A City Visible But Unseen

Three: A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE

In shallow shoals, English soles do it,

Goldfish in the privacy of bowls, do it.

Let's do it,

Let's fall in love.

It was a strange thing, Hermione mused, that suddenly realising you fancied someone did not automatically render them perfect. Clearly it was an expectation that went hand in hand with nerdy, wishful thinking of flawless first loves, walks on sunset washed beaches, lots of red satin hearts and the impossibility of disagreement. Hermione had always thought herself immune to such queasy charms, as indeed she was; of expectations founded on nothing she was not.

Black appeared at school next day, as surly and moody as she'd ever seen him. He was not late for any class, which was not a good sign; as a rule, he loved making an impression, and a standard way to achieve this aim was waltzing into a room five minutes after the bell had rung. He offered Hermione no explanation for his absence and she found herself suddenly too shy to ask.

That was another fact of her newly awakened feelings towards him: she hesitated to even think what previously she would have had no qualms about contemptuously expressing, no matter what he thought about it.

Consequently, they spent the day in an uncomfortable silence; Hermione perched on the edge of her seat, not daring to even glance in his direction, while Black determinedly lounged back on his chair, staring fixedly out of the window. It was a situation every teacher found impossibly amusing, and caused much interest in the staffroom.

Severus was sure that something of a sexual nature had transpired between them, which one or both were now regretting. Lupin took a more romantic view, stating that one of them had evidently declared their feelings, and the other was too abashed to reciprocate. Severus wondered aloud which was which, and Lupin snapped that it hardly made a difference, he was merely theorising about students' love lives like the sad bastard that he was. This said, he stormed out, snarling like a wolf, to Severus' bafflement and not a little hurt.

Binns got it dryly spot on by remarking that all that had probably happened was that Hermione had realised she fancied Black and couldn't handle it. Marie pooh-poohed that idea, preferring her own: they'd both discovered they had the same father. Dumbledore, when asked for a comment, merely crinkled his eyes to express his enjoyment at the blossoming of love between two young people.

Minerva went about with an odd little smile on her face.

Sybil insisted she'd known it all along, and that as an Aries and an Aquarian they were supremely compatible.

And the week rolled on, and it was the weekend.

~

Blaise was standing at her dressing table mirror, applying lipstick with all the fierceness usually reserved for confronting enemy troops. Hermione stood by, uncomfortably tugging at the hem of her shirt.

'I don't think this is such a good idea,' she began.

Blaise turned to face her, lipstick held at the ready like a loaded gun. 'Don't give me that,' she said. 'You told me earlier that you could spare half-a-day's study. So you can well afford to come out with us tonight.'

'Yes, but - '

'Look, Lavender and the twins aren't exactly AA Gill, but we're going to a bar. You can't expect a lot in the sparkling conversation stakes.'

'But what's the point?'

'Oh, let me think,' Blaise pretended to consider, and inadvertently striped her cheek with Strawberry Splash. 'Shit! Well - to enjoy ourselves, and maybe get lucky.'

'But I thought you fancied Harry!'

Blaise turned back to the mirror, grinning. 'Who said I wasn't going to get lucky with him?'

Hermione turned away to regard herself uncertainly in Blaise's full-length wardrobe mirror. Short skirts and strappy sandals and flimsy silk shirts were all very well - for someone else.

'You look fine,' Blaise said firmly.

'You can see my bellybutton!'

'Yes. That's a crime you know.' Blaise peered closer. 'Hey, I never knew you had it pierced!'

'Neither do my parents, so they most definitely cannot see me dressed like this. This shirt is barely decent anyway.'

'That shirt is totally cool. And it cost me fifty pounds, so don't you dare insult it.'

'I could pay you five pence for every time. By the end of the night you'd make up fifty.'

'Cheeky! What is that body bar?'

'Oh - its a little hand holding a jewel. I didn't have much time to choose, my mother can do the groceries in an hour flat.'

'Its wicked. I'm too scared to get mine done.'

'I was going to do my nose, but that's too conspicuous.'

'So you got pierced just to cover it up all the time.'

'You say that like it's a bad thing.'

Blaise laughed in amazement and slung her arm around Hermione's shoulders. 'You never fail to surprise me. C'mon, lets go.'

~

'I knew I shouldn't've worn these shoes,' Hermione grumbled. 'My feet are killing me.'

'Nearly there, you whiner,' Blaise jollied her along.

They came to a halt outside a pub decorated with peeling green paint. 'The Leaky Cauldron' was picked out in weatherworn gilt letters above the door.

'Jeez, what kind of a dive is this?' Hermione sneered.

Blaise shook her head knowingly.

~

Draco almost didn't go out on Friday night. He kept having these sudden urges to wallow, wear a frilly nightdress and demand a continuous supply of chocolate biscuits. He was finally shoved out of the door by an exasperated Narcissa, who declared that she'd had enough of his moaning and that she'd never seen anyone react so asininely to the news that they were to inherit a fortune. Thus it was that Draco found himself unceremoniously turfed into the street with only a fiver in his pocket, wearing the clothes he was standing up in. These turned out to be incredibly grubby jeans, his oldest pair of Nikes and a voluminous black T-shirt emblazoned with a skull spitting out a snake.

With a sigh, Draco ambled off down the road to Greg's house.

~

Selina had chosen the film they were seeing, the restaurant they went to, the number of the taxi that transported them from A to B, and the most expensive items on the menu and wine list.

After all this effort on her part, it was no wonder Sev felt obliged to pay. For everything.

Sev spent most of the film wondering what the significance of Remus' earlier outburst was. When Selina asked him how he liked the movie, all he could say was that the leading man reminded him awfully of Remus.

