A City Visible But Unseen

Chapter Five: THE WRONG KIND OF RIGHT

Tout arreter, termine! finis les utopies, les reves brises

L'coeur d'artichaut est fatigue

Mais jamais j'n'arret'rai de t'aimer

Seamus was a little surprised that Dean wasn't all in a tizzy for his upcoming second date with Ginny. He supposed that once the milestone first date had been struggled through, the second impression wasn't that important. He said as much to Dean, who, once he'd figured out what Seamus was talking about, laughed and said he was just going to wear what he'd worn the first time.

Seamus halted, stock-still, in the middle of the school corridor. The effect was lost on Dean, who'd continued walking, and the jostlings of irritated people eventually convinced Seamus to move on. He caught up with Dean, panting slightly. Dean gave him a quizzical look.

'Dean, you cannot wear the same clothes twice running!' he panted in despair. 'She'll think you don't wash!'

'Why?' Dean asked, and Seamus realised to his horror that Dean was actually sincere.

'Because, you daft pogo-stick, she'll see you in the exact same clothes!'

'Yes, but you see me in the same clothes all the time, and you know I wash,' said Dean equably, with unshakeable logic.

'Yes, I do. I also go round your house nearly every day, occasionally seeing your washing machine, I know you have a wardrobe of more than one outfit and most importantly,' Seamus steeled himself for the lie, 'I don't look on you as a potential sexual partner, as Ginny does!'

'Does she?' Dean asked in excitement.

Seamus rolled his eyes, somewhat relived, however, that Dean had not picked up on the false note in his voice. 'Potentially, yes. That's the point. Your mum, for example, sees you in the same clothes, and as she lives with you she has no worries that she's brought up an unhygienic son. Ginny doesn't, so she also doesn't know if you wash either yourself or your clothes. Obviously she assumes that you do, but you have to prove it to her. Ergo, you must wear another outfit. And not a tracksuit, before you even ask.'

'This dating business seems to be a whole load of work,' Dean said, disgruntled. 'How come I can't just wear what I usually do?'

'Funnily enough, girls ask themselves the same question all the time,' Seamus said conversationally. 'And the honest to God answer is, you can - when you've been married to her for thirty years, have possibly seen up her uterus while she gives birth to your kids and are set to grow old and dribbly together in some clapped-out retirement home. Then, and only then, can you stop trying to impress. In other words, when it's too late.'

'You know, I've just realised why you're such a great friend,' said Dean dryly. 'You have such a wonderfully positive outlook on life. It's so inspiring.'

'Well, you know what they say,' Seamus replied airily. 'Optimism begins in a broad grin, and pessimism ends in blue spectacles. I've always said glasses would suit me, don't you agree?'

'Yes, as long as they're on someone else's face,' Dean agreed.

'Oh, witty! We shall make a cynic of you yet, my dear.' Seamus leered at him. 'If marriage doesn't do my job for me, that is.'

'Stop!' Dean complained. 'I haven't even got to third base and you're scaring me off. All this talk of getting married.'

'Haha, rather you than me,' Seamus said unsympathetically.

After a while, during which Dean appeared to be thinking hard (you could always tell by the little wrinkle between his eyebrows, which of course Seamus never looked at when Dean wasn't paying attention), he spoke.

'Marriage or third base?'

~

Overnight, Hermione's eye had swelled to the size of a duck egg, but unfortunately not as attractive a colour. Various bruises and scratches on her face and body were aching as her body began to heal, and her foot - taped up in bandages and a heat pack - was burning to the touch. Her mother had been shocked at her appearance, and had wanted to sue Pansy for damages. By morning, after a sleepless night of torture, Hermione found herself becoming more and more amenable to the idea.

Her mother took one look at her, a plate of toast and eggs in her hands, and pronounced her completely unfit for school. For once, Hermione didn't protest. Even leaving aside the considerable pain she was in, she had a lot to think about. She sent a text message to Blaise, to tell her she wasn't coming in, and asking her if she had any idea what reason Pansy had for attacking her. It didn't deliver, however; clearly Blaise kept her phone off during school.

She lay back on her pillows, freshly plumped by her mother before she left for work, and let sleep claim her.

~

Sev was in a state of shock. His lover and the man he was in love with had turned out to be brothers. It was more than a little squicky.

He wandered around his apartment, a cup of bitter coffee clutched in one hand, and considered phoning in sick. He certainly felt sick at heart. Marv had spoken little more after his first three words, making no pretence of having a real excuse for leaving quickly. Sev envied him. He endured an uncomfortable silence with Lupin for what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes in reality, before Lupin had mumbled something and left also. By then, Sev couldn't even summon up the energy to drink himself into oblivion. He had walked home in a daze, getting caught in a spring shower and ruining his trousers. He couldn't be bothered to care.

He decided that, unpleasant though the thought was, he needed to talk to Lupin. He needed to clear the air. So many things were uncertain - was Lupin gay? In what exact reference frame could Remus Lupin and Marvolo Riddle - hell, he hadn't even known the guy's full name before he went and messed up his life - be termed brothers?

Even in his confused, weary state of mind, he knew which question bothered him most.

~

Blaise sat in class, humming quietly to herself. It was clear by break-time that Hermione wasn't in, although Blaise didn't have her phone with her to confirm. She was sitting on her own in English, looking at the back of Black's head, which was bowed. She couldn't feel angry at him for causing her best friend to be beaten up - by this stage she had heard from Lavender that he had broken up with Pansy. It was painfully evident that he was missing Hermione, and after all his relationship with Pansy was over now. The path of true love never did run smooth, and all that. In this case, it had taken a detour into outer space smack-bang into a couple of asteroids.

