playing the game, living the lie

chapter 10: staring at the sun.

[date: 10-11 November]

Whenever she was concentrating especially hard, Pansy Parkinson chewed upon her fingernails. It was a decidedly unladylike habit, and one that Her Mother had diligently attempted to eradicate from her over the long course of her childhood. Pansy had been berated, lectured, glared at, patronised, cajoled, bribed and solemnly informed of exactly how ugly it made her look. When that failed to work, her mother tired indirection - words like 'unseemly', 'undignified' and 'unladylike' were frequently tossed about by Pansy's mother, not right in the child's face, but certainly loud enough for her to hear, and understand. This was, of course, all the more insulting.

Her Mother (who possessed the kind of understated presence that could probably intimidate both a Narcissa Malfoy and a house elf, or at least make the attempt) even went so far as to have her father - a thoroughly cowed man if there ever was one - paint the child's nails with Enlarging Solution, so as to dissuade her. Pansy's teeth did become abnormally large and troll-like - which the toddler then discovered made them all the more effective for biting her nails.

At that point Her Mother had despaired. Although she had condescended to fix her daughter's teeth.

During her early years at Hogwarts, Pansy had noticed for herself, with horror and embarrassment, the difference between the well-manicured, polished nails of the other young ladies, and the stubby, chewed-on things at the end of her fingers. Very quickly, she found the self-control to rid herself of the annoying habit, but it still crept in when she was feeling especially anxious. Like now.

Taking a momentary break from the biting, she tucked a long, somewhat ragged strand of golden hair behind an ear, and fiddled absently with the split ends. There were times when she would have sold her soul for hair like Draco's; hers was thin, and the colour of burnished gold, and it frayed at any excuse - from her being nervous over a test or simply due to an oppressive change in the weather. Holding the parchment up to the candlelight, Pansy examined it, quite critically. This was no casual correspondence; it needed to win Her Mother over without creating offense, or provoking an appeal to outside intervention: Pansy was quite aware of what the consequences would be if other parties got involved, and the scandal that would invariably ensue. Besides, it was not that she particularly wanted Draco, not anymore. It was one thing to covet something one's entire life; it was quite another to suddenly understand the cost to those who had gone before. Narcissa had been the kind of real-life example that made Pansy rather uncomfortable, and so she had resolved to change her path.

In many ways, Pansy's talk with Narcissa had given her a new purpose and helpful clarity of thought: she could deal with the situation without being obsessive, or self-denying, or even bitter. She would be constructive, thoughtful, considerate, supportive: she could even be a true friend to Draco. But it was more than that.

In one foul swoop, she could make the Parkinsons far more central to the core of things than any of her ancestors had done over the course of generations. It was perhaps the most audacious plan she'd ever conceived of in her life (admittedly not the greatest verdict, considering her previous reaction in life had to quake in the corner and bite her nails.) Now of course, she had a chance to deify herself, but action carried a far greater and entirely different set of risks than inaction.

Just look at Narcissa. This would either make or break her, and Pansy had never felt more alive. Is that what you feel, Draco, Harry? She wondered. When you plot and play and steer those around you? Is this what makes the game worthwhile, and the people you broke along the way easier to forget?

Examining the parchment did nothing to help her mood, and she could almost feel her hair splitting as she read. With a sigh, Pansy crumpled the parchment, and tossed it over her shoulder to join its siblings on the floor. There was no time for self-pity, and so without complain she took out a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped her quill anew in ink, and considered how to say exactly the same things in a different way. As Pansy wrote, her wand rested on the desk next to her, easily within arm's reach.

It was at that point at which fate decided to intervene. Pansy heard the door to her room burst open, and she whirled around to face her intruder, wand in hand. Draco Malfoy strode in as if he owned the place, and snatched the parchment out of her hand. Without a word, he began reading it to himself.

Pansy was not startled when her door was slammed open; she had to deal with similar events before: after all, this was Slytherin, and she was a Slytherin girl. Second Years here learned to barricade their doors, and have their wands close by, in case of...nocturnal disturbance. Snape knew about it, certainly, and part of him deplored it. But it was all part of determining the weak from the strong, and it was part of Slytherin tradition. What was one man against the force of ages? She'd heard the rumours about Flint being chief rapist when she arrived in First Year, yet strangely he didn't seem inclined to molest her once she became eligible for her 'debut' (as it was called) in Second. Everyone had commented on it at the time, but Pansy was quite content not knowing what she missed out on.

"Well, hello, Draco," Pansy said. "It's good to see you haven't lost your manners." Looking at the wand in her hand, she wondered if she could hide it behind her back before he noticed. Probably not. Ah, well

He ignored her, waving a hand as if that would shut her up. Pansy sighed, sat back down and waited for the exploding charm to detonate.

After a few moments, he looked at the page. Then looked at her. Then looked at the same place on the page again. Then her. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. And then he started to read aloud. "'Amongst other things, I wish to inform you that for reasons I wish to keep private I will be terminating the understanding that exists between our family and the Malfoys regarding a prospective marriage between Draco and myself.'" He looked at her, aghast. "You're dumping me?"

Pansy took the parchment from the startled boy, and smoothed it out, placing it back on her desk. "Don't be silly, Draco. We weren't together, so I couldn't have dumped you."

"But-but", he stammered, clearly not sure how to handle a situation in which someone else had the supper hand. "You were all but promised to me when we were five!"

"Yes, and neither of us knew how things would turn out, did we? It wasn't exactly fair."

The response was blunt. "Who cares about fair? It's a good arrangement."

"It was. But I'm certainly not going to marry myself to someone who'll never love me."

Draco looked down at her bed, smoothing out the wrinkles absently in the sheets. "I don't hate you," he admitted, evasively.

"No, but you're in love with Potter."

He looked straight up at her, chin set defiantly. "I am not in love with Potter!", he spat out, and Pansy absently wondered if he could take any more shocks in so small a space of time. He might start frothing at the mouth, she thought to herself, and giggled, ignoring Draco's pointed look in response.

"Merlin knows it as well as I do, and he's been gone for a millennium and a half." She settled her hands in her lap, and continued. "The entire school knows how you feel for one another, Draco. People have been putting bets on you two since Fourth Year."

He nearly did foam at the mouth at that. "People have been betting on us?" he screeched, before calming down, his eyes furtive and alert. "Did anyone make any money?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. Typical. "Virginia Weasley would have made a packet apparently, but the bookmakers are trying to rule her wager as ineligible. They insist she had 'insider knowledge'."

Draco grew pensive. "Who the bloody hell are the bookmakers?"

"That group of Hufflepuff girls who follow you around, I believe," she replied smoothly. "Not that I would indulge in such gambling myself, dear."

