Stacking the Deck

"I can't find it," Rose Jones muttered as she dug through her satchel. "Dammit, I know it was here." The bells finished tolling, their final notes dulled by the loud thuds of folders being slammed onto the Dark Arts staff room table. "Special Projects weeks one, two, three and four. All there. Blood Rites, weeks one, two, three and four. Both sections. Right." Each classes' folders were arranged into a separate stack and tapped loudly with two sharp bangs into line. "Ritual Magic I, section two, weeks one, two three. It's not here." Swearing loudly, she upended the rest of her satchel's contents onto the table.

"What are you going on about?" Paul Wronski asked. Leaning against the sink, he dawdled over his tea. "I know that thing's full of crud, but do you really think emptying it like that is going to help you find anything?" He stepped to one side as a wad of paper sailed towards his head. "Weak," he yawned and turned to rinse his mug. The second volley bounced off his shoulder to land in the sink. "Better."

"I can't find it!" Jones' voice rose in indignation while she leafed through stray pieces of paper that had escaped their folders. "I did find week four's folder, but not the test. Son of a bitch!" she growled. "Someone stole it!"

"You sure?" Wronski wandered over to stand next to her. Dubiously, he fanned out the folders and read her blocky printing on each. "Why do you keep so many of them in your satchel? I just keep today's notes."

"Sometimes I need to refer back to a previous day's notes and sometimes I get ahead of myself. I like to keep a month's worth, just in case." Cramming the folders of notes back into her case, she plucked out what seemed to be an endless supply of crumpled candy wrappers, the cellophane wrappers from packages of cigarettes and their crushed packs from the heap of refuse she had dumped from her satchel. "Can you toss those for me?" Not waiting for an answer, she pushed the lot towards Wronski who wheezed out a groan, but collected up the mess. "Gum?" Holding a package up to her nose, she took a sniff. "That's been in there a while. Smells like tobacco. Hmmm. Might help get me through that last hour before lunch." She flashed a quick grin at her friend who had returned from tossing her trash out and was now trying to rub off a sticky spot it had left on his coat.

"Ritual Magic?" he asked, using the edge of his thumbnail to scrape off the grayish tacky spot. While waiting for a reply, he gave his index finger a quick lick and used the saliva to finish the cleaning procedure.

"Of course," she sneered. "Should have expected it. Rabe came by last Monday afternoon to let me know that he'd changed the staff meeting time to Thursdays, just so I could attend. Gee thanks. I thought that was one of the best parts of having to teach the extra class - not having to go to the stupid staff meetings any more."

"Bet he kept you in the hall too long, huh?"

"You know how he loves to talk. Makes him feel important or something." Jones looked up at Wronski long enough to make a face and then resumed sorting through the jumbled mess. Writing implements were tangled in snarls of rubber bands that had snared sheets of paper from what had once been part of now curled and grimy pad of paper. "He can't just tell me after school is over. No, he has to make sure everyone in my class can tell he's supposed to be my boss."

"Because he is?" Wronski grabbed up his own satchel. "You never even bother to look if he's around, do you?"

Shrugging, she braced the edge of the case against the table and, with one hand held the folders to one side while she slid the mass of pens, pencils, markers, papers, paper clips and chalk pieces back into the depths of the satchel. "He doesn't speak English."

"He doesn't, but Siegfried does."

"Siegfried likes me," she objected.

"Siegfried likes Siegfried. Don't forget that." With a quick roll of his shoulders, Wronski started towards the door. "Surprised they just took it. You'd think sixth and seventh years would have done something more subtle."

"You sound like the voice of experience. What happened to you?" Still looking hopefully into the outside pocket of her satchel for the missing papers, she followed, slowing at the door to pull out a cigarette. Finding the lighter proved difficult to do with one hand so she thrust her case towards him and shook it twice to get him to take it.

"Partiri et Exprimeri." He tried ignoring the offered satchel until she groaned. Grimacing, he obeyed. "I couldn't figure out how my worst class suddenly managed to pass a test. Then, when I pulled out the test and the key, I noticed that the paper felt funny. Haken explained it to me." He waited until she managed to light the cigarette and handed her bag back.

