A City Visible But Unseen

Chapter Six: SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

But what a shame

'Cause everyone's heart don't beat the same

We're beating out of time

Seamus, truly gelling with the whole 'sporty' vibe, much to Dean's disgust, had chosen to wear the white French rugby jersey for his blind date, along with sand-coloured cords. Dean, striking out on his own, had chosen a red t-shirt and black jeans. They made him look like a naughty schoolboy - which indeed he was.

Oh well, Seamus thought miserably to himself, while Dean smoothed his hair in the mirror, at least I'll have something to look at. He was becoming overwhelmed by the desire to make Dean as he was before - all sporty and gauche, and, before the whole coming-out business at least, the second half of Seamus. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He'd pushed Dean into admitting his lack of interest in other boys, when they could have bumbled along just fine without clarifying it. He'd set Dean up with Ginny, instead of allowing him to work it out on his own. And who knew, Seamus' mother might well have got grandchildren out of him before that happened. He'd convinced Dean he needed a complete fashion overhaul, and he was left wishing that he was just in his baggy old tracksuit pants.

Maybe these changes would have come about by themselves. But if they had, at least Seamus wouldn't be left feeling so guilty and responsible - especially when he was starting to wish they'd never taken place.

Fussily flicking one strand of hair back into place - the old Dean would simply have let it fall any old way - Dean turned to Seamus with a solemn expression.

'I know this isn't going to be so much fun for you tonight,' he said seriously.

Talk about understatement, Dean, Seamus thought sadly. Three months ago, they'd have spent this time making microwave popcorn in time to watch Lord of the Rings, or Star Wars, or some new film on Sky Box Office (in Seamus' house, this would be substituted for by whatever straight-to-video movie showing on terrestrial). Every so often, they would scrumptiously raid Mr Finnegan's whiskey cabinet, or take down Mrs Thomas' bottle of 'cooking' brandy from the top press. Dean would rave about whatever girl he was passionately in love with, and Seamus would make one up, all the while watching Dean's red mouth, his flashing eyes.

'I really appreciate it, you know,' Dean said, pushing him playfully on the shoulder. Man to man.

'Just don't expect this for every date you go on in the rest of your life,' Seamus warned. 'Unless you plan on taking the girl to a gay bar,' he added brightly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Dean's face scrunch up in horror. He resolutely ignored the part of him that cried at that.

It would certainly put Dean off pairing him up with a bloody girl again. Not that he had anything against them - salt of the earth, wonderful creatures. Just - lacking a little, in certain, specific, areas...

~

Bertie caught up with Remus late Friday evening, as the rays of the setting sun highlighted the floating dust motes in the air. Remus impatiently pushed at his hair, then realised it wasn't there any more. He glanced over at Sev as Bertie entered the staffroom, but he had his face turned away, packing his bag full of tests and textbooks. There were deep lavender circles under his eyes, and he kept scrubbing at his head, making his hair stand up in all directions. Remus, biting his lip, averted his eyes, and came face to face with Bertie's smiling, baked-apple face.

'I just wanted a quick chat with you, lad,' he said cheerfully. 'About your idea for a new sports complex. I came up with a notion for fundraising!'

'Great. Let's have it, then,' Remus said tiredly.

'A dance!' Bertie exclaimed, wearing an expression last seen on plastic Santa Clauses.

'Are you mad?' Sev said scathingly.

Bertie appeared to consider this, putting his head on one side. 'I could be,' he said seriously. 'I prefer to think of myself as eccentric, though.'

'Bertie, don't mind him,' Remus said, exasperated. 'I think it's a great idea.' He didn't; but there was no way he was going to back Sev up.

'Well, I don't. Have you considered with whom you are dealing?' Sev said witheringly. 'Ten to one there'll be at least four fights, one resulting in hospitalised injury. Everyone will get drunk on bootlegged vodka and we'll have a couple more unplanned pregnancies to refer to the local hospital and social services, who will not thank us. And - and, someone will definitely set off the fire alarm.'

'Punch,' Remus said promptly. Against his better judgement (but hell, most things he did were against that; it was merely his method of measuring how mad his choices were) plans were beginning to form in his mind.

'Excuse me?' Bertie said politely.

'As sarcasm, that could use work,' Sev commented.

'I said, if we give them mild alcoholic punch - oh, and hand out condoms - maybe they won't drink as much on the sly.'

'Well, maybe,' Sev said grudgingly. 'But someone will spike it.'

'Spike spiked punch?' Bertie inquired mildly. 'What would be the reason for that?'

'They're teenagers. They don't need a reason,' Sev snapped.

'Besides, we'll tell them it's strong,' Remus shrugged. 'And seeing as how you're so conscientious, you can patrol the beverages table.'

'What?'

'Come on, Bertie, let's go to your office and write all this down,' Remus said sweetly, and, ignoring Sev, who was gulping like a fish, escorted Bertie out of the room.

He was left to mouth to a disinterested coat hook, 'Condoms? Does he realise how expensive the bloody things are? This is a school, not a Family Planning clinic!'

