8.
After dinner, Ethan, Cory, Percy and Oliver left for the Common Room to complete the Potions essay Professor Snape assigned earlier. The four Gryffindor boys' disquisitions were in varying degrees of completion, with Percy's almost complete.

i '... you may go Bill Weasley for extra tutelage ...' /i

Professor Snape's words echoed in Oliver's mind. As Ethan and Cory made their way up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Oliver slowed down and nudged Percy, who understood his friend's silent request.

"What's the matter, Oliver?" Percy asked in a hushed tone.

"Nothing, really. It's just..." Oliver continued to make sure they were far enough from the others so to be unheard. "Do you think Bill can help me? With the Potions essay, that is?"

Percy pursed his lips as if offended. With a loud tut, he replied, "Never mind Bill. I can help you." To accentuate the notion, Percy seemed to grow taller at the mere notion of someone needing his help.

"How far along are you, then?"

Before Oliver could answer, the stairwell gave an abrupt lurch as it dislodged itself from its landing and began to shift towards the east wing. The sudden movement nearly threw the two Gryffindors off-balance. They held tightly to the rail to prevent themselves from falling to the floor or being thrown over the banister entirely.

"Oh, bother!" Percy cried.

Ethan and Cory had just made it over the top step when the staircase began to reposition itself. They began to point and laugh, calling attention to the small few who were now trapped on the shifting stairs.

"Oh, they'll get there's," Percy warned through a scowl. "Anyway, how finished are you in your essay?"

"Uhm... The ingredients?" Oliver shrugged off Percy's glare of impudence with a weak smile.

"The ingred...! Professor Snape I assigned /I us the ingredients! Oh, really, Oliver... If you're not even going to try--"

The stairs stopped moving as it resettled to its new location. Immediately, Oliver stormed off in a huff.

"I I am /I trying, Percy! That's why I asked for your help. But if you're not going to help me, I'll just have to go to Bill ... or Charlie!"

Percy followed, robes billowing behind him. "Oh, good luck, that! Charlie is pants at Potions. Absolutely dreadful! And he better buck up, too, if he wants to work with dragons."

Without warning, Oliver stopped in his tracks. Percy almost broadsided him, but managed to stop.

"... 'work with dragons' ...?"

Straightening his robes, Percy walked around Oliver towards another set of stairs. "Yes, dragons."

Oliver followed as they walked down the steps to the floor below, Percy's face contorted to show every bit of concern.

"Oh, I do hope this staircase stays still," he said in a pleading tone. "At any rate, Charlie loves dragons. For as long as I can remember he's been fascinated by the beasts. I don't understand why, really. Nothing good can come from messing about with them. Taming dragons, indeed!"

Percy stopped and turned, leaning in as if to whisper a secret in Oliver's ear. His expression never looked more serious than it had at that very moment.

"You-know-who used them. You know... the last time he was powerful."

Oliver's eyes bulged involuntarily. Before he could stop it, an audible gasp escaped his lips.

Percy continued walking down the steps. "Yes. Did horrible things to ensure their obedience to, or so we're told."

But Oliver was not told this. He never even knew that they could be used in a fight or to guard things or anything of the sort. How horrible that those monsters could be wielded like a weapon, and Charlie -- I his /I Charlie -- wanted to work with them, wanted to tame them! What if he was hurt? What if he was eaten? That would be the end of it all, he would never be able to see Charlie again and Charlie would no longer be there to protect him. As if a light switch had been flicked and Oliver's mind illuminated, he decided that, no matter what, he would make sure Charlie I never /I worked with dragons.

The two boys made their way to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who seemed to sway more than usual within her frame.

"You have to be an excellent flyer," Percy continued. "And of course Charlie is that. One of the best here next to Madam Hooch, of course."

"Of course," Oliver replied, though he truly did not know she was the I best /I . In fact, he had never gotten to see her fly seeing as his first day of flying lessons ended with a trip to the hospital wing.

"Oh, that reminds me, Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs are tomorrow. I imagine you'd like to watch?"

Oliver's eyes brightened with excitement. "Oh, boy -- would I!"

The Fat Lady placed both hands on her amble hips. "Well -- hiccup -- if you're just goin' t' stand about all daa-hiccup-ay, I've betterrr thims t'do..." She tried to sound indignant but only came off as silly.

