Death Beds, Love Songs, and Ancestors

VI

Draco was falling further and further into the corner of the ashy gray sofa cozied up to the fire in the Slytherin common room. He was critically examining his features in the mirror over the mantle. It was a fine face, fairly androgynous, with good bone definition (especially in the cheeks and chin). But his steely eyes were a bit beady. He resolved to stop narrowing his gaze so often, and relaxed his face with concentration. There, instantly better. It was hard to hold the frozen expression, and he gave up almost immediately. Lazily, he ran his fingers through the sheaf of silver blond hair that fell over his eyes and sighed heavily, the picture of boredom.

Julia was curled next to him, chattering endless and occasionally glancing into the mirror to fluff her her hair around her shoulders. She had been going on and on alternately about Hogwarts lack of student activities and about his prowess at Quidditch, something he found quite irritating as it was absolute malarkey. He knew he wasn’t the player Potter was, and it didn’t help to have some accessory endlessly insisting otherwise. He’d been tuning her out for the better part of an hour when he heard Pansy’s name.

“...And after that incident with Pansy just before lunch, I had more exertion today than in the last few weeks. Well, since that-”

“Wait,” he had to waves his hand before her words died on her lips. “*What* incident with Pansy?”

“Oh? I didn’t tell you?” A mindlessly manic smile crossed her face. “I told her I didn’t believe her stories. That no one believes those stupid stories about her ageless blood and the unicorn and her dead brothers. I was going to hex her, actually, I was going to get rid of all her hair, she’s so proud of it you know, but instead we got into a bit of a brawl, I did nearly run her through with my wand-”

Julia was silenced by Draco’s slap, which sent her sprawling off the sofa and onto the stone floor. “Are you mad? Those stories are TRUE!”

Her eyes filled with tears as she scrambled back against the granite stones of the fireplace. “I thought-”

“No, you didn’t! You are a tart, my dear, a plaything, an incident, a woman of loose morals. If you wanted to keep your place, you would have stayed away from Pansy, as per our original agreement!”

“You said she was worthless!”

“I said I was worthless to HER!” Draco dropped down beside Julia who cringed violently. His eyes flashing with fury, he grabbed her upper arm, yanking her face close to him. His voice was barely a hiss. “In all manors sexual, all affairs of the heart - I am worthless to her. She is beyond me, I am not what she wants. Very much as you are worthless to me.”

“Does this mean-?” Julia brought her hands to her mouth with slow realization.

“Do you even have to ask?” Draco stood, leering down at her. “You had your chance. Should have followed the rules more closely. Not your fault though, I was the one with the poor insight, I should have known that you were incapable of following simple instructions.”

Julia barely had the spine to stand, but somehow made her way to the tunnels, where she disappeared, choking on her sobs.

Draco stood next to the fire, his body was exhausted, but his mind was reeling. He leaned his elbows on the mantle, linking his fingers behind his head and squeezing his eyes shut against the heat. Four years, almost five, he’d done all his father asked. He’d never breathed a word to Pansy, he’d protected her the best he could. No one else bothered her with it and over the years, it had become the tower that housed the princess. Even she didn’t realize how cutoff from her peers she’d become. He mourned that. Her distance from all of them was increasing, especially since the summer, when a few of them had been tapped by their Death Eater parents to begin their own training.

His father, Lucius, had been implicit with those who were intent on bringing their children into the circle before they were out of school - Pansy Parkinson was not to be touched. Adam Grue’s niece was to be left alone until she was of age, a respect, reeking of sentiment, the Dark Lord had shown no one else. His order stood, and though Draco had watched their housemates slip further away her (with the exception of Livia Rookwood, he noted absently, her being the orphan of Slytherin and nearly as untouchable as Pansy), he couldn’t bring himself to explain to her why. Now she was picking up other friends, dangerous friends.

Gloria Abernathy of Ravenclaw, for starters, daughter of Glenna Abernathy, Auror extraordinary. Brook Kishi, also of Ravenclaw, son of Roan Kishi, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Cyrus Jejune, a Gryffindor seventh year who was tutoring her in Arithmancy. His mother was a confidante and school mate of McGonagall’s, and his father , much like Draco’s own, was on the Hogwarts’ Board of Governors. But this whole Weasley incident left a mercurial taste in his mouth. All Pansy needed was some simpleton to accidental spill to her all the secrets, it would drive her from their side forever and she was already poised on the precipice.

