Pariah

Pariah, Chapter Three

Another Bad Day and Another Sleepless Night

If Pansy thought Wednesday was wretched, Thursday came along and kicked her square in the head. She had the horrible feeling that all of these Bad Days were adding up to Bad Weeks, which would grow into Bad Months, which would in turn make this a Very Bad Year. And she wasn't entirely wrong.

The Thursday after the Wednesday when Pansy had thoughts about a Weasley, known amongst her friends as Pansy's Panty Party but which she secretly referred to as Weasley Wednesday, Pansy woke up feeling like she had been hit by a train. It was the start of a very bad cold, which made itself known that morning by squeezing Pansy's lungs so that she was slowly awakened by her own raspy breathing. But in those precious few moments before waking, Pansy was vaguely aware that there was someone in her dormitory who had no right to be there. She experienced one silent moment of panic, and then logic took over in her brain. Still groggy, and possibly hallucinating, Pansy sat up very slowly and rubbed her eyes. When she opened them, the black shape that had been previously lurking near the foot of her bed was gone and the dormitory door was softly clicking shut.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and dropped them into her pink fuzzy slippers. At least, she would have, if her slippers had been where she left them the night before. Instead, her feet hit the bare stone floor, which was so cold that if her feet had been wet, they would have frozen there.

A brisk fall chill permeated the air, as if the seasons had suddenly changed overnight and someone had left the windows open. Pansy wrinkled her forehead. "Odd," she said. Slowly, she looked around the rest of the room. Daphne was snoring softly. Morag was muttering in her sleep, half of her body hanging off the mattress. Millicent was buried beneath a mound of blankets. Then she shifted her gaze from her friends to her trunk, the lid of which was slightly ajar.

Apprehensively, Pansy made her way over. She slowly reached out her left hand to the lid, holding her wand (which she slept with under her pillow just as Snape had instructed her first night at Hogwarts) in her right. She yanked it open suddenly, as if to surprise whatever non-existent horror was there. But what Pansy found was indescribably worse.

It was completely empty.

All of her clothes were gone. All of her books were gone. All of her everything. Gone. Not quite believing it, Pansy stepped back to survey her trunk, and then the trunks of her roommates. No longer caring if she woke up everyone in the entire school, Pansy went over to the foot of Morag's bed and kicked open her trunk. The lid flew open easily and hit the footboard of her bed, shattering the quiet of the morning. Morag shot up like a lark and stared at Pansy. "What was that for?" she demanded.

"Your trunk is empty," Pansy said simply.

"What do you mean 'empty'?" Morag asked, untangling herself from the bed sheets.

Pansy didn't reply. She kicked open Millicent's trunk to the same effect.

"Wha...?" Millicent mumbled sleepily.

"What's going on?" Daphne asked, sitting up.

"Where is all my stuff?" Morag asked the room at large. She was standing at the foot of her bed in the Morag Pose, looking murderously at Pansy.

"Empty." Pansy moved on to Daphne's trunk, kicking open the lid so hard that it dented the footboard. "Empty." Pansy sat down heavily at the foot of Daphne's bed and looked at Millicent and Morag.

For a second, they all just stared at each other, allowing it to sink in. Then Morag slowly pivoted, dropped to her knees and looked under her bed. "Motherfucker," she swore, pushing herself back up. "My boots are gone, too."

Sitting up in her bed, Millicent said with a slight smile, "You're going to raise holy hell, aren't you?"

Pansy just gave her a look and commenced to chew the inside of her cheek.

"What's going on?" Daphne asked curiously behind Pansy.

"All of our stuff is gone," Morag intoned murderously.

"What do you mean?" Daphne asked, obviously confused.

"Look in your trunk," Millicent offered.

Daphne crawled to the end of the bed next to Pansy and stared down into her open and empty trunk. "Where's my stuff? This isn't funny."

They all shrugged.

"No, seriously. I have it on good authority that Blaise is going to ask me out today. Where's my stuff?" Daphne glared around at them.

"Gone," Pansy said, still thoughtfully chewing her cheek. She was staring at a spot on the stone floor, wondering if the shadow she had seen upon waking was indeed a person, and how said person could have crept soundlessly out of a dormitory with his or her arms loaded up with the stuff out of all their trunks. They were seventeen-year-old girls, after all; they had a lot of stuff.

"It can't just be 'gone'!" Daphne yelled. "I can't be asked out by Blaise in this!" She grabbed the front of her frumpy pea-green nightgown and shook it. "I look like an old spinster witch who lives alone with eighteen of her favorite cats and bakes cookies to send to Gilderoy Lockhart in St. Mungo's!"

Pansy looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Let's try not to get hysterical, shall we?"

"Well, luckily for us, we all wear sensible pajamas," Millicent said, rising from her bed wearing Gregory's Quidditch warm-ups, which were big even on her.

"What do you mean?" Morag had stopped pacing, finally, and just stood there in her pajama pants patterned with "Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle" comics, shivering in her tiny white tank top.

"We have to go to Professor Snape," Millicent said, wriggling her toes on the stone floors. "Man, it got cold in here."

"In our pajamas?" Daphne looked horrified.

