be a nailing-people-to-the-wall-with-sharp-spikes demon.”
“I can't help thinking that'd be a bit easier to fight off,” said Harry. “She just makes me feel so… powerless.”
“Well, my dad always said when that happened you should try picturing the enemy in their underwear,” said Draco, then added hastily, “but given the nature of the problem, in your case that might not be a good move.”
“You're not helping, Malfoy…”
“All right, then, let's talk about something else. Like what I'm supposed to get Seamus Finnigan for Christmas.”
Harry smiled. “Yeah, Hermione told me you drew his name.”
“Who did you get?”
“Eloise Midgen.”
“Ah. New nose, then?”
“Shut up, Malfoy. Eloise is a very nice person.”
Draco grinned. “Guess who Blaise got.”
Harry shook his head. “Me?”
Draco looked as if he were enjoying himself. “Hermione.”
“Oh, no.” Harry shot Draco a mistrustful look. “Don't you let her get Hermione anything sharp, or explosive…”
Draco put his hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear,” he intoned.
“Thanks.” Harry's eyes went to the clock on the wall, and he sat up straight. “Time to go down to supper,” he said, and stood up, grabbing his bookbag off a nearby chair. He was halfway to the door when he paused and turned. “Aren't you coming with me?”
Draco, who was still sitting at the table, raised his head, surprised. In the half light, Harry couldn't make out his expression, only the vaguely defined shape of his face: the planes of the cheekbones, the sharp chin, the shadowed eyes. “We can't go down there together,” he said.
“Oh,” said Harry. “Right, we can't — of course we can't.”
“You go — I'll head down in a bit.” Draco gave Harry a curious look. “You all right? You look like you're about to sneeze.”
Harry sighed. “It's nothing. Just…”
“What?”
“Don't come down too soon after I do.”
Draco nodded. “Good point. I won't.”
“Thanks,” said Harry, and left feeling irritable, but not knowing why.
She's not coming.
He had already told himself this three times, but it didn't seem to be making a difference. Ron stood up, easing his cramped muscles, and leaned against the wall, staring sightlessly into the middle distance. It was three in the morning and he was meant to be up in a few hours. In six hours, in fact, he was meant to be robbing a museum. Right now that all seemed distant and unreal: what was real was the fact that she wasn't here, and it didn't seem like she would be arriving any time soon.
He had sent her a message…several messages, telling her to meet him in their usual place. And he had waited. The night before, and the night before that. But she hadn't come. It wasn't the first time; there had been other nights she hadn't shown herself, but never three in a row.
He took a step forward and leaned his hands on the table. The four squares of light from the colored windows: blue, red, green, and gold — splashed across the center of the room, painting the floor. They glowed all the time, even at night. There was no need for other lighting in the prefects' room, another reason it was such an ideal meeting place. And only someone with the password could get in. Of course, there had been that unfortunate Malcolm incident…
Ron pushed that to the back of his mind. Malcolm didn't remember what had happened — an unexpected stroke of luck, that. Not that he felt very lucky right now. He had felt lucky, often, these past months, had felt he was the luckiest person in the world. But now…he looked down at his own hands, resting on the table. The nails were bitten down to bloody half-circles.
A surge of anger washed over him. He got to his feet, feeling suddenly energized by fury — she had no right to act like this. The least she could do was send him a message. He knew they were prevented from speaking about this to each other in public, but she could have scribbled a note. He grabbed at the door and wrenched it open, stepped out into the hallway — and hesitated.
The hallway was filled with faint morning light. It must be later than he had thought. In which case…well, there was no point going to bed then, was there? And if he waited…well, perhaps she might come. They'd met later than this before.
He went back into the room, and shut the door behind him.
Waking up was like swimming through black cold water towards a distant light. Draco's head broke the surface of sleep, his eyes fluttering open, and then the rest of his body followed, shuddering awake in a series of uneven jerks. He sat up in bed, letting his breathing still slowly.
He was freezing cold. He sat up slowly, the icy air striking his skin and making him shiver even more. Lately he had been waking up soaked in sweat, his pajamas drenched and sticking to him, so he had taken to sleeping only in the thin cotton pajama bottoms he usually wore during the summer, the covers kicked down to his feet. Now, however, this was backfiring and he was frozen solid. His bones felt like ice.
