A City Visible But Unseen

Chapter Nine: MY BAD REPUTATION

It's a long way down

On this roller coaster

The last chance streetcar

Went off the track

And you're on it

When Draco had completed two walls, and Hermione was half-way through finishing her last one, he dropped his roller into the tray, limbered his muscles like a cat, and announced, 'I'll go see about some food for us, shall I?'

'Good idea,' Hermione agreed, distracted. She heard his retreating footsteps, and, glancing around, saw that he was gone. Determined to finish her section before he returned, she splashed her roller into the paint, thrusting it against the wall with reckless abandon. She covered it with broad, sweeping strokes, shaking her head every so often to try and dislodge the irritating strands of hair that were adhering to her hot, sweaty face.

She didn't hear Draco come in; the first warning she had of his presence was a pair of cool hands brushing against her cheeks, gathering up her errant locks and holding them at the back of her head while she finished her painting rather more carelessly than she would have done otherwise. In her defence, the feel of his almost-icy hands against her flushed skin was distracting in the extreme, and it was only brilliant self-control that prevented her from collapsing backwards onto him and begging him to ravish her. Such a course of action could never, even by the most liberal of commentators, be called sophisticated.

At last, she dropped her roller and declared 'Finished!' in triumphant tones. She turned around; Draco removed his hands from her hair and it sprung forward, the humidity of her skin having reduced it to ringlet status near her face. He remained standing in front of her, with an unreadable expression.

'Just checking - oh, you're finished!' Mrs Sinistra exclaimed. 'Well done, chaps - no need to do a second coat, we have more people in to do that. Have a bit of grub before you go, though - oh, you got some, I see. Jolly good.' She ducked back out of the door, humming.

'I suppose we'd better clean ourselves up before we eat anything,' Hermione mused. 'Did you say there's some white spirits around the place?'

'Yeah...hang on.' Draco disappeared out the door again and reappeared bearing a couple of grimy rags and a half-full bottle of turpentine. He wet one rag and handed it to her, and them both seated themselves awkwardly, newspaper rustling beneath them.

Hermione scrubbed at her hands, which were uniformly covered in splatters as far as the rolled-up sleeves of her overalls, forming a natty polka-dot pattern. Beside her, Draco did the same. As a somewhat more refined painter, he'd managed to get less paint on himself than on the wall, and was finished while she was still rubbing the web of skin between her thumb and index finger, where an extraordinary amount of paint had lodged.

'Here, I'll do your face for you,' he offered, and, lacking a better option, she acquiesced, handing him her rag. He carefully bunched it up and soaked it with turps, then shuffled closer to her. Placing one hand on her shoulder to steady himself, he moved his head until it was tilted very near to hers. Hermione tried vainly to keep her breath from speeding up. With the utmost precision, Draco dabbed at her stripes, rasping gently in a circular motion.

'You do know you were meant to put the paint on the walls, not take a shower in it, don't you?' he remarked. Hermione stuck out her tongue as he bent forwards. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, and very nearly passed out. Instead, he merely daubed at her nose with a rag.

'It always gets on my nose,' she said in resignation. Draco smiled and refrained from mentioning the complete and utter lack of paint there, either before or after his ministrations. He edged closer, his hand gripping her shoulder more tightly, and dabbed gently at the soft hollow just below her ear. Hermione shivered slightly.

He withdrew and capped the bottle, setting it to one side, and pulled the tray of food towards them. It held a veritable feast; the best of own-brand Tesco's orange and a pile of wilting sandwiches.

'What's on them?' Hermione asked, looking dubious.

'Half ham and cheese, half ham, cheese and pickle.'

Hermione made a face. 'Do you like pickle?'

'No, do you?'

'Nope. I mean, does anyone? It's like the gherkins they put in McDonald's burgers. Why? Does anyone actually go in there thinking 'ooh yes, I'd just love a limp slimy slice of manky vegetable on my basically-cardboard calorie-infested item of junk-food?'

'I doubt that the people who regularly eat there think much about calories, so, no, probably not.'

They both stared at the pickle sandwiches in disgust. Hermione stretched out a finger and nudged them to one side, wearing an expression that the uninformed observer could be forgiven for mistaking as one borrowed off the chap in Sellafield who sticks his hand in uranium for a living.

They ate their way through the other half of the sandwiches, washed down with overly-sweet orange drink. The pickles didn't look any more inviting than they had a quarter of an hour before, and the bread was curling in the heat.

'Appetizing,' Hermione murmured, then added generously, 'You can have all the rest.'

'Thanks a million,' Draco said. He leaned forward to prod a protruding piece of pickle, then jerked back as if stung. He carefully wiped his finger on Hermione's sleeve. 'Yuck, pickle germs.'

'I don't want them!' Hermione said in horror, tapping her hand against her sleeve and then rubbing it off Draco's shoulder with exaggerated care.

'No returns,' she added, not moving her hand.

They sat there for a moment, with crossed legs like children, their knees touching. There was a tense silence that nearly twanged. Hermione swallowed, and just before she went to take her hand away Draco reached up with one of his own to twine a lock of her hair between his fingers. His pupils were tremendously dilated, and his face was glowing. Hermione felt as if her skin had suddenly become several sizes too small; with a huge effort, she slid her hand up to cup the side of Draco's jaw.