"Well," Pansy said, swinging her feet off Daphne's bed and heading for the door, "he's already seen my knickers, so this is cake, really."

"And besides," Millicent said as she opened the door, "it's not like we've got a choice."

The minute Millicent opened the door, they heard the commotion as more and more of their housemates rushed from their dormitories to the common room. Pansy walked out into the throng. There were several girls crying. People were blaming each other. There was a whole lot of skin on display. Someone had upturned a couch. Crabbe was wearing purple. It was chaos.

"Everyone! Quiet!" Draco shouted above the seething mass of confused and pissed off bleary-eyed Slytherins. He was wearing the black flannel pajamas with cocktail olives on them that Pansy had given him last Christmas. The Draco Malfoy Syndrome flared.

"Everyone, please!" Draco shouted again. He was standing in the middle of the common room, barely taller than anyone above third year, but still too proud to admit he was short, and too prissy to stand on the furniture and give a good shout.

The din lessened a bit, but could not be contained. Sensing the volatility of the situation, Pansy stood on top of one of the study tables in the corner of the room. "OY! SHUT! UP!" she screamed, wrenching her already sore throat.

And everyone did.

"The Head Boy would like a word," she said loudly, nodding politely at Draco.

"It's my understanding that everyone's belongings have been removed from the dormitories?" Draco asked.

Everyone nodded and murmured assent.

"Did anyone see anything?" Draco asked, craning his neck above the crowd.

Everyone shook their heads and murmured "no" or "I wish." Pansy felt a very small stab of guilt. She had seen something, but it wasn't anything, really, just a dark shadow at the foot of her bed. Teeny sobbed loudly on Diana's shoulder about how they didn't deserve this.

"And you've all checked your rooms?" Draco asked.

Again, nods and assent. "Why is it always us?" Teeny blithered loudly.

Draco looked around the crowded Slytherin common room, his eyes eventually locking with Pansy's. He nodded then, as if deciding something suddenly. "Right," he said, and then announced, "Pansy and I are going to Professor Snape. No one is to leave the common room until we get back."

Pansy hopped down from the table and made her way to the door, where she met Draco. "And don't touch anything!" he hollered as he followed Pansy out into the dungeon corridor.

They made their way quickly to Snape's office. When they got to the door, they found it open. Draco knocked lightly and walked in, Pansy right behind him. Snape sat at his desk, candles all around him nearly burned to the wick, as if he had been up all night. As they entered, he looked up from a large pile of essays he was grading, his visage even sharper in the uneven candlelight, deep shadows obscuring his eyes.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Professor," Draco began, "our things are missing."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You're going to have to be more explicit, Draco."

Pansy stepped forward. "We woke up this morning and all of our trunks were empty, sir."

"Indeed?" Snape leaned back in his desk, running a thin finger along his jawbone. He looked faintly amused as he looked at each of them in turn, taking in their disheveled appearances and the fact that they were wearing matching pajamas. "The entire House?"

Draco nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And what am I to do about it?" Snape blinked up at them.

Draco opened his mouth, shut it, and then turned to Pansy. "Well..." Draco began.

"We can't really go to class in our pajamas, sir," Pansy finished lamely, wondering why Snape was being so difficult.

"If you can make prefect rounds in your pajamas, Miss Parkinson, you can attend your classes that way, too." Snape sneered a bit, and then turned his attention back to his essays.

Draco and Pansy exchanged a look. "We don't have books, either, sir," Draco said lightly. It was becoming obvious that Snape was in one of his moods.

"You can share with your classmates, surely," Snape said, still reading the parchment before him.

"Sir, the entire House is missing all of their personal possessions," Pansy impatiently importuned.

"I suggest," Snape said coldly, still not lifting his eyes, "that instead of wasting my time whinging on, that you begin looking for them."

"And if we can't find them, sir?" Draco asked. He had a spot of pink high on each cheek. Pansy knew that he was doing everything in his power to control his anger.

Snape finally looked up from the essay. "I'll inform the Headmaster of the situation. If you cannot locate your personal effects by the end of the day, we'll put the house-elves to task. Is that everything?"

"Yes, sir," they replied in unison

Snape pointed to the door with his quill feather. "And do try not to bring any more shame unto the House today, Miss Parkinson," he said just as she reached the door.

Pansy felt her face warm. Draco glared at her. She turned slowly around to look Snape in the eye. "I'll try," she said evenly.

Snape nodded and Pansy turned out the door.

"That could have gone worse, don't you think?" Pansy whispered as they stood just outside Snape's door.

But Draco didn't respond by smirking or making a pithy remark. Instead, he poked Pansy in the sternum. "This is all your fault, you know."

Pansy was taken aback. "My fault?"

Draco didn't say anything, just glared at Pansy and then stalked back in the direction of the common room.

Pansy stood for a moment, pondering what just happened. She looked over her shoulder at Snape, who was watching her keenly, and then made for the staircase into the Great Hall. Yesterday, she had missed breakfast, skipped her classes, mooned the entire school, and touched a Weasley. Today her entire House had woken up to find their things vanished, Snape remarkably unsympathetic and uncooperative, and now they all had to attend classes in their pajamas, and she was quite sure that she was going to get all the blame for it. On top of this, her lungs felt like they were submerged in water. It was turning out to be Another Bad Day.

