Fic: Puzzle Pieces (1-3/16) *NC17* D/Hr/B
Author: Emily North
Title: Puzzle Pieces
Pairing: D/B, D/Hr/B
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas. JKR owns them all.
Distribution: AFF.net and RS.org, once I get around to posting them. If anyone else wants them, just let me know. I always say yes.
Dedication: To the glorious Inell, who’s always an inspiration.
Spoilers: Everything through OotP
Warnings: Fairly explicit slash and threesome sex. If either of those bother you, stop now while you still have the chance.
Author’s Note 1: This was my Secret Santa Challenge for Kyra, whose criteria are posted at the bottom of the story. I hope it lives up to her expectations! Thanks, Kyra, for the intriguing challenge. I had a good time working on this one.
Author’s Note 2: All of the magical theory used in this fic is, as far as I know, completely my own creation. I’m the overly analytical type who likes to figure out *why* things work, and this is the best explanation for magic I was able to come up with. If anyone spots anything that seems to directly contradict canon, let me know and I’ll look into changing it, but please, be gentle when it comes to the liberties I took with potions and arithmancy. The potions theory is pure hogwash from someone with *no* scientific background while the arithmancy is garbled nonsense pickpocketed, in part, from the MBA statistics class that I’m stressing over at the moment. Thanks for your patience!
Summary: All Blaise wanted was some Transfiguration tutoring. What he got instead was a whole new world.



Section 1:
 
“Lepus florens,” I stated, waving my wand in a perfect circle. My pronunciation was perfect. My wand movement was flawless. My magic was focused. Nothing happened. I regarded the rabbit. The rabbit regarded me.
 
“Lepus florens,” I repeated, making the same, perfect wand motion. The rabbit ignored me in favor of nibbling on some lettuce I had left for him. He didn’t even bother *looking* at me. It was humiliating. What kind of Slytherin couldn’t even intimidate a rabbit? When I first captured him, he had been trembling with fear but he had calmed down considerably since I started working on the spell. Why shouldn’t he? I had been pointing a stick at him and repeating the same words for near on half an hour, with no visible results. Little wonder that he found lettuce more compelling than me.
 
“Lepus florens!” I forced out through clenched teeth, my white-knuckled hand not shaking in the slightest as I made another perfect circle. The rabbit responded by defecating on my desk. Damn rabbit.
 
“Marvelous job, Zabini,” a familiar voice drawled from the couches. “You certainly have a way with dumb animals.”
 
Growling in frustration, I hurled my wand in his direction. He caught it nonchalantly, without even looking up from his book. Show off. “You’d do better to throw it at the rabbit,” Draco stated calmly, twirling my wand between his fingers. “If you can’t transfigure it, you might as well knock it out. At least if it’s unconscious, it won’t shit on the desks.”
 
I fought the urge to chuck the rabbit at him as well and see if his seeker reflexes could protect him from *that*. He had no right to act so smug, just because he had been able to transfigure his rabbit into the rabbit’s foot flowering plant the day it was assigned. He knew I had always had trouble with Transfiguration. One of the happiest days of my life was when Snape told me in my career counseling session that my chosen career in international magical commerce did *not* require N.E.W.T. level Transfiguration. I was delighted to leave McGonagall and all her wretched lessons behind, never dreaming that I would even have to think about them ever again.
 
Then came Snape’s announcement at the beginning of seventh year N.E.W.T. level potions that knocked me so totally off my arse. All the professors blathered on in their opening term speeches about how seventh year was when we would learn how all the disciplines were intermingled, but I hadn’t expected such nonsense from my favorite professor who had always stood firm in his disdain of the more wand-centric forms of magic. That was the whole reason I was taking the class up to the N.E.W.T. level, once I had been informed that regardless of our chosen fields, all seventh year students were required to take at least one class in practical magic. Alas, how sorely was I betrayed! Snape informed us that part of our final training as wizards would be to find and prepare our own ingredients. Some ingredients, used for the most delicate of potions, were so sensitive that they responded to the magic of the wizard who prepared them. If anyone other than the wizard brewing the potion so much as handled them before they were added, the potion could be ruined.

We would therefore, he told us, spend the year learning how to grow or catch or extract ingredients commonly used in potions and prepare them to the necessary specifications. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Herbology had always been one of my better subjects, and thanks to my brother-in-law Giovanni’s obsession with exotic animals, I had always done fairly well in Care of Magical Creatures. For the first few weeks of term, I actually found myself enjoying learning about the ingredients, especially when we were ordered to capture and dissect several large, furry spiders. I imagine that a hundred years from now, I’ll still be able to manage a chuckle when I think of Weasley’s face that day in class.
 
The other shoe dropped last Friday when Snape informed us that we had a week to prepare the necessary ingredients for a complicated luck potion. One of the essential ingredients was dried leaves from a rabbit’s foot flowering plant. Rabbit’s foot flowering plants don’t grow in nature. The only way to get one was to transfigure a rabbit. Capturing the rabbit was no problem at all. Transfiguring the rabbit was going to be the death of me, and if all Draco could do was mock me while being utterly unhelpful, then he deserved a rabbit in the face.
 
