A City Visible But Unseen

Chapter Seven: CRUEL TO BE KIND

There's nothing to be ashamed of. Under this thin veneer of civilisation, we're all savages - man, woman, hopelessly enmeshed. We're on a great toboggan. We can't stop it. We can't steer it. It's too late to run. The beguine has begun.

~

Draco knocked at the white-painted door of his father's top-floor flat, desperately hoping that he would be, first of all, in, and secondly, not in a compromising situation with his boyfriend. Draco deeply respected his father's right to live his life according to his own wishes. He also had no desire to intrude on anyone's private moments. However, it was rather imperative that he talk to someone, not to mention the fact that he needed to reconnaissance about the whole Lupin scenario.

Draco's personal god was clearly taking a leak at that moment, for there was no answer, and not even muted sounds of movement that didn't want to be heard. He slumped against the tasteful cream wallpaper of the hall, desolate.

He wasn't entirely sure what he had done to provoke Hermione's ice age. That is, he could think of several reasons, which ranged from being born to not hopping her bones when she had kissed him in the arcade. It was just that he couldn't decide which - if there was only one explanation, of course - it was. He doubted that it was something so simple as her time of the month - she had never hesitated to announce that before, in the justified hope of completely grossing him out. After a while he'd even got immune to it, to the extent of knowing when it was before she had a chance to tell him (a situation which he realised was slightly off). The simple fact remained, however, that if it were only her hormones, it would be different. More explosive, for one thing - Hermione didn't believe in hiding emotions, any of them. No, it was something different. Something more significant.

He was just pathetically plotting the ways in which he could strangle himself using his father's doorknob when said parental figure emerged up the carpeted stairs. Lucius was puffing slightly, red-faced, and dangling several bulging supermarket bags from fingers that were rapidly running out of circulation.

'Draco!' he exclaimed, and smiled warmly. 'This is a surprise - and a most propitious one. Here, take this so I can open the bloody door.' Without preamble, he shoved a bag into Draco's arms and fumbled in his coat pocket for a key.

'Bloody hell!' Draco groaned. 'What have you got in here, half a dead goat?'

'Close.' His father grinned at him. 'It's Sirius' supply of sweets, nasty sugary beverages and chocolate for the week.'

'Jeez,' Draco remarked. 'You could rot the teeth of a village-ful of Rwandan schoolchildren for a month with this lot.'

'That's what I keep telling him,' Lucius said, shouldering his way into the flat. 'Not with those exact words, mind. Still, I buy him a new toothbrush every week as well.'

'How domesticated,' Draco teased. Lucius bared his teeth at him over his shoulder as they made their way to the tiny kitchenette.

'Not that you need an excuse to visit, but is there something on your mind?' Lucius asked shrewdly, stacking about half-a-dozen tins of condensed milk into a press. Draco raised his eyebrows. Lucius coloured. 'Look, Sirius likes to drink it, okay?'

'Far be it from me to comment,' Draco said, raising his hands placatingly. 'I live on Coke and Skittles mainly.'

'That's terrible!' Lucius exclaimed.

'I know!' Draco agreed. 'There are always way too many green ones in the Skittle packets. I'm telling you, it's a conspiracy.'

Draco savoured the look on his father's face for a full second before caving.

'All right, you've got me,' he admitted grudgingly. 'I'm having girl troubles.'

Lucius snorted. Draco glared daggers at him.

'Sorry!' Lucius sniggered. 'But honestly, coming to me with girl troubles is like asking a fish about asthma. No common frame of reference, you know?'

'I didn't ask you to fix it, Dad,' Draco pointed out angrily. 'I just want you to be a parent and listen for a minute, please? I think you owe me that much, at least.'

That shut him up. Lucius stared at the kitchen counter for a second. When he looked up, his face was sombre, and when he spoke, there was no hint of levity in his voice.

'I'm sorry, Draco. Like you say, I can't promise to be of help, but I will listen.'

'That's all the help I need,' Draco assured him.

'Well, let me see.' Lucius cast about him. 'Tea, I think.'

~

Sev was staring at the phone, willing it to ring. He didn't want to hear from anyone in particular - or rather, he couldn't decide from whom in particular he wanted to hear - but he wished it would ring and free him from the limbo he currently inhabited. The one where, sooner or later, he would have to make a choice. And it wasn't going to be a choice about who to call, because more often than not Sev rang the astrological phone line for Leos, just to piss off Sybil by comparing how different it was to the one she predicted to him from the paper.

No, the choice was going to one of those deep, life-changing, important ones.

Sev was dreading it. He had slid through life, unmarked by any great tragedy or passion, mainly by taking care not to involve himself too greatly or care too strongly about anything or anyone. His hard-baked cynicism was merely a side-effect of this. But no matter what choice he made about Marv and Remus, it was going to have earthquake-like reverberations for a long time to come.

He'd been caught off guard with these two, never expecting - and hence never shielding himself from - a meaningful, romantic attachment with another man. Women were easy - he'd grown up realising he could get away with treating women as though they didn't matter, so long as he never became too deeply enmeshed with one. Before most of them had trapped themselves in the sticky webs of marriages, children and morgages, his friends had called him the Hit-and-Run Artist.

At twenty-one, it was, if not exactly admirable, at least accepted, that some men would sow their wild oats in pastures far and wide, and possibly not return to see if they'd turned up a crop worth hanging around for. At thirty-two, people were far more inclined to look on this behaviour as reprehensible. Where, they tended to ask, was the girl who was meant to reform this Don Juan into a regular Mr Jones - the preferred fate of all bounders?