Realising how stupid he sounded - and not just because he was talking to a wall - Sev hurriedly desisted and made a rapid exit, banging the door loudly after him.

Just because.

~

The doctor told Hermione her sprained ankle should be sufficiently recovered by Monday to allow for a return to school. She felt she hid her dismay at the length of time involved tolerably well, and resigned herself to some hard-core studying - in bed.

The events of the previous afternoon were like a hazy summer daydream. She couldn't really have eaten ice cream with Black, and had a discussion with him, on her bed, about art and lust. It was just too bizarre.

The smells of cooking were just tempting her to hobble downstairs when their was a thumping of feet and Blaise swung into her room, cheeks all aglow. She dropped heavily onto Hermione's bed, narrowly avoiding her foot, which Hermione quickly snatched out of the way.

'Well, aren't we full of the joys of spring,' she remarked.

'God, your face looks awful,' Blaise said, with a little more frankness than Hermione felt capable of appreciating.

'Thank you so much,' she muttered. She knew from her reflection that her face, aside from the black eye, was a patchwork of small, healing cuts and bruises. She looked, not to put to fine a point on it, battered. 'I'm so ashamed,' she sighed.

'Why?' Blaise asked, in consternation.

'Well, Pansy just knocked me down like a feather,' Hermione said. 'I feel like I've let down the whole feminist side, what with being so weak and wimpy.'

Blaise snorted contemptuously. 'Well, I'll admit it wasn't your finest hour. But I don't think you should feel disgraced just because you couldn't hold your own in an unprovoked bitch-fight. It's not exactly the most honourable thing to be competent at.'

'Still, I was thinking that learning, you know, self-defence and stuff, would be a good idea,' Hermione said hesitantly.

'Oh, hell yes!' Blaise agreed heartily. 'There'll probably be far more difficult situations to face than Pansy wanting to land a few blows because she overheard us talking about Black in the toilets.'

Realising what she'd just said, Blaise flushed deep red under her dead white makeup and clapped her hand to her mouth, out of the age-old, ever-vain hope that this would unsay the words that had been better left unsaid.

'What?' Hermione growled dangerously.

'Yeah, um, she kind of - in a sort of way - maybe heard you saying you fancied Black,' Blaise stuttered.

'Oh god!' Hermione groaned in deep and heartfelt despair, covering her eyes with her hands in the traditional manner of the truly distressed. 'Oh god. That must mean - he must know I like him! Oh, god, god, shit!'

Blaise risked a glance in her direction. Hermione was surreptitiously peeking out from behind her fingers.

'I'm being a drama queen, aren't I?' she said sheepishly.

'Just a little,' Blaise said, carefully. 'But you are entitled. I'm so, so sorry.'

'What for?' Hermione asked, in genuine curiosity. 'Did you know Pansy was there?'

'No!' Blaise exclaimed, horrified. 'Do you think I would - if I knew she was listening - honestly!' she trailed off into incoherence.

'You have nothing to be sorry for,' Hermione said, making a bemused face. 'Well - maybe for forcing me to realise that I fancied Black - I could have avoided a hell of a lot of trouble if I'd just ignored him for the next five months or so.'

'Ye-es,' Blaise said uncertainly. Hermione watched her with raised eyebrows. Summoning up her blood, Blaise forced herself to add, 'But you've got to admit - your life's become a lot more exciting...'

To Blaise's relief, and slight surprise, Hermione didn't wallop her. Instead, she gazed over at her Klimt print with an unreadable expression. 'In your world, exceiting seems to be synonymous with pain.' She sent Blaise a sharp look.

'Well. Pain is what makes life interesting,' Blaise said, with the look of one who's learnt to believe this because it was the only option that cancelled out despair. 'It reminds us that we're alive.'

'So,' Hermione said, with a little quiet malice in her voice, 'how's Harry?'

'He's...er, I'm worried about him,' Blaise confessed. 'I know it's more than a little over-the-top, but it's not just because I fancy him - really! I don't want to see anyone treated badly, not on my turf.'

'Oh, you silly moo,' Hermione sighed. 'You don't have to take all the world's problems on your shoulders, you know.'

'But if I don't, who will?' Blaise asked seriously.

'God?' Hermione suggested. 'Or Buddha, or Allah, or whatever.'

'That's a cop-out,' Blaise said. 'Religion is just other people too. It's just -' she struggled to find the words, 'people believing in other people. Or themselves. It all comes down to people.'

Hermione put her head on one side. 'Will you be offended if I ask for a break from the deep philosophical musings of our time? Only, I'm quite confused as it is - I was studying Chemistry, for crying out loud.'

'Not at all,' Blaise said in relief.

'Would you like to stay for supper then?' Hermione offered, gathering her study books in one large heap and dropping them carefully onto the floor. A messy room was one thing, but books are a treasure and should be treated as such. 'I don't know what it is -'

'Spicy chicken,' Blaise said promptly. 'Your mother made me test the sauce on the way in.'

'Oxtail soup and curry powder,' Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

'It tasted nice to me,' Blaise said amenably.

'Yes, but you are a human trash can,' Hermione pointed out.

