4

* * * September 5, 1997 * * *

"Look who's here! The (Give) Head Boy!"

Draco laughed aloud and thrust his hips suggestively. "That's you, Zabini. Where are the ladies? They're supposed to be lined up for me when I arrive!" A missile of some sort thwapped the side of his head, and he spun round to catch the culprit. Pansy was sitting not twenty feet away with a sassy smile. "Throwing spitwads at the Head Boy, Parkinson?" he purred, crossing the room to take her wrists and pull them up over her head. "Punishable offense, that is."

She bared her teeth. "Gonna put me in detention?"

It was late at night, but there were still some third- and fourth-years milling about the Slytherin common room, and (sadly) it just wasn't appropriate to continue this discussion in front of them. "Damn straight. Detention, your room, twenty minutes from now." She dropped her gaze from his eyes to the middle of his robes and leered.

"Slut," he whispered for her benefit alone, then, laughing, joined Blaise in front of the roaring fire. It was always chilly down under the lake, even at the end of summer. "How goes it in the dungeons, mate?"

"Smells better, now you're gone," Zabini said, then his face took on a more serious mien. "Though it must stink where you are, eh?"

Draco smirked. "No, you know, it's really not so bad. We had a little talk early on, set some ground rules. I hardly ever see her, actually."

Zabini flicked his eyes away in a maneuver that Draco knew well after six years of being his roommate. It conveyed a certain mixture of mischief and guilt. He was up to something. Draco lowered his voice. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," he said quietly. "Just a little project in the works. Believe me, if it turns out, you'll be the first to know."

This sounded most intriguing, but Blaise was a model Slytherin, and therefore would not reveal his hand too soon. Draco knew he'd get nothing more out of him for the time being and left it at that.

It was nice to settle back into the old groove, as it were, lounging before the fire and enjoying a pissing match with Blaise. He'd never admit it aloud, but living in the private suite was not as grand as he'd always imagined. There was a wonderful sense of security in the dungeons, knowing that the lake hovered protectively overhead and thick stone surrounded them on all sides. There was only one way in, one door to watch; a guy could relax with his back to the wall, certain that no one could ever come bursting through it.

The suite, however, was tucked on the third floor in the heart of the castle. They had a portrait hole, obviously, but it was double-sized like a classroom door, obviously some stupid architectural symbolism welcoming the plebians to come in for a dose of leadership if they needed it. Draco never quite felt settled in, knowing that there were people all around him, above, below. Merlin-only-knew who might be sneaking about in one of the empty classrooms just a veneer of brick (or even wood paneling!) away. It was sumptuous, certainly, and having a private bedroom and bath were very welcome "perqs;" he just wish he could enjoy them without feeling on his guard 24/7.

Neither he nor Granger used their common room, despite the lavish furnishings and the cheery hearth. It was designed for socializing, chairs and couches with little end tables scattered elegantly under a rotunda ceiling enchanted like the one in the Great Hall. There had been two heavy desks, one at each window, but Granger had moved hers into her bedroom within hours of arriving at Hogwarts, and he had done the same the next morning. No communal studying in this suite! Of course, this had made the common room even more open and comfortable, and the house elves had rearranged the furniture to fill the gaps. It was clearly meant for prefects and Quidditch captains and other elite students to gather and mingle with the Head Boy and Girl away from the madding crowd, yet it stood empty and forlorn. Draco felt an irrational impulse to order the house-elves to drape dust covers over the furniture every time he walked through it.

Granger kept herself scarce. Their rooms were well-soundproofed, and when her door was closed, he couldn't tell if she were hiding in there or if the suite was empty. That was undoubtedly meant to be a convenience, but had obviously been devised by a Hufflepuff. Slytherins would gladly accept the annoyances of loud music, snoring, etc. in exchange for constant awareness of the presence or absence of their suite-mate. The sense of a potential ambush nagged at him constantly.

The only times he ever heard her were when she used the bathroom, which was flanked by their bedrooms. The toilet was tucked in the back behind their closets and was well soundproofed (thankfully!), but the sinks and tub occupied a large room of white marble that rang like crystal when the taps were open. He heard her bathe every night, which irritated the hell out of him at first (since it was right after he'd returned from patrol and was rather looking forward to a nice soak himself), but he'd decided that protesting her bathing time would require him to talk to the stupid bint, and it wasn't worth the bother. Next month she'd be on late patrol and he'd have all the privacy he wanted.

But surprisingly enough, privacy wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and Draco found after less than a week that he longed for more contact. Crabbe and Goyle had shadowed him for so long that he felt odd in their absence, as though he'd left for class without putting on any socks. And they were never anything to talk to anyway; he had Knott and Zabini for that, and of course the ladies. Pansy was smart and funny enough to hold her own at taking the piss, but he had to be careful, for if he took certain topics too far, she'd get genuinely offended and there would be no action until he'd made up for it with gifts and insincere apologies. She was high maintenance, he had to admit, but she swallowed and that made up for a lot.

Talking of which... Draco gave Pansy the briefest waggle of eyebrows, and with a yawn and stretch, she slammed her Transfiguration book and announced that she was turning in. Draco continued his conversation with Blaise for another ten minutes, until his former roommate glanced at his watch and gave Draco a crooked grin. "Think she's had time to change into her nightdress," he said.

Draco nodded. "My thoughts exactly, Mr. Zabini. I believe I'll check in with the senior Prefect."

Zabini watched him stroll to Parkinson's room and knock; a warm red glow escaped the door when he slipped through it. She'd lit the lamp with the red shade, a very good sign. "Lucky bastard," he thought, and returned to his own room to continue working on his project.