Asymmetric Perspective

Chapter One: Argot

Goodness knows I saw it coming, or at least I'll claim I did

But in truth I'm lost for words

Birds are not noted for their stunningly high levels of intelligence. The phrase "bird-brained" didn't come into existence because humans were excruciatingly envious of an emu's ability to work out quadratic equations. However, everything is relative and it's a truth universally acknowledged that most of your relatives are stupider than you are. On wading in the gene pool of the two-winged descendants of dinosaurs, it can be said that some birds have, indeed, graduated from doggy-paddle to champion backstroke. Owls are counted among the latter group.

Owls had been chosen aeons before by wizards to be their messengers. This was mainly because magical folk are prey to the same vanities and delusions as those who had to invent reality TV just to produce a decent equivalent to an Imperius. Owls were members of the group of animals perceived by wizards and Muggles alike to be symbols of wisdom. Why this myth made it a "wise" idea to choose them as postmen is one of the quantum leaps of logical idiocy that only humans can achieve.

Ravens would have been a far more sensible choice, especially given their ubiquitous distribution and diurnal habits. However, after the numerous incidents with the eyeballs -- attempts at eating of -- ravens were unceremoniously dropped. Odin may have been on to something with Hughinn and Munnin, but then of course Norwegians will eat anything.

Eagles, after the difficulties experienced in getting them to stop delivering dead mice instead of letters, were also turfed from the 'Possibilities' list.

In place of critical path analysis, birds have homing instincts. Sparrows fly miles and miles in pursuit of the sun and no ornithologist has ever satisfactorily explained why. Perhaps they have holiday nests in Bangladesh. If they do, they aren't sharing their real estate tips with robins.

It only took the concerted efforts of two or three bright wizards to introduce a magical strain to owl genetics which enabled owls to use that same instinct to hone in on the recipients of letter and parcels. Like most very useful discoveries, it was simple. Anyone could have thought of it.

Those who did were all Ravenclaw alumni, which annoyed Slytherins because they were supposed to be the cunning ones. However, there was nothing cunning about seeing the potential in something that was already there.

In terms of the creatures themselves, the Gryffindors would have opted for something grandiose but hopelessly inefficient, like lions.

Hufflepuffs would have preferred an animal that was quite a bit less aloof than owls were and which, perhaps, could be groomed and have ribbons tied around its neck. Fortunately -- or unfortunately, depending on your view -- few people ever listened to Hufflepuffs, much less took notice of their ideas. The majority of Hufflepuffs were born to be the ones who, when great discoveries were unearthed and fantastic innovations developed, made the tea.

If the Slytherins had had their way, massive efforts would have been siphoned into creating an entirely new creature for the purpose -- a terrifying and magnificent snake-shark-Kneazle hybrid, perhaps. With a name like Eructalion.

Only two or three Slytherins in the history of the world ever managed to completely succeed in seeing the potential in what was already there. As a House, they could at times be as flashy and shambolic as Gryffindors with a new cause to burble about.

In any case, it was all bluster on the parts of the other Houses. They were in fact very grateful to be able to correspond with other wizards in such a straightforward manner. The Floo Network and Portkeying were, at the time, primitive mechanisms still in the development stages -- and also the brain-children of Ravenclaws. It took Ravenclaws to be practical enough to do what had to be done.

None of the wizards and witches responsible enjoyed having their eyes sought after as a nutritional delicacy or having deceased rodents dropped into their dinner. This was why, despite the pleasing cognomen and mascot analogies, ravens and eagles were eventually scratched as possible candidates. It was also why, on one winter morning several centuries later, a parliament of owls and not an unkindness of ravens or a convocation of eagles were winging their way to a single destination.

The parliament was treated to an amazing view comprising a vast, iron-grey lake and a forbidding castle. Unfortunately for them, their brains were designed to ignore stunning panoramas and purple-misted vistas in favour of focusing on things like small mammals rustling in the undergrowth, otherwise known as lunch, dinner and tea. This, given all the wonder that spread before them on a regular basis, seemed almost spectacularly unfair. But then again, no one promised that life would be fair. Or even that it would be particularly long.

Of course, Dumbledore had not assumed his Animagus form for years. Of course, he had nothing to with what happened. Of course, if the owl had known the reason behind everything and was in a position to comprehend it, it would have been happy to become a martyr to the cause. Of course.

*~*

"Oi! Boot!"

Terry looked up in annoyance. He was ambushed by the urge to visit cruel and unusual punishment upon someone. To be specific, the person who had decided it was appropriate to call his name in such a casual and, above all, very loud voice. Badinage of any kind was not something from which he gleaned a cosmic amount of joy. Being strong-armed into it in one of the library's inner sanctums was, for him, nothing less than criminally distasteful.

Zacharias Smith was standing before him, hands shoved so deep into his pockets his neck was practically horizontal. He had a supercilious expression on his face. This was nothing new; in fact it was verging on being a default trait, akin to Harry Potter biting his lip or Cho Chang bursting into tears. Terry had long considered that Zacharias' expression was orchestrated by a permanently scrunched-up mouth and having one eyebrow that was higher than the other. Terry wouldn't have been surprised to discover that Zacharias plucked them in order to accomplish this. He was that sort of boy.

"May I help you?" asked Terry. His voice was only a little above a whisper. Terry was a subscriber to the "Learning By Example" school of thought.

Zacharias was clearly not a fellow advocate, for his next words were at an equally strident decibel. "You know French, right?" His manner seemed to suggest that French was a person and one, moreover, for whom Zacharias felt nothing less than the deepest disdain.

"If you mean the written and spoken language, then yes -- I have a working knowledge of it." Terry wiped his quill on his robes. It was a habit to which he'd become accustomed during the difficulties he'd initially experienced when learning how to write with a quill instead of a biro. He wished Zacharias would leave and allow Terry to finish his Arithmancy essay in peace.

Zacharias had always been in the habit of asking pointed questions, as long as Terry had known him. Often they were so pointed it was surprising that they couldn't tear holes in, for example, concrete. The whole concept of tact was one which had bypassed Zacharias entirely, although "taken a ship to the other side of the world and built a ten-foot wall to keep him out" was, in Terry's opinion, a more truthful assessment. All the same, his aggressive delivery of this latest inquiry was nothing short of boggling, given its more or less innocuous nature.

Terry wasn't surprised that Zacharias had come to him for linguistic aid. Terry was considered to be something of a language buff. He was surprised, though, that Zacharias had come to him for linguistic aid.

"You shouldn't do that. Ink stains, you know," announced Zacharias.

Terry gave Zacharias an incredulous look. He decided it was fair to assume that the boy had been dropped on his head repeatedly as a small child. He wondered for a moment what it would be like to live in Zacharias' world. A world where people, having written essays and notes and diary entries and lists and so on for about eleven and a half years, could be unaware of the fact that ink had staining properties.

After Zacharias' fourth outburst, other people in the vicinity were starting to take notice of his presence. As it was a favoured area for Ravenclaws to study, it was usually so quiet one could not only have heard a pin drop, but also the angels dancing on the head of said pin arguing about how many of them could fit if they wanted to launch a conga line. Zacharias didn't seem to notice that he was the beneficiary of several nasty looks, all loaded with the quiet fierceness of ruffled academics. Then again, he was Zacharias Smith. It was quite possible that he was immune to glaring at this point.