The familiarity she had invoked caused his eyes to widen again, startled, and Pansy repressed a small smile of triumph. Narcissa had been right when she told Pansy that forwardness would keep him off balance, and Pansy needed Draco to be off balance more than anything. If he even began to suspect she was leading him where he needed to go, he would dig his heels in and fight her every step of the way. If she could keep him in a perpetual state of wide-eyed surprise, he wouldn't have a clue.

For all her years of mooning after the young Slytherin, Pansy realised she had allowed her technique to get rusty. Dreaming about the prize had distracted her from the game, and although getting Draco might have been a suitable way of keeping score, it was only that, not the game in itself. This thrill, this challenge was what she had been missing all along, and now she relished the opportunity to get her nails dirty again (metaphorically speaking.) The Parkinsons, being of a relatively minor family, had used their wits to keep their heads above water for several centuries, and Pansy was not about to let the family abilities fall into disuse, although safe was the most minor of her ambitions, now.

Besides, if Virginia Weasley could get over her crush, so could Pansy, and she was not to be outdone by a Weasley. (Not that she was in any danger of duplicating Ginny's vulgar excesses: copious amounts of eyeliner and leather had never been Pansy's style.) Most of all, playing with Draco gave her something to do, to concentrate on, to get this horrible worry out from the pit of her stomach.

If nothing else, it would make her stop biting her nails.

Draco had by this point, eased himself very slowly onto her bed, and looked about the room with a certain twitchiness. "Do you believe the rumours, Pansy?", he finally asked at length.

"Yes," she replied briskly. "I've seen the way you look at each other, and I'm not marrying myself off to a man who's in love with someone else. Especially if the person in question is a he. I can do many things, Draco, but not compensate for a lack of...that."

"He's done nothing but drive me insane," Draco burst out. "I think sometimes that-" and there was a slight pause "-that Potter exists for no other purpose."

"Don't be silly, dear." Pansy told him. "You may well be Draco Malfoy, and all that name implies, but you do not have it in you to defeat the Dark Lord. That's why we have Gryffindors. They can go off and get themselves killed on idiotic crusades." Draco had been watching her, his jaw dropping further as each sentence rolled off her tongue, obviously shocked at her new found bluntness. His astonishment suddenly filled her with irritation. Men! He thinks I should still be hanging on his every word, I suppose. "And please, call him Harry. It's ever so obvious you want to, and there's no point in being stubborn about this." That was petty of her, she knew, but he did deserve it.

"Fine then," he snapped. "His name is Harry. His name is Harry fucking Potter, Hogwarts' resident Golden Boy, and I hate him."

"Yes, dear," Pansy agreed, peaceably. "But you also like him, and that's where we have problems. Now, am I right in guessing you two had a little spat? Something suitably petty, I suppose. Does he have a bigger wand than you?"

Draco's face went red, and then very very pale. He was furious. Pansy was enjoying herself abominably. "He does not!" he hissed, his voice quite low.

"So you've checked, then."

"I have not checked!"

"What did you fight about then?"

"Pointlessly stupid things," he retorted, blazing with anger. "What else do couples fight about?"

"So you're a couple then."

Draco realised he'd been beaten, at least in this round. "Yes," he murmured, rubbing at his forehead to relieve the impending headache. "No. I don't know. We're something, that's for sure. Or we were."

"Obviously separation doesn't please either of you," Pansy observed, "for all your insistence that you don't know where this...whatever-it-is, is going. Harry spends most of his time of late being clinically depressed, but he bites your head off if you talk to him. You, on the other hand, act like a lion with a sore tooth. You've terrorised the lower years - probably taken more points off this week than you have in the previous six months."

A pause. "Is he that bad?"

"I think he had a minor tantrum this morning over Breakfast."

"What set him off?

"Because it was porridge again."

"My, he is temperamental." Draco sounded oddly proud.

"Don't get too full of yourself, dear. You know you can't just dangle him on a string."

"Why ever not?" Draco seemed vaguely offended, but then people rarely told him what he couldn't do.

"It's not good manners, dear."

He grinned, cheekily. "Well, if it's not good manners, then..." but lapsed into silence as she looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

"No more urgent consultations about our wedding, then?" Pansy asked, acidly.

"Oh, I think I can survive without you."

"That makes two of us then." Draco certainly didn't seem to take that well.

"Any more barbs, or can I retire to bandage my wounds?"

"You barged in here," Pansy pointed out.

"Pansy, stop being logical. You know I can't abide it when people use common sense against me."

She laughed with greater vigour than she had intended. "I have noticed, Draco."

He nodded, once and raised himself from her bed, looking at her intently, as if she were some new species. Pansy supposed she was, in a sense: Draco liked to categorise things; it gave him power over them to delineate their shapes and forms and behaviours. If someone could be defined, his or her behaviour could be anticipated, and adjusted for, or even controlled. He certainly seemed surprised, even indignant when people jumped out of the boxes he had put them in. Or perhaps, she thought, sometimes he was intrigued. That would explain his fascination with Potter: because Harry could not be readily put into any easy category, or perhaps because he seemed almost too simple, too pure to be real. Pansy sincerely doubted it was the latter: everyone had a secret to hide, and frequently the good and lauded denizens of society were those who had the most to hide.

Finally, the young man - and Pansy reflected he wasn't a boy, not any more, and perhaps he never had been - stopped his appraisal, and knelt before her, reaching down to take one of her hands. He pressed it to his lips, the very image of gallantry. What was he playing at?, she wondered. The trouble with Draco is that he always has a game to play, and not even he always knows exactly what he's playing. "Friends, then?" he murmured, looking up at her.

"Friends", she agreed, gently threading fingers through his silky, full hair.

Lightly, he reached up and stopped her hand. "Pansy, dear," he admonished, "don't touch the hair."

She laughed.

* * *

Neville was looking at him with hands on his hips, and the short, slightly chubby student seemed to be glaring. Harry had never known Neville to glare. It just simply wasn't Neville. How much would it to take to get you angry, Nev, he wondered and then realised he'd just found out.

Ah.

"Harry," he began, sympathetically, "obviously you're under a lot of pressure right now, with Quidditch restarting, and you're under a lot of strain right now, but honestly, you're dragging down everyone's mood."

Harry opened his mouth to snap back something about how he couldn't help it if everyone followed the whims of the Boy Who Lived, and then something clicked in his mind. Neville was in fact right. Bugger. He'd lost the moral high ground then.

And being Harry Potter, of course, he was all about the moral high ground. Ha. That made him think of Draco, and he resisted the impulse to throw things, watching his fellow Gryffindors in the commons watching him. Waiting to see his reaction. Testing for weakness? Now there was an interesting thought.

Getting of his chair sheepishly, he forced a grin at Neville and made for the door.

"Just get rid of some of your steam, Harry," Neville told him. "You're making Trevor all broody."

Of course, Harry thought as he exited the portrait hole. Draco's not talking to me, I'm dreaming of Tom, and I care about a frog being broody.

