Asymmetric Perspective

Chapter Two: Malice Aforethought

There's a little bit of devil in me I confess

Because you want to pick on me and not the rest

Terry was observing himself from an objective standpoint. It happened to be a foot away from the rust-spotted, toothpaste-splashed mirror in the Ravenclaw boys' dormitory bathroom.

He didn't often get the chance to indulge in an extensive bout of self-study. The bathroom, on weekday mornings, made Christmas Eve on Oxford Street look tame and civilised by comparison. With a little prior organisation, the whole ablutions routine could have run like clockwork, but that would have required the boys -- and Ravenclaws in general -- to abide by what clocks said. They were inclined to disbelieve them on principle; countless mornings in Terry's dormitory had been greeted with variations on the theme of: "It's half-past eight already? Impossible!"

Truth be told, Terry was as little enamoured with early rising as the rest of them. Events such as staying awake until ten past two in the morning to polish off the appendices to his Potions essay made subsequent occurrences -- such as opening his eyes seven hours later -- nothing short of inventive and highly specialised torture.

However, Terry was resolute. He got up fifteen minutes before the rest of the dorm was wont to do and, hence, had just enough time to change into his robes in the bathroom, instead of out in the dorm where any one of the other boys could see him. You weren't supposed to do that. It was an unwritten rule that struggling into and out of entire outfits in the bathroom took up too much precious showering-time, and that towels were the only acceptable barrier between modesty and outright Bacchanalian nudity.

It was only a guideline, though; Terry was intelligent enough to work out a simple way of flouting it. His dorm-mates were too close to comatose for at least half-an-hour after waking to notice that, nowadays, Terry performed even less of his changing gymnastics around them, or that the most they saw of his naked skin was his feet. It worked, so long as Terry didn't mind having drenched collars. He never had time to use the magical blast-dryer in the bathroom and water was always dripping from his hair on to his neck.

Saturday, though, was a different kettle of snoozing aquatic life. Terry was unique in that he had always arisen early on Saturdays -- or at half-past-nine, which was the same thing to a Ravenclaw. For the other boys, though, Saturday morning was a thing of myth; something they'd heard existed, but had never had the chance to see to believe.

Terry tugged at his lip, pulling it down so that he could see his lower gums. They looked healthy to him. Most Muggle things -- short-sleeved t-shirts, Nintendos, Penthouse Pets -- he had abandoned with equanimity. However, one thing he had as yet to find a wizardly equivalent for was dental tape. It seemed that, if a wizard suffered from gingivitis long enough for every tooth in his head to rot at the root and fall out, he would simply stick them back in by magic and to hell with actually curing the disease.

Terry, on the other hand, had an innate disgust for putrid things that made some aspects of Potions a peril only vanquished by a mental reminder of everything he would learn from touching the damn diced squid. By consequence, swollen gums and black teeth were things Terry would prefer to see only between the covers of a dentistry journal, preferably under the heading: "What we really shouldn't do".

Terry usually had to floss in bed, due to the time prohibitions in the bathroom. Today, however -- Saturday -- he'd been able to pass an enjoyable half-an-hour carefully excavating every nook and cranny of his teeth, using the mirror instead of his fingers to work out which bit should go where.

When he was done, he stood back a little and surveyed his reflection. His hair was dry for once, the curls bouncing up like slinky springs on speed. The heat of the small room had coerced him into shedding his pyjama shirt, so he stood in the bottoms only, feeling a little guilty for doing so. In reality, the only way someone could have seen his state of semi-undress, due to the lack of windows, was through the keyhole. Terry doubted that even Kevin was that desperate for kicks, but he couldn't quell the shivering awareness that quite a lot of his skin was uncovered.

It was this feeling that had led him to do his best to avoid getting changed in the presence of the other boys. Terry couldn't tell if they had become accustomed to this unnerving realization of nakedness, or if they just didn't feel it at all. If it was the latter, he envied them. Terry's discomfort at the fact had peaked with the odd episode with Michael and he had no desire to repeat that horrible experience.

Perhaps it was simply down to inadequacy. Terry wasn't in the habit of using his body as a bargaining chip, because he'd never sought a girl on the basis of his physical charms. He'd never sought a girl at all, if it came to that. Padma really didn't count, because she'd initiated that long-ago, disastrous experiment.

At the same time, Terry knew from unavoidable observation that if one were to compare his body with that of his dorm-mates, Terry's would be so far down on the scale that he could mine for magma. Terry was the only one who didn't play Quidditch, even for fun. Michael and Kevin were on the House team, Michael as a Chaser and Kevin as a Beater. Quidditch in and of itself did not bestow upon its players the muscles of a bouncer or a world wrestling champion, but it was a pursuit that lent itself to people who were by nature more active, and therefore "attractive".

Kevin had been built like a walking brick from the start. He'd played rugby since he was old enough to have developed the hand-eye co-ordination to hold a ball steady for more than two seconds together. He still followed a rugby training schedule that would have put the Hitler Youth to shame. His penchant for dying his hair a different colour every week was something Terry had never divined the reason behind; he didn't ask, either.

This schedule had once consisted of Kevin chasing Terry -- and various other "wimpy weaklings" -- around the castle and, when he found them, using them for bench-presses. Added to Kevin's bottomless appetite for junk food, it gave rise to a formidable physique: girder-like arms and legs and a pillow in place of a stomach. Kevin was an Everestian monument to both bodybuilding and the fat content of magical sweets.

Stephen was the tallest boy in the dorm, with the burly stature and rugged features of a fur-trapper from the Rockies in the early days of American settlement. He had sandy blonde hair which lay across his broad forehead like a wrung-out washcloth; his hands were large enough to crush glasses between them with one squeeze. He had always been first; first to get pimples, first to shave, first -- of three, including Kevin and Michael -- to get chest hair, first to have a girlfriend. First to come back, his eyes dazed and lipstick all down his neck, from a dalliance behind the greenhouses. There was little wonder Anthony looked up to him; Stephen had shared with him all he knew. Kevin didn't want to know, preferring his own caveman methods of picking up "chicks". Terry, of course, was not taken into account, and Michael had never needed to be taught.

Anthony was also well-muscled. The term "six-pack" had not been picked up by those of wizarding stock and even Terry was unsure as to where it originated. However, Anthony had one; Terry supposed it made up for the fact that Anthony was rather squat and had no neck to speak of. He was even shorter than Terry, which was yet another reason that Terry should be belittled at every opportunity, it seemed.

The thing about Anthony was that he was pugnacious; he watched his diet like a starved hawk and never allowed anything more epicurean than dry toast, unsweetened porridge and huge helpings of vegetables to pass his embittered lips. As a result, he was more muscle than lard -- which he otherwise would have been -- yet it didn't seem to appease him. If anything, he was even more resentful because of the lengths to which he was forced to go to achieve it.

As for Michael ...

Terry avoided his own eyes in the mirror and looked down at his pale hands, gripping the side of the sink. Michael was best described as "rangy" or "lanky" -- anything that ended in a "y" and, preferably, conjured up images of gamine racehorses. Of course, the incessant hair-shaking was pivotal to the analogy. Terry had often gone to the races in his native Cheltenham and the image of nervous horses -- sleek skin stretched over bone and knotty muscle, jerking against their bridles -- was one which Terry had secretly associated with Michael from the first time he'd seen him.

Michael didn't diet and he didn't work out; if Anthony hadn't already been his friend, he probably would have detested him. Terry wondered if Anthony did, anyway. If you were Anthony, there were a lot of things to be jealous of.

Michael was simple. He had an easy way with everyone, even if he never seemed to instigate anything of his own devising, or hold any principles or morals to speak of. He got spots like everyone else, but he never suffered from Kevin's acne, Terry's perpetual blackheads or Anthony's mountainous pustules, which came and went with the regularity of rain. Michael never seemed to worry about anything -- schoolwork, girls, marks. They either came to him with as little effort on his part as it was possible to achieve, or he let them pass without a hint of regret. He was tall. He was slender, without being weedy, like Terry.

