A City Visible But Unseen

Chapter Eleven: YOU AND ME SONG

And if the world were black and white entirely

And all the charts were plain

Instead of a mad weir of tigerish waters,

A prism of delight and pain,

We might be surer where we wished to go

Or again we might be merely

Bored but in brute reality there is no

Road that is right entirely.

Hermione, in the heat of her anger and betrayal, had considered asking Binns to move her seat in History. However, days passed, and she still had not bestirred herself to do anything about it. Even in English, Blaise, with an apologetic smile, had taken up sitting next to Harry, leaving Hermione on her own once more. With a seat cold beside her, that Draco silently filled.

Hermione came to realise that she couldn't bear to lose this final contact with him, empty and desolate as it was. When she bent her head close to her books, she could catch a trace of his aftershave. Once, their feet had bumped. Hermione had snatched hers away, beet-red, muttering apologies.

So the remained, the two of them, silent and betrayed, locked in a cycle of their own making, never addressing a word to each other. Draco no longer copied Hermione's homework. Instead, he brought an A4 art pad to each class along with his dog-eared textbooks, and the sound of his fingernail flicking the tabletop was replaced with the slow, steady scratching of lead against paper.

Hermione never looked in his direction, never turned her head to speak to him. She had no excuse, no reason to glance over to see what he was drawing. She pretended she didn't care.

The Monday after the dance, he came in sporting a huge, swollen nose. It didn't take long or the rumour to reach Hermione's eager ears. Pansy had punched him, because he'd broken up with her. Again.

'Yes,' Blaise confirmed. 'Pansy was lying. They weren't going out while you two were - you know.' She'd had this from Pam who, in addition to feeling she no longer had anything to lose, perceived that since Pansy had gone and lost him a second time it wouldn't make a difference who knew the details of their first break-up.

It seemed doubtful in the extreme that Draco would take up with her again; Pansy herself declared that she wouldn't touch him now, not with a ten-foot bargepole with a welly on the end of it. She had omitted to add that she'd never touched him in the first place. If she couldn't have him, she was damn well going to make sure that the world thought she had.

'When he was lying to me,' Hermione finished for Blaise, scraping her hair back into a messy ponytail. 'I don't care what Pansy did or did not do. It's Black's part in this I was interested in, and he told me himself that Greg dared him. None of this makes the slightest bit of difference.'

Hermione never lied to other people, at least; only to herself.

She was discovering the abyss of shame that love was willing to throw her into. She knew that whatever he asked of her she could not refuse, whether or not he'd slept with Pansy. There was no depth to which she would not sink for him.

She took a detached satisfaction in seeing Blaise and Harry together - living proof that it sometimes worked, for some people. Provided, perhaps, that you didn't ask too much, wish too hard, love so fiercely. If you floated on the surface of life, you were never dragged under by the sharks.

~

Blaise waited patiently, every night for three weeks, for Harry to pay her a night-time visit. It never happened.

Every evening, after dinner, he would help her with the wash-up. They would study side-by-side in her father's book-lined study, engulfed in deep leather armchairs. Afterwards, they would watch TV together, curled up on the sofa. Harry's hand would creep across the back of the seat, settling onto her shoulders. She would turn to him and receive his kisses, open her mouth to his careful tongue, and wonder why he didn't realise that she was his for the taking. It almost seemed that he wanted to be reassured, every time, 'Yes, Harry, I do want to kiss you. I do still like you.'

Blaise decided that she would have to take matters into her own hands. The resolution left her feeling somewhat nervous - so much so that she kept putting it off, wondering if Harry would take the initiative. It didn't happen. Either Harry didn't want her - doubtful, in light of recent events, and not a supposition Blaise, being the sort of person she was, entertained for very long - or he was just shy. Or unsure. Or didn't want to push things too fast. Possibly all three of these things.

At about midnight one Saturday, Blaise took a deep breath and slipped out of bed. She made her way along the corridor, twisting the hem of her periwinkle silk pyjamas in her fingers. She hesitated outside Harry's door, then knocked softly. There was no reply from inside, so she tried the handle. It was unlocked. Encouraged, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Harry had tried to be tidy, in deference to the fact that he was a guest, but here and there his true, messy nature shone through. A pile of socks shared the bed with him, and the zipper of one of his bags spewed clothes and a tangled set of headphones. A t-shirt had been tossed over her brother's huge globe, so that the world - apart from Tasmania - appeared to have been engulfed in a wrinkled, red-cotton glacier.

Harry was asleep on his back, one arm flung over his mounded pillows. His unruly hair almost obscured his face, which in sleep was relaxed and slack-jawed, glowing in the patch of moonlight that highlighted his bed. The covers had been thrown back so that his entire, bare torso was uncovered. Blaise raised her eyebrows, shocked but appreciative. Did Harry sleep au naturel?

That he was asleep was certain. Blaise sighed, and decided that she wasn't cut out for this seductress role after all. Not in light blue pyjamas with dancing sheep on them, at least. All at once, she felt incredibly stupid. What would Harry think if he woke up and saw her standing there, like a lip-licking stalker? That she was a psycho with a one-track mind, probably. Why couldn't he have acted like a typical male, and come to break her door down as soon as her mother had tactfully retired with a mug of cocoa and her Hello! magazine?

Harry's eyes fluttered open, and Blaise froze, one hand on the door-handle. He blinked once or twice, then raised a hand to shove his tangled hair out of his eyelashes. He started at Blaise for a few seconds, and she at him. She could feel a hot flush of embarrassment rising up her neck, like a torrential tidal wave.

'Hello, Blaise,' he said, squinting at her.

'Hi,' she muttered, her throat constricted. He sat up a little, dragging the covers with him. Her curiosity overcoming her, she blurted, 'Are you wearing anything?'

Harry blinked at her again, and grinned. 'A hopeful expression?' he suggested.

All dams broke in Blaise's blush flood.

