignored Draco's contemptuous snort. "It is just ... it was a long story, largely about two boys who were awful to each other, not for any grand reasons, but just because they were immature, self-absorbed twits."

"Like me," Draco said coldly.

"Like us," Harry corrected. "And there were reasons later; reasons always come. I could claim I hated you over any number of things, but they were all later. Even insulting Ron was later. It was that you made me afraid people wouldn't like me, that I'd look stupid. You didn't know who I was. You hadn't looked at me enough to see my scar. You were just boasting."

"When was this?" Draco protested.

"Madame Malkin's, getting fitted for school robes. Oh, and you sounded like my cousin -- all spoiled and whiny and plotting to get your parents to buy you things."

"But we were shopping! What else would I be thinking about? And what did I say to frighten you?"

"That they shouldn't let in ... kids who didn't know wizarding traditions. Ones who had never heard of Hogwarts."

"I just meant --" Draco stopped himself. "Oh. You hadn't, had you?"

"Of course not. I'd get locked in my cupboard without food any time I said the word 'magic.' Sometimes they'd take the light. I didn't even know why."

"Fuck," Draco muttered. He let out a long breath. "All right. You were talking about a letter, and self-absorbed twits."

"Yes. So, we've found plenty of good, solid reasons to hate each other. You've wished death on me and my friends, and repeatedly sworn support for someone who is actively trying to kill me. I've been horrible to you, and your father got jailed pursuing me. It became real." Harry forced himself to breathe. "Still, I wanted to see if we could get out of it. Even if we remain enemies politically. I can't do anything about Voldemort, right now, or about Fudge. I could say 'Welcome back' to you."

Draco was silent for a while. He was looking out over the pitch towards the first orange clouds of sunset. The late afternoon light struck his near-white hair and brought out glints of gold in it.

"I'm glad you did," he said. He hesitated. "I got a letter, too," he said. "Not like that -- no great revelations or baring of the soul. From Father. He is allowed to write, but seldom does. They read everything and sometimes censor it, so he cannot tell me secrets, or command me to take the Mark. That's what this last letter meant, though -- 'I have heard you are not living up to your obligations as a Malfoy.' He is ashamed of my inaction."

Harry tried to look sympathetic. He didn't dare speak. It occurred to him that if Draco felt the need to prove his loyalty, he had Harry quite alone for the attempt.

"I've spoken to Professor Snape, more times than I can count, this term. I had expected his advice to be straightforward, but it is not." Draco stopped. Harry saw him wondering how to proceed without endangering his head of house.

"I sometimes think he supports the Dark Lord himself," Harry commented flippantly, to suggest that ambiguity might work.

Draco choked.

"Oh, come on! It's not that far fetched!" Harry protested, in mock indignation. "And I'm not just saying that because he's a Slytherin!"

"Supports who, Potter?" Draco asked.

"The D-" Harry stopped. "Oh bloody hell!" He gritted his teeth. "Voldemort."

"Fortunately, no one can think you support the Dark Lord," Draco said dryly.

"I wish!"

Draco's pale eyes opened wide. "Someone has?"

Harry ducked his head. "Not really. But Hermione was angry at me for calling him that -- which was the first time I realized I did."

"Why do you?"

Harry grinned. "Bad company."

"Oh, don't blame it on me, Potter!"

"No, it was before you. Anyway, you were talking about Snape."

"Yes. Professor Snape does not seem confident of who will win. He advised me to make friends with a number of younger students from across the political spectrum. He stressed that it was important to have allies in the case of any eventuality."

"Have you?"

"I..." Draco looked pained. "I am trying to do so. I am not sure of how to make friends without a common target. Usually, I make the plots...."

"You seem to be doing fine with me."

"Yes, but ... you're you. We have history, however horrible, and interests and other things to talk about."

"You have things in common with the younger students, too."

"Such as?"

"You've taken most of the classes they're taking now, right? Ask them about that. How do they like Potions? Are they having any trouble in Transfiguration? Oh, one time McGonagall had us turning meadow voles into change purses, and two owls came in...."

Draco grinned. "I heard about that class! But then I'll end up tutoring."

Harry shrugged. "A little bit, maybe. But you might make friends."

Draco sighed. "Planning grand, coordinated attacks is so much easier."

"But does it get you friends, or just convince people you're clever?" Harry thought the question might be too pointed, and kept going, to save Draco from needing to answer. "Everyone knows you're clever, anyway."

Draco smiled. "So you have learned flattery, Harry? How unexpected."

When Harry got back to the castle, he was happy. He had spent over an hour with Malfoy, and nothing bad had happened. His good mood faltered as he cautiously entered the Common Room, but revived when Ron and Hermione were not in evidence. Zoë and Ginny were talking by the fireplace. Colin was trying to show pictures to Lavender and she was trying to brush him off by speaking loudly and quickly to Parvati, but was hampered in her effort by being somewhat interested in the pictures. Seamus was conspiring with Dean over a shared parchment. All was right with the world.

Harry continued up to his dormitory. To his dismay, Ron was there, sitting cross-legged on his bed, with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists. He looked up when Harry entered the room.

"Have a good time?" he asked sarcastically.

"Yes."

The plain answer seemed to derail Ron's hostility. He sighed. "Sorry. What do you do in a get-together with Malfoy, anyway? Make up insults? Plot world domination?"

"Play broomstick tag and talk about friendship and hate and political obligations."

Ron's brow furrowed as he studied Harry.

"That seems entirely too...."

"Yeah, I know. The nasty, vicious twerp is a real person with real feelings. Odd, huh?"

"Why you?"

"That was part of what we talked about. He said curiosity and fear, at first -- I'd been decent to him, and he wanted to know what my game was -- then the thrill of making people stare, then that my, quote, 'quirky behavior' grew on him."

Harry flopped down on his bed, then drew out his wand and unlocked the drawer of his bedside table. He pulled out two Chocolate Frogs, and tossed one to Ron.

"Why do you keep that locked, now?"

Harry was tempted to ask how Ron knew he kept it locked, but perhaps Ron hadn't known until he unlocked it, just now. He forced a shrug.

"It has my potions in it. I wouldn't want anyone taking them, or testing them, or something. The muscle relaxant becomes ineffective within ten minutes of being opened, so even if someone just opened it and closed it again, I'd be screwed. That stuff is really very secret, because the reason I need it is secret, so I can't just tell people that they shouldn't touch it."

"Oh." Ron bit his lip. He held the unopened Chocolate Frog, and turned it over and over in his hands. "What else are you taking?"

"Nothing else." Harry looked at Ron's incredulous expression and sighed. "Look, I just thought that Hermione would be less hysterical if she felt she was figuring something out. I was wrong. Sorry."

Ron stared. "You mean you've been intentionally pretending--"

"Yeah."

Ron responded with a short laugh. "You are completely mental, do you know that?"

"Ron, I hit myself with a Stupefaction Hex last night."

"And?"

"Well, so it has occurred to me. I think this is good, though. I'm working stuff out, you know?"

"What stuff?"

Harry thought about that. Professor Snape is my father. Oh, and he's in danger, now. And I may lose him when we need to tell people. And that matters to me. I live with him working for Voldemort, or he might be driven mad, or need to mutilate himself. And he used to love Remus, but now he won't admit Remus is human. And he left my mother because she was Muggle-born, and he used to kill half-bloods, because we don't count. And he's better than that, now, but it still matters to him, and I'm not socialized for wizarding society. "I can't tell you."

"Can you tell Malfoy?" Ron asked pointedly.

"No." Harry flopped onto his back. "I can't tell anyone. It fucking sucks."