Pansy had to be wooed back. If she were to make any drastic changes, he would be held accountable for not having done his job. His job - all his life he’d been watching Pansy, play dates to grammar school, camping and family engagements. He’d intercepted rumors, ended threats and saved her reputation on numerous occasions and she had never known! She would, One Day, and this One Day is what his father lived for. One Day Draco would marry Pansy and save her from whatever it was she needed saving from. Lucius’ actions spoke more loudly of prior obligations to Amalthea than of concern for Draco or Pansy. He’d seen the pictures, held the letters, the parchments that Lucius had bundled with red ribbon like a *woman*. He hadn’t been able to save Amalthea, so Draco must save her daughter.

The first blow had been when his father ruined the Triwizard Tournament before it began by giving Draco that horrid flowery speech. “Like a diamond, a woman has a great many facets and can be cut in endless fashions...” that was the intro. Really, a banging speech. And he stood there in the revolving mirrors of Madam Malkin’s as she fitted him in these ridiculous dress robes that screamed Bela Lugosi, the expression on his face tightening and freezing as his father went on and on about the importance for “the family” and father’s “career” and how Pansy would truly be grateful, “One Day.”

It would only get worse. Snape was enlisted to force them together at every turn. He’d never had so many detentions that basically subsisted of himself and Pansy scrubbing the tiles of the dungeon staircase until all hours of the night on trumped up charges. That’s when they started to be identified as a couple. Then the horrid, horrid ball. The horrid, horrid tournament. And he’d paid her, that was the worst mistake. He’d paid her to continue to play his girlfriend, long after any tiny crush they’d ever entertained for each other had been ground out like a punk rock cigarette butt. It was for his father’s sake, he told her, and she’d arched that eyebrow and nodded, accepting the meager excuse, the money, as awkwardly as he’d offered it. He let her think it was for his image as a heterosexual predator. For the rest of the year she let him walk her to and from class which she bore with great antagonistic displays of overt simpering. She’d found it immensely irritating and he found himself wishing that she didn’t hate him so much. Then it ended with Cedric’s death. Horrid. Horrid.

The final blow was the last day of the term, when, clutching each other’s arm and, stoic as ever, Pansy and Livia stood, among only a handful in the house that did this. The rest easy Death Eaters. It had sealed both her fate and his. His father demanded Pansy back, by whatever means necessary.

One Day, he snorted and threw himself back onto the sofa, his own face sickening him at the embarrassed urgency of the memories. Really, at thirteen, how did they expect two kids to hold a relationship that would last until adulthood, and him with his unfortunately aspecific sexuality? That was just too far a stretch.

Someone tapped Draco’s shoulder, yanking him from his revere. “Check this out.”

Blaise Zabini had a hard smile inching across his face as he held out a smooth, ancient key. “Know what this is?” He asked conspiratorially.

“A key with no lock?” Draco was melodramatic edging on sarcastic in his feigned wonder.

“Har-har. It’s the key to the prefects’ bathroom. I’m taking Sadie up there later.”

With a glance he located the girl, across the room with one leg draped suggestively across Jeremy’s lap. She was leaning far forward with an intense gaze and rapidly moving lips, one hand kneaded his knee. Jeremy was rapt and half-slack jawed, offering the occasional nod. Draco snorted, “Does she know that?”

VII

It was the next afternoon, Tuesday, before Pansy had to worry about Ron again. The Slytherins had Defense Against Dark Arts two afternoons a week with the Gryffindors, and they had been doing some vigorous work regarding combat, both full frontal and unexpected. The instructor had been whittling the brood into groups, smaller and smaller, with no input from the class, forcing students to work intimately with each other under intense, and uncertain conditions. Normally the class was exciting; specifically as it was a free forum for verbal sparring between houses - something most professors would quash without hesitation. Professor Cynthia seemed to encourage it, coaxing with bright eyes, and admonishing falsehood. “Truth can be your most powerful weapon, but even the smallest fallacy, especially to yourself, can be more harmfully than the strongest hex.”