Eyes closed, she smiled and exhaled twin streams of smoke through her nose. "Hope this holds me until lunch. The Partiri duplicates, right? Yeah. Magic can't create matter so it has to make due with what's there. I bet the paper felt flimsy as heck."

"I've used it myself since then," he said, looking quite proud of himself. "It doesn't seem to work on complicated things. Stuff like paper and fabric works fine, but I tried a flask and couldn't get it right. The thing shattered as soon as I touched it."

Nodding, she took another deep drag and jerked her head towards the castle. "There are other spells that you can use for those, but I wouldn't recommend it. You're always taking away half of whatever's there. I tried it on a sock a few years ago. It looked great until I put it on and walked around in it for a few hours. Wore right through."

"Hey! I tried that, too! I lost a sock and thought why not? I got to wear it twice. Better than just tossing it out, though. Can you use magic to put it all back together? I mean, do you know any way to repair the holes?" They slowed at the base of the stairs to let a group of students herded by an impatient professor by. Wronski poked Jones in the arm and pointed as the person last passed. "Golden sickles. I guess it's almost October."

"Mistletoe?" Watching the retreating forms, she set her bag down and tapped out another cigarette. "Is that why there's that stand of oaks by the back wall?"

"Probably. I use the galls for a few potions. The mistletoe, too."

Jones nodded to herself. "Me, too. Mistletoe figures into a couple of things I teach in my problem child class."

"Well?" Wronski prodded. "Do you know how to fix holes in clothes?"

A thin smile cracked through her face. "Yeah. It's called a needle and thread." She finished her cigarette and tossed the butt onto the stone landing. "Ready for another fun day in hell?"

* * *

My, she thought, looking at the first batch of tests that her Ritual Magic I students turned in, look at all the right answers. Absolutely amazing how well they can memorize answers while not doing any of the reading. Her plan for the day had originally been to use the first half of the class to lecture and the second to give the test, but the revelation of the missing exam was enough to make her switch the order. All of her students finished the problems well within the allotted time. Most of them gave remarkably similar answers. After the fifth test was turned in and she'd read it, she began humming. Jones' musical ability was practically nil. A voice for the shower or one to be shared only with someone equally as tone deaf, she made up for ability with volume. There was a bit of a spiteful thrill as she watched those still taking the test twitch.

When the last test was dutifully presented to her and a quick scan showed a familiar set of answers, she permitted herself a smile. The class' mood immediately plummeted. It was only the end of September, but they had all learned that when Professor Jones smiled that way, it wasn't good.

"Take out another piece of paper. Write your name at the top." A nervous titter leaked out from a group of ashen-faced sixth years. "Since you all did so well on our exam, I thought you'd like to expand on the main topic. You have forty-five minutes to write an essay comparing and contrasting all of the summoning rituals we've discussed thus far. Any diagrams used should be drawn out and all parts of the ritual must be included and in the correct order." Groans and sighs punctuated the rustle of papers and scratch of quills. "Oh, and telling the next section about the essay won't help them at all. I have something else for them to do…"

* * *

Lunch, usually an eagerly awaited milestone in the day, was just another hour. She ate, but didn't taste anything. From where she sat, Heinrich Adler could be seen and heard. It didn't matter that the seventh years' tables had two complete long rows of fifth and sixth year students seated between where she was and where the most probable culprit sat. She could hear him, or at least thought she did. What to do about him? she wondered. There was little doubt that she'd never find the test or the answer key. The experience taught her to never use the same test for both classes again. She just wished she had evidence to nail him. No proof, no crime. Even if she had proof, he'd already shown that her usual punishments didn't work on him.