Speaking of love...Blaise glanced around the room. Ron was sitting at a desk at the back, giggling at nothing. Pushing herself off of her chair, she stalked over to him.

'Where's Harry?' she asked, feeling a tentative right to ask. They had shared headphones, after all.

Ron didn't reply, so she repeated her question, louder, and Ron deigned to look at her. She was startled by his empty looking eyes. Of course she'd known he was on drugs - she knew everything - but she'd had no occasion to see him up close before. She was shocked by his sunken, pale features, and made a worried face.

'Harry, man?' Ron said slowly, as if dredging up each word from a long-obsolete memory bank. 'Is he, like, one of my brothers?'

Blaise curled her lip at him and returned to her seat, pondering all the while what on earth to do about him. Twelve steps was about all she could think of, and she'd only seen that in Clueless.

Lavender stopped in front of her, eyes alight with new gossip. Nothing made Lavender come alive like passing on scurrilous rumours that had been confided to her in strictest confidence.

'Guess what?' she said in what she clearly thought was a whisper.

'You're a fool and I'm not,' Blaise said, seriously.

'No, silly!' Lavender batted her on the arm while Blaise gave her an incredulous look. 'Did you hear?' She didn't wait for an answer but ploughed on regardless. 'Apparently, a couple of weeks ago Pansy overheard some girls in the bathroom saying that Hermione Granger is in love with Black! Then he broke up with her, and she was so mad, that's why she beat her up! Can you believe it? I was right all along!' She sighed mistily. 'It's so romantic!'

'What, getting beaten to a bloody pulp?' Blaise shook her head. 'I never had you down as that kinky, Lavender.' But Lavender had moved on, to spread the word far and wide, whether anyone was interested in it or not.

But Blaise was interested. She realised with a sinking heart that the girls Pansy had overheard had been Hermione - and herself. She had given Hermione the rope to hang herself. Hermione was not going to forgive her for this. She grimaced and slumped down in her seat.

At that point, Harry entered, seconds in front of Miss McGonagall who, Blaise noticed, was looking very spruced up all of a sudden. She'd have to investigate that.

However, all thoughts of her teacher disappeared from her head as Harry shyly approached her desk, hesitated, then sat down beside her. Then, Blaise was hard-pressed to keep a grin from spreading all over her face.

~

Draco was feeling both incredibly worried and extremely guilty as he sat through McGonagall's class, passing the time by drawing idly on a copy. Hermione's injuries, although far from life-threatening, were still pretty deleterious. In addition, he had been the unwitting cause of them. And he thought he'd let Pansy down gently, considering what he could have said. He wasn't worried about being her next victim; he held a black belt in Tai Kwon Do. That was probably why she hadn't come after him. The only puzzling thing about the whole situation was why she had gone after Hermione. It wasn't as if he had told Pansy he'd been using her to make Hermione jealous; he wasn't that stupid, or unfeeling. Perhaps she'd made the connection on her own.

And that was worrying, because if Pansy - who'd have a hard time reading if someone cut off her finger - could figure out that he was in love and all other soppy things with Granger, then anyone could. And the whole world would be party to her rejection of him. Wonderful.

He was missing Hermione, but there was another edge to it too, namely that he was concerned over her welfare. This was a bit different from the squirmy feelings of lust she generated (well, that the thoughts of her generated) or the thrill he got from winding her up. It was involved; it was caring. It was bloody scary.

It was the nagging feeling of obligation combined with the genuine desire to see her that spurred him on to asking Blaise where she lived.

'Why, so you can throw petrol over her house and set fire to it?' she said, but there was a noticable lack of bite in her voice. Draco noticed Harry hovering nearby, but as usual dismissed him. It never occurred to him to connect Harry's presence with Blaise's unusual good humour. 'Don't you think you and your cronies have done enough damage, Black?'

'I'm sorry about that,' Draco said humbly. 'Jesus, if I'd known Pansy was going to go batshit I would have - '

'Handled the situation a bit more delicately?' Blaise suggested.

Draco paused. 'I was going to say I would have given Hermione a big stick,' he admitted. 'But your idea has merit. In theory anyway.' He wasn't going to go into the details of his recent break-up with Blaise.

Blaise seemed to be sizing him up. Draco wondered nervously if he was going to be found wanting.

'It's twenty-one Magnolia Cresent,' she said at last, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 'The house with the green door.'

~

Seamus decided that Dean needed to be taken shopping rather urgently. This was convenient, as Seamus also required some new clothes. Unfortunately, Dean didn't see it that way. He treated the whole expedition as one step down from getting teeth pulled. He only shut up when Seamus promised that they could go to Virgin Megastores afterwards and jointly buy the extended version of the Return of the King on DVD.

He nearly had to drag Dean by the arm to get him into Topman, as Dean was convinced it was a girl's shop. Seamus smiled apologetically at some mothers with prams, who were looking at him in consternation.

'Yes, he's at that age,' he confided to them. 'Terrible, isn't it?'

Then Dean had the temerity to hiss that Seamus was embarrassing him.

'Actually you're making a fine job of it on your own,' Seamus said coolly, and, while Dean concentrated on opening his mouth to reply, pushed him inside.

Dean adamantly refused to buy anything from a 'boutique', as he called it. Seamus, however, made several successful purchases, which even Dean agreed looked decent on. It didn't sway him at all towards choosing something for himself, though.