Yes, there was much to resent, if you were Anthony.

Even if Terry hadn't been up against them, there was still no getting away from the fact that if you got a ball of wet string, crumpled it up and then tied some knots in it, the end product would be, basically, Terry. Add some frayed wool for hair and a sapiency spell, and Terry had to speculate whether or not this was how he'd come into existence in the first place.

Except for the fact that his parents were both Muggles and, on one of the occasions when they'd both been in the same country and room, they'd made Terry. The other time, they'd made his sister, Violet. As far as Terry could tell, that marked the extent of their sexual interaction, at least with each other.

It should have come as a relief that his parents weren't "doing it" left right and centre, as other people often complained of theirs doing. It was quite obvious to Terry that people over the age of thirty-five should quietly give up the pleasures of the flesh for those of knitting and gardening. Yet, Terry thought he might have preferred it if his parents were soppy and disgusting and drooling over one another in the kitchen. Terry rather favoured that scenario to the one in existence. The one wherein to his mother simpered down the phone to one of her many "gentleman callers" and his father left an endless stream of answering machine messages to say that he and one of his parade of petite blonde secretaries were "stranded in Zurich. I topped up the account, Charlotte. Adam."

Whatever colour Charlotte Boot's hair had been at birth, the public had never glimpsed it. Terry had once heard his mother tell his sister -- who was going through a Gothic, purple-haired stage -- that Charlotte had dyed her hair blonde since she was eleven. Terry had his mother's nose, but on Charlotte it was sleek and made her look like an elegant greyhound. What it didn't resemble was a nose someone seemed to have taken a razor to and sheared it away to a sharp point, as Terry's did. Adam Boot's close-cropped curls were striking and his spare frame was complemented by sharply-cut suits. Terry's curls were too long, as were his robes, for him to look anything but absent-mindedly academic at best.

There were very few permanent appearance-altering spells. Terry, at thirteen, had spent three long, desperate months searching for one that would make his hair lie smooth and flat, make his skinny chest sprout proper muscles and accelerate the growth of his ... feet. Anthony -- who had worn size ten shoes since he was twelve -- had delighted in crowing over the smallness of Terry's feet. They had, eventually, grown to a decent, albeit un-staggering, size.

Terry's search had turned up squat, but he had managed to keep out of Anthony's way and, by proxy, Kevin's too. Padma -- who, with her silky hair and smooth skin, had never had a moment of self-doubt in her life -- was baffled by Terry's alternating despondency about and raging abhorrence for his appearance. She had told him that he looked "fine. Not bloody gorgeous, but okay. You have nice eyes. I don't understand what your problem is, Terry!"

As usual when faced with human mystery, Padma tuned out, leaving Terry to battle through it on his own. The scars from that conflict weren't visible, but Terry supposed he'd carry them to the day he died -- and the war wasn't even over yet.

He transferred his gaze away from his protruding hipbones and almost-concave stomach, trying to banish the faint stirrings of revulsion. The only thing standing between him and a Third World famine victim was geography. His arms were pathetic -- any one of Ollivander's stock would have had more definition.

With all these factors to fret over, Terry had never had much energy to spare for his face, which was, as Padma had opined, "okay". Nothing particularly memorable, and his nose and jaw were too sharp. However, even Anthony -- who had a squashed nose like a spiteful boxer and eyebrows that were the same thickness as a constipated gorilla's -- could find little to disparage in it. Terry's eyes were light brown, the exact same shade as his hair. His eyelashes were the only thing about him that could be said to be bulky; they were thick and long and curled upwards in a way that Padma coveted, often and loudly.

That said, his eyelashes were nothing more nor less than girly and, with a body like Terry's, that was really the last thing he needed. When he was younger, he'd wished that he could swap them for visible pectoral muscles even more than for his own Potions laboratory.

Terry sighed, trying to divert his flood-like train of thought into more peaceful channels. The first session of the new DA was beginning in the afternoon.

His hand, reaching for his comb, stalled. No, that wasn't a peaceful thought; his ever-obliging brain substituted in "intense, nerve-wracking public display". That wouldn't do. His potions session, then. His hand relaxed and his fingers curled around the handle of the comb. Yes -- stirring, mixing, measuring, recording data, testing, repeat as necessary. Peaceful and edifying. Terry loved Potions.

The usual pain of getting the teeth of a comb through his twisting curls without the aid of periodic surgical retrieval soon distracted him, so much so that when a rapping of knuckles came at the door, he hardly registered it. There was a click as the opening mechanism disengaged.

Terry realised with a jolt -- of stupidity, coming home to roost -- that he hadn't, in fact, locked the door. He'd just closed it, assuming he'd be finished showering long before anyone else had even opened their bleary eyes and cursed the coming of day. Then, it had been so warm and he was revelling in the chance to dry his hair and to floss. He'd taken off his pyjama shirt. He'd never put on his robes --

"It's occupied!" he called, wincing as his voice cracked in the middle of the defensive statement.

"Shit, sorry!" Michael's voice. Terry's heart sank. "You decent?"

Michael entered without waiting for an affirmative reply, although with one hand covering his eyes. Terry grabbed his pyjama shirt from the tiled floor, where it had slithered from the toilet seat. He winced as the striped fabric left a film of damp on his fingers. As usual, his shirt had gravitated towards the puddles of water that were the inevitable consequence of putting centuries-old plumbing and messy boys in close proximity. It was now so wet that if Terry put it on, he'd look like he'd gone for a shower fully clothed. Even for him, that was a bit much.

Terry compromised by holding up the shirt like a towel -- his had already gone into the laundry-basket provided by the house-elves, worse luck -- but not letting the cold sodden material touch him. It required some ingenuity and much strain on his upper arms -- little wonder he had no bloody muscles -- and took up a lot of his attention. Not to mention he looked moderately odd, but that was okay. Terry was "moderately odd", according to most sources who weren't Terry. At least he was somewhat less half-naked, anyway.

"Sorry for bloody barging in on you like this, mate," said Michael, smiling his easy smile under his hand. "But will you be finished soon? I need to get ready."

"Oh, uh, I am. I mean, I will be." Flustered, Terry began to pick up his toothbrush, toothpaste, dental tape and spot cleansing cream, but only succeeded in dropping all of them, plus his pyjama shirt, into the sink.

"Cool." Possibly working on the assumption that Terry would be decent now, if he hadn't been before, Michael took his hand away from his eyes. He used it to hoist a second towel -- the first was wrapped around his waist, under his untied dressing gown -- over his shoulder, presumably so he'd look daring and debonair. He shook his head; strands of black hair flew away from his eyes, but back again in the blink of an eye. Terry, feeling both nervous and annoyed and displeased because of it, wanted to roll his eyes and suggest a haircut.

Terry turned his attention back to his dropped items, his hands shaking a little because he badly wanted to wrap his robes -- or his dressing gown, so usefully situated, at that moment, on his bed -- around himself, but hindered in doing so by the necessity of gathering his things and getting far away as soon as possible. Fortunately, Michael was absorbed in testing the water temperature of the notoriously temperamental shower, so at least Terry didn't have to worry about being the focus of attention on top of everything else.

Terry abandoned his pyjama shirt to the laundry basket with a sense of deep regret. He supposed it was out of the question to ask Michael to leave again for five minutes, so that Terry could put on his robes, which were hanging from a hook on the door, in privacy. After all, Michael hadn't really asked before entering, even, and he simply would not understand such a question.

Terry had just managed to bundle up his things in his robes, while still keeping the robes neat and un-creased, when Michael spoke again. Terry swore mentally; Michael, who was a social animal if ever there was one, had most likely decided that Terry was hanging around because he was desirous of conversation with Michael. In reality, nothing could be farther from the truth.

Well -- Terry, the epitome of fairness, had to reconsider -- some things were, like "Terry's secret ambition is to become a pole-dancer" or "Anthony's really a nice person underneath it all". However, "Terry remaining in a bathroom with Michael Corner whilst half-dressed" had to rate at least in the Furthest From The Truth Top Ten Hits.