"I'm aware of that," replied Terry at last, when it became evident that Zacharias wasn't going to make his departure. On the contrary, he had plonked himself down on a chair which he dragged closer to Terry's table without standing up. The legs made a teeth-clenching squeal as they scraped along the flagstones. Hoping to chivvy Zacharias into going about his business in a speedier manner, Terry prompted, "You wanted to discuss la belle Français, I take it?"

"Yeah, if by that you mean you speak Frog." Zacharias was peeling the feathers away from the rib of Terry's favourite quill. His air of utter unawareness of the offence he was creating made the action all the more heinous. "I want you to translate something into Frog-talk for me."

"I see." Terry was cautious. He found it a wise approach to take with any given human being, particularly those who wanted something from him. Moreover, Zacharias was one of the more explosive individuals Terry had encountered. He ranked up there with Harry Potter, in Terry's estimation. Explosive people required careful handling, as they rarely had a firm grip on their own fuses.

Zacharias rummaged about in the pocket of his robes, depositing string, two marbles, a broken quill-tip and a handful of small change on top of the wet ink of Terry's essay. Terry marvelled at his unconscious audacity. He also just managed not to kill him. At length, Zacharias produced a crumpled bit of parchment, which he thrust at Terry as if it carried something contagious.

Terry himself wasn't sure that it didn't, even though he lacked the innate Hufflepuff loathing for the "disease" of pretentiousness. It was this same loathing that often carried over into their approach to literature, philosophy, pop psychology and their schoolwork or lack thereof. Terry opened it up with the greatest care. He read over the sentence -- which was scrawled in a loopy, messy hand -- and raised his eyebrows.

"May I enquire as to what use you will be putting this -- uh -- translation?"

"Are you saying you can't do it?" Zacharias looked on the point of snatching back his parchment, but Terry held it in his lap, out of reach.

"I didn't say that." Honestly, the boy couldn't be more annoying if he'd taken lessons in irritation at a boot camp. "I am merely intrigued by your plans for the future employment of this phrase."

"Well --" Zacharias wrinkled his brow. What with the uneven eyebrows, he looked like an cross bulldog. "It's for when I'm talking to the Frogs. Obviously. I mean, why else would I need the words in Frog language?"

"Why indeed," murmured Terry. "If you will allow me to be detain you for approximately five minutes, I should be able to come up with a suitable French version."

"Cheers, mate." Zacharias leaned back in his chair and surveyed his surroundings with interest.

After a few moments, Terry realised he'd begun to flick his nails. The tiny sound fell into the silence in a way that recalled that of the first pebbles of a landslide plinking off a sheer cliff-face.

Terry grit his teeth and hurried on with wracking his brains -- the sooner he finished this task, the sooner Zacharias would go away. Then Terry could stop harbouring homicidal thoughts and Stephen's snores would no longer have a rival in the "Most Maddening Sound in the World" stakes.

"With whom will you be conversing?" Terry had it figured out, but he needed to know if the person required the familiar or formal "you".

"What?" Zacharias jumped as if he'd been woken from a daze and simultaneously stung by an irate wasp.

"Who will you be talking to?" repeated Terry with, in the circumstances, canonisation-worthy patience.

Zacharias' face bore an improbable hunted appearance. "Um. Frogs. Frenchies. Like I said."

"And I heard you. However, if they are your friends it will entail a different personal noun than if they are your superiors, or if they are strangers to you."

"Friends with Frogs? Those smelly onion-snoggers?" snorted Zacharias. "Not bloody likely." He caught sight of Terry's astonished face and back-tracked with haste. "Uh. I mean to say. Friends. He -- they're my friends."

"Excellent." Terry was once more lost in the abstract world of memory and knowledge. He didn't let on that he'd noticed Zacharias' gender slip. After all, it would save Terry asking him whether these "friends" were mostly male or mostly female.

Although Zacharias seemed to be rather on edge about something -- and a very sharp, serrated edge at that -- Terry didn't probe. The last thing he wanted was to be brought into the horrid boy's confidence.

There was a moment of blessed calm as Terry wrote the translation on a clean piece of parchment, torn so that the corners were perfect right angles. He pushed it across the table, hoping his script -- which was naturally crabbed and small -- was legible. He wasn't exactly gagging to spend more time in Zacharias' company.

Zacharias read it and mouthed the words to himself. Terry pre-empted his next question by answering it.

"I can write you a phonetic guide as well, if you wish."

"Go on, then." Zacharias sounded relieved. Terry realised he'd inadvertently saved Zacharias from making a fool of himself upon trying to pronounce the translation.

It hadn't been his intention. Given the nature of their conversation and the niggling point that Zacharias was keeping him from his assignment, Terry's thoughts were verging more towards hoping a bookshelf would fall on Zacharias than desiring that he retain his dignity. Still, Terry wasn't cruel by nature and there was nothing wrong with fostering a little goodwill between the Houses, albeit by accident.

Once Terry had added the pronunciation, Zacharias proffered a perfunctory thanks and scuttled off. Terry watched him leave with a thoughtful frown.

Terry was a Ravenclaw. Ravenclaws did not turn away seekers to the fount of knowledge, no matter the circumstances.

He didn't know Zacharias very well. Even at DA meetings, which gave Terry the most contact with him, Terry's attention had been focused on Harry and Hermione because they were the ones to watch in terms of further enlightenment. As far as he could recall, Zacharias had also concentrated solely on Harry, although his aims seemed to be more of the "Let's see how pissed off I can make Harry before he actually explodes" variety.

For all Terry knew, Zacharias could very well be feuding with French people. From what Terry had heard of his opinion of the race, it wasn't too much of a stretch to imagine that Zacharias was quarrelling with a couple of Beauxbatons students. Although Slytherins thought they had written the book on holding grudges, there was nothing in the world as tenacious as a bolshy Hufflepuff.

Besides which, Terry was only nosy when it came to juicy information on thaumatological logarithms or developments in Transfiguration theory. People didn't often catch his interest quite to the same extent.

Therefore, Terry never thought to ask why Zacharias wanted to drop an expression like "Je pense que tu es le plus grand couillon partout dans le monde" into casual conversation.

*~*

"Oi! Boot!"

Terry grit his teeth as he shoved a bookmark into The Effects of Ethnography and Articulation upon the Efficacy of Charm-Related Spell-Casting. He wished he had been sent the memo when it became unpopular to greet people in normal way. For example by saying, "Hello, Terry," as opposed to acting as if they were at some unholy hybrid of punk rock concert and army headquarters instead of a mere school.

He turned to confront the person hailing him and hid his grimace at seeing whom it was. Anthony Goldstein, wearing the smile that never quite reached his eyes, accompanied by Stephen Cornfoot, Snorer Extraordinaire, Kevin Entwhistle, whose hair was green this week and Michael Corner, who was sometimes called Mike by those who wanted a right duffing-up.

"May I help you?" said Terry, the manners which had been drummed into him as a child rising to the fore as they always did when he was feeling frustrated or was interrupted whilst reading. The two events were indistinguishable, after all.

"It's more a case of what we can do for you," said Anthony, dropping on tothe sofa. Kevin and Stephen followed suit, so that Terry was squashed up against the arm. Michael stood behind them, yawning and rubbing his neck.