* * * * *

Ron was vaguely aware upon waking that he was the first one up. Neville, Dean, and especially Seamus almost always stayed in bed until the last possible moment, but it was quite something to be up before Harry. When Harry did sleep, he only slept for a few hours at a time, usually falling asleep last and getting up first. It had been happening all summer, but when it continued at school, it worried Ron immensely. Finally, he had told his mother, who promptly told Dumbledore, who called Harry into his office and then sent him to Pomfrey with a prescription for a potion for dreamless sleep. It had sort of pissed Harry off and driven a stake in their friendship for about a week, but Ron was pleased now to see that Harry was taking the potion every now and again and wasn't acting quite so much like a zombie all the time. He apparently hadn't taken it last night, however, as he was passed out on top of his covers with his glasses still on. He had the terrible habit of driving himself to the brink of exhaustion, at which point he was completely and utterly useless and often did stupid things like pass out on top of his covers with his glasses still on.

Sighing, Ron flipped back his bed covers and checked the clock. It was six thirty. Down in the Great Hall, they would be starting to serve breakfast. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hadn't slept at all well last night, wavering at the edge of sleep in half-dreams for several hours before finally dozing off. And it was entirely the fault of Pansy Parkinson.

He shoved up off his bed, stretching his arms and back and legs, hearing several creaks and groans from his lanky body as he did so. Then he shivered fiercely. He was wearing only his Chudley Cannons pajama bottoms, and the air that hit his body was cool and fresh, licking his skin with the first challenge of autumn. Fall meant Quidditch and pumpkin pie, cider and Halloween. In autumn, there was a warm slant to the sun as it came through the windows of Gryffindor tower, infusing everything with an orange glow. Ron liked autumn fine. He just wished it would keep its weather more to itself this early in the morning.

Harry moaned softly in his sleep. It was a very distinctive sound that Ron had only ever heard Harry make and which he recognized instantly as the "bad dream" noise. He pulled the blankets off his own bed and tiptoed gently to the side of Harry's.

No one in the world had bad dreams like Harry. Six years of sleeping in the next bed over had convinced Ron of that. He watched as Harry cringed in his sleep, his entire face scrunching for just a minute and then releasing back into the dream. And then he did it again, this time shaking his head a bit. It was as if he was trying to wake himself up. Ron had planned on just taking off his best friend's glasses and covering him with blankets, but now he changed his mind.

Gently, Ron reached down and seized Harry's shoulder. "Harry!" Ron said firmly, giving his shoulder a very gentle shake. "Harry!"

Suddenly, Harry's hand came up and caught Ron's throat. "Don't," he said thickly, his eyes burning a cold and fierce emerald. This was scary Harry. Ron knew how to handle this.

"It's Ron, Harry," Ron choked out. "It's Ron."

Slowly, Harry's fingers relaxed and his eyes warmed a bit. He dropped his hand from Ron's throat and rubbed his eyes under his glasses with his fingertips. "Sorry," he said softly.

Ron, with one hand clutching his blankets and one hand still on Harry's shoulder, asked gently, "You okay, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry said weakly. "Just, you know," he paused to swallow thickly, "dreams."

Releasing the other boy's shoulder, Ron stepped back from Harry's bed. "You didn't take the potion last night," Ron said matter-of-factly.

Harry shook his head and muttered something about Tonks and Malfoy.

"Harry," Ron sighed, "please?"

Harry didn't say anything, just sat up in bed, hunching over slightly and running his hands through his hair.

"I care about you, Harry," Ron said with exasperation. "Everyone does. You need to take better care of yourself."

Harry's eyes snapped up to glare at Ron. "If you only knew, Ron."

"I know it must be hard," Ron said, his voice sure and steady, "whatever it is. I can see it in you."

Harry snorted and looked out the window.

"I want to help you. You're like my brother, Harry." Ron's voice was strong and firm. On this point he would not compromise.

"You know," Harry said without malice, "I always wanted to be a Weasley."

Ron smiled faintly and put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "I know. Now let's go get some breakfast."

Harry looked up into Ron's eyes, and Ron saw in their depths a vast ocean of pain. It hurt to look, but Ron did not falter. This was Harry, after all, his first and fastest friend, his best friend.

"Okay," Harry said weakly, getting to his feet.

Ron smiled, grabbed a shirt from the top of his trunk, and went first out of the dormitory, pulling his shirt over his head on the stairs, putting it on backwards and inside out. It wasn't until he was in the common room that he realized Harry wasn't behind him. He looked back up the stairs, deciding that it was too far just as his stomach rumbled. Harry had probably already gone back to sleep anyway. He shrugged and climbed out the portrait hole.

Driven by hunger, he took several shortcuts down to the Great Hall. As he was coming down the stairs into the entrance hall, Pansy Parkinson had just opened the door from the dungeons. Luckily for Ron, she was staring at the ground and did not see him blush crimson as images from his half-dreams played in his mind as if on a reel. He ducked and headed for the door, several steps ahead of her. If he was lucky, she wouldn't look up and see him.

"Weasley," she said, surprised.