Sev rarely paid attention to what other people thought. In his opinion, this mode of living stemmed, purely and simply, from a desire to impress a potential bedmate. As he had never cared much, one way or another, who he ended up bedding, he'd never tapped into that whole consciousness. If one girl didn't want him, there would probably be another who would. He didn't have low standards; he had no standards. To give credit where credit was due, he rarely had to go below what most people would consider the low bar. His personal style of sod-you carelessness was often a dead cert for attracting a certain type of person, usually ones that liked challenges. The sort of people who jumped out of planes and swam with sharks for fun. Like with those pastimes, where they smilingly suffered broken limbs for the sake of the thrill, they willingly submitted to a little bruising of the blood-pumping vessel to reap the rewards with someone like Sev.

Sev harboured no illusions about sex. It was purely physical. He'd read Romeo and Juliet when he was ten and thought it singularly stupid, even with barely a decade on him. He'd accepted with equanimity the fact that most people needed other things - metaphysical ones, like the concepts of 'love' and 'fidelity' - to make up for what was, after all, a sweaty, messy, rather disappointing and repetitive bodily function. It was just that he didn't.

It had never bothered him before. Those who had got involved with him in the past knew what they were letting themselves in for - or at least they soon found out.

But things were different now. Remus had chucked the first stone at the wheels, and then Marv knocked over the whole apple cart. He knew Remus looked on sex as secondary to the whole union of souls illusion. Remus was a hopeless romantic, with an extra emphasis on the 'less'. To him, sex was a culmination of everything else - a rubber stamp on a huge, complicated relationship package. And he'd somehow sucked Sev in, because Sev's actions were effecting Remus, and worst of all, he was making Sev feel guilty.

He didn't think he ever had, before.

And then there was Marv. Marv was Sev. He cared, if possible, even less than Sev. Sev did feel a strange bond with him, as a result of what they had shared. It was not an experience Sev had ever had before. He felt like a deflowered virgin who had realised that the perpetrator of his 'first time' was nothing more than a philandering arsehole. He wondered uncomfortably how many times he himself had filled that role. Marv was making him re-evaluate everything he held dear, and he didn't like it.

Giving up in disgust, Sev threw on a coat and left, deciding to go and do something innocuous, like feed the ducks in the park with hash cakes.

In the silence created by his departure, the phone rang.

~

Blaise met up with Harry after school.

'Where's Ron?' she asked.

'I don't know,' he said hopelessly.

'Oh, well, I guess we don't need him yet,' she replied, and bit her lip in worry and annoyance, anyway.

They climbed the worn linoleum-covered stairs to the staff room, and Blaise knocked tentatively. A dour-looking Binns opened the door. This could have been because students were trespassing on the holy inner sanctum, or merely because he always looked that way.

'Yes?' he said. His voice was not kind nor unkind, merely supremely indifferent.

Blaise opened her mouth, but Harry beat her to it.

'We're here to see Mr Lupin.'

Blaise smiled at him, and after a slight hesitation, he returned it. She was glad to see him speaking up - he usually pursued a policy of muteness in the presence of authority figures, except when they tried to take away his Discman.

Mr Binns moved a muscle in his face that could have indicated disbelief or welcome, but said nothing more. Blaise exchanged a worried glance with Harry.

'It's okay, Joe, I'm here,' Lupin's voice came from the shadows within.

Binns moved fractionally so that they could squeeze in, then headed down the stairs without looking back or bidding anyone farewell.

'Is he always like this?' Blaise asked Harry in an undertone.

'He doesn't say a lot,' Harry said reflectively. 'Especially when marking essays. He usually just limits himself to 'Terrible', 'A Joke' or if you're really lucky, and he's feeling voluble, 'A Pile of Donkey Excretement'.'

'No way,' Blaise contradicted him with authority. 'He wouldn't grade Hermione's essay with 'Donkey Crap' or whatever.'

'No, I believe he just writes 'That'll Do'.'

'Boy, am I glad I took French,' Blaise uttered in tones of deepest gratitude.

'Glad to hear it,' Lupin replied, hiding a smile. He had been listening, without appearing to, to their muted conversation. This in an art taught in teacher-training college, dreamt up to while away those long boring hours that students call the second ring of hell and outsiders have the temerity to name 'classes'.

'Or je suis content de l'é coute?' Harry suggested, with a cheeky grin that made Blaise gulp in surprise.

'Where'd you learn that?' she asked accusingly.

'I took GCSE French,' he pointed out. 'Surely you remember some GCSE History?'

Blaise just stared coldly at him.

'Or not,' he added hastily.

'What can I do for you two?' Lupin asked amiably, showing no hint that he'd just intervened in time to prevent a serious bout of either bloodshed or snogging (sometimes it's hard to tell the difference).

His words brought them back to earth, and they glanced around uncomfortably.

'Take a seat,' Lupin continued seamlessly, and they both plopped down before him, with identical expressions of worry and gratitude on their faces.

Surreptitiously studying them, Remus noticed again the sharp bones in Harry's wrists, which poked out of too-short, frayed cuffs. Without appearing to look, he marked the reddish bruise on Harry's collarbone, one that he quickly jostled his clothing to cover. From the way Blaise kept shooting him nervous, longing looks, he judged that it was no lovebite. Indeed, Harry seemed almost oblivious to Blaise's attentions, except for the fact that his foot - hooked around the leg of his chair - rested gently against Blaise's.

'It's about Ron,' Blaise began bluntly. 'We think - I mean, we know - that he's doing drugs.'

Lupin leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. 'And what do you want me to do about it?'

'Stop him!' Blaise said angrily, ignoring the strangled look Harry sent her.

'How? By locking him up in a padded cell and refusing him human contact?' Lupin gave her a weary half-smile. 'You, Blaise, of all people, should know that you can make someone do something they don't want to do.'