I really wish Sirius wasn't going. I wish I could tell him about the dream. I wish I could tell someone about the dream.

"What does that say about my priorities?" he asked the empty corridor, and he could almost hear his inner critic gathering strength to say something pithy about self-denial, before someone else answered.

"I don't know, dear."

Harry spun round so quickly he almost fell over, and there was Pansy Parkinson. He'd rarely talked to her now, all self-confidence and poise, but as with Draco, he could begin to see the fraying around the edges. Her eyes seemed just a little wide and out of control, as if she was swamped by an incredible fear and doubt, and barely suppressing it. It was hardly a stunning piece of detection: her nails were all bitten and chewed upon as Harry glanced down, and she fidgeted with her fingers ever so slightly.

"Uh. Hello. Pansy. What do you want?"

She smiled mirthlessly. "Never ask that question." Turning, she set off at a quick pace, and beckoned Harry to follow her. He did so, with some small hesitation. Time was he could have asked Draco a bit more about her, to let her know if he could trust her or not.

Time was he still talked to Draco. "Where are we going?"

She turned to look at him as they walked, a slightly bitter, mocking expression on her face. "You, Harry, have a date with destiny. And considering your past endeavours, you and she must be really well acquainted by now."

* * *

Hermione wandered down the corridors on Prefect duty, turning at movement in the corner of her eye, startled by the two figures she thought she saw. That couldn't have been Harry could it? Not with Pansy Parkinson!

Trooping off to see where they'd gone, Hermione muttered to herself. "Sucking face with Draco Malfoy is one thing, Harold James Potter, but engaging in civil conversation with Pansy Parkinson is quite another!"

* * *

Harry scowled when he entered the small room. It was one thing to suspect schemes and plans going on behind his back; it was quite another to have those suspicions confirmed and their object standing there in the flesh. "How did she get you here?" he asked Draco, crossly.

Draco looked faintly bemused, and embarrassed, as if he'd been beaten, and even worse, found that losing had its advantages. "She appealed to my better side," was the dry reply.

"I didn't think you had a better side," huffed Harry, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Well, quite obviously I don't. Seeing as you made up your mind about me, I guess I better keep playing the cardboard villain and be grateful for the role you've given me, yes?"

Harry didn't know what to say: not to that.

Draco sighed, again. "I was being sarcastic, Harry."

* * *

She found Pansy in the corridors some distance away, all by herself.

"Where is he?"

"Oh, hello to you as well, Granger. Is that a vein popping in your forehead or did you simply misapply your make up charms this morning?" As Granger vented in a suitably self-righteous intellectual way, Pansy stood there, and realised just why Draco enjoyed toying with people so much.

* * *

"Since when do you call me Harry?"

Draco rubbed his forehead, and cursed the headache that was coming on. Harry could be like this sometimes; infuriatingly literal-minded, all things needed to be spelt out in crisp black and white either black or white, with no more shades of grey than a zebra. Since I fell in love with you, he thought to himself, except I didn't call you 'Harry' in Fourth Year. That could never be said, for fear of revealing a weakness, so he responded, "since I started snogging you, what do you think?" There was another oh-so-weary sigh. "Harry, you can be frightfully dense, you know."

"Only because I want to be," was the light reply. "Git."

"Pillock."

"Martyr."

"Toady."

"Who do I toady? You're the one going around grovelling in front of Snape."

"Oh, yes, and if Dumbledore asked you to dance naked in front of the school, you'd do it wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps." Harry considered this. "Would you want me to?"

"Perhaps." Draco considered this, as well. "Certainly not in front of the whole school."

There was a hesitancy to their conversation, a exploration, as if this were a dance and they didn't know the steps. The dance had to start over, as the partners took stock and learned how they moved all over again, and how they moved together. There was a playfulness in the banter, although it couldn't have been more serious. There were establishing boundaries this time round, reminding themselves that however occasionally maddening the Relationship That Was Not A Relationship was, it did at least although them to find succour in each other, and that way they didn't have to think about things they didn't want to mention.

After last time, both knew not to ever discuss the dream.

"Oh?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "You were thinking a more private performance then?"

"I don't like to share," Draco remarked, somewhat wryly.

Harry was all innocence. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"You must be blinder than I thought you were." He was still looking at Harry, and he hadn't moved an inch.

"Maybe I'm dazzled by your brilliance," parried Harry back, enjoying himself far too much to consider the warning voices in his head.

"Isn't everybody?" Draco stretched out the question, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"You do have a way of rubbing up against people when you meet them. The wrong way," Harry added in response to Draco's familiar smirk.

"Nonsense, Harry."

"Really." The Gryffindor, as was the wont of Gryffindors, was unimpressed.

"I can't be nasty to people I haven't met. I'm sure they'll be plenty of time for that once I meet them, though."

Harry looked at him for a good ten seconds before he burst into laughter. "Draco," he gasped, wiping tears away, "you're impossible."

"Oh, good," the blond replied with a calm satisfaction. "After all, if you're going to save the world, we can't have you going rusty." His eyes glinted. "Someone has to keep you on your toes."

"I think you promised you'd being doing that a few weeks ago."

"It's appropriate that I am, isn't it?"

"Why did I get you as my personal trainer?" Harry asked rhetorically, straightening up.

"Because you need someone who'll give you something to aim for. And I am better than you, Potter." Draco examined his nails, which were flawless, of course.

"Why don't you go save the world then?"

He was met with cool grey eyes. "Don't be stupid. I'm not about to get myself killed. I do have common sense, you know."

"Then why are you here with me?"

Another voice cut through the air. "I think that's one for his side, Draco."

Harry turned to see the calm, cool figure of Pansy Parkinson gliding into the room. "What are you doing here?" he choked out, startled.

She regarding him briefly. "Making sure you haven't killed one another, dear. What does it look like?" Then, that gaze was turned on Draco. It was not pointed, or severe, or even especially cold. It merely asked. And waited. "Well?"

Draco shuffled from one foot to the other. "We're not keeping score, Pansy."

Pansy's sudden smile beamed in the room. "What's the point if you're not keeping score, Draco love? Afraid he'll win?"

Draco stood up sharply, and glared, Harry momentarily forgotten. "Am not!"

Pansy waved it away. "Fine, fine. But your capacity for self-deception does seem rather bottomless where he-" she jerked her thumb in Harry's direction "-is concerned."

Harry sighed, and his shoulders sagged. It was quite unusual: all his life he'd wanted for people to treat him like anyone else - ignore him, really. Now it was happening he had the sudden urge to jump up on the table and yell, 'Hello, The Boy Who Lived here! Take notice, you!'

In response to her rather pointed barb, Draco's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here? I never figured you for a voyeur, Pansy."