Selina gave him an odd look at that, but was far more interested in dissecting the film scene by scene, giving her scathing opinion on each, followed by a total denunciation of the acting skills of the Oscar-winning actress who'd starred in it.

Sev mentally shook himself. Here he was, in close proximity to a beautiful, seductive young woman who had sought him out, and all he could think about was his co-worker's angsty mood. He decided he needed to buck up fast.

Selina talked and talked. And talked some more. By the end of the meal, which had put Sev out of pocket over two hundred pounds (not including wine, which Sev found himself imbibing more and more of as the night wore on), Sev glassily reflected that he should suggest she write to the Guinness Book of Records for a nomination: Most Words With Least Interest Quotient spoken per minute.

He felt mildly pissed off, and not just because of the 15 per cent proof Chablis he'd been snorkelling like it was oasis water. Why was it that every woman he had ever dated was so - well, so self-obsessed? Given, Selina had every reason to be, with a figure to rival Britney Spears' and a face to match. However, it would have been nice if these facts had not made her think that she could heedlessly neglect the cultivation of her mind to match her smooth skin and shiny hair.

He nearly fell asleep in the taxi on the way to Selina's flat; he spotted the young taxi driver giving him a knowing look in the rear view mirror. He was roused out of a near stupor by Selina's chirpy announcement to the effect that they'd arrived.

Warning the taxi driver to keep the meter running, which he did with great alacrity, Sev stumbled out after Selina, head bobbing in time to her flying high heels as he fought to keep his eyes open. On top of everything else, the cool night air was making all those bucketfuls of wine repeat severely upon him.

Selina was standing at her door, waiting impatiently for him, by the time he caught up. The wine, going to his head in a sudden whoosh, had caused him to take the scenic route up the short, crazy-paved path, encountering a lot of interesting shrubbery on the way.

Selina was framed to best advantage in the half-shadow of the nearby street light, and knew it. The light edged her dark hair like a corona as she tilted her head up towards his.

Knowing what was expected of him, and wishing he didn't feel so bloody drunk and bored, Sev perfunctorily dropped his mouth on hers. Immediately she responded, thrusting her tongue between his lips with an enthusiasm Sev found impossible to match. In fact, he found himself thinking it was rather akin to sucking one of the rubber bungs in his lab...then he was hard pressed not to laugh, which would have been unforgivable.

'Do you want to come up?' she asked breathily, breaking off at last.

'Uh...no, I'm really bushed,' Sev stammered, hoping he came across as intimidated as opposed to completely disinterested. Even if Selina was a boring twat, he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

'Oh.' Selina frowned - only for a second. (Sev remembered her saying that she avoided frowning whenever possible, to reduce the possibility of wrinkles. She rarely smiled, for the same reason.) 'Okay then. I'll see you Monday?'

'Sure,' Sev said in relief, just preventing himself from dashing off down the path as fast as his legs would take him. In this he was aided by the excessive amounts of alcohol he'd consumed, which were definite in their wishes to make him move very, very slowly.

He sank into the passenger's seat of the taxi with unconcealed relief. The taxi driver - who had rather a cute grin, Sev noticed woozily - shook his head at him.

'Not go so well then?' he asked condescendingly. 'Not your type, is she?' He dragged his eyes over Sev's outstretched body - from the long, leather-clad legs, the washboard stomach draped with a midnight blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to reveal tiny whisps of dark chest hair, to the lolling, blue-black head - with undisguised interest. Sev, almost oblivious - but not quite - smiled back, revealing his crooked white teeth, while hanks of hair flopped over his forehead as the little car zipped dangerously around corners and other vehicles.

'Not my gender, actually,' Sev admitted in a moment of foolish, alcohol-induced honesty.

'Really?' The driver drawled out the word, holding Sev's gaze with bright blue, long-lashed eyes, while Sev gripped the edges of his seat and feared for his life.

They sped through a light that was on the rosy side of green, and Sev couldn't help breathing out an audible sigh of admiration mixed with terror.

'I like living dangerously,' the driver laughed, eyes now fixed on the road. His taut posture gave Sev full time to appraise himself of the virile attractiveness of the man's smooth, shaven cranium and the sexy green snake tattoo that adorned one muscular forearm.

'How about you?'

~

Draco was almost asphyxiated by the overpowering smell of Hugo Boss. It hit him like a ten-tonne mallet as he opened the door of Greg's bedroom. By the time he'd entered the room fully, it had taken on a practically independent existence.

Greg was hunched over his mirror, flicking prissily at his spiked hair, which was wet-look-gelled to within an inch of its life. Vinnie was sprawled across Greg's bed on his stomach, gripping the pads of Greg's PS2 with an enthusiasm he only ever showed to one other thing, tuna sandwiches.

'G, V, thanks for the heart-stoppingly enthusiastic welcome, as always,' Draco drawled, waving a hand frantically in front of his nose and trying not to breathe.

''S you, then,' Greg pointed out needlessly. 'What do you think?'

He whirled around, aping a simpering mince with alarming authenticity. He was dressed in a very loud lime green silk shirt and white jeans that were so tightly fitted the seams appeared bolted to his legs. A heavy gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a boxing glove completed the picture of a complete and utter prat.

'Very nice,' Draco said dutifully. After all, he wasn't supposed to find it attractive. He just doubted that anyone would. He turned his eyes to Vinnie, who was dressed in his best, matching, navy and red Adidas tracksuit.

'Where are we off to?'

'The Leaky Cauldron. You coming?'

'Why not? Mum said if she saw me back before half ten, she'd throw devilled eggs at me. So I have to do something to fill the time. Have you a coat I can borrow, though?'