'Fact is, I left all my pjs at my uncle's place, so I just sleep in my, uh, boxers,' Harry was explaining. He looked at her curiously. 'Why are you here? Is something wrong?'

'I couldn't sleep.' Blaise looked out of the window, wondering why the streetlight suddenly held such interesting facets. Surely it hadn't had those all along, or people would do nothing but stare at them all night long.

Harry studied his bed sheets. 'When I can't sleep, I usually listen to music.' He hesitated. 'You want to - share headphones?'

'Okay,' Blaise grinned. She clambered under the covers, nudging her foot against his warm, bare calf. As Harry reached for his Discman, she snuggled against him.

If she had her way, they wouldn't be listening to music for very long.

~

Draco was watching his mother and Binns play chess. Or rather, watching Binns play and his mother lose miserably, for it was painfully obvious that she hadn't a clue what she was doing. He regarded them with the same vague, dreary amusement that imbued everything he was involved in lately.

'You can't move the knight like that,' Binns objected.

'I thought the horsey ones moved diagonally,' Narcissa said in confusion.

'No, that's the bishops.' Narcissa looked blank. 'The priesty ones?' Binns prompted.

Narcissa's expression cleared. 'Oh, yes. I'll move that one then.'

Binns sighed. 'You can't, Narcissa.'

'Why not? You said they move diagonally!'

'Yes, but it's my go.'

Draco rolled his eyes and sunk deeper into the silk-upholstered armchair he was ensconced in. The arms were worn from years of him leaning on them, hanging over them, drooling on them (by accident, usually, when he fell asleep watching TV). He supposed he could do some homework, but he'd long since got out of the habit. Not that this habit wasn't more of a copying genre. Either way, both the impetus and the source had dried up.

He slithered stomach-first over the side of the chair, where he'd squirreled away an old drawing pad and a chewed pencil. Narcissa was used to finding these stashes tucked away in odd places; Draco detested having to fetch drawing materials when the urge came upon him to scrawl something, and so kept a set in each room, like Liberace's pianos.

Within minutes he was absorbed in drawing a scene that had been foremost in his mind during the past few weeks; a couple, embracing, the girl wearing a rather familiar twenties-style dress and with knobbly knees. He didn't notice that Binns had claimed victory once again, leaving Narcissa to make coffee with ill-disguised relief.

When Binns came to stand beside him, peering at what he was drawing, he at last stirred himself to say, 'You're in my light.'

'Did you apply to art college, Draco?' Binns asked with interest.

'Black. No, I didn't apply to UCAS at all.'

'That's a pity. You have some talent.'

'Some is the right word for it. I can sketch a bit, that's all.'

'Ever tried oils, or watercolours?'

'Nope. Never could be bothered to buy any.'

'What are you going to do next year, if you're not going to university?'

'Travel,' Draco informed him. 'Now if there's something you want to say, do, otherwise go away.'

'Did you ever wonder why you're drawing Hermione Granger all the time?'

Draco glared up at him, surprised to find he looked a little disconcerted. 'I don't have to wonder. I know why. Is that all?'

'No.' Binns drifted out of the room towards the kitchen, leaving Draco scowling after him. In a fit of pique, he scored a heavy line through his drawing and crumpled it up. Tossing the art pad and the pencil to the floor, he slouched down in the seat in a sulky torpor, not moving until his mother called him for supper.

~

As the days accelerated and the span of time separating 'now' and the exams shrunk alarmingly, Hermione lost herself in a haze of constant revising and learning. At this stage, after two years of near-constant, steady work, she had little to worry about in terms of performance, but this didn't stop the niggling anxiety that burrowed away every time she took a break. Even thoughts of Draco took second place to it. It was easy to decide that, right now, Chemistry/History/English was her priority, and to shove Draco to the back of her brain, even though she had no idea what she wanted to do after her exams but was very sure that she wanted him.

Speak of the devil and he will appear; in her mind's eye, at least. The frantic energy which was giving vaulting ambition to even the laziest students didn't seem to have roused Draco in the slightest. These last days, teachers were only as interested in the students as the students were in them, so he was left to his own devices in class, and seemed to spend a lot of time staring out the window. In spite of herself, Hermione worried about him. She feared that he was wasting his potential, for one thing, and that he was going to fail his exams, for another. It wouldn't be half so tragic if she didn't know that he could outstrip even her if he put his mind to it. In truth, Hermione had little enough worry to spare for anyone but herself; but what amount she had left over was earmarked, in its totality, for Draco.

A lot of people were looking forward to the school trip, with that desperate longing that characterises people facing into a huge exam with - or so it seems - so little hope of emerging unscathed. Hermione knew the feeling well, from class tests that no one else had fretted about in the least. How attractive simple things could be, now you couldn't do them. Can't read a book, watch TV, go for a walk, go out - no, must study. The fact that it was 'only for a few weeks' made it worse, infusing the whole process with an urgency that could not be denied or put aside for later.

Hermione had her doubts about the trip. Blaise and Harry thought it was the knees of the bees and the pyjamas of the cat, but of course they would - two nights without parental supervision was a brilliant opportunity. (Though from what Blaise hinted, her mother's precense hadn't prevented quite extensive experimentation on their part.)

The fact that the trip was subsidised, and hence free, meant that just about the entire class had decided to go - a rare enough occurrence. Hermione was going too, even though she didn't think a castle-shaped outdoor events centre was really her thing. Nor were soppy last-time get-togethers, not with people she'd happily avoided her entire life, and would not be upset never to see again.

Of course, there were exceptions. Blaise, and through her, Harry.

Draco.

It would probably be for the best if she never saw Draco again, though. Considering the direction their lives were likely to take, it was shaping up to be an easy enough task.