Professor Cynthia, who, like Liberace or Cher, had decided to minimize confusion by using only one name. She was a middle-aged, muggle borne ex-runway model, half Japanese, half Norwegian, who’d been educated at Scarlett’s Witchcraft, an all girls’ school in the southeast United States, and was considered, especially by people of Malfoy’s class, to be an absolutely horrid choice for Hogwarts. She was absurdly tall and thin with a preference for silver robes and went around like tinsel in a breeze saying things like, “Suga”, “Honey” and greeting everyone with a syrupy “Afternoon”, no matter what time of day it was.

She also had a good many things going for her as well. For starters, she was a member in excellent standing of Dumbledore’s inner circle. She was also pleasantly bizarre, didn’t believe in homework, occasionally snuck food into class and used teaching methods once similarly employed by Professor Lupin. Her famous quizzes were hands on, sometimes outside, or even on brooms. Her ‘gauntlets’ were a huge splash, even with Hermione loudly voicing her opinion that it resembled military training instead of practical learning. She’d also perfected the art of muggle card tricks and that amused Dumbledore immensely.

Another thing she was famous for was her ‘notions’. Like the one she got today, as she stood before her post-lunch class, dozing in the afternoon warmth.

“I got a notion,” she drawled, “Why don’t we take this outside?”

“Not a t-test?” Neville squawked in panic. In the rear, Crabbe and Goyle perked up, elbowing each other excitedly.

“No suga, you know I’d warn you,” she smiled at him, then at the boys in the back, now deflated. She stood, listing forward a few feet, then listing across the front of the room a bit more. “No, it’s too nice to be inside today, no one will be able to see me for the weather. C’mon.”

Hermione heaved a sigh, she was not a fan of Professor Cynthia’s ‘notions’, or, really, of Professor Cynthia at all. When she’d arrived and Hermione had voiced her objections to the new, flaky teacher, everyone immediately brought up the similarities between her complaints about the old, flaky teacher (Trelawney, who coincidentally still regarded her with no small amount of pity) and Hermione was vilified by Parvati and Lavender for weeks for being an antifeminist.

“Should we take our things?” she asked.

Professor Cynthia paused, several long moments passed as a roomful of students waited with baited breath. “I’ll leave that up to the individual,” she demurred, nodding slightly at Hermione with a warm smile.

“Smashing,” Hermione huffed to no one, since she was not speaking to Ron and Harry seemed to be avoiding them both. “Now, she’s going to find some great way of humiliating me while scoring herself a nap.”

“Oh, wait,” Professor Cynthia swirled around, her robes spinning out and batting against the students directly behind her, who skidded to a halt. Hermione shook her head.“I trust everyone has been meeting with their partners to discuss the concept of the complimentary relationship?”

Dozens of pairs of eyes exchanged guilty glances.

“So no one has done their homework this week? Not even you?” She pointed her wand at Hermione, who gaped back at her.

“You didn’t say it was homework, you said it was a suggestion!”

“Yes, but it was a very strong suggestion,” Professor Cynthia said tiredly and pushed her thumbs into her temples. “Well then, so much for the footwork I was going to go over today. Instead I think we’ll-” She squinted out at the class, crinkling her large blue eyes into shiny slits. Somewhere overhead there was a soft chorus of afternoon flies. “Hmm...”

Ron wiped the sweat from his forehead, pushed up his sleeves and shifted his weight from foot to foot. It occurred to him that it might be time for new shoes, they were feeling awfully uncomfortable these days, a little thin in to sole too, as it were. He noticed Cynthia’s gaze had stopped on him. Frantically he tried to remember who his partner was, but there had been a great deal of confusion, he couldn’t recall whether it was Erica Cain, who’d initially picked him, Millicent Bulstrode, who’d traded Erica Semus for him, or Pansy, he felt the blush before he thought her name, who Professor Cynthia had paired him with.

“Yes, thank you Weasley, I think we will address this confusing business of partners. It did occur to me that you may not find this worth while since I have intentionally put you all in difficult pairings. Especially a joy in this class.” She finished dryly, her eyes flickering over the Slytherins, then over the Gryffindors, both of whom were busily eying each other.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught a glimpse of Hermione’s deep scowl. Her partner, Blaise Zabini, with his black hair and eyes, was remarkably handsome and charming though notoriously ill-prepared for his homework and exams.