"Harry said to pass along the message that the DA is starting up again next Saturday afternoon," volunteered Stephen, when it became clear that Anthony was waiting to be flattered into sharing the information. Anthony shot Stephen a glare. Stephen merely scowled back.

Out of all of them, Stephen was the one whom Terry disliked least intensely. Anthony was pure malice wrapped up in a diaphanous outer coating of deceptive charm. Kevin was a large boy who had felt the separation from his rugby ball most keenly when he first arrived at Hogwarts. Terry's head had provided a convenient replacement in the early days. Compared to Anthony, however, he was as soft and cuddly as a marshmallow teddy-bear. Michael was just a flighty, unreliable idiot. Stephen, on the other hand, at least tried to temper his friends' treatment of Terry -- even if he never managed to put himself out to stop them entirely.

"Are you going to attend this time?" asked Terry, choosing his words carefully. These four boys could find innuendo in the word "tomatoes". He made sure not to let them realise that this news wasn't news at all, at least for him.

Harry had never reinstated the DA after its dramatic disbandment during fifth year. Terry gathered that this was because he'd spent sixth year in mourning for Sirius Black, the murderous felon who had turned out to be not a murderous felon after all, but Harry's godfather. Padma had been greatly intrigued by the whole story, but personally Terry thought it wasn't really anyone's business but Harry's. Terry did regret the passing of the DA, which had been an excellent opportunity to hone his Defence skills. His practical magic was all over the place, mainly due to his stage fright.

"Yes, I will." Stephen nodded along with his words, as if he were chatting to a third, invisible person. "Kevin here said he'd come too, didn't you, Kev?"

Kevin ignored the question, instead peering around Stephen to look Terry right in the eyes. Terry shrunk back against the seat, hoping he didn't look too much like the frozen-in-the-lamplight rabbit he felt he was. To be fair, Kevin could demonstrate more violent intent with one palpitating nostril than most hardened criminals could achieve wielding a twelve-inch oak baton with nails in it.

"I don't know why Potter's bothering." Anthony, cheated of an opportunity to torment Terry, was sulking. "Lovebright's a perfectly acceptable teacher, so long as she doesn't talk too much."

"Yes, it's a pity you can't look up Harry's skirt, isn't it?" Stephen rolled his eyes, but Anthony didn't appear to be affronted by his assertion.

From various overheard conversations, Terry knew that Professor Lovebright's charms were a topic of conversation that for them superseded even the "Who We'd Do If We Got The Chance" list -- of which Lovebright was always in the top three. Her hyper demeanour and idiosyncrasies of speech rarely came into the reckoning, because the boys really weren't drafting conversational skills into the ratings.

"I think starting the DA again is a good idea," continued Stephen. Terry silently agreed. "Now's the time to learn some stuff that's not on the syllabus -- hardcore Defence -- before we get out into the real world and have to face down these ruddy Dark Wizards."

The words that lay unspoken dealt with the recent Azkaban breakout; there were now many more Dark Wizards slipping under the radar than at any time since the last war against Voldemort.

Anthony coughed. He managed to fit a leer into it, though. He was a man of many talents. "Oh, I think Lovebright's pretty hardcore," he said.

"No wonder your results are so dire, Anthony. All you do in that class is ogle the professor." Stephen's amusement carried a hint of disapproval.

"And you don't?" Anthony scowled. He hated being brought to task on anything.

"Of course I do." Stephen's voice was even. "What do I look like, a corpse? I don't let it affect my grades, though."

"Bugger off picking on me, Cornfoot," said Anthony, sounding sullen. "Michael's results are the worst of all of us."

"That's true," agreed Stephen, turning around to fix Michael with a hard stare. Anthony did the same. Terry's seating space was severely compromised by these movements; in addition, it drove the spine of his book into his thigh. He compressed his lips and started reciting the twelve uses of dragons' blood in his head. He found it to be an effective method of combating the rage that he so often suffered from, because it usually happened when he was too far away from a handy pillow -- for screaming into.

"What? Did someone say my name?" Michael blinked at them. "Sorry, I was miles away."

"Up Lovebright's skirt," suggested Anthony, his tone arch. The others sniggered .

Michael shook his hair out of his eyes. As it seemed to fall in them no matter what he did to it, the unconscious head-toss had become one of his signature mannerisms. "Hardly," he said, with a sigh in his voice. "She's not my type and I think I'm allergic to her bloody perfume."

"It isn't perfume," Terry couldn't stop himself from volunteering, "it's a Redolence Charm. And you can't be -- allergic to -- Charms --"

His voice trailed away as one blue and three brown pairs of eyes turned to him. Four faces wore identical expressions of shock that would have been well-qualified to compete with that of the Creator's on waking up on the Seventh Day and discovering he'd forgotten the dinosaurs.

"And how on earth did you discover that, Terry?" Stephen's voice was warm and indulgent, as if Terry were a two-year-old presenting him with a full potty.

Terry bristled at the condescension, but they were expecting an answer so there was no time to start listing off "One: is efficacious in the brewing of many potions, Two: has properties akin to ..." in order to achieve inner calm. When he spoke, therefore, his voice was trembling with suppressed outrage. However, as many things -- from being forced to read aloud in class to talking with people he didn't know -- gave Terry's voice a shaky quality, it passed unheeded.

"Perfumes have a tendency to wear off after a very few hours," he explained, fixing his eyes at a spot beside Michael's head so that he wouldn't be further incensed by the amused expression on Stephen's face, or the contemptuous one on Anthony's. Kevin merely looked constipated, but then again he always did. "In addition, the olfactory neurons in the nose accustom us to the scent so that after one second, fifty percent of the smell sensations disappear. However, Professor Lovebright always smells of roses, even at the end of the day. Moreover, if you have occasion to converse with her for a few minutes, you will notice that the somewhat heady attar lingers when it should have diffused."

"I don't suppose she could have, I don't know, topped up on her perfume after every class?" There was something very cold about the challenge that Anthony issued in his question, but Terry knew that he was the one who was right. Secure in that knowledge, he could have faced down lions, tigers and Dark Lords, although possibly not Kevin.

"I assumed that myself, initially." Terry glanced at Anthony's face, clocked the pronounced sneer and looked away again. He noticed that one of the ship's lanterns behind Michael's head had a panel missing. "However, there were other signs, such as the fact that the professor wears a bracelet with a rose quartz bead embedded in it. In and of itself this would be nothing remarkable --" especially given her propensity to wear more bangles than Shiva, Terry added mentally "-- but if you investigate closely, you will see that it contains a faint golden glow -- the hallmarks of a contained Redolence Charm."

"Why the hell do you know so much about perfume, Boot?" Anthony loaded the word "perfume" with several tonnes of disdain. From his attitude one would never guess that he squandered a small fortune in the Magical Scents Emporium every Hogsmeade visit.

It was a source of no little incomprehension to Terry that Anthony -- whose façade of charm was so transparent that it could have been marketed as window-glass -- managed to convince girls to go out with him on what was an almost continuous basis. Squandering a small fortune in the Magical Scents Emporium every Hogsmeade visit was probably a contributing factor.

"Not perfume," corrected Terry with some asperity, "Charms. I did a project last year."

"I don't remember that," said Stephen, frowning.

"It wasn't compulsory." In fact, Professor Flitwick had nearly fainted when Terry had asked if he could do some extra work for his class. Professor McGonagall had been equally surprised -- although less melodramatic -- when Terry had suggested the same for Transfiguration after Christmas. Teaching as a profession seemed to be a haven for cynics and drama queens. Professor Snape, after all, embodied both.