~

Hermione was bouncing a basketball, looking around in vain for her teammates. The new atmosphere of vigour and jolly-hockey-sticks - courtesy of Lupin, damn the man - had urged even Hagrid on to greater heights. He had attempted to form 6A into two opposing basketball teams for an actual match, although with little tangible success.

Neither Seamus nor Dean were in school, decreasing the quotient of people genuinely interested in sport by ninety percent. In support of Hermione, Harry and Blaise were standing on the court, but couldn't help chatting, or 'marking' as they termed it. They also jumped in surprise whenever the ball came their way.

Hagrid was currently chasing Pam, Parvati and Lavender out from behind his shed, where they had taken refuge with Terry. Pansy was lurking around the other side, grinning evilly. Vinnie and Hermione were the only ones making a real effort to play, but as Vinnie was on the other team she could hardly throw to him. Her other teammate, Ron, was engaged in keeping Greg in a headlock - his contribution to 'defending'.

That left Draco.

Hermione really, really did not want to throw the ball to him. For one thing, he was evincing utter disinterest in the game - and life in general, if she was any judge - standing near the hoops wearing a disdainful expression and a Dublin jersey purloined from Seamus. But there was no one else.

'Oi! Black! Think quick!' she yelled, and thrust the ball at him. She was indifferent dribbler and an unqualified failure at shooting, but she had a strong throw. A second before the ball cannoned into his stomach his hands whipped out and caught it. Following through on the arc of the throw he raised his arms and, with one hand, tossed the ball at the net. It dropped through so neatly the netting barely moved. He didn't turn to watch it, but returned to standing on the sides of his trainers and staring at the sky.

Amazed, Hermione dashed to get the ball and passed it to Vinnie for the throw-in. She dared to go up to Draco and mutter, 'Good shot.'

'Thanks,' he replied, sounding authentically gratified.

'Are you going to play, then?' she challenged. He looked hesitant. 'Come on - our team needs you!'

'Fine,' he said at last.

'Cool,' Hermione said, guessing her elation had more to do with the fact that Draco had spoken civilly to her than her team's increased chances of success.

'Greg! Get up!' Vinnie called in irritation. Greg managed to shake off Ron's clutches and jogged to intercept the ball.

'Harry! Tackle him!' Hermione ordered. Harry, grinning, ran forward to fumble the ball out of Greg's surprised grasp. Within minutes, everyone on the court was involved, running, passing, attempting to score. Hermione, breathless, used her height to snatch the ball from the air and hurl it to a waiting Draco, who scored every time with deceptive ease.

What the other team lacked in skill they made up for in enthusiasm, making faces and attempting to perform the hakka in between grabbing at the ball. Hagrid left the skulking girls to their hidey-hole to watch in astonishment.

By the end of half-an-hour, Hermione's team led sixteen to three, as recounted by a stupefied Hagrid. When the bell rang, the teams abandoned their game. Ron, Greg and Vinnie trooped off, engaged in a serious conversation concerning the merits of virtual basketball over the real kind. (It later transpired that they had all applied to the same web-design course.) Harry slung an arm around Blaise's waist and kissed her in congratulation of her basket scoring; she kissed him back for the same reason, and they ambled towards the school together. Terry and the girls made a break for it, giggling madly.

Hermione picked up the basketball and handed it to Hagrid, and turned to find Draco still standing on the court, staring at her.

Self-consciously, she tucked her sweaty hair behind her ear and straightened her damp t-shirt where it had ridden up during the game. Clearing her throat nervously, she approached him, wondering if he would blow her off for daring to speak to him a second time.

'You're very good at basketball,' she offered, because he was, and because she was longing to tell him everything that he was wonderful at but couldn't.

'I shouldn't have said you were crap at sport,' he said, not looking at her.

'But I am,' she pointed out, tugging out her hair tie and ruffling her hair, hoping the breeze would dry the sweat on the back of her neck.

'Only in comparison to how good you are at everything else,' he said, turning to face her, his jaw held taut and his eyes narrowed, as if the sight of her hurt him.

'I'm not good at some things,' she muttered. 'Not the important things. If you ever need someone who can learn things off but is completely useless with people, just call me.'

'I don't have my phone on me now, or I would,' he said quietly, one eye squinting at the sudden burst of sunlight that illuminated Hermione's hair like a static, rumpled halo. 'I think I need someone like that.'

It wasn't what he meant to say; he wanted to say 'I need you', but he couldn't quite risk it. He'd have to hope she knew what he meant.

Hermione shrugged. She hated when people spoke in riddles; she had a feeling Draco was admitting something here, but she didn't have the self-assurance to think that it had anything to do with her. Even though he hadn't stop looking at her, and every line of his body screamed for her. A lifetime of reading books was not enough preparation to read people, even though Draco, at this moment, was the human equivalent of foot-high skywritten letters.

While he watched and she pretended that he wasn't, she dragged her fingers through her hair and fastened it back in a loose plait. Her fingers deftly twined the long strands into a semblance of neatness, while Draco took it all in from the corner of his eye. He remembered how soft and springy her hair had felt the one time he had held it back from her face, while she painted.

'We'd want to go in. School's over now,' Hermione said, knowing she could have stood with him all day, in silence. There was a pile of study waiting for her at home, a lifetime empty of Draco ahead. She might as well get used to it now.

They walked in together, each unsure if they were meant to wait for the other. Hermione soon tired of this charade and sealed their walking partnership by speaking.

'Doing any study?' she asked, a strong hint of disapproval in her voice, for she knew the answer would be negative.

'Nope.' He kicked at a tuft of grass. 'You knew that. How about you?'

'Of course I'm studying.'

'I meant about next year. What are you studying?'

'Oh, English at Durham. If I get the As.'

'Will you miss Oakwood, do you think?'

'What, this dump?' Hermione laughed. 'Although the dance was a success, I'll grant you, this school really is the pits.' She glanced over at Draco, who looked a bit red, for some reason.

'Did they ever find out who paid for the DJ?' he asked.