Ron jerked his head up and turned around, acting as if he hadn't noticed she was there. "Oh. Erm... hey, Parkinson."

They just stared at each other for several moments. Ron awkwardly tried to think of something to say. "Aren't those the pajamas you were wearing last night?" He had meant it to be an innocuous statement, but the moment it left his mouth he realized that he had breached the unspeakable subject of Last Night. He blushed and turned his attention to the door of the Great Hall. He could smell pancakes.

"Weasley?" Pansy asked softly, pulling Ron's attention back to her face. Her voice was husky and rough.

"Y-Yeah?" he managed, his throat constricted and his mouth dry.

"Are all of your shirts too small?" She was looking at him appraisingly, a small line between her eyebrows as she surveyed him. Then she stepped forward.

Ron held his breath. She reached out with both hands, and Ron watched as she looked at the tag on his tee shirt, just below his Adam's apple. He looked down at her face, his eyes going slightly crossed, and watched as a smile began to spread.

"Ah, that figures," she said as if with dawning comprehension.

"What?" Ron asked, pushing down his chin, trying to read the tag that Pansy still held in her fingers.

"This is Potter's shirt." Pansy yanked the tag, ripping it off, and then put it in Ron's hand, her cold fingers just grazing the inside of his sweaty palm.

Ron held the tag up to read it, and sure enough, in big fat letters read Harry's initials: HJP. His mum must have accidentally put it in with his things or something.

"How odd," Pansy said curiously before she walked past him into the Great Hall.

Ron slowly walked in after her, staring down at the bizarre tag Pansy had ripped off his tee. Well, actually, Harry's tee. But she had just ripped it without asking. As if she was entitled or something. One thing that Ron was slowly beginning to understand about Pansy Parkinson was that she never asked for permission. And really, he thought as he watched her pour a cup of coffee at the Slytherin table, it's kind of exciting.

* * * * *

Slowly, Pansy watched the Great Hall fill with breakfasters. Her own housemates, still pajama-clad, were looking abnormally vicious and ill mannered, even for them. And she had the immeasurable joy of experiencing their grumpiness first hand, as not a single one of them passed her without glaring in her general direction. Great, Pansy thought miserably, Draco blames me and the entire House is agreeing with him. Just spiffing.

Finally, Millicent, Morag, and Daphne came into the Great Hall, snapping peevishly at some younger Hufflepuff who no doubt had the misfortune to inquire after the state of the Slytherins' attire. Morag gave the Great Hall a filthy look over her shoulder as she sat down across from Pansy; taking a seat next to her, Millicent smiled flittingly down the table at Gregory, but Daphne merely stuck her nose up in the air and walked straight past.

Pansy looked after her. "What is she on about?"

"She thinks Teeny is right," Morag said crossly, pulling a plate of sausages to her.

"She thinks Teeny is right about what, exactly?" Pansy probed.

"Oh," Millicent said, waving one hand dismissively while she poured herself a large glass of orange juice, "Teeny is of the opinion that Professor Snape is punishing us because of that thing you did at dinner last night."

Shocked, Pansy let the fork fall out of her hand. "She said that?"

Millicent and Morag nodded, mouths full of pancake.

"And people actually believe her?" Pansy croaked. Her throat was swollen and sore.

Pansy's friends exchanged looks.

"And what did Draco say?" Pansy asked quietly.

"He pretty much said that he thought the same, and then...." Morag stopped, cutting up a sausage with the edge of her fork.

"And then what?" Pansy intoned in a murderous voice, which really wasn't hard today, seeing as her voice had already flattened an octave due to the sickness that was threatening her lungs.

"And then he sort of said that we should just let you alone to think about what you've done," Morag finished finally. "He can be an arse sometimes."

"You think?" Pansy snapped, shifting her gaze to glower at the Head Boy. "I can't believe he told everyone to snub me."

"Pansy, why is Ron Weasley staring at you?" Millicent asked suddenly, looking across the Great Hall.

Pansy followed her gaze, and sure enough, her hazel eyes met the blue ones of Ron Weasley. He quickly looked away.

"Haven't a clue," Pansy muttered, drenching her pancakes in snozberry syrup and taking a very large bite so that she choked and coughed.

Millicent patted Pansy's back as she recovered. "You don't suppose he fancies you?"

Pansy pulled a face. "Really, Millicent. I'm eating."

Millicent shrugged her shoulders. "Just thought I'd check."

At about that time, Harry Potter came running through the doors of the Great Hall, screaming madly at the top of his lungs, Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore hot on his heels. "TRAITOR!" Harry yelled, a manic look about him as he raced up the aisle that separated the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. "BLOODY TRAITOR!"

The Slytherins exchanged curious glances. The Ravenclaws looked to the head table. The Hufflepuffs squealed. The Gryffindors were already on their feet.

It seemed to happen in slow motion: the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team, led by Ron Weasley and Colin Creevey (the tallest and the quickest, respectively), sprang across the Hufflepuff table and tackled their raving Seeker, the black head engulfed in a sea of bodies. People were yelling things that Pansy could not understand as the seven of them wrestled. McGonagall and Snape stood on one side of the mess; Dumbledore and Pomfrey on the other, all, it seemed, afraid to get involved.