Seamus saw Dean looking with longing at the Champion Sports across the street, and walloped him on the arm. Complaining proved to be enough of a distraction to get him into a jeans warehouse to purchase some half-decent trousers. The lack of pink and any frills whatsoever appeared to be of great comfort to Dean, who immediately chose an armful of pairs to try on. Seamus had a short but vicious battle with him to make pick another armful that were not so utterly hideous. In the end Dean bought three pairs, and Seamus had talked himself dry to ensure they were ones that actually looked good on him.

He relented and let Dean into Champion Sports, but refused to let him buy anything, despite his pleading expressions and pouts. However, when he saw the rugby jerseys, he was immediately interested. They actually seemed to be made to fit, unlike Dean's football ones. Or perhaps he bought those too big.

'Here, try these on.' He shoved half a dozen into Dean's arms.

'But I don't follow rugby!' Dean said in amazement, sifting through the jerseys, which included ones from France, Australia, Munster and South Africa.

Seamus rolled his eyes. 'And what has that got to do with it?'

By four o'clock he was completely exhausted. He sat in the booth of a coffee bar with Dean, who had tossed his clothes bags unconcernedly to one side and was exclaiming over his - their - new DVD. Seamus half-listened, almost asleep.

'Hey, I want to thank you,' Dean said awkwardly. 'For all this - you know, for helping me and stuff.'

Seamus looked at him silently for a moment. Dean squirmed a little.

'You know what they say,' Seamus shrugged. 'Teach a man to fish, you teach him for a lifetime. You're meant to take all this on board for future reference.'

'Yeah, well, cheers. You're a great mate, you know,' Dean said earnestly.

'Wow, thanks,' Seamus said ironically, and turned his head away. 'I'll treasure that,' he whispered, almost under his breath.

~

The ringing of the doorbell startled Hermione out of a half-doze under her comfy mound of bedclothes. Wearily, she struggled out of bed and wrapped an old, bald bathrobe around her favourite yellow pyjamas. Once she had made it into the tiled hallway, after clinging onto banisters and various walls for support, she was cursing her lack of foresight for not wearing slippers. If she looked down, she was half-certain she'd find her feet encased in mini ice-blocks.

Shoving back her tangled hair, she opened the door into Black's face. She stared at him, mouth open, for a second, before determinedly shutting it again.

'Hermione!' she heard his injured voice from the other side of the door. 'Open up!'

'What are you doing here?' she yelled back, tightening her robe around herself, even though he couldn't see her through the solid door.

'I - I can't talk through a door!' he said in a loud and, she thought, cross voice.

'On the contrary, that's exactly what you are doing!' she retorted.

'What?'

Annoyed, Hermione opened the door again. One couldn't have a proper skirmish of words when one of the combatants was pretending to be deaf.

Black was standing on the doorstep wearing an obstinate expression, and what passed for the school uniform in his world. That is, dark blue jeans, Adidas runners, the school shirt and tie - untie, in fact - and a black sports jacket. With his haughty, aristocratic features and eyebrow piercing, it made for an incongruous image, and Hermione found herself suppressing an unwonted urge to giggle.

'Did you get put on detention today?' she asked curiously.

Black looked at her as if she'd sprouted another head. 'What? No.'

'Oh.' She hung onto the door handle for support, favouring her good leg. 'It's a nice day, isn't it?' She swung forward to look up into the lowering sky, which was leaden and filled with ominous black clouds. The outside air was freezing.

Black looked uneasy now. The head had clearly been joined by fangs dripping with blood and gore. 'Yeah,' he said carefully, in the tones of someone who is anxious not to upset the balance of a person who was so clearly dancing too close to the edge.

Hermione leaned forward further. 'Gosh, I didn't know we had hanging baskets!' she exclaimed.

'Um, Hermione, did they give you any, like, painkillers?' Black asked cautiously.

'Only a few,' Hermione said with dignity, and suddenly lost her grip on the door. Shocked into putting her injured foot on the ground, she howled in pain and fumbled for equipoise. Black jumped forward and grabbed her bodily before she could fall.

Hermione found herself face squashed uncomfortably somewhere in the region of Black's neck while his hands clutched her robe, dragging her clothing in all directions. She could feel the collar of her pyjama top choking her, while it's hem was skirting the bottom of her ribcage and allowing a broad expanse of her tender stomach to scrape painfully against the rough fabric of his jacket.

'Are you okay?' he said, and she could feel his vocal chords moving against her cheek.

'Absolutely!' she squeaked hastily, and he released her, backing away and staring down at his shoes. She took the opportunity to yank down her pyjama top to decency and re-knot the cord of her robe.

'Well...did you want to come in?' she asked. Too late she realised that catching her had meant that he had already crossed the threshold. 'Em - well, shut the door then. Do you want some tea?'

'Have you got any Coke?' he asked hopefully.

''Fraid not. My parents are dentists. No fizzy drinks, no chewy sweets.'

Black looked horrified. 'You poor deprived child!'

Hermione stared at him, decided he was for real, and shook her head. 'We do have orange juice. Or ice cream.'

'Ice cream isn't a beverage,' he objected.

'What about ice cream floats?' she retorted. 'The kitchen is this way.' She began to hobble in the direction she'd indicated.

Black strode forward. 'Here, hold onto my arm,' he commanded. Even though it was humiliating, she acquiesced, because trying to get support out of a dodo rail was more difficult than it looked. 'And ice cream floats are just ice cream having an identity crisis.'