'Oh, you heard about the mystery benefactor too!' Hermione said. 'Oh, it's all as great a mystery as ever. Pity they couldn't bung over a bit more; it isn't like this place couldn't do with all the help it could get.'

'Yeah,' Draco agreed, and changed the subject. 'What are you going to do after uni? I suppose you've got some detailed five-year plan?'

'Actually, I don't. And I don't know! I don't know what to do.' Her voice broke slightly on the words. 'It's so unfair! It was all meant to come together and it didn't, and I have no idea what to do with the rest of my life.'

Draco studied his hands for a moment. 'Perhaps, instead of thinking about what you want to do, you should think about what you want to be.'

'Be, how, what's the difference?' she wanted to know. 'I need to earn a living somehow.'

He looked at her then, with a serious expression, dark blonde hair falling over his forehead as he rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. 'It all comes down to money,' he remarked.

'Too right,' Hermione groaned, rubbing her hands over her eyes and unwittingly treating Draco to a front-row view of her stomach, as revealed by her pulled-up t-shirt. He turned his eyes away, smiling.

'So what would you do, or be, if you had enough money not to worry about it?' he asked.

'Travel,' Hermione said promptly. 'See the world...the South of France. Mexico. Australia. Really, really hot places, where the air is so dry it sears your mouth. And just take it all in.' She sighed as her bright dream faded. 'But you'd have to be a millionaire or something, to do that.'

Draco said nothing.

~

It now appeared that Remus was his boyfriend.

This entitled him to quite a lot of words.

A 'good morning, Sev,' when he woke up. An extensive chat during break time, an even longer one during lunch, and at some point in the day plans would be made for a date. For more talking.

Sev wondered why he felt so damnably tired all the time. He tried to recall the frisson that had been his desire for Remus, all those months ago. It was still there, pulsating below the surface. But nothing with Remus was ever pure, simple or undiluted. He was an intensely complicated man. Sev supposed you'd call it emotional baggage, and fair enough, everyone had some. So Remus had an aeroplane's worth; he'd have to live with that.

It was funny what could be assumed, though. Remus now thought - and rightly so, Sev had to admit - that he, Sev, had made the choice which Remus had wanted to be informed. That by taking Remus to his bed, he had committed his heart as well, and forever to boot.

Now, Sev didn't think his heart would be much use to anyone else. He preferred to keep it where he could see it, and that wasn't on his sleeve, like Remus. In addition, he was more than a little uncomfortable at the idea of 'forever'. Words again, muddying the waters. Defining things that should need no definition.

Remus was a terror for it; he did it all the time. Sev wondered if he should be seeing someone about that, or at least popping a pill or two. It was disconcerting.

Sev could understand the need for words in ordinary situation - such as, say, ordering coffee from Starbucks. What he couldn't comprehend was the endless spiels on things like, well, love. As far as Sev was concerned, it wasn't tangible, and moreover, you couldn't drink it and it's caffeine content was in all likelihood nil. So why discuss it at all?

He sat on Remus' camelhair couch late one May evening, listening to the soothing sounds of Remus moving about in the kitchen, preparing his patented Dolmio special. Sev idly flipped through the channels, but nothing held his attention. He found himself laughing out loud at several advertisements in succession, and hastily switched it off.

'It's ready, Sev,' Remus called, and sure enough, pleasant pasta smells were wafting from the kitchen. Sev floated in after them, and seated himself at his small, round dining table. It had been neatly laid with plates, cutlery and glasses, a basket of bread rolls in the centre. He had to give it to him; Remus was a neat, if unskilled, cook (Sev didn't count pouring things out of jars or packets as real cooking) with a real talent for laying tables. He was only grateful there were no flowers stacked about the place.

'Cheers, mate,' he said, as Remus laid a steaming plate of pasta before him. 'And tomorrow I'll cook.'

'You mean you'll take us out to Pizza Hut again,' Remus said, sounding amused.

'Pizza is food!' Sev said in injured tones.

'I never said it wasn't,' Remus said, taking a mouthful of spaghetti. He watched Sev eat for a while - a complicated process involving much twirling of his fork (Remus just cut his up into manageable chunks) - before he spoke again.

'I was meaning to talk to you about something,' he said, sounding uncertain.

'What is it?' Sev's forkful of spaghetti had just slid back onto his plate, and he was absorbed in scooping it up again. He didn't notice the somewhat uncomfortable expression on Remus' face.

'You remember the other night, at your place, when I was looking for a book to read?' Remus was saying. 'Well, I found - this.'

He withdrew a slim volume from his pocket and laid it between them on the table. It was a blue leather-bound pocket diary, such as are sold in newsagents the world over, and are too small to actually keep a record of anything but the most truncated appointments. Sev recognised it at once as his book of poetry.

He stared at it in consternation, and glanced up at Remus, eyes narrowed. 'Did you read it?'

Remus look startled at the venom in his eyes. 'Well, yes, I did.'

Pasta forgotten, Sev stared down at the little book, feeling absurdly betrayed.

'I suppose I'd better show you this too,' Remus said, placing a much folded and faded piece of paper on top of the diary. Sev picked it up and smoothed it out, reading in seconds the silly little poem he'd written one day, long ago, when Selina was pestering him.

'Why did you read my poems, Remus?' Sev asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

'I wanted to,' Remus said honestly. 'I know they're very much a part of you, and, well, you tell me so little about yourself. I needed to find out about you somehow.'

Sev found that his hands were shaking. He laid down his knife and fork and looked up at Remus with blazing eyes. Remus quailed at the anger there, but it sparked a tinder to his own.

'What was I supposed to do?' he demanded, his voice rising. 'Spend the rest of my life guessing? Waiting for the tid bits you throw me like some kind of tame dog?'

Sev shook his head, marvelling at how little he understood. 'Why couldn't you just be satisfied with me?'