It seemed to take hours for their faces to jerk into position; at last, Hermione could feel his breath - with a faint tang of orange - warm on her upper lip, and shut her eyes. His lips brushed against hers without opening, until Hermione, unable to bear it any longer, opened her mouth, moaning softly as his hands scrabbled against her back. He drew her closer to him, trying to fuse the rest of their bodies as completely as their mouths. Her hands were about his neck, he was embracing her fiercely, and their legs jumbled together, ignored in the general rush.

At the door, Padma bit her lip and turned to Lavender, her eyes wide and sorrowful.

'We can't do this,' she said.

Lavender's face was white and set.

'We have to,' she said.

~

Blaise buttered bread like a fury; beside her, Harry slapped down slices of ham and cheese with careless haste. Every so often, Mrs Sprout would insert a pickle into the slapdash sandwiches, all the while wearing a faint but distinctly evil grin.

After what seemed like an eternity of sandwich-making purgatory, Mrs Sinistra stuck her head around the door. 'Here's your next victims, Ivy,' she said, with all the cheerfulness of someone who wasn't in danger of developing a RSI from working in a butter-spreading Gleichshaltung-style production line.

Terry and Parvati emerged from behind her, looking rather apprehensive. Parvati was wearing a very short, metallic and inappropriate skirt, and was currently using it as a hand-towel as she wiped her hands on it nervously. It was the right size for it, at least.

Blaise dropped her buttery knife with a clang; it rebounded off the table with an ominous clang and hit her on the foot, coating her shoelaces with yellow globs. Too desperate for freedom to care, she grabbed Harry's arm and hissed, 'Let's get out of here, before she thinks of something else for us to do!'

Harry nodded grimly and they made a break for the door, dashing past Terry, who was timorously inquiring if the butter was low-fat. Only when they had reached the relative safety of the schoolyard did they breathe easily once more. Then they started to laugh.

Pent-up lust, tension and irritation at Mrs Sprout's incessant, politely-couched demands broke over them in a wave of mirth. Blaise leaned against the wall, her hands on her knees, laughing for all she was worth. Beside her, Harry clutched his stomach, the cuffs of his over-large, long-sleeved t-shirt flopping over his knuckles. In slow motion, the collar of his shirt slipped to one side, revealing a large, angry bruise below his collarbone.

Blaise stopped laughing. She reached out her hand and gripped Harry's arm, pulling his shirt taut and baring the bruise in all its tawdry glory. Harry looked down at it, his snickers spiralling away like a dead spider down a plughole, and swallowed. He glanced back up at Blaise, whose eyes were burning with rage.

'Who?' she managed.

'My uncle,' Harry said, his voice controlled and small. 'It's only been recently - since he lost his job at the drill factory. I don't think he can afford to support me and my cousin any more...things aren't great at my house. Money's tight, everyone's worried. I suppose - he has to take it out on someone.'

'That's a damn bloody stupid thing to suppose!' Blaise burst out. 'No one has the right -'

'Look, I just have to survive it for a few more months!' Harry interrupted. 'I qualified for a grant at uni, I have a job lined up for the summer...when school ends I can leave, I never have to see them again. I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about it!'

'But I do,' Blaise said, in desperation. 'Oh, Harry.' She tightened her grip on his arm. 'You know I'll always be here for you, as your friend -'

Harry's face twisted. He shook off her arm as if it carried a contagious disease. Blaise started at him, shocked.

'I don't want to be your friend, Blaise,' he snarled. 'Jesus!'

Words seemed to fail him, for he broke off and merely scowled at her, face thunderous, before turning on his heel and stalking off, leaving Blaise reeling.

A polite cough from behind her made her spin around. Black was standing there, one eyebrow cocked and his arms crossed.

'Hermione said to tell you she had to leave,' he said. Her expression remained blank. 'Hermione...message for you...anyone home, Zabini?'

'What just happened there?' Blaise demanded.

'From where I was standing, it looked like you told him you wanted to be his friend,' Black said, looking superior. Or at least more so than usual, which was quite the accomplishment.

'So why did he storm off?' Blaise almost wailed.

'Don't you get it?' Black asked incredulously. 'There he was, thinking he was getting somewhere - probably - and you as good as tell him you don't fancy him! What's a chap supposed to think?'

'But I didn't say that!' Blaise, frantic, began to wring her hands. Black considered her, his head on one side.

'I don't think it really matters what you said,' he replied. 'What matters is what Harry thought you said.'

'Shit!' was Blaise's only way of expressing her feelings at that point.

'If you want some free advice,' Black offered, 'call him and explain. You have to have a really confident person for subtlety to work, and Harry ain't it.'

'Right,' Blaise said, rubbing her forehead with one hand. Black seemed to be on the verge of saying something. 'Oh, spit it out, Black.'

'I was just wondering ... this may seem a weird question, but have you noticed anything going on between Snape and Lupin?'

'Besides the fact that I caught them an hour ago exactly two inches away from snogging the faces off each other?' Blaise snapped. 'No, I haven't.'

The cantankerous tone of her voice was lost on him, however, for he merely smiled happily and said 'Cheers' before wandering off.

~

Draco was delighted to have finally fulfilled his obligation regarding the setting-up of his teachers, and was just on the verge of ringing his father and telling him same when he ran slap bang into Lavender and Padma, who were standing in the shrubbery looking serious. As he passed, Lavender rang out a laugh; Draco was too absorbed in recent events to notice that it was rather high-pitched and forced-sounding (not to mention that he had a terminal case of maleness).

'Hey, ladies,' he said genially. 'Any scandal?'

Lavender and Padma exchanged nervous glances.