She sniffed. "Don't be stupid", she said, unconsciously echoing Draco's own words of a few minutes ago. A friend of that one-" again the thumb was used "-accosted me in the corridor, nearly foaming at the mouth. She had obviously seen him walking with me after dinner, and wanted to know what I had done with him."

"Hermione? Hermione was after me?"

Pansy sniffed again, audibly. "I'm surprised she could tear herself away from that Weasel of hers."

"Maybe she was interested in you, Pansy," Draco suggested.

"She's a Mudblood, Draco dear, and even if I am not quite as prejudiced as some other members of our great House, I am aware of their loyalties."

"Excuse me? But you're insulting my friends right in front of me." Harry gave up and turned to study the spines of the books on the shelves that lined the room. It was clear that when two or more Slytherins gathered, their capacity for snobbery increased exponentially.

"I managed to tell Granger where you were, and why - which settled her down somewhat," Pansy continued, "but it was a very near thing - she was ready to fetch McGonagall and start searching the castle. She seems to believe that you are capable of almost anything, Draco, especially where this one is concerned."

Harry could hear the satisfied smirk in Draco's tone. "Maybe I am."

There was a pause. "Harry dear, how do you put up with him?"

Harry turned. "Me?" he asked, running his hand through his hair. "I'm just in it for the sex, really." And then he smiled, beatifically.

Pansy's smile was slender, but it was there. "I think that's two for his side, dear."

Draco scowled. "Well, now, you've checked we're still alive, you can go."

She considered the possibilities. "You want me to leave all of a sudden." Her smile deepened. "Do you have plans?"

His answer was quick, and suitably indignant. "Of course not!"

"Then you don't mind if I stay."

Harry barely managed to stifle a giggle, and they both turned to face him, and then looked at each other.

"He seems excitable. Even if you didn't have plans, maybe he did?"

"Hey!"

"Oh, I'm sure he'd fall over his shoelaces if he even tried to seduce someone."

"Hey!" Harry was angry, and his voice rose several octaves this time.

"You might have to calm him down, Draco. Have you any techniques for that?"

"I might," the young man assured her, casually.

Pansy backed off slightly, and spoke louder. "Do try and keep yourself in one piece, Harry," she admonished. "I don't particularly want to have to explain things to the Mudblood." Then she turned, nodded to Draco, and made her way out.

Harry let a huge breath go, unaware he'd been holding it in. "Pansy is definitely...interesting," he announced to himself, searching for the appropriate word.

"She certainly has changed of late," Draco admitted.

"I wonder why."

"She hasn't been too forthcoming," was the curt reply, and Draco turned to face Harry.

They examined each other, in the soft light from the fireplace, and torches along the wall. Harry couldn't help himself. He walked over to Draco, and rested his head on the other boy's shoulder. Draco, although somewhat startled at the gesture, and still a little uneasy with close contact, soon reached his hands around to cup Harry's head, and rubbed across his back, holding him close. He could even smell Harry's hair. It was, he decided, quite a delightful experience.

After some length, Harry spoke. "I'm sorry," he mumbled into Draco's robes, nuzzling slightly.

"What for, hmm?" Being needed was rather wonderful, Draco thought to himself, even if the sensation was so fleeting, and so impossible. Even if was just for the little things. Or maybe because it was for the little things.

"For whatever got us into this stupid fight," Harry burst out, almost laughing.

"You're saying there's an us, then?"

Harry considered this for a few brief moments, and decided that he probably shouldn't fight it any longer. He did feel something for Draco: something rather vague and nebulous and undefined, but it was something, and therefore deserved some kind of respect. "Yes, I am." He pulled back slightly, looking up, and quirked an eyebrow mischievously. "Do you have a problem with that...dear?"

Draco chucked - low and rich, and gathered Harry back into his arms. "Don't hang around Pansy too much," he observed, "or you'll pick up all her bad habits."

"Snob."

"Prude."

"Racist."

"Mugglelover."

"Fairy."

"Queer."

"Faggot."

"Boy Who Lived."

Harry grew pensive. "That's an insult?"

"Around Slytherin it is," Draco remarked.

Harry snorted. "I've missed you, you know." Then he'd felt he'd given far too much away.

"Of course you have," replied Draco, lightly, threading his fingers through Harry's hair in return, mussing it further, if that were possible. "I'm irresistible."

"Ah. Egoist."

"Martyr," shot back Draco, fondly.

"Haven't you said that already?"

"Yes, but I thought it deserved saying twice."

"Mmm." Harry nibbled on Draco's right ear. "So, did you see the Gryffindor Quidditch team yet?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You mean there's a place in the castle you haven't covered with posters?" he asked in mock horror.

Harry pulled away from Draco, looking sheepish. "It gave me something to do," he admitted. "I got so bad-tempered, Neville ordered me out of the dorms."

"Longbottom?" Draco didn't know whether to be offended or laugh, but he was incredulous. "Longbottom told you to do something...and you did it?"

"He said I was so pissy, I was making Trevor brood. And he didn't want me to upset his frog any further."

"Well," and the Slytherin sounded slightly strangled. "Now I've heard everything."

Harry quickly changed the subject. "So, what did you think of the team?"

"I think we'll thrash you so badly you won't be able to look at a broom for several years."

"Draco!" Harry considered things. "Surely you might, well, give me some slack, because you like me?"

The response was definite. "Merlin, no. You wouldn't respect me if I did, anyway. Besides, I hate you."

"You do?"

Draco sighed, and held Harry tighter. "Of course I do. I admittedly do like you as well, but I hated you first, so the emotions are rather tangled up." It sounded as if he'd thought this through, far more times than he was comfortable with.

"You remind me of everything that attempts to change me, everything I was I trained to despise." He ran his fingers through Harry's hair. "Your incessant trust and goodwill-" the fingers teased the hair on the nape of his neck "-although indubitably noble-" Draco rested his hand there, and stroked the skin lightly, his other hand smoothing down Harry's back "-will more often than not lead you to find yourself used and lied to. Your tendency to look after others will saddle you with even more problems than you have-" the hand lightly rested on Harry's arse "-and the Gryffindor love of quests makes me wonder if you all have a death wish."

Harry's eyes, which had grown successively wider throughout the entire exchange, narrowed quickly; he slipped from Draco's arms and he took a step back.

The Slytherin, seeing the sudden wariness in Harry's eyes, made a small, irritated noise at the back of his throat. "Listen, do you trust me?"

Harry thought about this. "No," he said, as if he didn't want to say it. "Not entirely. I trust that you won't sell me out to Voldemort or something, but I don't exactly know what your motives are."