'But in some cases, the person wants to do the thing, they just can't admit it to themselves,' Blaise said obstinately. Harry stared fixedly at the floor.

'An extremely valid point,' Lupin conceded, raising his eyebrows in Harry's direction. Blaise blushed slightly. 'But one that we cannot take into consideration when trying to get Ron to renounce drugs. If we force him into some sort of rehabilitation system, no matter how much we want it for him, he is unlikely to come out cured. On the contrary, he may emerge more addicted than before. Even when the person actually wants to be better, it takes incredible willpower to resist the temptation.'

'You sound like you've had some experience with these matters,' Blaise ventured, cautiously, perceiving the underlying bitterness in his tone.

'Oh, my forte runs a little more to alcohol addiction,' Lupin said lightly. 'But I'm willing to give whatever help I can. Do you know what drugs he is on, exactly?'

Blaise shrugged.

'Hash,' Harry answered, his voice a little hoarse. 'He's done coke a few times, and E, at parties and stuff, but it's mainly hash.'

'So he's not moved onto heroin yet? Or any of the 'hard' drugs?' Lupin quested gently.

'No. Yes. Coke and E are hard drugs, aren't they?' Harry looked up.

'E is more like a poison,' Lupin said. 'He's extremely lucky that he survived taking it. Coke too - that often causes heart attacks. But I think, if he's still regularly smoking hash only, he clearly hasn't yet evolved a dependency on the more insidious drugs.'

'Only because he can't afford them,' Harry said dispiritedly.

'So he has the will, but not the means.' Lupin rubbed his chin again, staring into space. 'Still, I think we can regard that as positive. We may be able to catch him in the early stages of addiction.'

Blaise touched Harry's shoulder for a moment, trying to smile encouragingly. Harry evidently tried to smile back, but it slipped off his face half-way there.

'If you don't mind me asking -' Lupin's voice was low and courteous '- do you have any idea what could have brought about this habit, and how long it's been going on?'

Harry's face worked rapidly.

'You don't have to tell us anything,' Lupin assured him. 'But it might help.'

'It's been nearly a year.' Harry's voice was clipped. 'The first time we took it was at a house party, I think it was at Vinnie's, over the summer. We just did it for the laugh.'

'We?' Blaise repeated incredulously.

'Yes,' Harry replied, not looking at her. Lupin poised himself, but Blaise said nothing, only stared at Harry in horror.

'I didn't like it, but Ron did. I'd never exactly thought about drugs, like, vowing not to take them or anything, but I didn't find it to be the most enjoyable experience. But Ron - well, he's always been a bit of a misfit, I guess. Not many people understand him...I don't know. It's the only reason I can think of - that he found drugs to be an escape, or a gateway to a better reality. Especially since his mum left. I've never really asked him, because after a while he never had anything to say. He just kept doing it more and more often, and now here we are.'

'How many times did you do it?' Blaise asked, with a voice as cold as liquid nitrogen.

Still not meeting her eye, Harry said slowly, 'I'm not sure. Maybe five, six times? It takes a couple of goes to get high from it.' He paused. 'And I wanted to see if it was any good.' He laughed hollowly. 'It wasn't.'

'And if it was? Would you have kept doing it?' Blaise's voice trembled - whether in sorrow or anger, Remus couldn't tell.

At last Harry looked at her, and Blaise recoiled from his expression. 'Yeah. I probably would have.' He stood up. 'Look, I was wrong. I don't think you can help us, Mr Lupin.'

He rose swiftly from his chair, and walked out, his back stiff.

'Well,' Remus remarked evenly. Blaise's face was still frozen. Lupin stood up and leaned over the windowsill, tracing a finger through the dust.

'I don't think,' he went on carefully, 'that, hypothetically, we should blame anyone for trying to escape, unless we know what it is, exactly, that they are fleeing from.'

His words seemed to do the trick. In a small voice, Blaise asked, 'Do you think I was too harsh on him?'

'No.' Lupin drew a flower with a fingernail. 'Abusing something for the sake of hegira should never be condoned. But unlike others, he has reasons for what he did, not just excuses. He resisted, too.'

'Only after he'd tried it out!'

'Miss Zabini.' Although his tone was polite, Lupin's words were as sharp as knives. 'Do not trifle with either of our intelligences. Do not pretend to me that you didn't see that bruise on his neck. Or any of the other ones he's hiding under those scruffy hand-me-downs.'

He turned to face her. Blaise was looking down at her hands, which were curled in her lap.

'If it makes you feel any better,' he added kindly, 'I have great hopes that our efforts on Mr Weasley's behalf stand a good chance of success.'

'It does. A little. But it's only the tip of the iceberg. I can't believe Ron couldn't see what we did, didn't see what Harry was going through!'

'Did you ever consider -' Lupin hesitated, wondering how to frame it. 'Perhaps this whole problem was a way of closing his eyes to what he didn't want to see?'

'That's cowardly,' Blaise said viciously.

'Ah, but not everyone is as strong as you or I, Blaise,' Lupin said, sighing.

At that moment, Sev wandered in. Catching sight of them, he started and blushed.

'I was - I just - I forgot my book - sorry,' he stuttered, and dashed out again.

Eyeing Lupin thoughtfully, Blaise said, almost to herself, 'And I sometimes wonder if that isn't the easier way.'

'Yes,' Lupin said, and Blaise wondered if he was replying to her comment or following through on his own thoughts.

~

Draco blew on his green tea, trying to prolong the time until he would have to drink it. His father watched him in amusement.

'What doesn't kill you will only make you stronger,' he pronounced.

'What an inspiring thought,' Draco mumbled, and, grimacing, took a tiny sip.

It wasn't as vile as he had thought it would be, and, encouraged, he took another, larger, swallow.

'So tell me all about it,' Lucius said, resting his chin in his cupped hands.