'Yes,' Lavender got out at last. 'About you, actually.'

'Oh, you have to tell me now!' Draco laughed. 'Come on, the suspense is killing me.'

'We saw you kissing Hermione Granger,' Lavender said, licking her dry lips and looking to Padma for back-up. Padma was staring at the ground, currently providing as much support as a deflated Lilo. Draco raised his eyebrows at her, but said nothing.

'Well - well, you know she was dared, don't you?' Lavender said in a rush, longing to kick Padma but feeling that this would be a damn sight too obvious. As it was, she was holding up the conversation, and she'd never been much of a liar. Even saying 'the dog ate my homework' brought her out in a cold sweat, and her Labrador Binky was the infamous Lothario of the town's canine population with the appetite of a goat.

'By who?' Draco snapped out, his voice brittle.

'By us,' Lavender said, feeling utterly miserable.

'I see.' Draco's tone was positively glacial now.

'You could hardly expect her to have been for real.' Padma spoke up for the first time, her tone derisory. 'She did it for the laugh. She's incredibly intelligent, why would she go for a waster like you?'

'Why indeed?' Draco observed, and shot them a smile like crystallised anti-freeze. 'Ladies, I must be going,' he said, and added, his voice dripping with irony, 'Always a pleasure...'

He drifted off, his back ramrod straight. Padma turned on Lavender, her expression livid.

'Hope you're happy now,' she spat. 'You realise what we've just destroyed...god!' She raked her hands through her hair. 'May we be forgiven, god help us, may we be forgiven.'

'Amen,' Lavender murmured, as Padma stomped off, and added quietly, 'No. I'm not happy.'

~

Draco's state of mind was as black as his name come Monday morning. He'd had the weekend to mull over Hermione's actions. Seen from the point of view espoused by Lavender and Padma, viz the fact that they had been false to the core, it seemed they had an indefensible stand-point. Every thing she'd ever said or done, since the time she'd kissed him in the gaming arcade, took on a new and sinister aspect. It seemed so obvious, now that he thought about it.

He didn't want it to be true. He believed Hermione had been sincere. But there was always a margin of doubt, no matter how much he desired to trust her with all his heart. He couldn't risk it. He also couldn't think of any agenda on Lavender or Padma's part that could have caused them to make the whole thing up; they were her friends, to an extent. So it rested on Hermione alone, the blame for this possible cuckolding. And the punishment was to be hers also, for he refused to let her make a fool out of him.

No matter that the thought of hurting her made something deep in the pit of his stomach freeze over.

So it was that when Hermione entered the Chemistry lab and made her way to her seat next to Draco, he shot her a stare so chock-full of vitriol that the smile shrivelled on her face. She sat down, set her books on her desk, took a deep breath, and turned to face him.

'Is there something wrong?' she asked.

'Should there be?' he returned like a gun-shot, flicking his nails against the tabletop. Hermione stared at his hands for a moment, before looking him squarely in the eye.

'No,' she said, with complete confidence.

He so much wanted it to be true.

But if she had been lying all along, she was lying now. He couldn't take the chance.

'That's where you're mistaken, Granger,' he said, purposely refusing to call her by her first name. She started at that, and looked at him with an expression that was equal parts anger and trepidation.

'You see,' he went on, 'you probably think things are going pretty well now, but I have to burst your bubble.' He paused, and swallowed, wondering when it had become so hard for him to speak. 'You see, that whole kissing episode, where you threw yourself at me -'

'I think the throwing was mutual, Black,' she said, her voice trembling.

'Oh, of course it was,' he said, smiling maliciously. 'I only collected on the bet I made with Greg if I kissed you properly.' He leaned in closer to hammer the last nail into his own coffin. 'You know,' he added crudely, 'with tongues.'

Hermione's face tightened, but she didn't speak a word. She turned jerkily in her seat and placed her clenched fists on the table. Her gaze remained fixed on the blackboard for the rest of class, although her body was shaking as if with an ague.

In English, she shot him one haughty, heartbroken look and sat down.

Next to Blaise.

~

Pansy was sitting in an empty classroom, wearing an expression of unholy eagerness.

'Is it done?' she asked.

Lavender glared at her. When she spoke, all the pink had disappeared from her voice.

'Didn't you see her in English, looking like her world had been wiped out?' she wanted to know. 'Of course it's bloody done.'

Shaking her head in scorn, she turned on her heel and walked out, heels echoing on the linoleum, leaving behind Padma and her beautiful, immobile face.

Pansy was literally gibbering with glee. Padma stared at her in disgust.

'It worked!' Pansy was muttering. 'I knew he just needed a nudge...'

'Yeah, it worked,' Padma agreed, her voice heavy with disdain. 'But you're a first-class fool. Do you ever think he'll look at you the way he looks at her? He won't.' Her voice was hopelessly triumphant. 'He'll never, never look at you the way he looks at her. Now you may have killed what they had but by god, you're more of an idiot than I thought if you actually think he'd want you knowing what you did. You stupid, stupid bitch.'

She threw her head back and spat on the floor beside Pansy's feet. Pansy looked at her in shock - this wasn't the cool, dignified Padma she was used to. She couldn't have imagined Padma spitting when she cleaned her teeth, much less in public. Until now.

Padma's beautiful face was ugly in anger, a caricature of its true self. She curled her lip and fled the room.

After a few seconds of bemused cogitation, Pansy shrugged and returned to her gloating.