The detention she'd made him serve had been a farce. The noble Herr Adler had arrived on time and with a retinue. Two people dressed in purple and silver accompanied Adler. She never heard either of them say a word during the time. They didn't have to as all of Adler's perceived needs were instantly addressed. Parchment was laid out in front of the young lord. Jones had watched him read through it and then press a signet onto it for approval. When she'd managed what she had thought as a particularly pithy comment, Adler had nodded towards one of the minions who produced a copy of the rumored note. Any arguments she had ready were shot down by the sigil at the bottom. It bore the Durmstrang mark, the seal of the Headmaster. Adler's point had been made, but she had to make her own. Detention lasted for the full two hours. She managed to finish the latest batch of homework from the Blood Rites I class. Adler played a game of backgammon, read an assignment for one of the advanced Transfiguration classes and flirted with two very beautiful girls who "just happened" to be in the area. The excuse was so poor that even Adler had laughed and apologized to Jones for their intrusion. It was the epitome of courtesy, the very image of the idealized nobility, all delivered in a manner that reinforced their class differences. By the end of the two hours, Jones was certain that she had been the one punished. Adler's homework continued to arrive written in different hands and his test scores had been unimpressive.

Caught up in an endlessly looping debate about what to do, she slowly stomped her way down the staircases and into her class. The second section of Ritual Magic I looked eager, something they had never done before. They were almost excited about the test. A few wore speculative expressions. They had probably talked to someone in the earlier class and were wondering what the essay would be about. The only smug face in the crowd was, of course, Heinrich Adler. Keeping half an eye on him, she pulled out the folder containing the tests, wondering why she was bothering to go through the sham exercise.

"Frau Professor," Adler called out, winking at the hulking swarthy boy next to him. "I spoke to my father, Herr Ulrich Adler. You, of course, have heard of him, no?" Adler stretched as he stood, the better to display a non-regulation set of robes. The expensive wool hung perfectly.

Jones stepped up to her podium and leaned on it. She had no doubt that the show would be a good one. Weighing an answer took two seconds too many and Adler, with a grand sweep of his hand, turned to both sides of the class and flashed the whitest smile she had ever seen.

"Earlier this term, Ingrid has asked about love spells."

Jones held up her hand to interrupt him, but Adler ignored her, sauntering down to stand in front of the intrigued students. "My father, of course, finds such things beneath him." He posed, looking both contemptuous and pleased, timing his next words to coincide with Jones habitual throat clearing before her response. "However, he took it upon himself to find one who could provide information as Ingrid and many others have requested." With the smallest of pivots, he made a show of looking down at Jones and allowing himself a slight sneer. "Being as our esteemed professor was unable to teach this basic skill to this class, my father has sent," Adler inclined his head the minimum amount to indicate respect, "one of the family retainers to speak to us."

"One minute," Jones said. And, as the last word managed to be spat out, the door to the hallway opened and an old woman walked into the room.

The crone was dressed in heavy dark purple robes embroidered with silver eagles bearing wands in both sets of claws. Her thin silver hair glowed like a bright cloud as she stiffly crossed the room to stand next to the still smirking Adler. Jones was appalled when the old woman knelt before him and barely stifled a scream of outrage when her student bent over the crone to pat her on the head and then turn away. The crone could barely rise from her kneeling position and Adler looked away until she managed to stand. In a quavering voice, she began to speak. The crone's voice was thin at first, but it grew more forceful as the she continued. Jones stood by the doorway, clutching her folder of tests, mesmerized by the cadence and the increasingly sonorous tones. Quills, pens and pencils scribbled furiously, all of her pupils, save the smirking Adler, took notes and asked questions. Jones' ears burned as the flush of anger spread over her face.

* * *

"I don't know what happened," Jones grumbled that evening. "I just stood there. It was as if I couldn't move. Whoever she was talked for about an hour. It was kind of interesting in an incredibly rude sort of way. But the capper was when she was through, the class applauded and then she knelt down in front of him again. Little bastard never even said thank you to her. Just ignored her."

Wronski, who had wisely said nothing through the entire muttered monologue, leaned his chair even further back on its back legs and swayed four beats while he digested the last. "So, was the worst part that he took over your class or the fact that someone else lectured and they liked it?"

Jones screwed up her face at both choices. "It was the whole thing. How the heck could he do that?"

With a loud thud, Wronski heaved his shoes off of his desk and onto the floor. "You've got a problem."