'Well, you don't have to have any,' she said wearily, clutching his arm, which had all sorts of interesting contours under the sleeve of his jacket.

'Who says I'm not having any?' he objected. And grinned, a little.

~

Sev finally caught up with Lupin when he was unlatching his bike from the school bicycle rail. If Sev didn't know better, he'd have thought that Lupin was avoiding him. Hell, he did know better, and Lupin was avoiding him. But he'd be damned if he'd let him away with it.

He put a restraining hand on the handlebar. 'Lupin, we need to talk.'

'About what?'

Well, at least he had replied. But his voice, for all its courtesy, was icy-cold and formal. It was not a voice that suggested the hearer should hang around for cocoa and marshmallows. Nevertheless, Sev persisted.

'About last night. I wanted to explain.'

'You don't need to.' Still Lupin wouldn't look him in the eye. 'It is quite obvious that you in some sort of - relationship with my dissipated brother. Far be it from me to stand in your way.'

'Its not like that, Lupin,' Sev said, frustrated.

'Then what is it like, Snape?' Lupin was looking out on the road, his voice calm and steady and absolutely infuriating. 'I walk in to find you snogging the face off him. In my book that constitutes some sort of attachment. Unless you are in the habit of passionately kissing strangers?' His voice dripped with sarcasm at this last.

'No, I'm not,' Sev said desperately. 'But I'm not - bloody hell, I'm not going out with him! It was just a one-night stand.'

'How nice,' Lupin said distantly, and Sev realised how stupid, in the face of evidence, his last statement sounded. 'Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go now.'

Sev stood staring at him, clutching the handlebars tightly. Lupin was looking down at his hands now, the tough gelled spikes of his hair hovering just under Sev's nose.

'Could you please take your hands off my bike?' Lupin asked coldly. Stunned, Sev snatched his hands away as if burned.

Which of course he was.

~

Once she had got rid of Black, Blaise gathered up her books and turned her attention to Harry, who was lingering in the classroom. They were the only two left, aside from McGonagall, who was organising her papers.

'Well, I have to go to my locker,' Blaise began uncertainly.

'I'll come with you,' Harry said eagerly.

They walked in companionable silence, careful to hold their books at the opposite side of their bodies to the other person. Every so often, their free hands would tangle together, and they would look and smile at each other, and disengage them.

Blaise hurriedly tossed her books into her weatherworn satchel while Harry waited patiently. For some reason, it seemed to take her twice as long than normal; things kept slipping out of her grasp, and it seemed that every book she needed was buried at the bottom of her locker. At last everything was in, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Then her pencilcase fell.

'Oh, for the love of Pete!' Blaise said loudly. Before she could move, Harry had bent and retrieved it.

'Don't stress out,' he said, handing it to her and smiling. Blaise stood still for a moment, transfixed by it. She loved his smile. It was hesitant, and never lasted long enough; it was rather crooked, and bent in the middle; his teeth were small, uneven, and glowed in the dull lighting.

'Yes, I should take lessons from Ron,' she said, and immediately wished she could bite her tongue out. Harry's happy countenance disappeared, and his face darkened. Blaise was struck by how sad and helpless he looked.

'He could teach you a lot,' he said bitterly. 'He could teach you an awful lot.' He turned away, his shoulders compressed, as if he was curving in on himself.

Blaise felt an unfamiliar stab of panic. 'Wait!' she said, and reached out to touch his retreating back. He paused, his body taut, as if expecting a blow. Blaise frowned at that. He faced her again, dark brows drawn together like advancing armies.

'I'm sorry,' she said, wincing. 'I shouldn't have said that. It was thoughtless.'

'No,' Harry corrected her. 'It's true.' But a lot of the tension had drained out of him. Blaise suddenly wanted to hug him, just for the comfort of putting her arms around him, assuring him that he wouldn't break. But he wouldn't welcome that.

'I don't know what to do!' he blurted, in a raw, agonizing burst of honesty. 'I don't know how to help him.'

'Harry. You can't help him.' Blaise lightly squeezed him arm, and tilted her head to look into his bowed face. 'Harry. He has to want to help himself.'

'There must be something I can do,' he whispered despairingly.

'You can tell him. We can find out about - I don't know. Places he could go to. Narcotics Anonymous. There is such a thing. We can do all that. But in the end, it has to come from him.'

'We?' Words bubbled on Harry's lips, but he could not form them.

'Of course,' said Blaise, astonished. 'You don't think I was going to let you go through this on your own, did you?'

'But, why?' Harry struggled to express himself. 'What's in it for you? Shit, no, I didn't mean to say that!'

Blaise snickered. Harry, relieved that she wasn't offended, made a questioning face.

'Well, there is the fact that I'm an interfering busybody,' she said thoughtfully, hefting her bag onto her shoulder. 'Lead the way to your locker. I tell you, Lavender has nothing on me. Plus, I do like helping people. Our class, this school, this neighbourhood - they're my people. I don't want to see them lost.'

They were walking down the hall now. It was almost deserted, and a lot of the lights were turned off.

'And, well, mainly, I like you,' Blaise continued. 'I knew that, like a typical man, you couldn't admit when you need help, so I'm giving it whether you like it or not.'

She smiled warily at him and was rewarded with a rare half smile in return.

She really wished she could hug him, right now.