Remus frowned at him, not comprehending. 'I am satisfied with you - what I have of you, that is. Which isn't much. I don't even know your parents' names or your favourite colour. You never say anything, Severus.'

'Why do you need those things? You have the smell of me and the taste of me. Any time you like, you can touch me, look at me, feel me. You have me, why are you searching for a load of useless memories?'

They sat there, staring at each other over plates of cooling pasta. They watched helplessly as the unbridgeable crevasse opened between them and they took their places on either bank. It was no use, Sev realised; wanting someone was utterly futile when their idea of wanting was so completely removed from your own.

After an age, Remus spoke, his voice deadened. 'It was never really a choice, was it?'

'What do you mean?'

'Between him and me. You never had a choice to make. You never - I don't fit you the way he does.'

Sev didn't bother asking who 'he' was. He wouldn't wound Remus further by making him utter Marv's name.

'I think the point is that I don't believe that anyone could, or should, fit me in the first place. That's the difference between you and I.'

'We should have been able to make it work!' Remus shouted, slamming the tabletop with his fists. 'Why is that so important?'

Sev touched a finger to his whitened knuckles, and looked into his forlorn, perspiring face.

'That's why,' he said, and left.

~

Seamus had still never kissed a boy.

When he'd turned up at Cedric's, and said his line, Cedric had stared at him for exactly two seconds, then grabbed up a pair of trainers from behind the door, pulled them on and shut the door behind them. Then he'd led Seamus, who was still feeling dazed, to the local park, and sat him down on a damp park bench emblazoned with all sorts of lewd mottos.

'Okay,' Cedric said. 'I didn't think you'd want to break down in front of my family. Besides, they'd get entirely the wrong idea about me.'

Seamus laughed. At least, that's what he'd meant to do, but it came out as a kind of hiccupping sob. Cedric had sat there, turned towards him at first, simply being there, but after a while he put a tentative hand on Seamus' shoulder.

This was all the invitation Seamus needed; he clutched Cedric around the neck with one hand and sobbed into his shoulder. Some part of him was wincing in shame at this, but still he cried and cried, and when at last he was done there was a huge wet patch on Cedric's t-shirt.

'Sorry,' he muttered.

'Never mind that. Saves me washing it,' Cedric joked, then tilted Seamus' chin up so that his grey eyes bored into Seamus' blue ones. His heart thudded for a moment; he wondered if Cedric was going to kiss him. Then, an instant later, he wondered if he wanted him to. But Cedric simply seemed to be trying to get his full attention, for he added, 'Talk.'

So Seamus did. It took a surprisingly short time, considering. It was ludicrous, the way life-changing events could be summed up in a few concise sentences. But Seamus supposed Sky News couldn't possibly have come into existence if this wasn't the case.

Dusk was falling on the little park when he finished. They sat there for a while, side up side, not talking, until Seamus felt compelled to demand, 'Well? Aren't you going to say something?'

Cedric seemed to regard this as an excessively important request, for he put his head on one side and adopted an expression last seen on the Thinker. He looked like a bird, with his bright eyes and neat, solemn features.

'I feel rather under-qualified,' he said at last. 'I've never had any real drama in my life, except the night I told my mother I was gay. And only because she broke her grandmother's crystal decanter when she fainted. But aside from that, I'd only be repeating something inane I saw on TV. What do you want me to say? That Dean is a prick? Well, he is, or at least just stupid and confused. That he loves you really? That's pretty unlikely, I'm afraid. Even if he did, as a father he will have to be a different person anyhow. That he's a complete and utter idiot for not having used protection? Absolutely.' He paused. 'Unless they wanted this baby?'

Seamus stared at him. 'They're eighteen. No, wait, Ginny's seventeen. Even if they were to do something so awfully crass as to get married later on, like perfectly hideous childhood sweethearts, it would be just that - later on. Not now. I don't think anyone would want to be a father at eighteen. If Dean ever expressed ambitions in that direction, it wasn't when I could hear him.'

'Fair enough, just checking,' Cedric said. 'Um - you do realise that this is totally not your problem, right? That it's not your girlfriend up the duff?'

'I managed to work that one out,' Seamus returned. 'Being gay was rather a hint...but the fact is, he came to me smashed out of his brain when he found out, and we...well, we...'

'No need to draw a diagram, I get it,' Cedric interjected. 'How do you feel about him - doing that?'

'Taking advantage of me?' Seamus rubbed his face. The tears were drying now, making his skin itch. 'I let it happen. I shouldn't have. I don't think he meant for it to happen, or would like it to happen again. He's got far bigger problems now.'

'I'll say,' Cedric agreed.

After that, Cedric had to go home or let his parents think he'd been abducted by aliens.

'Or kidnapped,' Seamus suggested.

'No, no, my father assures me that they've tried. They used to lose me regularly in shopping centres in the hope that someone would nab me, but they never had any joy.'

Since then, they'd met up in the park a few times, but it was an unsatisfactory place to muster; everyone seemed to eye them as if they were perverts or stalkers. They hadn't spoken of Dean since, not really

By the third time, Seamus was fed up. He invited Cedric to his house to watch his LotR videos. He had discovered - to his immense chagrin - that Cedric had never seen any of them. Seamus felt that this was a fearful omission on his part, one that he was determined to rectify.

It also turned out to be how he got his first kiss. From a boy.

They were comfortably nestled into Seamus' sofa, with Seamus' parents and little sister conveniently out of the way, gone to visit his grandmother. Seamus was keeping a huge bowl of popcorn steady with his knee as he fiddled with the remotes, grunting with triumph when the opening credits began to roll. He settled himself back into the seat, and reached for a handful of popcorn at the same instant Cedric did.

It was a Polariod moment that by rights should have been confined to trashy romance novels. In reality, it wasn't all that romantic; both their hands were greasy with salt and that peculiar popcorny graininess that can only be removed by licking. Seamus, with an embarrassed cough, did just that, under the pretext of gulping back a handful of popcorn. Cedric, eyes on the screen, smiled secretly to himself and thoughtfully bathed his fingers with his tongue.