“I want you to learn each other, not like you learn a friend, through weaknesses and similarities, but by from knowing them solely on their strengths, and understanding how they are able to complete you. And since I cannot trust this group to do it on their own-” She watched them gaze longingly at their respective friends, then scowl at their assigned partners. She smiled broadly, wickedly. “C’mon now, everyone up! Weasley!” She pointed a long, silver tipped finger at him, “You’re with Parkinson. Finnigan! You’re with McMurtry. Malfoy, oh-no son, don’t make that ugly face again today! You’re with Brown...”


It was a glorious afternoon, the sun was just above the trees, dusting everything in gold and rose. With evident hesitation, Ron came up along side Pansy, scattering her Charles Addamsish entourage. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She faced him, his back was to the sun, and she squinted, trying to see his face. “So, how many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“That legendary Parkinson wit,” he was casually scathing, noticing the sunlit smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

She gave up squinting and stared at him blindly, the sun searing the blue of her eyes and turning them aqua. “I can’t see a blasted thing,” she muttered, turning from him and making her way half way up a rise towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“Pansy, honey, don’t wander too far into the trees! I’m already working on a migraine and I don’t fancy a visit from Captain Asshole Snape this evening!” Professor Cynthia called, waving a string like arm after them.

“Captain Asshole?” Draco was incredulous. “Captain Asshole?!”

“If you could come up with a better phrase that paints so just a picture, I would use that instead.” She smiled sweetly and patted his head. “Admiral Asshole, maybe?”

Pansy waved back at the Professor, whose robes flashed like a strobe light in the sun. After a pause, the whole stalk of her crumpled as she contorted into a lotus position to rest. She looked at Ron, now with the sun over his shoulder. He was facing her with his hands in his pockets, his head turned in profile. His sweater had been discarded after lunch and his sleeves were rolled up over his elbows. There is something very Out of Africa about his standing there, something so young Robert Redford, she thought, as he glanced around and then began to walk towards her. Something, honest and clean, something ivory soap sexy. She was sure she was blushing when he sat down across from her, Indian style.

“So, tell me about yourself,” Ron said, purposefully poking at the ground.

“I couldn’t tell you the really good stuff anyway, so what’s the point?” She leaned back on her elbows. “Don’t need to know anything beyond that you helped me, and I can trust in that.”

“You can anticipate from knowing that I helped you? Why doesn’t that make me feel safe? Or is that some kind of reluctant Slytherin thank you?” Ron teased nervously, rolling a piece of grass between his fingers.

“Why do you think being Slytherin is something like being Irish? I’m tall, I’m a witch, a Parkinson, left handed, brunette, but what is Slytherin? And what, for the matter, is Gryffindor?”

“Touchè,” Ron said, running his hand over the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” her voice was apologetic, but still indignant. “But I’m as good as you.”

“Hey, I never said you weren’t-”

“I mean good! Not talented. You only know what you see, you only see what you are shown. Read what you have read. You only listen to what you want to hear.”

She fell silent, just as unexpectedly as she had burst out.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said solemnly.

“I know.” She was as bright now as she had been prior to the outburst. “I just want to make sure we’re on an even keel.”

“You’re really twisted, you know that?”

“Twisted, yes, but forthright and upstanding as well.”

“Forthright?”

“Ron,” she said with mock seriousness, “I would never lie to you.”

“Thanks,” he said slowly, with some uncertainty.

“You might want to wait on that. One doesn’t realize how much they enjoy being lied to until someone stops.” Pansy was strikingly casual with him, pulling the outer husks off of a stalk of grass and chewing on the clean end thoughtfully. Her knees socks were loose, exposing vast expanses of pale leg. He noticed small scratches, a bruised knee. “That one there, she’s not a liar either. Forthright, horsy, but pops like a firecracker. I do have a good deal of respect for her, as much as that irritates me.”

Confused, Ron tried to follow her sun dazzled gaze, squinting into the distance. “Who? Hermione?”

“Smart, pretty, definitely talented, but lacking in humility and composure.”