“If you’re in the mood for dispensing advice,” I hissed in a low voice, barely reigning in my temper, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to actually *help* me with the spell?”
 
Draco gave a short bark of laughter that made me smile in spite of myself. He laughed so rarely. And he looked so beautiful when he laughed. “Not a chance,” he replied, amusement coloring his voice. “I like my dangly bits just as they are, thanks just the same. I learned my lesson last time I tried tutoring you in Transfiguration.”
 
Blushing slightly, I looked away. Curse him. He *knew* I still got embarrassed whenever I was reminded of that study session, which he had done regularly ever since it occurred *back in fifth year*. Salazar only knows why he felt the need to bring it up so often. In theory, it should have been just as embarrassing a memory for him as it was for me. I was horrified to remember that my temper had gotten away with me to such an extent that I hexed my best friend and lover but he *was* a nationally ranked duelist for our age bracket, and should have been able to defend himself from being hexed with boils on his balls.
 
Of course, he always did say that he had no defenses against me. Perhaps it was true. I certainly had no defenses against him. Especially not when he slipped up behind me and started rubbing my shoulders in a maddeningly seductive way while I continued to stare at the stubbornly non-transfigured rabbit.
 
“You’ll get it eventually,” he murmured soothingly. “You always do.”
 
“But I don’t have time to spend weeks working this one out,” I argued half-heartedly. “You know I need this done by Friday, or Snape will have my head.”
 
“I’ll protect you.” His hands grew more adventurous, tugging my tie out of the way and unfastening my collar to caress the skin of my throat. “You know I’d never let anyone hurt you.”
 
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled, trying to sound put out. If he thought I was genuinely upset, he’d work that much harder to ‘lighten’ my spirits. “You transfigured your rabbit days ago, and won’t even show me how.”
 
The husky chuckle I got in response meant that my act wasn’t working, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to mind as his lips replaced his hands on the sensitive skin of my neck while his hands moved down to the buttons on my shirt. “It’s in your own best interests, love,” he insisted. “I know how you hate being cut off while I heal from your violence against me.”
 
I snorted. “Madam Pomfrey had you healed within an hour. You cut me off to pout over being bested in a duel.”
 
Another chuckle that sent shivers down my spine as I felt his chest vibrate against my back. “What can I say?” he asked rhetorically, one hand leaving my buttons to rub against my crotch. “I like to win.”
 
In spite of myself, my eyes slid closed while I moaned softly. It felt so good whenever he touched me, *where* ever he touched me. “Is it safe?” I gasped, forcing myself to take precaution before I lost my mind over his touch.
 
He nipped my neck sharply, making me gasp. “Safe as houses. The charm turned green...” Draco’s voice trailed off as I reached behind me, tracing my hand up his thigh to gently cup his own erection.
 
Ah, the charm. One of my more brilliant ideas, if I do say so myself, designed for situations just like this one, where Draco and I found ourselves alone in the common room. Time spent in the Slytherin common room was determined solely by rank. First through third years were never allowed in the common room at all after dinner. Fourth and fifth years were allowed until nine o’clock. Sixth years stuck around until eleven. By midnight, anyone below seventh year who was found in the common room did not have long to wait before learning the consequences of trespassing. Draco and I were both night owls, and had the tendency to outlast most of our fellow seventh years, leaving us in sole possession of the common room shortly after midnight. We could do pretty much anything we chose in the relative privacy, but Draco was a paranoid bastard, and insisted upon extra security measures.
 
“…right as your rabbit shat on the desk,” Draco concluded, the smirk clearly evident in his voice, almost completely disguising the slight breathlessness from my touch as my thumb circled the head of his cock through the material of his pants.
 
He was also a *snarky* bastard and I had already taken about as much ribbing as I was prepared to handle about that thrice-damned, spawn-of-darkness rabbit. Turning sharply, I faced him, pulling my hand away from his groin to fist both hands in his hair, yanking his mouth to mine. If he couldn’t find better use for his mouth than picking fun at me then I’d just have to keep it occupied for him. I felt the smirk curling his lips even as he opened his mouth for my tongue, and I concentrated on deep, bruising kisses custom made to turn his lips soft and pliable under mine. Oh, how I loved kissing the snark right out of him.
 
I wasn’t nearly done savoring that delicious mouth of his when he pulled away, kneeling in front of me with a gleam in his eyes. “You’re sexy when you’re angry,” he informed me, hands deftly unfastening my belt. “But you’re sexier when you’re naked.” Briskly, he unfastened my fly and slipped his hand into my boxers, pulling out my eager erection. “If we weren’t in here, I’d take off every stitch of your clothing and lick you till you begged for more. But since I can’t, I suppose I’ll just have to do this.” His mouth engulfed my cock whole, letting it slide all the way down to his throat. With his eyes focused on my groin, it’s not surprising that he missed the way that I flinched at his words.
 