'This is true.'

~

Remus steepled his fingers and rested his forehead on them. He was terribly tired, but he wanted to finish the correction of the first-year vocab tests before he went to bed. That way he'd have all of Saturday free. There was something he needed to do.

Finally dropping his red pen in relief - the stack of messy copies were crisscrossed with underlinings and adjustments - he shook his aching hand and with the other stuffed them into a ring binder. He stood up from the desk of his small, monochrome apartment and walked over to the sink to rinse out his coffee cup.

The sodden grounds that clung to his cup reminded him painfully of Sev, whose lust for coffee was well-known and about the only emotion that he ever freely shared. As the tepid water from the tap splashed over Remus' fingers, he brooded on the events of the past week.

At the beginning of it, he'd been stroppy because of Sev's date with Selina. Now, that was the least of his worries. Even if Sev had been straight - in which case there was no use in thinking about him anyway - he doubted Selina would have been on the scene long. Sev had a restless, burning nature and it was unlikely to be satisfied by someone as shallow as Serina, charming and lively as she was.

Remus held no illusions to the effect that he was the one who could satisfy Sev, being by nature modest to extremes. This didn't stop him wanting Sev, because despite his diffident nature he was unused to self-restraint. He was incapable of stopping himself from desiring someone, even if all the evidence suggested that they were unlikely to return the compliment.

No, at the moment he was mewed up to his heavens in confused wonderings about Sev's sexuality. Despite the kick in the teeth that was Marv and Sev's kiss, it did provide strong proof that Sev was at least bisexual. Or possibly just very, very drunk. Neither idea appealed much to Remus, one indicating that, either way, he himself was not the object of Sev's affections, and the other just returning him promptly to square one.

Then there was Sev's desperate attempt at an explanation - 'it was only a one-night stand!'. Remus was not inclined to give credence to the 'only' in that sentence. A one-night stand, to him, suggested both sexual attraction and sex, neither of them things he wanted Sev to be experiencing with someone else. In that case, the dimmer-effect of the 'only' was in dire need of some new batteries.

Carelessly slamming the cup into the drainer, he wandered back into the living room and slumped onto the grey leather couch. Flicking at the remote, he stared sightlessly at the screen. The moving, talking images were just too bright; they provided no respite from his swirling thoughts.

Sighing, he jabbed at the off-button, leaned over, and picked up the telephone handset. After punching in several digits, he held the plastic casing to his ear and listened to the whirring of the dial tone, staring vacantly into space.

Some things just needed to be done.

After five rings, there was a muted snapping noise as the call was answered.

'Hello?' Remus said, biting his lip. 'Mum, it's me.'

~

Seamus' jangling nerves echoed those of the door to the Leaky Cauldron as Dean eagerly pushed it open. Restraining the urge to pull Dean back by his collar like a boisterous puppy, he instead let him bounce in ahead and shambled along behind, hands thrust deep in his pockets.

He was beginning to severely regret having agreed to this. That is, more than he already did - but in a more pressing and immediate kind of way, that suggested bolting for the door and hightailing it to Mexico. The fact that the sound system was blaring out Mundy didn't help. He was belatedly remembering why exactly he didn't do dates. (Aside from the lack of fanciable, that-way-inclined males about the place - that awful Theodore chap in 6B didn't count.)

Spotting Ginny's flame-coloured head above a press of people near the bar, he elbowed his way through to her. Sufficiently puffed from his exertions to sport rosy, milkmaid cheeks and thoroughly annoyed to boot, he turned to face Ginny, and Dean by her side like the overly-solicitous paramour that he was, plastering a smile on his face.

'Seamus, I thought you weren't going to make it there for a second,' Ginny said, in a husky, amused voice. Seamus stifled an urge to hit her.

'Your date's ordering our drinks,' she went on. 'Dean said Carlsburg for you - is that okay?'

'It's grand, thanks.' He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet.

'Oh, don't worry about that,' Ginny laughed. 'Cedric's getting this round.'

Seamus made a baffled face and poked at his inner ear. Dean was shooting him an extremely smug look from underneath his long lashes.

'Here you go,' said a breathless voice from behind him. 'God, this place is packed! I nearly had to sell my body to get these things before tomorrow morning.'

Seamus turned, a suspicion growing his gut. A tall boy with dark hair was struggling with three pint glasses and a fancy-looking cocktail complete with umbrella and swivel stick. It looked like something that should come with a health warning, not to mention a bonus deckchair.

It was clear that the boy was on the verge of inadvertently converting his hard-bought drinks into so much smashed glass and dribbles of liquid. Seamus fumbled to take one of the pints and the cocktail glass, in the process tangling his fingers with the boy's long, pale ones. Ignoring a strange tremor that passed along his spine, Seamus offloaded the cocktail on Ginny, while Dean grabbed the pint and took a long swig. He then turned to Ginny, took her glass out of her hands and proceeded to kiss her with much precision and investment.

Embarrassed, jealous and nervous - three emotions that often go hand in hand - Seamus turned back to the boy. He was standing, shuffling his feet, his hands shoved into his black jeans in a perfect imitation of Seamus.