* * *

The problem got worse instead of better. Tuesday afternoon, during her last class of the day, one of the Headmaster's aides arrived. Jones could smell the sharp smell of her own fear as soon as the aide cleared his throat to get her attention. Her attendance was required now.

With the jubilant chatter of her class fading behind her, all Jones could wonder was what had she done wrong now? The trek to the North Tower gave her plenty of time to review her performance over the last month. School had barely begun and she was already in trouble. Huffing and puffing up the long flights, the only possible thing she could find was the subject matter for the Detection and Dispersal course. The last two classes had been stalled over variations on a few of theories surrounding detection spells and whether they could be used in areas already saturated by magic. The feeling that she had been cheating the class, which already bothered her, settled heavy on her shoulders.

Having the aide circle her during the endless climb didn't help, either. Jones' lungs wheezed more with each flight and her short legs wanted a rest. The aide seemed to always be standing at each landing, drumming his fingers. He threw up his hands in disgust midway up the last flight and proceeded ahead. A cigarette, just one to steady her nerves… Not allowed in the castle, dammit. She had a fleeting hope of resting in the semi-circular chamber outside the Headmaster's office. A different aide swooped down on her, grabbing her satchel away from her as he pointed towards the door.

Seated behind his massive oak desk, the Headmaster glanced away from the scroll he was reading long enough to tap his finger upon the polished surface twice. A third aide broke away from reviewing an assortment of paperwork to stride to the end of the desk closest to the panting Jones.

"Professor Jones," the aide said in clipped English. "You have once again overstepped your bounds."

The fact that the aide spoke English to her and not German startled and scared her. In that brief moment, she thought that whatever matter they had brought her in for must be very important to make sure she understood exactly what had to be said.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "The topics will get more involved next month. I promise. It's just that it's hard to talk about these sorts of things."

"Yes, so this office has been told. It is truly a shame that someone else has had to take steps to rectify the matter."

Someone else? Searching through her recollections of the past class meetings, she wondered if Heiniger, who had stood at the back of each and every lecture, had complained. He could, of course, since he was the head of that department. He must not think she measured up to his standards. Her pride stung, Jones pulled herself as tall as her short stature would allow.

"I'll move things around and bring up some of the more advanced topics next month. I've just about covered all of the basics."

"Your course materials should be tailored to the wishes and needs of the students. This," the aide sneered and waved a hand as if searching for the correct word, "inability to grasp the basic needs of your pupils. It is a shame and reflects poorly upon the Institute as a whole."

Feeling low and cheap and a total failure, Jones fixed her stare on the corner of the desk. How could she have thought they wouldn't understand what she was doing? How she was cheating them? No wonder she had been called in. Her estimation of Heiniger went up. Why should he bother to be here to have to witness this? He expected more of her than just filling up two hours every Wednesday. What could she do to redeem herself in his eyes?

"The Institute is, of course, quite grateful to the generosity of Herr Adler. His offer of Magistra Bauer was thoughtful. Her reputation in the field is well-known."

"Adler?" Jones looked up, her feeling of base ineptitude falling away with the name. "What's Adler have to do with this?"

Standing to attention, the better to tower over her, the aide glared. "Herr Adler, upon the request of his son, who has informed this office that you are not addressing the needs that many of your students have expressed, had sent someone who could provide the knowledge and guidance requested." Folding his arms over his chest, the aide leaned back slightly. Sighting along his aquiline nose, he dropped his voice into a low growl. "The Institute believes in being responsive to the wishes of its benefactors. We are lucky to have the patronage of such noble lines. There are reasons that we admit only their lines and those of the properly connected half-blood families. You do understand, Professor Jones? Perhaps those of your class do not."

"I understand."