'Wardrobe's over there,' Greg said, turning back to his mirror. Unbeknownst to him, Draco watched as he nodded approvingly at himself, gave himself the thumbs up and mouthed, 'Baby, you steamin'.'

Draco rolled his eyes and riffled Greg's vast array of - for the majority, leather - jackets. On impulse, he peeked at himself over Greg's large round head. He looked - not to put too fine a point on it - bloody awful. So there was not much he could do that would actually make him look worse.

Grinning wickedly, he reached into Greg's wardrobe once more.

~

Hermione was pleasantly surprised to discover that the interior of the Leaky Cauldron in no way matched its condemned-building facade. On the contrary, it was tastefully decorated in muted blues and purples, with beaded silk lampshades that gave the impression of being in a high-class harem. All the seat cushions were upholstered in the same violet silk.

'That must be a devil to clean,' she said, approvingly, for things often should be measured by the amount of effort that goes into them.

Blaise rolled her eyes, but refrained from comment. Hermione's positive reaction was a good sign, after all.

They made their way to the bar, palely lit with bright fluorescent bars beneath the glass counter. Rows of exotic and luridly-coloured drinks lined the blue-tinted glass shelves behind it.

'Um, Blaise,' Hermione muttered, as a thought occurred to her, 'We're under age. How are we going to get served?'

'No worries,' Blaise smiled. 'The police never bother this place, I know for a fact. Not sure why. 'S like magic, or something. Plus, my dad is friends with the owner.'

'The guy serving, is it?' Hermione nodded her head towards the wizened, wrinkled old man behind the counter, who had a face like a pickled apple.

'Oh, no, that's just Tom,' Blaise laughed.

'Did someone say my name?' Tom called to them.

'Yes - two Fat Frogs, please,' Blaise said, dragging herself unceremoniously onto a barstool. Hermione hopped onto the one next to it.

'What's in Fat Frogs?' she asked suspiciously.

'Apples,' Blaise said, too quickly, then amended, 'Well - mostly apples.'

Within seconds, two bright green pint glasses were set before them. Blaise took a long draught of hers before turning to check the door. Hermione prodded the surface of hers with a finger. It bent slightly before her nail broke the surface. Wincing, Hermione gingerly pushed it away.

'Oh, look!' Blaise said, waving at the door, where three figures, dressed in enough clothing to decently dress one small child, and enough glitter to supply Hallmark's for a decade, were tripping in on three-inch heels.

'It's Lavender and the twins,' she added, with every appearance of happiness.

|~

Lupin was most thoroughly pissed off. He had agreed to have dinner with Lucius and Sirius, and was most severely regretting it. Watching them eat spaghetti - off the same plate - was enough to make one want to torture and slowly kill Italians everywhere. Then, they brought out a video. Crossroads. Lupin sat, arms crossed, in mounting rage at life in general and the film's utter dreadfulness in particular. Lucius and Sirius were spared the agony, engrossed as they were in a marathon lip-lock.

By the time credits rolled, Lupin was in a mood to tear the heads off of small fluffy kittens. The couple on the couch were writhing with increased athleticism. With nary a glance backwards, Lupin strode out.

He ambled along the dark street, the fire of his frustration dampening as it came into contact with the biting cold outside. He shoved his hands deeper into his brown corduroy pockets, wishing he had thought to wear gloves. It was barely eight o'clock. What was he going to do all night? He couldn't bear the thought of seeking out a bar, alone, and drowning his sorrows. It had never been his style.

With the vague idea of seeking out a Blockbusters and hiring out something that would scourge the memory of Crossroads from his mind, he wandered down a darkened alley and found himself almost lost. A sudden shaft of moonlight saved him, shining down onto a wonky street sign, nailed into the wall, which pronounced the place to be Knockturn Alley. Oh, so that meant he just needed to take a left, and a left, and he'd be back on....

Catching sight of himself in a shop front gave him pause. He stood for a long while, contemplating his reflection. A tall, lanky man looked back at him, dressed in a threadbare brown and white wool jumper, worn brown corduroy trousers and scuffed decks. His wristbones jutted out from the tattered ends of his sleeves, glowing oddly in the moonlight. His face was lit by the same luminescence; his long hair almost obscured one side of it.

Eventually, he jerked free of his musings, taking in as he did so the name, picked out in silver Gothic script, of the shop he'd been using as a mirror. It was the Shrieking Shack. A smaller line of lettering added: 'Hair and Body Emporium.'

Lupin squinted up at the sky, pushing his hair free of his face as he did so.

Full moon. Time for a change.....

~

Seamus had spent most of the day calming Dean's highly irrational fears about his first date with Ginny Weasley. He had finally desisted after he suggested (being almost at his wits' end) that Dean ask Ginny to get some dope from Ron for him, to calm him down. Dean had nearly decked him, and Seamus had retreated in high dudgeon.

Dean had approached him after the final bell, a hang dog conciliatory look on his face, and three bars of chocolate in his hand. Seamus allowed himself to be mollified, and was immediately roped in to help Dean choose his outfit.

So it was that Seamus was standing in front of Dean's wardrobe, hand on hips, biting his lip in consideration, while Dean watched with his eyes partially lidded, lounging half-off, half-on his bed.

'I don't care,' he moaned. 'Pick anything that looks okay. You're the gay one, you should know about clothes.'

'That is an unjust and unfounded stereotype which I fundamentally resent,' Seamus announced. 'However, superficially - well, I know more about threads than you, I have to admit.'

'I was going to wear this,' Dean said, flipping over to rummage under his bed, while Seamus looked out of the window to avoid the tempting image before him. Dean emerged triumphantly, waving aloft a significantly crumpled black silk shirt.