'I'm afraid your friend took your Carlsberg,' he said apologetically. Seamus felt like he'd been hit with a hammer. The guy was beautiful. His eyes were almond-shaped and luminescent, silvery-grey. His features had an Oriental cast, with smooth olive skin - marred here and there with the odd spot - stretched tautly over cheekbones so high they could have come with wing mirrors. His unruly shock of straight, dark hair kept escaping from behind his ears, where he periodically tucked it back impatiently.

Seamus belatedly realised that he'd been gaping like a fish. 'It's okay,' he gabbled. 'They all taste like piss anyway, in my opinion.'

Thankfully, the boy didn't take umbrage at this. 'I agree wholeheartedly,' he laughed. 'Not that I've, um, drunk piss. Not lately, at any road.'

'Oh, jaysus, me neither,' Seamus said hastily. 'I'm Seamus, by the way.'

'I know,' the boy said solemnly. 'Ginny told me. She's my neighbour. I'm Cedric, and according to my mother, I'm an official waster.'

'Does she, by any chance, happen to be in league with mine?' Seamus inquired. 'She told me that she signed me up on the official registrar of wasters.'

Cedric laughed. It was a low, rumbling sound, quite unlike Dean's deep belly-laughs. 'At least you have a chance for redemption. Deciding to study politics instead of medicine killed my mother's opinion of me stone dead. Oh, and being gay didn't help either.'

'So are you -' Seamus couldn't quite figure out how to end this question. Cedric frowned.

'Well, yes,' he said. 'Didn't Ginny tell you?'

'No,' Seamus said sulkily. 'In fact, I was under the distinct impression that they were setting me up with a girl.'

Cedric's lips compressed in amusement. 'Oh, that would be Ginny's idea of a joke. She has a very singular sense of humour.'

'It's singular all right. In fact, she's the only one that finds it funny,' Seamus said, glaring at the oblivious Ginny over his shoulder.

'I hope I'm not too pale a substitute.' Cedric raised his eyebrows and waggled them comically.

'Obviously not, when compared with a girl.' Seamus body-shuddered again at the world.

'God, you're cute,' Cedric said softly. Then, before Seamus could form a response further than the W of 'What?!!?' Cedric grabbed his hand. Seamus looked down in surprise at the fingers that were holding tightly to his own, suggesting that their owner wasn't going to be letting go any time soon. He felt a peculiar jolt fizzle down into the bottom of his stomach.

When he looked up again, hoping his expression wouldn't give him away, Cedric was smiling, revealing two rows of orthodontic miracles.

'Let's dance.'

~

Lavender rang Blaise from the toilets of the Leaky Cauldron to see if she was coming out.

'Is Harry there?' Blaise asked without preamble, not in the mood to bother with subtleties.

'Who?' Lavender asked in confusion, transfixed by her image in the small grimy mirror, which revealed that she needed to top up on the sparkly lipgloss. The thought was the deed, and she held her glitter-covered phone to her ear with her shoulder so she could uncap the sticky tube.

'Harry Potter, of course!' Blaise said impatiently.

'Oh, him,' Lavender said thickly, smearing the gelatinous, jelly-like gloss over her plump lips. 'No, I don't think so. I didn't see Ron either. Hey, guess what! Zach's here again, and he brought more mates. If you want - oh. How odd. She's rung off.'

Shrugging, she dropped her phone into her purse, which shimmered with glitter. A bottle of WKD - her fourth - was standing beside the sink and she took another mouthful, leaving a sparkly imprint around the rim.

There was a flushing noise behind her and a moment later, Pam emerged from a tiny cubicle and took two steps to the sink to wash her hands. Lavender was now occupied with smoothing down her short black polyester skirt, and jiggling the décolletage of her spaghetti-string top to show maximum cleavage.

Pam shook her hands dry and went to stand behind her. She ran her fingertips up Lavender's exposed forearm.

'Ew! Your hands are all wet,' Lavender complained.

Pam rolled her eyes and twisted her around, her lips diving against Lavender's in a sticky fusion of lipgloss. Their tongues met and intertwined for a moment before Pam abruptly disengaged and leaned over Lavender to quaff some of her drink.

Then, giggling, they returned to the dance floor, where Lavender was immediately swooped upon by Zach for yet another game of tonsil-hockey.

~

Blaise cut Lavender's call and sat chewing her lips, deep in thought. On Monday, she was going to get Harry's number, come hell or high water. In the meantime, though...

'Mum, where's the phone book?'

It was time to do a little research on his behalf.

~

Seamus felt both elated and incredibly awkward. Cedric was a brilliant dancer, but Seamus was more than a little unnerved by his moves. Seamus had never danced with a boy before. Seamus had never danced with anyone before, unless you counted his Aunt Mildred at family birthday parties. Unlike Mildred, Cedric was exceedingly sexy, and Seamus was pretty sure that the way he was brushing up against Seamus wasn't accidental.

He liked it, though.