Draco smiled, thinly. He was surprised by how much that hurt, even if it was necessary. He wouldn't have trusted himself, either. He trusted Harry implicitly of course, but that was Harry. Nothing appealed to a Gryffindor like a reformed criminal, and Draco bitterly supposed he was that. He wondered bleakly what they'd do once they rehabilitated everyone: go on some kind of moral crusade perhaps, The Fight for Lost Kittens, or somesuch. "Perhaps you're not as holy as I've been told. Although I suppose it is the Gryffindor thing to do, to lock people in nice little boxes, marked 'them' and 'us.' Nothing disturbs you more than someone you can't pin down on one side or the other, does it?"

"I thought you said you liked me," Harry grumbled.

"I do. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. But Merlin, Harry, sometimes you're the most obnoxious person in the world. You've just made it abundantly clear that you're taking me on approval. Sometime I think you survive more on luck and adulation than on anything actual ability."

Harry's tone was curt, and offended still. "Thankyou for that insight."

"You know what I mean. You're everything I was brought up to despise, and I am everything you've learned is repugnant, and evil."

"I don't think of you as repugnant, Draco," Harry moved closer to Draco, but didn't touch him.

"Just evil, I'm sure."

"I was thinking that perhaps you'd done it all to please your father, actually..." Finally, Harry lifted his hand to Draco's pale cheek, again wondering how it could be so bloody soft.

Draco snorted, and plucked Harry's hand away from his cheek, holding the wrist lightly, but firmly. "I am not misunderstood, Harry," he assured the older boy. "I am not 'crying inside.' There is power in this world, and I simply find it far more comforting that I wield it myself, rather than leave it lying about for some idiot who has his head stuck up his arse."

Harry considered this. From Draco's point of view, he supposed, it was perfectly acceptable. "But what gives you the right to decide who's right and who's wrong?"

"What gives you the right?", Draco parried back effortlessly.

"But I don't."

"You do. You condemned Voldemort out of hand."

Harry set his teeth. "He kills people."

"The Ministry sends people to Azkaban. That's as good as killing them."

"I haven't got time to discuss comparative morality, Draco."

"You mean you're afraid you'll lose?"

"I most certainly do not!"

Draco smirked. He needed to do this; needed to probe Harry, to test him - hurt him even, but only for his (and their) own good. If he could do this, Draco could still see himself as strong. If Harry let him, Draco knew he was no mere charity case.

"Why are you telling me all this, anyway?" Harry looked at him, a mite suspicious, and extricated his hand, rubbing circulation back into the wrist.

"Because you deserve to know," Draco offered, softly, although that wasn't the only answer. "Because if I have to put up with your questioning of everything I do, your sanctimonious holier-than-thou morality, then you can certainly put up with me, and my so-called dubious morality."

"There's a difference between you and I, though."

"Oh, I know that, Harry. It's called style."

Draco decided that he would treasure the look on Harry's face for years, and he doubled up, laughing. Harry looked at him, muttered "git", and stomped towards the door, before stopping. Looking back shyly at the Slytherin, who was managing to raise himself on weak legs, he attempted to be casual, and failed utterly. "So, you, uh, still want to help me study, Draco?"

There was a very loud sigh, which contained all the suffering of the world in it. "Yes, Harry, I do want to still help you study." He grinned, suddenly, and Harry stepped back, nervous. "There's lots of things I want to teach you."

Harry fled.

* * *

Hermione raised her head from the book she was reading when Ron sat down on the arm of the chair, nestled near the fire in the Gryffindor commons. Their first flush of joy at reconciliation had faded, and things had been strained further by Harry's dark mood, but they retained a sense of wary comfort in one another's company. They knew they cared for one another deeply, but the disagreements and entanglements that had driven them apart on occasion as friends cut more deeply now they were (at least theoretically) lovers. It was after all, an entirely different of order of business moving to 'partner' from 'friend.' Hermione absently wondered how Harry was coping with the transition from 'enemy' to 'boyfriend.'

At least they hadn't killed one another yet.

She smiled softly at Ron, and put down the book. "Where's Harry?" she asked, not unduly concerned after her talk with Pansy. After all, Hogwarts was Hogwarts, and safe, and after the victory of last year, the Order itself had been temporarily suspended. They were even going to play Qudditch again this year, which pleased Ron and Harry no end. And even if Hermione wasn't its biggest fan, she could appreciate the grandeur of the sport; besides, it made them happy, so it made her happy by proxy.

"Here I am," Harry called, stepping through the portrait hole and scuffing his shoes on the mat provided. They both turned to look at him, taking note of the broad smile on his face.

"You haven't gotten lucky have you?" Ron asked grimacing, and when Hermione deftly jabbed him in the ribs he scowled at her.

"No," Harry informed them patiently, rolling his eyes. "And Pansy didn't do unspeakably wicked things to me, so you should be happy, Hermione," he said, turning to her. Ron looked at them both, puzzled.

"I honestly didn't think she would, Harry; she seemed quite polite during our conversation. And as our aims converged, I saw no problem with her means."

Ron's eyebrows hit the roof. "Eh?"

Hermione glanced at him briefly, and Ron felt quite alone. "Pansy took Harry off somewhere after dinner. When I spoke to her she told me she was attempting some sort of reconciliation."

Oh yeah. He was definitely out of the loop. "From his smile, I guessed it worked, yeah?"

Harry nodded, and shrugged, playing down his feelings. "We worked stuff out. Ready for Quidditch practice tomorrow, Ron?" and Hermione marvelled at how easily, how deftly he could manipulate them sometimes, changing the subject in a way that would displace the bitter taste of Malfoy's name from Ron's mouth. Sometimes she wondered if Harry should have gone into Slytherin.

If Ron was aware of how he'd been played, he showed no sign of showing it, and Hermione sighed inwardly at his obliviousness. Why did the things that attracted her to her have to be the same ones she disliked? Her boyfriend's courage, the strength of his convictions, his forthright honesty and deep trust were also his tendency to run in without thinking, to make snap judgements, to be baffled and hurt by subtlety, and his ability to trust was coupled with an equally deep ability to mistrust.

Things in the world were not as black and white, not as clear cut and easy to understand as Ron thought they were, or wished them to be. He lived in a far simpler, far more righteous world than she did, and she often craved that kind of simplicity for herself. It wasn't that he was stupid by any means.. Hermione knew far too well that if Ron enjoyed something, he worked at it. But Ron was often bounded by the set barriers of his own personality, rarely venturing beyond the limits of his established likes and dislikes. If Ron trusted something, he would always trust it. If he did not, he could not be argued with or brought round for anything.

Ron grinned back, tapping Harry on the shoulder. "Yeah, course." He might not have been the world's best flier - and he wasn't, even Hermione in her best defensive-girlfriend mode would admit that much. What he was however was a master strategist, displaying a keen insight into tactics and a logical bent that one never would have suspected if he'd never played games. Now that the Quidditch tournament was restarting this week, the whole school could feel the build up in excitement, like static electricity rising from the carpeted floors to set everyone on edge. Harry had scheduled the start of that week, getting them up at the time honoured hour of six in the morning. He seemed to take a kind of perverse pride in filling Oliver Wood's boots as resident obsessive, although of course one could never be quite as bad as Oliver. Harry just wasn't the type to get obsessive, Hermione reflected, and then she corrected herself.