"You're up early, Terry," was what Michael said.

Terry noticed that his comb was still on the sink and scowled. He'd have to undo his bundle to put it in, that or stick it in the waistband of his pyjamas. He didn't want to risk the bundle coming undone because of carelessness in carrying it in one hand.

And Michael seemed to think he'd said something that could spark off a conversation, because he was looking at Terry with an expectant expression, his hand still under the running tap.

"Yeah," said Terry, after scratching about in the bare yard of the "Idle Conversation" sector of his brain and coming up trumps. What did Michael expect him to say -- honestly? "Ooh, no, it's actually the middle of the night -- hadn't you noticed?" Or maybe: "What's it to you, punk?"

"Going to the library again, are you?" Michael grinned; Terry stared. How had Michael known that?

"Yeah," repeated Terry, imagining the Muses of Chatter tearing out their hair at his less-than-sparkling-repartee brand of replies. "Um."

Terry clutched his bundle to his chest, becoming increasingly conscious that Michael could -- if that was his idea of a good time -- see quite a lot of Terry's chest and left hipbone, and that his pyjama bottoms, which were loose to begin with, were slipping. He could feel his face heating faster than a smouldering cigarette butt in a Californian forest.

Michael wiped his hand on his second towel and pulled off his dressing gown. Terry, wild in the realisation that Michael was getting undressed for his shower but still hadn't ended the conversation, eyed the door and wondered if Michael would think him stranger than he already did if Terry just bolted, right now. Probably not. For some reason, Terry didn't want to risk it, though.

"Still got that Redolence Charm, eh?" Michael waved a hand at Terry's neck or the general vicinity thereof. Half of his fingernails were bitten down and the other half were normal lengths. Terry wondered if Michael was perhaps schizophrenic or just plain odd, but in unremarkable ways that wouldn't come to the eye of the average bully.

Terry looked down at the amber stone nestling in the deep hollow between his collarbones. He had never had many tête-à-têtes with Michael in the past, but if he always went about pointing out the bloody obvious like he was doing now, it was amazing that people were willing to keep holding conversations with him.

"Yep," said Terry, for a change of confirmations.

"I was wondering," said Michael, running his hand through his hair to push it back. Terry looked at the comb on the sink with a fixed gaze last seen in a morgue -- anything not to look at Michael's skin moving as he moved. "Would you have the time to show me how to make one, later? I have bloody Quidditch practice now, but --"

"Now?" Terry's incredulity made him look back into Michael's face. "I thought Quidditch practices were always just before lunch." Because the likelihood of the team members being awake and functioning before then was as great as bananas blossoming in Iceland, he added mentally.

"Oh, well, not now -- in a few hours -- but I wanted to do a few jogging laps on the pitch beforehand." Michael's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His eyes were blue.

They'd always been blue, Terry's mind snapped, answer his goddamn question and get out of there! His mind and that of an army sergeant were sometimes indistinguishable. Terry was grateful for it. Usually.

"I'd be able to instruct you in the initial construction of a Redolence Charm, yes," said Terry, slipping one hand into the waistband of his pyjamas and yanking them up. One hip covered was better than none, he had to admit. "However, it will have to be -- um -- after lunch. I'm, ah, busy before then. And, well, you need a keystone."

"Hang on," said Michael, holding up one finger before dropping to his knees and rummaging in his dressing gown pocket. He'd shoved the dressing-gown into a corner near the sink; Terry was vindicated to observe that it sported spreading patches of moisture. He quickly averted his gaze to the mould along the cornicing, because Michael's bare back, with its hollowed shoulders, had obscured his vision and there was a dip at the base of his spine --

Terry felt hypersensitive to the eddies of cool air whispering in from beneath the door, which set him to shivering. It was unsettling. It was weird. It bespoke the idea that Terry should never get undressed again, that he should be buried in whatever clothing he next donned, so as to avoid ever re-experiencing this unsettling feeling.

A few seconds later -- Terry could hear every tick, slamming into his brain via his wristwatch -- Michael got to his feet again, holding out a pale rock for inspection.

Despite his uncomfortably acute senses, Terry's interest was piqued. "Is that a moonstone? Where'd you get it?"

Michael grinned and flicked his hair out of his eyes. "From Snape's potion store, of course." At Terry's frown, he added, "I'll replace it, soon as I bloody visit Hogsmeade. So? Will it do?"

"It's ideal." Terry was distracted. "You were carrying that around in your dressing gown?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't see much of you in the common room -- you're always in the bloody library -- so I figured I could get hold of you in the dormitory." He grinned, his eyes flashing. "Then I kept forgetting to mention it, or you were already bloody asleep --"

Reading by wand light, with the curtains closed, Terry corrected him in his head. Even Anthony didn't bother to torment people who were "asleep".

"Oh, well," Terry cut Michael off, spotting a way to end the conversation and grasping it with both hands, "say, twelve o'clock, in the common room?"

"Sounds good to me," said Michael. Terry saw, as his brain froze in horror, that Michael's hands were dancing perilously near to where one end of the towel around his waist was tucked into the other.

"Great, see you then," squeaked Terry, and whirled for the door.

"Hang on -- is this comb yours?" asked Michael. Terry almost groaned -- he wanted to be gone, five minutes ago. He couldn't very well deny that the damn item belonged to him, though, not with T.B. carved into the handle -- or pick it up with his eyes closed, more was the pity.

"Oh, yeah," muttered Terry.

His toes slid on the slick tiles as he advanced. Michael, thankfully -- for the sake of Terry's mental health, which was already as poor as a church mouse -- had kept his towel where nature intended, which was around his waist.

Michael turned to smile -- again -- at Terry as he grabbed up the comb, his inner army sergeant refusing to let him fumble for it. The sergeant was powerless to prevent Terry's bare shoulder from skimming Michael's bare shoulder as he did so, though. He was useless when the chips were down, Terry though sourly.

"S'later, Terry," said Michael. Terry really, really wished he couldn't see the reflection of Michael's nipples in the mirror.

"Yeah," he mumbled. He made it to the door without slipping -- something he had never done in his life, but which incident seemed imminent right now -- and yanked up his pyjama bottoms.

Stupid world. Stupid pyjama manufacturers who made everything for people who were larger than Terry. Stupid comb. Stupid life. Stupid Terry.

Terry threw his robe -- still wrapped around his things -- into his trunk in a fit of inexplicable temper. He crawled on to his bed and threw the tossed sheets and blanket around his shoulders. After a while, he heard his dorm-mates rousing and scrambled out of his stupor to tug the curtains shut around his bed. He felt fatigued for some reason; he couldn't summon up the impetus to get dressed and go to the library, even though there were few things he liked doing more. At ten o'clock, he realised he'd missed the quiet time when the library was deserted and, with a sigh, burrowed his head into the pillow.

In his sleep, he still heard the bathroom door opening and the flow of water against his shoulders -- only they weren't his shoulders, they were --

Potions, said the army sergeant, with more haste than finesse. Let's dream about Potions, eh?

*~*

"Terry! Terry mate, c'mon, wake up."

"Five more minutes, Mum," pleaded Terry, through a mouthful of pillow.

"You're raving."

The voice was amused, male and certainly not Charlotte Boot's -- unless she'd undergone some radical hormone treatment of recent times. Terry shuddered awake.

His cheek had formed a close and personal relationship with the blanket; when Terry pressed a hand to it, he felt the wrinkle-indents tattooed in to his skin. Every muscle in his body protested and threatened to call its union as he struggled upright, heaving most of the bed-coverings along for the ride.

Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, regarding Terry with a resigned expression. In his scramble to manoeuvre himself into a respectable position, Terry had managed to tie the sheets around his left ankle. Some of them had crept up around his neck, so the end result resembled nothing so much as a toga gone terribly wrong.