Seamus, on the other hand, had all the dancing abilities of a dead tree frog. He stood awkwardly, too embarrassed to try and imitate Cedric. That is, until Cedric grabbed his hands again, and pulled him right up against his body. Seamus could feel the pulsing of Cedric's stomach through his thin black t-shirt, and his warm, alcohol-tinted breath on his nose.

'Follow me,' Cedric murmured, placing one of Seamus' hands on his jutting hip and gripping the other tightly. Seamus held his hand lightly on Cedric's side, trying not to think too loudly, in case certain wilful parts of his anatomy heard.

All at once, the music changed to a loud, bouncing beat, and Cedric was off, leading him in a crazy tango. Seamus was forced to squeeze his hand onto Cedric's hipbone to keep up, and Cedric's other hand was under his arm, across his back, pressing them firmly together.

Not that he minded.

Cedric's overplayed impression of a tango - throwing his chin up, and whirling Seamus around like a marionette on E, while he giggled helplessly - caught the imagination of the dancing, grinding masses. Soon, everyone had grabbed a partner and was charging up and down the room, some people crying with laughter, everyone using it as an excuse to cop a feel.

Seamus was whirled by Dean and Ginny, who were staring into each other's eyes as they danced, not really paying much attention to moving as such. Ginny gave them a brief wave over Dean's shoulder, but then they were gone.

As the song drew to a close, Cedric expertly twirled Seamus in a circle so that the finale found him with Cedric's arms crossed across his chest, binding them closely together. His face was inches from Cedric's, and his quick, short breaths mimicked the pulsing that Seamus could feel in his solar plexus. Indescribable, pleasurable, squirmy things were taking place in Seamus' stomach. But they were accompanied by a sudden, all-consuming fear. He tore his gaze away and his eyes roved the room, until at last they lit on Dean, giggling with Ginny in a corner.

Gently, Cedric released him. The warmth of his arms - to which he had quickly become accustomed as they danced - removed, he felt cold and stiff, but ultimately relieved. He turned to Cedric to mouth something inane, and saw in his eyes that he knew.

'Another drink?' Cedric offered resignedly.

~

'Where did you go yesterday evening?'

The question caught Draco off-guard.

'What?'

'I said, where did you go last evening?' Narcissa repeated patiently. 'Only, I had a vegetarian stir-fry cooked for you, and you never ate it.'

'Must have missed it,' Draco said hastily. Yes, the Big Mac he'd consumed on his walk home had clearly granted him a temporary blind spot in the direction of the soggy mass of undercooked vegetables that had awaited him on the worktop.

'I went to an evening class,' his mother was saying. 'You know - the Italian one. I left a note. The teacher wanted us to come in early for, um, a grammar session. Yes.'

Draco frowned. Narcissa was rarely this forthcoming, operating her 'private life' on a strict need-to-know basis. This much lucidity on her part was out of character.

'Mum, you don't have an evening class in Italian,' he reminded her. 'You were doing one in French -'

'Yes, that was the one I meant,' she said, in undisguised relief. Draco tried not to smile. Who knew his mother could be this obvious?

'Except that it ended two weeks ago,' he finished.

'Oh.' His mother shook her platinum hair, clearly discomfited.

Draco inched past her, opening the fridge and withdrawing a can of Coke. He shook it vigorously, and pulled the tab, keeping his thumb over the opening. He liked the fizzing feeling on his finger pad - one of the most exquisitely sensitive parts of the body, apparently.

'I'm going to do some homework,' he lied, heading for the door. He just knew his mother was biting her thumb behind him. She did it rarely, only in times of deep mental distress or confusion. 'By the way,' he added, 'did you take Binns some of your stir-fry?'

'Yes,' Narcissa said, before her brain reconnected to her mouth. The door to Draco's room was slamming as her eyes unglazed and she hit herself on the forehead. 'Shit!'

And, a few moments later, she mouthed dubiously, 'Homework?'

~

In his room, Draco set down his drink, flopped onto his bed and fished about in one pocket for his matchbox-sized masterpiece of Japanese telecommunications. Before he could chicken out, he pressed the speed dial. Hermione's number, which he had taken from her phone while she lay sleeping, was stored as number one.

His stomach was churning with nerves and anxiety, with a stronger, more pleasurable tingling in deeper places, he worried the skin at the side of his thumb with his teeth.

After nine rings - he refused to admit to the shame of counting - she picked up.

'Hello?'

Her voice was breathless. Draco devoutly wished it wasn't, as it conjured up all sorts of interesting images that left him half-way to speechless.

'Hello?'

And she sounded annoyed now, more like her usual self.

'Why does it take you so long to answer the phone?' he snapped. Attack is the first form of defence. Defence is another word for self-protection. Self-protection is really covering yourself for the fall. So by attacking you try to protect yourself from inevitable embarrassment...and usually fail dismally.

'Black.' It wasn't a question, merely a resigned admission of his presence on the other end of the line. 'I won't even bother asking how you got this number. In fact, I may not even bother answering your question.'

'Please don't hang up,' Draco said, gritting his teeth at how pathetic he sounded.

'Why Black, I never knew you cared.' Her voice sounded amused now. 'My phone was under my bed.'