~

'So you see.' Hermione's voice was steady, but brittle as an ice-cream flake. 'The reason he did what he did was because he was dared. He never really liked me at all.'

'I can't believe it!' Blaise exclaimed, her face fierce, thumping her fist into the palm of her other hand. 'I was so sure...and I'm never wrong about people.'

'Sorry to break your record,' Hermione sniffed.

'Oh, I didn't mean it like that,' Blaise said, her face softening in concern. 'I just thought - oh, hell, who cares? He's a pompous little shite, and that's all there is to it. Do you want to plan some nasty revenge, like savaging his mobile phone with rulers or emailing him a virus?'

'Did you never hear the saying, if you seek revenge, dig two graves?' Hermione returned, smiling a little.

'Nope,' Blaise proclaimed. 'Although the one about it being a dish best served cold - interesting connotations with ice cream and wine and things, don't you think? I reckon that a lot of good things are served cold, including revenge.'

'I don't want revenge,' Hermione sighed. 'I want to pretend that none of this ever happened.'

'Fair enough,' Blaise acceded. 'Still bloody weird, though...'

They both started as the door to a cubicle they'd deemed empty swung open. They stared at it in apprehension, as Pansy emerged from it wearing a demonic expression and clearly resenting the lack of billowing smoke in her wake.

'Just the person I wanted to see!' she crowed. 'If it isn't our little lovesick fool...he really had you conned, didn't he?'

'What are you on about, Pansy?' Blaise asked testily.

'I was just asking Granger here if Black had told her the good news,' Pansy said. She leaned in, as if to tell them some juicy gossip, and added, in an exaggerated whisper, 'That he was dared.'

'How do you know that?' Blaise demanded, crossing her arms.

'Black told me, of course,' Pansy lied smoothly. 'I was there when Greg suggested it. We were feeling bored, you see.'

'What's the whole 'we' thing about?' Blaise wanted to know. 'You broke up with Black.'

'Really?' Pansy opened her heavily-mascara'ed eyes wide. 'News to me. Tell you that, did he?'

'He didn't need to,' Blaise said. 'You beating Hermione to a pulp kind of signposted it for the world.'

'Oh, that?' Pansy laughed. It was not a joyous or melodic sound. 'Well, god knows I wouldn't need an excuse to beat up such a pathetic excuse for a human being - but the fact is, Black asked me to.'

'What?' Blaise burst out.

'Oh yes,' Pansy reiterated, nodding vigorously. 'He thought it would make it more authentic - you know, when it came to showing the swot that he weally, weally liked her.'

'I think I'm going to be sick,' Hermione said, and sprinted for the toilets.

Blaise faced Pansy, trembling with rage.

'Get out,' she growled, murder in her eyes. Pansy was intelligent enough to realise when discretion was the better part of valour, and beat it.

As soon as she was gone, Hermione emerged from the cubicle, looking wan and drawn.

'Are you all right?' Blaise asked in concern.

Hermione shook her head, lip trembling. Tears started leaking out of her eyes and her shoulders shook. Blaise hastily wrenched a handful of tissue paper out of the dispenser and passed it to her. Hermione shoved it into her eyes, and started to howl.

'Oh, Jesus, Hermione,' Blaise whispered, putting an arm around her shoulders. After a few minutes, the worst of the crying jag was spent, and Hermione raised her head, eyes red-rimmed and puffy-looking. She looked like she had a terminal case of hay-fever.

Dropping the sodden tissue carelessly onto the floor, she bent over the sink and splashed her face violently with the freezing water. Blaise had more cardboard-consistency tissue at the ready when she dashed the last of the water from her cheeks and straightened up. She smiled thinly at Blaise as she took it.

'Now do you believe me?' she asked.

~

Blaise stormed out of the toilets, determined to find Black and have it out with him, come hell or high water. However, her avenging angel mission was abruptly halted when she ran straight into the very person she'd been carefully avoiding - in a name, Harry.

She had tried to take Black's advice, and even from the side of thinking him a cruel, heartless, sadistic bastard and lower than the worms she could admit that it was pretty sound. One thing stood in her way, unfortunately - she didn't want to presume that Harry fancied her, and she was damned if she was going to find out by sacrificing herself on the altar of dignity.

In fact, she had called Harry once, but the sound of a tinny, disembodied voice telling her to 'leave a message after the beep' sufficiently unnerved her so that she was deterred from endeavouring a second reconnaissance attempt.

They both stood motionless for a moment, Blaise with her chin held so high it was surprising that it didn't hit off her nose, and Harry staring at his feet and blushing madly behind his glasses.

Blaise was in no mood to be holding out olive branches. She was still of a reckoning that it had been Harry's misapprehension that had provoked this whole situation, and much as she wanted it to be resolved, the ball was in his court. She made to walk past him, and he looked up, an anguished expression on his face.

'Don't go, Blaise,' he said, sounding utterly woebegone. Blaise firmly prevented her heart from melting.

'Why not?' she asked. 'Isn't it my turn to fulfil the 'running off for no reason' quota?'

'Blaise, please,' he said, reaching out a hand and touching her arm. Blaise stared down at it, biting her lip.

'I wanted to say I'm sorry,' he added in a low tone.

'What?' Blaise asked in surprise. This was not unreasonable; two days before Harry had got the wrong end of the stick, and if she hadn't explained to him what was really going on, who had? Plus, she was frankly astonished that he'd realised he was in the wrong so soon.