I should have known that he wouldn’t take my clothes off in the common room. He’d never risk undressing either of us completely when there was any chance at all that someone might walk in. He’s not ashamed of me. Really, he’s not. (Most of the time,) I’m completely positive that he’s not in the least bit ashamed of the relationship the two of us have. He’s just cautious. Very, very cautious. Too cautious to let anyone know what we mean to each other. Too cautious to touch me when there’s anyone around to see. For a long time, he was even too cautious to kiss me when we were on school grounds. That’s when I came up with the charm.
 
The charm was tied to a dragon figurine Draco wore on a chain around his neck. (Anyone who dared to call it a necklace learned *why* Draco was a nationally ranked duelist.) The figurine appeared to be unbroken silver from tip to toe, except for when Draco and I were alone in a room together. Then and only then, if there was no one near the doorways and no one headed toward whatever room we were in, the eyes of the dragon turned green. They would glow red and give Draco a mild shock if anyone was approaching and then turn solid silver again the second anyone else entered the room.
 
It took me weeks to find the charm back in the beginning of fifth year when we took our friendship to the next stage, but the results were more than worth the effort involved. Draco doesn’t hesitate now to kiss me or touch me, or even give me an absolutely heavenly deep-throat blowjob right in the middle of the common room, but that was as far as he was willing to go in such publicly accessible space. Anything involving total nudity could only take place off of school grounds or in completely securable locations such as our dorm room when we were the only ones not in class. He was always far too hungry for affection to give up the chance for kisses and touches altogether when we were somewhere without a door that could be locked and shielded, but here in the common room, he was always careful to make sure that the eyes on the charm were green, and that neither of us removed too many clothes to be quickly replaced if someone walked toward the room. It wouldn’t do if anyone knew we were together. He wasn’t ashamed of me, of course he wasn’t ashamed of me, I *knew* he wasn’t ashamed of me, but the two of us getting caught simply wouldn’t do at all.

It was no secret that I wasn’t crazy about all of Draco’s rules, but when he was touching me, it was hard for me to mind anything *too* much. He unfastened his own trousers next and firmly fisted his cock while sucking out my soul through my prick, using his tongue to bring as much pleasure to my sensitive spots as he possibly could. His eyes locked with mine; they sparkled wickedly and challengingly in that way that makes me whimper as he deliberately switched the hands on his cock, lifting the hand sticky with pre-cum up to his face and underneath the point where he was devouring me to cradle and caress my balls.
 
I exploded. My eyes slammed shut and my torso went rigid except for my hips, which thrust hard, over and over again into that warm, wet heaven as I emptied myself inside him. He swallowed every drop, actually increasing the suction; something I wouldn’t have thought possible mere moments before; to drain away every particle I had to give. By the time I floated back to earth, I was boneless, limp, and covered in sweat, slumped in one of the common room chairs, while Draco remained knelt in front of me, nonchalantly licking his hands clean.
 
“I love you,” I whispered.
 
Draco smiled, one of those sincere smiles that he rarely let anyone see. “I love you, too,” he answered. “Now, to bed with you, my love. Everything else can wait till morning.”
 
“But the rabbit…” I protested weakly.
 
“Obviously defective,” Draco answered in that trademark snooty tone as he fastened his trousers and rose to his feet. “There must be something wrong with anything that can resist *your* magic.”
 
In spite of myself, I chuckled. “So what should I do with it?”
 
Draco shrugged elegantly. “Give it to the house-elves. I daresay they’ll be able to come up with some use for it.”
 
Nodding obediently, I rose to my feet as well, fastening my limp and utterly sated cock inside my pants before snapping my fingers for a house elf. When one arrived, I simply pointed to the rabbit and to the mess he made on the desk, and then followed Draco into the dormitories. I’d catch another rabbit tomorrow, and start the grueling process of working my way through the spell all over again. Anything else that needed doing, I’d deal with in the morning.
 
 
Section 2:

As it turned out, the only problem I dealt with the following morning was how to make Draco scream as he came. I must admit, I loved being a seventh year. Yes, the work was more difficult than it had been in previous years, but it was also far more concentrated. Since each student took only the classes specifically related to their discipline, and since most of the work was to be performed through independent study and research performed outside of class, seventh years spent a surprisingly small amount of time actually in classrooms. On that particular day, I didn’t have class until after lunch, which meant that I could sleep until noon, if I wanted.

Normally, sleeping until noon was exactly what I would do, but with Theo in the hospital wing with a case of dragon pox that he caught Merlin knows where, and Greg and Vince in their remedial Charms class, Draco and I had the seventh year dorm to ourselves for the whole of the morning, a fact of which Draco saw fit to remind me by crawling naked into my bed after the others had left and waking me with a lubricated finger up my arse.

It had been three weeks since I had had him inside me, so naturally, it didn’t take long for me to wake up completely and repay his assiduous attentions. He shagged me first, on my bed. Then I shagged him in the shower. And when I took his cock in my mouth while ‘helping’ him get dressed after the shower, he slid down on the floor with me and attacked my erection just as hungrily with his mouth as I attacked his with mine. He gripped my body so tightly as he pulled me in to his mouth, I was sure he left bruises, which made me happier than any sane person should be at an injury. In addition, I was quite sure I left bruises on him, which pleased me as well. Yes, I’m possessive. Yes, I’d like to mark him openly so that everyone would know he was mine. But most of all, I wanted *him* to know that the marks were there. I wanted him to remember that I claimed him, that I loved him, and that he was mine as much as I was his, whether we could show it openly or not. And even though he didn’t say it, I knew that he felt the same way.