'Oh, right.'

'Did you want something?'

'You.' The word was out before he'd thought it. There was a crackling pause at the other end.

'You want me?' Hermione's voice was cautious, and even a trifle scared.

'Yes,' Draco said smoothly, recovering his sang-froid. 'I want you to tell me the homework we got from McGonagall.'

At the other end, Hermione rolled her eyes. 'I know it may have escaped your notice Black, but I am currently not in school. I haven't been for three days.'

Oh shit!

his brain screamed, just when he wanted it to come out with something smooth and winning. Back to the standard attack mode, then. 'I meant from last week. She gave us a two-week essay thing, right?'

'Oh, yeah. That. Hang on a sec, I'll get it for you.' Was he imagining it, or was her voice just a little tighter? Draco began gnawing his thumb again. He hoped he wasn't developing a taste for cannibalism.

Hermione read out the essay title, while Draco pretended to take it down. In reality, he was smoothing out little wrinkles in his jeans with his damp thumb, while desperately trying to think of something cool to say. Scrap cool - he'd settle for a phrase that suggested he was vaguely homo sapient.

'Well, thanks, Hermione,' he said, after he'd managed to convince her that he had it written word for word, down to the last quotation mark. He fumbled.

'See you Monday, then.'

Reflecting after the event, resisting the urge to bite off his thumb or beat himself to death with the small silver mobile, he figured it was never going to go down in the Hall of Fame as the greatest one-liner in the history of the world.

Even in the event of a nuclear explosion that wiped out all population saving tree-dwelling possums.

~

Cedric and Seamus walked on ahead as Dean and Ginny stopped to kiss under every lamppost.

Cedric, hands in pockets, staring straight ahead. Not bothering to raise a hand to bat back his floppy fringe, or even shake it out of his eyes. Seamus, a burning need to slap Ginny combated only by a hotter desire to be anywhere else, teeth permanently embedded in his bottom lip. Arms crossed defensively, and keeping defeated eyes fixed on the ground.

Cedric broke the awkward conversational barrier. 'It's him, isn't it?'

His voice, although low enough to be picked up on canine sound waves, nonetheless rudely fractured an almost-silence created by the flicker of electric lights, the muted house noises from the dwellings they were passing, and the slurps and giggles from behind them.

Seamus nodded miserably, not looking up. It spoke volumes that Cedric didn't even need to qualify the question. Curling his lip slightly, Cedric looked away.

'Are you going to tell me something crass, like I'll get over it in time?' Seamus asked aggressively.

'No, of course not,' Cedric said, sounding mildly surprised. 'I avoid lying wherever possible.'

Seamus looked at him, crinkling his forehead. Cedric was striding along, his legs moving in perfect synch, in, out, in, out of the shadows cast by the streetlamps and their fake-sunlight brightness.

'You won't get over him,' Cedric said matter-of-factly.

'Oh lord.' Seamus rolled his eyes. 'The old 'first love' line. Please. Spare me.'

'Seamus,' Cedric said meditatively, 'if you don't learn to listen with your mouth shut, one of these days someone will take it upon themselves to give you quite a painful lesson. And don't think it won't be me.'

Chastened, Seamus rubbed his chin in embarrassment. 'Sorry.'

Cedric lifted one shoulder. 'Whatever.'

'You were saying?'

'Something you should probably hear, which means of course that you won't listen.' Cedric paused, not for a response, but to gather his thoughts. 'If you love someone, you will always love them. As for first loves, that's a bit too messy to define, as most people have them at a stage in their lives when they can't tell their cock from their elbow.'

Seamus spat with laughter. Cedric regarded him with raised eyebrows.

'Glad you find your situation so amusing,' he said coolly. 'Still, it does you good to laugh, much as you might prefer something more naughty. The point I'm trying to make is, the whole rebound theory is a load of bull. You never truly get over someone. If you're fortunate, you simply meet a good or even better replacement, who makes you think you have.'

'That's depressing,' Seamus said. He wondered exactly how drunk Cedric was. 'You should have done philosophy.'

'And give my mother a seizure?' Cedric snorted. 'Actually, that's not a bad idea of yours, Finnegan.'

'Glad to be of service,' Seamus said, sketching a courtly bow and nearly falling into the gutter. Cedric laughed, but did not extend a hand to help him.

'Are you quite drunk, Seamus?' he enquired curiously.

'As much as you are,' Seamus retorted.

'Ah, but I have two more years and twice as many muscles as you have.'

'Your tongue and your imagination certainly get plenty of exercise.'

'Not drunk enough to kill the sarcasm.' Cedric shook his head in mock regret. 'Obviously I did not squander enough money tonight.'

Seamus laughed, but did not feel the urge to continue the banter in the hopes of making Cedric laugh. Not like with Dean. He had nothing to repay Cedric.

They strolled along under the hazy sodium light until Seamus reached his gate.

'Well, this is me,' he said, pretending to doff his cap. 'Thanks for the lift, guv'nor.'

'Any time,' Cedric said, watching him unbolt the gate with some difficulty.