'I had a chat with Black a while ago,' Harry was saying, sounding a little embarrassed, and not noticing Blaise's scowl at the mention of the Hated One. 'He pointed out a few things - quite concisely, I might add - but with complete accuracy. And - well, Blaise, I'd be honoured if you were my friend.'

He looked up at her, bright green eyes shining hopefully. Blaise carefully removed his hand from her sleeve and placed it by his side once more. However, she let her fingers drift over his knuckles, watching them intently while she spoke.

'I don't want you as a friend, Harry. I have plenty of those.' She took a deep breath. 'On the other hand...I'm rather on the look-out for a boyfriend.'

'Really?' Harry's voice sounded oddly compressed, as if he was restraining himself from shouting only with the utmost difficulty. 'What a coincidence. I'm in the same boat myself. Only, I've found the girl I want.'

Blaise's heart sunk, and she snatched back her hand. Damn that altar - she could feel the sacrificial flames licking her face. Soon they were going to consume her, and all her pride along with it.

All at once, Harry's hand reached forward and firmly took hers. She looked up at him uncomprehendingly.

'She's really smart,' Harry said, a smile playing about his lips, 'but she can be quite thick at times, because I don't think she's realised she's the one. Do you reckon you know who she is?'

He was grinning broadly now. Blaise said, her voice sounding distended, 'I think I may have an idea...'

Harry's hold on her hand tightened, pulling her towards him, until their bodies touched. Blaise looked up at Harry's flushed, delighted face and felt her heart thumping so loudly that she was sure that not only could he hear it, but that it was auditioning as cymbal-player in the London Symphony Orchestra. Slowly and sweetly, Harry's lips descended on hers, light as a butterfly's wing. Blaise closed her eyes and sighed. His other hand lightly stroked her cheek -

'Miss Zabini! Mr Potter!' Miss McGonagall's irate voice cut through their romantic netherworld like a crucifix-toting exorcist with PMS. 'This is a school, not a bordello! Kindly desist at once!'

Reluctantly, Blaise and Harry drew apart a few inches. Miss McGonagall was glaring at them, her hands on her hips. Harry rolled his eyes.

'It must be our destiny to always be interrupted by teachers,' he whispered. Blaise giggled.

'I can think of worse ones,' she said. 'After all - school's out in a few weeks...'

~

Hermione had a new hobby. Black-watching.

It seemed that everything Pansy had said in the bathroom was absolutely correct. She and Black were rarely seen out of each other's company. Hermione decided that she was probably imagining the looks of utter boredom she thought she glimpsed on his face.

Blaise had decided that they could only possibly be together for the sex, and Hermione agreed with her. Pansy had all the conversational skills of a dead lemming. However her practical knowledge of all things sexual could not have been bested by Hugh Heffner.

Still, she watched him. She knew that he was no longer worthy of a single grain of her attention, yet she gifted him with bushels more than she ever had before. She saw him alter almost indefinably.

Blaise had once said that Black was the stud of the school. Hermione had never had occasion to observe this before; now she did, and then some. Girls hung out of him like he was covered in Superglue, undeterred by Pansy's dangerous stares and regular hefty kicks. He was utterly changed from the boy she had thought she'd known a little; even his colouring had frozen. His wheat-coloured hair had paled to white-gold, and his face, not flushed with mischief, excitement or malice any longer, was bored and bordering on anaemic. Hermione could only marvel at the difference between this Black and the person she'd known inside her head as Draco.

Draco was mischievous. Black was malicious. Draco was witty; Black was cutting. Draco was occasionally facetious; Black was downright obnoxious. Hermione thought and thought about it, until her eyes blurred in the night and her head felt like a dormant volcano, but she could come up with no more plausible explanation for his behavioural shift than that he was a closet schizophrenic.

She was staring raptly at him one day, during break-time, as he stood almost silent against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He was surrounded by his usual posse of adoring fangirls, Pansy, Greg and Vinnie. Although Pansy made frequent reference to him and addressed a comment to him circa every five seconds, he spoke only to Greg or Vinnie, and even then with a brevity that suggested he though words were charged on quantity.

Blaise glanced at her with unease. Hermione had stated a few weeks before that she never wanted to hear the word 'Black' again, which meant that Blaise was totally unable to discuss clothes shopping with her any longer. The heartless amputation of the retail therapy section of their conversation wasn't what was bothering her, though; it was the way Hermione followed Black's every movement with her eyes, as though he was tugging on an invisible leash. Which, Blaise mused, he was - it was buckled firmly around Hermione's heart.

It wasn't healthy, this obsession they had for one another. And Blaise was convinced of its mutual nature. Black was very subtle, she had to give him credit for that, but she had his number and she clocked the way his eyes flickered over Hermione with increasing regularity, as if to assure himself that she was still there - even if no one else, including Black himself, had noticed.

'Hermione,' she said, and then, louder, 'Hermione!'

'Huh? Oh, sorry, Blaise,' Hermione said, sounding as if she'd been jerked out of a deep reverie. 'Did you say something?'

'Yes,' Blaise said, rolling her eyes at Harry, who frowned and jerked his head slightly. 'Do you have a date for the dance yet?'

'What dance?' Hermione asked, her eyes sliding away from Blaise and over to Black, then back again. She looked angry with herself. 'Oh, the one in the PE hall. Well, no. Is it necessary?'

'It's sort of an unwritten rule, I gather,' Harry offered.

'So, are you two going together, then?' Hermione asked, smiling, and looking properly awake for the first time since they'd started conversing.