He did say he loved me, though. He shouted it, actually, as he came inside my mouth, pulling his lips away from my cock just long enough to gasp out the words before fastening them around me again, knowing that the declaration when I was already so close to cumming would be enough to send me over the edge. It did. It always did, ever since the first time he said it, when we made love for the first time. Limp and boneless as I was in the aftermath of a third bone-jarring orgasm, I summoned up enough energy to twist around and press my lips to his. We stayed like that in a haze of soft kisses and half-audible endearments, just loving each other, for as long as we could.

By the time we managed to pull ourselves together enough to get up and get dressed, we had to practically run to the Great Hall in order to catch the last of lunch. Draco had Theoretical Astronomy which meant he only had time to grab a sandwich and take it with him to eat on the way up to the tower, grumbling as he went about how ridiculous it was to have an astronomy class in the middle of the day. He wasn’t alone in his complaint. Seventh year students who took astronomy always complained about the impracticability of studying the movement of the planets when all you could see was the sun, but the simple truth was, the younger years really required supervision for their astronomy studies, and the tower was booked with their classes for all the evening hours. Seventh years were supposed to be able to handle their practical astronomy lessons on their own, and simply had theoretical lessons that took place during the day.

I had History of Magic, and knew that Professor Binns wouldn’t notice if I slipped into the lecture a few minutes late, meaning I had time not only to grab a quick sandwich for myself, but also to approach Professor McGonagall and ask for her if she could help me with my transfiguration problem.

It was almost worth the humiliation of having to ask the Gryffindor Head of House for help to see the look of shock mixed with tinges of fear decorating Professor McGonagall’s face as I approached her at breakfast. One thing is for certain: Professor McGonagall was every bit as pleased to see me leave her class at the end of fifth year as I was pleased to go.

After the boils-on-balls incident in fifth year, no student in Slytherin was willing to tutor me. With my grade in Transfiguration hanging on to Acceptable by a very thin thread, I approached the professor herself for some additional help. She agreed to meet with me during a mutual free period before dinner. Unfortunately, our meeting ran a bit long. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the damn snail to vanish. I couldn’t even get *part* of the snail to vanish. I was aggravated and frustrated and *hungry* on top of it, once the meeting started running into dinner time. And the more annoyed I got, the more I started cursing under my breath.

Italian was my first language, picked up in my infancy from the servants who raised me in my parents’ villa before I came to Hogwarts. Around my distant, emotionless parents, I learned to speak in flawless English, but they were rarely home and when they left on their inevitable travels, I slipped back into Italian. I still have the habit of dipping into Italian when I’m exceptionally annoyed. My affinity for Italian and, by association, for Latin is part of the reason I’m able to perform so well in school. I don’t have any exceptional degree of magical power, but I do have a strong understanding for what spells mean, and how they break down. It helps, usually, particularly in the non-wand based disciplines, like herbology and arithmancy where vocabulary is so important.

Anyway, it was in Italian that I cursed under my breath as I paced McGonagall’s classroom on that memorable evening. To this day, I’m still not sure quite which spell I used. I’ve certainly never been able to recreate it. But it must have been reasonably close to the Latin phrase for some term of explosive, since by the time the dust settled in the classroom, two windows had shattered, three desks were splintered into toothpicks, scorch marks stained the floor, and the slime of half a dozen slugs coated McGonagall head to toe, dripping slowly onto the floor. McGonagall kept an admirable hold on her temper. Her voice did not rise into a shout even when slime started dripping off the tip of her nose. She simply told me, quietly and calmly, that she had had quite enough of tutoring for the day.

For the rest of the term, while Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors continued their practical applications in Transfiguration class, Slytherins were almost exclusively assigned essays. No explanation was given… unless you consider the way that McGonagall would turn white and involuntarily glance over at me whenever anyone asked if we’d be working on the spells in class to be an explanation.

I passed the rest of the course with an Exceeds Expectations, managed to avoid embarrassing myself at the Transfiguration O.W.L. (after cramming with next to no sleep for a solid week) and left Transfiguration behind with nary a sigh of regret. I dare say McGonagall went out and bought herself a celebratory drink when informed that Blaise Zabini would not be on her class rolls ever again. No wonder, then, that she looked a bit wary when I approached her at breakfast.

“Mr. Zabini,” she stated crisply when she could no longer deny that I was headed to her and not another teacher. “How may I help you?”

Please understand that in general, I’m considered one of the least malicious students in Slytherin. I do not practice hexes on small children or animals when non-sentient targets are as readily available. I have never lethally poisoned anyone deliberately. I have never driven anyone to suicide, so far as I know. I have never used any debilitating or disfiguring hex that took longer than a month to wear off. And I have never involved myself in the deflowering competition that provides the major source of amusement in the Slytherin dormitory. But any Slytherin with even the slightest allowance of natural venom would be unable to prevent himself from enjoying the look on McGonagall’s face at the next words out of my mouth.