He snorted, startling himself. “Hermione is *enormously* well read.”

“So I’ve heard. A real narrow arrow. And yourself? Are books your life as well?”

“I’m more of a hands on learner, make mistakes, learn as I go. Books weigh me down.”

“There’s a lot to be said about learning from doing,” Pansy seemed to be drifting a bit. She settled down onto her elbows, the piece of grass rolling lazily around her lips and her eyes were distant, unfocused, even dreamy. “Some would say that’s the only way to really know anything.”

“Flying, for example,” Ron offered without thinking about it, his hand moving absently over the broad puckered path twisted about his left elbow.

“Battle scar?”

“I was nine and so eager to get on the broom and had such a bewildering time on it, that when it came to stopping, getting off, you know, I panicked. Rolled right over the side and dropped fifteen feet into a quarry. Bum,” he smacked his palms together got emphasis then added, note of pride in his voice, “bone came right up through the skin. Mum fainted.”

She regarded him silently from a moment, pushing her hair out of her eyes and leaning in close to examine the thick pink knot of his elbow. Warm, vaguely damp girl fingers trailed down the mess, lingering at the exposure sight, the star shaped area where the bone broke through. Presently Pansy met his gaze again. “I’ll bet that story really impresses the girls,” she quipped, shading her eyes. “Daring, no, heroic.”

“Well, it may not sound so impressive to you, darling of danger, but the doctor was pretty grossed out.”

“Darling of Danger? Ooh, that smacks of anti-Slytherin sentiment!”

Of course, cornered, his ears turned pink. He cupped his hands around them self-consciously when their abrupt color change caused Pansy to choke on a snort. “It’s like a sensor, when your ears go red, I touched one of those sensitive spots.”

“It can mean all sorts of things, actually,” Ron grumbled, scratching the back of his neck and gazing towards his friends, as equally engaged with their partners as he was.

“You’ll have to school me in the mysterious language of Weasley ears, Ron, I’m sure this could be invaluable to our success as partners.”

“It only works one way, how am I supposed to read you?”

“Oh, well, I’ll just stay behind you.”

“You could stomp your feet in response, maybe flap your arms? We’d be a hellva team, scaring people right off.”

“Unusual methods.”

Now she was flat on her back, hands laced beneath her head, eyes closed with a smile easing on and off her face. He watched her a moment, and was just preparing to look away when she opened her eyes, cornflower in the setting sun. He caught a flash of alarm in her gaze and was sure he heard her suck her breath in sharply, no matter how fast she seemed to catch herself. “What, Weasley?”

“Just ah-” he brushed his nose with his finger.

She copied him, watching his eyes. “Did I get it?”

“No, here,” he made the same movement, flinching a little.

“What is it?” she asked, pushing herself up and rubbing harder.

“Nothing, really,” he squinted hard.

She jumped, but knew he was screwing around. With a half smile, she tossed a handful of grass into his face. “You’re twisted."

“Hey, I figure I’d better start practicing.”

“So seriously, to get down to business, who are you?”

He looked thoughtful, and began in a slow monotone. “Well, as an answer to your earlier question, I have five older brothers, *five*, who have been proportionately less remarkable at each pass, and one younger sister, all of which almost completely obscure me. Oh, and there’s my other *brother*, Harry Potter, who my mother has come here to visit far more than she’s come to visit me. Wow, sometimes I forget my own name!”

“And you have been a major part of the only interesting going-ons here for the last four years. That sure says something.”

“And I have been a major part of... You mean my Harry adventures?”

She laughed, “No, I mean Granger’s SPEW.”

“Oh, that, now, of course I fully advocate *not* freeing the house elves as I would be roundly displeased to wake up in the middle of the night to find some houseless-house elf doing my laundry. I simply cannot abide by magical creatures entering my house to do house work *unauthorized*.” Ron puffed his chest out importantly and continued in Percy-esque tones of pompousness. “Furthermore, I would like to see that all the fairies be so enslaved as a sort of broom running lights-”

“Hear, hear!” Pansy gave him a round of applause, laughing, “See! Look how well we know each other already!”

“See how everyone else has noticed too?” Ron nudged her, looking over at the larger cluster of their classmates, all watching them, heads together.