"What -- what are you doing here?" Terry was as yet clad only in his pyjama bottoms. An excellent choice for bed-related couture in general terms, but he preferred to team them with the shirt for a really dashing combination. When he was alone, moreover. His mammoth efforts of the past week were rendered Sisyphean in face of the fact that the person for whom they were brought about had seen Terry shirtless twice in the span of a few hours.

And -- a few hours? How had that happened?

Michael was wearing his blue Quidditch robes, with grimy, grass-stained Muggle trainers underneath. His face was wind-burnt and his hair less volumised than usual; high altitude sweat had slicked it back so that, for once, it wasn't falling in his eyes. If he could be summed up in a word, it'd be "positively insalubrious", or "in need of a shower" -- but it was clear that that couldn't, in fact, be done.

"You said you'd show me your Redolence Charm?" Michael reminded him. "Twelve o'clock, common room? Any of these words having any implication in a sequential sense?"

"Uh, yeah." Terry managed to unwind the sheet from around his foot, although it put up a valiant struggle. "Twelve o'clock. I'll be there."

"Terry." Michael was exasperated, Terry could tell. He always pronounced italics when he was. "It's half-past twelve now."

"What?" yelped Terry. He threw off the yoke of his sheet-shaped oppressor and fumbled for his watch. It did, indeed, read twenty-seven minutes past twelve. "Bugger, I fell back asleep!"

Michael coughed. "Are you feeling okay? I mean, are you ill?"

Terry was feeling anything but "okay", but there was nothing medically wrong with him. "No, no, I'm fine," he assured Michael, shoving his unruly curls out of his eyes in a distracted manner. "I just -- that is, sleep. It ambushed me."

"Yeah, I noticed it has this tendency to do that." Michael paused, pursing his lips. "Perhaps I should leave this for another day --?"

He sounded reluctant, which was only natural considering how many other demands he had on his time. Quidditch, for example. Or hair tossing. Terry had once calculated that Michael spent about an hour and a half doing that every day.

"No, it's fine." Terry knew he was blushing. It was another thing the army sergeant couldn't seem to whip into shape. Terry was starting to seriously doubt his qualifications. "What time is the DA meeting, four o'clock?"

Michael nodded. Terry did some rapid computation. An hour to take Michael through the initial stages of the Charm, up to the point where he'd be able to go solo with it. Half-an-hour for lunch -- no, he didn't have time and, anyway, it would be over by then. That left about two hours for his Potions work, so long as he didn't mind starving to death.

Terry half-rolled out of bed; it was a operation of extreme difficulty, considering that he needed to bring the blanket with him so as not to expose anything that shouldn't be exposed. Or, at least, any more than had, most unfortunately, already been uncovered. "I'll just get dressed," he said.

"Good idea," said Michael, who was grinning. Again. Terry freed the blanket from the sheet and draped it more fully around his shoulders. As he did so, Michael hopped off the bed and started rooting through Terry's trunk with careless abandon.

"Here, start getting undressed," said Michael, his voice muffled by the lid of the trunk. "I'll pass you out something."

"You what?" Terry was not getting changed in front of Michael, whatever the other boy might think. "No! I'll do it, you go down to the common room and get a table."

"But --" began Michael. He was holding the robes Terry had been planning to put on earlier; he'd picked them up in such a way that the toothpaste tube had squeezed open, all over one of the sleeves. Terry sagged; he'd have to Vanish that.

"You're only wasting time now." Terry's voice was firm and rather exasperated. "Two minutes. I'll be two minutes."

"O--kay," said Michael, slowly. He draped the robes across the trunk and headed for the door. He turned to shoot Terry one last, mystified look and Terry was grateful that he had waited for Michael to leave before pulling off his pyjama bottoms.

That had been close. Too close.

Terry was starting to think he should give the wearing-robes-to-bed strategy further consideration. He didn't know why all of this freaked him out so much, but he was aware that, due to sharing a dormitory with three other boys, it wasn't an ideal state of being.

For once, he couldn't think his way out of this predicament, for the simple reason that he didn't know what it was.

*~*

In the light of a new day, Evan Rosier stretched his long fingers, caging them and pressing them against each other. The knuckles popped, one by one. The other person in the room twitched a little at the noise.

Evan didn't appear to notice. He was standing by a window, watching sky blush. "Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning," he murmured.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that?"

Evan smiled without humour. "You weren't meant to. Now, I'm a busy man, Peter, so if you could just spit out what it is you've been quivering to say since you came and then piss off, I'd be much obliged."

Evan dropped into a faded brocade chair and swung his long legs across the arm. There were no candles in the room, which was shrouded in gloom and grime. Peter advanced a few feet with the utmost reluctance. He rubbed his silver hand, for reassurance.

"The Dark Lord -- the Dark Lord says --" he stuttered. All at once, the sun lit up the room with a suddenness that vied with that of the light advancing the burial passage of Newgrange during the winter solstice. Given that Newgrange was a tomb, it was a particularly apt metaphor.

The illumination coalesced around the insolently casual figure in the chair; it gave his hair, which was the colour of dried apricots, a momentary and inappropriate halo.

Peter's curiosity got the better of him. "Why aren't you dead?" he burst out.

Evan swivelled his long neck, regarding Peter with an unblinking stare. It seemed to go right through Peter, as if he were nothing more than the dust and ashes he one day would become. However, when Evan spoke, his tone was mild and rather incredulous. "The Dark Lord says why aren't you dead?" he repeated. "Why, that is rather incoherent, even for him."

Peter shook his head, dread making him obstinate. The fear that the Dark Lord would kill you, for sport or revenge or idle boredom, was always present. Evan -- wasn't like that. Peter couldn't imagine what he'd do for sport or revenge or idle boredom, or if he even knew what those feelings were. That was even more terrifying.

"No," said Peter, "I'm asking. Why?"

Evan stretched a hand out before him, twisting it and appearing to admire it. It reminded Peter of the way his father would finger poison vials, his fingers running over the gleam of the dark liquids encased in smoky glass. Joshua Pettigrew had died of accidental arsenic poisoning in 1974. Accidental. That's what Peter's mother had said.

If Peter concentrated, he could see the light almost going through Evan's hand, and coming out the other side darker. But of course, that was impossible; Peter dismissed the errant thought.

"Why am I not dead?" Evan cocked his head, looking quizzical. Peter nodded, gulping. "Because I am still alive, I presume."

"But -- Moody --?" Peter attempted to qualify his question, but something in Evan's eyes stopped him, the eyes so pale a hazel they were almost gold. No, they were gold, why did Peter think they were hazel? But they had to be hazel -- humans didn't have gold eyes, not real gold like the colour of Galleons -- there was only hazel, like James' eyes --

"Moody?" Evan rubbed his chin with one hand. "Was he one of ours? The name is not -- familiar to me. A pure-blood?"

Peter stared at him. "He was an Auror."

Evan raised his fine, arched eyebrows. The light was pouring out of the room once more, as a mass of clouds obscured the sun. His eyes were half-lidded, their colour now indistinguishable. "Why are you troubling me with old Aurors, boy? They view the world in such black and white terms -- Dark Wizards, I ask you. There is no wizard that is not dark, no wizard that is. Wizards are human; humans are, by nature, grey."

Peter was feeling itchy with all this philosophy. It was something he'd never had a head for. He'd preferred solid, objective subjects like Ancient Runes. He supposed that was black and white, not grey.

"Little fish, your mind is too small for me," sighed Evan. "Run back to your master. Ask him your questions, and see if you do not get an answer you prefer."

Peter looked at him in mute horror. Evan was a Death Eater; surely he knew the consequences of asking the Dark Lord a question like that.

Peter pulled his cowled robe closer to his body as Evan resumed staring out of the window, sighing faintly. Evan was garbed in most unusual clothing for a pure-blood wizard, and even for a Muggle. Peter was sure that those kind of shirts and, well, he wasn't sure what they were -- they looked like pantaloons -- had gone out of fashion in the eighteen hundreds. They were so white that even in the dankness of their surroundings, Peter's eyes hurt after looking at them for too long.