“I was hoping, Professor, that you’d be able to tutor me through a transfiguration problem I’m having,” I stated in my most innocent of tones. I had had a great deal of practice with this particular voice, (I had discovered at some point midway through fifth year that it was enough to make Draco go instantly hard,) and knew how to use it to its best effect. (Mercifully, it did not appear to have the same effect on the venerable Professor McGonagall as it did on my lover).

She didn’t go white so much as she went very nearly silvery and transparent. For a moment, I thought the shock might have killed her. Fortunately, however, she rallied. It only took a quarter of an hour and several glasses of water before she was able to speak coherently again.

“I’m afraid my schedule is rather full this term, Mr. Zabini,” she managed at last. “I daresay one of your housemates could help you. Have you consulted with Mr. Malfoy on his availability? He’s the top Slytherin in my class.”

“Yes, Professor, but I’m afraid he said that his schedule was too full, as well.” He also said, when I pulled out the puppy eyes that morning and tried once again to convince him to help me, that the only way he was willing to play with my wand was if the final result left us both sweaty, sated and covered in cum instead of frustrated, nerve-strained and covered in boils. Wisely though, I refrained from mentioning this to McGonagall. I had already nearly given the woman a heart attack just by asking her for help. She wasn’t as young as she used to be; another shock might finish her off, and then where would I be with my problem?

“Perhaps you had best speak with the Head Girl, then,” McGonagall suggested. “She has a free period after lunch tomorrow that she generally devotes to tutoring. She should be able to provide assistance.”

I frowned at the thought and opened my mouth to protest, but McGonagall turned quickly to Professor Sprout who was seated next to her, and struck up a rather frantic conversation, designed, I’m certain, to convince me just to walk away. It worked. I certainly wasn’t about to make a scene, demanding that McGonagall help me. But the thought of asking Hermione Granger for help rankled more than a little.

I adore Draco, honestly I do, but he has single-handedly made it *very* difficult for any Gryffindor to let a Slytherin get any closer to them than opposite sides of the Hogwarts Lake. And no Gryffindor was more jealously guarded than Hermione Granger. The Gryffindors were proud of their Head Girl, and rightfully so. Not only was she the brightest witch Hogwarts has seen in a century or so, but she was part of the legendary Golden Trio that represented hope and light and all that other rot to not just Hogwarts, but the wizarding world as a whole. There was no denying that Potter and Weasley were fiercely protective of her, and the younger Gryffindors tended to follow her around like she was some sort of holy figure. If any Slytherin tried to approach, they were sent off with a flea in their ear (and not always metaphorically) in a large hurry. Asking her for help would be… difficult.

In matters such as these, timing was always of the essence. Simply walking up to the girl when she was surrounded by her cronies and lackeys would have been tantamount to suicide. I had to catch her when she was alone. In one respect, I was rather lucky: Gryffindor’s Quidditch team had the field reserved right after dinner. That meant that Granger’s staunchest defenders, Potter, Weasley, and other Weasley, would be out of the picture. Granger, not surprisingly, headed straight for the library after finishing her dinner. When I followed her there, I found that once again, fortune had favored the devious, and the Head Girl was alone with her books.

Now all I needed to figure out was what to say. As best I could remember, Granger and I had never spoken. Ever. This was not as unusual as it might sound. I’d say that at least half of the students in our year, possibly more, had never spoken to me, either. There were only two or three outside of Slytherin who ever held a conversation with me lasting longer than thirty seconds or so. Gryffindors in particular, not terribly surprisingly, kept their distance. So in spite of the fact that Granger was Head Girl and ostensibly in charge of the whole of the student body, in addition to being a seventh year who had shared classes with me since we were eleven years old, I couldn’t remember a single occasion where we had spoken to each other. It simply never came up. I had no strong proof that she even knew who I was. That might play in my favor, of course. If she didn’t know me, she had no *specific* reason to hate me. But it could work against me as well, if she followed the time-honored Gryffindor mindset that the only good Slytherin was a hexed-into-immobility Slytherin. Well, there was only one way to tell.

I moved toward her with most deliberate caution. Even though I didn’t know much about Granger personally, it was clear from the most cursory of glances at her and at her surroundings that there were dangers inherent in interrupting a studying Head Girl. She appeared to be quite grimly entrenched in a very large book and everyone in the library was giving her a *very* clear berth; it had to be for a reason. Silently cursing McGonagall (if she wanted to get out of tutoring me so badly, the least she could have done was make my appointment for me!) I approached.

“Granger,” I managed to say, hoping against hope that my voice sounded less squeaky outside my head than it did within it.

She looked up with a frown of annoyance that melted into surprise when she saw who was standing in front of her.

“Er… I’m, um…” I stammered.

“I know who you are, Zabini,” she replied calmly with a surprising lack of animosity, flustering me still further. “Was there something you wanted?”

“I need your help,” I finally blurted out. A single, raised eyebrow was my only answer.