~

Hermione and Black sat side by side at her scrubbed pine kitchen table, eating out of the same family sized tub of chocolate Haagen-Daas. Draco noted that her kitchen - in which pine was the predominant feature - was a lot different from his own. For one thing, it actually looked used. Narcissa, for all her artful posturing with legumes, ordered in (expensive) takeaway more often than not.

Struck by the thought, he asked, around a mouthful of ice-cream, 'Can you cook, Hermione?'

'Toast,' Hermione said, startled. 'And I can burn spaghetti, if that counts.'

'Oh.'

They chewed - or rather sucked and slurped, this being ice cream - in silence for a few minutes. At last Draco laid down his spoon.

'I wanted to come round here to see if you were okay,' he said seriously.

'I feel like I've gone three rounds with Lennox Lewis, why?' Hermione said, digging into the tub again. 'Oh, and I look it, too.'

Draco grimaced. 'That doesn't make me feel better.'

'What has it got to do with you?' Hermione shrugged. 'Pansy beat me up. She's a lunatic. End of story.'

'No, that's not quite it,' Draco said slowly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. 'So it does have something to do with you? Go on then, tell me. Meanwhile I'll tot up the number of your bones I'll grind to make my bread. Or maybe just stick in my ice-cream maker.'

'You have an ice-cream maker?' Draco asked with interest.

'Yes. Don't change the subject.'

Draco squirmed in his seat, picked up his spoon and began twirling it like a baton. 'Well, you see, I broke up with her.'

'Oh.' Hermione concentrated hard not to show any flicker of emotion. It wasn't helped by the fact that Black was studying her as if she was an newly unearthed Caravaggio.

'Yes, I think that may have something to do with it, anyway.'

'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why would you breaking up with her cause her to try and break my nose?' Hermione asked patiently.

Black widened his eyes at her. 'Do I have to spell it out for you?'

Hermione looked into his large grey orbs, incongruously fringed by long sooty lashes -come to think of it his brows were dark as well - gulped, and lost her nerve.

'Oh, whatever.' She shrugged and looked away, focusing on the opposite wall where one of her early watercolours was hung.

'Did you do that?' Draco asked, following her line of vision.

'Oh, yeah. It's awful, isn't it? I went through this stage of wanting to be Van Gogh, but I gave up before I reached the oils stage,' she said reminiscently.

'Do you like Van Gogh then?' Black asked keenly.

'Oh, yes. He's my favourite post-Impressionist. I would say he's my favourite artist, but I love Matisse as well.'

'Really? The Fauves' work is good, but I like Pop Art better than anything before the wars. That stuff isn't cynical enough for me. Of course, all Minimalists should be killed slowly over several days.'

'I didn't know you were into art!' she said in surprise.

'I'm a dabbler, only,' he said, stretching back in his chair and laughing. 'And Picasso is my god.'

'That figures,' Hermione said wryly. 'Have you ever seen any of his work for real?'

'Yeah - I was in Spain three years ago with my mum. She wanted to sunbathe -' he wrinkled his nose '- but I dragged her into the Prado. Guernica - I mean. There are no words. Or too many.'

'Wow.' Hermione's eyes were round and envious. 'I'd love to see it.'

'Everyone should. Even after all these years, it's still poignant. That's why I did history, I guess - I wanted to learn about the Spanish Civil War, see what exactly it was that could provoke such - a masterpiece, among other things.'

'That's almost admirable,' she said in approval. 'Do you know, Draco, I'm starting to think you have hidden depths.'

He made no response to her left-handed compliment, and when she turned to look him full in the face, slightly, surprised, she found his expression was frozen in shock.

'What did you just call me?' he whispered.

'Dr - oh.' She hadn't even been aware of it. It had just slipped out. But she'd assumed it was his name; it stood to reason. He couldn't just be called Black.

'How?' The word was bitten off and Hermione trembled at the rage suffusing his features.

'I heard Binns...' her voice trailed off uncertainly. 'I only guessed - no one else heard.'

At her last comment he visibly relaxed. 'Only you?'

'I'm fairly certain.'

'Oh, that's okay. Means I only have to kill you then, and hide the evidence. In your ice-cream maker, possibly.'

The odd tension broken, Hermione set to digging in her ice cream with renewed vigour. 'And Binns, of course.'

~

Minnie's heart was all of a flutter as she dressed for her first tutorial with Gil. She chose her outfit with care, settling on a new lavender turtleneck and smart but casual navy slacks.

She arrived to a small, Spartan room smelling of fresh paint and, inexplicably, lilac, decorated in a unobtrusive fashion - all tortured metal and white ash. About eight people, varying in age from early twenties to sixtyish, were seated uncomfortably on the ultra-stylish chairs, trying to make small-talk. Minnie settled herself fussily beside a man who looked about her age or older.

'Mundungus,' he said, extending a hairy hand and blasting her with whiskey fumes.

'Minerva,' she said with equal curtness, removing her hand from his grasp as soon as was politely possible.

She was saved from further communication with the wino by the bouncing arrival of Gil himself, wearing a white polo shirt and ironed jeans, and wafting a strong scent of Paco Rabanne into the room, which at least killed the smell of flowers. To prevent any of the others from seeing the foolish smile she couldn't hold back, she dropped her head and fiddled with her pens.

'Well, I see we're all here,' Gil said, rubbing his hands together and grinning his Colgate smile. 'So I think we'll do a spot of introductions, eh? For those of you who don't already know, I'm Gil, your lecturer, tutor, and all-around good guy.' He paused and winked at a pink-haired woman with a pin through her nose. She started back stonily. 'Or at least, that's what it says on the tin. So we'll start on my right. Just say your names, that should be easiest.'