By now, the entire Great Hall was on its feet. Harry seemed to make a recovery, drawing a collective gasp from the spectators as he pulled his wand and Stunned Colin, sending him flying backwards into the Hufflepuffs' breakfast. It seemed to rain pancakes and sausages just as Ron hauled off and punched his best friend in the head.

For several moments, everyone was much too shocked to say anything. Harry daubed at his mouth, and Ron helped his sister to her feet, all of them panting and glaring at each other.

"Mr. Potter!" McGonagall finally admonished in a shocked breath, hand clutching heart.

"All right, Harry?" Ron asked in a very small, though unapologetic, voice.

Harry nodded very slowly, taking off his glasses to wipe them on his tee shirt.

"Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, would you please accompany me to my office?" Dumbledore said in his usual docile tones. "Poppy and Minerva, would you please make Mr. Creevey comfortable in the hospital wing? Severus, we have rounded up slippers and robes from the infirmary supplies for your students."

The professors nodded, Pomfrey conjured a stretcher, and Dumbledore put his left hand on Harry's shoulder and his right hand on Ron's, and steered them from the Great Hall. At the door, Ron looked up and Pansy caught his eye. She smirked, and he looked away.

The second the doors closed behind the Headmaster, Draco said, quite distinctly and in his usual arrogant tone, "Maybe Longbottom's contagious, do you suppose?" All the Slytherins laughed, except Pansy, who narrowed her gaze at Teeny. Her bright tinkling laughter soared above the clank and scrape of forks and knives as the occupants of the Great Hall returned to their breakfasts.

* * * * *

Ron stared glumly at the Headmaster, rolling the sherbet lemon over his tongue, feeling the sharp edges cut like glass. It turned out to be sour after Ron got past the deceptive white sugar coating, but he didn't think he'd let that affect his opinion of Dumbledore, who was currently laying into Harry. As soon as he got past the sour part, he'd get to the sherbet powder, which was the best part anyway.

"Harry, we can't have you running around blasting any student or faculty member that gets in your way," Dumbledore explained calmly.

"Yeah, but--" Harry tried.

"You certainly owe Mr. Creevey an apology," Dumbledore said.

"Yeah, but--" Harry tried again.

"I understand that you may have trouble trusting certain members of staff, given your history with the various Defense Against the Dark Arts professors over the years, Remus excluded, of course," Dumbledore continued.

"Yeah, but--" Harry tried yet again.

Ron took this opportunity to snort, which only served to lodge the sherbet lemon in a very uncomfortable spot in the back of his throat. He coughed on it lightly, trying to be polite, which tickled and caused him to hack aggressively.

Dumbledore glanced at him worriedly before setting back in on Harry. "Granted, we've had some problems in the past with that post specifically, but that is no reason to assume that all Defense professors are out to get you, Harry--regardless of what dreams or visions you may have had."

"Yeah, but--" Harry tried once more, his tone more insistent.

"I will brook no excuses, Harry. I cannot have you trying to assassinate Professor--"

After a particularly violent cough, Ron felt the candy come loose from the spot in his throat, fly past his lips, and watched with something akin to horror as it landed, sticky and covered in saliva, in Dumbledore's beard.

Very gently, Dumbledore disentangled the offending candy and handed it back to Ron. "I want to further assure you, Harry, that if you have any concerns whatsoever, you should not hesitate to come to myself or Professor McGonagall. We are here to help you."

Ron thoughtfully inspected the sherbet lemon. One long gray hair was wrapped around it. Nope. Too disgusting. He'd have to abandon it now and forever give up on getting to the sweet core. He glanced around the office, looking for somewhere in arm's reach where he could tuck it away. It was starting to make his hand sticky.

"Headmaster?" Harry asked in a near whisper.

"Yes, Harry?" Dumbledore asked calmly.

"Let's just say that there is someone in the castle who is trying to kill me," Harry asked, slowly searching for the right words, "and let's say that I can't find you or McGonagall. Then what?"

Ron nonchalantly slid the sticky candy between the arm and the seat of his chair in a little nook in the cushion and pretended to pay attention.

Dumbledore blinked for a second. "If it comes to that, and I doubt it ever will, I'm sure you'll think of something." He rose out of his chair and slowly walked to the door. Opening it, he said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need a cold one right about now," and he shoved Ron and Harry out.

As they took the stairs down to the corridor, Harry was grumbling absently under his breath, and Ron was wishing he had something to clean the sour lemon taste from his mouth while he wiped his hands off on his pajama pants. He hated having sticky hands.

"Harry, you know I--"

"There's something very odd going on," Harry interrupted, rubbing his forehead. "We've got to keep an eye out," he mumbled.

"You're starting to sound like Moody," Ron said darkly.

"Everyone is a possible threat," Harry continued to mutter. "No one is to be trusted."

"Harry," Ron said, stopping, "you have got to chill out. No one is trying to kill you, mate."

"Oh, I can think of one wizard in particular who very definitely wants me dead!" Harry snapped.

"Besides him," Ron said, as Harry barked out the password and the Fat Lady swung wide, revealing a near-empty common room.

"Harry!" Hermione jumped out of her chair as soon as the portrait opened. "Are you all right? What happened? Does your scar hurt? What did you do to him, Ron?"