'Oh, it's just - hard to explain.' While trying to formulate a coherent sentence, he took another sip. The tea was quite addictive.

'Well, how about I run through a couple of scenarios and you point out the right one?' Lucius suggested. Draco nodded. This could be fun.

'You've got someone pregnant.'

'No!' Draco's eyes bulged. 'I mean, I couldn't, I'm still - ah, shit.' He downed the rest of his tea in one gulp and reached for the teapot.

'My son, the virgin,' Lucius said musingly. 'How odd that sounds. Although not as odd as Narcissa's son, the virgin. Still, you're only eighteen. Anyway, moving swiftly on -' as Draco sent him the Glare of Messy Patricide '- that's positive. I mean, not that your kid would not be welcomed, it's just that -'

'I get it!' Draco interrupted hastily. 'Next one?'

'Um, let me see.' Lucius wracked his brain. 'Here's one: she caught you cheating on her?'

'Oh, how in no way familiar does that sound,' Draco returned dryly. 'Look, the girl I like is giving me the cold shoulder for no discernable reason, and it's pissing me off.'

'Is that all?' Draco blinked. 'I mean, how awful!' Lucius was a quick learner.

'Yeah, and it wouldn't be so bad if I actually knew what I'd done wrong,' Draco sighed.

'In my experience, women are just weird,' Lucius said, with all the experience of observation.

'You know, you're right!' Draco exclaimed. Lucius looked pleased. '...you really are no help.'

'I'm sorry, Draco.' Lucius sounded irritated. 'What's her name again, Daisy?'

'No, Pansy was the one I went out with to make Hermione jealous,' Draco explained.

'Oh yes, a fine ploy,' Lucius remarked.

'Yes.' Draco paused. 'Well, Pansy beat the hell out of Hermione. Does that count?'

Lucius looked surprised and vaguely impressed. 'Things certainly have changed. In my day, Pansy would have started a slanderous rumour to destroy Hermione's reputation.'

'She doesn't have the brains,' Draco informed him with great weariness.

'Tell me about Hermione,' his father urged. Draco blinked at him again. 'No, seriously. The more I know about her, the more I can fail to advise you.'

'Well...' Draco struggled for a moment. He'd never talked to anyone about Hermione. Even his two best friends had only figured it out by deduction and, of course, mentionitis. He didn't want people to know. 'Um. She's a little shorter than I am. Long brown hair. Sort of hazel eyes. She's really clever - gets top grades in every class. Um.'

'Sorry, I should have clarified it,' his father said, rolling his eyes. 'I didn't want her vital stats. Why do you like her?'

'Oh. Well. Because she's Hermione.' Draco shrugged. 'I just look at her and - it's like someone hotwires my brain. It makes no sense...but, say, if you put her in a line up with the rest of the girls I know, it'd be like looking at a row of light bulbs, but only one is working. Plus, she always says what she thinks. Really sarcastically, too.'

'Ah. You're a masochist.' His father winked at him.

'Evidently.' Draco slumped down in his seat. All the tea was gone.

There was the sound of a door opening, and Sirius entered.

'Hi, you sexy thing,' he growled. 'Oh, nice to see you, Draco.' Draco nodded at him, too emotionally drained to even snigger.

'How are you going with the whole Lupin thing?' Sirius asked, reaching out for Lucius' hand and kissing it. Lucius blushed.

'Sirius, Draco was just talking -'

'About it,' Draco cut him off. He widened his eyes at his father, hoping he'd get the message that the Hermione issue was a strictly off-limits outside the two of them. Thankfully, Sirius had scooted over to sit next to Lucius, and seemed to be keeping him amply distracted.

'Well, I mentioned Lupin's tattoo to Snape, in passing,' he replied. 'He seemed very interested - dilated pupils and all that. Plus Snape had a boner in Chemistry, which was almost straight afterwards. I don't think the two were unrelated. But aside from that, I haven't had a chance to talk to Blaise yet.'

'Well, that sounds promising,' said Sirius, looking satisfied. His father grunted his agreement.

Draco blinked at them. It seemed to be so much more effective than making a face or sneering something nasty, as his father immediately straightened up and pushed Sirius away slightly.

'Do you want to stay for dinner?'

'No, thanks. Another time, maybe. Doubtless Mum's got some lovely meatless mess a-cooking at this very moment.'

As he walked down the stairwell, he mentally added: And I realise all that's on your menu tonight is each other. Yuck. Not only did both his parents have far too active sex lives for such massively old people; they were more active than his own. How tiresome.

~

Blaise finally found Ron three days later.

He was behind the wheely bins, and was clearly too stoned even to stand.

'That's just the bloody limit, that is,' she snarled.

Harry said he'd tried talking to Ron so often that there were no words left to say. Lupin had approached Ron the day after his discussion with Blaise and Harry.

'He told me to go away, and no, that was not quoted verbatim,' was what he'd said.

Blaise, for one, was sick and tired of this softly, softly, catchee monkey approach. If Ron wasn't going to do this for himself, then he was sure as hell going to do it for Harry.

She yanked Ron up by one hand, ignoring his faint mewlings of protest. She was meant to be in French, but she was sure Lupin would understand if she missed his class. As for Binns, if he even noticed his students, Ron was hardly flavour of the month as far as grades went anyway.

She briefly considered hooking Ron's arm around her shoulders and dragging him, but that treatment was too good for the vacillating, pathetic loser.

'You either walk,' she threatened, 'or I will find a very, very sharp stick and do things with it to ensure that you never walk again, regardless of whether you want to or not.'

Clearly the threat triggered something deep in the depths of Ron's brain as yet not smoking and flying, for he opened his eyes and began to shuffle along, albeit at a pace OAPs would have regarded as a bit on the slow side.