Harry blushed and nodded. Hermione's smile widened, then died abruptly as a thought occurred to her.

'Yes, with Pansy,' Blaise sighed, hating the stark look of desolation that briefly skewered Hermione's features before her face hardened into a blank expression.

'Oh, well, I guess I'll go stag then,' Hermione said, with a harsh little laugh that was as abrasive as sandpaper.

'You could go with Ron,' Harry suggested. 'He hasn't bestirred himself to ask anyone.'

'That would be kind of cool,' Blaise said. 'Like a double date!' She looked hopefully at Hermione.

Hermione realised exactly what Blaise wanted to say, even if Blaise didn't. Hermione knew that what little time Blaise and Harry did have alone was invariably encroached upon by Ron. Fair enough, he was Harry's best friend, but Harry seemed to think he needed around-the-clock surveillance, even though he hadn't touched a drug in weeks. Blaise desperately needed a night free from Ron-sitting, and Hermione felt she deserved one. Besides, it wasn't like the boy she wanted to go with even existed outside her own head.

'Sure,' she agreed. 'You ask him, then, Harry?'

Before Harry had even opened his mouth, however, her eyes had drifted over to Black. For a second their gazes met, and the air crackled between them. Then Hermione sighed, and looked away.

~

Minnie tapped her way smartly down the university corridors towards her group's classroom, hoping grimly that Gideon had managed to make some headway on his side of the project. Why on earth Gil had deemed it wise to put the two of them on the same team, which Minnie made it patently obvious that Gideon irritated the hell out of her, and he made no secret of the fact that he loved to antagonise her, was unfathomable. Perhaps the hostility was supposed to stimulate creativity or something, and by that measure the Gaza Strip should be producing some top-class artists in the near future. Minnie had to admit that it was somewhat true, though; she'd thought up more ways of killing him in the past fortnight then she had envisaged in twenty years of teaching sullen adolescents.

The first half of the day was taken up with Gil's lectures. These Minnie attended to with an attention bordering on reverence, despite the fact that Gil had a stance like a pregnant woman when he wasn't scribbling on the flip chart. All too soon, it was time for them to split up into their groups and go their separate ways to work on their projects.

Huffing loudly, Minnie shot an enraged-lioness glare at Gideon, which he didn't deign to notice. He was carefully capping his biro - her biro, she mentally corrected herself. The same one he stole every time. The thought only served to infuriate her more.

Minnie lingered on until the last possible moment to catch Gil on his way out. This entailed, of course, that Gideon remained too, regarding her from under his permanently half-lidded lashes with a faintly amused expression. At last, Gil slotted the last leg of the flip-chart stand into place and made to leave.

'Ah, Minnie and Gideon, my two best students!' he acknowledged them. Minnie glowed. Gideon glowered. 'How are you going with the project?'

'Well, my half is nearly done,' Minnie said pointedly, shooting a nasty look at Gideon.

'Mine's finished,' Gideon yawned. Minnie looked daggers at him.

'Ah, excellent, excellent,' Gil said, looking like he wanted to rub his hands together but was hampered by the flip-chart and his laptop case. 'I always knew you two were extremely compatible...I shall be expecting great things from you! But for now, adieu!'

He blew Minnie a kiss on his way out, and she blushed hotly. Gideon stared at him incredulously.

'God, but that man is a git,' he pronounced, ruffling his long, reddish-gold hair. Minnie turned on him, glaring.

'You're just jealous!' she sneered.

'Of what?' Gideon asked in genuine surprise. 'I don't want to look like a Ken doll, thanks all the same. And I can't envy his personality, because he doesn't have one.'

'He -' Minnie began, outraged, but then she snorted. 'Doesn't.' She couldn't prevent a ripple of laughter escaping her lips. Gideon stared at her, looking mildly astonished.

'Mind you,' he mused, leaning his elbows on the table and cupping his face with his hands, so that he looked about five years old, 'he does have a bloody gorgeous wife.'

Minnie sat down abruptly. 'He's married?'

'I thought you knew,' he said, his tone accusatory.

'No, I didn't,' Minnie snapped. She ruminated for a moment, then looked up at Gideon's flashing hazel eyes. She spokes slowly, as if trying not to laugh. 'Was she paid?'

'He bought her,' Gideon declared. 'Two camels, twenty-four goats and an imaginary oasis.'

Minnie smiled at him. It was a bit rusty, but Gideon looked pleased all the same.

'Here's your biro,' he said, quirking a grin at her.

She took it, accidentally knocking her fingers against his. He raised his eyebrows.

'Come on, then,' he said. 'I'll clearly have to help you finish off your half.'

'Brat,' she laughed, and swatted him. And realised that she was going to end up with him. Just like that.

~

Remus announced that the fancy-dress fundraising dance was to be held on the seventeenth of March, St Patrick's Day.

'Quite a lot of the students have put themselves forward to help with the decorating. I think they feel we'd do it up like Saturday Night Fever or something,' he said, smug in the knowledge that he was closer to their age than he was to most of the seated teachers.

As soon as he was sure that Remus was finished, Sev headed straight for the coffee machine. This meant that he was cornered, held captive by a gushing froth of boiling liquid and his own inner child demanding caffeine, now! when Remus came over to him. His expression was grave.

'I need to talk to you.'

'It's a free country,' Sev grunted.

'Not here.' Remus shook his head. 'Can you meet me tonight, in the Leaky Cauldron? About six, say? Please, Sev,' he added, at Sev's moue of doubt. 'There's some things you need to know.'