"Easy on the mead next time, I think," Percy said, scowling.

Percy's disapproving tone shocked Oliver. Certainly, the Fat Lady was just a portrait, but it was a piece of essence from a woman who had lived, presumably, a full life. Did portraits deserve the same respect afforded their once-living counterparts? Oliver just assumed so, but Percy, apparently, had different beliefs on the matter.

"Wasspord? -hiccup-"

Percy rolled his eyes. "Fidelloial."

Normally, the Fat Lady would sweep her arm to her side in a grand, almost royal manner. This time, however, she just fell over as the door to the common room swung open. Waiting for them, glee painted on their faces, were Ethan and Cory. Both were red from laughter.

"Oh, it's not as though you two were responsible for The Funny," Percy yelled as he whisked by them.

"Oh, don't be sour, Percy," Ethan said, flashing what Oliver was sure was an attempt at disarming 'puppy-dog' eyes. Instead, it merely inflamed Percy further.

"Sour and sore Percival. I dare say we've found a new nickname, don't you, Oliver?" Cory asked, tossing his arm around Oliver's shoulder.

"Nah," Oliver said. "I rather like 'Percival'. Sounds like pure rubbish."

"Good one, Oliver."

"Yeah, good one, I Olive /I ," Percy fired back, taking a seat in a nearby chair.

Oliver's attention immediately shot to Ethan and Cory, who were staring at one another with gaping mouths.

"Oh, no," Oliver protested. "You most certainly will not!"

He knew where this was going. Tension seemed to build to its utmost, nigh-unendurable peak. Ethan and Cory's backs stretched higher, their lungs filling with oxygen, until finally they released their breath in a thunderous, booming laughter that shook the common room. Or, in the very least, it certainly managed to get everyone's attention.

"Oh, that's just priceless!" Ethan barked. "Perfect, really. 'Olive'! Oh, I love it!"

"No, no, no! Absolutely not!"

Oliver tried to stalk away with as much dignity as possible, much like Percy did. Instead, Cory wrapped both arms around his chest from behind and pulled him back into a playful embrace.

"I don't understand why you lot can't simply use the names we already have rather than making up stupid nicknames and the like."

"Oh, no you don't...! Olive! Ha, ha! It's just too precious!"

Oliver twisted and lurched in an effort to escape.

"Indeed," Percy said from his chair. "If I have to suffer through it, then I don't see why Ickle Olive should be any different."

Cory laughed even louder. "Oh, Ickle Olive! That's too much. Really it is!"

As the struggle continued, Cory's fingers brushed gingerly along Oliver's side, making the boy squeak and leap about.

"Oi, Ethan," Cory called. "I've a feeling good ole Olive here is quite the ticklish sort."

Ethan rubbed his chin with the length of his finger, pondering the notion. "You think so, then? You know, Cory, I believe you are correct. But such a statement requires intense testing."

As if this had been planned long before that day, Ethan addressed the common room like a vaudevillian announcer while Cory hooked his arms over Oliver's to stop him from running off or swinging fists. Oliver was annoyed, but he could not help laugh.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "If I may have you attention, please?"

The bustle of the common room died completely as Ethan drew his wand and pointed to Oliver, still trying to squirm away from Cory's clutches.

"It's been brought to our attention," he continued, "that young Olive, here, may be of the ticklish kind. I say he's of the I very /I ticklish kind. So, we'd like you all to assist us in determining which of us is right."

The room was at a loss of what to do. Some third-year girls leaned into each other and giggled and more than a couple first and second-year girls even blushed. Finally, the whole common room erupted in cachinnations, even Percy joined in.

"You know this means war, right?" Oliver warned behind his smile.

Ethan ruffled Oliver's hair as Cory whispered, "We wouldn't have it any other way... I Olive /I ."

"Step right up and relieve your first-week jitters on this poor, hapless first-year! No kicking, biting, or punching... just" he wiggled his fingers at Oliver, menacingly, "... the tickles!"

Imagine Oliver's surprise when, within seconds, a rather lengthy queue had formed, with Percy first in line, cracking his knuckles.