* * *

A temper tantrum. That was the only way to describe it. Wronski cowered in the doorway to Jones' office while she screamed and threw whatever came to hand. He tried to snatch away a stack of homework folders, but those were thrown against the wall. The file cabinet clanged when she kicked it and the aging, cane-bottomed visitor's chair finally broke when a text landed corner first. She'd run out of her store of profanity in the first few minutes. Only inarticulate rage seethed through clenched teeth. For the first time in years, Jones' desktop was clear. All of the papers, books, and other things mounded into somewhat orderly stacks had been either knocked to the floor or flung against a wall. All that was left was a garish ashtray that slowly hopped its way across the surface when, bereft of anything to throw or pitch off, she resorted to pounding on the desk. The orange ashtray bounce once, twice, thrice and, on the fourth bounce, topple over the edge to fill the room in foul-smelling ash.

"Done?" he managed to choke out. Waving both arms to clear the air, he coughed and sneezed.

Standing behind her now-cleared desk, her eyes watering from the fog of ashes, she gave in and laughed. What else was there to do? "I give up. I just give up."

"Do something about this. I can hardly breathe."

Shaking her head, she pulled her wand free and forced the ashes to settle. It took two tries before the air no longer felt raspy each inhalation. "Sorry. I don't usually lose it like that."

Still standing in his niche, Wronski surveyed the floor. "That was special. How are you going to figure out what goes where?"

"Oh, there are ways," she sighed, hitching a hip onto the desk. "Some of it has been associated with other stuff long enough that I can call them together. Some of it is going to require that I sit down on the floor and sort through it." Her eyes felt awful. A headache was dueling with a sour stomach for the right to ruin her evening. "I could use a drink."

"Uh huh," he muttered and leaned against the door. Jones rubbed her eyes and hunkered lower as she tried to lean on a knee, unaware that she was shrouded in cigarette ash and that a butt wagged from her sweater's sleeve. The corner of his mouth twitched into a crooked grin. "You need to get out of here for a bit. Look, I know it's a school night and all, but why don't we go have a drink in the village. On me."

"Oh, Paul, you really are my best friend." Her treacherous eyes brimmed briefly. "Ashes," she explained, surprised at the crack in her voice.

"Ok, you buy."

* * *

The tavern had the empty look of a midweek night about it. The dark-paneled room gave the impression of a tunnel. Wall sconces shone feebly at regular intervals and a few tables had guttering candles. The jukebox glowed like a dull beacon at the far end of the dark length of the bar. The only real light was provided in shades of flickering blue from an old black and white movie silently playing out behind the bar. It felt quiet and deserted, perfect to soothe frayed nerves.

Dutifully following his charge, Wronski allowed himself to be led to a table in front of the bar. He had slowed in front of one of the booths set closer to the way back to the Portkey to Durmstrang, but Jones had trudged past him on her way to a more public spot. No one paid any attention to them except the bartender who immediately returned to polishing glassware. A group of middle-aged men clustered at the end of the bar closest to the door. With the exception of a pair of silvery-haired men crouched over a chessboard, there were no other customers.

"I think I want something other than a beer tonight," she groaned and sagged into a chair. "I wonder what kind of scotch they have. I could do with a shot. Maybe two."

"They seem to have a lot of different bottles back there. Want me to go look?" Wronski waited while Jones rubbed her eyes. "I could surprise you."

One bleary eye appeared, framed by her fingers. "Surprise me? Yeah. Surprise me. Get me something big and icy. God, I'd love a margarita. I don't suppose they make them here?" Folding her fingers slowly away from her face, she slid her chin into her palm. "Cold, preferably icy, something different."

"Different," he repeated before heading off to the bar.

"Different" was served in a large tulip-shaped glass and was a strange orange color. It tasted sweet and tart and went down smoothly. "Not what I expected, but not bad at all." There was a thin band of froth at the top of the drink; it left a pale peach moustache on her top lip. She loudly declared the foam delicious when she smacked it off. She drank it in stages; the first third disappeared in seconds, the second third took the better part of a half-hour and the last went down in a long swallow.

"Another?" he asked, carefully gauging her eyes.

"Yeah. I think so. One more and then I think I can deal with going back. It's earlier here. What do you think? Two hours? An hour?" She draped an arm along the top of the table and drummed her fingers against the edge. "It seems too early to call it a night. I don't know about you, but all I have waiting for me is that incredible mess and a bunch of homework to grade. I'd like to be loopy enough to just fall asleep when I get back."