'Fine,' Sev agreed at last.

They headed there together after work; Remus unnaturally silent, and Sev enjoying the walk and the lack of talking it entailed. It was almost like being with Marv.

They entered the pub, and the first thing Sev saw was Marv, serving at the bar. On spotting Sev, he remained motionless for a moment, then inclined his head ever so slightly. Sev hurried Remus to a snug seat at the back of the pub. He wasn't sure if Remus knew that Marv owned the joint, and he wasn't keen on him finding out when Sev was in the fallout vicinity.

He muttered something about fetching drinks and headed for the bar. There was a notable absence of barmen, however. A flash of green caught his eye. Leaning forward, he caught a glimpse of Oliver, leaning against the doorjamb of the backroom, being thoroughly kissed by Marv.

As he watched, and carefully didn't allow himself to think, Marv broke off and disappeared inside, returning a few seconds later carrying a coat. He said something to Oliver, then jumped over the bar. He passed by Sev, and paused. His electric blue eyes were as shuttered as ever.

He mouthed 'Have fun' before vanishing into the night.

Distracted, Sev ordered two pints from a grinning Oliver, whose chin was dusted with stubble-rash, and made his way back to the table where Remus was sitting, nervously twisting a bar mat into foamy pieces.

'What's all this about then?' he asked without preamble.

Remus took a deep breath. 'I think I owe you an explanation, about Marv and me. God knows you're hardly likely to get it out of him - I've known dead men to be more talkative.'

Sev snorted in agreement and Remus relaxed a little. 'The deal is pretty simple. Bored housewife meets rich, smooth Irish millionaire at a friend's party. A few months later, housewife elopes with said millionaire, who incidentally made his money from building high rise car parks and laundering the odd grand or two on the side. She leaves behind a broken-hearted husband, who quickly spirals into depression and later alcoholism, and a three-year-old son. The surprising part of the story is not that she produced another son to add to the millionaire's extensive illegitimate brood, but that he actually married her. Once the divorce came through.' He took another, shaky, breath. 'Now for some names. The bored housewife is my mother. The millionaire is the Irish developer Tó mas Riddle. Her first son was me. Her second son was Marvolo. The one thing we have in common is that she saddled us with equally ridiculous names. Moreover, she now has a rather entrenched cocaine habit, to match my father's malt whiskey one. That's the one thing they have in common.'

He paused, and Sev took a hasty gulp of beer to prevent having to reply. He had no idea what to say. He knew Marv would never have told him this. He was fairly certain, also, that he didn't want to know. Any more than Marv would like to hear about the death of Sev's beloved mother, or about the step-father who beat him every day until Sev got big enough to fight back. Some things were better left buried. He had a suspicion that Remus was something of a gravedigger, though.

'Marv is also caught up in the whole Sirius scenario,' Remus was saying. 'He manages to get into everything, really. Remember once I told you about emotional blackmail?'

Sev made a noise of assent through the rim of his glass.

'Marv's a policeman,' Remus said, and Sev nearly choked. 'To cut a long story short, he told me about a raid planned on the Black ring, which Sirius and his boyfriend Lucius - they didn't meet on the inside, although they went there together - were heavily involved in. In return for convincing Sirius - who convinced Lucius - to turn informer he got them a short sentence. The rest of the ring got twenty years - they were keen to disable the Black ring, and it has been severely hindered for the last decade as a result. The judges were determined to crack down. It was through me that those two got out this side of their sixtieth birthdays.'

'Jesus,' Sev managed. 'Why are you telling me this?'

Remus made a surprised face. 'I thought it was obvious.' He shrugged and stood up. 'You have a choice to make. I want it to be an informed one.'

He left. Sev sank back in his chair and groaned.

'Cheers,' he said morosely, and reached over to drain Remus' glass.

~

Blaise had had a stroke of genius.

It had required a little forward planning to get her mother's permission. However, Mrs Zabini's relationship with her daughter was closer to a chummy friendship than a dependent parental one, mainly due to Blaise's enormous self-possession.

In addition, Mrs Zabini's husband was absent for six months of the year, sailing the high seas on a Norwegian trawler, and her only son was teaching grammar in the Bronx. It often got a bit quiet in the Zabini household, and for that reason the gregarious Mrs Zabini regularly opened her home and table to all and any comers. This meant that, over the years, she'd played host to a range of pets that a zoo would have envied, more loud, thumping teenagers than she cared to remember, more distant, blue-rinsed relatives than Blaise cared to remember, and, one memorable time, a bridge tramp. So she only needed a little persuading to be brought round to the merits of the plan.

Now for the difficult bit - breaking it to Harry...

She brought him aside one day, looking so serious that Harry inquired nervously if anyone had died. She laughed, and he relaxed considerably.

'Thing is, Harry,' she said, 'I had an idea. My mother's okay with it, but...you'll probably think it's half-cracked. Just hear me out, okay?'

'I promise.' Harry nodded.

'I thought that, until the end of the school year, you could come and stay with us,' Blaise said quickly. 'My brother lives in New York, and you could have his room. I told my mother about your - situation, and she really wants to help. I hope you don't mind.'

'I don't,' Harry reassured her. 'And it's not such a crazy idea, but I can't do it.'

'Why not?'

'Because I can't afford to pay you, and I'm not going to impose.' Harry's mouth made a thin line on his face.

Blaise harrumphed. 'Honestly, Harry! You wouldn't be an imposition.'

'I'd still feel bad about it,' he objected.