"Yes, nothing, not really, and leave Ron alone," Harry said, sitting down heavily on the common room sofa.

"I happened to stop him from doing something really stupid, that's what I did," Ron said angrily to Hermione.

"Yeah, thanks for that," Harry intoned listlessly, his head in his arms curled up on the sofa, staring moodily into the fire.

Hermione, however, paid no attention to Harry. "You punched him in the face, Ron!"

"He almost killed Colin! Who knew who was next? Ginny? Me?" Ron shouted.

"I never would have--" Harry said, but Hermione shouted over him.

"You can't just resort to physical violence every time a situation gets out of control. You have to start thinking about these things--"

"Oh, spare me, honestly! What would you have me do? Read up on it first and then seek the help of a Professor?"

"It's just such a brutish, uncivili--"

"It's a guy thing, you wouldn't understand!"

"Not all guys act like you, Ronald Weasley!"

Ron stared at her, face brick red. "Yes, well, thank god for that," he said sardonically. "God forbid there were ever more guys in the world like me to hopelessly darken the doorsteps of women like you!"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" Hermione snapped, stooping to pick up her book bag. "Come on. We're going to be late for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Ron and Harry both groaned, but for different reasons. Ron because the Gryffindors had NEWT level Defense Against the Dark Arts with the Slytherins; Harry because he had just attempted to off the professor.

"Come on, then!" Hermione barked, standing at the portrait hole.

"I'm still in my pajama bottoms!" Ron cried. "I can't go like this!"

"Ron, the entirety of Slytherin house is attending class today in their pajamas. One more idiot in flannel won't make a difference. Your bag is on the table. Harry, are you coming?" Hermione waited with the portrait open as the two reluctant boys gathered their things.

"I really do appreciate this, you know," Ron muttered as he walked past her. "Really. Remind me later to send a note."

* * * * *

And the day went downhill from there. Pansy didn't go anywhere without being glared at by her housemates. It was phenomenal, really, the amount of loathing that could be inspired by being forced to spend the day in your sleep-steeped pajamas. At least they had gotten slippers, but although they were fuzzy, they were open-toed and did nothing to help Pansy fend off the awful cold that made itself at home in her bronchial passages by the time she had hauled herself up to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for her first class.

Professor Andromeda Tonks sat, as usual, reading The Daily Prophet with her feet up on the corner of her desk. She glanced up briefly as Pansy entered, crossing the classroom to her usual seat by the window.

"Good morning, Miss Parkinson. You are looking awfully bright this morning!" She shifted her paper slightly and leaned forward. "You know you're twenty minutes early for class and still wearing your PJ's?"

"Good morning, Professor," Pansy said dully as she sat down. Her voice was raw. "I'm just going to put my head down until class starts."

Professor Tonks nodded, concern contracting her thin black brows. "Are you feeling all right, dear?"

"I'm not sure." Pansy folded her arms on the desktop and gently laid her head down so that her temple rested on her knuckles and looked out the window.

"You'll tell me if you need to go to the hospital wing," Professor Tonks said, rustling her paper.

Pansy closed her eyes while the class slowly filled. She drifted for a bit, letting her mind wander out over the lake, which hadn't looked quite so cold the night before, until the sharp bite of reality brought Pansy back to the classroom. More specifically, it was Seamus Finnegan.

"Pssst!" He whispered from the table behind her. "Pssst! Hey, Parkinson!"

Pansy shut her eyes tighter, willing him to go away.

"Hey Parkinson!" This time it was more insistent. "Pssst! Hey Parkinson!"

A heavy thump at her table startled Pansy so that she shot up from her repose like a bolt of lightening. A gigantic black book bag had landed not inches from Pansy's head. The embroidery on the flap identified its owner as none other than Miss Hermione Jane Granger, Head Girl. Pansy didn't need divination to know that it was going to be a Shitty Lesson.

At the board, Professor Tonks turned her back on the outline of the lesson that she had made appear with her wand, Ethical Defense: Discriminatory Standards for Dealing with Bad Situations. Granger's quill was already scratching away. Pansy pushed herself up on her elbows, resting her cheeks on her fists. Her hands were cold against her skin.

Suddenly, something hit her in the back of the head. It was a small something, a small pointy something, which upon inspection turned out to be a small wad of parchment.

"Pssst!" Seamus whispered again. "Parkinson!"

Pansy threw the wad of parchment over her shoulder. Quietly, Granger tore a page from her notebook and handed it to Pansy with a quill, setting the inkbottle out between them. Pansy accepted without a word between them.

Pansy had just started writing out the title of the lecture when Professor Tonks cleared the first board and made the second appear: The Decision Making Process. It looked like a complicated spider web, and Pansy had no idea how she would possibly recreate it in her notes. Elbow on the table, she put her left cheek in her left palm.

Another small pointy something hit her in the back of the head.

"Pah-nnn-zeeee!" Seamus was starting to sound desperate.

Pansy glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of red hair as Ron pulled his things from his bag and set them out next to Seamus.

Apparently thinking he had finally gotten her attention, Seamus leaned across his desk, smearing his notes with his chest. "Ron wants to know what knickers you've got on today!"