"Sure." Wronski's glass of beer sat half full.

"Hey," she called out, catching him at the bar. When he looked over his shoulder, she pointed at the beer. "Are you the designated walker?"

The second drink perked her up. She had a cigarette and began digging around in her pockets. Mixed in with some shredding tissues, she found a roll of breath mints and a mixture of change. The Knuts and Sickles were sorted out from the rest. "Think there's enough for the juke box? It's almost too quiet."

"Probably. I bet you can always give a bill to the bartender and he'll give you the right change."

All the coins looked the same to her. Some were bigger, some smaller, but it was too dark to see the numbers. "Do you think, if I just stand there long enough, someone will figure it out for me?"

"Worth a try. Let's see what's there. I can translate some of it for you."

The jukebox sat at the back of the long part of the L-shaped room. The glow pointed upwards and little blue and yellow lights chased around the display. They leaned over it and read through the cards.

"Looks a lot like home," Jones muttered and felt a stab of homesickness. "The Stones, the Eagles, the Beatles, Abba… Just like an American bar."

"Abba," Wronski laughed, "are from Sweden. The Stones and the Beatles are British."

"Your point," she sneered and lit a cigarette. "Pick something lively. I need it."

"Eeney, meeny, miney…" Wronski intoned, waving a finger over the listed bands.

"Are you here for the celebration?"

She almost bit the filter in half. Jumping back against the machine, she found herself looking into the black jacket of an Auror. The Auror in the jacket was Massys. He had a sleepy, just off of work look and carried a box under one arm. "A present," he explained in answer. "We have not seen you for far too long. Did Johannes contact you?" Jones and Wronski looked blankly at him. "No matter," he said with a shrug. "It is fortunate that you have picked tonight to visit."

"Tonight? What's special about tonight?" she asked. Sliding a look at Wronski, she took a long drag on the cigarette to steady herself. "It is a school night so we can't be out too late."

"It is Hans' birthday. I thought you would have reminded her." Massys winked at Wronski who looked confused. "Oh, Professor Wronski, how soon you forget. Just a few weeks ago, we had a discussion with just this information being requested. Do you not recall?"

"Right." It was clear that Wronski didn't recall at all.

"It makes no matter. Come. At the very least, you should wish him a happy birthday and stay for a drink." Massys inclined his head towards the back door and began walking that direction.

"Well?" Wronski asked. "Want to sing 'Happy Birthday' to old Hansie?"

"'Old' Hansie? You mean my kid brother Hansie?" Jones sucked down the last of her cigarette and gave a few seconds of serious consideration to the matter. At thirty-nine, "old" Hansie was still five years younger than she was and, as had been pointed out weeks earlier, a pureblood, hardly the sort of man who would be interested in her. Somehow, that made it easier. "Sure. Why not? Let's go wish him a happy birthday. Maybe we can play a game of pool and call it a night."

"Ok." Wronski swirled the last of his beer thoughtfully and, with a snort of either amusement or disgust, downed it. "Let's see how the Aurors party."

The faces were familiar, the greetings warm and the beer cold. Jones accepted an overflowing glass of amber beer and tried to melt back against the wall. Mueller appeared to be popular with his coworkers. She could just barely see him amidst a group of well-wishers. The group clustered around him laughed at some quip or another. Mueller, she noted, didn't laugh with them. He was of the tight grin sort, not a laugh out loud type. More like Gregorov all the time. Her gaze shifted to the rest of the crowd. Werner and Baldung were at it again. Holed up in a corner of the room, Baldung was doing all of the talking, barely pausing long enough to take a breath. Werner's tense posture told Jones that whatever the matter was, it was closed for discussion. Well, at least the beer was good. She took a long swallow and tried working up her courage to wish "kid brother Hans" good luck on his thirty-ninth year. Ah, thirty-nine, she remembered it well. Good year. Still in Seattle.