Anthony snorted, loudly, demonstrating his bête-noir of not being the centre of attention. "Well, I've never heard of this -- Rendolence Charm."

"Redolence," amended Terry, and played his trump card. "Professor Lovebright has. She seemed pleased that I'd spotted it when I asked her if that's what it was."

He held his tongue about why he had been talking to her in the first place. It was only due to his overwhelming quest for erudition that he'd managed to summon up the courage to approach someone who dressed so unconventionally, and disconcertingly, in the first place. Unconventional for a witch, anyway. Terry was aware that Lovebright's low-cut, sequinned tops and short frilly skirts could easily pass her off as Muggle indoctrinate of the boho movement, or at the very least a Muggle prostitute.

Of course, Terry got equally flustered when it came to sharing dormitory-space with four other boys who walked around half-naked with nary a blush. Any exposed skin at all perturbed him.

No, it was Lovebright's manner -- effervescent in the manner of a too-much-shaken bottle of Butterbeer -- that unnerved him more. However, he knew from close observation that Lovebright was actually a very kind sort of person. That was why he'd felt no compunction about asking her to supply him with an extra Defence Against the Dark Arts assignment to cover him until Christmas.

The surprising thing was that she was not surprised by his request. The other surprising thing was that she'd refused to comply with it.

"You don't seem to, like, socialise much, Terry," she'd said, her glittery mouth curving into a smile that seemed almost sad. "I reckon you totally need to get a hobby. Join the Charms Club, maybe. Filius told me that you were OH MY GOD, his best student! With Hermione Granger, natch."

Terry had remained silent. The Charms Club centred around the finding and practising of Charms on other people. While he would have loved to dip into the combined knowledge the members brought together, his stomach squirmed at the thought of having to get up in front of a crowd of people to tell them about the new Charms he'd turned up, or of demonstrating them.

Lovebright had seemed to realise that if she continued in this vein she'd soon be conversing with herself. "I think that Harry Potter is planning to start up his little vigilante group again. OH MY GOD, not vigilante. I mean, like, the Practical Defence Army thingummy. You know?"

"Dumbledore's Army?" Terry had said, privately wondering if Lovebright's "vigilante" comment had been a Freudian slip or not.

"The very one!" Lovebright had beamed, displaying a bright row of teeth, all of which -- against nature -- seemed to be the same size. "Alby -- OH MY GOD, Professor Dumbledore! -- said that Harry had come to him to have a talk about it. If he does, you should totally join!"

"I was in the first one." Terry had felt moved to inform her of this. Admittedly, the first few times his stomach had turned to an ice floe, complete with Emperor penguins and ozone-depletion-melt, on entering the Room of Requirement. Fortunately, it soon became clear that Harry was going to operate things on a classroom-like basis. This, while still nerve-wracking, was at least familiar.

"That's good!" Lovebright had a very searching gaze, Terry found. It was quite a lot like Kevin's, although it lacked the latter's bowel-loosening qualities. "You know, Terry ... not everything worth knowing is, like, found in a book."

"Yes, I know." Before Terry could help himself, he had opened his mouth again. When it came out, his voice was very dry indeed. "I hear sex only really works with at least one other person."

"OH MY GOD, you cheeky thing!" Far from looking offended by his comment, Lovebright had appeared almost proud -- or something. Terry wasn't very adept at reading people; their emotions and desires were, aha, a closed book to him. "Well, I think you should make your project this term something totally different. Like getting a girlfriend, maybe?"

Terry had no idea what his face had looked like at her suggestion. However, it could not have borne an expression that showed a immeasurable quantity of delight at the thought, given her hasty volte-face.

"Eh, well, perhaps that's out of my capacity," Lovebright had added. "Still, you'll totally ace anything you put your mind to."

Terry was doubtful of that. He hadn't yet mastered the walking on water thing.

She'd patted him on the shoulder -- a maternal gesture, from the look on her face, although Anthony would almost certainly have construed it otherwise. Terry'd noticed the bauble on her wrist, an illustration of which he'd come across in a dull treatise on Charms the year before. That was when he'd asked her if she used the Redolence Charm and, when she'd affirmed it, got into a discussion with her about its properties.

Not that he'd let on to Anthony in a million years, but he'd designed a citrus one for himself. It was tied to a strip of leather around his neck, under a t-shirt which was only ever removed when there was a locked bathroom door behind him.

Which brought them up to the present time and Anthony's half-disdainful, half-wildly-jealous stare. He'd never managed to hold a conversation with Lovebright that went beyond "What does this mean?" This was yet more evidence of her intelligence, in Terry's opinion -- that she didn't supply Anthony with an opening to ply her with sly comments overflowing with more double entendres than a flooded cocktail bar.

"This is bloody pointless," announced Michael, startling all of them. His hair fell in his eyes again and he rubbed it away with an impatient motion. "Whatever the bloody hell smell she's got on, it's bloody nauseating. I'm going to bed."

"What's wrong with you?" scoffed Anthony. "Got your period or something?"

Michael's eyes narrowed to slits. Stephen made to say something but before he completed the articulation, Michael had turned around in a flurry of robes and slammed his way into the dormitory.

"Bet he's just pissy because Hannah broke it off with him," said Anthony, not bothering to lower his voice. Several faces in the common room turned to regard him in curiosity. At this, Stephen frowned and made shushing movements with his hands. Anthony rolled his eyes. He did it so often it was a wonder they didn't rotate right out of their sockets.

When everyone else had lost interest -- and, given that they were Ravenclaws in a common room well-stocked with books, it didn't take long -- Stephen leaned across to Anthony.

Terry had little to no interest in his classmates' turbulent love-lives, but he was well and truly wedged into the corner of the sofa. Moving would create quite the disturbance. Besides, it was ten o'clock; Padma wouldn't be back from patrolling for a while. Terry had finished his homework and for once had no extra study to be getting on with. There was nowhere else to go except into a dormitory with Michael, who was acting like a bear with a sore head, a hangover and veruccas tonight. Terry could think of more appealing alternatives -- such as a yurt in the Andes.

"If you can manage to say it without broadcasting it to Timbuktu -- what happened with Michael and Hannah?" asked Stephen. Kevin, for a change from gazing into the middle distance or glowering at Terry, cracked his knuckles.

"What do you think happened?" Anthony was bored. A bored Anthony meant an extra-concentrated-malicious, no-added-sugar Anthony. "They had a big argument, in the Entrance Hall no less because darling Michael does have this penchant for staging and she called him -- what was it? Oh, yes -- a flaming idiot. Vastly original, of course, but that's Hufflepuffs for you."

"How long were they going out, again?" said Stephen. "Oh, about a month, was it?"

"Yes." Anthony yawned and stretched his long legs, almost toppling a small mahogany occasional table piled high with dusty textbooks. "They bonded over a game of Exploding Snap on the Hogwarts Express, apparently. Such uncommonly high standards does our Michael have."

"Hannah's quite pretty," offered Kevin, using up one of his five daily comment slots.

"Looks aren't everything," said Anthony, a boy whose "No dogs or Irish" rule was infamous.