Seamus regarded him balefully.

'What?'

'A silk shirt. A black silk shirt.'

'Oh, so it is. I hadn't noticed.'

Seamus ignored him. 'You cannot wear that. I don't care about stereotypes, nothing shouts 'gay!' louder than black silk shirts.' He paused for a moment to ponder. 'Unless it's purple silk shirts,' he added thoughtfully. 'And as your friend - I think I'll just appropriate this.'

'You're stealing my shirt.' Dean raised his eyebrows at Seamus.

'You make it sound so dirty. I'm saving you from social embarrassment, that's what I'm doing.'

'So choose something! And hurry, I'm picking her up in an hour.'

'Do not rush my genius.' At Dean's thunderous expression, Seamus hurriedly turned back to the wardrobe. He bit his lip again, and slowly pulled out some items.

'Here.... here.....and here.'

Dean leaned over to inspect the items that had been thrown on his bed. A sharply ironed white shirt with faint blue check, black trousers and a long caramel coloured coat. Aside from the trousers, he'd never worn any of it, nor even bought it - his mother had, out of hope more than expectation that he would wear them.

Something of his thoughts must have spilled onto his face, for Seamus glared at him menacingly. 'Just remember,' he said through gritted teeth, 'You're going on a date, not to a freaking football match.'

Seamus was idly flicking through the channels on Dean's family's television when Dean finally appeared. Usually nothing could capture his attention like the wonder of Sky, which his parents adamantly refused to have installed, but tonight he felt restless and distracted. He told himself it had nothing at all to do with Dean's impending date with a member of the opposite sex, and almost believed it.

Seamus caught his breath when Dean mooched in, looking lachrymose and frowning, and tugging at the sleeves of the coat. With his lean, catlike frame, Dean looked good even in the nondescript tracksuits he insisted on slobbing around in. But there was no denying he scrubbed up awfully well. Seamus frantically thought about Jordan to stop himself getting turned on by the sight of his friend in a proper shirt and trousers that accentuated rather than hid his muscular thighs, light brown hair restlessly shoved straight back.

'Do I look okay?' Dean demanded. 'Because I feel like a twerp.'

'You'll do,' Seamus said, in a strangulated voice. 'Got the tickets?'

'Yep.' It had been with difficulty that Seamus had persuaded Dean that Ginny would prefer ice-skating to mud wrestling, but he'd managed it in the end.

'Flowers?'

'Yep.'

'Right so, you're ready and raring to go.'

'What are you doing tonight then?' They usually hung out together.

Seamus shrugged. 'Might go down to the Leaky Cauldron. Or watch my Lord of the Rings video again.'

'My Lord of the Rings video.'

'Same difference.'

'Okay.'

'Okay. Good luck.'

And Dean was gone.

~

Hermione kept having to remind herself who she was, feeling that if the Fat Frog - which, over time, had become more appetising - did not make her forget, Lavender's company surely would.

Blaise was moping slightly because Harry wasn't there, but she was more than amply distracted by setting up Lavender with a random blonde bloke called Zach. His mates, too, seemed very solicitous to Hermione and her - she could call them friends, she supposed. It was occasion for much giggling and hair flipping, and Hermione found herself wandering, a little foggily, why Lavender just couldn't go up and say she fancied him, why she had to indulge in all this frippery and deception first?

Her subconscious reminded her that she was a fine one to talk, having not spoken a word to her own crush in over three days.

She promptly treated her subconscious to another Fat Frog.

As she was lowered the glass subsequent of draining it of its last luminous dregs, she spotted Black's blonde head over the shorter, stockier figures of Greg and Vinnie. She jerked in shock and got an irritated poke in the side from Pav, on whose hand, she realised, she had been trying to slam her glass. Blaise shot her a knowing look, but refrained from commenting, for which Hermione was eternally grateful.

As the three boys fanned out, heading for the opposite end of the bar, Hermione got a proper look at Black for the first time, and nearly snorted out what remained of her drink. What was he wearing...

~

Draco calmly took a seat next to his two best mates, who were already eyeing up the talent. He quickly ordered three Heinekens, making Greg pay - his scoring time (with, admittedly, girls who were only good looking when seen through beer goggles) was so lightning fast that if Draco didn't get a drink now, he'd be left dry for the night. A fiver wouldn't get him far in the Leaky Cauldron. He tugged up the collar of Greg's enormous sheepskin coat, briefly wondering if donning it had been the wisest sartorial strategy. He quickly dismissed his misgivings with naturally careless confidence.

He took a drag from his bottle and scanned the room. Greg was winking at a group of girls, already well on the way to becoming well oiled, and ready to share the bounty with Vinnie, as he always did. Draco's eye alighted on another gaggle of females, considerably better dressed and looking than Greg's posse of choice. Then his eyes widened in shock.

It was Hermione.

But.... Hermione in a short...really short skirt, an almost see-through top, and since when did she have endless, long, slim legs? Draco felt almost disgruntled by the realisation that Hermione was - well, generally fanciable. In a physical, not mental sense. And getting rather seriously crisised by a group of Duncan Blue lookalikes. Draco's eyes narrowed with loathing. Who were they to chat up his bookworm, huh?

He turned back towards the bar in a dark cloud. He was all too well aware, now, of his dirty jeans, scruffy t-shirt, ridiculous coat and rat-tail hair, which had all clumped together after its rapid shampooing earlier that evening. He wasn't ashamed of it, but was uncomfortably certain that it couldn't match up to the smooth, gelled, primped fanboys currently leeching around Hermione like a pack of midges.