Harry didn't get obsessive about Quidditch because he was already obsessive about Malfoy, and the War.

And Voldemort.

She stifled a yawn and the other two - buried in their plans for tomorrow's practice - turned to look at her, seemingly offended she had disturbed them. "I think we all should be getting to bed," Hermione reminded them, her fingers oh so absently playing with the prefect badge on her robes. They nodded, glum that their talk had been interrupted, but not wanting to differ with her. Ron kissed her softly goodnight - Harry good naturedly rolled his eyes and looked away, and she slid on the chair, book under her arm.

"Everyone ready for tomorrow night?" Harry asked before Hermione left to go the girls' dormitory.

Ron nodded, and Hermione treated Harry with a gentle smile, wanting to reach out and hug him, but not knowing where the boundaries were, not anymore. It must be so sad, she thought, he keeps getting Sirius back, only to lose him over and over again.

* * *

Draco strode into the Slytherin Common Room doing his best to channel Pansy's image of a lion-with-a-sore-tooth. With one glare, the vast majority of the first and second years fled. But quite a number of the middle and upper years stayed - those who believed themselves tough, and hardened. Zabini sneered at him insolently in response, and Draco's eyes narrowed - he certainly hadn't expected that. Was he losing his touch? Not giving any of them the satisfaction of seeing him too off guard, he turned sharply, and strode down the corridor.

Things had worked out well with Harry. Better than he could have imagined. They hadn't discussed anything they didn't want to, and be allowed to stay in their respective worlds. Although Harry seemed to almost think he was something to be reformed, still. Something to be changed, as if he needed saving. Draco would have to do something about that.

But largely things were good, and he had Pansy Parkinson to thank for it.

How apposite.

Which probably explained why he barged into her room.

Quickly pulling her wand out from under her pillow she held it ready, and stared into the merciless visage of...Draco Malfoy. "Second time in a day, Draco. This is getting to be a habit. People will talk."

Draco ignored her, of course. "Nice shift, Pansy," he observed, closing the door behind him. "Transparent is really your colour, you should wear it more often." He turned to her dresser, and started fiddling with her odds and ends, going through the small crystal boxes.

"Hey!" Pansy almost leapt from the bed, her hands scrunching the shift in front of her chest, and hovered about him, glaring, unwilling to sacrifice her dignity for her possessions, because at least they could be replaced.

Finding something amongst her necklaces, a crumpled bit of parchment, his eyes narrowed in triumph. In her fear she forgot her dignity and reached for it, but he was too fast, his hand coming flat out to push her against the dresser, not caring as the edge bit into her hip, and she let out a small cry. He didn't even bother glancing over at her, just unfolded the letter with his free hand.

There was an ugly pause, and finally Draco raised his head to look at her, his lips set in a hostile grimace. "Getting owls from my mother and messing with Potter's head," he mused quietly, leaning over toward her, his hand sliding down to lie flat against the surface of the dresser.

He smacked it suddenly, and Pansy jumped at the noise, his eyes boring into hers and refusing to let go. "What the fuck kind of game are you playing, Pansy?" His tone was cold, soft and all the more worrying for it. She would have preferred him to be shouting.

This then was the moment in which everything could be won or lost. Pansy reflected somewhat bitterly that these moments seemed to come hard and fast now. Certainly, it had been her and Narcissa's plan, but Pansy was the agent on the ground so to speak, and she had to adapt to changing conditions. She had expected a confrontation after this evening's scene with Harry, but dealing with Draco Malfoy in all his vindictive fury was quite something quite different from just thinking about it. Shunting regret aside, and fear, she collected herself, and rose to the occasion.

"I'm trying to save your life, Draco," she replied, haughtily, and Draco was suddenly reminded of his mother. "Or don't you care about that anymore?"

He bristled, as she knew he would, sneering. "I am not some kind of child-"

"Then stop acting like one! Gallivanting around for private make-out sessions with your boyfriend may be good for your tattered ego but it hardly does wonders for your public reputation."

He stepped back, and snorted. "No-one would dare touch me. They know the power My Father has-" She could almost hear the way he capitalised the name, and cut him off again.

"Oh, please, Draco. You've been all caught up in your private little psychodrama for at least the past two years. After what happened last year, your father's position is not so secure as it was. There are plenty of people who would bring him down and they'd be quite happy to use you to do it. And our Lord would gladly approve the massacre and give his blessing while the knives are sharpened."

Draco was unsure now, blinking, and Pansy continued relentlessly, advancing towards him. "Do you ever bother to even look at your fellow Housemates, Draco? Really looked in their eyes? See the way they look back at you? The way you've bossed everyone round for the past five years may have been endearing to some, but it earned you a lot of enemies in your own right."

"They-they would not dare!" he choked, but she could hear the fear in his voice. He had always been so sure in his arrogance. So blind.

Pansy spoke calmly, coldly, and enunciated each word, driving them into Draco's mind. "Of course they would. This is Slytherin. We perfected the idea of taking candy from babies, Draco, largely because we do it to one another. Zabini, for instance, would stab you in the back as soon as look at you. All that spouting off you did in your earlier years about your undying allegiance to the Dark Lord raised some expectations you have yet to fulfil. It was bad enough when you started mooning over Potter, but the fact you actually consort with him seems worse than traitorous. Those few allies you have left are running out of excuses, and Zabini and his ilk are gathering strength."

He swallowed, and took in what she had said. She could almost see the cogs turning in his mind as he changed his parameters, considered a new plan of action. His voice was oddly detached when he spoke. "And yet you have this touching concern for my love life. Your carefully orchestrated reconciliation was such a thoughtful gesture."

"I'm so glad you thought so. I did it for two reasons." She smiled thinly. "Firstly, because I needed you to think, Draco, and when Potter right now you can't think of anything else. We needed to cover that flank so he wouldn't worry you anymore."

He smiled thinly back. Probably wondering if he could smother her in her sleep. "And the second?"

"Judging from your behaviour, Draco, I take it you don't actually mean to go through with it and bend knee to He Who Must Not Be Named."

Draco didn't look at her. "And what if I don't?" he asked casually, as if it were the most commonplace thing in the world.

"Then it seems that we will need all the help we can get. And considering his track record, I'd prefer to have the Boy Who Lived on our side when some of our housemates make their move."

He grinned widely, and glanced over at her, his tone languid. "Why my dear girl, it almost seems like you're planning civil war."

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Really? I hadn't thought of that."

Draco reached across to ruffle her hair, somewhat indulgently. "So, how will we do this?"