"No, it's the only thing," Stephen said, punching his friend in the arm. He was one of the very few people who could insult Anthony and not wake up the next morning with his balls hexed blue and green. "Speaking of girlfriends or lack thereof, what's happening with you and Mandy, my son?"

Anthony grimaced. "She's not speaking to me. I forgot some piddling anniversary and she blew a fuse."

Stephen looked confused. "I thought you only got back together last week?"

"Yes, but Tuesday was the anniversary of our first -- look, girls have elephantine memories for crap, all right?"

"Terry doesn't seem to encounter much trouble with them," said Stephen. Terry -- who'd been lulled into a stupor by the warmth of the fire and the asinine conversation going on around him -- jerked into full, wary consciousness.

"What do you mean by that? I don't have a girlfriend," he pointed out.

"Yes, but you are best friends with a girl," said Stephen. "Or has Padma slipped your memory?"

"That's an entirely different scenario." Terry was dismissive.

Anthony regarded him with over-bright eyes. "So you've never felt the urge to -- you know?" He described some suggestive motions in the air with his hands.

Terry was tempted to say, "No, we don't go rowing together, actually," but resisted the urge. He wasn't going to give Anthony the satisfaction of a defensive denial. The only truthful answer to Anthony's intrusive question was "Yes" and he didn't care to have Anthony know that. Nor did he want Anthony to guess just how awkward and unpleasant those fourth-year experiments had been for both of them, how it had nearly destroyed their friendship. Or how relieved Terry had felt when Padma had decided that their relationship wasn't designed to be anything more than platonic.

"Come off it, Anthony," scoffed Stephen. "I'm sure if Terry had got his act together, we'd've been the first to know -- right, Terry?"

"Ri-ght." Terry, not for the first time, was grateful that Stephen was so utterly impervious to sarcasm. He was insulted by the way Stephen just assumed Terry was too slow off the mark to ask Padma out, but at least it was better than the other option.

At that moment, some of the Ravenclaw seventh year girls entered the common room from outside. They were shepherded in by a frowning Padma. Seventh years had an extended curfew to ten o'clock, but it was surely half after now. Mandy and Lisa had always been notoriously bad time-keepers, however. At the sight of his would-be girlfriend, Anthony's face lit up. She merely sent him a look that would have curdled milk from fifty yards and reduced the cow to a singed carcass, and swept to a wing-seat by the fire.

"Go and talk to her, moron," hissed Stephen, standing up. "I'll come with you -- for some moral support."

"To chat up Lisa, you mean," retorted Anthony, but he did as he was bid all the same. The three boys left without so much as a "Good night" in Terry's direction. It didn't bother him; he was used to it.

"God, I'm exhausted, Terry," groaned Padma, sinking on to the sofa beside Terry and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Why, what happened?" Terry was sympathetic.

He began to stroke her hair, which she always found relaxing. He looked up and caught Anthony's eye. It sported a calculating gleam, which was not reassuring in the least. After all, Anthony could make a smile look like an invitation to murder. Terry looked away and focused on Padma's tale, which centred on some boisterous second-years, a Fanged Frisbee and what was now a decapitated suit of armour.

"Perhaps you should go to bed?" suggested Terry. "A good night's sleep will be highly beneficial for your stress levels. I know you've been up late studying this past week."

"Yes, but we've got that Transfig test coming up," fretted Padma. "I want to do well -- McGonagall threatened to throw us out if we get below an Acceptable, you know!"

Terry declined to mention that he'd attended the class too, or the fact that Padma had never scored below an Acceptable in her life. Instead, he offered, "I could prep you on it tomorrow night. I covered Colour and Texture theory last year when I did that supplementary research."

"Oh, would you?" Padma sighed in relief. "You are such a darling, Terry Boot. Or a saint. One or the other."

Terry shook his head, raising his gaze to the ceiling. Padma had always been prone to hyperbolism -- one of the few things she shared with her twin sister.

"Right, then," decided Padma. "I'll go to bed. You should go too; you look wiped out."

"Oh, thanks," said Terry, making a face at being compared to a dishcloth or its ken. Padma just dug him in the arm and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"Night, Terry. See you in the morning," she sang out as she headed for the girls' dormitories.

"Good night, Padma," replied Terry, retrieving his book from where it had burrowed down between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. For the first time that evening he had a chance to read more than four sentences together. Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

People often claim that they get an odd feeling when someone is staring at them; a prickling, it is said, across the back of the neck. This is nothing but superstition. However, wizards have more acute sensory perceptions than Muggles, as a result of the heightened awareness that magic supplies. Terry -- like all witches and wizards -- could always sense when there were other people in the room, even with his eyes closed. It had to do with the disruption of air molecules, the intensity of emotion that all humans felt every single second of every day -- and the magical ability to pick up on both.

Terry knew that someone was staring at him, not as a result of a prickly neck, but because with his mind in the concentrated state required for reading, he could feel an antipathy directed solely towards him. He didn't even have to look up to realise that Anthony was sneering hatefully at him. Due to Terry's own intuition, he realised that it probably had to do with Padma's tactile behaviour towards him when Anthony's girlfriend had yet to even speak to him.

Deciding that if Michael was in a mood he might already have gone to sleep, Terry took the chance and went to bed as Padma had proposed.

*~*

In an Unplottable location somewhere in the Northern fens, a door opened.

Doors opened across Britain all of the time; but only the very foolhardy or those with a special dispensation would have dared to open this one when not invited to do so.

The person opening the door at the present moment was neither foolhardy nor possessing of a special dispensation. He was, however, an ornithological expert and moreover not a bad hand at Legilimency. It was for these reasons that he was not reduced to a heap of smouldering ashes at uttering the words, "Yeah? I take it you wanted something?"

"What. Happened?"

The anger of a thousand prodded scorpions, a hundred bullied victims, fifty spoiled children was condensed into those two words. The door-opener did not appear in the least moved by them. This was because he was the scorpion tamer, the bully and the smacker of spoiled children. And because he had the hide of a rhinoceros.

"I am not yet sure. I have several possibilities on file but none of them correspond exactly with the circumstances. I will need further time to conduct investigations --"

"I have no time for your investigations," spat the other voice. "Just -- repeat the exercise. Successfully, I suggest."

"Right-o," said the door-opener, the scorpion tamer, the bully and the smacker of spoiled children. He whistled on his way out, and failed to close the door properly. Air currents made the lock rattle long after he was gone.

The prodded scorpion, the bullied victim and the spoiled child sat in his chair and brooded. He did not close the door. That was for door-openers to do.

*~*

The deep blue curtains were rammed shut around Michael's bed, so Terry had high hopes that he was in fact asleep. It wasn't that he resented Michael any more than the rest of the boys. It was just that having the pleasure of a dormitory that was -- for all intents and purposes -- empty was one to be seized as if it were the last copy of a rare first edition and enjoyed to the fullest.

He saw no need to perform contortionist tricks to get changed under his dressing gown, as he did every other day. Disrobing in the bathroom was his preferred option, but with five boys competing for the use of the shower, bath, sink or toilet at the same time, it wasn't a particularly viable one. Nor was trying to struggle into or out of his robes under the bedclothes, at least not since he'd had a growth spurt.

No; with Kevin, Stephen and Anthony otherwise occupied for at least the next hour and Michael ensconced in his own bed, Terry -- for once -- could get into his pyjamas in a normal way. That was, by divesting himself entirely of one layer of clothing and replacing it with another.