'Hey, Greg, lend me fifty, I'll pay you back tomorrow.'

Draco was going to get quite seriously drunk.

|~

Draco came to himself, lying in a huddled heap, and freezing cold. As his consciousness slowly returned, he abruptly wished it hadn't, as he hurt everywhere.

He was lying prone on his own front doorstep, and had evidently spent the night there.

Trying to ignore the hangover that even now was thrumming relentlessly at his temples, he made a careful body check to ensure that none of his appendages had withered off from frostbite. None had, but the vast, horrendous sheepskin jacket sported a light dusting of frost.

Draco decided he rather liked the coat, and wasn't going to return it.

Just as he was spurring himself to get up and whisper at his mother to bloody well open the door - hollering, of course, was out of the question, as such an act would surely split his head open - he heard voices behind the tinted glass panes of the door.

'I'm sure he stayed over at Greg's or Vinnie's. We're safe.'

Those, surely, were his mother's distinctive cut-class accents.

After a few seconds, he was fairly certain of it. The words, however, remained incomprehensible.

The door abruptly opened, and Draco, who had been leaning against it, rolled inwards slightly.

To look up at the frankly unpleasant sight of the wrong end of someone's nostrils.

'Good morning, Draco,' Binns said pleasantly.

~

Draco was not the only one waking up to the payment of a night's heavy drinking. Hermione was also. However, Draco had on his side the experience of having done so before, and the comforting knowledge that he'd known what he was letting himself in for.

Hermione, on the other hand, did not.

She reared up from the tangle of blankets on Blaise's floor, which had constituted her bed for the night, and barely made it to the bathroom before she started vomiting rainbows.

A quarter of an hour later, Blaise, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, yawning widely.

Hermione was sitting huddled on the coarse reed mat by the bath, clutching her ankles convulsively. She turned her face to look at Blaise with a haunted expression.

'And you tell me people do this regularly?' she muttered hoarsely. 'For - fun?'

Blaise, who could hold her drink far better and had drunk considerably less anyway, smiled unsympathetically. 'Yes, of course. What could be more enjoyable than spending a fortune on fermented wine skins that you're only going to chuck up the next morning?'

Hermione appeared to consider this deeply.

'Almost anything else?' she said at last.

~

Seamus stayed in bed until at least midday every Saturday morning. He felt it would be a crime against sanity to rise any earlier.

Being woken at nine am by Dean bouncing enthusiastically on his bed, therefore, was not favourite.

And he had to get Dean to stop bouncing soon, or he wouldn't be responsible for the results of his actions.

'Dean, what the feck are you doing in my bedroom at this unholy hour of the morning?' he growled unwelcomingly.

'I just got back!' Dean said cheerfully.

'From your date? What the hell is the time?'

'Oh,' Dean checked his watch. 'Ten past nine.'

'Oh.' Seamus leaned back weakly on his pillows. 'What did I do in my past life to deserve this cruelty?'

'Seamus, you're a Catholic. You can't believe in reincarnation.'

'At nine in the morning I'll believe what I bloody well like.'

'You're a wanker. You have to get up twice as early for school.'

'That's different. This is a Saturday.'

'Don't you want to hear about my date?'

'Why would I need to? I nearly planned the whole thing.'

'God, but you're grumpy in the morning.' Dean was indomitably perky. 'Perhaps I should come back at a more amenable time?'

'Good thinking, ninety-nine,' Seamus muttered into his pillow.

'Shove up then.' Dean kicked off his shoes and swung his legs up onto the bed. 'And throw me some of that duvet, you nasty blanket-hogger.'

'Wh - What are you doing?' Seamus scooted to the far end of his bed in alarm.

'Getting some well-deserved kip, obviously.'

'In my bed?'

Dean had used Seamus' sudden vacation to gain himself a good half of the bed. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it after his shoes, then patted the blankets around himself into a more comfortable position. A small burst of Lynx Africa drifted in Seamus direction, making his throat tighten uncomfortably. He carefully resettled himself, trying to reduce himself into the smallest size possible.

Dean's eyelashes were already fluttering.

'Bet you the Fellowship of the Ring didn't make such a fuss 'bout sleeping in the same place,' he murmured, half way to sleep.

Seamus looked down at his friend's relaxed features, mouth curving into a half smile, and thought that on that matter, it was as well to be silent.

~

Sev opened his eyes, then immediately wished he hadn't.

'Oh, shit,' he said, with deep and heartfelt meaning.

He felt - odd. And sore in the strangest places. Not painful but - chafed. Oh God. His cheeks flushed darkly as the memories tripped over each other to be first to enter his waking mind.

Live dangerously. Yes, that was certainly true. He wasn't even sure if they had used condoms. Oh, please, god (or gods or godettes, or any supernatural force available really), let them have used condoms.

He tentatively raised himself up on his elbows and looked around himself. His alcohol-hazed brain hadn't been in gear for taking in details last night, even if there hadn't been other - distractions.

The room was small, and bare. The large iron bed on which he was currently lying was the only significant furniture of the room. That, and a pennant hanging on one wall. Squinting closer, he realised it was from Eton.

Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he refused to sink into procrastinating pondering over the pennant's origin, and looked down at the man sleeping beside him.

To his shame, Sev couldn't remember his name. Or even if they had exchanged those. Bodily fluids: check. Sev squirmed slightly. Definitely check. Names: not so certain.

The man's chest was rising and falling gently in sleep; a well-built chest, wide shoulders tapering to narrow, snake-like hips. His shaven head gleamed gently in the early morning sun, creeping in through thin drapes. His arms were thrust protectively around himself, the long serpent tattoo half-hidden. He looked even younger than Sev had first thought; he couldn't be thirty, even. How incongruous, then, that he, not Sev, was the seducer in all this.