“Transfiguration has always been my weak point,” I continued, “and if I can’t get the rabbit’s foot flowering plant ready by Friday, I’ll get zero credit in Potions.” She was in Potions with me, so I knew that she would understand my predicament. “Professor McGonagall thought you might be able to tutor me. She said you have a free period after lunch tomorrow. So do I. Could we work on it then?”

Both eyebrows went up at this statement.
 
“Is that a no, then?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just… I would have thought that you’d prefer to go to Malfoy instead of me. He’s ranked in the top ten percent in Transfiguration.”

“You’re ranked in the top one percent,” I answered. “And besides, Malfoy has tried tutoring me before and it… didn’t end well. There’s no one else in Slytherin I can ask. So will you help me, or not?”

She tilted her head slightly to the side, consideringly. “Okay,” she said, a moment later. “There’s an empty classroom at the end of the Charms corridor, next to the portrait of Bertram the Befuddled. That’s where I usually do my tutoring. I’ll meet you after lunch.” With that said, she returned her attention to her book.

I waited a minute to see if anything else was forthcoming. It appeared that nothing was. Hesitant as I was to interrupt her again, I wanted to be certain we were quite finished before walking away. It had seemed far too easy. Surely, there was something more.

“Is that… all, then?” I asked hesitatingly.

When she looked up this time, I could tell she was surprised I was still standing there. “Was there something else you needed?” she asked politely.

I shook my head.

“Do you have any burning desire to discuss the weather, or anyone’s health?”

She couldn’t possibly be joking with me, could she? No. Not possible. Everyone knows that Gryffindors don’t have any sense of humor, especially when they’re dealing with Slytherins. I shook my head.

“Then I suppose that’s all.”

How could that be all? How could a Gryffindor agree to help a Slytherin and not set any ground rules? Not coerce any promises that I wouldn’t attack her or hurt her? Not make any threats enforcing my good behavior? Not even ask why on earth she should help me when I’d never done a thing for her? How was it possible that all I had to do was ask, and she would say yes?

Bewilderment at the unaccountable Gryffindor kept me frozen in place for a few moments, but when Granger did not look up again, I gradually collected myself enough to walk away.


Section 3:

I expected Draco to be at the pitch, spying on the Gryffindor Quidditch practice as usual, but when I arrived at the common room, he was there at the billiards table standing in profile to me, bent over to align his cue stick, eyes narrowed in concentration. All thoughts of Granger and Gryffindors flew from my head as I just stood there for a few moments, admiring my lover. Gods below, he was gorgeous. I had seen him naked as the day he was born, body stretched out before me, every inch of him glowing with ecstasy. After that, everything else *should* seem commonplace, shouldn’t it? It wasn’t, though. His beauty never ceased to surprise me every time I saw it, in any way he displayed it. There was not a single time in my life when I didn’t think him beautiful, and every time I saw him, his beauty struck me again.

His shoulders shifted in a sudden, swift movement, driving the cue stick forward to knock another ball into a pocket with his usual skill. Draco was an excellent billiards player; a difficult skill to possess, considering how the balls roll continuously on their own momentum in intricate patterns across the table. Skill at billiards depended on a complete understanding of the speed and direction in which every ball moved and a stopwatch sense of timing on when their movements put them into the perfect alignment to strike them into the pockets. Draco, with his seeker’s eye for noticing things and his seeker’s speed for striking at the perfect moment, excelled at the game. I was the only one in Slytherin who came close to being his equal, and that was only because he begged and pleaded and pouted until I worked up my skills so he could have some competition. Draco always thrived on competition.

He didn’t like playing alone, though. The competition was what made it fun for him, not the game itself. He only played alone when he was upset and wanted to smash something, without looking conspicuous. He smiled tightly in satisfaction as he watched the ball slip neatly into place and stood upright. I could see the tension in his shoulders, and wondered if I was the cause. He couldn’t possibly already know about my meeting with Granger, could he? At that moment, he looked up, noticing me for the first time as I stood in the doorway. For a moment, his shoulders slumped slightly in what looked like relief and his smile brightened. Then he seemed to remember something, and went rigidly tense again. Damn. So I *was* the reason he was upset. I had hoped that by the time he found out, we’d have the common room a bit more to ourselves. My most effective methods for calming him down on were not what you’d call ‘audience friendly.’

Since we didn’t have any afternoon classes together, I had hoped to get around to telling him during dinner about McGonagall’s suggestion that I go to Granger for help. I wanted him to know before I actually met with her so he wouldn’t hear about it from someone else, and I also knew that if I told him in a setting with professors present, he’d be less likely to throw a tantrum. (He had been furious when Potter, with no prefect experience, and marks lower than Draco’s, had been named Head Boy instead of him, but he still held out the hope that Potter would break his neck in a Quidditch match or a battle with the Dark Lord, and that the professors would need an alternate Head Boy to fill in for the rest of the term. Draco would do nothing in the view of professors to jeopardize his chances at being that substitute.)