'Minerva,' Minnie said, in her 'teacher' voice.

'Mundungus,' the man beside her growled.

'Dora,' the pink-haired woman said with a sneer.

'Dedalus,' said the oldest man, whose tufts of white hair protruded from underneath his green top hat. He appeared blissfully unaware of the fact that he looked like most people's worst idea of a leprechaun.

'Dolores,' simpered a small, squat woman who looked remarkably like a toad. She had to be in her late thirties at least, but she was wearing an Alice band with a bow on it. Minnie wrinkled her nose in distaste.

'Cornelius,' said a short man dressed in a too-tight suit. He tipped a wink in Dolores' direction, and she giggled girlishly.

'Gideon,' said a man with a bored expression, and the easy grace of a relaxed tiger.

'Well, that seems to be about all,' Gil said, smacking his hands together in delight. 'And just let me take this opportunity to welcome you to this Eng. Lit. Master's programme. I hope you'll all have an interesting and learning-filled two years!'

Minnie gazed up at him mistily. Most of the others simply nodded, and started getting out writing materials. Dora's scowl only deepened, so that it appeared to be etched into her face Ten-Commandments style, and Gideon looked at him wonderingly, as if he were an escaped hippopotamus that was peacefully chewing his front lawn.

Gil had brought a projector and was putting up slides covered in his large, swirly handwriting. Uncapping her pen, Minnie began to take it down word for word.

Gideon, who was sitting across from her, shook his biro helplessly, and leaned across the table.

'Minnie, isn't it?' he said. 'May I take one of these?' He reached over and picked up one of her small mountain of Bics.

'Of course,' Minnie said, more than a little affronted at his audacity, but not caring enough to reprimand him. From then on, her attention was firmly focused on Gil and his lecture, and she forgot all about her lost biro.

~

Draco insisted on helping Hermione up to bed. By, basically, holding her around the waist and hauling her upwards.

'Just mind you don't hit your foot off anything,' he said with a frown, while she gripped his shoulders and shut her eyes and tried to reduce her waist size by holding her breath.

The journey up the stairs had never taken so long before.

Once they had reached the top of the stairs, he stood back a little, allowing her to get her balance. One warm arm was still hooked around her waist, fingers of one hand digging ever so slightly into her hipbone. Feeling suddenly discomposed, she pushed his arm away and began a one-legged sprint to her bedroom. Draco easily kept pace with her, smiling slightly.

She pushed open her door to a blaze of late-afternoon sunlight. Shielding her eyes, she advanced cautiously, almost tripping over the tray her mother had left that morning. Grabbing for the blind, she tugged violently at it, plunging the room into sudden shadow that left her blinking red spots from in front of her eyes.

She recoiled at the state of her room. The covers of her Garfield-adorned bedspread were tossed from when she had made her hurried exit, revealing the white sheets like a gaping mouth. At her desk, the canary-coloured lamp was adrift in an ocean of papers, books and folders, with a few odd pens sticking up like drowning sailors. Here and there a yellow Post-it waved like a flag. The wooden floor was almost invisible under a tide of debris, in the form of splayed books, books and more books that refused to fit onto her stuffed bookshelf, as well as papers, clothes and odds and ends.

Yes, it looked oddly neat, she thought with a frown. Clearly, her mother had been sneaking in here to clean again.

'Nice place you've got here,' Draco said, without a trace of irony. This was achievable, despite the fact that his feet had vanished under a neap tide of scrunched papers, because his was one of the few bedrooms - aside from Hermione's - that would have looked tidier after being hit by a hurricane.

He looked around at the bright yellow walls. Above the bed there was a huge print of 'Sunflowers', and in the space between the bookshelves and wardrobe hung Klimt's 'The Kiss', which glimmered in the rays of sun that had managed to sneak in under the drawn blinds.

'Did you decorate the room to match the prints, or the other way around?' he asked teasingly.

'A bit of both,' Hermione said, tossing back her bed covers so that the bed was to made what mud is to Ming pottery. 'I love yellow.'

She hefted herself onto the bed, smoothing it out underneath herself to remove the annoying bumps. Draco plumped down beside her, crossing his legs to keep his shoes off the covers, and jammed his hands behind his head. Hermione tilted sideways a little to avoid his elbow.

'When did you get the Kiss?' he asked.

'Oh, about five years ago. Why?'

'Have you ever seen any of his other work?'

'A little, in books.' Hermione grabbed a pillow and stuck it behind her head. She threw another one at Draco's stomach, and he did the same.

'It's quite erotic, isn't it?'

'Yes. Do you always speak in questions? And are you saying I'm not allowed to have an erotic print in my room?'

'No,' Draco said scathingly. 'To both questions. I was just making conversation.'

'Try something else then. Like hand-knitted jumpers.' Hermione shoved the pillow down with a fist and burrowed into it, lying stretched flat, away from Draco. 'You'd look very fetching in one. Like Lupin on a bad day.'

'He has a tattoo.'

'Really? That's surprising. It doesn't exactly go with his image, does it?'

'Just because he wears Arrans doesn't mean he can't decorate his body with ink pictures,' Draco said reprovingly. 'That's stereotyping, that is.'

'Of course he can,' Hermione yawned. She was too tired to get into a debate with him now. 'Why don't you like your name?'

'I do,' he said defensively. 'Black is a great name. Dangerous. Sexy.'