Sev leaned closer, close enough to feel the man's warm breath on his neck. Idly, with one finger, Sev traced the matching skull tattoo on the man's shoulder, not thinking, not thinking at all.

The man's eyes fluttered open, long spidery lashes dancing.

'Still here, are you?' He sounded vaguely surprised, but not unpleased.

In answer, Sev pushed forward the tiniest bit, and kissed him.

Because he wanted to know what it felt like when he was sober. Because he wanted to see if this strange, consuming desire could compete with sobriety. Because, dammit, he wanted to see if it really was as good as he remembered.

It really was.

~

Minnie McGonagall woke up on Saturday morning, after a very disturbing dream, determined to do something with her life.

In the dream, she had been very old, and dying. An angel - Azreel, the angel of death - had come to take her to heaven, and on their way he had asked her what she had done with her life.

Nothing.

Minnie looked at herself in the mirror. It was her birthday today; she was forty-four years old.

She didn't look it; she could have shaved five years off her true age, no problem. Spending over two decades of money on herself - money that most of her contemporaries were throwing desperately at children, mortgages, college funds - she had spent on herself. She had given a lot to charity, true; but living in a small basement flat, inherited from her grandmother, with her only dependant a cat who liked to be known as Crookshanks, had left her with quite a lot of cash on her hands.

Expensive Lancôme moisturisers had left her hands soft; lack of hard toil had prevented them from becoming knobbly and arthritic, as she remembered her mother's as being. Her regular - if supremely unmusical - attacks on the small upright piano that came with the flat had also helped there. Equally expensive moisturisers, UV protection inbuilt, made from the grossest things - from crude oil to fish spawn - prevented her face from drooping too drastically. Occasional, shameful Botox injections had not gone astray there either.

Her glasses were designer; she never could bring herself to bother with contacts. Her hair was as black as ever; or at least, as her hairdresser could make it. Regular walks and a diet that would have made Kate Moss feel competitive had kept her figure trim. All in all, for such a harsh, aesthetic woman, she kept herself well.

And Bertie had never noticed - she'd done it for him as much as herself.

Well, bugger Bertie. He had found a new lease of life; but it included her as much as the old life had. That is to say, not at all.

Going to pin her hair in a tight bun, Minnie paused, and thoughtfully brushed it out again. She ignored the kilt and sweater she had lain out for herself. She went instead to the back of her wardrobe, where the contents of one day's impulse buying lay nestled in paper shopping bags, labels still attached. She withdrew the sharply cut black trouser suit, the daringly low cut, red blouse, and quickly put them on.

Agenda for today: buy more new clothes, as all kilts and woolly jumpers are to be ritually burnt.

Life may not begin at forty-four, but that's no excuse not to get one.

|~

By eleven, Hermione felt sufficiently recovered to wolf down six sausages, three rashers, sinful heapings of black pudding and several rounds of toast. Blaise, picking unenthusiastically at a dry slice of toast, watched her in amazement and not a little alarm.

As Hermione reached for the ketchup, Blaise ventured to say, 'Clearly, you are not the queasy hangover type of person.'

Hermione shrugged, and swallowed a heaping mouthful of bacon. 'How would I know? This is my first time.'

'Oh. Yeah.'

Blaise dismissed the issue with a shake of her long, dyed black locks, and pressed on to more interesting matters.

'So...I take it you saw Black last night.' It wasn't a question.

'As you did,' Hermione said non-committedly. Blaise rolled her eyes.

'Enough with the blasé attitude. That's my name, that's my game. I thought he looked horrendous. Like a bridge tramp or something. And what was with that coat!'

'He certainly didn't put a lot of effort into his outfit, that's for sure,' Hermione agreed.

'I'd say he drank as much as you did, too. Why on earth was he out drowning his sorrows?'

'Innumerable reasons spring to mind. Perhaps he ate a bad Coco Pop last morning. Maybe Pansy's on his back. Perchance he found a split-end.'

'He kept shooting you evil looks, that I do recall.'

'Did he?' Hermione frowned, finding herself oddly disturbed by the news. 'I don't remember that.'

'Not surprising. You downed more Fat Frogs in the half-hour after he arrived than I've ever drunk. I don't think you were in a state to remember your own name at that stage.'

'You sound quite disapproving, given that you were the one who coerced me into going out in the first place.'

'Well, you can't say it wasn't a baptism of fire, at least.'

'Or a plague of frogs, perhaps? Seeing as we're being all biblical.'

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of Hermione's contented munching.

"I suppose you'll be heading home after this, for another joyful day of study,' Blaise said, sounding resigned.

'Nah,' Hermione said succinctly, ignoring Blaise's surprised look. 'I think I'll go wild and - not study at all this weekend.'

'Truly, a daring move,' Blaise said, but her approval was genuine. 'What are you going to do today, then?'

'I have some ideas....'Hermione said vaguely, staring into the middle distance. Then her eyes abruptly snapped back onto Blaise. 'You - are going to be there too, aren't you?' she said, with a tremor of uncertainty.

Blaise leaned back casually in her chair and regarded Hermione with a wide grin. 'Last night I discovered you're a secret body-piercer. Then, you drink Black under the table, albeit across the room. Now you're abandoning study for a whole forty-eight hours.' She let her chair legs hit the floor again with a thud as she reached forward for more toast, her appetite suddenly returning. 'Of course I'm bloody coming. Otherwise, God knows what I could be missing.'