As chance would have it, though, Draco had scheduled a Quidditch practice session during dinner. Now that he had been named captain, he was determined to find a way to motivate his players into decimating Gryffindor in the upcoming match. Gryffindor was training just as hard, however, and had reserved the pitch that evening for the coveted after-dinner hour. Draco retaliated by scheduling practice *during* dinner, having the house elves bring dinner to the pitch and waving it in the team members’ faces without allowing them to eat unless they performed at practice to his satisfaction. Given the size of the players on the team, I felt certain it would turn out to be quite a motivation, indeed.

As a result, he didn’t show up for dinner at all. I thought about running down to the pitch and seeing if I could grab his attention before going after Granger, but catching the girl in the library alone was too good an opportunity to pass up. I knew I didn’t have time to warn Draco first if I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. Besides, I knew he would want to spy on the Gryffindor team practice, so I figured I’d have time to catch him as soon as he got back. Surely, no one would have a chance to get to him before then. I had come straight from the library to the common room, but it was obvious from the look on his face that some sneaking little tattletale had beaten me in, and spread the story that I had been seen talking to the notorious Head Girl.

Knowing that he’d just get angrier at me the longer he had to stew over it, I decided to face the music and head over to him right away. He pretended to ignore my approach; bending over to take another shot. While I admittedly enjoyed the view, I couldn’t let him ignore me for long.

“Mind if I join the game?” I asked, my voice deliberately mild. If he wanted a fight, he’d have to start it himself.

“Go ahead,” he bit out. “It’s not like you need *my* permission for anything.”

Wisely, I chose not to respond. If I stayed silent long enough, I knew that Draco would get around to venting everything that was bothering him, and it was best not to speak until he was done. He never hexed me, no matter how angry he got; (he had far more control than I did) but he had been known in the past to shoot random hexes at the walls, and there were too many people in between him and walls to risk it. I didn’t want to be the cause of some fourth year ending up with donkey ears. Silently, I picked up a cue stick and waited for him to step back to give me my turn. He did so, grudgingly.

I was just lining up the shot when he spoke again. “No, there’s no reason why you should run things by me at all, is there? After all, if you decide to do something, I can always hear about it after the fact from a group of bloody *fifth years*, can’t I?” Biting my tongue to force myself to wait until he was finished, I made the shot, knocking a ball neatly into a pocket.

I circled around the table for my next shot. Draco followed me. “And I certainly don’t need to know if you’re planning on meeting with one of the fucking ‘Golden Trio,’ do I? Of course, they *hate* all Slytherins with a fiery passion, but that’s no reason for me to be concerned, is it?”

Since this question was obviously rhetorical as well, I concentrated on lining up my shot. A miss.

“Were you even planning on telling me?”

I straightened up and propped the cue stick against the table. Now that he was finally asking questions that required an actual answer, it was time for me to take part in the conversation.

“Yes,” I replied calmly. “I was planning on telling you. I just didn’t get a chance.”

His voice dropped down to below a whisper. “We shagged for three bloody hours this morning. You didn’t see fit to mention it then?”

“I didn’t know I was going to be talking to her, then.” I glanced around the room. As expected, everyone was watching us, while pretending not to. Fortunately, Draco’s last comment had been spoken too low for them to hear. Damn nosy Slytherins. Especially the bratty fifth years who spilled the beans to Draco and started this whole mess in the first place. I noticed a cluster of thee fifth year boys who looked equally smug and interested, and knew I had spotted the tattlers. I tucked the information away for later. I might not be the most malicious of Slytherins, but that doesn’t mean I’d let something like that just slide. However, that was a matter for another day. At the moment, all the really mattered was calming Draco down.

“Take your shot,” I muttered quietly. Draco’s scowl went from hostile to confused.

“What?”

“Take your shot,” I repeated, a bit more forcefully this time. “Everyone’s watching the two of us. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but I refuse to turn this into the brawl of the century. Now take the shot, damnit, and make it clear these fucking voyeurs that there’s nothing of interest here to see.”

Draco’s eyes widened and I could see him fighting the impulse to turn around and see if everyone really was watching us, like I had said. Fortunately, he managed to restrain himself, picking up his cue stick and lining up a shot. It snapped the ball into the pocket like it was on rails and I couldn’t stop a small smile of appreciation. It took more than anger or frustration to throw off Draco’s game. Everything came so easily to him, no matter how upset he got.

I turned so that my back was to the billiards table, leaning against it casually. “I talked to McGonagall at lunch today,” I stated casually, chuckling a bit at the memory. “Nearly gave the old biddy a heart attack. Something tells me she wasn’t happy to see me.”

Draco chuckled as well, lining up his next shot. “Wish I could have seen it. But what were you talking to her about?”

“The rabbit’s foot flowering plant, remember? Since I can’t find anyone else to help me, I thought I might as well ask her.”

Draco nodded his understanding. “I’d forgotten about that,” he admitted. “What did she say?”

“She said she was booked up on tutoring right now, and couldn’t help me, of course. She wanted to know why I didn’t ask you for help, but I told her that that was out of the question.” Draco didn’t look up, but I saw him grin a bit as he lined up his next shot. “So then she suggested that I ask the Head Girl for help.”