“Well, Ron, we are now at the mercy of the Grapevine. Actually, we have been since you didn’t leave me bleeding in the hall.” Pansy said, hoisting herself onto her forearms and shielding her eyes from the sun.

He leaned forward, rubbing his hands nervously on his thighs. Sure, she was pretty, any girl could be pretty, hell, even Hermione turned out pretty *bewitching* right? Okay, okay, he took a deep breath, he could be friends with her, this wouldn’t be so bad, nothing ever lasted too long anyway - in a few days there’d be someone else making his palm sweat. It was the timing, what, a day ago? He’d barely even known she’d existed. Nah, he told himself, better to appear as aloof as she can be. Be as unconcerned. He licked his lips slowly, the words found themselves. “If you have a problem with it, maybe you should wear a bracelet.”

Pansy looked down at him, startled maybe, surprised at his nerve when things had been so markedly warm. It intrigued her, but she was not old enough to discern between intrigue and irritation, and, just as comfortably, hissed, “Yeah? I know, it’ll say ‘DNR: Slytherin’.”

“What’s DNR?”

“Do Not Recessitate.”

“I don’t think that’s enough information, maybe you ought to clarify a bit.”

“What would you suggest?”

“How about ‘DNR: Slytherin Bitch’?” Ron snapped.

“Ooh, zing!” Pansy shook her head and flopped backward into the grass with a half smile. “Round one goes to the challenger.”

“You’re-”

“Twisted?”

“Seriously.” Ron looked back at the class, they were all watching him, them. It was a kind of quiet observation, their isolation, the spectacle of them being friendly forced the others to discuss it amongst themselves, thus the first roots of amity were planted. Not that they would ever see it that way. It carried with it recklessness, a kind of a freedom. He couldn’t possibly alienate Hermione or Harry any more, besides, the trinity would continue to remain together, to serve each other’s purposes, to keep up appearances. He had nothing left to lose. So really, what did it matter what Slytherin thought anyway?

“So,” he laid down on the grass beside her, his fingertips brushing hers as he folded his hands under his head and gazed into the sky, the endless blue amplifying the not-necessaarily-unpleasant spiraling feeling in his stomach. “Tell me about this Grapevine.”

Pansy was merely a barroom voice unfurling somewhere between him and the sky, husky and full, tinged with sour reality and self-conscious poignance. “The Grapevine is where all the assumptions, suspicions, and perceptions go to seed and burst forth with fat and juicy new rumors every other moon or so. It’s the rumor machine, the eater of reputations.”

“That’s silly,” Ron protested, but the combination of nerves and heat broke the second word before he could force it out.

“Oh, really? I remember a rather successful pass through your Potter’s life as recently as last fall, when all those Harry-the-Champion and Hermione-breaks-Harry’s-heart stories chewed up a bit of reality.”

“But it was a load! Everyone knew it! You, you Slytherins made that stuff up with perceptions, precognitions and divinations anyway!”

“*Us* Slytherins-”

“C’mon, I saw your name there!”

“Bullocks! You’re saying that she made it all up but can somehow argue that she flawlessly sited her sources?” Pansy seemed more amused at Ron’s naiveté than angry about his accusations.

“Are you denying you said them?” He was not confused, but he was almost surprised to find he could so easily follow he insinuations. He had the pressing feeling that one of them was about to be painted into a corner.

“I never say anything about anyone that I would say to their faces. Good politics.”

“So are you denying that she said nasty things to Rita Skeeter regarding Hermione? Are you not the one who planted the story about Hermione and Harry in the first place?”

“I’m not denying anything! Are you really so cut and dry? She flits around Hogwarts disguised as a beetle and put one over on everyone, yet your Potter is the only victim? Really,” she lifted herself up, spitting far into the horizon.

“So you did say those things, only you didn’t know she’d overheard them.”

“We’re all victims, Weasley, it just a matter of perception.” Ron was on his knees, one hand planted firmly on the trunk of the tree, the other next to Pansy’s head as she lay rigid underneath his tensed up posture. She had her hands hovering over her chest, around her neck, she seemed to be protecting herself, yet she didn’t look scared, even the contrast between her trembling lips and bright, dangerously flashing eyes seemed to take her next words and draw the whole exchange into sharp focus. “Even Harry Potter needs friends in low places.”