With a jolt of shock that was almost a physical pain, Peter saw that Evan's shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow; and that, on both of his arms, the skin was white -- and bare.

Peter wasn't able to suppress a gasp at this realisation. When he raised his gaze, Evan's unnerving eyes were already on him. He was smiling.

"You never met me, the first time, did you?" mused Evan. "I think I recall Lord Voldemort talking about you -- a Gryffindor. Our only one." His laugh was light and musical. "A core of pure, unadulterated lion you have in your soul, it is true. But no true Gryffindor would betray his friends --"

Peter bowed his head, wincing at the old pain. How many times had he told himself that? How many times had his fellow Death Eaters mocked him for it, even as the Lord congratulated him with veiled amusement in eyes that, then, had been mossy green and enchanting? Even Sirius, the boy he'd once worshipped above all others, had said it.

"-- and then doubt that what he did was right," finished Evan. He got to his feet, stretching in a languorous manner, and walked over to Peter. Peter gaped up at him.

"You really are a fish -- a trout," Evan informed him, putting a cold hand under Peter's chin and tilting it up. Evan twisted Peter's face this way and that, inspecting him. "Quite unattractive, in all honesty. Most Gryffindors have a core of self-righteousness that renders them unable to believe that they could do wrong, did you realise that? I don't think you possess it. You have a crabbed sort of bravery, that is true. Perhaps I was wrong -- not a fish. A mongoose. What form does your Patronus take?"

Peter was startled. "I -- I don't know."

Evan ran a finger of his other hand across his thin lips. "Hmm. You are an Animagus, correct?"

"You're reading my mind!" Peter's voice was frightened and accusatory.

"Hardly, my dear boy." Evan sounded preoccupied. "What form does that take, then?"

"A -- I'm a rat." Peter tried to lower his head, again. He knew that rats were not noble creatures, or a dangerous ones. No matter what side you fought for, if you were a rat, you were just a scavenger -- reviled by all.

Evan's fingers prevented him from moving. "If there were a House for people who felt utter uncertainty about almost every aspect of their lives, it would be full to overflowing," he said. "Your uncertainty is so strong it is practically a certainty." He laughed again and let Peter's head drop. Bereft of the support, Peter forgot for a moment that he had his own neck to hold his head up.

"W -- What House were you in?" A spark of natural curiosity was provoking Peter tonight. He didn't even know why he wanted to know; something primal and uncontrollable was doing the asking.

Evan only laughed. Pondering, Peter decided the music of it was cold; that of a glass piano, or an ice flute.

"Run along, little fish," said Evan, and something that could have been a distant relation of fondness tinged his voice. His words seemed to leave after-traces of colour in the air; but that must have been the sun dazzling Peter's eyes. "Tell the Lord to send me another, to amuse me. Lucius, perhaps; he was so amusing, with his temper tantrums. Or Jugson. Yes; my lovely, blunt-mouthed Jugson." His hands floated over Peter's robe-covered hair. "How is he, these long days?"

"Saul Jugson?" Peter tried to summon up the face, but all his brain put forward was the image of a mask.

Evan didn't appear to hear Peter, though; his words continued as if he hadn't. "Stirling. Abiona Stirling. Whatever happened to her? Did she die, on a journey, as she was born? Did Regis Wrede follow the path of fire? Did he take the crown?"

"Sir, who?" asked Peter, confused. "Are they new recruits? I've never heard of them."

Evan seemed to recall himself, for his face tightened into the smooth mask it had been when Peter first entered. "How could you have heard of them?" His voice was almost sharp; Peter was struck by how at odds it was to his apparent character. "They were before your time. Long before."

Peter shivered. If Evan's words had left colour on the air before, now they left shadows. Peter tried to calculate when Stirling and Wrede, whoever they were, had been in the ranks of the Death Eaters. Perhaps when the Dark Lord had been at Hogwarts? Perhaps they weren't very important, perhaps they had died -- been killed -- early on. Surely, if they had played vital roles, Peter would have heard of them.

All the same ... the history of the Dark Lord's rise was not exactly fodder for the History of Magic syllabus. All the same ... the names stirred something in Peter's memory. He had heard them before; someone had said them; a male voice. Was it Sirius'? James'? Remus'? The Dark Lord's? Lucius'?

Peter looked up at the other man. Evan had retreated to the window. It was now full day outside, although the grey clouds blanketing the sky made it overcast and hardly worth the effort.

Evan had been part of the Dark Lord's original coterie, that much Peter knew; one of his followers from his schooldays. Although -- follower? Some deep, rebellious, Gryffindor part of Peter's mind baulked at that nomenclature. The Dark Lord's followers wore his Mark on their arms: they answered his call: they did not wait to be fetched. They did not refuse the call.

The Dark Lord was old, but the countless experiments and spells had given him the ageless features of a serpent. Even the Death Eaters of Lucius' generation were showing their age, in wrinkles and grey hairs and skin that was turning to the consistency of fine parchment.

Something in the pit of Peter's stomach turned to ice as he looked at Evan -- really looked -- and realised that he had to be far older than Lucius.

He did not look a day more than twenty.

*~*

Terry tapped his quill against a paragraph he had marked with an asterisk, in pencil so that it could rubbed out once he had finished with the book. "So you see, the key to this Charm is transmutation combined with an advanced locking spell, to actually retain the scent."

Michael was sitting on the chair next to him, tipping the legs forward so he could rest his chin in his hands with ease. His head was slightly tilted and his bright blue eyes followed the lead of Terry's quill with unwavering attention. "Right, so it's really that you're adapting a locking spell to work on smell?"

"And then localising it so that it remains bound to the object, yes."

"Hmm." Michael shook his hair out of his eyes. It slithered forward again a second later. "Is there any particular reason why it needs to be a semi-precious stone instead of, say, a chip of granite?"

Terry cocked his head. It was an angle he hadn't considered; but then again, he'd had the amber bead he needed. There had been no question of scrabbling around for a substitute, even though that would have been the more edifying scenario.

"I'm not sure," he said, after a lengthy pause. He rifled through the pages of the book Professor Lovebright had loaned him, as a certain pertinent phrase strutted to the forefront of his brain. "Yes, it says here that there is a measured link between the colour saturation of the stone and the strength of the scent."

"Grey's a pretty strong colour -- and you can get granite with flecks of mica."

"Yes, but although granite is a crystalline rock, it isn't translucent. If light can't pass through it, neither can the Charm."

"You just made that up," accused Michael.

Terry shrugged. "An educated guess. I don't know everything about this Charm, just enough to put it into operation."

Michael's eyes were shining. "But don't you find it intriguing, why it's one way and not another? I -- well," he subsided, his "cool" persona re-asserting itself, "I think it's kind of fascinating."

Terry, regarding him with impersonal consideration, thought that perhaps he'd discovered the reason why Michael didn't do so well in exams, which tested what everyone knew.

Terry started when he realised that he and Michael had been staring at each other for at least a minute and busied himself tidying his books, willing the blush down. The army sergeant had now gone on bloody hiatus, it seemed -- or was it "AWOL" Terry meant?

"I think you've quite enough to be getting on with," said Terry, stacking his notes in a haphazard manner, so that instead of lining up they slid across the desk. Michael leaned over and retrieved them.

"Thanks," said Michael, making no move to return Terry's notes. Terry noticed that to get out he'd have to wriggle between Michael and the wall and, if Michael decided not to move, the only option would be under the table. "If I come across any problems --"

"You won't," said Terry -- too quickly. Michael gave him the same perplexed look as he had in the dormitory. To distract himself, Terry tugged down the sleeves of his robes.

"Okay." Michael's voice was quiet as he placed the notes flat on the desk.

Michael had patches of red skin along the sides of his forefingers and thumbs, from gripping a broom-handle. They would break out in callus later in the year. Terry had once heard Padma and her friends discussing how erotic Quidditch players' hands were, although they were referring to people like Roger Davies, or -- it had been a few years ago -- Cedric Diggory. It was something to do with both how rough and how agile they were.