~

Draco sat huddled under his huge coat at the kitchen table, clutching his pounding head and trying to make sense of the world. He was making dispiritingly little progress; it made no more sense than when he wasn't hungover. There was, of course, the added complication of finding his mother and his history teacher in the throes of - something. Quite what, he would not be able to determine without immediate application of Alka Seltzer and psycho-analysis for his repression of all and any hints of knowledge regarding same.

He heard movement in the hall, and for a moment toyed with the idea of flinging himself under the table like a four-year-old. The warning alarm bells of pain ricocheting under his skull prevented him, and then it was too late to consider further action.

His mother entered the kitchen with the determined look of a firing squad member preparing to execute Erskine Childers. Draco scowled up at her, ignoring the wailing of pain inside his head.

'Where's lover boy?' he grated out.

'Joe has gone home. We - that is, I - thought it would be better if I talked to you alone.' She suddenly reached across the table and grasped his hands. 'Draco, I can explain -'

'It's quite alright, mother,' Draco said. 'I know where the birds and the bees come from. Under the cabbage patch. And oh, won't someone get me some painkillers!' he added plaintively. 'Horse tranquillisers! Anything!"

Narcissa made a noise in the back of her throat that could have been of amusement or annoyance. She gracefully rose from the table and started rummaging through cupboards.

'You're as bad as your father,' she said lightly. 'He could never hold his drink either.'

'I can hold my drink!' Draco snapped, affronted. 'I just - don't usually hold so much at one time.'

'How much, Draco?" Suddenly stern.

'Um - however much fifty five pounds can buy.' Meekly. 'Oh, and that reminds me. I must pay back Greg for the fifty.'

'You got drunk on someone else's money?" Narcissa quirked a pale eyebrow.

'Well, it would have been on my own, only you see, I was chucked out of my house with no cash on me,' Draco said sweetly.

The barb hit home. Narcissa hurriedly sat down again, pushing a glass of water and two Panadol tablets at her son, which he received with desperate gratitude.

'I don't want you to think I was trying to get rid of you -' she began.

'Why? It's what you were doing,' Draco pointed out, gulping down the first pill.

'Well, true, but only partly,' Narcissa continued, unabashed. 'I really was worried about you. It's not like you to mope. By the way, that is an absolutely horrible coat.'

'Stop turning the conversation around,' he commanded. 'Why was Binns here and what were you doing? Did you, perhaps, lose one of your other sons, and need his help in finding him? No, implausible, you only have one son. Me.'

He stopped and waited expectantly. Narcissa looked almost discomfited.

'I'm afraid you'll just have to accept that Joe and I are - together,' she said finally. 'Well, almost, I mean, he hasn't actually said anything -'

Draco rolled his eyes. Typical. He was now privy to the convoluted love lives of both his parents. He was clearly going to be here for some time.

'Have we got any ice-cream?'

~

Hermione's plan for the day wasn't exactly earth shattering, except when seen in terms of her life, which could be viewed as one long cycle of neatly timetabled revision and learning, with short breaks for eating and sleeping.

They were going to a gaming arcade.

Hermione had never been to one before; it was not the sort of place, that, after the age of eight, you wanted to be taken to by your parents. By the time the protective Grangers had granted their only daughter permission to go out on her own, she was too enmeshed in a web of study to have either the time or the inclination to follow up on a childhood desire.

She still didn't have the time. The inclination, however, was another matter.

It was pure luck that a huge, shiny, new arcade had opened up in the local shopping complex - the place was called Zonko's, and it was immense. Vast, glittering disco balls revolved slowly under the flashing lighting, throwing Hermione's animated face, and Blaise's guarded one, into high relief.

Hermione wanted to try everything, and she had brought lots of money, too. She was just coaxing a wary Blaise onto a motorbike simulator, so they could have a virtual reality race, when she looked up, and her face twisted.

'What's he doing here?'

~

Draco paused at the threshold of Zonko's, having been pulled thus far by the child-like eagerness of his two friends. When Narcissa had eventually released him - following the consumption of two tubs of Caramel Sutra Ben and Gerry's on his part and extensive soul-searching on her's- he had headed over to Greg's again with the intention of repaying him. He had found himself caught up in their plans for a day on the town, and was thankful for having changed his clothes and brushed his hair.

The sight that had greeted him when he passed through by his bedroom mirror had not been a pretty one. His eyes were webbed with delicate red lines, his clothes stunk of smoke and his hair - already whorled from lack of combing after its cold water wash - was unspeakable. He's had another shower, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a dark green Armani jumper - a Christmas present, from his mother. Over it all he had settled the sheepskin coat, after dousing it, first in Febreze, then in Lynx, to kill or at least overpower the scent of stale cigarettes. He'd become strangely attached to the thing. He had brushed his hair, but it was still wringing wet, and leaving cold trails of the back of his neck.

'Come on - let's play Pinball!' Greg urged, tugging on Vinnie's sleeve, and they shot away like greyhounds out of a trap, leaving Draco feeling rather lost.

He turned up the collar of his coat - another habit that was rapidly becoming engrained - and shot an icy look around the room. Only to meet a venomous, all-too-familiar brown stare.

'Granger,' he said with a sigh, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure the sight of her brought him. He rapidly turned away and headed for the well-stocked sweets counter, suddenly feeling the urge for more Ben and Gerry's.

~

'Go talk to him! You know you want to! And god, he's still wearing that awful animal skin,' Blaise said, hopping off the bike with almost indecent relief.

'I might want to, but I can't,' Hermione acknowledged reluctantly, through clenched teeth. The fact made her irrational anger at his presence burn more brightly. 'And he still has a girlfriend.'

'I'm not entirely sure you can even class Pansy as a member of the human race,' Blaise said impatiently. 'She must have a duck somewhere in her ancestry. Look, I'm going to the toilet. Don't follow me!'