“I don’t follow-”

“I’m just saying - that was just crap. Mud-slinging.”

“Well, today the Grapevine was abuzz about the fight you and Hermione had at lunch today.”

He blushed, or maybe she imagined it, “Wasn’t about you, directly.”

“Oh?” She was coy, but distinctly rosier. “I didn’t ask.”

Now it was Ron’s turn to color. “I mean, she was quizzing me about what had happened, like I wasn’t wearing blood stained clothes. We just,” he glanced at Hermione across the way, talking to Blaise Zabini who was doing his bobbing head doll routine. She was speaking very rapidly, which suggested to Ron that she felt he was honestly interested. He sighed tiredly. “We don’t get on too well these days.”

“Might not want to go into threesome FAQs with me, Ron,” Pansy motioned her head towards her friends, scattered over the lawn, “they have ways of making me speak.” Pause, then “lovers’ tiff?”

“Lovers?” Ron’s ears went purple. “Speaking of love, what about that secret note you got this morning?”

Now she blushed or maybe he imagined it. “Just a letter from a friend.”

“Oh come now, Pansy,” he said, digging into his pocket showing her the blood stained parchment, “wouldn’t want someone of authority wandering into Trelawney tower at midnight on Friday, would you?”

“This is not behavior becoming of a second,” she lunged for it, glancing at the rest of the class, instantly furious.

“Easy, easy,” he sighed, handing her the note, “I noticed it outside the door on my way out of the hospital, I tried not to read it, but...” He shrugged. “If it’s any consolation, your secret’s safe with me.”

“This may sound cliché,” she began slowly, sitting down, “but why are you so nice to me?”

“Because you’re not horrible like everyone says you are.”

“You can’t mean that.” She countered, crossing her arms. “I’m absolutely awful.”

“No, you’re not. I can tell by the way you treat me. Hey, what is Slytherin after all, eh?”

She smiled, mostly to herself, tucking the note into her pocket. “I never listened to Malfoy either. He said horrible things, but hell, he’s a Malfoy. You come to expect that of them.”

“Known him long?”

“Forever. Oh, forever. Please, let’s not talk about him, dinner’s soon and I haven’t eaten today.”

From far away came Professor Cynthia’s voice, “Sorry, sorry! Hurry up! We’re gonna be late for dinner if we don’t get outta here!” She was sliding up and down the field in front of them in her panic, listing dangerously close to something resembling a capsize. She was not a substantial woman, but was known far and wide for her wondrous appetite.

“Just in time,” Pansy hoisted herself up, watching Ron out of the corner of her eye as she stretched a moment. “You’ve still got blood on you.”

“I’m a regular fuckin’ band-aid.” They trailed behind their class, ten foot shadows jumping up and down the stone wall of the castle. “After you, Hermione cut her thumb at lunch and I squeeze it.” He stopped suddenly.

“Ron?” Pansy turned, eyebrow raised. “You squeezed it and?”

“I, oh,” he shuddered horribly. “I bloody squeezed it! It was all popped open like a grape, bits of white chicken flesh and wet, watery blood, not like one expects, not at all. It dripped down my hand and rubbed my thumb in it-” he went horribly pale, then sprinted towards the nearest shrubbery.

Pansy gave him a minute, a bit of a sympathetic puker herself, then made her way over slowly. Ron was on his hands and knees, spitting into the dirt. Presently he looked up at her. “It’s ironic, really, that I’m the only one in the whole school who’s ever been sick. Hermione’s parents insist I let Trelawney hypnotize me, that I have this muggle disease, hematomaphobia. Fear of blood.” His smile was wan, uncertain. “Sorry, I’m gross. But I’m good at it.” He rocked back on his haunches, spat again.

“It’s beautiful Ron.”

He glanced at her sharply, “You’re so twisted.”

“No, not the replay of lunch,” she snorted, taking a step back as he hoisted himself to his feet. “It’s wonderful that story is true, now we don’t have to come up with some elaborate excuse as to why we’re the last one back from class - the last into dinner. Maybe this will all blow over by the end of the term.” Pansy mused, grabbing his arm as he tottered on unsteady legs. With a shake of her head, she pushed him in the general direction of Hogwarts.