The grin faded abruptly. “And you thought this was a good idea?” he questioned tightly.

“Mostly, I thought it was my only real option. You’re the only one in Slytherin with scores high enough to help me. No Ravenclaw would go out of their way for my sake, and Hufflepuffs couldn’t teach a fish to swim. McGonagall flatly refused to tutor me. The Head Girl and Boy are *required* to help any students needing extra tutoring, and Granger has the highest Transfiguration scores in the school along with a history of tutoring any student who asked her. Would you rather I asked Potter?”

“I could try—”

“*No* Draco. All joking aside, when you try to help me in Transfiguration, we only end up frustrated… or worse. Let’s face it: we’re neither of us very patient. Granger *has* to be patient. Look at the friends she puts up with!” That got me a small smile, but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared.

“I’ll be *fine*. It’s not as if she’s planning on tutoring me in the Gryffindor common room. It will just be the two of us, one on one.”

Draco went rigid again, any signs of softening vanishing abruptly. “The *hell* you will. I’m not leaving you alone with her. I’m coming with you.”
 
“For crying out loud, it’s a tutoring session, not a bloody duel! I don’t need a second.”

“Did it ever occur to you that it might not be safe?” he hissed. With difficulty, I managed to keep from rolling my eyes. Here was the real crux of the matter.

Over-protective barely began to describe Draco when it came to me. It would have been almost endearing if it wasn’t so frustrating. Yes, Draco was a superb duelist in the process of training himself as a curse breaker which meant that he was *very* adept at self-defense, but I wasn’t exactly hopeless with a wand, either. I didn’t need him following after me like my own, personal knight in shining armor. I wasn’t a warrior, myself, but that didn’t make me a damsel in distress. It was more than a little insulting that Draco didn’t think I was capable of taking care of myself without him around to protect me. Especially since most of the conflicts that happened around me took place because of him.

It was true that I was less capable of fighting my way out of a situation, but situations were less likely to reach the fighting point when Draco wasn’t around. There was no denying that combining Draco with any Gryffindors at all and any member of the sodding Golden Trio in particular was incendiary, at best. With Potter and Weasley, they resorted to hexes or fists in under five minutes. It was worse with Granger. She wasn’t the type to hex students in the hallways and she certainly didn’t resort to fist-fighting, but she was always, *always* smart enough to know how to make just the right cutting remark to leave Draco smarting for days afterwards. Nobody got to him like Granger did; not even Potter, which made him all the more determined to get under her skin, as well.

Putting the two of them in the same room was a recipe for disaster, and the last thing I wanted was to waste my tutoring time playing referee. Our conversation in the library was the first time I had gotten within speaking distance to Granger without Draco there, and it was a pleasant surprise to discover that she was polite, if somewhat wary, when she wasn’t actively provoked. The tutoring session might just work… if I could get Draco to finally see reason!

Or if I could trick him. That would work, too. I had that free period after lunch, but Draco had class. I knew that if I told him that that was when I was planning to meet Granger, that he’d cut class to come with me. But if he didn’t know that we were planning on meeting then, and if I could get him to go to class without raising his suspicions, he’d be none the wiser as to how I spent my free period until it was over. Oh, he’d be furious with me once he found out, but with Draco, it’s always far easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

“Draco, you *can’t* come with me! You have another practice scheduled after dinner tomorrow! The game with Gryffindor is next week; there’s no way you could get out of going to practice.”

Of course, we *both* knew that that wasn’t true. Draco, the clever, lazy bastard, had taken on Graham Pritchard, a skinny, weasel-faced fourth year as sort of an assistant coach. The boy had no Quidditch talent whatsoever, but he excelled at sucking up to Draco, doing all the boring paperwork associated with running the House team, and bossing the team members around. Whenever Draco felt like slacking off at a practice and nipping off to get a sandwich or something, he’d leave Graham in charge, knowing that Graham would take great, sadistic delight in forcing the team to go through their drills. In hopes that he’d be able to tell someone off, Graham never missed a practice. And since he owed his position of glorious authority to Draco’s benevolence, he would never think of suggesting to the team captain that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t miss a practice, himself.

But now that I had ‘let it slip’ that the meeting was scheduled for after dinner, I could see the plan forming in Draco’s mind as clearly as if he had stood up on the billiards table and announced it the room at large. It was difficult not to laugh, but I pretended to be taken in by the way he nodded and agreed with me, saying that he’d go to practice, and that I’d just have to be on my own for my meeting with Granger. He was in a much better mood as we finished the game of billiards (which he won, of course) and was even happy and daring enough to give me a quick kiss-and-grope in the stairwell as we headed up to bed. As I went through my bedtime rituals, I imagined how much harder it would be to calm him down tomorrow, once he found out that I’d met with Granger behind his back. Biting back a groan at the thought of it, I lofted a quick prayer to whatever higher power listens to Slytherins that the tutoring session with Granger would prove worth the trouble, before climbing into bed and drifting instantly to sleep.



Section 1 to 3|Section 4 to 6|Section 7 to 9|Section 10 & 11|Section 12 & 13|Section 14|Section 15 & 16