'Keep dreaming,' she laughed. 'No, I meant, D - your given name.'

'It's stupid,' he sighed.

'Tell me anyway,' she encouraged.

'That's the reason! The name is stupid. Draco. It's Latin for Dragon. Trust my dad.'

'What's he called, then?'

Draco paused. 'Lucius.'

'Oh.' Hermione stifled a snigger in her pillow. 'But - your piercings.' She rolled over and found herself looking up his nostrils, which were commendably pink and hairless. Too lazy to sit up, she grabbed his collar and pulled him closer.

'Yeah,' she murmured, creasing her forehead. His eyebrow bar was in the shape of a dragon.

He was looking at her with fearful concern. She was ready to bet that he wanted to say something along the lines of 'You've lost it.' She felt like she had. For all her outward calm, the strangeness of him and his whole body and his closeness, of his face so near to hers, of seeing the blackheads where his eyebrows met, was doing odd things to the menagerie of butterflies that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.

'Open your mouth,' she ordered, and, making a confused face, he complied. Peering closer, assaulted by the strong scent of mint Wrigleys, she determined that the other stud was the same. Pushing his jaw closed for him, she quickly lay back down.

'You, um - I mean, you have dragons,' she said, suddenly flustered. He was still hanging over her, strands of blonde hair tickling his ridged cheekbone. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her top lip.

'Yeah,' he said, moving off to lie on his back once more. 'And a dragon tattoo. So yeah, I like the whole dragon thing, but I do not want people to call me Draco. Okay?'

'Received and understood,' Hermione said, pretending to salute. 'Though if I had such a cool name, I wouldn't hide it,' she added, in a loud whisper.

Draco pretended no to hear her; he was staring up at the print once more.

'It's not that erotic,' she objected, looking at it too.

'On the contrary, what's more erotic than a kiss?' he bantered.

'I could think of a few things,' she said dryly.

'No, that's just sex,' he said, with iron-clad certainty.

Hermione rolled her eyes. He was so self-assured, she could just...sleep.

A few moments later, Draco looked down into her relaxed face, and watched her deep gentle breathing for a while.

Before he left, he tucked the covers around her. And washed up the ice-cream bowls in the sink.

~

Sev ended up in the Leaky Cauldron again. Soon, he decided moodily, the alcoholics would be hailing him as an old friend. So he might as well live up to the reputation by getting as rat-arsed as he should have done last night.

He ordered tequila, because, although he rarely drank spirits, he knew they had a more immediate and long-lasting effect on him than beer. That was the reason he usually avoided them like the plague - even the smell of vodka made him heady. But tonight was special.

Sev was licking the salt off his third glass when Marv walked in. He paused at the door, eyes surveying the room, and they widened a little when he saw Sev slumped over the bar wearing the philosophical expression of the truly drunk. He was still dressed in what he had worn to school that morning, and he hadn't exactly been in much of a state to pay attention to his outfit. It consisted of elderly jeans with one pocket torn off and an interesting pattern of Tippex stains, loafers and a hideous, dust-covered blue jumper with nothing underneath. It was testament to his inherent appeal that he managed to fall short of looking profoundly revolting.

'Give me two of whatever he's having,' Marv ordered the barman, and rested his arms on the counter along from Sev.

Sev looked up, squinting slightly, as if the soft halogen lights were burning his eyes. 'Oh, s'you,' he slurred. He held up a hand, finger pointed, which wavered slightly. 'Lu-Lupin's brozzer.' He started to giggle foolishly, his head dropping into the crook of his arm so that his dark hair - clean of gel - flopped all over his jumper and into his eyes.

Marv said nothing, only took the glasses proffered by the barman and scooted onto a barstool next to Sev. 'Here,' he said, holding one out for Sev.

Sev snatched the glass and downed the contents in one go, splashing his cheeks with liquid, and shuddered slightly as the alcohol burned down his oesophagus. Marv watched, mesmerised.

'I've never seen anyone drink that fast, and I'm me,' he remarked. Sev reached for the second glass, but Marv grabbed his hand.

'I think you've had enough,' he said, and added, 'Besides, this one's mine.' He picked up the glass and drank it off in three swift gulps, while Sev watched with the expression of a baby seeing his lolly going down the gullet of the big mean robber guy.

'Put it on my tab, Tom,' he said to the barman, and hefted Sev to his feet. He lolled bonelessly. 'Come on, sunshine.'

Marv hailed a cab and shoved Sev into it. He gave the driver - a mate, as it turned out - the directions to his house.

'Who's this one, then?' the cabbie - a fat, balding man wearing a Liverpool strip - chuckled. 'He's pretty, although it's a shame about the nose. Peter won't like it at all.'

'Fuck Peter,' Marv said succinctly. 'Drive on, Phineas.'

~

Gideon caught up with Minnie as she was walking swiftly down the corridor, hoping to catch up with Gil. To Cornelius' obvious disgust, Dolores had waylaid Gil with a breathy request to be shown the way to the libraries, which were clearly marked on the map of the campus each of them had received. Minne was planning to casually loiter around in the reception area until he passed by.

Someone rudely tapping her on the shoulder halted her. 'What?' she snapped, spinning around to find the man who had borrowed her pen - Fabian, was it? - standing louchely in front of her, eyes half-lidded. He was extremely tall and thin, like a lath, with a shock of dark red curls and a stripe of freckles across his nose. Minnie thought he looked incredibly ugly.

'Your pen,' he said briefly, and turned on his heel to walk away.