Terry had cause to curse having that particular exchange in his memory-bank. Why it had been cashed right now, when he was sitting with Michael, Terry had no idea. He wondered if Michael and other male Quidditch players thought that similar callus on the hands of their female counterparts were equally sexy. Terry thought not. He felt a fleeting, insane urge to ask Michael what he thought, but managed to quash it in time.

"Great, I have to go then, see you," babbled Terry, well aware that his words were running together like molten lava. He stood up. His focus was only on the urgent desire to be anywhere else but there -- although preferably not a place that was in Kevin's vicinity. Terry was afraid that, if he spent any more time with Michael, he would actually ask him if he thought blisters were attractive, which Terry would never be able to live down.

"Where are you going now?" Michael leaned back in his chair to look up at Terry. He was sucking on the end of his quill. Kevin was the one who took Sugar Quills to class; Michael just sucked things. Quills, cutlery, grass stalks, bits of rolled-up parchment, his knuckles -- whatever he could get his mouth around, really.

Terry looked down at his feet; his hair obscured most of his face, which was how he liked it when he was blushing so profusely.

"The dungeons," he muttered, shoving his books up into his armpit and hoping Michael would take the hint and move.

Michael was well-ensconced in his chair and seemed disinclined to shift. He was either ignorant of Terry's craving to flee or was putting on a Bafta-worthy act of obtuseness. His eyes raked over Terry's face; even as Terry calculated the area of the flagstones beneath his feet he knew, without looking up, that Michael was studying him.

"Professor Snape allows me the use of the Potions laboratory on Saturday afternoons, for experimentation purposes," explained Terry at last.

It wasn't a secret, per se. Slytherins were granted automatic access, but they weren't the type to discuss their privileges with other, "lesser" Houses. Only a very few Ravenclaws, of whom Snape thought moderately well, were permitted to broach the inner sanctum on non-school-days. It was part of the deal that "closed-mouthed" counted among the stronger qualities of the chosen few.

"Really? Why?" Michael seemed genuinely interested, but Terry was stumped by the lack of clarity in the question. It was far too open-ended for his liking. Perhaps that had been Michael's intention. Terry had to keep reminding himself not to underestimate Michael, like everyone else seemed to; it was quite an effort on Terry's part.

Terry decided to answer the easier version of the query. "I'm interested in pursing further studies in Potions after Hogwarts," he said. "There are plenty of private laboratories across Britain, as well as mainland Europe and America, that are always searching for new talent."

"And you think you have talent?"

Terry blushed, sensing that he'd committed a faux-pas. "I -- that is, I don't really -- but Professor Snape --"

Michael smiled -- a slow, lazy grin. Terry wished he hadn't met Michael's eye, but the shock of his last question had impelled him to do so. There was something about the way Michael's face opened up when he smiled that made Terry feel queasy. His stomach was definitely rebelling, anyway.

"I think you'd make a great potion-maker," announced Michael. "Probably come up with a bloody cure for spots, I daresay."

Terry's hand flew to his cheek, where he knew for a fact a fresh crop of pimples had just sprouted over the last twenty-four hours. He flushed darkly -- from anger rather than shame, for once.

He'd forgotten, of course. He shouldn't have -- he should have been on guard, permanently. However, Michael's attitude had -- relaxed Terry; lulled him into a false sense of security. Michael had acted almost friendly towards Terry -- but he wasn't. Not at all.

After all, this was the same Michael Corner whom Terry had known for six and a half years. The same Michael Corner who, when on the first day of school Anthony had refused to sit beside Terry because he was a "total swotty git" -- this after six hours' acquaintance -- had laughed along with the rest. The same Michael Corner who had participated on many occasions in kicking Terry's books further along the corridor when Anthony knocked them out of his arms. The same Michael Corner who had helped sabotage so many of Terry's potions in the first four years of school that, if Snape had not at long last caught them at it, Terry would have been thrown out of his class. The same Michael Corner who'd squirted ketchup in his hair without Terry's knowing; that, and Kevin's eggs down his back, had earned Terry his only ever detention: For poor uniform standards from McGonagall.

The list was far more extensive than that. Those were just the incidents that were stronger than the rest, had had more time to build up muscle in the bitter gym of Terry's memory and, hence, swam first to mind.

Fair enough, Anthony and Co. had slackened off in the last two years. Their attitude towards Terry had, in general, faded from firing-on-all-cylinders cruelty to crippled ambivalence -- except in Anthony's case. This was due to the fact that girls had proved far the more interesting prospect and also that, of said girls, few appreciated overt bullying in potential boyfriends. Making people laugh at other people's expense was all right, though. None of it meant that Terry was going to forgive their treatment of him any time soon -- even if Michael had, for a wonder, made him forget it for a while.

"Excuse me," said Terry, coldly. "Could you please let me through?"

"Oh -- sorry!" Michael jumped to his feet, his accommodating manner belying the fact that he'd been blocking Terry's way for five minutes. Terry no longer believed Michael had acted unwittingly; for whatever nefarious reason of his own, he'd done it on purpose and now Terry was running late.

"See you later, Terry!" Michael called after him. Terry didn't reply, only hugged his books to his chest and hurried out.

*~*

There was something extremely soothing about Potions, Terry decided. As opposed to people, for example. Clad in his dragon-hide gloves and an apron of the same material that Snape had let him borrow from the equipment press, Terry poured a vial of bright pink Veela blood into a hissing cauldron of fennel, marrowroot and essence of lionfish.

He wasn't actually making a potion. His concentration was shattered after his interview with Michael and that state of affairs was not conducive to careful measuring and precise stirring. Sometimes -- more often than was wise, really -- Terry used his time in the classroom to throw whatever came to hand into the cauldron, just to see what happened next.

So far over the course of his additional Potions time, he'd exploded three cauldrons, melted the base of a fourth, created more sticky, sludge-coloured pastes than a grouting manufacturer and, once, produced a dark blue liquid which turned out to be an effective anti-inflammatory throat medication.

Snape had happened to be checking in that day. He had had a throat infection. As could most proficient potion-makers, Snape could distinguish between organic compounds by smell and colour gradation. He conducted a few tests, pronounced Terry's mixture non-poisonous and drank some. His infection cleared up within eight minutes.

Terry always kept a journal of his trials. It was fortunate for Madame Pomfrey that he did so, because she could mix up her own batches. Terry had only ever told Padma that the school nurse stocked Terry's cough medicine, but he couldn't help feeling a glow of pride whenever he visited the hospital wing and saw a shelf of flasks containing blue potion. He even wondered if the colour was due to Terry being a member of Ravenclaw House.

Ever since then, Snape had grown even more lenient of what he'd initially dubbed Terry's "mucking about". If Snape walked in now and saw Terry pouring ingredients in a cauldron just to see them bubble, he wouldn't say a word. Well, not many -- it was Snape, after all -- but they would be innocuous enough.

As the khaki colour of the lionfish bled into the Veela pink, Terry decided it was his lack of a special project that was causing all this pent-up frustration and very peculiar feelings on his part. Ever since second year, he had set himself extra-curricular tasks. He could remember the very first; it had been to research each plant in 1,000 Magical Herbs and Fungi and learn three new facts about it.

By the time he reached fifth year, however, he'd realised he needed outside guidance to function at maximum capacity, which was when he'd enlisted the teachers' help. And for individuals whose vocation it was to foster a love for and willingness to study, they had all been highly startled to have extra homework assignments demanded of them. Term-long projects had been a matter of scaling upwards; it was just that Professor Lovebright's refusal to co-operate had thrown a sparkly pink spanner in the works.

Terry supposed he could have gone to another teacher. However, he had an inkling that Defence was going to be a very -- perhaps the most -- important subject in the coming months and years. Lovebright's suggestion to participate in the DA had merit, of course, but it wasn't like Harry was the most stringent of taskmasters. And as for her other suggestion --! A girlfriend!