"Come," Massys said. He tapped her on the shoulder, careful not to startle her. "Come and say hello. He had thought you angry with him and would not come." Massys raised a glass towards the end of the room that Mueller had last been seen in. "He talks of you, you know."

"He does?" she managed just before the birthday boy parted the crowd.

Mueller seemed to block out the light with his bulk. Whatever expression he had on his face was lost. Jones forced what she thought of as her cockiest smile and thrust a hand out. "Happy Birthday!" The bravado sounded almost real. Mueller took a step forward and she could smell a lot of beer. Must have started early, she thought.

"Americans," Massys teased. "That is not the way to congratulate him. Here." She had a moment's warning before Massys pushed her into Mueller. "Give him a hug."

Somewhere about Mueller's mid-chest, she found her forehead being imprinted with one of his uniform's buttons. Her nose tweaked to the side when his arms closed around her shoulders and over her ears. It was like being enveloped by a large, warm blanket that smelled strongly of both beer and cigarettes. Muffled, but audible, she could hear Massys cheer and Wronski cough out a laugh. Worse of all, the heat of her blush burned. One arm fell away as the other was clamped over her shoulder. Jones pulled away towards the wall and felt him stumble after.

Praying for the cover of the shadows until she quit blushing, she could see Massys and Wronski lean together while Massys spoke. They both grinned and click their glasses together in a toast. She tried pushing off Mueller's arm. In response, he hugged her tighter and reached around with his other enormous hand. In that hand, a cigarette burned. Several retorts sprang to her mind, all sarcastic. Just as the correct biting response came to her, a nicotine-yellowed finger and tapped her on the nose. When she opened her mouth to snarl, the cigarette was popped into her mouth. Diffused for the moment, she puffed. Then, it was time to move elsewhere. Mueller pulled her along effortlessly. Trying to wriggle out didn't work. Either he didn't notice or it was part of a game. He shifted weight or pulled her in without any effort. The noise level went up. Her beer was refilled. Eventually, he relaxed his grip on her enough that she could use her left hand to maneuver the cigarette, but just barely.

Someone propped the door open to the main bar. More pitchers of beers arrived as well as a bottle of something red. The something red was poured into tiny glasses that everyone drank in a quick toss. In her opinion, the taste of the liqueur didn't mix well with the beer and whatever the frothy drink she'd had originally was. More beer. The jukebox started pumping out tunes. Held in place by the dead weight of Mueller's arm, she got to see Wronski dance with one of the women Aurors who could shimmy like a snake. The sight made her smile. At least Paul was having fun. Massys joined in at one point, but was whirled off the floor by one of the waitresses. A pair of the ever-grumpy Cerebors danced with each other in a parody of a tango done to the thunk-a-thunk beat of rock. It was glorious in its silliness and she laughed; a rumble in Mueller's chest echoed her laugh. The heavy arm hugged her closer until claustrophobia set in. It really was about time to leave.

The music changed to a more sedate beat. The Rolling Stones thumped out their version of a slow dance song and Jones, ever a fan, tapped her foot to the beat. The vibration must have been enough to catch Mueller's attention because he swung her around and danced her bodily across the floor. Once again plastered against his chest, she could see nothing and more felt the bass rather than heard the music. If he could have seen her bugged-out, wide eyes, he might have let her go, but instead he danced her slowly around the room, bouncing off the occasional chair and bumping into a table. It was, she guessed, romantic in a painful sort of way. Mostly, it was confusing and too public for her taste. When the music ended, he let her pull away. He'd danced her off into a corner and loomed over her, a serious look on his tipsy face. She realized just before he dipped down what he was going to do. All the effort she'd spent into convincing herself that this was "baby brother Hans" disappeared in a sloppy attempt at a passionate kiss. He missed her mouth and smacked loudly on her cheek. With one mighty squirm, she managed to free herself and backed away towards the door.

"Time to go?" Wronski asked. He took the wild nodding as an affirmative. "Happy Birthday!" he yelled over his shoulder. Waving over his shoulder, he used the other hand to propel her out the door. Jones kept her eyes on the floor, the better to not see any of the grinning faces.