Seamus was distracted from the complexities of locks by a hand on his arm. He followed it to Cedric's eyes, which were glowing in the half-light.

'Listen. Any time you feel ready to talk about this - well, I'm probably far down the list, but I have been there, you know.' Cedric paused. 'You may just get my cool answering machine message, but still.'

'Thanks,' Seamus said, feeling oddly touched. Finally managing to open the gate, he hurried up to his door without looking back. Cedric watched his door for a few minutes, before sighing deeply and continuing on his way, kicking up random stones in the pavement and scoring goals in the gutter.

~

Blaise replaced the phone in it's cradle with a thoughtful expression. They hadn't told her anything she couldn't have figured out on her own, but they'd promised to send her information packs, speakers, pamphlets. But no magic wand to cure Ron, and lift one burden from Harry's far too heavy load.

As she had told Harry, the person had to want to be cured. Which was all well and good, but what did you do if, as was most likely, they didn't want to be? If they preferred roasting their brain cells to hell and back?

Blaise decided she wasn't going to think about it any more, just as the phone rang.

'Yes?'

'Hi, Blaise!' Lavender. Who else could insert a giggle where the exclamation mark shouldn't be?

'What do you want, Lav?'

'Me? Nothing in particular, I'm all shagged out.' There was a cascade of throaty giggles from the other end, not all of which - Blaise hoped and prayed - were Lavender's. No one person should be able to giggle that much. It was unhealthy.

'But I do have something you want.'

'A huge bag of food that keeps refilling itself, to end world hunger?' Blaise suggested.

'What? No, you dumbass. Harry Potter's number!' Cue giggles. What was funny about that, Blaise would like to know. It wasn't like they could see her blushing.

'Well, do you want it? Do you? Do you?'

'I think the question is more one of whether or not you're going to give it to me,' Blaise pointed out, hoping that this twist of logic would confused Lavender enough to fool her into giving her the number.

It worked. Lavender reeled off a string of digits, which Blaise scribbled on her shirt cuff with one of her mother's lipsticks. She could appreciate the irony.

'What are you going to do with that then? Lavender said teasingly. 'Hey! Pam, I'm on the phone!'

The line went dead. Blaise, staring happily into space, didn't notice.

~

Remus cleared his throat nervously and spoke into the voice box which hung, disconcertingly, at eye level. He wondered, yet again, if this was a ploy to wrong-foot visitors.

It worked, too.

'Remus Lupin.'

A disembodied voice crackled down the line.

'Your mother's expecting you, Mr. Lupin. Stand by.'

The huge wrought-iron gates swung open by remote control, and Lupin wheeled his bicycle up the smooth tarmacadam drive, which swept out of sight into a grove of sycamores. By the time he reached the palatial, Ionic-style villa, where a liveried butler was waiting on the cascade of marble steps, he was out of breath and wishing he'd just cycled the damn bike up the forty miles of driveway.

'Mr. Lupin?' The butler's poker face surveyed Remus' dusty bicycle with the eye of someone who'd seen it all before, and didn't like it the first time. 'Will you be wanting to park your vehicle?'

'Uh...' Remus gulped. He couldn't imagine the butler's ivory-gloved hands holding his sweaty handlebars and delicately wheeling it to a parking space, nose in the air.

Well, actually, he could, which was causing his current asphixation.

The butler snapped his fingers, and a slouching figure appeared from the jungle-like depths of the front garden.

'Bill,' the butler addressed the person - it had to be a person, there were the right number of legs and things. Remus just wished he could get his brain to believe it. He peered closer. Ah - another Weasley flunk-out, it seemed.

'Deal with it.' The butler waggled his fingers in the direction of Remus' bike. Remus nearly bit his tongue off trying not to laugh.

Bill took the bike by the centre of the handlebars and dragged it after him like a stubborn dog, ignoring the clips he received from the worn wheels.

'Do come inside, sir,' the butler said crisply, not once looking Remus in the eye. His desire to laugh disappeared as quickly as it had come - a regular occurrence, in his mother's house. 'Would you care for some refreshment? Mrs Riddle usually takes her elevenses at this time.'

'No, I'm fine, thanks.' Lupin concentrated on not soiling the vast, spotless black-and-white tiled hall. It gave way to a tiered rise of red-carpeted stairs, down which his mother was descending - floating, really - in a cloud of Galliano silk and sold-by-the-millimetre expensive perfume.

'Remus! Darling!' she cried, hurrying forward to engulf him in one of her vast 'mother' hugs, which were as brittle as being embraced by a tree. Remus stood carefully in the circle of her arms, not wanting to put his arms around her in case he ripped her dress or the like. He'd done that once, when he was nine. He'd never done it since he was nine. He'd been careful, after that.

'Come, come,' his mother urged, gesturing him, with much hand-fluttering and dancer-like poses, into the drawing room, while at the same time managing not to touch him at all.

The room was huge, high, full of plaster moulding and heavy antique furniture. A stiff breeze blew through the gauzy drapes that provided little shielding of the vast glass double doors at one end, which stood fully open to the elements. Remus shivered.