He was standing in his pyjama bottoms and tugging off the t-shirt he wore, for warmth and modesty, under his robes when a lock snicked. Terry froze, his t-shirt pulled up by the hem as far as his neck. With an effort, he directed his eyes towards the betraying bathroom door. As he feared, it was being pulled open -- and by who else than Michael, whom Terry had so foolishly assumed to be fast asleep in bed? Why hadn't he checked? Why hadn't he tried going into the bathroom first to change, for safety?

Why did all of this bother him so much?

Terry's hands were still crossed over his shoulders, making him look as if he was about to break into a spot of set dancing, when Michael shambled out of the bathroom. He was wearing pyjamas too, or at least what passed for pyjamas in Michael's universe -- grey boxers and a midnight blue dressing gown, which was untied and flapping about his knees. He caught sight of Terry, whose face felt like someone had poured oil all over it -- that would be the nervous sweat -- and then set it alight with the blush that was threatening a coup for the dictatorship of Terry's entire epidermis. Michael's eyes widened.

"Wotcher, Terry," was all he said, however. His words unlocked something that had previously been clenched shut and Terry ripped his t-shirt over his head, turning his back on Michael to pick up his pyjama shirt. The amber bead containing the Redolence Charm knocked against his collarbones.

At all costs he must hide his embarrassment from Michael. His dorm-mates knew he had odd habits when it came to dressing, but he'd let them assume it was because he was shy, not because of -- whatever it was that had made him come over all funny like he just had. If Michael found out, he would tell Anthony and Anthony would tell the whole school, and --

-- and Michael was standing by Terry's bed, leaning against the post as if he hadn't a care in the world.

And he probably didn't, at that, Terry thought furiously, his shirt slipping from suddenly numb and nerveless fingers.

"I was wondering, actually," said Michael, jerking his head to toss his hair out of his eyes. Terry decided -- uncharitable in his discomfiture -- that it was a gesture which made him look rather like a rabid horse. "I was wondering, d'you know the German word for 'bloody idiot'?"

"Dummer Tor," translated Terry automatically. His mental dictionary was still functioning even though he was standing there with no shirt on and Michael was standing across from him with no shirt on and Terry felt cold and hot at the same time and Michael's nipples were brown but Terry's, Terry's were pink --

"No, that's not it," Michael was mumbling. "She used English for that anyhow ... what about 'plonker'?"

"Uh -- dussel." Terry's reaction time was slower because Michael was scratching his stomach while lost in thought and the movement was, for some reason, adversely affecting Terry's rational brain.

"Nope, nope. 'Tosser'?"

Terry swallowed, trying to summon up some saliva for his dry mouth.. African droughts had nothing on it. "Wichser," he croaked.

Michael looked pleased. "Yeah, that's the one." He shook his hair out of his eyes. "Hannah," he confided. "Swears in German the whole bloody time because she thinks it's rude to do it in English and her grandma's German. So -- she called me a tosser and a bit of an idiot." He grinned at Terry. His bad humour from earlier in the evening seemed to have dissipated.

"Um. Really?" Terry tried. He was battling with an insane urge to cross his arms across himself, but he realised how unspeakably wet that would look.

"I've had worse," sighed Michael. "Still, she tended to waffle on a bit, even if she was an all right kisser. I'm well shot of her, to be bloody honest."

"That's -- great." Terry wished Michael would bugger off with his emotional angst and leave Terry to put on a shirt. And get the image of a shirtless Michael out of his head. He also wanted to ask Michael how he failed to die of frostbite during the freezing winter nights, but that would have brought attention to the fact that Terry had noticed Michael's severe lack of clothing.

Terry's head was whirling. His temples throbbed. He felt like he was going mad.

"Right. Well, I'm off to bed. G'night, Terry," said Michael. "Oh -- nice necklace, by the way." He winked at Terry and flapped away to his bed.

Terry crawled on to his own bed and tried to calm his racing heart. Why on earth had Michael decided to talk to him, after years of almost complete silence? Well, he had wanted German translations, his common sense pointed out.

That made two in one day. Why oh why did Michael have to ask for them just then? Why could not some random vagary of fate have kept him in the bathroom for just two minutes longer? Then Terry would have been decently garbed when Michael strolled over with his requests and Terry would have been able to ignore Michael's semi-naked appearance, just like every other time.

Terry groaned and punched his pillow. Two beds down, he heard Michael's voice whispering a Silencing Charm, which could only mean one thing.

Terry was never going to be able to sleep again.

*~*

Terry had not had much occasion in his life to make solemn vows.

There'd been the Wardrobe Incident during which a six-year-old playmate of Terry's sister had dragged an eight-year-old Terry into a wardrobe and "married" him. She had made use of such coercion tactics as were available to her in light of his Action Man's kidnapping. Then, he'd had to solemnly swear to "love, honour and opley" her and endure a hideous sloppy kiss which still traumatised him.

There'd also been the time in first year when he'd pledged never to bring himself to Kevin's direct attention again if he could possibly help it. That vow he'd stuck to with a fervour that would have put Islamic fundamentalists to shame.

On the day after his impromptu tutoring of both Zacharias and Michael, he made two.

Despite a restless night -- during which his stubborn body informed him that the air was positively gelid but his brain insisted that he was hot and fevered and kick off the blankets, god damn it! -- Terry awoke early. He didn't feel in the least refreshed. The snatches of dreams that he could recall were lurid, coruscating things which left him with a residual sense of unease.

He was certain that there was no way in which you could hear skin, but overnight he seemed to have picked up the idea that this was the case.

Deep breathing was coming from three beds and grunting snores from the forth. Stephen's snoring put Terry in mind of the mating call of a Flobberworm with laryngitis -- he had had countless chances to study the sound over the years. It greeted him almost every morning, a less melodious alternative to the dawn chorus. Not that Terry had faced the dawn with anything except the visage of slumber for many a year; like most Ravenclaws, he was a night owl.

Terry snatched clean robes and underwear from his trunk, but not before wrapping his dressing-gown almost twice around himself. As the bathroom door locked with a satisfying click, Terry made his first vow: no matter the circumstances, he was not changing in the dormitory again. He wasn't running the risk of rehashing the previous night's severe mortification, even if it meant he had to get up at five in the morning and go to bed at two.

He set his wand to a five-minute shower alarm and took off his Redolence Charm. The thong was leather and he didn't want to get it wet. Just as he made to step into the shower, he heard the rustling of sheets emanating from the dormitory. In his haste to perform his ablutions before the other boys started beating the door down, he slipped on the slick tiles and came within two and a half inches of cracking his head open.

His wash bore the same relation to cleansing that pterodactyls did to door-to-door insurance salesmen, but Terry was in too much of a rush to care. He exited the steaming bathroom with his curls heavy with water and his robes sticking to his damp skin, but comforted by the fact that his plan had succeeded thus far.

Terry wrung the worst of the wet out of his hair and laid his towel neatly over his trunk for the house elves to collect. As he rummaged in his bookshelf -- every Ravenclaw had a personal one -- for his texts, Anthony shoved past, his robes only part-way closed. Terry averted his eyes in hopes of sparing himself the reactionary blush.

Anthony was muttering something about being in a hurry and meeting Mandy for breakfast. Terry wondered how the two statements could be related; Anthony would be lucky if Mandy arrived before the toast had gone stone cold and the sausages congealed.