This action caught Seamus' attention, so much so that the film was completely forgot. As he watched Cedric's pink tongue flicker around the tip of his index finger, Cedric blithely unaware of the attention, Seamus felt his breathing quicken. Slyly, he removed the popcorn bowl from between them and placed it on the table, then settled himself back onto his seat. Which was now a good three inches closer to Cedric.

Seamus crossed his arms and stared at the screen, not seeing it. Cedric halted his finger-washing routine to look searchingly at him. Seamus could feel a blush tingling in his cheeks, caused by Cedric's gaze, which had now progressed to a full-body strip-search. Seamus' breathing was very audible now, at least to his own ears.

Cedric shifted in his seat, so that all at once his thigh was flush against Seamus'. He turned to look at him, with a questioning expression, but Seamus was tired of pussy-footing around. Before Cedric's head had gone ninety degrees Seamus leaned forward and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

It was nothing like kissing a girl. Cedric's lips were innocent of sticky lipgloss, and slightly dry. Seamus could feel a hint of stubble against his upper lip, and felt a tinge of envy - he was still waiting for even a hint of fluff - before Cedric's tongue gained entry to his mouth, and he forgot everything except: the wetness, the warmth, the sound of Cedric's soft moans and his own, the feel of Cedric's hands on his shirt, the feel of Cedric's hands under his shirt.

He broke the kiss then, flushed and breathing hard. He needed to stop it now; he wasn't sure how far he wanted to go.

Cedric raised an eyebrow in approval. 'Where on earth did you learn to kiss like that?'

'What?' Seamus frowned. 'Nowhere, why?'

'Damn.' Cedric sounded disappointed. 'I was hoping you could teach me.'

'There's nothing wrong with the way you kiss,' Seamus said breathlessly.

'Do you want to make sure?' Cedric teased.

Seamus hesitated, then touched his lips to Cedric's. He kissed him softly this time, ran his tongue over Cedric's lower lip. Cedric sighed in contentment and lolled back on the couch as Seamus kissed him thoroughly. He lifted a hand and Seamus tensed, but he merely clasped it to the back of Seamus' head, and used it to bring Seamus closer and deepen the kiss. He seemed to have picked up on Seamus' unwillingness to allow more, for his hands stayed resolutely outside his clothes.

Even so, Cedric left later that night without having seen much more of Lord of the Rings than he had when he arrived.

~

Remus sat in the staff room, reading a letter and wearing an expression of utter disbelief.

'You look like you've seen a ghost, Remus old chap,' Marie, the ever-cheerful, commented.

'Not a ghost.' Remus shook his head, his eyes distant. 'Have you seen Bertie around?'

'Yep, he followed me in,' Marie said, pointing. 'Incidentally...what happened to you and Sev, if you don't mind my asking?'

'But I do,' Remus said, with a sweet smile. 'Mind you asking, that is.'

Ignoring Marie's surprised expression, he hailed Bertie. 'Come and have a look at this, and tell me if I'm dreaming.'

Bertie took the letter proffered, and scanned it. His eyes widened so much they appeared to be spinning in their sockets.

'My god,' he managed, sinking into a chair.

'What is it?' Marie asked, as ever afire with curiosity.

'It appears our mystery benefactor has made - another donation,' Remus said, his voice sounding strangulated.

'You don't mean - the one who paid for the DJ?' Marie confirmed.

'The very same. And his contribution this time is - rather generous.'

'How generous?' Marie wanted to know.

'Somewhere in the region of two million pounds,' Remus told her, and felt like giggling in shock.

This time Marie sat down. There being no chair handy, she came to rest on the floor with a considerable bump. Her hair, mussed by its sudden, sharp descent, appeared over the edge of the table.

'Who is it?' she demanded.

'We'll never know,' Remus said. 'Terms of the offer. He, or she, doesn't want to be named or acknowledged in any way.'

'How much did we make from the dance again?' Marie asked. If she'd been a slot machine, her eyes would have pinged two identical dollar signs.

'About one thousand pounds, wasn't it, Bertie?' Remus turned to the older man, who seemed to have been struck dumb; he merely nodded.

'So, we were looking at about five to ten years fundraising, plus a government subsidy, to build the new PE complex. But now...' her voice trailed off.

Remus' face worked to keep from seizing up in pure, unadulterated exultation.

'We can call the builders tomorrow. And use the money from the dance to buy the new lab equipment you wanted...'

'The future looks rosy,' Bertie opined, breaking his silence at last.

'A strike from the blue,' Marie added.

Remus said nothing.

He didn't have Sev. He would never have Sev. He'd even sent a message to him relieving him of his duties regarding the school trip; three days with him would have been torture. He'd thought nothing would ever be good or happy or whole again, because he couldn't be what Sev wanted him to be. He couldn't be his brother, much as he might like to be.

But it just went to show...

'Every cloud has a silver lining,' Remus said, and grinned.

~

Watching Black and Hermione dance around each other made Blaise's teeth ache. They were bending over backwards in the effort not to jump each other. Finding that her own heart's desire didn't distract her for long, helping other people, most especially when they didn't want to help themselves, was once more her life's work.

Sometimes it only required the smallest of pushes.

As Black sauntered past them one break time, past Hermione with her eyes like dinner plates and gibbering nonsense to pretend she didn't notice him, Blaise quietly untangled herself from Harry's arms and followed him.

'Yes?' Black said as she walked by, peering about for him. He was standing in an alcove around the corner from where Hermione was seated, relaxed and dispirited now her reason for being alive had moved elsewhere. Cranking her neck, Blaise could just make out Hermione's profile. She smiled. This was going to be even easier than she'd thought...and she'd been right all along.