Terry's knuckles glowed white as his grip on the ladle increased to cracking point. Obviously there were many lessons to be learned from observing the other sex, but Terry had his fill of that with Padma. Sex itself was just another bodily function. Terry was not ignorant of the mechanics of the act, and his own forays into individual manipulation had not been unworthy of repetition. He just didn't see what all the fuss was about.

Besides, once he'd committed to memory everything he'd seen in the Wizarding Kama Sutra, there didn't seem to be anything else to learn. Frankly, he was astounded that people could spend hours and hours -- years -- having sex, while at the same time they would give up an Arithmancy equation in frustration after a mere ten minutes.

Perhaps he could approach Hermione about the extra study. Hermione was reasonable, so long as one forgot that she willingly associated with two of the most reckless and foolhardy members of a notoriously reckless and foolhardy House. There must be some investigations Terry could carry out on behalf of the DA. All he needed was a starting point; he could pick up and run with it from there.

Then he could reclaim his brain, distract it from all these images it persisted in throwing up just when he was trying to concentrate. Particularly the memory of Michael either sucking a quill, his eyes unfocused, or Michael with no bloody shirt on.

Terry's potion was a sickly yellow. Large bubbles were floating to the surface and bursting with loud, unpleasant squelching sounds.

He ducked just in time.

*~*

Terry stared at his reflection in the mirror. Disconsolately, he decided that it was going to take industrial-strength shampoo to remove the last traces of yellow slime from his hair. He had quite a stock -- this wasn't the first time something had exploded on his head -- but he couldn't both wash his hair and make it to the DA on schedule. Much as Terry abhorred the thought of giving people more reason to look at him, he knew which of the options he had to take.

With a sigh he ducked out of the boys' toilets and mooched down the corridor towards the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. One of the trolls paused in adjusting his tutu to point and laugh at Terry's hair.

"Yes, I know," said Terry in irritation. "It's not egg, okay?"

"First sign of madness, talking to a tapestry."

Terry took the opportunity to wince before having to smooth his features into benign indifference and turn to face Anthony. "Actually, I believe that the colloquial phrase is either 'talking to yourself ', or 'looking for hairs on the palms of your hands'," he countered.

Anthony curled his thick lips. "I can well believe that you'd have those, Terry, my son. It's not like you haven't got wrist movements down pat." He drew out his wand and flicked it in an exaggerated gesture. "Wingardium Leviosa, eh?"

"But of course." Terry was the epitome of courtesy; no one would ever have guessed that, mentally, Terry was strangling Anthony with his bare hands and rolling him up in a tapestry of ballet-dancing trolls to rot for all eternity.

Padma often said Terry had homicidal urges. She never said he should do anything about them, although Terry had noticed she never passed up an opportunity to buy him a thump-able cushion or a stress-ball as a surprise present.

"I've been thinking," began Anthony.

"About what, pray tell?" inquired Terry.

"You." Anthony was still waving his wand, flexing his wrist. Judging from the number of Silencing Charms Terry had heard him cast after lights-out, Terry was not the only one who had no concerns over correct wrist movements. "And Padma Patil. See, you're obviously quite close. Too close, I reckon, for just mates. So either you're doing the horizontal tango or you're going for dance lessons, am I right?"

"I'm afraid that you are not." In his pockets, Terry's hands were curled into such tight fists that his fingernails were close to coming up through his knuckles. "Moreover, what Padma and I choose to do or not to do is entirely our own business. I have to say that I do not appreciate your heavy-handed attempts at meddling."

Anthony's eyes widened as Terry addressed something that could be construed as impolite to him. His face darkened. "There's no need to be so bloody defensive," he hissed. "I guess that's half your problem -- what you need is a good hard shag to shake you out of your prim and bloody proper ways."

Terry was biting the side of his lip in an effort to keep the wild magic that was crackling at the tips of his fingertips there and not, say, singeing Anthony to carbonated bread product. Terry wasn't surprised that Anthony dared to make assertions about Terry. Anthony was, after all, the sort of person who assumed that his take on the world was the only one worth taking into consideration -- by himself or by anyone.

It didn't stop Terry's surging rage, though. Really and truly, what did it have to do with Anthony whom Terry shagged or did not shag? Did Terry go about suggesting that holding a conversation with Mandy in which Anthony listened to her -- instead of showering her with expensive gifts and ignoring her -- would be very beneficial for their continued relationship? No, he did not.

And of course, as long as he didn't, Anthony would never realise how out of line he was for doing the same to Terry.

"

Come on," taunted Anthony. "Say something. Or are you going to bottle it all up? Wank it off tonight when you think we can't hear you? You're so bizarre, Boot. All that study you do -- what is it for? Why don't you get undressed like a normal person? Why don't you talk?"

With every imprecation he had taken a step closer to a trembling Terry; by the time Anthony reached the end of his litany his hands were on Terry's shoulders and he was shaking him. "Answer me!" he shouted.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Anthony snatched his hands from Terry's shoulders as if he had suddenly grown poison sacs. Both he and Terry turned to face the speaker, who was no other than Harry Potter. A Harry Potter with a look of high disapproval on his face, moreover -- which, given his history of physical violence and verbal abuse, was rather hypocritical.

"I asked you a question, Goldstein."

"Why don't you ask him?" Anthony's voice was sullen as he jerked his thumb at Terry. "He's the freak with the problem."

"Ri--ight, of course. How stupid of me." Behind his thick, unfashionable glasses, Harry's eyes were like two shards of broken glass. "Terry, I think Hermione wanted to talk to you. She went to the Room of Requirement early -- should be in there now. I just want to have a word with Anthony, okay?"

"Yes." Terry had the feeling he was being patronised, which was just as bad, in its way, as Anthony's bullying. Terry dug his hands deeper into his pockets, doing his best to reduce the amount of space his body was taking up, and slouched into the Room of Requirement.

Many of the DA members were assembled there, seated on the large silk cushions that littered the floor or perched on the table and chatting amongst themselves. Terry had assumed that Harry's message about Hermione had only been a ruse to get him out of Anthony's way, so he was surprised to hear his name being called.

"Terry! Over here!"

Taking a deep breath, Terry headed over to the corner of the Room that housed the Foe Glass. For a second, the shadowy figures coalesced into one dark, looming form which turned thoughtful eyes on Terry before disappearing once more into the ether. When Terry blinked and looked closer, there was nothing there but foggy shapes. He decided he must have imagined it.

"Did Harry pass on the message?" asked Hermione, pushing her bushy fringe out of her eyes. Terry nodded.

Hermione put him in mind of a vigorous potion -- always bubbling, always pondering and thinking and considering just under the surface. There was also the very real feeling that if you touched her hair you'd get an electric shock, although that could just have been the static electricity as opposed to anything more arcane.

"He said you wanted to speak to me?" Terry tried to quell the hope that sprung in his breast; if Hermione had a task for him, that would solve his biggest problem to date, but it was a hope in danger of easy dashing. Well, actually, Kevin and Anthony combined were his biggest problem, but it was his own fault if Terry couldn't stay out of their way.

What people often didn't understand about self-motivated learning was that even though someone could motivate themselves to study, the motivation itself had to come from somewhere. It was a finite resource. Terry found the best supply came from having people know what he was doing, not so much to encourage him as to expect him to flag in his zeal. There was nothing like proving people wrong to force you to keep writing that extra paragraph, to find that one extra book, to stay awake that four extra hours.

"That's right." Hermione nudged Ron, who was standing beside her scanning the room with a restless expression. Ron was never still until he knew where Harry was. "It's a little project Ron, Harry and I have been cooking up between us recently. I was hoping you could lend us your expertise."

"Certainly, but in what, exactly?" asked Terry, intrigued.

Hermione opened her mouth to elucidate, but just then Harry entered to start the meeting -- trailing a glowering Anthony. Hermione shoved a book into Terry's hands, promising to, "Discuss it in a few days."

Padma left off shaking her head at her more boisterous twin's antics to move to greet Terry by kissing him on the cheek. Terry didn't even dare to glance in Anthony's direction to see his reaction to that.