She sped off, and Hermione was left standing gaping after her.

Well. It was clearly reckless courage in the face of abject fear that was called for here. She had that, in spades.

She squared her shoulders and walked towards him. She thought, at first, of going to the other side of the sweet counter, pretending she didn't notice him, and allowing him to engage her in conversation if he wished.

But then she narrowed her eyes. She remembered her thoughts from the night before, concerning Lavender's now-I-mean-it, now-I-don't, attitude. She wasn't going to play-act.

This wasn't a game. This was Life.

~

Draco watched her approach with wariness, poised to flee, only hampered by the tub of ice cream that he was in the process of paying for. She looked attractive, far more so than the night before. Her woolly zipped-up jumper allowed him just the merest, tantalising glimpse of collarbone. She also looked very, very angry. Draco gulped, and wondered, first what exactly he had done, and second where the emergency exits were located.

'Black,' she acknowledged him curtly.

'Granger,' he returned, clutching his congealed dairy product for dear life and snatching his change from the woman at the till.

She ran her eyes down him, making him redden unaccountably. There was nothing appraising in her gaze, which was a thoughtful one, but he found it helplessly seductive, nonetheless. She appeared to be thinking deeply.

'I like the coat,' she said, and graced him with the first real smile he'd ever received from her.

'Thanks,' he managed, trying his best not to die from shock.

Her manner became abruptly business-like. She stepped in closer to him, and he could smell her perfume, although he had no idea what it was. He was uncomfortably aware of the stultifying combination of Lynx and Febreze emanating from himself as the coat warmed up.

'I fancy you, you do realise,' she said, with as much passion as a pathologist declaring the obvious about a corpse.

Time held its breath as he stared, terrified, into her eyes and saw the glimmer of uncertainty there. On spotting it, his devilish side decided to play Russian Roulette.

'Good to know,' he squeaked.

She frowned, put one hand lightly on his shoulder, curling her fingers in his damp hair, drew him closer to her, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

For a second, the tableau held. Their lips brushed, parted slightly, and the kiss deepened. Hermione's hand tightened at the back of Draco's head, sliding her fingers through the heavy silkiness of his wet locks.

Then, before he could think of dropping his ice cream, grabbing her tightly, kissing her harder, more urgently, before he could even think of anything at all except her mouth and her hands and the warmth of her body, she had spun away from him.

~

Hermione burst into the bathroom, hair flying, cheeks high with colour, just as Blaise was washing her hands.

'Quick! Quick!' she shouted, sounding terrified, but there was an octave of panicked amusement in her voice. 'We've got to get out of here!'

Not waiting for Blaise to respond, she whirled around, and spotting the one, small, half-open window, she charged for it.

'What the -' Blaise followed more slowly, as Hermione's hands grasped the sill and she began hoisting herself up. 'Hermione, you really aren't - what happened?'

Hermione glanced at her, one arm and half a leg already over the edge of the window. It was a look of someone who had rushed in where angels feared to tread, with bells, balls and brio, and was now out on the other side. She grinned widely.

'I kissed him, I kissed him, that's what,' she gasped, hauling herself over. Her next words were accompanied by an 'ooof' as she landed hard in the concrete car park. 'Now come on, we've got to get out of here!'

Blaise shook her head in admiration, and grabbed the windowsill.

~

Later, much later, Sev finally asked.

'My name is Marv,' the man said, smiling the long, slow smile of the recently and soon to be again shagged.

|~

Minnie stood nervously at the reception desk as the secretary fussed with papers and forms. She was already regretting what she'd done, but it was too late to go back now. She'd applied, she'd signed her name, she'd even given them a check for Christ's sakes, and now she was in with no way out.

'All right then,' the secretary - a Mrs Figg, from her nametag - said, finally shuffling all her papers into one neat pile. 'If you'll just wait a moment, I can just print out a list of recommended reading material for you, and you'll be ready to go.' The older woman gave Minnie a cheerful smile, which Minnie felt ill-disposed to return. She walked slowly over to a row of modern wooden waiting chairs, and idly flicked through the piled academic journals, which were scattered over the low ash table.

She became immersed in an article about Reflective Practice, and so didn't look up when another person entered the airy reception area from the campus side and began speaking to the secretary in a deep, mellifluous voice.

'Anything for me, Arabella?'

'Hang on for a second, dear, and I'll just check. I'm printing out something for the lady over there. Actually -' there was a rustle of papers, 'Yes, she's in your new course, as it happens.'

'I think I'll go over and introduce myself, then.'

'Good idea.' Arabella's voice dropped a notch. 'I think she's a little hesitant.'

'Well then, I'll definitely have to talk with her.'

There was a patter of footsteps; a man's heavy tread. Minnie deigned to look up - carefully composing her face into a cool, set mask - and for only the second time in her life, fell completely, utterly and helplessly in love.

The blonde vision pushed back his crinkly gold hair and winked one eye - so blue it was almost purple - at her, and held out a hand. He was dressed in a stylish, if loud, suit of royal blue, with a lemon coloured tie.

'Hello,' he said warmly, taking her hand in a warm grasp and, instead of shaking it, pressing it briefly to his lips.

'Hello,' Minnie replied, breathlessly, completely bowled over.

The man - who looked in his mid to late forties - settled himself in the chair next to hers and leaned close enough to cause her heart to jump around uncomfortably.

'Now,' he began engagingly, 'People around here tend to call me a lot of things, You Lazy Bastard being favourite, but I think I'll just introduce myself as Gil, for that is my given name. Now, I hear you've applied for my Master's programme.....'