"Finnegan!" Professor Tonks admonished loudly at the front of the room, causing half the class to jump in their seats. She turned her wand, which she always kept balanced just on the edge of her desk, so that it was aimed at Seamus, and then pointed with her finger and narrowed her eyes slightly as a warning. "As I was saying, after you have assessed whether or not your opponent's threat is real--"

Pansy turned again in her seat so that she was glaring over her shoulder at Seamus. Ron was bright red and staring down at his notes, writing. "If Weasley wants to know, he'll just have to find out for himself," she whispered.

Ron looked up at her, blushing a darker red than she even thought possible.

Realizing a moment too late what she had actually said, Pansy turned hastily in her seat. Hermione gave her a quick reproachful look, and Pansy returned to her notes and tried very hard to concentrate on what Professor Tonks was saying, although it was proving increasingly difficult. Everything sounded as though it was being said at a distance, and Pansy felt disconnected from herself, as if her head was floating somewhere above the rest of her. Everything seemed to be coming to her through a misty filter. Her head felt heavy. It hurt to breathe. Hermione was wearing too much rose-scented perfume.

She spent the class with head in hand, doodling on the parchment Hermione had given her, hoping vaguely that she could copy notes later from someone else in the class, but not really caring. She was thinking about a hot bath and a warm bed, a topic that held her attention for the rest of the day.

Midway through afternoon classes, Pansy felt sure that her head was just going to explode. It felt like her glands were swollen to the size of oranges, and every breath and swallow was marked by pain. By the time dinner came, Pansy was done for. The only bright spot was that the articles that had mysteriously vanished from the Slytherin dormitories had just as miraculously reappeared, everything tucked nicely and folded back into their trunks. Except, Pansy noted with full awareness of the irony of the situation though her head was pounding and her vision blurred, her knickers. Not a pair had reappeared.

"Oh, piss it," Pansy said, done rifling her trunk after putting on a big purple fuzzy jumper over her pajamas and three pairs of socks. She had skipped dinner, and now alone, threw herself down on her bed, pulling her covers up over her, shutting out all the light. She just sat there for a moment, absorbing the darkness and listening to the wheezing rasps of her own painful breathing. She had to get to the hospital wing. That much was certain. She threw back her blankets and trundled down to the common room, pausing for a second, but deciding not to leave a note. It wasn't like anyone would miss her after a day like today.

Shuffling out of the dungeons, up the stairs, and into the hospital wing, Pansy silently climbed into one of the hospital beds, which were kept warm by different charms that Pansy, at that moment, didn't care about at all. She supposed Pomfrey would find her sometime that evening, and was contented slightly by the thought that she'd probably get some chocolate when she woke up. With that, Pansy slipped into a fever-induced slumber, having dreams of toy poodles tied with lengths of twine to Ron Weasley's belt loops.

* * * * *

Once Seamus got an idea into his head, he was impossible to deter. When, after dinner, Harry had said that he was going to take Colin some chocolate frogs in apology, Seamus had popped his head up from his Charms text. "Wait, Harry. I have a better idea."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Have you ever heard the saying, 'candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker'?" Seamus whispered with a wink.

Which is how the seventh year Gryffindor boys came to be sitting around Colin's bed in the hospital wing at two o'clock in the morning, passing around a bottle of firewhisky that Seamus had been keeping in his trunk for a "special occasion." Never mind that Colin was still unconscious, or that Pomfrey was sleeping in a room right across the hall. They were utterly alone, or so they thought, and off the Head Girl's radar. They were all pissed, and Seamus was making up limericks on the spot.

"There were a few lads from Hogwarts," Seamus began in the quietest voice he could muster, "who feared nothing to speak of the Dark Arts."

"Damn straight," Harry said, taking another swig off the bottle and passing it to Ron.

"They loved whiskey and wine--"

Dean giggled.

"-- and especially to dine--"

"Amen to that!" Ron said, raising the bottle in a toast.

"Just as long as it wasn't with boggarts!" Seamus finished in a fit of giggles, and soon they were all joining in.

"I don't get it," Neville said as Ron handed him the bottle. "What's so funny about boggarts?"

"Mmhph," a voice moaned from somewhere in the hospital room.

"Shhh!" Ron shushed, raising a finger to his lips.

"Did you hear that?" Dean said, his eyes suddenly wide.

Harry was squinting into the darkness across the room. "It sounded like it came from over there."

"Mmmhmmh, Ron," the voice moaned again.

Dean, Seamus, and Neville all turned to stare at Ron. Slowly, Harry got to his feet, pulling out his wand. Ron stood at his side. They all were quiet as they waited for the sound again. When it came, it was a very low moan.

Harry and Ron took a few steps forward. "Whatever it is," Harry whispered, his voice slurring, "I won't let it kill you."

"Thanks," Ron said, pulling his own wand from his back pocket as they inched toward the source of the noise. He looked back over his shoulder at Neville, Seamus and Dean, who were crouching on the other side of Colin's bed, just peeking out over his motionless body.

The moan came again and Harry halted, throwing an arm out to stop Ron. "We're alone in here, aren't we?" he whispered.