There were a number of new faces in the crowd, but one old one was notably absent. Zacharias Smith was nowhere to be seen. As Harry stumbled through his welcoming speech, he looked disoriented at the lack of heckling. The older hands were all in agreement with him and the newer members were regarding him with something bordering on sanctimonious awe. What there was a remarkable lack of was certain blonde people wondering if Harry was ever going to stop talking and actually teach them something useful, or demanding to see proof that Harry had the slightest idea what he was blathering on about.

Harry soon finished; his momentum seemed derailed, even without having someone around who'd drop an obstacle on to the tracks as soon as look at him. He paired them up in order to revise the spells they'd learned before. Again, he paused, as if waiting for someone to wonder at the top of their voice why Harry was acting like such a tame old biddy and refusing to introduce new techniques.

Terry and Padma were paired together; further down, Terry spotted a rather sulky-looking Mandy being cajoled by her errant boyfriend into accepting their pairing. Steve and Kevin were together, at the other end of the room from Terry. It couldn't have been better unless Michael were there with them -- as far away as possible.

Speaking of Michael -- where was he?

Terry had no time to look for him, for Padma had noticed Terry's hair and emitted a startled yelp. "My God, Terry Boot, I never thought you had ambitions to go blonde!"

"What?" Terry patted his hair and little flakes of drying potions came away with it. "Oh, that. No, a cauldron just exploded on me."

"What, again?"

"That only makes four altogether, Padma," said Terry, nettled.

Padma just clucked her tongue. She strode forward, tucking her wand in her baby-blue belt -- "House solidarity, Professor!" she'd claimed when McGonagall pulled her up for it.

Padma began to tug at Terry's hair, dragging her fingernails along the strands to catch the slivers of congealed potion. Terry submitted to her ministrations, although not without a small sigh. He knew from experience that Padma could be most determined when she settled on doing something, and also that she had a very strong grip.

Harry passed behind them, ostensibly checking for correct enunciation, although the fact that Padma had Terry in what amounted to an arm-lock didn't appear to catch his attention. Terry thought he heard him mutter to Hermione, "Where the hell is Smith?"

Terry's hearing wasn't the greatest, though; for all he knew Harry could have been expressing his extreme delight in the existence of crème puffs. That was, after all, far more likely than Harry displaying concern over Zacharias Smith's whereabouts. Or, if that was the case, then Harry just wanted to keep track of Zacharias' movements in order that they should be as far from Harry's as was humanely possible. Yes, that had to be it.

Terry nodded to himself, remembering too late that Padma's hands were still pulling at his curls. Several of his hairs parted company with his scalp and he yelped in pain, his eyes creasing shut.

"Jesus, Boot, what'd you bloody do to yourself?"

Padma had never spoken in such a deep baritone in all her life, not even when she'd contracted severe bronchitis in fifth year. Terry, rubbing the sore spot on his head, turned around with great reluctance to face Michael. Padma, shaking her head so that her long hair whipped about, creating its own gale-force breeze, retreated across the room, withdrawing her wand as she did so.

"A potion exploded on my head and Padma was getting it out," muttered Terry, aiming for brevity.

Michael appeared to think Terry the soul of wit all the same, for he was grinning with mirth. Or at least, Terry assumed it was mirth, although it was hard to tell. The two people Terry knew who smiled a lot -- Anthony and Kevin -- rarely did so out of pure unadulterated joy, and certainly not when it could be pure unadulterated malevolence instead.

"Terry, why aren't you practising Stunning Charms?" demanded Harry all of a sudden. "Pair up with Michael and let's see you at it."

Oh no, thought Terry miserably, here It comes. His blush had a life-force, hobbies and a pet cat called Tibbles all of its own. The Blush visited Terry unannounced and ever unwanted, never failing to guess the times when it would be most debilitating for Terry to be showing such a weakness. If it had been a spell, it would have been the tip-top Unforgivable.

Michael was looking at him wearing a patient expression. "Well?" he said.

"What?" To say that Terry was ruffled would be like calling a tsunami "rather choppy waves".

"I said, I'm ready when you are," said Michael. He jerked his head so that his hair slithered off to one side, although it was unhappy with this change of address and was soon creeping down over his forehead once more. He must have washed it, because the last time Terry had seen Michael his hair had been greasy and plastered to his head, not all shiny like it appeared now.

"Great," said Terry, trying not to let his voice reveal that it was the polar opposite for him.

Harry was watching them, tapping his foot in impatience. His arms were folded, his eyes narrowed. Terry didn't find Harry all that intimidating, but his complete concentration on Terry alone was unnerving. At least he wasn't Hermione, who would be sure to correct Terry before he'd even done anything, or Ron, who had the span of patience of an incontinent three-year-old, or -- worst of all -- Anthony. Having Harry instead was cold comfort, all the same. Freezing, in fact. Sub-zero.

Terry raised his wand, aiming for the spot between Michael's eyebrows. Not an actual pimple -- his forehead was clear of zits, unlike the line of his jaw -- just the centre of his forehead. Terry hoped Harry didn't notice how the wand-tip wavered as Terry fought not to let his hand shake. Michael was sending him what he probably thought was a reassuring smile, which in real circumstances would have been as probable as a paper guillotine and which was only irritating Terry now.

Harry breathed in through his nose and started rubbing the sleeve of his robes with the heel of his other hand. The noises he created were indistinct and, surrounded as they were by the hubbub, should have been inaudible. They weren't.

Terry focused his mind as Harry had recommended they do and marshalled all his magical strength.

"Stupefy!" he shouted, feeling embarrassed for doing so, even though he was speaking no louder than anyone else in the room. A bolt of red light shot out from the end of his wand, hitting Michael just below his left eye -- at the last minute Terry's hand had spasmed.

Michael stumbled for a moment, then dropped like a stone.

"Excellent." Harry's voice was brisk and unsurprised. "Now revive him and practice all the jinxes you know on each other. I'm sure you know loads."

He strode off down the room, waving Padma over to Seamus as he went and dragging Dean -- Seamus' original partner -- over to Neville. Terry watched Harry go for a second, marvelling at his own success. True, Michael hadn't even been trying to defend himself and Terry's aim was disastrous. Nevertheless, it was a great improvement on all those times Terry had lost the ability to speak at the crucial moment, instead mouthing useless syllables that bore all the relation to magic spells as did an electronics manual.

He squatted awkwardly at Michael's side, pausing to drag Michael's wand arm out of his way and retrieving Michael's wand from where it had fallen just beside his head. He'd managed to land plum on a cushion, which was typical of the way Michael went through life -- always managing to skirt the fallout by the merest and most unplanned of shortcuts.

Michael looked as if he were asleep. His head had rolled so that he was lying on his cheek and his hair had been shaken all over his face. The curve of his jaw and the shadowed slope it beneath were his most visible features.

His heart dancing the jitterbug, Terry reached out and gripped Michael's chin for a moment -- just long enough to turn his face up. Terry could feel light stubble under his fingers; it scratched against his skin as he whipped his hand away. Trying to make his voice strong and clear even though he felt as breathless as someone who'd just done a Roger Bannister around the Great Lake, Terry said "Ennervate!"

Michael's eyes jerked open and for a split second he looked disoriented, the lines of his face taut. On spotting Terry, who was scrambling upright and away, he visibly relaxed. "Good one, Terry," he congratulated, rising to his feet by dint of grabbing a nearby bookshelf and hauling.

"Thanks." Terry cleared his throat, wondering if there were any yellow patches still in his hair and fervently hoping there weren't. "Harry said we were to practise jinxes."

"Oh, great," groaned Michael. Terry blinked in hurt surprise. He hadn't realised his company was that repugnant.

"You know more jinxes than everyone in our class put together," complained Michael, scraping his hair away from his face. "How on earth am I supposed to compete?"

Terry looked down at the hand that was gripping his wand, wondering why he was smiling so much.

~TBC~