Occasionally poking him in the side, Blaise coerced Ron into walking the full distance to her house. As they stopped at the door to allow Blaise to unlock it, Ron looked around blearily.

'This isn't my house,' he stated.

'Well done, sonny jim,' Blaise said caustically. She pointed at the hall. 'Get in.'

She pushed him onto a sofa and began rummaging in his pockets. Ron giggled feebly. Blaise didn't even bother explaining that she was as far from feeling him up as she was from buying a Westlife album. Soon enough, she found what she was looking for.

'Hey, that's mine!' he protested as she pulled the drugs out and made off with them, in the direction of the bathroom.

'Oh, yeah?' she growled. 'Well, Harry - he's mine.'

She flushed the hash down the toilet, then returned to the living room to take a seat and wait for Ron to return from whatever astral plane he was temporarily inhabited. If she had her way, it would be his last visit.

~

As Sev repaired to the Leaky Cauldron, he tried to decided whom he was hoping to see. Obviously, Marv owned the joint, but Remus quite possibly would call in for a drink. He remembered seeing him there before, and wondered briefly if he realised Marv was its landlord.

However, the bar was deserted - not surprisingly, at five p.m. on a Wednesday. Sev took one look around, and turned to leave again.

And walked straight into Marv's arms.

'Sev, turning up like a bad penny, I see,' Marv commented, imperturbable as always, as Sev fumbled to extricate himself, flushing madly.

'Are you coming in?' Marv asked, brushing past him.

'No, that is, I -'

'Okay,' said Marv equably, and disappeared inside.

Sev, manically brushing off his trousers for no apparent reason, stared at the green door, frowning. Well, he couldn't very well just leave it at that, could he? A small part of him protested that yes, he certainly could if he wanted, but Sev didn't like what it was implying and promptly bound it with masking tape. Theoretically, that is.

By the time he had re-entered - and earned himself some odd looks from the punters in the process (although not very odd - this was a bar, after all, and alcohol is not known for increasing people's skills of coherence and rationality) - Marv was behind the bar. His back was turned, and he was reaching up to a top shelf for a bottle containing something shockingly pink. The light glinted off his clenched, denim-clad buttocks (which Sev was definitely not checking out) and he noticed that he was no longer a skinhead. His shaved skull was sporting a light crop of dark brown hair and from behind he noticed that he looked disturbingly similar to Remus.

Feeling faintly blasphemous for thinking that thought, Sev almost made a second, and potentially final, exit. However, Marv chose that exact moment to turn around and start vigorously brandishing a cocktail shaker for a customer. Sev gulped at the image. The bright light now arced off his picture-perfect teeth and snub nose, long neck and cadaverous cheeks. No, this was not Remus.

He tripped forward as Marv tipped the cocktail into a glass and presented it with a flourish to the recipient - a young girl with long blonde hair and a figure like a wire clotheshorse. Sev's expression darkened as Marv tipped her a wink, and he hurried to the bar.

'What can I do you for, sir?' Marv inquired, brimming with polite indifference.

'Cut the crap, Marv,' Sev snapped. He leaned forward, grabbed Marv by the neck to pull him closer and kissed him soundly.

~

Hermione wandered thoughtfully around the floor of her favourite shop, a locally-run bookstore called Flourish and Blotts. She was debating the merits of the newest David Gemmell against a huge history tome that she'd been waiting for ages to come to paperback, as it would be cheaper. She was carefully not thinking about Draco, or Black, or whatever the hell he called himself.

She hadn't wanted him to realise something was wrong, because technically there shouldn't be anything wrong. She couldn't blame him for her own foolishness. However, she had a feeling that her icy politeness - in fact, it was nearer to a glacial silence - had not gone unremarked. Draco was anything but stupid. She hoped that he'd just put it down to her resentment at being beaten up - or any other excuse that he could devise - and move on.

It wasn't hard for her to detach herself from her emotions, even in such a distracting setting. She'd been doing it all her life. She didn't understand how people let little things like falling in love - or rather, its associated angst - get to them. Like heartbreak, and idiocy, and the unrequited part. Sure, it wasn't nice, but why worry, when you could buy a book that would instantly transport you to one of a thousand different places where your problems didn't even exist?

Still, it would be nice, just for once, not to have to do that. But Hermione was pragmatic. The world wasn't perfect, and she'd have to learn - again - the lesson that fancying someone who didn't fancy you was just too bloody dangerous for ordinary mortals, who had nothing to fall back on. Except books.

Hermione nearly dropped the books she was carrying in disbelief at the sight of an all-too-familiar blonde head, bent over an open book in the art alcove. Oh no, not here, of all places...

'This isn't a library, Black,' she sniffed. 'If you want to read the book, you should buy it.'

Draco turned around slowly and regarded her with his slate-grey eyes. He blinked - twice - and pressed his hand to his chest in an over-played expression of shock. 'My god...Granger...you complimented me?'

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him. 'Did you sniff glue recently or something?'

'You think I can read!' He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. 'Oh, my lord, I'm just so touched! Thank you! Thank you! THANK YOU!' At this last, he sank to his knees in mock-ecstasy.

Hermione crossed her arms - with difficulty - and shot death-ray glances at the staring customers. 'You're embarrassing no one but yourself here, Black.'

Draco rose to his feet in one fluid motion. 'I was just looking at the pretty pictures,' he said innocently.

Hermione peered closer. 'Van Gogh, huh?'

'Yeah. Someone I know likes him, and they have reasonably good taste, so I decided to check him out.'

Hermione frowned. 'I never knew Greg and Vinnie were into art.'

Draco looked on the verge of saying something, but then thought better of it. 'What books have you got there? Jeez, are you going on some sort of spree? There's, like, four books here!'