With a thrill of white-hot fear that rocketed straight to the pit of his belly, Terry became aware that his Redolence Charm was no longer around his neck. There was that unmistakable, horrible perception that something was gone that should be present. Shuddering, he realised that the worst was yet to come. Anthony, pulling his robes straight, was making a beeline for the bathroom and there was no way in hell, heaven or a hospital waiting room that Terry could get there before him. Even if he did manage it, there'd be a hue and cry against him for daring to hog the bathroom twice during the busy pre-breakfast period.

His heart thumping in anguish, Terry clenched his fists and tried to resign himself to the loss of the Charm. Two weeks' work down the drain, not to mention that the amber bead had been a gift from Professor Lovebright. He wouldn't be able to lay his hands on another at least until the next Hogsmeade visit and maybe not even then. Raw, semi-precious stones were not exactly in demand amongst a remote wizarding community.

At best, Anthony would find the charm and ask who it belonged to, whilst laughing at the shameful vanity of it all. Then Terry would have to keep mum and Anthony would probably chuck it out.

At worst ... at worst, Anthony would recognise it for what it was, confront Terry and use the new, added leverage to make Terry's life hell or something like it -- a hospital waiting room sprung to mind -- for the next week or so.

Anthony wasn't stupid. He could be thoughtless and unobservant, though. Terry was banking on that, combined with his focus on his impending "date" with Mandy, to prevent him from noticing the Charm. Even though because Terry had recklessly, so recklessly, left it right on the edge of the sink, that was a slim, verging on anorexic, chance at best.

Either way, if Terry was to retain any hope of retrieving it, he'd have to stay put for the moment. Training his eyes on the neat lines of titles on the bookshelf before him, Terry blocked out the snappish exchanges of conversation between his dorm-mates, none of whom were morning people. This personality trait combined with chronic late nights went fist in gut rather than hand in hand.

Kevin was still asleep. He rarely made it up in time for breakfast, subsisting instead on his seemingly perpetual supply of Honeyduke's chocolate until he struggled to lunch. This also tended to consist of things that were too sugary and chocolate-dominated to be considered as "nourishing food," at least not when "hark at the toll of clanging arteries" could be used instead.

Terry felt his gut coiling in a most unpleasant and cobra-like manner as Anthony clattered out of the bathroom. He didn't have a word to throw a dog -- not even Terry. He jerked his head at Stephen, who was pulling on his shoes in between jaw-cracking yawns. Within seconds both of them had left, leaving the door banging in the wind. Asking Anthony if he had been born in a barn was a useless method of getting him to close doors behind him; he always shot back the retort that no, he'd been born in a hospital with swinging doors.

Terry decided right then that there had to be a god after all. The continued existence of Kevin and boiled cabbage had given him some doubts on that score. Not only had Anthony not brought Terry to heel for what he'd term "pansy habits" -- these encompassed everything from piercings to wearing the colour purple to having a funny squint -- he didn't even appear to have noticed the Charm.

The adrenaline draining away, Terry rejoiced and closed his satchel. As he made to dash for the bathroom, however, he was halted by the sight of something unexpected. Or rather, someone unexpected.

To be precise, Michael.

Inside his head, Terry cursed. Why was he always leaving Michael out of his calculations? Even though he was undeniably a bit of an idiot, he was a bit of an idiot by Ravenclaw standards, which made him approximately a bit of a wunderkind from anywhere else.

Michael had a very odd method of dressing himself, Terry noticed quite against his will. Michael was perched on the edge of his bed, absorbed in pulling on a sock. His other foot was already shod. Imagine sitting in your boxers putting on your shoes before your robes, even!

For some reason, this made Terry angry. He couldn't bring himself to saunter into the bathroom to fetch his Charm with the other boy there, even though Michael had got a front-row view of it the night before and hadn't slated him for it then. For either the same, unspecified reason or another one -- also unspecified -- this incapacity incensed Terry even more.

"Oh, Boot," yawned Michael, hopping to his feet and taking his weight off the one which only sported a sock. This gave him the lopsided appearance made popular by the Hunchback of Notre Dame. "Found this in the bathroom. It's yours, I think."

Terry couldn't speak -- could barely breathe -- as Michael lurched forward, using only the toes of his sock-less foot to walk. It made sense to do that in small, limited terms, as the flagstones were achingly cold. If that was so, however, why was Michael wandering about in only his boxers? Why didn't he put both his shoes on instead of one sock, one shoe, one sock, one shoe? Terry's logical side was both perplexed and enraged by these questions, which his brain was shooting out at a rate of Gordian knots.

Michael came to a halt a foot or so away from Terry and dangled the Redolence Charm between his fingers. When Terry made no move to retrieve it -- Michael, of course, couldn't know that Terry had as little control over his appendages as did a man with a giant grasshopper on a lead -- he grabbed Terry's wrist and trickled the leather strap into it, bead first.

Some of the electric jolts resulting from this unwanted, unpleasant contact must have hotwired Terry's brain, for his voice finally decided to re-enter the realm of rational thought. "Thanks," he managed. Emboldened by his success, he added, "I thought -- Anthony --"

"No, I was in there after you." Michael flashed him a brief smile. If the secret to Anthony's success with girls was squandering a small fortune in the Magical Scents Emporium every Hogsmeade visit, then Michael's must be his smile, Terry decided. His mind seemed to have turned to soup; chicken and vegetable, probably, with mushy bits of thought bobbing to the surface every now and then.

"Needed a bloody piss, even Anthony can't argue with that." Michael was full of enlightenment; for once, Terry was chary of lapping it up.

"Ah." Terry nodded, as if this would somehow make him seem witty and winning in the way his conversational skills most emphatically did not.

"That charm's pretty nifty, I must say." Michael flipped his hair out of his eyes. "Citrus, is it? Nice. Better than Lovebright's bloody roses, anyway. I must get you to show it to me sometime."

"Sure," gasped Terry. "Although I believe Professor Lovebright herself -- there's a fine explanation in -- class, must go. Breakfast."

He turned and nearly tripped over his satchel. He snatched it up and hurried to the door.

"Terry?" Michael sounded amused. "Were you planning to finish any of those sentences?"

Terry thought about it.

"No," he said, and fled.

*~*

Anthony looked like a child whose lollipop had been used for testing toxic waste and then handed back to him. Mandy was nowhere in sight, which Terry guessed was the root and cause -- or the impacting air molecules -- of his thunderous expression. Terry didn't want to be anywhere nearby when that particular storm broke, so he took a seat at the end of the table that was closest to the door.

It had the added advantage of being within spitting distance of an escape route, even if he did have to put up with the high-pitched prattling of the first-years whose usual quarter it was. They shot him curious looks, but just seemed to assume that he was carrying out some kind of survey on sound waves in different parts of the room or something. That was the sort of thing Ravenclaws did in their spare time. It was also a useful means of explaining away the multitudinous eccentricities of the House members.

As a result, Terry was well-placed to overhear the exchange that caused him to undertake his second vow in as many hours.

The hum of familiar voices was enough to make him look up from the task his buttering his toast to an even consistency. Harry and Ron Weasley were walking through the door, dissecting Quidditch.