'I hate owing favours,' Blaise confided to Black. 'And I feel I owe you one, even though you probably won't remember why. Doesn't matter; I'm paying you back anyway.'

Black stared at her, looking blank.

'I know there have been some massive misunderstandings between you and Hermione - don't say anything, just hear me out. But, when it comes down to it, everything is quite simple. She fancies you. And, correct me if I'm wrong - you fancy her.'

Black nodded, then realised what he was doing and scowled darkly instead.

'What's it got to do with you?' he sneered.

'Only that I know her parents are away at a dentistry convention tonight. You might just want to call around for a chat.'

She sauntered away, leaving Draco buzzing.

~

His mind carefully blank, Sev rang the doorbell of Marv's house. It had always struck him as a little - off - that Marv would live in a renovated Victorian mansion. Thoughts like these were easy to think, better to think, than pondering what Marv would say when he opened the door to find Sev standing on his rather grubby, leaf-strewn doorstep.

If

he ever opened the bloody door, an event that was looking increasingly unlikely. In annoyance, Sev raised a fist to hammer the green varnished wood, and was brought up short when the door was abruptly opened.

Marv was standing there, yawning, his hair tousled from sleep. With a feverish eye for details, to stop himself thinking, Sev noted that it was quite long now, rather wavy, and a lot darker than R - than his brother's was; almost black, in fact. He was dressed in a crumpled pair of blue check boxers. Squinting at Sev, Marv scratched his hand over his sculpted chest. Sev lowered his hand, rather wrong-footed.

'I was wondering if you were going to punch me,' Marv said neutrally. 'Good thing you didn't. I left my knuckledusters upstairs. I wasn't expecting to be assaulted, not until tomorrow, at least.'

'Tomorrow?' Sev repeated.

'My shift at the bar,' Marv informed him, stretching up his arms as he yawned again. Under his skin, the muscles moved in an intricate dance. Sev watched, entranced. He wanted to touch Marv. So he did.

Marv looked down at Sev's hand, resting lightly just above his navel, and back up again.

'You're coming back, are you?'

'Yes,' Sev said. 'For good, if you don't mind.'

'I don't mind,' Marv said, with unalloyed contentment, smiling properly for the first time Sev could remember. He could still feel him smiling under his kiss.

Sev stepped inside and closed the door.

~

Seamus opened the door to find the last person in the world he would expect to see - namely, Dean - standing there. Well, actually, the last person he truly would have expected would be, say, Santa Claus. Or David Beckham. But Dean ran a pretty close second (or third). It was as a result of this unexpected situation that Seamus hung off the door, mouth agape, wondering if Dean could quite possibly be a hologram, and speculating that he should try and touch him and see if his hand went through him.

He was diverted from his increasingly feverish thoughts by Dean's tentative voice.

'Hey, Seamus. Is it all right if I come in?'

Such normal words from his mouth, Seamus marvelled. Once - not that long ago, in fairness - Dean would never have had to ask to be invited in. But, 'Of course,' he replied, a little sad that is was necessary.

They sat on the couch together, edgeways, crab-like, almost as if they were two long-lost relatives that everyone had shoved together before making a stampede for the trifle.

Dean reached into his pocket, clearing his throat, and mumbled, 'I brought the Return of the King EE. Would you like to - I don't know - watch it?'

Seamus understood.

Dean was trying to do the impossible. To turn things back the way they used to be. Seamus knew this was hopeless. Or, at least, very very hard. But once you eliminated the impossible...what was left had to be possible. That was how it was. He respected what Dean was trying to do, even as he realised the futility of it. You had to try though, try to forget. If you kept remembering the bad things you'd never stop.

'Go on then,' he added, then, with more sincerity, 'I've been waiting for ages to see this. Is it good?'

'Excellent,' Dean promised. He paused. 'Listen, what I said before - about us being...friends. I still mean it.'

'What did you say before?' Seamus said, too quickly.

Dean understood.

It was going to be all or nothing with him, like it always had been.

He chose nothing.

'Never mind. Here, watch this bit ...'

So they sat and watched, with occasional comments and exclamations. Dean never spoke about Ginny, who had started being sick in the mornings, or his visit to the hospital to see the ultrasound of his child. He didn't mention the horrifying looks of shock and disbelief and disappointment on their parents' faces when they'd been told they were going to be grandparents, a good five years before the even the most aspiring had thought to be.

In his turn, Seamus didn't bring up Cedric, or the difficulties he was experiencing in trying to keep things steady, and how what had transpired between him and Dean seemed to be stunting the development of his first proper relationship.

It was going to be the hardest thing, for their life to come; not saying. Not mentioning. Not confiding. But there was always the relief that at least one thing had remained the same.

Even when it wasn't the same, not at all.

~

In a fit of maternal anxiety, Narcissa had instructed her son to start studying when he arrived home. This didn't fit in with Draco's half-formed plans at all, and he ended up being sent to his room after a showdown with her, which he lost. He had to settle for waiting until she went to bed, then sneaking out of the house.

When he arrived at Hermione's house at a quarter to midnight, he tried the bell, but no one answered. A floodlight did go on from the house next door, and Draco hid in the shrubbery until it flicked off. He settled for tossing pebbles at Hermione's window, and hoarsely calling her name.

His current plan of action was yielding precisely no results, and, discouraged, he sat down in the damp grass of her lawn, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. All at once, a shaft of moonlight illuminated a flimsy looking trellis underneath Hermione's window. It looked like it might support climbing roses in summer. It most definitely did not look like it would support an adult human trying to use it for the Romeo and Juliet version of breaking and entering.

Draco got to his feet and removed his shoes and socks, wincing a little as his toes made contact with the wet blades of grass. Hermione's window was of the old fashioned sliding kind, and it was opened a fingersbreath. The first thing to do would be to get it open.