'Yes. Unlike you, I don't measure things by how many pints they cost.'

'That was unfair,' Draco said in a low voice.

Hermione knew it was. It didn't stop her being annoyed, though. 'Yeah, well, the point is moot. I can't afford them all, so I have to choose one.'

'Why don't you just hang around reading them?' Draco suggested.

'Oh, yeah. Great idea! And then when someone asks me what I'm doing, I'll say I'm looking at the pictures.'

'Sounds foolproof to me.'

Hermione rolled her eyes, and started to walk away, hoping he would go away soon and leave her in peace to make her decision.

'Here, Granger.' Somehow he had managed to sneak up on her without her realising. She could feel his warm breath on her ear, and shuddered away. 'Lemme see those books.'

Against her better judgement, she handed them over. Her better judgement sat cackling as he danced off, the books tucked firmly under one arm. She hurried after him, catching up with him at the till.

'Hey! What are you doing?' she demanded angrily.

'Paying. What does it look like?' He passed the stack of books to the shop girl, who began ringing them up.

'You can't do that!'

'Watch me.'

'No, no! Excuse me, stop scanning those books, please!'

The shop girl gave her a scathing look, and said, around her wad of gum, 'The gentleman is buying them.' What she didn't say, but what was clearly implied, was the term 'you nutcase'.

'Black!' Hermione's upbraiding fizzled into nothing. It was clear that the shop girl, who was avidly watching the mounting total, was not going to help her. She couldn't believe the nerve of Black - buying books...

...Well, when put like that...

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the shop.

She was leaning against the façade when Black emerged, looking undeniably smug.

'Are you satisfied?' she asked angrily. 'That was the only copy of Les Liasons Dangereuses I could find!'

He just looked at her, blinking slowly. 'I bought them for you, you twat.'

For some reason, this made her even more incensed. 'Why?'

He shrugged, and, inexplicable, blushed. 'Just wanted to.'

'You 'just wanted to' shell out fifty odd pounds for no reason?' she repeated incredulously.

'If it's the money you're worried about, you can pay me back,' he snapped.

'Don't you get it?' she snarled, leaning in closer to prod his chest. 'I don't have that kind of money!'

'Fine.' He shrugged. 'You can pay me back some other way.'

'Like how?' she asked, crossing her arms.

Draco tilted his head back, so that his hair slid off his face. Hermione forced herself to look at the smooth line of his throat, and his jutting Adam's apple, and feel nothing.

He set the back of books on the ground. Hermione watched him warily, wondering what the hell he was going to do to her, and why on earth this was happening. She'd never asked him to buy her anything.

Draco stepped closer to her, so that they were a breath apart. Hermione felt her heart begin to beat in great, irregular bounds. He regarded her speculatively, and she was reminded of the scientific way he'd use to look at her in the beginning. He reached up a hand, and Hermione nearly stopped breathing. However, he merely took a lock of her hair between two fingers and fanned it out with his thumb.

'I suppose we could cut off your hair and sell it for wigs,' he suggested brightly. Hermione felt her breath whoosh out in one huge gush, and cringed. She'd done it again - read too far into something utterly meaningless.

Then his lips were brushing hers and nudging them apart, allowing his tongue to slip through and touch hers. One hand was still tangled in her hair, while the other slid around her waist and held her tightly to him; she could feel the jolting of his heart against her ribcage. Or maybe it was her own. Finally overcoming her shock, she opened herself to being kissed by him, dragging herself up on her tiptoes in order to press more deeply into his mouth. She kissed with hunger, and happiness, and surprise, and he responded. Her hands slid up his back, under his denim jacket, bunching on his t-shirt.

Far too soon he broke away, leaving her breathless and wanting more.

He grinned mischievously. 'But I think this is a better idea.' Picking up the bag, he hooked it over her unresisting fingers, and loped off.

Hermione looked down at the bag. Books? What did she want books for? She'd much prefer to strike another deal with Black.

By the time she came to herself, Draco was a blonde smudge in the distance, insinuating himself back into the crowds of weekend shoppers. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying not to swallow, trying to retain the taste of him in her mouth. It was indescribable; she could get a hint of toothpaste, and chocolate, and something deeper that went beyond such superficialities - his very essence. Her common sense tried to tell her it was just his saliva she was rhapsodising about, but some other, deeper part of her knew she'd got it right for once. Her breath juddered against her fingers, and, despite herself, a smile stretched out beneath her hand.

Before her mind could start analysing the multitude of reasons - with exactly 0.2% of them positive - why he'd just done what he'd just done (and so wonderfully too), she stopped herself. Just for a moment, she wanted to enjoy what had just happened. She was content to just stand, feel and recall.

She made it home in a daze - a lovely, rose coloured one, and one that, when she finally returned to her usual state of mind, she was thoroughly ashamed of - and very nearly danced up to her bedroom. She flopped down on her bed and ignored the stern looks she was getting from the forbidding tower of school books on her desk. At last, when she reluctantly ceded to her body's demands to return to a mindset at least somewhere in the region of sensible, she sat up. She was eager to view her purchases, in the light of the fact that he had bought them, that he had touched them. Half of her scowled in disgust at these sentiments, which in the sentiments' considered opinion were the products of weakness and foolishness, but she resolutely ignored them. She'd followed their biddings to the letter for almost all her life. They owed her ten minutes to herself.

Hermione touched a finger to the cover of the large, bound history book. He'd gone and bought the hardback version, the one that was twenty pounds dearer. She felt a smile creeping up on her face even as she cursed his spend-thrift ways. Still, he had told her he was loaded...

She opened the cover, intending to indulge in a little illicit reading before settling down to study again. Her heart nearly leaped out of her throat to pursue an independent career in cabaret singing when she registered the hastily scrawled inscription on the first, glossy page.