'Sit down, dear,' his mother chided. She was already seated in a balloon-backed gilt chair, a little table by her side. It sported a lace doily on which she was tastefully arranging a selection of artful confectionary.

'I had them bake you lots of nice things,' she said, looking up at him with the childish vigour that occasionally highlighted her cold, unfeeling exterior, like the flash of sunlight on snow. 'You always had a sweet tooth - I remember!'

'Thank you, mother,' he said, feeling sorry for her, as he always did. He dutifully picked up a miniature éclair and perched awkwardly on a chaise longue, the fabic of which was so heavily embroidered it probably could have walked about on its own.

'It's been so long, Remus,' she said, clasping her fragile hands around her bony knees. He'd forgotten; or rather, blocked it out, in self-defence.

She never ate, of course, unless it was a formal dinner, in which case she'd throw it up afterwards.

'Nearly two years! You bold child.' She smiled forgivingly, and Remus wondered if she had missed him. Perhaps she had written it in her diary, 'Miss your son'; the one where she used to record calories, before she stopped eating them at all.

'You're too thin, mother,' he said.

'Thank you, dear.' She beamed at him, as if he'd given her a wonderful compliment. Remus turned away so that she would not see the battle on his face; to lash out or to cry. She would understand neither.

'How is your father, Remus?' she inquired. He looked back at her. There was nothing but polite, indifferent curiosity to see there. Nothing of the woman who had broken his father's heart remained in that face. It had been burned away, by fire and by pain and by years in this wonderful, desolate mausoleum.

'He's doing well, thank you,' Remus said carefully. He doubted his mother would like to hear that his father was at yet another drying-out clinic, one that he would skip in a few weeks' time, leaving Remus to foot the bill, as per usual. That brand of carelessness he had learned well from Vanessa. Vanessa hadn't cared the first time either, the time when Remus had been forced to miss school for a fortnight in order to spend his days learning to feed himself and his drunken father, and to wrestle the bottles from his father's hands.

She would not want to know now.

'That's good,' she said vaguely, her attention, like a magpie's, caught on a glittering object. 'Do you like my new writing desk? It's authentic Victorian!'

It wasn't likely to be otherwise, at the price you no doubt paid for it.

Remus smiled, as his mother wanted him to. 'It's very nice. It'll - come in handy.' Well, it wasn't like his stepfather didn't have the money and to spare. He would hardly have been able to feed his cocaine habit if he didn't, not to mention those of his wife and mistresses.

'Are you still teaching, dear?' she said, frowning, reaching for a cake. Even after all this time, Remus' heart lifted with impossible hope, and came crashing down again as she replaced it, shuddering as if it had suddenly sprouted a fungal growth.

'Yes, mother.'

'Not at Eton?'

'Not any more. Oakfield Comprehensive.'

His mother wrinkled her nose. 'Comprehensive? Surely you could do better than that?'

'Perhaps.' Arguing with his mother was futile. What opinions she did have were more firmly entrenched than the concrete monstrosities her husband erected in the besmirched name of 'architecture'.

'You know you don't have to do that,' she said. 'I'm sure Tomas would -'

Remus took her hand. It was like holding a sack of pebbles. Her jewel-encrusted rings chinked together, sliding off her thin fingers. 'I'm sure Tomas would too. But I'm fine. Truly I am.'

'Oh. That's good.' Vanessa looked down at her son's hand with an expression of polite bemusement. She stood up, brushing him off carelessly, and even though she didn't meant it, never meant it, the gesture still hurt as much as ever. Remus scrubbed at his suddenly prickly eyes.

'Have you seen anything of that terrible boy, Marv, lately?' his mother sang over her shoulder, primping a vase of silk roses.

Remus' face tightened. 'A bit.'

'You know he bought some pub place,' his mother said musingly. 'What with the taxi phase, I'm beginning to think he's a bit odd.'

He's your son. What more explanation do you need? Of course,

he was tarred with the same brush -

'Don't forget the gay part,' Remus said dryly.

'Oh, of course,' his mother exclaimed, thoughtfully brushing silk thorns against her cheek. 'Are you still gay too, Remus?'

'No. I found it didn't suit me, so I returned it. Got my money back and everything.'

'Oh, that's good,' Vanessa said, smiling beatifically. 'Wouldn't it have been strange if it turned out that both my sons were gay?'

Remus stood up, brushing crumbs off his lap.

'Considering where they came from, I'm surprised they didn't turn out distinctly worse.' He kissed his mother on the cheek which thousands of pounds annually kept rosy and firm, and ignored her vague expression of confusion. 'I have to go now, mother.'

'Oh, do you?' Her voice was lax now. To say she had divorced herself from the conversation would be misleading, as it assumed that she had been involved in it in the first place.

Remus listened to the sound of his worn loafers slapping against the Venetian marble tiles. Slap. Slap. Slap. And let it obscure the screaming voice inside his head, which wanted to tell the world, loudly, just how unfair it all was.

And the bicycle was, indeed, propped on its stand in a parking spot, painted in the gravel of the backyard.