Minnie stared at the biro that he had pressed into her palm, then at his retreating back, with it's sharply-outlined shoulder blades tucked away like wings.

'Thanks,' she mouthed, and felt the urge to do something childish and naughty, like stick out her tongue at him or give him the finger. Heroically resisting the impulse, she stalked away, walking very maturely. Totally adult.

She could have sworn she felt his eyes on her as she clip-clopped down the parquet flooring, but when she dared a glance over her shoulder, he was gone.

Shrugging mentally, and frowning for no identifiable reason, Minnie continued on towards the reception. It took her a minute to remember why she was going there in the first place.

~

Sev risked opening an eye, and discovered that his brain's urgent messages to the effect of not attempting that under any circumstances had been, in fact, spot on.

He felt like all the salt in the tequila had washed up to form a crusty rim on his eyelids, similar to a high-tide line on a beach.

But after all, it wasn't so bad. It just felt like someone had hit a gong the size of the universe with the hammer of the gods, and he was at the point where he could feel nothing but the ringing in his ears and a faint tremor all the way through his body. Perhaps if he didn't move, at all, for the next, oh, say thirty years, he could avoid the pain altogether. Sure, he'd miss out on a few other, slightly important things, like living, but he was prepared to do the deal at that moment.

'I was wondering if you'd died,' a voice said conversationally. It did not seem to be in any way grieved by the thought, and Sev wondered if it was an angel and the reason for the blessed numbness was that he was, as it were, dead.

The prospect didn't seem so terrible.

Marv's narrow, planed face came into vision, making Sev hastily revise his earlier ideas. If Marv was an angel, there was no hope for heaven.

'Are you going to speak?' Marv asked levelly.

Sev experimentally tried moving his vocal chords. There was a slight change in the tone of the engulfing ringing noise, but nothing more sinister than that.

'No?' he whispered. Marv made an amused sound in the back of his throat, and disappeared again.

Sev tried to evaluate his surroundings, but not too strenuously. He'd got as far as ascertaining that he was lying on a sofa on his stomach, with his torso completely naked, when Marv returned carrying a cold compress and a glass containing cloudy water.

'Can you drink this?' he asked, and, not waiting for an answer, propped up Sev's chin and held the glass tilted to his lips. Forced to either drink or choke, Sev chose the former, despite the discomfort of the pressure on his throat from holding his neck up.

'My tequila remedy,' Marv added irrelevantly. 'Disprin in water.'

The movement had broken the unnatural whistling in his head, along with the full pain of eight glasses of straight tequila to a head that thought a couple of half-pints of weak lager was pushing it. He groaned.

'You have no head for drink,' Marv said amiably. Sev wasn't about to argue that point, because he was holding the wonderfully cool flannel to Sev's aching forehead. Anyway, he was right, and that sort of thing tended to destroy the possibility of debate.

Marv moved to perch on the edge of the sofa, while Sev let his head press onto the arm, trapping the flannel in place. The rough touch of Marv's jeans reawoke Sev to his semi-undressed state.

'Where's my jumper?' he asked uncertainly. Omigod, his mind was screaming, he took advantage of us!

Marv must have had mind-reading powers, for he answered Sev's unspoken thought in a lazy drawl. 'I didn't shag you, if that's what you're worried about.' He leaned forward so that the coarse fibres of his shirt brushed Sev's taut, highly-sensitised back muscles, and breathed in his ear, 'I don't need to steal gratification from comatose strangers, Severus. I have plenty of conscious ones to choose from.' Sev shivered.

He straightened up, and continued in his normal voice, 'On the other hand, I was stuck here waiting for you to wake up. I needed something to look at.' He trailed a finger suggestively down Sev's spine, making him jump. 'Do you work out?'

'No,' Sev said, squirming away from Marv's teasing finger, which he removed abruptly. 'I just forget to eat a lot.'

'How can you forget to eat?' Marv asked incredulously.

'I don't know,' Sev admitted. 'Food just doesn't interest me that much.'

'It doesn't interest me much either, except there are so many possibilities - you know, with whipped cream and things,' Marv said thoughtfully.

'Is there anything you cannot make sound dirty?' Sev asked curiously.

'Haven't found it yet,' Marv announced cheerfully, and moved off the couch. Sev's side felt suddenly cold.

'I'll go make you some coffee,' he said, from the direction of the kitchen, 'then I'll give you a lift home. I have to go back to the bar anyway.'

'Home?' Sev asked muzzily.

'Yes, a place you reckon you inhabit occasionally,' Marv said sarcastically, returning with a mug of coffee. Sev looked at it in distaste. He'd gone and destroyed its purity by adding milk. Still, caffeine was caffeine. He sipped, winced, and sipped again.

'Why do I have to go home?' he asked, rubbing his head, which was beginning to throb slightly less now.

'Because it's half-past eleven and you have school in the morning?' Marv suggested.

Sev's eyes widened in horror. 'But I left school fifteen years ago!' he wailed.

Marv curled his lip. 'You're a teacher, you prat. Come on, I've called Phineas.'

Marv got Phineas to drop him at the Leaky Cauldron and chucked him a fifty, along with instructions to take Sev to wherever it was that he lived, and also to shut his fat mouth concerning his lewd remarks on the brevity of their 'date'.

Sev was almost unconscious by the time he arrived home, and tumbled himself into bed straight away. It wasn't until the next morning that he realised Marv still had his jumper, and that he'd never told him what he did for a living.