Hermione, only you would read something this ridiculously huge

, it ran. She could just visualise him, wearing that cheeky grin that always graced his features when he was teasing someone - her, usually. Are you sure you're not adopted, because you could pass for the BinnMeister's long lost child. Have fun - you sure seem to get it in the weirdest ways. Love and Kisses, from your Darling, Love of Your Life, King of Your Heart, the One and Only, hereafter to be known as 'the Accused'. Or Draco. PS do NOT show that signature to anyone on pain of very extensive and agonising torture, inflicted by dint of MUCH MUCH table flicking on my part.

The writing got steadily messier as she read and towards the end of the note the words started veering alarmingly in a sort of vertical wave movement that would have caused severe sea-sickness had they taken their place on the high seas.

Hermione couldn't stop smiling.

Who knew...he had a sense of humour too. Well, she had known that all along, as a matter of fact. She'd just chosen to ignore it. Just like she'd known that he had beautiful hands...long and slim, capable of anything, but of course mainly used for drawing nastily accurate caricatures of teachers or, as he'd mentioned, flicking desks. She was feeling oddly obsessed by his hands. It probably wasn't healthy. But she'd always had a thing about hands. The first boy she'd ever kissed - a long skinny string of misery called Colin or Dennis or something - at a pre-teen disco had had awful hands. Loads of hangnails and warts, too. Probably it explained why she'd never kissed him a second time, although it had come as something as a surprise to him, seeing as how he regarded himself as something of a playa. That had been years ago now...the kisses had improved but the hands hadn't much.

That is, until Draco. His hands were the epitome of handiness. They were the kind of hands one could imagine pulling up a shelf as well as bringing one to a plateau of sensual pleasure...although preferably not at the same time. After all, mixing sawdust and screwdrivers with sex was not usually recommended, except for the extremely bored or notoriously kinky.

As for his kisses...kiss, she reminded herself. The first one had been initiated by herself, so it wasn't technically his, although he'd had a considerable part to play in it, of course. Plus it hardly counted in terms of judging technique, as the main adjudicator - that is, herself - had been far too absorbed in not collapsing from nerves to pay much attention. But it hadn't stood out as terrible - just warm, and rather soft.

This turn had given her ample time and sensation to be getting on with. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that this was the kind of kiss that was going to be a benchmark for the rest of her life, that would crop up every time she kissed someone else and cheerfully comment, 'Well, that wasn't bad, but when you compare it to me...'. It had been - on the one hand, simply a meeting of overly sensitive skin, a fusion of leaping tongues and a whooshing sensation that probably had something to do with hormones and science. But on the other hand - the imaginary, whimsical hand where most humans lived - it had been considerably more complicated than that. After all, add in hope, and expectation, and a mental acknowledgement that you quite seriously wanted to touch this person, for no reason you could define...and you had yourself the recipe for something quite dramatic. A direct passport to exploding fireworks in the head territory. A significantly increased conductivity to a lightning bolt strike equal to standing in a thunderstorm with a picnic basket of metal cutlery and no rubber hairbrush to hand. A mail order of disgruntled cherubs, who were probably disturbed from their game of poker with the archangels (Michael always cheats). In short, a shortcut to complete and utter mayhem and loss of useful things like sense and perspective and boredom. Not the sort of thing that Hermione - model student, reliable, steady, never one for doing anything dangerous or foolhardy - would ever go in for. Not in a leap year of Sundays. Not for all the bond-servant-gathered tea in China (unless they've moved somewhere where the wages are cheaper and the UN has no office). Not if she was handed the combined fortunes of Smaug, Croesus and Bill Gates.

'I like it,' she said out loud, and laughed.

~

Darkness had fallen before Blaise judged that Ron was sufficiently recovered to be in a state to take account of - as well as listen to - reason. She deduced this from his moans of pain and pleas for someone to take pity on him. She regarded him sternly.

'Hey, bucko,' she called over to him. 'Belt up.'

'Are you going to help me?'

'Oh yes,' Blaise said grimly. 'You can just call me the angel of tough love.'

'You're not going to give me my hash, are you?' Ron said, in dawning comprehension. The sort of understanding that hit dinosaurs, just before the meteor did.

'No shit, Sherlock,' Blaise returned. 'Listen to me carefully, because I'm only saying this however many times I need to in order that you will hear, understand and obey. You are never, in your life again, going to ingest, inhale, smoke, inject or otherwise consume any chemical-based substance, up to and including Panadol. Do I make myself quite clear?'

'And how are you going to stop me?' Ron smirked.

'Stop you?' Blaise shook her head. 'I'm not going to stop you.'

'Then how are you going to get me off drugs?' Ron asked in confusion.

Blaise wrinkled her forehead in condescension. 'I'm not going to get you off drugs.'

'Then who is?' Ron wailed.

Blaise leaned forward, and whatever way the light from the streetlamps hit her face, it accentuated the hollows under her eyes and the sharpness of her teeth. Ron gulped.

'Why - you are,' she hissed. She stalked over to the door and hit the light switch. Immediately, the shadows were chased away, and Ron sagged in relief.

'Let me tell you some home truths,' Blaise went on. 'As a person, I don't care about or even for you in the slightest. You're cowardly, chicken-livered and a disgrace.'

Ron squirmed uncomfortably, but Blaise continued inexorably. 'But what I do care about is people. In this case, Harry. How long have you two been friends?'

'Since first year,' Ron managed.

Blaise nodded, as if he'd just made an inane comment about the weather. 'First year. Huh. I guess you never noticed - you being his best mate and all - that he was being abused.'