Or at least, Terry imagined that was what they were discussing. He didn't suppose either of them would look so benevolent if they were talking about Ron's massive, embarrassingly obvious crush on Hermione Granger, or Harry's associations with Voldemort. As far as Terry was concerned, those three subjects were the only ones they had to talk about, given the glazed sheen that had come over Ron's eyes the one time Terry had publicly put forth his own opinions on the links between complex Transfiguration and Apparating. At least Ron's palpable lack of interest had spared Terry having to expound further before an audience, albeit of half-a-dozen chatting DA members.

Caught up in observing them, as Padma and Anthony were not around -- the former to distract him from and the latter to reprimand him for it -- Terry noticed just how skinny Harry had become lately. He'd never been well-fleshed, but now he was positively cadaverous. His eyes were huge in his drawn face and the smile that stretched his hollow cheeks looked more like a skeleton's rictus.

All the same, he seemed cheery enough, although Terry had to suppress an urge to stuff his neatly cut toast into Harry's mouth. Ron had clearly said something that passed for amusing in the mind of a Gryffindor and he, too, looked pleased at making his friend laugh. Terry thought that Harry probably didn't do that as often as he should.

Reflecting after the event, Terry came to the conclusion that there was most likely a lot more bad blood between Harry and Zacharias than he'd hitherto realised. Terry based his hypothesis on the expression that came across Harry's face at the Hufflepuff's approach. Granted, a grinning and smug-looking Zacharias would have been enough to raise anyone's hackles, but Harry had looked almost -- grim. As if he were aware that Zacharias had not come to throw down the gauntlet, but to remind him that the gauntlet had been gathering dust on the ground between them for a long, long time.

Later, Padma informed him that she'd heard from Parvati that Harry and Zacharias had crossed swords numerous times before in their combined NEWTs Transfiguration class, which Terry appropriated as further proof.

Zacharias addressed something to Harry. Terry wasn't quite certain what he said. The clatter of hundreds of students applying themselves to their morning meal with gusto was more like a foreground event than a background noise. However, the sneers on both their faces, their undisguised malignity for each other and most of all Harry's radiating enmity -- something Terry had never seen him exude for anyone bar Draco Malfoy -- caught Terry's attention. Hermione, who had trotted in the door at that moment laden down with books, also seemed to have registered it. Her face turned an unappetising shade of milk-white and she hurried over, bushy hair streaming out behind her due to extreme velocity.

"Harry, don't --" Terry heard her warn.

It was too late; even Terry, sitting removed and ignorant of the real situation, realised that. Harry's face had a twisted cast to it that suggested it wasn't going to un-twist until he'd done -- or at least promised to do -- something nasty through the business end of his wand.

" -- je pense que tu es le plus grand couillon partout dans le monde."

Terry's heart sank like a stone that had encountered terminal issues with gravity. Some uncouth part of his brain was moaning, "Ooh, shit." Terry hadn't thought that Zacharias had wanted to call someone a dickhead in any sort of friendly fashion, even to the naturally rude French. But to use it against Harry Potter in the Great Hall ... and it was Terry's fault! Not only that, the only other French-speaker in Harry's year -- Hermione -- would never in a million light-years have tendered that phrase so carelessly, so everyone would know where to lay the blame.

Terry chanced a look at Hermione. Both Ron and Harry seemed to realise that Zacharias had said something insulting -- perhaps more because of the way he said it than because of an innate understanding of French -- but only Hermione would know what it was exactly.

Her face was a picture -- of the sort produced by people in art therapy dealing with their massive rage problems. She looked quite ready to haul off and smack Zacharias in his smirking mug and Terry was pretty sure that she would have done it, too, if it weren't for what happened next.

Terry was sitting at an angle that presented him with an almost perfect view of both Harry and Zacharias' faces as Harry stepped in close to the other boy. The people sitting near Terry were looking around in mild fascination, mostly because anything concerning Harry Potter was certain to tender at least minimum entertainment value.

Terry spared a glance for his contemporaries on the other tables. Zacharias' group of friends, among whom Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley were the most prominent, were watching him with weary expressions. On the Gryffindor table, Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas were standing up to get a better look. Of the Slytherins, only Draco deigned to show an interest and that was because he seemed to regard Harry as a cross between his mortal enemy and a mobile piñata.

At first they seemed to intend only to engage in a fierce, if immature, staring contest. Terry thought Zacharias might very well win that one. Harry was not used to keeping his emotions in check, whereas Zacharias' unremitting expression of superiority gave nothing away.

Whether or not Harry realised his disadvantage Terry didn't know, but he doubted it. He also doubted that Harry had planned to say what he did, but that was because Harry's greatest failing was an inability to think ahead. In this case it had no more dire consequences than making a greater adversary of Zacharias than he already was, but all the same the principle of the thing endured.

Harry's voice was low, but it carried far enough. Terry was certain his own shock was mirrored on Hermione's face, but for different reasons.

After all, Harry hadn't come to him -- so how had he found out?

"Zacharias," said Harry, enunciating every syllable as though measuring the one-word horsepower of vitriol, "putain de merde."

A low sigh swept across the considerable number of listeners. There was, after all, something universal about real, down-low-and-dirty swearing that defied the need for translation. Hermione now looked like she wanted to slap Harry.

"Harry?" came Ron's hesitant voice. "What -- what did you just say?"

"Me?" Harry seemed to snap out of trance. He turned his back on Zacharias as if he were a stranger he had passed on the street. "Just giving some friendly advice."

"Harry Potter!" spluttered Hermione. "How on earth did you know --"

That was precisely what Terry desired to find out, but between Zacharias turning on his heel and storming off and a flock of noisy third-year Hufflepuffs thronging through the door, the end of her question and the answer to it were obscured by inane babble.

"Holy hell, what was that?" Anthony sounded disapproving.

Terry closed his eyes and thought about dragons' blood. However, the only use he could come up with was "is highly inflammatory" and he wasn't even sure if that were a use -- it sounded more like a property and, moreover, one that didn't apply to dragons' blood at all.

"I think Zacharias and Harry had a slanging match. In -- French," he mumbled.

"I caught the tail-end. Did you orchestrate it?" Michael's voice was brimming with laughter. Terry looked down and realised his fist was planted in the middle of his buttered toast. With distaste he noticed his sticky fingers, to which crumbs were now, in essence, glued.

Funny, he didn't even remember his hand jerking.

"You are the only one who knows French." Anthony sounded like he'd swallowed nails. Michael's amusement at the episode seemed to have gone down as well with him as a sackful of them.

"Well, Zacharias did request that I execute some translations for him," muttered Terry, wondering why his heartbeat had suddenly picked up pace. It appeared to have decided that Terry was hanging upside down from a broom twenty feet in the air -- as had happened in first year -- and reacted accordingly.

"Ha! Brilliant," approved Michael, clapping Terry on the back and moving down the table to fetch some porridge.

Terry's skin felt like it was on fire.

He looked up into Anthony's narrowed eyes and felt much like a small insignificant planet might when faced with a whopping meteorite winging through deep space like a bat out of hell. Or a hospital waiting room.

"Perhaps," said Anthony, "you might consider not sharing everything you know, in future."

Terry mumbled something that could be taken as acquiescence or a stomach complaint. Anthony seemed satisfied, because he turned away and spotted his tardy girlfriend.

Loath as he was to take on board anything Anthony said, Terry felt that the alternative was to pour nitric oxide on the decks. He made his second vow.

~TBC~