"Carefully," Pansy pointedly observed, and was treated to a frown. "Your position is far weaker than you appreciate. And some of the owls we've been receiving from our parents hardly stack the odds in our favour."

"I won't stop seeing Harry."

"I never asked you to," she said, and saw him relax a bit. "I'll run interference as best I can, but for God's sake, be discreet."

"You make it sound as though I'm not."

"When it comes to Harry Potter," Pansy observed acidly, "you are about as discreet as a Blast-Ended Skrewt!"

Draco's lips quirked at that, and he made his way back to the door. "You would have made an excellent wife, you know."

She looked at him then, and put her hands on her hips. "I don't turn you on at all, do I?"

Draco chuckled. "God no."

"And Harry?"

Again, that almost smile. "Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" He bowed formally, genuine respect behind the flippant gesture, and left before she could respond.

Sighing in relief, Pansy cleared up the mess he'd left on her dresser, and went back to her bed. She tucked her wand under the pillow again, and settled into a light sleep.

* * *

The following night, a small party waited along the path that lead from the castle to the surrounding moat. Ron, Hermione and Harry were dressed in full robes, both as a mark of respect and to protect against the biting wind. They'd had to race to get ready in time after dinner. Remus waited with them, but he somehow still seemed alone, forlorn, unkempt, in his usual ruffled clothes. Hermione had once asked him if he knew what an iron was, and he'd kindly informed her that werewolves had no need of domestic service.

Dumbledore brought Sirius down to meet them, and favoured them all with a cheery smile. He said a few words before he nodded at Harry, and walked off back to the castle, striding surprisingly quickly on legs that seemed too thin. Harry watched him go, and immediately wished he hadn't met his eye. The old wizard seemed to know far more about what was going on than Harry would have liked, it was as if he could the strands the universe together, knew which ones to mend if they broke. He'd knew about the diary, about Tom, about the fact that a part of Tom was in Harry, and yet he said nothing. His headmaster seemed to turn up far more frequently at just the right time than Harry was comfortable with, and exactly what had that conversation in the hallway had been about? There were too many questions, not enough answers, and Harry had the weight of the world on his shoulders. No wonder he was getting paranoid. Just a tad. But then, if he couldn't trust Dumbledore, who could he trust? Maybe he was just doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.

Harry stared straight ahead and tried not to think of Draco.

Sirius spoke quietly with Ron and Hermione first - he'd gotten friendly with them in the past six months, but certainly their friendship, however comforting, was nothing compared to what he felt for Remus, or Harry. Indeed, Sirius could always be a bit standoffish with other people; one often got the feeling he was a tad distracted, his humour and joviality had an edge to them, at times.

Only Remus knew the kind of nightmares that kept him awake at night.

Sirius took the presents Ron and Hermione handed to him - Ron's was a model Quidditch set, as the American league was a variation with different rules, and there was some confusion over whether it was technically 'Quidditch' at all. Hermione presented him with the Lonely Planet Guide to the USA, and Sirius marvelled briefly at the feel of the paper, the colour of the inks. He'd always gotten on well with the Muggleborn students, and he'd learnt to survive as a Muggle in the years after his escape from Azkahban when he'd hidden out amongst the non-magical folk.

He shuffled down to Harry then, and wiped the tears from his face, thumb curling under the frames of Harry's glasses. "You' re going to be fine, Harry," he said, somewhat sternly, "but be careful." They'd had a huge row a few days ago about Harry's involvement with 'the Malfoy boy' which had only settled down when Harry had told his Godfather it looked like it was over. Sirius couldn't bear to see Harry repeat the mistakes of the past - too many old ghosts - and he'd almost told Harry about his father and Lucius - although he kept it in at the last minute. When he'd heard about Harry and Draco's rapprochement, Sirius had sighed, hoped that at least the two of them couldn't fuck things up any worse than their fathers had, and left it at that.

Harry stood quietly for a few moments, too overwhelmed to speak, and then he finally enveloped the much taller man in a huge fierce hug, arms wrapping around Sirius' midriff. Sirius kissed Harry's hair gently, hands rubbing down his back, and then he unwrapped his godson, and moved on, to the last person in line, who was already crying.

"Remy....please don't cry. You know this has to happen."

"It doesn't make it any better," Remus protested, and soon the both of them were crying, Remus' hands on Sirius' shoulders, their foreheads pressed together. "I've got a telephone installed in my rooms, and I'll call you whenever I can."

"Good," Sirius managed to choke out. "I'll be back before you know it. And not in a cardboard box, either."

Remus hit out at him gently, with the flat of his hand. "Don't make that kind of joke, Sirius," he murmured, but he was smiling through his tears.

"Corpse humour," Sirius wheezed, laughing.

"You are evil," Remus decided, "but I love you anyway."

There was a pause, while they just looked into one another's eyes. Ron, Hermione and Harry intently looked everywhere else.

"Come back to me, Sirius Napoleon Black," Lupin murmured against the other's lips, "and I'll fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for a week." He reached up, running his hands along Sirius' arms, to his shoulders and up his neck, and finally cupped his face between them, and kissed him soundly. Sirius protested slightly but whatever he had to say was captured by Remus' mouth, and his protests soon stopped.

By this stage, Ron, Harry and Hermione were almost squirming, entirely awkward and not knowing what to do, eyes darting everywhere in a second. They were quite quite disturbed by the whole tableau. Remus finally released his husband who looked at him, wide-eyed, and then broke into a grin. "Well, I'm definitely coming back now," Sirius murmured, moving back down to the path to the moat.

"Napoleon?" Harry asked incredulously as he passed.

Sirius' head turned. "Napoleon," he called back, blushing. "My mum was a history nut." And then he was gone, making his way onto the small jetty, and toward a figure in black who waited there.

Harry, Ron and Hermione took one final look and trudged back up the path. Harry tugged at Professor Lupin's jacket, but he stayed there until the boat rowed out of sight, and was lost in the mists.

* * *

"I never expected you see you working as a ferryman, Snape," Sirius greeted the figure who waited for him, across crossed over his chest. "This a career move?"

Snape scowled and unfolded his arms to pick up the oar that rested against his leg. He flung it at Black, who managed somehow to catch it loosely in one arm, his travel bag still held in the other. "You will be rowing as well," Snape informed him, jumping into the small canoe, and untying the rope from the jetty. "Dumbledore merely assigned me to make sure no one attacks you between Hogwarts and the station, although why anyone would bother with a mongrel, and a half maddened one at that, I have no idea."

Sirius considered beating the man over the head with the oar, but he climbed into the boat instead, placing the travel bag beneath one of the plain plank seats, and reached back to get the oar. "What, no moat goblins? I actually have to work?"

"As uncommon as the concept of work must be for you, Black, the lack of moat goblins means we are far less likely to be detected." Snape was sitting at his ease down on a plank, looking at him. "I suggest you start paddling, or we'll be here all night."