'It's only been recently,' Ron defended himself. 'Since his uncle started having troubles at work -'

A mask of fury descended on Blaise's face. 'Really,' she said, in a falsely-sweet voice that set Ron's teeth on edge. Suddenly, she advanced on him like a harpy with PMS. Within seconds she had his arm in a diamond-hard grip and was twisting it up his back. He roared in pain. Abruptly, she shoved him away and he fell heavily, striking his head off the coffee table. He put a hand to his head and felt a warm sticky sensation. Blood. He looked up to where Blaise was standing, in a mixture of admiration and fear. All at once, she deflated. She grabbed his hand and pulled him upright.

'Look, what you're doing is hurting Harry,' she informed him. 'Mainly him, but probably lots of other people too. Teachers who want you to do well, if only not to have you cluttering up the dole offices. You parents -'

'My parents don't care,' Ron snarled suddenly. 'If they cared why would they get a divorce!' His voice cracked on the last word, and he bunched his fists. 'I really need something, Blaise,' he added in a hoarse voice.

Blaise looked at him, pity etching her features, and slowly shook her head. 'No. There's no easy way out of pain. You face it now, or you face it later - when it's passed underground and got twice as hot and twice as agonising. Why didn't you tell Harry?'

'Harry?' He looked at her as if she were insane. 'With all Harry's problems, you think I'd dump this on him?'

Blaise's voice was as sharp as an ice pick. 'You think getting permanently stoned makes him feel better, do you?'

Ron swallowed audibly. After a long time, he spoke, and his voice was ragged. 'I'm not promising anything.'

Blaise released muscles she didn't know she had, much less known that she was clenching. 'The last thing I want is promises, Ron. Come on, let's get you home.'

~

Sev pulled back, an odd grimace of triumph twisting his features. Marv watched him lethargically.

'So what is it, Sev?' he asked dispassionately. 'Would you like a drink, or a shag? Be quick, because I've got a line of customers waiting. For both.'

Sev looked into his electric-blue eyes - so different from Remus' treacle-coloured ones. He said nothing. Once again, he didn't want to make a decision.

Marv sighed.

'Oliver!' he called, without taking his eyes off Sev. A young man with green hair emerged from the back room. 'Hold the fort for a while, will you?'

'Sure, boss.'

Gripping the bar with one hand, Marv jumped it in a fluid, practised movement. He landed lightly on the other side, like a cat, knees bent slightly. He straightened up and turned to Sev.

'Don't you employ female bartenders?' Sev asked stupidly.

Marv looked at him as though he was loopy. With the air of one pointing out an obvious fact, that in addition served as an explanation, he enunciated, 'Sev, I don't shag women.'

Sev shook his head, refusing to question this further.

'Come on, then.'

'Where are we going?'

'My place,' Marv said over his shoulder as he went through the door. He began striding down the street, but Sev was pleased to find that he could keep pace easily. They walked in silence, Marv, clearly, having nothing he wished to vocalise, and Sev having nothing he could vocalise, as most of his thoughts revolved on comparing Marv to his brother.

Marv opened the door to his flat, waited for Sev to come through, and closed it again. When he turned to face him, Sev leaned in and kissed him urgently. Marv stood passively, allowing himself to be kissed. When it became obvious that Sev was in for the long haul, he slid his hands up Sev's back, trailing a finger along the nobbles of his spine. Sev shivered and broke away.

'Do you not like having your back touched?' Marv inquired.

'I like it,' Sev said, pressing his lips to Marv's throat, and licking his way along his jaw line as he started fumbling with the buckle of his belt. Marv lightly rested his hand on Sev's back until it moved too low to reach, and then he gripped Sev's hair, tugging sharply when the time came.

Afterwards, they lay in a sweaty tangle on Marv's bed, in Marv's stark little bedroom. Sev rested his head against Marv's chest and listened to the sea-like sound of his breathing. Marv absently stroked Sev's hair, staring at the ceiling.

'Did you go to Eton?' Sev asked sleepily, recalling that the pennant was the only item of personal memorabilia in the whole room.

'Yeah.'

'Did you like it?'

Sev felt Marv shrug under him. 'It didn't bother me.'

Sev tried not to realise that he was talking to a carbon copy of himself. Did he always sound this detached, this cold?

He propped himself up on his elbows, leaning in close to Marv's face and just looking at him. His damp hair flopped forward, tickling Marv's nose. Marv held his gaze for a split second, then looked away.

'Just kiss me already,' he demanded, almost angrily, and Sev marked the tiny frown line that appeared. So. Marv didn't like to be stared at.

Hoisting himself over Marv's prone body, he settled himself so that he was lying facing Marv, one hand resting lightly on his hip, and gazed at him again.

'What?' Marv said, exasperated, flicking his eyes away.

'Look at me,' Sev commanded. Marv rolled his eyes and glared at Sev for a moment, before wincing uncomfortably and moving his hand to Sev's shoulder, his eyes along with it.

Sev was distracted from his quest - and to be honest, he didn't even know what he was looking for, so it didn't matter anyway - by Marv's exploring hand. Marv was just trailing his fingertips down Sev's side when a voice from the hall made Sev freeze. Marv, unperturbed, continued his southward journey, while Sev strained his ears.

'Marv? I'm home! Where are you?' The voice was unmistakeably male.

'In here, Peter,' Marv called, playing a sonatina on Sev's outer thigh.

The door burst open and a short man dressed in a business suit strode in. 'I called at the bar but they said - oh.' The man's jowly face seemed to crumple in on itself. 'Oh, Marv, not again.'

As Sev looked at the man in shock, Marv licked his tongue against his bottom lip and nuzzled his body in against Sev's. The situation didn't seem it faze him in the least - it was almost as if he did it all the time.

It was with a sinking heart that Sev realised that he probably did.