'You may feel bad, but you look good,' she said, raising an eyebrow in an effort to lighten the mood.

'What?' Harry demanded. 'What does that have to do with the conversation?'

'Nothing - I was just pointing it out.' Blaise shrugged. Harry blushed. 'As for the matter at hand, you're coming to stay with us. Just accept it and move on with your life.'

'Brilliant argument, Blaise,' he said, rolling his eyes. Blaise frowned at him.

'It wasn't an argument,' she said, in the tones of someone pointing out the killingly obvious. 'It was a statement of fact.'

The bell rang, and she headed for her locker, trailed by a spluttering Harry.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled sweetly.

'How do you like being henpecked, Harry?' she asked. His brow darkened, but before he could speak she leaned over and kissed him firmly on the mouth. When she broke away, he was grinning goofily.

'It's beginning to grow on me,' he admitted.

~

There had been so many volunteers to decorate the hall that even after he'd whittled out the obvious trouble-makers, Lupin was forced to divide them into two squads. One group, composed of Padma, Parvati, Lavender, Seamus, Terry and Ron were scheduled for the Thursday night prior to the dance, while Hermione, Black, Harry, Blaise, Dean and Pansy made up the Friday night crew.

The first group came into school on Friday morning sporting blisters and complaining vociferously about the DJ. No one knew who the DJ was to be, or where on earth the money had come from to hire him, but only Seamus, Terry and Ron had anything to say against whoever it was.

'We had to set up a stage,' Terry moaned, as if he'd been asked to single-handedly launch a telecommunications satellite.

'Bloody great speakers,' Seamus muttered, massaging his aching back.

The girls had come in for a fair share of the legwork, including sweeping and clearing away the newspapers and assorted painting implements. Most of their time had been spent watching the boys, though, and laughing at them.

The next day, Remus told the second group to go home for an hour and change into something 'suitable for messing about in,' as well has to have something to eat.

Hermione felt indescribably tired. She never studied on a Friday anyway, and had specifically asked to be put on the detail for that night. However, she was considering ducking out and spending the evening resting, especially when she heard that Black was to be part of her group.

It was only Blaise's enthusiasm that stopped her from flaking out. Blaise, who'd had to be forced into getting involved, was now raucously interested. Hermione didn't want to destroy that, so she reluctantly pulled on the same pair of old jeans she'd worn painting and a much-loved Mickey Mouse t-shirt her aunt had brought back from LA. It was so well-worn that Mickey looked as if he'd gone a couple of rounds with the Nothing from Fantasia; his ears and most of his round nose were faded to oblivion.

She didn't feel in the least hungry. Her appetite had disappeared in the last few weeks. Her mother had put it down to exam stress and cooked round after round of her favourite meals to tempt her. Most of them had ended up in the bin. Hermione looked in the mirror and realised grimly why crash-dieting was not to be recommended. She had dropped several pounds, but her hair was lank, her skin blotchy and she was sporting a fine crop of spots on her chin.

She grabbed a jacket and headed back to school. By the time she arrived the PE hall everyone else had arrived. She dropped her jacket in a pile by the door and headed over to Lupin, who was standing in the middle of the floor looking distracted.

'Sorry I'm late,' she said, and, when he didn't respond, tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped and whirled around to face her.

'Oh, Hermione,' he greeted her, his face relaxing. 'You're not late, everyone else was early.'

'Where do you want me?' Hermione asked.

'Um. Good question.'

They looked around the hall. One end was completely taken up with a wooden stage on which several mysterious, hulking black pieces of sound equipment were arrayed. In one corner, Dean was fiddling with a light machine; in another, Pansy was trying to turn on a flame machine. It sprung to life, and she promptly dropped it in surprise.

'I was going to say we have the equipment covered, but perhaps I spoke too soon,' Lupin murmured.

'Oh, she'll be fine,' Hermione dismissed it. 'Where did all this come from?'

Lupin smiled. 'A mystery benefactor. Exciting, isn't it?'

Hermione smiled back and looked over at Harry and Blaise. They were laughing as they strung fairy lights around the banjaxed basketball hoops.

'How are you at art, Hermione?' Lupin wanted to know.

'Not the worst,' she admitted.

'Great! You can join our artistic department.' Lupin gestured at the far end of the hall, where a sickeningly familiar blonde head was bent over something held in his lap.

'Oh, I don't think -' Hermione began, but at that moment the light machine began to topple, and Lupin dashed off to rescue it or Dean.

Dragging her feet, Hermione made her way over to Draco, feeling as if she was walking down Death Row. Binns was sitting next to him, wearing an angelic expression. As she approached, she caught a snatch of their conversation.

'Do you need more glue, Draco?'

'Don't call me that!' Black snarled.

Binns looked up, his expression placid.

'Ah, hello, Hermione,' he said. Black's head jerked up, and he looked at her with the same unalloyed delight as a marine biologist at an oil spill.

'What are you doing here?' he spat.

'Lupin sent me to help with the artwork,' she returned, her tone equally pleasant. 'What are we doing?'

'Making mobiles,' Binns said, blinking.

'Right.' Hermione seated herself on the floor with a thump. 'Any particular theme?'

'Yeah, cut-out leprechauns,' Black sneered. 'So we look like a bunch of seven-year-olds. What do you think, Granger?'

'So anything goes?' She tilted her head defiantly.

He leaned forward, eyes flashing.

'That's right,' he agreed, his tone low and dangerous. 'Anything goes.'