"I thought so," Ron whispered back, "but that sounds a lot like someone having a nightmare or something." More specifically, it sounded to Ron a lot like Harry's "bad dream" noise. He tucked his wand back into his pocket and walked forward more confidently.

He reached the edge of a bed that was in deep shadow in the corner of the room, and thrashing about in it was definitely someone caught in a bad dream. Ron sat down gingerly on the side of the bed.

Apprehensively, Harry came forward and whispered a quiet, "Lumos!" spreading a small circle of light onto the occupant of the bed.

It was Pansy Parkinson. Ron recognized her even though her hair was plastered to her face with sweat: same upturned nose, same square face, same proud chin. Her face was twisted in obvious pain as she tossed and turned.

"We should get Pomfrey," Ron whispered worriedly. "She looks really sick."

"We can't get Pomfrey!" Harry retorted, standing at the foot of Pansy's bed. "We'll get expelled!"

"We should do something," Ron thought aloud.

"Well, we can't wake Pomfrey. She'll chuck us out for sure," Harry brooded.

Pansy gave a particularly violent jerk, causing the bed to creak.

"If she doesn't calm down, she'll wake Pomfrey herself," Ron said, an idea coming to him suddenly. "Harry! Go get the firewhisky!"

"I don't think you really need--" Harry started.

"No, for her. Maybe she'll pass out." Ron pushed the sweaty hair off of Pansy's face and felt her forehead. "Man, she's burning up."

"Okay," Harry said. In a minute he was back with the firewhisky, pouring what was left in the bottle into Pansy's empty water glass.

Carefully, Ron shook Pansy's shoulder. "Parkinson!" he hissed, shaking her harder still. "Parkinson, wake up!"

Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up at him. After a second, she sat up stiffly, keeping her eyes locked on his. They were bright with fever. "Ron, you're letting the poodles escape," she said seriously.

Harry and Ron exchanged glances, and Harry handed Ron the glass of firewhisky. "Parkinson, you're delirious," Ron said calmly, using the same tone he did whenever Ginny would wake up from a bad dream at the Burrow. "You need to drink this." He held the glass up to her.

Cautiously, she took it. "What is it?"

"Medicine," Ron and Harry said simultaneously.

Pansy sniffed it, made a face, and then handed it back.

Automatically, Ron took it. "It will help you sleep," he said, trying to hand it back.

Pansy folded her arms over her chest.

"We can do this the hard way," Harry said, stepping forward with his wand out.

Pansy gave him a dangerous look.

Ron scooted towards her on the bed. "Pansy, please," he pleaded. "I'll get the poodles, but you've got to drink this." He held out the glass again. "Or I'll let Harry do it his way."

Giving Harry a filthy look, Pansy took the glass from Ron with both hands, wrapping around Ron's own. They were surprisingly cold. She raised the glass, Ron's hand trapped around it, to her lips and chugged. When she was finished, she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her pajamas and shuddered.

"Ugh," she said, leaning her forehead against Ron's chest.

Ron set the empty glass down on Pansy's nightstand.

"You don't suppose it will react with anything Pomfrey gave her?" Harry asked, concern in his voice.

"A little late to worry about that now," Ron said. Slowly, he raised a hand and rubbed Pansy's back. She was sobbing quietly into his jumper. "Shhh," he soothed.

"I feel terrible," Pansy whispered, moving so that she was more or less cuddled up in Ron's lap.

"Er..." Ron said, looking up at Harry for help. What now? he mouthed.

"Stay," Pansy whispered.

Ron looked at Harry. Harry nodded.

"Okay, just until you fall asleep," he said, moving his other arm around so that he was actually hugging her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry take the empty bottle back to the vicinity of Colin's bed. He rocked Pansy lightly until she stopped shuddering. Thinking she was asleep, he pulled back to look at her. She was still awake, though how sane, Ron couldn't gauge. Slowly, she snaked a hand up to twist in Ron's hair and smiled weakly. Then she settled her face into the crook of his neck. He felt her hot breath against his pulse point. After a moment, he felt her lips resting against his skin, and then they began to move as she traced a line of small kisses up to his ear.

"Pansy," Ron said softly, pulling away. "Stop."

"Okay." Her voice was small and reed thin. She climbed out of his lap and curled her body around her pillow.

Ron stood and pulled the covers back around Pansy, tucking her in. She closed her eyes, smiling faintly.

"Is she out?" Harry said, suddenly at his elbow, the rest of their dorm mates behind him.

"Yeah," Ron said, running his hand through his hair. "I think so."

"We should go," Dean said softly.

"Yeah," Ron said, moving toward the door, looking anywhere but into the faces of his housemates.

They made their way quickly and quietly back up to Gryffindor Tower, tiptoeing up the steps and climbing into their beds. It was already three in the morning and although Ron was drunk and tired, he knew it would be another sleepless night as he pulled the hangings closed around his bed. He crooked one arm under his head and rested the other on his belly, playing absently with a tiny tuft of ginger hair just below the waistband of his boxer shorts. When he shut his eyes, all he saw were Pansy's bright eyes and all he could think about were her hot lips and warm breath on his neck. The room was slowly spinning as his breath came in shallow hitches, all thoughts lost to her.