The sun hung low and heavy against the horizon, disappearing behind Hogwarts as they made their way up the path through the gardens. The honey light dappled the grass, the stones they tread upon, shone fiery through the vastness of her hair as she nervously twisted long strands between her fingers. Ron was very suddenly gripped with the notion to tell Pansy that he wished that they could just stay outside. Inadvertently, his pace slowed noticeably, causing her to stop and face him again. He looked at her, then out at the grass.

She smiled self-consciously, averting her eyes and nudging him with her shoulder, “C’Mon. Hurry up.”

Still, he was reluctant in following. Pansy stopped, turned, stepped back, “You don’t want to go in, do you?”

“Not really,” he said softly, then cleared his throat and gazed back where they’d come from so she couldn’t see what was twisting in his eyes. “It’s just so nice out.”

“Mmm. Suppose we could come back after dinner.”

Her veiled invitation dropped his jaw like a left hook. “That’ll fly, ‘Oy, Harry, going for a walk around the lake with Pansy, be back- What? Oh, yeah, the very same’.” He rolled his eyes.

She shrugged, watching him closely, then turned and continued on, her voice floating back to him, “...just a suggestion.”

Her cloak of black hair was lit crimson against the black satin of her robes, her patrician profile vanilla in the undulating shadows beneath the castle walls. -She may not be the most agreeable girl, but she sure ranks among the best looking- Ron thought, running his hand nervously over the back of his neck. He felt like an enormous git. She’d practically asked him on a date and he didn’t just turn her down, but ridiculed her.

“I mean-”

“Forget it.”

“No, it’s just-”

“It’s just that you’d have to make up some excuse, I understand, who do you think you’re talking to? But then, that’s the difference between you and I, Weasley, you do what you’re told, and I do what I want.” Not once did she look up, her face smooth and vacant of any telltale expression. Her sudden disinterest stung Ron into the most reckless social action of his young life.

“Look, yeah, I’d love to meet you after dinner, but I can’t tonight. I’ve got a test in History tomorrow and I promised the guys I’d study with them. Meet you tomorrow after Quidditch practice?”

She paused, thinking it over. It was hard to say no to him as he was flying in the face of all he’d been brought up to respect and honor. She was not the type of girl to write home about, especially to people like the Weasleys. Pansy could have kicked herself for thinking that *that* would ever be an issue in the first place. She and Weasley had nothing, nothing in common at all. “We shouldn’t leave class together,” Pansy murmured. “Sadie would run right to Draco-” she stopped abruptly.

“You two are still-?”

“No more than you and Granger.”

For the fourth or fifth time that afternoon, Ron found his tongue tethered to the roof of his mouth. Her blue eyes, black in the shadow, glinted with interest as she watched his face. “But nobody-”

“Some things you can hide, but Weasley, you do wear your heart on your sleeve. How ‘bout we meet outside the library, it is for school, after all.” For the first time since he’d met her, there was something resembling giddiness in her smile, but, shoving her hair out of her eyes, she struggled to quash it. The movement was childlike, striking all the things that made her different from every other girl he’d entertained as such, deep into his soul.

“Okay Parkinson, whatever you say,” Ron relented, allowing himself to be dragged up the hill.

Without looking at him or slowing up as they entered the castle, Pansy said, “Do you all call us by our last names too? Parkinson, McMurty, Bulstrode - hmm.”

She didn’t wait for answer, gazing steadily at him, Ron got the idea the time to speak was over. To his final amazement, he watched her face change before his eyes. Slowly her blue eyes seemed to drain of color until they were cold, grey stones. Her full, smiling mouth a firm line, and her cheek, nose, and chin some how instantly gaunt and somber. The girl he’d been talking to vanished in a breath. Pansy leaned forward, gripping the door handle and tossing Ron a last, vague smile. “Thanks for rescuing my weak self...” she whispered, throwing open the door.

Pansy hurried towards her table, face quite fixed, and dropped down in the very center of her friends, whispering something to them. The four other girls turned their heads towards him, eyes wide. Pansy smiled, scrunching up her nose, then winked.