An Accidental Alliance

chapter 3

It wasn't until the next morning Harry realized his fingers were covered in ink and, due to not having washed his hands before bed, so was his pillowcase and the side of his face. Dean and Seamus found this hilarious and Harry brushed them off as he went to shower. The ink had set, though, and while the top layer came off fine, he was left with faded stains all over his hands and face. Absolutely brilliant.

They were even more amused when he returned from the bathroom not looking any better. Ron and Neville were laughing as well, and Harry muttered angrily under his breath as he dressed. There wasn't any way to cover the stains, either-gloves would look very strange, and as far as he knew there wasn't a contraption meant to cover just the left cheek.

At breakfast Dean and Seamus happily told the entire Gryffindor table that Harry was covered in ink and Ron supplied the reason, which Harry was not particularly thankful for. He was asked repeatedly if cartoon dragons breathed ink instead of fire, and he had his plate filled by his friends, so as to prevent any ink poisoning. Harry was feeling very grumbly and unpleasant by the time they went to potions and it only got worse when he saw Malfoy sitting neatly and cleanly at their station. He'd never let himself get covered in ink. Harry sunk into his seat, pulled his sleeve down to cover his fingers and rested his head on his hand to cover the stain on his face.

"Don't bother, Potter, your exploits reached the Slytherin table," Malfoy drawled. "Cartoon dragons, ink stains, all that nonsense. Give me your hands."

Harry gaped at him. "What? Why?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Residual ink could get on our ingredients and into the potion, and I'm not interested in either redoing the potion or doing all the work myself. Give me your hands."

Hesitantly, Harry held out his hands. He was expecting a particularly powerful cleaning spell, not that Hermione hadn't already tried, but instead his hands were covered in a thin layer of something clear and bendable and molded to his skin. Harry flexed his fingers. "What is this?"

"They're gloves, Potter," Malfoy said, sounding bored now that the potential potions crisis had been adverted. "You'll retain all movement and feeling but you won't get ink all over everything."

"Oh," Harry said dumbly. "Thanks, I guess."

"Don't bother. It was for my benefit, not yours."

And, just like that, his day was miserable again. The gloves might keep his fingers working and feeling but they were slippery and he went through maybe five or six ivy tendrils before he managed to chop one without it slipping out of his grasp at an inopportune moment. He only cut himself once, and it was shallow enough he fixed it himself, but still, this was clearly not his day. The ivy was all that needed to be chopped, at least, and the rest of the crushing and powdering and shredding was painless. Malfoy took the ingredients as they were prepared, and began the process of actually brewing the potion. When they had first been partnered Harry had tried to persuade Malfoy into telling him what he was doing, but he had quickly given up. It just wasn't going to happen. If he failed his N.E.W.T.s because of it, well, at least he'd have someone to blame.

Besides, it left him with just over half a class of doing nothing, and that was entirely okay with him.

"Malfoy, how do I get these things off?" Harry asked, waving his hands at him.

Malfoy leaned away and gave him a distasteful look. "Get your hands out of my face, Potter. They're gloves, I told you. Just take them off."