He made a running jump at the trellis and propelled himself up it, hooking his toes around the slats and using his second's grace to slip his fingers under the window pane and shove it upwards with all his might. Then he felt himself falling, and jumped instead.

Standing back to survey his handiwork, he noted with triumph that the window was now half-way open. He preformed a second run-up to the trellis and grabbed the windowsill, managing to crook one arm over it as far as his elbow. He rested his toes lightly on the trellis and scrabbled, getting the other arm over the sill and dislodging several vines in the process.

With a combination of propulsion from his feet and frantic squirming, he succeeded in dragging himself through the window. There was a heart-stopping instant when he thought he was going to fall back the other way, and probably break his jaw; but fear stimulated his adrenaline and with an almighty heave, he got his entire torso into the room. After that, it was simply a matter of hauling his legs in after him and he was standing on Hermione's bedroom floor, a little grass-stained, a little scraped, but otherwise intact.

Hermione was fast asleep, her cheeks flushed and her hair a dark banner against the pillow. She slept spread-eagled, as if bound on some medieval torture instrument, and her face was screwed up in accordance. One bare leg was sticking out from under the Garfield duvet, dangling limply. She was hardly a thing of beauty or a joy forever, but Draco felt something in his chest squeeze at the sight, and his breath stuck in his throat.

He stepped forward, wading through a dry carpet of screwed-up paper, and trod on a creaky floorboard. He tensed; Hermione's eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she stared at him, and the tableau held.

Then she said, in a tightly controlled voice that was nonetheless right up there on the edge of hysterical, 'Draco. Black. What are you doing in my room?'

'I - I came to visit,' Draco said, wincing.

'It's the middle of the night,' Hermione pointed out. 'Aha! I have it! You're a figment of my imagination. I'm dreaming.'

'Do you dream about me often, then?' Draco asked, curious.

'Wouldn't you know already?'

'Maybe, if you were dreaming me. But you're not.'

Hermione sat up in bed, dragging her legs to her chest and hugging them. She glared at him; the glare that really deserved to make Draco start squealing 'I'm melting!'

'Sit,' she commanded. 'Explain. Not there, that's my foot!'

Draco sat at the edge of her bed, feeling at a disadvantage, because the smell of her perfume kept reminding him how close she was. It was distracting. There was also that piece of hair that was falling into her eyes; he really wanted to push it back for her.

'I needed to ask you something,' he said in a rush, before he lost the power of speech altogether. 'Were you dared to kiss me?'

'No,' Hermione said, frowning in confusion.

'I wasn't either. I only said it because I thought you were,' Draco explained, looking at Hermione's wall to prevent himself from losing it (or looking down her pyjama top) when she leaned forward, her brow furrowed.

'You came all the way - through my window!' she exclaimed, noticing, 'to tell me that?'

'Yes,' Draco agreed, tilted his head and kissed her. Once he had, he remembered exactly why he'd wanted to. It felt the way a kiss was supposed to feel, when you kissed the person you were supposed to kiss. She'd spoiled him for life.

When be broke away, wishing he didn't have to but also rather needing to breathe, Hermione was looking at him in mild anger and surprise.

'And what exactly do you mean by that?' she demanded. 'After everything you've put me through, do you think you can just - just break into my house and kiss me?'

'Obviously I can,' Draco pointed out. 'I just did.' He smiled as she struggled with the fact that her grammar allowed him to win that round.

She took a deep breath, and put her hands on either side of his face. She touched her forehead to his. 'Draco Black, you have to be the most infuriating boy I've ever had the great fortune to come across. And I want to know if Pansy dared you to kiss me, and told you to beat me up.'

'She did not. Jesus H Christ, I'd never, ever do that,' Draco said in disgust. 'Did Padma dare you?'

'Padma?' Hermione repeated vaguely. 'Oh, Parvati's twin. Draco, I've never spoken to her in my life!'

'So, am I forgiven?' he asked, hope lighting his face.

'In light of the fact that we got our wires severely crossed, it wasn't entirely your fault,' Hermione admitted. 'I don't know if I can get over the fact that you didn't trust me enough to believe me, though.'

'But I did trust you!' Draco blurted. 'It was just, I had to pretend not to, because you had so much power.'

'Me?' Hermione said, looking sceptical. 'What kind of power do I have, pray tell?'

'All of it. Over me,' Draco said, as her hands slipped down to rest on his shoulders. 'You could have hurt me so badly, and - look, I was scared, okay?'

'Cowardice isn't a sin,' Hermione murmured, letting her head fall onto the pillow. 'For what it's worth, I forgive you. You silver-tongued devil.'

'You must be the girl in the song then,' Draco said. 'Did they have a happy ending?'

'No, of course not. Who does? You can't have a happy ending, because there's no such thing as an ending.'

'Good point, well made,' Draco agreed.

He lay down beside her, and she turned her head to look at him. He took one of her hands, and raised it to his face. He looked at the skin; the endless whorls, the deeply engraved lines of her palm, the shell-like texture of her fingernails. She submitted to his scrutiny with a dream-like complacency. She only smiled a little when he pressed his lips to each of his fingers in turn.

'Hermione,' he said, and his matter-of-fact tone jolted her out of her state of near-catatonia, 'I think I'm in love with you.'

Hermione's eyes opened wide in shock. 'You've got a bloody odd way of showing it,' she choked.

He placed his lips to the soft indent where her ear met her jaw, and let his breath sway the fine hairs. She shivered. He rested his lightly curled fist on the warm skin of her stomach, between the hem of her top and her pyjama bottoms. He stretched out his fingers, slowly, feeling the tremors running between them. He paused then, and looked into her face.

'Is this a better way?' he asked, his voice a mere breath of warm air against her hot cheek.

'Yes,' she said, and laughed as his cold, wet feet tangled with hers.

'You tell me what you want,' he said, leaning down to kiss her again. And again.

'We'll tell each other,' she corrected him.

And the moon sank, and the sun rose, and it was a new day.