Once Sirius seated himself, Snape turned on his seat so that his back faced Sirius, and plucked out another oar from the bottom. Without speaking, the two men picked up a steady rhythm and made their way towards the opposite shore.

They pulled the boat up on the river side, and threw the oars back in. Sirius picked up his travel bag and turned to find Snape already alert, his wand at the ready in his hand.

"Let's go," Snape murmured, setting off towards the station cross-country, taking the quicker route. They hiked for a short while over small hills and scrubland, and Sirius felt a strange compulsion to speak.

"You know," he called out to the man in front of him, "there's a good chance I might die on this mission, statistically speaking."

"Statistically speaking, Black," Snape called back, "it's a wonder you haven't died yet."

"You know, it's tradition to unburden one's soul on occasions like this, before one faces death, so one can die with a clean slate."

"I should deafen myself now, then," Snape observed humourlessly, "so as to deprive you of the opportunity for a clean slate."

"I thought you deserved to know why I hate you."

"Because what you have in luck, you make up for in a lack of taste."

"I like Remus."

"He is the exception that proves the rule."

Sirius licked his lips nervously, his breath ghosting in the cold night air. "I was always terrified I'd lose him to you." Snape didn't respond, so Sirius pressed on. "You certainly seemed interested in him, before Malfoy came along. Besides, you were both emotionally repressed intellectuals with a chip on your shoulders the size of Mount Sinai. I just couldn't compete."

"You seem rather flippant for a man facing death, Black." Snape stated, but said no more. They had arrived at Hogwarts Station, smoke rising from the engine, the comforting aura of the lights no more than a few yards away.

"I was afraid of you, you know. Then Remus fell madly in love with me and told me he'd never considered you as a potential anything, really." Sirius shrugged. "Funny how these things turn out, you know?"

Dark eyes regarded him like ice. "Is there a point to this?"

Sirius laughed. "Of course there is." He leaned forward, voice low, to speak in Snape's ear. "If I do get killed, and you take the opportunity to comfort Remus, to care for him in my place, I will come back and haunt you for the remainder of your miserable fucking life." He rocked back on his heels. "And I'll make sure you won't want it to be very long. I got broken by Azkaban, Snape. Think you can do better?"

Snape smiled, very thinly. "When it comes to playing mind games, I would lay even money on Lucius Malfoy against a Dementor."

Sirius inclined his head, acknowledging the wager, and stepped back, his travel bag still gripped firmly in his left hand. "Never realised you were a betting man. Severus." He turned, and walked through the turnstile to the train.

Within hours he would be in London, then making his way to Heathrow, and onward, over the Atlantic to the U S. Dumbledore wanted things done the Muggle way - less chance of detection, and besides, it gave Black greater standing in their eyes. Perhaps he felt that if anyone could win over the childish Muggles it would be Black, who was notoriously petulant and immature himself.

Snape watched him go, and idly wondered if it were possible to could make good on his threat. He wondered if he could reach inside himself and find that part of him that still regarded Remus with sufficient affection to even attempt it.

Probably not.

* * *

Seamus Finnigan wandered the corridors, a hip flask clutched tightly in his right hand. His voice echoed throughout the halls, a light tenor with just a slight edge on the higher notes, and a huskiness that all but swallowed the sound whenever he tried anything too low. His mother might have run the household as if it were all magical, but his father couldn't give up everything he was used to, and at times on the holidays he'd dig out his old CD player and treated his son to the technological marvels of the muggle world - well, as far as music was concerned anyway.

And like any patriotic Irishman, he'd made Seamus listen to U2.

Which probably explained why Seamus' hands were now in front of him, playing air guitar, although the effect was somewhat hampered by the hip flask in his right hand, strumming over the non-existent strings, and as he played, he sang.

"...I'm not the only one...Staring at the sun

Afraid of what you'll find if you took a look inside

I'm not just deaf and dumb staring at the sun

Not the only one...who'd rather go blind..."

Just as he lapsed into the verse again, a black hand reached out from one of the corridors and hauled him into a more discreet side passageway.

"What the fuck are you doing, Shame?" Dean demanded. "You're out after curfew, I wondered where you were!"

"'S playing, that's all," Seamus murmured, and Dean took in his appearance, and grabbed the flask.

"What's this?" he asked, opening it up and sniffing it. When Seamus reached for it back, he held it high, towering over the smaller Gryffindor until Seamus, sulking, was willing to answer. "It's alcohol, isn't it?"

"Not just alcohol. Guinness. Best drink in the world, that."

"Really. Seeing as you're such a connoisseur and all. Who gave it to you?"

"Me da," Seamus murmured, looking downcast. "Was supposed to you know, help me out with stress and all."

Sighing, Dean screwed the top back on and passed it back to him. "How's that explain you drinking tonight?"

"Well, we've got that test tomorrow, for Snape. That's stress enough, right?"

Dean scowled. Seamus rarely got up his nose but when he did, he did it for everything. "I knew you hadn't been studying. Do you want to flunk out, Shame?"

"Doesn't matter, does it?"

"What will you do, then?"

Seamus tucked the flask away in his robes and flung a rather loose arm around Dean's neck. "Have you heard about my sister, Niamh?"

Dean gave him a Look. "I've shared a dorm with you for nearly six years, Shame, I know her better than you do."

Seamus seemed taken aback by that in his drunken state, and leaned forward to speak softly. Dean tried to ignore the way Seamus' breath felt against his skin. The smell was a turn off, fortunately. "Well, she can't do wand magic, can she? And she's wonderful!" He stepped back and threw his arms out wide on the last word, almost falling over. Dean had to leg it over quickly to stabilise him, and ended up with an armful of Seamus.

"I feel sick," the Irishman declared, and didn't look too good either.

"Christ, Seamus, how much have you drunk?" Dean wondered, trying to hold the other as far away as physically possible.

"Dunno. The flask is linked by a charm to a keg somewhere, so it never empties."

Dean cursed again, and when he looked up, Seamus was taking another gulp. "What's your excuse now?"

Seamus pointed down the hallway, and Dean followed the finger to a junction a far way away. He could just see Draco Malfoy waiting there, if he squinted, and Ron, Harry and Hermione stopping to meet him. Of course, with two Prefects there, they would be allowed out after curfew. There seemed to be a horribly awkward moment when Ron and Malfoy fought the genetic imperative of several hundred years of selective breeding and struggled not to actually insult each other in a really stupid way. But the moment passed with no fireworks, and the four coupled off: Harry and Draco going in one direction, Ron and Hermione the other.

Dean turned to see Seamus stoppering up the flask again, and tucking it inside his robes. "So?"

"So everyone's got a boyfriend except me," Seamus told him.

With perhaps more force than he would have liked, Dean grabbed Seamus by the scruff of his collar and hauled him off somewhere to be sick. I know exactly how you feel, Shame.