(line break)

Quarter of midnight and Marcus had never felt sorer than he did right at that moment. Walking down the dungeon corridor to the boys' dormitory, ever muscle in his shoulder and back burned with discomfort. It was just shy of pain, yet he knew he would wake up later with the kind of annoying dull ache that was sure to be there even by the time of his next detention with Professor Snape. Marcus knew he should take a shower before going to bed, but he could not be arsed to do so.

He entered the cellar-like Slytherin common room, far colder than he remembered it ever being. The room was, as expected, empty, save for Drusilla, balled up on the high-back chair that Marcus always associated with Jakob. An afghan draped precariously over her lap threatened to slide completely off. The sight of her stopped Marcus dead in his tracks, as if he had been struck by a physical blow. His head cocked slightly to the side as he took the sight of her in. She was pretty enough, he thought, even though her face was far too round to be allowed. Drusilla's neck was exposed, stretched and lengthened by the manner by which she had fallen asleep and her lips were parted somewhat. Marcus could hear her breathing. It was almost hypnotic. Indeed, he became entranced by the steady rise and fall of her bosom, walking over to her without really realising he was doing so. He leaned over her and noticed that she was shivering, her arms wrapped tightly around her in an attempt to keep warm. Without thinking, Marcus reached down, grabbed the end of the wool coverlet and began to pull it up to her chin.

The shawl met with some resistance as it caught from between her legs. Marcus gave the blanket a wrench far too strong and a book slid from Drusilla's lap, hitting the floor with a bang. Drusilla stirred, smacking her lips gingerly. Her eyes fluttered open before being startled wide.

"Marcus! You scared me," she said, straightening and stretching in the chair. Marcus quickly pulled away, staring intently at the book on the floor. "I was waiting up for you... what time is it?"

He did not answer her, however. His brow knitted once he realised what she had been reading.

"Marcus? Hello? Are you with me?" she asked.

"Mine," was Marcus' only reply, gaze still fixed on the notebook on the floor.

Drusilla followed his gaze and, once she saw the notebook on the floor, she reached down and picked it up. "Oh, yeah. You left it in the library today when you were late for detention. That's why I was waiting up for you, to give it back."

Marcus reached out for the book. His throat tightened when, instead of handing it back to him, Drusilla actually opened it and scowled at the contents.

"I must say your handwriting leaves a lot to be desired. But you're a boy, yeah? Boys are pants at writing. It is an art, you know?" She licked the tip of her index finger and turned a page. "What language is this, by the bye?"

Marcus was dumbstruck. A closely guarded secret of his was out in the open, revealed for further taunting. As though someone had turned on a light switch, the boy had gone from worried to anger in an instant. His chin jutted out, tight yet quivering with rage. Unaware, Drusilla continued to peruse the book, as though it were normal to intrude on someone's person.

"I mean, look right here," she pointed to a passage, and held it for Marcus to see. "I think I know what you're trying to say, but the words -- and some of the letters -- are all..."

"Gimme that!" Marcus barked, snatching the book so furiously that it threatened to break the journal in half. "Who the fuck do you think you are stealing my notes!"

"Ow," Drusilla pulled her hand back, rubbing it with her other. "What? ' Stealing?' Don't be daft, Flint. You left it at the library and I was just--"

"Just thinking you'd have a bit of fun with the idiot, yeah?" Marcus bit back.

Drusilla was truly confused. "... 'having a bit of fun'? Marcus, really, what are you on about?"

Marcus leaned toward her, his expression contorted into one of pure disdain. It made Drusilla draw back into her seat, fearful.

"This is mine, you thieving little slag. Mine! If you ever so much as lay a finger on my property again, I'll... I'll..."

Drusilla's eyes narrowed. She would hardly broker being bullied. "You'll do what, Flint." She nearly spat his last name, matching Flint's scowl with venom of her own.

Marcus looked away for a brief moment, as if mulling over her question. When his eyes met hers again, they were blank and emotionless, as was the tone in his voice. "I'll forget you're a girl."

With that, he walked off, knuckles clenched white around the book.

Drusilla did not turn to watch Marcus as he walked down the stairwell into the boys sleeping quarters. She merely looked at the mantelpiece that adorned the unused fireplace. As frightened as she was of Marcus' rage, she quickly squashed the feeling, replacing with anger -- and a need for payback -- that she doubted she could ever quell.